THE GODS OF GARRAN
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was evening when Este arrived back at Wanthe. The first person that saw her looked surprised and ran. Soon others came and she was heralded like a clan chief and brought through the town. They must have discovered the water flowing already. She was pleased at their reaction. This would help her cause. The fact that Este would betray them in the end, was a little disturbing. But their rebellion had to be stopped.
They led her back to the main clan hall where a feast awaited. Heyvaan the chief was there along with brother chiefs from other nearby clans. Molot was there as solicitous as always of her attention. Everyone treated her well and with warmth and trust.
"You were true to your word, Te'jeste," said Heyvaan. "You have pleased the gods and brought back the water. We all thank you." To this, the others voiced their assent.
"You're welcome," said Este, not sure what to say and feeling another twinge of guilt over using these people to the Chanden government's ends.
They sat and the feast began. It wasn't too awful, in fact, she almost like it. They had really gone to lengths to prepare edible food. Impressed, she ate and drank freely. This wine was finer than they had served last time.
"Will you stay here with us, in Wanthe?" asked Molot, eager.
"No, I'm afraid not," said Este.
"Where will you go?" asked Heyvaan.
Este took a moment to answer. This is the part where she needed their help. "I'm headed to Koshke," she said. "To see if the Clan Tribunal will accept me as clan representative."
To this, Heyvaan nodded. "We will send others with you, to speak on your behalf. This is the least we can do for the Shahaek Te'jeste."
The use of the title shaheak surprised Este and she hoped she was not getting in over her head. "Thank you, Chief Heyvaan. You are too kind." She felt she should set him straight about the title but it would be to her advantage, if they thought she was an associate of the gods. Still, she had no priestly knowledge nor did she know what they might expect. "And, I am not shaheak."
The chief looked surprised by this. "No one but the a shaheak may enter the temple of the gods and lived. You did enter it?"
Here she felt she was on dangerous ground. If she said no, did it mean she'd desecrated the temple? Things were going to well to turn back now. "Yes, Chief Heyvaan."
"Then you are shaheak," he said, as though it were a fact.
Este nodded at him, in acceptance.
"My son, Molot, will accompany you, along with his two cousins as escort."
Not the son. Did the chief hope to marry her off to his son somehow? Este managed a polite smile. "I thank you, good Chief."
He smiled and nodded. "We will give you provisions. The journey will take only 4 days and the road is good that we will lead you on."
"Thank you."
"You must be tired. You should rest," said the Chief. "Seven days is a long time to spend in the mountains."
Seven? Surely it had only been four. "Seven?" she asked, cautiously. "What day is today?"
"The 23rd day of Sacrance," said Molot. "You've been gone a week."
That couldn't be right. It couldn't have been so many days. That left nearly 3 days unaccounted for. But then again--there were gaps in her memory and also the dizziness she'd felt. Had she lost time? This disturbed her. She ate the rest of her meal in silence.
The next morning they were geared up and on their way. Este didn't mind an escort in this dangerous territory--it was Molot she minded. He never stopped talking! How windy the weather was and in fact how windy it had been ever since the days of his great grandfather. Discussions about every branch of his family and its tie to each clan (some of this was actually useful). Discourses on how a proper Garran woman should behave. To think that even the Garrans had snobs! She'd thought them all to be barbarians. For all his talk of valor, Este got the feeling Molot was not much of a warrior.
With some practice, she managed to tune out most of Molot's chatter while they traveled. She had checked in that morning with the Agency and let them know she was on her way to Koshke and that she'd managed to get some support. The mission was going very well--better than she had expected.
With some prodding Este found that Molot and his two cousins proposed to take her to Koshke by going through the Eye of Innurlaan.
"Isn't that cursed?" asked Este. Not that she cared about their curses but it seemed odd that they would chose that path, being Garran.
Molot smiled. "Of course. But we have you."
She could not smile back, not sure what they were getting into nor what they expected of her.
"You are our shaheak," said Molot, with utter confidence. "By this course, we travel only four days to Koshke." He grinned.
Great. Now they expected miracles of her.
They plodded on for hours. The area was dry and desolate and flat. They had left the hills. There was no sign of a stream or any water but they had brought plenty. "Thanks to you," said Molot.
They camped that night in the cover of a few shrubs. It wasn't much but the wind wasn't blowing hard. Molot's cousins, Yance and Preava said little. They were both warriors it was clear--tall and strong, both of them. Yance carried a long spear as his main weapon and Praeva a sword and bow. They were here to guard Molot as much, or more, than herself, as Este betted that Molot was not good at protecting himself. He was Heyvaan's only son and heir and these cousins were distant enough not to be in line for chief, so she guessed. They did their duties with little talk and only bowed to Este without speaking. Perhaps they were afraid of her.
