The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) (10 page)

The way grew steeper, and Joash found himself puffing. The way wasn’t
that
steep, he told himself. He glanced at the sturdy Gorts. Sweat dripped from their faces, which was strange. It was cool in the mountains. No, Joash decided, it wasn’t cool anymore. It had been cool several hundred paces back, but not now. He wondered why. He glanced at Mimir. Sweat dripped down the gaunt features and into the giant’s shaggy beard.

“Is it hotter?” Joash asked.

“The Valley of Dry Bones is a strange place. It has to do with all the high-powered death.” Mimir gave him a sickly grin. “One can’t shed the life-forces of Shining Ones and
bene elohim
without altering what the place is like.”

“I thought it might have something to do with the fiery stone.”

“The stone might have some influence,” Mimir admitted.

“It
is
called the fiery stone,” Joash said.

“The name refers to its shine, not its heat.”

Joash’s step slowed. He had to force himself to keep moving. There was a glow in the distance. It wasn’t a physical glow, but had presence, power and an intimidating force. Then he saw a mighty wall. Boulders smashed against it and ladders rose up. Boiling oil hissed. Men curled in the heat like burning bugs. A crack appeared from a ram, a breach in the wall. Shining Ones attacked. Swords rang. Beings screamed.

The wall and battle faded from view, and all Joash saw was shimmering air.

“What is it?” Mimir asked quietly.

“Nothing,” Joash said, massaging his forehead.

“This is a strange place,” Mimir said. “Don’t be surprised if you see things.”

“What sort of things?” Joash asked.

“It depends on the person.”

Joash digested that. “Where did Babel the Mighty stand?”

“Several miles away.”

The giant was lying. Babel the Mighty had stood where he’d seen the vision. It stood where the Valley of Dry Bones was. The road dipped ahead. Joash’s heart raced with excitement, but also with fear and uneasiness. This
was
a strange, frightening place. He wondered if the ghosts, if that’s what they really were, could harm them.

“Have you ever been to this valley before?” Joash asked.

“The first time I came, I wanted to witness the greatness of my ancestors. The second time… it was nearly four hundred years ago.”

Joash was no longer interested in Mimir’s words. He panted, sweating, wanting to see the awesome sight. He trudged past the other giants, who had slowed so they might as well have been crawling. Joash hurried toward Tarag, who led the way. It almost seemed that the Nephilim, both giants and Gibborim, feared this place. It was as if they didn’t really want to come, that Tarag led them as if to a grim battle. Soon, Joash walked beside the hulking First Born.

The adamant mail shone with brilliance. It clinked musically. The First Born’s fur bristled and his eyes were slits. His lips twitched, exposing saber-like fangs.

Joash didn’t speak, although he matched the First Born pace for pace. This was the nearest he’d been to Tarag since the crypt. He was in awe of the First Born, and he realized Tarag’s iron will drove the others.

“Seraph,” Tarag whispered in way of greeting.

“First Born.”

Tarag eyes glittered with malice. “I will find the fiery stone before you do.”

“No,” Joash dared say, “I’ll find it first.” He meant it, too. He longed to find the stone. He yearned to hold it, to stare into it, to let its shine flood over him. He wondered if the reason had something to do with the dreams that he couldn’t fully remember.

The titanic First Born lengthened his stride, so he first saw the Valley of Dry Bones.

Seconds later, Joash came up even with the First Born. Tarag panted at the sight. Joash gaped. He was awed, terrified, sickened.

Bones. He saw a sea of bones, both huge and small. Some bones were monstrous. There were rib cages, femurs, anklebones, legs, arms, necks, skulls, a veritable host of broken skeletons piled layer upon layer on each other. Heat radiated from them, and dryness seemed to fill the valley with a desert’s bleakness. Bones! Everywhere Joash looked, he saw piled high bones. Skulls grinned at him from beneath mounds of thighbones. To walk across the bones would be difficult. His feet would slip on them. Joash shivered as supernatural fear seeped into him.

“The bone-yard of the Mighty,” Tarag whispered.

Joash moistened his mouth. No flowers grew in the valley, nor did moss or lichen cling to any of the bones. Nothing grew here. Now that he thought about it, Joash didn’t hear any crickets, any birds, any squirrels, any sort of life at all. There was only his and Tarag’s labored breathing.

