Free Lod the Galley Slave (Lost Civilizations) by Vaughn Heppner

his fears, sat down with him and let him blather his woes to me.”
    “ None of those things,” said the pilot, absently scratching at the lice crawling through his beard.
    “ Then I ask again: What is there to report?”
    “ They don’t appreciate beastmasters dying.”
    “ That may be,” said Eglon. “But not even the Gibborim can accuse me of malice when a man falls to his own death.”
    “ You may be right,” said the pilot. “I’ve never been certain what the Gibborim can and can’t do.”
    Eglon ’s nostrils flared, which was a sure sign of his unease. “Your problem, Pilot, is that you worry too much.”
    The pilot shrugged. He had placid features, with his brown eyes seemingly empty.
    Eglon slid the parchment out the copper tube and noticed the seal of Yorgash stamped in red wax at the bottom, a miniature pterodactyl in flight. He handed the missive to the pilot.
    As soldiers hurriedly carted the dead beastmaster below, the pilot scrunched heavy brows, his lips moving soundlessly as he deciphered the cruciform printing.
    “Well, what does it say?” said Eglon.
    The lips continued moving. Then the pilot ’s salt-lined face grew stiff. “Unless the Serpent of Thep joins the fleet in time to face Eridu and their allies we’re to be impaled in Poseidonis.”
    “ Impaled!” shouted Eglon.
    The pilot nodded, handing the captain the parchment. “Aye, Captain. A sharpened pole will be shoved up your arse—all of ours—and we’ll be planted upright to squirm for the Master and his courtesans. He says: ‘To sing the paean of pain until our spirits vanish.’”
    Eglon blanched; his oiled skin stark in comparison to the blood red ruby clipped to his turban.
    “You never should have waited for the merchantman, Captain. That was a mistake.”
    Eglon scowled.
    “Were better for you to study the clouds,” said the pilot. “Be better for us all, seeing as how I want to avoid that stake as much as you do.”
    On the horizon where sea met sky, the dark clouds billowed, pregnant with the promise of rain. This wasn ’t a place for a galley, especially not a galley held together with tar and ropes and made of old rotted wood infested with worms.
    “ Straight across the open ocean then,” whispered Eglon. “We sail straight into those clouds.”
    “ Aye,” said the pilot, “although we’ll sink for sure if we do that.”
    “ What other choice do I have?” said Eglon.
    The pilot peered at the clouds. “It will mean thirty hours of rowing, so even if we make it we’ll arrive without slaves.”
    “ What do I care about that?” shouted Eglon.
    The pilot scratched his lice-ridden beard; he was essentially an emotionless man. “Thirty hours of rowing is going to kill the slaves all right. Not even Lod is going to survive the voyage.”
    Eglon swallowed uneasily, his eyes riveted onto the dark clouds in the distance.
     

    - 2-
     
    Whistles trilled. A drum beat. In the terrible gloom rose three hundred naked oar slaves: five men to a bench, a four-foot plank padded with wool and covered by dirty sheepskin. In the Serpent of Thep none had left the hold for over three weary months, ever since the old hulk had been pried from the crocodile-filled lagoon where it had rotted for uncounted years. The stench was vile and evil, each nude rower forced to urinate and defecate where he sat, whatever seawater seeping through the oar ports washing the mess into the bilge below.
    The drum boomed and three hundred wretches rose from their planks as ankle chains clanked, one foot on the stretcher, the other lifting to set against the bench before them. The vast loom of each oar was too big for any mortal hand. So cleats had been stapled to them, now grasped by dirty, callused hands with broken fingernails and , for many, disgusting skin diseases. They pulled the huge loom, dropping back onto their plank and causing the tholepin that pivoted the oar to creak. A leather washer in the oar port was supposed to keep out