THE GODS OF GARRAN
CHAPTER THREE
Urrlan, now the main city on Garran, had grown much in the hundred years since the Landing. The Chanden had managed to build the planet Garran into an almost civilized planet, up from its barbaric roots. Urrlan had a good spaceport, many factories to produce the commodities that civilized people valued. The Garrans themselves had resisted, at first, but their primitive mindsets eventually gave way to make room for modern thinking, if not to embrace it.
Este ate breakfast at her home in Urrlan. By Garran standards, it was huge, full of every imaginable comfort. But to Este it seemed squalid in comparison to their home on Toolash—or to homes on half a dozen civilized worlds. Somehow, it still smelled of Garran, that slight acrid smell that permeated the planet. She threw away her leftovers (a luxury she couldn’t commit while with the Garrans, as no Garran would do such a thing).
Grabbing her jacket, Este left the house, heading over to the Urrlan Precinct Justice Division. Decent food and a hot shower had made her feel almost like a human being again. Her mood was almost light as she entered the office. The lobby was decorated in Chanden fashion with a number of randomly shaped, randomly colored plastic art strips. They clacked ever so slightly together, giving a soothing feeling to the place.
Before reporting to Demold, which was always a tedious job, Este stopped in to see her father. As Justice Regulation Overseer, her father was often on raids of legal offenders, but he always made an effort to be around when she was in town.
“Daddy,” she said from the door. The tall figure swiveled his chair around from the computer and smiled at her.
“Darling.” He got up and came over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “How was it?”
“You know,” she sighed. “Same as usual.”
“My little girl isn’t down again, is she?” he chided.
“A little.”
“Well, I heard a rumor that you might get a special assignment?”
“Special? How special?” Este was skeptical. “Is it on Garran?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so. However, I think you’ll find it attractive.” He nodded. Her father was determined to be mysterious, as usual.
“We’ll see,” she said and left him, heading for Demold’s office.
Demold was a fat, shortsighted Garran born man that Este had little liking for. But he was usually reasonable to work with… as long as he was on your side. He was a bureaucrat to the core and had a mean streak in him, especially toward the Garran, which was the one thing they both had in common. Though he exceeded even her own distaste for the troublemakers.
Inside, she handed him her report and he took it with a grin. “I’m sure everything’s in order. You’re one of my best field agents.” He handed her a form to sign off on. She took it. Her report mentioned names, descriptions and locations and violations of Chanden law—laws that the outcast didn’t believe in. They’d be searched out and taken into custody. All it took was her signature as witness and a trial (usually brief) in Urrlan. She felt a slight twinge of conscience as she signed it—but the Garrans had to learn. The lessons for the natives were tough but law and order had to be maintained. Just because they lived in the backlands didn’t mean they could flaunt Chanden law. She handed it back to him.
Demold sat back in his chair. “I’ve got something for you—but I imagine your father’s told you all about it.”
She shrugged. “He’s as enigmatic as ever.”
“This assignment is more dangerous than any you’ve been on, but I think you’re the best person for it. And you have developed a believable persona among the Garrans. They like you, for some reason. Somehow you’ve convinced them that you’re as much a native-born and rebellious breed as they are.”
This surprised Este. She did try in this game to be convincing but apparently she was a better actress than she thought.
“I want you to get into the Clan Tribunal.”
“What?” asked Este, incredulous. The Clan Tribunal was an illegal inter-clan law body that regulated affairs between the Garrans. Her claims of clan-ship were shaky at best. On closer examination she could be found out. If they thought she were a narger, who knows what they’d do to her—but it wouldn’t be pretty. “I don’t know…”
“I know that this kind of operation is a step up for you, Este, but we need help on this. I’ve heard rumors of a possible Garran uprising by the outcast clans and we need to get to the bottom of this. From rumors I’ve heard coming back from the Garrans, they’d trust you. You could do it.”
There was silence a moment.
“And… there’s a promotion in this and a sizable bonus. 20,000 kintars, if you pull it off.”
