Leviathan (Lost Civilizations: 2) (4 page)

“Where?”

“At Draugr’s Crypt,” Joash said.

Captain Maharbal nodded curtly, dusting his knees. “We must hurry,” he said.

“A trolock made this,” Joash told him.

“Yes! But speak no more about it,” Captain Maharbal said. “Hurry!”

An eerie presence seemed to haunt the stream now. Soon, Joash and Eber picked up the chariot-pole. Despite the weight, Joash kept looking around, expecting to see a huge pile of boulders come striding toward them. So trolocks
had
come out of the cave. Tarag had awakened old terrors, and now the trolocks stalked the land. To do what? Joash wondered if the mammoths had trumpeted at the trolock. Was that why the sabertooths had left? He prayed they wouldn’t have to face the trolock.

“Hurry!” Captain Maharbal said, with his hand curled around his dagger-handle.

“What do you see?” a warrior asked the Captain.

Captain Maharbal was pale. Joash peered back. He thought he saw something at the top of the cedar-topped hill. He pulled the chariot faster.

They reached the boats, and rolled the water barrels up the gangplanks. Slowly, with much sweating and grunting, they pushed the longboats into the marsh, and turned them around. Warm water soaked Joash’s breeches, as he waded beside the boat. At last, they left the marsh, and re-entered the stream, floating properly again. Everyone climbed aboard. They rowed downstream, casting nervous glances to the right and left. The boats picked up speed. Then, a sailor cursed.

Joash, along with everyone else, looked at where the sailor pointed a trembling finger. A thing of stone marched toward them.

“Elohim save us,” whispered Captain Maharbal.

“He holds a giant’s spear,” one of the warriors said.

“Row!” Captain Maharbal roared.

Everyone rowed. The boats increased speed. But, the stream twisted and turned on its way to the sea. The trolock tramped toward one of the turns.

“We’re doomed!” a rower wailed.

Ashen-faced Captain Maharbal hefted a Tarsh dart. “How do you defeat such a creature?” he asked Joash.

“You flee!”

A warrior laughed harshly.

Then, an arrow clattered against the trolock’s back. The trolock stopped, and to their amazement, the trolock turned.

“Hai! Stoneman!” shouted a squat, tangle-haired savage. He was behind the trolock.

“Row!” Captain Maharbal hissed.

“Sungara!” Joash called. “Run!”

Another arrow sped against the trolock. It seemed the stone monster was uncertain whom to chase. At last, it turned, and trudged after Sungara.

“We’ve got to pick him up,” Joash shouted at Captain Maharbal.

“How?” the Captain shot back.

“He saved our lives.”

“They aren’t saved yet,” Captain Maharbal said grimly.

Joash stood. He no longer saw Sungara. Maybe the Huri could escape the trolock. But they had
to pick up Sungara. He was a Seraph. Even more, he was a human trapped in Jotunheim.

“What can we do?” Joash cried.

“Escape to tell the others,” Captain Maharbal said.

They floated out the stream, and into the sea. The sailors rowed hard.

Joash was dejected. He felt terrible they hadn’t picked up Sungara. The Huri had saved them. Joash swore to himself that never again would he let anyone speak ill of the forest folk.

“Look,” one of the sailors said in awe.

Joash expected to see the trolock. His stomach did flips, and his mouth went dry. A fold in the land had hidden a huge mammoth from their sight. It walked along the shore followed by others. They were shaggy, dark brown in color, and the lead mammoth had a knob at the highest point of his back. They were huge, and had incredibly long curving tusks. What a match for giants they would be. Maybe some giants were taller, but none was as heavy, or as kingly. Joash was awed. Everything was as magnificent about them as Zillith had told him. As big and ferocious as sabertooths were, it was hard for Joash to imagine how any would have the courage to attack the lead bull. The bull walked proudly, as if he owned the Earth. The lead mammoth, the bull, raised his trunk and trumpeted shrilly.

Joash stared in amazement.

“Glorious beasts indeed,” said Captain Maharbal.

“Look out!” cried a sailor.

A wave crashed against the boat. Water drenched them. Joash looked away as he helped raise the sail. When he looked again, the entire herd walked in a stately fashion along the shore. He saw a small calf reach up with its trunk, curling it around his mother’s tiny tail.

“This is almost worth everything I’ve been through,” he told the Tarshman.

Stout Captain Maharbal nodded.

