The Gods of Garran

by Meredith Skye

  “You could stop it,” said Moorhen coldly.

  “I can’t,” said Koethe. It was almost a plea. Somehow, Moorhen believed the man. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

  “What about your daughter?” asked Moorhen. Would Koethe really give up this easily?

  The man stared solemnly at Moorhen. “This is what she wanted, isn’t it--a cessation of hostilities? Cooperation? Perhaps she’ll choose to come back.”

  Moorhen considered this. “But if your men march tomorrow, then there will still be hostilities.”

  They locked eyes. “You do your part, Garran. Tell the clans to turn back. Leave the Chanden to me.”

  Koethe and Richt turned to climb into the hover-plane. Moorhen watched them go. The doors closed and the plane slowly lifted into the air.

  Once they were gone, Moorhen pick up his pack and checked the contents. Everything was there: the headdress, the ceremonial knife, the clan talisman and his father’s horn. At this, Moorhen felt a surge of relief. Some part of the clan had been saved. Perhaps he could save what was left.

  By the look of the sun, it was dawn. He’d slept the night on their flight here.

  “Come on,” said Moorhen, shouldering the pack. He picked up the bow. Even Crysethe had her knife and bow.

  Crysethe looked up at Moorhen. “Maybe the gods aren’t foolish, picking the Commander’s daughter as a Borrai.”

  Moorhen glanced at his little sister. Always the quick one. He smiled.

  Crysethe followed as Moorhen chose a path to Desert Wind Clan cave. The trip would take hours. Koethe had been cautious not to land too close.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  Light spread across the morning sky as Moorhen and Crysethe struggled through the harsh desert towards the Desert Wind clan home. Moorhen had been to this place before. They had a very large firecave, capable of holding up to a thousand Garrans. Many times this had been used for gatherings or, in old times, as a rallying point.

  In the valley before the firecave spread out a sea of tents. Banners from each of the Thirteen Desert Clans could be seen. The gathering was the largest Moorhen had seen.

  Crysethe and Moorhen stood together on a peak above the valley and stared at the gathering in wonder.

  “Why didn’t the Chanden just bomb the valley?” asked Crysethe. A good question. Moorhen turned this over in his mind.

  “Because many of the Garrans will be spread out throughout the firecaves,” he replied. “An old tradition.” One Moorhen had heard of in his childhood. A hundred years ago, their people had been bombed from above and had not forgotten it.

  “I see,” she said. Silently, she followed Moorhen as he made his way towards the valley.

  The camp looked well organized and well armed. The tents had been quickly made, though, as most Garran chose to sleep in firecaves when they traveled. But even firecaves couldn’t house this many warriors. There had to be close to a thousand gathered. Possibly a lot more.

  But it didn’t matter how many warriors the Garrans had at this point. The Chanden would win. They could keep their promise to wipe out the Garrans. Of this, Moorhen had no doubt.

  The guards challenged them, but Moorhen was quickly recognized and allowed into the camp. He strode past row upon row of tents until he found the banner of the Sand Plain Clan, a dagger and horn.

  Soon, he stood before the camp of the Sand Plain Clan. Moorhen dreaded this meeting, bearing the news of the demise of most of the war party. Who would they have found to come to this gathering? Only twenty warriors were left at home.

  “We’re here,” prompted Crysethe impatiently.

  Moorhen gave her a wan smile. Then they entered the tent.

  There were maybe 15 to 20 people, some sitting, some standing--all familiar faces to Moorhen.

  “Mirrhia! Derish!” Moorhen exclaimed upon seeing them. They turned to stare at Moorhen in surprise. “You’re alive!” he said. They had been in the fateful war party that attacked Hobset, where Moorhen’s father Ashtan perished.

  “Moorhen!” said Mirrhia. His aunt rushed to embrace him. Some of the others crowded around with greetings. “We thought you were lost!” She turned and hugged Crysethe. “And you!” She beamed.

  “You survived Hobset?” asked Moorhen.

  “Yes,” said Pellan, another warrior who had been there. “We did. I’m surprised to see you here.” Pellan was a cousin and a close friend to Channik.

