The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) (8 page)

“That would break the treaty.”

“So?”

“So the Overlord still has two thirds of the Shining Ones. Now is not the moment to change the agreement. Maybe after more Shining Ones see the light and join Morningstar... Still, that’s in the Celestial Realm. I’m more concerned with matters here on Earth. We’ve been left to war it out, and that suits me just fine.”

“Were you alive at the end of the war?” Joash asked.

“Alas, no.”

“Were any of the giants now marching with us alive back then?”

“Ygg the Terrible was there, and so was Ymir One-Eye.”

“They believe what you say?”

“Would you believe me if I said the sun will rise tomorrow?

It angered Joash that Mimir could say such things. The Overlord wasn’t a Cherub. He was Elohim, the Creator of the Shining Ones, the Creator of the Earth and the Tree of Life. Why He didn’t obliterate the evil ones, Joash didn’t know. The priests back home said it was because of love, because of great, overwhelming patience. That even now, Elohim was merciful to the fallen
bene elohim
who’d raised their fists against Him. But, the day would come when the mercy ended.

Joash smiled tightly. When given Nephilim lies, he would tell himself Elohim truths.

“The truth is difficult to accept, I suppose,” Mimir said.

“Not for me it isn’t.”

“Oh?”

“In a way, I pity you,” Joash said.

Mimir’s dark eyes hardened.

“You, one so wise, so knowledgeable, and yet, you accept such obvious lies. I’d not thought you so gullible. I’m disappointed.”

The anger in Mimir’s eyes grew. “
You
are the fool, the one who believes lies. That gives you some strength—”

“No,” Joash said. “Only the truth gives strength. What you have is hollow hope. I’ve begun to wonder whether you can turn away from your evil past.”

Mimir spat on the road.

“For man also is born into evil,” Joash said. “Did not our father Adam and our mother Eve rebel against Elohim when they ate from the Tree of Knowledge?”

“Do you say that the Overlord enjoys ignorance?”

Joash ignored the question. “So, if humanity can turn to Elohim, even though we’ve been born into a fallen world, then surely Nephilim can repent and turn to the truth.”

“Bah!” Mimir said, with sudden rage. “Enough prattle! March. We must catch up with the others.”

***

Joash marched with the Gorts. Each of the beefy servitors marched under a large load, their mouths closed as they breathed easily through their noses. Joash was still troubled by Mimir’s tales (and by his fleeting vision). How did he, Joash, know he had the truth?

Then, it came to him.

The First Born and Nephilim lived violence-filled lives filled with hatred and strife. Even allies hated each other. Compare them to Lord Uriah, Zillith, Adah, Captain Maharbal, Amery and Ard. Each of them had had their faults, each of them was human, but each wasn’t cruel, vile and vindictive. And why was that? Because each of them lived by Elohim’s rules. Who would he believe? The side that hated each other or the one that loved each other, despite their flaws?

Joash rounded a bend in the road and beyond a screen of trees he saw it. It towered above the pine trees and was black like the interior of a cave. On it, words gleamed golden. Some of the giants had stopped, and now read the words. They nodded, and clapped each other on the back. Of Tarag and the Gibborim, there was no sign.

Soon, Joash stopped before the towering obelisk. It was of black obsidian, with golden marks inlaid upon its glassy sides. The obelisk jutted upward, half again the height of the tallest pine trees. The monument seemed ill-placed and unwholesome, an affront to the nearby forest. The golden marks were cuneiform, wedged shapes that were a form of writing. The obelisk had four sides and a pyramidal top.

The obelisk felt evil. There was something strange about it. Joash noticed that stone slabs lay around it. One of those slabs was crooked, lifted up so it lay upon another. The open space below was black, as if it was a deep hole. He wondered if vipers or scorpions lived there, something poisonous.

Joash couldn’t read the cuneiform, but the thing unsettled him. He stepped out of its shade and into the cleansing sunlight. He squinted more closely at the strange writing. Then he recognized the script. It was the same as the strange marks that had been on the map that led them to Draugr’s Crypt. In alarm, he stepped away from the obelisk.

“Do you know what this is?” Mimir asked.

Joash shook his head. There were other giants around. He would keep his bargain, and show submissiveness.

“This is the Obelisk of Azel,” Mimir said.

“Why tell him?” asked a giant.

“He’s the Seraph,” Mimir said. “I’m teaching him the greatness of the
bene elohim,
and about Jotnar and the giants.”

“A waste,” said the giant. He had long red hair, and bore a grim scar on his cheek.

