Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations) (3 page)

Kron felt an unblinking solitary eye upon him.

“Gog!” the priests chanted.

A grunt sounded
, an impossibly low noise. It came from a mouth higher than Kron could reach.

He dropped to his knees and then lay on the tiles.
“High One,” Kron intoned, hating the ritual abasement. “I crawl before you. For you are the master and I am the worm.”

“
You are my son,” rumbled Gog, in a voice like a two-ton gong. “You are flesh of my flesh.”

The words pierced Kron, each syllable a vibration felt in the bones. He strove to maintain his equilibrium even as he heard breathing like a monstrous bull.

Wetting his lips, Kron said, “Instruct me, Oh High One. Command your son that I may obey my sire’s wishes.”

“
One—whom none shall name in my presence—has found a willing vessel in Shamgar.”

The twist in Kron
’s guts was as a dagger thrust. Surely, Gog could not mean…
that one
. Kron pondered the implications, and because of the continuing silence, he knew that he was supposed to cringe and cry out. No! He refused. He was Kron, the mightiest of his father’s sons.

The audible breathing grew heavier, and the drugged faces of the thirteen priests became fearfully pale as they cringed and slid away from the looming First
Born.

“
I have pierced the mystic veil,” Gog rumbled at last. “I have seen a future unattractive and unyielding. In it is a man with eyes blazing fire. He carries a sword of vengeance and is a breaker of teeth. He is a man of pain, of suffering and torments, and…” A foul curse tolled through the darkness. “I have pierced the mystic veil. I have tracked this one through many paths, through many maybes and might-bes. He is slippery and indistinct, the mark of those who serve the one whom none shall name in my presence. Men compare him to an otter, and he is loose in my city. He will probably meet today or the next a chariot lance. Those futures are the worst.”

“
I don’t understand,” Kron said. “What significance is there in a chariot lance?”

Silence reigned. Kron knew why. He had interrupted Gog. Worse, he had queried his sire. Yet…he was Kron, and he refused to cringe like the priests around him or ask his sire for pardon.

The silence lengthened, until… “I have pierced the mystic veil and teased out this single clue: my foe’s affinity with otters. Is he a Nebo tribesman who traps freshwater otters in the swamp, or a trader of furs who sells his wares in the city? I do not know. Maybe he fights like an otter or travels in their manner. The chariot lance is easier to read. I deem it represents a chariot warrior, a champion of great valor.”

“
High One, are not chariots useless in the swamp and too bulky for Shamgar’s walkways, to say nothing of the canals?”

“
You are dull. A dullard. He is probably a plains warrior, a merchant’s mercenary-guard or an outlaw who has cast his lot with the reavers.”

“
O High One, if the otter is a trader of furs and the chariot-lance a merchant’s guard, how can I stop their meeting?”

“
I have dimly pierced the mystic veil. That denotes strength in my enemy. Yet I have seen you clutching a severed head that bears two fiery eyes. It is in your power to slay my foe-to-be, to cut down a weed that might choke the plans of the mighty. You must sharpen your blade and keep alert. I deem you the most likely to find success if you work as usual, retaining only the use of your attendants.”

Kron let that sink in. Gog needed him! He felt a moment of victory, wondering how to use this to his advantage, how to extract greater rank from his sire.

“Worm!” Gog rumbled. “You are my son, flesh of my flesh. But you must not become too bold.”

Before Kron could react, a slippery something whipped into view. It clutched the hilt of Kron
’s belted sword. With a hiss of steel, the blade left Kron’s human-skin scabbard. Kron froze. Had he gone too far?

The sword streaked toward him.

Kron knew an instant of bitterness, yet even still, he refused to beg for mercy.

Then the blade swished over him. It sank into the nearest priest, brutally cutting him and sweeping the human off his feet.

“I baptize your sword,” Gog said, “giving it an enchantment of blood.”

The blade clashed onto the tiles before Kron. Thick
crimson droplets struck his cheeks, causing him to flinch.

“
Abase yourself, worm!”

Kron hugged the tiles, trembling in fear.

“Even though your foe is cattle, a mere man and possibly a youngling, he has the power to thwart our gift of the Accursed. Now go! Begin the hunt.”

-3-

Lod surfaced between splashing oars and a melon barge’s hull. Slave rowers grunted. A drummer pounded the beat. A whip cracked.

Lod grasped a slimy length of cordage. Black marine grass and barnacles grew out of the bottom of the barge. Despite that, Lod rested, catching his breath.

A lantern followed out of a smaller canal. Mists swirled around an old hunter with crooked shoulders as he swept his gondola’s long oar. The man tried signaling the barge, waving a thin arm. Then the mists thickened and the hunter’s reedy voice failed to pierce the thump of oars and the incessant beat of the kettledrum.

No grin twisted Lod
’s lips. The stakes were too high. Except for the iron collar and loincloth, he was naked. He had tied the eel-rope formerly binding his hands to the hilt of his stolen dagger and to his left wrist. The blade trailed him underwater.

Fortunately, no slaver had ever branded him or notched his ear. As bait—a disposable slave—men had deemed it unnecessary to mark him. If he could tear off the iron collar…his eyes narrowed. Most rat hunters knew him. In passing, they had often touched him for luck. Simply because he had kept alive all these years, he had become legendary. Once word reached them that he had slain his so-called master…they would scour the canals just like that old trailing hunter.

He had to escape the pirate city.

Unfortunately, sunken bars
rising up like a fence guarded the canals leading into the swamp, and the moment he set foot on a pier or dock, sailors, fishermen, any rat hunter would recognize him as bait. Dare he turn brigand?

