Nomads of the Gods

by Gary Mark Lee

  Chapter 35. Lords of the Underworld

  Travel all the lands that I give to you.

  They are yours to live in and be free.

  But the lands below your feet are not yours.

  They are the Kingdoms of the dead.

  From the Book of Isarie.

  The great herds of Rimar marched steadily across the barren lands of Koto-Car, their numbers uncounted. A great mass of wandering life, their pounding feet made the ground shake and make the air thick with dust. They came from as far away as the Southern Borders, past the Great Pyramid cities near to the Haunted Jungles of Yung. They came from the Great Western Sea, where the Giant Leviathan's swam as Gods of the Oceans and the Wave Riders lived in fear of their wrath. They came from beyond the Land of the Nomads and out of the dense forests of Caltarine in the East. They came from the sky hung mountains or wind swept desserts, their instinct guided them to the Hollows Hills, where they would find safety from the burning skies, soon to engulf their world.

  With them prowled fierce Whiptails and many fell to the carnivore's powerful jaws but they were so numerous that their existence, was not threatened by the carnivores. It was nature’s way, old and the weak perish, the species would remain strong and vibrant.

  Along with the Tundra-beasts were Loppers and Dawn-callers, Spike-backs and Death-roamers. All the Great Beasts of the Outlands that could not withstand the Burning Time, sought shelter in the massive caves of the Hollow Hills.

  Only the Earth-shakers were immune to the blazing heat, their massive bodies had thick shell backs and they had ability to sink into the ground, keeping them safe from the flames and heat. They would rest and sleep through the inferno, to wake again when the cooling rains came.

  With the beasts of Gorn were the humans, who had recently been made Outcast, now they made their home in the Outlands. As Sun-birth was about to break over the jagged mountains, the wagon of an Off-World woman, a Callaxion and a Nomad, trekked across the rocky ground.

  Arn held the reins tightly, his hands now healed, he watched as the Night-criers winged their way across the breaking skies, back to their homes in sheltered caves, high in the mountains, there to wait out the daylight. The Nomad sat quietly, remembering when he was a young boy, driving his mother's wagon. He imagined he could hear her singing as she prepared the evening meal. He remembered how annoying his younger brothers were and how his sister poked him in the back with her wooden ax, then ran to her mother’s side for protection.

  Arn looked up at the sky and saw the many moons overhead. You are the family of the heavens; he thought; you will be together for all time.

  He looked at Andra sitting beside him, in spite of all her efforts, she had fallen asleep and now rocked slowly from side to side with the wagon's motion, over the uneven ground. Let her sleep; he told himself; she will need all her strength for the time ahead.

  From the back of the wagon, he could hear the old man's loud snoring.

  Try as he might, he couldn't fully understand the Callaxion. His stories about other worlds and vast mechanical devices that could answer any question, seemed ridiculous. To think of such a weak Off-Worlder, commanding these machines to his bidding, was surely the blabbing of a madman.

  He must have eaten too much Boda, or cooked his mind in the midday heat; he thought; but he is a harmless old man, perhaps the Gods will smile on him. Then his mind raced to the future and the caves in the Hollow Hills. He remembered something else; the lurkers in the darkness, the glowing eyes of Isarie, they will welcome us, they will give of their strength even to Outcasts.

  The wagon bounced over a large rock and Andra opened her eyes, she looked around and could see light breaking over the mountains, she had slept through the night.

  “You should have woken me, so I could take my turn at the reins,” she said as she rubbed her eyes and stretched her arms.

  “You needed the rest and I wasn't tired,” Arn replied.

  Andra took the reins from his hands, “I’m not tired and I don’t need rest.” She snapped the reins as if to punctuate her words, Arn didn't say anything, he let her have it her way.

  They sat without speaking for several minutes, the last few days had been hard for them. Andra still did not trust Arn fully and he felt remorse for what he had done. They knew that with time, they could overcome the past and look to the future. The light from the mornings suns began to advance and the first rays hit them.

