Into Eden: Pangaea - Book 1 (5 page)

Hezron and Nashon had led armies into Eden during the An-nef War to crush what was left of the an-nef’s broken army and destroy forever their capital of Sodom. He and Nashon had been powerful men in physical strength and political sway. Back then giants like himself and Nashon held all the political power in the capital, and there had been many of them. “He who wields the sword makes the rules,” they used to say. But now giants were a dying breed, and the emperor, Herculous II, who sat on the throne in Atlantis, was the half-breed son of the giant, Herculous I who had founded the empire nearly a millennia ago. The gods that had visited earth were gone. Their sons were dying, and only the an-nef in Edom thrived of the Nephilim that once ruled world affairs. Strange, he thought, how the imminent passing of his friend made him think of his own mortality.

Hezron sat up on the side of his bed. Outside he could hear the bell as it tolled three. Nashon’s passing should not affect him in the way that it was. Sure, he would miss his old friend, but Hezron was still a relatively young giant. Nashon was over a hundred years his senior. He had plenty of time left. Yet one hundred years didn’t seem like such a long time any more. The past eight-hundred and twenty had flown like a bird on the wing. And why hadn’t he gone with Doc Paron and Jesse to see Nashon one last time? Because he was scared—scared of dying. And just the thought of seeing his friend laying there slipping away depressed him. It served as a reminder that in short time or long he would be doing the same. Besides, he could ride out to see him tomorrow. Nashon would probably be in his new host by then and feeling more up to conversation. Fine rationalization for not doing the right thing.

At long last he rose from his bed, pulled on his trousers and stepped out into the hall. He walked to the apartment next door and banged on the door. “Ruben!” he yelled through the door. There was no reply, so this time he banged harder on the door with his great fist and hollered all the louder, “Ruben!”

On the other side of the door he could hear shuffling, the thud of a foot meeting a solid object in the dark and a muffled cry. In a minute the door opened and his armor-bearer, hair mussed up, shirtless, wearing one boot, and needing a shave opened the door. “Yes, general?”

“Prepare my chariot.”

“At this hour?”

“I GAVE YOU AN ORDER, RUBEN. ARE YOU QUESTIONING IT?”

“No general. Your chariot. I’ll have it ready.”

Ruben staggered back into his quarters. He fumbled through a drawer in his nightstand, located a firestick and lit a candle. In a minute he was mostly dressed, and he ran back out down the hall, headed for the fortress’ stable.

“And Ruben,” Hezron yelled behind him, “bring a spear from the armory as well.”

Ruben stopped. For a moment he seriously considered asking the general what he would want with a spear. Oh well, the general must have his reasons. Ruben hurried on to the stables, his boots untied and shirt only half tucked in.

Hezron dressed slowly, giving Ruben enough time to harness the horses and retrieve a spear. He then walked out into the cool night air of the courtyard. By the time that he had made his way there, Ruben had already hitched up three of the horses, and was leading the last one out. In the chariot Hezron could see the spear threaded through two brass loops by the right of where the driver stood. It was probably an unnecessary precaution, Hezron thought, but he had heard that there were lions on the road. He stepped up into the chariot and waited for Ruben to finish with the horses.

As soon as Ruben had tightened the harness on the last of the horses Hezron urged then on with a, “Yee-ha” and headed out the fortress gate, which had not been closed at night in over a hundred years. And why should it? Atlantis hadn’t fought a war in almost five-hundred.

The horses’ hooves made a loud clopping as Hezron hurried them over the stone pavement through the sleeping town toward the city gate. When he arrived, he found the gate shut just as he had ordered, but his watchman was fast asleep on the ground to one side. Not even the noise of the approaching horses had disturbed his slumber.

Hezron removed the spear and slapped it down hard on the side of the chariot. The hollow, “bang” of the resulting concussion jolted the watchman awake.

“Hey!” What’s the meaning of…” the watchman’s voice trailed off as he recognized who it was that had awakened him. He jumped up and opened the gate with haste, mumbling something that sounded like, “Sorry, General,” under his breath.

