The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6) Page 17

  “There,” Hul whispered.

  Lod followed Hul’s pointing finger. Lod blinked in awe. Finally, after deadening hours of tramping through this forest maze…

  The clearing ahead contained the largest, most titanic tree Lod had ever seen. It was massive, five times bigger than any tree he’d witnessed. Then other things become evident. Someone had carved an evil, leering face with fangs into the bark of the trunk. No doubt, it was a replica or a portrait of Esus or one of his hideous sons.

  Lod’s flesh crawled. He hated First Born, the sons of bene elohim and daughters of men. The bene elohim of old had come down from the celestial realm and taken any woman they had chosen. First Born had terrible powers. They had terrible strength and they often had darkly forbidden knowledge. It didn’t surprise him that this Esus had set himself up as a god of these primitive savages. Esus sounded much like Gog of Shamgar, a hidden one who used proxies to do his bidding. Lod had heard enough about Esus’s animal-like sons to suspect that awful abominations must have occurred. Most First Born impregnated women. What had this Esus impregnated that his sons were like animals?

  Lod’s features hardened as the stench of death drifted near. He saw more than the giant tree and the hideous carving in its trunk. Bones littered the grass around the tree. Half-rotted corpses of dogs and skeletal captives hung from ropes tied to thick branches. He examined the area more closely, discovering bent swords, shattered spears and hammered, crumpled helmets. They must all be war-offerings to Esus, the prized booty from past battles.

  “If I had an axe,” Lod whispered, “I would fell the abominable tree.”

  Hul gave Lod a superstitious look of horror. “Don’t speak such blasphemies here, my friend, not on the eve of this night. We are on the god’s holy ground.”

  “Holy?” Lod scoffed. “Do you see the twisting corpses? Do you not see the offerings? The Zimrians worship a First Born!”

  Hul shifted uneasily, and he glanced at Lod. “There is power here. This is a shrine. If we lift our swords against Esus—”

  “Shhh,” Lod whispered. “Someone approaches.”

  Both warriors lowered themselves, crouching until their knees touched the cool soil.

  From a forest path appeared two people. The first was Amalaric in his red Kishite cloak. The second was a virgin in white linen. Mari looked stricken as she gazed upon the terrible Esus Tree. Amalaric turned away from the grisly sight. The tall Dire Wolf clansman seemed troubled.

  “Her own brother leads her to destruction,” Lod whispered fiercely.

  “This is madness,” Hul said. “We cannot challenge a god. You are bound to fail if you attempt this.”

  “Fail, why?” Lod snapped.

  “This is a holy shrine,” Hul said. “Drawing a weapon in anger here will bring down Esus’s wrath upon us tonight. If you dare to draw blood—that would be outrageous blasphemy.”

  “I’ll tell you blasphemy. That I saved a girl from a wild beast and then fearfully did nothing to help her two days later.”

  “Others must be coming,” Hul said. “They will hear you. Lod, you must reconsider—”

  Lod sprang from hiding as he drew his short sword. He knew he couldn’t shout a war cry. That would alert any others coming up the trail. He wanted to roar and rage. Blasphemy against Esus—the tree and the things done here were a blasphemy against Elohim. Let others freeze in terror at a First Born. Let others shrink to fight the evil brood. This monstrous tree bore the bitterest of fruit.

  As Lod sprinted at them, the vision of loveliness—Mari—turned toward him. Her features were unreadable. She bit her lip, possibly in indecision. She closed her eyes, swayed a moment and then opened her eyes. Determination tightened her features.

  Tall Amalaric, the handsome warrior who looked so much like Mari, also turned. He looked shocked and surprised.

  Lod was close, and he was intent. The tall warrior shouted and finally reacted. Amalaric threw himself back as Lod’s sword slashed. The tip cut through cheek-flesh instead of hacking against the warrior’s skull. Blood spurted. And so violent was Amalaric’s jump backward that he toppled onto the grass. Lod hacked anew. Amalaric rolled frantically. The sword missed and chopped against a stone in the soil, clicking and sparking. Lod jumped after Amalaric and hacked a third time. He missed a third time as Amalaric kept rolling, and as the sword chopped into the grassy sod.

  “Please don’t kill him!” Mari shouted.