Twenty thousand kintars. Este caught her breath. It was quite a sum, nearly a year’s wage. It would put her ahead, financially, enough to go in a whole new direction. “And, reassignment to another world?” she ventured.
Demold looked hesitant. “Hmm. I don’t know.”
“I want reassignment, Demold. You know how I feel about this place. I want off-world—or it’s no deal!” Brash, but she always had been brash.
Demold pondered this. “I hate to lose you, Este. But if you pull this off, blow the lid on their rebellion and get us what we need. Then you’ve earned a rest. Sure, I’ll see what I can do.”
“No, I sure transfer, that’s what I want.”
He nodded. “I can get it.”
Este smiled. “Then you’re on.”
CHAPTER FOUR
A torch lit the wall of the sleeping chamber where Norbi lay resting. His arm was broken and maybe some ribs. Moorhen thought that perhaps he was lucky it wasn’t worse. Their father, Ashtan, bent over Norbi, examining him. Moorhen could feel the anger burning in his father. Ashtan had always hated the Chanden but had never suffered an attack like this on one of his own children before. Finally, he left Norbi and strode from the room. Moorhen followed.
His father wasn’t a rash man but then—he wasn’t prone to anger, either. Moorhen wasn’t sure what he would do in the face of such an act by the Chanden.
Once they got back into the main hall. Ashtan turned and hit Moorhen full across the face. The blow knocked him to the ground. “You fool! How could you have let him go? I left you in charge. You’re useless!” Ashtan walked over to the heatwell. The incident had caught the attention of all those in the hall. Embarrassed at the reprimand, Moorhen said nothing, but got back on his feet. He nearly pointed out that he had risked his own life to save Norbi, that he had taken on ten Chanden and succeeded but this wasn’t the time for self-congratulations. His father was justifiably angry. Moorhen should have watched Norbi better. Then these things wouldn’t have happened. Even going after Norbi and leaving the chirvak could be considered irresponsible. Moorhen didn’t want to bring up that subject.
Moorhen went to a nearby wall and sat on the floor in a small pile of furs. Ashtan paced for awhile without speaking, his agitation growing. Finally he stopped. “I will not stand by and watch my children treated thus. I’m going to the Upper Steppe Clan. Their planning a strike against the Chanden. I turned them down when they asked for our help—but I was wrong. The Chanden must not be tolerated on Garran. We will push them off our world—or destroy them.”
The others looked as surprised as Moorhen. This wasn’t the Ashtan that they knew.
“Ehrlinnt, you and your brothers will stay and guard the chirvak,” said Ashtan.
“Me?” argued Ehrlinnt, one of their better warriors and not pleased with what he would consider “baby-sitting” duty.
“I’ll stay,” offered Moorhen.
His father glared at him. “No. You’ve stayed at home too much. I’ve turned you into a coward by coddling you. And I don’t want any more incidents while I’m away.” Ashtan strode from the room. Moorhen, humiliated, avoided the gaze of his brothers and sisters.
This plan to go with the Upper Step Clan and attack the Chanden was crazy. Fifty years ago, the Garrans had tried such an uprising, with the support of most of the Garrans, and had failed. The Chandens had struck back, without mercy. Thousands had died. And the Chanden only became more oppressive. Moorhen knew that the Chanden were wrong but he wasn’t sure that violence was the answer. And the Clan Tribunal had an understanding among each clan that they would not take action alone against the Chanden, to provoke them. Upper Steppe had already suggested this at counsel and it had been voted down. The Chanden were too powerful and too vengeful for the clans to fight—even united.
Moorhen only hoped that his father’s blood would cool and that he would think better of this venture. There had to be a better way of getting justice than provoking a war that could turn into a bloodbath.
In the morning, long before sunrise, Moorhen left with the others for the Upper Steppe. The morning was chill but not cold. The wind blew mildly, which was calming.
In all, there were twenty-two hunters in their party. As they rode along, Draiha and Gudhel dropped back from the front of the line so that they were within Moorhen's hearing.
"Cousin," said Gudhel "we have you to thank for this trip." Laying the blame at Moorhen's feet.
