Nomads of the Gods

NOMADS of the GODS

By

GARY MARK LEE

Published by the author

Gary Mark Lee

At

Smashwords 2013

Copyright 2013 by Gary Mark Lee Edition 3

Table of Contents

Title Page

Table of Contents

Table of Contents (cont.)

Memory

Chapter 1. Orphans of the Stars

Chapter 2. The Nomads

Chapter 3. The Falling Star

Chapter 4. Gods and Men

Chapter 5. The Rite of Kings

Chapter 6. Captives

Chapter 7. The Hand of God

Chapter 8. Rumblings

Chapter 9. Shadows and Light

Chapter 10. The Hunt

Chapter 11. Laughter in the Night

Chapter 12. The Stone City

Chapter 13. Fire and Ice

Chapter 14. A Hard Choice

Chapter 15. Earth-shaker

Chapter 16. Warriors Weep

Chapter 17. Mazes

Chapter 18. The Gathering

Chapter 19. The Talk-Stone

Chapter 20. The Word of God

Chapter 21. The Challenge

Chapter 22. Fire in the Sky

Chapter 23. Hands and Hearts

Chapter 24. The Judgment

Chapter 25. Outcasts

Chapter 26. Partings

Chapter 27. The Tears of Isarie

Chapter 28 The Sky-Riders

.

Table of Contents (cont.)

Chapter 29. Anoc time

Chapter 30. The Oath of Blood

Chapter 31. Hunters and the Hunted

Chapter 32. The Shadow-men

Chapter 33. The Angel of Death

Chapter 34. The Hollow Hills

Chapter 35. Lords of the Underworld

Chapter 36. The Crystal Spiders

Chapter 37. Sun Song

Chapter 38. Death Bringers

Chapter 39. Underworld

Chapter 40. The Burning Time

Chapter 41. Rebirth

Chapter 42. The Twin Dragons

Chapter 43. Fathers and Sons

Chapter 44. The New Land

Chapter 45. War in the Outlands

Chapter 46. Return of the Outcasts

Chapter 47. Exiles of the Gods

Chapter 48. Death Skies

Chapter 49. Red Ruin

Chapter 50. The Gods Arise

Chapter 51. Moonrise

Chapter 1. Orphans of the Stars

The stars are not your home.

Those who dwell amongst them are not of The Chosen.

Their souls are not one with yours.

From The Book of Isarie.

High above Gorn, a large cargo ship emerging from deep space entered orbit; it was not a great Orin Galaxy-class vessel; it was a mid-range ship, a converted Tollacian Cruiser, its weapons bays had been crudely hacked out, to be replaced with great cavernous holds for cargo, its scarred hull more than two kilometers long, one of the few ships left that could withstand the stress of traveling from one system to another, a remnant of the ancient days of the Sal-Sinarie Empire when mighty ships of every shape and purpose-filled the skies of worlds beyond measure, now, The Gathering made do with what it had, what was capable of being used.

This particular vessel was the possession of the Mac-Mar Alliance, a loose configuration of trading planets; they survived by supplying lesser worlds with finished goods and essential raw materials; what was shipped did not concern the Mac-Mar so long as it was profitable; the Mac-Mar followed no treaty, convention, or law, save that of profit.

This Mac-Mar ship was contracted to deliver prisoners condemned to permanent exile on the world below, which was ideal; the ship had barely managed to avoid the Outer Rim's many raiding and marauding vessels.

The Captain sat in his moist chair, thinking about the return run through those same pirate-infested regions. He waited for Executive Officer Tog to report that they were securely entered into orbit.

Toad-faced Captain Ugro was a Markin; though he lacked most of the better Markin traits, he prided himself on his typical and legendary Markin punctuality; he ran his ship by the book, unforgiving to all who did not meet his strict expectations, he sat uncomfortably in the overly moist command chair, checking and rechecking the time on a somewhat unreliable device, the control room was chilled to a comfortable level, dripping with suitably aged moisture just as Ugro liked it, creatures of a predominate water world, Markin wanted to be wet, and the Captain was a believer in comfort. He insisted his ship make him feel at home.

He flexed his webbed feet impatiently while Tog checked his instruments once more; Tog was much like the Captain, though not as large or as magnificently green; his face lacked the wonderfully enlarged warts that would have made him as successful with the females of their race as Captain Ugro, rumored to be a father to ten thousand eggs Tog had been Ugro's Executive Officer for over five Standard Cycles. Still, he had grown tired of the Captain's constant complaints, and he dreamed, waking or sleeping, of the day when the Captain might retire or die.

When I sit in the command chair, I will not whine about it being too moist! Tog thought

Well, Tog, are we there or not? Ugro croaked.

Tog rechecked his readings, then slowly turned to his bloated superior, Yes, Captain, the orbit is stable and beyond danger range.

It best be, Tog, if we are trapped in a pulse wave, you will live just long enough to regret it, am I clear?

Tog imagined Ugro dead on the control room floor, Yes, Captain, situation nominal.

The Captain grunted sharply, I'll decide what is nominal; make ready all Drop-ships. I want my vessel out of here within two orbits; we have some real cargo to deliver after we dump this Schulman, Ugro shifted in the command chair, his webbed hand stroked his chin, And get someone up here to check the humidity, my warts feel a bit dry.

Immediately, sir! Tog saluted and left the control room but no sooner had the control room’s doors shut behind him than he began to grumble.

A bit dry? What a simple rock dweller! Too many cycles of giving orders, not enough of a mind to remember when he could have adjusted the humidity himself, without even thinking about it!

Tog grunted twice and cleared his mouth onto the deck, Get those Drop-ships ready and contact the Talsonar by message drop! he yelled at the two staff officers who waited upon him in the corridor; they hurried away to commence operations.

Tog walked slowly after them down the long corridor leading to the cargo holds; crew members gave him a wide berth, and they knew he was always in a foul mood when he had been alone with the overbearing Captain.

