Chapter 4. The Waste Wanderer
Those who do not follow my laws shall be made Outcasts.
Their home shall be the Wastelands and their food shall be bitter.
They will not see my face nor know my love or feel my embrace.
They will be forgotten and their names will not be written in the Book of Isarie.
The Laws of the Almardra.
The sands of Omar-Ran were the place where Rimars came to die, the great Thundra beasts knew when their time was near. On instinct, they slowly moved into the endless Wastelands, and lay down, never to rise again.
It was a slow painful death, baking under the suns or freezing in the cold of the Frozen time. Then feeling the bite of Sun Droppers tearing their flesh, until darkness freed them of life. It was the way of their species, and had been since time began. They were born and fought for life. They battled other Rimar for the right to mate and raise their young. They fought against the Whiptails and all the other ravenous beasts that roamed the lands of Gorn. They hibernated during the Burning Time and huddled together during the cold of the Frozen Time. All this they did because it was their nature, and it was their way.
One huge Rimar came to the cold shifting sands to end its life, to be covered by the earth from which it sprang. This old male was huge, even by the standards of its kind, it was immense. Its long nose horn was over three arm lengths, and the secondary horn was almost as long, the horns were broken and worn still formidable weapons. It was a sign of age, for the Rimar was old, very old. Its thick hide plating was scarred from many battles, and over its right eye it had a very deep wound from an attack by a ravenous Whiptail. It had survived the hunts of the Nomads, and even killed several of the Outlanders over its long lifetime. It had fought for mating rights, and his females had born many strong offspring, who would add to the strength of their kind. He had roamed over all the lands of his world, from the Great Western Sea to the far off lands of Caltarine and beyond. Yes, it was one of the great creatures of its time.
Now it was time to die.
The twin suns of Gorn were high overhead when the huge Rimar came over the last sand dune and looked down at the valley below. It was a deep almost endless wound in the earth filled with crevasses of sand and rocks. It was littered with the broken remains of giant machinery, and the dried bones of other Rimar that had made the long trek to find rest. It was a lonely place, without life or spirit, a forgotten realm that was not traveled by Nomads, Sandjar, or even Earth Shakers. It was empty, the place of the dead.
The Rimar stood high upon the sand dune for a time. Perhaps it was feeling the soft wind blowing or maybe, it could hear the far away cries, of another Rimar? Why it stood we shall never really know, maybe it was saying goodbye to its world, an ending to his wandering. Who knows? With a loud bellow, it moved slowly downward into the valley.
It was later in the day, when the great beast found what it had been looking for. In a secluded part of the valley near some large rocks, and out of the sunlight, it found a place to stop. It slowly sniffed the dry ground, seeking out any sign that another Rimar might have been there recently, leaving its mark. There was nothing, just dry earth and a slight sent of a Burrow baby deep underground. Rimars were vegetarian, so the furry little creature was safe in its darkened home.
There was a huge metal machine of some kind nearby, it was ancient and rusty. On its top was a large turret gun, and from the way it was protruding upwards, it seemed to the Rimar, like a battle great horn, of its kind. It looked at the gun barrel, then emitted a long low bellow, all the while shaking its armor plated head from side to side. This was a way of signaling to any other male that it was willing to fight if necessary. It waited for a moment or two, then bellowed again. There was no reply from the metal creature so the Rimar was satisfied that it had won the challenge. It lowered its head and sniffed the ground once more.
It stood without moving for some time, the suns were just going down. Suddenly it saw a creature approaching. Rimars normally have very good eyesight, age, and weariness had blurred the vision of the old male. The approaching creature, was only a dark outline against the setting suns. It was not a large creature, it had two legs rather than the usual four of other Outland's beasts.
The creature came closer and the old male let out a loud roar. It began to shake its huge head from side to side once more, as a warning that it was ready to fight. It was all a bluff, the strength of the Rimar had come to an end, with one last bellow it dropped to the ground. There was no more movement, its life was over.
Silence now rained over the forgotten valley, there were no more challenges, only the soft murmuring of wind blowing and nothing more. Nothing that is, except a lone figure who moved like a shadow in the night.
The creature was tall and covered itself in a ragged robe of black. Over this, a matted cloak of fur remnants, sewn together, a hood covered its features. It moved to the dead Rimar and stood beside it, after making sure, the beast was indeed dead. The figure pulled back its head covering and looked around for any sign of danger.