  “How?” asked Moorhen, thrilled at this news. “How many?”

  “Thirty-nine in all,” said his uncle Derish, smiling. “We ran, once Ashtan died. And found our way back to the Upper Steppe Clan.”

  At this point, Channik entered the tent from the door in the rear. Channik was eldest brother to Moorhen and the Ashtan’s Chosen successor.

  “Moorhen! It’s true then!” He hurried over to embrace Moorhen. “We thought you must be dead.”

  “No,” said Moorhen. “The Red Sun Clan pursued us.”

  “There were more of you?” asked Channik.

  “Yes, but the Red Sun Clan killed Gudhel and Rollech. Taglethe was wounded and sent to the Greystone Clan. The Chanden killed Draiha, or so I thought.” Now, Moorhen was unsure. He’d also thought Crysethe was dead. But here she was.

  “The Chanden pursued you?” asked Channik.

  “Yes,” said Moorhen. His throat suddenly felt dry at the task at hand--convincing his clan to leave the Gathering and turn back home. “We found the godstone. Sindke was there and others from the Conclave. The godstone is awake again. We have a new Borrai.”

  At this, Channik’s face changed and he suddenly became distant. He withdrew from Moorhen a few paces, regarding him with a serious face. “The last I’d heard, Father had banished you from our clan for being a coward.”

  All eyes turned to Moorhen to see his response. The tent grew very quiet. “I’m no coward,” said Moorhen. “The Red Sun clan betrayed us--”

  “Do you plan to contest my right to lead the clan?” demanded Channik.

  Moorhen was taken aback. So, that’s what this was about? “No,” he said quickly. “Of course not.”

  “Have you come to pledge your bow to me, then?” asked Channik, his voice challenging.

  At this, Moorhen paused. He had no desire to join the clan in a mad attack on the Chanden--an attack that was doomed.

  “If not, then you have no clan. And you have no business being here,” said Channik gravely.

  “Channik,” exclaimed Mirrhia in surprise.

  “I will not have you sowing discontent on the day of battle, Moorhen. Not this time.” Channik was firm.

  Moorhen stared at him. His heart sank as he realized that they wouldn’t listen to him. They would attack the Chanden--no matter what he said.

  “But, you are my brother,” said Channik, sitting down in the highest chair--reserved for the clan chief. “And I will give you one more chance. Do you want to join us again, Moorhen? Or wander the desert as an outcast?”

  This wasn’t much of a choice. But he hadn’t come here to fight alongside them. Then again, if Moorhen didn’t join them, Channik might have him thrown out of the Gathering.

  “You do want to be part of the clan, don’t you?” asked Channik.

  “Of course,” said Moorhen. What else could he say? This was his clan, for good or bad. He knelt in front of Channik, and held his bow out in front of him. “I offer my bow to you, Channik, the rightful heir of Chief Ashtan of the Sand Plain Clan.” He bowed his head in deference. Channik visibly relaxed. Did he really fear that Moorhen would challenge him for leadership? Moorhen had no desire to lead the tribe. Channik was the eldest; he was the rightful heir.

  “And you will heed my counsel and obey my decisions?” asked Channik.

  “Yes,” said Moorhen, hoping he was not dooming himself.

  “Then, I welcome you back to the clan, Moorhen,” said his brother, with a smile.

  “I can do more than pledge a bow,” said Moorhen. He reached over and from his pack he withdrew
Ashtan’s horn, his headpiece and dagger.

  “The horn and dagger!” said Channik, awestruck. “You kept it.”

  “I couldn’t let the Chanden have it,” said Moorhen. He came forward and handed the horn and dagger to Channik. He held up the headpiece and put it on Channik’s head and the medallion around his neck.

  “Thank you, brother,” said Channik, almost choked up. “This means more to me than you know.”

  Moorhen smiled at this. He withdrew a few steps. There was a pause. Now, he had to bring up the dreaded subject. He took a deep breath. “And now, brother,” said Moorhen. “I have some concerns about this upcoming battle.”

  Channik looked at him, considering this and then sat back in his chair. “All right, little brother, tell me your concerns.”

