Nomads of the Gods

by Gary Mark Lee

  Chapter 27. The Tears of Isarie

  I will make a man and a woman.

  Together they will be The Chosen of the Gods.

  I will water them with my tears and they will grow.

  From the Book of Isarie.

  When Seeda and Almec did not return from their hunt, Arn sent out every warrior of the Almadra to look for them, they searched for two days and nights. They ventured South, as far as Still Water Lake and to the West until they came to Yawning Chasm. However even with the other tribes helping they could be found.

  The Armrod were rumored to have taken revenge for their champion being killed, by killing the King's sister. Some thought a Daggermouth might have eaten them, when they stopped by a lake for water. It was, also said that it was the work of the Shadow-men but they had not, been seen anywhere in the Greenland’s of Darmock.

  Arn demanded the King of the Armrod, should tell him what he had done with his sister. The old King denied everything, heated words were exchanged and daggers drawn, if it was not for the presence of the Sun-Gazer, there would have been bloodshed.

  It was, eventually decided that it was the will of the Gods and nothing more could be done.

  Arn paced back and forth in front of his Washa fire. He did not see the sun’s disappearing behind the ridge to the South, or feel the warm winds blowing from the North, all he felt was anger and pain. “In the morning, I want all warriors looking South again, perhaps they are hurt and their Whiptails dead,” he said, hoping his words were true.

  Agart sat quietly on a half-buried rock near the fire, he slowly sipped a cup of Po. He watched his brother moving back and forth but said nothing.

  “Seeda is strong, if she is hurt she will survive,” Arn said, “She is strong.” The King moved like a Sager Cat in a cage, trapped and unable to do anything.

  Agart knew the truth of their sister's disappearance, he knew that rather than be made Outcast by the tribe, Seeda and Almec had gone, preferring to leave of their own accord. My sister didn't want the King to suffer any more pain, she didn't want mother or me to suffer either; he told himself.

  Arn stopped pacing and sat down on a rock near his brother.

  Agart stared down at the ground; she is gone; he thought; she is gone and will not return. He looked at Arn; my brother knows this too but I must hear it from his mouth. “She isn't coming back is she?” he asked in a low voice.

  “No,” Arn answered. The King watched Agart take a sip of his Po; how easily my bother accepts her loss, does belief in the Gods make such a big thing so small? In a low hushed tone he asked, “Why do the Gods take one and leave another?”

  Agart put his cup down and looked at his brother, “It is not for us to know the minds of the Gods.” I cannot tell him the truth, he lied to me but I must not lie to him.

  Arn stared into the Washa fire for a long time, his mind filled with questions he could not answer. Are the Gods punishing me for loving a Half-Soul? If so, why punish my sister? Why do the Gods play such terrible games? He had no answers, he continued to stare into the dancing flames.

  Andra could see the King’s face, she wanted to go to him, to comfort him but she did not. She knew the pain of losing a family member, she had lost her mother, her brother and her world. She did not think her loss, was any greater or less, than the loss of a sister.

  She sat by her fire drinking a cup of Po and she listened to the low death songs, being sung by the Madrigal. She heard the drums beating slowly and the mournful cries of the Wailing Women. She was a strong woman; she thought; I never had a sister but if I had, I would have wanted her, to be like Seeda. She thought she was going to cry but she fought back the tears. No, she would not, want me to cry, she would want me to be strong, like her.

  Without being seen, she lifted her cup and shouted out her old regiment's battle slogan, “Together we fight!” Then she drank her remaining Po.

  Osh did not hear Andra, he was too busy inside his wagon, writing down the events of the day. He had been writing since he came back from the grasslands, filling two whole Rimar skins, with details of his observations of Sandjar interaction with humans.

  He wrote information about their feeding habits and growth patterns, he calculated their strength and endurance, their vocal ranges and their coloration. He compared their tolerance to heat and cold, with other species who were classified as being of the same Order. He wrote about, the way Endo walked and talked, how he slept and the way he moved his head to one side and the soft purring sounds he made as a baby.

  He omitted one thing, he did not write of how he felt now his son was gone. It is not, important; he thought; there is no scientific information to be gained, by writing about my feelings. He continued writing, he calculated the total number of Sandjar, how much food they could eat in a single cycle and how they preferred to sleep in warm sand.

