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

Nar Naccara’s bireme led his flotilla, joining a throng of ships across the calm green sea in front of the Circa Harbor. There were large grain ships, some even bigger than the
Tiras
and the
Gisgo
had been. Harbor boats, which seemed nothing more than rowing shells, towed the various grain ships. There were many coastal traders with their billowing sails of various hues: red, green, blue and yellow. Many of them looked like sister ships of the
Falan
, while others had lateen sails and rakish prows. There were also hordes of fishing vessels. The largest had two masts. The smallest was a man in a boat pulling two oars. Many rode low in the water, packed with fish. A faint fishy odor accompanied the breeze.

The city captivated Adah. She closed her mouth, shook her head and glanced at Lord Uriah.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he asked.

“H…how is this possible?” she asked. She knew how Yorgash would have accomplished it, with tens of thousands of naked slaves driven by whips and white-hot branding irons. Through cruelty and fists, Yorgash’s slave masters might have created what she saw. But Lord Uriah said Shining Ones had built Carthalo.

The City of the Shining Ones looked as if the Earth had spewed a massive volcano straight out of the seabed. As they neared, the walls seemed to be granite, not lava. It must have once been a huge granite mountain. With picks, chisels, or who knew how, the Shining Ones had leveled the mountain. They had hollowed out its mighty base. The city possessed gargantuan walls, perhaps unbreakable walls. Like busy ants, mule-pulled and auroch-yoked carts and wagons traveled across the top of the walls in both directions. Adah rubbed her eyes. It was a fortress city, a rock of a city, a mountain.

“Yes,” Lord Uriah said, to her questioning look. “The top of the wall is one of the city’s main thoroughfares. Countless ramps lead up to it. The unique route saves space inside for dwellings, palaces and the marketplace.”

Lord Uriah pointed. “It might be hard to see now, but the city possesses a single bridge linking it to the mainland. It’s the Syphax Bridge, a massive thing with an incredible arch, chiseled out long ago, like the city. Ships sail through the arch, while wagons rumble across the bridge. The deep water is like a surrounding moat.”

Adah drank it in. The Circa Harbor had a stout seawall, a mole. The bireme swung around it, and approached an arch-like tunnel to enter Carthalo. Lanterns burned in niches above them, and more than one sailor or passenger shouted to hear the strange echoes. The water seemed inky, as if they moved across the midnight sky. Then Adah spied the bright city, and they were through. Trumpets blared between Nar Naccara’s bireme and the squat Muthul Fortress guarding the approach. Atop the fortress, soldiers glinted in bronze breastplates and held long spears. The harbor was like a lake, with a host of ships moored at the circular-curved stone docks. Wide paved ramps led up into the city. To the extreme left, next to the wall, were hundreds of drying nets and smoke houses. Fishermen and their wives haggled there. To the extreme right were small yachts and pleasure boats. According to Lord Uriah, those docks were saved by decree for the nobility. The forests that the estate families had cut down on the mainland seemed to have sprouted back up in this ship-rich harbor.

Nar Naccara sped them past the merchant docks and entered a canal. Rock walls rose on either side of the galley. They loomed over the ship and Adah imagined she could reach out and touch the passing walls. It seemed that any moment the oars would break like matchsticks against the pressing stone. Instead, the waves from them lapped against the wall and rebounded back toward the ship. A ceiling put them into shadows, and then they entered a domed harbor, the War Dock.

“This is incredible.” Adah shivered. “It’s cold in here.”

Lord Uriah brooded over his ale, his eyes hooded.

There was a lofty tower in the center of the War Dock. Atop it flickered a continuous flame. Nar Naccara had mentioned before something about a strange, black liquid that fed the fire. The tower sat on a circular stone island. In the island were chiseled berths for two hundred biremes. At each berth, there stood a special marble mooring post. It was decorated with sea-nymphs and mermaids. Military warehouses were nestled around the tower. In them were stored timber, cordage, weapons and the gear of war. This was the heart of the League of Peace’s power in the Middle Suttung Sea.

“All this was designed and built by the Shining Ones,” Lord Uriah said, as if coming out of his brooding shell. “It’s still considered one of the greatest wonders of the world.”

