Chapter 22. Fire in the Sky
To you I give the power of life and death.
Use its power wisely and in my name.
Do not look for judgment from the Gods.
For you hold it in your hands.
From the Book of Isarie.
It was long before sun-birth, the Nomad tribes, were still singing and enjoying themselves in the warmth of the Gathering. There was still plenty of Rimar meat to be eaten and the barrels of Po, were still being opened. Few bones had been broken and no fatal stabbings. There was a confrontation between the Ozendra and the Caladon, over a Trofar trade. The animal's warrior owner, said it was only four cycles in age, on closer examination, the creature was found, to be seven cycles. Everyone knew, a Trofar over five cycles, gave only sour milk. Amid shouting and dagger filled hands, many, thought it would end in bloodshed. It was settled by the Sun-Gazer, who decreed the owner of the Trofar, should pay twice its price in Sagar teeth, to the man he cheated. The beast was taken to the Temple of Isarie and sacrificed to the Gods because the man lied.
Above the laughter and singing, the sounds of mating Whiptails filled the air, with grunting and roaring. A signal to all other creatures, to stay away or be killed. These sounds, told the Nomads, their own mating time would soon be here. The time when they would choose their mates, to ensure the survival of their tribes. However, females still wore their robes the right way round and the Elders kept a close watch on the maidens.
Seeda and Almec, did not wait for the mating time, they spent the night in a frenzy of love and lust. They swallowed the red Ice crystals and their bodies became as one. They did not feel the sweet grass under their naked bodies, or hear the mating calls of the Whiptails. They cared only about the fire burning inside them, like the suns, soon to emerge over the Mountains of Kresh.
They lay in each others arms and would have stayed like that, throughout the day, if it was not for a small Burrow-baby. It came out of its underground home, looking for food. The tiny furry creature, sniffed the air cautiously, then moved slowly into the open ground. Its large yellow eyes scanned the landscape, looking for small insects or field flies for its morning meal. It found a small worm and devoured it with gusto but one worm was not enough, to satisfy its ravenous appetite, it moved closer towards the two naked humans. Ordinarily a Burrow-baby would not come near to a human but its empty belly overcame its instincts and it crept closer,
It sniffed the air again. Slowly it moved closer, in the moonlight it saw a small skin pouch and as it came closer it smelled something it liked. It was just about to bite at the small red crystals, when one of the humans raised an arm, quickly the Burrow-baby scampered for its hole and disappeared.
Seeda opened her eyes, she looked up at the night sky and thought; how close the stars are, do the Gods see the stars as we do? Or are they so high above they only look down? She felt the warm breeze blow across her naked breasts; I am cold. She held Almec's body close to her but she still felt very cold.
Almec could feel his love's arms around him, he was awake but did not open his eyes, he wanted to sleep on, to lay there for all time. He did not want to open his eyes and see the world of Gorn again, he would rather have kept them closed and remain in Seeda's embrace, until the judgment time. The judgment time; he thought; when all The Chosen shall stand before Isarie and listen as she asks three questions.
“Do you know my book?”
“Do you follow its teachings?”
“Do you believe?”
He opened his eyes; what will I say to her, what will I say?
Seeda pulled him closer, she looked at him and smiled, “You are much better than a Whiptail,” she laughed and raised herself up on one arm. She looked at the small scratches and bruises on her arms and legs; perhaps I was wrong? “We'd better get back to camp; I do not want to spend the rest of my life, milking Trofar.”
She started to get up but Almec pulled her back to the grassy ground, “Let us stay for a while longer, the suns have not yet risen and I feel cold.”
Seeda gave him a hard look, she knew they should return to camp but milking a few more Trofars, seemed a small price right now. She lay beside him again.
Almec took her into his arms once more, he kissed her and he felt her body against his; the Day of Judgment. What will I say?
Arn and Andra had left the Talk-stone, there would be no more tribal discussions that night. All the Kings and the warriors were busy betting, how long it would take Ashra-Doom to crush the Half-Soul.
Some believed, the Off-Worlder would not even enter the battle ring, to face Kadar's champion. Some said, she would last for as long as she could run. No one would offer even a Sagar tooth or a shell necklace, or even a few Sun-dropper claws, to bet the woman would live. After all a Moonbud is crushed by an Earth-shaker's foot.
Arn walked alongside Andra, the King's long strides, made it difficult for her to keep up but she did her best, “Where are we going?” she asked, almost stumbled over a clump of grass.
Arn did not slow his pace, “If you are going to fight Ashra-Doom, you will need a strong weapon, I am taking you to the Iron-workers.”
Andra knew, the Iron-workers made armor and war-axes of the tribe. They also repaired the wagons and a hundred other things. They kept their blackened furnaces, burning day and night.