“This is a sacred place,” Joash whispered.

“It is the bone-yard of the Mighty,” Tarag repeated, louder than before.

“We should not be here,” Joash whispered.

Tarag glanced down at him.

Joash regarded the First Born. He held a hand before his eyes lest Tarag’s armor blind him with its greater brightness.

“It begins,” said the First Born.

Joash took off his sandals and bowed his head.

“What are you doing?” asked Tarag.

“This is sacred ground. We should not be here.”

“I go where I will,” Tarag said.

“I want to go home,” Joash whispered, an ache filling him to see the familiarity of Elon. “I don’t belong here.”

“You are merely a human.”

“I know, High One.”

“Serve me, and I shall treat you kindly,” Tarag said, laying a huge, furry hand on Joash’s shoulder.

“Let me go home,” Joash pleaded.

“Not yet,” said Tarag. “First, you must do me a service.”

“What service?” Joash whispered.

“After we find the fiery stone, and leave this place, then I will tell you.”

“Do you vow this?” Joash asked.

“I vow it upon my valor in battle.”

“Then let us find this fiery stone and be gone from here,” Joash said. “For this is sacred ground, not meant for the likes of us.”

Tarag grunted, which could have meant anything.

Chapter Ten

The Fiery Stone

You were on the holy mount of God; you walked among the fiery stones. You were blameless in your ways from the day you were created till wickedness was found in you. ...So I drove you in disgrace from the mount of God, and I expelled you, O guardian cherub, from among the fiery stones.

-- Ezekiel 28:14-16

The trolock marched on the sunken cyclopean stones of the gray road. Pines swayed in the chilly darkness. For the past several hours, he’d trod beside shackled slaves, arrogant
bene elohim
, Shining Ones and Seraphs arrayed in armor. They were apparitions, for he felt no heat from them, no life force. Awe filled him. It was not a grand awe of wonder, excitement and pleasure. It was a grim awe of fear, trepidation and unworthiness. He neared something that wasn’t part of this world. The thing came from the Celestial Realm. That terrified him and slowed his stony tread. It made him think the unthinkable.

Should he wait to slay the desecrator? Wait until Tarag went away from this place? He didn’t like the idea. He had a duty to the Master. But painful memories now intruded on him.

Once, he had been Lord Skarpaler, of the Jomsbory Heights. His keep had been fashioned out of black granite, his barred gate from brass. Twenty villages had sent him their produce, while the herders of aurochs, yaks and mammoths had sent him their finest offspring. In his keep, the Black Fortress, he’d quartered a hundred stalwarts, each skilled in the use of javelin, spear and axe. Lords Irminsul, Askr and Iving had paid him homage. The Nameless One, the feared ruler of the Far North, had sent an emissary every year.

He remembered more, however, than just his former martial glory. He’d had three wives: red-haired Goni, with the laughing eyes, proud Kari—she’d given him fine children—and small, dark-haired Sharsti. She’d been his favorite. Her small, yearning body, her eagerness and passion.... He groaned for a lost love, a lost passion and a lost wife. Her tender lips would never again press against his. Never again would he feel the pressure of her warm skin. Never again would she whisper the promises that had stirred him so. She was lost, gone, vanished, forever beyond his reach.

He rumbled, “Let me forget the past, forget what I was. Let me be the trolock once more.”

The answer came then. He must flee this otherworldly power. He must march quickly from its influence. Only then, would he be the life-bane. Only then, would the painful memories fade.

As he turned away from the Valley of Dry Bones, he made a vow. As he now suffered, so would the First Born suffer. For the first time since his quickening, he was no longer just the trolock of his Master. He felt like a damned soul, trapped in an abomination of stone. He cursed his fate. He cursed the
bene elohim
. He had been Lord Skarpaler, a proud warrior, a determined noble of the North.

“I will yet have my vengeance,” he promised.

***

Joash unwrapped the bandage. A blister covered his palm. The bones had been hot. He wished someone had told him that before he’d braved the edge of the bone-field.

The sabertooths stayed away. The giants muttered and sharpened weapons. The Gibborim hid in their tents during the day. At night, the bone yard glowed. The Gibborim kept their eyes averted from the glow.

Despite all this, Joash was excited. He yearned to gaze upon the fiery stone. He hoped his blistered hand wouldn’t keep him from the search.

