The Gods of Garran

by Meredith Skye

  “He’s still alive,” Crysethe answered his question. “I think the warriors have tired of him for now.” His little sister closed her eyes to sleep.

  In the old days, when the seven Borrai spoke for the gods, such acts of aggression would not have been tolerated. But the gods were dead now, and people had almost forgotten them, except for a handful of shaheak priests who tried to keep the memory of the gods alive.

  Moorhen lay awake staring at the stars a long while before he fell into a troubled sleep.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  Two days later, the Sand Plain Clan arrived at the Upper Steppes in the late afternoon. Here, fertile patches of grass dotted the landscape of red earth and high buttes.

  The Chanden prisoner survived, still bound and gagged. The warrior's forced him to walk the whole way, pulled behind one of their yithhe.

  The Steppe clan watchmen greeted their clansman, Nevehan, with joy. The Upper Steppes were a strange clan to Moorhen's kin. Their hair matched the red color of the sands in the valley in which they lived. They looked odd to Moorhen--almost like their hair was on fire. The Sand Plain people had dark hair, and seldom traveled this far north.

  Seven or eight clay domes, the color of the earth, stood in a circle in front of the Upper Steppe Clan’s firecaves. A small hill stood in the center of the adobe domes, making an ideal meeting spot for the clan.

  Such evidence of habitation became a target for Chanden attack and many tribes chose not to build outside the firecaves. But this far north, Chanden were very scarce.

  And Garrans who lived near the Chanden and agreed to live under their laws built this type of home, earth-domes of all shapes and sizes.

  Nevehan told the Upper Steppe of the Sand Plain Clan’s desire to join the cause of the Steppe clan. After a brief discussion, the Sand Plain people were made welcome. The journey had fatigued them all. Moorhen and his tired clan were escorted to a firecave where they could rest.

  However, Ashtan and Channik went with Nevehan to meet with Wanlann, the Upper Steppe chieftain concerning their new alliance. The prisoner went with them.

  As Moorhen’s clan was escorted to a firecave, he noticed the Red Sun Clan banners in another firecave nearby. This clan was not to be trusted. There Shann and Ina went.

  Moorhen and the others led the yithhe to a walled corral. Moorhen stayed to take care of the animals, as did Crysethe.

  When the chores were done, Moorhen and Crysethe joined the others in the firecave. It reminded Moorhen of home, though the passages were smaller and more twisty--darker and colder somehow.

  Their gear was tossed carelessly on the floor and most of them were ready to sleep where they stood. It had been a long journey.

  No one bothered to set a watch, as they were among friends and the Upper Steppe had guards on the main firecaves.

  Most of his clan laid down and slept, tired from the long journey. Moorhen soon followed them, sleeping for a few hours. They woke near dusk when Channik returned to bring them to dinner.

  Moorhen was glad, as their own food supplies were low and without going hunting, there would be little to eat. They followed Channik down to the center of the Upper Steppe village where meat roasted on the fire.

  There on the side of the butte Moorhen spotted not one, but three Chanden prisoners; one of them was the Karther factory worked they had captured two days ago. All of them were bound and gagged. The many cuts and bruises attested to their treatment. One was a woman. They sat in a wooden cage that might be used for dogs. The Karther factory worker looked up at him, perhaps recognizing him. His eyes pled for help.

  Quickly Moorhen turned away and continued past the cage. A pang of guilt went through Moorhen--there was nothing he could do. What would become of them? He tried to push this out of his mind.

  Moorhen noted that the Red Sun Clan sat among the Upper Steppe people, including Oorgathe, the Red Sun chieftain. This made him uncomfortable. This clan had a brutal reputation as outlaws and thieves. They had wronged the Sand Plain people more than once in the past hundred years.

  Not only did they refuse to obey Chanden law, but often the Red Sun clan failed to obey the rulings of the Clan Conclave, a group which all clans were permitted to send representatives to settle disputes and unite the clans on issues.

  The Upper Steppe Clan’s reputation was not much better. Yet here, Ashtan sat alongside Wanlann, the Upper Steppe chieftain and Oorgathe, the Red Sun chieftain, eating and drinking.

