Molot smiled. "Of course. But we have you."
She could not smile back, not sure what they were getting into nor what they expected of her.
"You are our shaheak," said Molot, with utter confidence. "By this course, we travel only four days to Koshke." He grinned.
Great. Now they expected miracles of her.
They plodded on for hours in this flat, desolate place. They had left the hills. There was no sign of a stream anywhere but they had brought plenty of water. "Thanks to you," said Molot beamed.
They camped that night in the cover of a few shrubs. It wasn't much but the wind wasn't blowing hard. Molot's cousins, Yance and Preava said little. They were both warriors--tall and strong, both of them. Yance carried a long spear as his main weapon and Praeva a sword and bow. They were here to guard Molot as much, or more, than herself.
Asta bet that Molot was not good at protecting himself. He was Heyvaan's only son and heir, and these cousins were distant enough not to be in line for chief, so she guessed. They did their duties with little talk and only bowed to Asta without speaking. Perhaps they were afraid of her.
Well, the less talk the better, from this bunch.
But Asta didn't get her wish because Molot talked enough for all three of them. And before they slept, Molot insisted on entertaining her with a song, played on a small, stringed glithe that he had brought along. He sang, surprisingly well, of Innurlan and how she built the ancient city of Wanthe over 500 years ago. Still, Asta was tired and laid down to sleep.
As she fell asleep to the music, she slipped into a familiar dream with the song from the moonstone chamber, again chasing an elusive dream that she could not understand, that seemed important--as though the tendrils of an outside intelligence were sifting through her sleeping mind.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The following day, Asta and the others traveled towards the Eye of Innurlan. Molot plunged forward, ever confident of Asta’s ability to pass through the cursed area.
Through Molot's extensive discourses she learned that Innurlan was the oldest of the ancient gods--and the most vengeful.
"A thousand years ago when the Garrans were just beginning to live together as organized clans and build dwellings, Innurlan ruled the plains from the Upper Steppes to the Glass Sea--the First God. Innurlan ventured destruction, fierce and terrible, on all those who harmed the earth or any creature on it, aside from those creatures killed for food. It was said that in this valley Innurlan resided.
"Even though the gods are dead, no one dares to venture here," Molot continued. "It has lain untouched for hundreds of years."
Asta stared at him. "Then how do you know your way here?"
"We usually go around, but it takes weeks. We would take this road if we dared," he said, with a gleam in his eye. "And you dare."
She said nothing, doubting her own bravery.
As they pressed forward though the desert, all Asta saw was parched grass, spider-shrubs and endless sand for miles. The day crawled by slowly as they traveled in the shapeless landscape accompanied by the ever shifting tales of family intrigue by Molot, some of which Asta found amusing. The wind began increasing in intensity, which didn’t bother Molot. Asta feared they were walking into a storm.
“No,” said Molot. “All is normal.”
With that assurance they continued on. The landscape began to change and gain some definition. Small ridges and gentle hills broke up the horizon a little. The wind grew worse but Molot never stopped smiling … or talking.
At last they came to a lava arch at least twice their height that made a sort of entryway into what seemed like a long, wide lava wall that spanned miles of desert. Inside the archway, the wind looked terrible. Molot stopped and looked at Asta.
“The Eye of Innurlan.” Said Molot. “Ask the gods for safe passage.”
She stared back at him. She had no idea how to do that and really didn’t know what he expected of her. She nudged her yithhe forward so that she was right in front of the arch and waited for a few moments but nothing happened. It was crazy—they should go back. The winds in there looked almost like a tornado.
“Did you ask her?” asked Molot.
“Who?” asked Asta.
“Innurlan.”
Innurlan was a woman? She said nothing but returned her gaze to the arch. Give us safe passage, she thought. Innurlan, she added, just to be clear. The request was a shot in the dark but stranger things had happened on this trip. As if in answer, Asta felt a wave of dizziness, similar to the ones she experienced in the mountain. Was that the answer? She glanced over at Molot.