Well, the less talk the better, from this bunch.
But Este didn't get her wish because Molot talked enough for all three of them. And before they slept, Molot insisted on entertaining them with ballads. He had brought a small stringed glithe which he accompanied the songs with. It's not that he sang badly, but Este was not in the mood for Garran music. As she fell asleep to the music, she slipped into a familiar dream with the song from the moonstone chamber, again chasing an elusive dream that she could not understand, that seemed important.
The following day they traveled towards the Eye of Innurlaan. Through Molot's extensive discourses she learned that Innurlaan was the oldest of the ancient gods--and the most vengeful.
"Several thousand years ago when the Garrans were just beginning to live together as organized clans and build dwellings," said Molot. "Innurlaan ruled the plans from the Upper Steppes to the Glass Sea--the First God. Innurlaan ventured destruction, fierce and terrible, on all those who harmed the earth or any creature on it, aside from those creatures killed for food. In this valley Innurlaan was said to reside.
"Even though the gods are dead, no one dares to venture here," Molot continued. "It has lain untouched for hundreds of years."
Este stared at him. "Then how do you know your way here?"
"We usually go around, but it takes weeks. We would take this road if we dared," he said, with a gleam in his eye. "And you dare."
She said nothing, hoping that she dared as much as he thought.
They pressed forward though the desert, all Este saw was desert grass, spider-shrubs and endless sand for miles. The day went by slowly, traveling in the shapeless landscape accompanied by the ever shifting tales of family intrigue by Molot (some of which she eventually found amusing and interesting). The wind began increasing in intensity, which didn’t bother Molot. Este feared they were walking into a storm.
“No,” said Molot. “All normal.”
With that assurance they continued on. The landscape began to change and have some definition. Small ridges and gentle hills broke up the horizon a little. The wind grew worse but Molot never stopped smiling… or talking.
At last they came to a lava arch at least twice their height making a sort of entryway into what seemed like a long lava wall. Inside the wind looked terrible. Molot stopped and looked at Este.
“The Eye of Innurlaan.” Said Molot. “Ask the gods for safe passage.”
She stared back at him. She had no idea how to do that and really didn’t know what he expected of her. She nudged her yithhe forward so that she was right in front of the arch and waited for a few moments but nothing happened. It was crazy—they should go back. The winds in there looked almost like a tornado.
“Did you ask her?” asked Molot.
“Who?” asked Este.
“Innurlaan.”
Innurlaan was a woman? She said nothing but returned her gaze to the arch. Give us safe passage, she thought. Innurlaan, she added, just to be clear. The request was a shot in the dark but stranger things had happened on this trip. As if in answer, Este felt a wave of dizziness, similar to the ones she experienced in the mountain. Was that the answer? She glanced over at Molot.
“Did they say yes?” he asked expectantly.
She nodded. “Yeah.” Though she wasn’t so sure. She signaled her yithhe to go forward and it began, somewhat reluctantly, to move through the archway. The winds continued to howl and rage on the other side, but none of it touched Este. Molot followed closely behind her, grinning, with his cousins following behind him (both looking a little unsure).
“It worked. See. I told you so,” he said to Este. Then back to his cousins. “I told you so.” He laughed and pointed straight ahead. Este kept moving that way and they followed. They walked in the center of the eye of the storm, which moved with Este wherever she went. The others stayed close, never straying far from her.
The afternoon passed like this. Visibility was zero in the storm but Molot kept prompting Este as though he knew the direction even blind. For once, Este was glad to have him along. Even Molot was silent as they passed through this area, all said to be cursed land in the minds of the Garrans.
Towards evening they arrived at another archway encased in a lava wall, similar to the first. For a moment, Este feared it was the first and that they’d gone in circles. But Molot stopped them, grinning. Este stopped and looked at him.
“Before we leave,” said Molot, “you must thank the gods.”
Este nodded and turned towards the arch, staring at it a moment. Thank you, Innurlaan, she directed at no one in particular. She felt a dizziness as if in answer. The winds began to catch at them again, as though the shield had been dropped. Quickly Este took them through the archway, followed by Molot and his cousins. All of them looked quite pleased.
“Now, we head for Desolation and Koshke,” said Molot.
“Desolation?” asked Este, as if this wasn’t it.
“The Desert of Desolation between here and Koshke.”
“Oh. Yes,” she said, trying to make it sound like she knew what he was talking about. Again they set out.
“Did I ever tell you about my third mother’s grandfather who once saw a tree-elf in the woods near Karther?”
“No,” said Este. But she was sure she would.
“It was nearly one hundred years ago,” he began. “Back before the Chanden….” And so most of the early evening went.
In the Desert of Desolation, the ground was terribly dry and cracked. It wasn’t even sandy, it was hard as though baked dry at some point long ago.
