Instead, the forest savages raced like frothing wolves toward them. They bellowed insanely, with spittle staining their beards. Some of the bare-skinned berserks bounded like deer. Evil spirits surely possessed them. Why otherwise had warriors cast aside their shields and torn off their furs and leathers? The stark white skin and the distorted, savage countenances shook the confidence of many spearmen. Their hesitation caused many others to hesitate. And the line of heavy spearmen slowed and then stopped.

  The howling Zimrian berserks, champions and bare-skinned savages threw themselves upon the spearmen of Assur. Normally, the bristling spears winnowed a dreadful harvest among those so foolish. It was different today. The spearmen stood still, stabbing with arm-strength alone, and without the impact of their running feet. Worse, many times horribly worse, spears sank into the stark white skin. The spearheads gashed arms, necks, thighs and hips. But this first rank of bellowing, shouting, maddened forest barbarians ignored the terrible wounds. They were often fatal wounds—fatal given a few more minutes. Before those minutes elapsed, the forest savages hurled their spears or thudded their hatchets against the oblong shields. Then many of the possessed warriors latched onto the shields with their meaty hands and tore them aside.

  In those terrible moments, the front ranks of the two armies battled furiously. Spears stabbed from the second and third ranks of Assur, and finally many of the shirtless warriors crumpled to the ground, with seven or more stab wounds pouring blood.

  The sell-swords around Lod fought courageously. They hurled their darts into the horde of forest barbarians. They hurled with all their strength, enraged at what they had witnessed earlier, those poor Kishites impaled on stakes. Lod’s voice was also like a lash, whipping them to fight harder. The forest barbarians and the sell-swords of Kish crashed against each other. Wicker shields pushed against wooden. Hatchets splintered skulls, spears stabbed through the wicker and sell-sword knives plunged through fur and gashed chests and shoulders.

  Lod fought at the forefront, hewing with his sword, blocking with his heavy shield. Hul fought beside him. It was a sea of screaming faces. It was dirt, blood, pain. It was grunting, thirst and numbing blows against shields.

  Suddenly, the pressure slackened. Then the Zimrian barbarians streamed away. They fled. They left many dead champions on the bloody ground.

  With his sweaty forearm, Lod wiped his mouth. He tasted the salt there, and he desperately wanted a flagon of wine or beer.

  Many of the dead sprawled on the ground were sell-swords. Many others groaned in pain, badly wounded.

  “Where are the chariots?” a sell-sword asked hoarsely. “They’re supposed to chase them off the battlefield, butcher the dogs.”

  Lod wiped sweat out of his eyes. All across the battlefield, the Zimrian barbarians ran back to their original lines.

  “It can’t be that easy,” Hul muttered, kneeling on one leg.

  Discordant horns blew from the impaled wretches. Elk-antlered shamans screamed at the warriors.

  “The chariots never had time to get around our own warriors,” someone said. “The attack started too soon.”

  “Look,” said Hul.

  Lod knit his sweaty brows, and his blood chilled. Around him, sell-swords groaned.

  A champion strode out of the milling horde of forest barbarians. He was a short, squat champion with massive shoulders. It was Jarn Shield-Breaker. But Jarn was dead. Lod had seen him die.

  “The dead thing,” Lod whispered in understanding, remembering his vision.

  “What’s that?” a sell-sword asked.

  Dead Jarn Shield-Breaker raised his sword, the sword of Esus.

  A mighty roar arose from the forest barbarians. Where only minutes ago they had fled, now fire and rage seemed to pour back into them.

  Dead Jarn Shield-Breaker waved his sword. Then he faced the host of Assur.

  “There’s something strange about that warrior,” a sell-sword said. “He’s the color of a corpse.”

  The discordant horns blared. The shamans shrieked. And the milling horde of Zimrians followed Jarn Shield-Breaker back onto the battlefield. This time, instead of running, instead of yelling like banshees, the forest barbarians strode determinedly toward the waiting host of Assur. They spoke no words, but stared with sweaty faces and grinned with a terrible certainty of victory.

  They came closer and closer.

  Lod saw that squat Jarn Shield-Breaker wore leather and furs. He bore a shield. With his glassy, dead eyes, the afterganger examined the spearmen.