Lod shook his head. He had heard of galley law. The reavers of Shamgar were a clan unto themselves. Each stronghold boasted itself independent, secure in its own might. Storm one bastion in bloody battle and the rest would simply bar their gates, saying it meant nothing to them. They were the original denizens of Shamgar, scoundrels hiding from honest men, using the depths of the swamp as a den.

Lod re-gripped the rope affixed to the barge as the kettledrum-beat increased tempo. The steersman above grunted as he threw his weight against the broad-bladed oar. Slowly, the heavy vessel turned.

Mists parted into wispy vapors. A rat boat became visible, not the one trailing the barge, but one mid-canal, with a boy playing dead, drifting in the water. Lod noticed telltale ripples approaching the bait. He wanted to yell out, to warn the poor lad, probably no more than nine or ten
years of age.

Lod turned away, unwilling to watch a tragedy he had witnessed a thousand times. In that moment, he knew the answer. He must take the barge to its
probable destination.

The reavers of Shamgar lived by the sword, by the fist and axe. They plundered those weaker than themselves and burned out whoever fought too hard. The only law they recognized was someone who hit harder than they did. That someone was Gog and his terrible sons, the Nephilim, and his priests, beastmasters and soul-snatching necromancers.

Yet Gog had not attempted to rule the city, had not stormed the reaver citadels one by one. Instead, through his minions, the First Born had carved out neutral territory and there allowed merchants to set up booths and stalls. Bazaars had grown, prospered, and the reavers had soon realized that it was easier selling stolen loot in their own city than having to risk it elsewhere. Over time, Gog had begun a different sort of conquest, winning adherents to his Order. He initiated them into ghastly rites as he accepted worship and gave rewards of prosperity. Gog taught his initiates the joy of inflicting pain on chosen weaklings. Many rat hunters belonged to the Order, although most never advanced beyond Whip Rank.

Lod decided that he must risk entering neutral territory. There he must steal coin and buy passage on an outbound merchant
vessel, or perhaps try to stow away on such a ship.

A shrill scream from the canals told him of the rat bait
’s end.

Perhaps before his capture many years ago Lod might have shuddered at that high-pitched scream. He might even have sweated in panicked fear.
As an animal, a thing that had survived many years, he didn’t even shrug, so great had become his disinterest in others. But because of his visions, anger burned in his blue eyes at the young boy’s death.

-4-

Kron loathed the milling throng, the clink of traders accepting coins, the endless shouting and the bickering of the bazaar. Was it truly possible that Gog feared one among the humans, this
otter
?

Two reavers approached him. He had enforcer duty today. They
probably wanted to complain about stale beer or something equally useless.

Kron scowled at them, radiating menace.

The two reavers—blade-carrying fighters—hesitated. Then they turned abruptly and strode away.

Kron had no time for useless chatter. That the two had succumbed so easily to his gift—
that of mentally inflicting his will upon others—proved that they were not the one he must find. His attendants combed this neutral territory, looking for former chariot warriors, checking fur traders and interviewing Nebo tribesmen. His attendants were hardened cutthroats, noticeable by their brown leathers, boots and peculiar hooked swords. Yet they were mere men, cattle, without a drop of the blood of the high.

Kron brooded. Priests normally kept the peace in neutral territory, backed by a complement of spearmen. He caught flashes in the crowds of priestly red robes and the glitter of spearmen
’s polished shields.

In the past, unruly reavers had tested the resolve of
the priests, and on more than one occasion Kron had been near enough to wet his blade and put a quick end to any riotous looting. Those days had unfortunately passed. He relished the idea of drawing steel against this hidden one, of severing his head and handing it on a platter to Gog. Man or madman, this otter was still just cattle.

And yet…Gog had shown fear of this one, had openly admitted that the entire web of his secret kingdom was on the hunt for this man. Surely, that could not mean that others were being held in reserve here in case he, the
enforcer, failed.

Kron eyed the vast throng. He was the
enforcer. No mere mortal could match him in a fight. Among the Nephilim—his brothers—he feared only two; and then only because of the deadliness of their gifts, not because of their skill at arms. Would his sire insult him by stationing others nearby? That seemed inconceivable, and yet, if Gog truly feared this hidden one such a move would only be common sense.

How much did Gog fear? Kron felt unease in his gut. The desire to topple his sire and rule the secret kingdom in his own right
burned strong in him. He swallowed a knot out of his throat. Such thoughts were unwise. Gog could read the future. Yet if this hidden one remained cloaked from Gog, if even only partially…

Prickly sweat dotted Kron
’s trident tattoo. With the back of his thick wrist, he wiped the beads away.

How much did Gog fear the
otter man?

Kron let his hands drop to his sides as he opened himself, a distasteful exercise. He cast about with extra senses that only the blood of the high possessed. He explored the seething sea of humanity, the bovine beasts.

Normally, he lacked interest in the supernatural. It was so finicky and filled with hidden perils. His extra, spiritual senses brushed against the humans. It was an intimate thing, leaving a soiled taste in his soul.

There was nothing, nothing…then shock struck him. There by the hay-bales stood a beastmaster
by the name of Inanna. He knew her. She was Gog’s perennial favorite. An eagle perched on her shoulder, while crouched by a bale was a leopard lashing its tail. Her control of beasts was phenomenal. Could she summon the dreaded cave bears, twisted into monsters that even a Nephilim could fear? He hoped not.

There were rumors that some beastmasters strove for control of canal rats. The giant rodents had so far proven strangely resistant to their spells.

Maybe Inanna’s presence here was a coincidence.

Kron opened himself further, ranging farther. There, the black-hooded man munching a pear, dropping a copper into the fruit-seller
’s palm…he was a priest-assassin. Kron amended that. The priest wasn’t just any assassin, but the deadly Black Lotus. The killer bore his customary strangling cord, a blowpipe filled with toxic amaranth and a poisoned needle-knife.