The yithhe didn’t seem to like the ground and complained by making a low whine every now and then, on particularly hard stretches of ground.
Este spent awhile, between distractions offered by Molot, worrying about what happened at the Eye of Innurlaan and also at the mountain near Wanthe. Was there something to these gods of Garran? Or was it her imagination? Had they really escorted their party through the sandstorm or did they just happen to find the eye of the storm? Or perhaps the lava wall sheltered them? But there was also the “miracle” of the water. She had no memory of what happened, of how it happened or how she ended up back at the front chamber door.
The truth was that Este didn’t believe in any gods—Garran or Chanden—only in herself. The individual mattered. The individual has a responsibility (to a point) to society. But Este had always relied on herself for all matters in her life. On herself and her family. For her there was nothing else. Yet… she thought maybe she felt some connection there, to something outside herself.
And if some other force were helping her—to what end was it? To help her betray the Garrans? She doubted that. What did this force expect?
Este shook her head and tried to banish the thought. It was nonsense. She had a job to do. These people were planning a rebellion and she’d help stop it. It was the law and no matter what the reasons they weren’t justified in breaking the law. She turned a deaf ear to her own internal arguments and concentrated on Molot’s outrageous stories as they made their way to Koshke.
Once again vegetation began to appear in the form of red-grass and yellow jeneb-bushes. This was a good sign as it mean the area was more habitable and likely to hold civilization. The earth softened and became sandy again. The wind was not too wild but blew steadily from the west.
Este started as she saw a figure about 30 or 40 feet away move back behind a bush. She stopped. “Something’s out there.”
The others stopped and looked. Out of the corner of her eye, on the other side of them, she saw another small dark figure dart behind a ledge.
Molot and the other peered around.
“Tacha,” Molot said, and continued on unconcerned, as did the others. Este followed, keeping a careful eye out.
Molot noticed her concern. “Did you not have tacha in Noloon?”
Este had never been to her supposed hometown. “I never saw any,” she answered, hoping that was right.
“When they built Koshke,” said Molot, “they drove them out, but they keep coming back, stealing things from the gardens. Pests.”
“Are they human?” she asked.
“No,” he answered quickly. “Not at all. They only have our form, but no language.” Molot didn’t give them a backward glance. “I have friends in Koshke that will take us in. Do not be concerned.” He gave her an affable smile.
Este saw more tacha--many more--before the light faded completely and they arrived at Koshke. Sullen, mangy, dark creatures.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was late afternoon by the time the Sand Plain clan arrived at the Upper Steppes. They were challenged by the Steppe clan watchmen who had seldom, if ever, seen the Sand Plain people this far away from their home. These were a strange clan to Moorhen's kin and red of hair instead of brown like the Plains people. They looked odd to Moorhen--almost like their hair was on fire.
Once it was known that Ashtan desired to join the cause of the Steppe clan, they were made welcome at once and taken to a firecave where they could eat and rest.
Even though it was early evening, everyone was tired. Ashtan made apologies to Ywanlet, leader of the Upper Steppe clan leader and excused themselves to rest early, which they did. They'd journeyed hard and long the last few days with little sleep and short on water and grain.
The cave was homelike compared to other places they had stayed, even though it felt quite different. The passages were smaller and more twisty--they felt darker and colder somehow. But Moorhen was tired and perhaps in the morning they would feel brighter.
Their gear was tossed carelessly on the floor and most of them were ready to sleep where they stood. "We'll set a watch," said Ashtan, a precaution that was needed, especially against an unknown clan.
"I'll watch," volunteered Moorhen, tired as he was. He should do something for the clan, instead of be a burden all the time.
"No," said his father scarcely sparing Moorhen a glance. "I want no trouble tonight." It was a reproach. Twice Moorhen had allowed misfortune in a clan cave. He said nothing but sought a corner of the room in shame, ignoring the jeers of his siblings.
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. Ashtan was much younger then, as Moorhen was one of the oldest. Not the oldest. Now he was too embarrassed to bring up the subject lest his father humiliate him more in front of the clan. It wasn't a good time. When this was over--then Moorhen could have a talk with him, calmly.
But would it end? And how?
They were grim thoughts, but Moorhen couldn't shake them as he fell asleep that night.
When Moorhen woke, half of his clan was gone. He realized that they had let him sleep past the gathering to speak with Chief Ywanlet. Those that were left were the younger and weaker. Moorhen was insulted. He was still older even though not a full warrior. Didn't his father have any regard for him left? The reproach stung.
Glumly Moorhen went about eating and organizing his pack. Food rations had to be short all around. He hoped that they could have some of the Upper Steppe Clan, else they a had to go hunting. The Steppe people weren't exactly known for being generous.
