Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations) (21 page)

Lod presently raised his green-
smeared knife, and he paused as goosebumps pimpled his muscled arms. His neck hairs stirred at a hideous sense of evil, watching, plotting—

With h
eart pounding, Lod whirled around and gazed up at the surrounding trees. From a branch almost directly overhead, an archaeopteryx shifted in agitation. It had sooty-colored feathers, a lizard tail and a terrible, toothed beak. It turned its head sideways and regarded Lod with an eye like obsidian.

Lod’s flesh crawled in loathing. He felt malice and ancient cunning emanating from the bird, and something worse.

The archaeopteryx opened its beak.

Lod felt his heart thud heavily. If the bird spoke—
terror swept over him. Lod clutched his knife with maniac strength so the muscled cords on his arms rose like cables. Frozen into immobility, he stared at the weird avian.

The bird squawked
harshly, its cry grating. From the branch, it leaned toward Lod as if threatening to swoop down. Lod sensed hideous danger, as if the bird had poisonous talons or as if its beak could pluck out his soul.

Lod roared wildly,
shook off his immobility and lifted his knife to throw. He wanted to obliterate the bird.

The archaeopteryx exploded into flight
on its broad, stubby wings. Squawking as if someone had stepped on its lizard tail, it circled through the canopy. Soon the squawks changed into taunting shrieks. It almost seemed as if the bird wanted Lod to follow.

Lod squinted as he watched the creature. His terror of moments ago…what had caused it? Lod licked
dry lips. He debating going to Zared. And tell the old man what exactly?

The bird shrieked, and it watched him.

Lod rubbed his jaw. He no longer felt the terror, the oppressive evil. He shook his head. If the vile bird wanted him to follow, he would do the opposite. So Lod perversely plowed ahead in his original direction.

He hated the bird, and in proportion to that hate, a sense of expectation
grew in him. At first, it was a premonition. Lod felt that if he could tear through a few more leaves, brush aside a couple more vines, he would find…a curiosity. As he progressed, a different feeling crept upon him, as if an olden treasure awaited discovery, which made perfect sense, really. Ruins from a lost age must lie about everywhere, hidden in this dense jungle.

Lod wielded his knife up and down, hack
ing and slashing. He advanced relentlessly, following this premonition. In time, he panted and greasy sweat dripped from his beard. He gulped painful air, and with a curiously detached sense, he felt as if he’d hacked for hours. A faint warning somewhere deep within him tried to pull him back. He wiped sweat out of his eyes and might have pondered this sense of unease. Then he spied a golden gleam. It came from behind towering ferns, a cluster of them just ahead.

The golden
glint came from about twice his height. He noticed that this circular area was devoid of jungle trees, and it made him hesitate once more. He no longer heard the Holon. That was odd. Ever since meeting the sooty-colored bird…

Like a sleepwalker, Lod approached the ferns. For a languorous moment, he contemplated lying down. He yawned, and a rich, cloying scent made his no
strils twitch. One part of him counseled flight. The other—

Suddenly recognizing the strangeness of his own reactions, Lod
roared and hacked at the ferns. The heavy iron blade cut through foliage and clunked against stone. This was the treasure. Something in him knew it with a greedy thrill. He ripped aside the tall plants to reveal glassy black stone, gneiss. He furiously chopped ferns until an obelisk towered over him. On it he saw golden hieroglyphs remarkably similar to those on Zared’s rings.

Lod studied the hieroglyphs…and
then his eyelids grew heavy. The symbols wavered as if he viewed them through a haze. He wanted to know what they said. He yearned to speak them aloud, and his lips parted as if he would mouth them despite his lack of understanding. How long he stood like that, Lod had no idea.

Eventually Lod stirred
. He heard…distant shouts. That seemed—with an oath, he backed away from the obelisk. It made his throat convulse. Sweat beaded onto his dried skin. With agonizing slowness, he turned and croaked a cry. No one would hear that. Gathering his determination, taking a deep breath, Lod bellowed. It left him limp and drained, and he faced the obelisk. It was so beautiful.

