Into Eden: Pangaea - Book 1

Frank Augustus

Copyright © 2014 by Frank Augustus

ISBN-13: 978-1505276367

ISBN-10: 1505276365

Cover illustration by Elart Estole.

Printed in the United States of America.

To Grace, Nate, and John,

who encouraged me to keep on writing; and to Pat, whose many contributions are greatly appreciated.

Before Adam and Eve, before the dinosaurs had turned into coal and oil, before the ancient coral reefs had turned into limestone, there was a world: Pangaea. Pangaea was a vast continent of mountains and rivers, dense forests and rolling grasslands, lush jungles and scorching deserts, farms and cities. And Pangaea was the home of men and Nephilim—the descendants of gods whose offspring included giants and those more beast than men.

Chapter 1
A Man to Kill

Twelve cavalry rode in darkness and silence. Before the sun had set they had sharpened their broadswords, now strapped tightly to their backs to avoid the clatter of scabbard against armor as the horses trotted through the night. They had stained the white fetlocks and muzzles of their horses black, and blackened the red and white stylized ram insignias on their armor as well. This was, after all, to be a covert operation. But their journey had been longer than they had planned, and now they found themselves riding under the light of a full moon that exposed their silhouetted monster-shapes as they rode through the night. For the riders were not men, but Nephilim whose appearance was that of jackal and whom were known by humans and other Nephilim alike as “jackal-heads.”

The jackal-heads were tall—most stood nearly seven feet—and they rode mounts that in a later age would be known as work-horses. Each was dressed in full armor save for shields, with breastplates cinched tightly like their swords so that the normal clatter of battle-gear would not be heard as they passed farmhouses on the road. Cool as the night was, even their cloaks were wrapped tightly in their saddlebags so that their flutter would not catch the ears of dogs in the passing farmyards. The plumes on their helmets—normally a blood-red horse-hair—were this night blackened as well. Their face-masks were pushed up on their helmets exposing long, narrow black muzzles and yellow eyes that glowed in the moon’s reflected light. Strapped to their saddles were new weapons of war unknown to humans: bows that were mounted on a wooden frame that were fired by ratcheting the bowstring back. The an-nef (those Nephilim who had the form of animals) called them, “crossbows” and the arrows that they fired, “bolts.”

Ten of the riders rode in pairs, in front of them, a centurion named Zerah followed a chariot pulled by a team of two horses. Its driver, the general Anubis, gripped the reigns tightly with gauntleted hands that concealed the claws at the end of each finger. Anubis bore the scars of an ancient war. His left ear was half gone, and his left eye was covered with a black patch. Along the left side of his muzzle the fur was creased with a scar nearly six inches long. He was known for driving his horses hard and not sparing the whip, but tonight he urged the animals on with a flip of the reins, for he dared not coax them with a whip or a yell. Silence was key. Surprise was key. And yet as they rode through the night he was sure that every dog that barked from every farmhouse brought curious eyes to the window to stare at creatures that most humans living then had never seen, but had only heard about from their grandfathers. But he could not bother himself with that now. He had other, more important things to worry about.

Anubis and his men had spent the night before at a human’s farmhouse some ten miles down the road. It was a pathetic place, he thought. What the people in this corner of Pangaea called, the “new style”—granite blocks overlaid with white mortar and a thatched roof. No courtyard. No fountain—just a well with a bucket for fetching water. Not even a fence. A pitiful little hovel, really. But at least the family tasted good. At that thought Anubis smiled a little, exposing one broken fang. A small trickle of drool escaped from between some missing canine teeth. Getting old was no fun, he thought as he wiped away the saliva. He hadn’t eaten a human in almost five-hundred years. Strange, he thought, they all taste like chicken.

They passed more farms on the road in the darkness, their fields divided by stone walls. Their animal senses could smell the smoke from the chimneys and the stench of the pig-pens. Humans were disgusting. The fact that they kept—and actually ate—these swine was proof enough for him that humans were a lower species deserving of slaughter. Off to the right he could hear water as it splashed off the rocks of a stream known as the Elmer. Far to the south the Elmer became a great river and they had traveled up that same river for many days to get to this night.

