The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) Read online

  “Make way! Make way!” shouted the soldiers who marched before their cart.

  “Ah. Home,” Nar Naccara said.

  Adah took in the block of a stone building, the Siga no doubt, and glanced at the others. A bath, a good night’s sleep, and then they must toil harder than ever tomorrow if they were going to stop Tarag. There would be a hundred problems. But this moment, this night, they would know peace.

  Adah sighed, peace. The world would never know it again if the Nephilim made it to Eden. She knew that Lord Uriah was experienced, a born survivor and highly intelligent. But there was so much that worked against them, not the least that they were practically penniless. Even so, Lord Uriah hoped to hire an army of mercenaries. That would be a good trick, one she was looking forward to seeing.

  Chapter Three

  Giants

  In his arrogance the wicked man hunts down the weak, who are caught in the schemes he devises.

  -- Psalms 10:2

  A long-limbed young man with a shock of black hair trudged upward on a mountain path. He wore new deerskin breeches and boots, with a woolen shirt. He had a stick to help him. The path was steep, and pebbles kept rattling at each footfall. He panted, planting the stick and leaning into another step. Beside him rose boulders and lichen-covered stones, or stunted trees provided a moment of shade. Ground squirrels abounded. One halted atop a rock, stood on its hind legs, chirped and then dashed away.

  A giant strode on the path ahead of Joash, towering twice his height. The giant wore rugged leathers and chainmail, like a warrior of Elon. Across his broad back, he’d slung a huge axe, the head as big as a ship’s anchor. It was double bladed, each blade the length of a man’s leg from his knee to his foot. Like many of the giants’ weapons, it was black, Bolverk-forged.

  Joash had learned that Bolverk was a legendary giant blacksmith that lived in the Far North. His gift, his magical ability due to his semi-divine blood, was forging iron. Other blades shattered against a Bolverk-forged sword. An axe such as the giant wore could cleave rock. Perhaps as terrible, the mail was black, meaning his armor would be proof against almost anything.

  Even without his armor and weapons, the giant would be an impossible foe for Joash. The giant was Nephilim, son of First Born Jotnar of the Giants and a human woman. First Born meant born from one of the bene elohim, the fallen from the Celestial Realm, who had long ago descended to Earth to rule as gods. That semi-divine blood granted the giant more than just size, but great strength, stamina and long life, longer than any human.

  If that wasn’t bad enough, there were more than just one giant. There were many, a band of the greatest champions among them. Joash was their captive. To such as these, Balak the Beastmaster would have been like a child. To them, Joash was like an infant.

  And yet, despite all this, Joash knew that everything depended on him to stop their mad quest. He was the Seraph, and he was the last of those who had sailed aboard the Tiras.

  A trolock had captured Herrek, the champion of Teman Clan. If he escaped the rock monster, Nebo primitives would likely hunt him down, and return him to the awful Gibborim. Either fate meant death. Joash might have hoped others from the Tiras had escape, for he’d seen a rowing boat the day Nidhogg had destroyed the ship. But at night, the giants rumbled to each other around a crackling campfire, and spoke about Gog and his pirate galleys. The pirates had swept the eastern Suttung Sea. According to the giants, all survivors of Nidhogg’s attack had died.

  Joash took a deep breath, carefully placing his stick in a crack in the rock-hard path, using it to lever himself upward. He was so tired, so alone and dispirited. With everyone else dead or captured, it was up to him to stop Tarag of the Sabertooths from reaching fabled Eden.

  “Impossible,” he whispered. Not only was he smaller than his enemies were, but he had a bad wound in his thigh.

  “Halt!” Mimir the giant rumbled to others. The huge warrior shifted the axe on his back and looked down the path at him.

  Joash hobbled to the giant, and wished he could hide the blood seeping from the bandage on his thigh.

  “You must ride,” Mimir said. “There is no other way.”

  Joash’s neck was already sore from having to look up the giant. So he stared at his feet. In essence, he was a cripple in this nightmarish band. The old Nebo primitive who had captured him had gashed his thigh with a stone-tipped spear. A giant had sewn the wound and applied ointments. For several days afterward, Joash had remained off his feet, yet that hadn’t meant the giants waited for him to heal.

