Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations) (18 page)

“Where are we going?” panted Zeiros, seawater spilling into his mouth.

“
Save your breath,” suggested Lod.

They swam, and in time neared a wider plank than before. Upon it draped a sodden, weary Captain Eglon. Perhaps he heard their splashing. He lifted a puffy face, and at the sight of them he scrambled to his knees. He lacked a sword, but drew a knife.

“Keep away,” warned Eglon.

Lod and Zeiros kept swimming until they bobbed ten feet from the raft. It looked big enough to comfortably hold all three of them, to keep them out of the shark-infested waters.

“I’ll kill you,” Eglon said.

“
Wait here,” Lod told Zeiros. He circled around the raft, swimming strongly, until Zeiros bobbed on one side and Lod the other.

Eglon had shifted so he always faced Lod, although he kept casting nervous glances at Zeiros.

“Put down the knife,” Lod said.

Captain Eglon laughed harshly.

“Let us deal,” suggested Zeiros.

Eglon glanced at the moneylender.

“If Yorgash wins we are your prisoners,” Zeiros said. “If Larak wins you are my prisoner.”

“
And that improves my position how?” mocked Eglon.

“
We might win our way onto the raft and kill you,” Zeiros said.

“
I hold the knife,” Eglon said, “so I deem your threat a weak one.”

“
Tread a little closer,” shouted Lod. He closed the distance to nine feet, eight, seven and then six.

Eglon struggled to his feet. He had a blood-crusted gash in his right leg.

“You’re wounded,” Lod said.

Eglon snarled silently. His eyes seemed hot, perhaps he was feverish.

“We will outwait you,” Lod said.

Eglon shook his head.
“Not with sharks in the water.” He exposed his teeth. “It will be a pleasure watching you die.”

Lod bellowed and swam for the raft. Yelling, he clutched the edge.

Eglon dropped to a knee and slashed.

Lod shoved himself backward into the water.

The slash missed, and on the other side of the raft, Zeiros heaved up against the edge.

Eglon struggled to keep his balance.

“Climb onto the raft!” shouted Lod.

Eglon fought for balance and twisted his head to see what Zeiros did.

Lod struck for the raft. Eglon stabbed. Lod took the blade in his forearm. His other arm darted up, clutched a silky sleeve and yanked. Eglon shouted and toppled into the water.

Lod slid past the wrestler and scrambled onto the raft. Zeiros climbed up on the other side.

“Your arm,” Zeiros said.

Blood dripped from Lod
’s forearm, trickling to his wrist and onto the raft. He ignored it, facing Eglon.

From in the sea, the wrestler frowned.

“Pitch me the knife and I’ll let you climb aboard,” Lod said.

“
Why would you do that?” said Eglon, “to torture me?”

Lod shook his head.

“I cut you, at least,” said Eglon. “It was a clumsy stab, but then I’ve been wounded myself.” He sighed wearily, staring out to sea.

“
The sharks will come,” Lod said.

Eglon peered at him.
“You
want
me to come aboard. Why?”

A
fierce light burned in Lod’s eyes. “I’ve had a vision. You…you will help me.”

Eglon gave a barking, mocking laugh.

“You will guide my ship to Poseidonis,” Lod said.

Eglon stared at him, finally saying,
“You’re mad.”

“
Perhaps,” Lod said, “but my madness will save your life.”

“
What ship?” Eglon asked, “The plank you stand upon?”

Lod used his good arm and clapped Zeiros on the shoulder.
“The usurer owes me one thousand gold shekels. With it I will buy or build a seaworthy ship and man it with vengeance-driven warriors. Then let Yorgash beware.”

“
Why do you need me for that?” Eglon asked.

“
You have been to Poseidonis,” Lod said. “You will be my pilot and help me chart the path there.”

Eglon heaved a weary sigh. He was having trouble treading water.
“I dropped the knife,” he said, “and it’s no doubt sinking to the bottom of the sea. But I accept your offer.” He floundered toward the raft.

The other two stepped back as the huge captain struggled aboard.

Then Lod stepped smartly forward and clouted Eglon a terrific buffet on the back of his head. It took two blows before huge Eglon sagged unconscious.

“
You lied to him?” asked Zeiros.

Lod shook his head as he began to strip the wrestler. He found the knife and said,
“I trust him like a viper.” He cut up the rich Caphtorite cloak. With the silk strips he had Zeiros bind the knife wound on his forearm. Then the two naked slaves clothed themselves at Eglon’s expense.

“
Are you serious about building that ship?” Zeiros asked later.

“
Were you about giving me one thousand shekels if I helped you escape?” asked Lod.

The moneylender grinned.
“You are not like other men, but at least you’re human. Yes, my word is good. As I said before: I am the House of Commorion.”

Lod finished binding Eglon. Then he dove off the plank, returning with pieces of wood, throwing them onto the raft.
“These will be our oars, Usurer, and today this is my ship. Now let us see if we can reach Larak before those pterodactyls you spoke about find us.”

The Sword of Tubal-Cain

Lod used the one thousand shekels and built the ship, a mighty carrack, and sailed to the Isle of Poseidonis. There he met a shoal of kraken, summoned by their master. Afterward, on a plank, Lod began a lonely voyage into the uncharted southern ocean.

Zillah also had a son, Tubal-Cain, who forged all kinds of tools out of bronze and iron
. Tubal-Cain’s sister was Naamah.

-- Genesis 4:22

-
1-

The stars glittered in crystalline mockery at the man below. His vessel was a beefwood plank, flotsam tossed on a dark sea of perdition.

He’d sailed for weeks, south by southeast, into uncharted desolation. The last sight of land had been his damnation, the awful Isle of Poseidonis.