Anubis was distracted from his thoughts as he spotted what appeared to be a rock outcropping on either side of the road in the darkness ahead. As he approached the outcropping he reined in the horses and behind him Zerah raised his right hand signaling for the column to stop. Anubis squinted in the moonlight so that the rock formation appeared a little clearer. Yes, the rock on the right does look like a horse’s head. This must be the place. The ancient jackal-head turned and nodded to his centurion. Immediately Zerah pointed to the two horsemen in the lead and they split up, one rode to the right, the other to the left. In a moment their black forms were lost behind the rocks and Anubis again urged his horses forward. Just another five miles, he thought, and they would be at the bridge.

The ride from Horse-head Rock to the Albion Bridge was only five miles, but to Anubis it seemed to take an eternity. He had been waiting for this opportunity for centuries, and now the night was upon him. His small band had left Eden four months ago, but the snow on the Fog Mountains far to the south had been late in melting and they had not been able to cross at Prophet’s Pass into the Territories as early as they had planned. The delay had cost him precious time—six weeks in all. Six weeks that made the difference between first moon and full moon—darkness and light. Either way, now he was here, and now he would have his revenge. Blood for blood, he thought.

As they rode the sounds of the stream grew louder, the river now paralleling the road by only a hundred paces or so, and in the distance beneath the moonlight was Albion Bridge, crossing the Elmer just a few miles south of the town and forming the boundary for Atlantis’ southern border. Again Anubis brought his chariot to a halt and waited. The riders behind him drew rein and sat, awaiting orders from their commander. Presently from beneath the bridge a form scrambled out and approached the chariot, carrying what appeared to be a sack in his hand. Anubis never took his eyes off from the man. He couldn’t see his soldiers as they exchanged glances behind him.

“Well, I’m here! All ready to…” the man proclaimed loudly.

The next thing that the man remembered was lying on the dirt road and staring up at the jackal-head’s glowing eye, and there was what appeared to be foam coming out of its mouth. The man’s head hurt immensely, and there was a terrible ringing in his ears. As he struggled to get up he realized that the metallic taste on his tongue was his own blood. Immediately his composure gave way to fear.

“Why’d hit me?” he tried to make it sound like a demand, but his voice was wavering. Yes, that was foam coming from the jackal-head’s mouth.

“I told you to have the hood and gloves on BEFORE you came out from under the bridge,” Anubis growled.

“But I thought…”

“Don’t think!” Anubis cut him short. “Do as you’re told.”

Now the man scrambled to pull the hood on. It was a burlap sack resembling those used to cover the heads of men condemned to hanging, only it had holes for his eyes. He put on his leather gloves with haste as well and stood silently, waiting for the general to speak again.

“Get in the chariot! And make it quick!”

The man scrambled up into the chariot and again waited for Anubis to speak first.

“You know the way?” Anubis asked.

“Yes,” he replied, barely above a whisper.

“And how far is the house?”

“Not far.”

This time there was no crushing blow from a gauntlet, just a sudden closing of the man’s air-passage as the an-nef squeezed one large hand around the man’s throat. The man struggled to free the grip, but to no avail. After a few seconds, however, Anubis did release him and he collapsed against the inside of the chariot.

“I said, ‘How far’?”

“Three…maybe four miles,” he wheezed.

Things were not going as he planned. He was in this for the money and he had been beaten and choked within two minutes of their meeting. He feared this half-animal thing that loomed over him, and at that moment he would have leaped from the chariot and ran as fast as he could to get away if he thought that they wouldn’t catch him within a few paces. He steadied himself and pulled himself back up in the chariot. For just a brief moment his greed overcame his fear.

“You have my money?” he asked.

“You’ll get what you’ve bargained for
after
the man is dead,” Anubis replied. “But for now just shut up and speak only when you’re spoken to. That understood?”

The man started to say, “Yes,” then reconsidered and nodded.

“Good.”

Anubis stared up the road into the darkness. Soon they would pass over the bridge, leaving the Territories and crossing over into Atlantis proper. Then there would be no turning back. Perhaps a quarter of a mile away he could see a carriage followed by two riderless horses tethered to the back approaching the bridge. That could be a problem, he thought. Might have to kill more humans tonight than he had planned. But before they got much closer the carriage and the horsemen turned and rode off down a road to his left. It was well past one-bell he thought. What would humans be doing on the road at this time of night? Little matter, he had a man to kill.

