Nomads The Fallen God

by Gary Mark Lee

  Chapter 15. The Toys of Isarie

  The Goddess Isarie was once a small child, and like all children she danced and sang and played under the heavens. Her mother Nigor, gave her many wonderful toys to play with and because of that, her sisters became very jealous, they too had toys but they were not content with them, so they went to their mother and said.

  “Why do you give such wondrous things to Isarie and not to us?”

  Nigor knew, she had given even finer toys to them, so she smiled and said, “If your toys are not wanted, give them to your sister and she will gladly give hers to you”

  Hearing this offer from their mother, the three sisters bowed their heads in shame, for they knew, their mother had tricked them. Then without saying a word they turned and walked away.

  But childhood does not last forever and so the day came when Isarie cast away her toys and they fell from the stars to the land of her Chosen. There to remain for all time, for the playthings of the Gods are not meant for the hands of mortals.

  Old Nomad story.

  Valen followed the Iron God as it traveled over the Sirolian Plains, for many days and nights he stayed in his saddle and did not rest or sleep. His only food was rotten Rimar meat and he drank only bitter water from his canteen. Although his Whiptail grunted and roared to have its belly filled, he was only permitted to scavenge dead burrow babies, and whatever carrion the Sun-droppers had left.

  He traveled down from the desolate valleys of Omar-Ran into the land of the Earth Shakers near the place where the Heart of Shawcona once lay. The trail was easy to follow, for the tracks of the great beast were many times larger than the footprints of the biggest Trofar. The sky was also filled with circling Sun-droppers, a sure sign, the Iron God had passed, leaving death in its wake.

  I will follow you monster; he thought; I will follow you into the Pit of Marloon if need be.

  The wind was starting to rise, when Valen urged his mount up a small rise, on the other side lay a dozen or more dead Outlanders. Although the bodies were bloody and torn by the beaks and claws of ravenous sky birds, there was still enough left for the Caladon warrior to recognize what tribe they were.

  Ozendra; he thought; I fought beside them in the great war with the Talsonar.

  Valen had no great love for the Ozendra, they had once made war on his tribe and killed his grandfather. They were Outlanders and being so, he could not pass them by and let the scavengers have what remained of them. He got down from his Whiptail and tied the beast to a jagged piece of steel, half buried in the ground. There were several more chunks of rusty metal about, as they were very near the place, where the Toys of the Gods lay.

  After securing his mount, the young warrior moved to a nearby body, it was lying face down and a large portion of its back was missing. The sky birds had been feasting. Valen bent down and turned the dead man over.

  I know this man; he thought; he is Hasgar. He knew this, because he had seen him bury his loving mate and warrior sons, after the great battle with the Pyramid people, also, he had once, been insulted by him at a Gathering. Valen was not a full warrior then, and therefore could not challenge him. Ever since that day he bore a grudge against the man and longed for the day, when he could take his revenge. Now as he looked at the dead man his anger melted away, like a land mist at Sunbirth and he could only see a Nomad, who had no one to bury him.

  “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. 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 mane, to get a better look at what might have killed him. Gazing 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 as 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, he did before he became an Outcast. Since 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, why it should be used as a weapon, to pierce 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. Its size was almost the same as the Lurkers in the Darkness. He knew, the spiders that gave re-birth, never ventured into the light of day, and the gift of the Goddess 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 enemy. He sang an ancient burial song as he dug.

  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 until all is done.

  Valen worked without rest, until all the slain had been properly buried. He had no food to entomb with them, but he did place a small piece of his last Rimar meat, by their side. 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 bits of jagged 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 the hope it would strengthen them on their journey to the Afterlife.

  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, he was safe inside his steel home, protected by the God of War.

  He knew, they were moving, where he did not care, for he trusted his master and was content to live in his shadow. Now he lay in a small chamber, adjacent to the Orb, letting the Repair-bots 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 any way. His left leg, was still made of flesh and bone but now that was unacceptable.

  In the days and nights past, the Shadowman had grown used 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 appendage.

  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 then again at the Heart of Shawcona.