“I’ll decide what is wasteful,” Mimir warned.

“I beg your pardon, Mimir.” The giant nodded to his fellows, and he and several others departed.

“This is the Obelisk of Azel,” Mimir said again.

“What do the words say?” Joash asked.

“You should whip him,” Ygg said. “He does not address you properly.”

Mimir cuffed Joash, making him stagger. “Remember your place, manling.”

Joash meekly lowered his eyes.

“To answer your question,” Mimir said. “This tells of Azel’s victories, of his glories, and of his contempt for the Overlord.” The giant read from the golden cuneiform.

“
For a distance of one month and twenty-six days, I—Azel—have devastated the districts of Pao. I spread salt and thorn-bush (to injure the soil). Sons of kings, sisters of kings, members of Pao’s royal family young and old, prefects, governors, warriors, artisans, as many as there were, inhabitants male and female, big and little, horses, mules, asses, flocks and herds more numerous than the a swarm of locusts—I carried them off as booty to Babel. The dust of Tubal, of Heshbon, of Er and of their other cities, I carried it off to Babel.
”

“No more!” Joash cried. As Mimir read, it almost seemed as if he could hear the ancient
bene elohim
speaking.

Mimir grinned. “You are close to the Valley of Dry Bones. This is the final marker. Alas, all the others have fallen. Once, I’m told, there were thousands of obelisks lining the road.”

“Why tell him?” asked Ygg.

“Because the Seraph will help us search for the fiery stone.”

“Ah,” Ygg said. “I didn’t realize. Yes, teaching him of our former glory is wise.”

“Tarag thinks that because he is a Seraph,” said Mimir, “that he might actually be able to see the stone.”

“An interesting test,” Ygg said. He picked up his spear and walked on.

Joash approached the black tower, reached out and touched it. It was warm. “Why doesn’t this one fall?” he asked.

“Azel made it,” Mimir said. “He was cunning in his choice of stones.”

“Why hasn’t it been torn down?”

“Who would dare?”

Joash decided that if he ever stopped Tarag, that he would return someday and destroy this affront to Elohim. For now, he nodded curtly, turned away and followed the giants.

Chapter Eight

Herrek

“If you don’t run for your life tonight, tomorrow you’ll be killed.”

-- 1 Samuel 19:11

The stony mountain path finished off Herrek’s sandals. The trolock’s pace had been merciless, and Herrek swayed as he toiled to keep up. If he failed to match the monster’s pace, he’d die. It proved to be sufficient incentive.

The ex-sandals were indicative of Herrek himself. He did not look like the man he’d been. His clothes stank. The constant wear, sweat, dirt, blood and the chaffing of chainmail, had given them a ragged, odorous quality. Nor had the chainmail fared well. It was rusty, dirty, soiled, but still effective for all that. Dew, and lack of oil, had been the primary culprits for its appearance. Yet, all those changes were minor compared to those in Herrek.

His hair was dirty, twig-ridden and longer than before. His dirt-stained face bristled with a beard and mustache, and a large boil on his cheek gave him constant grief. His skin hung loosely. Too little food and lack of sleep had made his eyes bloodshot. He was going to die. He knew it, he couldn’t change it and he was almost on the verge of accepting it.

“Hurry,” the trolock growled.

The only thing new about Herrek, was the grass thong that bound his wrists and the rope tied snugly around his neck.

This trolock was different from those in the crypt. Those had been sluggish, dim-witted. This one moved like a man and was swift of thought.

“You’ve the stare of a beast of the field. What is wrong with you?”

A croak was all Herrek could manage.

The trolock studied the sun. “We’ve only been marching two hours. We will not rest for another three. Come.”

Herrek worked his mouth. Another croak came and then the word, “Wait.”

The trolock considered. “Why should I wait?”

“M-My feet,” Herrek whispered.

“Yes?”

Herrek leaned on a rock and showed the trolock his right sole. It was cut and bloody.

The trolock bent minutely forward. “Where are your sandals?”

“They’ve worn away.”

“Ah,” the trolock said in his strange stony way. “Yes, I remember. Things wear away.”

“I need new ones.”

From its eight-foot height, the trolock stared down at him. Who knew what thoughts tumbled in that granite head? At last, the trolock nodded. “Yes, you are fortunate.” The trolock lifted a huge stone, put Herrek’s leash-end under it and set the stone in place. He turned the way they’d come, and he strode away.

Herrek collapsed and was almost instantly asleep. His dreams were torture.

