The Lod Saga (Lost Civilizations: 6) Page 9

  “Help me!” a child screamed from outside.

  Lod raised his head. Unconsciously perhaps, his fingers curled around the yellow talender, crushing the flower. As if floating, he stood and collected two short swords. He hefted them in his hands. These were better weapons than his hatchet. They reminded him of the Stadium of Swords in Uruk. He clenched the swords in each knotted fist.

  “O Elohim,” he whispered, “grant me victory against these butchers.”

  With white hair streaming, Lod sprinted out of the front door. Fires raged everywhere. Smoke chugged into the sky. Beams crashed. Men, women and children screamed. In the pandemonium, helmeted warriors shouted harsh orders. A horn blared.

  Lod charged around the cabin.

  Two warriors loomed over a weeping boy. It was Gad. The lad had spoken to him earlier at the pine stump. One warrior gripped Gad’s chin. The other tied a rope around his skinny wrists. They had wrenched Gad’s arms behind his back.

  Doom radiated from Lod so the very air must have grown heavier. One of the warriors looked up. The last thing he saw was the flash of Lod’s blade. The other gasped before he fell in a crumpled heap.

  “Run!” Lod roared. “Flee into the woods.”

  Gad crouched over, with his hands behind his back, and he ran.

  Lod grinned in manic delight. At least one of them—an arrow appeared. It had a curved and seemingly lazy flight. The arrow took Gad in the thigh. It pitched him off his feet. His chin made a furrow in the dirt. Dazed, Gad lifted his head.

  Lod grinded his teeth together and he sprinted toward a hut. The arrow had come from that direction. His short swords shook with fury.

  Lod dashed through smoke and surprised two warriors trotting toward Gad. One of them foolishly had his shield slung on his back. He died first. The second man held a shield, but he didn’t lift it fast enough. He ate steel so it punched out of the back of his throat.

  Then Lod saw the archers. He clutched his short swords so his knuckles turned pale. He sprinted as one possessed. The archers gaped at him wide-eyed.

  Four henchmen from farther away looked up as the black-robed necromancer shouted and pointed at Lod. The henchmen splashed through muddy soil after Lod. They yelled oaths as the black-robed man sounded the alarm.

  Lod was unaware of them. He bared his teeth like a savage beast. The hunger to slay the archers consumed him.

  “Shoot him!” the taller archer screamed at the shorter. He fumbled for an arrow.

  The shorter archer swiftly notched an arrow, lifted his bow with uncanny speed, drew and released a murderous shaft. The arrow slammed into Lod’s ribs and half twisted him. The archer’s triumphant glee lasted all of one second. Lod roared. His eyes blazed insanely, and he kept coming. The archer reached for another arrow, but it was too late. Lod hacked the archer’s neck with a horribly wet thud. Lod beat the flat of his second sword against the other archer’s head. The shock of each swing was like oil on the flames of his rage. Lod rained a flurry of blows on each, the crunch of bones and their screams an intoxicating release.

  The four henchmen behind Lod slowed. Fear shone upon their sweaty faces. None, it seemed, wished to be the first to engage the wounded wild man. Perhaps they were unused to facing a trained warrior. They fanned out and approached in a back-alley shuffle. Each hefted a spiked shield and glanced at his companions.

  Lod spun toward them, with an arrow sticking out of his ribs. He noted the black-robed necromancer in the distance. That one held a skull and seemed to be chanting.

  “Drop your weapon,” an approaching henchman snarled. He was missing his front teeth. “You’re wounded, and it’s four against—”

  The henchman from Iribos never finished his speech. Lod sprang, a slash, and a red line appeared under the henchman’s chin. Blood gushed as the man died. The others attacked, and they cut Lod, a swallow gash on his hip, a deeper cut in his shoulder and a furrow in his side from a spike. Lod’s blades wove with skilled fury. It was too much for these back-alley henchmen with strange tattoos. They died, gurgling on their blood or kneeling over their spilled entrails.

  The necromancer thrust his skull into his robes, turned and fled.

  Lod raised his gory swords and faced others by the temple. They stared at him, many in the act of tying villagers to a slave chain.

  Blood dripped from Lod’s wounds. “Fight!” he shouted. “Rise up and slay these bastards!”

  Several of the captured villagers glanced at one another. One-Eyed Tomas stood up.

