The Gods of Garran

by Meredith Skye

  Good jobs on Garran were few. It was a military outpost for the Chanden High Realm. Jobs in the factories paid only a pittance and mostly hired natives, who were glad to work for substandard wages. The schools paid better, but most citizens on Garran worked in the military, as Enforcers.

  Asta had worked many tedious jobs as a Enforcer--processing ID's or helping Garran's fill out forms for permits. Dull work. Then, a year ago, she had joined the Stealth Unit--a group that disguised themselves as Garran natives and infiltrated the outland groups both to spy and to enforce Chanden regulations.

  The tribes of the northeast often flout the law, claiming it conflicted with their own secret "Conclave" decisions. This Conclave controlled native opinion and gave the Chanden more than a little bit of trouble, but it was hard to pinpoint. The meetings were never in the same place or on a set schedule.

  Asta spent the past year in training and in safe assignments near the main Chanden cities.

  Only a month ago, Asta was assigned to a field Stealth Unit to track--and put an end to--Garran rebellions. It was a dangerous but high paying assignment.

  Finally, Asta had a chance to prove herself on her first true mission. It could secure her a permanent spot on the squad, and assure her independence financially. She just wanted to be free of her father, Koethe, and this godforsaken planet of Garran--forever. She’d move back to Chanda, her the homeworld on which she'd grown up--and her father would have no power to run her life.

  She just hoped that he didn't find out about her transfer. As Commander, he could force her to resign. For a chance to get off this world and back to civilization, Asta wore the ragged Garran clothes and rode their smelly beasts.

  The dust in the dry desert air sent Asta into a coughing fit. Sometimes a person never acclimatized to a new planet. To Asta, something about the planet always felt unnatural. Maybe it was the weight of the wind, or the heavier pull of gravity. The smell of the atmosphere itself had a strange acrid smell that she'd never gotten used to. She'd taken an injection last night for her dust allergy. It should kick in soon and hopefully last a week or two.

  She pulled the turban tighter around her head, glad that it hadn’t turned too cold yet.

  After tying up the yithhe, Asta tested her hidden mic by making a few popping sounds.

  Loud and clear, the squad leader, Ruben, whispered back in her ear. It was comforting to hear his voice. Asta had always admired the handsome, blond-haired agent. He was always cool and capable.

  Ruben and the other five Enforcers were hidden out of sight. All Asta had to do was to enter the dome and verify that their target was there and whether or not he was alone.

  Are you okay, Asta? came Ruben's voice.

  "Yes," she said quietly.

  After a deep breath, Asta moved towards the dome. For a people skilled enough to build cities, the Garran natives lacked many redeeming qualities.

  They were unreasonable. They’d never forgiven the Chanden for the war that happened nearly a hundred years ago. They showed no gratitude for the many improvements and advances that the Chanden had provided for them. They lacked the intelligence to grasp space travel, other cultures or indeed anything but their own primitive existence. The Garrans who lived and worked in the cities were barely civilized, even though they gave it their best efforts.

  But even worse were the outcasts who refused to leave their mud huts, their lava-caves and their hunting lifestyle. Their children had no access to medicine or education—they were wild. Killers. Born hating the Chanden. There was no reasoning with them, nor changing them. They’d be better off if the sand storms consumed them all.

  Sometimes Asta hoped they would.

  She reached the door and paused only a moment before she pushed it open. Inside, the dome was pleasantly lit. A curious collection of Garran instruments were displayed on the wall. Placed at the center of the Shaheak dwelling was a raised platform. On this sat a single Garran priest, cross-legged with eyes closed as though meditating.

  In front of him, sheathed, lay a sword. A priest-sword known as an ooluk.

  The musical instruments intrigued Asta. She didn't remember seeing anything like them at the museum. They would make a great addition to the collection already there, if she could acquire them. Such cultural things fascinated her.

  No one else was in the dwelling--perfect for the raid. Asta had only to confirm his identity as the rebel Jaynanth, a priest who had openly attacked a Chanden Enforcer, severely wounding him. Once they searched his dwelling, they might find evidence of even more violations.

