The Gods of Garran (11 page)

In the morning Moorhen and his clan awoke before sunrise and prepared to ride against the Chanden. Moorhen felt hopeless about their chances. In this attack, they planned to kill innocent people--people who had never done anything to them. How could Moorhen do this? Yet all two hundred Sand Plain Clan warriors seemed set to do this thing. And no arguments had weakened his father, Ashtan's, resolve in the least.

He focused on his grief for Norbi--the brother he would never see again. A mere child killed by the thoughtless acts of the Chanden. He held onto this thought, using it to fuel his rage.

The clan held a ceremony of prayer to the gods for deliverance. Moorhen went to join the circle with a heavy heart, but Ashtan forbade him. "They will not hear you."

Angry, Moorhen paused only long enough to watch them prepare.

The warriors, all 200 of them, formed circles. Ashtan stood at the center, as the chieftain and heart of the tribe. His main warriors stood in a circle around him. The rest stood in a circle around them. All stood shoulder to shoulder, clad in their war dress, and ready to fight.

Moorhen went outside to see to the animals, feeding them the small bit of grain the Upper Steppe Clan had given them. It would last a day or two. Enough to get to Hobset but not beyond that. He doubted that the food they'd been given would last longer. After that, they'd have to hunt--but they'd be on the run from the Chanden then.

In the distance, Moorhen heard Ashtan pray and the tribe chanting after him.

Moorhen couldn't shake off the feeling that they were being set up to be used by these two clans. Would they take revenge on the Chanden … and rid themselves of an enemy clan at the same time?

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. 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," objected Moorhen.

"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--" protested Moorhen. This was madness.

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. He had lost all his father's respect. Ashtan was angry. He didn't mean that. Did he?
Never his son?

"Moorhen," a soft voice pulled him out of his reverie. Crysethe rode up alongside him on her
yithhe,
and she brought his as well. "Let's go."

Reluctantly, Moorhen mounted the beast and followed the others southeast toward Hobset.

Moorhen blinked away the tears from his eyes.

The other two clans had assembled on the edge of the Upper Steppe settlement, all mounted on
yithhe
. The three Chanden prisoners stood there, tied to a pole. Each wore a red tunic--the color of death. They would kill them. It felt unreal.

The three chieftains dismounted and met in the center, near the three Chanden, as did Wanlann’s eldest and heir, Draypeth.

“Today,” said Draypeth. “We will begin our attack on the Chanden. Today we show them our determination! Today, it begins our journey towards freedom. Death to the Chanden!”

“Death to the Chanden! Death to the Chanden!” chanted the warrior’s from all three clans, growing louder and louder.

The chieftains Wanlann and Oorgathe drew their swords and approached two of the Chanden prisoners. Moorhen held his breath, fearing what would happen. He thought of Norbi's death--he had been innocent too. These Chanden had to pay for his brother's death. This was fair, wasn't it?

With one stroke each of them slit the throat of one of the Chanden prisoners. Moorhen felt sick.

Then Ashtan took up his spear and approached the last Chanden prisoner--the Karther factory worker. Moorhen watched with disbelief, doubting somehow that his father could commit such an act.

His father drew back the spear and threw it hard, hitting the Chanden in the heart, killing him instantly. The man sagged as his blood spilled out on the ground.

The troops stopped shouting and began shrieking. The chieftains mounted again and all of them rode off in their own groups, leaving the bloody bodies behind.

Numbly, Moorhen spurred his
yithhe
to follow his clan. His horror of the situation overcame his rage against the Chanden. Could he commit such deeds … against innocent people? Was he the son of his father?

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For two days, they rode south, then west. Three of the Upper Steppe Clan rode with the Sand Plain Clan, presumably to show them the path. Their attitudes were as untamed as was their red hair. Moorhen noticed that they spoke only to Ashtan, dealing very little with the rest of the clan, as though they were beneath them. Even Ashtan was not shown as much respect from them as he deserved.

Moorhen watched them carefully as they traveled. They rode apart from Moorhen's clan, holding their own council. Moorhen didn't trust them, convinced they were up to some mischief. On the second night, they camped at the foot of the Stormage Hills.

Of all his clan, only his little sister, Crysethe, spoke to him. The rest avoided Moorhen, even Draihe and Keilah. His father wouldn't even look at him and Moorhen couldn't dispel the words he'd spoken:
You were never my son.

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. Moorhen was one of the oldest of his siblings, so his father would have been young at the time.

Too embarrassed to bring up the subject, lest his father humiliate again, Moorhen settled down for sleep. When this was over--then Moorhen could have a talk with him, calmly.

But would it end? And how?

Moorhen couldn't shake these grim thoughts as he fell asleep that night.

^
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^ *

Moorhen scarcely slept the night before they descended on Hobset. Attacking this town was wrong, and he knew it--no matter what a few Chanden had done to Norbi. This attack would enrage the Chanden--and they would then retaliate. All Garrans would suffer for it. The town probably had less than a hundred people in it. What if some of them were children? Would Ashtan really kill them all? Could his father really do it?

Yet, his father had slain the innocent Chanden prisoner.

Maybe his father was right. Maybe Moorhen was a coward. He could leave now, before fully committed. 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 farming town--yes, they would be surprised. He was sure.