  That first day had taught Joash so much. With his thigh-wound, he could never keep up with the giants, and they were in a hurry. But no giant would carry him. If he had even suggested such a thing, it might have earned him a beating. There were other Nephilim in the band, the strange Gibborim with their dark magic. But the giants and Gibborim weren’t on speaking terms. The sabertooths might be big enough to ride, but the idea was preposterous. That left the white-haired men, with thick shoulders and heavy features. Each of them wore a loincloth and complex leather straps around his muscled torso. They were the giants’ servitors, and like pack-mules, carried the supplies.

  That first day, Mimir had hooked an odd saddle to the biggest white-haired servitor. The giant had asked Joash, “Are you ready?”

  “My leg,” Joash had told him.

  Mimir had frowned angrily. “High One, boy. Never forget to add ‘High One’ when speaking to a Nephilim.”

  “Your ways are still strange to me, High One.”

  “Better. You must understand that no one else will be as tolerant with you as I am. Forget the proper address when answering a Nephilim’s question and your beating will be brutal.”

  “I understand, High One.” Several years ago, Joash had lived with Balak the Beastmaster for several months. He felt he knew Nephilim ways to a nicety.

  Mimir had nodded curtly, and then motioned to another of the white-haired men. Compared to the giant, the heavily muscled man seemed childlike. “Help him into the saddle.”

  “Wait,” Joash had said.

  Mimir’s eyebrows had thundered together.

  “…High One,” Joash added.

  “What is the problem?

  “High One, do you expect me to sit in the saddle?”

  “Foolish questions will win you a beating.”

  Joash had blinked in amazement, as it demonstrated how the giants thought of the big men as animals, beasts of burdens. The idea had horrified Joash.

  “Hurry,” Mimir had said, “Tarag wishes to march.”

  Joash had breathed deeply. “I’m sorry, High One, but I cannot ride the man as if he were an animal.”

  “You dare challenge me?”

  Joash had paused. To tell the Nephilim that what he did was wrong, might anger him. So, “High One, for me it is wrong to ride a man like a mount.”

  “Don’t waste time with frivolities. Mount the steed. Otherwise, your punishment will be swift and furious.”

  “High One, could you not rig up a stretcher instead?”

  Mimir had gestured curtly. “Mount him, or face the punishment.”

  Fear had filled Joash, but so had a stubborn knot. “High One, I’ll receive my beating now.”

  The towering giant had glowered at him. “You’re a fool. To this beast, carrying a small burden like you will be a welcome thing. Normally, he carries heavy loads. Do not think he resents carrying you.”

  “I will not ride a human like a beast, High One. It’s against Elohim’s dictates.”

  For a moment, Mimir had paled, and looked around warily. Then, he had bent low. “Do not use that form of address.”

  “Elohim?” Joash had asked, refusing to add High One to another when using the Highest One’s name.

  The giant had bared his teeth, as if tasting a lemon. “If you must refer to your god, call him the Overlord.”

  “Why can’t I say Elohim?”

  “It’s forbidden among us. The reason it is forbidde
n, is because the granting to him of such fawning is repugnant to us.”

  In despair and stubbornness, Joash had turned away.

  Mimir had snapped his fingers. “Help him into the saddle.”

  “No, High One,” Joash had said. “I refuse.”

  It was then that Mimir had taken a whip from his belt, and nodded. The white-haired man who was to have been the mount held Joash down by the arms. Another white-haired man had held his legs. Mimir had beaten him until Joash cried out.

  “You will ride,” Mimir rumbled.

  With his face in the dirt, Joash had shouted, “No, High One! I will not!”

  Finally, Joash had fainted from the beating. When he’d awoken, he’d found himself strapped face down on a stretcher. The two men who had held him during the beating had carried the ends, and they’d groaned under the staggering loads on their backs. Joash had understood Mimir’s cunning. The men would lose from his disobedience, and thus hate him for the extra work. But, maybe the giant didn’t understand his beasts of burden as well as he thought. For the man who was to have been the mount looked on Joash in wonder.