  As Asta took a few steps forward, the man on the platform opened his eyes. He wore dark red priest robes. A hood partially obscured his face.

  “Who enters here?” asked the man.

  “One seeking wisdom,” said Asta, hoping that would be the right answer.

  The man studied her. She realized that this man was old, ancient, perhaps. His face held the wrinkles of years of wisdom. His gray eyes were soft but had a clarity in them. She had not expected the man to be someone she could respect.

  “Are you the Shaheak Jaynanth?” she asked, hoping that he was not.

  “I am, child,” he said. “Come closer,” he beckoned.

  Still her heart beat wildly. She took a few steps closer, but would not get too close. Ruben and the others would be listening. They would be getting into position. When they were sure of the situation, they would enter.

  The man stared into her eyes. “Who are you?” the man asked.

  Hesitantly, she answered, “Te'jaste.” There was a strange sense of peace about this man. Somehow it emanated from him. Her heartbeat slowed a little and then she remembered her cover story. “Te'jaste of Noloon,” she added.

  His eyes bored into hers, as though he could somehow extract secrets from her without words. She felt uncomfortable and wanted to turned away, lest he saw in her eyes what they were planning.

  But the Garrans couldn’t read minds and such stories were wild and without any basis in fact. “You say that you seek wisdom, child?”

  “Yes,” said Asta. She’d already drawn this conversation out too long.

  Get on with it, came the whisper in her ear.

  “What troubles you?”

  She shifted. There was no one else in the room. She should give the signal so the others could commence the raid. “My heart is troubled … I seek inner peace,” she said.

  The man considered her a moment.

  “Many of the wise have sought this without gaining it,” Jaynanth said solemnly.

  Her throat had gone dry. Was this man truly guilty? Doubts cropped up. Her feelings threatened to overwhelm her and her heart sped up again. It wasn’t for her to decide. Once he was in custody, he would go to trial and the evidence would be weighed. That wasn’t her job.

  “You are all alone here?” she asked. It was the signal.

  “As you see,” said the priest.

  Asta could scarcely breathe as she counted out the seconds she imagined it would take for the others to arrive. Soon, she was rewarded by the sound of the door opening. Ruben entered, followed by three of the others. Two had stayed to guard the outside.

  “We are Chanden Enforcers, surrender yourself now, priest!” Ruben shouted. As Breehan, Tomlin and Dale spread out, Dale lifted his gun as if readying to shoot.

  In a single motion, the priest threw a star-shaped blade at Dale, a disc with five blades on it. This landed right between Dale’s eyes. He fell backwards and collapsed.

  Breehan rushed forward with a howl, her sword rising for a strike.

  Fluidly, Jaynanth unsheathed his sword, dodged a shot from Ruben, then parried Breehan's attack with such force that the Enforcer lost her footing.

  Asta stood rooted, stunned.

  "Do something!" she heard Ruben shout. She turned back just in time to see Jaynanth’s sword find Tomlin's heart. Tomlin gasped and sank to the ground. Angry, Ruben jumped the priest and they grappled.

  Quickly, Asta reached
in her shoulder bag and pulled out a stunner.

  “Asta!” shouted Ruben, unable to get the upper hand.

  She aimed and shot the priest in the back. He fell, limp, onto the clay floor. His ooluk sword slipped to the ground.

  Ruben, regained his balance and surveyed the scene. Dale slumped motionless on the ground; Tomlin lay in a pool of his own blood.

  Asta looked around the room in horror … so much blood. That could have been her lying dead on the floor. She steeled herself. She wouldn’t give up. She just prayed her father didn't find out about the change in her line of work.

  “What just happened?" demanded Ruben, looking around at the rest of the team. "This is a botched job!"

  Breehan knelt over her brother, Dale. “He’s dead,” she said.

  Ruben looked down at Tomlin. “So’s he.” There was no need to check. "Secure him," spat Ruben, nodded to the prone Shaheak priest. The effect of the stunner would wear off soon.

  Pak hauled the priest up onto his knees. Groggily, he began to regain consciousness. He held him there. Breehan came over and kicked Jaynanth twice in the stomach. “Take that you Shaheak bastard!”