  He stopped writing and looked over at the empty mattress next to his own. He put the Rimar skin down and let the inscriber fall from his tired hand, no one will care; he mused; in a thousand years who will care? He put his hand over his eyes and wept.

  The universe has seen many tears, they fell for happiness or sadness, for joy or sorrow and for pain or suffering. Sometimes they were for feelings that could not be understood but that did not matter to Osh. His were the tears of an old man who had lost his only son.

  Obec could hear the Handmaiden's slow rhythmic chatting, as they prayed for the souls of Seeda and Almec. They recited words to appease the Gods and ensure a safe passage from this world to the Golden Halls of Isarie. They lifted sweet smelling incense and sacrificed Burrow-babies, Rimar meat and the blood of a full-grown Whiptail, so the warrior's souls could drink and be strong.

  It was not a sad time for Obec, on the contrary, the Princess' death would only make her plans more secure. She knew the King would be weaker now, he would question himself as a strong King and as a brother. The old woman sat down on her chair, she picked up a small clay cup, half full of hot Deep-root tea, the taste of dark drink made her feel good.

  The King’s love for his sister and the Half-Soul, will make him weaker in days to come; she thought; by the time we reach the Omargash mountains, he will be even weaker. She took another sip of her tea; Agart will not tell his brother that his sister, is now a Sin-Craver, I will let him think his secret is safe. Another sip. Then when the time is right, I will use it against the King. Then I will deal with the Queen. Sip. She is afraid, I will use that fear to drive her away. Sip. Isarie will smile on me, I am her right hand.

  “Holy Mother?”

  Obec looked up to see a Handmaid at her chamber's entrance, the young woman did not look at her face when she spoke, keeping her head low.

  “The Holy Mother, Omani is here as you requested.”

  “Show her in.”

  The Handmaiden drew the curtain back and a tall thin woman, entered the chamber. She was dressed in the dark red robes, worn by a High Priestesses, when an Outlander died.

  Omani held her head high and looked directly into the old woman's eyes. Unlike most Outlanders, she was not afraid of the Gods, or the power of Obec. She did not wait for Obec to ask if she wanted to sit down, she sat.

  “I'm so glad you came,” the old woman said, smiling.

  “How could I refuse,” Omani replied; she is crafty, be careful with your words.

  “Would you care for some Deep-root tea?” Obec asked, as she reached for the pot of refreshing drink.

  “No thank you,” was the reply.

  “I'm sure your tribe keeps you very busy, so I will not keep you long,” Obec smiled as she poured herself another cup of the dark tea.

  “As you wish,” Omai said; she smiles but I know her mind and darkness lives there.

  The old Priestess settled back in her chair, she spoke in a slow quiet tone between sips of her drink, “Why do you go against the Gods?” she asked.

  Omani shifted in her seat, her hands closed around her chair's carved handrails.

  “I
do not go against the Gods, I walk by their side,” her words did not show the anger she felt; the old woman is trying to anger me, do not let her inside.

  Obec took a small sip of her tea, “If you walk by their side, you walk in the shadows.”

  For a moment there was silence as the two servants of the Gods looked at each other, Omai spoke first.

  “We are not children, we can speak plainly,” she said, “In the Chamber of Isarie you spoke of an alliance with the Shadow-men. I held my words then but I shall speak them now, it must not happen!”

  Obec's face showed no sign of anger but inside it was a different matter. She will not let the Ozendra join with us, she is not one of us, “We need the Shadow-men to remove the Off-Worlders from our lands.”

  There was a long pause while the two women looked at each other. Omani leaned forward in her chair, “You see with one eye of the Goddess, I see with the other. Together we may see what is clear,” she said, she pressed her thin back into the soft chair cushions.

  Obec studied Omani's face for a moment, she saw the look of determination in her eyes and the way she sat in her chair. This woman will not bend; she will bend or she will be broken, “You know as well as I that we are made from the same clay as the Shadow-men.”

  Omani's face was ashen, she looked around the chamber, looking for anyone who might have overheard. She turned back to the High Priestess and spoke in a hushed tone, “Those words are never to be spoken” she said and then looked around again.

  Obec took a long sip of her tea, “Yes I know, only the High Priestess of each tribe, knows the truth but it is the truth never the less.”

  Omani’s eyes closed and she spoke softly, “When we became a High Priestess, we took an oath before Isarie, never to reveal the Shadow-men's true heritage, never to tell admit they are our children. The Outlanders, must never know and that is why, we cannot join with them.”

