The young Sandjar stood looking at his adoptive father; he could plainly see that the cap in question was hanging by its neck cord at the old man’s back. “It is behind you” he answered, then watched as the Callaxion turned around to stare at the ground.
“No, it is not here” he said, then turned back to look at his son; perhaps he does not understand my words, the old man thought. He put up his thin fingers and made a gesture around his head, “a hat, it is a woven covering that I use to cover my head from the heat of the suns and keep it warm during the cold of night”.
Many times Endo did not know the meaning of some words but this was not the case, so he walked over to the hatless old man and moved the missing headwear so it could be seen, “it was behind you father”, then he made a jest, “this is your front” pointing to the man’s breastbone, “and this is your back”, touching the Callaxion on other side.
Now it had been recorded by many people that the Sandjar could not laugh, but it was easy to see that they were wrong as a soft grunting sound emerged from the mouth of the young jokester.
All this was not lost on the old man, my son is becoming more civilized with each day, for only intelligent creatures can laugh and thinking this made Endo feel content, for the Sandjar of the Outlands were not creatures of kindness and did not know laughter in their hearts.
There was no laughter in the tent of Anais, and although the day was bright and clear it felt cold inside the tent of the blind Prince.
The days and nights that passed in the oasis were all the same to him, he knew it was day because of the warmth when he touched the inside of his dwellings and the sounds of people going about their work just outside. And when night came he heard very little and it was at this time he would venture beyond his tent to breathe the evening air. He did this because he did not want to be seen by his tribe, for knowing that he was now a thing of pity brought more pain then the cut of a dagger.
He would stand just outside his tent and listen to the cries of the Nightflyers and Arrowtails that made their homes in the branches of the Balbar trees nearby. Sometimes he could hear the roars of the Whiptails and Spikebacks as they pulled against their tiedowns trying to free themselves to wander in the night, but mostly he just stood and wondered why the Gods had let him live rather than sending him to the Pit of Marloon.
Thinking of the Gods was something new to the Prince, all his life he scoffed at the notion of all-powerful beings controlling the stars and all who lived below them. He plotted and schemed to take all power for himself and make his people bow down before him. He dreamed of the day when his brothers and sister and all the people of the Almadra would worship him, and for a time he had his wish granted, but now those days were gone, vanished like the mist over the plains of Darmock. He was alone and in a world of darkness.
“Why do I not die?” These words were not directed at himself but at whatever Gods might be listening. But he received no reply, and asking those words was not because he hoped to be given a place in the great hall of the Goddess, but knowing full well now that his fate would be the fires of the Pit of Marloon. The Gods want to see me suffer here first before taking my soul to the fires, this time the words were meant for him, they play with me like a Whiptail plays with a wounded Rimar.
That idea made the blind man get up from his sleeping mattress and stand tall, I will not be a toy he told his mind, I will find a way to cheat the Gods and evade the tortures waiting for me! And thinking this he began to wonder just how to make his oath come true?
The suns of Gorn were high in the sky when the ritual known as Korath Enargo began.
The warriors stood in two rows with their armor glowing in the light; they were twenty in number, both male and female for there was no distinction between men and women when it came to fighting for the tribe. In their hands they held seven lengths of Rimar hide woven together at one end to make a grip. The strands that were loose were a meter in length and coated with the venom of the Rockworm, this poison brought great pain to anyone who was bitten by the sharp jaws of the underground creature.
The whips were called “Anarish Noc-Ator”, they were words of the old language, it meant “The tail of the Dragon”, and this was in reference to the sharp tail tip of the deadly Sand Dragons that hide under the earth. When disturbed they would spring up to grab unlucky travelers and drag them down to their deaths.
Behind the warriors stood the Elders of the tribe, each one held their Ancestor-chests in their hands, these carved boxes held fragments of bone, the remains of their fathers and mothers going back generations. They also contained bits of pottery, ivory carving, small statues and all manners of objects that were so venerated by each family. It was a reminder of the traditions that bound the tribe together and the laws that must be followed.
Standing together behind the Elders were the members of the tribe, fathers and mothers with their offspring close by, they had dressed in their finest robes and put on their best silver and gold jewelry. It was the tradition of the Nomads to wear the best when observing a ritual of their tribe. But most of the time those proceedings were in praise of the Goddess or to bury their dead or a hundred other ceremonies that must be done to appease the Gods and bring about their gifts. But this time it was different, this time it was for pain.
Arn the King stood inside his tent waiting for the ritual to begin; with him was the half-soul girl that was now his mate.
Both he and Andra were just finishing dressing in the ceremonial bright armor of the Almadra. It was not the ancient plating that they had worn when they battled the Talsonar and took the name Moric-Kan, the Twin Dragons. That armor was put away in two strong wooden chest and would not be worn for a ritual such as this, still they looked every bit the leaders of the tribe.
