Nomads of the Gods

by Gary Mark Lee

  Chapter 2. The Nomads

  We The Chosen of the Gods lift our voice on high.

  We sing the ancient songs of war under crimson sky.

  We seek no mercy from our foes and ask none in return.

  We die in battle for our faith and in dark fires burn.

  Riding Song of the Almadra.

  Nothing moved under the blazing suns. There was neither wind nor any other sign of movement on the horizon. The great blue sky stretched empty of clouds, only rippling heat waves flitting like ghosts above the empty terrain. Here and there, small desperate tufts of vegetation, tried valiantly to hold onto life for one more day, bringing a bit of green, to an otherwise brown and lifeless land.

  There was life here, small Sun Runners, darted about between the sparse greenery, searching for insects, struggling to survive in the harsh land. Above the desert, hanging like all-seeing eyes, the twin suns of Gorn, looked down upon the emptiness. The larger sun, marked on Star Charts as Karus, was a massive white giant, well cataloged by Outer Rim Star Captains, as a marker to the cargo lanes of the Outer Worlds. The smaller, yellow sun, was a rather small “G” type star, known to space-farers as Micos.

  Micos, with its many planets, orbited Karus, the small star alone, was not hot enough to sustain life, Micos' worlds depended upon Karus for their warmth and light.

  Now the suns seemed intent upon delving into each and every small crevice, blasting every living thing, until even the shadows were destroyed. The twin lords of the sky, were to be disappointed, over the rolling hills, rose a faint wisp of dust. The slight plume rose from a long caravan of giant creatures, huge reptilian beasts, long lines of them, swaying like a great snake, as they moved across the last barren dunes of a sand sea. The beasts grunted now and again at the treacherous footing of the sand, as they lumbered past great monoliths.

  These were not the wild tundra beasts that roamed the forgotten places of this harsh world. These were the mounts of the riders of the Outlands, the Nomads. They moved in a precise order, the strongest of the warriors and their beasts to the front. The riders were tall and heavily muscled, clad in gleaming armor of iron and reptilian bone. The armor of the lead riders, was inlaid with ornate patterns in silver and gold, their armor bore the scars of battle, as did those who wore it.

  Each Nomad, sitting upon a strong Whiptail, wore a great horned helmet, weapons dangled from their heavy saddles. There was an occasional mace or hammer but always, on every great beast, a mighty war-ax.

  The massive Whiptails, were armored by their thick hide and scales upon their horned heads. Huge jaws, lined with row after row of razor sharp teeth, were revealed when the beasts opened their mouths. They walked upon two massive hind legs, each bearing a long spur at the rear ankle. The broad claws of their nimble feet, sank deep into soft terrain giving a secure footing, they held nearly as well on rough rock. Two small arms, hung from their upper bodies, each arm ended in three-fingered paws. The center digit, was equipped with a massive, long and sharp claw, it could cut into a Trofar in a moment or rip a grown man in two.

  A Whiptail could outrun all but a few creatures of the Outlands and kill all but the largest. On the flanks of the caravan, scurried the Outriders, on smaller, nimbler Whiptails. These scouts, were mostly younger warriors of the tribe. They carried colorful flags and banners, a blast from the carved Rimar horns, hanging from their saddles, signaled danger. At the head of the caravan, flying high above all others, the banner of the Almadra, a large red field, bearing a golden sun. All who saw this banner, would know, here rode a tribe of The Chosen and they followed the will of the Gods.

  Behind the warriors lumbered the wagons, filled with supplies and trade goods. The wagons, were drawn by slow but powerful Trofar, these great plant eaters, had long been used for hauling heavy caravan wagons and Trofar milk was a favorite of Nomad children. The Outlander's wagons were of an ingenious design, centuries of experience, had resulted in vehicles of supreme strength and beauty. Their wheels were wide, so as not to sink into sand or mud. Each wagon carried barrels for water, grain and materials to repair them. They varied in size, the largest holding a whole family with ease. Made of wood, leather, metal, and heavy reptilian bone, they were handed down from generation to generation. Painted in the colors of their clans, the wagons were one of the treasures of the Almadra. Many smaller wagons, carried tents, more food and water, as well as, the things used in Nomad culture. Everything needed for survival, save the warrior's weapons, was in the wagons.