He passed the turnoff to Engineering, then continued down the dim hallway to a sealed door where a young crewman stood guard before it; he quickly opened the door as Tog approached; Tog passed through the portal without a word or so much as a glance at the underling.

Inside the hold, it was dark and musty, not the regular sweet odor of spoiled food shipments to be sold in starving systems, nor was it the cleaner smell of spices, bound for the pleasure planets of Urganius, this odor he had come to know well during the great wars, the sweet carrion smell of rotting flesh.

In the dim light, Tog looked around the cells lining the walls of the hold, wall to wall, ceiling-high; each cage was filled with prisoners, living, dead, and dying; they originated from all the systems of the Outer Rim and some from the Inner Core, Valcayise, Nonayia, Osinary and the rest.

They wore rags, scraps of cloth, tattered remnants of uniforms; some were naked, stripped by more robust, healthier prisoners; the naked mainly were dead or too weak to move or speak; the long voyage had taken its toll, the dead in the bottom of the cages, the dying collapsed motionlessly, or hunched over with little strength for movement, they were the outcasts, the homeless and unwanted of the galaxy, those poor souls who for whatever reason we’re no longer beneficial to their worlds.

Some were criminals, some mutated victims of pollution or industrial accident; many were soldiers who had known no other life than killing and being killed, discarded at wars end with the weapons now they were here because they were no longer needed, wherever they came from, whatever their story, this was the end of the line for them and they knew it.

Tog walked serenely down the rows of cages, examining the cargo; the dead and dying did not concern him; he was paid to deliver them to Gorn, dead or alive.

He stopped at one cage holding a female human in a uniform. Ordinarily, he did not speak with cargo, he found the looks of humans particularly unpleasant, but something about this one caught his eye; perhaps it was how she looked him in the eye rather than turning away. She was young with a muscular body clothed in a worn but relatively clean military survival suit; her thick dark hair was cut short and, like her tunic, not too dirty; her left hand was wrapped in a grimy cloth as a makeshift bandage.

Tog knew many languages in his trade line. He had to be a linguist, so he spoke to her in one of the more common human tongues hoping she would understand, What is your name?

The female looked at him before answering, Does it matter?

No, I merely thought you might like something to eat, Tog crouched and grabbed a piece of stale Nutrisom that had fallen from a cage; he stood and held it to the light; she had not eaten in a good many days; she must want it; he thought.

The woman began to reach for the morsel, then stopped, her survivor's instinct stopping her; she knew she would become a target for every desperate prisoner in her cage as soon as she took the food.

Still, it was food, she thought, Food! How wonderful it would taste, warm and sweet, I'm not hungry, she nodded and smiled at the Markin.

Tog was a bit disappointed; he enjoyed an excellent cargo fight, and the thought of this human female torn limb from limb had been exciting. Still, there was business to be done; fun could come later, Tog tossed the food into the cage next to the female, and he watched for a moment as a wild melee erupted.

Soon blood pooled on the cage floor with several newly dead creatures slumped in it, the food lay on the hold deck once more lost in turmoil; Tog grunted with satisfaction, then walked out of the hold and down the corridor.

Humans! Such foolish creatures, she could have died now and saved herself the agony waiting for her on the world below, he thought.

The woman watched him go, then leaned back against the cage bars where she dreamed of the morsel of food; a moment later, she heard a soft voice.

You made the right choice.

She turned to see an elderly human male smiling at her; he wore a tattered white robe and a matching hooded cloak, what white hair she could see was matted and filthy, his head was a bit over-sized, and he had long fingers with no nails, his face was well structured, with a straight nose, high cheekbones, and a broad forehead, his body was thin, accentuating the sharpness of his features but despite his tight-faced visage, his eyes were kind. She felt he was not a threat.

Maybe, but I'd still like to have something to eat right now, she said with a sigh.

The older man stood, then limped to her side of the cage, past several unhappy creatures scattered about the floor grates; he sat down next to her, leaned back against the Dura-Flex bars of their cage, then grimaced with the effort of movement.

Well, I have no food, but I can offer my company if you like? He held out his right hand to her, With whom do I have the pleasure of exchanging greetings?

Andra, the young woman said, grasping his right hand in hers, I didn’t see you. He is such a strange little man, she thought.

When you reach my age, it is best not to be seen; there are too many who can do you harm, the old man looked knowingly about the cages stacked near to them, I have been watching you from my little corner for some time, it was brave of you to stand up to that Markin, they rather enjoy watching humans fight over food.

Andra looked around the cage, her bravado in the face of the Markin had faded, disappeared into the gloom, and she remembered where she was, I don’t think we’ll need to worry about who will harm us for much longer.

Andra stretched her arms straight, then over her head, I just wish I could have a hot bath before I die, she ran her hands through her hair and down over her face.

The old man started to speak, I am….

Andra held up her right hand, We’re going to die in an hour or so, and I’d rather not make any new acquaintances at this point in my life.

The old man looked closely at her, Do not be in such a hurry to die; an old Interface such as I have little to look forward to; even so, there is still a chance of coming out of this alive.

Andra picked a tiny insect from her hair and crushed it between two fingernails, I don’t see how; no one has returned from Gorn, at least, no one I ever heard of.

The old man nodded, Well, some have. From their accounts, scholars have managed to piece together a fascinating description of the planet's inhabitants, not to mention its very interesting life-forms.

He closed his eyes as if reciting from memory, Take, for instance, the collected works of Vardis Cocam; he spent a great deal of time categorizing the reptilian creatures of that world, for example, did you know, Gorn's orbit is such that it makes it close to its primary sun then everything on the surface of the planet is burned, it then continues its orbit, until it swings far out from the larger sun and the planet freezes, altogether it takes approximately twelve hundred days and nights to complete one of their cycles, and then there are the diverse life-forms such as….

I’m not interested in Tardis Cocker? she broke in.