“What a marvel they are,” Joash said. He watched the mammoths for as long as he could. They dwindled, and slowly grew smaller. He heard them trumpet once last time.

Goosebumps ran up and down Joash’s arms.

Mammoths. The beasts had left this region because they hated the corruption of First Born. Joash suddenly frowned. Mammoths were majestic, and they, along with horses, and most dogs, could not stand to be near First Born. He studied the distant shore. The mammoths were glorious and noble. They hated First Born. Joash shook his head.

How could he think about mammoths when Sungara was stranded in Giant Land? The Huri had possibly given his life to save them. Suddenly, Joash felt shame that he’d taken so long to make his decision about being a Seraph. Either First Born would rule the Earth, or mammoths and men would. He wanted to fight on the same side as mammoths, and with courageous men like Sungara. His mouth opened. Had Elohim given him a sign?

Determined to help Sungara, and to tell Adah and the others that he was a Seraph now, Joash pulled hard at the oar.

Chapter Five

Slith

Our pursuers were swifter than eagles in the sky.

-- Lamentations 4:19

“The warriors do not approve of your decision,” Herrek told Lord Uriah.

They stood by Herrek’s tent on the edge of the sandbar. Gens whittled on a piece of driftwood. Joash stood near an extremely bleary-eyed Lord Uriah. The swaying Patriarch had been instructing Joash in the lore of Seraphs. Herrek leaned on his upright chariot lance, his face grave.

“The warriors do not approve of your decision,” Herrek repeated.

“They do not wish to leave the sandbar?” Lord Uriah asked, with a red face. For once, his drinking seemed to have the better of him.

“Not on your conditions,” Herrek said. “It’s sacrilege to release the Asvarn stallions. The horses are our blood, our way of life and our wealth.”

Lord Uriah nodded slowly, his hand on Joash’s shoulder, perhaps to steady himself. He reeked of ale. “Your thinking is sound, Champion. ...I do not fault you there. I fault your disobedience.”

Herrek shook his head. “I have not disobeyed you, Lord.”

“In your heart you have. You have said, I will tell my grandfather how the warriors feel about giving up the prized stallions. I will thus force him to decide my way.”

Herrek stiffened.

“You shall not take your chariot onto the steppes and follow Tarag,” Lord Uriah said. “That is folly.”

Herrek exploded with a shout, and threw down the lance. Gens looked up. Joash paled.

“What is this I hear you say?” Herrek asked. “It is folly to hunt our enemies? You cannot mean that. You’ve spoken about Tarag, that he plans great evil. Let me take my chariots onto the steppes. In that way, I may save the stallions, and save the world much grief. I will be a bur to our enemies. I will not let them hatch their plans in secret, but will learn their hidden destination as I sting them like a wasp. How can you say no?”

Lord Uriah took his hand off Joash’s shoulder, and straightened, no longer swaying. “Pick up your lance,” he said.

Herrek hooked his big thumbs through his sword belt.

Lord Uriah said, “As brave, valorous and skilled as you are, you’re of no use to me, or to Elohim, as a rebel.”

“I’m not a rebel,” Herrek said.

“Then pick up your lance.”

Herrek scowled, but he picked up his lance.

Lord Uriah scratched his closely cropped white beard. “How has this vain idea come upon you, Herrek? You’re the bravest of my warriors, and once you were the most obedient. None doubt your skills. For are you not called the Giant-Slayer? But this...” Lord Uriah shook his head, and put his hand on Joash’s shoulder. “It is folly to track a First Born, especially Tarag of the Sabertooths. If you had said, ‘Grandfather, only we have the knowledge of what Tarag stole from Draugr’s Crypt. What if the
Tiras
should sink? Who then can carry the precious knowledge to Lod?’ Ah, then you would have an argument with which to possibly sway me. But this... this is folly. It comes from a prideful heart. Tarag defeated you easily. Now, you wish to erase this blot. And now, I suppose you think defeating Tarag is something within your power. I say to you, Herrek the Giant-Slayer, that you are worse than a fool to think so.”

“I slew Gaut Windrunner.”

“Indeed.”

“Why then is it impossible for me to slay Tarag?”

“Joash was crouched beside you when you slew Gaut Windrunner,” Lord Uriah said. “Adah was also near, as was I. Gaut stood in the water, held tightly before you. You stood in a boat. All those factors went far toward your success.”