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

  She lied to me, she tried to kill me.

  The Cyber-Darkman did not notice a
s the Repair-bots moved to where he lay, and commenced their work. He could still feel pain, they had not yet replaced that part of his brain with inter-circuitry. 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, grew in the caves of the Hollow Hills. Taken in small doses, it reduces pain and make one feel very content. Taken in large amounts, it will bring madness and death. Now he felt very little as the Repair-bots cut into flesh and bone.

  More images flashed in his mind, 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 Repair-bots removed the leg just below the hip. They attached connoflex terminals to the nerve ends to control movement. Then they 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, he once had. Since 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, his mind and body were now in a dream place. 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 around him, were fat Trofar and Balbar trees with limbs hanging low with ripe fruit. Above in the sky were billowy clouds, the color of freshly fallen snow. He stood naked and felt a warm wind caressing him, he looked down at his body, he saw, it was not scarred or twisted or malformed in any way. He raised his hand and smiled to see the skin smooth, without the claw like fingers and rotten skin that should have been there. He touched his face, he did not feel the emaciated cheeks and sunken eyes of a Shadowman, instead the robust and handsome continence of an Outlander.

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

  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.

  It did not last.

  Around him the land 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, 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 figure burning with fire and smoke.

  What is this coming closer?

  He watched as the image became clear, he watched as it became the one who gave birth to him. 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, 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”, she pulled back the blanket so her son could see what she held.

  It was not an innocent child, 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, the Darkman was once more in the chamber with the Repair-bots. They had not yet finished the replacement of the leg. 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 was 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 here, it was a forbidden land, traveled only by Death Riders and Shadowmen, but from 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. It filled his heart with vengeance once more.

  “You may be an iron God”, he said loudly, “ my ax has cut stronger steel then you”. 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, to be dragged by the others of their kind, until they also dropped, 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 had once 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. The Orb understood what had gone on here. It knew, these “toys” were not things made for enjoyment, but weapons, forged by masterful minds to wage war. 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 demonic light, pulsing with a billion calculations.

  It had reached into the Shadowman's the mind, and with the knowledge contained therein, had formed a plan. A war stratagem that would allow it to follow its primary function, to bring death and destruction to the world of Gorn. It had calculated precisely 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 the place 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. The Tundra beasts were no longer needed, so it commanded the vacant eyed Outlanders and the dying Sandjar to unhook the Trofar, and leave them 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. There they would rest for the night.

  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, watching 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, 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 Repair-bots checked fittings and made sure the the correct amount of nutrient, was being pumped into the transparent sphere, containing the Orb.

  The God of Wa
r had no affection to give, yet the Goddess of love cared for him. This revelation made the Shadowman smile. Those who 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.

  To prove his point, he lifted his iron foot and brought it down hard on a small Spotter near to 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. His thoughts turned from the romances of the Gods, to visions of Nomads writhing in pain beneath his unforgiving feet.

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

  As the light began to fail, the wind continued to blow harder and harder, Valen scanned the land for a place to rest, and wait for the weather to turn in his favor. He was not having much success, until he came up over a small rise, and saw a half-buried machine not far away. 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, 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 Outlander's mind. How could he possibly understand, the dome, was in fact the titanic turret, of a monstrous weapon of war. It was far better than being at the mercy of the blowing wind, so Valen got 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 from his mouth, then checked his remaining water by shaking its container. He detected a faint “washing” sound, so he took a small sip to slake his thirst. The tiny bit of bitter water tasted sweet to him and he would have gladly emptied the whole canteen. His better judgment prevailed, and he replaced the cap, then thought of something else.

  He looked about him and held the handle of his war-ax tightly. He knew, 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 reminding him that he had not eaten for some time. He began to rummage through his carry pack, hoping he'd overlooked a morsel of Rimar meat, he found nothing.

  He laid the pack on the ground and scanned about for anything to fill his empty stomach. All about him was only twisted metal and broken pipes. He looked up, the ceiling of the dome was covered with cobwebs, and more pieces of hanging of metal. He knew land spiders were poisonous to eat, besides they were far out of 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 spoken by Oulanders, before they put Grana into their mouths. Valen swallowed the gift of the Goddess and closed his eyes. He hoped sleep might end thoughts of food, and quiet the sounds from his empty stomach.