  “Fight,” said someone with an impossibly deep voice, “and your guts will trip your feet.”

  Lod swiveled his head.

  Instead of a man, a Nephilim strode into view. He was huge, over twice Lod’s height. His face was too wide and too pale. On his forehead was a black tattoo of a spearhead. Otherwise, he was handsome like a god except for strange yellow eyes. He had long blond hair that swept past his broad shoulders. He wore bronze mail, with a mighty sword slung at his hip.

  “He’d make a vicious pit slave, Great One,” the necromancer whispered.

  The Nephilim shook his leonine head, never taking his eyes off Lod.

  Lod loathed the giant, the creature with the blood of the bene elohim, fallen angels from the Celestial Realm. If he could slay the giant, these others might flee.

  While keeping his gaze locked on Lod’s, the Nephilim held out a huge hand. A young man in a red tunic hurried near. With a grunt, the youth placed a ten-foot, iron shaft into the giant’s palm, a monstrous javelin. The big fingers curled around the weapon.

  “Fool!” the Nephilim shouted. “Are you mad enough to stand your ground?”

  With murder in his eyes, Lod lurched toward the giant.

  The Nephilim laughed as he hurled the javelin. Despite his size, the giant had grace and deadly aim. The javelin thrummed, and it slammed into Lod. It hurled him backward as the javelin struck wood, that of a cabin. It pinned Lod, gigging him like a frog. Lod tried to pull free, but the iron had deeply sunken into the log of the cabin. As Lod struggled, a shadow loomed before him. He raised his head.

  The giant stood before him and put outsized hands on his bronze-armored hips.

  Lod had dropped his swords and now grasped the huge javelin sticking through his chest. He strained with desperate rage. It hurt to breathe, and his strength poured away like wine out of a slashed skin.

  The Nephilim gave a mirthless laugh.

  Lod gathered blood in his mouth and glared at the Nephilim, hating his strength. Lod spat a bloody globule and hit the giant’s cheek.

  A massive hand cracked across Lod’s face and brutally whipped it to the left. Huge fingers twined in Lod’s hair. Lod turned his head as fast as a mongoose and clicked his teeth against a bronze wrist-guard. Foiled there, Lod tried to shift his head, to sink his teeth into the meaty flesh of the giant’s palm. The huge fingers tightened their hold and held Lod’s face immobile. Out of the corner of his eye, Lod saw the giant wipe the blood off his cheek. The giant wiped his bloody fingers in Lod’s hair.

  “Know that Manus Farstrider has pinned you like a moth,” the giant boasted. “Here the crows shall feed on your flesh and here the dire wolves will come to gnaw on your bones.”

  Manus let go of Lod and stepped back to regard him.

  Lod struggled to free himself.

  Manus pursed his lips as if thinking of something more to say. Then he shrugged. It was a jangle of bronze links. He turned away.

  “Giant,” Lod wheezed.

  Manus turned back and cocked an eyebrow.

  “Bury the dead.”

  Manus frowned. “Does a corpse seek to order me?”

  Lod locked eyes with the giant.

  “…You are a beast,” Manus said. “One does not bury beasts, but leaves them for the crows and dire wolves to gorge themselves.”

  “I charge you by Elohim—”

  Manus lunged at Lod. With his huge fingers, he clutched Lod’s chin in an iron grip. “You charge me by noth
ing, beast! I am the son of Jotnar, the son of Anak, the god of the Morning. The one you named does not rule here because I rule. I charge you to die a slow and agonizing death, so you may have time to understand the futility of your life. It was like a flickering candle in the wind, and I chose to snuff it out.”

  Manus spat in Lod’s face, released his grip and stepped back.

  “You are cursed,” Lod wheezed, as the giant’s spittle dripped from his face.

  “Yes,” Manus laughed. “I am cursed to continue living without your enjoyable company.”

  “Someday—”

  “Suffer,” Manus said. He turned and strode toward the temple.

  That burst the dam of Lod’s rage, and the fury that had given him strength flowed away. Soon his eyesight dimmed. And time began to play strange tricks, perhaps because he was only aware for moments at a time.

  …Lod heard whips crack. With great toil, he lifted his head. The long line of captives began to stumble from the temple and toward the village gate. With a bloody wound in his thigh, small Gad shuffled in that throng. Sarah marched behind him, and One-Eyed Tomas was there. Even Bran marched, with a cloth wound around his broken jaw and over the top of his head. The henchmen and slavers beat many with barbed whips so blood flowed from bowed backs.