It was hours before the others returned. Moorhen and those left behind made a breakfast of what rations they had left. No one felt like leaving the cave to ask for food from the Upper Steppe Clan. Ashtan would make arrangements.
It was early evening when Ashtan arrived with the rest of the best clan warriors all dressed up as though for battle. "They given us food and provisions. We'll leave at first light," Ashtan said. Moorhen and the others drew closer. "Get some rest, you'll need it."
The others along with Moorhen waited 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. They won't know what hit them." Some of the men laughed, others made no reaction.
"What? We're going to attack a Chanden village? And do what?"
"Kill them. Kill them all."
"That's not--"
"We have lived like animals long enough under the Chanden rule. They have killed our gods, taken our land, made slaves of us so that we are beggars on our own world. 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. Moorhen knew he was distraught, emotional.
"Father," said Moorhen, trying to control his temper. Someone had to speak. "Randomly killing Chanden to atone for what they've done as a whole--is that right?"
Ashtan hit Moorhen and knocked him to the ground. This Moorhen had expected.
"You question me? You let my son wander out of the clan-cave into Chanden hands! 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. Just let it go. His father was on edge. Perhaps he would come to his senses soon. Or perhaps not. "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 other's benefit. "Of course. Fool. They will bring their forces and those of Red Sun Clan to support us."
"Red Sun?" asked Moorhen--a clan with which they'd long had a feud. They were not to be trusted.
"Yes, I have met with Oorgathe of Red Sun and we have settled our differences," said Ashtan. Moorhen could not help but feel skeptical about that. "They will support us from the East."
"Where the Chanden are most likely to come from to assist the town, through the pass."
"Yes, they will watch it."
Moorhen looked around at the others. There were long faces. None of them trusted Red Sun. Say it! Just say it, he willed them. But no one spoke. "We can't trust them, Father, you know that."
Ashtan turned back to Moorhen. "I said you will be silent."
"The Upper Steppe Clan are strangers to us. The Red Sun hate us. They're sending us alone in to do the most dangerous part. The Chanden even though they are few still have many distance weapons."
"And so do we," said Ashtan. He raised 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. "From the beginning you have always been a coward. I don't take council 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 could be walking to our deaths!"
"Then so be it!" shouted Ashtan. "May you die first!" He turned and left Moorhen, who watched, stunned. It was a terrible curse to place on one's own son. He 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?
In the morning they awoke before the sun and prepared. They held a ceremony of prayer to the gods for deliverance. Moorhen doubted that the gods would hear it. When Moorhen joined the circle, Ashtan forbade him. "They will not hear you," said Ashtan.
Angry, Moorhen went outside to see to the animals, feeding them the small bit of grain the Upper Steppe Clan had given them. It was enough for a day or two. Enough to get to Hobset but not beyond that. He suspected it was the same of the food. Just enough. He couldn't shake off the feeling that they were being set up to be used by these two clans. Take revenge on the Chanden and rid yourself of an enemy clan at the same time. Moorhen was ashamed to realize that he trusted the Chanden more than his own kind.
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. Surely Father wouldn't take her too. 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."
"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."
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 or leering at him. He had lost all his father's respect. Ashtan was angry. It was a curse. He didn't mean that. Did he? Never his son?
"Moorhen," a soft voice pulled him out of his reverie. It was Crysethe sitting on her yithhe and bringing his as well. "Let's go."
Reluctantly, Moorhen mounted the beast and they turned Southeast toward Hobset.
Moorhen blinked away the tears from his eyes.
Three of the Upper Steppe Clan rode with them, presumably to show them the path. Their hair was red and wild as were their attitudes. Moorhen noticed that they didn't deign to speak to anyone, only Ashtan and they didn't even give him the respect that he deserved.
Moorhen watched them carefully as they traveled, riding apart from Moorhen's clan, holding their own council. He didn't trust them. This was mischief.
It took several days to get to Hobset. They waited at the Stormage Hills for word that all was in place to continue. No one spoke to Moorhen all this time, only Crysethe. His father wouldn't even look at him and Moorhen couldn't dispel the words he spoke 'You were never my son.'
Moorhen scarcely slept the night before they descended on Hobset. It was wrong and he knew it. It would enrage the Chanden, who would then retaliate. All Garrans would suffer for it. And all Chanden would lose would be less than a hundred lives. What if some of them were children? Would Ashtan really kill them all? Moorhen didn't think he could do it.
Maybe he was a coward. Maybe he should leave now. 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 town, yes, they would be surprised, Moorhen was sure. He felt sick.
"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. 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 the distance weapon on Moorhen. "You will leave!" he shouted. "I will not have 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 turned and rode his yithhe away, slowly at first, then at a run. His heart was pounding and he feared that his father would shoot him in the back. He kept going till he made it over the hill then stopped and circled back around, looking for a place to watch the battle from.
