Leviathan (Lost Civilizations: 2) (14 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Adrift

Every inclination of the thoughts of his heart was only evil all the time.

-- Genesis 6:5

One of the
Tiras’s
longboats floated in the open sea. Six people held oar-handles, although they weren’t rowing. They were all grimy, sea-stained and near exhaustion.

“They’ve turned south,” Auroch whispered.

“We must row,” Lord Uriah said.

Adah groaned. Her muscles almost refused to respond. The past twenty-four hours had been a grim ordeal spawned by the Nidhogg nightmare. Finally though, like the others, she rowed. Her hands were raw. Despite the best Zillith could do, infection had set in. Adah tried to ignore the pain, but when her oar-blade bit the water the third time, she almost fainted. So, she hummed to herself, and thought of Joash.

“Adah?” Zillith asked from behind.

“I’m fine,” Adah mumbled.

“She looks bad.”

“It can’t be helped,” Lord Uriah said. “We must escape Gog’s galleys.”

“You can’t make her row when she’s suffering like that.”

“She must row,” Auroch rumbled. “It’s either that, or be captured and sent to the dungeons under the Oracle. Then, any agony here would seem like paradise.”

Adah knew the pirate spoke the truth. Gibborim had captured her before. She groaned at the bitter memory. It was a memory that haunted her hour by hour, and it was worse in the dark. Why was it dark now? She knew the sun blazed. She could feel its heat on her skin.

“Lay back, Adah.”

“No,” she wheezed, uncertain who had spoken. “I’ll row.”

Someone hissed, “Look! Over on the very edge of the horizon, I see a sail.”

“Can you see their flag?” Lord Uriah sounded desperate.

For several oar-strokes, no one answered. Adah was lost in pain and the memory of unspeakable   horrors.

“I see their flag,” young-voiced Amery said. “The galley flies a red trident flag.”

“It’s one of Gog’s!”

“What should we do?”

“Are there sliths in the sky?” Lord Uriah asked.

“None.”

“No, I can’t see any, either.”

“What direction does the galley move?” Lord Uriah asked. Lord Uriah’s eyesight wasn’t as good as Amery’s or the pirate’s sight.

Despite the pain, Adah concentrated on pulling her oar. The physical pain was better than her nightmares. Something inside her felt broken. She swallowed coppery tasting fluid and heaved on the oar.
They had to escape the galleys.

Only a handful had survived Nidhogg’s attack. Like an old un-killable rat, Lord Uriah had been the first to gain the rowboat. He’d dragged her aboard. Now, with Auroch’s gift, they’d rowed into areas where the pirates weren’t searching. All night and all morning, they’d rowed. Several hours ago, they spotted a slith far to the east, but their luck had held. The slith had flown away, apparently without spotting them. Later, they drank the last of the fresh water, but still they rowed.

Adah moaned again, her stomach afire with pain.

“Let her rest. The pain is driving her mad.”

“Better to be driven mad than captured,” Auroch said.

“Quiet,” Adah hissed. “We must be quiet, or they’ll hear us.”

“It’s too late,” Zillith said sadly. “She’s raving.”

“Shhh,” Adah said, although she didn’t miss a stroke.

Long ago, when she’d been an archer-maiden of the Tribe of Poseidonis, the enemy had captured her. O Poseidonis! Terrible Poseidonis! It was the home to Yorgash the High Slith Sorcerer. It was the home to his ghastly children, the Gibborim. Adah lived minute by minute with the bitter memory of what had been done to her, and to those captured with her. Any darkness held horror. The sound of snapping bones, even if done by camp dogs, made her knees buckle. And the gruesome, but oh so soft noise of feeding Gibborim, ah, every night she heard that noise in her dreams.

 “The galley is turning,” Amery said. “Look at the sail, no, where the clouds meet the sky.”

“Shhh,” Adah whispered. “Don’t speak. They’ll hear you if you speak.”

“She’s raving, brother. Let her rest.”

“Not yet.”

In her memories, Adah crouched in the midnight-darkened hall where she’d endured the worst horrors of her life. It had been a vast hall. She had heard echoes of people speaking to one another. It had been Yorgash’s game hall. There, Adah and her fellow tribe members had been herded.