  After several days in the stretcher, the thigh-wound had healed enough for Joash to walk. Now that they climbed steep paths, however—

  “You’re too slow,” Mimir now told him.

  Joash held his walking stick, with blood soaking his bandage.

  “If you cannot walk faster, you will ride.”

  No one had spoken to him since the beating. He’d become increasingly lonely and found himself craving to talk to someone, even a giant. These words now….

  “I’ll be fine,” Joash said.

  Mimir glowered.

  “High One,” Joash added.

  The giant regarded him, brushed his long beard and nodded. “Then bleed to death, and good riddance to you.”

  Before Joash could respond, the giant strode upslope. Testing the leg, grimacing, Joash took a deep breath and increased his upward pace.

  ***

  The next morning, Joash examined the stitches. He wrapped a new bandage around the thigh and put on his bloodied breeches. After a breakfast of hardtack and watery beer, he resumed marching. Fortunately the path leveled out as they trudged along the base of a rugged mountain. They’d left the Nebo forests a few days ago. Grasses waved beside them, and panicked deer bounded for safer feeding. Tarag sent a sabertooth after one. It bounded swiftly, bringing a doe to the ground and beginning to feast. Tarag roared orders and had to cuff it before the sabertooth slunk elsewhere. A giant with a big skinning knife dressed the slain game.

  Once the march resumed, Joash trudged beside the white-haired servitors. They watched him, as if waiting for him to try to escape. He had the feeling they would try to stop him. But with their heavy packs, how fast could they move? Until his thigh wound healed, they had nothing to worry about, but after that….

  There were other reasons he wouldn’t try to escape yet. Joash needed a water-skin, knife and a good spear. He kept his eyes open, but noticed the giants never left water-skins lying around, and they accounted for every knife. He still had his lion-skin sling wound around his waist. It had helped him against hyenas in Jotunheim, but he’d wanted a good knife and spear, too.

  As he limped behind the giants, Joash heard doves coo from a nearby pine. Joash paused, studying the small birds. One fellow peered at him, and cooed louder, ruffling its feathers.

  Joash remembered the bull mammoth that had trumpeted to him along the shores of the Kragehul Steppes. And he recalled the leviathan. While on the raft he’d seen it pass, and soon thereafter, he’d found needed water-skins. Now, doves watched to see how he was doing. It was a nice feeling, if false.

  Joash kept limping, thinking about it. The feeling was more than nice, and it was true…in a way. Joash shuffled over dry pine needles and listened to them crunch.

  To the right, and before him, towering giants wore polished spiked helmets. Shaggy sabertooths trotted farther a-field. Last night at the fire, he’d witnessed Tarag in his stolen adamant mail. The furry First Born had feasted on raw meat, roaring to his pets. Each of those big sabertooths could have given Old Three-Paws from Jotunheim a hard fight.

  If Joash dwelt on that, on his being alone, outclassed by his enemies, it would continue to drive him to despair. Had the mammoth trumpeted to him? Joash liked to think so. He’d decided to accept his role as Seraph because of it. So the mammoth might as well have trumpeted to him. The leviathan—well, he’d be dead if it hadn’t arrived. The skins that had allowed Herrek, he and his dog Harn to reach land might even have towed to them by the water monster. So why not imagine those doves were Elohim’s spies to see if he was still alive? Elohim watched. Elohim would no doubt send him aid when the time was right. Joash nodded to himself. It wasn’t time to despair, but to heal, regain his wits and plot against the Nephilim.

  To that end, Joash took more interest in his surroundings. The trees had certainly changed since the swamplands. No longer were they twisted oaks, or the tall beeches of the lowlands. Here pines held sway, just as they had in his vision of Irad’s Journey. But this wasn’t the way to Eden. Eden lay near Arkite Land. Surely, Tarag knew the way to Eden. Why go to such lengths to gain the adamant armor, shield and sword if he didn’t know where the Tree of Life stood?

  “I must learn more about these Nephilim,” Joash told himself. He regarded a squirrel that chattered at him from a nearby branch.

  “Is that why I’ve been captured?” he asked.