He was so ashamed. He should have said nothing. If only he could keep his tongue still! But he feared that his father and those that followed them rode to their deaths.
As the Sand Plain Clan marched towards the city, Moorhen could scarcely stand to watch. He looked elsewhere, wishing he could stop his clan somehow. He knew this attack was wrong.
He noticed the three Upper Steppe Clan guides watching from a nearby hill top. They hadn't seen him double back and hide in the rocks. 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 east. That's not where they said they would be. They were supposed go around to the south and guard the pass and warn if the Chanden arrived and ambush them.
Was this a trap after all? As Moorhen had told his father? As Ashtan and the others marched to towards the village, tried to think of an explanation. Perhaps half of the Red Sun clan had gone to the South pass and these were waiting in reserve to help his father. Why didn't they ride, then?
Moorhen stood, torn. He felt his clan was in great danger, but would they listen to him? He went back up the slope to his yithhe and there he paused, trying to see what was happening below. The clan were nearly on the village, they spurred forward, arms outstretched in a cry. A door opened and a man stepped out. He was struck down by arrows. It had begun.
Then beyond the village, Moorhen saw vehicles approaching on the south road. 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. And they were powerful.
He was shouting when he reached the village but there was such chaos that he feared no one would hear. 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, still far off, and his father fell.
"Father!" shouted Moorhen and rode towards him, ignoring the chaos around him. Before he could make it, his yithhe took a hit and stumbled. Moorhen jumped off before the creature crashed to the ground. Moorhen kept running over to his father. All around were the bodies of his clansmen and the others were scattered and on the run.
Moorhen arrived at his father's side and held 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 running down his father's face.
The death cries of his clan brought Moorhen back. The Chanden were advancing. There was no saving Ashtan. Quickly Moorhen took his patch and the talisman that showed he was a chief, took everything that might tell the Chanden who he was, including his war horn. 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. He could only assume treachery.
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.
There were some building blocking them from the view of both the clans on the hill and the Chanden force to the south east. Here Moorhen stopped and sounded the horn again. Was there no one left?
Minutes crawled by as though they were hours and four of his clan emerged from the buildings, running towards him, carrying a fifth who was wounded. It was Draiha and Gudhel. As they came, another showed up--Rollech.
"Retreat!" Moorhen shouted at them, pointing to the southwest.
"Father?" asked Draiha.
"Dead," said Moorhen, by the Chanden. "What about the others?"
No one spoke.
"The rest of the clan?" asked Moorhen.
"All dead," said Gudhel. He 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 other's view that they may not be seen. Their progress was slower than Moorhen would have like, because they had one wounded, Taglethe, a cousin. Six plus Moorhen, that made seven. Seven survivors out of the sixty 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 east. They never covered the south 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 did not 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 there was a lot of rock they could use to cover 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 eye. 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 looked up at him. She'd been checking his 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 his 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."
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 would 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 Chanden laser close.
Moorhen himself was tired but the others had fought and several were wounded. He was sure they would be more tired. They seemed to fall asleep quickly enough.
With the confusion of the battle and the escape, Moorhen had not had time to think about his father and the others that had perished. A full half of the clan, he was sure. Many of them brothers, some sisters. All family and close--none of which he would ever see again.
Moorhen cried silently for awhile, glad for the chance to rest and let his heart catch up to his mind. He hoped somehow 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 came back. He'd wished they hadn't fought the last few hours his father was alive--that those 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 picked up his laser and powered it up, though he could see nothing moving.
Several minutes Moorhen sat ready, not disturbing the others, not wanting to give away the fact the he knew something or someone was approaching them.
A small footstep against a rock gave away the intruder's position--they were to the southwest, behind the nearest ledge of rocks. Moorhen moved softly closer, changing his position in case they charged, getting closer to the ledge they were on.
He 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, training the laser on them. They turned around. Their garb was Garran and one of them was small--a child.
"Moorhen--you scared me to death!" it was Crysethe. The other was Rheggi, one of the old ones.
"Crysethe!" Moorhen was truly pleased. 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 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 Draihe. "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 awhile," said Moorhen, "and we'll continue."
They all nodded assent and slept the rest of the hour.
Koshke was a city built onto the side of a cliff, not of rock but of sand. Adobe, Este noticed. A rare method among the Garrans who mostly lived in caves or whatever place presented itself. This structure, however, was quite deliberate and looked sound enough. They didn't know to build things straight or level so everything had this tacked on, sloping look. Some segments were bigger, others smaller, all connected to each other in a big mass. She must remember to mention this to the Department of Native Studies.
Este followed Molot through the winding structures towards a large round one that was several stories high. This one held the Clan Tribunal. Inside were gathered people of all types. The red-haired men of the southeast. The brown-haired clans of the north and the dark-haired plains people. Este was surprised to see that there were quite a few women on the council. She was afraid gender would be a problem but the Garrans were more open-minded than she thought.
