THE GODS OF GARRAN
A Novel by Lareena Smith
Prologue
The Age of the Gods lasted for several millennia on the planet of Garran. There was no war. The people had food and freedom. In those days the Northern Cones blew smoke and oozed fire--this was said to be the anger of the gods, erupting from deep within the earth. But in the Minorea Plains the fire never came. There the Eke beast and Orrvalins grazed peacefully and provided food for the people of Garran, who were few in number in the beginning but grew more numerous over time, as the gods blessed the land with peace.
In those days, the Borrai walked the earth. They were gods in the guise of men--seven of them. They held many powers. Power over the earth, over the land, and especially over the earthfires. These Borrai had lived as long as any man could remember. They were tall, pale with dark hair. Some people say their eyes glowed, others say they could turn invisible and vanish into the night air. Some people saw them walking in the mists of the crystal lake, an area known to be cursed.
Before the gods came, the winds ruled the plains, tearing up the small huts that the Garran's attempted to build. The winds howled and blew and ripped and tore at the grass and trees and everything in their path. But the Borrai tamed the wind, as they tamed the fiery mountains.
Over time, cities were built. The great cities of Urrlan, Karther, Wanthe, and Vorlail. These were built of the black lava stones and crystals of the Northern Hills. The Borrai walked among them and if any went to war, the Borrai brought down their wrath and vengeance upon them. Some say that fire came from the sky, others that the earth opened and swallowed up whole cities, others the sea took. So peace blossomed, guarded by the hands of the Borrai. They not only protected the people but also protected the animals from great slaughter by the Garrans; and they protected the southern forests and lakes from the encroachment of too many cities. Men kept to the plains for the most part.
Then one day, strangers came from the sky and killed the gods. Since then, Garran has never been the same.
CHAPTER ONE
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The day was at an end and the shadows grew long. Este of Wriyan rode her Yithhe awkwardly through the sandy desert plain. She’d spent two weeks among the Garran outcasts but now it was time to re-supply in Urrlan and report. Este was not Garran at all, not even remotely. She had moved to Garran from Toolash with her father, Koethe of Aggravis, though not very willingly. She had been five at the time and not eager to leave her friends and home, but for the resourceful and ambitious, Garran was a place of rich prospects. And her father was ambitious.
Ten years later, she lead an inglorious life as a narger – someone who spied on the Garrans for the Chanden government. It was an inglorious job that required her to speak the guttural language of the garrans, dress in their ragged clothes and ride their smelly animals all over the desert roads. She hated it, almost as much as she hated the Garrans. And though she wasn’t Garran she could still pass for a half-garr.
They were unreasonable. They’d never forgiven the Chanden for the war already a hundred years old. They had no gratitude for the many improvements and advances that the Chanden had provided for them. They lacked the intelligence to grasp space travel, other cultures or indeed, anything but their own grasping, primitive existence. The Garrans who lived and worked in the cities were barely civilized even though they gave it their best efforts. But the outcasts were those who refused to leave their mud huts, their lava caves and their hunting lifestyle. Their children had no access to medicine or education—they were wild. Killers. Born hating the Chanden. There was no reasoning with them, nor changing them. They’d be better off if the sand storms consumed them all.
She hoped they did.
The dust in the dry desert air made her cough. Even where there was no Garran village the air still smelled rank somehow. The whole planet did. She pulled the turban tighter around her head, glad that it hadn’t turned too cold yet.
As she rounded a corner, she was suddenly confronted by two Garrans walking towards her on the road. They looked as startled as she was. For a moment she feared ambush and her hand tensed, ready to go for her laser. But the dirty outcasts made no move, only stood stock still staring up at her.
Without waiting, Este spurred her Yithhe between them, scattering them each to the side to avoid her. It was rude but she didn’t care. Probably she should be more cautious, to protect her Chanden identity, but the Garrans disgusted her so. She rode on towards Urrlan.
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CHAPTER TWO
Inside the chirvak of the Sand Plain clan, Moorhen and Norbi bowed before the earth crystals. It was a custom of the clan to pay homage to the earth-gods. Since the death of the Borrai, a hundred years ago, each clan had worshipped the gods in whatever way they saw fit. Some appointed shahaek priests to oversee the spiritual safety of the clan, saying that the Borrai only slept and that they would wake again to defend the land and its people. Others were non-believers and said the gods were dead forever and scoffed at such notions.