  Maybe they sensed wrongness. Even Lod heard the fearful whispering race up and down the line.

  Amalaric shouted from behind Jarn, “Who will face the champion of Esus?”

  Naram-Sin of Assur bulled through. His blue-black beard bristled. He wore a gold-inlaid helm. Maybe the haunting still fired his brain. Maybe he recognized that his spearmen wavered. Likely, he knew that this was the critical moment. Cut down this strangely silent foe—

  “He’s undead!” cried a spearman. “Look at his gashes. He’s doesn’t bleed. Look at his color. It’s like a corpse.”

  A frightened moan lifted from the Assurite host. Terror faced them, a thing that should lie in the grave, a demon of the battlefield.

  Naram-Sin of Assur wilted. His feet refused to bring him any closer to the thing.

  The undead Jarn Shield-Breaker glided smoothly forward. The two hosts were close again. He was squat, and he swung the sword of Esus. With a scream, the warlord of Assur raised his shield. The terrific blow by Jarn broke the shield, smashing the hand holding it. Naram-Sin groaned. His knees buckled, and he crashed down onto his knees before the afterganger. It raised its sword for the deathblow.

  “Elohim!” roared Lod, who had been working his way toward the center of the line. His armor was gashed and his sword was notched. Chunks had been hewn from his heavy shield.

  Lod’s blue eyes blazed with holy zeal. Here was the demon raised from the earth. Here was the servant of Esus, the hidden First Born, whose customs had almost caused Mari to dangle from that hideous tree. Bubbling rage coursed through Lod. He was stronger than most men, was fast like a blood-enraged great cat. He charged the undead warrior. Ever since the thag, he should have known this fight would occur.

  The afterganger had unnatural speed. Their swords clinked as it parried. A spark flashed from the contact. The undead warrior staggered backward, perhaps unready for Lod’s savage blow.

  “You are doomed, demon of the black earth,” Lod said in a hoarse voice. “This day, you are to be given into my hands. Then the First Born, your master, will know that Elohim rules this battlefield.”

  Jarn’s mouth opened, and a sound croaked forth. The glassy, dead eyes gleamed. Then the afterganger launched a fearsome attack.

  Wood chips flew from Lod’s shield. The blows numbed his arm. As his shield splintered, Lod parried wildly. Then his sword shattered against the superior weapon.

  The spearmen of Assur groaned. Kishite sell-swords trembled.

  Lod hurled the remnants of his useless shield at the undead Jarn. He followed behind it, grappling with the thing that possessed cold flesh. It had remorseless strength. It grinned hideously and it bent Lod back. The muscles stood up like cables on Lod’s arms, shoulders and neck. He panted, struggling, refusing to go under and die the final death.

  A forlorn wail of anguish astonished many then. Amalaric, son of Styr, stepped out of the Zimrian line. He raised an axe high overhead. He brought it down and hacked into the back of Jarn Shield-Breaker.

  The afterganger stiffened. And it twisted its head to look back at Amalaric.

  The axe lifted and fell again, thudding deeper into undead flesh. A Zimrian chieftain bellowed something about treachery. He rushed Amalaric and stabbed a javelin into the warrior’s side.

  In those moments as the afterganger turned toward the dying Amalaric, Lod tore the sword away. Without hesitation, Lod drove the sword into the afterganger’s belly. He removed it, and he jumped back, dodging the undead thing’s grasp. Bellowing, Lod hacked furiously, chopping meat like a butcher.

  Zimrian, Assurite and Kishite alike groaned at this sight. With each stroke of the sword, however, a change occurred. Those from the forests seemed to feel soiled, ashamed at what Zimrian sorcery had achieved. The Kishites showed hatred that such vile evil had been unleashed upon their land. Countless Assurite faces twisted into loathing and disgust, and then wild, fantastic shouts erupted from their throats. The spearmen surged forward, wanting nothing more than to sweep such evil away.

  Lod hewed, and swept the head from the undead torso. No blood gushed, although a strange black fluid leaked out. The torso swayed, and then toppled onto the earth with a greater than normal thud, as if its undead flesh and been granted greater weight.

