Chapter 5. Reborn
From my body will come life.
From the stars will come death.
From the weak will come strength.
From the strong will come love.
Ancient Nomad saying.
The Madrigal had spent the night quietly in the green embrace of the oasis. They did not go into the ruins because they believed they were haunted. They stayed clear of them, least they are taken by a demon or a creature from the pit. Although the Nomads feared nothing of their world, they still believed in sorcery and spells and the curse of the Gods. All the logic and diagrams from Osh could not make them change their ways.
When Sunbirth broke over the horizon, they once more began doing the many necessary things. They would stay in the safety of the green place for a few days more, time enough to rest and prepare themselves for their endless journey.
The morning broke late to the King and his mate, they had spent the long night in passionate lovemaking, when their lust was spent, they laid in each others arms. The night had passed quickly and they did not close their eyes until just before the night had ended. Now the suns shone on their faces, the glare filtering its way into the overhanging branches of the Balbar trees, then down upon the sleeping faces of the two huddled lovers.
Slowly Andra opened her eyes, she lay there unmoving for a moment or two, looking up at the filtered light and feeling very content.
Morning so soon? She asked herself, she knew they would soon return to their tent, it did not stop her from longing to stay longer. She slowly moved her hands over her warm body, it made her sigh; it was a wonderful night. She looked over at Arn, smiling; I dreamed of him last night, we were standing by a river and the suns were shining brightly. Then the smile fell from her face; he had been gone for a long time, and I was looking for him; she reached out and was about to touch his face; I wonder what, he dreamed?
Her finger felt his skin and he opened his eyes, “I dreamed the same dream,” he said.
In the past such a comment would have made the Off-Worlder wonder but in the days and nights since they had been reborn in the Crystal caves, they had grown close together. Their minds were linked in some way that neither of them could fully understand. Osh had tried to explain the phenomenon, saying, the spiders that brought renewal to their bodies had also shaped their minds. It was because there had never been a rebirth of a human and a Nomad before. As they lay together in the underground caves, sleeping through the Burning Time, they had been molded to understand each others feeling, and sometimes know what the other was thinking. This had little effect on the Outlander, he simply said it was the will of the Goddess, and it should not be questioned.
Andra knew, it was linked to the Crystal spiders in some way, she no longer cared for long scientific explanations, and just excepted it for what it was, a way to be closer to the man she loved.
She put her arms around the neck of the King and drew him close to her, “forget past dreams,” she said softly, then she drew him closer still and they kissed. Even as they kissed the Andra could not help think of the vision and wonder; where had he been?
The tribe of the Madrigal was once the strongest of the Outlanders, the war with the Talsonar had killed many of their best warriors and destroyed many families. Now it was a matter of question, whether they were still masters of their domain, or if that status, had been passed on to one of the other tribes. Maybe the Armrod or the Caladon, both strong and resourceful, there was always the Maringar or Ozendra to contend with. All the Outland tribes had lost much. Soon they would all return to the strength of numbers that made them the rulers of Gorn.
The Burning Time sent them into the Hollow Hills, there they slept and felt the bite of the Lurkers in the Darkness, the Crystal spiders. When they awoke, the women had given birth to sons and daughters. Those very same children would soon become the new warriors and the protectors of their people.
First came the Choosing, the time, when the mothers and fathers, decided who of their offspring should live, and who should die. It was the way it had been done, since the beginning of time, and it was the way it would have remained until time was no more. There had been no Choosing, the war with the pyramid people had ended the ritual. When the war was over, the tribe could not bring themselves to cast out the children, who were desperately needed, to fill the depleted ranks of their warriors.
So they let them live.
The days and nights passed and the children grew fast, they learned to speak and to understand the ways of the Outlanders. In a very short time they were as one with their mothers and fathers, the tribe was content to let them live. It went against the words of the Goddess, surely she would find the mercy in her eternal heart, to allow their offspring to live. Instead of being taken into the Wastelands, there to taste the gift of the dark crystal Trall. Then waiting for the Angel of Death to take them by the hand, and lead them into the Afterlife.
So the children grew.
