Nomads of the Gods

by Gary Mark Lee

  Chapter 33. The Angel of Death

  To all things I give a time.

  Live and dance and sing.

  Fight and kill and weep.

  Ask and wonder and believe.

  And when you have done all this.

  Rest and be still.

  From the Book of Isarie.

  Andra held the Trofar's reins, she rocked back and forth on the wagon seat. She was very tired and although she tried not to listen to the soft beat of the Thundra beast, she found herself being lulled to sleep. Her head fell back and she suddenly jerked herself into alertness. She looked at the old man beside her, he was sleeping soundly. Even though she would have dearly loved some company she decided to let him rest.

  She gazed at the horizon and saw the dim rays of light rising up over the rocky hills. She thought they were going West, she used the stars to guide her but somehow it did not make sense. The sky seemed to change or maybe it was her? Osh had warned her, there was something unique about Gorn, something that could not be calculated or shown by any graph or data-comp screen, something Off-Worlders could not see. After becoming hopelessly lost, Andra knew navigation was impossible.

  No matter how hard she tried, she could not use the stars, not even to follow a simple route. As a soldier, she had been trained how to find her position, whatever world the war was on. The massive guide stars of the Outer Rim were always there to take a heading from. On this world everything was misaligned, the sky changed with each passing night. The orbit of Gorn, caused the Pole Star to move erratically and even the moons overhead wavered in their movements. It was like some great galactic dance that could not be stopped and could not be understood by an Offworlder. Maybe it was just the way things were or maybe it was the will of the Gods.

  I don’t believe in Gods; she thought; and even if there were such things, why would they care about me? The first rays of sunlight broke over the distant mountains and a wave of intense heat suddenly hit her face. She pulled her robe's hood down to shield her from the harsh sunlight. Then she turned to her companion, reached over and shook him, “Wake up, we need to find shelter,” her words were soft but firm.

  Osh made some grumbling sounds, then opened his sleepy eyes, “Yes what is it?” he asked half asleep.

  “Come on, wake up, you’re dreaming,” she said, shaking him once more.

  Osh sat upright and rubbed his wrinkled face, he winced a little as he stretched his arms and legs, then he turned to Andra, “I wasn’t dreaming, Calaxions don’t dream, that's a fact.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, “Everyone dreams.”

  The old man shook his head, “Not everyone, there are many species who do not require a dream state and we are one of them.”

  Andra gave a little chuckle, “Come on, you must dream, it’s what keeps you sane.”

  “Ah yes, there are many species who lapse into madness if they cannot dream. Calaxions eliminated the need to dream but we never lose mental control,” he said proudly, “During rest we coordinate our thoughts into waves of mental corridors, they enhance our abilities during waking periods.”

  Osh was not, telling the truth, when he closed his eyes, he saw images in his mind. They weren't dreams but he saw Endo's face during the darkness of rest. Where is he now, does he think of me?

  His thoughts, were interrupted by Andra's laughter, “No sex, no dreams, what do your people do for fun?”

  Osh was about to answer when Andra lifted her hand, “Never mind,” she said, “We don’t have time, the suns are coming up and we must find somewhere to stop.”

  She scanned the barren land again, she could only see more broken iron hulks and bleached bones, then she noticed something on the ground, footprints! “Look there,” she cried out, pointing to the tracks.

  She could see that a great many Whiptails had recently passed this way. She did not know how many but any trail was better than none. They might be Almadra or one of the other tribes, she knew the Outlanders always knew, which way to go. She decided to follow the tracks and worry about the Nomads later.

  She traced the footprints along the ground, she followed them to a cluster of metal and bones in the distance, “They’re heading that way,” she turned to Osh, “Well do we follow them or go our own way?”

  Osh knew how Andra felt but he also knew that without help from the Outlanders, their chances of survival were almost none existent. He also knew that the tracks might lead them into danger. He tried to estimate their chances but he could not, come up with anything that put fate on their side. So he uttered a short prayer to the Theordian God of travelers and pointed towards the bones, “That way,” he said.