  A team of twenty of the strongest Trofar, pulled mightily upon the ornate wagon of the Holy Writings, more of a rolling temple than a wagon. Its wheels were the height of two tall men, able to support its massive weight, through even the softest sand. Upon it, was room for a multitude of Soul Shepherds, as well as the sacred vessels and valuable objects, needed for the many rituals, the Gods required of the Almadra. The temple wagon had three levels, the first for storage, here the immense ceremonial tent and hundreds of scrolls were kept. Written by the ancient Holy Mothers, who once rode in other such wagons. Upon the next level, lived the High Priestess of the Almadra, sectioned into chambers and small cells, this level was a place of reverence, entered only with the Holy Mother's permission.

  The third level, was an open expanse under a great awning. The Holy Mother, her guards and such acolyte Handmaidens as served her, could look down upon her people, as well as up to the Gods from here. Usually the High Priestess and her acolytes rode, in the second level. Sheltered from the heat and the profane eyes of the tribe, they communed with the Gods and performed the mystical rites and sacrifices that maintained the order of the universe and gave balance to the world. They were the guardians of the faith of the Almadra. Only women of the tribe were given this honor, it was they, who spoke for the Nomad's many Gods. It was their blessings that aided any venture, their curse, named the forbidden.

  Following the temple wagon, were the wagons of the Handmaidens. Following them, small carts, holding more tents, votive statues and any other objects, the Soul Shepherds needed to worship the Nomad's many Gods.

  Last came a large caged wagon, it held the Malock, a massive beast, tended and kept safe until its time came. Surrounding the Holy Wagons, a host of elite mounted warriors, all in identical bronze armor. They were the Thungodra, the tribe's best warriors, chosen by their peers, to be the personal guard of the Holy Mother. They took a blood vow, to die rather than allow harm, to come to their holy leader.

  Behind the wagons, came a herd of Spike-backs, heavy creatures, saved for the greatest battles, used to break the ranks of an enemy and put him to flight.

  Temperamental and of a vicious nature, Spike-backs carried all before them, when at a full gallop. Their massive heads, covered with armor-like hide, sprouted two long horns. Few creatures of Gorn, could face a Spike-back and hope to live. Only the all-powerful Earth-shakers, were unafraid. The Almadra's Long-Range weapons were mounted on their wide backs. Cannons and Disruptors, they gave the Nomads added force in battle.

  The Electromagnetic pulses made any advanced weaponry useless, so the cannons worked by using explosive chemicals, that fired projectiles, deadly at close range but used sparingly. The ammunition, was costly in trade goods, paid to the Talsonar, the pyramid people, who were good with metal and understood how to work the explosive chemicals.

  In the middle of the caravan, were the wagons of the elderly and the very young. Children learned the ways of the Outlands from the elders. They playing games and helped with the simpler tasks of camp and trail.

  All females bore twins and sometimes more but only one child, was allowed to live beyond the first few months. They were not given names at birth, referred to only as son or daughter. They received their tribal names only after they were chosen. The life of a Nomad was hard, only the strongest could hope to survive. Each mother, had to choose one child to live, one to die. This was the time, Nomad women dreaded most, a rite that had been observed since the tribe's beginning. It cou
ld not be avoided, no one could defy the will of the Gods.

  Traditions such as these, had made the Almadra, one of the most powerful of the Outland tribes. They rode where they pleased, they feared nothing and no man. They lived by the laws of Gorn and prayed to their many Gods. As far as they knew, they had always lived this way and would continue to do so.