It was a pity they were so uncontrollable. Almost they could work with these Garrans--if they weren't so impossible.
Molot escorted her inside, smiling at her and everyone he met, introducing her to everyone he knew--and he seemed to know everyone.
To Este, it looked like a ragged bunch. They wore dull desert clothes, some tattered. Many were unshaven and had long hair. All of them looked like they could use a bath, even the women. Este was glad when they began the meeting to be spared from any more questions about her family and who they knew in Koshke or other places.
An older woman, named Sindke, as Molot whispered to her, began the meeting. She talked about the problem with the Chanden (as though they had somehow caused it) and talked about what to do. The suggestions that came were diverse and disturbing.
"Kill them all!" shouted one man.
"Burn a few of their buildings down, that will show them!"
"Blow up their fuel stores."
For an hour or so, they argued the possibilities, all the while Este grew more and more uncomfortable. If they knew who she was--they would kill her. She was sure of it--especially since she had lied and sought to join their council, for Chanden purposes. She had an urge to get up and leave then and not pursue this any further--but she had a duty. What would she do, go home and say she sided with the Garrans? We should all go home?
She was just scared, it was a much more dangerous job than she'd ever done before. Just get through this and she'd have the money to stop. She'd never have to do it again. Let the Garrans do whatever they wanted then.
"There is another way," said Sindke, "an old way. We could awake the gods and ask them for retribution."
There was nodding. Yes--Este 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 Este detested the Garrans, she didn't want it to come to that. There were here first, after all, even if they were barbaric. As long as they could progress as a society, under the Chanden's guiding hand, then they would have a lot of hope as a people.
"It is known that the gods died," said Sindke, "but what was never told but a few people, was that the gods stored their souls in god-stones so that one day they could be brought back among us, to help us."
Este had certainly never heard this.
"We can send someone to find the god-stones, someone that the gods could trust."
There was general assent though no volunteers.
Este felt she should act, volunteer somehow but she wasn't even a member yet. But to let this opportunity slip away. God-stones. If nothing else, it would be an archeological find. Native Studies would by dying to know all about this. What a find! Sacred relics.
Then Molot stood. "I will go," he said. "I will help search for these god-stones."
Sindke nodded. "It will be difficult."
"Yes," said Molot. "And with me, I will bring the Shahaek Te'jeste of Shing River Clan. She is god-touched. I have seen it." He sat down.
Este was dumbfounded. Sindke's gaze fell on her. "Come here, child," she said.
She couldn't have asked for a more gracious and eloquent introduction and even though it was just what she wanted, she could scarcely move for fear. She felt conflicted. Was this right?
At last she stood and went over to the old woman, who looked at her closely, looked into her eyes.
"She is not of the Clan Tribunal," said Molot, "But I have brought her to you from Wanthe where she asked and the gods gave us back our water."
This brought some talk from among the others.
"And she has a holy ooluk--Jir'cata."
This impressed the crowd who looked with wonder at Este.
"Show me the sword, child," said the woman.
Showing it here in front of all these people seemed most unwise, they could, and might, take it from her. But something in the old woman's eyes compelled her to obey. She unsheathed the sword and held it aloft. The crowd hushed to silence.
"You have wielded this ooluk?" asked Sindke.
"Yes," said Este.
"And you communed with the gods in Wanthe?"
"Yes," she said, and realized it might not be a lie.
The old woman was silent a moment, then nodded. "Yes. She will do."
Este put her sword away and went back to sit by Molot, who was grinning, as always. Her heart beat quickly and she could scarcely believe that this had worked. They were letting her into the council and to go on the quest for the god-stones. Surely this was the heart of the rebellion and the council's activities. She could learn everything and obtain the god-stone for the Chanden.
Others volunteered but Este scarcely noticed as she was caught up in her own thoughts. As she watched, in a bit of a daze, she thought she heard the music from the Mountain off in the distance.
In the morning, in the privacy of her own room, Este used her radio to check in with the Agency and tell them of the god-stones. She did it silently by code transmitter and received the response on a readout. 'Go after the god-stones' came the message. 'Mission priority.' So, the office agreed. The god-stones were valuable. And significant. The Garrans believed they contained the soul of their god. If such an item got into the wrong hands, and they believed they were blessed somehow, then a real war could ensue. If nothing else, they could prevent the kind of hysteria from breaking out and causing violence.
Este hoped that she was right in helping. It seemed so dishonest, especially to use poor Molot this way, who stood up for her and whose tendency to endless talk finally worked in her favor. Was it fair to Molot to betray them? Even if it were for their own good--they would hardly see it that way.
She pushed these thoughts out of her mind and got ready to go.