They ran and played with each other, they sat and ate their food with each other, and they listened to the words from the Holy book.
They were not content
No one knew why, they began to quarrel among themselves. Sometimes the fighting would bring serious wounds, needing the hand of a Touchtender, in a few cases the fight would end in death. Although they mourned the loss of the child they did not punish the one responsible. Death was a common thing to the Outlanders and they accepted it as the will of the Gods.
The children would sit for hours just staring at each other and not saying a word, or they would laugh at things that were not amusing. Sometimes they would simply walk round and around like a wheel on a cart. Looking neither up at the sky nor down at the ground. It made the Elders wonder at such a thing, for in all their cycles they had never seen such behavior in their children. There were times late at night when all others were asleep, the brothers and sisters would come together under the stars. They seemed to be listening to a voice, only they could hear.
What the voice said, only they knew.
Anais spent his time in his tent. It was of little matter to him if the suns were shining or the sky was filled with clouds. Alone in his darkness, he saw only his own soul, which was not filled with light.
He sat by himself not speaking or moving, his mind was filled with thoughts; is this how it will be? He asked himself; only endless nights of darkness and the pity of my people to torment me? He moved onto his sleeping mattress and adjusted his robe to remove a wrinkle under his right arm; I was once the King, and now I am just a laugh clown for their amusement. He moved again to scratch an itch on his neck; they think they can laugh at me, or point and say “that was once our leader, now he is just a blind beggar!”
He rose from his bed and began to move about the tent. He did not trip, nor strike his head, he had grown used to his surrounding. The Touchtenders who raised the tent, always put his belongings in the very same place each time, now he walked back and forth, like a robot; I think I'd rather die!
The last words that ran through his head, made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He stood listening to his mind speak. He had found a way out of his darkness, away from the eyes that could see him.
Die!
That simple word filled him with pleasure; if I am dead then I will be free.
Without thinking more, he moved to the small chest that sat in the corner of his tent. It was not the ornate holding box of a King of even a Prince. It was just an ordinary container made from rather poor Balbar wood, bearing no decorations of any kind. Anais opened the lid.
He felt inside, his long thin fingers felt the touch of three robes and two pairs of walking boots. A belt with carry pouch and a few odds and ends that held no meaning for the blind Prince. With a bit more effort he was able to find what he had been looking for, two well-made daggers, the Nomads called the dragon’s teeth. These were the knives, all warriors wore at their waists, they were made from the finest Itarian steel. These particular
weapons had handles of finely carved ivory, after all they were made for a King. In days past Anais had worn them with pride, he delighted in parading through the camp and letting everyone see how mighty he had become. Now there was no one to see them.
The fallen Prince took up one of the daggers, withdrawing it from its Rimar hide sheath. He felt the edge of the blade; still sharp; this made him smile; it will cut deep and fast. He opened his robe and placed the weapon's point against his naked chest; one quick thrust and there will be no more darkness, only the Afterlife.
He tensed his muscles in anticipation of the blade; one quick thrust and all will be ended; he smiled to himself thinking of his pain ending; only the Afterlife!
He stopped.
He stood like a statue for a moment; then what? He asked himself; what would happen in the Afterlife? For most of his life he did not believe in a world beyond this one. He had rejected the ways of the tribe and did not pray to Isarie or any of the numerous other Gods that filled the pantheon of the Outlanders beliefs. As he was about to die he re-examined those ideas; what if I am wrong? What if there is a golden hall of Isarie and I was not allowed inside? This made him lower the blade from his body; what if there are Gods and I am judged? This idea made him move back to his sleeping mattress and sit down. He still held the dagger but he no longer felt the desire to end his life; what if I am judged and sent to the Pit of Marloon? He imagined the endless torments, the demons who lived there, would inflict upon his body, all the pain and more pain for all eternity.
With a loud grunt, he threw the dagger away, it flew through the air, striking a table. It knocked a small silver bowl to the floor, which rang out with a sharp din, then lay silent.
In a few moments the tent flap opened and a young girl looked into the chamber.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
The Prince said nothing.
“Is there something you need?” she asked, there was no reply. After a moment or two, she left the tent and once more the Prince was alone.