It was Vardis Cocam, a very famous writer. He won the Tarcus Globe for Excellence in Science Literature, and it is a tough competition, why I believe it took him nearly…. He looked at the young woman and saw that she was not interested in famous writers; Osh scratched himself, Ah well, I still like to think about the probability of a future; after all, by my calculations, we should already be dead!

Andra started to laugh and then stopped; he was serious.

He smiled at her, I think the Gods have plans for us.

The Gods? Don't tell me you’re a Soul Shepherd! Andra shook her head and looked down at the grates, the older man moved his egg-shaped head back and forth swiftly, and the motion reminded Andra of a bird eager to spot a worm.

Oh no. No, I am not a Holy man, is that what you think? He pulled back his stringy hair to reveal a small round metallic input, You can see, I am a Callaxion; we interface with Datacoms to check readings and service them; it is a most satisfying profession.

Andra laughed, You’re a Cipher.

A Cipher? The old man frowned and thought for a moment, Oh, yes, Cipher, a somewhat derogatory term used to describe humans who calculate odds and provide information based upon them, usually for gambling purposes, a neologic corruption of Zero-naught, he smiled, Yes, yes, very funny.

It wasn't meant to be funny, Andra crushed another of the tiny red and black insects that infested her hair, So what are you doing here, Cipher?

Well, that is a fascinating story, you see, I was monitoring the Second Level Interface on a control program when I came across some anomalies; they were not even the sort of regular anomalies; you might find in programs of that type, no, they were unique, The old man pulled a black and red insect from his hair and clumsily crushed it between two of his nail-less fingers.

I reported the anomaly to my supervisor, but he insisted it would not be cost-effective to check every anomaly; it is true that anomalies generally turn out to be just a small bump in the control programming, but I tried to explain to him this was a unique example, but he ordered me to return to my station and no….

Is this going to take long? Andra asked abruptly.

The old man gave her a perplexed look, then looked around the small cage, Do you have somewhere else to be?

Andra, to her surprise, gave a small laugh, Not really, I’m just not all that interested in Datacoms.

Yes, well, let us say, I talk too much, and we can let it go at that, he adjusted his ragged garments, I do believe the Gods have a purpose for each of us, a purpose we must follow, we walk in their shadow and follow no matter where it leads.

I thought all Callaxions were Mechanists; I read somewhere that you all believe in some Mechanoform that programs the entire universe.

The old man shifted his weight on the floor, Yes, most of us do, but I have come to think that just one God, even a Mechanoform, is not enough for the entire universe, he held his bird-like arms out wide, Have you any idea, just how big the universe is?

Andra shook her head, No, not really, but it doesn’t matter; I don’t believe in any Gods; they never seem to be around when you need them.

Well, nevertheless, I believe they exist, even if we cannot see them; I calculate the very low odds of there not being some sort of all-powerful being. Therefore, I must say with a great degree of certainty, there must be an entity, or entities, that fulfill the requirements of being a God, he smiled confidently and looked at Andra.

She was not listening to him; a small group of Markin crewmen had entered the hold; they were standing about as if awaiting orders; the young woman’s eyes were on them.

The older man looked closely at her worn uniform; he noted the faded patch on its left shoulder, a crimson flamed star, with two crossed swords, the symbol of the Defender Legion of the Outer Worlds, near Cronos.

I see you were a soldier.

Andra looked at him defiantly, I am a soldier, not that it is any of your business.

The Callaxion knew her uniform’s faded emerald collar tabs denoted her as a Selcarie; their world had been destroyed early in one of the myriads of small Outer Rim wars.

I did not mean to anger you; there is no shame in losing a war.

Andra glared at the garrulous old man, We didn’t lose; we just ran out of everything.

I understand; the Cennatians once employed me to calculate losses for one of their interactions with the Prymax Trade Unions, he smiled, I was only off by a margin of point zero nine percent! Now I see why you are being sent to Gorn."

And why is that?

Well, everyone knows that Gorn has a unique electromagnetic pulse that renders all advanced mechanisms useless. Therefore, anyone sent there cannot return; oh, some brave souls take a chance and land on the surface just long enough to carry goods off the planet but short enough to avoid being caught in the pulses, Jumpers I think they are called, but as I said, it is scarce indeed. The old man rubbed his large head, So you see, it is the perfect place for disposing of unwanted vessels or life-forms, such as you and me, then we can see that….

Andra shifted about; she put her head on her knees and closed her eyes, Do Ciphers ever shut up?

The old man frowned, I am sorry, I did not realize you wished to be alone, he rose, staggered, and steadied himself, grabbing a cage bar.

Andra opened her eyes, Wait! she said, gently touching his thin leg where it showed beneath the ragged hem of his robe, Please, forgive me, she cleared her throat, Don’t go, I was rude, I think I would like a little company.

He sat down next to her, As would I, he said softly.

For a time, they said nothing and stared at the Markin crewmen in the center of the hold, then Andra looked over at the Callaxion, Why don’t you tell me more about the Gods, she said softly.

He smiled and opened his mouth to speak, then stopped.

A bell clanged loudly somewhere in the depths of the hold, and the Markin in the center moved towards the cages, the ship rumbled and lurched, and many of the captives awoke and began to scream or cry; some prayed loudly to their Gods while others sat quietly resigned to their ultimate fate.

What’s happening? Andra asked as she grabbed a cage bar with both hands.

The old man looked at her without smiling, They are preparing to unload the cargo.

Andra held one hand and pointed with her free hand at the Markin; the crew members were moving the cages starting on the lowest level; two Markin had uncovered a maze of Roller-way track, previously hidden beneath the cargo holds deck, the cells now rumbled down the tracks.

A tired-looking crewman checked each cage against a list on his portable Interface; then, he threw a switch on a wall panel to divert the cell and its living cargo to the correct Roller-way track, which disappeared into the black mouth of a transit tube.