“With this fleet, we could storm Shamgar and free Lod—if he’s been captured,” Adah said.

“Storming Shamgar would never be that easy.”

“We must do something,” Adah said.

“That’s why we’re here,” Lord Uriah answered quietly.

After the docking procedures were completed, Nar Naccara escorted them across a bridge, past stone barracks and up a broad stairway. Soon they entered the city proper. Tall stone buildings towered around them. Wooden structures had been added to some of the buildings, even though a city decree said that no building could be over five stories high.

Nar Naccara pointed out the manufactories. They were tall buildings, almost reaching as high as the center citadel. In those manufactories was concentrated the power of the merchant-princes. Artisans produced the goods that found their way throughout the Suttung Sea and beyond. Many of the workers there formed themselves into associations that met at common tables. Neither the merchant-princes nor the estate families failed to take into account those workers’ voices.

“We hope that’s still true,” Lord Uriah said, pointing at a great temple.

Adah looked on in awe. The only monumental statues she’d ever seen were those of First Born, Yorgash in particular. He had erected a golden statue to himself in Atlas, forcing everyone to bow to it. On the rocky acropolis in the center of Carthalo was a mighty temple to Elohim. It was golden domed, a vast structure. On the pinnacle of the dome, there stood a marble statue with shining wings. One giant stone hand was open, palm upward. The other held a sword.

“Were the Shining Ones really as large as that?” asked Adah.

“In spirit,” Lord Uriah said.

Nar Naccara interrupted the sightseeing by ushering them toward a mule cart, one belonging to him. Soon they entered the city’s main thoroughfare. It was broad like a mighty river fed by many tributaries. As surprising, even as the stars appeared, thousands of people thronged the great avenue. It was a sea in its own right, a sea of noisy, swarming people as the last haggling of the day occurred.

Here were the goods from a hundred lands. There was perfume and teakwood from Ir. Rugs of Shalmaneser and wheat from Elon. Adah tried to take it all in at once. She saw booths where beer, textiles and raw wool were sold. She spied silks and brocades, bronze-ware and glazed pottery. There were rugs and tapestries, lumber, furs, hides, salt, swords and arrows and chainmail, rings and bracelets. And there were necklaces, belts and sandals, lamps and oils, medicines and meats and grains, and animals such as sheep, mules and trained chariot horses. It was a bewildering affair. Added to the sights and sounds were the smells of animal dung, spices, the smoke from cooking fires, the dizzying perfume of incense and herbs, the warm glow of candles and finally the greasy smell of oil lamps using animal fats.

It was an overpowering combination.

The different kinds of peoples added a flavor all its own.  Most of them were stocky and tanned, with long beards and shrewd eyes. But Adah also saw stout, black-bearded Tarshmen pawing at everyone to buy the wares. There were tall Elonites who thronged near the horses. There were dark-haired, scowling Shurites with a love for weapons, swarthy Huri, a hawk-faced Jogli Nomad with large copper earrings drinking beer. And there were short, round-faced Nebo, taller Arkites arguing with a wine merchant and strong Kushites with exotic, jangling weaponry. Among them were smiling women with scarlet mantles, slaves with water pots on their heads, farmers crying out for buyers and countless children running underfoot. It was a veritable jungle of humanity.

“Hm. I suggest that you stay with me in the Siga,” Nar Naccara said, leaning toward them. The Admiral was a hugely fat man, wearing expensive linen and purple boots. Lord Uriah considered him as one of the shrewdest admirals of the League of Peace.

“Yes, gladly,” Lord Uriah said.

“Does the Siga have heated bathes?” Adah asked.

Nar Naccara gave her a grin. “Ah, but of course, Singer. Surely, it will be as good as anything that your fair Poseidonis possessed.”

Adah’s features tightened. Swims in slime probably didn’t count, she decided. Ah, but to laze away an afternoon soaking herself clean. And soap! The very idea made her giddy.

“Make way! Make way!” shouted the soldiers who marched before their cart.

“Ah. Home,” Nar Naccara said.

Adah took in the block of a stone building, the Siga no doubt, and glanced at the others. A bath, a good night’s sleep, and then they must toil harder than ever tomorrow if they were going to stop Tarag. There would be a hundred problems. But this moment, this night, they would know peace.

