The Gods of Garran (10 page)

Nearly two hundred of Moorhen’s kinsmen rode north through the desert heat. In Moorhen’s memory, such a large Sand Plain war party had never left their territory. There was no concealing the group, not with those numbers. Finding a sandcave to shelter them in each night was difficult.

With them marched Nevehan of the Upper Steppe Clan, third son of Wanlann--the chief that had invited the Sand Plain Clan to join them in their attack on the Chanden. Nevehan was a fierce warrior with flowing red hair.

Two from the Red Sun Clan marched with them as well. The Red Sun had always been enemies to the Sand Plain Clan. Moorhen had thought they were not to be trusted. Yet now they rode together with them--Shann and Serra, a brother and sister.

If the Chanden hadn't nearly killed his father's young son, then Ashtan would never had allied with them.

Shann was a short, sandy blond man with a ruddy complexion. His demeanor was that of the shady sort of Garran that Moorhen always avoided at inter-clan meetings. He was the kind of person that made Moorhen want to double check his pockets after an encounter to make sure that nothing had been stolen. The man had a smile that somehow always looked like a leer.

Shann's sister, Serra, on the other hand, was beautiful. Her long, silver-blond hair hung neatly braided at her back. Her tall, lean stature made her a convincing warrior. Her favored weapon, a short sword, hung at her side, as did a small silver dagger.

When Serra smiled, Moorhen immediately wanted to trust her. As did his brother, Channik, currently Ashtan’s heir as chief. Enraptured, Channik spent many hours riding beside the Red Sun woman.

She returned all his flirtations. However, Moorhen noticed that she smiled at Nevehan of the Upper Steppe just as much.

Towards evening, a hunting party of twenty was sent out looking for food. Among them were Nevehan, Serra and Channik. Channik volunteered for this expedition, not wanting to be parted from Serra.

Shann rode towards the front with Ashtan, Moorhen’s father, as a guide. Within an hour, they found a firecave that could house most of the group. A few were forced to set up tents and sleep outside.

Moorhen didn’t like this. The Chanden had eyes everywhere, including up in the sky. They would see their war party and grow suspicious. Also, the group should travel at night and rest during the day, to avoid being seen. But neither Nevehan nor Ashtan seemed to worry about this.

Seeing to the
yithhe
seemed to be Moorhen’s appointed task. He was watering the beasts when the war party returned, successfully carrying a slain
orvallin
large enough to give all the warriors a portion of fresh meat.

But they had found something else. Tied with a rope and pulled behind one of the
yithhe
stumbled a man, a Chanden--a large bruise showing on the side of his head.

Moorhen quelled a sense of panic. War parties could get out of hand at times--and everyone’s tempers were hot. Moorhen wondered what they intended to do to this man. But his father led the group and Ashtan was not a rash man.

Moorhen crowded around the returning warriors along with others, curious at their return.

The prisoner fought to keep his feet, clearly exhausted. Once the party stopped, Channik turned over his
yithhe
to Moorhen. “Here, brother, take care of this.”

“Yes,” said Moorhen. He nodded at the stranger. “Who is this?”

“We found him camped in the desert. A spy maybe.” Channik grinned and untied the rope from his
yithhe
, yanking the cord and causing the man to stumble forward and fall. “Perhaps we should kill him.”

“Kill him!” shouted several warriors.

The man struggled to get to his feet. “No! Please! I’m no spy,” he pleaded. He glanced around, looking for a sympathetic face and his gaze settled on Moorhen. “I’m searching for fire crystals, that is all! I swear it.”

He’d just gotten to his feet when Shann kicked him from behind, sending him headlong to the ground. The group laughed. Channik kicked the man.

“Channik!” began Moorhen but just then, Ashtan arrived to survey the scene. Relieved, Moorhen moved back. His father would stop this.

“Who is this?” Ashtan demanded.

“A spy,” said Nevehan. “We found him in the desert--watching us.”

“I’m not a spy!” said the Chanden. “I work at the factory in
Karther.”

