Chapter 16. Warriors Weep
I walk alone and I no longer see the face of Isarie.
I do not feel the warm wind or the cool rain or the forgiving light.
Shadows now fill my soul and I eat from the empty bowl of darkness.
I hear no songs of joy, only the endless beating of the funeral drums.
I no longer dance under the shimmering moons on warm mating nights.
My heart only feels the cold Hagar winds and my blood has turned to stone.
I will walk alone and I will no longer see the face of Isarie.
And I will wander in the land of shadows till I am no more.
Isarie, Isarie, Isarie, take my hand in the darkness.
Prayer of the Wailing Women.
The twin suns had gone down and the heavenly family of moons, once more began their endless travels across the star sprinkled night sky. There were heavy clouds passing over their eternal faces and the air was filled with electricity. It meant only one thing, there was a storm coming. It would not be the heavy violent downpours, like those after the Burning Times. The many creatures of Gorn, would welcome this one, it would bring new life and carry the souls of the dead to the Afterlife.
The weary Almadra made camp deep in the rocky Pass of Moke. Surrounded by, steep jagged cliffs on both sides and the Long-Range weapons, guarding them front and rear, they felt somewhat at ease. Unlike other resting camps, there was no laughter or joyful music, only the soft sounds of crying and the melancholy prayers of the Wailing Women.
The tribe had lost many brave warriors, their mangled bodies, now lay on dark stone beds, made from hundreds of rocks gathered by the Almadra. Around the bodies burned great fires, the whole area was bathed in a warm restful light.
Each dead man or woman was washed, their bodies dressed in their finest armor. In their right hand, they held their war-ax, in the left hand, they clutched a small golden cup. Lying beside them, a bowl of warm Hagar soup and a long loaf, of freshly baked Kasha bread. Around their necks, the golden nail worn by all warriors.
The warriors, were surrounded by the solemn Thungodra, their duty was to ensure, no demon from the Pit of Marloon, came for the fallen warrior’s souls. They also kept a lookout for the Night-fliers, that liked to feed on the blood of the dead.
Obec was also there, she was dressed in the black robes of judgment, in her hand, she held a staff with a large golden eye, in her other hand, she carried a small stone hammer. She sat in a large white chair, made from dried animal bones, on either side, stood the Handmaidens of the Gods. Their naked bodies were covered in red dust, they wore gold necklaces and silver arm bands, set with precious stones. Their long hair, was tied up with ivory pins and bobbles, made from shells and the feathers of the Onyx bird. They held bowls of smoking incense, which they lifted up to the night sky, they watched as the blue smoke drifted lazily upwards. They would hold them up, for a moment, then lower them again, while repeating the names of the many Gods as they did.
“Garnog, Cortrex, Horcon, Unarnis-Balnor, Lun, Rator, Pollartex, Intarius, Troben-Set...You are the Gods of the Heavens and we are your children, guide those who come to you and take them into your heart.”
The entire tribe, had covered their faces with the same red dust as the Handmaidens, they wore dark robes and each one held a small stone in their hand, they also offered prayers to the Gods.
“Guide them great Gods, set them against those who would challenge your powers, they are strong and their weapons are sharp, they will fight beside you, when the Day of Endings comes.”
The tribe's Elders were reciting ancient prayers, while the Frail-legs sat some distance away. They did not seem to understand what was happening, they sat quietly, looking up at the night sky and the moons overhead. If they had any feelings for the dead warriors, they did not show it, they just sat and smiled, like children in their mother’s arms.
From a distance Andra watched the funeral, she and Osh, had made their camp next to a large bolder, not in the view of the rest of the tribe. From their vantage point, they could see the circle of the dead warriors.
The old man was holding a marking tool and the skin of a Burrow-baby. He was going to record the Almadra's funeral practices. Seeing what he was about to do, Andra looked at him shaking her head, “Have you no respect for the dead?”
Osh just looked at her, “Of course I do, that is why, I want to make sure their deaths are recorded. I just wish I had a Datacom import, it would be much easier, than writing everything down.”
Andra shook her head again and returned to watching the strange ritual, she listened to the soft words of the Handmaidens and smelled the incense.
They respect the dead, she told herself; they pray for their souls.
Then she saw Arn, he was standing with his two brothers and Egmar was at his side, next to her was Seeda. They were wearing dark armor, the Queen was wearing a long red robe with a tall ivory headdress. Several of the tribe's Elders, were with her and behind them was a mass of warriors. They too wore dark armor and they were holding their war-axes.
Obec listened to the chanting of the Handmaidens intently, she made sure every word was spoken correctly and counted each lift of the incense, to make sure the Gods would not be ashamed. She knew, Isarie was watching her closely, it made her feel good, the great Goddess had seen fit to make her, High Priestess.
