Chapter 2. A New Day
The Gods are eternal and you live in their shadows.
There is a beginning and end of things and I see all.
The days of the past are connected to those of the future
But death is not an end to the will of my heart.
From the Book of Isarie.
Karus and Micos were brothers in the sky, the Burning time was long past, and the long warm days of the Growing time was now. This was a time of plenty for the Nomads; the great herds of Rimar stretched as far as the eye could see, and vast fields of Kasha-wheat covered the land like a golden blanket of life. The Goddess Isarie had made it this way for her children, and they were thankful for her wisdom.
The Great War with the Talsonar was over, and although the losses to the Outlanders were great, they were not vanquished. The Madrigal had lost many good warriors, the Nomads would assimilate others into the tribe. Those that no longer had a clan to follow, would join their ranks. Even the Thungodra would find new members, they were a fellowship who took an oath, to guard the Holy Mother. They would do so until the stars no longer shone in the night sky.
Arn and Andra had been mated, they were joined by the new Holy Mother, she had blessed their union with all the favors of the Gods. The tribe had sung the old songs of love, and drank to their long life. Although many of the Elders, still did not look kindly, on a Nomad being mated to an Offworlder, they held their tongues, and did not speak of it.
Egmar was content with her new life. Her body still bore the many scars, from her time with the Shadow-men. Her soul, was not hardened, by the past events of the war, with the Talsonar. She had seen her husband die by the hand of her son, it was the way of their tribe, and it could not be otherwise. Arn could not become King, without facing his father in the Challenge pit, and killing the leader of their tribe, so he could wear the crown of Kingship.
Even the loss of her second son Agart, did not weaken her belief in the Goddess, and turn her away from her faith. She did still have pain, when she thought of her only daughter, lying under the rocky ground in the Sirolian plains. She knew that Seeda always loved the Greenland’s, and her soul would rest easy, knowing, her name was written with pride, in the Book of Isarie.
Now, she rode in the great wagon of the High Priestess, and listened to the turning of the wheels, as they moved over the hard ground. The huge wagon was many times the size of a regular vehicle of the Outlands. It was pulled by not one or even two Trofar, no, it took a dozen, and more, to move the shrine over the land. Its eight wheels were many times the height of a tall warrior, and as wide as an adult Rimar. It had three levels, each one with a purpose. The lower level for storage of holy items and the hundred things needed to appease the Gods. Next came the quarters of the Holy Mother, and an altar for prayers and sacrifices. On the top most section was an observation platform, used to look over the lands of Gorn, and up at the heavens.
Inside Egmar thought of her youngest son Anais, she knew, he would never see again. The wounds to his eyes, at the battle near the Heart of Shawcona, would never be healed, even with the power of the crystal spiders and Rebirth, he would always walk in darkness. She knew it was a punishment from the Gods, for the transgressions against them.
She now sat quietly as the wagon moved, the old woman wore a thick robe, and over her thin shoulders, was a cloak made from the skins of fattened Burrow babies. She also had a small woven cap on her head, she had made it many years ago. It was a rather worn hat and not at all fitting for the speaker of the Gods, Egmar always loved the headpiece, and it reminded her of happier times. So now she sat in peace, and sipped from her cup of Deep-root tea, the drink was made from a tuber which was difficult to find, and rare among the tribes. She knew it was an indulgence, and being a Holy Mother, she should not have taken pleasure in its delicious taste, but she did anyway. With each cup, she prayed for Isarie's forgiveness, hoping to resist the temptation next time.
Near her, were the small personal items, she had used when she was Queen. She still slept in the old bed that Karn had made for her, so many cycles before. Next to the bed, sat the Ancestor-chest, held dear by all Nomads. Inside were many of her mother's trinkets and her mother’s before. The small keepsakes, were not of much trade value, but they had a high price, as treasures of the heart. Close to the chest, and sitting on a carved table, was a small golden statue of the Goddess. It was well made, and anyone could see it was the work of the Sea-people, its base was encrusted with shells and pearls of a goodly size. The statue, had been in the possession of Egmar from her youth, it was one of the most treasured items, the Holy Woman possessed. She looked at it, smiling, she knew her life was now fulfilled, and the rest of her days, would be spent helping others, and in worship of the Gods.