  Andra snapped the Trofar’s reins and their wagon lumbered off, by the morning light they following the footprints.

  As Sun-birth broke over the Finger of Solus, the Almadra gathered to say their farewells to the Frail-legs. The entire tribe stood around the great rock, they sang songs to the Elders who no longer heard them. They dressed in their finest robes and held their Ancestor Chests, small children stood beside their mothers and fathers, trying to be quiet.

  The warriors surrounded the great stone, waiting patiently for the ritual to begin. Over their clean armor, they wore a thin cloak to protect their shoulders against the burning heat of the rising suns. The Whiptails and Spike-backs had been fed and the Trofar were made ready to restart their journey, as soon as the ceremony was completed.

  At the base of the stone stood Obec, surrounded by the Thungodra, with her Handmaidens around them. There had been some grumbling from some warriors, about the way the High Priestess had allowed Agart to take over the tribe's leadership. According to the Law of the Nomads, all Kings should undergo a challenge but the Holy Woman did not call for one. She simply allowed the King's brother to ascend to the leadership. Many of the tribe thought it was wrong to have done it that way. Obec knew of their disenchantment, so she surrounded herself with her trusted warriors. Just in case anyone was foolish enough to go against her and the Gods.

  The Holy Mother had dressed in a black robe to mark a solemn occasion. She wore a small Sagar tooth necklace and the silver and bone Headdress of the Dead. She grasped the carved wing bone of a Screecher in one thin hand.

  The Handmaiden's naked bodies were painted with dark Safic berry juice and they rubbed earth into their hair as a sign of mourning. They held a small Moonbud flower in their hands, they were careful not to touch the pain inducing petals. They moved their bodies to the slow rhythm of soft ceremonial drums.

  Anais was standing with his brother but while the faces of the Almadra showed sadness and regret, his face showed a slight smile. As he waited for the twin suns to break over the pointed mountains to the west, he looked around at his people. They are such hypocrites; he thought; They pray and moan but in their hearts they're glad that it's not them. Silly people, fools bearing more fools. He could not stop himself giggling a little, covering his mouth with one hand, he tried to hide his amusement.

  Agart turned to look at him. The Gods are wise; he reassured himself; but why did they give me such a brother? He looked up at the sky, now turning from black to crimson; but still, he is my brother and I am King, I will care for him.

  He watched the rays of light move over the mountains, onto the finger of Solus. The Frail-legs were sat on the ground in a circle, as the sunlight rose, it cast a long shadow over their faces. They did not seem to notice their sons and daughters standing around them, nor did they hear the sound of the drums or the sad moaning of their people. They sat looking into the place, no one could see but them and listening to the soft music only their ears could hear.

  Obec knew the time had come, she had seen this many times before but even her cold heart was moved, if only a little. She looked at the faces of the old men and women before her, many of them far older than she. As the morning light illuminated an age worn face, she remembered a woman's name. Rina; she thought; once my breast mother.

  Rina's face wa
s an ancient land of deep furrows, almost transparent from the many years of her long life. She had once been a Handmaiden of Isarie, she helped to raise Obec when she was a girl. For a brief moment, the High Priestess' mind returned to those happier years and the games they used to play.

  You cheated at Hand-clap but I always won. The moment passed and she was back in the present time. She turned her gaze to another Frail-leg, a bent, bald headed man, now quite blind. Edan-anoon, you were once the mightiest of the warriors; she thought; you wished to die in battle but you still live, may the Goddess smile on you.

  For all her thoughts, she really did not care, if the Gods smiled on the old man or not. He was of no further use now and he had not really believed in the Gods. He trusted in his own hand and the ax that it held.

  Obec looked at the tribe's strong young warriors; they are the future, Fire and Steel.

