The Fallen God

by Gary Mark Lee

  “You did not deserve this old man”, he said softly, “I bore hatred in my heart for you but you are still of my kind”.

  Now his vengeance turned from the dead warrior to the thing responsible for his demise, as he looked at him he could see no ax wounds or dagger holes on his large frame, there was only thinness to his face and a hollow stare in his dead eyes. But as he looked closer he noticed a glint of light and a strange metal object protruding from the base of his skull where the hair had earlier covered it. He turned the man back on his face again and lifted up the long dark main to get a better look at what might have killed him. But as he gazed at the shiny object he could see it was not of Outlander making.

  This is no weapon of the tribes he thought, he gripped the metal tightly and pulled hard, there was a sound of ripping flesh and flecks of dried blood fell from the wound, it broke free of the dead man’s skull. For a moment or two Valen held it in his hand and marveled at its intricate workmanship.

  “This was not fashioned by Nomad hands,” he said out loud. This was not something that he did before he became an Outcast but sense there was no one else to talk to other then himself he had taken up the practice of speaking to his Whiptail as if it could understand his words. “Even the skilled jewelry makers of the Norgonie could not forge such a thing”, it was truly a work of great refinement, but why it should be used as a weapon to perch the skull was unknown to him. It did bare a strange resemblance to a Crystal Spider, it had long thin projections that could be seen as legs and it size was almost the same as the Lurkers in the Darkness. But he knew that the spiders that gave re-birth never ventured into the light of day and the gift of the Goddess and would not kill a man like this. He decided to put the thing into his carry pouch and think no more about it.

  As the wind began to blow harder he took his war-ax and began to dig graves for the dead warriors who had once been his enemies. And as he dug he sang an ancient burial song.

  “We walk the path that lies ahead.

  We seek no mercy from the dead.

  Our lives are done and so our fate.

  We stand alone before deaths gate.

  See the fires of death and pain.

  Hear the cries of enemies slain.

  Stand together for all are one.

  Stand together till all is done.”

  Valen worked without resting till all the slain had been properly buried. He had no food to entomb with them but he did place a small bit of his last Rimar meat by their sides, he had no well-aged Po as an offering so he poured bitter water into their graves and asked that he might be forgiven. The dead had no war-axes to hold so he placed jagged bits of metal that lay about into their hands and tied them with strips of clothing. He had little Grana to offer so he cut his arm and let his blood drop into their mouths in hopes it would strengthen them on their journey to the Afterlife.

  And with every warrior he sang the same burial song, and as he placed them in the ground he vowed revenge for their souls.

  The Cyberman did not feel the wind for he was safe inside his steel home and protected by the God of War.

  He knew that they were moving but where he did not care for he trusted his master and was content to live in his shadow. Now he lay in a small adjacent chamber to the Orb and let the Repairbots do their work on him. His right leg had been replaced with a strong dura-metal appliance; it worked efficiently and did not need rest or become damaged in anyway, but his left leg was still made of flesh and bone and now that was unacceptable.

  In the past days and nights the Shadowman had grown use to his new robotic appendages, he found his right leg to be far stronger than his left and when it struck a hard surface or came in contact with heat or cold it did not pain him. Now he wished to have his weaker leg removed and replaced with the superior walker.

  It will make me strong, he thought, and I wish to be strong so I might kill all those who deceived me. As he said those words his mind filled with the image of Egmar his mother. She left me not once but twice, this made him grind his broken teeth, she left me in the Wasteland and then again at the Heart of Shawcona.

  His mind flashed back to his childhood and walking hand in hand away from the tribe under the stars, he raised his right arm and felt the hand of his mother holding it as they moved to the place where she could sit and talk. He heard her words as she told him that she would always love him and that her love would always be with him. He put his hand to his lips and remembered the taste of Tral, the black Grana crystals that are used at the time of Choosing to kill the one that is marked for death.

  She lied to me; she tried to kill me.

  The Cyber/Darkman did not notice as the Repairbots moved to where he lay and commenced to do their work, he could feel pain for they had not yet replaced that part of his brain with inter-circuitry. But looking through the possessions of the Outlanders he had found and eaten several dream mushrooms, or Boda as it was called. The dark brown fungus that grows in the caves of the Hollow Hills, taken in small doses it reduces pain and make one feel very content, but taken in great amounts it will bring madness and death. Now he felt very little as the Repairbots cut into flesh and bone.

  Again his mind flashed with more images for the hallucinogenic in the small plant began to do its work. He now saw his mother standing by his side in the great underground chamber in the Poison Lands, the gathering place of the people of the dark and the place where she chose to become their Queen.

  More lies, he told his wavering mind, she did not stay with us, she did not stay with me!

  A grinding sound filled the air as the Repairbots removed the leg just below the hip and attached connoflex terminals to the nerve ends that controlled movement. They then attached an Itarian steel appendage and connected the reflexor-intergrators to what was left of his muscle fragments; this would allow him to move with all the efficiency that he once had. And sense there were now two legs of equal strength they replaced the driver units with larger ones to double the power and enhance the speed and agility of their user.