Molot led her down again to the Clan Tribunal hall. Molot and his cousins would all come on the trip, and for that, Este was glad. She was getting used to Molot and his company--it was stable. She felt she at least understood him. Some of these others--mindless barbarians some of them--she didn't think she'd get along with at all.
On entering the hall, she was disappointed to see two of the rough looking men from yesterday--who called for the death of all Chanden--among the god-stone hunters Jarvaine and Rouvidinn. There was also a woman, Koquim, who seemed a little more gentle. If the group was this wild, how would Este ever hold her own, especially if it came to a fight?
"We will set out to get the god-stones," said Sindke. "I will lead this quest," she said. "Este will be after me. Then Jarvaine," she said, "should we come to trouble."
"Where will we find them?" asked Rouvidinn. "I've never heard of the hidden god-stones."
"I do not know the location," said Sindke. At this, Rouvidinn and Jarvaine exchanged glances, as though doubting the whole mission. "However," said Sindke, "there was a place where the gods hid a map, showing the location of the stones. These were hidden deep in a firecave near the Upper Steppe. We will go there first. We set out today. Are there any questions?"
No one spoke. "Good," said Sindke. "It will be the beginning of a new and wonderful age on Garran."
That was dubious. But if anyone could lead them to the stones, the old woman could. Of that Este felt sure. As they began to leave the hall, the old woman beckoned Este over, bidding the others leave, even Molot. They waited a moment as the others filed out.
She's onto me, Este thought, in a panic. She fought to maintain her composure. It was an irrational fear. But there was something about the lady and her piercing gaze that made Este feel as though she could see right through her soul.
"Child," said Sindke. "Why do you want the god-stones?"
Este stared at her, not sure what the right answer was--certainly not the truth. "For the sake of Garran," she said, not sure that it would satisfy her.
For a long moment, the woman studied her and Este was almost sure that she would see through the lie. Finally she nodded. "Yes. That will do."
Este breathed a sigh of relief. The old woman must not be as mystical as she looked, or she would have seen through Este. She left Sindke and headed out to get ready for the journey.
The Sand Plain Clan, what was left of them, traveled till dawn. Their progress was slower than Moorhen would have hoped but at least there was no sign of pursuit. It was the other clans Moorhen feared, more than the Chanden.
Towards dawn, Moorhen had the others start searching for firecaves--it would be much safer and the Chanden wouldn't be able to detect them using their flying ships. At last they found some and went in as deep as they dared--considering the last cave.
Draiha insisted on first watch, letting Moorhen have a much needed rest. As he lay down and removed his pouch, he remembered the god-tablet. He had forgotten it--all this time.
Without the others seeing, he pulled it out to study it by the dim torch light. It was square and slightly larger than a hand. Made of moonstone, the front of the tablet had many runes inscribed on it. It looked like a map of some sort. Moorhen put it back in his pouch--glad that he hadn't put it in his pack--or it would have been lost. He also kept his father's talisman and the other things. They would need to be taken back to the clan. A new chief would have to be chosen as those appointed as successors were now dead.
Moorhen slept restlessly, waking now and then. As night approached he took his watch. He worried about the path they would take. He had led them to the northwest, going around the Upper Steppe territory on the west side--it was longer and an unfamiliar path to all of them, but Moorhen hoped that the other clans would not expect this of them.
But they needed to turn east again soon and get back to their own firecave. It was not very well defended and two clans now knew that they were weakened.
Moorhen woke the others and they began the long journey toward home. This night the terrain was more difficult and their going was slower. Their wounded brother didn't fare very well.
"He can't keep this up," said Draihe.
"If we stop--they'll catch us," said Moorhen.
"At this rate, they'll catch us anyway," said Gudhel.
Moorhen nodded. They were right. There had to be another way. It was cloudy and the air was warm. The wind had died down but now Moorhen wished it would blow again to cover their tracks."
"What about yithhe?" asked Moorhen. "May there not be some herds here? Maybe we can find some."
"Not this high up," said Gudhel. "What would they eat?"
"What about lasbay?" asked Draihe. They were slow moving and easy to catch, easy to control--but large and cumbersome. Still it would be faster than they were traveling. "There may be some up this far."
"Rollech," said Moorhen. "You and Gudhel see if you can round some up."
"And me," said Crysethe.
"No," said Moorhen.
"I'm not a child!" she said.
"That has yet to be proven," he said. "You two go; we'll search for shelter."
They nodded and left without objection. Moorhen still wasn't sure why they were listening to him. Draihe stayed with Taglethe while Moorhen went scouting for some kind of shelter. Crysethe followed him.
"No," he said.
"You don't have enough warriors to turn away help," said Crysethe.
