The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) (6 page)

“But Lord—”

“No!” Lord Uriah said. He made as if to reach for the flagon, but let his arm drop onto the table. “The hand of Gog was in their speeches. Either the First Born has duped them, or terrorized them into passivity. They told me I could no longer recruit good Elonites from their army, or out of the estate hosts. The men I have, only those may I take. Some muttered that maybe I should not even be allowed those.”

“We barely have enough to form a proper retinue for a man of rank,” Zillith said. “This means the victory of Tarag.”

“Or the destruction of the Tree of Life,” Adah said softly. “Surely it’s folly to believe that Tarag can defeat the guardian Cherub.”

“Would Tarag attempt such a bold feat if he didn’t have a chance?” Auroch asked. “He is a First Born, and will have deeply considered the odds. There is more here we do not know. You can depend on that. We must consider the possibility that Tarag will succeed.”

“Who can survive the flaming sword?” Adah asked.

“I have no answer,” Auroch said. “But these are First Born. They may have planned this for centuries. For every question you can ask they have asked three, and answered them to their satisfaction. Since Tarag attempts the feat, I think he will win. I believe he knows that.”

“Then we’re doomed,” said Lord Uriah. “Because once he or any of the First Born eats from the Tree of Life, then they will never die. They will be immortals, gods.”

Nar Naccara paled. “We must pray for the guardian’s victory.”

Adah said, “There is another danger.”

The Admiral raised his plucked eyebrows.

“If Tarag has such great power as Auroch suggests,” Adah said, “the guardian Cherub might unleash the full fury of his flaming sword. He might burn the Tree of Life to the ground. The terrible prophecy of Asvarn will be fulfilled then. He warned that if the Tree of Life is destroyed, a great cataclysm will destroy the world.”

“The doom of all we know is at hand,” whispered Nar Naccara.

“The end of everything,” Zillith somberly agreed.

“Which is why we will not wait,” Lord Uriah said sternly. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face flushed, but there was an iron hardness and determination to him.

“With so few men, Patriarch?” asked Lord Mikloth. “Surely, we cannot face giants and Gibborim with so few.”

“On the contrary,” Lord Uriah said.

“But—”

Lord Uriah raised his hand. “Fifty years ago, a host of Shurites boiled out of the hills and onto the plains of Elon. Our host had departed south to drive a horde of Huri back into their gloomy forests. A handful remained with me to defend Kenan Holding. If we remained at the holding, the Shurites would easily butcher us. Yet, I couldn’t allow the holding to fall. Many sick men, women and children were there. So, I bade the handful of warriors to take down all the banners and hide them, and to find hiding places of their own. Then I opened the main gate. Dressed in a white robe and playing a flute, I sat above the gate and awaited the host. Soon, Shur’s son, Erech, approached. Erech led them that day.

“I bid the Shurites to enter our holding. It was empty, I told them, free for them to plunder. Cunning Erech was certain I would never say such a thing unless I planned a hideous trap. So he marched back to the hills, fearing that the host of Elon was almost upon him.”

“That’s a fine warrior’s tale,” Auroch said slowly. “But what does that have to do with us?”

“If I had not been at Kenan Holding,” Lord Uriah said, “then Erech would have sacked it. Because I was there, I was able to do something. We must march to the Snow Leopard Country of the Arkites. From there, we will search for Eden. Maybe we’re only a few, but at least we’ll be able to do something. That is a thousand times better than sitting here and doing nothing.”

“Hmmm,” said Nar Naccara, blotting his shiny forehead.

Lord Mikloth paled considerably. “Everyone loves a courageous man, but recklessly pitting a few warriors against giants and sabertooths is suicide. The guardian Cherub has the power of a
bene elohim
. Who ever heard a story of a First Born beating a
bene elohim
in a quarrel? To throw away our lives—”

“Think of it as this, if it will make you feel better,” Lord Uriah said. “We’re pitching ourselves before a runaway wagon, hoping our combined bodies will stop the wagon before it falls over a cliff with our loved ones. Of course, when the wheels roll over our bodies, we’ll likely die. But that’s better than watching our loved ones fall to their deaths.”

“Hmmm,” said Nar Naccara again.

Adah thoughtfully pinched her lower lip. Maybe there was more than one way to recruit warriors. She had the glimmer of an idea. Yes. She would do anything to hurt Nephilim and First Born. Poseidonis had taught her that.

“We cannot put all our hope in one hold,” Lord Uriah told his sister. “Soon, no matter what happens in Eden, the First Born will march against the nations of men. Elon must be ready for the coming assaults.”

Zillith nodded, albeit reluctantly.

“When will we begin our march for Eden?” Auroch asked.

“In three days,” Lord Uriah said.