They had chest plates inlayed with gold and silver and underneath that was the closely woven metal shirt that further protected them in case an ax point or Shadowman arrow perched the outer skin. On their legs were overlapping plates of Itarian steel likewise inlayed with precious metals, they wore heavy boots with long spurs that were needed to urge the thick-skinned Whiptails into battle. Their arms had bracers that were fitted with sharp spikes for close in fighting and around their waists were wide belts holding the ever-present daggers that all Nomads carried.
As Andra adjusted the strap on her wrist she looked over at the man that had carried her out of the desert and made her his. Even in the dim light inside their tent he looked handsome. He had a straight nose and hard cut cheekbones, and the left side of his face bore the three tattoos that marked him as a King of the Nomads. His long dark hair was tied with a strip of Rimar hide with only a woven lock fitted with small gold trinkets hanging on his left cheek, he was tall and well built, with wide shoulders and lean hips, and looking at him made Andra smile.
I had to travel over many worlds to find him she told herself, but I did find him. She then picked up the horned helmet that was sitting on a table near her, “do I need to speak at the ceremonies?” she asked.
For a moment the King seemed not to hear her then he spoke, “no, there will be little to say”, he too picked up his helmet and pulled it onto his head. He adjusted it some then began to move to the entrance of the tent, Andra also put on her helmet and moved to leave but stopped when the King turned to her, “do not speak...no matter what you see”.
And with those words they left for the ritual.
It was only a short time later when all was prepared and the young warrior called Thorm was brought before the King and made ready for his punishment.
As the tribe looked on he was stripped of all clothing and made to stand naked, and then his hands were bound behind his back with a strip of tuff Rimar hide. This was done not by the warriors but by the mother and father that bore him, for they took responsibility for their son and would not stand by idle as he walk the path of pain. His eyes were covered with a band of cloth and fitted tightly so that no light would show through; this meant that whatever was t
o come would have to be accepted in the dark.
As this was being done Osh and Endo stood off to one side and tried to find a place where they could observe the goings on, they did this because the Nomads were still not comfortable with a Sandjar in their tribe. They knew that he had been a great help in the defeat of the Talsonar but it was still not enough to overcome the fear of what he was or what he might do. So knowing this the old man always tried to find a place where they would not have to put up with the disapproving glances of the Almadra. Now after some searching they decided to stand very near the fallen statue of the war God Atos.
“Where is my marking pen?” Osh asked as he searched his robe for the small metal device, then after a moment he found what he was looking for and then proceeded to search for the strip of parchment that he was going to use to take notes. He really did not need to do all this for he had the abilities of Mindlock all that he saw and heard, then transfer that to the powerful Tollacian Computers that ran most of the Outer Rim. But there were no such devices on Gorn and therefore Osh took the ancient way of recording and wrote all that he saw for those who would come later.
Endo watched his father find the elusive marker then a blast sounded from the signal horns and the ritual of Korath Enargo began.
Arn spoke for all to hear, “this warrior has broken the laws of the tribe, he left his post to lay with a woman in her tent, and by the laws of our people he will walk the path of pain!”
And with those words the warriors, who were standing with the Rimar whips began to chant. “Korath Enargo” over and over again. They lifted their feet and brought them down hard on the ground sending up puffs of dust all to the beating of drums. In a moment the beat was taken over by the people of the tribe and they clapped their hands together and continued to cry out “Korath Enargo”, till the air filled with their voices.
Andra stood close to her mate and did not speak, but inside she was troubled, the warrior is little more than a boy, she thought, he broke the law but he should not have to suffer this. She wished to speak out and ask that the young man be shown mercy but she remembered the words of her King and kept her mouth closed.
Egmar also did not speak for the young man had not broken the laws of Isarie but the laws of the Almadra so there was no need for holy words; still her presence and the presence of the Handmaidens were required. The young servants of the Gods were not naked as many of the rituals of the Goddess required; they wore long robes of black cloth sewn with silver thread and around their necks hung necklaces also of silver with blue, green and read stones set in them. Their hair was braided with carved ivory stays and long earrings dangled from their lobes.
In their hands they held golden bowls filled with Grana, the precious green salt. It was the gift of Isarie and was far more valuable than all the gold and silver trinkets that adorned their bodies.
When the chanting reached a fever pitch the King raised his hand and the young warrior began his punishment. With his head held high he took a step and was immediately struck with the Rimar skin whips of the first warriors, they bit into his flesh and left blood marks that were all the more painful because of the Rockworm venom. Thorm grit his teeth and took another step and again whips struck him and more marks appeared on his flesh. But he did not fall and continued to walk the gauntlet.
And as all this was being done the people of the Almadra continued to cry out, “Korath Enargo” as loud as they could scream and they too pounded their feet upon the ground. The Elders lifted the Ancestor-chests to the heavens and yelled as loudly as anyone, the mother and fathers did the same, the only ones who did not cry out were the young. And this was strange for being children they should have been caught up in the frenzy of their parent’s excitement, instead they stood like statues and no screams came from their small mouths.
Andra stood silent by Arns side, but her mind began to cry out, this is not punishment, this is torture, she thought, and it took all her will not to speak her mind and hold her tongue.
