“Nidhogg destroyed your enemies, Lord. There are no survivors to tell the tale of your acquisition.”
Tarag grunted. His eyes were made shiny by the firelight.
“Lord Uriah is not as easily slain as that,” said Mimir.
Lersi shrugged.
Mimir concealed his anger at her shrug. The trek had been difficult, and without Gaut Windrunner, the giants could no longer send fast, far-ranging scouts. More and more, Tarag relied upon the scouting of sliths, and at times, the hurried forays of Gibborim. The sliths also supplied an airborne link with the First Born Gog in Shamgar. Clever Lord Uriah had destroyed one slith, but his ships had been spotted in the end. Nidhogg had been sent, as Gog had boasted he could do. Now the
Tiras
and the
Gisgo
were no more.
The Gibborim had become haughtier as they left the Kragehul Steppes and entered the Hanun Forest. Studied insults, and oh-so-subtle slights, had been their main form of communication with the giants. The others giants, Ygg especially, had become weary of Gibborim ways. The giants yearned to stride into the Gibborim camp and let their Bolverk-forged axes swing with abandon.
But, not until they gained the treasure, Mimir constantly told them. “Then we can sate ourselves on the arrogant Gibborim.”
“Your admiration for Lord Uriah is misplaced,” Lersi said in her haughty way. “Maybe he was a fierce foe to giants, for did he not slay your kind centuries ago?”
Mimir let the comment pass. He had been named ‘the Wise’ for a reason.
“What do you think?” growled Tarag.
“High One,” Mimir said, “I think that wooden ships are more easily destroyed than Seraphs.”
Tarag grunted, tearing another huge chunk of meat.
“Nidhogg was victorious,” Lersi insisted.
“Was he?” Mimir asked. “Didn’t you yourself tell us that in the end, the leviathan drove off Nidhogg? Why couldn’t the leviathan have scoured the battlefield and saved Seraphs?”
“Impossible,” Lersi said.
“You keep underestimating the Seraphs,” Mimir said. “That is a fatal weakness.”
“While you overestimate them,” Lersi said. “Does immortal blood flow in their veins? No, only the sluggish substance of bloodmeat. I tell you, there are no survivors. Or, do you question the words of Gog?”
Mimir would not be so foolish as to do that, not when they were every day marching closer to the First Born’s domain. “Gog has scourged this battle-site himself?” Mimir asked.
Lersi hissed quietly, a sound barely audible above the crackling flames.
Tarag made a gesture to Mimir. Mimir nodded at the white-haired attendants. The sweating men, servitors of the giants, threw more logs onto the bonfire. Lersi took a step back.
“Stay,” Tarag snarled.
Lersi froze.
For all their arrogance, Mimir had observed, the Gibborim feared Tarag. He, in turn, had been polite to them. They were after all the children of Yorgash, one of Tarag’s First Born allies. The Gibborim were not huge and powerful like giants, but lean and secretive. More than any other race of Nephilim, they practiced the fearful art of necromancy. Ygg was rare among giants. A non-necromancer among Gibborim was
their
rarity. Mimir disliked their habits. He had yet to see one walk about during daylight. He wondered if they could. Perhaps, in some obscene way, their constant necromancy had changed them. They were night-creatures who shied from light.
“Could not
someone
have survived Nidhogg’s attack?” Tarag growled.
“It seems unlikely, High One,” Lersi said.
“Yet Nidhogg was driven off by the leviathan,” Tarag growled. Several of the sleepy-eyed sabertooths sat up. They eyed the cowled Gibborim.
Lersi bowed.
“Where is the nearest shore?” Tarag asked.
“High One?” asked Lersi.
Tarag’s fire-shining eyes narrowed. He set aside his haunch of meat. The sabertooths became alert.
Lersi went to one knee, and bent her cowled head. “How may I serve you, High One?”
“Seraphs are cunning,” snarled Tarag. “Only a fool discounts them.”
“Yes, Lord.”
“You shall hurry ahead of us,” Tarag said. “You shall walk among the Nebo. You shall check the shorelines and listen for strange rumors. Then, when you have captured any surviving Seraphs, you will bring them alive to me.”
Lersi raised her cowled head. “O High One, may I ask a question?”
“Speak!” Tarag said. Several of the sabertooths were standing now, licking their fanged jaws. They were absorbed with Lersi.
“What if I find no Seraphs?” Lersi whispered.
“Then you will have failed,” said Tarag.
“L-Lord?”