“With only those we already possess?” Lord Mikloth asked.

“No,” said Nar Naccara.

All eyes turned to him.

The Admiral grinned sickly. “I will loan you a company of mariners, the most I can dare. I’ll ship you near Pildash, and set you on those shores. The overland route from Carthalo to Arkite Land is too long.”

Auroch slapped the table. “I’ve witnessed something new. An admiral willingly sends League mariners to their doom.”

“You are wrong, as usual” Nar Naccara said, “I will send no one to his doom, but lead them there myself.”

Adah wondered how fat Nar Naccara would manage that through dense forests and over rocky highlands.

“This is madness,” Lord Mikloth said, looking from face to face. “The Nebo gather. Unless we’re a mighty host, we’ll be destroyed.”

Lord Uriah said, “Not with so many brave hearts.”

“You wished for five thousand or more,” Lord Mikloth protested. “You said that after a core of Elonites was gathered, that surely the lords of Carthalo would add to your host. Instead, they’ve done worse. They refuse us any sort of host at all.”

“A thousand, or a hundred, we must do what we can,” Lord Uriah said.

Adah, who well recalled the giants, the sabertooths and the Gibborim from long ago, knew that a hundred warriors were as chaff before them. Maybe even a thousand were chaff. Lord Uriah plucked at straws. The Nebo themselves would swarm and slaughter them. Still, they must try. They must at least attempt to sting the Nephilim, to make them suffer in some small way before they gained immortality.

“...And I will give the Mother Protectress two biremes to escort her back to Elon,” Nar Naccara was saying.

Zillith nodded thoughtfully.

“What of the city lords?” Lord Mikloth asked, “Won’t they try to stop you?” he asked Nar Naccara.

The Admiral shrugged his thick shoulders, with a sinister smile on his glistening face.

“Any more questions?” asked Lord Uriah.

There were many, or so Adah saw in the other faces. However, no one else spoke, so Lord Uriah adjourned the meeting.

Chapter Six

Prince Ishmael

He will be a wild donkey of a man.

-- Genesis 16:12

The spies were easy to spot. They stayed in the lobby of the Siga, and followed them whenever they went out into the city. Adah was sure the old woman who soaked her feet in the heated pool was one, too.

“Who’s the spy, and who’s the assassin?” Auroch asked a day ago. “You must trust me in this: Gog’s assassins are here. Either they’ve been loaned to certain city lords, or they’re here on their own account. I’ll no longer go into the city, unless in the company of mariners. I ask each of you to consider a similar plan.”

Adah disagreed. She’d seen Zillith off at the wharves, as the Mother Protectress boarded her bireme for Elon. Then Adah had gone to the taverns. After a day of searching, she found her prize, but she kept going to other taverns to confuse the spies. Then she spent several hours in her room, where she composed a song and refined her plan. Lord Uriah would not approve, she was certain. He would not approve for more than one reason. But from whatever angle she considered this, it was a good idea. So she’d informed Gens of her plan and his role in it.

Adah dabbed on more rouge. Sometimes beguilement worked. It wasn’t her entire plan, no, just enough to gain their attention. Tarag. Giants. Gibborim. Sliths. Sabertooths. Maybe even fiends and Gog-fearing Nebo. And Lord Uriah hoped to pit their few against them. It was insanity.

“Yes,” she told the image in the polished bronze, “but it is oh, so brave and unyielding.” Just as Joash had been brave and unyielding. She pushed the thought aside lest she wept and spoiled her appearance. She forced a smile, adjusted a lock of her dark hair, picked up her lyre and hurried outside.

Gens waited and he whistled. “You’re beautiful.”

She touched his cheek. He wore rough garments, a sword and some daggers. “Are you ready?” she asked.

Gens gave a faint nod.

They left the Siga, picking up their usual contingent of spies: three long haired ruffians, with knives strapped to their leather-wrapped forearms. Behind the ruffians, Adah picked out a small fat man with pink cheeks. The small fat man was discreet, but she’d played hide and seek with the Gibborim in the swamps of Poseidonis. She knew the fervent glance, the secret smile and the sly step. The man knocked a pathetic beggar-girl out of his way. He was cruel. He would be lethal. He also fondled a leather purse, and kept a surreptitious watch on the ruffians.

Adah was sure he was an assassin. For assassins were like that: rabbit-like until they killed you by nefarious means.

After two turns, Gens and she were on the broad merchant street. It bustled with people, and exploded with smells, sounds and commotion. Mules carts loaded with melons creaked by. A chariot with a city messenger on it tried to clatter past. Children screamed with glee.

Adah felt fingers pluck at her garments.

Gens rapped the thief’s knuckles.