Moorhen's objections died. She was right. There were few of them left. He could use her help. Together they found a spot to wait. Moorhen went back for Draihe and Taglethe while Crysethe stayed at their new found shelter, a very shallow firecave.
Hours passed, once they were situated. Moorhen paced just outside the cave, hoping that the others would return soon but there was no sign of them. They could have been captured or killed. Some wild beast could have gotten them. Moorhen was about to go after them when they arrived.
"Well?" asked Moorhen.
"No luck," said Gudhel. "And it's worse--the Sun Clan are searching the hills east of here. If we go that way, they'll find us. They'll be here by tomorrow."
This was bad news. Moorhen had hoped that somehow he'd been wrong and that the other clans were innocent of ill-intent. Perhaps they only sought Moorhen's group to help them--but he doubted that. Doubted it very much.
Everyone looked at Moorhen, waiting for direction. He didn't know what to say. If they stayed here, they would be found. He had no desire to find out the what the Red Sun Clan wanted with them.
"We'll go east, then north," said Moorhen. "Right now, and continue through the day if we have to. I don't think the Chanden will look for us there."
"Through the Desert of Desolation?" asked Gudhel.
"We can't stay here."
"What about Taglethe?" asked Draihe, not pleased.
"We'll carry him," said Moorhen. "In shifts."
The others didn't look pleased but they gathered their things and followed Moorhen back into the night. It would be a very long journey. Moorhen hoped he wasn't leading them to their deaths.
"What will my job be?" asked Crysethe, as they climbed out of the firecave into the cool dark night.
"You'll be the scout. Watch all directions, ahead and behind, for enemies."
She grinned and disappeared quickly. Moorhen hoped he hadn't been foolish in giving her such a task.
Rock gave way to sand and the journey became more difficult. Now there was little cover, some shrubs, an occasional ridge. The further east they went, the less cover there was. At least the wind began to blow again. Moorhen hoped it would be enough.
Morning came and Moorhen called a rest for an hour. He offered to stand watch; Draihe insisted on splitting it with him. He agreed. They slept a little, but it was not enough by far. When Moorhen awoke, Crysethe had not returned to camp and he began to worry. But by definition a scout would be ahead of the group.
"How is he?" Moorhen asked about Taglethe.
"He has a fever," said Draihe, in a low voice. Moorhen nodded. His condition was worsening. But they couldn't stop, not here. They got up and continued on. No one objected. They knew there was no choice.
So they carried Taglethe as the day wore on and made good time at first but by midday they were very tired and slowing down. Crysethe showed up and reported all clear then disappeared again. Moorhen was too tired to stop her, even though he felt inclined to. He considered stopping for another rest but the desert was flat and sandy and there was no cover for them but shrubs. They needed a cave but such things were less common here. He'd seen nothing that would work.
There were ravines that cut into the desert floor and Moorhen tried to keep to the ravines so that they would at least be out of sight.
Towards late afternoon, they stopped where they were and rested. It was the bottom of a deep ravine and they were all too tired to go farther. Moorhen fought to stay awake and keep watch, but he kept nodding off.
Moorhen was awakened by Crysethe. He wasn't sure how long he'd slept. He cursed himself and got up.
"They're coming," she said. "From the southeast."
Moorhen woke the others. "How many?" he asked her.
"Fifteen or twenty."
"Red Sun Clan?"
"Yes," she said.
"Good work," he laid a hand on her shoulder. "Thanks."
She smiled.
"What'll we do?" asked Gudhel. Moorhen scrambled up the side of the ravine to get a look. Gudhel came after him. They stopped at the top and looked around, trying to get a glance at their enemies. Crysethe came up behind them and pointed.
"There," she said.
He saw them--about two miles away. And they were mounted. There was nowhere to go. The Red Sun would track them here. Moorhen was sure that their tracks were still discernible.
Moorhen ran back down the slope to join the others. "Stick to this ravine," said Moorhen. "We follow it as far as we can--hope they don't see us or lose our trail."
Draihe had Taglethe up and ready to go. She and Gudhel carried him at nearly a run. They were heading straight into the Desert of Desolation. It was crazy. Moorhen had meant to turn east eventually. It was a cursed place, so he'd heard. Not one he wanted to cross. And they were low on food and water. Also the desert could confuse travelers and leave them lost, wandering endlessly till they died of thirst. But the Red Sun Clan was a less desirable alternative.
They walked for nearly an hour and Moorhen was surprised that they weren't overtaken by then. He'd begun to hope that they'd turned back or lost their trail when the sandstorm hit. A terrible wind nearly blinded them them with sand until it was impossible to continue on. They found a ledge in the ravine to shelter in for the moment. It wasn't much but got them in out of the worst of the storm.
Moorhen took heart in that this would surely cover their tracks. There was nothing else to do, so they slept.
"The Gods of Garran" by Lareena Smith, (c)2004