The face of the creature was the thing of nightmares, rotting skin, hung from its skull, showing patches of white bone. Its teeth were broken and its jaw seemed to have been shattered. It did not look alive, except for its eyes, deep yellowish eyes that burned with the fire of the dammed.
The Darkman was not dead.
He had leaped from the Heart of Shawcona at the last battle with the Talsonar rather than be lifted into the sky with the great rock. He had listened to the Voice from the earth calling him to forgive he would rather have died then let go of his hatred. He fell, hoping it would put an end to his misery and the Voice would no longer speak to his tormented heart.
It was not to be.
He survived the fall, how? No one could say, perhaps the Gods did not want him in their domain. Perhaps his hatred was too much, even for the fiery Pit of Marloon? For whatever reason he was still alive. Barely! His left arm was useless now, it was a broken claw like appendage that waved about like a dried limb on a Balbar tree. He moved with a limp. His right foot was missing most of its toes and the leg bone had been shattered in the fall, mishaps he blamed on his enemies, fueling his abiding hatred of the Nomads.
As a boy he had been chosen for death, it was the way of the Outlanders. Your mother had to chose between you or your twin. One was taken into the tribe, and the other was left to die in the Wastelands. He was chosen for such a death. His mother, Egmar could not bring herself to end his life, by giving him the black crystal of death called Tral. She left him to the Outlands, he should have perished, but the Shadowmen found him. Others like himself, who had survived the Choosing and made their home in the Poison Lands.
Now he stood over the dead body of the Rimar, taking out a stone knife, he began to cut into the soft underbelly of the huge beast. It took some effort, in time he was able to open the flesh and pull out the warm entrails. Lacking the aid of a fire, he began to devour the flesh with gusto. He did not stop until his stomach stopped its rumblings, then he was content to sit on a nearby rock and look up at the night sky.
It was cold now, he did not feel it, he did not feel anything. He was empty, empty save for a burning hatred that gave some warmth to his cold heart. There was no love or pity or dreams, only a hollow shell.
As he watched the night moons of Gorn slowly move across the heavens, he thought he heard a voice calling him. A thin voice without substance, a voice, he tried to ignore, he kept looking up at the night sky trying not to hear what the voice was saying. It kept repeating the same words over and over again.
“You are not loved”.
He did not show any sign that he heard the words, he simply kept looking up at the twinkling stars and saying nothing, he heard the words again.
“No one ever loved you”.
It seemed, the voice was laughing at him, it was too much to ignore. “Be silent!” he shouted out.
The words echoed, again and again throughout t
he valley. Sending many small night creatures racing for their burrows, after a few moments, the echoing stopped and there was silence once more.
The Darkman closed his eyes and listened to the quite for a time, it did not last long.
“Why do you ignore me?” Asked the voice.
When he opened his eyes he saw a figure standing near to him, it was a woman. She was older and had a kind face. Her hair, was arranged in, an attractive way, fixed with ivory and gold pins. She wore a simple well-made robe of dark blue. On her face she bore the markings of a queen of the Madrigal, the Darkman looked at her then spoke.
“Why do you haunt me mother?” he asked solemnly.
The old woman smiled at him then came over and sat down on a rock nearby. “Because you will not let me go my son.” Her words were spoken quietly, words, any mother might say to her child. Words that might mean love and affection. If you looked deep into the eyes of the woman who spoke them, you could not see any sign of warmth or love. “You were always a disobedient son...that is why I left you to die”, she smiled.
The Darkman smiled back. “You are nothing, a screel, a demon of the Outlands come to torment me, you're not real!”
The old women smiled again. “Maybe so, maybe I am just an empty vision that you see. My words are still true...you are alone and you will die alone!”
“Better to die alone than with those, whom I hate,” he replied, looking up at the dark sky.
His mother also looked up. “Why do you look at the moons? They mean nothing to you, you are just an empty shell.” She said, she turned to look at her son, “why do you not kill yourself and rid us of your hatred?”
The Darkman gave a small smile as he continued to look up at the night sky, “because I am content with my hatred, it is what keeps me alive”. He looked at the apparition next to him, “you are the empty shell, a demon sent to torment me”, he gave a little laugh, “yes nothing there”.
His Mother moved a bit closer to him, and when he looked at her he could see her face had changed. It was no longer the face of a kind and gentlewoman, no, now the eyes burned with a cold fire that seemed to look directly into his soul, “who sent me? You do not believe in the Gods so who sent me? Perhaps there is something more than mere Gods, perhaps I am what comes from within you, am I a mirror?”