Moorhen of the Sand Plain clan believed in the deliverance promised by the shaheaks. They would help--they had to.
When the Chanden came from the sky and destroyed the Borrai with their skyflames the rumor went out that before they Borrai died, their spirits retreated into the godstones which were hidden by the Shahaek Riddich, to be brought forth at a later time. Riddich was later killed by the invading Chanden and the location of the stones were lost forever, though there was a poem handed down through the generations, a riddle that spoke of the godstones.
Stone calls to clan
And fire shall awake
Wind shall descend
And sweep cross the lake
Where is the head,
with pow'r to set free?
The stand of the dead
shall rest neath' dark sky.
Fountain shall break
Alone in the mist
the Mountain shall shake
Borrai shall enlist.
No one really knows the meaning of the poem or where Riddich had hidden the stone. There was much speculation and many people had tried to find it and failed--both Garran and Chanden. The Garrans sought it with a desire to awake the gods and defeat the Chandens, who had taken over their cities and the more habitable places of the plains. The Chanden, after a war in which the Garran army was nearly annihilated, drove out any who opposed them. The rest were assigned to work in the crystal and coal mines or in factories. Despite much labor, the Garrans remained poor, treated as trespassers on their own world. For this, the Garrans hated the Chanden, who treated them little better than an Eke herd.
Once the devotions were done, Moorhen and Norbi rose and left the holy room.
"Moor," asked Norbi, "can you come with me to the Black Hills to hunt crystals?"
Moorhen hesitated. The crystals were valuable--worth a month's worth of food--but difficult to find. The Black Hills were full of wild beasts and dangerous to begin with, but recently the Chanden had ventured further from their stolen cities in search of jewels and the hidden wealth of Garran. They hunted in groups and some Garrans, walking alone, had turned up missing. Rumors were that the Garran killed those they found when traveling far from the eye of the Chanden government; incidents went unreported and Moorhen didn't want to take a chance, especially the youngest son of his second mother, Shibbea.
"No, not today, Norbi," said Moorhen.
Norbi pouted a little. He was old enough to consider himself no longer a child, but quite an adult yet. Resentment flared in his eyes. "I'll go alone then."
"You will not," said Moorhen. Their father, Ashtan, was on a hunting round with the clan and looked to Moorhen to take care of things at the chirvak. The chirvak was underground in the firecaves, an extensive network of tunnels, passages and rooms, inhabited by the Sand Plain clan for the last hundred years since the coming of the cursed Chanden. The Chanden knew nothing of the underground chirvaks but now that they were probing outward from their cities, the danger grew more each day. Unused passages were blocked off with stone, to ensure that they were not surprised from within.
Moorhen went on, ignoring Norbi's obvious displeasure. The crystals were valuable and they could use the money. Hunting had been poor since the Chanden came and disturbed the land with their buildings and their factories and mining. The animals didn't venture as near any more. Hunting parties had to travel farther, be gone longer. Money was useful to buy the food that could make up the difference, but it meant working for the Chanden or selling them jewels such as they could find, which the Chanden paid far less to them than they were worth.
Norbi slinked over and sat near a heatwell--these were tubes that brought heat from the Mountains of fire, which had slept for a hundred years. Moorhen was annoyed with the boy for his behavior. A man would not act this way. A man would understand. But Norbi was just a child.
In the clan room, Moorhen found his third mother, Reisha, and helped her coordinate the evening meal. Food supplies were lower than usual so they would have to get by with less that night. But when the hunting party returning, Moorhen hoped it would be enough to last a month or more. He hoped that the gods would favor them.