Lod only grew aware again at the sound of footfalls. He rubbed his eyes and wondered why he felt so tired. Then Zared emerged through the foliage.
Distinct from every other time, no Holon accompanied the patriarch.

The gaunt ancient stopped short on sight of the obelisk. Then his dark eyes
shone. Zared limped nearer.

“Can you read the hieroglyphs?” Lod asked thickly.

Zared gave Lod a startled glance as if surprised he was there.

“Why do you think I can?” Zared asked slowly.

Lod pointed a thick finger at Zared’s golden rings, the ones adored with smaller hieroglyphs, but similar in design to those on the obelisk.

Zared studied the obelisk’s script, and his eyes became glassy. He began to read, and his voice became more monotonous as he progressed:

“
Lamech the Mighty Hunter dragged the sons of kings behind his chariot. He gouged out their eyes and broke their limbs. He took their women in his arms and listened to their cries. He stepped on the necks of heroes and cut down the brave…
”

Zared grew quiet and his features paled. His eyes continued to scan back and forth, drinking in the ancient hieroglyphs. His lips moved mechanically throughout, and he drew a long breath, as if to continue reading aloud.

Muscles stood up stark upon Lod’s neck. He shivered with rage. He envisioned Lamech dragging beaten warriors and enslaved wives behind his chariot, leading long lines of captives, and the foul rites committed upon their persons. Lod’s heart thudded and his trembling increased. A strange paralysis settled upon him as Zared read Lamech’s boast. Now hatred seethed and a vein in Lod’s temple surged with pumping blood. He gathered saliva in his mouth, and he violently spat at the base of the obelisk.

That made Zared blink, close his mouth and frown faintly. Then
fear filled the ancient one’s eyes. His ringed fingers trembled. His head swayed and he stumbled backward. With a pitiful cry, he wrenched his gaze from the hieroglyphs.

“Lod,” he whispered.

Lod yet stood, red-faced, his muscles like iron ridges. It seemed his heart would burst from his awful struggle to move.

Zared staggered to Lod and
he laid a hand on the feverish flesh.

Lod bellowed, and he stumbled away from the obelisk.

“Flee!” Zared shouted.

Lod lumbered for the trees. And he almost stopped in shock. Out of the corner of his eye, he
spied the archaeopteryx as it watched them from a hidden branch.

Lod bellowed again, brushed past vines, bulled through ferns and then went to one knee, exhausted. He realized that he’d been in the grip of
some depraved influence. He almost glanced back. In horrified wonder, he realized he wanted to go back and gaze at the obelisk, at the great treasure from—Zared! Was the old one still back there?

Lod struggled up as Zared joined him in the foliage. The ancient
appeared wan and his skin brittle parchment.

“Tell me what happened,” Zared said.

Lod told him, including his sight of the evil bird and his impressions concerning it.

Zared shook his head. “You’re like the men of old, Lod. It’s uncanny. Your volcanic will, your determination, it amazes me. If I’d realized your strength, I would have warned you about this. The trap is very cunning, only luring those…well, those like you and
me.”

“Are the hieroglyphs a spell?”

“A cunning trap lain long ago by Naamah,” Zared said. He glanced back, shuddered and regarded Lod. “It might be wise if from now on you remain in sight of my litter. There may be other obelisks, other ancient pitfalls. I suspect her sorcery has put this land under a terrible curse.”

“The sooty-colored bird—”

“The archaeopteryx,” Zared said with distaste. “It must be a guardian beast, the reason it seems to haunt the obelisk.” He hesitated and then added, “Naamah employed many blasphemous abominations. The archaeopteryx is probably one of those, a fusing of various animals that made a mockery of all. Archaeopteryxes are said to hold a peculiar cunning, sometimes able to mimic intelligence. Don’t hesitate to kill it, but never eat its flesh, no matter how hungry.”

“Is it poisonous?” Lod asked.