The Darkman looked at her hard, “you are nothing, just a shadow in the night, now leave me”, then once more he turned to look upwards.
The thing that was his Mother continued to stare at him, as she did her face changed once more. It rotted away until there was nothing left, but a grinning white skull filled with crawling things from the earth. Even without lips or a tongue it spoke, “I will never leave you because you will never let me go”.
There seemed to be a sound of laughter again, it filled the air, causing the Darkman to try, and cover, what was left of his ears. He was only able to move one hand to his head, so he heard the laughter over and over. “Stop” he screamed, “you are not real, do you hear me, you are not REAL!” Once again he closed his eyes and when he opened them the woman was gone.
He looked up at the night sky once more, he could see the moons of Gorn. He could see Ebano, Rowgal, and Lomic, and there just rising up over the valley was the new moon, many called Andra. Most Nomads saw the moons as the children of the night. Following each other across the heavens, and playing games as their mother, the land under his feet, watched them with love. To the Shadowman it was only a reminder of his pain and failure. He wanted to burn all the land clean of Nomads and Off-Worlders alike. To give it back to the creatures that roamed its surface, and let them be free of all humanoids, and the plague of the Gods.
That plan had failed, the Nomads had won, and his world was still the same, an endless place of torment and pain, all his days filled with hatred nothing more.
What does it matter if I am alone? He thought; it is better than being with those who left me to die.
He looked down at the ground, he saw a large Rage-beetle, slowly crawling near his left foot. Without thinking he lifted his leg and brought it down hard, crushing the insect's thick black shell and turning it into a green pulp.
That is what the Gods think of us, we are nothing more than insects under their feet.
He sat back and began to laugh, it was a wild uncontrolled laughter, filled not with joy or contentment, rather shouting to the silence, he was still alive.
After a few moments he stood up, looked around and gathered up a section of intestine, he cut from the Rimar's remains. He filled the skin with raw meat that he cut with his stone knife then attached it to a piece of metal about an arm’s length in size. He put the steel over his shoulder and wrapping his ragged cloak around his shoulders, he started to walk.
Scavengers will be coming; he thought; I must find a place to hide.
As he moved away he heard the sound of the creatures of the night, to most Nomads of the Outlands it meant, danger was all about. To the Shadowman, they were old friends who were calling him to join them in the darkness of the night.
The Markins could be hired to do most anything, they were commissioned to transfer unwanted refugees of different worlds and deposit them on Gorn. For this they were paid a reasonable price. They were also arms dealers, and were not opposed to carrying slaves to the outer most reaches of the Pimax Nebula to be used as a labor force on those primitive worlds. They ran their operations very well and made huge profits. They used to enhance their holding in the Outer Rim trade markets.
They also did not hesitate to indulge in illegal transports, there were huge profits to be made in pleasure drug smuggling, and delivering dangerous creatures to collectors, who wanted them for their private zoos. They would also dispose of contaminated bio-hazards, and kept their mouths shut when it came to trading with embargoed planets. Yes, it was safe to say, they would do anything for a profit.
Now there was a profit to be made, for sometime now they had an exclusive contract with the War Crime Commission to take prisoners and warships to Gorn. It was stated in the agreed treaty signed after the great Trajion war. Section seven---sub heading---disposal.
AA3
ARMAMENTS.
As stipulated in Section 7 subsection 23 ---- all attack Lightships of the Magus type shall be taken to sector 7 and deposited on the planet designated as Gorn. The Electromagnetic Fields shall therefore render them useless and of no further threat.
PRISONERS.
All remaining prisoners shall have a choice of reconditioning or exile, levels of combatants shall be determined by the guideline set down by the Torn War Commission of 573-01.
Agreed upon by the peace treaty members of the Trajion Conflict Conference, REFERANCE ---- WAR CRIMES ---- B9021.UTS.
So all warships not destroyed where taken to Gorn and crashed into the surface.
Now they were delivering the M-91.
There was not much left of the huge ship anymore, the last battle with the Eran fleet had destroyed most of its hull. All its armaments were ruined and the once mighty engines were nowhere to be seen. All that was left was a burned out hulk pockmarked with gaping blaze cannon holes and jagged bits of steel bulkhead.
Still it took three large towing ships of the Markins to move it into an unstable orbit high above the planet known as Gorn. Just to make sure that all would proceed as planned, the War Crimes Commission of 570-08, also sent five class one destroyers with the Markins. To make sure they did not sell, whatever remained of the great ship, to some Techno-merchandisers or a collector of rare objects. They did not want anything to remain of the warship that could be used to threaten the Outer Rim planets again.