Adah sighed, peace. The world would never know it again if the Nephilim made it to Eden. She knew that Lord Uriah was experienced, a born survivor and highly intelligent. But there was so much that worked against them, not the least that they were practically penniless. Even so, Lord Uriah hoped to hire an army of mercenaries. That would be a good trick, one she was looking forward to seeing.

Chapter Three

Giants

In his arrogance the wicked man hunts down the weak, who are caught in the schemes he devises.

-- Psalms 10:2

A long-limbed young man with a shock of black hair trudged upward on a mountain path. He wore new deerskin breeches and boots, with a woolen shirt. He had a stick to help him. The path was steep, and pebbles kept rattling at each footfall. He panted, planting the stick and leaning into another step. Beside him rose boulders and lichen-covered stones, or stunted trees provided a moment of shade. Ground squirrels abounded. One halted atop a rock, stood on its hind legs, chirped and then dashed away.

A giant strode on the path ahead of Joash, towering twice his height. The giant wore rugged leathers and chainmail, like a warrior of Elon. Across his broad back, he’d slung a huge axe, the head as big as a ship’s anchor. It was double bladed, each blade the length of a man’s leg from his knee to his foot. Like many of the giants’ weapons, it was black, Bolverk-forged.

Joash had learned that Bolverk was a legendary giant blacksmith that lived in the Far North. His gift, his magical ability due to his semi-divine blood, was forging iron. Other blades shattered against a Bolverk-forged sword. An axe such as the giant wore could cleave rock. Perhaps as terrible, the mail was black, meaning his armor would be proof against almost anything.

Even without his armor and weapons, the giant would be an impossible foe for Joash. The giant was Nephilim, son of First Born Jotnar of the Giants and a human woman. First Born meant born from one of the
bene elohim
, the fallen from the Celestial Realm, who had long ago descended to Earth to rule as gods. That semi-divine blood granted the giant more than just size, but great strength, stamina and long life, longer than any human.

If that wasn’t bad enough, there were more than just one giant. There were many, a band of the greatest champions among them. Joash was their captive. To such as these, Balak the Beastmaster would have been like a child. To them, Joash was like an infant.

And yet, despite all this, Joash knew that everything depended on him to stop their mad quest. He was the Seraph, and he was the last of those who had sailed aboard the
Tiras
.

A trolock had captured Herrek, the champion of Teman Clan. If he escaped the rock monster, Nebo primitives would likely hunt him down, and return him to the awful Gibborim. Either fate meant death. Joash might have hoped others from the
Tiras
had escape, for he’d seen a rowing boat the day Nidhogg had destroyed the ship. But at night, the giants rumbled to each other around a crackling campfire, and spoke about Gog and his pirate galleys. The pirates had swept the eastern Suttung Sea. According to the giants, all survivors of Nidhogg’s attack had died.

Joash took a deep breath, carefully placing his stick in a crack in the rock-hard path, using it to lever himself upward. He was so tired, so alone and dispirited. With everyone else dead or captured, it was up to him to stop Tarag of the Sabertooths from reaching fabled Eden.

“Impossible,” he whispered. Not only was he smaller than his enemies were, but he had a bad wound in his thigh.

“Halt!” Mimir the giant rumbled to others. The huge warrior shifted the axe on his back and looked down the path at him.

Joash hobbled to the giant, and wished he could hide the blood seeping from the bandage on his thigh.

“You must ride,” Mimir said. “There is no other way.”

Joash’s neck was already sore from having to look up the giant. So he stared at his feet. In essence, he was a cripple in this nightmarish band. The old Nebo primitive who had captured him had gashed his thigh with a stone-tipped spear. A giant had sewn the wound and applied ointments. For several days afterward, Joash had remained off his feet, yet that hadn’t meant the giants waited for him to heal.

That first day had taught Joash so much. With his thigh-wound, he could never keep up with the giants, and they were in a hurry. But no giant would carry him. If he had even suggested such a thing, it might have earned him a beating. There were other Nephilim in the band, the strange Gibborim with their dark magic. But the giants and Gibborim weren’t on speaking terms. The sabertooths might be big enough to ride, but the idea was preposterous. That left the white-haired men, with thick shoulders and heavy features. Each of them wore a loincloth and complex leather straps around his muscled torso. They were the giants’ servitors, and like pack-mules, carried the supplies.