The Markin ignored the pleas and cries of the prisoners and stolidly continued their efficient routine; they each knew the sooner this was finished, the sooner they would depart this dangerous orbit for their next, safer destination.

None wanted to face Captain Ugro to explain why they had delayed departure; the crewmen remembered, or had heard of, what happened to the last unlucky Markin who stood before Ugro and croaked for mercy; none would risk it happening to them.

The cages continued to move along, down the tubes from the hold into the transit corridors, where they each rumbled into their designated Drop-ship.

Drop-ships were crude disposable pods with rudimentary wings, minimal control systems, and no life support other than being sealed up with whatever atmosphere they held when closed.

Drop-ships were used only once, disposable like their contents, designed to deliver supplies to Outer Rim Worlds lacking spaceports or even rudimentary landing pads; the cramped Drop-ships were minimally powered gliders, only meant for a one-way trip, making them perfect for the Markin vessel and its cargo, they could deliver their contents and not approach close enough to the world below to worry about the powerful electromagnetic pulses.

If one or two failed, the cargo was lost, but the Markin worked that into their profit margins; on this run, they gave it no thought, dead or alive, this particular cargo only had to be delivered to the contracted destination.

Andra and the older man huddled in the corner of the cage as it was jerked onto the Roller-way; it moved down the dimly lit transit tube into a Drop-ship. There were several cages already inside, and the cries of many different creatures filled the cramped interior of the Drop-ship.

As they awaited their fate, Andra looked at the other cages; one held a huge pig-faced creature; it was a Yangmar, gentle creatures in nature used primarily as domestic enslaved people on the Outer Worlds; this one appeared to have recently reached the end of her breeding cycle, they usually had litters of ten or more, but this Yangmar held a lone infant, she moaned as she slowly rocked back and forth grasping the infant tightly. Still, Andra would see that it was dead.

Andra looked away; there was nothing she could do.

A loud grinding sound filled the Dropship as the cargo hatches were closed and sealed; Andra’s ears popped with the sudden change in air pressure, then it grew eerily quiet; the crying, the clanging of rolling cages, echoes from within the Markin ship were all gone.

Andra glanced at the Cipher; he is odd but a good comrade; she thought, I’ve made a decision; if we’re going to die, I would like to know your name. She smiled.

The old man smiled back, "my full name is Oshismarie, Inastro Sistashion, but you may call me Osh if you do not mind?

I don’t mind at all, she smiled, So Osh, what do you think about our chances of getting down and out of this cage?

Again, the old man smiled, Alive or dead?

Before Andra could reply, there was a loud bang, and the Drop-ship shook violently, and they found themselves free-falling to the cursed world of Gorn.

Chapter 2. The Nomads

We, the Chosen of the Gods, lift our voice on high.

We sing the ancient songs of war under a crimson sky.

We seek no mercy from our foes and ask none in return.

We die in battle for our faith, and in dark fires burn.

Riding Song of the Almadra.

Nothing moved under the blazing suns; there was neither wind nor any other sign of movement on the horizon, the great blue sky stretched empty of clouds, only rippling heat waves flitting like ghosts above the open terrain, here and there, small desperate tufts of vegetation tried valiantly to hold onto life for one more day, bringing a bit of green to an otherwise brown and lifeless land.

But there was life here; small Sun Runners darted about between the sparse greenery, searching for insects, struggling to survive in the harsh land; above the desert, hanging like all-seeing eyes, the twin suns of Gorn looked down upon the emptiness, the more extensive light, marked on Star Charts as Karus, was a massive white giant, well cataloged by Outer Rim Star Captains as a marker to the cargo lanes of the Outer Worlds, the smaller, yellow sun, was a relatively small G type star, known to space-farers as Micos.

With its many planets, Micos orbited Karus; the tiny star alone was not hot enough to sustain life; Micos’ worlds depended upon Karus for their warmth and light.

Now the suns seemed intent upon delving into every small crevice, blasting every living thing, until even the shadows were destroyed; the twin lords of the sky were to be disappointed, for over the rolling hills rose a faint wisp of dust, the thin plume rose from a long caravan of giant creatures, massive reptilian beasts, long lines of them, swaying like a great snake as they moved across the last barren dunes of a sand sea, the beasts grunted now and again at the treacherous footing of the sand as they lumbered past great monoliths.

These were not the wild tundra beasts that roamed the forgotten places of this harsh world; these were the mounts of the riders of the Outlands, the Nomads; they moved in a precise order, the strongest of the warriors and their beasts to the front, the riders were tall and heavily muscled, clad in gleaming armor of iron and reptilian bone, the armor of the lead riders was inlaid with ornate patterns in silver and gold, their armor bore the scars of battle, as did those who wore it.

Each Nomad, sitting upon a strong Whiptail, wore a tremendous horned helmet, and weapons dangled from their heavy saddles; there was an occasional mace or hammer but always, on every great beast, a mighty war-ax.

The massive Whiptails were armored by their thick hide and scales upon their horned heads; massive jaws, lined with row after row of razor-sharp teeth, were revealed when the beasts opened their mouths; they walked upon two huge hind legs, each bearing a long spur at the rear ankle, the broad claws of their nimble feet sank deep into soft terrain giving a secure footing that held nearly as well on rough rock, two smaller arms hung from their upper bodies with each arm ending in three-fingered paws, the center digit was equipped with a massive, long and sharp claw that could cut into a Trofar in a moment or rip a grown man in two.

A Whiptail could outrun most creatures of the Outlands and kill all but the largest, on the flanks of the caravan, scurried the Outriders on smaller, nimbler Whiptails; these scouts were mostly younger warriors of the tribe; they carried colorful flags and banners, and a blast from the carved Rimar horns hanging from their saddles signaled danger, at the head of the caravan, flying high above all others was the banner of the Almadra, a large red field bearing a golden sun, all who saw this banner would know here rode a tribe of The Chosen. They followed the will of the Gods.