  Lod sank onto one knee, so exhausted that the sword sank onto the ground.

  With the resumption of battle, men forgot him as the spearmen rushed past, driving the forest warriors back. Then those in the rear of the Zimrian horde began to turn and race away a second time.

  The rout had begun…

  -15-

  In the deepest, darkest portion of the Zimri Forest, where the trees grew to gigantic size and the sunlight never penetrated, a huge shadowy thing cursed profusely.

  It spoke in the celestial language, learned long ago from the bene elohim that had sired him. He was Esus, a First Born, and he had stood at the Esus Tree during the night of the Blood Moon. His spell had created the afterganger and caused the sorcery that had haunted the land across the river.

  As the dark thing in the gloom of the forest cursed, he released his will that had driven the afterganger. He had seen through the afterganger’s eyes and had heard with its dead ears. The crunch of bones, the sight of spilled blood, the screams of the perishing, Esus had delighted in these things.

  The white-haired foreigner, Lod—he would remember that name. He would remember, and someday, that one would feel his wrath.

  Lod was a servant of him who Esus would not name. Yes, a day of reckoning would come. As the giant, shadowy being made his curses, he vowed to do unto Lod terrible and wicked things that would live in infamy forever.

  Lod—the curses flowed, spoken in a tongue of power.

  The End

  If you enjoyed Lod the Warrior, you might like Lod the Galley Slave. Read on for an exciting excerpt from the next book in the Lost Civilization Series.

  Lod the Galley Slave

  The Oracle of Gog

  The legends of Lod were many, a grim hero of the Pre-Cataclysmic Age. That was long before the pyramids of Egypt rose and centuries before the ships of Crete ruled the seas. In that misty era of sabertooths, mammoths and behemoths, the demonic Nephilim walked the Earth. They were the sons of the bene elohim, who had come down from the celestial sphere and taken wives from among the daughters of men.

  Lod may have been born somewhere along the shores of the Suttung Sea. The ancient sagas first mention him as rat bait in the wicked city of Shamgar. That is where he learned his first harsh lessons of life.

  I laid at his feet ten gold bars, twenty silver sacks and slaves both comely and strong. To the one hidden in shadows I bowed, and with my dagger cut my wrist, dripping blood, binding my soul with dreadful oaths. Then did Gog speak. He beheld my future. Now my sire is dead, my uncles slain, and I am king of the land.

  - From the Testament of Zoar

  -1-

  “We’ll try the Street of Harlots today,” the rat hunter whispered. A bearded, evil-faced ruffian, he plied a gondola’s long oar.

  Lod—the rat hunter’s bait—made no reply. He had found that stillness and corresponding silence warded off the misty chill better than rubbing his shoulders or wishing for a garment or blanket.

  Lod was a mixture of gangly youth and rawboned size. His broad, whip-scarred back matched his big hands and feet. Muscles like ropes twisted across him. He had no fat because his young body devoured every scrap of goat meat and soggy turnip he could find.

  “Keep watch,” the rat hunter whispered.

  Hunched at the prow like a Nebo primitive, with tangled hair and a twist of linen around his loins, Lod squinted through the mist at the canal’s oily water.

  The thump of rowing stopped as the rat hunter scowled at Lod. Boat-wood creaked as the man stepped toward the prow where Lod crouched.

  Lifting a knout, a leather whip, the rat hunter shouted, “Answer me when I speak to you!” His knout slashed through the air.

  When the leather hit Lod’s back, it burned like fire. But Lod kept hunched at the prow, his callused hands clutching the braided eel-rope attached to his collar. He bit his lips, mastering the pain, and his strange blue eyes blazed like some desert prophet gone mad.

  “Did you hear me?” the hunter hissed.

  Lod’s knuckles whitened as he clenched the leash binding him to the gondola. The leather thongs hissed through the air again. Lod groaned as they bit into his flesh.

  “Answer me, slave.”

  Lod shuddered as his pale face drained of color, matching his abnormal white hair.

  “By Gog!” the hunter hissed, striking a third time. He used brutal strength, drawing blood. “You will answer me.”

  “I hear,” Lod said.

  “Master!” snarled the hunter. “I hear, master.”