  Moorhen ate gladly of the meat they served. He’d eaten little since that morning. But he felt uneasy in this company. Crysethe sat next to him, silently watching.

  After all had eaten their fill, Ashtan rose and addressed the gathering. “My family,” said Ashtan. “I have sat in counsel with my fellow chieftains.” He nodded at both Wanlann and Oorgathe, who listened with grave faces. “We have suffered the Chanden long enough among us. Submission to them is unacceptable. From this day forward, we are at war with the Chanden. And we will fight them to the bitter end!”

  This brought cheers from all the warriors of all clans, but the announcement left Moorhen cold. War with the Chanden? How did they expect three tribes to succeed where all the tribes had failed one hundred years ago? And the Chanden were stronger and more organized now than they had been.

  Some warriors began playing music on drums. Someone began playing a rizzer pipe. The clans began chanting and dancing. Moorhen stayed awhile, but he didn’t have the heart for dancing. All he had was apprehension.

  As the hour grew later, Moorhen headed back to their firecave to check on supplies and be sure they would be ready to leave. Soon--he hoped.

  Perhaps there would be time that night to talk to his father and persuade him that attacking the Chanden was rash. He didn't know if Ashtan would listen, but Moorhen felt he had to try.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  Ashtan returned less than an hour later with the rest of the clan warriors--and with him came Ehrlinnt, Moorhen's younger brother. The other clan members gathered to hear the news. Ehrlinnt had been left at home to help guard the tsirvak.

  Ashtan stared at his clan. "Norbi is dead. He died two days after we left."

  This brought silence among the clan. Moorhen felt shocked; he had believed that Norbi would recover. Norbi's death also killed any chance Moorhen had of talking sense into his father. Ashtan was stubborn and slow to forgive.

  "As far as I'm concerned," said Ashtan. "We are now at war with the Chanden." The others listened solemnly. There would be no backing out of this, once it got started.

  "The Upper Steppe has given us food and provisions. We'll leave at first light," Ashtan said.

  Moorhen was glad for the food, they would need it.

  All of them drew closer, waiting expectantly for details but none were provided. Moorhen hated to be the one to speak. Why did no one else ever dare to challenge Father? "Where will we go?" asked Moorhen, fully expecting to be yelled at for asking. His father looked him over, seeing the other's anxious expressions.

  "Southeast to Hobset. The Chanden have a settlement there. Small and remote. Our attack will be swift and fierce." Some of the men laughed, others looked solemn.

  "What? We're going to attack a Chanden village? And do what?" Moorhen asked.

  "Kill them. Kill them all."

  "That's not--"

  "My son is dead!" yelled Ashtan, glaring at Moorhen as though it was his fault. "We have lived like animals long enough under the Chanden rule," Ashtan said savagely. "This land is not theirs. We are not their slaves! Nor will we continue as beggars on our own world! They have killed our gods. They don't belong here. We do!"

  That wasn't his father talking--it was the Upper Steppe Clan. Ashtan would not consider such an action of violence on his own. Norbi's death had left him desperate and distraught.

  "Father," said Moorhen, gently, trying to control his temper. Someone had to speak. "Is it right to randomly kill Chanden to atone for what they've done as a whole?"

  Ashtan hit Moor
hen and knocked him to the ground. This time Moorhen had expected it.

  "You question me? You let my son wander out of the clan-cave into Chanden hands! And now he is dead! You upset the gods and caused the brimstone to flow! You … I do not need to hear from you! You have no voice here."

  Moorhen climbed back on his feet. He should be silent; he knew that. Let someone else speak. His father was on edge. But the chances that Ashtan would have a change of heart now were quickly vanishing. "And the Upper Steppe Clan will also attack?"

  Ashtan turned back to Moorhen and he braced for another blow but his father stopped, deciding to answer the question for the others benefit. "Of course, fool. They will bring their forces to support us. And so will the Red Sun Clan."

  "Red Sun?" asked Moorhen--a clan with which they'd long had a feud, a clan not to be trusted.

  "Oorgathe and I have had a long talk," said Ashtan. “We are of one mind on this issue.” Moorhen could not help but feel skeptical about that. "They will support us from the East."

