Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4) (5 page)

“That is true.”

“Thus, you can longer harm him or he you.”

“That is our custom,” he agreed.

“I congratulate you on your cunning, Keros. Now, I shall tell Volfson you’re here.”

He touched her forearm and shook his head.

“You ate his salt,” she whispered. “You drank his beer.”

“I am all alone against many.”

Zaya leaned near. Her breath smelled like lilacs. “Listen to me, Keros. The laws forbid you to harm him.”

Keros jabbed the tip of the peeled stick into the dirt. Each time he thrust it in a little harder. Then it snapped in half. He studied the broken half in his hand, and finally pitched it aside. In a soft voice, he said, “Volfson put Grandfather’s head on a pole.”

“Keros, this is madness!”

“He sent two warriors to kill me.”

“I can’t believe that. No. It’s impossible.”

Keros stared her in the eye.

Zaya turned away, putting a hand over her mouth. “I wanted a man while I had the beauty to capture a chieftain. Was that so wrong?”

Keros’s stomach churned. “Will you tell him it’s me?”

“Oh, Keros.” She touched his cheek. Her fingers lingered. Then she hurried back to the lodge.

That evening, he complained about a sore throat, thus begging off another night of tale telling. When the fire died, everyone lay on the woven mats. Men, women and children slept with their feet to the coals, as they wrapped themselves in their individual cloaks.

In the middle of the night, Keros opened his eyes. A hound whined in its sleep. Mats creaked. Smoke trickled out of the hole in the ceiling. A star twinkled there. If he didn’t move now, he never would.

Like a snake, Keros eased out of his borrowed cloak. A warrior stirred. Someone mumbled. Keros kept on crawling. The straw strewn over the dirt rustled under his hands. The hearth glowed, giving him the barest of light. In the gloom, he made out his mother. Volfson had his arms around her. For a moment, he wondered why it had to be this way. He took a deep breath, sliding his knees by Volfson’s head. The chieftain snored, his bristly mustache hiding the fact of his few front teeth.

His mother’s eyes opened. They were indeed beautiful pools of night.

He nodded.

She gasped, ready to scream, her gazed riveted on his stubby flint knife. She turned away as she suppressed a groan.

Volfson snorted and his eyes flew open.

Keros put his left hand over Volfson’s face and pushed, exposing the chieftain’s throat. The man squirmed. Keros slashed. His mother screamed, and Volfson shuddered and gurgled.

Keros watched the blood soak his mother. Then he was up and sprinting over sleeping bodies and barking dogs. He crashed through the door, his feet pounding dirt. He fled for his life.

“Murderer! Oath breaker! Stop him! He killed Volfson!”

Keros ran into the pines, and an awful, terrible guilt swept over him. Oath breaker. They meant him. He ran by starlight. If they caught him, his death would be hard and torturously long. Every hand would be against him now. No one in the Land of Shur would take him in. Oath breaker.

***

Keros blinked. He crouched in an alleyway, where urine and wine-vomit odors assaulted him. He was trapped in Shamgar. He jerked open his hand. The precious knife clattered onto pavement. He flexed his fingers. Oath breaker. Yet now he had been healed. Had he been forgiven his terrible sin?

Keros stared at the blade. It had a watery edge, strange and eerily sharp.

He had no rank, no title and was no longer of any clan or tribe. But he was healed. He was no longer a leper and a cripple. He must free Lod. Impossible, yes, he knew that. But oh, what a raid it would be. He would slip into Gog’s Temple and steal what the First Born most prized. Keros felt certain that Grandfather would have approved.

Keros picked up the knife. He hated Shamgar. He didn’t understand it, didn’t understand any city. But raiding… he had been trained for that his entire life.

Chapter Four

Gog

Do not practice divination or sorcery.

-- The Book of Adam

On Shamgar’s central isle rose a rocky acropolis, a granite plateau fifty feet higher than the swampy terrain around it. The Temple of Gog stood on the acropolis. It had been fashioned long ago in the days of Magog. He had been a
bene elohim
and was the sire of Gog. The edifice was unlike any in the city. Like a gigantic spider, it loomed over its web of violence and piracy. Marble, imported from an unknown source, towered twenty stories high in a vast, cyclopean cathedral of evil. It was a gargantuan Temple, a symbol of megalomania, arrogance and will to power.