"The Upper Steppe is nearly two weeks away. We have no friendship with them," said Draiha, angry. "They care nothing for our lives." It was a careless thing to say--to speak against Ashtan and his counsel while traveling with him. Moorhen noticed that they were well back from Ashtan and out of his hearing. But there were others nearby, brothers who may be more loyal than Draiha and Gudhel.
"For my part, I apologize," said Moorhen. "I have no desire to start a war."
"I'm not afraid to die," said Gudhel, "especially if I take some Chanden with me. It's the Steppe Clan I don't trust. Maybe we should strike on our own."
"No matter who strikes," said Moorhen, "it's all the same to the Chanden. They don't care about clans. They'll blame every Garran for it and punish them."
"The other clans shouldn't be cowards then," said Draiha, "if it's their neck as well as ours." She glanced over at Moorhen. "Too bad father wouldn't leave you at home. Now we have to baby-sit you as well as watch out for our own heads." At this Gudhel smirked. They rode ahead again.
At night they camped in a ravine, out of sight. The North Moon was already up, giving some light. Moorhen was given the job of looking after the yithhe, a job no one coveted. He being junior-most on this trip, he expected that he'd get all of the less savory jobs.
Talk at supper was lively. Many talked of the upcoming battles and what they'd do to their opponents--daring acts they would perform. Moorhen was silent through most of this.
"Why don't you speak, brother?" asked Draiha, "Are there no acts of courage that you have dreamt of? Or do you plan to just run away?" This brought laughter.
"I won't run," said Moorhen.
"Oh?" said Draiha. "Why so silent then?"
"It's just that..." he hesitated. From the corner of his eye, he saw his father draw closer, listening in. "I think that there may be a better way to avenge Norbi than attacking the Chanden. That's all. In my heart I have doubts that it's the right thing to do."
At this, Ashtan strode over, angry. "You speak against me?"
"No," said Moorhen, now afraid. He'd seldom seen his father in such a mood as he'd been since they brought back Norbi. All this talk of war. "Not against you. But... the Chanden strike out against us all, if one of us offends them. How is it different from them if we also strike out at every Chanden for the same reason?"
"Our reasons are good enough! And of your making!" spat Ashtan.
"They have weapons more destructive than any bow or sword we have. A terrible marksman can kill at long range with their guns!"
Ashtan drew closer to Moorhen and he thought Ashtan would strike him. "I'm no fool, boy. Anyone here knows more about war than you do." This brought a little laughter. "The Upper Steppe Clan has a stash of Chanden weapons which they'll share with us. We can match their power, and exceed them in skill." This Ashtan spoke to the others, perhaps aware that Moorhen was not the only one who would think these thoughts. "Even if we were no match for them, to live as we have lived is a disgrace. It's wrong. There must be an end to it. Better that it be a brave end."
The others nodded in assent. Moorhen felt cold. Was this a suicide attack? Did they not mean to return but to throw their lives away in some sort of protest attack?
"You, Moorhen, had better beware my wrath. I won't have you speaking against me behind my back."
"Father, I--"
"Shut up! I've heard enough from you."
Moorhen stopped arguing and his father strode off. The others stared at Moorhen without speaking to him, then gradually went on about their business of setting up the camp, avoiding him. Discouraged, Moorhen left the camp, walking out towards the stream.
No matter what he did, his father disapproved of him. Maybe he was wrong to question his father's plan, but it seemed a bad idea to him. Everyone else seemed to be behind him, except for the alliance with the Upper Steppe Clan.
Moorhen sat on a rock, looking at the moon on the water. A small sound behind him startled him and he realized his foolishness in coming out from the camp. There were shing-lizards, zemandre, and other creatures of the night. He still hadn't fully healed from the sechule attack. He knew what his father would say about his foolishness. As he whirled to meet his enemy, Moorhen remembered to draw his blade.
There on the path stood a girl with sword drawn. It was Crysethe. "Crysethe? What are you doing here?" he demanded, in a whisper, not wanting to alert the camp.
She put her sword away and he put his dagger back. "Father told you to stay behind!" he said.
"I wanted to come," she said haughtily.