“Mimir the Wise is right. Seraphs are harder to destroy than wooden ships. Nidhogg was driven away. The leviathan will have saved someone. It is as certain as the rising of the sun.”
“Bu-But lord—”
Tarag rose, and snarled savagely. Now,
all
the sabertooths were up. Many of them inched toward the Gibborim.
Mimir watched in amazement. Until now, Tarag had given the Gibborim every sign of respect. Why was he doing this? Mimir didn’t know, and that troubled him.
“Did you war against the Shining Ones?” Tarag growled.
Lersi shook her head.
“Then do not speak to me of impossibilities!
Find the Seraphs
!” Tarag roared. “
Then bring them to me
!”
Lersi bowed low, and now it was certain that she trembled.
To be safe, Mimir also kneeled and bowed. From that position, he watched Lersi hurry to do Tarag’s bidding. He wondered why Tarag was so utterly certain that one or more Seraphs had survived Nidhogg’s attack, and had landed in Nebo Land. Perhaps later he would ask the First Born. Now, however, Mimir waited for Tarag to give him permission to rise from his subservient position.
Chapter Fourteen
A River Fight
A fool gives full vent to his anger, but a wise man keeps himself under control.
-- Proverbs 29:11
“Come out of there,” a Nebo tribesman shouted in a barbarous accent.
Joash trembled with fatigue. Half a week had passed since Herrek and he had landed on these grim shores.
They’d shoved the raft into the reeds in the river-mouth, and anchored it with vines and rocks. Feverish Herrek had stuffed his mouth with green berries. After that, stomach cramps had felled him. Joash had guided the stumbling noble to a deep thicket. There, Herrek had shivered, sweated and kept nothing down. The stench had grown awful, and Joash had known predators would come to inspect the place. So that night, he’d half-dragged, half-guided the Elonite noble to a new thicket. In the morning, they’d moved again, because Joash had heard men speaking and drums talking. He’d recalled what Zillith had once told him in Havilah Holding concerning drum talk. Joash hadn’t been able to pick out much of what had been signaled among the Nebo, but he had deciphered one thing: enemy. That particular word had the same rhythm as Huri drum talk.
Joash had believed the Nebo knew about them. Thus, he’d guided Herrek to a new location, and had told Harn to stay. Then, he’d gone deep in the forest to hunt, turning a branch here, kicking a spot in the ground there, as he blazed a trail.
A band of Nebo with dogs had stumbled upon him. Joash had run, cutting one of his slain rabbits, so it had bled profusely. He’d thrown the corpse into a thorny thicket, diverting some of the dogs, which crashed into the thicket and made themselves useless for further tracking. Joash had done likewise later with his other rabbit. That time, he’d tossed it over a steep incline. He’d heard dogs yelp, and guessed that a few had broken their legs.
Joash had gained ground on the trackers, and by cleverly using the river, he’d hidden himself from the Nebo. In time, he’d no longer heard the dogs. He’d slept in the water, and had awakened with a chill.
Now—
“I said come out of there,” a Nebo tribesman shouted in his barbarous accent.
Joash ached, and felt weak. The chase had been severe, and sleeping in muddy river water had made it worse.
“Come out now,” bellowed the tribesman. “Come out, or I’ll spear you from here.”
Joash didn’t want to be speared. Not here in this dense, but tiny thicket, not when he could hardly see, could hardly think, could hardly even understand what was going on. He pushed off the bank, and struggled through the limbs and toward the shallow water. He’d been hidden in a deep, muddy pool under the trees. The sluggish river widened here, as it ran downstream toward the vast Suttung Sea.
“You’re not of Nebo Land,” the tribesman said.
Joash looked up as he swam. About twenty paces away stood the tribesman. The old man wasn’t much taller than he was. Once, perhaps, the tribesman had been muscular. Now, he was wrinkled, gnarled and stooped. He had a long tangle of gray hair, rheumy eyes, a loincloth and skinny legs. He wore a necklace of human teeth, a brass armlet—Joash spotted the boar’s tusk on the other arm. It wound twice around the man’s biceps. Such a tusk had come from a monstrous old boar, Joash knew, a giant boar.
Joash looked into the old man’s eyes. The hunter’s pale eyes seemed to calculate the odds, and his wiry frame seemed up to a fight. The Nebo stood in the water and clutched a flint-tipped spear.