Herrek said, “If you mean shrewd tactics helped me, then so be it. What are our chariots and lances? On the steppes these will give me the advantage.”

“Adah will not join you, nor I, nor Zillith, nor I’m sure, do you expect Captain Maharbal to ride inland from his ship.”

“What of Joash?” Herrek asked.

Lord Uriah laughed bleakly.

Herrek mulled this over. “Do you so despise my skills, that you think it’s impossible for me to slay Tarag?”

“You speak about a First Born. They are masters of guile, and lords of power. You’re like a child before them. Still, there are conditions by which you could succeed. But those conditions will not be found on the steppes, not with a handful of charioteers.”

“I disagree.”

Lord Uriah peered into Herrek’s eyes. “How has this folly come to rest in your heart, my dear Herrek?”

“Not folly,” Herrek said, “but the keen desire to defeat the true foe. Tarag attempts evil. I wish to stop him. I am not a prophet, a singer or a sea captain. I’m a warrior. To fight is my way. Why is that so difficult to understand? Or have you drunk too much today?”

“...I see,” said Lord Uriah.

“You’ll give me a chariot?”

“I see that it’s a shame you’ve not lost more challenges in your life. Few can match your war-skills. Now Tarag easily threw you down. There, I think, lies the heart of your folly.”

“What if it is?” Herrek said hotly. “Am I supposed to lie supine before anyone who is stronger than me, or has more guile or has defeated me? Or, am I to dust myself off, rearm, and then face the foe again? There, I think, is the true test of a warrior.”

Lord Uriah stepped back, considering Herrek’s words. “You are truly brave,” he said at last.

Herrek shrugged, saying, “Let not my talking impress you. Only by my actions do I wish to be known.”

Lord Uriah brightened. “Are you a rebel?”

“I’ve already said I’m not.”

Lord Uriah waved that aside. “
Show me
you’re no rebel, and then I’ll believe you. Obey my words, only then will I know you’re not a rebel. Telling me you’re not, does nothing, for those are only words.”

Herrek nodded slowly. “You’ve twisted my words against me.”

“No,” Lord Uriah said. “I accept you as you wish to be accepted.”

Herrek tightened his grip on the lance. “What shall I tell the warriors about the stallions?”

“Tell them: ‘I obey my lord. The stallions will be left on the steppes as he says. And from his own herd will Lord Uriah reimburse you for
all
your lost chargers’.”

Herrek bowed his head. “It will be as you say, Lord.”

Lord Uriah left Herrek, taking Joash with him, leaning on him harder than ever.

Tents went down. Bundles grew. The boats made many journeys from the sandbar to the
Tiras
. Aboard ship, the sailors were busy, stowing things in the hold and lashing other things to the deck.

As Lord Uriah and Joash stood under a tree, Uriah said, “This the fifth time in my life I’ve left Jotunheim.” Joash sipped tea, Lord Uriah more ale.

“When was the first time?”

“Do you remember Adah’s story?” Lord Uriah asked. “The one where heroes of old marched into Jotunheim, hunting for giants?”

“I remember,” Joash said.

“How in the story Father Jotnar at last helped his children, the giants?”

“Yes,” Joash said. “Adah told us the heroes were slain.”

Lord Uriah had a far-off look, as he stared at the smudge of the Kragehul Steppes. He set down his mug. “Not all of them died,” he said softly. “A few of us made it off the grim steppes.”

“
You
hunted the giants?”

“When I was young, like Herrek,” Lord Uriah said. “When I was mad about pride and honor, like Herrek is.” He sighed wistfully. “There were more Seraphs then, and it was before the Great Sundering—although, the sundering was not far off even then. We knew the day of breaking would come, and we were sure it would be because of the prideful men of Ir.” Lord Uriah shook his head, his thoughts lost in the past.

Joash knew about the Great Sundering. Zillith had taught him. When the Shining Ones had left the world with their prisoners, Caphtor, Ir, Larak and Iddo were united in a mighty Empire. Darkness had fallen upon much of the Earth. The Thousand Years War had brought misery, grief and a failing of knowledge. Those areas of the world longest under the Accursed yoke, were the most depraved, wretched and lacking in simple kindness. The Empire rulers had been charged by the Shining Ones to continue their work. The Seraphs and Elohim-fearing warriors were to hunt the Children of Darkness, who had fled the last battle. They were to put an end to the curse of the
bene elohim
, and they were to help humanity climb from the pit of savagery that the war had brought them to. For countless years, the Empire did as it was bidden.