“Did they say yes?” he asked expectantly.
She nodded. “Yeah.” Though she wasn’t so sure. She signaled her yithhe to go forward and it began, somewhat reluctantly, to move through the archway. The winds continued to howl and rage on the other side, but none of it touched Asta. Molot followed closely behind her, grinning, with his cousins following behind him (both looking a little unsure).
“It worked. See. I told you so,” he said to Asta. Then back to his cousins. “I told you so.” He laughed and pointed straight ahead. Asta kept moving that way and they followed. They rode in the center of the eye of the storm, which moved with Asta wherever she went. The others stayed close, never straying far from her.
The afternoon passed like this. Visibility lowered to zero in the storm but Molot kept prompting Asta as though he knew the direction even blind. For once, Asta was glad to have him along. Even Molot kept silent as they passed through this area, all said to be cursed land in the minds of the Garrans.
The feeling that they were being watched grew. Asta turned around several times expecting someone or something to be there … but there was nothing.
Towards evening they arrived at another archway encased in a lava wall, similar to the first. For a moment, Asta feared it was the first and that they’d gone in circles. But Molot stopped them, grinning. Asta stopped and looked at him.
“Before we leave,” said Molot, “you must thank the gods.”
Asta nodded and turned towards the arch, staring at it a moment. Thank you, Innurlan, she directed at no one in particular. She felt a dizziness as if in answer. The winds began to catch at them again, as though the shield had been dropped. Quickly Asta took them through the archway, followed by Molot and his cousins. All of them looked quite pleased.
“Now, we head for Desolation and Koshke,” said Molot.
“Desolation?” asked Asta, as if this wasn’t it.
“The Desert of Desolation between here and Koshke.”
“Oh. Yes,” she said, trying to make it sound like she knew what he was talking about. Again they set out.
“Did I ever tell you about my third mother’s grandfather who once saw a tree-elf in the woods near Karther?”
“No,” said Asta, but she was sure he was about to.
“It was nearly one hundred years ago,” he began. “Back before the Chanden ….” And so most of the early evening went.
^ ^ ^ ^ *
In the Desert of Desolation, the yithhe didn’t like the hard, sun-baked ground and complained with low whines every now and then, particularly on rocky stretches of ground.
Asta worried, between distractions offered by Molot, about what happened at the Eye of Innurlan and also at the mountain near Wanthe. Was there something to these gods of Garran? Or was it her imagination?
Had the gods really escorted their party through the sandstorm or did they just happen to find the eye of the storm? Or perhaps the lava wall sheltered them? But there was also the “miracle” of the water. She had no memory of what happened, of how it happened or how she ended up back at the front chamber door.
And sometimes she felt some force just on the edge of her mind, testing her.
The truth was that Asta didn’t believe in any gods—Garran or Chanden—only in herself. The individual mattered. The individual had a responsibility (to a reasonable point) to society. But Asta had always relied on
herself for all matters in her life--on herself and her family. For her there was nothing else. Yet … she thought maybe she felt some connection there, to something outside herself.
And if some other force were helping her--but to what end? To help her betray the Garrans? She doubted that. What did this force expect?
Asta shook her head and tried to banish the thought. It was nonsense. She had a job to do. These people were planning a rebellion and she’d help stop it. No matter what their reasons, the Garrans weren’t justified in breaking the law. She turned a deaf ear to her own internal arguments and concentrated on Molot’s outrageous stories as they made their way to Koshke.
Once again vegetation began to appear in the form of red-grass and squat, yellow jeneb-bushes. This meant the area was more habitable and more likely to hold civilization. The earth softened and became sandy again. The winds calmed down to a steady gale from the west.
Startled, Asta slowed her yithhe as she saw a figure about 50 feet away move back behind a bush. She stopped. “Something’s there!”
The others stopped and looked. Out of the corner of her eye, on the other side, she saw another small dark figure dart behind a ledge.
Molot and the others peered around.
“Tacha,” Molot said, and continued on unconcerned, as did the others. Asta followed, keeping a careful eye out.