  The old woman could in Omani's face that she would never change her mind, it was pointless trying. Obec smiled and relaxed back into her chair, “Perhaps you are right,” she said, “I am an old woman and my mind may, be weakened by my years, forgive me for asking about what cannot be done.”

  Omani watched Obec slump back into her seat, she saw her face soften and her piercing eyes look upwards, as if asking the Gods for help. She is tired; she thought; she has lived many cycles and now they weigh upon her, the Book of Isarie tells us to help those who need help. “Isarie is merciful, she will forgive your weakness,” she said.

  Obec smiled and then straighten up in her chair, “Yes, she is merciful,” she said, “Now please share a cup of tea with me and let us praise the Goddess together.”

  Omani's face showed kindness, “Yes, let us drink and forget the heavens for a moment.”

  Obec picked up the pot of hot tea and poured it slowly into a cup for her guest. She handed it to Omani, with one hand over the top, Omani didn't notice her drop a small black crystal into the drink.

  “This is the finest Deep-root tea in all the Outlands,” she said proudly, as Omani took the cup from her hand.

  Omani held up the cup and smiled at Obec, “Let us drink and be content,” they both drank.

  Obec settled back into her chair and watched Omani, until her eyes showed a faint hint of pain. She lifted her hand, as if to ask for something, then she fell limp. The High Priestess' mouth opened slowly, as if to speak but no words came out, only a faint rush of breath. Omani stiffened and fell from her chair onto an ornate rug on the floor.

  Obec watched her die! She sat for a while looking at Omani's crumpled body. She sipped her tea until it was gone. She went to her chamber's dividing curtain, she opened it to see a Handmaiden who she summoned.

  The young woman came quickly, she let out a gasp when she entered the chamber, “What has happened to Omani?” she asked.

  Obec smiled and spoke softly, “Isarie has called her home.”

  The Handmaiden ran to fetch help, Obec looked at her former rival's lifeless body; Isarie will cry for her. The Goddess is merciful; she thought. I am the right hand of the Goddess, am I not.

  As Anais lay in Soffca's sleeping chamber, he could hear activity from the Holy Mother's tent. He heard the Handmaidens crying out that Omani, the Holy Woman of the Ozendra was dead. Then the clanging armor of the Thungodra, as they raced in, to see if an intruder had slipped past them, to assassinate the Priestess.

  A small grin moved across his face. Someone has died; he thought; what does it matter, someone always dies. He looked at Soffca's face of as she slept naked beside him. He reached out and touched her long dark hair, his hand moved down to touch the attractive tattoo just above her eyes. Seeda is gone, yet I feel nothing, when I die, will anyone weep for me? He ran his hand down her soft back; my mother, my brothers, they will not care when I die, as I will not care, when they are dead.

  He moved his hand back up to her face again, her eyes flickered open. Anais looked deeply into them, trying to see into her soul, “Do you love me?” he asked, in a soft voice.

  Soffca smiled at him, she touched him lightly on the cheek, “Yes,” she said.

  The young Prince waited for the words to sink in, “And will you weep when I am gone?”

  “Yes,” she said once more.

  Anais heard the words he was longing to hear, he leaned over and kissed her; she loves me; he thought; she will weep for me when I am gone. He kissed her again and again, if there was no one who cared, when he died, it did not matter, he felt nothing for anyone anyway. If he could have looked into his own dark soul, he would have seen a dim light. It pierced the blackness, one small burning flame, it was created by one person. Soffca!

  It was still a dim light, not easily seen, he would need to look very hard, at the moment his soul was filled with lust.

  There was one person who wept for Seeda, Egmar sat alone in her tent. Outside the night sky was heavy with cloud and the air was moist, a summer rain was coming. It would do little to change the Almadra Queen's mood. Silently guard kept people away while Edgar grieved. The sharpened head of their war-axes pointed upwards, a sign of mourning for a fallen warrior.

  Nearby Touch-tenders sang softly and the Elders of the Tribe placed field flowers and glowing braziers of rare incense, to show their sadness and respect. Soon the offerings were piled so high that some had to be taken away, to make room for more.

  The High Priestess, sent several painted red Handmaidens to chant rituals next to the tent, to guide Seeda's soul to the Golden Halls of Isarie. They offered small bowls of incense to the night sky.