  A burly white-haired man, bent under his leather pack, pushed him from behind.

  “Walk,” the servitor said.

  Joash stumbled, but he hardly noticed. His idea staggered him more. Maybe Elohim had allowed him to be captured so he could learn the secrets of Nephilim and First Born. Joash frowned, thinking it through. Why not give him another vision instead? A cold fear fell on him. Who was he to question Elohim? He was a Seraph, a servant of Elohim. Consider Adah, which he often did, finding it impossible to believe she was dead. On Poseidonis Gibborim had once captured her, but Adah had still fought as hard as ever. Then Lod had rescued her. Yes, he would be like her. He would struggle against the enemy until he was dead.

  His resolve, and the hope that something might happen to help him, gave him peace. It lightened his step, and let him watch the animals. Deeper in the woods, a wolf darted behind a tree, with its tail between its legs. It must have sniffed the sabertooths. Even as Joash thought that, the wolf peeked around a pine to watch them.

  O brave wolf, I salute you.

  Later, Joash saw mountain goats on a stony ledge. They bounded from one tiny outcrop of rock to another. What marvelous balance they had. Farther on he listened to the trill of birds to buoy his flagging spirits, for he found his resolve was not a thing that he could keep at one high level. It rose, dipped only moments later, and then revived an hour after that when he listened to the beauty of birdsongs. Elohim had created the animals and, according to Zillith, He still watched over every small sparrow. Surely, Elohim could watch over a Seraph captured by Nephilim.

  “Joash!” bellowed Mimir.

  Joash saw the towering giant stride toward him. Mimir still wore his chainmail that almost reached to his knees, and clutched his huge axe. He’d taken to carrying a mighty shield on his back, a shield much bigger than Herrek could have used. The giant wore rugged leathers under his mail. What most marked Mimir were his shaggy beard and the cunning dark eyes that knew too much. Lord Uriah’s eyes had been like that.

  Mimir is ancient, Joash realized. Lord Uriah had been over five hundred years old, one of the oldest humans Joash knew. Actually, few people he’d met had been over a hundred. Most people, for one reason or another, never made it past one hundred. But Mimir... he was older than Lord Uriah was. How old? Gaut Windrunner had been eight hundred years old. Surely, Mimir was even older. Could Mimir be over a thousand years old? Joash shook his head. He couldn’t comprehend that. No human had ever lived so long. Humanity’s father,
Adam, had lived nine hundred and thirty years. Few people ever approached such a vast age.

  Thinking about Mimir’s age frightened Joash. How could he begin to understand a being like Mimir? Joash decided that he would never try to match wits with the giant, nor lie to him if he could help it. Mimir would understand such things better than he would. Great age could be a great teacher, and those knowing eyes said Mimir had been more than willing to learn what lessons life had to give.

  “Joash,” said Mimir, jangling to a halt before him.

  “High One,” Joash said, with a small bow of the head.

  “How fares the wounded thigh?”

  “It’s sore, High One, but I’m able to walk.”

  “I’ve watched you limp along. You have trouble keeping up with the pack animals.”

  Joash remained silent.

  “Does the beating still rankle?”

  “No, High One.”

  “No?” Mimir asked, studying him closely.

  Joash shook his head.

  “No, I see it doesn’t. Good. You must learn to accept what a Nephilim gives you. It will be much easier on you if you do.”

  “Yes, High One.”

  “For instance, here is a better walking stick.”

  “High One?” Joash said, accepting the stout piece of wood. It was pine, with the bark peeled from it. It would be a useful club, and the knot on the end would let him hold it as he limped along. “Thank you, High One. It’s better than I had.”

  “It isn’t a gift so much as to make certain you don’t fall farther behind.”

  “I understand, High One.”

  “Walk with me.”

  Joash did, trying to hobble as fast as the giant’s slow strides. They walked out of earshot of the white-haired men—Joash refused to think of them as pack animals.

  “I’ve been considering your actions,” Mimir said. “How you refused to do my bidding earlier.”

  Joash kept quiet, for fear of gaining another beating.

  “You’re not a pack animal,” Mimir said. “Do you understand that?”