He sat there looking into the darkness with blind eyes, all the while he thought about the wretched life that was now his. He had turned his face from the Gods all his life. He had plotted and schemed and betrayed his bothers, sister and his tribe. He wished, he was the one, who held power, he tried to fulfill that dream by whatever means he could. Now the dream was over, he was awake in an endless darkness that would be his home until the end of his days.
So he sat and wept, although his eyes were blind they could still see into his soul.
In the tent of Egmar things were different, she had risen long before the break of daylight and began her prayers. She had done this all her life and it always made her content. So like all days she rose and washed her face and hands, she picked out a robe from her clothing box and dressed herself for the day ahead. She arranged her hair simply with ivory pins and stays, not elaborately like most of the women of the tribe. She always thought it made her look too much like a Sincraver, not a proper woman of the Outlands. She was taught this by her mother when she was young, and it had stayed with her ever since. When her hair was completed she put on a few gold and silver trinkets that appealed to her. A small bracelet and ring, bore the insignia of the tribe, then fully dressed she lit the brassier in front of a small statue of Isarie. This was usually done by a Handmaiden, being the Holy Mother, she should have been waited upon my the young novice priestesses. After a few times of having them flutter around her like Blaze-ants on a fallen beast. She sent them away, and from that day onward, she did all her morning chores herself.
When all was done she stood in front of a reflecting mirror and gazed at her image. There she saw a woman she hardly recognized, her face still bore scars from the time with the Shadowmen. She knew, no matter how many re-births she might have, they would never heal fully.
It was the will of the Goddess; she told herself; and I will not question her judgment.
She was about to turn away, when something made her look at herself for a moment more. As she stood looking at the scarred thing she had become, she thought she heard a sound. She did not know what the sound meant or its source. It made her shiver.
What was that? She asked her mind; what was that sound?
It was like the noise a sand viper makes when you step onto its burrow. Or maybe the cry of a chatter bird? No that cannot be; there were certainly no serpents in her tent. She knew that chatter birds only lived in the depths of the Forrest of Caltarine and would never come this far from their communal nests. The sound was still there. A rattling sound, she was sure she heard before? Where she could not remember.
She heard a voice that made her turn away from her refection, the rattling stopped.
“Holy Mother?” the voice said.
Egmar turned to see a young Handmaiden standing at the entrance to her tent. In an instant, she recognized the face, Kela. There was no mistaking her face, bearing the deep scar, she had received in the battle with the Talsonar. The young woman was short with a trim body and long dark hair. Her face was commonly well-made and her eyes where blue rather than the dark of most Nomads. On her forehead between her eyes, she had the sunburst tattoo that all Handmaidens wear.
“Come in my child” Egmar said softly, she watched the young woman come in, to stand before her.
“Do you wish anything Holy Mother?” The young woman asked, all the while keeping her hands down and her eyes fixed on the floor.
The High Priestess reached out and touched her chin, she lifted it slowly until she was looking the young woman in the eyes. “Why do you not look at me?” she asked smiling.
Kela shook her head, “it is not my place to look at the voice of the Gods,” she said softly.
Egmar again lifted her head so, she could look into her soft eyes, “I am not the voice of the Gods, like you I try to hear their voices”.
This made the young Handmaiden gasp. “You should not say such things, you are Their Word made flesh, you should be....”
“I should be bowed and prayed to, or I will punish you?” the older woman asked.
She watched as Kela nodded her head in approval.
This made Egmar laugh, “I can see that Obec has filled your head with her poison. She is not here, so come and let us sit and talk as women rather than as Holy Mother to Handmaiden”. She led the young woman to two carved chairs that were sitting in a corner of her tent. The young woman waited until Egmar was seated, then place herself on the remaining chair. She still refused to look at the Holy Mothers eyes and kept staring down at the ground.
“I am not on the floor child”, the former queen said, “ if you like I will lie upon the ground and we can talk that way”.
This made the young woman look up, “no please it would be a sacrilege against the Gods”, she said with a tremble in her voice.
