The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) (7 page)

“What about you, woman?” asked the prince. “Why did you tell me about the poisoned wine?”

“May I not first drink from your jug?” Adah asked.

“A bold wench,” muttered one of the heavyset warriors.

“Does she think she’s a warrior?” asked another.

Prince Ishmael tossed her the jug.

Adah lifted it high, and said, “To bold adventure.”

The prince’s eyes sparkled with delight.

Adah took a sip, and threw the jug back to the prince.

“To a small and beautiful woman who sings well,” said the prince. “May your throwing knives never be dull.” He drank another long draught.

Adah had learned much about the Shurites from their hereditary enemies, the Elonites. The warriors from the Paran Hills were considered bold and reckless. Afoot, often in mere bands of twenty or thirty, they dared to try to capture Tarsh caravans or flinch from Elonite herds. The Elonites, in their chariots, had the advantage, at least on the plains. A Shurite, according to Gens or Herrek or even Zillith, was a proud man, quick to take offense, quick to strike back for his honor. He was a warrior bred to brutal battle. Courage, honor, daring, those were qualities prized by the hillmen. Above all else, luck was prized. If a war-leader were lucky, his men would follow him anywhere.

Adah wondered how lucky the prince’s men considered him.

“How did you know the wine was poisoned?” asked a burly Shurite.

“The long-haired men were spies,” Adah said.

“Whom did they spy upon?” asked the prince.

“Me,” Adah said.

“Do you know who they spied for?” he asked.

“I have a guess,” she said.

He inclined his handsome head. His long dark hair brushed forward.

“Gog,” she said, never taking her eyes from his.

Shurites gasped. Some made the sign of Elohim. A few muttered that they should throw their guests into the street.

“If Gog’s spies were after you, why would they poison
my
wine?” asked the prince.

“Because of the fat one with the pink cheeks,” Adah said. “He divined my plan.”

The large room grew quiet, except for the bleating goats and crackling fire.

“You intrigue me,” the prince said.

“You heard my songs. I sang of things that happened.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “You sang of Tarag, of giants and trolocks.”

She nodded.

The prince asked, “They broke into a crypt where there was holy armor, the armor of Shining Ones?”

“No, the armor of
bene elohim
,” she said.

“Ishmael!” cried an older, burly man, “why listen any longer? She’s mad. Leave her to her weirding songs.”

Prince Ishmael looked closely at Adah. Among his men, he was the only one without a beard. He stroked his square chin. “Speak on,” he said.

“You’re bold,” she said.

He shook his head, anger flashing across his face. “Don’t give me false praise. Speak only the truth.”

She leaned forward and spoke in a whisper, “A First Born plans to enter the Garden of Eden.”

“No man knows where Eden lies.”

“Wrong,” Adah said. “Irad the Arkite knew. Joash learned from him. The fiend with the golden medallion also knows. You can be certain then that Tarag, King of the Sabertooths, knows. He plans to cross swords with the guardian Cherub.”

Prince Ishmael set down his jug. His face was stern. “You speak in riddles, Singer.”

“Do you still want the truth?” she asked.

He paused only a moment. “Speak,” he said.

Adah told him about the expedition into Jotunheim, the battle on the beach, the sailing, the slith, Nidhogg and the
Falan
. One by one, the prince’s men sat around them.

When Adah was finished speaking, the prince asked, “You swear this is true?”

“Elohim knows I speak the truth,” she said.

“In my heart, I feel this is so.” He jabbed his dagger into the wooden floor, and asked, “Why did Gog’s assassin try to poison me?”

“The fat assassin understood what I planned.”

“Which is what?”

“That I would ask you to join us,” Adah said. “We must stop Tarag. First, however, we must find Arkite Land. Then we must find the Snow Leopard Country of Irad the Arkite. From there, hopefully, we will be able to discover where this Forbidden Territory is, and from there, Eden.”

The silence in the room was profound.

“Who’s your leader?” Prince Ishmael sharply asked.

“A Seraph.”

“Ah,” Prince Ishmael said, “good. We in the Paran Hills know of Seraphs. What’s the Seraph’s name?”

“He’s an old man, wise in the ways of the Nephilim.”

“He would have to be wise to have done as much as he has.”

“He’s brave and bold,” Adah said.

“As a leader should be,” Prince Ishmael said.

“He will dare anything to save the Earth.”

Prince Ishmael gestured impatiently.

“I fear to give you the name,” Adah admitted.

“Fear not. I honor such men.”

