Chapter 10. The Trap
It is a common practice among the Nomads of the Outlands to conceal their presence, they do this in many ways. They do not leave anything behind when they move their camps, or travel over the lands. The tracks of their wagons and beasts, are erased by a large rake-like devises that the last in the column drag behind them. They do this because of the constant danger from scavengers and other predators on Gorn.
From the Mindlock of Oshismarie, Inastro Sistashion.
Doff-birds are a curious breed, they travel in family groups much like the Sandjar. The leader is usually male, followed by several females and their young. They are strong, agile creatures with powerful beaks, sharp claws on their hind legs and long spurs used to kill larger prey. Over many Millennia, they had lost the power of flight and now walked or ran over much of the Outlands. They will attack if provoked but prefer to run away, rather than face danger. Their diet consists mostly of small animals such as Burrow Babies or Rock Runners, they also eat fruit or carrion if they find any. Their wailing cries, can be heard at night, when they stand together and call out. A screeching that can be heard over a great distance.
The Nomads sometimes hunt them for their very colorful plumage, consisting of long feathers, running from the crown of their large heads, down their backs and with a cluster on their tails. Their eggs are delicious and the empty shells sometimes used as drinking cups or ground up to be used as a healing medicine.
It is also told in stories to the children of the Outlanders that once they were human.
They say that long ago, a tribe of Nomads set a trap for Wowana, the Goddess of the air. They succeed in their plan and held her hostage, for they were a cruel and greedy people. They told her, they would set her free if she turned them into birds, above all else they wished to fly in the heavens. Wowana agreed to this and they set her free. Being a Goddess she kept her word, and turned them into birds. For their arrogance and cruelty, she made them into creatures that looked like birds but could not fly. Now they would wander the Outlands like this for all time. They would look up to the stars, knowing, they could never reach them, and call out to the Goddess to forgive them.
There was a wind blowing from the west, when the leader of the family of Doff-birds, came up over a small ridge and saw the huge twisted mountain of metal that had once been the terror ship M-91. The simple-minded creature had no way of knowing, this had once been the most powerful battleship in the Trajion War Fleet. It also had no way of knowing if it was alive, eons of life on Gorn had produced a creature that knew when to approach and when to run. Emitting a loud screech, the leader of the feathered beasts turned, and raced quickly away from the metal monster, half buried in the earth.
The Darkman no longer slept, he did not understand why, he was thankful for not having to endure those little stabs of death every time he closed his eyes. With the darkness, in his sleep, came the nightmares, his constant companion’s since he wandered into the Poison lands, to become a Shadowman.
Now he sat in the chamber of the God that had given him a new body, and the power to continue his fight once more, against his enemies. Around him, moved the metal creatures that had taken away parts of his rotting body and replaced them with new limbs. Not legs and arms that would feel the cut of a Nomad's ax, no, these appendages, could crush a man's skull or grind him into the sand.
The Shadowman watched their strange movements; they are like blaze-ants around their nests; he thought; they move with a purpose and do not question where they go. This made him smile; someday all the Outlands will move as I say. He looked up at the nearby glowing Orb; I will serve this God and in return the Nomads will serve me.
He stood up and began to walk out of the chamber, he went through a passageway filled with small spider-like mechanisms. They had been working without stopping, and each passing hour saw more of them. He did not ask where they came from, simply accepting that a God can create at will, and should not be asked the extent of his power.
Even if he did ask, and the Orb, now calling itself Atos, had told him, he could hardly have understood. How would a Shadowman, know of the technology that allowed the sphere to manufacture Repair-bots as needed. These smaller and more agile mechanisms were called Spotters. They could do simple or complex tasks as needed, they also helped the larger Task robots in diagnostic reports and a hundred other things that were needed.
The Darkman did not care about such things, all he knew was, the God was makings itself stronger with each passing day.
The Shadowman moved past the tiny workers and entered a large chamber, being worked upon by a group of creatures, once called Sandjars. There was very little left, to tell you, these were once scavengers of the Outlands. Their green skinned bodies, were now covered in an organic flexible compound that protected them from damage as they went about their work, repairing and moving equipment. They did not speak because there was no need. Bio-mechanical interactive responders had been inserted into their brains, they had been programmed, to know what needed to be done. They went about it with precise movements, no wasted energy, and they also did not sleep. Their food, if you could call it food, was injected into what was left of their stomachs, by specially equipped nourishment robots. Sustaining them with an organic compound much like the substance that kept the Orb alive. This food was a simple organic fungus that grew with very little input, it absorbed sunlight and compounds, to produce a rudimentary digestive material, it could go on reproducing indefinitely.