Egmar made a small laugh again, “Isarie made the ground, so I do not think she would make it a sin to lay upon it.” With those words the old women got up and sat herself upon a small woven rug, on the floor of the tent. She beckoned the young Handmaiden to join her. Hesitantly, Kela got up and placed herself on the rug next to the Holy Mother.
“There, now we are sitting and speaking eye to eye, tell me why you did not want to look at me?” Egmar waited, there was no reply from the young woman, instead she tried to hide her face with a long strand of her hair. The former Queen reached out and took the hair from her hand, she spoke. “It is true, your face bares a scar, to some you would not be called beautiful”.
These words made the young woman frown, Egmar’s words had cut her deeply. The Holy Mother spoke again. “ You can see, my face also carries marks, that makes us sisters”, the old woman smiled.
Hearing these words made the Handmaiden feel like a weight had been taken from her back. She looked at the Holy Mother and a small grin crossed her face. She still bore the horrible scar on her face and that was not going to change. Since that day she would look down at the ground and cover her face when walking
amongst the tribe. Now she would look up at the sky and know, she was still one of the Chosen.
Kela took the hand of the High Priestess in hers and held if tightly, “thank you Holy Mother,” she said with a smile.
Egmar shook her head, “do not call me Holy Mother, from now on when we are alone you may call me Enor”.
This made the young woman smile more, for Enor was a name not often used by the Outlanders, it was a word used to describe the Goddess Mother Isarie. It meant that Egmar, now considered her as a daughter and would do all the things, a real mother would do. It was a great honor for the Handmaiden and she knew it. Tears came into her eyes.
“Thank you Holy...” she stopped herself for a moment then continued, “thank you Enor, I hope, I can be worthy of your gift”.
The old woman held the young woman’s hands in hers, “you will do what is in your heart” she said softly “that will be enough”.
At that moment Egmar thought of her lost daughter Seeda and of the times she had with her. She remembered the many times she scolded her and tried to teach her right from wrong. She heard Seeda's voice, telling how much she loved her, and in turn Egmar remembered all the times she spoke of love to Seeda. If she had said, “I love you” as many times as there were grains of sand in the dunes of the Sirolian Plains it would not have been enough.
This young woman is not my daughter, she told herself; I will love her all the same.
She drew the young woman close and put her arms around her and held her. In turn the young woman hugged the Holy Mother tightly.
This made Egmar remember a song from her childhood, a song her mother had sung to her, now she would sing it to the young woman.
In all your days and nights you will not be alone,
For I will come to you and together we will be one,
You will not cry alone, you will not laugh alone,
For I will be your right hand, and you will be my left
Together we will hold each other.
It was a very old song, far older than either Egmar or her mother. Who had written it or why was unknown, it did not matter. The words still meant the same thing and would do so for as long as mothers knew love.
On the other side of the camp far from the tent of the High Priestess, near a broken column of a fallen structure stood the quarters of the Off-World human called Osh. A strange old man, who many of the tribe did not fully trust, it was known, he had helped in the defeat of the Talsonar, and he knew many things. He was not one of the Chosen and prayed to no God, he also kept a Sandjar in his wagon and treated it like a son. All this and the fact, he would always win at Chance-cards made him someone who was not to be trusted.
How could they know, his mind was one of the greatest of the Outer Rim, able to Mind-lock with the great Tollacian computers that held all the knowledge of Worlds beyond Worlds. He could calculate the number of grains of sand in the Dunes of Gorn. That life was not his anymore, outcast from those worlds he was now just a member of the tribe.
Endo had risen well before dawn, like all his people he preferred the night to the day. Although he had learned to sleep when the suns died, he still liked to rise well before the light and begin his day.
As always he gathered Eul from an outcropping near their wagon and lit the Washa fire. He drew fresh water from the oasis lake, he encountered a few guards who had been posted throughout the camp, in case of attack they said no words to him. The Nomads still found it very difficult too fully accept the little creature as one of their own. They did not harm him, nor do any of the things, an Outlander would normally do upon meeting up with a Sandjar. Everyone knew, he was under the protection of the King. They did not welcome him either. It did not matter to Endo, he had grown used to their hard looks and let it all pass without a curse or disapproving grunt. Now, the suns were up and the camp was alive he heard the sounds of his father rustling around in their tent.
