The Gods of Garran

by Meredith Skye

  Beside Moorhen, walked his little sister, Crysethe. She was too young for such a mission.

  “Is that it?” she asked. “Have you given up?”

  Glumly, Moorhen looked up at her. “You heard them. They won’t listen.”

  She considered this quietly as she walked. “Just because they won’t listen, doesn’t mean that the things you said aren’t still true.”

  He spared her a glance but made no reply. Yes, still they were walking into a trap. Their clan homes would be attacked by Chanden. And the Borrai-Asta had warned all of them against warring against each other.

  “I’m just one man,” argued Moorhen. “What can I do?”

  She looked at him sideways. Perhaps she expected him to answer his own question. Moorhen sighed in exasperation.

  Around him, his clan: Channik, his brother, the newly appointed chief; Pellan, their cousin; Missa, their sister; Mirrhia and Derish, their aunt and uncle; and countless other of his cousins and brothers and sisters now marched towards their death. And Moorhen was powerless to stop them.

  “Maybe I’m wrong,” said Moorhen.

  “Because you won’t do what you’re told?” asked Crysethe.

  “I’m part of the clan,” said Moorhen. “The clan has made its decision and I should abide by that decision.”

  Again, Crysethe gave him a sideways glance, as though he was talking nonsense.

  He ignored her and reconciled himself to trying to put away his fears and go along with his family. He moved up to walk beside Channik. This time, he would support his clan chief.

  And if his whole clan perished but he survived--what would the point of his life be then anyway?

  They approached the lava tube opening. It was wide enough for four men to walk abreast in it. Right there, next to the opening were two huge banners. Moorhen had never seen the like of them before. Three swords were arranged in a triangle and in the center was the face of a devil dog, its mouth open in a terrifying snarl. The dog was painted blood red against a white cloth. It gave him shivers to look at it.

  Ridjoffr. Their new god.

  And there, on the side of the door, stood a pole with three claw arms outstretched in three separate directions. Tied to the end of each of these were a victim: two were men, and one a woman. They looked ragged and beaten. Their mouths were gagged. A ragged red tunic, made to look like blood, had been draped over each of their shoulders.

  Human sacrifice. A good luck offering to the god of war, Ridjoffr, before battle. Just as the Upper Steppe Clan had done the day of their attack on Hobset. Looking at it, Moorhen went cold inside.

  Not again.

  This could not be happening.

  Horrified, he looked at the clansmen and women around him. All of them walked past the victims and said nothing. They made no reaction. Surely, he was not the only one to object.

  He glanced at Mirrhia. She caught his eye and he saw that she was disturbed but then she turned away. Moorhen glanced back behind him. Missa also stared at the Chanden sacrifices a moment before looking away. Derish was looking right at Moorhen, when he turned back around, as though expecting him to object.

  Why couldn’t one of them just say something? Channik had made it clear that Moorhen was not to speak out anymore. If he said anything, Channik would surely cast him out of the clan. This time forever.

  The trek inside the cave felt long. The lamps that burned cast a red glow around the cave walls, giving the cavern a gloomy atmosphere. The room was large enough to hold a thousand men. A large dais sat in the center of the cavern. All around the clan assembled in the amphitheater. Moorhen ended up near the front of his tribe, not far from Channik.

  Ten warriors stood at the bottom of the dais. Each wore a bronze colored mask in the shape of the devil dog. This was not the clan way--it was meant to strike terror into the hearts of fellow clansmen. They'd been refining their religion.

  On the rear wall had been painted two large devil dogs, each twice the height of a man and surrounded by the three swords.

  Long ago, before the Borrai, Garran priests had sacrificed three animals before a battle, to appease the gods. This was called this a Triune. Three goats or three eke. But now they would sacrifice three Chanden at the beginning of the battle?

  Moorhen shivered.

  Ridjoffr. The new god of Garran.

  Along the back wall, drummers drummed out a steady march as the warriors entered the hall and assembled. The whole cave repelled Moorhen’s sensibilities. The drumming, the swords, the blood colored lights.

  He felt as though he’d been caught up in a rushing river that was plunging headlong to the edge of a cliff.