  Karn sat high and proud, in his mighty Whiptail's saddle. Tall and thickly muscled, with long dark hair and a square jaw, Karn had led the Almadra for a great many cycles. A good and wise King and a cunning warrior, who had led the tribe to countless victories.

  His long rule was testament to his ability, when his father was mortally wounded in the Hill Wars, he handed his Kingship to Karn, his eldest son. His body was covered with battle scars, there were also colorful tattoos of his exploits, victories, and conquests. His left hand, was missing two fingers, so was his right eye, lost to a Shadow Man's arrow, now covered by a patch. He was still the most feared warrior of the Almadra. Now many cycles had passed, though far from weakened, he knew, his time as King was approaching its end.

  A leader needed to be strong, Karn's strength waned. For now, he sat high in his saddle and looked out over the Outlands with the bearing of a King.

  Riding beside him was Arn, his eldest, son, and heir. As tall as Karn, with the same piercing eyes, broad shoulders and strong countenance. Arn too carried many scars from the battles he had fought. His face bore three dark tattoos, marking him as the son of a King. Upon his head, he wore the horned helmet of his clan, in his right hand, he carried the giant warrior's ax, the legendary weapon of the wandering people. Handsome by Outland standards, with a firm jaw and straight nose, he was well liked by the tribe. Though sometimes impulsive and hot tempered, the warriors looked up to him. The Almadra all knew, someday he would be their King.

  Arn looked upon his father but did not speak. He knew the old King's time was nearly over, soon he would lead the tribe. He had learned all, his father could teach. As they rode over the dry land, he felt, he had learned nothing. All those cycles, learning from his father, how to lead the tribe, the knowledge seemed to ebb away. He felt like a mere boy once more but this was not the time for self-doubt. He must be strong, to do what must be done for the good of the Almadra.

  Nevertheless, this knowledge, did not lift the burden from his shoulders, nor the shadow from his heart. Karn did not return his son’s stare, unaware of the thoughts and fears that burdened the younger man.

  Arn would have liked to speak to his father, to thank him for giving him life, for teaching him the ways of the Outlanders, for making him strong and showing him how to be a leader.

  He wanted to talk of the years past, of all they had done together for the tribe. There was much to say and yet Arn did not speak. It was better this way, hard things were to be done. Better not to dwell upon what had been, or was to be done.

  He taught me well, all that I am now, I owe to him, can I do what must be done, can I obey the laws of the tribe? Arn thought to himself.

  Behind Arn and the King rode the vast tribe of the Almadra, five thousand strong, Holy Women, warriors, old, and young. The men of the tribe were tall and strong, their hair long, their skins marked with pictograph tattoos, from their passage to manhood. They had endured the hardships of this world, the weak had perished. Proud, asking for nothing but to live free, to follow their King to wherever he chose. They lived and died, by the hard code of the Outlands. In all the lands of Gorn, there were no better warriors than, the Almadra and not just the men. The women were warriors too, standing strong and proud in battle, dying for their King, they gave and asked no quarter. She-demons who protected their young from harm, as fiercely as they stood in battle.

  In the center of the group, were the ancient ones, caretakers of wisdom. They knew the ways of the Outlands, the legends of the sky. Treated with great respect and loved by all Almadra, the eldest held within their memories, the living history of the tribe.

  Just behind the food and water vehicles, came the fire wagons, their drivers, the Iron workers, metal smiths, who forged the weapons and tools of the Almadra. On top of the first of their great wagons, were the forges and all the implements of their craft. They were followed by carts filled with Dura-Flex, Itarian steel and other metals. All scavenged from the wrecks of the countless Outer Rim ships that littered the land.

  The caravan moved slowly past the Twin Peaks of Carnnan and the gutted remains of a centuries-old star cruiser. Half buried in the sand, the remnant of the Trajion Wars, would have been the prize exhibit, of any museum in the Outer Rim. Here in the Outlands, it was home to small desert creatures, a resting-place for Waste-wanderers. The Almadra moved past the great ship, paying it no heed, just another landmark on their trek. They had seen such Off-World ships countless times.