  “The Chanden know of your plans to attack Rashan in the Stony Dunes and they’ll be ready for you. You’re walking into a trap.”

  “Of course, we knew they would divine our intentions eventually. But we are brave. We will fight them anyway.”

  “I’ve seen this army,” said Moorhen. “They have thousands of men. You will be out numbered.” He had also read many of the history books of these wars, but he didn't mention this. His clan didn't think much of books.

  “But we have Chanden weapons,” countered Channik. “And each of us are ten times the warrior that the Chanden are.”

  This brought some approving laughter from the clan.

  Moorhen shook his head. “They have sworn to wipe us out--all those who go to battle. None will be spared.”

  “Maybe we won’t spare them either,” said Channik.

  “They’re going to attack our clan homes, while we are in the battle field. We need to protect our families.”

  Channik rose from his chair with determination. “The Chanden are monsters. The sooner we bring them down, the better for all Garrans.”

  “Hear, hear,” shouted the others in the tent.

  Moorhen looked desperately around the room. He was losing this argument. “The Borrai-Asta has called upon all of us to withdraw, including the Chanden. We must not go to war with them. You know how the gods of Old were about warfare. They never permitted it.”

  “The Old Gods of Garran are dead,” said Channik solemnly. “We need new gods now, for a new day.”

  Draypeth's new god--Ridjoffr? Moorhen stared at Channik.

  “But, brother, that’s enough of concerns,” said Channik. “You must find your bravery, because the hour is at hand.”

  “No, you must listen--”

  “No,” said Channik angrily. “You must listen. I’ve heard your words. It’s too late to change our course. From this moment on, I want to hear no more talk from you about this. Do you understand me, little brother?”

  Channik and Moorhen locked gazes.

  “If you speak against this attack any more, I banish you again, and have you expelled from this gathering! I can’t let doubts like this fester.”

  Slowly Moorhen nodded. “Yes, brother.”

  “Good,” smiled Channik. “Then we will go to the Gathering.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The village of Anik perched on the cliffs south of the Northern Cones, overlooking Rhashan and the Stony Dunes. Koethe and his men made for it. From there, they could monitor the battle.

  The base was not well known. Koethe counted on that now.

  After freeing the boy, Moorhen, Koethe had received orders to rejoin Godwin in his camp east of Draelea. He had sent a message telling of a mechanical failure on his airship and cut the message off before he could give coordinates.

  Koethe was on the run.

  Captain Bashan of Anik had always been an ally. Koethe believed he could count on her for help. She was a few years his senior and had been a fixture on Garran since long before Koethe had arrived twenty years earlier.

  They had long been acquaintances. She had often joined in on their Razak card games on her visits to Urrlan. They'd passed many an agreeable drinking Cataberry wine and arguing Realm politics. She was a formidable woman.

  They set the airship down nearby and approached the village. A cliff created a convenient wall on one side of the town. Long ago, a stone wall had been built around the remainder of the city, creating a small fortress. Nothing could get in, if the village didn't want it to. Even an approach from overhead would be difficult over the narrow village, most of which was sheltered under the cliff face.

  The gate opened easily for them. Becnand and Fauke accompanied Koethe into the citadel. Chief Richt stayed behind to monitor communications in the airship.

  They entered a guard tower, maybe 30 feet wide, and sparsely decorated. This would just be a waypoint in entering the city. The gate shut behind them and several guards barred them from proceeding through the double doors on the far side.

  "What is this?" demanded Koethe, feeling genuine fear. Had he walked into a trap? Perhaps General Godwin already controlled this outpost. It was possible.

  Koethe did some quick calculations. There were five soldiers in the room, against the three of them. But Koethe and his men were seasoned fighters. These might just be unpracticed guards. But he knew Maive Bashan. She was tough and he imagined she didn't keep 'unpracticed' guards in key positions.

  He exchanged a glance with Becnand and Fauke.

  "Captain Bashan is on her way, sir," said one of the men. "If you'll wait here."

  The Anik soldiers all had their weapons handy, though they weren't poised to use them. But they were highly alert. No sense taking chances before he knew the true situation.