That first day, Mimir had hooked an odd saddle to the biggest white-haired servitor. The giant had asked Joash, “Are you ready?”

“My leg,” Joash had told him.

Mimir had frowned angrily. “High One, boy. Never forget to add ‘High One’ when speaking to a Nephilim.”

“Your ways are still strange to me, High One.”

“Better. You must understand that no one else will be as tolerant with you as I am. Forget the proper address when answering a Nephilim’s question and your beating will be brutal.”

“I understand, High One.” Several years ago, Joash had lived with Balak the Beastmaster for several months. He felt he knew Nephilim ways to a nicety.

Mimir had nodded curtly, and then motioned to another of the white-haired men. Compared to the giant, the heavily muscled man seemed childlike. “Help him into the saddle.”

“Wait,” Joash had said.

Mimir’s eyebrows had thundered together.

“…High One,” Joash added.

“What is the problem?

“High One, do you expect me to sit in the saddle?”

“Foolish questions will win you a beating.”

Joash had blinked in amazement, as it demonstrated how the giants thought of the big men as animals, beasts of burdens. The idea had horrified Joash.

“Hurry,” Mimir had said, “Tarag wishes to march.”

Joash had breathed deeply. “I’m sorry, High One, but I cannot ride the man as if he were an animal.”

“You dare challenge me?”

Joash had paused. To tell the Nephilim that what he did was wrong, might anger him. So, “High One, for
me
it is wrong to ride a man like a mount.”

“Don’t waste time with frivolities. Mount the steed. Otherwise, your punishment will be swift and furious.”

“High One, could you not rig up a stretcher instead?”

Mimir had gestured curtly. “Mount him, or face the punishment.”

Fear had filled Joash, but so had a stubborn knot. “High One, I’ll receive my beating now.”

The towering giant had glowered at him. “You’re a fool. To this beast, carrying a small burden like you will be a welcome thing. Normally, he carries heavy loads. Do not think he resents carrying you.”

“I will not ride a human like a beast, High One. It’s against Elohim’s dictates.”

For a moment, Mimir had paled, and looked around warily. Then, he had bent low. “Do not use that form of address.”

“Elohim?” Joash had asked, refusing to add High One to another when using the Highest One’s name.

The giant had bared his teeth, as if tasting a lemon. “If you must refer to your god, call him the Overlord.”

“Why can’t I say Elohim?”

“It’s forbidden among us. The reason it is forbidden, is because the granting to him of such fawning is repugnant to us.”

In despair and stubbornness, Joash had turned away.

Mimir had snapped his fingers. “Help him into the saddle.”

“No, High One,” Joash had said. “I refuse.”

It was then that Mimir had taken a whip from his belt, and nodded. The white-haired man who was to have been the mount held Joash down by the arms. Another white-haired man had held his legs. Mimir had beaten him until Joash cried out.

“You will ride,” Mimir rumbled.

With his face in the dirt, Joash had shouted, “No, High One! I will not!”

Finally, Joash had fainted from the beating. When he’d awoken, he’d found himself strapped face down on a stretcher. The two men who had held him during the beating had carried the ends, and they’d groaned under the staggering loads on their backs. Joash had understood Mimir’s cunning. The men would lose from his disobedience, and thus hate him for the extra work. But, maybe the giant didn’t understand his beasts of burden as well as he thought. For the man who was to have been the mount looked on Joash in wonder.

After several days in the stretcher, the thigh-wound had healed enough for Joash to walk. Now that they climbed steep paths, however—

“You’re too slow,” Mimir now told him.

Joash held his walking stick, with blood soaking his bandage.

“If you cannot walk faster, you will ride.”

No one had spoken to him since the beating. He’d become increasingly lonely and found himself craving to talk to someone, even a giant. These words now….

“I’ll be fine,” Joash said.

Mimir glowered.

“High One,” Joash added.