She looked at the statue and closed her eyes. The Gods have been merciful with me; she thought...I have prayed to them, and they have seen fit to grant me a good life, my people are safe now, the Goddess is all powerful; She opened her eyes and took another sip of her warm tea.
What she did not know, was that the mercy of the Gods is sometimes harsh, and not all prayers are answered.
Behind the great wagon of the Holy Mother, was the rolling enclosure of the Molock. The sacred beast, it would be fattened, then sacrificed at the mating ceremonies, in the Great Dome, in the land of Omargash. That time was far off, and the Spikeback had little to fear. After the great wagon, came the wagons bearing the precious Grana, the green salt that all creatures of Gorn must have to survive. It filled several large wagons, and was heavily guarded, for without it, they would soon become sick with the plague that infects all Nomads, and die in agony. Lastly were the wagons of the Iron-workers, the skilled men and women, who made the armor and weapons for the tribe. Their furnaces were always hot, there was little smoke for they burned Eul, the hard dark rock that is plentiful over all the Outlands.
At the head of the column of Madrigal rode the King and his mate, Arn stood proud and strong in his saddle. He looked regal in his armor, holding his warrior's ax in his hand. His eyes looking straight ahead as his tall strong body swayed easily to the movements of his Whiptail. He gazed over the landscaped and smiled. There for as far as he could see was open Greenland’s and a crystal clear sky. Ahead of them lay the lands to the East, the great Forests of Caltarine, the home of the tree people.
He turned to look back over his shoulder, he could just make out the tall peaks of Omar-Ran, fading into the distance. He looked up and saw several Sun Droppers. He knew there was little to fear from the fly reptiles for they never attacked a large group of Nomads, preferring to wait until they could find a lone traveler or a weak creature of the Outlands. He glanced down at his saddle, there hanging by a strip of Rimar hide was a brown and dried skull. Its long gray hair, was matted with dried blood, and there was little skin left, on the white bones. There were few, who could have recognized the head of Obec. The once powerful High Priestess, was now only a ghastly ornament for the leader of the Madrigal.
The King smiled to himself...You once spoke for the Gods, you have little to say now. Then he turned to look at the woman riding by his side.
Andra looked beautiful in her shining armor and helmet. Her skin had taken on a golden brown color from the warm suns. Anyone looking at her now, would think she was a true Nomad, a native of the Outlands. Around her neck hung the golden Journey-Nail of the Outlanders. It would, at their funeral, be driven through the hand, holding their weapon for the Afterlife. Her hair was now long and flowed in the wind like the dark wing of a Call bird. It did not cover the mating rings that the other females of the tribe wore when they had taken a mate. The Off-Worlder did not follow that practice.
She held her war-ax in her right hand, and with the other guided her Whiptail like a well-seasoned warrior. Her body, was hardened by the rough life of a Nomad. The only thing missing was the attractive facial tattoos, worn by every female of the Nomads. She did bare one small marking on her face to the left side of
her cheek. A tiny image of a flower, the Moonbud, the flower that kills. It was the name given to her by the King, and the name by which she, was known in the Outlands. The tattoo was small and could not be seen from a distance, it was of little matter to the King. As he looked into her face, he still felt the same longing, he had the first time he saw her.
The Gods bless her, he thought, and me, by having her, by my side, He turned to look at the land ahead once more.
Andra heard the thump, thump of her Whiptail's feet on the hard ground. Long ago she learned not to listen to closely least she fell, under its spell and forget where she was. She turned to look at the man beside her.
As she gazed at Arn she smiled, she really did not know why. The sight of him always brought a smile to her face. She used to think it was because she was just a silly schoolgirl inside. The many days and nights, they had spent together in their tent, told her, it was not just the fancy of a wide eyed farm child, the love of a woman for a man. Now as she looked at him she felt a warmth in her stomach, it was like she had just finished a bowl of Hagar soup, she knew it was more than that.
Maybe I am just a schoolgirl after all? She thought, then she smiled to herself...Oh well, it feels good just the same. She shifted in her saddle and looked out over the landscape. She saw a large clump of Balbar trees in the distance, there were also what looked like the remains of some ancient structures made from stone. There were tall broken columns and a half-buried dome. It might have been the home of long ago Nomads or just a forgotten outpost. “We should make camp in those ruins tonight”, she said to Arn as she pointed to the stones and vegetation.
