Nomads of the Gods

by Gary Mark Lee

  Chapter 44. The New Land

  Any soldier of the Talsonar who shows cowardice in battle will be executed and with him ten of those in his company. They will be killed by being bound and thrown to the Yangmar, what is left of their bodies shall be scattered to the winds.

  By order of Darken Droganus, Lord High Governor and Supreme Commander of the Talsonar.

  The Talsonar army was on the move. Never had the Outlands seen such a sight, a vast moving force of steel, it crushed all that came before it and moved like a living thing. The number of warriors was uncountable, hundreds of wagons and carts filled with all manners of supplies, came with them. There were water jugs the size of two tall men and wine barrels that could quench the thirst of a whole company of Hal-Jafar. As they moved the ground shook and all creatures of the Outlands feared them.

  There were rows upon rows of Spike-backs, each mounted with heavy guns and behind them rows of Disruptors. They were manned by soldiers covered in well-made armor and trained to perfection. At the front of the army were the Yangmar, they were chained to each other in groups of four or more. Each of the huge creatures was heavily armored and had a chamber rifle and several, hand held weapons. They had thick steel helmets and their enormous hands, were covered by iron gloves embedded with spikes. They made no noise other than grunts and only moved when they were ordered.

  Each section of the Yangmar had a leader, he was a well-trained Talsonar soldier, who rode in a well-armored wagon drawn by two Trofar, also armored. With him were several other soldiers to drive the wagon and do whatever needed to be done. They could control their group with blasts from signal horns or the beats of a drum, the Yangmar had been conditioned to obey their masters without question.

  At the back came the Hal-Jafar, they too had been well trained, they did not march with the Yangmar, they rode in special wagons holding a dozen or more. The wagon was thickly armored and had long spikes at the sides to keep any creature from coming to close. They were drawn by four Trofar, whose bodies, were protected by chain mail and plates of steel. Inside the wagon, the soldiers could save their strength and wait until they were needed. There were other wagons too but those who rode in them were not soldiers or Talsonar warriors, they were weapons.

  Runners were neither human nor creature but a mixture of both. Small of stature but with heavily muscled legs, they had been conditioned to carry a back pack of explosives and run at great speed towards the enemy. On contact they would blast themselves and their target into fragments, there was no other purpose for them, no other meaning to their lives. They sat blindfolded and silent, they had no thoughts other than their own destruction.

  At the center of the army was a great moving structure, it was almost as large as the Holy Shrine of the Goddess and as well protected. It was covered in steel and had four turrets that could point in any direction. The turrets contained Long-Range guns and a Disruptor, if anything came too close, it would be destroyed.

  The moving fortress, was pulled by a dozen or more large Trofar, they were changed frequently to make sure they did not tire. The huge wagon was protected so well because inside rode the Governor and his Generals.

  Around the great moving fortress were several smaller heavily armored wagons. They were pulled by a large Spikeback, each the size of a full grown ax breaker. The armored wagons had no windows or openings other than a small door and small slits in the thick steel, over all there was a Rimar hide sun covering. They were very well guarded and no one knew what they contained, only those close to the leaders.

  Those who rode inside the armored carriers were happy to be without the sun, they were Shadow-men.

  The Darkman had chosen his best people to be guides for the Talsonar, only they could lead the army into the Outlands and stop them becoming hopelessly lost. They rode quietly and in safety, thinking only of the time of their revenge.

  At the extreme rear of the army came the camp followers, those who traveled with the soldiers, hoping to share in their spoils or to supply them with whatever pleasure they needed. They consisted mostly of Sin-Cravers and others who had no other place to go. They would stay behind during the day and come into camp at night to sell their bodies for food, drink or the red crystals so many depended upon. There were many species, Bolbecs, Al-Carie, Eumec, Borka, Ogarian and all other Off-World types. They all had one thing in common, they had no thought for the future, for they had none.

  Among those poor souls, was one who did not come from the stars, she was a daughter of Gorn, once a Princess of the Almadra.

  Seeda had decided to leave the stone city, With Almec's death there was nothing for her and she decided to go with the army. She no longer cared for the sunlight on her face or the wind in her hair, she rode with others like her, letting the days pass without counting them. She remembered nothing, the images of her past had slowly faded like the light at Sun-fall. She wore a dirty robe, nothing more, her hair was matted and her eyes did not have the shine of life. The spark that once burned in her so brightly, was now a dim light that gave little warmth. She huddled in the back of a crowded wagon and shook with cold despite the warmth of suns in the sky.

  Inside the rolling fortress, Governor Darken basked in the warmth of his power. With him were his two Generals and the Darkman, dressed in black, they sat close together so their voices would not carry. Around them, stood several slaves who could not hear what they were saying for they had been rendered deaf.

  Darken leaned back in his ornate chair and looked across the table at the Darkman's decaying features. “Are you certain the Outlanders will be where you say they will be?” he asked. “I do not want to find only empty land.”