  “To me! To me!” Amalaric shouted.

  As Lod hesitated, the tall Zimrian leaped to his feet and clutched his bleeding cheek. Lod almost charged.

  Then three new Zimrians appeared on the path. They were fur-clad warriors. Perhaps they were companions of Amalaric. They had Zimrian spears, long shafts with small heads of iron, mere points.

  Amalaric knelt, clutching at the ground with one hand. He rose with a rusted spear-tip in his grip. Two of the warriors hurled their weapons.

  Lod dodged one and used his sword to knock the other from skewering him. Lod half turned.

  Mari had backed away toward where Hul motioned wildly. Suddenly, with a sob, she turned and ran into the forest.

  Lod took three quick strides to a fallen spear. He picked it up and heaved the spear at a charging warrior. The spear sank into the warrior’s chest, dropping him. Then Lod turned and sprinted after Mari and Hul.

  -6-

  Amalaric pressed a hand against his blood-dripping cheek. He wanted to howl in rage. Yet his stomach seethed with fear. And he was amazed that he still lived. His heart raced. The white-haired outlander was deadly and amazingly quick. Worse, the outlander had stolen Mari. A Zimrian warrior lay dead before the Esus Tree because of the outlander’s blasphemy.

  “We must give chase!” Goar shouted. He was one of the warriors who had appeared and driven off the white-haired one.

  Clutching his cheek, Amalaric peered back at the trail. Soon, those bearing Jarn’s bier and corpse would arrive. The shaman, wise women and elders would see he’d lost the god’s captive. Why had he let Mari talk him into walking ahead, and talk him into untying her? She had plotted against him, plotted with an outlander.

  “Amalaric!” shouted Goar.

  “Yes,” Amalaric mumbled. “Track him. Kill the white hair and the Arkite oath-breaker. Rescue my sister from their lecherous hands.”

  “You must come with us,” Goar said.

  “Look at my cheek,” Amalaric groaned. “No. I must tell the shaman what occurred. Otherwise, what will they think?”

  Goar was stout, with an iron pectoral plate secured to his chest by leather straps. He was Amalaric’s boon companion and a ferocious fighter. With a quick nod and a shout at the other warrior, Goar sped for the forest.

  Amalaric watched his two companions disappear into the heavy foliage. Blood continued to ooze from his face. It welled between his fingers, dripping onto his feet and onto the soil. What would he tell the shaman and the elders? He had to think quickly. If he was going to become chieftain of the Dire Wolf Clan, he must use his wits as never before to explain this.

  The sound of murmuring told him the others had arrived. A sick feeling filled Amalaric. He had lost the god’s sacrifice.

  Amalaric allowed his shoulders to hunch as he bowed his head before the great tree. He heard the murmuring, the tramp of heavy steps. Then the murmuring stopped. A warrior spoke aloud, in a wondering voice. By the sounds, someone bumped into another.

  Amalaric could feel their gazes burning into his back. He could actually feel the questions. Before the shaman could ask, Amalaric squared his shoulders. He would let them see that even in terrible adversity that he was a warrior, a chieftain, who could take command.

  He turned and opened his mouth. The look in their eyes, however, stole his fine speech.

  The shaman led the procession. He was a narrow-shouldered Zimrian, with long, thin arms. He was only three years older than Amalaric. The shaman’s face had been disfigured in youth by a dire wolf. The beast had chewed off the n
ose and mangled the cheeks. The shaman wore a cloth mask, with elk antlers sprouting from a beaten copper hat. Besides a twist of fur around his loins, the shaman wore a heavy wolf robe that lent him dignity. Strange painted marks and olden scars in set patterns crisscrossed his wasted frame. As if he’d starved for a long time, the man’s ribs starkly stuck out against his skin. The shaman often fasted and went many nights without sleep as he chanted to Esus. Many in the clan feared the shaman and his close communion with the god.

  Behind the shaman followed the wise women, old crones with bones twined in their long, gray hair. They rattled many rat-bones in skin balls perched on sticks. They wore rawhide robes that dragged in the dirt and they had shuffled barefoot. Now the bone-rattles were silent. The wise women stood still, staring at him.

  The clan elders were bunched behind the old women of Bones. The elders were former warriors, many with gruesome scars. They wore rich furs and bore ancestral swords, axes and spears. A few wore coats of iron mail.