Shann shoved the man, almost causing him to lose his balance. “Liar!”

“You have to believe me!” begged the man.

“He’s a spy,” said Nevehan. “And a thief. I’ll show you how we deal with Chanden traitors. Gag him.” He nodded at the prisoner. Shann took a strip of cloth and gagged the Chanden, quelling his pleas.

When that was done, Nevehan jerked the rope, forcing the man to enter the camp. The warriors gathered around to watch. Moorhen’s heart beat quickly, apprehensive of what Nevehan meant to do.

“Behold this Chanden,” he said. “He is everything you hate. The Chanden came from the sky. They burned our homes, stole our cities, and killed our gods--all so that this man could take our place, live in our cities and eat our food. He would make slaves of us all!”

The warriors let out a shout of anger. Nevehan had piled all of the sins of the Chanden on the head of this one man, who had done none of those things. He had not even been born when the Chanden had invaded.

The man made some objections but they were all muffled by the gag.

Ashtan watched all this silently, making no objections. Moorhen willed him to say something to stop this.

“We cannot let his kind dominate us,” said Nevehan. “We have to show the Chanden that we
can
resist and that we have the
will
to resist!” Some of the warriors shouted approval at this. “Otherwise, we will continue to be their slaves.”

The tall warrior punched the prisoner in the stomach, which made the man fall to his knees. Then he kicked him in the face, knocking him over. From there, others joined in.

Still, Ashtan remained silent.

Moorhen could scarcely watch. He turned away. Draiha stood nearby. “We can’t do this,” whispered Moorhen. “This man is innocent. He hasn’t done anything.”

Draiha looked at Moorhen. “That is for Ashtan to decide,” she said. “Maybe he is a spy.”

Moorhen shook his head in frustration. The warriors cheered as each took a turn beating up the prisoner. Moorhen had a sick feeling in his stomach. Perhaps he was not a warrior after all.

He began to leave.

“Where are you going?” asked Draiha.

“Nowhere,” said Moorhen. “I have to take care of the
yithhe
.” He gathered the reins of several of the creatures and began leading them away. Crysethe followed him.

“You’re upset.”

Moorhen tried not to say anything. Every time he spoke out, he got into trouble.

“Moorhen?” she pestered him, keeping up with his fast pace. She tugged at one of the
yithhe’s
reins. “I can help you.”

Moorhen looked at his little sister, and let her take one of the reins. A little help would be welcome.

“You disagree with Nevehan.”

“Yes,” said Moorhen. He glanced at her. “I’m angry with the Chanden too. But, this is wrong.”

She considered this as they walked silently together. “But Father permits it.”

“I know,” said Moorhen. “I’m not sure that makes it right.”

Her eyes went a little wide at this. She followed Moorhen but said no more.

That night, Moorhen slept near the
yithhe
, on the far side of the camp, out in the open. He didn’t want to hear the cries of the Chanden prisoner, an innocent factory worker caught mining for crystals, as his clansmen continued to torment him.

Moorhen was almost asleep when a sound disturbed him. It was Crysethe laying out her bedroll next to his.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

She snuggled down into the bedroll. “I’ll help you watch the
yithhe
,” she said simply.

There was no telling his sister what to do. She was a wild one. He glanced back at the camp, wondering how the prisoner fared. He feared they would kill him soon. Surely, they could never let him go. He would report them to the Chanden and cause more trouble.

“He’s still alive,” Crysethe answered his question. “I think the warriors have tired of him for now.” His little sister closed her eyes to sleep.

In the old days, when the seven Borrai spoke for the gods, such acts of aggression would not have been tolerated. But the gods were dead now, and people had almost forgotten them, except for a handful of
shaheak
priests who tried to keep the memory of the gods alive.

Moorhen lay awake staring at the stars a long while before he fell into a troubled sleep.

^
^
^
^ *

Two days later, the Sand Plain Clan arrived at the Upper Steppes in the late afternoon. Here, fertile patches of grass dotted the landscape of red earth and high buttes.

