The Gods of Garran

by Meredith Skye

  Moorhen quelled the nausea in his stomach.

  "This battle is not only for us, but for our families and for our ancestors who smile down on our bravery. We will fight against the Chanden to the last man!" The warriors, already in a battle frenzy, shouted assent. Moorhen said nothing.

  "Are there any who think this battle is wrong?" asked Ashtan.

  Moorhen stared at him, wondering what trick this was. Moorhen disapproved of the battle, but he would follow his father's orders.

  "None object? All are in agreement? Everyone agrees that this is the right thing to do?"

  Moorhen willed himself to stay silent--not to speak. It was difficult. Ashtan moved closer to Moorhen. "Step forward if you object." Ashtan stared at Moorhen, daring him.

  None of the others objected. But Moorhen had heard their whisperings in the night, their fears. None spoke of them. Finally Moorhen stepped forward. "I think this is a trap. I think the other clans will betray us."

  Ashtan drew near and Moorhen feared he would strike him. "Then I banish you, Moorhen, from the tribe. Leave us." Ashtan turned and moved on. Moorhen stared at him. He had baited him. Ashtan knew he would object.

  "No," said Moorhen. "I'll come--"

  Ashtan turned and drew his Chanden laser on Moorhen. "You will leave!" he shouted. "I will not have you among us to poison our minds. Go."

  Moorhen stared at him. "Let me take Crysethe with me. I'll take her home."

  "You don't have a home, boy. You never did belong in the Sand Plain Clan." He raised the weapon at Moorhen, who truly feared that he would fire it. "Go!"

  Moorhen found his yithhe and rode away, slowly at first, then at a gallop. His heart pounded and he feared that his father would shoot him in the back. He kept going until he made it over the hill then stopped and circled back around, looking for a place to watch the battle from.

  Moorhen felt so ashamed. He should have said nothing. If only he could have kept his tongue still! But he feared that his father and those that followed them rode to their deaths.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  From the hills above Hobset, Moorhen watched the upcoming travesty, alone.

  His own tribe, the Sand Plain Clan, led by his father, Ashtan, marched towards the unsuspecting Chanden town, with plans to kill man, woman and child. This was a crazy retribution for all that the Chanden had inflicted upon their people in the last 100 years.

  It was suicide.

  Moorhen could scarcely bear to watch. He looked elsewhere, wishing he could stop his clan somehow.

  Ashtan had banished Moorhen for his objections, declaring that he was never a true member of the Sand Plain Clan and forcing Moorhen to leave. And his father took Moorhen’s own little sister, Crysethe, into battle, ignoring all of Moorhen’s objections.

  The three Upper Steppe Clan guides watched from a nearby hill top. Why did they watch and not help? This seemed odd to Moorhen. Then he saw them signal someone. Perhaps they were keeping watch for Ashtan and the others. He followed their gaze and saw the Red Sun Clan on another hill just to the south. That's not where they said they would be. They were supposed go around to the east and guard the pass to warn them if the Chanden arrived and ambush them.

  Was this a trap after all--as Moorhen had told his father? Moorhen did not wish to be proved right. As Ashtan and the others marched towards the village, Moorhen tried to think of an explanation. Perhaps half of the Red Sun clan had gone to the East Pass and these were waiting in reserve to help his father. Why didn't they ride, then?

  Moorhen hesitated, torn. His father had banished him, but they were in danger. They had to be warned. Moorhen ran back up the slope to his yithhe. The clan was nearly on the village. They spurred forward with outstretched arms, yelling a war cry. A door to one of the dwellings opened and a man stepped out. He was struck down by arrows. The killing had begun.

  Then beyond the village, Moorhen saw vehicles approaching from the East Pass. Chanden. He looked over at the Red Sun clan. They did nothing. Gave no warning. They meant to betray the Sand Plain people.

  Without thinking, Moorhen jumped on his yithhe and spurred himself towards his clan. They must be warned. They would be slaughtered, and they would start a war with the Chanden that couldn't be stopped. Ahead he could see his brothers attacking the helpless Chanden--women and children. The Chanden would be outraged.