  The Almadra traveled at their normal, careful and unhurried pace. They knew their path and destination well. The Nomads never felt the need for haste, time, was an old friend to them, never an adversary. One with the land and it with them, the Nomads were used to traveling, having spent most of their lives on the move. They moved forward until Carnnan disappeared beneath the horizon, the procession entered into the valleys of Omar-ran.

  Here the rocks were wind worn, eroded into strange shapes. The land took on an eerie look that always frightened the youngest children of the tribe. The New Ones who had never passed this way, they sought comfort in the arms and voices of the Elders. Held tightly in withered arms, informed by soft voices, they would look into the friendly wrinkled faces of their grandparents, soon their fears passed. Meanwhile, the caravan migrated relentlessly onward.

  The Almadra wandered each cycle from the towering glaciers of the Snow Mountains of the far North, to the dark paths of the Western Forests, then into the far Southern Jungles of the lush and humid Yug. They traded with the Shell People of the coast, ocean-rovers who roamed the open waters of the Great Sea and the Pyramid Dwellers called the Talsonar. The Grana miners, creatures who were all but blind, living in the dark, delving deep into the Mountains of Koto-Car. They supplied them all with the indispensable salt that preserved life of all higher beings on Gorn.

  Grana miners, were perfectly suited to this harsh land, able to labor endlessly in their dark tunnels. Their legendary ability to endure extremes of heat and cold, such as would kill most humanoids, along with their vital skill, in finding the rare deposits of Grana, preserved and protected them. No one would harm them, Everyone needed Grana and only the miners could find it.

  After many days of travel, the Almadra were nearing their sacred lands. The towering, weathered statues of the Gods, rose up like stone apparitions in the rocky hills beyond Omar-Ran. The monuments were ancient, carved by the ancestors of the Outlanders. No one knew their true age, or the names of those who made them. To their knowledge, the stone sentinels had stood for ever, they marked the border between the Profane and the Holy.

  As the suns began to set, the Nomads came to the rock strewn entrance of their most sacred place. Each Almadra, young, old, warrior, and Holy Mother alike, all dismounted, they lowered their heads to the ground, in obeisance to the great idols of their people. Some older women, wept tears of sorrow, in remembrance of lives lost, since their last passing. Warriors raised their axes, in a salute, to both their Gods and to fallen comrades. All sang the songs of the Soul Shepherds, the great stone Gods, looked down stoically, as the Almadra passed. Their silent gaze upon the Nomads, gave what blessing it could, as they returned once more to their ancestral home.

  Once safely inside the valley, the Nomads dispersed. The warriors relaxed their hitherto ceaseless vigil, this was their refuge, no others dared enter.

  The rock of the hills and valley walls, bore marks of countless other gatherings. Stone tombs of long dead Kings, perched on crumbling outcroppings, or loomed beneath overhanging cliffs. Here and there, lay the gigantic bones of Tundra beasts, which had borne other Almadra here, ages before. This place was a land of memories, a place
of remembrance for all that the Nomads held dear.

  As the twin suns set, the entire valley, was washed in a golden light. It became a place of other-worldly beauty, half-forgotten dreams and unanticipated hopes.

  Arn once more looked at his father. How tired he looks, the cycles are weighing heavily upon him; he thought. Arn’s face was emotionless, “It will be a warm night and a bright morning,” he said to his father. Karn turned to his son, unsmiling, “Yes, it will be a good day to die.”

  Karn turned away and looked into the distant light of the setting suns. The young Prince closed his eyes. He knows his time is near, yet he faces it fearlessly; he thought. Despite the thoughts, buzzing through his mind, he did not speak.

  Directly behind the two men, rode Arn’s younger brothers, Agart, with his long hair in a single braid, set with ivory amulets. He was tall and handsome, too much so for his own good, some said. Although vain, he was a favorite with most of the tribe, always ready with a quick jest and a strong helping hand. He admired Arn, knowing, he could never be a leader himself. Secretly, Agart thanked the Gods that the burden of The Eldest Son, was not his to carry.