A voice said, “You are Herrek, son of Teman, son of Amalek, son of Elon, son of Lord Uriah. You are a warrior of Elon. You are a charioteer of Elon. To you belongs glory and feats of arms. To you belongs the right to carve your name gloriously into history. You must fight on, and endure the unendurable. Never give up. Only thus will you prove your worth.”

Herrek moaned. He was a wreck, a wretch and a plaything for an abomination of spirit and stone. He was flesh, blood and beaten will. What more must he endure before the final rest?

Glory
!

No, give me rest and eternal peace.

Fight on
!

No, let me give up and die.

Endure until the end
!

No, let me accept my unhappy fate.

The trolock shook him awake as he had countless times before. Sweat drenched Herrek. He felt weak and utterly tired.

“Eat,” the trolock said, as he dropped a bag and untied his wrists.

Herrek waited for his fingers to come to life, and then he tore into the bag. He caressed carrots, cabbage, dried venison. He shoved the cabbage into his mouth. Next, he devoured the meat. It was salty. He craved water. The trolock gave him a water-skin. Herrek drained it. After he wiped his mouth, he considered the carrots. No, he was full. He’d save them. The idea seemed startling.

A new thought came. Herrek studied the bag. It was made out of woven fibers. His bloodshot eyes widened. Someone had salted and dried the venison. Herrek looked at the waiting trolock. The trolock handed him a pair of sandals.

Gingerly, Herrek accepted them. They were thick-soled, the straps made out of deerskin. He saw fresh blood-spots on the soles. He groaned with guilt.

“What troubles you now?”

“You...” Herrek couldn’t face the obsidian eyes. “You slew someone for these?”

“You were in need.”

Herrek wanted to hurl the sandals away. Oh, but how wonderful his stomach felt. With it, and the sandals, he might survive a little longer.

“Put on the sandals,” the trolock said.

Herrek obeyed.

“I’ve pondered your words.”

Herrek said nothing. At times, the trolock liked to talk about the strangest things. It was as if the trolock tried to remember what it had been like to be a man. The greatest aspect about the talks was that they weren’t walking during them.

“Do you still adhere to the belief that glory is all?”

“I do,” Herrek said, even though he didn’t know if he did any more.

“No,” the trolock said, “duty is first. I do not track the desecrator in order to win fleeting fame, but to give my Master what he would enjoy.”

“You win glory for your Master then.”

The trolock considered this. “What glory do you gain by marching with me?”

Herrek’s mind went blank.

“You march out of duty,” the trolock said.

“What duty?” Herrek croaked.

“This I don’t know. But I would like to know.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve come to believe that you truly wish for the same event I do.”

“That’s true,” Herrek said.

“Why do you wish this?”

Herrek’s old reason was now ashes in his mouth. Once, he had been enraged at Tarag’s easy handling of him. Why didn’t he wish to destroy the trolock then? He did, but only to end his agony, not out of outrage.

“Tell me, human. Why do you wish to defeat the desecrator?”

Was the reason to avenge the deaths of so many of his friends? Or was the reason to win everlasting fame? Herrek sneered at himself. He was not the noble he’d once been.

“You must have a reason,” the trolock said.

Herrek nodded.

“Tell me the reason, and I’ll let you sleep another hour.”

Herrek looked upon the trolock in wonder. “Why do you desire my answer so?”

“Once, I was a man like you, a leader of warriors. I was born in the North, and the Nameless One was my ally. We were taught glory above all else. Then Draugr Trolock-Maker came. He taught us about duty to the Masters. One day, he called me to do my duty. That day, I become who I am now. I am a soldier in my Master’s army. Glory is fool’s gold. Duty is all. By trickery, by stealth, by boldness, by patience, the ways matter not as long as the end is achieved. Glory demands the way be pure, untarnished and bold. I will kill the desecrator any way I can. What of you?”

Herrek licked cracked lips.

The trolock leaned forward.

“I wish to save my people from destruction,” Herrek whispered.

“Why?”

“Because…” Herrek frowned, looking at his sandals. A man had died so he could wear these. Would he have slain the man for his sandals?

“No,” he said aloud.

The trolock grunted angrily.

Startled, Herrek looked up.

“We will continue to track.” The trolock lashed Herrek’s wrists and tugged the leash. Herrek stumbled, but he stayed upright. If it were all duty, he thought before returning to the apathy of the trail, he would have killed the man in order to stay alive. If some of the reason for wishing to slay Tarag was still Elonite glory, the path of the charioteer-noble, he could not have slain an innocent for sandals.

