Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4) by Vaughn Heppner Page B

creatures. Ah, they were cave hyenas. Lod didn’t know how he knew, but he had heard about them somewhere in his nebulous past.
    A huge, heavily boned man stood among the hyenas. The man wore a thick coat of mammoth fur, the individual hairs long and coarse. The coat hung down to the man’s boots. He had shaggy hair and a bristling beard, with a square face larger than normal. He wasn’t fully human. The eyes gave it away. They were shiny, dark and like shark eyes.
    Lod had survived years as bait through toughness as well as cunning. He hooded his newfound hope as the boat scraped against the pier. The welts on his back prickled, however. He didn’t like this, not one bit. The man with the mammoth-fur coat had to be a beastmaster.
    Most of those on the pier were rat hunters. Lod could tell, because they wore ragged, filthy clothes, had unkempt hair, and were scrawny from too much kanda-leaf chewing. The worst-off had the shakes. Others had scimitars belted around their waists and wore bright colors, making them reavers. The reavers squared their shoulders and jutted their chins. They were an aggressive bunch. A few were bulky men, with rolling muscles. Most of the reavers came from the Pine Isles, lanky instead of tall and quick more than muscular. A few were women, tough as mountain lions. The female reavers wore long knives instead of scimitars, and had dark tattoos on their arms. Some of the crowd dressed in tight leathers, with whips and chains dangling from broad black belts. That group hovered near the hyenas, as if they were concerned about them.
    “Oh great Ut,” whined Lod’s owner, “I’ve been reconsidering—”
    The huge man with the mammoth-fur coat—Ut—raised a broad hand with thick fingers. The littlest of those fingers glinted with a massive gold ring.
    With growing unease, Lod noticed hissing. It came from a long, low cage in a wagon. Men jumped back from the wagon. Lod lifted his eyebrows as he saw a crocodile. It was a monster, at least fifteen feet long, pent up in the low wooden cage that sat on the wagon-bed. Sometimes, a swamp crocodile appeared in the canals. Reavers usually slew them on sight. Rats ate garbage and helped keep the canals clean of rotting filth. Crocodiles were too dangerous to let swim in the swamp city.
    “Is that him?” asked Ut, pointing at Lod.
    “Yes, Great Ut,” whined Lod’s owner.
    “Prod him up here,” ordered Ut.
    “You heard him!” snarled Lod’s owner, transforming in a moment. The owner poked Lod in the back with the handle of his whip. “Jump up there, bait.”
    Lod sprang onto the pier, landing before Ut and his ugly beasts. The hyenas jerked back, and then surged forward, their wet eyes shining hungrily.
    Lod almost lashed out and struck the nearest on the snout.
    “No,” Ut told them.
    An eerie sensation set Lod’s teeth on edge.
    The cave hyenas cringed and their ears lowered.
    The crowd of rat hunters, reavers and tavern sluts muttered to each other. A few laughed nervously. Just like the hyenas, they seemed afraid of Ut.
    Ut twined strong fingers in Lod’s hair, jerking back his head. “So, you’re the legend of the canals, eh?” Ut laughed harshly. “Today we test your legend, bait.”
    “Great Ut,” began Lod’s owner.
    “What?” Ut snapped.
    Lod heard his owner swallow. It was a loud, nervous sound.
    “The bait has served me well, Great One. I have not needed to purchase any other bait since I bought him. That has saved me coppers, and—”
    Ut flung five silver shekels at the owner.
    Lod twisted his head, ripping free of Ut’s grasp. The coins winked in the sunlight and clattered in the rat boat. His owner was thin, far gone in kanda-leaf chewing. All his owner’s teeth had turned black from it. With a trembling hand, his owner snatched each coin from the bottom of the boat, tucking them in the sash around his waist.
    “If he survives, you’ll have him back,” Ut sneered.
    The owner wouldn’t look up at Lod. Instead,