“In an odd way,” Zared said, “yes. Now come. We must return to camp. After this ordeal you must rest. Tomorrow we’ll push on and hopefully reach—well, we’ll see tomorrow. Come!”

Lod sheathed his knife and followed Zared into the jungle. He vowed to redouble his vigilance concerning abominable beasts and…to remain in sight of this old man.
Sorcery: he hated it.

***

The Holon had grown quieter, and halfway through the morning Lod realized they had become silent. They moved sluggishly, with staring eyes and expressionless faces, yet their peacock headdresses seemed to bloom more brightly. When sunlight reflected off their copper blades, they gleamed with a bloody shine.

Zared
finally climbed out his litter and ordered the primitives with greater force until he seemed like a sheepdog herding its flock. The ancient one’s efforts were only partially successful. The Holon weakly chopped at vines, and as Zared’s voice became hoarse, they halted more often for him to rest. Also, the foliage grew with unbelievable density and the vines and stalks seemed tougher than before.

Twice, out of the corner of his eye, Lod thought to spy the archaeopteryx. When
he straightened to check, a broad leaf swayed contrary to the wind or a branch quivered. But of the bird with the lizard’s tail, there was no sign.

Then Lod broke through the riotous growth
, and he stopped short in shock. Before him blazed beautiful flowers. Gold, red, orange and violet, the petals seemed molten in colors. They spread in a carpet to a nearby shore. Steam rose from those lapping waters. Had he reached the boiling sea?

Across the
water an island rose, and upon the isle stood a great mountain, a volcano. The top of it glowed with terrible heat so vapors rose. A profusion of jungle growth surrounded the volcano. Lod squinted. There to the left of the volcano he could see the tip of towers or ancient ruins, poking through the jungle. A feeling of awe filled him. Did a sapling to the Tree of Knowledge truly grow on the island?

“We must make camp!” Zared shouted into his ear.

Lod blinked slowly.

“
The stench of sorcery is everywhere here,” Zared shouted. “It tries to break our wills and subdue us. Who knows what Naamah hoped to achieve? She has changed the very land, I believe, or laid a heavy curse upon it. Or it may be that her sorcery befouled the land as she practiced ever darker rites.”

Lod said nothing.
He already knew these things. Why did Zared bother saying them again?

“
We’ve a lot a work to do before we reach the isle. Lod, can you hear me?”

Lod turned his head until he stared into Zared’s eyes.
“We can’t reach the island. Look, the water steams because it is so hot. We don’t dare take a raft across or we’ll burn ourselves to death.”

“Trust me, Lod. I know how to defeat the boiling sea.”

Despite his misgivings, Lod followed the old one. After an hour’s trek along the shore, Zared discovered a hill of vines that bloomed with soft white flowers each the size of an elephant’s ear. Zared declared that here they would camp.

Relieved of Zared’s ceaseless commands, the
Holon sank to the ground in apathy, the clank of weapons and the thud of bags their only sounds. Soon, most of them slept. The others stared listlessly into the distance.

After Zared
personally checked each warrior, he summoned Lod, who followed the gaunt ancient to the flowery half-hill.

“Saw through the vines and tell me what you find
,” Zared said.

Lod tried to hack
through them, but the vines foiled him with a mixture of tough bark and moist inner stalks. He finally used his knife’s serrated teeth. The task proved messy because sticky white sap oozed from the wounded vines.

“Hurry, Lod,” Zared said impatiently.

Lod sawed vines and found more matted layers underneath. He discarded his vest to expose a mass of oar-thickened muscles and sawed furiously. His arms and chest were soon drenched with sap.

“Deeper,” Zared said. He had grown visibly agitated and often peered over Lod’s shoulders.

Lod gave him a puzzled glance.

“The legends say—deeper!” Zared declared. “Dig into the mound.”

Lod sawed what amounted to a hole into the vine half-hill until he seemed to spy something different back there.

“Reach in with your knife.”  Zared’s voice quivered with eagerness. “Use your hilt. Tap it.”