Behind the warriors lumbered the wagons, filled with supplies and trade goods; slow but powerful Trofar drew the wagons, these great plant eaters had long been used for hauling heavy caravan wagons, and Trofar milk was a favorite of Nomad children; the Outlander's wagons were of an ingenious design, centuries of experience had resulted in vehicles of supreme strength and beauty, their wheels were wide so as not to sink into sand or mud, each wagon carried barrels for water, grain, and materials to repair them, they varied in size, the largest holding a whole family with ease, they were made of hardwood, leather, metal, and heavy reptilian bone and were handed down from generation to generation, painted in the colors of their clans, the wagons were one of the treasures of the Almadra, many smaller wagons carried tents, more food, and water as well as the things used in Nomad culture, everything needed for survival, save the warrior's weapons, was in the wagons.

A team of twenty of the strongest Trofar pulled mightily upon the ornate wagon of the Holy Writings, but it was more of a rolling temple than a wagon; its wheels were the height of two tall men and able to support its massive weight through even the softest sand, upon it, was room for a multitude of Soul Shepherds as well as the sacred vessels and valuable objects needed for the many rituals the Gods required of the Almadra, the temple wagon had three levels, the first for storage, here the enormous ceremonial tent and hundreds of scrolls were kept, written by the ancient Holy Mothers who once rode in other such wagons, upon the next level, lived the High Priestess of the Almadra, sectioned into chambers and small cells, this level was a place of reverence entered only with the Holy Mother's permission.

The third level was an open expanse under a great awning; the Holy Mother, her guards, and such acolyte Handmaidens as served her could look down upon her people as well as up to the Gods from here; usually, the High Priestess and her acolytes rode in the second level, sheltered from the heat and the profane eyes of the tribe they communed with the Gods and performed the mystical rites and sacrifices that maintained the order of the universe and gave balance to the world, they were the guardians of the faith of the Almadra, only women of the tribe were given this honor, it was they who spoke for the Nomad's many Gods, it was their blessings that aided any venture and their curse named the forbidden.

Following the temple wagon were the wagons of the Handmaidens, following them, small carts holding more tents, votive statues, and any other objects the Soul Shepherds needed to worship the Nomad’s many gods.

Last came a large caged wagon; it held the Malock, a massive beast tended and kept safe until its time came, surrounding the Holy Wagons were a host of elite mounted warriors all in identical bronze armor; they were the Thungodra, the tribe's best warriors, chosen by their peers to be the personal guard of the Holy Mother, they took a blood vow to die rather than allow harm to come to their holy leader.

Behind the wagons marched a herd of Spike-backs, heavy creatures saved for the most significant battles and used to break the ranks of an enemy and put him to flight.

Temperamental and of a vicious nature, Spike-backs carried all before them when at full gallop, their massive heads were covered with armor-like hide with two long horns, few creatures of Gorn could face a Spike-back and hope to live; only the all-powerful Earth-shakers were unafraid, the Almadra's Long-Range weapons were mounted on their wide backs, Cannons and Disruptors that gave the Nomads added force in battle.

The Electromagnetic pulses made any advanced weaponry useless, so the cannons worked by using explosive chemicals that fired projectiles, deadly at close range but used sparingly; the ammunition was costly in trade goods paid to the Talsonar, the pyramid people, who were good with metal and understood how to work the explosive chemicals.

In the middle of the caravan were the wagons of the elderly and the very young; children learned the ways of the Outlands from the elders; they played games and helped with the more straightforward tasks of camp and trail.

All females bore twins, and sometimes more, but only one child was allowed to live beyond the first few months; they were not given names at birth and referred to only as son or daughter; they would receive their tribal names only after they were chosen. The life of a Nomad was hard; only the strongest could hope to survive, so each mother had to choose one child to live, one to die; this was the time, Nomad women dreaded most, a rite that had been observed since the tribe's beginning and it could not be avoided, no one could defy the will of the Gods.

Traditions such as these had made the Almadra one of the most powerful of the Outland tribes; they rode where they pleased, they feared nothing and no man, they lived by the laws of Gorn and prayed to their many gods, as far as they knew, they had always lived this way and would continue to do so.

Karn sat high and proud in his mighty Whiptail's saddle, tall and thickly muscled, with long dark hair and a square jaw; Karn had led the Almadra for a great many cycles; he was a good and wise King and a cunning warrior who had led the tribe to countless victories.

His long rule was a testament to his ability; when his father was mortally wounded in the Hill Wars, he handed his Kingship to Karn, his eldest son; his body was covered with battle scars alongside colorful tattoos denoting his exploits, victories, and conquests, his left hand was missing two fingers, so was his right eye, lost to a Shadow Man's arrow and now covered by a patch but he was still the most feared warrior of the Almadra. Still, now many cycles had passed, and though far from weakened, he knew his time as King was approaching its end.

A leader needed to be strong, and Karn's strength was waning, but for now, he sat high in his saddle and looked out over the Outlands with the bearing of a King.

He thought, I had led my people well; they would remember my name.

Riding beside him was Arn, his eldest son and heir, as tall as Karn, with the same piercing eyes, broad shoulders, and strong countenance; Arn also carried many scars from the battles he had fought, and his face bore three dark tattoos marking him as the son of a King, upon his head he wore the horned helmet of his clan, in his right hand, he carried the giant warrior's ax, the legendary weapon of the wandering people, handsome by Outland standards, with a firm jaw and straight nose he was well-liked by the tribe, though sometimes impulsive and hot-tempered the warriors looked up to him. The Almadra all knew that someday he would be their King.

Arn looked upon his father but did not speak; he knew the old King's time was nearly over; soon, he would lead the tribe, he had learned all his father could teach, but as they rode over the dry land, he felt he had learned nothing, all those cycles learning from his father how to lead the tribe how to be a strong King, all that knowledge seemed to ebb away. He felt like a mere boy once more, but this was not the time for self-doubt; he must be strong, to do what must be done for the good of the Almadra.