This was all the reformed Sandjar needed to sustain them, if they wore out or were damaged too much to be repaired, they were processed into food for the living.
It was a horrible sight to anyone looking at the pitiful creatures, but not to the Darkman, to him it was just a way of getting something done.
Atos has great power; he told himself; and he will use that power to destroy all who stand in his way. This was something, the Shadowman liked to think about, it made him smile. As he looked at the workers, around him, he saw a figure approaching. He scanned it with his new eye, his right eye did not see an image, just the heat and magnetic outlines of the Sandjar. How can this be? He asked himself, then he realized, he could see the figure with his left eye, the human one.
He watched as the figure came close enough, for him to know its face.
Mother? His mind said, then his mouth repeated the words, “mother?”
He told himself, such a thing could not be, the image still stood before him, then it spoke.
“The God you serve is false”, it said.
The Darkman looked into the face of his mother, even though he knew, the image was not there, a part of him still replied. “He is real, you are not”, then he closed his eye, when he opened it again the image had disappeared. He scanned the chamber carefully with his right eye, and found no trace of the Nomad woman. Even though he found nothing of the image, it still haunted his mind.
It is a trap of the mind; he thought; a trick of my eye. He laughed for he knew, he was correct. Still the vision haunted him, and no matter how hard he laughed, he could not drive it from his thoughts.
What thoughts the Orb had, could not be put into words, it could be said, it had a purpose and a plan.
First it would repair itself, this would take time and workers. Time had little meaning to the sphere, as for workers, it would manufacture Repairbots, Spotters and Task machines to do the work. It would also capture organic creatures, and reprogram them to follow instructions that would shorten the reconstruction time. It already had a group of Scavengers working without rest, refitting motivation devices and up-grading power units, there was much work to be done.
It had reached out with its mind link, and touched the ancient machines, scattered around. Although they were primitive in construction, they could be salvaged for parts and basic materials. With time they could be reformed into a weapon. A weapon, the Orb could use, to continue its Prime Program, to find and destroy.
To do this, it needed mo
re workers.
It had scanned the primitive minds of the Sandjars and found them to be a greedy species. It used this knowledge to formulated a plan, it would offer them what they wanted, then take what it needed. So it left the wagons and carts of the scavengers where they had stopped. Then programmed several of the creatures, to make a fire, and smoke that could be seen from a great distance. When this was done it waited. It knew, from its detailed warfare diagrams, an enemy will attack, if it thinks, it will succeed.
It was night when the first of the Outlanders saw the fire from the Sandjar camp.
The Ozendra were once a great and powerful Nomad tribe. The war with the Talsonar had greatly weakened their strength. The once mighty Nomads, had lost many strong warriors and their King, in the battles with the Pyramid people. They had not been able to recover. The new leader, a man called Hasgar was not prepared to wear the crown of Kingship. He was not the son of a King, but an Elder of the tribe. He had no experience of warfare and did not know the best hunting lands or where to find good shelter. Even at this time of their cycle, when food was plentiful, his people went hungry. They had few hunters and their Whiptails weak. Their young would need another cycle to become full grown and be able to add to the tribe's strength.
To make matters worse, the precious wagons of Grana, had been lost in a landslide in the Pass of Moke. This left them at the mercy of the Plague that infects all the creatures of Gorn, it will kill all who do not have the green salt. So the once proud Outlanders, now resorted to scavenging and raiding the Sandjar for their provisions.
They traveled across the Sirolian Plains up to the mountains of Omar-Ran, all the while evading predators and trying to stay alive. At last they came to the sands of the Wastelands, there they followed the tracks of the Sandjar wagons, hoping to ambush them and take their supplies. Hasgar stood looking down at the huge remains of the fallen warship and the scavenger wagons gathered around.
“Tell the warriors, we will not wait for Sunbirth, we will attack tonight”. His words were directed at a young member of the tribe by the name of Dar. Tall and thin, he had only been made leader of the Whiptails two days earlier, because their old commander had died.
“I will spread the word my King”, he turned and went off to do as he had been commanded.
Hasgar was short with wide shoulders and thick arms, he had been an Ironworker once, so that answered the question of his massive bulk. His eyes were dark, as was his hair, he had no mate now, she had been killed in the Great War, along with his two sons. He still believed in the Goddess and prayed to her every night.