Molot noticed her concern. “Did you not have tacha in Noloon?”
Asta had never been to her supposed hometown. “I never saw any,” she answered, hoping that was right.
“When they built Koshke,” said Molot, “they drove them out, but the tacha keep coming back, stealing things from the gardens. Pests.”
“Are they human?” she asked. The tacha were sullen, mangy, dark creatures.
“No,” he answered quickly. “Not at all. They only have our form, but no language.” Molot didn’t give them a backward glance. “I have friends in Koshke that will take us in. Do not be concerned.” He gave her an affable smile.
Asta saw more tacha--many more--before they arrived at Koshke at dusk.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nearly two hundred of Moorhen’s kinsmen rode north through the desert heat. In Moorhen’s memory, such a large Sand Plain war party had never left their territory. There was no concealing the group, not with those numbers. Finding a sandcave to shelter them in each night was difficult.
With them marched Nevehan of the Upper Steppe Clan, third son of Wanlann--the chief that had invited the Sand Plain Clan to join them in their attack on the Chanden. Nevehan was a fierce warrior with flowing red hair.
Two from the Red Sun Clan marched with them as well. The Red Sun had always been enemies to the Sand Plain Clan. Moorhen had thought they were not to be trusted. Yet now they rode together with them--Shann and Serra, a brother and sister.
If the Chanden hadn't nearly killed his father's young son, then Ashtan would never had allied with them.
Shann was a short, sandy blond man with a ruddy complexion. His demeanor was that of the shady sort of Garran that Moorhen always avoided at inter-clan meetings. He was the kind of person that made Moorhen want to double check his pockets after an encounter to make sure that nothing had been stolen. The man had a smile that somehow always looked like a leer.
Shann's sister, Serra, on the other hand, was beautiful. Her long, silver-blond hair hung neatly braided at her back. Her tall, lean stature made her a convincing warrior. Her favored weapon, a short sword, hung at her side, as did a small silver dagger.
When Serra smiled, Moorhen immediately wanted to trust her. As did his brother, Channik, currently Ashtan’s heir as chief. Enraptured, Channik spent many hours riding beside the Red Sun woman.
She returned all his flirtations. However, Moorhen noticed that she smiled at Nevehan of the Upper Steppe just as much.
Towards evening, a hunting party of twenty was sent out looking for food. Among them were Nevehan, Serra and Channik. Channik volunteered for this expedition, not wanting to be parted from Serra.
Shann rode towards the front with Ashtan, Moorhen’s father, as a guide. Within an hour, they found a firecave that could house most of the group. A few were forced to set up tents and sleep outside.
Moorhen didn’t like this. The Chanden had eyes everywhere, including up in the sky. They would see their war party and grow suspicious. Also, the group should travel at night and rest during the day, to avoid being seen. But neither Nevehan nor Ashtan seemed to worry about this.
Seeing to the yithhe seemed to be Moorhen’s appointed task. He was watering the beasts when the war party returned, successfully carrying a slain orvallin large enough to give all the warriors a portion of fresh meat.
But they had found something else. Tied with a rope and pulled behind one of the yithhe stumbled a man, a Chanden--a large bruise showing on the side of his head.
Moorhen quelled a sense of panic. War parties could get out of hand at times--and everyone’s tempers were hot. Moorhen wondered what they intended to do to this man. But his father led the group and Ashtan was not a rash man.
Moorhen crowded around the returning warriors along with others, curious at their return.
The prisoner fought to keep his feet, clearly exhausted. Once the party stopped, Channik turned over his yithhe to Moorhen. “Here, brother, take care of this.”
“Yes,” said Moorhen. He nodded at the stranger. “Who is this?”
“We found him camped in the desert. A spy maybe.” Channik grinned and untied the rope from his yithhe, yanking the cord and causing the man to stumble forward and fall. “Perhaps we should kill him.”
“Kill him!” shouted several warriors.