  Manus Farstrider towered over the slaves and over his brigands. The giant glanced over his shoulder.

  Lod felt the heat of the stare and glared back, although it was difficult to make out the giant’s features. Manus raised his spear in a mock salute.

  With a slow grind of effort, Lod lifted a hand onto the iron javelin. He tried once again to tug it out. He would rush the giant and die fighting. He would…

  Lod found his chin slumped against his clammy chest. As if his neck was a rusted trap, he raised his head. The giant were gone. Only corpses remained in the village. Lod was alone among the burning cabins.

  -3-

  Lod licked particles of moisture from his parched lips. Rain had fallen, putting out the fires. His body ached. His heart hurt worse. A sickening spot of pain throbbed behind his eyes. Lowlanders had slain Lila. The Nephilim had refused her burial. Lod slowly worked his jaw from side to side.

  Squabbling crows and magpies covered the nearest corpses. It was a seething mass of snapping wings, caws and bloody beaks. A little later, yapping foxes of the forest drove the birds airborne. That was a thunder of wings and shrill cries. The scavenger birds soon waited on charred cabins. They were as numerous as lice. Then huge dire wolves trotted through the gate, driving away both crows and foxes.

  One strange wolf trotted before Lod. It was a brute with gray on its muzzle. The wolf’s lips peeled back to reveal yellowed fangs.

  Lod spoke aloud, and he kicked feebly at the wolf.

  The wolf backed away, although it watched Lod. Then the dire wolf turned and trotted to a corpse where other wolves snarled for their share. It was a grisly sight. The thought that they would soon feast on him made Lod recall the Nephilim’s words.

  Lod hated Manus Farstrider. He hated the wretched thought of Lila dying in his arms and that the dog of a giant would live and destroy others. He hated the laugh, the contemptuous smile. He hated the giant’s strength, and that those like him walked among men to commit their heinous crimes.

  Lod yearned for life. He yearned to hunt the giant, to hunt all of those who had destroyed the beauty of this village. His cracked lips writhed.

  “Elohim,” he wheezed, “let me stalk him who slew these villagers. Let me be your knife. Let me devour the devourers. If you aid me, O Elohim, I vow to follow Manus Farstrider and slay him no matter where he goes. Grant me healing, I beg. Let me…”

  Exhausted, Lod’s chin settled upon his chest. His eyelids flickered. His last strength had been used speaking. His dying thought was that wolves and foxes ate the flesh of Lila’s unburied corpse.

  Then something strange occurred. Perhaps it was a vision. Lod saw a shining light that hurt his eyes. It almost seemed as if a man stood before him. Big hands grasped the iron javelin and tugged. Lod gasped at the pain and collapsed onto the ground. Then warmth flooded his body. Strangely, that brought intense agony. Lod groaned. The warmth turned into heat. The heat beat the agony down into pain. The pain turned into lesser hurt. It was then Lod felt pressure against his chest and against his ribs were the javelin and arrow had entered.

  Lod opened his eyes. The old gray dire wolf with white in its muzzle stood over him. Too tired to protect himself, Lod’s eyes closed and he lapsed into unconsciousness—

  —When next Lod opened his eyes, his muscles ached. He had never been this stiff before. Like an old man, he worked to his feet. He had been sleeping in the village temple, and had no idea how he’d gotten here. He must have crawled in his sleep. He shuffled to the door. The air outside was sharp. The needles in the pines seemed greener than he remembered. Fleecy clouds drifted north.

  With a feeling of awe, he shuffled back into the temple. His wounds were healed. Elohim—Lod flexed his hands and grinned savagely. These hands would slay Manus Farstrider. So he had vowed.

  Dried blood smeared one of the inner temple walls. The Nephilim and his lowlander henchmen had done that. They had also smashed the altar and desecrated it.

  Lod prowled the temple as anger shined in his eyes. Had the lowlanders dragged women in here and raped them? Had they forced the husband to watch and then butchered the weeping man? The desecration to the altar—Lod stopped in shock. The ten-foot iron javelin lay under a bench. Lod shuffled to it, knelt and touched the javelin. He shivered in revulsion and touched his chest where the javelin had entered.