Hezron rode on south of town, keeping the horses at a trot. As he approached the Albion Bridge, he was turning right on the road that led to Nashon’s estate, when he noticed riders heading south on the Southern Highway into the Territories at a gallop. His eyes were old, and he couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like there might have been a dozen of them headed out of town, with a buckboard and what appeared to be a chariot. Why would so many be headed out of town at this hour of the night? Then he thought that he knew. It must be Nashon. If he had died earlier in the night that might explain riders headed south—his family headed back to their farms. But in the middle of the night, and in such haste? For a moment he thought of turning his chariot around and heading back to town, sure that the family was now either grieving their father’s loss or celebrating his successful leap into a new host. But the more that he thought about it the less that it made sense. Again he looked back at the retreating horsemen, but by now they were at such a distance that all that he could see were vague forms in the darkness. Soon they would be out of sight.

In a few minutes he was at the gate of the estate itself, but to his surprise the gate was left open—at least half open. Enough for him to drive his chariot through without dismounting to open it all the way up. This was also strange, for the day before he remembered Asa telling him that Josiah had ordered the gates closed at night to keep out the rumored lions. Hezron brought the team to a halt in front of the mansion and walked up the steps through unlocked doors. What he found was not the traditional grieving or songs for the dead, nor was there a spirit-host being welcomed by those that had been his wives and children in life. He entered a room where women were crying, men were arguing, and there was what appeared to be a trail of blood that led down the stairway to the right and out the front door.

All looked up as he entered, and the room grew quiet.

“Hezron!” Josiah shouted from across the room. “We were just trying to decide who would ride into town and get you! We were afraid to go out into the night lest some of those beasts attack us on the way to town!”

“I just came from town,” Hezron replied. “No lions on the road tonight—at least none that I saw.”

“Lions!?” Josiah replied. “I meant those murderous an-nef! The jackal-heads! Isn’t that why you are here? Didn’t somebody tell you?”

“An-nef? Here in the Foothills? I’ve never heard of such a thing!” There was genuine shock in his voice. “I’ve come to see your father.”

With that the room erupted into a nearly incomprehensible babble of disjointed facts about the night’s events. Everyone wanted to tell Hezron what they knew and saw. Nashon was dead—murdered by jackal-heads that burst through the door and stormed Nashon’s bedroom. Asa was dead as well. Shot in the back with some mechanical bow as he guarded the gate. They had turned one of the stalls in the stable into a makeshift morgue to keep the bodies, but when they were carrying Jesse out (who had been shot trying to avenge his father) they heard him start to moan and realized that he was still alive. Doc Paron was still up stairs trying to save his life. The blonde-headed girl that the jackal-head had grabbed said, “They have really scary teeth!” Thank you. One of the jackal-heads called the one that seemed to be in charge, “General.” This last statement seemed to unsettle Hezron. Josiah was trying to rally his brothers and half-brothers into following the raiders in pursuit, but some were undeniably afraid, and others argued that Hezron should go after them. He was, after all, the province’s governor and a general. This proposal seemed to unsettle Hezron even more. From what he heard, and what he saw (for he was now convinced that the riders he had seen heading south were the retreating raiders) he was sure that he could raise a larger force than the an-nef in a short time and might even be able to catch them if they were being slowed down by a wounded comrade. But two realities bothered him: First, his legal authority ceased at the bridge. Any armed foray into the Territories could have him recalled to Atlantis as a renegade himself to face execution. Second, if this jackal-head was indeed a general there were many other frightening possibilities to be considered. Had Eden sanctioned this “hit” as a prelude to war? Would these an-nef—heavily armed as they were—be lying in ambush expecting a counter-attack? His options would have been much simpler if he were dealing with a band of highwaymen that had fled across the border, but from what he could ascertain these were trained legionnaires and probably acting under someone else’s orders. This could get real messy indeed.

As Hezron stood trying to sort all of this information out, he saw Doc Paron coming down the stairs. The old man’s shirt was now red with blood.

“Doctor,” Hezron called out, “will the boy live?”

“Jesse’s got a good chance. But the next few hours will be key. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“If the gods will,” Hezron replied, “he’ll be okay. Now, what can you tell me about your earlier patient?”

“The jackal-head? He’s seen a few battles,” the doctor began.

“And he’s got scary teeth,” the blonde girl interjected.

“So you say.”