Many Nebo with their superbly trained hounds went to Shamgar to be employment by the slavers. Flint people of the lowland forests, the nearer tribes had flocked to the Oracle and had responded to Gog’s teachings. The Nebo, and those who followed Gog, respected prowess. They ranked one another by the completion of difficult tasks. This Nebo hunter, who had a grass rope around his shrunken torso, smiled, showing small, worn-down teeth. Joash knew then that this older man was no doubt crafty in the ways of hunting. Perhaps he was not strong enough anymore to keep up with the others on a fast trail. Still, the old man would be ready for surprises.
“Who are you?” Joash whispered.
“Speak up, new-slave,” the Nebo shouted in his barbarous accent. “I can’t hear you.” The old hunter seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Who are you,” Joash asked in a louder voice.
The Nebo chuckled nastily. “Get up here, new-slave, or I’ll gut you where you stand.”
The old Nebo didn’t wear the giant boar’s tusk ornament because of simple fashion, or on a whim. Joash had learned that when learning about Irad the Arkite and his bear claw necklace. None of these primitive tribesmen would wear such a thing as a mere trinket. The ornaments worn by an Arkite, a Huri or a Nebo made a statement. Only a brave and resourceful hunter could have slain such a mighty boar.
“Move quickly, new-slave.”
That the Nebo still wore the tusk, even though he was old, meant that he was proud. He could have set aside the tusk, and saved himself fights with the younger, stronger hunters. That he had not chosen to do so, meant that pride ruled his actions.
“No tricks,” the Nebo shouted.
“No tricks,” Joash agreed, even as he readied to trick the hunter.
The slowly running water came to Joash’s waist. His hands were below water as he clutched his dagger. As he half-climbed, half-waded out of the muddy hole, he stirred the bottom with his feet in order to hide his blade.
“Bring your hands up where I can see them.”
Joash gasped as he faked a slip and plunged face-first into the water.
“No tricks!”
“Tired,” Joash wheezed. “I’m so tired.”
The old Nebo chuckled, tightening his grip on the spear. “No tricks, new-slave, I know them all.”
Joash slipped forward.
“Stand!” the Nebo ordered.
Joash stopped. “Why do you want me? I’m worth nothing to you.”
“Worth nothing?” The Nebo chuckled. “Important people talk about you, new-slave. The message-drums never stop talking. They talk about your sly tricks, and about your ability to have survived Gog’s pet. That was a mighty feat.” The old Nebo shifted his stance. “If
I
should bring you in...”
Joash froze. Important people already hunted for them? Tarag, sliths and Gog! For how else had this old tribesman come to learn about their surviving Nidhogg’s attack? Tarag had no doubt sent messengers ahead to stir up the Nebo, or Gog had.
“...Yes,” the old Nebo said, “then they’ll see who the real hunter is. Those other fools ran the wrong way. I knew better. I knew you were sly. Your tricks with the rabbits proved that. You obviously understand dogs, and your back-tracking marks you as a skilled tracker.” He grinned tightly. “The others won’t laugh when I bring
you
in.”
Joash swallowed, desperately trying to figure a way of escape.
“Raise your hands!”
“Are you sure you can defeat me?”
Caution entered the Nebo’s old eyes, but something else was there as well. He snarled, “I can hurl this spear as good as any man. By the spirits, I can. If you don’t come out, I’ll gut you like a riverfish.”
“You’ll miss,” Joash said, not believing that at all.
“Oh no,” the old Nebo said, “I won’t miss. I still have strength enough to throw that far. Now move!” the Nebo shouted.
Joash pushed himself into the main stream where the bottom was lined with pebbles instead of mud.
“Stand up!” the Nebo shouted. He shifted his spear, holding it beside his head for a throw.
Joash moved to a crouch, his hands underwater.
“Don’t play your tricks with me, new-slave.”
“No,” Joash said, “no more tricks.” He swayed upright, and flashed his dagger in the sunlight.
“By my grandmother’s bones... Where did you get an iron weapon?”
Now that the water only came to Joash’s knees, and he stood upright with a weapon in his hands, some of his hope returned. The Nebo licked his lips. He touched his human-teeth necklace. “Throw the blade here,” he ordered.
“Come and take it,” Joash said, who noticed anew that the Nebo’s spear was tipped with flint. Maybe these Nebo didn’t have many iron weapons.
The Nebo swallowed. “You don’t think I can?”
“No.”
“You’re wrong,” the old Nebo said, more to himself. His eyes gleamed as he studied the blade.