  He lay there for a time, 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, the keen ears of a Nomad are trained to distinguish one sound from another. An Off-world human would not have been disturbed, to the senses of the Caladon warrior it was as clear as day.

  In the dim light of Sunfall, he could not see much, and he dare not light a fire, in case the sound was an enemy drawing near. So he stood there in silence waiting for the noise to return.

  He did not wait long.

  Just outside the dome, he could hear padded sounds, as if something was walking slowly. It did not have the heavy footfalls of a Whiptail, and the ground was much too hard for Sand dragons. Never- the-less there was a sound. Slowly, the Nomad warrior moved to the opening that he had come through, then stopped to listen once more.

  Another sound.

  It drew closer and closer, the Outlander braced his feet and readied his weapon.

  It cannot be a Nomad for this is forbidden land; then he realized, it was a mistake to believe that for he was here. A Rimar has four feet and I hear only the sounds of two. Before he could ask his mind another question, a huge head leaned into the entrance to the dome.

  It was a large skull with a massive beak and two small darting eyes, in an instant Valen knew what had awakened him, a large Doff-bird.

  Slowly, the two-legged creature moved out of the wind, and into the Nomad's chamber. It was a male of its species, with long arching head feathers and colorful markings down its long thick neck and over its barrel like body. When it was out of the wind, it stood for a moment and stared at the human, It did it tilted its great head from side to side, as if trying to size up the Nomad as a future meal.

  Valen knew, the huge bird was a meat eater, and could easily kill a warrior, with a strike of its hooked beak or impaled upon the sharp spurs of his hind legs. He quickly glanced over at his Whiptail, who grunted and roared at the sight of the Outland predator. There was no time to reach his mount, and use it to combat the hungry bird, so he decided to stand and fight rather than be struck down from behind, if he tried to run.

  He will try to rip you with its beak; the young warrior thought; if you miss he will turn and try to rake you with his talons.

  Valen crouched down, trying to give the bird a smaller target, just as he did, the creature let out a loud screeching cry and came for him. Just has he had predicted, the bird led with its huge head. The Nomads reflex, was just quick enough, to jerk his body to one side, and the sharp beak of the Outlands Walker, missed his face by a fraction of an inch. Then, just as he moved past, Valen swung his ax, to cut at the thick neck of the bird, but missed! Now the two turned around to face each other again.

  The Whiptail pulled against his reins hard, like all harnesses of the Nomads, it was fashioned with links made from Itarian steel, and could withstand three times the force of an angry Thundra beast.

  With the wind howling outside, the two combatants circled each other. Valen kept a keen eye on the head of the creature, he knew, Doff-birds signal their intent, with a slight nodding of their beaks.

  He will try to jump now; he reassured himself; be ready.

  No sooner did his mind say those words, than the creature let out another cry, and jumped high into the air, its sharp claws spread wide, ready to rip him apart. The Nomad was prepared, and as it arched to the ground, he struck upwards and the edge of his ax cut the bird from its neck down to its belly. A flood of blood sprayed over the Outlander. The flightless bird let out a long screeching cry, then fell to the ground
dead.

  Valen waited for a moment or two, to make sure the creature's powerful legs would not convulse in a death throw and kill him. They twitched for a few seconds, then lay still. With his weapon at the ready, the young warrior approached carefully, when he was sure the bird was dead, he lowered his ax. He wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand and turned to his Whiptail.

  “At least we will not starve,” he said with a smile.

  It was well known that the meat of a Doff-bird is very tough and stringy, it does not make for a good meal. Raw it is even more unpalatable, the Nomad warrior did not care. Later as he sat chewing on a large handful of raw flesh, watching his Whiptail devour the last of the great bird, he smiled.

  Hunger makes the best spice; he thought then continued to eat the tough meat as if it was well-roasted Rimar covered in a warm fish sauce.