Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4) Read online

  Amazement stilled Keros. He raised his arms. No sores lay on his skin. Once flaccid muscles now swelled with strength. He laughed, touched his thighs and felt the firm flesh there. He moved his legs. He brought his knees against his chest. A wild, incredulous whoop escaped him.

  “So there you are, you filthy wretch.”

  Keros turned, and squinted. In the murk of the alley, three narrow-faced thieves stepped over broken crates and heaps of soiled rags. The lead youth—it was Scab—crunched over shattered glass, kicking a shard, so that it bounced and skittered across the urine-stained paving.

  “You’re not to touch me,” said Keros, his stomach tightening with fear.

  Scab sneered, “Because of what the Enforcer said?”

  “He warned you.”

  Scab perched his stick on his shoulder, and made a show of looking around. “Say, do any of you fellows see the Enforcer?”

  “I donth,” said the gap-toothed friend.

  The other spat a gob of kanda-juice onto a grimy wall, where the brown spit dribbled.

  “You’re fools if you think the Enforcer won’t find out,” said Keros.

  “Isn’t this something,” Scab told his friends. “The beggar thinks I’m going to pay three silver shekels for the sorry privilege of beating him to death.”

  “Too overpriced,” said a friend.

  Scab gripped his stick with both hands. He swished it back and forth and then nodded. “Lepers oughtn’t to curse their betters. That’s… that’s foolish, dead foolish.”

  “The Enforcer will find out,” said Keros. “He’ll take you into the Temple. You know that you’ll never come out again.”

  Scab drew a wicked-looking dagger from his sash. “Not if I cut you up so the rats feast on you tonight. He’ll never know then.”

  The dirk was heavy bladed, a warrior’s weapon. Even in the gloom of the alleyway, it was obvious that the knife was of superior workmanship. It looked wrong in Scab’s grip—like a pig with a ring of gold in its snout, or a hag with a diamond necklace.

  “Where did you get that?” asked Keros.

  Scab smirked. He tucked the dagger back into his sash, and one by one, pulled out three silver shekels. He jingled them in his palm. “People love a parade.”

  “They’re crazy-mad about them,” agreed a friend.

  “But I’m not going to spend these on puke like you.” Scab tucked the coins under his sash. “Maybe it’ll buy me a night in paradise.”

  “You said all thwee of us,” said the gap-toothed thief.

  “Right,” said Scab, nodding. He leered at Keros. “I’m a man of my word. So…where were we? Oh, yes, I was beating you to death.” He gripped the stick two-handed and hunched his narrow shoulders as he advanced.

  All his life Keros had practiced wrestling, knife fighting and hurling spears. As a child, and then a youth, he had listened to the ancient ballads as told by his Grandfather. Old One-Eye—his Grandfather’s best friend—had trained him in the sling, spear and dagger. Under normal conditions, he was certain he could defeat Scab. But his limbs, his entire body, had just healed miraculously. He felt stiff. He wasn’t sure he even remembered how to move, to dodge, shift, feint and lunge.

  Keros’s chest hollowed out as the thief approached. Fear dried his mouth.

  The stick whistled. With his hands on the gritty pavement, Keros scooted aside. Wood clacked. Scab grunted in disappointment. Keros kicked out. The feel of his sole striking an anklebone—his legs worked. The hard impact made him grin fiercely. The thief crumpled in a heap, howling, grabbing his ankle. Keros snatched the dropped stick and scrambled to his feet. Scab stared at him goggle-eyed. Belatedly, the thief also jumped up. Scab opened his mouth, maybe to accuse Keros of being whole, of not being weak and vulnerable. Before Scab could speak, however, Keros thrust the stick into the thief’s soft gut. Scab grunted and bent forward. Keros swung viciously. Hardened wood cracked against the back of Scab’s head. The thief crumpled a second time. The other two thieves watched openmouthed. A gob of wadded kanda-leaf fell out of one of the thief’s mouths. Keros stepped over Scab. He head-clouted the nearest tough. That one collapsed. The last thief turned and ran, screaming for help.

  Fierce joy swept through Keros. His arms shook. Behind him, Scab stirred. Keros whirled around.

  “What happened?” muttered the thief.