Moorhen thought back to the suicidal plan his father had and groaned. "You should go back home, at once!" Still he whispered.
"No," she said, with no wavering. "I'm a warrior."
She must have been trailing them all day. Who knew what dangers lurked out there now--she couldn't go back, not alone. And they'd consider him a coward if he offered to take her. Father had to be told; there was nothing else to do.
"Come on," he said glumly. He led her back to camp, getting quite a few stares and whispers as he brought her to Ashtan, who sat eating with some of the older ones.
"Father," said Moorhen, seeking his attention.
Ashtan turned his attention to Moorhen and saw Crysethe. He scowled. "What is this? Does no one follow my orders? She was to stay at the chirvak!" This accusation was pointed at Moorhen, who was in no way responsible for the actions of his little sister. Surely his father didn't blame him for this as well?
"She must have followed us. I..." Moorhen's excuses sounded lame and he failed to give them. It wasn't his fault. Ashtan stood and pushed Moorhen out of the way, none too gently, and went to Crysethe.
"Child," he said to her, more gently. "Why have you come?"
"To fight beside you, father," she said with all earnestness. To this her father didn't reply but smiled a little.
"Very well," he said. "If that is your desire." He led her over to where he had been eating. "Get the young one some food."
Moorhen stared at them, incredulous. He wouldn't take her with them, would he? To death and destruction? Or did he truly have some plan to succeed? Quietly Moorhen moved away to his side of the camp.
"You let her come along?" whispered Draiha, angry.
"Not me!" he hissed. "I didn't--" Draiha turned and walked away in disgust. Moorhen fought the urge to follow her and argue. Instead he sat down, threw his cloak around him and tried to sleep.
The following day they left the ravine and traveled across the Salt Plain of Alia, once a sea, or so it was said. Now parched and dry, it was a source of salt for all the Garrans. But the place was a wasteland. No one could live there and the winds blew fiercely at times, discouraging plants and animals both from inhabiting the place.
Moorhen was glum, his thoughts dark, as they rode their yithhe through Alia. Crysethe rode up near Ashtan, favored by him, despite her stupid stunt of following them against orders. The others still avoided Moorhen, as though he had the plague. Speaking against Ashtan was not something members of the Sand Plain Clan usually dared. Dissension wasn't tolerated where leadership decisions were concerned. There could only be one leader. And no matter how crazy a plan Ashtan came up with, he was well-loved by all. Whereas, Moorhen was a puzzle to them. Strange. His ideas were strange to them. They seldom listed to him.
Moorhen knew he thought too much and, he wondered at times about his own mother and if he was truly of the Sand Plain Clan or not. But his father said his mother was dead and didn't like to talk about it.
The Salt Plains stretched almost as far as the eye could see. Nowhere was there any cover, no variation of landscape, only flat salty earth. The morning stretched on endlessly as they traveled. No one spoke much as there was an eerie feeling covering Alia. Sometimes as Moorhen stared out at the white sands, he thought he saw it move, almost as if it was alive.
The sun was high in the sky, past where they usually stopped for lunch, still they pressed onward through the white desert, traveling swiftly almost as though pursued by some enemy.
Moorhen was not rearmost, as he was not a good enough fighter, but two of his cousins, Rollech and Tylol, following behind him. They were quiet and watchful, as though some creature could spring on them in this open place.
A sound alerted them and all three turned to the rear as something lunged at Rollech, knocking him off his mount. The thing was white but he could barely tell anything about it. Moorhen drew his dagger as another beast sprang up against Tylol and brought him down. Both Tylol and Rollech were fighting a losing battle against the slim white creatures whose teeth tore at them.
"Attack!" yelled Moorhen, finding his voice. He looked back, where the creatures had come from and saw a whole pack of the white-furred creatures, their white eyes a bare outline against their fur, running towards them. Spurring his yithhe, Moorhen put some distance between him and the beasts. "We're being attacked!" he shouted again. He whirled and drew his bow. Soon he shot at one of the beasts on Rollech, dropping it. But now the others had caught up and were heading past the two fallen comrades towards the group.