  Lod’s eyes narrowed. A short sword in a scabbard lay behind the monstrous javelin. He picked it up and yanked the blade free. It was razor-sharp. Thoughtful, Lod buckled on the scabbard.

  How long had he lain in the temple? He shook his head. Where would the giant take the villagers? Likely, Manus would take them to Shiva as slaves. He nodded. He, too, would travel to Shiva.

  Lod hefted the javelin. Then he lowered and clunked it onto the floor. First, he must bury Lila. Then he would gather food and supplies, and hunt down and kill Manus Farstrider. So he had vowed to Elohim as the price of his healing. So now he must do.

  -4-

  The chain of captives miserably huddled under dripping oak trees. Above, rain kept splattering against the upper leaves. It was gloomy and cold, the trail muddy. The giant had called a halt, perhaps to let them rest.

  Like the others, Sarah wore an iron collar, a length of rusty chain between her and Tomas in front and Lea behind. Lea kept her eyes downcast, refusing to look at anyone. Last night—Sarah shuddered at the memory. Last night, a gang of slavers had unlocked Lea from the line and raped her brutally, leaving bruises and bitter tears of shame. Sarah knew it was more than pleasure for those brutes. Day by day, the slavers sought ways to steal their dignity and their humanity, seeking to break whatever spirit remained among them.

  She hugged Gad shivering in her lap. Unlike the men, her hands were free, not cruelly bound behind her back.

  Sarah stroked Gad’s hair and made soothing sounds. Like many of the younger children, Gad was unchained. Gad wore a single garment like the rest of them. It was plastered to his wet, shivering-hot skin. The wound in his thigh had begun oozing again and his eyes had become glazed. For the last several miles, she’d half-carried him. Her arms shook with exhaustion and her shoulders ached. She was hungry and cold, numb with fatigue, so numb that some of the terrible fear that had gripped her the first day had lessened. She had seen what they did to Lod. Brave Lod had actually slaughtered some of these pigs. Back in the village, it had made the tears stream down her face, because she’d been certain it had meant that her sister Lilia was dead. Then the giant had hurled his javelin. No one could face such a warrior as Manus Farstrider and hope to survive. The giant had left Lod pinned to the burning cabin to die.

  In her arms, Gad whimpered for his dead mother.

  “Shhh,”
Sarah whispered. She stroked his hot brow, trying to soothe him.

  “I’m thirsty,” Gad moaned.

  “Open your mouth,” she whispered, positioning his head under a dripping leaf.

  As Gad lay on her lap, he opened his mouth, looking like a sick and starving sparrow chick. He was so hot, and he shivered constantly. Gad swallowed minute amounts of water, groaning as he did.

  Sarah heard mud slop and heard muddy sucking sounds as slavers moved down the chain. One with a sack slung around his shoulder thrust crusts of bread at the women. They had to feed the wrist-bound men chained beside them. Another slaver-warrior clutching a spear inspected each captive in turn. He wore a hood and had a long drooping mustache, with a row of evil spikes jutting out just below his lower lip. They looked like fangs or metal tusks. He was one of the slavers who had brutalized Lea last night. Lea had wounds around her face and in other places, maybe from his lip-spikes. On several occasions, Sarah had seen this slaver cruelly use his spear on the weak and dying.

  “You must sit up,” Sarah urged Gad.

  “I’m cold,” Gad moaned.

  Sarah rubbed his arms as she cast a worried glance at the approaching slavers. If they thought Gad was too sick to march, the lip-spiked slaver would stab the boy and leave him here dead. It had happened yesterday to old, limping Rosh. Slavers had unlocked his collar. Poor old Rosh had looked at them bewildered.

  “Run,” had said the lip-spiked slaver, while shoving the old man.

  Barely righting himself, Rosh had shuffled away, dragging his lame leg.

  “Run, you old fool,” another slaver had laughed. That one had drawn his sword and faked a cut at Rosh’s head. With a scream, old, sick Rosh had hobbled faster, panting, begging for mercy.

  That was when the slavers had begun making bets on whose spear would bring down the old man. They’d formed a line and had made a great show of limbering their shoulders for a hard cast. It was then Rosh had understood his fate. Falling, weeping, dragging his lame leg, he had tried to flee. Sarah had realized with sick clarity that it was easier for these brutes to slay a person they had first made look ridiculous or dehumanized. His death had been a hard one.