He told himself, I would be a strong king; I have learned how to do so from my father.

Nevertheless, this knowledge did not lift the burden from his shoulders nor the shadow from his heart; Karn did not return his son’s stare, unaware of the thoughts and fears that burdened the younger man.

Arn would have liked to speak to his father, thank him for giving him life, teach him the ways of the Outlanders, make him strong, and show him how to be a leader.

He wanted to talk of the cycles past, of all they had done together for the tribe, there was much to say, and yet Arn did not speak,

It was better this way; hard things were to be done, he told his mind, better not to dwell upon what had been, or was to be done, he taught me well, all that I am now, I owe to him, can I do what must be done, can I obey the laws of the tribe? Arn thought to himself.

Behind Arn and the King rode the vast tribe of the Almadra, five thousand strong, Holy Women, warriors, old and young; the men of the tribe were tall and robust, their hair long, their skins marked with pictograph tattoos from their passage to manhood, they had endured the hardships of this world. The weak had perished; they were proud, asking for nothing but to live free and to follow their King to wherever he chose; they lived and died; by the complex code of the Outlands, in all the lands of Gorn, there were no better warriors than the Almadra and not just the men, the women were warriors too, standing solid and proud in battle, dying for their King, they gave and asked no quarter, they were She-demons who protected their young from harm as fiercely as they stood in battle.

In the center of the group were the ancient ones, caretakers of wisdom; they knew the ways of the Outlands and the legends of the sky. They were treated with great respect and loved by all Almadra, the eldest, held within their memories the living history of the tribe.

Just behind the food and water vehicles came the fire wagons and their drivers; they were the Ironworkers, metalsmiths who forged the weapons and tools of the Almadra; on top of the first of their great wagons were the forges and all the implements of their craft, these were followed by carts filled with Dura-Flex, Itarian steel, and other metals, all scavenged from the wrecks of the countless Outer Rim ships that littered the land.

The caravan moved slowly past the Twin Peaks of Carnnan and the gutted remains of a centuries-old star cruiser half-buried in the sand, the remnant of the Trajion Wars. It would have been the prize exhibit of any museum in the Outer Rim. Still, here in the Outlands, it was only the home to small desert creatures, a resting-place for Waste-wanderers, the Almadra moved past the great ship, paying it no heed for it, just another landmark on their trek, and they had seen such Off-World ships countless times before.

The Almadra traveled at their normal, careful, and unhurried pace; they knew their path and destination well; the Nomads never felt the need for haste; time was an old friend to them and never an adversary, they were one with the land and it with them, the Nomads was used to traveling having spent most of their lives on the move, now they moved forward until Carnnan disappeared beneath the horizon. The procession entered the valleys of Omar-ran.

Here the rocks were wind-worn, eroded into strange shapes, the land took on an eerie look that always frightened the youngest children of the tribe, the New Ones who had never passed this way, and they sought comfort in the arms and voices of the Elders, held tightly in withered arms, informed by soft voices, they would look into the friendly wrinkled faces of their grandparents and soon their fears passed. Meanwhile, the caravan migrated relentlessly onward.

The Almadra wandered each cycle from the towering glaciers of the Snowy Mountains of the far North to the dark paths of the Western Forests, then into the distant Southern Jungles of the lush and humid Yug; they traded with the Shell People of the coast, ocean-rovers who roamed the open waters of the Great Sea and the Pyramid Dwellers called the Talsonar, the Grana miners, creatures who were all but blind, living in the dark, delving deep into the Mountains of Koto-Car, they were the ones that supplied them all with the indispensable salt that preserved life of all higher beings on Gorn.

Grana miners were perfectly suited to this harsh land, able to labor endlessly in their dark tunnels, only they possessed legendary ability to endure extremes of heat and cold, such as would kill most humanoids, along with their vital skill in finding the rare deposits of Grana, no one would dare harm them because everyone needed Grana and only the miners could see it.

After many days of travel, the Almadra were nearing their sacred lands; the towering, weathered statues of the Gods rose like stone apparitions in the rocky hills beyond Omar-Ran; the monuments were ancient, carved by the ancestors of the Outlanders; no one knew their actual age, or the names of those who made them, to their knowledge the stone sentinels had stood forever marked the border between the Profane and the Holy.

As the suns began to set, the Nomads came to the rock-strewn entrance of their most sacred place; each Almadra, young and old, warrior and worker, and Holy Mother alike, all dismounted, they lowered their heads to the ground in obeisance to the great idols of their people, some older women wept tears of sorrow in remembrance of lives lost since their last passing, warriors raised their axes in a salute to both their Gods and to fallen comrades and all sang the songs of the Soul Shepherds. In contrast, the great stone Gods looked down stoically as the Almadra passed; their silent gaze upon the Nomads gave what blessing it could as they returned to their ancestral home.

Once safely inside the valley, the Nomads dispersed; the warriors relaxed their ceaseless vigil, for this was their refuge, and no others dared enter.

The rock of the hills and valley walls bore marks of countless other gatherings, stone tombs of long-dead Kings perched on crumbling outcroppings or loomed beneath overhanging cliffs; here and there lay the gigantic bones of Tundra beasts which had borne other Almadra here ages before this place was a land of memories, a place of remembrance for all that the Nomads held dear.

As the twin suns set, the entire valley was washed in a golden light; it became a place of other-worldly beauty, half-forgotten dreams, and unanticipated hopes.

As Arn rode slowly on his Whiptail, he once more looked at his father; how tired he looked, the cycles were weighing heavily upon him; he thought; Arn’s face was emotionless, It will be a warm night and a bright morning, he said to his father.

Hear these words, Karn turned to his son, unsmiling, Yes, it will be a good day to die.

Karn turned away and looked into the distant light of the setting suns; the young Prince closed his eyes, He knows his time is near, yet he faced it fearlessly; he thought, and despite the thoughts buzzing through his mind, he did not speak.