  Conversation was impossible with the loud beat of the drums filling the cavern. They waited patiently until all the warriors, that could fit, had entered the cave. This firecave had four entrances, three leading outside. The last led down deep into the earth where the Desert Wind Clan lived--their tsirvak.

  Finally, the drums stopped. Draypeth, heir of the Upper Steppe Clan stood at the center of the dais and raised his arms. He wore a bright red tunic. None of the clans wore this color. It was the color of death.

  “Warriors!” Draypeth cried. “I greet you!”

  The crowd grew still to listen to Draypeth, the leader of the rebellion.

  “This is a day that will go down in history. The Chanden have killed our people. This will not go unpunished! We will strike back!”

  This brought a cheer from the crowd.

  “Today, we will show them that we will no longer accept their rule!”

  Again the drums sounded with their loud, steady beat. The Chanden prisoners were brought in, their hands still tied above their heads to a pole. They struggled a little, knowing their time was nearly up, but mostly the fight had gone out of them already. Who knows how many days they’d been kept prisoner and tormented by the tribes.

  It shamed Moorhen. No doubt they were just farmers or factory workers who had strayed too far from their village. He didn’t believe they were guilty of anything. At least not guilty of anything deserving of death.

  Two tribesmen carried the pole and set it down at the base of the dais. Three of the masked swordsmen drew their swords and slowly approached.

  Moorhen shouldn’t have come back. He shouldn’t have joined the tribe. The whole ceremony made his skin crawl.

  But what was the difference between killing innocent Chanden here or killing innocent Chanden later in the village when they attack? Perhaps no difference.

  But it was wrong.

  He took a deep breath, then he stepped out in front of the group. “I’m sorry,” said Moorhen, glancing up at Channik. “I can’t.” Moorhen moved down the slope towards the victims, out where the crowd could see him.

  “Can’t you see that this is wrong?” shouted Moorhen. A quick glance at Channik showed how displeased he was with Moorhen. “What crimes have these three people committed … that they deserve to die?”

  At this challenge, Draypeth descended from the dais, his red tunic flowing in the breeze. “They are Chanden. Isn’t that a crime enough?”

  The people cheered.

  “They stole our cities from us and killed our gods,” said Draypeth. "They are thieves and murderers!"

  “Not all of them!” said Moorhen. “I went with Sindke of Firebird Clan. In the Northern Cones, we found the ancient godstone."

  At this, the crowd grew very still.

  “We have a new Borrai among us--the Borrai-Asta. She has said that we must stop this war and go back to our clan homes,” said Moorhen. For the first time, he believed that they would listen.

  “And where is this new Borrai?” asked Draypeth. “Why isn’t she here?”

  Moorhen had no idea.

  The tall warrior took a few steps towards Moorhen. “We have no need of your absentee gods! Now we worship Ridjoffr, the God of War!” The people cheered at Draypeth’s words. “And you come to us now, when we are on the verge of victory?”

  �
��Victory?” scoffed Moorhen. He pointed across the plains. "There are thousands upon thousands of Chanden troops waiting for us at Rhashan near the Stony Dunes. The Chanden have vowed that they will wipe us out. We’re walking into an ambush.”

  A warrior from the ranks of Dark Cloud Clan stepped forward. “It’s not an ambush, if you know about it. We are aware of what’s waiting for us,” said the man. It was Jarvaine! He had been with Sindke, Asta and Moorhen when they found the godstone and fought the Chanden. Moorhen had assumed he was dead.

  Jarvaine smiled at Moorhen’s surprise. “Yes, they released me as well.”

  “But, you saw their armies.”

  “I did. And it’s true. They have thousands upon thousands of soldiers. But, all told, we have two thousand Garran warriors who are fierce and ready to fight!”

  At this the crowd cheered.

  “And as for this new Borrai--I say, she is no friend to the Garrans. She is a Chanden.”

  A hush fell on the crowd.

  “The gods of Garran will never accept her,” said Jarvaine. “The stone will drive her mad and she will die.”

  Draypeth smiled. “And this--this is the god you want us to trust … a Chanden?”

  Now Channik took a few steps forward. “Moorhen, that’s enough! Stop this.” He beckoned Moorhen to come back to them.