Arn turned to look at her, “and by what reason do you think that place is safe for the tribe?” He asked, with a slight air of authority.
Andra gave him a look, “because there are no Sun-droppers, circling, and I smell ripened fruit. I also see a good quaintly of Eul on the ground that the tribe can use to fuel their fires. There are also several Rimar near the trees, and that means there is sufficient water for drinking. We can also kill the Rimar and have fresh meat, there is also a group of....”
“Enough”, the King broke in, “I asked for one reason and you give me many. You're beginning to sound like Osh”.
Andra shook her head, “and what is wrong with that?” She asked, “he knows more than you or I will ever know”.
“Yes”, the King nodded, “ but can anyone understand his words?”
Andra shook her head, “you’re just a dull headed Whiptail, that’s all”.
The King smiled, “yes, and you ride me well”.
Andra’s face turned a bright red hearing those words. She turned her head away so that Arn could not see. Just wait until tonight, she thought...Then we will see how well this school girl can really ride.
After the warriors riding beside the King, came the Nomad's many Karracks, the old name for the ingenious vehicles. They ranged in size from the large six-wheeled family construction, to the smaller two person carts. They were all drawn by the strong, dull witted Trofar, the work animal of the Outlanders. These beasts were used for pulling the wagons, and their milk made a nourishing drink for the young of the tribe. They worked alone or in-groups, depending on how heavy a burden, they were called upon to pull. The Great Holy Wagon of the High Priestess, carrying the treasures of the Gods, had a dozen or more.
No such treasures were in the wagon of Osh and Endo, their vehicle was filled with food, water. Plus a goodly amount of Rimar skin scrolls that the old man used to record his thoughts upon. Also there were several chamber rifles and ammunition. These had taken from the Talsonar, in the Great War. As well as these, there were baskets of artifacts and trinkets, collected by Osh for study, and of course the precious Grana salt, safe inside a strong metal box. As for Endo, being a Sandjar, he required very little, just food and a place to sleep when he was tired. Few if any of his species, would have, recognized the young green skinned young man, now driving the wagon, he wore the clothing of a Nomad.
Endo had grown into a strong and capable young man. Although he could not be called human, by the strict standards of the Outer Rim, he was far ahead of any of his kind in matters of speech and mind power. Under the tutelage of his adoptive father, he could now speak his thoughts, asking questions that would never have entered the mind of his scavenger brothers and sisters.
He sat beside Osh and watched the Callaxion scribbling on a large piece of Rimar parchment, “writing?” He asked.
For a moment the Old man did not hear his words, then he lifted his large head and looked at his son. “What?” He asked.
Endo pointed to the parchment with one of his clawed fingers, “you writing?”
The Old man nodded his head, “yes, I’m writing,” he said, making a waving motion, with the hand holding the marking tool.
The boy shook his head, “you writing yesterday, why do you write again today?”
Osh smiled at the boy, “because things have happened since yesterday and I need to record them for posterity”. He returned to his scribbling.
Endo thought this over for a time then turned to his father once more, “I do not know this person called posterity, is he a member of the tribe?” He waited calmly for an answer.
“Well no. there is no such person called posterity”, the old man replied, “it’s a word that means those living in the future”.
Again the Sandjar thought over his father’s words, “you write about yesterday, to speak to tomorrow, we are here today”.
The old man took a moment to think over what the young green boy had said, then he put down his parchment and sat back in his seat. He scratched his large head as he always did, when he took time to think, after he had decided on his words he spoke.
“Yes you're right”, there is an old Callaxion saying that goes. “Do not mind-lock information that might become outmoded in an upgrade of your existing Datacoms. Rather wait for additional material to be transferred, and give you time to analyzed your statement. Make corrections as needed to maintain a high level of truth tolerance, it will put less stress on your neural network”. Then he smiled at his son.
Endo looked into the eyes of his father, “live for now?” He asked.
Again the Old man thought this over, “well yes I guess that conveys what I wanted to say”, he smiled, “you know, sometimes I talk far too much”.
The boy nodded his head, “yes father, you do”.
The old man smiled and once more began to scribble on to his parchment.
Back at the head of the column, Andra, was in a heated argument with Arn, the Offworlder was shaking her head and grinding her teeth. “All I’m saying is that a leader should not be at the head of his army. It places him in too much danger and the likelihood of death is far greater”.
