Free The Tree of Life (Lost Civilizations: 3) by Vaughn Heppner Page B

unloaded caskets of wine. They stared at Adah and eyed Gens. Maybe the scowl Gens gave them stilled their lewd comments. Adah entered through the main door, Gens following close behind. It was gloomy in the tavern, with many unkempt men drinking wine or eating fish and lobster. Hanging oil lamps provided the illumination. There were low tables, a sunken sand pit for belly dancers, while slave women wearing veils of silk and tinkling bronze anklets carried jugs of wine and platters of food. There were alcoves for men who wished to take their pleasure with the harlots, and against the dim back wall was Adah's goal, a small stage for musicians. A sad-eyed flute-player presently accompanied a bawdy female singer.
    Adah spoke to the proprietor, as he wiped his ham-sized hands on his apron. His cropped ears bespoke of punishments for thievery. She gave him a gold piece, and assured him she’d only play an hour. He seemed skeptical, but greedily eyed the coin, and at last agreed. So, as the sun set and more people entered, Adah headed for the stage.
    A hush fell over the crowd as this stunning girl several cuts above the average tavern singer made her way onto the platform. Many of the rough men glanced at each other as she struck the first chords on her lyre. Her voice was clear and feminine. It caused more than one hunch-shouldered dockworker to freeze in wonder as he stared at Adah. Then she began to move about as she sang naughty lyrics. The unkempt eaters and heavy drinkers grinned then. A few laughed. Adah winked at several, and she smiled. A big brute of a man roared approval and pounded his table with his fist. Others shouted and told him to keep silent.
    Adah changed the mood, capturing them again as her chords turned to a haunting rhythm. The men forgot their argument as they leaned forward to listen.
    Then there was an uproar as a stocky, fierce-looking fellow, hawk-eyed and handsome, followed by some twenty or thirty mercenaries, burst into the tavern. They forced weaker men from their tables, booted a reluctant protester away and banged their fists on the tables.
    Adah had lowered her lyre at the interruption. Now she smiled at the crowd. Her slender fingers plucked a new spectrum of chords, an introduction to a new song, a lilting saga of a mountain warrior who stalked a cave bear to his den.
    Some of the ousted men murmured. This was unlike the other songs, unlike those played in Carthalo. A few shouted for more songs about naked girls.
    “Silence!” roared the fierce-looking fellow, he of the proud eyes and long dark hair. “I would hear this!”
    Adah strummed her lyre. She knew of this warrior, she’d slowly gleaned information about him. Yesterday, she’d seen him sitting proudly in this very tavern. She had learned that this was Prince Ishmael of the Tribe of Erech, one of the Ten Tribes of Shur. Adah had wondered what a prince of Shur was doing in Carthalo. Prince Ishmael had slain his brother, she’d learned. It had been an accident, but the laws of Shur had banned him from his ancestral lands. A proud man, and dangerous, Prince Ishmael had taken many warriors into exile with him. After many and varied adventures, he had at last come to Carthalo. He was disgusted by the city’s luxury, and he sneered at the people's fear of the Nebo, of Gog and his pirates. Like all good Shurites, he hated Nephilim and First Born.
    Adah now sang about a warrior who raided a valley.
    The rough-looking men of Shur listened closely. They were heavyset, bearded, with the lined faces of men of action. Maybe their clothes were shaggy, their leather armor stained, but their bronze wristlets gleamed, and their backs, no matter how much they drank, were stiff and straight. By their rapt attention, Adah knew she sang what they loved. These were not love chants, or amorous tales of licentious behavior, but the songs of heroes, of warriors, of glory and renown.
    The long-haired spies, who waited in the shadows where only Adah and