Broad steps, that only a giant could comfortably use, had been carved into the acropolis. It led to a sprawling plaza and then a stone wharf, which adjoined the city’s largest canal. The canal was the width of a medium-sized river, and presently a melon barge passed a war-galley, which was straining its oars. Other boats were tied to the moorings. People in purple, scarlet and decked with precious stones and pearls, stepped from the pier and onto the cobblestone plaza. Huge bronze braziers, on tripods, dotted the area. Shaven-headed priests attended the coal fires, burning incense to Gog. Up the acropolis’s huge steps marched penitents, fortune seekers, glory hounds and those willing to sell all they owned for a favor from Gog. The King of Pildash and the chief merchants of Dishon had made this trek, as had many of the peoples around the Suttung Sea eager to know the future. In the past, giants had come, as had fiends and Gibborim. From Sippar, Eridu, and mighty Caphtor itself, they came. From far off Poseidonis and Lemuria they had traveled. The sons of Cain had begged an audience with Gog. Uruk’s feral tribe had sent representatives. From all around the world, knowledge-seekers journeyed to Shamgar, to make the final trek up the broad steps, and bow and scrape for admittance into the Temple.

Up those steps now hurried Vidar, his sword clattering at his side.

The Temple of Gog was unlike any other building within the city. Vast marble blocks, sitting without mortar, one upon the other, the Temple rose twenty stories high. Upon every inch of marble stood out bas-relief images of leviathans, behemoths, sabertooth cats and champions leading mobs captive. There were warriors in chariots and galleys firing catapults. Stars had been carved into the marble, moons, suns, slith and eagles. A pantheon of First Born marched to war: Tarag of the Sabertooths, Yorgash, Jotnar, the Nameless One and Draugr Trolock-Maker. The Old Ones also posed in marble: Azel the Accursed, Dagon, Magog, Moloch the Hammer and Anak, the Father of Jotnar. Many graven eyes peered from the marble, while marble ears seemed to listen. Trees, clouds, hills, lakes, horses, war-dogs and trumpeting mammoths, all appeared in stone. The Temple was a masterwork of art, while high near the marble roof spanned arches to let in the sunlight. This was the Temple of Gog, the Oracle, where the future could be foretold—for a price.

Each child of the
bene elohim
, unto the third generation, had a gift, an ability that was all his own. Gog the Oracle could foretell the future… sometimes, in a spotty fashion, when he applied his powers to pierce the mystic veil.

Countless thousands craved this power, countless thousands begged him to use in their favor. For this favor, they brought gifts and promised him servitude or an alliance. By this power, Gog welded his secret empire, and struck down those who might have troubled him if he had let them live.

Vidar climbed the last stair and stepped onto a wide plaza on the acropolis. Above him, towered the Temple, the vast bastion of stone. Before him, stood throngs waiting at the tiny door where the red-robed priests held sway. Few were ever privileged to enter the Temple, the lonely place of Gog. During the hours of darkness, some skirted the front entrance to walk around the side where Vidar now hurried. There too, priests waited. They were masked men, with bronze swords.

At this time of the day, no else came around the side with Vidar. The armed priests simply guarded the dungeon entrance. Of those who went down those steps, few ever returned.

Vidar stated his business. A dark-eyed priest wearing a cloth mask motioned him to follow.

They descended stairs carved into the very acropolis. Vidar marched down, down, down into the stygian depths. The walls grew damp, and their torches hissed. Strange cries echoed. The labyrinth of laboriously chiseled tunnels bewildered Vidar. Each opening yawned like a primordial beast. The stenches varied: animal musk, decayed flesh or alchemic fumes. A deathly chill blew out of one tunnel. Some of them were narrow and treacherous. Other openings beckoned, as if they held deep in their hidden holes treasures untold, secret delights. Vidar, who had inhuman senses, felt guile from those tunnels, the desire to feast and bury alive.

“This way,” whispered the priest.

Vidar grew queasy. Gog lived in these depths. He hated his fear. He was a warrior, a bearer of valor.

“Are we almost there?” he asked.

The priest lifted his torch. Behind the cloth mask, it seemed that he smirked. “Patience, Enforcer.”

Vidar choked back his reply, merely motioning for the fool to continue.

They came to a huge underground vault lit by lanterns. Shadows danced on the bricks. Mists swirled across the floor. A strange mosaic appeared, and then was cloaked again by the odorous fog. The mosaic was themed by brutal methods of sacrificial death. One panel (Vidar had the briefest glance) showed a priest garroting a woman. Her eyes bugged outward in terror.

“Wait here,” said the priest, who hurried to a wooden door at the far end of the vault.