  Keros swung again. Crack! The thieving face struck pavement. Scab twitched, and then lay perfectly still. Keros’s heart pounded. He had to think. The last thief had fled. He might run to the Enforcer—no, probably not. With sudden clarity, Keros realized his danger. If the Enforcers discovered that Lod had healed him—Gog hated Elohim. He had to flee the city.

  Keros tore off his filthy rags, and marveled how his body swelled with muscles. He checked Scab. Dead. Keros stripped off the baggy pants and sandals. He shrugged on Scab’s leather vest, even though it was a tight fit. Best of all, he pocketed the shekels and hefted the dagger. It was practically a short sword.

  Keros rubbed his neck. By the laws of Shamgar, he belonged to Gog. All sick, halt and lame did. So, he must flee Shamgar—fast. Then shame bit Keros. It curdled his stomach. He had been healed because Lod had helped him. Keros nodded. He knew now what Elohim wanted from him for this healing: to free Lod from the Oracle.

  Keros laughed bleakly. It was an impossible task.

  He checked the other thief. The youth yet breathed. A quick slice of the blade and he would breathe no more. Keros shook his head. Elohim had been merciful to him. He now must show mercy. Keros strode deeper into the maze, wondering how he could possibly achieve the impossible.

  Chapter Two

  Vidar

  “Courage is the coinage of the sons of Jotnar.”

  -- Lord Uriah, Patriarch of Elon

  Vidar hated the seething mob, the haggling, the thefts, the endless shouting and bickering of the Merchant Wharf. Small men underfoot traded silver and gold and handed each other choice silks, swords and the fruits of a hundred fields. It was far nobler to have a deck under your feet as you sailed into an enemy harbor. Ho, then the crashing onto a stone jetty, the spilled oil, the flames, the clash of steel and the breaking of bones. Yes, loot, pillage and rapine—berserk joy, domination and the crushing of your foes, that was far, far better than watching these traders spout their lies, and listening to them clink coins.

  With legs spread in an arrogant stance, with his powerful hands on his hips, Vidar examined the milling throng. The mob did brisk business at a hundred booths. They were small men, and weak, natural slaves and underlings.

  Vidar was huge, the son of a Nephilim giant. He wore a black leather jerkin, boiled to the toughness of a mammoth’s hide. Black breeches and black leather boots completed his attire, with a heavy sword strapped at his side. His face was wider than a normal man’s face, with heavy, sneering lips and strangely yellow eyes. Calluses had been built up on his cheeks and forehead, from the constant wearing of a helmet. His dark hair was tied in a knot, and it dangled like a horsetail on his impossibly broad back. A sinister tattoo of a three-pronged trident gleamed on his forehead.

  He had fought in the swamps against the Captain’s Fleet. Then he had been considered a mere adventurer from Giant Land. But his reputation within Shamgar had grown because of his daring, because of his exploits in the swamps. This had been the so-called prize: Enforcer duty at a Merchant Wharf.

  Vidar scowled as two whalers from Pildash hurried toward him. Each wore a bone thrust through the bottom of his nose. They were lean men, and tall, and on each wrist clashed bronze circuits. The blue capes that dangled to their feet proclaimed them captain-harpooners. No doubt, they hurried to him to complain about a merchant’s infraction.

  One fellow nudged his companion. He pointed at Vidar, and whispered in his friend’s ear.

  Vidar scowled. He radiated menace.

  The two whalers hesitated. They glanced again at the brooding Enforcer. Then they turned and walked away.

  Vidar cra
cked his knuckles. He sneered. He was a warrior, a man of valor. Let Gog’s spawn intrigue among the lesser races. Giant blood surged through his veins. Not for him the necromancer’s arts, the delving into death magic and Temple rites. Not for him the soft words with whiners, the duty of a mere policeman. In Carthalo, he had heard, slave archers did such menial chores as street patrol. Why then, did Gog think this was such a prized position in Shamgar?

  It galled him that beings like Gog, who wielded incredible might, who contained such power, used it in so spider-like a fashion. The Old Ones of long ago had been powerful beyond measure, their children the First Born less so, their children the Nephilim even less, and his generation—the great grandchildren of the Old Ones—were unable to stand against beings like Gog and Jotnar. Somehow, there had to be a way to attain greatness above all the others who had come before him. Mincing about in the Merchant Wharf, keeping order, surely wasn’t such a way.

  Had it been a mistake journeying to Shamgar?

  “Enforcer.”

  Vidar felt a tug at his sleeve.