There were others watching the ritual and they did not remain silent. Osh and Endo could see although not very well for the tribe was now raising their hands over their heads as they chanted and that made it very difficult to see what was transpiring.
“Can you see what is going on?” the old man asked of his son.
But the Sandjar boy shook his head, “no father, I cannot”.
In desperation the Callaxion looked about him and smiled when he saw the fallen statue laying nearby, “come with me” he said then proceeded to move to the large stone carving. As he approached Osh noticed the strange carving and intricate details that covered the stones at the base of the monument and like everything of interest he stored it away in his mind knowing that he could retrieve the information at a future date.
Now with the help of his son the Callaxion managed to climb up and stand high enough to see quit clearly. “Yes, yes this is much better now,” he said to the green boy and then began to watch intently all that was taking place.
And there was much to see for the young man was halfway down the corridor of warriors and although his back was bloody and torn he did not fall. This made the King hopeful.
He is strong, he thought, perhaps he will survive.
Seeing that the warrior was still standing made the tribe shout out “Korath Enargo” louder still, now the chant echoed throughout the oasis and into the open lands nearby. The Whiptails could smell blood now do they tugged against their tiedowns and roared, the Spikebacks heard the roaring and joined in the chorus of the bellowing Thundra beasts. And with the air filled with chanting and roars Andra watched as the young man fell to his knees.
It is over now, she thought, he is down, but she was mistaken, for the warriors continued to strike the fallen warrior and the chanting did not stop. She turned to look at Arn near her and spoke so that no others could hear, “you must stop this” she said softly, but there was no reply from the Nomad, he simply stood stoic with his head high and showing no emotion on his face.
Why doesn’t he stop this? She asked herself, what kind of man did I give my love too? Andra turned back to see the young man slowly rise to his feet, then with haunting steps he walked the last few steps of the gauntlet and the warriors no longer struck him, the chanting ceased and the air was calm.
Egmar had watched all this with the Handmaidens by her side, in the past seeing a young man hurt so badly would have brought tears to her eyes and she would have rushed to his side and offered whatever she could to ease his pain. But there were no tears in her eyes. It might have been said that being the High Priestess she must now guard her feelings and not let the laws of the tribe dictate her actions as the Holy Mother, but that was not the case for her heart felt no pity.
Why do I not cry, she asked herself, has my heart become stone? It was a question that she could not answer and before she could ask another the air was filled with the blast of signal horns once again.
Arn nodded his head and two strong warriors came forward and lifted the blooded warrior up and carried him away, they would take him to the tent of the Touchtenders and there he would be cared for. Seeing this made Andra content.
Thank the Gods it’s over, the thought of not having to witness such cruelty made her sigh in relief, then she waited for Arn to say that the ritual was over but it was not to be, for she saw him raise his hand once more.
“Bring the girl forward” he said loudly.
Then she watched a young and attractive woman being led to the gauntlet of warriors and made to stand looking at the king. And once more Arn spoke so that all could hear, “this woman laid with a warrior knowing that he should have been at his post, for this she will be punished”.
The Off-World girl gazed in horror as the woman was stripped of her robe and her hands tied behind her back, no, she thought, they’re not going to do the same to her as they did with the man? She did not want to believe that such a thing could be possible but when she saw her eyes being bound she knew they i
ntended to make her suffer the same fate.
All this was not lost on the old man, and from his vantage point he saw the young man being beaten and then carried away and although he was a Callaxion and should have been above such things he could not help but feel pity for the warrior. But he also knew it was the way of the Nomads and a part of their culture, Gorn is a hard world and hard laws must be followed to survive. It was an intelligent statement worthily of an advanced race like the Callaxions, but it still cut deep into the heart of the old man.
Endo had different thoughts on the matter for he had seen and done much worse in his young life, but Sandjars had to be tuff, they were scavengers and at the mercy of most of the creatures of the Outlands. My people would have killed him and his body divided among the tribe, he told himself, and then there was the smell of blood.
The olfactory senses of a Sandjar were very acute, they could smell death from a great distance and even though he had been raised by humans he still fought against the urge to feast upon the wounded Nomad.
The signal horns sounded once more and the ritual of Korath Enargo continued. This time it was not something that the Selcarie girl could witness. As the first sign of blood showed on the back of the helpless woman Andra clutched the arm of her mate, “stop this” she said, “stop this now!’ But there was no reply from the King, “you can’t let this go on” she pleaded, but again no words came from the Nomads mouth. So she gripped his arm tighter, “stop it, stop it!”
At last the King looked into her eyes, “do not speak!” he commanded.
The air filled with chants of “Korath Enargo” and there was more stomping of feet and clapping of hands, the warriors struck the back of the helpless girl but she managed to keep on her feet. She screamed in pain and her fingernails bit into the palms of her hands till blood flowed but still she continued to walk the path of pain.
Please Gods do not let her fall, Andra prayed. But the Gods did not hear her for as she watched the young women fall to the ground and continued to be struck by the whips of the Nomads. She screamed as the venom of the Rockworm did its work and flowed through her veins like the hot metal of the Ironworkers.
The Fallen God Page 11