The old women tightened her grip on the staff, then raised her arm, the chatting stopped abruptly, everyone fell silent. She slowly rose from her chair and began to speak, “It is written in the Book of Isarie that all warriors are born to fight. Then as Horcon sees fit, they are called to the heavens, to stand with the Gods on the Day of Ending. Their lives with us, are only training for the great battle, when the entire universe will perish and a new heaven will be reborn. We now send you our best warriors, greet them and give them food and drink, let them sing in your Great Hall and look upon the face of Isarie.”
She nodded to the King, Arn moved forward a few steps and lifted his ax, “I say now that these warriors served the tribe well, let their names be written in the Book of Isarie. Let their deeds be sung around the campfires, they will wait for us in the Golden Halls of the Gods, until we join them. As Isarie judges them, let them not feel thirst!”
When those words were spoken, the warriors standing behind the King came forward. They went to their dead comrades, one by one they lifted their axes, they spoke as one, “Drink of our strength.” Then they cut their arms.
Andra watched as their blood flowed, it dripped into the small ivory cups, held by each dead warrior. The Handmaidens began to make loud wailing cries, as the cups were filled, “The blood of The Chosen, the life of the tribe, the river of our fathers, the milk of our mothers, drink from our lives and live again.”
Osh watched and began to write quickly, “An offering to the Gods for safe passage into the Afterlife. I have heard of this ritual but it was said, the nomads ate their dead, I will have to make careful note of that.”
Andra almost told him to be quiet but she was too engrossed in what she saw. As a soldier, she had helped to bury many of her comrades, it always seemed such a small thing to do. They had given their lives and despite the many, different religions, it always seemed to be done hastily. Maybe, it was because no matter how you let someone go, it still hurts.
When the cups were full, the warriors marched back to stand behind their King.
Obec spoke once more, “Let the warriors be forever ready, let their hands be filled with the symbol of their strength for all time.” The old woman held up the hammer she was holding. Soffca came forward and took it from her, she went to each of the dead warriors and took the golden nail, from around their necks. The Handmaidens cried out with one voice, “ISARIE, ISARIE, ISARIE, we fight for you”
Soffca took each golden nail and placed it over the hand, holding the warriors ax. Using the hammer, she struck the nail hard, driving it through the palm and into the ax's wooden handle. Now, t
he dead warrior would not lose their grip on the weapon.
Now, Andra understood what Seeda meant, by having to earn the nail around her neck. A symbol, she hoped she would die, with a weapon in her hand too. Andra remembered another pledge she gave once, a pledge she dishonored; my comrades are dead, it was my fault, how will I die? Alone and forgotten on a strange world?
Writing as fast as he could, Osh could hardly keep up with his observations. He was trying not to miss anything, “Was that a golden nail, or just a metal one?” he asked.
Andra suddenly grabbed the Rimar skin from him and threw it to the ground, “They're dead! Can’t you understand that?” She walked away, leaving the old man to ponder, what he had said wrong?
As the last nail was driven into the last fallen warrior's hand, Soffca turned around and walked back to stand with the other Handmaidens, Obec, lifted her arms to the night sky.
“Eka, Eubano, Ashsana, Italus, Rowgal, Lomic, Fromic, you are the children of this world, help guide our children to the Golden Halls of Isarie.”
The Handmaidens got on their knees, then lay on the ground, they began to roll slowly, back and forth. They spoke as one, “We are The Chosen of the Gods, we come to you and offer our bodies, to do with them, as you will.”
The old Priestess, lifted the staff in her hand, “The eye of Isarie, sees you and knows your heart, is there anyone whose heart is not open to the Gods?” The old woman looked over at the Queen's tears? Not the tears of a Queen for her people, tears for herself. She remembered what the Darkman had said. A present for your Queen, when the time is right, she will give you what you want! Obec slowly lowered the staff, “We have done what the Gods commanded us to do, let the dead rest.”
As the heavy storm clouds, rolled across the faces of the different moons, the tribe of the Madrigal, marched past the stone pyres of their dead, one by one. In their hands were stones, which they placed on the dead warriors, slowly covering them. It was their way, of showing respect and an offering of their love, the tribe passed, time and time again, adding more stones each time. The young and old alike, placed their offerings on the dead and said a prayer to the Gods for their souls.
When the bodies were no longer visible, Obec lowered the staff she was holding, Soffca came forward to cover it with a red cloth. “The Eye of Isarie, sees the souls of our dead are satisfied, go now and do not look back.” The old woman left the ceremony, followed by her Handmaidens and the Thungodra. When she was gone, the tribe slowly moved away, leaving only the King and his family behind.
Arn turned to Agart, “Make sure the bodies are not defiled, there may be Night-fliers and Sandjar lurking in the shadows.” I killed them, it was my mistake, I can at least keep their bodies safe.
Agart nodded his head, “I will make sure their rest is not disturbed,” his brother left to give the order to the warriors.
The King looked at his sister, she seemed distracted, “Seeda, will you stand with the warriors to guard the bodies?” He knew it was something, his sister would want to do. She did not seem to hear him, “Seeda? Do you wish to guard the bodies?”
His sister, suddenly turned her head, “What? Yes, yes I will stand guard tonight.”
“Very well,” the King replied, “I put them into your trust.”
