The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) (16 page)

“Hrungir. Motsognir. Ymir!” he roared.

The named giants rose from where they’d hunched. Each had readied himself, and each wore a horned, Bolverk-forged helmet with a nasal guard. Each wore a heavy suit of Bolverk-forged chainmail, many times more protective than the best human mail. Each carried a round iron shield, with a glittering spike in the center. Those spikes would run red with human gore. The razor-sharp giant swords and axes would quench themselves on the cheap and easily torn human lives.

“Brokk. Woden. Godmund!” Mimir thundered.

Broad-shouldered giants clashed their drawn swords against their shields. They approached him at a slow walk, glaring at him with half-mad eyes. They worked themselves into the legendary giant fury that had made their names ring with terror throughout the world.

“Ygg. Surtur. Thurus!” he shouted.

Ygg lifted his terrible spear and screamed at the sky. His eyes blazed wrath. His necklace of skulls radiated with an awful green nimbus. He roared, “Father Jotnar! We will give our all!”

Surtur gnashed his teeth and foamed at the mouth. In a moment, he clamped his teeth onto the rim of his shield, shaking it as a dog would a captured rat. He raved, building himself into awesome berserk fury.

Thurus lifted a huge stone mallet to the crash of thunder. Even for a giant, he had huge shoulders and herculean arms. Long, golden hair flowed down his massive back. If ever Tarag fell, only Thurus could hope to fit into the adamant armor. He shook his mighty weapon at those in the pass.

“We are the sons of Jotnar!” Mimir roared.

The giants, who surrounded their leader, lifted their voices in mighty shouts.

“Lead us into war,” Woden shouted.

“Show us the way!” bellowed Thurus.

“There is our destiny!” Mimir shouted, using his axe to point into the pass.

The giants smashed their weapons against their shields. It was a terrible and fell sound. Suddenly, above all that, Tarag, the King of Sabertooths, roared dreadfully. He was louder than the giants were, as a giant was louder than a man. Tarag strode to the clump of giants. His adamant armor clanked, the sound having changed with the loss of nearness to the fiery stone. His adamant shield reflected glory and his adamant sword was a bar of sudden death.

“FOLLOW ME!” Tarag roared. He was a god of war, of bloodshed, of gory ruin to all who opposed him.

***

In the pass, the humans waited. They cowered at the sound of shouting giants. At Tarag’s roar, many of them grew faint.

Commander Himilco strode among his bronze-armored League mariners. He wore an open-faced bronze helmet and an iron short sword. He bellowed at the mariners, as if they were at sea, ordering them to stay at their posts. Each mariner held a pike, and watched the front of the pass with wide eyes. They stood three deep and almost blocked the width of the narrow pass.

“Nothing can shake you!” Himilco roared, using his bass voice to great effect. “You are the cream of the League. Yes, giants roar. But can they act as one together? No. A thousand times no. Together, we shall slay them here. Here I stand.” Himilco drew his short sword with a flourish and strode to the front of the phalanx.

Behind the mariners waited the fur-clad Shurites. They clutched axes and short stabbing spears. Prince Ishmael, as beardless as ever, raved as the giants marching toward them.

“Let us slake our thirst for vengeance!” Prince Ishmael roared to his veterans. “Let us dip our weapons into the blood of our foes. Let us show those braggarts that we are the sons of Shur.”

The fur-clad Shurites, shaggy warriors huddled around their hereditary leader, shouted with rage. Then, before the giants appeared around the bend, Prince Ishmael began to sing their ancient battle-song. It reverberated off the narrow walls and filled the Shurites with courage.

Horns blared. A glint of lightning flared off enemy armor.

“Tarag comes!” shouted a scout racing toward the mariners.

The huge First Born marched around the bend and into full view. Beside the glittering Tarag, strode giants. Not many giants, but more than enough. If there were any Gibborim, they remained out of sight.

“FOOLS!” Tarag roared.

Men cowered. The sabertooth-like First Born looked invincible. Giants laughed, and shook their mighty weapons.

Behind the line of Shurites, Herrek boarded the chariot that Gens drove. In Herrek’s hands was a long chariot lance. “For Elon!” he roared.

