Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4) (19 page)

Chapter Twenty

The Mercenary

Gold buys the man. Who can purchase his courage?

 -- The Book of Kings

Vidar stamped his feet. He had changed from wet gear into battle-armor. Call it a premonition. Instead of Enforcer-wear, he had donned his mercenary garb from Giant Land. He had a plain iron helmet with a nasal guard, a heavy chainmail hauberk and underneath it, thick woolen padding. He wore leather pants studded with knobs and steel-toed boots. An auroch-hide shield completed his attire, with his deadly sword strapped at his side.

He scowled at the smaller man beside him. Naaman warmed his hands over a hollowed-out bronze tube filled with coals. It stood in the street. Like a handful of other waiting attendants, Naaman wore brown leathers and a utilitarian short sword. He wore no cap or even a cloak. As the night cooled, he rubbed his wrinkled hands over the coals, the red glow giving an evil cast to his pockmarked features.

“This is getting us nowhere,” grumbled Vidar.

Naaman glanced up from the coals and seemed to notice the armor for the first time. “Do you think Keros has confederates?”

Vidar slapped his chain-mailed chest. “You think that because I wear this? Let me give you some advice, old man.”

Just then, a breathless attendant ran into their circle of warmth. “You were right, Chief Attendant.”

“Do you mean Bessus?” asked Naaman.

“He can’t be found,” said the messenger. “The last person remembering him is a sword-master named Esau.”

“What’s he talking about?” growled Vidar.

“Remember Yeb and his clues?” said Naaman. “I sent men to check each one so I could eliminate the false ones. Perhaps we’ve discovered something. With your permission, Enforcer, I shall go see?”

“By all means,” said Vidar. “Lead the way.”

***

Vidar listened as Naaman questioned Esau. It seemed innocent enough. These pirates had taunted an ex-priest of Gog, the strong preying upon the weak. But then, there had been this Jogli, a knife-fighter handing out shekels. Esau grinned drunkenly as he spoke. Not even Vidar’s strange, yellow eyes gave the pirate pause.

Vidar and Naaman threw their heads together.

“Why would Keros need the beastmaster?” asked Naaman.

Vidar remembered the pole-vault attack. Keros was a desperate warrior, a proud man, one who—Vidar knew it then. This was a proud mountain warrior. That much they had learned. Keros was a follower of Gog’s most hated foe. He told Naaman, “He means to free Lod.”

“Madness,” said the chief attendant.

“It is often the mad quest that succeeds,” Vidar said. “Courage breeds luck. Gather the men.”

Naaman raised his eyebrows.

“We will follow this madman,” said Vidar.

Naaman paled. “We’re not initiates, Enforcer. Among us, only you are allowed within the Temple. Surely—”

“It doesn’t matter, not tonight. You and the men will accompany me.”

“You want me as well, Enforcer?”

“You wish to be rewarded too, don’t you?”

Naaman nodded reluctantly.

“Yes,” said Vidar. “So let us hurry. We have no more time to waste.”

***

Pirates babbled and milled about in the low-ceilinged tunnel. They were wild-eyed men given a second chance at life. They wore rags and had awful wounds, gaunt stomachs and dry tongues. They stank. Their hair was matted. Many limped. Lod had yanked each out of his prison-hole.

A tall man, with angry brand marks about his torso, shouldered his way through the mob. Once, he had been called Scorpion, the Scourge of the Sea. He had been among the most powerful of the pirate lords of Shamgar. Knife scabs marred his once handsome features.

“Scorpion,” said Lod. “You’re alive. Did you bring your morningstar?”

“I’m in need of a weapon, my friend.”

Keros shoved him a knife he had taken from a priest.

Scorpion hefted the knife, and nodded his thanks. “What about the others, Lod? Or is this to be teeth and fist work?”

“Listen to me!” roared Lod. “Gog thinks we’re whipped. He’s beaten us, burned us, mocked us to our faces, paraded us before his mobs and then, left us to rot down here in these sinking holes. Now I’ve got this.” Lod lifted a spear.

Keros stepped beside the huge man. His heart thrilled at the possibilities. “Let us slay Gog. Let us lift his severed head on Lod’s spear and parade
that
down the city.”