  Egmar could smell the sweet odors but all the songs, chanting, and flowers did little to ease her pain.

  She sat on the floor, her face wet with tears and her hands were upon a small wooden chest. The Journey-Box kept by all families of the tribe. The Journey-Box contained heirlooms and small treasures that formed a link between the present and the past. In the oil lamp's dim light, the old Queen looked at the ornate carvings on the lid, some of them scarcely visible now. Worn by many years and the many hands that held the box. Its silver inlays, were a little tarnished but the gold handle and hinges were still bright and shiny.

  Egmar ran her hands over the family crest, carved into the lid. How many other women have done this? She thought. She could recite the names of twelve generations by heart but her family went back many more, she needed to look in the Book of Isarie to find them all.

  How many women will know my name; she asked herself; Seeda, my little Saduk, why did you leave me, to who will I give this box now, who will give it to their daughter and their daughter after them?

  She carefully opened the lid, the aged hinges, made a slight grinding noise, Egmar laid the cover back so it would not strain the metal fastenings. She took out one of Arn’s teeth, a green idol that belonged to Agart and the trouble vessel she'd traded for, as a gift to Anais, she looked at them all.

  My sons, my sons, will your daughters, care for this box like I have, will they know our fami
ly's names? She took out a small wooden ax, Karn had carved it for Seeda, when she was a girl. She looked at it and smiled. You are in the Golden Halls of Isarie now, my precious Saduk, you are sitting with your father and singing the songs of our tribe. She closed her hand around the little toy. Wait for me my daughter, I will come. I will hold you and you will hold me and together we will lie in the Goddess' arms for all time.

  She closed her eyes and listened to the storm clouds breaking overhead, she heard the sound of soft rainfall on the tent. She knew the water would cause the field flowers to bloom and the Balbar trees to fill their branches with fresh fruit. We are like those trees; she thought; our branches are strong and will bear many children, there will be others to carry the box, we will grow...we will grow.

  She began to cry the tears of a mother, for her lost child. They were not, the tears of the Goddess, they would not give life. They were the tears of a mortal but they were still precious.

  The morning found the grass in the Valley of Darmock, fresh with dew, the soft rain of the night before, filled everything with new energy and life. The Whiptails, were roaring and pawing the ground with their heavy clawed feet, they beat the ground with their spiked tails, in anticipation of the journey to come.

  The warriors had almost completed preparations for leaving the Eye of Isarie, they carefully folded and packed their tents into the wagons. They checked and rechecked their saddles, loading them with the previsions needed for the long trek. The Trofars were milked and to make sure they were in a good mood for pulling the wagons, given extra grass to eat.

  To protect the tribe in case of a raid by the Shadow-men or any other enemy, the Spike-backs were loaded with the heavy guns and ammunition. Near to the Spike-backs and under their protection were the Grana wagons. They no longer contained the metal gathered from the Drop-ships, it had been used to make repairs and new weapons. Now they were filled with Stone Bread, it would be traded to the Ergan-Mar, the miners who dug for the precious Grana salt, in the far off mountains of Omargash.

  The High Priestess' huge tent was taken down and all the hallowed statues were carefully covered and placed in the moving shrine. The Handmaidens were busy folding up the tapestries and rugs and securing them away. Their wagons, were made ready by the Thungodra, who also guarded the Holy Mother inside her moving home.

  The Kings had met at the Talk-stone one last time. It was supposed, to be a meeting to pledge the peace treaty, for one more cycle but it had turned into a shouting match between Arn and Kadar. Once more Arn accused the Armrod of being responsible for his sister's disappearance and once again, the old King denied any connection with the missing warriors. More words were exchanged until daggers were drawn but for Agart's calming words, the scared stone would have been bathed in blood.

  The tension spread throughout the tribes and everyone was on edge, as the sun’s rose overhead and all was made ready to move.

  Andra had been up before sunrise, she had put on her armor and riding spurs and tried to load Ashra-Doom's huge male Whiptail. She took advice from the warriors and made sure the creature was well fed and drank his fill of water. She checked his clawed feet for thorns or rocks, embedded into the thick souls. After several attempts she finally got his saddle attached and loaded the carry bags with provisions. More than once the beast tried to bite her, if she had been any slower, she might have lost an arm. Luckily she managed to keep all of her limbs and after a lot of effort, she finally had the beast ready to mount.