  "Thank you," said Koethe dryly.

  They didn't wait long. The double doors opened and a tall, tan woman with shoulder-length sandy blond hair strode purposefully into the room, followed by four more soldiers.

  Damn the woman. Now they were outgunned. If it was a trap, Koethe would have a hard time fighting his way out of this one. But he doubted that Maive would side with the General in this conflict.

  "What the hell is this I hear about attacking the tsirvaks?" were the first words out of her mouth. No greetings. No explanations.

  Koethe felt a little relief. He was right about her loyalties. "That is not my doing. These are orders from General Godwin," explained Koethe.

  She came to a stop five feet from where Koethe stood. "I don't care if they're orders from god," she said sourly. The four soldiers with her actually held rifles in their hands, armed and ready for action.

  She didn't mince.

  "He's gone over my head," said Koethe. "I have no intention of complying."

  "Yet all the militia have been called out to Draelea to fight this insane war."

  "I know," said Koethe. "But, I have a plan to counter him."

  She stared at him, raising an eyebrow.

  "Send native couriers to as many tsirvaks as you can reach from here, to warn them. They must leave the clan homes and hide in the hills. It won't be safe for them in the towns for the moment."

  She made no response but continued to hear him out.

  "I've given orders to send word to other tsirvaks in the south. As for those who remain here, you should imprison the Garrans and guard them. This could get rough."

  "I'm not going to arrest my native citizens," she said coldly.

  "Maive," began Koethe.

  "Don't you 'Maive' me!" she retorted loudly. Her feisty nature attracted him. She reminded him of his dead wife, Nona. Or even of his daughter, Asta.

  "We're at war now," argued Koethe, hoping she'd be reasonable.

  "I am not going to arrest people who have been loyal to me for years. Loyal to the Realm!" Her eyes flashed. He had to admire her. "I have Garrans in key positions here."

  He took in a breath. "Then, send as many as want to return home to their clans. Give them the supplies they need for the journey."

  "And this battle?"

  "I've sent a coded message to my militia not to attack unless the order comes directly from me."

  "Some may
not comply," she countered.

  "Perhaps … some," said Koethe. "What would you have me do?"

  She stared at him thoughtfully. "I hear that the godstone has been found."

  He nodded, dryly. "Yes," he said.

  "And that the Garrans have a new Borrai?"

  "You don't believe in any of that nonsense, do you?" he asked.

  She raised her eyebrows at him. "Shouldn't I?"

  He scowled. "It's my daughter, Asta. I don't know how she got in the middle of this."

  "Your daughter is the new Borrai?" Maive beamed at the scandalousness of it. "That is interesting."

  The conversation was becoming insufferable. "What's your point? You have a suggestion?"

  "Yes," she said. "Do nothing."

  "Nothing?"

  "When the attack begins, withdraw your militia, if you can. The rest will meet on the Stony Dunes, the site of an ill-fated battle many decades ago. If the godstone has any effect, it should happen then. Give the gods their moment. In the past, their wrath has been great."

  "Not great enough to stop our invasion a hundred years ago."

  "No. A miscalculation, perhaps. I've discussed this at length with my villagers. Under no circumstances should any of us participate in this battle at Stony Dunes. After that, who knows, maybe the choices will be simpler."

  Koethe doubted that. He could scarcely give away half of the planet to the Garrans, as 'Borrai-Asta' had demanded. The High Realm would never allow it. But he agreed with Captain Bashan. "We will see," he said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  All of the clans poured out of the tents at the sound of a single horn. They made for the large firecave at the base of the hill at Desert Wind Clan home.

  Once again, Moorhen was a member of his clan. He had pledged his bow to his brother, Channik, who bore the title of chieftain since their father's death at Hobset. But those warriors who had survived that battle now planned to ride out to Rhashan and attack the Chanden there. Another suicide mission. His efforts to warn them were futile.

  Moorhen, who’d been at the encampment for less than thirty minutes, followed his clan with an unwilling heart. No doubt the horn called them to some large rally led by one of the Upper Steppe Clan.