The giant regarded him, brushed his long beard and nodded. “Then bleed to death, and good riddance to you.”

Before Joash could respond, the giant strode upslope. Testing the leg, grimacing, Joash took a deep breath and increased his upward pace.

***

The next morning, Joash examined the stitches. He wrapped a new bandage around the thigh and put on his bloodied breeches. After a breakfast of hardtack and watery beer, he resumed marching. Fortunately the path leveled out as they trudged along the base of a rugged mountain. They’d left the Nebo forests a few days ago. Grasses waved beside them, and panicked deer bounded for safer feeding. Tarag sent a sabertooth after one. It bounded swiftly, bringing a doe to the ground and beginning to feast. Tarag roared orders and had to cuff it before the sabertooth slunk elsewhere.  A giant with a big skinning knife dressed the slain game.

Once the march resumed, Joash trudged beside the white-haired servitors. They watched him, as if waiting for him to try to escape. He had the feeling they would try to stop him. But with their heavy packs, how fast could they move? Until his thigh wound healed, they had nothing to worry about, but after that….

There were other reasons he wouldn’t try to escape yet. Joash needed a water-skin, knife and a good spear. He kept his eyes open, but noticed the giants never left water-skins lying around, and they accounted for every knife. He still had his lion-skin sling wound around his waist. It had helped him against hyenas in Jotunheim, but he’d wanted a good knife and spear, too.

As he limped behind the giants, Joash heard doves coo from a nearby pine. Joash paused, studying the small birds. One fellow peered at him, and cooed louder, ruffling its feathers.

Joash remembered the bull mammoth that had trumpeted to him along the shores of the Kragehul Steppes. And he recalled the leviathan. While on the raft he’d seen it pass, and soon thereafter, he’d found needed water-skins. Now, doves watched to see how he was doing. It was a nice feeling, if false.

Joash kept limping, thinking about it. The feeling was more than nice, and it was true…in a way. Joash shuffled over dry pine needles and listened to them crunch.

To the right, and before him, towering giants wore polished spiked helmets. Shaggy sabertooths trotted farther a-field. Last night at the fire, he’d witnessed Tarag in his stolen adamant mail. The furry First Born had feasted on raw meat, roaring to his pets. Each of those big sabertooths could have given Old Three-Paws from Jotunheim a hard fight.

If Joash dwelt on that, on his being alone, outclassed by his enemies, it would continue to drive him to despair. Had the mammoth trumpeted to him? Joash liked to think so. He’d decided to accept his role as Seraph because of it. So the mammoth might as well have trumpeted to him. The leviathan—well, he’d be dead if it hadn’t arrived. The skins that had allowed Herrek, he and his dog Harn to reach land might even have towed to them by the water monster. So why not imagine those doves were Elohim’s spies to see if he was still alive? Elohim watched. Elohim would no doubt send him aid when the time was right. Joash nodded to himself. It wasn’t time to despair, but to heal, regain his wits and plot against the Nephilim.

To that end, Joash took more interest in his surroundings. The trees had certainly changed since the swamplands. No longer were they twisted oaks, or the tall beeches of the lowlands. Here pines held sway, just as they had in his vision of Irad’s Journey. But this wasn’t the way to Eden. Eden lay near Arkite Land. Surely, Tarag knew the way to Eden. Why go to such lengths to gain the adamant armor, shield and sword if he didn’t know where the Tree of Life stood?

“I must learn more about these Nephilim,” Joash told himself. He regarded a squirrel that chattered at him from a nearby branch.

“Is that why I’ve been captured?” he asked.

A burly white-haired man, bent under his leather pack, pushed him from behind.

“Walk,” the servitor said.

Joash stumbled, but he hardly noticed. His idea staggered him more. Maybe Elohim had allowed him to be captured so he could learn the secrets of Nephilim and First Born. Joash frowned, thinking it through. Why not give him another vision instead? A cold fear fell on him. Who was he to question Elohim? He was a Seraph, a servant of Elohim. Consider Adah, which he often did, finding it impossible to believe she was dead. On Poseidonis Gibborim had once captured her, but Adah had still fought as hard as ever. Then Lod had rescued her. Yes, he would be like her. He would struggle against the enemy until he was dead.