  “Now just hold still and we’ll get along fine,” she said, looking into the creature's large yellow eyes. She grabbed the reins and lifted herself into the soft saddle but no sooner had she settled herself, than the creature gave out with a loud roar and jumped several feet into the air. Turning its back sharply upwards, it sent Andra flying, to land on the soft grass with a loud thump. Andra lay for a moment, to give time for her head to stop spinning, as she sat up and to look around, she heard a voice.

  “He does not know you.”

  When her vision cleared, she saw Arn looking down.

  “I was trying to introduce myself,” she said, then held out her hand, for the King to pull her to her feet. Once standing she shook the last stars from her eyes and started back to the creature.

  Arn watched as she took the reins into her hand again. She is brave; he thought; but she has to learn. He went over to the Whiptail, as it pawing the ground, “He does not know you and will throw you off again,” he said, “You need to show him you are his new rider.”

  Andra was about to try again but she stopped, realizing it was better to take the King's advice, “How do I do that?” she asked.

  The King smiled at her, then took the reins from her hand, “Ashra-Doom was three times your size, the beast thinks you are trying to steal him, you have to be wiser than him.”

  “Yes,” she smiled, “but there’s only one of me and I don’t eat that much.”

  Arn gave her a grin, then looked around the campsite, he saw what he was looking for, “A Whiptail is like an enemy, sometimes you have to trick him,” he said.

  Andra watched as Arn went to a pile of large sacks of Kasha grain, waiting to be loaded onto the supply wagons.

  He picked up one of the bags, then brought it over to the beast. He lifted the heavy bag up and placed it behind the creature’s saddle. “The weight of the grain, will make the beast think you are Ashra, Every night, remove some, of the grain, in a week he will accept you as his master.”

  Andra had to admire the King's ingenuity. He is smart as well as handsome; she thought; I wonder what kind of children we could have? Before anymore thoughts of children could cross her mind, she suddenly stopped. Something is wrong; she thought. She looked into Arn's eyes, her gaze was not returned, he was looking right through her. Something is coming; she thought; something to be afraid of.

  The ground began to shake, slow at first, then more intense with each passing moment. In that space of time, Andra could almost see into her lover's mind, she could feel his mind and the image burning there.

  Land-quake!

  Then it hit, the earth began to move violently, Whiptails and Thundra beasts roared and their cries filled the air, they mixed with the wailing of older women and shouts of the warriors.

  There was no need for the King to shout out orders, everyone knew what they had to do.

  Run!

  Warriors leapt upon their Whiptails and lifted their war-axes high, a signal, everyone should stop whatever they were doing and get away as fast as possible. Empty wagons went racing into the Greenland’s, away from the breaking towers and cracking earth. Clouds of smoke and dust began to fill the air, as the Nomads ran for their lives.

  Andra pulled herself onto the saddle of her Whiptail, she saw Arn leap onto his own beast. Turning the creature, she saw Osh urging his Trofar on, shouting at it to move. With the ground cracking beneath them, everyone headed for the open plains of Darmock.

  The wagons rumbled over the breaking ground, children screamed and held onto their mothers. The Elders prayed for mercy from the Gods, tearing their hair and beating their chests. Many of the wagons, were swallowed up by the earth, they disappeared beneath the ground, while others broke wheels and had to be abandoned.

  The warriors did their best to protect their tribe but there was no enemy to fight, only the shaking ground, an attack they were helpless against. Many Spike-backs stampeded into the plains, throwing the heavy weapons from their backs, overturning wagons and trampling Outlanders beneath their huge feet.

  Throughout the Valley of Moke, creatures great and small, fled. Some dug deep into the ground, hoping to escape the terror, only to be crushed under tons of earth. The Rimar gathered together and moved like one giant creature. They went into the surrounding hills, looking for somewhere to hide but there was no escape from the rumbling death.

  The Nomad tribes left the Eye of Isarie, they watched from a distance, as the tall stone tribal markers, came crumbling to the ground. A great
roar filled the air, as the earth under them cracked and widened, to swallow the ages old stones, what had taken centuries to build, took only moments to be destroyed. The Talk-stone broke, it would no longer hear the words of the Nomads. It would never again, know what was in the minds of the warriors, who came to sit before it as they spoke to the Gods. Now it would only listen to the endless silence of the ages.