Arn shook his head, “a King should always be first into battle, it shows, he is not afraid, and it is necessary to fight”.
Andra still would not give in, “what if you are killed, what happens to your people? Huh? Answer that!”
“They would avenge my death,” he said proudly.
Again Andra shook her head, “yes I’m sure they would, then they would have too....”, Andra stopped her speaking, she felt something was not right. She turned to look over the land in front of them and narrowed her eyes. “What is it?” she asked.
Over the many days and nights from the time of their Rebirth, they had grown closer, knowing what the other was feeling. It was something, they did not ask for or understand. Even the explanation from Osh, about transference of thought waves, and the peculiar powers of the crystal spiders, did not seem to matter much. All Andra knew, was that her mind and the mind of her lover were getting closer every day.
Arn pulled on the reins of his Whiptail and raised his hand, when he did the entire column of the Madrigal came to a sudden halt and everyone waited in silence.
There was a long moment, then Arn spoke in a low voice, “do not speak and do not look him in the eyes”.
&
nbsp; Andra did not understand his words, she knew better than to go against the Kings wishes. She sat quietly and did not speak, she simply looked at the mysterious figure, slowly drawing near to them.
The sunlight was at its back forming a vague outline against the brightness. Andra, squinted, trying to make out more detail. As the outline became more familiar, she began to raise her weapon, a moment later Arn spoke.
“Lower your ax, there will be no judgment here”, the King said softly, “and remember not to look him in the eyes”.
Andra lowered her weapon, all the same she kept a tight grip on the wooden handle. She watched as the strange figure came closer.
It was a man riding a Whiptail, as he came forward she could see, this was no ordinary Nomad. His armor was filthy and covered in blood and gore, it was dented, parts of it had been cut by weapons. One of the horns on his helmet was missing, there were numerous cuts and wounds on his weary body.
What has happened to him? She asked herself, she looked at his mount.
His Whiptail was gaunt and ill fed, its ribs where clearly visible and there was blood caked on a long wound on his hind leg. Its eyes where wild, and it was clear to see, it had not been fed in some time, making it extremely dangerous. From the saddle hung the heads of several Sandjar, dried and blood stained, their hollow eye sockets, still held the look of pain and fear. Although she did not want to know, it was easy to see, they had been gnawed on as food.
Andra forgot the words of Arn and looked into his eyes.
They were the eyes of madness.
The rider moved close to the head of the column and stopped his Whiptail, only a short distance from Arn and Andra. He stood motionless looking into the face of the King and the Offworlder. He did not speak, he just stood and looked at them like a man gazing into a dark nothingness.
His face was drawn, and there was a cut over his left eye, his lips where drawn back in a snarl and there was saliva caked about his chin. What was most appalling about him was his eyes, they were vacant, lifeless eyes. All humanity had gone, replaced by something without mercy, forgiveness, or caring. There was only a dark mirror of hate, hate that filled every fiber of his being, and radiated from his soul like heat from a Washa.
Andra saw all this before turning her eyes away, it took only seconds, but it was enough to make her shiver, and grip her weapon tighter. They stood there for a moment, then the rider came closer to the Andra and stared into her face. He leaned towards her, she could almost feel, his foul hot breath on her face.
What does he want; she asked herself; what kind of man is this?
She was about to strike out with her ax when she heard Arn speak.
“We are not your enemy,” he said softly.
The strange warrior, turned to look at the King, for a moment it looked like, he was going to attack, the Nomad spoke again, “we are not your enemy, seek them elsewhere”.
The bloody warrior, tilted his head to one side, as if trying to understand the words, being spoken to him, he ground his teeth. He made a low grunting sound, and moved his Whiptail away from them. Then he rode down the long column of Outlanders.
As he moved away, Andra spoke, “what was that, why did he...”
Arn raised his finger to his lips and motioned for her to remain silent. She did as he asked, turned to watch as the lone Nomad rode away.
Osh and Endo watched as the ghastly rider passed by. Endo, had quickly told his father to keep quiet, then covered himself with a robe, so he could not be recognized. It took all the old man’s strength, to remain silent as the horrific rider and his mount, moved away from them. The Madrigal, moved when it was far enough away. Endo turned to the Callaxion and uncovered his head.