  But Moorhen shook his head. He still couldn’t let these innocent Chanden die. “I can’t stand idly by while you murder these people.”

  “Be smart, Moorhen. Listen to your clan,” said Jarvaine.

  “No,” said Moorhen, placing himself between the executioners and the Chanden.

  Again Channik waved Moorhen back towards them. His face was angry. “Come on.”

  Moorhen ignored him.

  “Then you leave me no choice,” said Channik. “I banish you from the tribe. You didn’t even last an hour! Now, begone from this gathering. We don’t want you here.”

  “Wait, I have something to say,” said Moorhen. “The Chanden know where each of our clan homes are. They plan to attack them during the battle,” said Moorhen. "The tsirvaks must be warned."

  “So you say,” said Draypeth darkly. “Are you a friend to the Chanden then, that you know all their secret plans? Now leave here, boy, before it is too late!”

  “Let these people go,” said Moorhen.

  “We will not,” said Draypeth.

  “Leave!” commanded Channik. He reached down a picked up a rock. Moorhen watched him in disbelief. Channik paused a moment then threw it at Moorhen, hitting him lightly on the shoulder. Moorhen fell back a few steps.

  Others reached down and picked up stones. Another hit Moorhen on the side of the head. Several missed. “No!” said Moorhen. The crowd laughed as another rock hit Moorhen’s leg.

  From the side of the amphitheater, the sound of a rattle grew as an old man with long gray hair and a grey beard stepped forward. He came down onto the lower platform and stood in front of the assembly.

  “My name is Chimont, Shaheak of the Firebird Clan,” the man said, his voice thin and shaky. “The gods have spoken to me, in the old ways. This is what they have said: We must abandon this war. We must return to our clan homes. The gods will not look on this conflict with a friendly eye. The boy is right.”

  Chimont raised his arms. “All those who believe this, must leave with me now.” He shook his rattle and began to amble for the exit. From the ranks of the Firebird Clan and the Greystone Clan next to it, a number of people began to follow.

  Surprised, Moorhen watched them. Not as many left as he might have hoped but a few dozen did.

  Then a woman with unruly hair stepped forward. Her eyes had a slightly crazed look in them. “I am Avindra, Shaheak of the Lost Hill Clan. The gods have spoken to me. There will be a great sandstorm. Nothing in its path will survive. Come, we must go home and find shelter.” She shuffled off towards the door. Not as many followed her, but at least a dozen did.

  Lastly, a short, wrinkled man with white hair stood. “I am

  Widdan of the North Wind Clan. The gods also spoke to me. They said that death … is never a thing to be worshipped.”

  He also headed for the exit and people began following him out, more than followed either of the other two shaheaks. Still, it wasn’t enough.

  But they would go back and warn their tsirvaks. Some had left from nearly every tribe except the Sand Plain Clan.

  “Wait, wait,” said Draypeth to those who were leaving, but they didn’t heed him. Angry, he turned to the crowd. “We cannot give in to those who will weaken us.” He nodded at two of the guards. They rushed forward and grabbed Moorhen. “Tie his hands.”

  Moorhen fought them, but they overwhelmed him and tied his hands together. Then, they fastened the rope to one of the clawed poles which held the other Chanden.

  “If you love the Chanden so much … then die with them. Traitor!” said Draypeth. With a wave of his hand, the drums began to beat once more.

  “We will spill your blood along with the murderers!” he said. Someone put a red tunic over Moorhen’s head. “This will please the God of War!”

  “No!” shouted Moorhen. “Please!” He looked up at Channik who watched with wide eyes, his face a cloud of concern. "Channik?" But if his brother thought to object, he didn’t do it.

  "The tsirvak has to be warned!" shouted Moorhen. None of his clansmen had left the gathering. If Moorhen died, then no one would warn their clan. "Mirrhia? Derish?"

  None of them made a move. Moorhen despaired.

  The crowd had grown solemn. All eyes were on Draypeth and Moorhen. Then there was movement in the crowd. Jarvaine slowly walked down to the lower dais and came to stop in front of Moorhen. He drew his sword.

  “I think that you are wrong,” said Jarvaine.