  Lod nodded as sweat oozed and mingled with the blood on his back.

  The knout dropped onto wood as steel slid free. Gnarled fingers twined into Lod’s hair and a gutting knife touched his cheek. The words whispered into his ear reached his nostrils. They reeked of sour ale and chewed kanda-leaf.

  “Who rules here, slave?”

  “You do,” Lod said.

  “I will only ask once more.”

  “You do…master,” rumbled Lod, in a voice that belied his youth.

  The hunter let go and stepped back, sheathing his dagger. “Face me, slave.”

  Lod unfolded from his Nebo crouch, and on his hands and knees, he faced the hunter. A folded net lay in the middle of the boat. Beside it were three long tridents. The fourth was in the hunter’s rope-roughened hands, with the razor-sharp prongs aimed at Lod’s face.

  “You’ve survived where none has,” the hunter said. His teeth were stained black by years of kanda-leaf chewing. “You’ve lived where everyone else has died. What’s your secret, eh? Where do you gain this mulishness?”

  “I do not know, master,” Lod lied.

  A sneer curled the bearded lip. “Then maybe I’ll sell you to a beastmaster.”

  Something akin to fear sprouted in Lod’s heart. He hated it, but the fear gnawed into his iron-hard belly.

  “I am good bait,” he said.

  “You know how to lure the vermin,” the hunter agreed. “But if you defy me again, I will sell you to a beastmaster. I’ll knock out your teeth first and break every finger. Then the beastmaster will use you as feed for the leopards he trains to attack men.”

  Fear tasted like bile in Lod’s mouth. He dropped his head, bowing before the hunter, hiding his hatred.

  The rat hunter laughed, an ugly noise. “That’s better. Now attend to your post, bait, and keep a sharp lookout.”

  “Yes, master,” Lod whispered.

  The hunter took the long oar, the single one he swept back and forth at the end of the boat, rowing through the misty canals of Shamgar.

  The rising sun brought a bloody glint to the fog. Shadowy domes, towers and square fortresses appeared like ghosts. Morning sounds heralded the dawn: a bucket of filth heaved into a canal, a gong waking its household, the shrill cries of swamp-beasts who had grown bold during the night. Somewhere in the murk, a priest of Gog called a paean of praise from his minaret, while the crack of a whip, shouted curses and heavy clinks of chain meant a slaver drove his wares early to market.

  The mists thinned here. Lod squinted. Fifty feet out, crates bobbed in the water. Atop the biggest crate, licking an obscene claw, hunched a black canal rat the size of a rutting he-goat.

  Before Lod could signal him, the rat hunter locked the oar, crept near and whispered, “Today we’ll try something new. Turn around, stretch out your hands and put your wrists together.”

  Lod reluctantly obeyed.

  The rat hunter bound Lod’s wrists with a braided eel-rope, looping it three times and tying it with a sailor’s knot. The hunter’s rough hands, his craggy features and the skill with which he tied the knot betrayed his former station as a reaver of the Inland Sea. Whatever had brought him down to scouring Shamgar’s canals was a secret he had never shared with his bait.

  The hunter grinned, exposing his black-stained teeth. “Do you know there’s a bet on you?”

  Lod hunched dumbly like an ox, contemplating his bound wrists, afraid that if he spoke his anger might reveal itself. He had often thought of slaying his owner, but in Shamgar, they impaled such slaves. Lod shuddered. He had witnessed impalement before. Brutish men held down the screaming slave while others hammered a sharp stake up the man’s—Lod squeezed his eyes shut, willing the memory gone. They had planted the dying slave upright so he writhed in agony and thereby provided edification for any others with similar thoughts of freedom.

  “Some say no rat will ever gut you,” the hunter was whispering. “Others predict that with me as your new master your days are sorely numbered. What has it been? Three weeks now?”

  Lod lifted his head and stared into pitiless cruelty. He understood then that a bettor had slipped silver into the hunter’s palm to weight the outcome.

  The hunter sneered, and with his powerful rope-roughened right hand he slapped Lod across the face. “Don’t stare at me, slave. Keep your eyes lowered before your master.”

  Lod dropped his gaze as he tasted coppery blood.

 

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