The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) (11 page)

Joash inched past the First Born. As he neared the glow, his sense of time became skewed. It felt as if he’d been balancing on these bones forever. Using his sleeve, he wiped his forehead. Then the ghostly warrior he’d seen earlier appeared again. The warrior opened his mouth as if shouting. With a start, Joash realized there were others behind the warrior. They came forward, almost as if by noticing them he gave the ghosts courage. A big warrior with a spiked club raised it as if to strike. Joash hunched his shoulders as he continued toward the intensifying glow. There were faint noises like those created by a soft breeze. Joash listened for a moment, but he couldn’t hear any words. A woman appeared beside him. Joash glanced at her. She reached for him as if pleading, and her wavering fingers seemed to pluck at his garment as if to hold him back. Joash scowled, pushing forward. Nothing was going to halt him. More ghosts came—

“No!” Joash cried. He rushed across a set of bones. The warriors, the woman and others pressed after him. Then Joash reached the spot where the fiery stone surely must lie. He looked around. All the ghosts, the wavering people, had vanished. With a tight grin, he reached for the shining stone.

***

Mimir and Hrungir stood together. They’d worked their way to the edge of the valley. Together, neither saying a word, they watched Joash disappear.

“I can’t understand his strength,” Hrungir said.

“He is a Seraph,” Mimir said wearily.

“Are all Seraphs like him?”

“I think he’s the strongest.”

“We’re lucky to have captured him then,” Hrungir said.

“The Overlord sends his mightiest against us.”

Hrungir nodded, troubled.

Then, far out in the bone yard, out beyond where Tarag stood, a fearful glow occurred. The brightness increased, and so did the hurtful glare reflected by Tarag’s adamant armor.

“Joash has found the fiery stone,” Mimir whispered in awe. “After two thousand years, the stone has finally been found.”

Hrungir shielded his eyes. “How can he stand it?”

Out of the bone-pile, shone a fiery glory. Mimir slit his eyes and tried to peer into the light. It hurt, and he felt so small, so weak, so wicked before it. To his amazement, he saw that the manling held the fiery stone. The manling lifted the stone toward Tarag. For the first time since coming to the Valley of Dry Bones, Mimir felt that victory was within their grasp. If they could adjust themselves to the fiery stone, they could face the guardian Cherub on equal terms.

He laughed. It was an ugly, brutal sound. Because of it, he was forced to look away from the stone. When he turned back, he found it easier to do than before. Yes, victory and godhood were almost within their grasp.

Chapter Eleven

The March

“Why are you crying out to me? Tell the Israelites to move on.”

-- Exodus 14:15

Like alert hounds, five League biremes guarded the coastal traders, the
Falan
among them. Their cargo was warriors, weaponry, supplies and several chariots with trained horses.

Lord Uriah still marveled at Adah’s diplomacy, and hardly believed that a great grandson of Shur’s would march with him. It deeply touched the Patriarch, although Auroch warned him about evil-hearted treachery and knives in the dark.

The flotilla sailed from Carthalo, the shore soon changing from neat villages surrounded by garden-like fields, to rocky barrens and tall sentinel trees. Occasionally, sunlight flashed from the leafy foliage, indicating a coast watcher high on a platform. Fortunately, no signal horns blared. No longboats splashed the sea to give desperate chase. The five sleek biremes each wore a fresh coat of green paint. Their double banks of oars churned in perfect unity. Gleaming spear-points of prowling mariners on deck added to the daunting spectacle. No hidden pirate dared to face them.

Lord Uriah and Admiral Nar Naccara, from his sturdy curule chair on the stern deck, debated their next move. The obese Admiral fanned himself, and suggested they swing wide around Dishon.

“We go straight through,” Lord Uriah said, “like an arrow to its mark.”

Nar Naccara snapped his fan shut and tapped his chins. “Hm. Sometimes the shortest route is the longest.”

“Your golden tongue will untangle any difficulties we face.”

Dishon was a sprawling city nestled between two hills. Houses clustered like mushrooms in a gloomy valley. It was like a growth of buildings, some tall and others squat, most brown, with a few bright yellow temples with golden domes. Some of those sprouted a silver spire. The twin hills spread land arms into the sea, creating a glassy bay. A bell pealed from a fortress at the end of the nearest arm.

“Straight through,” said Lord Uriah.

Nar Naccara chewed his lips, anxiously watching the city harbor. Through flags and trumpets, he ordered the five biremes to interpose themselves between the harbor and their coastal traders.

The five galleys barely completed the maneuver, when a red-painted Dishon galley raced across the glassy bay. It was like a water spider, lower to the waves than the biremes. With its sixty oars to a side, it fairly skittered across the sea, with war-drums beating.

“I’d love nothing more than to sink it,” the Admiral said. “But that would be like kicking an ant colony.” He heaved his bulk from his curule chair and accepted a speaking horn from a mariner. “I must use my golden tongue and prevent any tangling,” Nar Naccara muttered.