“Kill Gog!” shouted a pirate. “Kill them all.”

Pirates maddened with thirst and with the misery and terror of being buried alive, howled for revenge.

“Follow me!” shouted Lod.

Chapter Twenty-one

The Beast

“Wrath has gone forth, a sweeping tempest; it will burst on the head of the wicked.”

-- Naram the Prophet

Bessus the Beastmaster clumped ahead of the pack. The flap on the back of his hat flopped at each of his long strides. He wore a mammoth-fur jacket, pterodactyl pants and rhinoceros-hide boots. Except for Keros, those who followed him wore rags and awful wounds, many of them seeping blood, and they went barefoot. From time to time, Bessus glanced back as he guided them. He smiled strangely, mockingly, smirking.

Keros studied the tunnel. It felt wrong. He hurried beside Bessus. “Is this the right way?”

“Of course,” said Bessus, his lips twitching with mirth.

“What’s wrong?” called Lod.

“Nothing,” said Bessus. “We must hurry.”

Keros rubbed the knuckles of his knife-hand against his jaw.

Bessus led them to an intersection of corridors. Unerringly, he turned toward a ramp leading down.

Keros halted. They had not been this way before.

Lod stopped beside him, the pirates taking their cue from the white-bearded Seraph. “You don’t trust our guide?” Lod whispered.

“Not any more,” said Keros.

Bessus stood in the arched dome of a four-way intersection. He peered at the others. Impatience marked him. “This way,” said Bessus. “We must go deeper into the dungeon.”

“We didn’t come to the Catacombs by this route,” said Keros.

“This is a different route,” said Bessus. “We must go down and around before we go up to the Temple and escape into Shamgar.”

“What’s wrong with you?” said Lod, striding to Bessus. “Lead us straight up. Lead us to Gog’s Lair.”

“He used to be a beastmaster,” explained Keros. “I think he wants to go deeper because he’s searching for a skull. Through them, they control the beasts.”

“I
am
a beastmaster,” said Bessus, and a weird shininess in his eyes grew more pronounced.

Lod peered hard at Bessus. He muttered under his breath, a prayer perhaps.

The beastmaster shrank from him. “Stay away from me. I want no part of you.”

Like pack dogs, the pirates surrounded the beastmaster. Their hard faces and weeping scars added to their ugliness. Bessus peered about slyly, fearfully, twisting like one trapped.

Lod pressed forward. He laid a heavy hand on Bessus’s thin forearm. The effect on Bessus was startling. He howled. He tried to snatch back his arm. Lod tightened his hold. It was like a bear holding a stork. Lod’s mutter grew in volume, punctuated often by, “Elohim.”

“Don’t touch me!” shouted Bessus. “Not you. Let go of me.” Veins popped up on Bessus’s thin neck. He thrashed for freedom.

Lod engulfed the beastmaster in a hug. He called upon Elohim. Bessus howled, foaming at the mouth. He twitched and jerked. Lod was far stronger.

“Elohim!” shouted Lod. “An evil spirit has bound this man’s mind. I beg thee, free him.”

Bessus screamed. His eyes seemed to burn. “I hate you! I hate you all, but you most of all Lod, servant of Naram, prophet to Him Most High. I hate you most.” Then, the thin beastmaster went limp. The lights in his eyes dimmed. Bessus’s head drooped, and he would have fallen, if not held by the brutish Seraph.

“It is done,” whispered Lod. He laid the beastmaster on the cold stone floor.

Scorpion peered at the massive Seraph. The pirates looked anxious.

“Wait,” said Lod.

Bessus took a deep breath. He shuddered and lifted his head. “What did you do to me?” he whispered.

“I?” Lod said, “I did nothing.”

“Yes,” said Bessus. “I remember. The spirit of—”

“Hush,” said Lod. “You must not call upon the evil ones again, or even mention such names of power. An evil spirit entered you. The one you seek is far from this Earth, taken long ago at the end of the Accursed War. You were tricked.”

“But….”

“What you did was wicked and foolish,” said Lod. “Next time you do such a thing, you may not be so lucky.”