In truth, Moorhen himself longed to go on the hunting party and prove himself to his father. But Moorhen wasn't as skilled as others with a weapon. Others spent a lot of time practicing their fighting skills, more than Moorhen. He had always been more interested in reading and in knowledge, feeling that while spears and arrows were good for hunting--somehow it would never be enough. But this fascination made him strange among the Garrans and he hid his interest as well as he could. He studied the few books that he'd acquired from the city-Garrans, who were taught in the ways of the Chanden, in private, such as was possible in a chirvak. Not all were trustworthy but some were. The books he'd gotten in trade for furs, not readily available to town folk. Too often, though, Moorhen had volunteered to stay behind from the hunt and watch over the clan's weaker ones. This he did to give him time to study but the others thought him a coward and Moorhen believed they were right. His own father doubted him, so he'd heard from his sister-mothers. Perhaps he feared he would fail on such a trip as they took to hunt these days. More and more dangerous they were. If he got wounded for life then his father would surely despise him. For shame, he might commit himself to the desert, to save on food.
Moorhen pushed these black thoughts aside, knowing that it tempted fate to think such thoughts. Though they thought him a coward, his half-brothers were glad to be spared home duty. So they endured his strangeness. It would not do to have them learn of his reading, on top of it.
The clan gathered as Reisha and her younger sons and daughters served the meal. They made the chant of gratitude to the hunters then ate. Moorhen pondered as he ate his portion on how life for them wasn't intolerable. Their existence, while not always comfortable, was not dire. They had what they needed to survive, including a measure of safety, as long as they stayed clear of the stolen cities and the Chanden, who were creatures of comfort and hated to stray far into the desert. Perhaps in time they would learn to deal with the Chanden, who had a lot of knowledge, including travel to the stars, something which both frightened and fascinated Moorhen.
Full and content, Moorhen relaxed near a heatwell and listen to the endless chatter of his kin, the jokes and banter. Somewhere someone sang softly, perhaps to a baby. The warmth and companionship was reassuring. In the cities, other clans were now broken up by the Chanden ways--all living in separate family groups. This was something Moorhen could scarcely imagine--to be alone. Here there was always activity, always a friend, a laugh, a song, or a tale to amuse oneself.
The moment of quiet was broken when Shibbea came over. "Moorhen, have you seen Norbi?" she looked worried and she wouldn't ask such a question carelessly, without having searched. Moorhen knew the answer and stood. Damn, how could he not have watched him better! The fool.
"He asked about going to the Black Hills and I told him no," said Moorhen, but obviously Norbi had not heeded him and had gone out alone. Already it had been several hours and was dark. The worry turned to fear in Shibbea's eyes. Moorhen pulled on a warm cloak and sought his bow and dagger. There weren't many at the chirvak right now that he could spare to accompany him, still, something had to be done.
"I'll go after him," said Moorhen.
Immediately at his side was Crysethe, only a year or two older than Norbi. "I'll help you."
"No," Moorhen said without even thinking. "It's too dangerous." She had trained hard as a hunter but still Crysethe was too young to take on such a mission. "Stay here," he said. "Help Pirka and Rheggi guard the clan." Pirka was nearly a man but been chosen to stay behind from the hunt, despite his protest. Rheggi was an old one, experienced as a fighter but his skills waned with age.
Crysethe made to object but Moorhen interrupted her. "Rheggi's in charge." He didn't stay to hear her argument but headed up the long maze of tunnels to the surface.
The air had a chill feel to it and the smell of ash from the Mountain of Cones to the north. The East and North Moons were up, giving some light but otherwise the land was dark. Some clouds blotted out patches of stars. Silently Moorhen moved along the ridges and rock cliffs, through a familiar, safe path towards the Black Hills. Still, no safe path could guard him from night creatures--creatures who could see more in the dark than he could.
Carefully, Moorhen made his way across the dark terrain towards the hills, alert and aware of every sound in the night air. A faint rattle alerted him just in time to avoid the fangs of a shing-lizard the size of his arm. Quickly Moorhen drew his dagger and slashed at it as it struck again, cutting the lizard but not killing it. Moorhen ran, being more careless now of the sound, only wanting to put distance between him and the lizard.
He slowed near a ravine to a stop. There had been the faint sound a footsteps to the east--or had it been his imagination? Moorhen scarcely breathed for a moment. Had he been followed? For how long? But as he stood there, he heard no sound at all. He kept still awhile longer, waiting, but there was nothing. It could have been the wind.
Slowly, and more carefully this time, Moorhen crept down the path. Norbi should not have defied him--Moorhen had forbidden him to go. It angered him. It was a foolish thing to be alone at night on the plains. Surely he knew he'd endanger others by his selfish quest. Moorhen was determined to punish him when he was found. This was no light matter.