“Where is my sandal?” The words where familiar to Endo, he knew, his adopted father was not an early riser and he would not be in a good spirits until he had his morning tea and a bite of food.
“Where is that sandal?” He screamed from inside the tent, “I left it, right here, by my mattress and now it’s........” His words trailed off as he found what he was looking for, a moment or two later and he was outside dressed in a dark purple robe and a woven cap on his large head. He stood in the entrance way for a short time taking in the bright sunlight and letting his eyes adjust to the glare. He walked slowly to the Washa fire and warmed himself.
Endo poured some hot tea into a silver cup and handed it to his father, “this will warm you” he said, then poured himself a cup.
The old man sipped the warm tea slowly; it was good, his son had made sure the leaves were fresh, then added just a bit of meadow cane to the mixture. With each sip his mood improved and the day did not feel so early. After several more mouthfuls, Osh felt, he could now face the morning with courage, “the tea is very good today son, much better than yesterday”.
For a moment the boy looked at his father, he tried to understand why he would say such a thing, and it filled his head; the same tea, the same water and the same cup? He thought hard on the subject, it was difficult for the young Sandjar, they were a species who relied on their instincts more than the power of reasoning; why say the tea was better than before? He knew, the old man often said things that made no sense, like there being other worlds with creatures living on them that did not need to hunt for food. That he had come here in a huge wagon that moved through the stars without the need of Trofar, or the metal ships where the Sandjar scavenged for food, were not sent by the Gods.
Endo did not feel the need to question his father on these things, it was enough that he liked his tea.
When Osh finished his drink he began to take out his writing utensils and a fresh scroll of Rimar skin parchment. He had traded a set of Sargar cat teeth to a Nomad for a small writing table and chair. It was well made and suited the old man nicely for it allowed him to rest comfortably and be able to write for long periods of time without feeling tired.
The Calaxion laid out the parchment and opened the clay pot that held the ink, he took up the marking tool. It was made from the quills of a Doff-bird and was easy to hold in his thin fingers. He dipped the tool into the ink and began to write.
Endo watched him as he took some fresh grass from a carry bin on their wagon and fed the Trofar. The great beast munched the green shafts and grunted as the young boy rubbed its horned head. After a moment of watching his father Endo spoke, “why do you write so much?” he asked.
Without stopping the old man replied, “because there is much that needs to be remembered”.
The boy thought this over for a moment. “Yes, I remember you saying, people in the future will want to know what we did”, he said as he came over to his father. He stared at the markings that were being placed on the scroll, “can I learn how to make such markings?” he asked pointing at the Rimar skin.
Osh put down his tool and looked up at his son, “you wish to speak to those in the future?’ He asked with a smile. The young boy nodded his head.
My son wishes to record his mind; Osh thought; he has grown not only in body but also in mind. “Very well” the old man said, “sit down next to me and we shall begin”.
The Sandjar sat down on a holding barrel near his father, it was plain to see, he was eager to begin.
The old man cleared his throat then sat up straight in is chair. “Well the first thing to know is that there are seven hundred and thirty nine letters making up the Calaxion alphabet. The first sets of letters, are only used when referring to a male of a species. They are called Kronos letters”. He began marking the letters on the parchment, “the letters are divided into those made by the left hand and those made by the right and they should always.......”
At that moment the young Sandjar began to regret his decision to learn how to write, he longed for the days when he could run without care
over the green fields of Darmock.
Kuno the Captain of the Spikebacks, poured water over his great head trying to remove the grogginess, caused by last night’s drinking. As the cold water began to do its work, his thoughts cleared somewhat. He could vaguely remember a woman and a large tankard of well-aged Po, as his mind-webbing fell away, he remembered, there might have been more than one woman? Pouring more water over his head made him feel, he was ready to remember more.