“Ashra-Doom's armor is thick,” the King continued, “You will need a very sharp tooth.”
Andra suddenly realized, she should have listened more, when Sergeant Reynolds said, “Certain death, will only win you a medal, not victory!”
Osh had fallen asleep inside his wagon, Endo lay in a corner, curled up in a bundle of rags and sand. It was his usual sleeping place, like all Sandjar, he liked the darkness and the feel of warm sand was reassuring.
Sandjar do not dream, they simply closed their eyes and when they awoke, it is like no time has passed. They have great appetites, a young Sandjar would sleep for only a short time, then wake up to start looking for more food.
For all his ability to form words, Endo was still a Sandjar and a hungry one at that, he opened his eyes and immediately began sniffing around the wagon, for something to eat.
The olfactory senses of a Sandjar were very acute, they could smell rotting meat over great distances, they could also find roots, digging them out with their strong clawed hands.
It only took a moment or two, for Endo to find a small Grass-Jumper, hiding in the folds of his bed, he quickly ate it. His species never played with their food, there was always a chance that another larger Sandjar, would take it away, if it was not eaten it right away.
He chewed the small insect with gusto, he liked the taste of Grass-Jumpers but it was hardly a meal. He began to search again, he soon found the Hagar soup bowl, lying next to the old man. There was still a remnant of Rimar meat, stuck to the bottom of the bowl. He licked it with his long purple tongue.
Osh opened his eyes, Endo's slurping sounds, had roused him from sleep. He lifted himself up on one of his thin arms, rubbed his tried eyes, then the input port on his head. He tried to focus in the wagon's dim light, “Still hungry I see,” he said with a yawn, “very well, I will see if there is any soup left.” He reached out to take the empty bowl but as he did, Endo lashed out at him, with a clawed hand, “Yeeeeeeaaaaaa!” Osh screamed, then pulled his hand back. There was a cut across the top of his hand, running from his thumb to his little finger. It was not deep but all the same blood flowed freely.
The old man grabbed a piece of Endo’s bedding and quickly wrapped it around his fist. He looked at his adopted son, he did not mean to, he was only following his instincts, it was not his fault; he thought. He watched as the Sandjar continued licking the last of the stale Rimar meat from the bowl. He then put it down and looked at the old man.
“Food?” he asked.
Osh held the dirty piece of rag against his hand, he looked into Endo's large yellow eyes and wondered; is he asking for more food? Or am I the food? Carefully he
reached over and took a small piece of dried Rimar, out of a heavy clay pot, he handed it to Endo.
He sniffed it, then grabbed the morsel and stuffed it into his toothy mouth, he chewed it and swallowed, then he smiled at the old man, “More food?” he asked.
The old Callaxion handed him another piece of meat; what will happen if I run out of food, what will he eat then?
Around the Iron-worker's stone furnace stood a large group of warriors. They were standing close together in front of the burning fires, their armor reflected the fire's glow. They stood quietly and motionless, holding their war-axes.
Agart was with them, standing next to his brother, he watched the Half-Soul closely; Ashra-Doom will kill this woman, the Gods will see to it; he thought.
Andra stood beside Arn, watching the fire from the large stone furnace. As the Rimar skinned bellows pumped in and out, sparks blew out, like the fire from a Long-Range Cannon.
Ordinarily, the furnace would be shielded from view, in the Outlands, a fire this big would be seen for many miles. Something an Outlander would never do but here in the safety of the Gathering, the Iron-workers let the flames free, sending a burning light, high into the night sky.
To Andra, the stone furnace seemed like some great monster, breathing in and out. She watched, as the workers fed in great amounts of Balbar wood and many chunks of Eul rock, they burned with a bright blue glow. She had watched similar preparations, on her farm back home, her brother had been a very good blacksmith. He kept all the plowing blades and picking hooks in good condition. I wonder what he would say now? I’m sorry you’re not here with me, I’m sorry you're dead; she thought.
The bellows continued to pump, in, out, in, out.
Agart looked up at the night sky. Isarie will punish her, for thinking she is one of The Chosen and I will again stand at my brother’s side; he thought.
The flames grew brighter, as the pumping grew more intense. A large Nomad came forward, he was wearing a thick apron of several layers of Rimar skin, a defense against the intense heat from the furnace. He picked up a heavy iron rod and began to stoke the fire.
In, out, in, out.
Arn looked at the blazing fire; she is strong but will she be able to stand before Ashra? What will I do if she is killed? He lifted his head high, his voice solemn but loud enough to be heard by the warriors, around them, “From the sky Isarie sends us steel, from her lungs she gives us life!”