Directly behind the two men rode Arn’s younger brothers, Agart, with his long hair in a single braid, set with ivory amulets; he was tall and handsome, too much so for his good, some said, although vain, he was a favorite with most of the tribe, always ready with a quick jest and a strong helping hand, he admired Arn, knowing he could never be a leader himself. Secretly, Agart thanked the Gods that the burden of the eldest son was not his to carry.

Beside him rode Anais, shorter than his older brothers and born with an unhappy heart; Anais had the eyes of a Gaze-bird; his long, sharp nose, and his darting eyes, seemed penetrating and unreadable, youngest of the King’s sons and therefore least likely to lead, yet shrewd and calculating.

Anais had secretly sworn an oath to the only God he believed in, himself, an oath that someday his name would be carved upon the walls of this sacred valley; he would not reckon the cost because he would pay whatever was demanded in return for the fulfillment of his dream, he sat unsteadily upon his beast. He touched the small dagger hidden in his wide leather belt and grumbled softly to himself, the weather was not to his liking, and his back was sore, anything to distract him from his more significant troubles.

Agart heard his younger brother's complaints, and he usually ignored them, but something ended his patience, What troubles you now, younger brother? Has someone placed a stone beneath your saddle? Agart smiled broadly.

Anais turned to him with a sour look on his face, Nothing so simple, I weary of this long day’s journey, and my belly rumbles.

Hungry? Agart pulled a strip of dried meat from his saddle pouch and handed it to Anais, I kept this for later; it is not too bad if you can get past the smell.

Anais took the small piece of meat and sniffed it warily, It smells as bad as the hind end of an old Rimar! He spoke.

You are wrong, my ravenous brother; it is the hind end of an old Rimar! Agart laughed.

Anais threw the spoiled meat to the ground and muttered, He thinks me a fool. Someday he will truly play the fool, and I shall be the one who laughs.

Behind the brothers was a beautifully carved wagon, drawn by an ornately adorned and oversize Trofar; in it rode the Queen and the lone sister of the three Princes, barely past her Young cycles; Seeda sat beside her mother; the young woman held the reins and clucked softly at the lumbering Trofar.

Surely you cannot be tired? she asked the beast, a big one like you should be able to pull the Holly Wagon all by themselves.

Although a Princess, she worked as hard as any woman of the Almadra; kind and loving, Seeda treated all with the same affection as she gave to her family and her skill with weapons was almost equal to her dancing, and when she sang the ancient songs, her voice was like a bell, ringing in the silence of the Dune lands, exceedingly proud of her long, dark hair, which she wore in elaborate configurations that sometimes displeased her mother who thought it made the young woman seem a bit too much like a camp follower, never-the-less Seeda had a good heart, and as a warrior of the Almadra she would not give her embraces away freely.

But the Princess knew there were many other worlds beyond this one, many lives other than hers, and for all her love of her tribe, at times, she found herself filled with a longing to see those other worlds, to know those other lives. As she drove the wagon, she occasionally glanced to her left, seeking to catch a glimpse of Almec, son of Aron the Ironworker, her childhood companion; over the time of their First Cycle, they had many adventures and suffered many punishments from her father when caught in forbidden escapades.

Careful you do not fall off your Whiptail, she called Almec.

You should keep your hands on the reins, replied the young warrior.

Almec had grown into a strong and brave man, a skillful warrior and hunter; it was taken for granted by those who cared to think of such matters that one day, Seeda and Almec would be joined and that their sons and daughters would add significantly to the strength of the Outlanders.

Seeda, however, was not one to surrender herself so easily; whoever won her favor would have to pay her price, Almec might yet entice her to live in his tent, but there were still other suitors, all worthy men of the Almadra.

Many had set their hopes on her, only to learn quickly of her demanding nature and overpowering will; Seeda would not be an easy catch for any man and even harder to share a tent with.

Almec knew Seeda was watching him, so he sat straighter in the saddle, held his war-ax slightly higher, and tried not to look at his admirer again.

Queen Egmar knew her daughter admired the young warrior; she reminded herself that it was almost the time of joining, and she was sure Seeda would likely choose Almec, despite the many others who sought the eye of the King’s daughter.

Well and good, though Egmar, he is a good man and a strong warrior.

She liked Almec, and she knew she would be a good match, a much-needed halter, for her rash and headstrong daughter; there was much the Princess still needed to learn about being a Princess of the Almadra, but Learning would come with time but not now.

But there was something else pressing upon her heart with the weight of an Earth-shaker, something that must be done, yet it filled her heart with dread; her face was calm but beneath a storm of worry slowly stirred, Make sure you wear the green robe tonight, not the red. I will not have you adorned like a Sin-Craver tonight, Egmar gave Seeda a sour smile.

The green robe makes me look like a pregnant Burrow baby! Seeda replied angrily.

Better than the red, it makes your father angry, and you know how he…. Egmar’s voice slipped into silence.

Seeda looked at her mother; she saw the worry in her eyes; it had come; she knew the time had come; the young woman thought to speak, but the words did not come to her lips, so she just listened to the slow steps of the laboring Trofar and tried in vain to think of happier times.

The Outriders ahead called back with cries of joy; through the gathering darkness, just visible in the twilight, was the Almadra's great stone Longhouse, its thick walls, carved with intricate designs, painted in deep earth tones, centuries-old, the Longhouse could hold all the Almadra, it was and had always had been the gathering place of the tribe, here would be echoed their ancient songs and many of their most sacred rites performed.

The twilight settled into darkness as the Nomads began to unload their wagons and tend their beasts; everyone knew their task, and the work went swiftly.

Arn watched as his father dismounted and tended to his Whiptail; the warriors treated their beasts better because they knew their lives depended upon their mounts, so a wise warrior always ensured his animal’s needs before his own, even the King! The Almadra served no man; only the Gods and members of the tribe cared for themselves; there were no servants here.