  She raised her hand and held up the white staff for all to see. “It is written, when the time comes, we shall all stand before Isarie and she will ask us three questions.”

  Do you know my book?

  Do you follow its teachings?

  Do you believe?

  She pointed to the Frail-legs, “The Almadra who now sit before the Great Stone have followed those words. Now it is time for them to rest, to travel to the Golden Halls of the Goddess. There, to sit at Isarie's feet and she will smile upon them, so it is written.”

  She motioned to Soffca, who stood at her side. Without a word, she picked up a small black box trimmed with gold and silver. There was a curious symbol carved on the lid, a dark spider with eyes the color of blood. The young Handmaiden and carried the box to the High Priestess who placed her hand on the lid. Then in a loud clear voice she said. “To all things I give a time, live and be free, dance and be alive, sing and be my Chosen and when you have lived and danced and sung, rest and be still.”

  She opened the box and reached into it with her claw like hand, she grasped a handful of its contents and then held up her clinched fist, “Give thanks to Isarie for life and for death!” Her words echoed in the air, hearing them, the warriors lifted their weapons and the Almadra spoke as one, “Thank you Isarie for life and for death!”

  The warriors struck their battle axes into the ground and began to moan. The Elders of the Tribe put their hands to their faces and softly uttered prayers for their mothers and fathers. The children put their small hands over their mouths and closed their eyes.

  Soffca put the box down and held up a small golden bowl. Obec put her hand over the bowl and opened her fist, small black crystals made a soft tinkling sound, as they dropped into the golden vessel.

  Agart watched the young Handmaiden move serenely towards the Fail-legs, she handed the golden bowl to a dark robed Touch-tender. The Angel of Death; he thought. Agart watched as Soffca bowed to the woman, then she put out her hand and touched her lips. The kiss of mercy, he thought; Isarie is kind, she will watch over them. He held up his hand, “Let us go, to live the life Isarie has given us and in the days to come, let us remember who gave us life and whose names will be written in her book.”

  Again the Almadra spoke as one, “We will remember,” the warriors pulled up their axes, the Elders stopped praying and the children looked up to see the morning sky.

  “It is finished,” said Obec. With her Thungodra marching on either side, she left the finger of Solus and went to the Goddess' moving shine.

  The Nomads walked back to their wagons, climbed into them, then took up the Trofar reins and continued their journey. The warriors were the last to leave, making sure everyone was safe. The Frail-legs were left behind, the Nomads did not weep or look back, they knew what had to be done, it was necessary. It was their way, the time of rebirth was coming and the time of the Frail-legs had passed.

  They would not suffer, they would not feel the sun’s heat on their weak shoulders. They would not have to sit in torment as their bodies burned, that would be too cruel. Tral, Black Grana, the Mercy of Isarie would take them from this world and the finger of Solus would point their way into the Golden Halls of the Afterlife.

  One Touch-tender remained behind, her name was Aliyun, a tall woman with a kind face and gentle hands. She had offered herself as their companion and their salvation, she looked up at the rising suns and knew the burning heat of day would soon find her. She gazed at the people who had cared for her, now she would care for them. She sat on the ground and said a small prayer to Isarie.

  You are the giver of life and I am the door to your Golden Hall

  Show mercy to our makers and let them see your face.

  Aliyun finished her prayer and watched the last of the wagons disappear into the distance. She looked down at the golden bowl and its ebony contents, she rose up and picked up one of the small dark crystals. She moved to a Frail-leg and gently touched his lips, when he opened his mouth she placed the black crystal onto his tongue.

  She whispered softly, “I am the angel of death but do not fear me for I bring peace.” words into ears that no longer heard. She watched as they closed their eyes then lay back on the soft ground, she covered them with robes of the finest cloth. Then she placed small bowls of Grana on one side of their heads and small loaves of Kasha bread on the other side. She went to the last Frail-leg, she bent down and gazed into the woman's old eyes, she had seen those eyes many times. She had been cared for by her mother and now it was her time to care for her mother.