“You might find him displeasing.”

“His name!” roared the prince. “What is it?”

“Lord Uriah.”

The mountain-bred warriors of Shur stared at her in shock.

“He who our King hates above all others?” the prince asked.

“No,” Adah said. “I hope that isn’t so. I hope Shur, the son of Uriah, hates the Nephilim and First Born more than his own father. This is not about feuds, blood-debts and rivalry. This is about the end of the Earth as we know it. About the evil ones becoming gods. Do you dare, O Prince, to show yourself as good a man as your great, great grandfather?”

He glared at her.

“If not, then slit our throats,” Adah said. “Let the enemy win. But if you’re brave, if you’re bold, if you’re lucky, then help us stop Tarag.”

“She’s mad,” a Shurite said.

“Has Lord Uriah sent you here?” asked the prince.

“Lord Uriah has no idea where I’ve gone. But if you pledge to follow him in this thing, then he could not turn you away.”

A big, burly man spat on the floor near Adah’s feet.

The prince looked at the man.

“Elonites are blood-foes,” said the shaggy-bearded warrior.

“He is your Patriarch,” Adah said. “Either abandon him, and the Earth, or try to stop the greatest evil of our age.”

A thin, tight smile grew on the prince’s face. “Tell me,” he said, “if we win though, would you fashion as fine a song for me, as you did for Herrek and Lord Uriah?”

“No!” cried the shaggy-bearded warrior.

“I would,” Adah said.

“You’ll have my answer at the docks when you leave,” said the prince. “Now, let me escort you to the Siga, before the League mariners begin a building-to-building search for you.”

Adah nodded, while Gens let out a low sigh of relief.

Chapter Seven

The Obelisk

“Tear down your father’s altar to Baal and cut down the Asherah pole beside it.”

-- Judges 6:25

For Joash, the days passed. The mountain trails grew steeper and rockier, and the animals fled at their approach. The sabertooths looked thinner, shaggier and were more bad-tempered than they’d been in the lowlands.

“Nephilim Mimir,” Joash said. They walked along a ledge beside a towering black cliff. To the left and a thousand feet straight down was a valley of sharp rocks. When the gusts blew hardest, Joash worried about slipping. The narrow path constantly turned sharply. A crow cawed down at them from a nest above. It reminded Joash of Balak and his egg-robbing days. The memories were bitter, but also challenging. The day he’d scaled down the cliff had been among his greatest, his greatest feat of daring.

Mimir strode beside him, his links of his mail jangling at each stride. The giant wore his helmet, and ate fistfuls of raisins, digging them from a pouch at his side.

“I would ask you about the Gibborim,” Joash said.

Mimir grinned down at him, with raisins stuck in his horse-sized teeth. “Do you grow curious about Lersi’s fabled beauty?”

Joash recalled the night of his capture. Her beauty had struck him like a slap in the face. He had wanted her, and only with an effort of will been able to resist.

“Is the beauty her gift of the Blood?” Joash asked.

“Excellent,” Mimir mocked. “Your perceptions have sharpened. Your time spent with us is proving useful.”

Joash ignored the sarcasm as he kept his eye on the trail. Looking up at Mimir earlier he had stepped too near the edge. It made his stomach queasy. He touched the black cliff towering beside him, wanting to lean against it. He took a deep breath.

“Gibborim eat humans, correct?” Joash asked.

“They do,” Mimir admitted, even as he stuffed more raisins into his mouth.

“My next question is not out of spite,” Joash said. “Why don’t giants eat humans?”

“I see, you think all Nephilim are vile.”

“So I’ve been taught.”

“…Teaching has much to do with it,” Mimir said thoughtfully. “Yorgash is the father of the Gibborim. In many ways, he’s like his pets, the slith. He can fly, has reptilian features and his nature is that of an intelligent crocodile. His children have therefore learned to treat humanity as things, as animals.”

“As you treat the white-haired men?” asked Joash.

“Come now, Seraph. Elonites have slaves. Elonite nobles refrain from manual labor. Are Elonites also vile?”

“Elonites do not forbid their slaves to speak,” Joash said indignantly.

“So, a few slave practices are different,” Mimir said. “The essence of the matter is the same. But Gibborim—Paugh! They feast upon men. Logic shows the vileness of the act.”

“How so?” Joash asked, wondering upon the Nephilim’s logic, and his open disgust of Gibborim.