The other clan members had stopped and turned their yithhe to see what the trouble was. They seemed confused, looking for the enemy, as the white beasts looked almost invisible to the eye at a distance. Their name came back to Moorhen's memory--voltchen, white dogs. He'd never seen one but knew they were fierce.
Moorhen strung another arrow and shot, missing his target. "Help!" he cried.
Ashtan wasted no time but lunged his yithhe towards the rear as did those closest to him. A moment later, the rest of the clan sprang into action. Soon the beasts were everywhere and though Moorhen shot one more, now he could not get a clear shot. Moorhen rode over to Rollech and Tylol, who lay on the ground. The beasts had moved on to other battles.
His heart pounded as Moorhen jumped off his mount and hurried over to Rollech. He was alive, though his arm was badly wounded. Moorhen felt relieved. A growl gave him warning and he drew his dagger and whirled to find a voltche leaping towards him. He rolled away and the beast missed him but quickly swung around to face him. Moorhen was trying to get to his feet when the voltche lunged at him.
Moorhen swung and missed and the creature caught his left arm in its mouth. Moorhen screamed, even though the pain was not bad. It was fear. Such a beast could rip his arm off. They ate flesh, so he'd heard. He cried out again as the voltche bit deeper. But there was no one nearby to help him.
The beast growled and bit and Moorhen was almost sure that the beast would take his arm. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Moorhen remembered the dagger in his right hand. The angle was not good to stab the beast but if he did nothing, Moorhen was sure he would die. The voltche, though not huge, had frightening teeth.
Grimacing at the pain, Moorhen struggled to get to his knees, trying to throw the creature off but this only made the pain worse, clouding his mind for a moment. Finally he got up enough and took aim at the creature's head then struck. The dagger pierced the creature's forehead and it cried out. The pressure on his arm lessened. Moorhen pushed the dagger further into the head and twisted, sickened at the sight of red blood that spurted forth. Soon the beast fell dead, its jaws still clinging to Moorhen's arm.
Fighting nausea, Moorhen struggled free of the creature's jaws, realizing that much of the blood the beast and his arm was his own. A wave of dizziness passed over Moorhen. His jacket had protected his arm somewhat from the voltche's teeth but still he was wounded. It was difficult to move his arm.
Moorhen pushed the creature back from him with his foot. Then he scrambled over to Tylol to see how he was. His cousins eyes were frozen open in a look of pain. Blood covered his chest. He was dead. Moorhen staggered backward and ran away a few steps. The nausea overcame him and he threw up, repeatedly. Never had he seen death so close up, not even that night with Norbi in the Black Hills.
Dazed, Moorhen sat there a moment or two. He flexed his arm, hoping the feeling would come back into it, in case another creature attacked. Then he remembered Rollech, scrambled up and ran over to his side.
"Are you all right?" he asked. "Rollech? Can you stand?"
Rollech was regaining consciousness but moaned in pain. His right leg was torn up.
The battle seemed to be over. The clan slowly recovered. Ashtan made his way over to Tylol, saw his lifeless face. "What happened?" he asked Rollech.
"They attacked from behind." said Rollech. "This one ran." He pointed to Moorhen. Ashtan glared at him.
"No," said Moorhen. "I... I didn't." What had he done? He felt dizzy. "I wanted to-"
"Silence, coward," said Ashtan with disgust. "I have no ears for your excuses."
"But--"
"Shut up!" Ashtan took a few steps toward him and Moorhen recoiled. "Help him before I decide to leave you for the salt dogs!"
Moorhen stared after him. He hadn't run he had moved back to shoot his bow and warn the others. The dark color of his jacket concealed his own wound. Frustrated, Moorhen bent down to help Rollech.
"Don't touch me," spat Rollech. "I heard once you were a half-garr. Maybe they were right. Your brains are addled." Moorhen stared at him. No one had ever said this to him. It was a great insult. "Go take care of Tylol," said his cousin.
Without arguing, Moorhen moved over and closed Tylol's eyes. He removed the pouch he wore with his personal things and laid his body out, ready for a ceremony.
"The Gods of Garran" by Lareena Smith, (c)2004