Time passed. Vidar cracked his knuckles. He watched the lantern wicks flicker. He avoided studying any more of the grim mosaic. He rehearsed what he planned to tell the First Born. A wick guttered out. A thin curl of smoke clouded behind that lantern’s glass.

A new priest shuffled near. “The Master waits,” he whispered in a sibilant hiss.

Vidar jerked around. “Where’s the other one?” he asked.

“Enforcer?” The eyes under the mask seemed mad.

“Never mind.” Vidar started toward the distant door.

“Enforcer!”

Vidar whirled around.

The masked priest pointed at his sword.

Vidar swallowed. How could he have forgotten such a breach of protocol? He unbuckled his belt and laid the battleblade on the floor. Then he started anew for the door.

His upper lip twitched. He flexed his sword-hand. How had he ever let Naaman talk him into this? He regarded the wooden door. Moisture trickled down it. He steeled himself, and twisted the latch. A fetid stench billowed forth. Beyond was darkness.

Vidar squared his shoulders.

Then the air vibrated. “Come.”

Vidar strode into the gloom. The door closed behind him. It threw him into murk and made him glance nervously over his shoulder. Vidar no longer walked over smooth stone, but a mossy substance. He crunched over… bones. He knew that sound from a hundred battlefields. He sensed a vast space. He sensed Gog: a First Born, a child of an Old One.

Vidar’s knees shivered. His stomach knotted.

“Ah,” came the impossibly deep reply of Gog, “the giant-spawn.”

Vidar threw himself onto his stomach as he did obeisance. He smelled the putrid decay of meat, and was certain that Gog’s appetites were better left unknown.

“You asked for an audience,” rumbled Gog.

“Yes, O High One.”

“Stand, giant-spawn. Quit muttering. Speak, so I may hear you.”

Vidar rose, with his head bowed.

“What has caused the adventurer from Giant Land to crave my presence?” rumbled Gog. “Can it be you wish to complain about Enforcer work?”

“Never that, O High One.”

“Never?” mocked Gog.

“I am yours to command, High One.”

“You are my slave.”

“Yes, High One.”

“Yes,” said Gog. “Now speak, spawn of giants. Tell me your news.”

Vidar took a deep breath as he became accustomed to the dark. A strange glow emanated from high upon the ceiling. With this barest illumination, he dimly perceived the gargantuan bulk before him. Gog dwarfed him, as the giants back home had. Gog was vast, like a hippopotamus. His skin seemed slick and blubbery.

“High One,” said Vidar, bowing. “I bear a grim tale.”

“You?”

“It… It occurred during the parade, High One.”

“Did a fire break out in your Merchant Wharf?”

“No, High One.”

“A theft of a precious item perhaps?” said Gog

Vidar hesitated only a moment as he wiped moisture from his lips. “High One, during the parade, Lod broke a soldier’s back.”

“One should never turn his back on such a madman.”

“Yes, High One. Soon thereafter, Lod touched a leper.”

“Oh?” rumbled Gog.

“High One, through this touch, Lod healed the leper.”

“Healed?” Anger vibrated in the dread voice. “Pray tell how?”

Vidar sank to his knees. The wet substance in or of the moss soaked through his leggings. “High One, Lod called upon his god to perform the miracle.”

“Worm, is this true?”

“A Bolverk-forged dagger was also stolen—”

“WHAT DO I CARE ABOUT THAT?”

Vidar trembled. “High One—”

“SILENCE!”

Vidar groveled as Gog breathed heavily. After a time, the breathing grew less ominous. “Continue,” rumbled Gog.

Vidar told him about the Bolverk-forged dagger, about Scab, and the gap-toothed thief they had found and put on the questioning rack.

“You discovered this all by yourself, giant-spawn?”

Vidar hardly hesitated. “Yes, O High One.”

“You, the simple warrior, the hacker of flesh, discovered this plot?”

“I serve in whatever duty I am given, High One. I serve with all my ability.”

“You are more resourceful than I had realized,” said Gog.

“You are most kind, High One.”

“No, Enforcer. I am not
kind
. But soon, very soon, you will be given another task, one more suited to your liking.”

“Thank you, O Gog.”

The vast shape looming before him breathed heavily once more. It was a sound a giant cave bear might make or a mighty bosk bull before it charged. “You will find this leper, this
healed
one. The entire city will help you in this task. I will summon Nebo trackers, and send them outside into the swamps. He must be found, Enforcer. He must be brought before me.”

Gog coughed like a lion, a heavy, dangerous sound. It made Vidar’s flesh crawl.

“Go. Begin the hunt. Do not fail me in this simple task.”