After he shouted ship-to-ship with the Dishon captain, Nar Naccara and Adah entered a longboat. They made the short journey between the vessels and climbed aboard the Dishon galley. The Admiral spoke at length with a burly man with two gold teeth. Adah witnessed the exchange of silver coins. Soon, the flotilla sailed with a purple-inked writ of passage, stamped with a crimson seal and bound by pink ribbons.

The shores became rockier, with more trees. Gradually scattered trees became forests, and the forests grew thicker. Sometimes, naked Nebo tribesmen in dugout canoes hugged the shoreline and cast nets. Whenever the flotilla appeared, however, the Nebo rowed for shore or disappeared into some hidden inlet. One group dropped their nets, leaving them in the sea, in their haste to flee.

Adah pointed at a whale corpse the next morning. Flocks of screeching, swooping seagulls feasted on the floating island of meat. Underwater, monstrous white sharks tore off impressive chunks. Harpoons stuck from the carcass. The whalers of Pildash hunted the magnificent creatures for oil. They must have wounded the poor beast and left it to die.

The crews grew tense, calling the corpse bad luck. Nar Naccara ordered a doubling of lookouts, worried lest they find Pildash warships.

“Hm,” Nar Naccara told Lord Uriah, “Pildash vessels wallow like cows. Pildash galleys are the opposite of the Dishon racing shells. They are more like floating castles, with towers, boarding bridges and far-ranging catapults.”

At night, the forested shores looked menacing. That evening they stayed aboard ship, hidden in a deep-water cove. As the stars appeared, drums spoke from the interior. Torchlight appeared among the trees and disappeared. In the darkest hour, Auroch clutched the rail, studying the forested shore. His feet drummed on deck-wood, and he shook Lord Uriah awake. Auroch claimed to have seen heavily bearded men on shore, with the silvery sheen of swords.

“Gog has sent Oracle Defenders and Enforcers,” Auroch said. “I’d wager he’s foreseen this expedition and plans our destruction.”

“We have Seraphs,” Adah said groggily, from her mat.

“You have less than on the
Tiras
,” the ex-pirate said. “Those Seraphs are also spread among more people.”

A trumpet blew an hour later. Sailors shouted alarm. Adah flung aside her blanket, fumbling to string her bow.

Tree-hollowed canoes glided from the forested shore, as rowers dug their paddles like madmen. They shot past the guardian biremes and toward coastal traders in the center of the anchored flotilla. The attackers revealed hidden torches, as others heaved bloated oilskins into the nearest trader. Spinning torches followed. Adah licked her lips, fitted an arrow to the string, hoping the dugouts strayed closer to her. The attacked trader burst into flames, individual tongues of fire licking higher than the mast. Burning sailors screamed, many leaping into the sea. Spears flew from the prowling dugouts. Sailors and Elonite warriors drowned or choked on their blood. A half-naked Nar Naccara appeared on the deck of his flagship and started roaring orders. Arrows twanged. Nebo splashed into the sea. Still, a handful of dugouts escaped to shore, their occupants racing into the forest.

In the morning, as they viewed the burnt shell, Auroch said, “That was Gog’s work.”

“The evil ones are sly,” Prince Ishmael said. With three fingers, he touched the blade of his dagger. “Events will change once we’re on land, this I assure you.”

The prince’s words proved prophetic. A swift day’s journey brought them to a sandy headland pre-chosen by Nar Naccara. His mariners boarded fishing boats, impounding the vessels so no one could report about their unloading. It took the rest of the day to cart the supplies ashore, wrestle the handful of chariots, and lift and lower horses and mules by the single crane.

The Nebo struck that night, screaming their war cries from leafy hiding. Grisly battle-trophies, scalps, dangled from their belts and war-paint streaked their faces. Prince Ishmael and his Shurites closed the trap, and methodically slaughtered the surprised cannibals. The prince’s warriors carried small bucklers, and wielded their long knives move effectively than swords in the tight confines of forest fighting. It took Auroch, however, with a fierce display of swordsmanship to defeat Gog’s Enforcer who led the natives.

“Now there’s no doubt,” Auroch said, after wiping his sword on the Enforcer’s massive corpse. “Gog knew we would land here. His minions will stalk us all the way to Arkite Land.”

Prince Ishmael grinned in the moonlight. A jagged line of blood was streaked across his forehead. It was his war-paint and came from his enemies. Beside him was the severed head of the chief Nebo, stuck to a Nebo spear driven into the ground. The Shurites were vicious warriors, practicing a darker form of combat than Lord Uriah’s Elonites. “It’s lucky for you that I and my men are here.”

In the morning, Nar Naccara loudly bemoaned Lord Uriah’s decision.

“You must use your talents where they’re most needed,” Lord Uriah told the Admiral. “Soon, Gog and his captains will sail west. When they do, your presence will be needed with the League fleets.”

“True,” Nar Naccara said. “I had hoped to glimpse fabled Eden.”

Lord Uriah clasped Nar Naccara’s arm. “You’ve greatly aided us, Admiral. Thank you.”