The creak of leather was everywhere, and the smell of sweat as heavy saddles and weapons were taken from the Whiptails, then the beasts were turned loose to forage freely in the long valley, but they would return with the dawn reacting to the plaintive call of the warrior’s horns.

As Arn released his mount and he saw his father standing near the Longhouse beside a fallen statue of a long-dead King, the old leader stared down at the fallen image of his forebear as he was alone; deep in his thoughts, Arn sighed and walked towards his father.

Leave him to his thoughts, my son, Egmar placed her hand on his arm, Your father needs quiet and his thoughts more than anything we might say to him, the Queen said as she looked over at her mate.

Arn looked into his mother's clear eyes and felt the truth of her words, Do the Gods ever feel so alone? he asked her.

Yes, they created us, the old woman answered softly.

Arn looked up to the glittering stars, beginning to shine in the darkening sky, Must the Gods always lead us on the same path? Cannot the laws of the Almadra change?

The Queen took her son's hand and looked at him, how he had grown and changed. "No, there is a time for all things, and they must pass, as they have always passed; your time has come; you must meet it, as did all the sons of all the Kings."

Arn looked at the King, his father, again as he stood beside the Longhouse like one of the statues, Do the Gods hear our prayers? he asked.

Always, she answered, I have prayed for strong sons and daughters, as have all the mothers of the Almadra, look about you and see the answer the Gods have given, see the strength of the Almadra and the God's answer to their prayers, it lies in that strength.

Arn looked up at the moons again; my mother is beloved of Isarie; someday, she will sit at Isarie’s side, "Then I will pray for my father; I will pray that he sits with the Gods and drinks with them in their Golden Hall."

Arn's mother looked at him as she laid her hands on his shoulders, The Gods will hear you, my son, they hear all who call to them, but most clearly, they hear the call of a King’s oldest.

A wind from the heavens passed beneath the stars and into the Sacred Valley of the Nomads; this night wind was well known to the Almadra, Isarie’s Sigh, the old women, called it; it was a wind that promised death and birth.

Chapter 3. The Falling Star

PRNA-OGRESS REPORT– Transshipment 99761 – Standard Time 67100 – Transport Ship 280.

All Drop-ships ejected - jumper ships returned - seventeen jumper ships made planetfall - two jumper ships lost due to EMG pulse induced malfunctions - losses are within acceptable levels -setting course for following scheduled transfers – Departure Micos Standard Time 67101 - Ugro, Commanding.

END-SHIPMENT REPORTS TO DISPATCH CENTRAL, LAMARCK PRIME. GORN TRANSFERS COMPLETE. PROFIT LEVEL NOMINAL – END.

The tiny Rock-runner darted in and out of the jagged boulders trying desperately to remain unseen; too many predators higher up the food chain were about, so instinct screamed, Hide! The small lizard was fast; its rust-colored skin blended with the rocks as it skittered in bursts from one hiding place to another.

Between two medium-sized boulders, it paused and turned its large yellow eyes up to the twin suns; they were low on the horizon, and with nightfall would come relief from the heat and the safety of darkness; then, it could hunt insects keeping one eye wary for any night-flier that might cross its path.

The little creature settled back between the boulders to wait in the shadows as three of the moons made their way across the sky; the Rock-runner watched them, waiting for darkness. The moons crawled across the space between the rocks, then something else moved, something it had never seen before, a streak of fire brighter than the emerging stars.

The Dropship was in trouble; its minimal guidance system had failed shortly after atmospheric entry; far off course now and nowhere near its intended destination of the Pyramid City of the Talsonar, it descended rapidly into the desolate Outlands.

It barely maintained stability as it roared through the upper levels of the thick envelope of air surrounding Gorn; only a miracle would stop it from crashing like a meteorite into the barren landscape below.

Inside the Dropship, Andra and Osh hung desperately to the cage’s bars, the interior of the cargo ship was filled with smoke, and the heat generated by entering Gorn's atmosphere was extreme.

Andra turned her eyes away from her newfound companion, no longer able to be brave; she felt it was the end; all the bravado she had shown throughout her life was gone.

She felt alone and afraid, Is there an Afterlife? She asked, her voice shaking.

We will soon know, Osh smiled at her and took one of her hands tightly in his own.

And she squeezed his hands in return.

The Callaxion could not resist making a pronouncement, Did you know that most advanced civilizations believe in an Afterlife of one kind or another of the estimated seven hundred and thirty-seven thousand inhabited worlds of the Outer Rim? I would consider those excellent odds that Gods do exist, in some form or another; therefore, it stands to reason, they could be watching us right now, the idea seemed to give the old man some comfort, but Andra did not appear at all interested in the odds.

I am sorry if I talk too much, the old man said softly, but such is my nature.

The ship burned like a falling torch as pieces of its outer hull began breaking off, the heat shield could fail at any second, and the extreme fire would consume those within.

Andra looked at the other prisoners in their cage; like her, most seemed afraid; a few closed their eyes, waiting for their end to come, and one or two stared numbly into infinity.

One great Ogarian began to laugh; his warlike race often faced death this way. Andra was human, and as with most humans, she wondered what lay ahead. Would it be the paradise many believed, or would it be fire and pain? Momentarily, she wished she'd spent more time finding answers to some of the questions now filling her head, but there hadn't been time. She held Osh's hand tighter, taking her mind off the smoke and heat.

What were you saying about the Afterlife? she asked the old man.

Osh smiled at her, Well. With so many cultures believing in an all-powerful being, I was saying that it is quite difficult not to accept the hypothesis that some such beings do exist. I once had a conversation with an Ungary, who stated most emphatically it had once, actually met a God; it told me she was a rather short female of their species, with many more breasts than normal for an Ungary female, He laughed, Then again, we all know, what liars the Ungary can be! Osh smiled quizzically, It is strange how all sophists lie; it is part of being intelligent, I suppose, a survival trait, perhaps?

With the ground rapidly approaching,