Chapter 2
The Dog at the Inn

While Anubis and his fellow an-nef were approaching Horse-head Rock, a few miles to the north, across the border of Atlantis in the little town of Albion in what was known as the Foothills region, three young men sat at a table at the White Moose Inn, a large, black dog lying beside them on the plank floor. On the stone wall of the inn’s common room was the huge head of an albino moose from which the inn derived its name. The moose’s glass eyes stared out at a dwindling crowd of some ten patrons. It was well past midnight and approaching one bell, but the men sitting by the fire didn’t seem to care. Over the course of the evening they had consumed enough beer to make even the most innocuous of comments seen hilarious. One could tell by their attire that they were locals. Clean-shaven, as was the Atlantan custom. Their boots were made of brown leather, their trousers of local dark wool, and their shirts of white cotton imported from River Bend, far to the south.

“I hear that there’s a lion about,” said Abijah, attempting to show some degree of sobriety. At eighty-eight, Abijah was the youngest of the three, but he had the appearance of youth that in a later age would mark him as a young man in his mid to late teens. Shorter than his companions, he was of pure human stock and barely stood five-feet-ten, and unlike the two half-brothers with whom he sat, he had dark hair and green eyes.

With the comment about the lion the other two boys broke out in uproarious laughter.

“No, really,” Abijah protested. “By the gods, it’s true! My father’s been told to shut the gates at night to keep the lions out. In fact, he heard there might be two lions prowling about.”

Both of the other boys immediately exploded in another round of laughter, and at that one of them knocked off a scrap of beef onto the floor which the dog—previously thought to be sound asleep—leaped up and gobbled greedily.

“I heard there were THREE lions,” said Jesse, the object of this celebration on his ninetieth birthday. This was followed by another round of laughter. It also resulted in a mug of beer landing in Perez’s lap. That which splashed down on the floor was also licked up by the dog, delighted in the benefits of being in the presence of inebriated humans.

Jesse was a handsome young man and stood six foot six—evidence of his half-giant ancestry. Like his half-brother Perez beside him, Jesse had blond hair and blue eyes, characteristic of Atlantans of the far north. Perez, who at ninety-five was the oldest youth at the table, was as tall as his brother, and matched his brother in hair and eyes, but Perez was never what anyone would have called handsome. Just the same, his penchant for adventure and quick humor had made him a favorite with the girls at a very early age.

Perez stared down at his soaked wool trousers.

“Good,” he said. “Now no one will know that I peed my pants.” At this they all began to laugh again, and when the laughter died down it was Jesse who spoke,

“C’on, Perez. You’ve just come back from the Territories. Did you see any lions on the way?”

“Nope,” Perez giggled.

“Any tigers or bears?” Jesse continued.

By now Perez was laughing again and had the giggles too badly to respond.

“No!” Abijah protested, red-faced. “I’m serious! My father heard it from Hezron himself! Stories from people coming from the Territories up from River Bend and Whitehurst. Lions are killing anyone who travels on the Southern Highway. As sure as fog kills, there are lions prowling the road!”

“If they were killed,” Jesse responded, “how could they tell Hezron?”

With that, Perez started laughing uncontrollably and leaned back in his chair, hands on his chest and mouth, trying unsuccessfully to stifle another round of giggles. Before anyone knew what was happening, the chair toppled over backwards and Perez went sprawling. He lay on the floor motionless as Jesse and Abijah—now jolted seemingly to sobriety—leaned over him. Even the dog came over to stare in disgust at the spectacle of this higher life-form lying on the floor in his beer and pee.

“Is he dead?” Jesse asked cautiously.

The dog sniffed Perez’s breath, “Nope. Just passed out.”

At that, two bearded men at the next table put down their beers and stared at the animal.

“Did that dog just say somethung?” one of the men asked.

“What of it?!” the dog snapped back.

Before either man could answer, their attention was stolen by the entry into the inn of a man who stood over nine feet tall. The giant was old, having seen his eight-hundredth year a couple of decades earlier; but despite his age and his gray hair, he still appeared to be a powerful man and walked with a swagger of one half his age, his gray cape flowing gracefully behind him. And unlike others with a few centuries behind them and a few creases on their face, this one had avoided the indignity of having to add extra notches in his belt to accommodate an expanding girth. He wore a sword at his side—as if a man of his size would need one—as a sign of his authority. If sword and size were not enough to mark him as a man to be obeyed, his gray uniform with the gold stars of an Atlantan general on his chest demanded it. He was also—as all the locals in the room could tell you—the governor of the Foothills Province.