  To Andra it felt like the branding irons used by Horca breeders, on her home world, “We'd better find somewhere to shelter fast or we’ll cook,” she said.

  Arn looked up at the sky and paused as if he was listening to an inner voice telling him where to go. He pointed to a range of hilly of rocks in the distance, “That way,” he said, “We can reach those hills by midday, it's where we want to be.”

  “Midday?” Andra asked, “By then we’ll be brunt to a crisp!”

  “We have no other choice, we must reach those mountains if we are to survive.”

  “Why can’t we setup camp here and make the journey tonight?” she asked.

  Arn shook his head, “We are in the path of the migrating Whiptails, if they find us, they will kill us, we must keep moving.”

  Andra could tell that this was no idle statement, she decided not to waste more time and gave the reins another snap to hurry their Trofar towards their goal. The huge animal gave a loud grunt and went where it was directed. Andra could see that the creature was in pain, the strain of the pulling the wagon was taxing its strength to the limit. There was unfortunately, no other choice so she urged the beast onward.

  Far to the North, the Almadra had reached their objective, they had at last, arrived at the home of the Ergan-Mar. The mole like Earth-eaters, the people who dug the Grana Salt and gave life to the Outlanders. Their homes were scattered throughout the Hollow Hills, each group traded exclusively with one Nomad tribe in exchange for the precious green crystals.

  The Almadra moved their wagons against the rocks and outcroppings of the scarred mountains away from the light of the suns. They put up the sun shields and moved the Trofars and Whiptails into some, of the many caves in the mountain. As always the warriors made a circle around the Elders, the weapons on the Spike-backs were pointed outward in case of a surprise enemy attack. They knew that by midday, it would be far too hot for any human to be out but their fear of the unknown kept them alert.

  The Holy Shrine of the High Priestess was placed in the most secure cave and surrounded by the Thungodra. There it would stay, until negotiations for the Grana was complete. Then the tribe would make the last leg of their journey to the Crystal Caves, their refuge during the Burning Time.

  Agart and a small group of his best warriors walked warily into the great cave of the Ergan-Mar. The floor outside the entrance was scattered with bones and artifacts covered with earth. Excavated by the miners, they were of no value, so they threw them out. There were the skulls of creatures unknown and pieces of fantastic machines that not even an Off-Worlder could understand. To the Nomads it was worthless junk, forgotten playthings of the Gods. They had more important things on their minds, if they did not acquire the precious Grana, their lives would soon end with the sickness and they would have nothing to trade. They did not like the Ergan-Mar, or Cave-Carvers as they were sometimes known, to them they were a sub-species, much like the Sandjar. Their ways were strange and it was suspected, that they practiced obscene rituals in the deep bowels of the earth. In the same was as with the Talsonar, they had no choice but to trade with them. If the miners wanted something they had, then they would come to some sort of arrangement.

  With Agart at the head the warriors, they went further into the great cave until the blazing sunlight was all but gone. They carried their weapons and a small basket of stone bread. When they were far enough in from the entrance, they stood for a moment, to let their eyes grow accustomed to the darkness.

  A short time later, they heard a rustling in the darkness, then the s
ound of padded feet, from the shadows came several figures. They moved to the edge of light, then stopped to look at who had intruded into their dark realm.

  They resembled the ape creatures of the Jungles of Yung but unlike those savages, they were virtually hairless. Their skin was pale with rough protrusions that looked like there were horns sticking out of their flesh. They were short and muscular, with strong arms and legs. Their heads were wide, with a broad heavy jaw and a protruding forehead. They had no eyes to speak of, just tiny slits in a bulbous face. Their small ears were alert to the slightest sound and piggish noses could detect a Rock-worm from far away. Their pale skin was very dirty, their elbows and knees were covered with metal plated Rimar hide, caked with earth and dust. They carried digging implements that could easily be used as weapons. While they stood waiting, they grunted in their strange language and made gestures to each other.