One of the trailing long haired ruffians laughed, as the thief put his hand into his mouth and hurried away.

They passed somber, yellow-robed game players, with their expensive marble boards and carefully carved pieces. Jugglers, clowns and acrobats abounded in the crowds, as did pickpockets who preyed on the unwary. Mercenaries, sailors, orators, harlots, farmers, merchants, fishmongers, slaves, sages, priests, drudges, draymen, one and all used the broad avenue.

“How can the city lords possibly begrudge us a few warriors?” Gens asked.

“The city teems with people,” Adah said. “Obviously, Gog has done his work. The rot has set in.”

“I’ve always hated cities,” Gens grumbled. “There’s no room to race a chariot.”

“Just as Gog strikes at the rulers first, so I’ll do likewise.”

“The crowds press against your soul,” Gens muttered. “They choke my spirit.”

“I’ll dare the spies to stop me,” Adah said.

Gens blinked, as if hearing her words for the first time. He tugged his mustache. “They won’t dare stop you.” He touched his sword hilt.

“You would try to stop all four of them?” she asked.

“Four city filth,” Gens said.

“You and Herrek are always so brave,” she said.

“I’m better than this rabble, no doubt there,” Gens said. “But few from Elon were like Herrek.”

“More from Elon are like him than you realize,” she said.

Gens’s chest expanded. “You’re gracious, Singer, but let us deal in truths.”

They turned onto a smaller street, turned again, and then again. The stone buildings here bulked shoulder to shoulder, and Adah and Gens walked in deep shadows. The smells were stronger and garbage littered the street. Cats, dogs and filthy urchins prowled everywhere. A salty tang blew away some of the stench when they left the squalid tenements. The docks were near, and beside the docks were many rough taverns. Sailors, dockworkers, and merchants abounded, and a lower class of whore.

“You don’t belong here,” Gens said.

“That’s part of the allure, don’t you see?”

Gens muttered something unintelligible.

The Dolphin was a red brick tavern where brawny men unloaded caskets of wine. They stared at Adah and eyed Gens. Maybe the scowl Gens gave them stilled their lewd comments. Adah entered through the main door, Gens following close behind. It was gloomy in the tavern, with many unkempt men drinking wine or eating fish and lobster. Hanging oil lamps provided the illumination. There were low tables, a sunken sand pit for belly dancers, while slave women wearing veils of silk and tinkling bronze anklets carried jugs of wine and platters of food. There were alcoves for men who wished to take their pleasure with the harlots, and against the dim back wall was Adah's goal, a small stage for musicians. A sad-eyed flute-player presently accompanied a bawdy female singer.

Adah spoke to the proprietor, as he wiped his ham-sized hands on his apron. His cropped ears bespoke of punishments for thievery. She gave him a gold piece, and assured him she’d only play an hour. He seemed skeptical, but greedily eyed the coin, and at last agreed. So, as the sun set and more people entered, Adah headed for the stage.

A hush fell over the crowd as this stunning girl several cuts above the average tavern singer made her way onto the platform. Many of the rough men glanced at each other as she struck the first chords on her lyre. Her voice was clear and feminine. It caused more than one hunch-shouldered dockworker to freeze in wonder as he stared at Adah. Then she began to move about as she sang naughty lyrics. The unkempt eaters and heavy drinkers grinned then. A few laughed. Adah winked at several, and she smiled. A big brute of a man roared approval and pounded his table with his fist. Others shouted and told him to keep silent.

Adah changed the mood, capturing them again as her chords turned to a haunting rhythm. The men forgot their argument as they leaned forward to listen.

Then there was an uproar as a stocky, fierce-looking fellow, hawk-eyed and handsome, followed by some twenty or thirty mercenaries, burst into the tavern. They forced weaker men from their tables, booted a reluctant protester away and banged their fists on the tables.

Adah had lowered her lyre at the interruption. Now she smiled at the crowd. Her slender fingers plucked a new spectrum of chords, an introduction to a new song, a lilting saga of a mountain warrior who stalked a cave bear to his den.

Some of the ousted men murmured. This was unlike the other songs, unlike those played in Carthalo. A few shouted for more songs about naked girls.

“Silence!” roared the fierce-looking fellow, he of the proud eyes and long dark hair. “I would hear this!”

Adah strummed her lyre. She knew of this warrior, she’d slowly gleaned information about him. Yesterday, she’d seen him sitting proudly in this very tavern. She had learned that this was Prince Ishmael of the Tribe of Erech, one of the Ten Tribes of Shur. Adah had wondered what a prince of Shur was doing in Carthalo. Prince Ishmael had slain his brother, she’d learned. It had been an accident, but the laws of Shur had banned him from his ancestral lands. A proud man, and dangerous, Prince Ishmael had taken many warriors into exile with him. After many and varied adventures, he had at last come to Carthalo. He was disgusted by the city’s luxury, and he sneered at the people's fear of the Nebo, of Gog and his pirates. Like all good Shurites, he hated Nephilim and First Born.