“Death-rider”, he said softly.
It was almost dark when the Madrigal had their camp set up, and the Washa fires burning. All through the wagons, you could smell the roasting Rimar meat and the scent of fresh baked Kasha bread. The Nomads had an ingenious method, for grinding the tough grains of the Kasha stalk. First they gathered it up in great quantities in the vast fields of Darmock. They stored it in large clay pots, fixed to the side's of their vehicles. When they wanted to bake, they would open a device fixed to the hub of their wagons. Inside was a small grinding stone,it had an inner wall of rough metal. They poured in the grains then sealed it up, as they drove over the land the axle turned and automatically ground the tough grains into a fine flour. It was one of many such devices, the Nomads had been driven to invent, over the long cycles of traveling.
Now as darkness fell the tribe gathered around the fires and ate their evening meal. When all their stomachs where filled, they would sing ancient songs, and dance under the moons, and all would be content. They would forget the bloodstained rider, who had passed them by, and when the small children asked who the Nomad was, they would not answer. Rather they let the warm night air fill them with merriment, and all the hardships of their lives, would melt away in the pounding of the drums, and the laughter of their souls.
Arn and Andra sat beside the still water at the heart of the Balbar trees. They had spread their cloaks upon the ground and made a makeshift bed of sorts. Beside them burned a large fire of Eul. The pool of water was crystal clear, and floating on its quiet surface, were dozens of water lilies that filled the air with a sweet fragrance. Surrounding the water where the remains of a temple of some kind. There were massive stone blocks and broken columns, at one time they supported a large dome. All around were broken statuary and alter stones that were used for rituals to the Gods. How old the ruins were, was unknown, it must have lain that way for ages. A silent monument to time, and the winds of Gorn.
The King and Andra were some distance from their tents, far enough away from the campfires that they would not be seen. It was not what a leader of the Madrigal should have done, after all he was the King and should have taken more care in his safety. There were none amongst the tribe, who would challenge the Nomad for his recklessness, so now they sat together and let the night slowly fall around them.
Overhead in the branches of the Balbar trees small Arrow-tails darted from trunk to trunk. Now and then a Dot-fly or Whisper-wing would flutter close to them, and they would swat the air, to drive the annoying insects away. In the distance could be heard the roar of a Rimar, or the screech of a Doff-bird, for the most part the night was still.
Andra smiled, as she looked at a moon's refection in the water, “it is a quiet night” she said softly, “long summer nights on my world were wonderful. I remember how I loved just sitting outside by my home and listening to the night birds calling to each other.” If Andra had spoken those words in the past it would have caused her pain, now with the love from Arn she was able to speak of her war ravaged Home-world without tears.
Arn moved a bit and took off his helmet, then loosened the straps on his leg armor. “Yes, it is a good night, there is little to fear here, well maybe just a water weaver or a tree chameleon, and there could be a young sand dragon that might....”
Andra began to laugh, “don’t you ever just relax?” She asked.
The Nomad gave her a questioning look, “danger does not rest,” he said grimly.
There was a pause for a time as the two looked up at the night sky. Andra broke the silence, “who was that Nomad we saw today?” she asked.
Arn did not answer her, and it looked like he did not hear her question. This was a deception that Andra knew well, when he did not want to discuss things; why do all men use the same trick? She asked herself. “I said who was that warrior today”, this time she said it much louder, so there would not be any mistake in hearing her request.
Arn turned to look at her eyes, “he was a dead man,” he said calmly.
This made the Andra laugh a little, “Dead men don’t ride” she replied.
Again there was a pause, the King saw, it was useless, trying to hide the truth, he spoke once more. “We call them Blood-seekers, or Deathriders, they are without a soul and live only for r
evenge”.
This time it was Andra who did not speak for a time. She could see from the look in her mate's eyes, this was something very serious to the Nomads. The smile left her face, “how does that happen to them?” she asked.
Arn got up from the ground and took a few steps from where he was sitting. He turned his face from his mate and seemed to look up at the stars. “When a Nomad loses everything and there is nothing more to hold him to his life, he can choose to leave it, and live a life of soulless wandering”. He turned to look at Andra, “there is a flower that grows in the forests, it is called the Death-shadow. It can take all your pain and leave you without memories. All is gone except your hate, you move do not live, you feel no pain or sorrow, you are the dead walking”.