The warriors began to chant, “Argo inta Isarie, the breath of Isarie!”
Andra watched as the Iron-worker put the rod down, he picked up a heavy tong, then reached into the flames, to pull out a glowing piece of metal.
Arn spoke again, “From the earth, she gives us fire!”
Again the warriors chanted, “Romac inta Isarie, the Fire of Isarie!”
Andra watched as the Nomad, took the burning metal to a large anvil, he laid it on its side, then picked up a broad hammer and began to beat the steel into shape.
Arn lifted his heavy ax and began to strike it on the ground, saying, “We are The Chosen of the Gods, in our hands, we hold the judgment of Isarie!”
The warriors began to beat the ground with their axes, “The judgment of Isarie!” they shouted, loud enough to wake the Gods. They continued to beat their weapons on the ground, they watched as the Iron-worker, hammered the steel into the shape of an ax blade, the chanting went on, “Fire, earth, air, the judgment of Isarie!” More hammering, more chanting, the night sky filled with fire and smoke, the warriors continued to beat the ground, their shouting became a war cry! “Fire, Earth, Air, Death!”
The King spoke, “We are the Iron Hand of Isarie! We are the judgment! We are death!”
Andra watched as Arn's face changed, all remnants of humanity, slowly slipped away, she dare not move or speak.
“We are The Chosen of the Gods, we are death!” He continued to pound his ax on the ground and with each blow of the ax, the warriors cried out.
Fire! Earth! Air! Death!
Andra felt she was no longer standing next to a man. There was nothing left in his eyes, no pity, no remorse, no soul, what had been a human, was now just a vessel, a killing machine in the form of a man.
Fire! Earth! Air! Death!
The warriors pounded their weapons into the hard ground, with all their might. Dust and earth filled the air, mixed with the Almadra battle cry!
“Death! Death! Death!”
Andra was afraid; will I die?
Agart looked at her hard; the Gods will punish her.
The King closed his eyes; please Isarie, let her live.
Anais waited most of the night for Soffca to return. He listened to the singing from outside his tent and smelled the slowly cooking Rimar meat. He tried to ignore it, he amused himself, thinking of all the ways, he could torture those he hated. He imagined himself as King, having the whole tribe bow down to him. Dreams he'd had many times before but they always gave him pleasure. After a time, he became bored and decided to walk.
Outside he walked past the many tents and wagons, wherever he went, the tribe bowed to him but he could tell it was just Almadra tradition not, out of respect. Let them mock me; he thought; someday I will be King and they will bow lower than ever before! He passed the Elder's tents, they lifted their hands and touched their heads, as they had been taught to do, as a sign of respect but he knew it was a game. The Elders are old, their heads are full of Doff feathers! He smiled at them just the same; when I am King, I will make their empty heads, bow to me!
He passed by a group of warriors, testing each others, strength in a hand game. They would hold out their hands, palms up, a large rock was placed in it, then they stood holding the stone. The first one to let it fall, lost, he grumbled; they think they are strong, they are fools, they waste their time in silly games.
He continued to walk, he could see the Iron-workers fire and he heard the chanting of the warriors around the furnaces; more steel, more weapons but they wield them in the name of an empty God. Fools! He continued to walk; why am I the only one who sees? They all take me for a fool, that old witch Obec, thinks she can use me like a Handmaiden, she is the biggest fool of all!
The night was warm and soon he became tired, he looked around for somewhere to sit, alone with his angry thoughts. He walked past the Talk-stone, into a small circle of rocks, large broken fragments, all that was left of a column, felled during the last Land-quake. He stopped and leaned against the cool stone. He looked up at the night sky and thought; they believe in the Gods Arn, Agart, Mother, they all believe. Let them, a belief in nothing, is nothing, they're fools, fools. He smiled, then spoke in a hushed tone, “I am no fool.”
“No, you are my son,” someone said and Anais turned with a sudden jolt.
Standing a few paces from him was Egmar, she could stay in her tent no longer, there were too many memories. She decided the warm night air was better than the cold remembrances of her mind.
Egmar smiled at Anais and asked, “What troubles you my son?” She moved closer to him and reached out with a soft hand, “Do your dreams frighten you again?” she touched her son's arm, “What troubles you?” she asked again.
Anais felt her hand on his arm, he pulled back, like he was bitten by a Rock-worm, “What makes you think all is not well?” He forced a smile onto his face; she thinks a few kind words will bend my knee.
Egmar slowly walked a step away from her son, “I'm sorry I may be mistaken,” she said, softly; does he want to say something to me? Nothing was said, the Queen picked a small meadow flower from a large stone nearby. There was no soil for the flower's roots but it grew anyway, she smelled its sweet fragrance and then turned to her son again, “Are the teachings of the Goddess warming your heart?” she asked.
