Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4) by Vaughn Heppner

you?” Gog sneered, the single eye visible in the darkness. “Bah! I waste my time with you. Know this, Seraph: your plan has failed. The one you healed will die in sickness more horrible than he had. I, Gog, rule Shamgar. No one heals my enemies without my leave, least of all your master. He cannot suborn my rule though tricks.”
    “Not by tricks, O Gog, but through the sword will you fall.”
    “Empty boasts, which I have grown weary of. You will return to your tomb, Worm, there to ponder your certain fate.”

Chapter Eight
    Tamar

    “But oh what horrid rats they are.”
    -- Lamentations of Rat Bait

    Terse orders issued from the Temple. Out of the Stone Fortress raced galleys. Athwart their decks were Nebo trackers: swamp tribesmen, stunted, stone-age warriors. Dark-haired and loincloth wearing, they muttered to one another at their strange orders. Find an escaped slave—his appearance and clothing unknown—and bring him back to Gog. Find him or perish.
    The chieftain of one group fingered his panther-claw necklace. His shaman whispered that it would be unwise to fail. They must find the man, or they must slip into the swamps, never to return to Shamgar. Unfortunately, the chieftain’s favorite daughter remained in the city as hostage. He thus brooded moodily, and finally hissed for the shaman to still his speech and look to his talismans.
    ***
    In another portion of the city, in a dingy tavern thronged with cutpurses, a drunken thief retold his tale. He spoke about a leper who had healed before his eyes and slain Scab.
    “Healed?” a bald woman sneered. In her left ear, she wore a skull pin. The skull’s eye-sockets glittered with quartz.
    “That’s right!” said the thief. “That’s what I said. Moved like a snake, he did. Snatched our weapons, jumped up and started killing us one, two, three.” He snapped his thin fingers.
    “How could he heal himself?” asked the woman.
    Turtle-fashion the thief pulled in his head. “I’ve heard that Elohim did it.”
    Around him, the laughter died away.
    “You’re a fool to talk so,” said the bald woman.
    “I know, I know.” The thief grabbed his wine bowl and slurped the remains. “It’s the truth, so help me.”
    “Gog seal your lips, you fool, or you’ll be rat meat before the morning.”
    The young ruffian groaned, wishing he had never gone into the Maze with Scab. He shot up his arm, shouting at a serving wench for another round.
    ***
    A slender tower overlooked the cobblestone plaza. A loud horn blared from its height. Seagulls lofted from the spiked roof and swirled around it. A red-robed priest appeared on the balcony. He lifted his loud voice in a chant to Gog.
    Below, in the Merchant Wharf, people paused, peering at the tower. For that moment, the buzz of talk, of trade and arguments muted enough so that a boy’s shrill shout could be heard. Then the crowds resumed their roar of trade and shady deals.
    Vidar and Naaman sat at a nearby booth, eating pickles out of a jar. The huge half-Nephilim speared them with a prong. His fingers were too thick to fit into the jar. He crunched each pickle like a walnut, popping it whole into his wide mouth. After the seventh one, he wiped his lips and glowered at the smaller man beside him. “Well, what do you think?”
    Naaman rubbed the burn mark on his cheek. “We need to understand him. What are his customs, his age and training? From what land does he come? If we know the prey, we know his habits. Then, we can lay the proper trap.”
    “You’ve found no clues?”
    “I’ve found one,” said Naaman.
    The huge half-Nephilim jumped to his feet. “What is it?”
    Naaman chewed his last bite, swiveled around on his stool and wiped his hands on his leathers.
    “I’m warning you, Naaman.”
    “Patience, Enforcer.”
    Vidar wrapped his sword-hand around the hilt of his battleblade. “That’s the second time today someone’s told me that. The next time, heads will roll.”
    “I crave your pardon,