  Beside him rode Anais, shorter than his older brothers, born with an unhappy heart. Anais had the eyes of a Gaze-bird, his long, sharp nose and his darting eyes, seemed penetrating and unreadable. Youngest of the King’s sons, least likely to lead, yet shrewd and calculating.

  Anais had secretly sworn an oath, to the only God, he believed in, himself. An oath that someday his name, would be carved upon the walls of this sacred valley. He would not reckon the cost, he would pay whatever was demanded, in return for the fulfillment of his dream. He sat unsteadily upon his beast, every so often, he touched the small dagger hidden in his wide leather belt. He grumbled softly to himself, the weather was not to his liking and his back was sore. Anything to distract him from his greater troubles.

  Agart heard his younger brother's complaints, he usually ignored them but something ended his patience, “What troubles you now, younger brother? Has someone placed a stone beneath your saddle?” Agart smiled broadly.

  Anais turned to him, a sour look upon his face, “Nothing so simple, I weary of this long day’s journey and my belly rumbles.”

  “Hungry?” Agart pulled a strip of dried meat from his saddle pouch, he handed it to Anais, “I kept this for later, it's not too bad, if you can get past the smell.”

  Anais took the small piece of meat and sniffed it warily, “It smells as bad as the hind end of an old Rimar!” He said.

  “You are wrong my ravenous brother. It is the hind end of an old Rimar!” Agart laughed. Anais threw the spoiled meat to the ground and muttered, “He thinks me a fool, someday he will truly play the fool and I shall be the one who laughs.”

  Behind the brothers was a beautifully carved wagon, drawn by an ornately adorned and oversize Trofar. In it rode the Queen and the lone sister of the three Princes. Barely past her Young years, Seeda sat beside her mother. The young woman held the reins and clucked softly at the Trofar. Although a Princess, she worked as hard as any woman of the Almadra. Kind and loving, Seeda treated all with the same love, as she gave to her family. Her skill with weapons was almost equal to her dancing and she was the best dancer in the tribe. When she sang the ancient songs, her voice, was like a bell, ringing in the silence of the Dune lands. Wise in the use of medicine, she knew the ways of the Outlands. Exceedingly proud of her long, dark hair, which she often worn in elaborate configurations. Sometimes, this displeased her mother, who thought it made the young woman, seem a bit too much like, a camp follower. Never-the-less Seeda had a good heart, she knew, she was a highborn lady of the Almadra and would not give her embraces away freely.

  The Princess knew, there were many other worlds, beyond this one, many lives other than hers. For all her love of her tribe, at times, she found herself, filled with a longing to see those other worlds, to know those other lives. As she drove the wagon, she occasionally glanced to her left, seeking to catch a glimpse of Almec, son of Aron the Iron worker, her childhood companion. Over the time of their First Cycle, they had many adventures and suffered many punishments from her father, when caught in forbidden escapades.

  Almec had grown into a strong and brave man, a very capable warrior and hunter. It was taken for granted, by those who cared to think of such matters, that one day, Seeda and Almec, would be joined and that their sons and daughters, would add greatly to the strength of the Outlanders.

  Seeda however, was not one to surrender herself so easily. Whoever won her favor, would have to pay her price, Almec might yet entice her to live in his tent but there were still other suitors. All worthy men of the Almadra.

  Many had set their hopes on her, only to learn quickly of her demanding nature and overpowering will. Seeda would not be an easy catch, for any man and even harder to share a tent with.

  Almec knew Seeda was watching him, he sat a bit straighter in the saddle, held his war-ax a little higher and tried not to look at his admirer.

  Queen Egmar, knew her daughter watched the young warrior. She reminded herself that it was her time for joining, was almost upon them. Seeda would likely choose Almec, despite the many others, who sought the eye of the King’s daughter.

  Well and good; thought Egmar.