“The Gibborim are mighty necromancers, this is well known. Of all the Nephilim, they’re the most proficient at that dangerous art. But they do not steal the souls of animals. In fact, I’m not sure animals have souls. Not as we’ve come to understand the concept. Necromancers use humans. I’ve heard of half-Nephilim, and even Nephilim, who the Gibborim have used in this grim way. This fact of souls proves that humanity is a higher form of life.”

“Why then, do you use men as beasts?”

“Ah, because they’re not Nephilim,” Mimir said with a grin. “We giants are not so addled as to fool ourselves about the true nature of things. Thus, we appreciate bravery in a human. Thus, I talk with you. Thus, I understand how you see yourself without my also becoming enraged at your arrogance. Other Nephilim are not so strong. Giants, as you can clearly see, are the most superior form of Nephilim.”

“Why do you think the giants are like this?”

“Because of our father, Jotnar,” Mimir said.

Joash digested this. He soon asked, “Do you think the art of necromancy twists Nephilim?”

Mimir seemed uncomfortable with the idea.

“You do,” Joash said.

“No. Nonsense,” Mimir said, brushing the idea aside with a wave of his hand.

“Why aren’t you a practitioner of the art?”

“I’m a warrior,” Mimir said, spitting some chewed raisins as he did. “By my axe and wits, I mold reality, not through spells.”

“Why not by necromancy?” asked Joash, who stepped over a smear of raisins that lay on the trail like bird guano.

“There’s always a price to be paid. I don’t wish to pay this price.”

“You’ve given me much to think about,” Joash said.

“Oh?” the giant asked.

“I wonder if giants are less evil than Gibborim.”

Mimir’s hand remained in the raisin pouch instead of automatically returning to his mouth. “We’re superior, not less evil.”

“Don’t you like being allied to Gibborim?”

Mimir laughed harshly. “Do you think I’m a simpleton? Do you hope to trap
me
with words?”

“I don’t understand,” Joash said.

“Humph.” Mimir strode in silence, except for the constant clink of his mail. He soon nodded. “Maybe you don’t understand. Let me just say this: I’m glad to ally myself with Yorgash and his Chosen. The Gibborim will help us conquer the Overlord and his addled minions.”

***

On the afternoon of the fifth day since refusing to say ‘High One’, Joash was troubled. They were deep in the Hanun Mountains. Before, there had been signs of mountain tribes, footprints, broken flint tools, pieces of rope and an arrow in bleached bones. Those signs had disappeared. The band now marched in a pristine mountain valley. Pine trees surrounded them, and in the clearings, were herds of fat deer that seemed strangely unafraid, or unused to men or giants. The sabertooths feasted well, and the giants speared meat for tonight’s spits.

Joash wondered why the man-signs had disappeared. This valley was alive with game. It was secluded, surely the perfect place for a tribe who wished to live in peace. Mimir dropped back and marched beside him. At a signal, the white-haired Gorts hurried ahead.

“You seem pleased,” Joash said.

Mimir’s secret smile grew.

“What is it?”

“Keep walking, manling. You’ll see it soon enough.”

Joash was intrigued. He lengthened his stride, and after a turn in the trail, he stopped and stared. The forest had split into two. Running between the halves was a road paved with cyclopean blocks of gray stone. No grass or weeds grew between the monstrous blocks sunken into the flinty soil. The road was smooth, although worn, and it had the feel of incredible age. Four chariots abreast could’ve raced upon it. It was a road for giants or for beings bigger, and more powerful than giants.

“Where does it lead?” Joash asked.

“To the Valley of Dry Bones,” Mimir said.

Joash shook his head. He’d never heard of such a place. It sounded ominous.

With a shove, Mimir propelled him onto the road.

These were ancient blocks, put here when the world had been young. Who’d made the road, and why?

“Are there cities in these mountains?” Joash asked.

“Long ago there were. But not any longer,” the giant said, maybe with a touch of sadness.

“Who lived here?” asked Joash.

“In these mountains was one of the capital cities of the
bene elohim
. Babel the Mighty, it was called, and fell indeed was its reputation. Upon this road, marched thousands of doomed slaves into Babel, and out of Babel marched
bene elohim
-led hosts. If you listen closely, and open yourself to the road, you’ll hear the ghostly clank of armor, the jangle of spears and chants of conquest. If you’re lucky, you’ll hear one of the mighty heroes of old shout a word of wisdom to you.”

Joash dreaded the idea, and suddenly felt small and insignificant. But for just a moment, a fleeting instant, he thought to hear the crash of iron-shod feet. It made him start.

“You hear,” Mimir whispered.