Anais chuckled under his breath; she thinks I've been studying the Holy Book, let her continue to think so. “Yes, I find her words very comforting,” he replied; as I do the flesh of her Handmaidens.
“That is good, I am very proud of yo
u, your father would have been proud of you!” She smelled the flower again; thank you Isarie, for guiding my son from his darkness.
The young Prince hid his contempt for his father, behind a warm smile; my father, my father was the biggest fool of all! “The embrace of Isarie is a warm one,” he replied; if only she knew of Soffca, then she could see, how the Gods reward unbelievers.
The old Queen stood looking up at the night sky, she could see the moons clearly, she smiled, “Do you remember the story I used to tell you, the story of the lost moon?”
Lost Moon? Story? “No, I remember no such story, perhaps you are thinking of another son.” It was not me, you never told me stories.
Egmar moved over to a smooth stone fragment, carved on it were the names of ancient tribe members, destroyed by an Earth-shaker. She sat down upon it, still holding the small flower, in a soft calm voice she asked, “Would you like me to tell you the story now?”
A story now? Is this a trick? She wants to tell me something by hiding it in a story. “You are still Queen, mother, do as you wish,” he said calmly.
Egmar held the flower close to her and began to tell the story. “When the Great Goddess Isarie was just a girl, her mother Nigor gave her a small moon to care for but she was careless and the moon was lost.”
Why does my mother tell me such silly stories now? Anais pondered; it is too late for stories, too late.
“Rather than look for the moon, she went to her mother and asked her to make another one to take its place,” the Queen continued, “but her mother told her, she could not!”
A silly story for silly children!
Egmar looked up at the night sky again, “You are the maker of the heavens,” Isarie said, “A small moon is nothing to you.” Nigor smiled at her daughter and said, “I can also make another daughter, do you want me to lose you?”
Anais stood and looked at his mother; Nigor, Isarie? My mother has grown weak, she walks with the Frail-legs. The young Prince smiled at his mother, “A very amusing story but its growing late and I must be going.” I must get away from all these fools. He turned and walked away.
Egmar watched him go, she wanted to run after him, to hold him and tell him she was sorry. Sorry for the many nights, when she did not tell him stories, to ask him to forgive her, for not caring for him, as much as she cared for her other children but she did not. She looked up at the sky; forgive me Isarie, I am a woman not a Goddess. She looked down at the small flower in her hand; I am just an old woman, walking in my dreams.
Andra watched while the warriors beat the ground and cried out in the night. She stood silently, as the glowing steel, was fashioned into a magnificent weapon, of perfect design and balance. She let them cut her arm, so her blood fell onto the flaming blade, she listened to it, hiss and steam and make it sacred. She watched as it was wrapped in a red cloth and given to the King, who now held it up to the sky, as the first rays of sunlight were breaking over the far distant Mountains of Kresh.
Arn watched the shafts of morning light coming over the Greenland’s, until they touched the cloth he held.
Then in a voice carrying all the weight of a King, he said. “As the light of Isarie gives us life, so that same life, shall be given to this ax, let the warrior come forth and speak so that all may hear!”
Andra moved slowly forward and stood before Arn, she held her head high.
“Who are you?” the King asked.
“I am Lieutenant Andra Oseira, first infantry division, Omega 5,” she said proudly.
“And what is the name you were given in the tribe?” he asked.
“Moonbud, the flower that kills!”
The King removed the wrappings from the weapon but did not touch it, he held it out to Andra, “Take this weapon and mark it with your soul.”
Andra took the ax.
The King smiled at her, it was a private smile, one of the other warriors could not see. He looked out at the Nomads and spoke again, “Horcus inta Isarie.... The Judgment of Isarie!”
“Horcus inta Isarie, the Judgment of Isarie!” repeated the warriors.
Agart did not recite the words; she should not have a tooth, she is not, of The Chosen, the Gods will punish her!
Again the King spoke, “A weapon can be broken but not the soul that holds it!” He looked at Andra hard, “Moonbud, the flower that kills, will you travel with the tribe?”
Andra looked deep into his eyes, in them, she saw strength, a strength that would never be broken, “Yes I will travel with the tribe,” she replied.
“Will you stand with your King?” he asked.
She regarded him again using his eyes as her cue, this time she saw something else, it was more than strength, more than the look of a King, she saw, love! “I will stand with the King,” she replied.
When those words were spoken, the warriors began to cry out once more, “Moonbud, Moonbud, Moonbud!” It was the same chant as before but this time it was different.
This time she had a tooth.
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