Leviathan (Lost Civilizations: 2) Read Free

bitter memories into his thoughts. He had seen too many warriors die under the giants’ axes. And the thought of man-slaying sabertooths made him wonder who could ever face Tarag and win.
    “You survived a terrible ordeal,” Zillith said. “And you’re more tired than you realize. Some of your depression comes from that. A few days sleep will revive your spirits.”
    “My sleep won’t return dead warriors,” Joash said. “Elidad and Ard—” He turned away sharply.
    Her garments rustled as she stood, and moved the tent flap. “Not everyone perished.”
    Joash wasn’t interested until he heard a familiar bark. His mouth hung agape, as Harn barked again, and worked unsteadily to his feet, his tail wagging.
    Joash cried for joy, leaping to Harn.
    “Carefully,” Zillith said. “He’s healing. You must treat him gently.”
    Joash dropped to his knees, running his fingers through the lion-colored hair. The big dog licked his face, as Harn flopped down and thumped his heavy tail against the tented ground. Joash took the wedge-shaped head and hugged it to his chest. Then, he examined the stitches where a sabertooth had cruelly opened Harn’s side.
    “How—”
    “Never mind the quick healing,” Zillith said.
    Joash looked at her strangely.
    “It isn’t magic like the Nephilim practice,” she assured him. “But, some of us are not without hidden abilities.”
    Undoubtedly, she meant Seraphs, which was a topic Joash wasn’t ready to think about yet.
    Soon, Zillith brewed tea, and Joash sat cross-legged in the tent, with a hand on Harn. Before he was aware of it, Joash found himself telling her everything about the journey to Draugr’s Crypt and back. Well, he kept a few things to himself, such as kissing Adah. A man shouldn’t talk about that.
    The wise Mother Protectress listened in a way that made it seem she heard more than he said. She uncorked a jar, and handed it to him. He took a pickle and devoured it. She gave him a small loaf of bread, and he devoured that as well.
    As Joash wiped his hands, he asked, “How’s Nestor?”
    Zillith shook her head, and said softly, “He never escaped the camp. I’m sorry, Joash.”
    Cold grief washed over Joash, as he bowed his head. He felt sick inside, the food like lead. The giants, and their sabertooth allies, had slaughtered those at Hori Cove. If they remained at this sandbar too long, the same thing would happen to them. Nestor—the groom had trained him in countless ways. Joash couldn’t believe he was dead. First Ard, now Nestor, it was too much. Joash wished he’d never come to Jotunheim. He wished he’d never seen a giant, or even heard about the First Born, Tarag. Joash wished he could pluck the heart from every giant. He had so wanted to tell Nestor about the bin of gems, and the stone trolocks frozen before their grim lich of a dead master. Now, he’d never hear Nestor laugh, or shout angrily at his stupid mistakes.
    “How long does Lord Uriah plan to stay at this death camp?” Joash asked, hollowly.
    “Until Lod comes,” Zillith said.
    Joash had heard that name before. Adah couldn’t talk enough about him. What was so unusual about Lod that made him the leader of Seraphs?
    “I’m surprised you haven’t given me any advice about Seraph matters,” Joash muttered.
    Zillith ignored his bitter mood. She said crisply, “First, we must all talk.”
    Joash scowled. He hated cryptic comments, now more than ever. “Who is all?”
    “The Seraphs,” she said.
    A chill squeezed Joash’s spine. He wanted nothing to do with giants, and man-slaying sabertooths. Did she already think of him as a Seraph? Adah had told him he had to accept the charge. Maybe he had done well in Draugr’s Crypt, but he wanted no more adventures like that. He never wanted to lose so many friends in one day again.
    “We must consider Tarag’s actions, and what it bodes,” Zillith was saying. “The First Born are cunning, as you’ve learned. Their moves always mean