  The Darkman nodded slowly. “They will be, where I say,” he said confidently. “The movements of the Nomads are as certain as the motions of the stars, they live by their habits and do not change to fit the wind.”

  Hearing these words the Governor relaxed in his seat. “Good and are you sure that the guides you supplied can lead us to them?”

  “They know the way,” the Darkman replied, “they will take you anywhere you want and bring you back, they will obey your commands.”

  This made the Governor smile, “very good, you have kept your end of the bargain and I will keep mine.” There was a pause while Darken took a sip of wine from a gold cup. “Soon there will be no Outlanders left in my new world.”

  He took another sip of wine, he heard one his Generals murmuring in a low tone. He looked at Leeander. “There is something you wish to say General?” he asked.

  Leeander cleared his throat then spoke. “Forgive me your lordship but I do not trust this man, who can say if he is telling the truth or leading us into a trap?”

  Before the Governor could answer the question, the Darkman turned to the General. “You are right, you cannot know if I am truthful or full of deceit but you have no choice.”

  This made the Governor laugh. “True and if no one makes a move, war is a very poor game.” They will be the pawns and I will be the Man-God.

  Suddenly, General Yung spoke up, “But war is not a game your lordship.”

  It was bold to question the Governor but he did not seem to mind being questioned. “You’re wrong General, everything is a game. Life or death. War or peace. It’s just amusement for the Gods,” and you are my playthings.

  There was no reply from Yung and no further questions. The Darkman rose from his seat, “I will go now, I have other things that need my attention. Follow the plan and take your soldiers to the East and the West.” He started to leave, then he stopped and looked at the Governor. “I will come to you, when the Nomads are fleeing from your soldiers, on that day everything will be yours.”

  Darken lifted his cup in a salute to his new ally, then watched the dark robed man leave. He turned back to his Generals and spoke in a low voice. “On that day I will have everything, including his head.” He took a long drink and those in the room joined him in this pledge.

  The twin suns had set and
the night was clear and clean, overhead the moons of Gorn moved slowly across the heavens, making it look like they enjoyed looking down on the new world below. Listening closely, you could almost hear them laughing as they played games and chased each other through the eternal sky.

  Arn, Andra and Osh had a new companion to journey with them, Endo had grown into a strong young Sandjar. His survival during the Burning Time had been a matter of sheer luck. When he left the Eye of Isarie, he wandered South out of the plains of Darmock and found a small family of Sandjar. They took him in, later they joined up with Sandjar going to the Hollow Hills to sleep until after the fires had gone.

  When he emerged, he was no longer a weak juvenile but a fully grown adult member of his new tribe. The tribe, was taken in by a larger group and their leader was Og, his true father, although he did not know it then, he was just another clan member. They did what Sandjar do and when they caught scent of the dead Rimar and Whiptail, they also found the trio of humans. When Og realized he'd found the human woman who took his son away, he was mad with fury.

  That was when Endo knew what had happened but kept it to himself. He decided to try to help the only father he'd known. Perhaps luck or the will of the Gods but either way Endo and Osh were reunited.

  They all sat beside dead Sandjar's wagon, after disposing of its cargo of rotting meat, they feasted on the Hagar soup, Osh cooked for them. Even without the spice that would make it even more palatable, it was a fine meal. They also found some wine, taken from a fallen Dropship by the scavengers, it was not well-aged Po but it would do.

  “What shall we do with this creature?” Arn asked, as he wiped some wine from his lips, “we cannot take him with us.”

  “Why not?” asked Osh. “He saved my life, surely that deserves some reward?”

  “He is not one of us,” Arn replied. “He is a scavenger and not The Chosen of the Gods.”

  Putting down her empty soup bowl, Andra gave him a look. “What are we? You told me you are free of the Gods now, so why do you follow their rules. As for being a scavenger, we all must scavenge the land to survive now.”

  Her words fell heavily on the Nomad. She is right, we are all Outcasts now. “Very well, he can come with us,” he looked at Osh, “can he fight?”

  Osh looked at his son and then at the Nomad. “Like all intelligent creatures, he can learn,” he said proudly.

  The Almadra made camp where the Hollow Hills sloped down into the vast open lands of the Salgar dunes. The land was open, lacking the valleys and canyons of the mountains they'd left behind. Here was grass and water and herds of Rimar roamed.

  It was a welcome sight to the Outlanders, they were people of the plains and they felt more comfortable out of confinement. Seeing the endless expanse of green laying before them, they believed the Gods were smiling on them once more.

  They set their tents up near a large outcropping of rock, called the Skull of Balmor, the Nomads believed it was the skull of one of the Titans, a race of creatures who battled the Gods in the Before Time.

  Here they would find a place to rest for a while, the warriors had hunted well and the smell of cooked Rimar drifted over the camp, mixed with the fragrance of freshly baked Kasha bread and well-aged Po. The Almadra danced and sang songs filling the night with joy.