  All this was not of interest to the Darkman for his mind and body were now in a dream place. And that dream place was more real to him then the beating of his own heart.

  He saw himself standing in a vast open plain filled with green grass and fragrant field flowers, all about him were fat Trofar and Balbar trees with limbs hanging low with ripe fruit, and above in the sky were billowy clouds the color of freshly fallen snow. He stood naked and felt a warm wind caressing him, and as he looked down at his body he saw that it was not scarred or twisted or malformed in any way. He raised his hand and smiled to see the skin smooth and without the claw like fingers and rotten skin that should have been there. And as he touched his face he did not feel the emaciated cheeks and sunken eyes of a Shadowman but rather the robust and handsome continence of an Outlander.

  What place is this, he asked his mind, how did I come to such a land?

  And for the first time in his life he felt content, there was no more pain, no more nightmares.

  Is this the Afterlife? He thought if so I would gladly stay here forever.

  Once more he felt the warm wind on his face and it filled him with a sweet dream of forgiveness.

  But it did not last.

  The land around him began to change, the grass turned to ashes and the flowers became thorns, the fattened Thundra beasts became ravenous creatures crying out in hunger and battling over rotting scraps of food. The tall Balbar trees turned into towers of burnt rock and smoldering ruins, and above him the clouds vanished to be replaced by a sky of fire and death.

  What has happened, what God has brought me here?

  He felt his body beginning to wither the limbs that had been strong and smooth now became twisted once again; the face that could have drawn smiles from young maidens now became a face that would only bring screams.

  No! This cannot be happening; I will not let this happen!

  As he shook with frustration he saw an image in the distance, a fi
gure burning with fire and smoke.

  What is this coming closer?

  He watched as the image became clear, he watched it become the one that gave him birth, then he saw the face of his mother, there were no scars now just the radiance of youth. She was now standing before him, her face smiling and her arms holding something wrapped in a blanket to her breast. She stood there for a moment rocking the thing in her hands back and forth gently and murmuring a soft lullaby, and then she held it out to her son.

  “You are the flesh of my body”, she said softly, “I will always hold you like I do this child”, and she pulled back the blanket so that her son could see what she held.

  But it was not an innocent child that Egmar held in her hands, it was a large black spider with eyes that glowed like red fire coals. His mother began to laugh a wild untamed laughter that could only be heard in the deepest caves in the Pit of Marloon.

  The dream ended and the Darkman was once more in the chamber of the Repairbots. They had not yet finished the replacement of the leg but the Shadowman would rather endure the pain of their metal fingers then the torment of his dark dreams.

  It was nearing Sunfall when Valen and his tired Whiptail mounted a small rise and looked down on the Toys of Isarie.

  It was a vast open range devoid of grass or vegetation of any kind; all about were the twisted wreckage of ancient war machines and the bones of long dead mega-beasts. There were also great jagged rocks and what looked like long forgotten fortresses of stone.

  The Caladon warrior knew this place not from coming there for it was a forbidden land traveled only by Death Riders and Shadowmen, but by legends and tales told by the Elders of his tribe.

  “This is not our home” he told his Whiptail, he knew he should turn and ride back the way he came, back to the green fields and life filled lands of his world. He looked down on the ground and saw the heavy tracks of the metal monster and more Nomads lying dead and forgotten and it filled his heart with vengeance once more.

  “You may be an iron God”, he said loudly, “but my ax has cut stronger steel then you” and hearing his own words Valen dug in his sharp spurs and entered the land of legends.

  The hundreds of Trofar that pulled the iron God had reached the end of their endurance; they had traveled day and night without rest or food and now their huge bodies refused to go on. One by one they fell to the ground and were dragged by the others of their kind until they also drop and all life vanished from them. Now the great metal sphere stood silently with only a few remaining Nomads and Sandjar standing nearby. All around it were broken machines of titanic size and complexity, huge metal beasts that once had rumbled over the land and battled each other for supremacy. To an Outlander it would seem a place of cast off playthings and forgotten creations of all-powerful Gods. But the Orb understood what had gone on here. It knew that these “toys” were not things made for enjoyment, but weapons forged by masterful minds to wage war. And now it would use all its mind power to make use of those remnants and regain its strength.

  Deep inside the steel cocoon the Orb was glowing with a demon light and pulsing with a billion calculations.

  It had reached into the mind of the Shadowman and with the knowledge contained therein had formed a plan, a war stratagem that would allow it to follow its primary function and bring death and destruction to the world of Gorn. It had precisely calculated the strength of a Trofar and how long it could stay alive without rest or food. It added that to the amount of power it would take to pull its new home to a place that it wished to go and the time it would take to reach it. It was now at that place and ready to engage in the next section of its blueprint for victory. And for that the Tundra beasts were no longer needed, so it commanded the vacant eyed Outlanders and the dying Sandjar to unhook the Trofar and let them remain where they had fallen. When that task was completed it ordered the remaining slaves back into the rebuilt sphere and out of the rising wind and there they would rest for the night.