Slowly, the nearer regions of the world rose out of savagery and primitivism. The Imperial Seraphs often found Nephilim, and their fathers, deep in plots, or tyrannically ruling hidden valleys. There, cannibalism was practiced, or wretched slavery, or the ritual slaying of innocents. Each time these enclaves were discovered, the Empire waged relentless war, freeing the people and defeating the Nephilim.

The Empire’s capital had always been Caphtor, but Glorious Ir was as large, and its armies as strong. By intrigue, and careful marriages, the kings of Ir, among the longest-lived men, grew mightier than ever. Their hearts hardened toward Caphtor, and toward the business left the Empire by the Shining Ones. First Born and Nephilim had always seemed to Ir’s monarchs as distant threats, and in the next-to-final King of Ir’s mind, not a threat at all. When he died, his eldest son accepted the crown, as tradition dictated. In the last King of Ir, the fear and love of Elohim vanished, as it had in most of his nobles’ hearts. What the Shining Ones had done, he was certain the armies of Glorious Ir could have done as well, or better. A thousand chariots were his to command. His spearmen were the bravest and the most ferocious on Earth.

The people of Ir praised their king, and grew prideful in all that their glorious city had accomplished. They grew rich from trade, and powerful from stolen booty. Less and less did they send armies to wage war against the Nephilim, or help those in the outer regions regain civilization. Instead, the King of Ir concentrated his power in the Land of the Nine Cities.

Then, the last King of Ir made his fateful move. The King of Larak, lord of the one of the Nine Cities, sent his beautiful daughter to Caphtor’s king to wed. Ir’s king lusted after her. A host was gathered, and Princess Hella of Larak was captured, and forced to marry Ir’s king.

Caphtor’s king sent a wrathful message to Ir: “Return my bride, or there shall be strife between us.”

Ir’s king refused, and thus began the thirty years War of Tears. The Empire was sundered, and many regions of the Earth were thrown back into primitive savagery. From that time, Seraphs had to wage their battles against the Accursed in secret, as much from the First Born and Nephilim hunting them with bitter ferocity, as to the now distrusting rulers of men.

Joash finished his tea, pondering the fate of vain kings.

“Look!” a herder screamed, shaking, pointing at the sky. High above, soared a monstrous beast with a red crest. Its wingspan seemed tremendous.

“Do you see? Do you see?” Adah shouted, as she ran toward them. “A slith!”

“A slith?” asked Lord Uriah.

“Yorgash’s pets!” she shouted, drawing her bow, and letting an arrow fly. Arrow after arrow vainly flew at the distant creature. Adah, her face twisted with rage, her small feet planted wide, seemed incapable of stopping.

At last, Joash put a hand on her bow.

Adah glared with fierce hatred and fear.

Joash recoiled, but that seemed to snap Adah out of her rage. She dropped her bow, as her shoulders slumped.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered.

Joash took her hands in his.

“Ah,” Lord Uriah said softly, looking up anew. “Yorgash of Poseidonis has joined hands with his brethren. This is worse than I’d feared.”

Adah tore her hands free, and said to Lord Uriah, “The slith will report what it sees to Tarag.”

Lord Uriah nodded.

“We’re being hunted.” Adah shuddered, and then she picked up her bow.

Joash stared at the so-called slith. It soared high above, circling as an eagle does, or a vulture. He recalled Balak, pterodactyls and egg stealing. The slith was an overgrown pterodactyl, a giant among its kind. Joash had a scar on his back from those horrible days with Balak. He loathed pterodactyls. They had killed his friends, although he could never fault the beasts for protecting their nests.

Could the giant pterodactyl, the slith, truly track them wherever they went? Could it speak as a man speaks? For how otherwise did it communicate with the First Born, and tell them what it saw?

“What are we going to do?” Adah asked grimly.

Joash wondered what terrors Adah had endured in far-off Poseidonis. Maybe it had been worse for her than it had been for him with Balak.

“Yorgash used the slith to find our hiding places,” she quietly told Joash. “...There are things you don’t know about me. Maybe if you knew more you’d—”

“No!” Joash said, hugging her. “I love you,” he whispered in her ear. “I’ll always love you.” He squeezed, released her and stepped back.

She stared at him in shock.

Lord Uriah cleared his throat.