  She put a crystal into the old woman’s mouth and another into her own. She sat down and took her mother into her arms. I will hold you; she thought; I will hold you as you once held me.

  They sat together and watched the sunlight filling the sky. She felt her mother's head press against her breast, then she heard a soft sigh. She looked down to see her mother's eyes looking into hers, it had been a long time since she had seen that look, the look of forgiveness and love. Then she heard her mother whispering to her, “The Gods will arise.” The words echoed in her mind and a warmth filled her soul, like the touch of a soft hand, then the light dimmed and all was darkness and peace.

  Arn had come a great distance, he had walked all through the night, each step was like an eternity. Sun-birth was coming and he knew he was nearing the end of his journey. Any Off-Worlder would have died a long time ago, from blood loss and pain but a Nomad was bred for strength and endurance and that kept him going. Even so, the relentless suns and Gorn's unforgiving landscape would soon break even a super warrior like Arn.

  He could hide in one of the many broken machines and scavenge for food, eating the night crawlers or sand beetles, they might sustain him for several days or more. He would only become a Waste-wanderer, forgotten and alone, with only his memories and Screels for company. It was better to die a Nomad, than live the rest of your days without a home or a tribe, an Outcast.

  He looked at his hands, he could feel his fingers but when he tried to clench his fists he felt no strength. He'd found some small Rock-worms to ease the pain, although his head still pounded like a war hammer and his vision was blurred. In spite of all this, he kept walking, he did not want to sit down and let death take him without a fight. He would rather meet the Soul Taker on his feet and he might find enough strength to battle the dark one before feeling his icy grip.

  He walked past a half buried land craft of some kind and noticed a jagged piece of metal hanging from an exploded armor plate. Its size and shape resembled a warrior's ax, he went over to the steel fragment, then clutching it with both of his hands, he pulled with all his strength. A fiery pain, shot up his arms but with a tremendous effort, he tore the steel away.

  He inspected his reward. A weapon; he thought; when the Angel of Death comes, I shall meet his challenge.

  He continued to walk, many of the Poison Land's small creatures watched him pass, they did not attack, they preferred to wait for him to fall, then they would move in for the feast. He looked up at the morning sky, it was streaked with red and gold. No Sun-droppers, too early for them; h
e told himself; but they will be out soon and they will be hungry.

  He continued walking, step by step, he kept a lookout for any sign of Sand Dragons but he saw nothing. He was heading East, towards the Hollow Hills, it was a long way on foot, he knew there was little chance of reaching it in time but he kept walking.

  He came over a small rise in the land and he was hit with the full heat of the morning suns. It was like standing beside the Iron-worker's forges, heat and more heat, waves of heat hitting him again and again. He stopped for a moment. Death is waiting for me and it will be a good fight. He carried on holding his rusty weapon and laughing softly to himself.

  Andra had lost the tracks when they came over a small rise, the sand ended and then it was hard ground, the footprints disappeared. As a young girl she tracked small animals, abundant in and around her farm, once she came face to face with a Horde-wolf. That was a long time ago and now she had to face the fact that they were lost once more.

  She looked back at the twin suns as they rose and felt the heat. She knew it was going to be even hotter than yesterday and the sooner they found shelter the better.

  She looked over at Osh who was sleeping next to her; he had placed several woven mats against the wagon's hard wooden seat and laid back to rest. Looking at him, she decided there was little need to wake him, to tell him the obvious. It was better to let him sleep and keep going. She took another bearing on their last known heading, towards a very large iron structure and gave her Trofar a sharp snap on his hindquarters, the wagon began to roll once more.

  Near the titanic hulk of a fallen Light-ship, the outcast King of the Almadra staggered like a drunken warrior. He licked his parched lips and wiped his brow with the back of his hand, he looked out over the landscape, then at the ground. He tried to shake off the dull pain in his mind but when he shook his head, it made the world spin around. He swayed on his feet and almost fell but he caught himself and stood upright once more.