Adah moved slowly in her memories. She moved soundlessly in the dark hall, otherwise the Gibborim would hear and swoop in for the kill. She’d heard many a kill while hiding. First was the scream of unholy terror. Then, she’d heard the terrible breaking of bones. A wet laugh often followed. Then, the awful, awful sounds of feeding, of sucking, of feasting on human blood. For three days, she’d survived in the dark hall. By straining to hear every sound, by using every sense to its fullest...she’d crawled and tiptoed to safety more times than she’d been able to count. One more hour, and then Yorgash would send for her Adah had carefully counted the peals of the gong that struck every hour.

In her feverish memories, she froze. Someone was behind her. She held her breath as she heard the rustle of cloth. A hand fell on her shoulder. She screamed and screamed.

“Adah! It’s me! Zillith.”

Adah kept screaming and thrashing. They had her. The Gibborim had her. Now they’d feast on her in ghastly ways. Later, they might drain her soul into a skull.

Water drenched her, gushed into her mouth. She choked, and stopped screaming.

“Adah.”

The sun blazed overhead. Where were the Gibborim?

“Adah? Can you hear me?”

Adah tried to focus. She saw blurry round shapes.

“Look at her hands,” someone was saying. “They’re bloody. Look at her mouth. She’s spitting blood.”

“She has great spirit,” Auroch said.

“Where am I?” Adah whispered.

“The sea,” said a man.

She tried to focus. The man had a white beard. His eyes, for once, weren’t bloodshot from too much ale. Lord Uriah. Tears welled in Adah’s eyes. The Gibborim were far from her. She was among friends. She smiled and then wept, because Joash wasn’t among them.

“Rest, dear Adah,” Lord Uriah said. “For the moment, we’re safe.”

She nodded. She was lying down, and someone had rigged a cloth so the sun no longer blazed on her face. The rowboat rose in a swell. Zillith peered under the tiny tent, while Amery had a line over the side, fishing in the green Suttung Sea. Auroch and Lord Uriah whispered behind her. Gens carved on his stick that had survived Nidhogg’s dreadful attack. Out of the
Tiras
and the
Gisgo
, these were the only survivors. Poor Captain Maharbal had gone down with his ships. Joash—Adah decided not to allow herself to think about him. That brought too much pain. What was important now was that they survived Gog’s searching galleys. They must warn others about Tarag and his blasphemous plan.

Where was Lod? Surely, he, too, must be searching for them. Or, was it true that Gog had slain Lod? That seemed impossible.

Her thoughts drifted as she fought sleep. She knew that if she slept, she’d dream. She didn’t want to dream, because there lived the Gibborim. Night after night, they moved in the darkness of her dreams.

Only one thing had kept her sane in that dreadful hall. Only one thought had drummed in her mind. Each time a tribe-member’s bones had been broken, each time someone had screamed in horror, each time she’d heard the ghastly feeding, she’d told herself one thing. She would do anything in her power to thwart any Nephilim, or any First Born. She’d endured the game hall in order to pay them back in whatever coin she could. Since killing the enemy was difficult, she tried to thwart their plans. That too was hard. But she’d told herself that she’d be a gnat that always buzzed in their ears. She’d allow them no rest, no peace, no joy. Only that thought had kept her alive. That one thought had allowed her sanity to endure the game hall.

Under the white cloth her weariness drove her to sleep and into the arms of the waiting nightmare.

***

Adah woke up shaking, as the sea tossed them like a cork. Wind rattled her tiny tent. Raindrops pelted it. She crawled out, and was blasted by cold air and stinging rain.

The others hung onto the sides of the boat. Auroch sat at the tiller, trying to steer them out of the worst of the storm.

Adah opened her mouth, and let raindrops sting her tongue.

“The rain is a blessing,” Zillith shouted into her ear.

Adah kept her mouth open, like a baby bird ready for worms.

“Here,” Zillith shouted.

Adah groped, and her hands gripped a bottle. She put the spout to her lips, and drank the precious liquid. Revived, she saw that Lord Uriah had rigged his cloak to funnel rainwater into the water-skins.