  Uselessly, Moorhen struggled but his bonds were too tight to break. Jarvaine swung his sword near Moorhen’s face and he flinched but the sword didn’t hit. Instead, he hands came free. Jarvaine had cut the rope holding him to the pole.

  Jarvaine sheathed his sword and continued several paces before he turned back around. “But I know that this is wrong.” With a sweeping gesture, he indicated Moorhen, the pole and the sacrifices. “I also will not stand idly by. Come on, we’re going home.” He turned and walked towards the exit. Some people began to follow him.

  Draypeth gave a shriek of anger. “Stop!” He drew his own sword.

  Two seconds later, Mirrhia stood by Moorhen’s side, bow drawn; an arrow aimed at Draypeth’s heart. “Don’t!” she cried in warning. Immediately, Crysethe came to guard Moorhen’s other side against the approaching executioners.

  The drums continued to beat.

  “Derish!” she called.

  There was a moment’s hesitation, but then Derish drew his sword and ran out to defend Moorhen, as did Missa and Keilah, his sisters.

  “We’re going,” said Mirrhia curtly.

  “But … what about--?” Moorhen nodded at the Chanden.

  “We're going," repeated Mirrhia. "Bring him,” she commanded. Derish and Missa each grabbed one of Moorhen’s arms and dragged him with them towards the exit.

  More followed them, from all the tribes. Eleven in all from the Sand Plain Clan. But Channik and Pellan along with many of the others stayed. Channik’s eyes looked haunted.

  The executioners moved forward to the rhythm of the drums. Moorhen looked back at the last second, and saw the flash of the blades as the tribesmen cut the Chanden’s throats wide open.

  Moorhen paused to stare a moment.

  “Come on!” snapped Mirrhia. They pulled Moorhen from the cave, back to the camp.

  Numbly, Moorhen followed them.

  Back at the camp, Derish cut the rope from Moorhen’s hand. “I’m sorry, Moorhen,” said Mirrhia. “But, if you’re right, then we’ll have to ride hard to get back to the tsirvak.”

  The clan home. The Chanden would send their men there. Moorhen had almost forgot. “I know.”

  The others grab
bed supplies and Moorhen and Crysethe got the yithhe ready to ride.

  “It’s nearly a four days ride home,” said Moorhen, his face ashen. “We’ll never make it.”

  “We’ll ride fast,” said Missa.

  “It won’t be enough,” said Moorhen.

  “We’ll ride through the night,” said Missa, determined.

  He nodded. “Yes.” What else could they do? They mounted up on the yithhe and rode hard.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Commander Koethe stood on the tower balcony of Anik with Becnand, Fauke, and Captain Bashan. Once, they had been able to see the Stony Dunes from the tower. Now, it was obscured by dust clouds.

  Chief Richt entered the balcony. "I can't raise anyone. The storm has impaired all communications. And it's only getting worse."

  Koethe nodded. He left the balcony and went inside the tower. The others followed. "I'm going to have to go down there," he said.

  Maive Bashan stared at him. "In this storm? Are you crazy?"

  "My men are down there," said Koethe. "I'm not going to abandon them."

  She put a hand on his arm to stop him. "I thought you were on the run from General Godwin?"

  "I am," he said. He pushed past her. "I'll just say that our mechanical failure is fixed and we made it to his base. He's preoccupied right now anyway."

  "He's no fool," said Maive.

  "What do you want me to do?" said Koethe. "Hide out here like a coward?" He looked at his men. "Let's go."

  Maive followed them to the door. "Your airship may not even make it the few miles down to the base."

  "Chance we'll have to take," said Koethe sternly. None of the others objected. They joined Koethe as he went out into the storm.

  Their airship was parked next to the small Garran rock fortress. The winds were terrible, even the short distance they had to walk. And the storm hadn't really hit yet. Koethe cursed. Things would only get worse.

  They took off without difficulty. They had to pilot the airship blind because none of the radar or satellites were working.

  The distance wasn't far--just perilous. In the end, they made it--barely. They landed halfway from Drealea to Rhashan, where the General had made a temporary base-camp. Thousands of tents stretched out for miles.