“My prayers go with you, Patriarch Uriah. You’ll need them, I fear.” The Admiral waded the few needed feet and climbed into a longboat, his men briskly taking him to the waiting biremes.

Soon thereafter, Prince Ishmael and his mountain warriors trekked inland as scouts. They fanned into the green growth and murk in groups of twos or threes, seemingly at home in the forest. They searched for ambushes and speared game for the evening pot as they blazed the trail.

The Elonites of Lord Mikloth marched next, together with individual warriors who Lord Uriah had persuaded to join. Lord Mikloth, Lord Uriah and Adah each rode a chariot, along with several other highly ranked Elonites. It was slow going, as wheels crushed old brittle leaves or clumped over exposed roots or cracked fallen branches covered in fungus. Too often, the sides of the cart scraped against a tree, as they negotiated thick growth.

The mules and their handlers struggled behind. The bulk of the expedition’s supplies rested on the stubborn beasts. Lastly, over a trail made more explicit by the passage of many feet, came the League mariners, led by Commander Himilco. The green maze of the increasingly thick forest, the lack of an open breeze and the seldom seen sun soon drove the mariners to despair.

Lord Uriah constantly urged them faster. “Speed is our best armor,” he said. “Once the Nebo gather, then our troubles begin.”

“I disagree,” Auroch said. He marched behind the chariot, his stride a match for the horses. “With his ocular sight, Gog has foreseen our actions. He will ambush us at pre-selected sites. We must practice caution and keep every warrior fit. Excessive speed could well be our greatest enemy.”

Despite his hatred of pirates, Himilco sided with a fellow seaman. Almost all the mariners limped, their feet blistered, and their morale made low by these strange conditions. Many were already sick with fever. Several sailors had bloated red faces, their tongues swollen. They gasped, as if having run a long race, and drained every canteen given them.

“I hate the forest,” Lord Mikloth said from his chariot. Above, magpies screeched at him, stepping behind a branch whenever the noble lifted a javelin. He rubbed his fist against his stubbly check, the javelin clenched in it. “These trees press in all around, leaving a man blind. The sooner we leave them, the better.”

During the following days, the oaks and other trees thickened. The forest choked the spirit of all but the Shurites. Now, Elonites advanced before each chariot, using axes to hack a path, or chopping roots, so the wheels could roll.

“Abandon those,” Himilco said at one stop. He sat on an old fallen tree. Then he jumped up, tearing off his shirt and was picking ants from his red skin. Donning his sweat-stained shirt afterward, pointing at the sack that held his armor, he said, “My men are grumbling, and say that everyone should walk. The chariots only slow us down, and it’s prolonging our stay in this miserable jungle.”

Surprisingly, Prince Ishmael defended Lord Uriah. “You speak from ignorance,” the prince said. Despite the heat, the Shurites still wore their furs and thick leathers. “The chariots are terrible weapons in the open.” His eyes glittered. “But for chariots, Shur would have long ago made slaves of the Elonites.”

Lord Mikloth grasped the hilt of his longsword and shot to his feet. “We don’t need chariots to sweep away vermin like you!”

Prince Ishmael sneered.

“Dog—”

“Hold!” said Lord Uriah.

Lord Mikloth had his longsword half drawn, but halted.

Adah retrieved her lyre from the chariot and sang a song about three brothers who quarreled about their chores. One cut grass, the other milked the cows, while the third raised the dogs that kept the wolves at bay. Each haughtily said
his
chore was the most important. They became so angry against each other that no grass was cut, no cows milked or dogs taken care of. In the end, the three brothers died because they were too weak from starvation to fight off the prowling wolves, who had moved in for the kill.

“I fail to grasp your point,” Lord Mikloth said, mopping his neck.

Adah laughed as she wrapped her lyre with oiled cloth. “My point is that your argument is forgotten. Please, let it remain so.”

It took a moment, but Prince Ishmael laughed as well. He winked at her, motioned to his warriors and headed into the trees.

The proceeding days worsened. The oaks changed to cypress, and the loamy soil to damp moss and mire. Mosquitoes thickened, and the air grew fetid. The fevers of the mariners grew worse, while Elonites grew pale with fatigue. The sturdy Shurites, however, merely shrugged, and at times lent the muleteers a hand. Never would they help the charioteers, however. Three mariners died from fever. At last, Lord Uriah called a halt to give everyone a rest.

Under a towering tree, away from a line of black ants, some of which carried leaves in their jaws, Adah perched on a log next to Lord Uriah.

She pulled her feet up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “We cannot afford this delay.”

“Dead men don’t fight,” Lord Uriah said. “If the Nebo find us like this, sick and dispirited...” He sliced a finger across his throat.

The Nebo found them a day later. A Shurite with his intestines wrapped around an oak tree was the first sign. From then on, a fierce struggle took place. Planted stakes, rope traps and poison darts plagued the expedition. In turn, the Shurite-baited ambushes produced carefully skinned Nebo corpses. Atrocity piled upon atrocity.