  The leader, a bit taller than his comrades lumbered forward, he held a digging bar in one great hand and spoke in broken words that could hardly be understood.

  “Trade?” he said in a short grunt.

  Agart stepped forward, “Yes, trade,” he said.

  The leader rubbed his dirty face with his thick-fingered hand, “Food trade?” he said.

  “Yes, we have bread and meat for trade,” the King replied. One of the warriors gave him a small loaf of the over spiced stone bread, Agart tossed it to the miner.

  The Ergan-Mar leader picked up the bread and sniffed it, then stuffed it into his mouth, he chewed then swallowed, “Good,” he said, then he rubbed his stomach, “Trade for food and hard.”

  The King nodded in approval, “Yes, trade for food and hard.” He was about to turn and go when the miner grunted loudly, Agart turned back to see what he wanted.

  The dirt-covered creature made a signal with his huge hand but the King did not understand it. The miner spoke, “More trade,” he said.

  “Trade?” asked the King.

  The leader tilted his head to one side, “Trade for soft,” he grunted again.

  Agart understood what he wanted, from time to time, the miners asked for a woman of the tribe as a trade. What they did with her in the dark reaches of the earth, no one knew or wished to know, they knew that the women were never seen again.

  Filthy creatures; he thought; they are the dung of the Gods but we have no choice, “Trade for soft,” he said reluctantly.

  This made the diggers very pleased, they grunted and beat their tools on the ground.

  Agart left the darkness and returned into the light with his warriors.

  Far from the Grana miner's cave, the daylight held no mercy for Arn and his companions who looked down at their dead Trofar. The creature had tried its best to reach the mountains but the heat and lack of food and water, took its toll. With a loud grunt it fell to the ground, never to move again. Now there was no way to carry all of their supplies to the sanctuary of the Hollow Hills, some difficult choices would have to be made.

  Arn turned from the dead beast and looked out over the barren ground, he could see Rimar and other beasts moving towards the hills but no Whiptails, that made him feel more confident. He looked up to see the blazing suns, he could feel their merciless heat through the sun robe covering his body. He turned to Andra and Osh, “Take only, food, water and salt, leave the rest,” he said.

  Andra understood what he said, as a soldier she had been in similar situations. Once on Kaylon Six her company had to leave all their weapons behind so they could reach a Mega fort before the enemy counter attack but Kaylon was a cold planet and not a land of burning death.

  She nodded, “I understand,” she said, she looked out over the shimmering landscape, “Do you think we can make it?” she asked.

  The Nomad shrugged his shoulders, “Only the Gods know.” I have forsaken the Gods, they will not see me.

  Osh stood listening to the conversation, he'd made a rough calculation of the distance they had to travel and the time it would take. He included the amount of water their bodies would need to make the trek, then he estimated the temperature and threw in the chance of meeting a Whiptail. He came to the conclusion that the chances of them surviving the journey were very slim. He decided they would have a far better chance without him, “I think I’ll wait here, you can come back for me later,” he said calmly.

  Andra knew that he was just making a noble gesture and she wasn’t falling for it. “I’m not making two trips,” she smiled a little, “and besides if we meet something hungry, we can always use you as a diversion, we can get away while he’s eating you.”

  The old man had very little sense of humor but it did not take a Laugh-Clown to know when she was making a joke. “It wouldn't take long to eat me, then it would come after you,” he said with a small smile.

  Arn did not understand what they were saying, if they met a hungry Whiptail, it would surely kill them all, then eat them at its leisure. “There is no time,” he said, “take what food and water you can carry, then follow me.”

  They took what they could out of the wagon. Andra carried her ax and Arn had fashioned a mace from a some wood and a piece of iron he'd found. They took several large loaves of Kasha bread in a sack, also a carry skin of water and their Grana. Osh was reluctant to leave his treasures behind but there was little choice. In the end he stuffed some Rimar skin scrolls into his robe and carried a small sack of dried meat over his shoulder. In a few minutes they were trudging over the baking earth, hoping they would not end up like their Trofar.