  But the Orb needed no rest; it would spend the time without light to refine its calculations and make ready for the next phase of its battle projections.

  The Darkman also did not sleep and as the stars came out in the night sky he sat near the Orb and watched as its glowing blue light pulsed up and down.

  Atos will prevail, he thought, mortals cannot defeat Gods, and only a God can kill a God! This started him to thinking, Atos is a strong God, a God of war and death, but Shawcona loved him, why? He stood up on his new legs and began to pace back and forth in the dim chamber. Around his feet the small Spotter robots scurried about as larger Repairbots checked fittings and made sure that the proper amount of nutrient was being pumped into the transparent sphere containing the Orb.

  The God of war had no affection to give yet the Goddess of love cared for him, this revelation made the Shadowman smile. Those that believe in Gods are fools, hatred can only return hatred, vengeance can only return vengeance, it is the way of things, it is the way of the universe, and it is my way.

  And to prove his point he lifted his iron foot and brought it down hard on a small Spotter near him, the metal creature immediately began to strike back with its steel appendages making small sparks fly from the lower leg of the Shadowman.

  You see, this thing does not lay there quietly it fights back, the Darkman pressed down with more force until the metal shell of the robot cracked open with a shower of sparks. When the thing no longer moved he lifted his foot, stood up and began to pace once more, but now his thoughts turned from the romances of the Gods to visions of Nomads writhing in pain beneath his unforgiving feet.

  The Outcast warrior of the Caladon braced himself against the hard winds that now blew from the West. They obscured the vision and filled the mouth with dirt and sand so that he wrapped a cloth over his jaw and lowered the visor on his helmet. The wind was not a problem for his Whiptail for the creature was ideally suited for whatever weather it might incur; now it simply closed its slanted nostrils and drew down its inner eyelids and moved along as if it was clear and sun filled.

  As the light began to fail the wind continued to blow harder and harder, so Valen scanned the land for a place to rest and wait for the weather to turn in his favor. He was not having much luck until he came up over a small rise and saw a half-buried machine not far from him. Ordinarily he would have stayed clear of such a thing but with no other options he decided to make for the ancient toy rather than spend the night being ripped by sand and wind.

  It did not take long to move inside the broken machine, it was large with a half dome construction that made a perfect barrier against the raging wind. At first his Whiptail refused to enter the shelter but after being struck several times in the hindquarter by sharp spurs it changed its small mind and reluctantly moved inside.

  The dome itself was half buried in the ground with a larger section connected to it. There were also many rusty machine parts and inner workings that baffled the mind of the Outlander for how could he possibly understand that the dome was in fact the titanic turret of a monstrous weapon of war. But it was far better than being at the mercy of the blowing wind so Valen got down off his mount and tied it securely to a metal beam protruding from the ground. After that was done he undid his carry pack from his saddle and laid it against the wall of the dome. He raised his visor and removed the cloth about his mouth then checked his remaining water by shaking its container, his ears detected a faint “washing” sound so he took a small sip to slake his thirst. Even the tiny bit of bitter water tasted sweet to him and he would have gladly emptied the whole canteen but his better judgment prevailed and he replaced the cap and thought of something else.

  He looked about him and held the handle of his war-ax tightly for he knew that danger and death could be lurking anywhere and it was better to be prepared for battle rather than be defenseless.

  His stomach began to rumble and he remembered that he had not eaten for some time; he began to rummage through his carry pack hoping that he might have
overlooked a morsel of Rimar meat, but he found nothing.

  He laid the pack on the ground and scanned about for anything that might fill his empty belly. But all about him were only twisted metal and broken pipes. As he looked up he saw that the ceiling of the dome was covered with cobwebs and more hanging bits of metal but he knew that land spiders were poisonous to eat and besides they were far out of his reach. Dejected he sat down near his Whiptail and looked him in the eye.

  “I know you would gladly eat me right now”, he said smiling, “and I am sure your blood would taste sweet to me but I need you”, there was no reply from the two legged carnivore other then a loud roar and a licking of his long dagger like teeth.

  The Outlander sat down near his pack and laid back against the cold steel, he reached into his carry pouch and took out a small bit of green crystal, he looked at it for a moment or two then he spoke.

  “togasttra emo entralac, give us your strength”, he said solemnly, it was a prayer to Isarie that Oulanders spoke before putting Grana into their mouths. Valen swallowed the gift of the Goddess and closed his eyes; he hoped that sleep might end the thoughts of food and quite the sounds from his empty stomach.

  He lay there for a time, then just as he was about to drift off into rest he heard a sound above the raging wind, in an instant he rose to his feet gripping the handle of his war-ax and looking about him for any sign of danger. The wind continued to whip about but the keen ears of a Nomad are trained to distinguish one sound from another. An Off-world human would not have been disturbed but to the senses of the Caladon warrior it was as clear as day.