  The man moaned, still woozy, then the priest's eyes fixed on Asta. “I hope you find the wisdom you seek, Te'jaste of Noloon,” he said quietly.

  “What were you doing?” Ruben demanded of Asta, picking up Tomlin’s sword.

  “What? Me?” she felt confused and realized Ruben was speaking of her dialog with the priest at the beginning. “I thought that I should--”

  “Just give the signal,” said Ruben. “Don’t waste time on these scum.” He stared down at Jaynanth, sword in hand. The priest stared back up at Ruben. “They’re not worth it.”

  With the sword, he slit Jaynanth’s throat. Blood spilled out and down, blending in with the priest’s already red robe.

  Horrified, Asta stared at Ruben. “Why did you do that?”

  “Look at what he did to my squad!”

  “But …” Asta looked at the dead Enforcers. “A trial …” she began. They had just murdered this man. A sick feeling settled into her stomach.

  “No, not for this excrement. Not after what he did,” said Ruben. He brushed past her. “Let’s get this place cleaned up and get out of here. Jess, wipe up the blood. Asta, bring two of the yithhe around back. Pak and Breehan, take the bodies and load them up--all of them.”

  Grimly, the squad set about obeying orders.

  Ruben stooped to pick up the priest’s ooluk but immediately dropped it. “What?” asked Breehan.

  “I swear that thing’s alive,” murmured Ruben. “It gives me the creeps.” He moved on, to check Dale.

  Asta picked up the ooluk sword gently. When she touched it, it felt like a small jolt of electricity. But then, it felt natural in her hand. Very natural. Priest swords were legendary for their enduring sharpness.

  She located the scabbard and sheathed the sword, deciding then and there not to turn it over to the museum. She would keep this weapon. If things turned violent out in the wilderness--she would need it.

  For the museum, Asta pocketed the chineth flutes and the stringed glithe on her way out.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Inside the tsirvak of the Sand Plain clan, Moorhen and his little brother, Norbi, bowed before the earth crystals. By custom, the clan to paid homage to the earth-gods. Since the death of the Borrai, a hundred years ago, each clan worshipped the gods in whatever way they saw fit. Shaheak priests saw to the spiritual safety of the clans.

  "If the gods are dead, then why do we worship them?" Moorhen's little brother asked him. The boy was ten years of age.

  "The priests say that the Borrai only sleep. One day they'll wake again to defend the us."

  Norbi looked thoughtful. "I've heard some people say that such ideas are ridiculous. They say that the gods are gone forever. And that we need new gods."

  Moorhen had heard such talk too. "I disagree," he said. "The gods will help us--they have to. The spirit of the gods was hidden in a godstone. When the time is right, it will be found."

  Long ago the Chanden came and destroyed the Borrai with their skyflames. Before the Borrai died, their spirits retreated into a godstone to be brought forth at a later time. The Shaheak Riddich hid the stones and died later at the hands of the invading Chanden. The location of the stone was lost forever, though there was a poem handed down through the generations, a riddle that spoke of the godstone.

  Stone calls to clan

  And fire shall awake

  Wind shall descend

  And sweep 'cross the lake

  Where is the head,

  with pow'r to set free?

  The stand of the dead

  shall rest 'neath dark sky.

  Fountain shall break

  Alone in the mist

  the Mountain shall shake

  Borrai shall enlist.

  Moorhen had told Norbi this poem many times. No one knew the meaning of the poem. There was much speculation on the location of the stone. Many had tried to find it and failed.

  "You think they find the stone and once we have Borrai again … the new Borrai defeat the Chanden for us?" asked Norbi.

  Long ago, the Chanden had either destroyed or taken over their ancient cities--such as Urrlan and Karther--and the more habitable areas of the plains.

  "I hope so," said Moorhen.

  All who resisted the Chanden and their laws were arrested and imprisoned. After decades of this, the Garrans' will to fight had weakened. Many of them now lived in the cities, working in the mines or factories. Despite long hours of labor the Garrans remained poor, treated as trespassers on their own lands.