“He’s missing half his left ear,” the doctor went on. “And his left eye.”

“And a long scar on his muzzle,” Hezron informed him.

“Why yes,” the doctor replied, astounded. “How did you know?”

“I put it there.”

Once again the room fell quiet. It was again Josiah who broke the silence, “You know him?”

“Oh yes. His name is, ‘Anubis.’ You see that painting on the wall? The one with your father’s foot on the corpse of a dead jackal-head? That, young Master of the house of Nashon, is Anubis’ brother.”

Josiah’s jaw grew slack, and he renewed his customary pacing. After a minute he turned to face Hezron, “We have to go after them. We have to go now, before they can get away.”

“There are things to consider...” Hezron began, but Josiah cut him off.

“CONSIDER?!” he yelled up at the giant, “CONSIDER…? They murdered my father! They murdered Asa, and my little brother’s upstairs barely hanging onto life! Just what’s to consider?”

Hezron kept his temper with difficulty, “Small issues of jurisdiction. The murderers have fled across the river. I have no authority to pursue them. I...”

“You’re a coward!” Josiah screamed at him. “You’d let your friend’s killer go free just because…”

Before Josiah knew what was happening Hezron had lifted him off his feet with one giant hand and threatened him with the immense fist of the other. Josiah was now dangling about a pace off the ground like a rag-doll, eye-to-eye with Hezron.

“Coward?” Hezron bellowed back. “Did you fight with your father and me at Mountain Shadows? Did you stand with us at the cherry orchard and swing your sword until your hand froze to the handle? Did you cross the mountains into the jungle of Eden with us to fight the an-nef hand to claw? Until you have, boy, you have no right to call me a, ‘coward.’” With that, Hezron threw Josiah backwards into the assembled guests, knocking three of them to the floor as they caught him.

But Hezron wasn’t through with Josiah yet. “You would call me a coward?!” he bellowed, pointing to Josiah, now sprawled on the floor. “I’ll give you a chance to prove your courage, and that of any man here that would come with you. Do you have a sword?”

”Yes,” Josiah replied, picking himself up from the floor.

“Do you know how to use it?”

“I do.”

“Good. Then get it. And bring a bow as well. You’d rather fight an-nef at a distance than up close. They wield their teeth like men do swords.” Then, turning to the other men in the room he asked, “How many would fight to avenge the death of your father?” Slowly, every man in the room raised his hand. Their less than enthusiastic response bothered Hezron, but he did not let it show.

“Good. Now how many of
you
have swords?”

Every hand went down. With what would they fight the an-nef? Pitch-forks? Clubs?

“How many of you have bows?”

Still no hands raised. Finally, one of Josiah’s half-brothers shouted, “I have a spear!”

“Me too!” another yelled. In all, about half of the men present had brought spears—no doubt to fend off lions that might or might not be prowling the roads. Hezron thought about the lack of arms for a moment, and then spoke loudly for all to hear, “Every man that would ride in pursuit of his father’s killers to the courtyard! Saddle-up, and follow me. I’ll get you all the weapons that you need.” With that he turned and walked back outside to his chariot.

On the outside, Hezron was the man in control. He had a plan. He showed courage, and the leaderless mob of twenty men that gathered in the courtyard saddling their horses were ready to follow him. But on the inside Hezron was seething. He was angry at himself to allow a hot-head like Josiah to goad him into going into a battle that would most likely end in failure, and could possibly end in his undoing. These an-nef now had nearly an hour’s head start and were riding hard. He still had to take these men back to the fortress at Albion and outfit them with armor and then double-back to the Southern Highway. How long would that take? Another hour, maybe two? By then the raiders would be possibly three hours ahead of them. It would take a day to catch them even driving the horses hard. And what if he did catch up with them? Trained men with mechanical bows against a posse made up of farmers and legionnaires that hadn’t seen battle in years? If they succeeded, Hezron would be a local hero and his superiors in Atlantis would praise him for his quick-action and bravery. But if this ended in further human deaths Hezron would most assuredly be recalled, and he might well have to answer for their deaths—and his rashness—with his own. If only he had controlled his temper and not let Josiah get under his skin. Too late for that now. To back out now would make him seem like both the fool and a coward. He was committed, and he was no coward.