  With a sigh, Vidar released his daydreams, and concentrated on the brown-clad attendant beside him. The man was slender, with a pockmarked face and bristly gray hair. He wore leathers, a bone-handled short sword and brown boots of superior workmanship.

  Vidar snapped his fingers, trying to remember the attendant’s name.

  “I’m Naaman, Enforcer.”

  Vidar had many attendants, helpers. This one—Naaman—had worked this Merchant Wharf for many years. Someone had told him to trust this gilik’s advice.

  “Yes?” asked Vidar.

  “That armorer, Enforcer,” said Naaman, “the one over there.”

  Vidar scowled at a stout, whiskered man who wore a fire-stained leather apron. He stood in front of an open-air booth, with an anvil behind him, and a boy scraping molten metal from it. The armorer wouldn’t look him in the face, although the man bobbed his head.

  “I see him,” growled Vidar.

  “He has a theft to report,” said Naaman.

  “You listened to his tale of woe, did you?”

  “Yes, Enforcer.”

  Vidar sighed. Here was more meaningless prattle. “Good work, Naaman,” he said in a bored voice.

  “Excuse me, Enforcer, but the theft occurred during the parade.”

  Vidar gave his gray-haired attendant a shrewd glance. The man had a strange burn scar on his cheek, and Naaman didn’t seem afraid of him. In fact, this old man seemed exasperated. Did he have connections with other Enforcers, or even with a Defender?

  “During the parade, you say?” said Vidar.

  “Yes, Enforcer. Thus, this theft is a stain upon Gog’s honor.”

  Vidar’s heart quickened. He glanced anew at the armorer. For a gilik, the man had burly arms.

  Naaman became earnest. “The armorer lost a Bolverk-forged blade, Enforcer. During the parade, someone stole if from his booth.”

  Vidar grew wary. Bolverk was a legendary giant of the Far North. His gift was the special working of metals. Bolverk-forged meant unbreakable, able to hold an edge unmatched by manmade blades. Although he himself was from Giant Land, his weapons weren’t Bolverk-forged. Few weapons in Shamgar were.

  “That puling armorer owned a Bolverk-forged weapon?” asked Vidar.

  “A dagger,” said Naaman.

  “What kind of dagger?”

  “A battle knife,” said Naaman. “He claimed to have brought it as tribute to the Temple.” The old attendant glanced up at Vidar. “Temple tribute means that it’s sacred. This act has become Gog-theft.”

  Vidar’s faced hardened, as something akin to fear knotted in his gut. In three strides, he towered over the armorer. “Man, is this true?”

  The bearded armorer trembled as he nodded.

  “You’re certain it was stolen during the parade?” asked Vidar.

  “Yes, Enforcer,” said the armorer, “together with three silver shekels.”

  Vidar frowned. Three shekels meant something, but he couldn’t remember what.

  “We will find the dagger, I assure you,” Naaman said smoothly. “In order for us to work best, you must hold the theft secret.”

  Sweat glistened upon the armorer’s bald head. “I’m sorry, Enforcer, but others have already heard of the theft.”

  “Who else knows?” Naaman asked.

  Without looking up, the armorer spread his leathery hands.

  The attendant’s eyes narrowed. He brushed the sleeve of his brown tunic. Three stars were sewn on the cuff. “Enforcer,” said Naaman, motioning Vidar aside.

  “What now?” Vidar grumbled. He followed the attendant around a tall stack of barrels. A cat peered down at him from the top one. In its jaws, the feline held a twitching little mouse.

  “He’s threatening us,” Naaman whispered.

  “What? That man?” Vidar asked. “Have you taken leave of your wits?”

  Naaman waited as a sweating boy yanked on a rope attached to a mule. The stubborn beast staggered under two huge baskets. In the baskets, clanked thick copper bars.

  “I urge caution, Enforcer.”

  “What are you taking about?”

  “Did you notice the armorer’s hands?”

  Vidar scowled.

  “The middle fingers,” explained Naaman. “Each of those fingernails was black. He is an Initiate of the Order. He is Tong Rank.”

  “Of the Order of Gog? Is that what you’re talking about?”

  Naaman nodded sharply.

  “Yes, yes, so?” asked Vidar.

  “That’s why he won’t tell us who else knows about the theft.”

  “Why?”