Herrek smiled grimly, thinking that some of him remained as shreds of his soul.

***

They marched on a road made with cyclopean blocks of gray stones. The trolock made a heavy clacking sound as he marched on those sunken blocks. He muttered at times as if he saw things.

“This is an ancient road,” the trolock finally rumbled.

Herrek reeled. The trolock had not stopped for a long time. Fortunately, the creature had allowed him to drink at a stream and fill the water-skin with icy liquid. The strap dug at his shoulder, and the sloshing sound drove him mad with thirst.

“Do you feel the ghosts?” the trolock asked.

“Yes,” Herrek croaked, hoping his lie would cause the trolock to pause.

“I knew you would. You are different from the primitives. You are made of sterner stuff.”

Herrek reeled, making certain not to trip and fall.

“There is iron in your spirit,” the trolock rumbled softly. “Thus, you must feel the ancient power.”

“It awes me,” Herrek lied. “I wish I had time to soak it up.”

The trolock stopped. “What most do the ghosts tell you?”

Herrek could only gape.

“Sit,” the trolock said.

Herrek crashed down. He wasn’t sure that he could rise again. The trolock untied his thongs and allowed him to drink the water and eat the carrots.

“The ghosts march on,” the trolock said.

“Yes,” Herrek whispered, wondering if the trolock was insane.

“Sleep. Talk with the ghosts.”

Herrek closed his eyes. He slept. To his dismay, he saw ghosts. He saw thousands of defeated warriors shackled neck to neck. They marched on naked feet, their eyes haunted, their backs scarred by whips. They marched to the capital of the
bene elohim
. It was a place called Babel the Mighty. Grotesque First Born cracked the whips. They made Tarag seem human. Herrek wanted to free these wretched warriors. They would die on bloodstained altars, their souls powering cruel spells. Then Herrek saw a different sight. He saw tall, gleaming warriors. Shining Ones. They marched in strength. With them drove bright-armored charioteers. Behind the charioteers, followed aurochs pulling catapults, battering rams and wood for siege towers.

“Babel the Mighty will fall!” the throng sang. “Its doom is at hand!”

Herrek cheered the warriors, cheered the glorious Shining Ones. “Yes,” he heard himself saying. “The terrible abode of the
bene elohim
will be wiped from the face of the Earth.”

A warrior paused. The warrior was tall and fair-haired. He stood in his chariot. The horses were magnificent.

“Babel the Mighty is fallen,” the warrior said.

“That is good,” Herrek said. In his dream, he stood in rags beside the grim road of cyclopean gray stones.

“Now there is nothing left but the Valley of Dry Bones.”

“I salute you,” Herrek said.

“In the valley is the young man. You will help him, yes?”

“Yes!” Herrek cried. “I will do my part.”

The bright-armored warrior nodded. He turned back into the armored throng, and marched to do battle with the
bene elohim
of yore.

Herrek awoke with a start. He felt old. He looked around. The trolock stood nearby, gazing down the gray stone road. What had his dream meant? Herrek groaned as he sat up.

The trolock turned in surprise. “You are awake?”

Herrek nodded.

“What—”

“Babel the Mighty has fallen,” Herrek said.

“Alas, but I think you are right.”

“It was razed to the ground.”

“The ghosts told you this?” the trolock asked.

“Yes.”

The trolock nodded somberly.

“A warrior of the Shining Ones told me this,” Herrek added.

“Ah...”

“I will try to defeat Tarag,” Herrek said, “but I am not allied with you.”

“That is true.”

“Why then, do you drag me with you?”

The trolock smiled in a sinister way, showing darker, granite teeth. “At first, I desired knowledge. This I’ve gained. Then I wished to speak with you. For a few concepts troubled me. I’ve now resolved them. Now, I wish to see how strong is your resolve, how intense your will for glory.”

Anger and rage washed through Herrek. Maybe the dream still infected him. He worked his way to his feet. Then he saw something that startled him beyond understanding. Harn trotted behind the trolock. Maybe the trolock sensed something, for the stony monster turned.

“A dog?” the trolock said in surprise.

“Yes.”

“You recognize it?” the trolock asked.

“I do.”

“It is yours?”

“No, Harn is the young man’s,” Herrek said.

“That is strange.”

“The dog is you,” Herrek suddenly said.

“In what way?” the trolock asked.

“It searches for its Master, as you search for yours.”

The trolock grunted, and asked, “Why does he have a black arrow tied in his collar?”