The Fallen God

by Gary Mark Lee

  But now it was time to die.

  The twin suns of Gorn were high overhead when the huge Rimar came over the last sand dune and looked down at the valley below, it was a deep almost endless wound in the earth filled with crevasses of sand and rocks. It was littered with the broken remains of giant machinery and the dried bones of other Rimar that had made the long trek to find rest. It was a lonely place, without life or spirit, a forgotten realm that was not traveled by Nomads, Sandjar or even Earth Shakers, it was empty, the place of the dead.

  The Rimar stood high upon the sand dune for a time, perhaps it was feeling the soft wind blowing or maybe it could hear the long off cries of another Rimar? But why it stood we shall never really know, maybe it was saying goodbye to its world, and ending to his wandering, who knows? Then with a loud bellow it slowly moved downward and into the valley.

  It was later in the day when the great beast found what it had been looking for, there in a secluded part of the valley near some large rocks and out of the sunlight it found a place to stop. It slowly sniffed the dry ground seeking out any sign that another Rimar might have been there recently and left its mark, but there was nothing but dry earth and a slight sent of a Burrow baby deep underground. But the Rimars were vegetarians so the furry little creature was safe in its darkened home.

  There was a huge metal machine of some kind nearby, it was ancient and rusty, on its top was a large turret gun and from the way it was protruding upwards it seemed to the Rimar like a battle great horn of its kind. It looked at the gun barrel and then emitted a long low bellow all the while shaking its armor plated head from side to side. This was a way of signaling to any other male that it was willing to fight if necessary, it waited for a moment or two then bellowed again. But there was no reply from the metal creature and the Rimar was satisfied that it had won the challenge so it lowered its head and sniffed the ground once more.

  It stood without moving for some time, the suns were just going down when it suddenly saw a creature approaching. Rimars usually have very good eyesight, but age and weariness had blurred the vision of the old male and the creature that was now coming near was only a dark outline against the setting suns. It was not a large creature by any means, just a dark phantom that had only two legs rather than the four that most other beasts of the Outlands walked upon.

  The creature came closer and the old male let out a loud roar, then it once more began to shake its huge head from side to side as a warning that it was ready to fight. But it was all a bluff, the strength of the Rimar had come to an end and with one last bellow it dropped to the ground and there was no more movement, its life was over.

  Silence now rained over the forgotten valley; there were no more challenges, only the soft murmuring of wind blowing and nothing more, nothing that is except a lone figure that moved like a shadow in the night.

  The creature was tall and covered itself in a ragged robe of black; over this it wore a matted cloak of sewn together fur remnants. A hood covered its features as it moved to the dead Rimar and stood beside it, then after making sure that the beast was indeed dead the figure pulled back its head covering and looked around for any sign of danger.

  The face of the creature was the thing of nightmares, rotting skin hanging from a skull that shown through in patches of white bone. Its teeth were broken and the jaw seems to have been recently shattered, it did not look alive except for its eyes, deep yellowish eyes that burned with the fire of the dammed.

  The Darkman was not dead.

  He had leaped from the Heart of Shawcona at the last battle with the Talsonar rather than be lifted into the sky with the great rock. He had listened to the Voice from the earth calling him to forgive but he would rather have died then let go of his hatred, so he fell hoping that it would put an end to his misery and the Voice would no longer speak to his tormented heart.

  But it was not to be.

  He survived the fall, how? No one could say, perhaps the Gods did not want him in their domains; perhaps his hatred was even too much for the fiery Pit of Marloon? But for whatever reason he was still alive, but just barley, his left arm was useless now, only a broken and claw like appendage that waved about like a dried limb of the Balbar tree. He moved with a limp for his right foot was missing most of its toes and the leg bone had been shattered in the fall, but one thing did not lessen, his abiding hatred for the Nomads.