  Moorhen shouted when he reached the village, but there was such chaos that no one heard him. The Sand Plain clan fought with the villagers. There were bodies everywhere. And further ahead he could hear the battle beginning between the Chanden enforcers that had arrived and his brothers.

  Moorhen gave up shouting and looked for his father. He moved deeper into the village towards the battle that was beginning. He spotted his father and made for him. A few shots from a distance weapon by the Chanden and his father fell.

  "Father!" shouted Moorhen, riding towards him, ignoring the chaos around him. He spurred his yithhe in his haste, but the beast stumbled. Moorhen jumped off before the creature crashed to the ground.

  Moorhen ran to his father's side and held up his head, but his father's eyes were already glazed over. Dead. The world seemed to stop. The moment was frozen in time. Chanden fire all around, his family running. Blood ran down his father's face.

  The bodies of his clansmen lay lifeless all around him. Those that survived were scattered and on the run, leaderless.

  The death cries of his clan brought Moorhen back.

  The Chanden were advancing. Ashtan couldn't be saved. Quickly, Moorhen took Ashtan's knife, his headdress, and the talisman that showed he was a chief, took everything that might identify his father to the Chanden. He took his war horn as well. Then Moorhen ran towards the south west. It was the only safe direction, since the other clans held the northern hills and had not come to their aid.

  Moorhen sounded the horn--a retreat. He grabbed a Chanden laser as he went, pausing to send a volley down towards the advancing army, sending them for cover. Again Moorhen sounded the retreat and ran.

  Some buildings blocked them from the view of both the clans on the hill and the Chanden force to the southeast. Here Moorhen stopped and sounded the horn again. Was there no one left?

  Minutes crawled by as though they were hours and three of his clan emerged from the buildings, running towards him, carrying a fourth who was wounded. Draiha and Gudhel both helped Taglethe. As they arrived, another showed up--Rollech.

  "Retreat!" Moorhen shouted at them, pointing to the southwest.

  "Ashtan?" asked Draiha.

  "Dead," said Moorhen. "What about the others?"

  No one spoke.

  "The rest of the clan?" asked Moorhen.

  "All dead," said Gudhel.

  “Crysethe?” asked Moorhen, with dread.

  The others looked uncertain. Draiha shook her head. “I’m sure I saw her fall.”

  This death stung the most of all. Moorhen drew a breath. “Let’s go.”

  Gudhel and the others pushed past Moorhen towards safety. Moorhen followed. They were all on foot. Together they ran for the nearby hills. Moorhen hoped that the buildings would hide them long enough from others view that they may not be seen. They moved slowly because they had one wounded, his cousin Taglethe.

  Four plus Moorhen, that made five. Only five warriors survived out of the two-hundred that began this mad quest.

  "We were betrayed," Moorhen said when they made it to the cover of the hills and stopped for a moment to rest. "I saw the Red Sun clan on the hills to the south. They never covered the East Pass. They saw the Chanden coming and did nothing."

  The others made no recriminations at him, no accusations. Nothing. They were too stunned at the loss of their clan to say much. Moorhen hoped they didn't blame him for leaving, for being a coward. If he had stayed, it would have gone no better. At least, that's what he told himself.

  Soon they moved on, traveling as quickly as they could under cover of ravines and hills until they had moved well away from
the town. Fortunately the ground here was rocky--helpful for covering their tracks. But tracking was a Garran method, not Chanden. The Chanden would come back with their aircraft to look for them. Few things could escape their eyes. Soon it would be dark and that might be their best cover.

  As the sun went down they stopped and split what little rations they had between them. Most of Moorhen's provisions were on his yithhe, also lost.

  "How is he?" Moorhen asked of Taglethe. He had a leg wound that made it difficult to walk. Moorhen wasn't sure what other wounds he might have.

  Draiha had been checking Taglethe's wound. "He's in a lot of pain and he won't be able to use this foot. He needs rest."

  Moorhen glanced at the horizon. He didn't want to stop to rest, not here. "We have to go on."

  "Some of the rest of us are wounded too," said Rollech. Moorhen had noticed Rollech's arm had been bleeding.