  "The Chanden are most likely to come through the pass to assist the town."

  "Yes, the Red Sun will watch it."

  Moorhen looked around at the others. There were long faces. None of them trusted Red Sun. Say it! Just say it, Moorhen willed them--but no one spoke. Why wouldn't someone speak up?

  Finally Moorhen spoke. "We can't trust them, Father, you know that."

  Ashtan turned back to Moorhen. "I said--you will be silent." Moorhen braced for another blow but it didn't come.

  "The Upper Steppe Clan are strangers to us," said Moorhen continued, cautiously. "The Red Sun hate us. They're sending us in alone to fight the most dangerous battles. The Chanden, even though they are few, still have many distance weapons."

  "And so do we," said Ashtan. He raised up a sleek gray Chanden gun from under his tunic. "We can match them now."

  "We have no skill with those weapons. If we took time to prepare, to practice--"

  "You are a coward!" spat Ashtan. "You've never been a warrior! I don't take counsel from you, nor do they!" he gestured to the rest of the clan. Again, no one joined in Moorhen's protest, even though he saw the same fear in their eyes. Fools.

  "We will be walking to our deaths!" said Moorhen.

  "Then so be it!" shouted Ashtan. "May you die first!" He turned and left. Moorhen watched him, stunned. It was a terrible curse to place on one's own son.

  Moorhen sat down. Everyone else avoided him. Was he so wrong? Was he a coward? Was it better to trust longtime clan enemies and fight the Chanden, than just to live the existence they had for so long?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  In the morning Moorhen and his clan awoke before sunrise and prepared to ride against the Chanden. Moorhen felt hopeless about their chances. In this attack, they planned to kill innocent people--people who had never done anything to them. How could Moorhen do this? Yet all two hundred Sand Plain Clan warriors seemed set to do this thing. And no arguments had weakened his father, Ashtan's, resolve in the least.

  He focused on his grief for Norbi--the brother he would never see again. A mere child killed by the thoughtless acts of the Chanden. He held onto this thought, using it to fuel his rage.

  The clan held a ceremony of prayer to the gods for deliverance. Moorhen went to join the circle with a heavy heart, but Ashtan forbade him. "They will not hear you."

  Angry, Moorhen paused only long enough to watch them prepare.

  The warriors, all 200 of them, formed circles. Ashtan stood at the center, as the chieftain and heart of the tribe. His main warriors stood in a circle around him. The rest stood in a circle around them. All stood shoulder to shoulder, clad in their war dress, and ready to fight.

  Moorhen went outside to see to the animals, feeding them the small bit of grain the Upper Steppe Clan had given them. It would last a day or two. Enough to get to Hobset but not beyond that. He doubted that the food they'd been given would last longer. After that, they'd have to hunt--but they'd be on the run from the Chanden then.

  In the distance, Moorhen heard Ashtan pray and the tribe chanting after him.

  Moorhen couldn't shake off the feeling that they were being set up to be used by these two clans. Would they take revenge on the Chanden … and rid themselves of an enemy clan at the same time?

  Soon the warriors emerged from the firecave and began to mount up. Crysethe joined him. "Don't be afraid, brother, I'll protect you," she said, trying to console him.

  Crysethe. Moorhen ran after Ashtan to speak to him. "Father, you won't take Crysethe, surely?"

  Ashtan turned on him with a glare. "Why not? She has more courage than you."

  "Send her back home. She's too young," objected Moorhen.

  "I'm not afraid," said Crysethe, innocently.

  Ashtan nodded approval at her. "And who would take her back? You?"

  "No," stuttered Moorhen. It wasn't an excuse to get out of the battle.

  "She'll come."

  "Father--" protested Moorhen. This was madness.

  Ashtan turned to him with a vicious look in his eyes. "I have a mind to banish you, boy. Speak one more time out of turn and I will."

  "But--"

  "I mean it!"

  They locked eyes.

  "You are not my son," his father said. He turned and walked away.

  "Father, I'm sorry."

  "You never were my son," said Ashtan without looking back at him.

  All around him the others mounted up, ignoring him. He had lost all his father's respect. Ashtan was angry. He didn't mean that. Did he? Never his son?