***

Mimir and Lersi stood before Tarag. It was night. A mile distant was the Valley of Dry Bones.

Tarag spoke. “Then you refuse?” he asked Lersi.

“Great One,” whispered Lersi, her bewitching beauty covered by a cowl, “it isn’t that we refuse. Something has changed.”

“I feel it too, High One,” Mimir said.

“Yes. The bones have grown hotter,” Tarag said.

“It is strange,” whispered Lersi.

“And inexplicable,” Mimir said.

“It can be explained,” Tarag said.

Mimir and Lersi waited in respectful silence.

“The fiery stone has burned off the last of Azel’s touch,” Tarag said. “The stone burns as it once did on the Holy Mount.”

Lersi shuddered.

Mimir glanced slyly at Lersi. He asked, “You say that none of Yorgash’s Chosen can endure the bone yard?”

She hissed at him.

Mimir smiled. “I have a theory, High One.”

“Speak!”

“You, Great One, are able to go near the bone yard.”

Tarag shifted, his adamant armor making sounds like hanging glass shards tinkling in the breeze. The armor had also become brighter.

“I, too, am able to endure the bone yard,” Mimir said. “But not Ygg. The only similarity between Ygg and the Chosen of Yorgash is that both practice necromancy.”

“Ah,” Tarag purred.

Mimir asked, “High One, can I assume that you’ve never practiced necromancy?”

“I never have,” Tarag said.

“What does this mean?” Lersi asked.

Mimir shrugged. His Bolverk-forged armor clinked.

“No games, giant,” Tarag warned. “Tell us what you think.”

Mimir said, “High One, for whatever reason, the practice of necromancy changes the user. He or she cannot endure the properties of the fiery stone.”

“
Why
should this be so?” Lersi hissed. “Azel practiced necromancy. He was able to handle the fiery stones.”

“Yes,” Tarag said slowly. “Azel was a
bene elohim
. Once, he had been a Cherub. His nature was different from ours. Even I, though filled with
bene elohim
blood, also have an equal measure of earthly blood. Mine is sabertooth blood, however, not human like both of you. I, therefore, am unlike any other First Born. Necromancy has
never
appealed to me. I have no aptitude in its use. You, Lersi, have even less divine blood in you than I. Your mortal heritage is larger than mine is. However, I suspect that the taint of necromancy stains you, so you are unable to endure the holiness of the fiery stone.”

“I agree, High One,” Mimir said. “From my understanding, no First Born or Nephilim has been to the bone yard for over three hundred years. In that short time, the fiery stone has burned hotter. Perhaps....” Mimir hesitated.

“Speak!”

“High One, perhaps the fiery stone is now beyond us.”

“Have you lost your courage?” Tarag sneered.

“No, High One.”

“Neither have I,” Lersi said.

Tarag said, “If we aspire to godhood, to immortality, then we must dare greatly. If you fear the Overlord...”

“He
is
very powerful,” Mimir said.

“He also chains himself by his own dictates,” Tarag said. “Therein is his weakness. The guardian Cherub will be at least as radiant as the fiery stone. Unless we can accustom ourselves to divine glory, we’re doomed to failure.”

Mimir was worried.

“We must trick the Seraph,” Tarag said. “He is the key to gaining the fiery stone.”

“Yes,” Mimir agreed.

“You,” Tarag told Lersi, “must desist for now from any necromancy. Maybe the taint will lessen, and you’ll be able to endure the fiery stone.”

Lersi nodded her cowled head.

“Go,” Tarag told her. “Instruct your brethren likewise.”

Lersi left like a wraith in the night.

“Tomorrow,” Tarag told Mimir, “you’ll take your bravest warriors and wrap their hands in leather. You’ll take the Seraph as a water-carrier. Your task will be to watch him. He’ll be able to tell more at a glance than you.”

“Yes, High One.”

“If we fail in this, then we cannot defeat the Cherub.”

Mimir had come to the same conclusion. It was with an uneasy heart that he took up his axe and trod back to camp.

***

Joash was weighed down with water-skins. The straps crisscrossed his torso, and the water sloshed whenever he took a step. Like the giants, he wore gloves. The arms of his jacket had been wrapped. He was hot. Sweat trickled down his collar.

“You must endure the heat as best as you can,” Mimir said.