So now it sat waiting for its final ending, on the bridge of the lead Markin ship, the Captain checked with his crew, “are all towing beams ready to be unhooked?” He asked as he scratched his warty skin.
“All towing beams ready” replied his second in command.
The Markin Captain was glad, this cargo, was being disposed of, it had no
t been a pleasant journey. Twice their towing beams had failed, and once the projected route had to be changed because of Nebula disturbances in the Opar Sector. To make things worse, the climate control on the bridge was acting up, and the usual moist air was drying out, this could prove disastrous for a Markin, for they were an amphibian species and liked their work spaces wet.
The Captain, who went by the name Vorg, sprayed himself with a hand held water container then turned to his first mate. “Prepare to terminate towing beams and clear away all secondary attachments”.
His second in command nodded his toad like head, “at once captain,” he turned to the crew. “Stand by on the towing beams and make ready to disengage at my command”. He turned to look back at his Captain, he saw Vorg, give a nod of approval, “detach beams...Mark!”
At the order the towing beams connecting the ships to the hull of the M-91 went dead, after a moment more the secondary lines disappeared and the great warship was left on its own.
The Markin Captain watched as the ancient Terror ship began to fall into Gorn's atmosphere. He saw it begin to burn as the air came in contact with its metal skin, he did not stay long enough, to see it crashed into the surface. There was no profit in staying any longer and he wanted to move on as quickly as he could.
He turned to his second again, “make heading to Nogola Six at Force Level Two”, he sat back in his command chair and sprayed himself once more with the water container. He spoke again, “correction, make Force Level speed Three”.
Vorg made the correction to his ship speed because his next stop was the planet Nogola, and everyone knew it had some of the best swamplands in the Outer Rim. As the Markins and their chaperones moved away from Gorn, the hulk of the M-91 headed for its fiery end.
Deep inside the falling ship the Orb was not dead, its mind was still fixated on the image of the tiny creature it had seen so many cycles ago. It did not care what was going on, outside its shielding. It was content to mind-lock on the face of the little pink thing, being held in the arms of the female, and nothing more. So it did not feel the heat as the hull of its surroundings began to glow, or count the minutes before it would hit the surface of its new home. It just continued trying to understand why the little thing meant so much to the female?
It was night in the forgotten valley, a cold empty night. The creatures of the darkness were out looking for food, trying not to be eaten by other beasts, higher up the food chain. It was what they had done for thousands of cycles and would do so for many more. It was what the Gods wanted.
There was one who cared nothing about the Gods. The Darkman had never seen anything that might change his mind about the emptiness of his soul, and the mercy of the Gods. He sat hiding in a cluster of rocks, away from sight and danger. He had just finished eating some rather spoiled Rimar meat that he had taken a few days earlier. With nothing to preserve the flesh, it had turned very bad and smelled even worse. The Shadowman did not care, he had eaten much worse in his time. As long as it did not kill him, he was content to fill his stomach with whatever he could find.
Now he sat back and listened to the cries of night beasts. Waiting for the suns to come up, he had made a small fire that gave him some warmth. He dare not risk a large fire, least it was seen by an enemy. So he put his fire into a pit and surrounded it with rock, to stop the light from traveling.
When he looked up at the darkened sky, he saw something strange, a trail of light drawing itself across the heavens. He had seen lights like this, many times. They were Dropship trails, heading towards the planet to deliver cargo or unwanted creatures. This streak of light was different, it was much larger than any other he had seen, and it was heading right for him.
Any other creature would have tried to run from the oncoming terror. The Darkman heard loud bellowing and screams from different animals, they followed their instincts and raced away as fast as they could. The Shadowman did not run, he simply watched the light becoming brighter and brighter.
If this is my end then let it be; he thought as he watched the thing coming closer. Soon the whole night sky, was lit by the glow of the falling star. There was a massive roaring sound and fierce heat, the ground shook with all the fury of a Landquake.
The Darkman smiled to himself, let it come.
There was a great rush of burning air and a loud grinding sound, then a great cloud of dust and sand made everything go black.
How long the Darkman lay unconscious on the ground he did not know. When at last he opened his eyes he was half buried in sand and rocks. The landscape itself had changed, the shelter of rocks that had been his hiding place was gone. There was only an open area now filled with newly upturned dirt and some bleached animal bones.