The words from the King made a chill run up Andra’s spine. In spite of the warm air it made her shudder, then it passed, and she felt like her old self once more.
“That’s enough!” Andra cried out, “we are safe tonight so let’s not hear anymore about the living dead”. She began to take off her armor, and moved her war-ax away from her.
Arn smiled at her, “as you command your highness”. He said this, when he wanted to annoy her. He knew that being an Off-Worlder, she could never be crowned Queen. It did not matter, she was still treated with all the respect due to one.
Andra also knew when her mate was teasing her. Any other time she would have challenged him to a game of words, tonight she was not in the mood for games. Tonight she felt something much different, “it was a long journey today, for some reason I don’t feel tired”.
The King looked at her as he removed his breast plating and arm guards. Her body had become stronger over the past days, “you are becoming a strong warrior that is certain”.
Arn came back to her, sat down and began to remove his armor once more. He laid his protective steel plating next to him, and sat wearing only his Rimar hide waist coverings and his heavy riding boots with their long spurs. “Soon you will be even stronger, and be able, to keep up with the female warriors”.
Andra had also taken off her chest piece and arm coverings, her boots where not as thick as her mates the spurs where just as long. “What do you mean?” She said angrily, “I can handle a war-ax very well now and my riding is much better than some.” As she spoke she undid the silver band holding her long dark hair back from her face. As it came undone, she ran her fingers through it, making it fall in long waves over her now naked shoulders. “You just have to keep your legs braced and move with the saddle”.
Arn reached over and took her roughly into his strong arms, “do you think you can ride this dull headed Whiptail?”. As he said those words he pressed his chest against hers.
Andra felt his arms around her, she knew, those arms could break her, like she would break a Doff-bird egg. She knew, he would never do that. She looked into his eyes, “I can ride all night if need be”, she said softly, then she kissed him hard.
There might have been a water weaver in the lake or tree chameleon hiding in the Balbar trees. There might even be a deadly Sand Dragon lurking nearby, it did not matter to the two Nomads. All that mattered now was the beating of their hearts and the fire burning in their souls.
The warm night air filled with the songs of the tribe. Here and there the warriors moved into their tents with their mates, where they would join together in lovemaking. It was not the violent frenzy of the Mating Dome of Omargash, rather a softer, warmer love that came with the easy living of this time of the cycle. It was also a time that the Elders of the Tribe remembered, when they too would sneak out beyond the fire from the Washa’s, and lay under the calling moons. They would think about past lovers and their hearts would cry out for those days long past. They would still hold their mates tightly and feel the warm embrace of arms about them the fire would not be the same. That was reserved for the young, it was not something to be angry about. It was the way of their kind and the way of their tribe, still, some would lay inside their tents, and wish with all their hearts, to once more dance under the stars.
In the tent of Anais there was quiet. The younger brother of the King and the son of the now High Priestess had little to sing about, and he never felt the urge to dance. Blind now, he preferred to sit inside his quarters and talk to no one. His food and drink were brought to him, and all his needs were cared for. The Touch-tenders who did so, did not spend time with the onetime King. They had tried to engage him in conversation, found his lips tightly set, they had to listen to their own words. After a time they let him be, and simply making sure, his needs were met, he wanted for nothing. It was a sad existence, but his to do with as he liked.
Now he sat huddled in the darkened tent with only the light of his Washa dancing on the walls. He listened to the songs just outside; why do they sing. He thought...do they not know what is to come? Darkness and an endless sea of darkness. If they understood they would not sing, they would weep.
For a moment his mind words almost caused him to shed tears he fought back the feeling, and shook his head...No, I will not cry, tears are for old women and those who are weak. I will not be weak.
He sat upright on his sleeping mattress and held his head high, there was no one in the dim light to see if he was crying or not. What did it matter? All his pride meant nothing now. There was no one to see him and his power over the tribe was gone, he was just a blind man with no one to care.
He was about to forget his pride and weep when he heard a sound. It was his tent flaps opening, “who is there?” He called out, when he heard no reply he spoke again, “who is there?” He said once more.
“Do not fear, it is I, your mother”, came the response.
Egmar had come to see her son, she wore a simple robe and a silver necklace. She carried a small brazier that gave light to the darkened tent and bathed their surroundings in a soft warm glow. “May I come in?” She asked.