  The Elders smiled to see the young playing and testing their strength in games of battle and the mothers and fathers watched closely to see, which of their offspring was the strongest. The Time of Choosing would soon be here, then they would have decided who lived and who died. For now they laughed and sang with their children and listened to the beat of the drums far into the night.

  There was one who did not sing or dance, Agart sat alone in his tent, hearing only the emptiness of his sad heart. He had eaten very little in the past few days and only drank Po. He found forgiveness in the sour wine and for many days and nights, took refuge in its warm embrace. He sat slumped in his tent, waiting for the night to take him. If only I could sleep; he thought; a sleep without haunting memories of the past.

  He knew there would be no such sleep, he'd tried to find rest many times but he would always the same dream. He saw his brother standing before him, he saw him gazing into his eyes and asking one simple question. Why?

  He tried to answer, he tried to tell his brother, he was sorry and he had failed him but nothing came out of his mouth, there was an icy silence. He saw Arn become like a fire that fire grew and grew until he burnt like an ember in the Pit of Marloon. He watched the fire embrace him and he saw himself falling into a sea of fire, then the dream ended and he found himself alone.

  Sleep, if only I could sleep; he told himself but he remained staring up at his tent roof. He heard a sound from outside, the tent flaps opened and in walked the Holy Mother.

  Obec was dressed for the Choosing, a dark robe embroidered with moons and stars. She wore a tall headdress of ivory and gold, an impressive sight, especially to Agart's wine clouded mind.

  “Holy Mother?” he said, as he tried to stand. “I was not expecting you, why have you come?”

  Obec motioned at the two tall Thungodra to leave, bowing low they left closing the tent flap. Obec walked purposefully to a small chair next to Agart and sat down. She smoothed the folds of her ornate robe then looked into the weary King's face. “I have come at the Gods behest.” she said quietly, “they told me. you are troubled and seek rest.”

  Agart tried to compose himself. “It is true your holiness but I do not wish to trouble the Gods with my pain.”

  Obec smiled, “Nonsense, Isarie is all merciful and knows all our pain. If we are to be strong enough to fight in her name, we must be humble and tell her what lies in our hearts.”

  Agart let her words fill his mind, a small voice told him to be wary of the old woman but another stronger voice told him, she might hold the power to help. “My heart is dark and I can find no rest,” he said softly, “is there rest in the hands of Isarie?”

  Obec again smiled, “The Goddess knows all our needs.”

  As she spoke, the tent flap opened again and in walked a Handmaiden the Prince recognized as Soffca. She was dressed in a simple robe and carried a silver tray with two cups and a container. With the sight of steam rising from it and the smell, Agart knew it was hot tea.

  “I have brought you some of my best Deep-root tea,” Obec said smiling, “it will help you sleep.”

  The King watched the Handmaiden place the tray on a small table next to Obec, she poured two cups of steaming liquid, then she bowed and left the tent. Obec reached into her robe and took out a small pouch. “The tea is good but I think you might like a bit of spice, to add to its taste.” She took a pinch of the substance in the pouch and dropped it into one of the cups, she handed it to Agart, taking the other cup for herself. “Now tell me what troubles the wise King of the Almadra?”

  Agart took several gulps of the tea, it was warm and tasted delicious, it made him feel much better. “I know, that what I did to my brother was the will of the Gods but I cannot help feeling that I made a mistake. Tell me, was I doing the will of the Gods?”

  Obec took a long sip of her drink, then placed the cup down on the table, she leaned close to the King. “The Gods are not yet content,” she said.

  For a moment Agart did not understand her, until he felt the warmth in his stomach moving upwards, looking into Obec's cold eyes, he suddenly realized she'd poisoned him. I'm going to die; he told himself.

  He wasn't angry, he let the warmth rise up his body without calling out or lifting his hand in anger. The Goddess is all-merciful, perhaps she will forgive me? He laid back and closed his eyes, at last I can sleep, at last I can rest. Warmth engulfed him and in his mind, the last thing he saw was his brother holding out his hand to him.

  Forgive me brother, forgive me. He saw a great light, shining with a brilliance he had never seen before and in the light he saw the figure of a woman, one whose face he longed to see. Isarie? She has come; the light engulfed him and
there was nothing more.

  Obec sat looking at Agart's face, she felt very little. He has done his part; she told herself as she took a small sip of tea. He was a fool but a believer in the Gods, he will find a small place to sit in the Golden Hall. She put her cup down and stood up. “Guards!” she called out, Soffca and several Thungodra were standing at the tent's entrance. “Prepare his body for burial.”

  As they carried the dead King out of the tent, Obec turned to Soffca. “Tell Anais, I wish to see him.”

  Without a word, Soffca bowed low and left to convey the High Priestess' words to the new King of the Almadra.