The Shadowman dug himself out of his untimely tomb. Rising to his feet, he stood unsteadily for a moment or two trying to clear his vision and stop his head from spinning. After a short time he was able to see better, in the distance he saw what had caused the holocaust.
Some distance away was a huge Lightship, its size dwarfed all the other nearby machinery. It burned with small fires and a great cloud of black smoke could be seen rising into the night sky. As the morning's suns were about to break over the horizon there was a sound of metal creaking and hot steel cooling in the air.
The Darkman stood looking at the thing for some time, for nothing more than curiosity he drew his cloak about him and began moving towards the fallen junk star.
The suns of Gorn were high in the sky when the Darkman came to the smoking wreckage. The fires that had been burning on its metal skin were almost gone, here and there small flames, could still be seen, like sea sparkles on the skin of Leviathans. The great column of black smoke that led him to the broken hulk was now only a small shaft of grayness. It was just as well, there were few who ventured into this desolate Wasteland, it was called a haunted place. The Outlanders gave it a wide birth believing it was a place where demons lived, or the wandering spirits of their ancestors. The smoke might bring the scavenging Sandjar, they would risk a battle with demons if it meant finding a Dropship and its valuable cargo.
There were no signs of the little green creatures, only the rocks and bones of long dead Thundra beasts littered the landscape. With them were the ancient war machines of a time long past. There were also strange monuments and fallen structures that no Nomad could account for, the stone and steel ruins had been here long before any records were kept. Now they were simply the place where forgotten souls lived and perhaps a gateway to the terrors of the Underworld.
The Darkman had lived with demons all his life, his people were the stuff of nightmares. The Poisoned-lands where they lived had turned them into rotting things that still lived, had no dreams of mercy or redemption. His life had been one of pain and revenge, there were no dreams of terror that could turn him away.
Now as his drew closer to the wreck of the M-91 his mind filled with strange thoughts, they were not the images that had filled his mind for so long. Images of him standing over the fallen bodies of his enemies, or watching the destruction of the Outlanders, and all peoples of Gorn. No, these were images of things he could not understand, strange patterns of light and dark, complex visions of stars and moons, and with them came a voice, a voice that grew louder as he moved closer to his goal.
At first he thought it might be the Warm Voice that spoke to him before the rising of the New moon. The voice had told him of mercy and redemption, as he listened he knew it was another voice, a cold voice that spoke only of death.
He stood for a moment looking up at the titanic crashed ship, before him was a large crack broken into the side of the scarred hull.
What are you? His words were spoken to himself and not to the air.
You are not one of the ships that bring Off-Worlders to my land, you are something more; there was no reply, just a feeling that seemed to draw him closer.
He began to move like a man in a dream, each step was not ordered, they seemed to come of a will that was not his
, he moved forward and closer to the metal monster, and the voice. Why do you come? Again these words were not spoken, only heard in his mind; why do you call to me?
Once more his legs moved by themselves and he walked into the great ship. The Darkman found himself in a New World, a world not of earth and stone a place of steel and fire. All around him was destruction, wires, and conduits hung like the vines in the jungles of Yug. Vast steel girders were bent or broken, and massive bulkheads were ripped open like the hide of a Rimar, after the bite of a Whiptail.
As the Shadowman’s eyes grew more accustomed to the dim light he could make out more of his surroundings; this is what lies inside one of Gods; he thought; they are no more than steel and fire. Knowing this made him smile, he always believed that the Gods were like him, cold and uncaring, filled with hardness and without pity or the sound of tears. Those who come from the stars are nothing more than fragments, dust from the feet of those who made the heavens. He started to laugh, it was a cold laugh filled with no contentment, just a sound to fill the ears. Then he stopped laughing, for once more he heard the voice, this time he could understand, words, it was saying just two words. It was enough!
“Help me”, it said.
For a long moment the Darkman stood and let the words echo in his mind. Help me? He heard his mind say; what are these words to me? He was about to turn, and go back into the light, when his feet began to move once more.
“No! Stop! I will not go...Stop!” His words meant nothing to the thing, now forcing his feet to move on their own. He was like a man in the grip of a Sagar cat. His useless right arm began to rise, and the wound in his leg that caused him to limp was forgotten, whatever force was controlling him, was not going to allow broken bones or scarred flesh to stop it. He was helpless and at the mercy of something far stronger than himself.