  "Moorhen," a soft voice pulled him out of his reverie. Crysethe rode up alongside him on her yithhe, and she brought his as well. "Let's go."

  Reluctantly, Moorhen mounted the beast and followed the others southeast toward Hobset.

  Moorhen blinked away the tears from his eyes.

  The other two clans had assembled on the edge of the Upper Steppe settlement, all mounted on yithhe. The three Chanden prisoners stood there, tied to a pole. Each wore a red tunic--the color of death. They would kill them. It felt unreal.

  The three chieftains dismounted and met in the center, near the three Chanden, as did Wanlann’s eldest and heir, Draypeth.

  “Today,” said Draypeth. “We will begin our attack on the Chanden. Today we show them our determination! Today, it begins our journey towards freedom. Death to the Chanden!”

  “Death to the Chanden! Death to the Chanden!” chanted the warrior’s from all three clans, growing louder and louder.

  The chieftains Wanlann and Oorgathe drew their swords and approached two of the Chanden prisoners. Moorhen held his breath, fearing what would happen. He thought of Norbi's death--he had been innocent too. These Chanden had to pay for his brother's death. This was fair, wasn't it?

  With one stroke each of them slit the throat of one of the Chanden prisoners. Moorhen felt sick.

  Then Ashtan took up his spear and approached the last Chanden prisoner--the Karther factory worker. Moorhen watched with disbelief, doubting somehow that his father could commit such an act.

  His father drew back the spear and threw it hard, hitting the Chanden in the heart, killing him instantly. The man sagged as his blood spilled out on the ground.

  The troops stopped shouting and began shrieking. The chieftains mounted again and all of them rode off in their own groups, leaving the bloody bodies behind.

  Numbly, Moorhen spurred his yithhe to follow his clan. His horror of the situation overcame his rage against the Chanden. Could he commit such deeds … against innocent people? Was he the son of his father?

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  For two days, they rode south, then west. Three of the Upper Steppe Clan rode with the Sand Plain Clan, presumably to show them the path. Their attitudes were as untamed as was their red hair. Moorhen noticed that they spoke only to Ashtan, dealing very little with the rest of the clan, as though they were beneath them. Even Ashtan was not shown as much respect from them as he deser
ved.

  Moorhen watched them carefully as they traveled. They rode apart from Moorhen's clan, holding their own council. Moorhen didn't trust them, convinced they were up to some mischief. On the second night, they camped at the foot of the Stormage Hills.

  Of all his clan, only his little sister, Crysethe, spoke to him. The rest avoided Moorhen, even Draihe and Keilah. His father wouldn't even look at him and Moorhen couldn't dispel the words he'd spoken: You were never my son.

  The others prepared for bed. The question from the other day still burned in Moorhen's mind. What about his mother? Who was she? Was she fully Garran or was she Chanden? Moorhen couldn't see his father choosing a foreign pairing, but it was known to have happened--hence the half-garrs. Moorhen was one of the oldest of his siblings, so his father would have been young at the time.

  Too embarrassed to bring up the subject, lest his father humiliate again, Moorhen settled down for sleep. When this was over--then Moorhen could have a talk with him, calmly.

  But would it end? And how?

  Moorhen couldn't shake these grim thoughts as he fell asleep that night.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  Moorhen scarcely slept the night before they descended on Hobset. Attacking this town was wrong, and he knew it--no matter what a few Chanden had done to Norbi. This attack would enrage the Chanden--and they would then retaliate. All Garrans would suffer for it. The town probably had less than a hundred people in it. What if some of them were children? Would Ashtan really kill them all? Could his father really do it?

  Yet, his father had slain the innocent Chanden prisoner.

  Maybe his father was right. Maybe Moorhen was a coward. He could leave now, before fully committed. Hide in the hills and watch the battle. When it was over, at least there would be one left to go home and tell the others. But this was his clan. He couldn't abandon them.

  At dawn they assembled on a small hill out of sight of the town. The escorts from the Upper Steppe Clan had already left. Moorhen's clan would attack, having the element of surprise. A helpless farming town--yes, they would be surprised. He was sure.