  Norbi followed Moorhen out of the shrine.

  "Moor," asked Norbi, "can you come with me to the Black Hills to hunt crystals?"

  Moorhen hesitated. The crystals were valuable--a month's worth of food--but difficult to find.

  "No, not today, Norbi," said Moorhen, not with so many warriors gone.

  "Why?" the boy insisted.

  "It's dangerous out there. And it's my duty to watch the tsirvak while Father's away hunting."

  Wild beasts and poisonous snake roamed the Black Hills--the area was dangerous. Furthermore, the Chanden sometimes ventured out from their stolen cities, growing bolder each season. They hunted in groups both for the lithe four-legged eke beasts or the huge, horned orvallin, one of which could feed his tribe for weeks.

  "It's not that dangerous," objected Norbi, pouting.

  "Some Garrans have gone missing recently. They say the Chanden hunters killed them. We'll go some other time and take some others with us."

  Moorhen didn't want to take a chance, especially with the life of the youngest son of his second mother, Shibbea.

  As was his right as chief, their father, Ashtan, had four wives: Eileava, first mother; Shibbea, second mother; and Reisha, third mother. The youngest was Drinia, fourth mother. Moorhen's own mother passed away when he was born.

  'Many wives makes the tribe large,' so the saying went.

  Drinia, the youngest, had always been aloof to Moorhen. But Shibbea may as well have been Moorhen's true mother. She'd always treated him as such.

  Norbi no longer considered himself a child, even though not quite an adult yet. Still growing, he stood two heads shorter than Moorhen, who wasn't that tall. Resentment flared in Norbi's eyes. "I'll go alone then."

  "You will not," said Moorhen sternly. Their father, Ashtan, was on a hunting round with the clan and looked to Moorhen to take care of things at the tsirvak, their clan home which was an extensive network of firecaves.

  Moorhen walked on, ignoring Norbi's displeasure. Hunting had been poor since the Chanden came and disturbed the land with their buildings and their mining. The animals didn't venture as close any more. Hunting parties had to travel farther and be gone longer. Money bought the food that could make up the difference. But it meant working for the Chanden or selling them jewels such as they could find, for which the Chanden p
aid far less than their true worth.

  Norbi sat near a heatwell--warming himself from air rising from deep within the Mountains of fire. The boy's behavior annoyed Moorhen. A man would understand.

  In the clan room, Moorhen found his third mother, Reisha, and helped her coordinate the evening meal. Tonight they used food from the cellars. The last hunting trip had been poor. But with luck, this hunt would be more bountiful. Then they'd have meat for a month--more, with his new Chanden refrigeration pots. Moorhen hoped that the gods would favor them.

  In truth, Moorhen knew he should go on a hunting trip and prove himself to his father. But Moorhen Crysethe and Keilah were right--he wasn't a warrior. He excelled at shooting a bow. The others spent a lot more time practicing their fighting skills than Moorhen. He had always been more interested in reading and in knowledge. He felt that while spears and arrows were good for hunting--somehow it would never be enough. But this fascination with books and learning counted as rare among the Garrans.

  Chanden law ordered that every child spend two consecutive seasons enrolled in one of their Chanden schools, about four months. During that time, they studied the Chanden language and other knowledge the Chanden considered basic: sanitation, first aid, history, a little math, and Chanden law.

  They were also taught basic reading and writing, only in Chanden. The Borrai had an ancient writing system, but few Garrans learned it--only the Shaheak.

  While many tribes failed to send their children for even one season, Moorhen liked school so much that he'd begged Shibbea to let him go for three extra seasons, a fact she concealed from Ashtan, who disapproved of school altogether.

  So, now Moorhen read in private, insomuch as a tsirvak allowed privacy. Too often, perhaps, Moorhen had volunteered to stay behind from the hunt and watch over the clan's weaker ones--and read. The others questioned his bravery--and perhaps they might be right.

  Nonetheless, Moorhen's half-brothers were glad to be spared home-duty. So they endured his strangeness.

  The clan gathered as Reisha and her younger sons and daughters served the meal. They made the chant of gratitude to the hunters, then ate.