Moorhen quelled the nausea in his stomach.

"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. But 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 his Chanden laser on Moorhen. "You will leave!" he shouted. "I will not have you 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 found his
yithhe
and
rode away, slowly at first, then at a gallop. His heart pounded and he feared that his father would shoot him in the back. He kept going until he made it over the hill then stopped and circled back around, looking for a place to watch the battle from.

Moorhen felt so ashamed. He should have said nothing. If only he could have kept his tongue still! But he feared that his father and those that followed them rode to their deaths.

From the hills above Hobset, Moorhen watched the upcoming travesty, alone.

His own tribe, the Sand Plain Clan, led by his father, Ashtan, marched towards the unsuspecting Chanden town, with plans to kill man, woman and child. This was a crazy retribution for all that the Chanden had inflicted upon their people in the last 100 years.

It was suicide.

Moorhen could scarcely bear to watch. He looked elsewhere, wishing he could stop his clan somehow.

Ashtan had banished Moorhen for his objections, declaring that he was never a true member of the Sand Plain Clan and forcing Moorhen to leave. And his father took Moorhen’s own little sister, Crysethe, into battle, ignoring all of Moorhen’s objections.

The three Upper Steppe Clan guides watched from a nearby hill top. 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 south. That's not where they said they would be. They were supposed go around to the east and guard the pass to warn them if the Chanden arrived and ambush them.

Was this a trap after all--as Moorhen had told his father? Moorhen did not wish to be proved right. As Ashtan and the others marched towards the village, Moorhen tried to think of an explanation. Perhaps half of the Red Sun clan had gone to the East Pass and these were waiting in reserve to help his father. Why didn't they ride, then?

Moorhen hesitated, torn. His father had banished him, but they were in danger. They had to be warned. Moorhen ran back up the slope to his
yithhe
. The clan was nearly on the village. They spurred forward with outstretched arms, yelling a war cry. A door to one of the dwellings opened and a man stepped out. He was struck down by arrows. The killing had begun.

Then beyond the village, Moorhen saw vehicles approaching from the East Pass. 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.

Moorhen shouted when he reached the village, but there was such chaos that no one heard him. 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 and his father fell.

"Father!" shouted Moorhen, riding towards him, ignoring the chaos around him. He spurred his
yithhe
in his haste, but the beast stumbled. Moorhen jumped off before the creature crashed to the ground.

Moorhen ran to his father's side and held up 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 ran down his father's face.

The bodies of his clansmen lay lifeless all around him. Those that survived were scattered and on the run, leaderless.

The death cries of his clan brought Moorhen back.

The Chanden were advancing. Ashtan couldn't be saved. Quickly, Moorhen took Ashtan's knife, his headdress, and the talisman that showed he was a chief, took everything that might identify his father to the Chanden. He took his war horn as well. 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.

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.

Some buildings blocked them from the view of both the clans on the hill and the Chanden force to the southeast. Here Moorhen stopped and sounded the horn again. Was there no one left?

Minutes crawled by as though they were hours and three of his clan emerged from the buildings, running towards him, carrying a fourth who was wounded. Draiha and Gudhel both helped Taglethe. As they arrived, another showed up--Rollech.

"Retreat!" Moorhen shouted at them, pointing to the southwest.

"Ashtan?" asked Draiha.

"Dead," said Moorhen. "What about the others?"

No one spoke.

"The rest of the clan?" asked Moorhen.

"All dead," said Gudhel.

“Crysethe?” asked Moorhen, with dread.

The others looked uncertain. Draiha shook her head. “I’m sure I saw her fall.”

This death stung the most of all. Moorhen drew a breath. “Let’s go.”

Gudhel 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 others view that they may not be seen. They moved slowly because they had one wounded, his cousin Taglethe.

Four plus Moorhen, that made five. Only five warriors survived out of the two-hundred 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 south. They never covered the East 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 didn't 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 the ground here was rocky--helpful for covering 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 eyes. 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 had been checking Taglethe's 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 Rollech's 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," insisted Moorhen.

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 could 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 bow close.

Moorhen himself needed to rest, but the others had fought and several were wounded. Surely, they needed it more. They had all fallen asleep quickly enough.

Now, with the confusion of the battle over, Moorhen had time to think about his father and the others that had perished. A full half of the clan. Many of them brothers, some sisters. All close family--none of which he would ever see again--Crysethe among them.

Moorhen cried silently, letting his heart catch up to his mind. Moorhen had hoped 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 had come back. Moorhen wished they hadn't fought the last few hours his father was alive--that harsh 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 readied an arrow, though he could see nothing moving. He also had a Chanden laser, but he'd rarely shot one.

A small footstep against a rock gave away the intruder's position--they were to the southeast, behind the nearest ledge. Moorhen moved softly closer, changing his position in case they charged, getting closer to the ledge they were on.

Slowly, Moorhen 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, aiming his bow at them. They turned around. Their garb was Garran and one of them was small--a child.

"Moorhen--you scared me to death!" said Crysethe. The other was Rheggi, one of the old ones.

"Crysethe!" Moorhen cried out. 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 alive and 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 Draiha. "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 a few moments," said Moorhen, "and then we'll continue." They all nodded in agreement and slept the rest of the hour.