  He looked around again, he could see the spaceship's huge bulk in the distance, it seemed like a gigantic monster or an Earth-shaker? In his fevered mind, it was a call to battle, to fight one last time before he died. He lifted his rusty weapon, then called out in a loud voice, “I am Almadra, kill me if you can!” Then he laughed as only a Nomad can, deep and full of defiance, “ I am Arn, outcast King of the Almadra, come, let us fight!”

  Wearily he walked towards his enemy, still laughing to himself and the Gods. As he walked up a rise, around the bones of some forgotten creature, he heard a voice, one he had not heard for some time, his father's.

  “Where are you going?” he asked his son.

  Arn turned his blurry vision to see a spectral image of his father walking next to him, he was dressed in fighting armor and as always held his head high. Arn looked at the dead King but did not answer, he kept walking, until his father spoke again.

  “A King always knows where he is going, he has to know where to lead his people, where are you going my son?”

  A moment passed as Arn tried to shake the image of his father from his eyes, when it remained, he had no choice but to answer the man he'd killed.

  “You are dead,” he said softly, “You sit in the Halls of Isarie.”

  The image of his father looked at him hard, “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Arn gripped the broken steel in his bloody hands, “Yes, I killed you.”

  “Yes you killed me, you followed the laws of our tribe and became King,” the specter replied, “Now you have broken those rules and you walk alone towards death.”

  The outcast warrior pretended not to hear and kept walking but he heard his father’s words again.

  “I thought I'd taught you everything, I died thinking I had given my people a strong King but I was wrong.”

  Arn closed his eyes, “Leave me alone.”

  “I am ashamed to sit in the Halls of the Goddess,” the old King said.

  “Go away.”

  “Do you hear laughter, it is the Gods laughing at you?”

  “Stop!” Arn swung his weapon but there was nothing solid to strike, the ghostly image remained.

  Then the old King smiled at his son, “Do you know my book, do you follow its teachings, do you believe.”

  The outcast heard his father. The three questions. Do I believe? do I believe? Do I? he thought.

  He turned to his father but there was no one there, only air and a land of emptiness and pain. He wiped his eyes again, trying to clear them of the ghostly images then he looked back to a shape filling the sky before him. A giant monster come to do battle, a monster from beyond.

  He forgot his father's words of and his mind filled with the killing madness. He would meet this monster and fight, he would kill it and keep killing until the end. He began to laugh once more and then shouted as loud as he could, “I am Arn, once King of all the Almadra, I no longer believe but I will fight, come and we shall do battle!”

  He swung his weapon over his head in defiance and looked up at the burning sky, then he cried out again. “Do you hear me laughing Isarie, I will answer no more questions, I follow no more laws, I am free, send your Angel of Death, you cannot kill me, I am already dead!”

  Against the dark body of the colossal iron monster ahead of him, he saw a small shape, a shimmering outline of something coming towards him, as it grew nearer, he could make out a vague outline, a woman. The Angel of Death!

  He stopped and stood holding his weapon, he braced his naked feet on the hard ground then threw back his head and shouted, “Do you hear Dark Angel, I am dead!”

  He staggered and his vision began to fade, he grasped the jagged steel in his hands, squeezing it hard until the blood from his wounds began to flow once more. His breath came in short gasps and he struggled to remain conscious, he lifted his jagged weapon so he could die with it in his hand. He knew he would not find his way into the Golden Halls of the Afterlife but he wanted to die in battle just the same.

  He watched as the death demon came towards him, the last thing he remembered was the Bringer of Death holding out her hand to take his soul.