  Agart watched as they loaded the wagons with the precious Grana Salt. They had successfully exchanged the stone bread and a goodly amount of dried Rimar meat for what they needed. There were wagon loads of digging implements, “The hard,” asked for by their leader. They also traded some clay pots, the Ergan-Mar had no skill in making metal tools or vessels. In the past they simply dug by hand but with the Nomads came iron and steel, which made the work much easier. They did not know why they wanted the clay pots, they did not appear to store anything and ate hand to mouth. It did not matter, if they wanted them they got them.

  The bread was what they really loved, they mostly ate Rock-worms, Night-criers, or other underground creatures, uncovered by their digging. Eating a Rock-worm would kill any Outlander but it did not seem to bother the cave dwellers. A constant diet of worms made them crave for something different and the stone bread was a special treat. The last of the wagons were full of the green crystals, there was only one more thing to do.

  The King turned to a group of Handmaidens who had entered the dim cave. They were dressed in black robes and held small candles in their hands, at their head was Obec. She also wore a dark robe with a headdress made from small animal bones. In her thin hand she held an ivory rod with a human skull at the top, beside her stood Soffca holding a small silver and gold chest.

  There was a contingent of Thungodra with the High Priestess, their black beetle like armor made them look like dark insects of the underworld and that was exactly how they wanted to look. They knew the salt miners were superstitious, they worshiped dark Gods that never saw the light of day. Their armor made them look like dwellers of the underworld, it sent a shudder through the minds of the Cave Carvers.

  The King made a gesture with his hand and the Handmaidens moved forward with the Holy Woman, when they reached the edge of the ring of daylight from the outside, they stopped and waited.

  Out of the darkness, the Ergan-Mar's leader lumbered towards them. When he and several of his kind saw the women, they began to grunt and move about in excitement and drool flowed from their flabby lips.

  Obec stepped forward and looked at the earth digger's pale faces, “We give you one of our own,” her words were slow and deliberate. “Take her and return to the darkness, she will be your light and share her life with yours.” The old woman motioned to a young woman in the center of the Handmaidens, who had been out of view. As she came forward, the King saw it was Yogoon, daughter of Nartack and Ubanie, she was beaut
iful and had skin the color of fresh Trofar milk. She was naked and her long dark hair hung down her back to her waist. She had only been a Handmaiden for two cycles but she had taken her vows, now she stood quietly, trusting in the Gods.

  She will be remembered; he thought; her name will be written in the Book of Isarie.

  The High Priestess looked at the young woman and began to speak, “You are their Light of Isarie, your name will be remembered and the Gods will smile on you.”

  The young woman bowed to Obec, then walked towards the creatures of the darkness, while she walked the Handmaidens chanted softly.

  “You are the Light of Isarie, you will bring light into the darkness below. We will remember your name and sing your song, our tears will water the earth and you shall drink from our memories. Ertock maroon, claartie mayrala, we weep for you.”

  The young woman, was taken by the Ergan-Mar and led into the shadows, the Handmaidens wept bitter tears.

  Osh lay on the ground motionless, beside him Andra sat upright supporting herself on one weary arm. Above them was a sky of fire and light that seemed to burn into their very souls.

  “Leave us,” Andra gasped weakly, she put one hand over her eyes trying to shield them from the constant glare.

  Arn stood looking down at his companions, he saw Osh’s chest slowly rising and falling so he knew there was still some life left in him. As for Andra, she was still conscious but he could see she was suffering. He lifted the water skin bag, only a small amount of water was left, he handed it to Andra.

  “Drink,” he said.

  Andra took a few gulps of water then lifted Osh’s head, she poured what was left into his gasping mouth. The splash of water wakened the Callaxion, he looked up through his sun robe and spoke quietly, “It is no use, to old, too much heat,” and then his head dropped and he closed his eyes.

