Gog (Lost Civilizations: 4) Read Free Page A

street ran past taverns and an open-air market. There, hardy farmers were already stacking their produce. In this early morning hour, drunks snored in shadowed crevices and lepers crawled to their choice begging locations.
    A particularly young beggar dragged his rotting carcass through the lowlander city. Mists still drifted from the canals. The giant rats that haunted the canals squealed over the night’s bounty. Surprisingly, a few harlots already called from the doors of the stone-built taverns, using their blood-red lips to urge staggering men. The leprous beggar ignored the harlots, as they failed to glance at him. With his elbows, he crawled, because his legs were wasted flesh, diseased baggage that he dragged wherever he went.
    The beggar huffed. He’d had a bitter, sleepless night, and he was tired beyond normal. Perhaps it was grim that one so young, who should have known the strength of first manhood, had to crawl like a worm. Such was fate. He no longer complained. He fought life to the best of his ability. And today—
    Shadows fell across his path, and the shadows remained stationary. The young beggar knew the game. He began to drag himself around the shadow, and he uttered the words every leper by law must croak, “Unclean, unclean, I am unclean.”
    That should have sent the healthy walkers scurrying out of his way. Instead, the bottom of a sandal touched the top of his head.
    It hurt the beggar’s neck, he was so tired, but he looked up. Three swaying youths regarded him. They were dirty-faced, one with scabbed features and stained garments. All three had glazed eyes, as brown-speckled spit dribbled from their lips. They were kanda-leaf chewers, and they were presently heavily drugged. Worse, each clutched a stick as if he meant to use it.
    The leader was a thief named Scab. Kanda-leaf chewers were the bottom of the line for walkers. They were uniformly surly, stupid and often stubborn about foolish things. Scab had scabs on his face. It would have been better to call him Beauty. But the leper knew better than to tell these three that. It seemed these three wanted to give easy prey a beating.
    Scab elbowed his friend. “Know what happened yesterday?”
    “Whath?” slurred the other, who was missing front teeth, and dribbled more than the others did.
    “This worm cursed me, called down a pox to devour me.”
    The beggar called ‘Worm’ squinted. Oh yes, he remembered now. Beauty here had kicked his begging bowl yesterday and stolen his three coppers.
    Scab smacked the stick against his grubby palm. “Lepers oughtn’t to curse their betters.”
    “No,” said a third. He spat an ugly brown gob onto the street.
    The beggar dubbed Worm had no love for life, but he had a perverse loathing for lowlanders, and hated kanda-leaf chewers. And death was so final. Besides, once he had been a warrior. It was his nature to fight. So he crawled for the canals. They crisscrossed the swamp city in a maze. He was certain these three wouldn’t dare jump into the treacherous waters. Giant rats cruised through the canals. Most of the city-bred feared the giant scavengers.
    The nimblest youth jumped in the way, poking him in the back. “Eel hunters say it is bad luck killing a nameless man. So tell us what you’re called, eh?”
    These vermin touched him. The lowlander scum actually touched him. With a grunt, the one called Worm raised his torso. “Keros,” he said. Then he smashed his begging bowl against the tough’s shinbone. That one howled and danced away. Keros took his opening and slithered for the oily canal.
    Scab shouted, and the others scrambled fast. They blocked his path again, and sticks started thumping against him.
    Keros curled into a ball as they beat him. It hurt bad. He clutched his head, and blanked out—until a shout brought him around. Stretched out, prone, he peeled open an eye to a blurry sight. His forehead lay on pavement. Blood dripped from his mouth. Keros… he noticed a boot. The