Adah now sang about a warrior who raided a valley.

The rough-looking men of Shur listened closely. They were heavyset, bearded, with the lined faces of men of action. Maybe their clothes were shaggy, their leather armor stained, but their bronze wristlets gleamed, and their backs, no matter how much they drank, were stiff and straight. By their rapt attention, Adah knew she sang what they loved. These were not love chants, or amorous tales of licentious behavior, but the songs of heroes, of warriors, of glory and renown.

The long-haired spies, who waited in the shadows where only Adah and Gens could see them, grew visibly uncomfortable. The fourth man, he with the pink cheeks, fondled his leather purse. Adah wondered what poisons he kept there.

As the mountain-bred warriors drained their cups many times and listened ever more intently, Adah’s hour began to draw to a close, and she sang her new song. It told about Jotunheim, the crypt, Tarag, trolocks and adamant armor. The pink-faced spy arose, and spoke with the ear-less proprietor. Wine was brought to Prince Ishmael’s table.

Adah stopped in mid-song, and stared boldly at the prince.

“What is it?” he said, his head erect, his voice loud.

“Do not drink that wine,” she said.

Prince Ishmael frowned at the newly arrived jug.

The innocent-looking man, who sat near the ruffians with luxurious hair, rose and reached into his robe.

“You’ve been given poison,” Adah said into the hushed room.

Knives appeared in the hands of the ruffians. They rushed the stage, with their hair streaming behind them. Gens was there, his sword drawn. Prince Ishmael, open-mouthed at the sight, roared orders as he jumped to his feet. As the first ruffian stabbed at Gens, short spears flew through the air. The ruffians cried out, each speared. A knife flew at Adah. She ducked, and threw one of her own. The pink-faced man who had seemed so rabbit-like before sank with a moan to the sawdust-littered floor.

Men and women fled, crying out in fear.

Prince Ishmael roared orders. The Shurites of the Tribe of Erech obeyed him instantly. Their short spears were regained, while long, dangerous-looking daggers were drawn. The corpses were wrapped in cloaks.

“Come with us,” Prince Ishmael told Adah, “or you’ll be charged with murder. I know how these city-fools judge such things.”

Gens shook his head.

Adah jumped down from the stage, and whispered into his ear. Reluctantly, Gens sheathed his sword. Together, they followed Prince Ishmael through the rear door. He led them into the nearby maze of tenement buildings.

“Is this wise?” Gens whispered.

“No, it’s reckless,” Adah whispered. “But risks must be taken. The fate of the world is in our hands.”

“They know I’m an Elonite, and will slit my throat.”

“This is a prince. His honor would be stained by such acts.”

“You don’t know Shurites,” Gens said.

“I know princes. Worry not.”

Gens muttered, but nodded in the end.

Prince Ishmael led them into a dingy stone building, up several drunk-strewn flights of stairs, and into a large room. More Shurites were here, as well as weapons, armor and a few goats. Several of the warriors cooked goat meat over an open flame.

“Barbarians,” Gens hissed under his breath.

“Mountain-trained warriors,” Adah whispered back.

Prince Ishmael laughed heartily, as the door closed, and a solid oak bar was thrown into place. He clapped men on the back. “Adventure!” he said. “That’s the spice of life.”

“You speak truly,” Adah told him.

Shurites frowned at her and glowered at Gens. Prince Ishmael eyed her speculatively. “You saved my life,” he said.

“Then you believe that the wine was poisoned?” she asked.

“I do.”

“Why?” she asked. “I may have planned the entire event.”

Several of the older Shurites nodded. They clearly distrusted her.

Prince Ishmael laughed, although one of his men whispered hotly into his ear. Prince Ishmael brushed the man away. “Sit,” he told her and Gens.

They sat cross-legged on the floor.

Prince Ishmael joined them. “Bring wine,” he said.

A burly warrior pointed angrily at Gens. “He’s an Elonite. Let’s slit his throat.”

Prince Ishmael drew one of those long, wicked-looking daggers that all the Shurites seemed to have, and rapped the hilt on the floor. “Wine!” he bellowed. “Bring me wine!”

Someone tossed him a leather jug.

Prince Ishmael took a long swallow, and pitched the jug to Gens.

“May your weapons always be sharp,” Gens said. He drank, and tossed the jug back to the prince.

“Ah!” cried the prince. “May your horses never be lame!”

A brief smile flickered over Gens’s stony features.