“Do as you wish” her son said angrily, “I cannot stop you”, he turned away from her and lay back on his mattress.
The old woman moved to a small chair and sat down, she put the light lamp on a stand near the chair then turned to Anais. “I have come to see if you are in need. Do you have enough to eat or shall I have them bring a fresh plate of Rimar for you?” She waited for her son to reply, after a time of silence, she spoke again, “I had them bake some meadow cane biscuits for you, they are very sweet”. She reached into her robe and took out a small cloth and opened it, inside were two golden brown squares. “They are still warm if you want to taste them.” Again there was only silence so she put the sweets on the stand by the brazier. “Very well, you can have them later if you like. I've put them on the stand just over here, you do not have to reach very far too...”
“Get out!” Her son suddenly screamed, “I do not want any of your food or anything else, just leave me alone!”
For a time the High Priestess said nothing, she just sat looking at her unseeing son. When she could see the look on his face change, from one of anger to a calmer one, she spoke once more. “Do you remember the time you came to me crying, because you had fallen off your Whiptail, and cut your knee. I told you, crying was not the way of a warrior, do you remember?”
Anais shook his head, no, I do not remember anything like that...Why should I remember, it was too long ago.
Egmar moved a bit closer to her son. “You listened to my words and you stopped your tears, and after that day you never cried again.” She reached out and touched his shoulder.
He suddenly pulled back as if a Rock-worm had stung him. “I do not remember anything like that, now get out and leave me alone!”
For a moment his mother said nothing, she rose slowly and began to move to the tent entrance. Before she left she turned to her son, “I was wrong to tell you not to cry”. She let her words hold in the air, “I will leave the light, perhaps its glow will warm your heart”, with one last look at her son she left.
For a time Anais sat unmoving, he listened to the singing outs
ide and told himself that he wished it would stop. He waited, and waited still the songs continued.
Why do they not leave me alone? He thought...I do not need their pity or anything from them, they all mean nothing to me, nothing!
Once more, he began dreaming of all the things he would do, if only he could see again, all the revenge he would carry out on those who tormented him. It made him feel good, he liked dreaming like this. He sat there for some time, going over and over, his visions of death and pain.
Then he stopped.
Something caused him to turn from his revenges. A smell, a smell, he had not experienced for some time. The soft fragrance of freshly baked sweets, he did not want to think about them. Before he could stop himself, he moved to the small table and reached out with his hand. His fingers met the delicate softness of the meadow cane biscuits. At its touch, his mind suddenly filled with forgotten images, visions of other times, times when his heart did not feel so heavy. He saw himself as a boy again, and his mother had just given him a sweet to eat. As he put the small biscuit to his nose, he felt the thousand other times the air had been filled with the fragrance of baking. It softened the coldness in his soul. He bit into the soft warm dough, tasting the delightful sweetness of the meadow cane and the small pieces of ripened Safic berry, filling the center of the confection.
It is like I remembered; he thought.
In spite of all his commands his eyes began to fill with tears, alone in his tent he let the past come flooding back into the present.
It was almost light when Arn and Andra woke from their sleep, they found themselves naked and in each others arms, covered by their fur cloaks. Beside them the Eul fire had almost gone out, still had sufficient heat to drive off the morning cold. They both laid there for a long time, not moving and saying nothing. Their minds where filled with images. Ever since they had awoken from the sleep of the crystal spiders, their minds had been linked. At first it was just fragments of feelings, then as the days and nights passed, those fragments came together and continued to grow and grow. Now as they lay beside each other they needed no words to share their emotions. They both felt the same warm love, the same hope and strength that being with the one who loves you, brings. After a time Andra looked up through the overgrowth from the Balbar trees, there in the clear sky she saw a small light streaking across the face of Eka the morning moon.
A Dropship, She told herself...More orphans, more outcasts seeking a new home.
She remembered her own fall from the heavens, the days of pain with the Sandjar, then finding a new home with the Nomads. She thought back over the long journey to the present, and of finding love; I did not believe in the Gods, maybe they do exist? She looked into the face of Arn; something guided me to him.
She turned her head to look up at the bright light in the sky...Perhaps they too will find what they are looking for?
The light moved beyond her sight and only a mark of sky fire was left to show its passing.
Nomads The Fallen God Page 3