Joash examined the determination in the Nebo’s rheumy old eyes. “Look,” he said, trying to sway the tribesman before it was too late for both of them. “Neither of us needs to do this.”
“I must.”
“No, you can turn around and walk away.”
The Nebo’s face tightened.
“I don’t want to kill you,” Joash said. “I’ve seen far too much death.”
“The Gibborim will know I found you.”
A Gibborim, a Nephilim, was on their trail? Joash hissed between his clenched teeth. He had to get away more than ever. He had to convince the Nebo to let him go. “Listen, the Gibborim won’t know we’ve parted ways. I’ll slip away from here, never to be found.”
The old Nebo couldn’t take his eyes off the blade.
“I’m a trained warrior,” Joash lied. “Don’t make me kill you.”
Fear shone in the Nebo’s old eyes.
“Do you agree?”
The Nebo eyed the prized iron blade. “I have a spear,” he said at last.
“True,” Joash said, desperate to be away. If he turned his back, the Nebo would impale him. “The spear,” he said, “won’t do you any good once you throw it. You’ll miss if you throw at me.”
“I won’t miss,” the Nebo said, the shine in his eyes changing into a fiery gleam.
“You’ve heard how I survived Gog’s terrible pet. You must know I’m swift enough to dodge a mere spear-cast.”
The old Nebo rubbed his leathery chin. “Maybe, when you’re well you could dodge my cast.” He fingered his boar’s tusk, and grinned. “Look at you now, you’re tired and weak. Toss me the dagger, new-slave, and I’ll let you go.”
“Sorry,” Joash said, “I have need of the dagger.”
Anger bit the old Nebo. He took a tentative step. “I caught you fairly, with skill. Throw me the dagger in trade for your life.”
This wasn’t working. Bitterly, Joash knew he’d be forced to kill or be killed. He made one more attempt. “Maybe I am tired, but I can still defeat you. You’d better consider that, before you do something you’ll regret.”
“Throw me the dagger!”
Then, Joash knew the Nebo would try to capture him, if he could. He shuffled toward the man, both trying to close for knife-work, and to gain the shallow water for better footing. He was desperately trying to remember everything Herrek had taught him.
“Drop the knife!” the old Nebo screamed.
Joash forced a laugh. It was time to fight. His stomach tightened with fear.
The old hunter flicked his bony wrist. Joash tried to twist aside, but the Nebo was too close, the throw too true. The flint tip slashed Joash’s thigh, cutting muscle. Then it sliced past to stick in the river bottom. Blood pumped, and Joash dropped his knife, as he grabbed his leg.
Before Joash could hunt for his knife, the old Nebo took the grass rope and made a lasso. He swung and threw. Joash threw himself backward, but the loop landed around his neck. He was barely fast enough to stick an arm into the loop to keep the Nebo from choking him as the loop tightened.
The old Nebo laughed as he hauled Joash closer. Joash stuck his good foot against a rock. He strained to keep in place. The Nebo waded toward him, and paused as Joash grinned.
The Nebo muttered as he rubbed his chin. Seven paces separated them. Shrugging, the Nebo released the rope, bypassed Joash by several paces and headed to his lodged spear. Joash pried at the loop, the loss of blood making him light-headed.
“When I get my spear,” the Nebo yelled, “I’ll kill you.”
Joash tugged off the rope, slipped the loop over his foot, up his leg to above the wound and cinched it tight. The amount of blood pumping out of his leg slowed. He yanked tighter. The flow stopped, with only a small seepage trickling out. His head drooped, but he reeled in the rope and crawled toward shore.
“You crawl all you want,” the old Nebo raged, as he withdrew his spear from the river.
Sweat poured off Joash’s face, as he pushed off the bottom pebbles. A great and final exhaustion filled him. He knew he would pass out soon, and wouldn’t wake up for many hours, maybe days. The grinning old Nebo plowed his thin legs through the water after him.
“What about the dagger?” Joash shouted, trying to outfox the Nebo.
“I’ll get it after I tie you up.”
Remembering that the man had trouble hearing, Joash shook his head. “No, I hear dogs coming.”
The old Nebo stopped and cocked his head. “I don’t hear them.”
Joash laughed weakly. “It doesn’t matter to me, but they’re coming all right. I’ll tell the younger hunters about the dagger. They’ll get it then, not you.”
The Nebo cursed, looking indecisive.
Splashing water onto his face to stay awake, Joash mocked the Nebo. “They’re coming, old man.” He crawled onto the bank, pushing bulrushes.
The Nebo cursed.