  Six hardy warriors bore Jarn’s bier behind the elders. It was a mat of wood, with straw as bedding. The corpse in all its finery lay upon the straw. Several of Jarn’s favorite weapons rested beside him as if he would arise and draw them in battle. Behind the chosen, each a good companion of Jarn in life, were ten more warriors, each a fighter of fame.

  The silence ate at Amalaric. The questions in their eyes felt like physical blows. Amalaric opened his mouth. He tried to tell them. Shame bit deep. He had lost the sacrifice.

  “You bleed,” the shaman said. Despite his bony frame and thin arms, he had a strong voice. With the elk antlers and the mask covering his disfigurement, he seemed like one of Esus’s half-animal sons.

  Amalaric stumbled toward them. “The outlander cut me,” he said, realizing his voice quavered.

  “Where is Mari?” the shaman asked, his voice like a lash.

  Amalaric gestured helplessly with his free arm, even as he knew he needed to take charge of the situation. He had to make them realize—

  “Have you lost the sacrifice, Amalaric, son of Styr?” the shaman asked.

  “No!” Amalaric said.

  “Where is she?” the shaman asked, louder than before.

  Amalaric curled the fingers of his free hand into a tight fist. He let that arm drop beside his body. Blood continued to well between his fingers, to drip onto his feet and onto the sacred soil of Esus. He cleared his throat.

  “The outlander attacked me,” Amalaric said, waiting. The shaman had fallen silent. No one else seemed able to speak. “The—the outlander raced out of the woods. The Arkite mountain-warrior helped him.”

  “You wear the fabled sword of Esus,” the shaman said, with a hint of mockery. “You are considered a mighty warrior, the best after Jarn Shield-Breaker. Surely, such a warrior as yourself drew the fabled sword and slew this one for Esus.”

  “…He surprised me,” Amalaric said.

  “Come, come,” the shaman said. “Tell us. Did you draw your fine new sword?”

  Amalaric stared in shock at the shaman. Is he my enemy? Why does he ask the questions like that? “It all happened so fast,” he said. “The white-haired warrior was upon me, swinging. No one could have—”

  “Before Esus,” the shaman said, “tell us the truth. Did you draw your sword and defend the god’s prize?”

  “The outlander races through the forest with Mari,” Amalaric said. “Goar and his brother give chase.”

  “But not you?” the shaman asked.

  “He cut me,” Amalaric said. “Can’t you see? S-someone had to stay to tell you, all of you.”

  Through his cloth mask, the shaman stared at him.

  It sent a chill down Amalaric’s spine. At the feast, the shaman had secretly cursed Jarn for him. They were friends, could work together. Amalaric had shown the shaman the sword of Esus and convinced the man he should be the chieftain. Did the shaman play at backstabbing?

  The shaman lurched into movement, and now he stared at the mighty tree behind Amalaric’s back. With his eyes set on the tree, the shaman lurched to Amalaric and passed him.

  As if unable to control himself, Amalaric turned, watching the man. He knew that he should draw the sword of Esus and cut the madman down, from behind if he had to. His father might not have done that. But his father had known how to act boldly.

  The shaman raised his long arms, lifting them toward the tree. Then a horrifying groan tore from the shaman’s throat. His legs collapsed. The man hit the soil. He threw himself prostrate and screamed like a woman in labor. The shaman writhed upon the ground. He groveled and shrieked again.

  Amalaric swallowed in a suddenly dry throat. His cheek—he needed a wise woman to stitch it with a heated copper needle and catgut thread. No, he needed to do something meaningful now. He needed to take command. He wanted to become the chieftain of the Dire Wolf Clan. So he must lead, he must do.

  With a tremendous force of will, Amalaric tore away from the writhing shaman. “Listen to me!” he shouted.

  Only a few people glanced at him. Too many watched the shaman in petrified horror.

  “Who will go with me in chase of the outlander?” Amalaric shouted.

  The shrieking behind him ceased.

  Whether or not by some secret signal, the old women began shaking their rat-bone rattles. It was an ominous sound.

  Amalaric felt a terrible presence loom behind him. He didn’t want to, but he glanced over his shoulder. The shaman stood behind him. With the antlers, the man seemed taller. The shaman raised his skinny arms. The long, bony fingers were spread far apart.