  Andra turned to Arn, “Go on without us, it's the only way,” then she too fell to the ground.

  For a moment Arn stood looking at the hills, they seemed so close but so far away for the Off-Worlders. He wasn't even sure if he could make it before the relentless suns brought him down. He picked up the water skin and emptied the last few drops into his mouth then he tossed the empty bag away.

  They are weak, he told himself; leave them and go on.

  It was the right thing to do, his tribe would do the same to him if needed. There was no pity for a warrior who had outlived his time and who would surely cause the death of others. If they had been with the Almadra, the Touch-tenders could care for them but they were alone, outcasts, forgotten. There was no other choice, it was the natural law of Gorn.

  Arn took a few steps towards the distant hills, then stopped. No more laws; told himself; I am free, free to choose.

  He went back to his fallen companions, throwing his makeshift mace away, he picked Andra up and put her over his shoulder. He grasped the old man under one arm, then picked up Andra’s war-ax with the other. He headed off over the burning ground with an Almadra marching song on his parched lips.

  We are The Chosen of the Gods.

  Our way is the way of truth.

  As one we march. As one we die.

  We stand together under judgment sky.

  By late afternoon Arn could no longer see. The bright daylight had robbed him of his vision but not his determination. His strength was waning but he kept moving ever onward. He licked his dry dust caked lips and tried to shake the sweat from his eyes. He tried to see what lay ahead but all he could see was colored lights in a dark vista, even this did not deter him from his path. Unlike the two humans he carried, he did not need his sight to know where he was going. Nomads had the power to know where they were day or night and right now, Arn was using that power to its limits.

  He closed his useless eyes and trusted to his instincts, with his inner vision, he could almost see the landscape. His ears were attuned to any noise coming his way and he was grateful that all he heard was the sound of his own footsteps on the hard ground. From time to time he stopped and sniffed the air, he knew well, the pungent odor of a Whiptail or a Spikeback. If any of those creatures came upon them, he wanted time to make a defense. All he smelt now was the drying earth and a faint whiff of death.

  He shifted the load on his shoulder and gripped the old man’s body as tight as he could. He could make much better time if he let go of the Callaxion. He also knew it would cause great pain to Andra, knowing her companion was dead and he had caused her enough. He uttered a profanity and continued on, he climbed up over a small rise and stopped for a moment to get his bearings, as he did he heard the voice of his mother.

  “Where are you going my son?” she asked.

  Arn tried to see her face but all he saw was darkness; there is no one here; he told himself, he still answered her question.

  “I am going to the Hollow Hills,” he said.

  “What will you find there, a new beginning?” the voice asked.

  For a moment Arn did not know how to answer, “I do not know,” he finally said.

  “I gave you birth and you drank from my breast, come to me and let all your burdens end,” she said.

  The King shook his head, “I cannot,” he said coldly, then he started to walk, hoping to leave the voice behind but to his dismay, it continued to follow.

  “Your father and I are waiting in the Halls of the Goddess, come to us.”

  “No.”

  “You are no longer King, your people do not need you anymore, the woman is gone, there is nothing left for you here, come to us.”

  “I cannot,” he said through clenched teeth, “I betrayed her once, I will not leave her again.”

  The phantom Queen spoke again, “You have forsaken your people, you have betrayed your mate and you led your warriors to their deaths. You are no longer a King, you are Outcast, without a home, let it end and come to me.”

  “No,” he said and continued to walk like a man in a dream, in his mind he heard voices, the voices of his past. They called out to him, to come to their side, to leave this world and walk in the next. They called in a never ending roar, like the waves of the Western Sea, they beat upon his soul until he bit his lip in rage, when the din became too great he called out to the heavens, “Stop!” The voices stopped.

  Then he heard his mother speak, “Out of the darkness and into the light, the Gods will arise.”