Black waves hissed as they barreled at him, threatening burial under tons of crushing weight. In the end, the sea decided on a subtler torment. Each wave in succession heaved him high to view the hopelessness of his plight. Then down he sledded into a trough, surrounded by walls of water.

That he’d survived this long was testament to his will, to his grotesque physique and fury. Hundreds of leagues ago he had been an oar slave in a galley of Poseidonis. He had been a legend, a prodigy, drawing the slave oar for twenty long years. Hatred had driven him, a grinding rage to even the score of life. He’d defeated scurvy, plague, the lash and lung rot. He’d pulled the weighted oar until his fingers had become like talons, crooked and superhumanly strong. His muscles had twisted and expanded. Whips had ripped his back into evil scar tissue. Hot brands had seared his flesh and heated his soul until Elohim had sent him visions of fire and blood. In fevered rage, Lod had burst his chains during a sea battle and he’d floated to Larak. There his fiery oratory and sheer physical presence had won him a band of heroes who wished to strike back at the evil god of Poseidonis.

Weeks later, the isle had hoven into view onto the horizon—it was the last known land in this region of ocean. Beyond, said mariners, the equatorial sun boiled the sea so steaming vapors rose. Bitterly, Lod recalled what had happened next.

***

Harsh-voiced pterodactyls swooped down from the sky. After circling twice, each beast flapped with disquieting haste for the isle. Several hours later, the waters bubbled and kraken half the size of the ship surfaced. With lashing tentacles and parrot beaks, the kraken smashed the carrack and devoured the screaming crew. Lod alone survived and crawled onto a plank. A strong current caught him and carried him relentlessly south by southeast toward the legendary boiling sea.

During the voyage, he starved and kn
ew raging thirst. Yet he refused the bitter fruit of defeat that invisible sirens shrieked at him on the wind. Nor would he drink the mocking wines of futility that sounded suspiciously like the hiss of passing waves. He endured the burning sun that peeled his skin in swaths. With his knife—a most precious possession—he cut his belt into strips and made a hook out of the buckle. Then he lay on the plank one listless noon and lured a gull that must have desired the delicacy of pecking out his eyes. He wrung its squawking neck and drank the blood, and devoured most of its flesh. Later, he used the heart, liver and spleen as bait.

He swor
e an oath that day. If he survived, he would raise an armada, a grand fleet filled with warriors, and storm Poseidonis. He would topple the brazen idols and shatter the gore-spattered altars. He had not pulled the weighted oar for twenty long years to lose his life like this. A flock of pterodactyls and a shoal of kraken were not going to thwart his visions. His mistake had been in thinking too small. His foe was mighty, possessed of eerie powers, with offspring of terrible renown.

Terrible renown…after many weeks, the equatorial sea began to live up to its evil reputation. Lod grew aware of it one pregnant morn. Waves slapped across the green waters. Far in the distance—

***

Lod struggled to his hands and knees. He squinted. He had long white hair and beard and blue eyes that verged on madness. There was a glow on the southern horizon, a shine, and it wormed dread into his heart.

Did the sea indeed boil?

He lay down, fretted fitfully and drifted into an uneasy slumber. Several hours later, he rose up like a hound with a rabbit’s scent in its nostrils. On the wind, he smelled dirt and wet leaves. He smelled loam and rotted vegetation.

“Land,” he croaked, this his first word in weeks.

He slithered onto his shrunken belly and plunged his hands into the sea. He grunted with effort, struggl
ing to move his plank. The waterlogged wood was too ungainly to move easily, and the ocean swells and current had their own destination in mind.

Lod soon panted, and he glared with savage intensity. How far was the land? He rubbed his eyes. Could those distant specks be birds or were they simply more sun-induced spots that he’d seen for weeks?

He swallowed in a throat racked by thirst. Should he dare drift into the boiling sea or take this slim chance for land? Stiff as an old man, he dove into the green murk. Breaching his final reserves of strength, Lod struck out for what he hoped was land.

-2-

Days later, Lod heaved onto his side. He rolled across silks and seemed to upset the rhythm of whatever he rode on. As if in a dream, he spied a canopy of linen above and all around him. The construction he was in rose up higher than before and then came down with a jarring thud. The bottom of it must have struck ground. Oh. He was inside a litter, one that men carried on their shoulders.

Curtains swept back and a tall ancient peered down
at him, confirming Lod’s suspicion. The old one wore a white turban, had a leathery face of amazing nobility, and a beard like the cleanest fleece. The beard dangled past the belt that cinched the man’s saffron robe. The long fingers that held the curtain trembled—because of his great age, no doubt. He wore golden rings with curiously etched hieroglyphs.

From behind the ancient peered short, thickset men
, oddly colored brown and blue. They appeared to be primitives dressed in leopard-skin sarongs. Every time a primitive moved, he clanged with a multitude of copper bracelets and anklets. Ah. Lod realized the blue were tattoos of swirling designs. The brown was the native color of their skin. Most of the primitives clutched copper-headed spears, although a few of those were flint tipped. They wore fantastic, peacock-feathered headdresses, but otherwise seemed dark haired.

The ancient chattered
at him, with strange clicks sprinkled in his speech.

Lod shook his head,
which caused hurt behind his eyes. He lay back with a grunt, saying, “I cannot understand you.”

“I asked,” the ancient said, in the tongue of the charioteers of Elon, “if you’re finally lucid enough to talk?”
Despite his gauntness, despite his trembling hands and his head’s tendency to sway, the old one had a strong voice.

“Who are you?” asked Lod. “Where am I
and how did I get here?”

The ancient smiled and lines etched across his narrow face
, showing that he had most of his teeth. He shoved the curtain wider, and the boniness of his wrist became apparent.