  Sun-fall had long since passed and now the sand and wind blew relentlessly over the vast emptiness of the Poison Lands. It came in great gusts like the hot breath from a racing Whiptail. Many creatures would normally be out under the night sky, now they took refuge whatever they could. Some dug deep underground, while others crowded into cracks in the earth or the remains of the giant broken machines that dotted the land. Only the huge Shell-backs could withstand the raging wind but only for a short time. They too would seek shelter, then wait for the morning sky to begin their wanderings once more.

  Like those creatures, humans had to find a place to hide too, while nature vent her fury. In the cracked hull of the fallen Light-ship next to their wagon, Andra and Osh sat out the storm, they tried to save the life of a man who once saved theirs.

  Andra looked down on the outcast King of the Almadra's bloody body, she had mixed feelings. On one hand she wished he would die for leaving her at the Dome of Omargash and breaking his promise, on the other she took pity on the horrible wounds to his wrists and body. Perhaps it was her soldiers training or maybe she still felt some love for him? She continued to clean his injuries with Po, mixed with water, then she tied strips of soft clean cloth around his writs. She found some Blaze-ants in a ground nest near their camp and used their strong jaws to clamp many cuts on his body. She let the insects bite hard then pulled their heads off to make a crude suture. Then she noticed Osh preparing a kettle of Hagar soup.

  She was thirsty rather than hungry, then she heard a faint rumbling in her stomach, telling her she'd not eaten in a long time. Suddenly the smell from the cooking pot seemed very good.

  Osh added another disk of dried Trofar dung to the Washa fire, there was no Eul to be had. He stirred the soup a few more times, then lifted a wooden spoon to taste his concoction. Not bad; he thought; a bit more Ulon spice and it will be perfect. He looked over at his companion, �
��How are his life signs?” he asked.

  Andra looked down at Arn and drew a clean cloth over one deep puncture in his side, “He’ll live,” she replied.

  She heard the Trofar bellow loudly, she looked across to make sure he was not in danger and was still tied securely to their wagon. Andra knew the fallen ship's heavy steel plating would keep out most of the wind and sand, they would be safe for the time being. The creature still made grunting sounds but she decided to ignore it.

  Osh tasted the soup one more time, then took two clay bowls and filled them with hot soup. He walked over to Andra, sat the bowl down beside her, then rested himself on an iron beam that lay half buried in the ground. He settled back and took a mouthful of the hot soup, he swallowed it, making smacking sounds with his mouth, then turned to Andra, “Come on, eat or it will get cold” he said.

  Andra took one look at the steaming bowl and shook her head, “How can you eat that now? It’s like an oven in here and you want me to enjoy a hot bowl of soup.”

  The old man smiled as he took another mouthful, “It is a well-known fact that eating something hot, makes you feel cooler.”

  Andra shook her head, “I don’t know where you get such ridiculous information.” She watched as Osh was about to go into one of his long winded explanations, when she heard a faint moan from the unconscious King, he opened his eyes.

  For a moment, Arn thought he had been wrong and his soul had found its way into the Golden Halls of Isarie. In the glow from the Washa fire, Andra's face seemed like the vision that filled his mind when he wandered in the Poisoned Lands. As his eyes refocused, he knew he wasn't dead and his journey was far from over. He looked into her eyes and wanted to say many things. He wanted to tell her, he still loved her and that he'd been wrong when he turned away from her in the Great Dome. He wanted to say, he would never leave her again, these thoughts passed through his mind in seconds but he looked at her and could say nothing.

  When Andra saw him standing delirious in the Wasteland, she watched him raise the jagged piece of iron, as if to do battle, she wanted to take her ax and drive it into his unfaithful heart. When they lifted him into their wagon and carried him to the shelter of the fallen Light-ship, she wished he wouldn't wake up, then she wouldn't have to hear him lie to her again. Now she decided her wishes weren't doing any good, so she leaned over and looked him in the eye.

  “What you bring out of the Wastelands is yours,” she said coldly, “I saved your life and now you belong to me.” Then she got up and walked away.

  Arn watched her go, he wanted to call after her but he was too weak and there was nothing to be said.