  "They'll be flying over us in the morning searching. Surely they'll know some of us escaped. The Chanden are tireless in these matters," insisted Moorhen.

  The others exchanged glances. Moorhen expected objections but none came. These were senior warriors. Draiha and Gudhel were both older and more experienced than he. Why were they listening to him at all? No one else offered any suggestions or orders.

  "We'll rest for an hour," said Moorhen, "then we'll continue through the night and rest when daylight comes. I'll take watch."

  There was a little murmuring but no objections. They all settled down to rest. Moorhen positioned himself above them on the rocks so that he could see. He feared they could be tracked by the Red Sun or the Upper Steppe clan and he trusted neither. In the last hour or so he had thought he saw someone or something shadowing them. Most likely it was not the Chanden--they feared the night. It could be a wild beast. Just in case, he kept his bow close.

  Moorhen himself needed to rest, but the others had fought and several were wounded. Surely, they needed it more. They had all fallen asleep quickly enough.

  Now, with the confusion of the battle over, Moorhen had time to think about his father and the others that had perished. A full half of the clan. Many of them brothers, some sisters. All close family--none of which he would ever see again--Crysethe among them.

  Moorhen cried silently, letting his heart catch up to his mind. Moorhen had hoped that before his father died he would be able to speak to him one last time--to show him that he was loyal; that he had come back. Moorhen wished they hadn't fought the last few hours his father was alive--that harsh words weren't their last.

  A sound alerted him to something moving nearby. Moorhen sat up, more attentive and strained his eyes to see in the dark. Quietly he readied an arrow, though he could see nothing moving. He also had a Chanden laser, but he'd rarely shot one.

  A small footstep against a rock gave away the intruder's position--they were to the southeast, behind the nearest ledge. Moorhen moved softly closer, changing his position in case they charged, getting closer to the ledge they were on.

  Slowly, Moorhen crept up the ledge as silently as possible and waited a few minutes. He heard no sound. Taking a deep breath Moorhen moved around the ridge until he saw two figures climbing up towards the camp.

  "Stop! Don't move," yelled Moorhen, aiming his bow at them. They turned around. Their garb was Garran and one of them was small--a child.

  "Moorhen--you scared me to death!" said Crysethe. The other was Rheggi, one of the old ones.

  "Crysethe!" Moorhen cried out. His little sister--he'd thought she'd been lost in the battle. He leapt over to her and gave her a big hug.

  "Glad to see you alive and well," said Rheggi. Moorhen led them around the ledge to where the others were staring at them, awake.

  "It's Crysethe and Rheggi!" said Moorhen.

  "Are you alone?" asked Draiha. "Did you see any others?"

  Rheggi shook his head. "No." He looked around at the small group. "Is this all?"

  Moorhen nodded. "I'm afraid so."

  "Ashtan?" Rheggi asked.

  "I found him dead," said Moorhen.

  There was gloomy silence. "Rest a few moments," said Moorhen, "and then we'll continue." They all nodded in agreement and slept the rest of the hour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The city of Koshke hid snuggly built into the side of steep, red cliff walls. The erratic adobe buildings blended into the surrounding rocks, making the city hard to see from a distance, Asta noticed. Such above ground cities were rare among the Garrans who preferred to live in caves beneath the surface. The buildings were neither straight nor level, so everything had this tacked on, sloping look. Some segments were bigger, others smaller, all connected to each other in a big mass.

  Asta followed Molot through the randomly placed structures towards a large round building that stood several stories high. This one held the Clan Conclave. Inside gathered people of all types: the red-haired men of the northeast; the brown-haired clans of the south, and the dark-haired plains people. Asta was surprised to see that there were quite a few women on the council. She had been afraid gender would be a problem, but it surprised her how open-minded the Garrans were.

  Too bad they were so uncontrollable. They could almost work with these Garrans. Maybe they weren't all as primitive as she thought.

  Molot escorted her inside. He smiled at her and introduced her to everyone he knew--and he seemed to know everyone.