  “If the armorer is found floating in the canals, those he has told will go to Gog and tell him about the theft. These others are the armorer’s insurance that we won’t dispose of him in order to dispose of the knowledge of the theft.”

  “The dagger was the armorer’s to lose. It was never in our possession.”

  Naaman shook his head. “It was Temple consecrated and is Bolverk-forged. Temple consecrated: it belongs to Gog. Think of it this way. Something of his was lost in our precinct.” Naaman took out a silk handkerchief and blotted his forehead. “Who can predict the rages of Gog? Who wishes to pay the penalty for failure concerning the loss of property of the Great One?”

  “We must find the dagger,” said Vidar, finally understanding.

  As Naaman wiped his neck, he glanced up at the Enforcer with an unreadable look.

  “Go, comfort the armorer,” said Vidar. “Assure him that his dagger will be found. Then, have him watched and see who he talks to.”

  “Yes, Enforcer.”

  “Round up the guards who watched the plaza during the parade. I’ll speak with them, oh, aye, we’ll have a talk.”

  Naaman folded the handkerchief and tucked it into an inner pocket. “They would not have been fools enough to attempt such a theft, Enforcer.”

  Vidar grew silent as he studied the gray-haired attendant. The man aped obedience, but lacked deference. Yet…. Naaman seemed to understand the workings of this Merchant Wharf. “What do you suggest?”

  “You should prowl the plaza as normal, Enforcer. I’ll slip here and there, silver a few palms and question an informant or two.”

  “Ah,” said Vidar. “You wish to use me as the visible lion.”

  Naamah lofted his eyebrows.

  “It is a term from Giant Land. There, the male lion often ambles here and there. The gazing aurochs judge the distances and believe they’re safe. Meanwhile, in the high grass, the females inch closer.”

  “Ah, I see,” said Naaman. “You are the visible lion.”

  Vidar glanced narrowly at his attendant. Then he bid him go. “See that it is done.”

  Chapter Three

  Oath Breaker

  “Quench a serpent’s tongue with blood.”

  -- A saying of the Shurite Mountain Clans

  Keros padded like a panther, wary to every noise, od
or and odd shadow. He had ropy, sinewy muscles, a lean mountain warrior. This morning, he had clutched a begging bowl. Now, he held a marvelous dagger. The bone hilt was carved into a snarling beast. The crossbar looked sturdy enough to halt an axe blow. The double-edged foot of sharpened steel, he’d never handled such a prize.

  In the Mountain Lands of Shur, he had wielded flint. There, an iron dagger was loot, a weapon such as this, treasure. He touched the razor edge. A red drop oozed from his thumb. He hefted it. Dagger seemed like the wrong word, more a Sippar short sword. Grandfather and old One-Eye would have loved it.

  Keros’s heart thudded as he thought of them. He squatted on his heels, with the dirty brick buildings of the Maze on either side of him. He was whole again. Did that mean the curse had lifted?

  Two drunks in rags and with thin, scabby legs snored nearby. An empty flagon lay between them. The narrow alley reeked of urine and vomit. Shadows and gloom added to its oppressive spirit. Shamgar was so different from his childhood home at the foot of majestic Mount Meseta. There, only stubborn grasses grew. In winter, winds shrieked and lightning rent the sky. Snow and ice made the passes suicide. In summer, goatherds drove the bleating animals up into the clouds.

  Keros had guarded his mother’s goats, and slung stones at snow leopards and orns. His father and uncles had died when he was a boy, slain by Elonites in the great battle of Havilah Holding. His mother had raised him, together with his grandfather.

  Once, Grandfather had wielded an iron dagger and led the clans in daring raids. On countless nights, Keros had sat at his feet, listening to the toothless mumbles that had taught him cunning. Trudging up their mountain, had visited old One-Eye, another white-haired warrior, one who had fought at Grandfather’s side. From One-Eye, Keros had learned knife fighting and wrestling.

  In summer, Keros took the goats into the highlands. Oh, he remembered those bitter days. Stronger lads had driven him from the choice pastures, forcing him and his herd up the ledges in search of edible stalks. Without any older brothers or uncles, Keros had no recourse after the fistfights. He had skinned his knuckles a-plenty, sucking blood from the seeping wounds. The bigger, stronger and more numerous youths had handed him endless defeats. Alone on the mountainsides, he had brooded about vengeance and glory.