The Elonites around him took up his cry. The Shurites before them shouted in return, louder. That caused the Elonites to cheer again.

Tarag broke into a run. The giants paced him. The clank of armor was dreadful, a promise of the brutal combat only moments away.

Auroch, who waited with the Snow Leopard Warriors, drew a mighty bow and stepped into view. He’d hidden himself among some rocks to the side. Now, as the giants passed him, he released the mighty bow. He sped his shaft at the exposed back knee of huge-lunged Woden. Woden roared with pain and staggered several steps, before crashing to his knees.

The League mariners cheered.

Tarag roared and the giants growled with fury that the
giliks
had actually harmed one of theirs.

The Snow Leopard Warriors gave their ragged cry and now stepped out of hiding and beside Auroch, emboldened by his success. Their arrows showered the giants. Ymir and Thurus detached themselves from the central throng, and charged the archers.

“Take out your ropes,” Auroch bellowed, dropping his bow and taking up a lasso. He swung, and threw at Ymir’s head. The old giant dodged, but then, more loops swooped at him. Ymir slowed to swat them down or twist out of their paths.

Thurus gave the loops no heed, but charged with undimmed fury. Several Snow Leopard Warriors shrank from this dreadful sight. Auroch grimly drew his sword and picked up the shield at his feet.

“Now, lads!” he shouted. “Let’s kill this single giant.”

A few brave Arkites joined Auroch, as he rushed the fast-closing Thurus. One Snow Leopard Warrior died screaming, as Ymir’s thrown spear took him in the chest.

“Elohim,” Auroch shouted, “help me!”

Thurus, his face scarlet, swung his stone mallet and swept Snow Leopard Warriors from his path.

Auroch roared to Elohim once more, and thrust his sword at Thurus. Incredibly, the steel sword smashed through a Bolverk-forged link to slash into Thurus’s side. The mighty Thurus swung with a roar of rage, and dashed Auroch the Pirate, the child of a giantess, and the nephew of Gaut Windrunner, to the ground. Auroch valiantly tried to rise. The stone mallet of Thurus crushed the life out of him.

Across the raging battlefield, from upon his chariot, Lord Uriah bowed his head. “Alas, we have lost a brave warrior today.”

Herrek nodded grimly. He too watched, waiting for the signal to charge. He saw what occurred at the van of the human host, and desperately wanted to avenge it.

The phalanx of League mariners crumbled before Tarag and the giants. With a single sweep of his sword, Tarag slew brave commander Himilco. The giants likewise reaped a bitter harvest among the mariners that stood their ground. A good third of the mariners turned and fled in terror. Two of them, however, brothers, raced at the fallen giant, Woden. As Woden cursed his fate, leaning back to attend to his knee, the two marine brothers thrust their pikes into his face. Woden died, but was avenged a moment later by Ymir and the bleeding Thurus.

“We’re being slaughtered!” Herrek roared, desperately waiting for Lord Uriah to give the signal.

Lord Uriah watched the battle, seemingly uncaring, except for the way he bit his lips.

“What are you waiting for?” Herrek shouted. “Sound your horn.”

Lord Uriah paid him no heed.

***

He, who had once been Lord Skarpaler, knew that his time had finally come. He strode to the battle and felt the great release of souls. This was his hour. Thus, as he marched, he took out the two necromantic skulls. The eye sockets were jeweled. Inside them, tiny lights writhed with life. Lord Skarpaler crushed the first skull, grinding the ancient bone into powder. He groaned with pleasure. Blazing heat flowed into him. Power! Might! Vitality! Lord Skarpaler crushed the second skull. Then he marched past a lone black tent and into the pass.

***

White-haired, thickly muscled Gort Six sat with his fellows. They had been roped to stunted trees. Silently, they watched the abomination of stone march through the camp and into the pass.

Gort Six had learned to cherish the talk with the Seraph. He had also learned to yearn for freedom. Even more, he’d learned to yearn to pay back the masters for the degradation they’d done to him and his fellows.

“We must help the humans,” he said.

The other Gorts stared at him in shock. One, a Gort older than Six, said, “Listen to the butchery. The humans are doomed.”