“Isarie grant us what we need”, he said softly. Turning, he went back to the tired Whiptail, pawing at the soft sand. He approached warily for it had not been fed in two days that made it extremely dangerous. When he got near its horned head, it lunged out and trying to take one of his arms, to ease its hunger. Hasgar swung out his other hand and struck the beast on his nose.
“Artock!” he cried out, “you will have food soon”. He grab the reins in one hand and put his boot into the stirrup and pulled himself into the saddle. He untied the war-ax, hanging on the right side and looked up at the night sky.
It was overcast and none of the moons were showing; luck is with us; he thought; they will not see us coming.
It was not the nature of the Nomads to attack at night, they preferred to meet an enemy in the light, they liked to see the faces of those they killed. This was not war, this was survival, and that meant taking advantage of the darkness, to increase their chances for victory. Hasgar checked the wind, he knew, Sandjar could smell danger from a great distance. His luck seemed to be holding, the wind was not at their back, therefore, their presence would not be given away.
When he was certain, all was ready, he looked back at his remaining warriors, they were but few. Isarie will smile on us; he thought, he was sure of this because his people believed in the mercy of the Goddess. Even with so little to offer, they had performed all the rituals and prayers, she required. So with a simple prayer on his lips he spoke to his warriors.
“togasttra emo entralac” he said.
His warriors repeated the words, “togasttra emo entralac”.
It was a prayer in the old language, meaning, “Give us your strength”.
The King raised his hand, the signal to follow him into battle.
As the Darkman sat near the Orb, his mind was still troubled with the image of his mother. He had told himself over and over, the ghostly apparition was nothing more than a phantom, which had somehow made its way into the fallen God's ship.
It was a wasteland witch; he thought; she must have worn a Spellmask so, she appeared to be my mother. Even in thought, he could not help feeling, he was wrong. Before he could stop himself he spoke her name.
“Mother” he said softly.
The light from the Orb brighten, “what is mother?” It asked.
The Sphere had scanned the mind of the Shadowman, it had looked for information directly linked to its primary goal. Making war and destroying its enemies. When it heard the word, the half-human spoke it became curious.
“What is mother?” The Darkman said as he turned to look at his new God, “it is the person who gave me life”. He turned away; a life that was not a life. His thoughts turned, to the days and nights of wandering in the Poisoned-lands, and the longs cycles of pain, he had endured since the Shadowmen found him. She bore me and left me to die.
The Orb knew quite well what had made it, the mind creature remembered waking with all the knowledge and power that it needed to fulfill its purpose. It remembered the first image it saw when it came into being, the image of the female holding the small creature in its arms. Then once again it focused all its mind-power on that image trying to solve the mystery, what was the tiny being ?
Suddenly it felt the approach of the enemy.
At the same time, the Shadowman also saw the images in his mind; Nomads; he thought; they are attacking. He rose to his feet and looked up at the glowing sphere, “they are enemy, destroy them”. His mind filled with a thousand commands, and he knew, Atos the God of War had awakened.
Hasgar dug his long riding spurs into the flanks of his racing Whiptail, to his left and right rode the warriors of the Ozendra, each one holding their war-axe and shouting out the battle cries of their tribe.
They cannot escape; the old leader thought; we will be victorious. This made the heart of the King race, he knew, he had saved his people and would lead them another day.
The tribe rode onward, all eager for battle, each one willing to die for their clan. The air filled with war cries as they fell upon the unsuspecting Sandjar. In frenzy, the warriors rode into the camp of the scavengers, expecting to find the green creatures armed and ready for battle, they were wrong. There was no one to fight the camp was deserted. There was only a campfire and a cold emptiness.
Hasgar pulled up on the reins of his Whiptail, as he did the other warriors also ceased their war cries and lowered their weapons. They stood for a moment or two, as the old King looked around at the empty wagons.
“Where are they?” He asked, his question was not directed at anyone in particular, rather a question for the Gods to answer. They are not in camp? In the dim light he scanned the Scavengers wagons and tents, everything was in place. Cooking pots, their storage wagons, even their sleeping pits, all there but without their owners. What magic is this? The old King asked himself, he turned to a young warrior near him, “look around the camp, find the Sandjar”, he said.
The young warrior obeyed his King, dismounting his Whiptail, he began looking around the foul smelling wagons.