The Chanden prisoner survived, still bound and gagged. The warrior's forced him to walk the whole way, pulled behind one of their
yithhe
.

The Steppe clan watchmen greeted their clansman, Nevehan, with joy. The Upper Steppes were a strange clan to Moorhen's kin. Their hair matched the red color of the sands in the valley in which they lived. They looked odd to Moorhen--almost like their hair was on fire. The Sand Plain people had dark hair, and seldom traveled this far north.

Seven or eight clay domes, the color of the earth, stood in a circle in front of the Upper Steppe Clan’s firecaves. A small hill stood in the center of the adobe domes, making an ideal meeting spot for the clan.

Such evidence of habitation became a target for Chanden attack and many tribes chose not to build outside the firecaves. But this far north, Chanden were very scarce.

And Garrans who lived near the Chanden and agreed to live under their laws built this type of home, earth-domes of all shapes and sizes.

Nevehan told the Upper Steppe of the Sand Plain Clan’s desire to join the cause of the Steppe clan. After a brief discussion, the Sand Plain people were made welcome. The journey had fatigued them all. Moorhen and his tired clan were escorted to a firecave where they could rest.

However, Ashtan and Channik went with Nevehan to meet with Wanlann, the Upper Steppe chieftain concerning their new alliance. The prisoner went with them.

As Moorhen’s clan was escorted to a firecave, he noticed the Red Sun Clan banners in another firecave nearby. This clan was not to be trusted. There Shann and Ina went.

Moorhen and the others led the
yithhe
to a walled corral. Moorhen stayed to take care of the animals, as did Crysethe.

When the chores were done, Moorhen and Crysethe joined the others in the firecave. It reminded Moorhen of home, though the passages were smaller and more twisty--darker and colder somehow.

Their gear was tossed carelessly on the floor and most of them were ready to sleep where they stood. It had been a long journey.

No one bothered to set a watch, as they were among friends and the Upper Steppe had guards on the main firecaves.

Most of his clan laid down and slept, tired from the long journey. Moorhen soon followed them, sleeping for a few hours. They woke near dusk when Channik returned to bring them to dinner.

Moorhen was glad, as their own food supplies were low and without going hunting, there would be little to eat. They followed Channik down to the center of the Upper Steppe village where meat roasted on the fire.

There on the side of the butte Moorhen spotted not one, but three Chanden prisoners; one of them was the Karther factory worked they had captured two days ago. All of them were bound and gagged. The many cuts and bruises attested to their treatment. One was a woman. They sat in a wooden cage that might be used for dogs. The Karther factory worker looked up at him, perhaps recognizing him. His eyes pled for help.

Quickly Moorhen turned away and continued past the cage. A pang of guilt went through Moorhen--there was nothing he could do. What would become of them? He tried to push this out of his mind.

Moorhen noted that the Red Sun Clan sat among the Upper Steppe people, including Oorgathe, the Red Sun chieftain. This made him uncomfortable. This clan had a brutal reputation as outlaws and thieves. They had wronged the Sand Plain people more than once in the past hundred years.

Not only did they refuse to obey Chanden law, but often the Red Sun clan failed to obey the rulings of the Clan Conclave, a group which all clans were permitted to send representatives to settle disputes and unite the clans on issues.

The Upper Steppe Clan’s reputation was not much better. Yet here, Ashtan sat alongside Wanlann, the Upper Steppe chieftain and Oorgathe, the Red Sun chieftain, eating and drinking.

Moorhen ate gladly of the meat they served. He’d eaten little since that morning. But he felt uneasy in this company. Crysethe sat next to him, silently watching.

After all had eaten their fill, Ashtan rose and addressed the gathering. “My family,” said Ashtan. “I have sat in counsel with my fellow chieftains.” He nodded at both Wanlann and Oorgathe, who listened with grave faces. “We have suffered the Chanden long enough among us. Submission to them is unacceptable. From this day forward, we are at war with the Chanden. And we will fight them to the bitter end!”