Joash was excited. And now that he’d been ordered to go into the valley, now he feared. This was a holy place. Only because he served Elohim, did he dare this.

“Are you ready?” Mimir asked Motsognir Stone Hands.

“I am.”

“And you, Hrungir?”

“Let us begin,” said the youthful-looking Hrungir. He had no beard, but a cleft chin and a small mustache. Battle-axe earrings hung from his earlobes. He winked at Joash.

Conspicuous by his color, Tarag prowled in the distance. He shifted huge bones and peered into the crevices. His adamant armor gleamed like the sun shining off mirrors. Tarag looked up, waved and then roared. Joash couldn’t make out the words.

Mimir put his hand onto the nearest bone and stiffened. He dragged his foot forward and pushed himself into the bone yard. One by one, the other giants followed.

Joash put his hands on a bone. Through his thick leather glove, he felt the heat. He wasn’t going to let the giants better him. He was going to find the fiery stone before Tarag did.

“Careful,” Mimir shouted at him.

Joash almost stepped off a huge femur bone. He pulled his foot back, looked around, then balanced on the thighbone he stood on. He went from it, stepped on a skull and walked along a broken rib cage. Sweat dripped from his face. He found it difficult to breathe.

The giants fanned out. Sweat dripped off their faces. The sweat slid down the bones, as if they’d been waxed.

“Seraph!” Mimir called.

Joash looked up. He noticed that he’d strayed from the giants. They were to his left.

“Where are you going?” shouted Mimir.

“I...”

“I’m thirsty!” Hrungir shouted. “Bring the water here.”

Mimir scowled at Hrungir.

Joash didn’t know why Mimir scowled, but he obeyed Hrungir. With a pained smile, Hrungir took one of the water-skins and half drained it.

“That’s better,” the giant said.

Joash re-slung the water-skin, but his balance was skewed now.

“This will take time,” Hrungir said.

“The valley is huge,” Joash agreed.

Hrungir looked around. “Over there, I think, that’s where we’ll find the fiery stone.”

Joash looked where the giant pointed, shrugged.

“You don’t think the fiery stone is there?”

Joash pursed his lips. He shook his head.

Hrungir snorted. “What? You think you know where it is?”

Now that he thought about it.... “I do,” Joash said.

“What?” asked Hrungir. “Nonsense!”

“No it isn’t. I would never dare to lie here.”

That troubled Hrungir.

“You don’t believe me?” Joash asked.

Hrungir wouldn’t look him in the eye.

Joash looked out at Tarag. The First Born was in the right area. But these giants didn’t have the first notion of where to look. The glow, the supernatural radiance was strongest out by Tarag. The First Born would first find the fiery stone.

“No he won’t,” Joash told himself.

“What was that?” Hrungir asked.

Joash looked up. “I’m going to find the fiery stone. Do you dare stop me?”

“Not I,” Hrungir whispered.

Joash gave him a smug smile, then turned and inched his way over hot bones. His sweat increased as he looked down into dark crevices and hopped onto different sets of bones. It was difficult balancing on the smooth, rounded surfaces. His legs began to ache and salty sweat stung his eyes. The need for constant alertness wearied him. Once, he jumped onto a new mound of bones and they shifted under him. He grunted and fought for balance, swinging his arms. At the last second, he righted himself and kept from falling into the mass of scalding bones. He asked Elohim for strength. Soon thereafter, images appeared. Joash stopped and concentrated on a wavering warrior gesturing sharply at him. Was the ghostly warrior sent from Elohim? Joash shivered with awe, and he inched nearer the warrior. The bones underfoot creaked ominously. He hopped back as bones rattled downward. After winning another balancing bout, Joash looked around. The ghostly warrior had vanished.

Joash uncorked a skin and drank warm water. The bones had transferred some of their heat into his water-skins. Pushing the stopper into the skin’s throat, Joash drew hot air into his lungs. He crouched and massaged his calves. Then his gaze tightened and he rose up and threaded his way to Tarag.

The huge First Born panted, and his eyes were glazed.

“The fiery stone is near,” Joash told him.

“I know,” whispered Tarag.

“I will be the first to find it,” Joash said, not realizing how bold he’d become.

Tarag tried to mouth words. Nothing came.

Joash said, “You said before that you would be first. Do you still think so?”

Tarag couldn’t speak, although he managed to look away.