  To Asta, they looked like a ragged bunch--dressed in dull desert clothes, some tattered, many men were unshaven with straggly, long hair. Many of them looked like they could use a bath, even the women. Everyone she met plied her with questions about her family and who she knew in Koshke. Asta relaxed when they began the meeting.

  A woman named Sindke, one of the old tribal elders, stood and addressed the group. Her skin was wrinkled and her body shrunken with age, but her pale aqua eyes were bright and piercing. Her voice sounded stern, like an old mother, but authoritative. She was a person to be listened to.

  "People of the Clans, hear me," she began. "A time of unrest has split our people, as though we had been wounded by a dagger. Some of the clans have taken it upon themselves to seek trouble with the Chanden invaders, attacking them."

  This made Asta uncomfortable--as though somehow the Chanden had caused the problem.

  "Before long, we may find ourselves at war with people who have come from the sky. We must decide what to do," the old woman said.

  "They killed the gods!" shouted one gruff-looking man. Others joined into the conversation. The suggestions that came were diverse and disturbing.

  "Burn a few of their buildings down, that will show them!"

  "I say an eye for an eye," cried an old man.

  A young woman stood, maybe a few years older than Asta, a short, freckled girl with reddish-yellow hair. She identified herself as Kresha of the Upper Steppe Clan. "I call for war! The atrocities of the Invaders has gone on long enough. We should all rise up as one against them!"

  Asta had been warned about the Upper Steppe Clan and their general refusal to obey Chanden laws.

  This brought a large shout of support from the crowd. Asta's heart beat faster, hoping the group didn't turn into a mob. However, she noticed that not all of the Garrans shouted in support of this.

  The old woman raised her hand in a bid for silence. "This plan has been proposed before and rejected--for many reasons. You know this."

  Another man stood. "I am Jarvaine of the Dark Cloud Clan." This tall warrior had a prouder look than some of the others. He wore a leather vest and leather pants, trimmed in red and purple. His shirt was finely woven, again in red and purple, perhaps the color of his clan. "I'm not one given to wild or hopeless ventures, as you know. But I have also run out of patience with the Chanden Invaders. This is our world. These are our lands--yet they take them from us whenever it suits them. They pass laws and punish us when we fail to obey them. Their rule is oppressive and it is wrong!"

  Asta felt this was extreme. Chanden rule was hardly oppr
essive. The Garran's own ignorance and primitive living conditions were more oppressive than anything the Chanden had ever done to them. Yet, the Chanden had taken their lands and forced their laws upon the natives. But what else could they do? Otherwise, chaos would reign.

  Another Garran stood. Rouvidinn of the Desert Wind Clan. "I agree. The Chanden are not welcome here. We should kill them all!"

  This brought an eruption of shouting and chanting. Kill, kill. Arguments broke out. "Silence!" shouted Sindke, in a loud voice. It took a few minutes to calm the crowd down. "This must be discussed."

  For an hour or so, they argued the possibilities, all the while Asta grew more and more uncomfortable. If they discovered her identity--they would kill her. She was sure of it. She had lied to them and sought to join their council, for Chanden purposes. She had an urge to get up and leave--not pursue this any further--but she had a duty. What would she do, go home and say she had sided with the Garrans? All the Chanden should all go home?

  Asta knew it was nothing but nerves--she was just scared. This assignment was more dangerous than anything she'd ever done before. But she wanted to prove herself to Ruben and to the Agency--and to her father. She could make it on her own.

  "There is another way," said Sindke, "an old way. We could wake the gods and ask them for retribution."

  Some of the older Garrans nodded. Yes. Asta liked this idea a lot better. Let the gods do it. She knew how strong Garran superstition was--that might pacify them and negate their own responsibility for action. Because if it came to a war, the Garrans would be massacred--again. As much as Asta detested the Garrans, she didn't want it to come to that. After all, the Garrans were here first, even if they were barbaric. As long as they could progress as a society, under the Chanden's guiding hand, then they would have hope as a people.

  "It is known that the gods died," said Sindke, "but only a few knew that the gods stored their souls in godstones so that one day they could be brought back among us, to help us."