Moorhen followed a ravine towards the Black Hills, which held a trickle of water at the bottom of it. But soon he must part ways with this shelter and head west. It was a better path.
The moons had slipped behind cloud-cover and now the night was darker than ever. The chill had deepened, or perhaps it was just a fear welling up in Moorhen’s heart, for his brother.
Moorhen made his way up out of the ravine but before he could get out another sound stopped him short. He turned back toward the trail, looking for the source of the sound, if indeed there was one. Suddenly he was struck from the side and knocked down the side back to the bottom of the ravine. Before he could reach for his dagger and find his attacker, pain raked across his shoulders and he cried out, trying desperately to turn around.
Somehow he pulled free enough to pivot around just before the sechule sprang towards him, barring large fangs and claws. Moorhen tried to dodge but wasn’t entirely successful and felt the claws rip across his left shoulder. He hit the ground and rolled, dazed. A second or two passed as he tried to get to his feet. The creature had landed and was turning back towards him, reading to lunge. Moorhen cursed and grabbed for his dagger. He should have pulled it out when he landed before he got up to get ready. But he had little experience in combat and was scanty at times on his practicing. He barely managed to draw out the dagger before the sechule sprang towards him with a snarl. Knowing he could not take the creature on at short range, Moorhen threw the dagger, aiming at the throat but as he did, the sechule shifted and caught the dagger on the side of his right leg.
Moorhen dodged clumsily to the side, barely missed by the animal. He swung around, now weaponless. The creature, merely stung by the attack, batted the dagger to the ground. Moorhen glanced around for his bow, but it had fallen almost 20 feet away, somewhere beyond the beast--he couldn't reach it. The best he could do was run--but the creature was fast. It could easily overtake him.
Just then, in the distance, Moorhen heard the call of a horn. The creature paused also when he heard it. Moorhen didn't recognize the call--it wasn't one of his clansmen. Neither Moorhen nor the creature moved, both puzzling out the sound, deciding what action to take. The creature growled and paced a bit, as in warning. Moorhen stayed still, unsure whether or not to run.
Another horn sounded, just a little closer now. They stared at each other, beast and man. Moorhen had never stared such a deadly animal in the face before, and hoped not to again. Finally, the beast turned and bounded off into the night. Quickly Moorhen gathered his wits and his belongings and crept up the slope of the ravine.
It was dark and he couldn't see well but he sought out a spire of rock and hid, straining his eyes to see whomever it was that approached. Several minutes passed before he could make out movement up ahead. Cautiously he moved forward, drawing closer to the source of the horn. It could be the Lost Hill Clan, on a hunting expedition. They were neighbors to the Sand Plain people and friendly. But there were others who might venture this far, even the Red Sun Clan, which were vindictive and had a long-standing grudge against the Sand Plain people.
Slowly, Moorhen made his way toward the group. There were a number of them, by the sound, perhaps 10 or more. Moorhen, at least, was good at moving silently--which combined with his bad fighting ability made him even more of a coward in some people's eyes.
The band of men seemed to have stopped moving, perhaps to camp for the night. There was laughter and talking, almost raucous, as though they'd been drinking. But Moorhen doubted they, as expert warriors, would be foolish enough to get so openly drunk in such an unprotected place. Perhaps their spirits were high and they'd had good fortune on their hunt.
As Moorhen peered out from a new vantage point, he froze. These men were no clan. They weren't even Garran--but Chanden. His heart pumped faster. What were they doing so far from any city? Men like that seldom ventured this far out, unless it was just to seek out trouble. They had not seen him. He would make his way back to the ravine--that was the only safe way. The Chanden were not good hunters but their weapons were deadly, even in clumsy hands.
Moorhen was about to start back when he heard a cry amidst the laughter, a word or two in Garran. Moorhen froze. He knew that voice. It was Norbi. Moorhen stared at the group from his vantage point. There in the middle he could see Norbi among them, struggling. They were hitting and kicking him. Moorhen's blood grew hot. Before he could plan what to do, he reached for his bow and strung it, silently. A moment later, he shot towards the tallest man who was molesting his brother. The arrow hit and he fell. The group grew quiet, looking around. A moment later, he shot again. Again his arrow hit it's target.