  As a boy he had been chosen for death, it was the way of the Outlanders, your mother chose between you and your twin, one was taken into the tribe and the other was left to die in the Wastelands, he was chosen for such a death. But his mother Egmar could not bring herself to end his life by giving him the black crystal of death called Tral, so she left him to the Outlands. He should have perished but the Shadowmen found him, other like himself that had survived the Choosing and made their home in the Poison lands.

  Now he stood over the dead body of the Rimar, and taking out a stone knife he began to cut into the soft underbelly of the huge beast. It took some effort but in time he was able to open the flesh and pull out the warm entrails, then without the aid of a fire he began to devoir the flesh with gusto. He did not stop till his stomach stopped its rumblings and he was content to sit on a rock nearby and look up at the night sky.

  It was cold now, but he did not feel it, he did not feel anything, he was empty, empty save for a burning hatred that gave some warmth to his cold heart, but there was no love or pity or dreams, only a hollow shell.

  As he watched the night moons of Gorn slowly move across the heavens he thought he heard a voice calling him. A thin voice without substance, a voice that he tried to ignore, he kept looking up at the night sky trying not to hear what the voice was saying but it kept repeating the same words over and over again.

  “You are not loved”.

  But he did not show any sign that he heard the words, he simply kept looking up at the twinkling stars and saying nothing, but again he heard the words.

  “No one ever loved you”.

  It seemed that the voice was laughing at him, and that was too much to ignore, “be silent!” he shouted out.

  The words echoed again and again throughout the valley sending many small night creatures racing for their burrows and shifting some sand that was balanced perfectly atop a small sand dune, then after a few moments the echoing stopped and there was silence once more.

  The Darkman closed his eyes and listened to the quite for a time, but it did not last long.

  “Why do you ignore me?” asked the voice.

  When he opened his eyes he saw a figure standing near him, it was a woman, she was older and had a kind face. Her hair was arranged in an attractive way and fixed with ivory and gold pins, she wore a simple but well-made robe of dark blue and on her face she bore the markings of a queen of the Almadra, the Darkman looked at her then spoke.

  “Why do you haunt me mother?” he asked solemnly.

  The old woman smiled at him then came over and sat down on a rock nearby, “because you will not let me go my son”. Her words were quietly spoken, words that any mother might say to her child. Words that might mean love and affection but if you looked deep into the eyes of the woman who spoke them you could not see any sign of warmth or love, “you were always a disobedient son...that is why I left you to die”, then she smiled.

  The Darkman smiled back, “your nothing but a screel, a demon of the Outlands come to torment me, you are not real”.

  The old women smiled again, “maybe so, maybe I am just an empty vision that you see, but my words are still true...you are alone and you will die alone!”

  “Better to die alone than with those whom I hate” he replied looking up at the dark sky.

  His mother looked up also, “why do you look at the moons? They mean nothing to you, you are just an empty shell” she said, and then she turned to look at her son, “why do you not kill yourself and rid us of your hatred?”

  The Darkman gave a small smile as he continued to look up at the nigh
t sky, “because I am content with my hatred, it is what keeps me alive”. He looked at the apparition next to him, “you are the empty shell, a demon sent to torment me”, and then he gave a little laugh, “yes nothing there”.

  His Mother moved a bit closer to him, and when he looked at her he could see her face had changed. It was no longer the face of a kind and gentlewoman, no, now the eyes burned with a cold fire that seemed to look directly into his soul, “who sent me? You do not believe in the Gods so who sent me? Perhaps there is something more than mere Gods, perhaps I am what comes from within you, am I a mirror?”

  The Darkman looked at her hard, “you are nothing, just a shadow in the night, now leave me”, then once more he turned to look upwards.

  The thing that was his Mother continued to stare at him, and as she did her face changed once more, it rotted away till there was nothing left but a grinning white skull filled with crawling things of the earth. But even without lips or a tongue it spoke, “I will never leave you because you will never let me go”.