Joash shivered himself out of the reverie and wiped cold sweat from his brow. In that moment, he saw the giants, not as huge and overpowering, but as a shadow of what had once been.

“You understand the ancient glories,” Mimir said quietly. “I see it on your face. Aye, those were mighty days when the Elder warred for domination.”

“But in the end they lost, Nephilim Mimir.”

“Oh?”

“The
bene elohim
warred and conquered, but in the end the Shining Ones took them off Earth, chained in adamant.”

Mimir laughed. “Is that the nonsense Seraphs are taught these days?”

“It’s the truth!”

“Someone’s been feeding you lies.”

Joash calmed down. It made sense the Nephilim thought otherwise. How else would they dare to raise their fists against Elohim? Still, it didn’t make sense. Tarag had witnessed the Thousand Years War. So had many Nephilim, maybe even Mimir himself.

“How can you claim the
bene elohim
didn’t lose?” Joash asked.

“How can you claim they did?”

Joash snorted. “Look around you. There are no
bene elohim
on the Earth.”

“Equally so, manling, there are no more Shining Ones.”

“There is the guardian Cherub.”

“Yes, there is the one. The others were forced from the Earth.”

Joash had never heard that. Then, he understood. “Nephilim have invented tall tales to bolster their courage.”

“I’m surprised you don’t know. It was part of the treaty.”

“There wasn’t any treaty. ”

“You’re gravely ignorant. A treaty ended the Thousand Years War, and left the struggle to us.”

“If there was a treaty, why haven’t I heard about it?” Joash asked.

“Because the Overlord’s minions are given lies to bolster their courage,” Mimir said. “It’s a common practice, just as it is common for a person to accuse another of his own fault. Liars are quick to spot lies, and thieves worry more about theft than anyone else does. I’ll admit your ignorance has some benefit. Look at you. A puny human, yet you’ve courage. It comes from your faith in lies.”

It intrigued Joash there could be a different story to the end of the terrible war. “What did the treaty say?”

“I commend you on wishing to learn the truth,” Mimir said. “Such yearning is rare. Usually, the well taught one refuses to consider anything other than what he was taught. You’re clearly made of sterner stuff.”

Joash ignored the praise, knowing this was another of Mimir’s attempts to confuse him. Still, he was curious what Mimir had been taught. Therefore, he nodded.

“Yes, the treaty,” Mimir said. “It was decided that the war was too costly, the sides too evenly matched. Therefore, Azel suggested a parley. Although Arioch tried to ambush him, they agreed the
bene elohim
and Shining Ones should leave the Earth. But the Shining Ones knew their allies, the so-called Empire, would need a legend to keep them from despairing and surrendering. The
bene elohim
agreed to this deception because they knew their progeny were superior to humans. Thus, it appeared to those left on Earth that the
bene elohim
left in chains, but it was a clever deception.”

“And you believe such a tale?” Joash asked in wonder.

“It is self-evident,” Mimir said.

Joash worked to keep the laughter out of his voice. “I fail to see that.”

“If the Overlord had the power you ascribe to him, he could easily conquer us. But he hasn’t. Therefore, he doesn’t have the power.”

“You don’t believe Elohim created the Shining Ones?”

Mimir brayed laughter. “What gross errors you’ve been taught. The Overlord is a mighty Cherub. But he’s weaker than Morningstar and certainly
not
the creator.”

Joash violently shook his head.

“Of course that’s the case,” Mimir said. “It’s so simple to see, that even you should understand. A third of the Shining Ones joined Morningstar. A long war in the Celestial Realm followed. In the end, Morningstar retreated. The Overlord had two thirds of the Shining Ones. Even with such advantages, all he was able to do was drive out Morningstar. He was never able to
slay
Morningstar. So it’s with simple logic I deduce that Morningstar is the mightier of the two.”

“What about the Garden of Eden?”

“What about it?” Mimir asked.

“Who made it?”

Mimir said with a nod, “Morningstar and the Overlord did, jointly, when they were still friends. It happened before the Overlord became jealous of Morningstar’s greatness.”

“Why would the
bene elohim
agree to let a Cherub guard the Tree of Life?” Joash asked.

“Because they knew, that in the end, their children could defeat the Cherub,” Mimir said. “Because during the parley, they were more cunning than the Shining Ones.”

Joash’s mind spun from such a pack of lies. He wished he could think of something truly clever to say or ask. “If he’s so powerful, why doesn’t Morningstar simply smash aside the guardian Cherub?”