They scattered a little, scrambling about, unsure. Their reaction was slow, clumsy. He shot a third arrow, but missed. Someone pulled a Chanden laser gun and shot wildly in his general direction. Moorhen caught his breath, suddenly realizing how mad this venture was. There were twelve of them and one of him. He only had 11 arrows and wasn't really a good shot. These men could kill easily from a distance without skill.
Another cry came from Norbi, who lay in a heap on the ground.
Moorhen strung his bow again and found another target. Only his brother mattered. He shot, lightly wounding another man. There were shouts now and some movement towards some shapeless masses he thought were rock outcroppings. Now he realized they were vehicles, such as the Chanden use.
Also, the men were slow in their movements. They were drunk.
Carefully, Moorhen targeted another one and shot. Again he missed. Four or five of the Chanden ran for their vehicles. A handful of others grew angry and drew weapons. The next few arrows missed as well.
A sudden volley of laser fire sent Moorhen behind the rocks for cover as four of the men began shooting. Soon Moorhen realized that only two of the men had aimed anywhere near him. They had not seen him; they only guessed at the direction and two of them guessed wrong.
Again Moorhen shot and one more Chanden fell. The next two arrows missed but now the men knew where he was. Rocks and dust flew everywhere as the blasts hit the rock face. They called out to him in Chanden, a language he only knew snatches of. The shooting stopped and he peered out from behind the rock, just enough to see that they had Norbi on his feet and were threatening him. One man held a gun to his head and yelled. Moorhen understood enough to know they meant to kill him. And Moorhen only had one more arrow. There was no winning this battle.
Only five of the Chanden stayed to fight; the others had fled to their vehicles. Two lay on the ground, unconscious or dead. Several of them he knew to be quite drunk. Again they yelled and hit Norbi who cried out from the pain.
They should pay for this. He should make them pay. He aimed for the man threatening Norbi, with as much care as he had ever aimed in his life--then shot. The arrow found it's target. Then Moorhen jumped down from the rock and ran towards them with a shout, drawing his knife. Two of them fell over trying to escape. The others aimed at Moorhen with their guns and at point blank range, Moorhen realized that they could not miss. The lasers were deadly and would rend him easily.
"No!" yelled Norbi.
It was too late to stop or turn around so Moorhen yelled even louder as he descended upon them.
Then from the dark sprang the sechule straight at the two remaining men, knocking them over with the force of his landing. Moorhen nearly fell over as he stopped himself. The few remaining Chanden turned their attention to the beast. It tore into one of the men, killing him. Ignoring the creature, Moorhen made his way over to his brother, fearing him dead.
"Norbi!" he turned him over. Nearby someone shot at the sechule.
Moorhen grabbed Norbi, barely conscious, and hauled him to his feet. "Can you walk?"
"Ngghh," said Norbi.
Without waiting for a better answer, Moorhen half carried half dragged Norbi away from the camp. The sechule had the Chanden on the run and some of them were in pieces. The best only gave a brief glance at the two Garrans as they made their way to the nearby rock spire. Their was better prey to be had.
As Moorhen set Norbi down, his brother tried to speak. "They took the crystals--Moorhen!" There was an air of delirium to his words.
Quickly Moorhen assessed his brother's wounds. He was bleeding from several knife wounds. There were bruises all over him, including his face. His eye was blackened and his lip was bleeding.
"Are you hurt bad?" asked Moorhen. It was a stupid question but he feared there might be greater damage than was visible.
"My arm," moaned Norbi.
Moorhen helped him up. "We have to move."
Norbi grit his teeth as Moorhen got hold of him to lead him away. Moorhen tried to be quiet but abandoned the effort. Between the sechule and the Chanden, it scarcely mattered now.
As he helped his brother limp back towards the safety of their chirvak, he felt dizzy from the experience. The moment of anger had passed and the truth of the danger they'd been in hit him. They moved without speaking. Moorhen now had no heart to upbraid Norbi for his reckless actions. No words were needed. The treatment of the Chanden had been lesson enough.
"The Gods of Garran" by Lareena Smith, (c)2004