Kuno was well liked by most of the tribe, he was strong and brave and had helped in the defeat of the Talsonar at the Heart of Shawcona. He had stood beside the King and fought with all his strength and did not run from the arrows of the Shadowmen or the chamber rifles of the Hal-Jafar. By all the standards of the Outlands he was a mighty warrior. But for all his strength he had his weaknesses. He could never refuse a cup of Po or the warm embrace of a strong woman. Which of these was foremost in his mind he could not tell, for they were both as powerful as any mood drug of the city people.
Now he turned away from the washing bin, sitting on a rock near his tent and moved to a large fire where many other warriors were eating the morning meal. He went to the roasting spit and tore a hunk of Rimar meat from its hook and sank his teeth into the succulent meat. As he began to chew one of the warriors, a tall man by the name of Hargo began to taunt him.
“So tell me my captain, did you win the battle in your tent last night?” When the warrior spoke these words, the other around the fire began to laugh and shake their heads. The sound of mating could be clearly heard over most of the camp the night before. To most of the tribe it meant nothing for the Nomads did not look down on pleasures of the flesh. Some of the Elders thought it was taking the gift of the Gods and squandering it on a passing embrace. Kuno was used to the disapproving looks of the tribe. He had been mated several times, then left alone in his tent, when the women who had trusted him, found his armor in the tents of other ladies of the tribe.
Kuno heard the warrior's words clearly but said nothing, he continued to chew.
“Perhaps you do not remember, if you had a victory or a defeat?” Hargo continued after hearing no response from the big man.
This made the warriors laugh even harder.
A few moments later Kuno swallowed his food, then washed it down with a mouthful of Pol. Wiping his face with the back of his large hand he smiled at Hargo, “it was a great victory my questioning friend, and if you doubt my words ask your sister, she was there on the battleground”.
These words made Hargo rise to his feet, his war-ax clutched firmly in his hand, “you say my sister was in your tent? You will pay for that insult!”
With a wild scream the man raced for Kuno, the big man moved swiftly and the attacker's weapon struck only empty air. As he turned to strike again, the Captain put out his heavy foot, tripped Hargo and sent him tumbling to the ground.
Before Hargo could rise to his feet Kuno took his tankard of Po and poured it over Hargo's face. This caused more laughter from the warriors and much clapping of hands. As Hargo sputtered and spat the sour wine from his mouth Kuno reached down and offered his hand.
“A waste of good Po if you ask me” he said with a smile, “perhaps I was mistaken in saying it was your sister”.
Hearing these words seemed to soften the resolve of the fallen warrior, he took the captain's hand and was pulled to his feet again. He dusted himself off and looked the big man in the eye, “very well, if you mention my sister again I will cut out your heart!”
Kuno smiled at him, “spoken like a true warrior of the Madrigal, come let me fill your bowl with fresh Rimar meat”.
He slapped the warrior on the back and they both moved to the fire. There the Spikeback leader took a large cut of well-cooked meat and put it into a bowl for his companion. Hargo took the offering and sat down on a rock and began to eat. Kuno poured more Po into his tankard and took a long slow gulp of the sour wine.
“Warriors should not fight among themselves” he said. “There are enough enemies to dull our blades without having to turn on each other”. These words, made the other warriors grunt in approval, “besides” the captain continue, “I was wrong when I said it was your sister who shared my tent last night”.
Hargo turned to the big man with a smile, “very well, I accept your mistake” he said holding up his cup “to Kuno, a man of strength and bravery and truth!”
The warriors echoed the praise.
“To Kuno, a man amongst men!” they shouted.
The words filled the air in a joyous chorus. Then there was quiet as the men and women returned to their food and drink.
After a time Kuno spoke again, “yes, I was mistaken about your sister” he said quietly. “I now remember it was your mother!”
Hearing this comment Hargo threw down his bowl and fell upon the Captain with a curse. There was no cry to kill from those who watched the battle for everyone knew it was only a joke on the side of Kuno. After their fight was finished and both of them had spent their fury. They would eat and drink and argue about who had landed the most blows or drawn the most blood. Then after several more tankards of Po all would be forgotten and they would be laughing at themselves like brothers.
It was the way of the Outlanders, they knew, if there was a need to fight they would stand together. Brothers and sisters against a common foe, and they would, if need be die together, never turning away or asking for mercy. They were one with the land and nothing would change that.