  The relentless light continued to shine down on the lone Nomad, like a great burning hammer pounding into the King's mind, slowly breaking his will to live. Where other men would have died, Arn continued on, he heard no more voices only a soft humming that called to him, to stop and rest, to put his burden down and rest, rest, rest.

  No rest; he told himself; with rest, comes death. I have given death to many, he knows my name. He stopped dead in his tracks and sniffed the air, he knew that death was coming. Carefully he put his two companions down on the ground, then he gripped the battle-ax handle tightly. He smelt the air, hot dusty air filled his nostrils it also filled his heart with fear, “Whiptail,” he uttered.

  His muscles tensed and his heart began to race with the anticipation of battle, all his senses were fixed on the approaching creature. Arn realized it was useless trying to wake Andra and Osh, there was little they could do and to see their death coming would be too cruel. He let them be, when the beast's jaws found them, they would be without fear and their souls would pass to the Afterlife quickly.

  Arn waited, he heard the padding of large feet on the hard ground and then low grunts from the creature. Arn knew those sounds, they were as familiar to him as his own voice and as he listened he realized there might be a chance to survive.

  A young one; he thought; if I strike quickly, I might kill him. He was going to ask the Goddess for her help but then he remembered his own words, “No more laws,” a warrior without laws stands without the help of the Gods, he stands alone. He moved stealthily away from his comrades, then listened, the sound of the feet moved faster, he knew the beast had foun
d him.

  He will come with his head low; He thought to himself; move fast and strike hard. He heard the Whiptail grunting and the ground shook as it raced towards him. Arn looked for his enemy but there was only darkness, so he set his feet and made his weapon ready. Move fast, strike hard; before he could stop himself he thought something else. Isarie, help me.

  There was a rush of wind then the Nomad moved in a blur of speed. The beast’s head went past his face missing it by a fraction of an inch. He felt its teeth rake his armor and smelled rotting flesh on the beast's breath, as it passed Arn struck out with his remaining strength. His ax blade bit into the flesh of creature's neck, he heard a great roar and his body was covered in warm blood.

  With a mighty leap to the side Arn hit the ground hard. He lay there listening to the Whiptail's cries pain, he heard one last roar and a loud thump as the scaly body hit the ground. There were a few more grunts, then silence. Arn remained where he was for a moment, there might still be some life in the monster and one swipe of its horned tail could easily break an arm or leg. He heard no further sounds of movement or breathing and he knew the creature was dead.

  Arn staggered to his feet and went to the dead beast, he felt his way using the end of his ax on the ground until he found the dead creature. He probed its lifeless body until he found the wound, where its blood was pouring out. He placed his dried lips on the wound and drank deeply of the blood that had once given the Whiptail life. The blood would give Arn new strength and a chance of survival. In spite of himself, Arn gave thanks to the Goddess for her gift.

  When he had drunk his fill, the Nomad stood up and wiped his face with the back of a bloody hand. He picked up his ax and returned to his two companions, with renewed strength he picked them up and continued his journey across the baking earth of Gorn.

  The Whiptail's blood kept him moving and his head clear of visions but he still could not see. He started to feel the heat from above and his feet became unsteady. I will not fall; he told himself; I will not fall. With each step he knew his strength was leaving him again. The weight of two humans was wearing him down, each step was a trial of agony but he kept moving.

  His head began to spin, he did not know if his eyes were open or closed, there was only blackness. Then he recognized something in the darkness of his world, a dim light glowed. It moved back and forth in his mind then grew larger and larger, it took on a shape that he recognized. A small moon floating in an endless sea of stars, moving with the winds of the heavens, as he watched it, he heard strange music. It sounded like nothing he had ever heard before, a soft ringing, like mating bells mixed with the lullabies his mother used to sing to him, it called to him.

  He forced his feet to move even though there was no strength left in his legs. He let the music fill his soul and lift him up from where he had fallen. There was no more pain or suffering, there was only the song of the stars.

  So a lone Nomad carrying the burden of his heart entered into the open arms of the Hollow Hills.