“Can he walk?” asked Keros.

Lod pulled Bessus to his feet. “How do you feel?”

“Like I want to get out of here,” said Bessus.

Lod clapped him on the back. “Take us to Gog’s Lair.”

Bessus stared at the surrounding mob. He nodded. “This way,” he said.

***

Deep in Tartarus, in perpetual gloom, Magog gnashed his teeth and shook his limbs. The adamant chains clinked wildly, and the fiery liquid sloshed all around him. He had lost his link to the colorful Earth, with its sights and sounds that he’d drunk with greedy desperation.

The white-haired savage, the warrior with the burning blue eyes and the twisted muscles like diseased oak roots, Magog hated that one.

The captive
bene elohim
thrashed his head back and forth. He began to rave and then he howled at what he was, a lost soul, with no more chances.

***

The beast, the enraged cave bear—enlarged by a sinister and magical process of many years—bawled in rage as he sped up the corridors. The stink yet lingered in his fur. Blood matted his snout, head and shoulders and the blood had splashed thickly upon his claws. The beast snapped heavy fangs. Gore, blood and saliva sprayed in every direction. When he came upon a priest, he slew him, savagely, quickly, without pity.

After time without memory, he was free, as he once had been free in the mountains of Arkite Land. The time was so long ago, almost beyond his thoughts. He recalled green pines, clean air and a shining sun. O yes, the warmth upon his fur, and rain, too, cold and clean, cleansing. He had hunted in those times, and had eaten fresh meat, berries and nuts, mushrooms, thousands of insects and that most wonderful of refreshments, delightful, sweet honey.

The beast roared in bafflement. There was a manner in which he had been cheated, locked, hurt and abused. He shook his massive head. Pain without ceasing, teasing and being driven to fury so often, that he only knew murder-lust. Yet despite all that, today, this very hour, he could find the sun again at the end of this dreary and endless cave. He could once more find green pines, fresh air, berries and nuts, mushrooms, thousands of insects and O, that sweet substance around which always buzzed those fat-flying bees. And yet—

The warped and twisted evil, grown carefully over the years within his bruin brain, swept aside such fairy tales. Meat! Blood! Gore! The screams of victims! He craved these things. O, to rend and destroy, to smash and pulp into bloody ruin—he thundered his hatred at the world.

Kill!

Devour!

Annihilate!

The beast of Gog, huge beyond the normally allowed bulk of cave bears, raced up the dungeon in search of enemies to slay.

***

Pirates hurried up the cold corridors. They wore frightened looks and fresh scars. All but Keros and Bessus were barefoot and ragged. Many bore torches, ones they had snatched out of the wall-holders.

“We should sing,” rumbled Lod.

“Eh?” asked Keros.

The two led the crowd: the agile youth with supple muscles, a springy step and the massive brute with shaggy white hair and beard. The Shurite clutched his dagger, a short sword practically, made long ago in the Far North, in the secret lair of a Nephilim giant smith. Round, smooth spots yet dotted Keros’s skin. He was the epitome of a mountain-bred warrior: tireless, bold and crafty in the ways of ambush and surprise assaults. Beside him, strode the block of hardened muscle and sinew, the fierce prophet and madman, with his craggy, leathery features and blazing blue eyes. Something elemental, and beyond human, lived within his breast. A faith and fire that exuded victory radiated outward and to those nearest him. In his right fist, Lod carried a simple spear, an oaken shaft as thick as a normal man’s wrist, and six feet in length, fire-hardened and oiled by the hand-sweat of various priests of Gog. At the end of it, sat a three-foot blade of iron. It was sharp, but quite ordinary, with a faint speckling of rust, because of being too long in these damp quarters.

“We should sing,” said Lod. “We should fire our resolve with battle chants.”

“Agreed,” said Keros.

The massive Seraph grinned at the youth. “We’re going to win, my boy.”

“I know.”

Lod laughed, not in merriment or joy, but in fierce determination. He glanced at the nearly naked pirates. “Are you slaves or free men?”

“We’re fools,” said Scorpion.

“Very well!” thundered Lod. “But are you slaves or free fools?”

“Free for now,” said Scorpion.