  As the rat-bones rattled, the shaman boomed in a commanding voice, “Tonight, the Blood Moon rises. Esus is enraged at the loss of his prize. Look at Jarn on his bier. How can his spirit speed to the Hall of the Dead if Amalaric has lost the god’s prize?”

  “Not me,” Amalaric protested. “The outlander stole her.”

  “Seize him!” the shaman shouted, indicating Amalaric.

  For a moment, none moved.

  “Are you warriors the friends of Jarn Shield-Breaker?” shouted the shaman.

  As one, the warriors lifted the bier from their shoulders and then lowered it to the ground with a thud.

  Amalaric blinked in shock. “Not me. The outlander, we must—”

  “As the new sacrifice,” said the shaman, “you are no longer allowed to speak.”

  Amalaric blinked once more before he understood. With horrible, sick clarity, he understood that the shaman meant to string him up in the Esus Tree in place of Mari.

  “No!” shouted Amalaric. He began to draw the fabled sword. “You cursed Jarn, remember? Do you now think—”

  “Quickly!” the shaman roared. “Subdue him for Esus or we’re doomed.”

  The boon companions of Jarn Shield-Breaker shouted and charged Amalaric. He was still in the act of drawing the sword as the first fist struck him. Then many fists struck him, and he was falling.

  “You bastard!” shouted Amalaric.

  The shaman laughed strangely. “Soon, the Blood Moon rises. Then we shall sacrifice you, Amalaric, son of Styr. Then Esus shall walk abroad and we shall see mighty magic on this supreme night of sorcery.”

  -7-

  With leaves whispering past him, Lod panted as he and Mari followed hard on Hul’s path. Behind them, Zimrian warriors howled their hunting cries. It sounded like two or maybe three warriors, no more. But Lod had come to suspect it was a Zimrian trick. The Zimrians wanted them to stand at bay and fight against overwhelming numbers.

  The mighty trees seemed to close in and heavy brush stood everywhere. Choking ivy clung to bark and there were dangling vines constantly trying to loop his arms or trip him. Every time Lod looked up to judge the sun, all he spied was the thick, leafy foliage.

  “We need a wolf run or a deer path,” Hul hissed as he halted his mad rush.

  Mari had torn her linen dress some time ago, exposing her lithe legs, allowing her to run freely.

  “We�
�re lost,” Hul said.

  “Head west for the river,” said Lod. “Which way is west.”

  Mari pointed the way they had been going.

  “That way lies west,” said Hul. “We’ve trekked long enough now that we should have seen the river. We should have at least smelled it.”

  Lod tested the air. All he smelled was the choking greenery of this jungle.

  Behind them, the tracking Zimrians howled their familiar cries, an undulating imitation of the dire wolves of the forest.

  “We’re lost,” said Hul.

  “Esus tricks us,” whispered Mari. “He warps the very woods around us. The forest is a living thing and twists to the god’s shape.”

  “Elohim aids us,” said Lod. “It is the reason we haven’t been caught.”

  “Your god has no power in these woods,” Hul said.

  “Elohim is the Creator. He has power over—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mari said. She raised her delicate nose and sniffed, sniffed again. “I smell water that way, at least a hint of it.”

  “Go, go,” said Lod.

  Hul bashed his way through heavy foliage. Mari went second. It was slow going. Before, Hul had twisted and moved deftly. Now there was something of panic in his run.

  Lod almost spoke. Then Hul halted abruptly once more. Lod clawed leaves out of the way. Thorny brambles rose before them. It was like a wall of twisted, interlocking branches of thorn.

  “Let me lead,” said Lod. “My mesh-mail will protect me from the worst thorns. You two follow hard on my heels.”

  Another howl, this one closer than before, sounded behind the forest leaves and branches.

  ***

  As deepening gloom filled the forest, Lod exploded out of a thicket in a spray of thorns, leaves and bitter words. He rolled on the loamy soil. His mesh-mail slithered with metallic sound. Bloody scratches lined his arms and crisscrossed his cheeks. He’d lost his helmet some time ago, so twigs twined in his white hair. His fierce blue eyes scanned the forest as weariness made him pant.