His sister nodded and left, leaving only Anais and Egmar standing with the King. The young Prince started to leave.
“Where are you going?” Arn asked. His brother stopped a few steps from the King and looked at him; you may be King but I go where I want! “I was going to tell Obec, what a good service she performed, I am sure the Gods, will be pleased with us.”
“Yes, tell her the King is very pleased too,” Arn said.
Anais gave a little bow and left.
Arn stood beside his mother, she looked up at him, her face no longer sad but filled with pride, “Your father would have been very proud, you have made me proud.” You will sit with your father in the hall of Isarie!
“I am satisfied mother,” the King said softly, “you have taught me well and I will never fail you, I promise.”
She smiled at her son, “You had better not, you are not too big, to have your backside beaten.” They walked from the stone pyres, leaving the dead to rest in peace.
Anais was smiling, as he walked to the Handmaiden's wagon. He could not help thinking, what fools his people were; did they really think that prayers and rituals would give you what you want. Also, my brother, acting like he was so grand, so magnificent.
He kicked a small rock at his feet; well, what does it matter, he was a fool, they were all fools, dead is dead, there was nothing after this life. If you want to be satisfied, you have to take what you want, all that silliness with the Journey Nails, nonsense! When I die I want nothing in my hand but power, all the power there is!
While walked, he thought of all the terrible ways, he would use the power.
Andra had been walking for some time, she could still see the Washa fires and hear the Tundra beasts grunting. She wanted to be alone, it was a long time, since she had been. Over the past weeks, she had either been with Osh or tribe members. Here was no one about, just the rocks and moons of Gorn to keep her company. She sat on a smooth bolder and looked up at the stars.
Through the dark heavy clouds rolling in, she could see different constellations, over there was Roglaus and here Pyra. When she had been a soldier, she knew each and every star cluster in the heavens. It was part of her training, knowing them could keep you alive.
They seemed of no importance now, they were just stars and not a reference point for a globe strike, or landing maneuvers.
As a young girl, she listened to her mother, telling stories about brave knights and beautiful princesses. How the stars were not suns at all but jewels on the dress of the Night Goddess. When the Goddess cried, it brought the rain, her name was Andra too. Her mother named her after that story, now she was, sitting on a far Off-World, circling one of the stars, she used to dream about. She sat back and closed her eyes, she could hear her mother’s words clearly. When the spring storms raced across her home world, she used to sing songs to her and comfort her.
Close your eyes and look at me.
Stars of night and blue of sea.
Dream of raindrops on your face.
Sweet of honey to the taste.
She suddenly felt a drop of water on her cheek, she opened her eyes, soft rain was starting to fall. I should get back to camp now or, I will get very wet; she thought. After walking a few paces, she decided to return, she stopped. What if I do get wet? What will happen? Will my weapon get rusty and lock up, when I need it? The war was over long ago and she no longer had an assault rifle; will I get sick and die? Not likely, Osh said the Grana would keep me well and strong. Will mother scold me, for ruining my new dress? Her mother was dead, killed in the first attack on her world.
She realized there was no reason to go back to her wagon, it really did not matter, if she got wet or not. She spread out her arms and let the rain wash over her, it felt good, it felt alive, she was alive; maybe the Gods do have a plan for me? She still did not entirely believe in them but if she ever heard them speak, perhaps now she would listen.
The rain came down harder, it washed down the sides of the rocky cliffs, making a small river in the Pass of Moke. It would not last long but it would fill the tribe's water barrels and soak the dry ground.
Andra was too busy to notice but nearby, a patch of vegetation began to bloom. Its small white flowers, lifted upwards to the night sky, their stems were thorny, with a red point at the tip of each spike. The petals of the plant were delicate but they did not break under the heavy drops of rain. If any child of the Almadra had seen these flowers, they would have stayed clear, they were the beautiful but deadly, Moonbuds!
The rain continued to fall, Andra felt the water on her body, giving her strength, renewing her soul. At that moment, it seemed her old self had been washed away, replaced by a new Andra, she looked up. Was the N
ight Goddess crying? Maybe it was all just nonsense but the rain felt good and she could hear the stars singing.
High above, standing on top of the cliff of Moke, was someone who did not feel the rain. He wore a long dark cloak, hiding his face. The Darkman had been following the Madrigal, ever since they left the stone city. He watched, as the tribe retired to their tents, to mourn their loss. They would cry and tell sad stories, more names would be added to the Book of Isarie.
The Book of Isarie! The man suddenly clenched his bony hands into fists; yes the Holy Book of the Almadra, where all the names of the tribe are written, where all the sons and daughters are remembered, where...
The Darkman, left his viewpoint, he walked to a huge winged creature, crouched on a jagged bolder. He mounted the beast's scaly back, then grasped a chain, attached to a ring in its flat nose. It spread its great bat-like wings and together they flew off into the dark sky. They rose higher and higher, the Darkman's mind was filled with rage.
The Holy Book of Isarie… a book of lies!
Nomads of the Gods Page 17