“So are we,” Gort Six said.

“We serve the masters.”

“No!” Gort Six roared, leaping to his feet. “They are Nephilim.” He produced a shard of sharpened obsidian that he’d secretly hidden in his loincloth for over two weeks.

“Blasphemy,” another Gort whispered.

“No!” Gort Six shouted. “It isn’t blasphemy because I serve Elohim.” So saying, he sawed at the rope, parting it. “Who joins me?” he shouted.

They stared at him, too scared to move. At last, the oldest Gort raised his hand. Gort Six tossed him the shard of obsidian. Then he raced after the trolock. He would pick up the first weapon he saw, and become, for the first time in his life, a man.

***

As the last League mariners went down, Shurites swarmed upon young Hrungir. A raving, beardless Shurite led the pack of bearded warriors. Many Shurites broke their axes upon Hrungir’s armor. But a few hammered through to bloody him. Hrungir chopped yet another raving Shurite, as the others around him howled for his blood. Was there no end to them? Hrungir wondered.

“Die, giant!” Prince Ishmael roared. He thrust his spear into a rent opened in the giant’s armored side. The giant groaned, and tried to cut the prince with his sword. Prince Ishmael threw himself to the ground, as other Shurites hacked at the falling giant.

“Vanity,” Hrungir groaned, sinking to his knees. “This was all vanity.” Then young Hrungir died.

“Vermin!” Ymir One-Eye roared, wading into the surviving Shurites.

Prince Ishmael, who saw his best warriors cut down like children, as they fought near Hrungir, called upon Elohim. Then he turned to face Ymir.

The old one-eyed giant laughed, and laid about him with his spear. The butt of the spear struck Prince Ishmael on the helmet, breaking it, and sprawling the Shurite leader onto the bloody Earth. A moment later, Ymir left the spear lodged in a hairy brute of a Shurite. The one-eyed giant thereupon picked up a heavy rock and slew those Shurites too foolhardy to run away.

***

“Lord Uriah,” Herrek pleaded. “Sound the horn!”

Lord Uriah suddenly saw what he’d waited and prayed for. Victory counted upon the commitment of forces at exactly the right moment. More than half his army had been slaughtered. But their courage was matchless. Except for a few mariners and Snow Leopard Warriors, none had fled from the giants. Almost all had fought to the end. Now, with only a third of his small army left, Lord Uriah gave the word. His charioteer lifted a horn and pealed for the charge. At the same moment, around the bend, near the front of the pass, lumbered a creature made out of stone.

***

“Desecrator,” Lord Skarpaler rumbled.

At the strange sound, many of the giants and Tarag turned from their butchery of the humans. They saw an abomination out of legend stride toward them.

“I’ve come for you,” Lord Skarpaler shouted.

He remembered his granite castle, his wives, his wars, his falconry and his old friends. Gone! All of it gone, never to be regained. Now, he would exact vengeance for the terrible thing done to him. Now, they would learn why his master’s crypt should have been left alone. Yes, now they would learn.

***

The trolock hurled his spear. The Bolverk-forged head pierced the shield of Godmund and bit into his lungs. Godmund toppled like a hewn pine. Several other giants quickly surrounded the trolock. They swung their weapons against his stony flesh. Granite flakes fell from the trolock’s skin. The trolock roared and lunged. Motsognir, the target of those granite hands, leaped back out of range. The trolock turned on another of his tormenters. That giant jumped backward, while Motsognir leapt at the trolock and swung with his heavy weapon.

At that moment, Gort Six, with a fallen mariner’s pike in his hands, gave an inarticulate cry of rage and thrust his pike into the back of Motsognir’s knee. Stone Hands sank with a groan. Before Motsognir could arise, the trolock gripped the giant’s head and twisted. Motsognir Stone Hands, after a lifetime of valor, died without knowing who had stabbed him.

“I’ve slain a master!” Gort Six howled. He stabbed again, only to be cut down by Brokk.

Behind Gort Six came five other Gorts. Each was armed with cast-off weapons. They swarmed Brokk and knocked him to the ground. They cut out his eyes, before crushing his skull with heavy rocks.