  There seemed to be a sound of laughter again, it filled the air causing the Darkman to try and cover what was left of his ears. But he was only able to move one hand to his head and so he heard the laughter over and over, “stop” he screamed, “you are not real, do you hear me, you are not REAL!” once again he closed his eyes and when he opened them the woman was gone.

  He looked up at the night sky once more, there he could see the moons of Gorn, he could see Ebano, Rowgal, and Lomic and there just rising up over the valley was the new moon that many called Andra. Most Nomads saw the moons as the children of the night, following each other across the heavens and playing games as their mother, the land under his feet watched them with love. But to the Shadowman it was only a reminder of his pain and failure. He wanted to burn all the land clean of Nomads and Off-Worlders alike, to turn it back over to the creatures that roamed its surface and let them be free of all humanoids and the plague of the Gods.

  But that plan had failed, the Nomads had won and his world was still the same, an endless place of torment and pain, all his days filled with hatred nothing more.

  What does it matter if I am alone? He thought it is better than being with those that left me to die.

  He looked down at the ground, there he saw a large Rage-beetle slowly crawling near his left foot, without thinking he lifted his leg and brought it down hard crushing the insect thick black shell and turning it into a green pulp.

  That is what the Gods think of us, we are nothing more than insects under their feet.

  He sat back and began to laugh, it was a wild uncontrolled laughter filled not with joy or contentment but rather shouting to the silence that he was still alive.

  After a few moments he stood up, looked around and gathered up a section of intestines that he had cut from the remains of the Rimar. He filled the skin with raw meat that he cut with his stone knife and then attached it to a piece of metal about an arm’s length in size, he put the steel over his shoulder and wrapping his ragged cloak around his shoulders he started to walk.

  Scavengers will be coming, He thought; I must find a place to hide.

  As he moved away he heard the sound of the creatures of the night, to most Nomads of the Outlands it meant that danger was all about. But to the Shadowman they were old friends whom were calling him to join them in the darkness of the night.

  The Markins could be hired to do most anything, they were commissioned to transfer unwanted refugees of different worlds and deposit them on Gorn, and for this they were paid a reasonable price. They were also arms dealers and were not opposed to carryings slaves to the outer most reaches of Pimax nebula to be used as a labor force on those primitive worlds. They ran their operations very well and made huge profits that they used to enhance their holding in the Outer Rim trade markets.

  But they also did not hesitate to indulge in illegal transports, there were huge profits to be made in pleasure drug smuggling and delivering dangerous creatures to collectors who wanted them for their private zoos. They would also dispose of contaminated biohazards and kept their mouths shut when it came to trading with embargoed planets, yes, it was safe to say that they would do anything for a profit.

  Now there was a profit to be made, for some time now they had an exclusive contract with the War Crime commission to take prisoners and war ships to Gorn and there or as it was stated in the agreed upon treaty signed after the great Trajion war. Section seven---sub heading---disposal.

  AA3

  ARMAMENTS.

  As stipulated in section 7 subsection 23 ---- all attack Lightships of the Magus type shall be taken to sector 7 and deposited on the planet designated as Gorn, the Electromagnetic fields shall therefore render them useless and of no further threat.

  PRISONERS.

  All remaining prisoners shall have a choice of reconditioning or exile, levels of combatants shall be determined by the guideline set down by the Torn war commission of 573-01.

  (Agreed upon by the peace treaty members of the Trajion conflict conference, REFERANCE ---- WAR CRIMES ---- B9021.UTS.

  So as anyone could see all War Ships not destroyed where taken to Gorn and left to crash into the surface.

  Now they were delivering the M-91.

  There was not much left of the huge ship anymore, the last battle with the Eran fleet had destroyed most of its hull, all its armaments was ruined and the once mighty engines were nowhere to be seen. All that was left was a burned out hulk pock marked with gapping blaze cannon holes and jagged bits of steel bulkheads.