This brought cheers from all the warriors of all clans, but the announcement left Moorhen cold. War with the Chanden? How did they expect three tribes to succeed
where all the tribes had failed one hundred years ago? And the Chanden were stronger and more organized now than they had been.

Some warriors began playing music on drums. Someone began playing a
rizzer
pipe. The clans began chanting and dancing. Moorhen stayed awhile, but he didn’t have the heart for dancing. All he had was apprehension.

As the hour grew later, Moorhen headed back to their firecave to check on supplies and be sure they would be ready to leave. Soon--he hoped.

Perhaps there would be time that night to talk to his father and persuade him that attacking the Chanden was rash. He didn't know if Ashtan would listen, but Moorhen felt he had to try.

^
^
^
^ *

Ashtan returned less than an hour later with the rest of the clan warriors--and with him came Ehrlinnt, Moorhen's younger brother. The other clan members gathered to hear the news. Ehrlinnt had been left at home to help guard the tsirvak.

Ashtan stared at his clan. "Norbi is dead. He died two days after we left."

This brought silence among the clan. Moorhen felt shocked; he had believed that Norbi would recover. Norbi's death also killed any chance Moorhen had of talking sense into his father. Ashtan was stubborn and slow to forgive.

"As far as I'm concerned," said Ashtan. "We are now at war with the Chanden." The others listened solemnly. There would be no backing out of this, once it got started.

"The Upper Steppe has given us food and provisions. We'll leave at first light," Ashtan said.

Moorhen was glad for the food, they would need it.

All of them drew closer, waiting 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. Our attack will be swift and fierce." Some of the men laughed, others looked solemn.

"What? We're going to attack a Chanden village? And do what?" Moorhen asked.

"Kill them. Kill them all."

"That's not--"

"My son is dead!" yelled Ashtan, glaring at Moorhen as though it was his fault. "We have lived like animals long enough under the Chanden rule," Ashtan said savagely. "This land is not theirs. We are not their slaves! Nor will we continue as beggars on our own world! They have killed our gods. 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. Norbi's death had left him desperate and distraught.

"Father," said Moorhen, gently, trying to control his temper. Someone had to speak. "Is it right to randomly kill Chanden to atone for what they've done as a whole?"

Ashtan hit Moorhen and knocked him to the ground. This time Moorhen had expected it.

"You question me? You let my son wander out of the clan-cave into Chanden hands! And now he is dead! 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. Let someone else speak. His father was on edge. But the chances that Ashtan would have a change of heart now were quickly vanishing. "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 others benefit. "Of course, fool. They will bring their forces to support us. And so will the Red Sun Clan."

"Red Sun?" asked Moorhen--a clan with which they'd long had a feud, a clan not to be trusted.

"Oorgathe and I have had a long talk," said Ashtan. “We are of one mind on this issue.” Moorhen could not help but feel skeptical about that. "They will support us from the East."

"The Chanden are most likely to come through the pass to assist the town."

"Yes, the Red Sun will watch it."

Moorhen looked around at the others. There were long faces. None of them trusted Red Sun.
Say it! Just say it,
Moorhen willed them--but no one spoke. Why wouldn't someone speak up?

Finally Moorhen spoke. "We can't trust them, Father, you know that."

Ashtan turned back to Moorhen. "I said--you will be silent." Moorhen braced for another blow but it didn't come.

"The Upper Steppe Clan are strangers to us," said Moorhen continued, cautiously. "The Red Sun hate us. They're sending us in alone to fight the most dangerous battles. The Chanden, even though they are few, still have many distance weapons."

"And so do we," said Ashtan. He raised up 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. "You've never been a warrior! I don't take counsel 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 will be walking to our deaths!" said Moorhen.

"Then so be it!" shouted Ashtan. "May you die first!" He turned and left. Moorhen watched him, stunned. It was a terrible curse to place on one's own son.

Moorhen 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?