The man struggled to get to his feet. “No! Please! I’m no spy,” he pleaded. He glanced around, looking for a sympathetic face and his gaze settled on Moorhen. “I’m searching for fire crystals, that is all! I swear it.”
He’d just gotten to his feet when Shann kicked him from behind, sending him headlong to the ground. The group laughed. Channik kicked the man.
“Channik!” began Moorhen but just then, Ashtan arrived to survey the scene. Relieved, Moorhen moved back. His father would stop this.
“Who is this?” Ashtan demanded.
“A spy,” said Nevehan. “We found him in the desert--watching us.”
“I’m not a spy!” said the Chanden. “I work at the factory in Karther.”
Shann shoved the man, almost causing him to lose his balance. “Liar!”
“You have to believe me!” begged the man.
“He’s a spy,” said Nevehan. “And a thief. I’ll show you how we deal with Chanden traitors. Gag him.” He nodded at the prisoner. Shann took a strip of cloth and gagged the Chanden, quelling his pleas.
When that was done, Nevehan jerked the rope, forcing the man to enter the camp. The warriors gathered around to watch. Moorhen’s heart beat quickly, apprehensive of what Nevehan meant to do.
“Behold this Chanden,” he said. “He is everything you hate. The Chanden came from the sky. They burned our homes, stole our cities, and killed our gods--all so that this man could take our place, live in our cities and eat our food. He would make slaves of us all!”
The warriors let out a shout of anger. Nevehan had piled all of the sins of the Chanden on the head of this one man, who had done none of those things. He had not even been born when the Chanden had invaded.
The man made some objections but they were all muffled by the gag.
Ashtan watched all this silently, making no objections. Moorhen willed him to say something to stop this.
“We cannot let his kind dominate us,” said Nevehan. “We have to show the Chanden that we can resist and that we have the will to resist!” Some of the warriors shouted approval at this. “Otherwise, we will continue to be their slaves.”
The tall warrior punched the prisoner in the stomach, which made the man fall to his knees. Then he kicked him in the face, knocking him over. From there, others joined in.
Moorhen could scarcely watch. He turned away. Draiha stood nearby. “We can’t do this,” whispered Moorhen. “This man is innocent. He hasn’t done anything.”
Draiha looked at Moorhen. “That is for Ashtan to decide,” she said. “Maybe he is a spy.”
Moorhen shook his head in frustration. The warriors cheered as each took a turn beating up the prisoner. Moorhen had a sick feeling in his stomach. Perhaps he was not a warrior after all.
He began to leave.
“Where are you going?” asked Draiha.
“Nowhere,” said Moorhen. “I have to take care of the yithhe.” He gathered the reins of several of the creatures and began leading them away. Crysethe followed him.
“You’re upset.”
Moorhen tried not to say anything. Every time he spoke out, he got into trouble.
“Moorhen?” she pestered him, keeping up with his fast pace. She tugged at one of the yithhe’s reins. “I can help you.”
Moorhen looked at his little sister, and let her take one of the reins. A little help would be welcome.
“You disagree with Nevehan.”
“Yes,” said Moorhen. He glanced at her. “I’m angry with the Chanden too. But, this is wrong.”
She considered this as they walked silently together. “But Father permits it.”
“I know,” said Moorhen. “I’m not sure that makes it right.”
Her eyes went a little wide at this. She followed Moorhen but said no more.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
That night, Moorhen slept near the yithhe, on the far side of the camp, out in the open. He didn’t want to hear the cries of the Chanden prisoner, an innocent factory worker caught mining for crystals, as his clansmen continued to torment him.
Moorhen was almost asleep when a sound disturbed him. It was Crysethe laying out her bedroll next to his.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
She snuggled down into the bedroll. “I’ll help you watch the yithhe,” she said simply.
There was no telling his sister what to do. She was a wild one. He glanced back at the camp, wondering how the prisoner fared. He feared they would kill him soon. Surely, they could never let him go. He would report them to the Chanden and cause more trouble.
The Gods of Garran Page 9