  She liked Almec, he would be a good match, a much-needed halter, for her rash and headstrong daughter. There was much, the Princess still needed to learn, about being a Princess of the Madrigal. Learning would come with time but not now.

  There was something pressing upon her heart with the weight of an Earth-shaker. Something that must be done, yet it filled her heart with dread. Her face was calm but beneath, a storm of worry slowly stirred, “Make sure you wear the green robe tonight, not the red. I will not have you adorned, like a Sin-Craver tonight.” Egmar gave Seeda a sour smile.

  “The green robe, makes me look like a pregnant Burrow-baby!” Seeda replied angrily.

  “Better that than the red, it makes your father angry and you know how he…” Egmar’s voice slipped into silence.

  Seeda looked at her mother, she saw the worry in her eyes; it comes, she knows the time has come. The young woman thought to speak but the words did not come to her lips. She listened to the slow steps of the laboring Trofar and tried in vain, to think of happier times.

  The Outriders ahead, called back with cries of joy. Through the gathering darkness, just visible in the twilight, was the Almadra's great stone Longhouse. Its thick walls, carved with intricate designs, painted in deep earth tones, from the land itself. Centuries old, the Longhouse, could hold all the Almadra. It was and had always had been, the gathering place of the tribe. Here would be echoed their ancient songs and many of their most sacred rites performed.

  The twilight settled into darkness, as the Nomads began to unload their wagons and tend their beasts. Everyone knew their task and the work went swiftly.

  Arn watched as his father dismounted and tended to his Whiptail. The warriors treated their beasts, better than themselves. They knew their lives depended upon their mounts, a wise warrior, always made sure of his animal’s needs, before his own, even the King! The Almadra served no man, only the Gods, members of the tribe, cared for themselves, there were no servants here.

  The creak of leather was everywhere and the smell of sweat, as heavy saddles and weapons, were taken from the Whiptails. Then the beasts were turned loose, to forage freely in the long valley. They would return with the dawn, to the plaintive call of the warrior’s horns.

  As Arn released his mount, he saw his father, standing near the Longhouse, beside a fallen statue of a long dead King. The old leader, stared down at the fallen image of his forebear, he was alone deep in his thoughts. Arn sighed and walked towards his father.

  “Leave him to his thoughts, my son,” Egmar placed her hand on his arm, “Your father needs quiet and his own thoughts, more than anything we might say to him.” The Queen stared at her husband.

  Arn looked into his mo
ther's clear eyes, he felt the truth of her words, “Do the Gods ever feel so alone?” he asked her.

  “Yes, that is why they created us,” the old woman answered softly.

  Arn looked up to the glittering stars, just beginning to shine in the darkening sky, two moons also shone. He sought understanding, “Must the Gods always lead us on the same path? Cannot the laws of the Almadra change?”

  The Queen took her son's hand in hers and looked at him. How he has grown, how he has changed. “No, there is a time for all things and they must pass, as they have always passed. Your time is come, you must meet it, as did all the sons of all the Kings.”

  Arn looked at the King, his father again, he stood beside the Longhouse like he was one of the statues, “Do the Gods hear our prayers?” he asked.

  “Always,” she answered, “I have prayed for strong sons and daughters, as have all the mothers of the Almadra. Look about you and see the answer the Gods have given. See the strength of the Almadra and the God's answer to their prayers, it lies in that strength.”

  Arn looked up at the moons again. My mother is beloved of Isarie, someday she will sit at Isarie’s side. “Then I will pray for my father, I will pray that he sits with the Gods and drinks with them in their Golden Hall.”

  Arn's mother looked at him, she laid her hands on his shoulders, “The Gods will hear you, my son, they hear all who call to them but most clearly, they hear the call of a King’s oldest.”

  A wind from the heavens, passed beneath the stars and into the Sacred Valley of the Nomads. This night wind, was well known to the Almadra, Isarie’s Sigh, the old women called it. It was a wind that promised death and birth.