Hagar felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, in his mind he suddenly felt, something was coming near. What it was, he did not know, all his instincts told him to flee, to escape, but he did not. He had come too far, to turn and run into the night, they needed supplies and no matter how much his skin prickled, or his instincts called out to him, he was not about to leave
empty handed.
I will not be cheated; he thought; Isarie will not abandon us now.
The young warrior also felt uneasy, but he would never disobey his King, he kept searching the scavenger’s Karraks. Before he could find any sign of Sandjar, he moved to the darkened side of a tent. Standing before him like an aberration, was a figure dressed in a dark robe. Quickly the warrior raised his ax and confronted the intruder.
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice shaking in fear a little.
Out of the shadows, moving closer to the young Ozendra warrior, was a dark robed creature, whose face shone in the light from the campfire. The warrior saw a creature not of flesh and blood, but one of metal and scars, before he could rise his weapon to strike the thing spoke.
“I am the servant of Atos”, it said.
The warrior felt a steel hand around his throat and iron fingers digging into his flesh. He tried to scream but no sound came from his lips, as he felt his neck bones cracking, he closed his eyes and all was darkness and death.
Hasgar was becoming more and more uneasy, the prickling at his neck was now a pounding in his heart. It was like the beating of the Ironworkers hammer on cold steel, everything told him to run. He did not listen and remained where he was. The Whiptail beneath him, began to paw the ground while emitting loud grunting sounds. A sure sign, danger was near, still the old King did not flee.
I am not a child; he told himself; there are no ghosts here, Isarie will protect us.
As he whispered a prayer to the Goddess he saw a dark robed man come into the light of the campfire.
The other Whiptails, also began to pull at their reins and grunt, their riders had a hard time controlling them. The air seemed to fill with a cold chill, even though the night was warm.
“Who are you?” the King of the Ozendra called out, “are you a demon of the Outlands?” As he spoke those words he raised his war-ax, a sign, he was ready to fight.
With slow deliberate steps the Darkman moved towards the frightened leader. In the dim light of the campfire he seemed not of this world, rather a creature of the Dark Gulf. He continued to move to the center of the warriors, then stopped and looked hard at the old King.
“Who am I?” He said, “I was once one of the forgotten, a wanderer in the Outlands. Now I am the fear in the darkness, the cold wind of death, I am an ending!”
For a moment there was no response from Hagar, he raised his weapon and spoke loudly, so all his warriors could hear, and to bring courage to their hearts.
“I am Hasgar, King of the Ozendra, we do not fear you, for we are the chosen of the Gods and Isarie!”
This made the Darkman smile, “not anymore”, he said coldly.
This affront to the Goddess made the Old King furious, he pulled back his arm to throw his ax at the blasphemer, intending to cut off his head.
As he was about to do so, he felt a cold hand grasp his body, his arm refused to move. In his mind he heard a strange voice, it spoke to him with a power that filled every fiber of his being.
“You are weak soon you will be strong” it said.
Hasgar watched with horror, as strange metal creatures came scurrying out of the darkness, they moved like great sand beetles. Seeing them struck a fear into his old heart that had never been there before. With a thunderous loud roar, the Warrior's Whiptails began to buck and thrash about, sending their rider’s crashing to the ground. Inside their armor, they were unhurt, but when they tried to stand, they found, they could not. They lay helpless unable to move, as their beasts bolted into the night, leaving them behind.
Hasgar was also thrown to the ground, he still held his war-ax in an iron grip, but could make no use of it, his body was no longer his own.
What has happened to me? He asked himself; have we been taken by a demon from the pit? He tried with all his might to move his arm, but it was held with a power far beyond his. He watched as the dark robed man came forward surrounded by an army of metal monsters. He ground his teeth and foamed at the lips, as the scar faced man looked at him, with one good eye and one that reflected the firelight, making it appear to be ablaze.
“You are no longer Masters of the Outlands”, the Darkman said, “there is a new power and I am his eyes”.
It took only a short time for the Task robots to do their work, they picked up the helpless warriors and took them to the main processing chamber. There the Repair-bots did what they were programmed to do. They found the bodies of the Nomads, were far superior to the rather substandard Sandjar. So they did not have to replace many parts, they simply removed those portions of the brain that control movement and individual personality and replaced them with interaction responders. This would allow them to work efficiently as a group, and complete the tasks assigned to them.
Hasgar, was the last of the warriors to undergo this process, as his mind, was being destroyed, he spoke a prayer to the eternal Goddess.
I know your book, I follow its teachings, I believe.
A moment later he forgot why he had made such a prayer then he forgot everything.