He moved forward, past more broken metal and things he did not understand. He passed the shriveled bodies of long dead crewmen and the sparking fragments of Repair-bots and Service-drones. He moved into corridors, littered with junk and debris, he came to a door, it was intact and made of thick Itarian steel.
“Why do I do this?” He asked out loud, his words only echoed in the empty corridor. His hand moved, as if by an unseen force, he reached out and grasped the wheel lock on the heavy door, he began to move it round and around. “Let me go!” He shouted, only his own words, came reverberating back to his ears.
He turned the wheel, then pulled with all his strength, there was a grinding sound, and the door opened. Inside there was a metal stairway leading down, before he could utter protest, he was drawn into the shaft and began to move into the bowels of the once great warship.
The Darkman had never seen such wonders in his life. As he descended into the body of the buried warship, he saw deck levels filled with devices, he could never understand. His world was one of rock and stone, earth, and sky, water, and sand, this world bore no resemblance to the land of light, this one was dim, cold, without life.
I am being taken into the underworld; he thought, the idea did not frighten him, he had lived most of his life in the darkness and pain.
Krylas and Dietas live in the pit of Marloon, if they want me so be it, let them burn me it will not matter, you cannot scar a scar.
With his arms and legs moving without his consent he traveled ever downward, past the crew's quarters and supplies sections. Past the ammunition storage, always down. After a time he came to the layered shielding of the inner most section of the ship, here the Magnetic Repulsors made the metal bits on his robe move. They pulled at his ragged garments then tore free causing even more rips in his filthy clothing. He had a jagged length of steel, he kept tucked inside his Rimar hide belt in case of attack. The magnetic waves, tore it away, it flew away from him, cutting his arm and causing blood to flow freely, finally clanging against a bulkhead.
This did not stop him, the Shadowman moved ever downward and all the while the Voice called out to him, always the same two words.
“Help me”.
The light grew dimmer as the power of the ship began to fade, it should have ended when the M-91 made contact with the planet. All ships that came to Gorn, and stayed too long, were hit by the electromagnetic waves, emanating from the core of the planet. It was this that kept the world free of all higher technologies, making the Outlanders masters of the lands.
When the Great War with the Talsonar ended, and the new moon rose into the heavens, it was revealed that there was a creature. A being that lived in the earth, a being that thinks, feels, and was aware of all things on its world. The creature was responsible for the devastating waves of energy that destroys all computers and generators. This was revealed to the old man, who the Madrigal call Osh, it was to his orderly mind that the being spoke, making its presence known. It spoke to all intelligent creatures on Gorn, it was their guardian, their savior.
Their Mother.
All this did not matter to the Darkman, why luminance was still coming from the small light modules, he did not know. He was being draw into the heart of the ship by a force he could not overcome, that concerned him.
I am in the underworld now; he told himself; the place where demons rise. The light continued as he moved like a man in a dream, and all the while he heard the voice calling to him.
“Help me”.
The Darkman understood the words they meant nothing to him; how can I help a demon from the pit?
He kept moving.
More time passed, how long he did not know, for all the twisting and turning, had clouded his mind and made the minutes seem like hours. At last he came to a door and with much effort he opened it.
Before him he saw a God.
The Orb floated inside its clear Metiplexon container, the hoses, connecting it to the organic nourishment containers were still intact. Several Repair-bots were still working, they moved about as programed, adjusting flow meters and power relays.
The Darkman stood motionless as he stared at the fallen God. Is this the face of the Gods? He thought; are they like the great touch devils that dwell in the western sea? Before he could answer his own questions he heard the voice once more.
“Help me” it spoke again.
This time the voice was clear, and the force of the words made the Darkman close his eyes in agony, “your words are pain!” he screamed. He waited for the pain to ease, it did and he opened his eyes.
The force that seized his body was no longer there, he could have turned and found his way back to the sunlight and the world he knew. He looked at the Orb and found his feet moving slowly towards it. “Why did you call me, why does a God need my help?”
He was only a few meters from the Orb now, he could see its flesh, undulating inside its Multiplexon sphere. He could make out the tiny flashes of energy, moving over the folded surfaces of the God. He felt his rotted skin prickle at the power of its words.
“I need you to help me,” it said in mind words, this time they did not hurt.
The Shadowman moved a few steps forward and spoke in a low voice, “what help can I give you?” he asked.
The words uttered by the Orb, were not the words of a God.
“Help me die” it said, HELP ME!
The Shadowman's mind reeled, he staggered on his feet clutching his head in pain and crying out to the Gods for mercy, then he fell to the floor, and all became darkness