The wind howled. The angry sea sloshed them with spray and saltwater. One moment, a wall of water towered above them. The next, they rose upon a wave and Adah saw the white-capped waves vanishing into the curtains of rain. Then, as if they were in a runaway sled, they sped down the wave and back into a deep trough.

Zillith bailed water with a leather bucket. Gens and Amery did likewise. “Gog’s pirates will never find us in the storm,” Zillith shouted.

Soon, like the others, Adah was soaked and shivering. Zillith pushed her into the cocoon of the tiny tent. Adah’s body-warmth filled the tent with a modicum of heat. It was enough so she didn’t freeze. Despite the storm, rain and the threat of capsizing, she drifted into a dozing sleep, which wasn’t deep enough to send her back to the nightmares.

Adah stirred later, and crawled out of the tent. The stars twinkled, and though the sea was rough, it was no longer storming. Night had stolen the day’s warmth, and the storm had left cold gusts. Incredibly, Lord Uriah had built a tiny fire. It was in a basin of stone filled with animal fat.

“I found it in the locker,” he told her.

Adah scuttled closer, warming herself.

Zillith leaned over the gunwale, and squeezed water out of the rag she’d mopped between the boat’s ribs. Her bailing had left the boat relatively dry. Zillith looked up and smiled. “How are you feeling?”

“Cold.”

Zillith touched Adah’s side. Adah saw a thick bandage there.

“You bruised some ribs,” Zillith said. “That probably happened when Nidhogg overturned the
Tiras
.”

“Then I’m not going to die?” Adah asked.

“Not on my watch,” Lord Uriah said.

Auroch stiffened. In an instant, he grabbed a rope out of the locker and tied it around his waist. Then he clenched a heavy knife between his teeth, threw off his cloak and slid overboard.

“What’s he doing?” Adah asked.

Lord Uriah shrugged moodily.

“He’s a strange man,” Zillith said.

Ten minutes later, a huge hand grabbed the side of the rowboat. The sight startled Adah. The drenched half-Nephilim pulled himself into the boat. The knife was clenched between his teeth. He hauled his rope and dragged a dead sea-turtle after him.

“Supper is my treat,” Auroch said.

Adah was amazed. The man was phenomenal.

But so were all Nephilim. And above them in heroic feats were the First Born. Auroch was only third generation Nephilim, yet he’d performed great and marvelous tasks. Without him, they’d never have gotten Irad and learned his incredible story. They owed Auroch much. It galled Adah to owe a Nephilim anything.

She stabbed meat with her knife and roasted it over Lord Uriah’s fire. The turtle meat tasted awful, but it gave her strength.

“We have to save ourselves,” Lord Uriah said.

“The Siga Archipelago is probably the nearest landfall,” Auroch said.

“Unfortunately, Gog’s galleys will also be patrolling those islands,” Lord Uriah said. “So we must attempt to go farther than that.”

“You ask the impossible,” Auroch said.

“I am ready to attempt the impossible,” said Lord Uriah. “My kin have been destroyed, as well as many other Elonites. I’m not about to let Gog enjoy his victory.” He peered at the pirate. “You have lost your captaincy. Gog and his followers have slain your men.”

“True enough,” Auroch said, although he didn’t appear angered by it.

“We’ll try for Carthalo,” Lord Uriah said.

“A far reach,” Auroch said.

“Yes, but it’s a feat that Adah can fashion into a fine song.”

Auroch picked up an oar and nudged Gens in the back. Grumbling, Gens took up an oar. Zillith and Lord Uriah did likewise. Adah sat at the tiller. Then Auroch took a sighting by a star and set course for
distant Carthalo.

***

“There are no survivors,” said Lersi. The black-cloaked Gibborim wore a cowl over her head and refused to look at the nearby fire. Shadows hid her, and her haughty tone bespoke her high culture and self-assured superiority.

Tarag tore the hindquarters from a slain auroch bull, and chomped upon the raw and bloody meat. Around him lay huge sabertooths. They were full, but tired from the endless journey. The crackling firelight flickered off Tarag’s adamant armor, and tossed shadows at the gnarly oaks surrounding them.