  Still it took three large towing ships of the Markins to move it into an unstable orbit high above the planet known as Gorn. And just to make sure that all would proceed as planned the War Crimes commission of 570-08 also sent five class one destroyers with the Markins to make sure they did not sell what remained of the great ship to some Techno-merchandisers or a collector of rare objects. They did not want anything to remain of the war ship that might be used to threaten the Outer Rim planets again.

  So now it sat waiting for its final ending, and on the bridge of the lead Markin ship the captain checked with his crew, “are all towing beams ready to be unhooked?” He asked as he scratched his warty skin.

  “All towing beams ready” replied his second in command.

  The Markin captain was glad that this cargo was being disposed of; it had not been a pleasant journey. Twice their towing beams had failed and once the projected route had to be changed because of Nebula disturbances in the Opar sector. And to make things worse the climate control on the bridge was acting up and the usual moist air was drying out, and this could prove disastrous for a Markin, for they were an amphibian species and like their work spaces wet.

  The Captain who went by the name Vorg sprayed himself with a hand held water container and then turned to his first mate, “prepare to terminate towing beams and clear away all secondary attachments”.

  His second in command nodded his toad like head, “at once captain,” then he turned to the crew, “stand by on the towing beams and make ready to disengage at my command”. He turned to look back at his Captain, there he saw Vorg give a nod of approval, “detach beams...Mark!”

  At the order the towing beams that connected the ships to the hull of the M-91 went dead, after a moment more the secondary lines disappeared and the great warship was left to its own.

  The Markin Captain watched as the ancient Terror ship began to move into the atmosphere of Gorn. He saw it begin to burn as the air came in contact with its metal skin, but he did not stay long enough to see it crash into the surface, there was no profit in staying any longer and he wanted to move on as quickly as he could.

  He turned to his second again, “make heading to Nogola six at force level two”, he sat back in his command chair and sprayed himself once more with the water container, then he spoke again, “corrections, make force level speed at setting three”.

  Vorg made the correction to his ship speed because his next s
top was the planet Nogola, and everyone knew it had some of the best swamplands in the Outer Rim. So as the Markins and their chaperones moved away from Gorn the hulk of the M-91 headed for its fiery end.

  Deep inside the falling ship the Orb was not dead; its mind was still fixated on the image of the tiny creature it had seen so many cycles ago, it did not care what was going on just outside its shielding. It was content to mind-lock on the face of the little pink thing being held in the arms of the female and nothing more. So it did not feel the heat as the hull of its surroundings began to glow or count the minutes before it would hit the surface of its new home, it just went right on trying to understand why that little thing meant so much to the female?

  It was night in the forgotten valley, a cold empty night; the creatures of the darkness were out looking for food and trying not to be eaten by other beasts higher up on the food chain then themselves. It was what they had done for thousands of cycles and would do for many more, it was they’re being, and it was what the Gods wanted.

  But there was one who cares nothing about the Gods, for the Darkman had never seen anything that might change his mind about the emptiness of his soul and the mercy of the Gods. He sat hiding in a clutter of rocks away from sight and danger; he had just finished eating some rather spoiled Rimar meat that he had taken a few days earlier. But without anything to preserve the flesh it had turned very bad and smelled even worse. The Shadowman did not care, he had eaten much worse in his time and as long as it did not kill him he was content to fill his stomach with whatever he could find.

  Now he sat back and listened to the cries of night beasts and waited for the suns to come up, he had made a small fire that gave him some warmth but he dare not risk a large burning least he is seen by an enemy. So he put his fire into a pit and surrounded it with rock to keep the light from traveling.

  When he looked up at the darkened sky he saw a strange thing, a mark of light drawing itself across the heavens. He had seen lights like this one many times, they were trails of Dropships heading towards the planet to deliver cargo or unwanted creatures but this streak of light was different. It was much larger in size than any other he had ever seen and it was heading right for him.