“That’s right!” roared Lod. “We’re free for now. So let’s sing like we know it. Sing! Sing with everything you’ve got!” And by himself, with his powerful voice, loud and certain, bold and reverent, Lod shouted a song about Elohim granting victory over His enemies.

The pirates listened, awed, it seemed, bemused at the white-haired warrior who led them. Keros listened, until he understood the simple song, five verses long. At Lod’s third beginning, Keros joined in. He too had a loud voice, although not as deep or as powerful as the massive Seraph. Bessus began to sing. All three of them grinned at each other. Pirates glanced from one man to the next. A few of them shrugged, although more than one of the pirates started singing, too.

“All of you sing!” shouted Lod.

They sang, they marched boldly, and they no longer heard their stomachs rumble or thought how dry their throats were. They marched quicker, and in them stirred confidence, the idea that maybe they really could fight their way out of here.

As they turned a corner, a shout went up from Lod. The song died. Bessus lifted his lantern and countless torches rose higher. A lone girl, barefoot, in the crude furs of a rat hunter, sprinted toward them.

“Keros!” she shouted.

He ran from the crowd, and he swept Tamar into his arms. Before he knew it, he kissed her, laughing and crying, “You’re safe, you’re safe.” He kissed her again. She hugged and kissed him in return. Then all at once, they became aware of what they did and who they stood before. Each let go of the other. Keros laughed. She looked down, blushing.

“Tamar,” he said, taking her hand.

She dared peek at him.

“Well, well,” said Lod, striding up, putting one of his rough hands on each.

“This is Tamar. She’s a friend.”

“I noticed.”

Tamar blushed, and she began to tell them about Adoni-Zedek. She told them what had happened with him and his beast.

***

They strode toward bedlam, a terrible animal choir.

“The beasts will be caged,” Bessus assured them. “Fear not.”

“Listen to the handiwork of Gog,” said Lod. “He perverts everything he touches. Abomination is the mark of the First Born.”

Tall Scorpion wrinkled his scarred face in disgust. “What’s that stench?”

“It’s what I was telling you about,” said Tamar.

Pirates complained about the odor, some pinched their nose.

After several more twists and turns, their torches fell upon an awful scene. Mangled, bloody priests lay scattered throughout the corridor. Horrible gashes rent their faces or their skulls were crushed and armor suits crumpled upon their smashed chests. Thick iron doors on either side of the tunnel barred a menagerie of monsters. They howled, roared and whimpered, obviously maddened by the awful reek that yet hung in the air.

“There,” whispered Tamar. She pointed at a broken wreck of a man heaped against the wall. Bones poked through torn skin. Blood soaked the silken robes.

Incredibly, what should have been a dead man lifted a gory head. Blood oozed from his forehead, and his lower jaw was mangled. Hate radiated from his eyes. An inhuman murmur bubbled from his lips. Bones grated as his arm moved. Fingers twitched. It seemed he tried to grasp a skull with twin gems in the sockets.

“He’s mustn’t touch it,” said Bessus.

The head tilted, and from those torn lips came the single word: “Bessus?”

The beastmaster raised his lantern upon the dying Adoni-Zedek. A wicked laugh bubbled forth. The broken fingers stroked the skull. The gems glowed.

Bessus’s lantern clattered upon the floor. He clawed at his throat, staggering. The beastmaster crashed onto his knees. His face turned ashen and his eyeballs bulged outward.

“Key,” hissed the broken priest. “Free… my beauties.”

Keros, and all the pirates, watched in superstitious dread. Bessus wheezed, as if allowed only sips of air. He wheezed and crawled toward a silver key. Around them roared the monsters, the beasts of Gog, the predatory killers eager to slay and to rend.

A block of muscles pushed past Bessus. Lod speared the mangled priest of Gog. He shattered the magical skull. The gems tinkled onto the floor.

Bessus shuddered, and began to breathe normally. Color returned to his cheeks.

A pirate knelt by the gems.

“Don’t touch them,” said Lod.

The pirate glanced at the grim prophet of Elohim.

Lod withdrew his spear and wiped the bloodied iron on the dead thing’s robes. His face was terrible to look on.