The Gods of Garran (5 page)

The clear gray eyes stared at Asta. The old man studied her solemnly, questioning her character. Then a sword slit his throat wide open. The blood flowed. Fire engulfed him.

Asta sat up in bed, realizing that she’d been dreaming. Groggily, she realized she was in Ruben's tent. She pushed the slumbering form of Ruben Drake aside and climbed out of bed. Actually it wasn’t a bed, just a combination of their bedrolls. They were still on the way back to Urrlan, the capital city of Garran.

Her head hurt from the rum they'd drunk. Was it a good idea to get in a relationship with Ruben? Asta wavered between hate and love where he was concerned. He was handsome and brave. He wore his sandy blond hair long, like a Garran. She had admired him ever since she'd met him, yet actually working with him turned out to be quite different. Was this love or a mistake?

Maybe she liked Ruben because he was the sort of man her father would hate. He could be cruel. He found it easy to use people, sometimes in despicable ways. The job brought out his violent nature.

She threw on her tunic, grabbed her cloak and stepped out of the tent. The night was still dark, but a hint of twilight shone on the horizon. The Sunny season had ended, having passed the solstice months ago.

The Arid season had begun. Now it would be dry and windy until the season of Dusk, where the sun seldom shone. The leaves never changed color here, not much, but the grass and flowers would wither.

The fire was nothing but embers and the two other tents, with Breehan in one, Jess and Pak in the other, stood silent. Asta sat down and stirred the coals, casting a few sticks into the fire.

Her mind felt fuzzy. Distracted--and not just from the residual alcohol. She felt as though she was being watched. Then she heard a sound. She stood.

Without thinking, Asta drew the
ooluk
sword from its scabbard. She turned it over to look at the sleek, curved metal blade with the white bone pommel and orange crystal stone.

The night was quiet; all was still.

Almost, she thought the sword made a very light ringing noise, though when she held it closer, she heard nothing.

A noise over the hill distracted her. Instinctively, she held the sword tighter as she ventured out to investigate. It was possible they had been seen and followed from town. Or that someone had missed the old man and tracked them somehow. The Garrans were fierce trackers.

Slowly, Asta crested the hill,
ooluk
in hand. The sword felt comforting in her hands, more so than any laser had. Her mind felt sharp and her vision keen, despite the fact that it was night.

Standing at the top of the hill, she scanned the horizon, but saw nothing. There were a few scraggly trees and some low bushes covering these hills. The Garrans considered it a forest. To Asta, remembering her homeworld of Toolash, the whole of Garran was a desert.

Asta ventured over the hill and down the other side, searching the shadows for some sign of movement. Then it came. A black shadow jumped out at her from the dark.

Using an instinct she didn’t know she had, Asta swung the sword, cutting the throat of the
sechule
. The sleek, black feline body fell to the ground at Asta’s feet. Only then did Asta cry out in surprise.

Nothing else stirred. Asta ran to the top of the hill, but the scuffle hadn’t aroused the sleeping camp.

Knowing she wouldn’t sleep, Asta spent the remainder of the night skinning the
sechule
and taking its teeth to make a necklace.

^
^
^
^ *

Once the sun began to rise, the others got up and found Asta. The
sechule
skin lay next to her on a rock.

"What's this?" asked Ruben.

"I couldn't sleep," said Asta. "Caught this prowling around." They'd all been tired last night and hadn't set a watch.

Ruben was impressed. "You killed it yourself? With that?" he nodded at the
ooluk
. She had set the sword and scabbard on the ground next to the rock.

She nodded. "I did."

They ate a quick breakfast and then began packing up the tents. When Asta began taking down her tent, Ruben came over to help. He snuggled up behind her and put his arms around her waist.

"Don't," said Asta. "I can do it."

"I'll help you," he smiled, kissing her neck gently. She let him for a moment but she felt annoyed this morning. She moved away.

"I said I can do it," she said, more coldly.

Ruben looked at her. "You aren't sorry . . . about last night, are you?"

She looked up at him. "I just don't need you hovering over me," she said. It was cold. She knew that. She didn't really mean to push him away. She'd done this before with men that she liked. Ruben wasn't her first.

He stared at her. "Fine," he said and turned away.

They packed up the
yithhe
and continued their journeyed towards the capital city of Urrlan.

Originally, the mysterious Borrai built the ancient city of Urrlan--the largest on Garran and the most civilized. Now, it served as headquarters for the Chanden. Born on the world of Toolash, Asta's family moved to Garran when she was seven. Of all the cities on the planet, she'd rather be in Urrlan--but it would never be home to her.

Urrlan also held the Temple of Innurlan, one of the Garran goddesses. Now the temple served as a museum of Garran artifacts, which belonged to the Chanden High Realm. They might be able to tell her more about this
ooluk
, her priest sword. But if she showed it to them, they might confiscate it.

The wind had been fierce this morning, pushing and pulling the little group of Enforcers as they traveled, playing with them like a
sechule
plays with its prey.

Perhaps Asta was getting sick. Several times she felt dizzy. She imagined eyes staring at her, but when she turned around--there was nothing there. It was like tendrils of confusion slipped into the edges of Asta's mind. Her mind drifted.

"Damn this wind!" said Ruben, interrupting her musings.

They stopped in the desert of Draeffan to contact headquarters and report.

Soon Ruben Drake returned and addressed the squad. “There is some sort of trouble to the south, down near Wanthe. I need someone to scout it out and report back.” He looked expectantly at the tired group, waiting for a volunteer.

After a moment’s hesitation, Asta raised her hand. “I’ll go,” she said. She needed all the experience she could get. A solo mission would be even better to prove herself to the Agency.

Ruben nodded at her, thinking it over. “All right,” he said. “Just gather intelligence,” he cautioned. “Don’t do anything heroic or stupid.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. Of course, she wouldn’t deliberately do anything stupid.

They loaded extra supplies on her
yithhe,
and wished her well. Then they were on their way.

Asta traveled light. Now she had an important mission to complete. She felt confident that she could handle this. With the pay raise from joining the Stealth Unit, Asta would save up for her ticket off this forsaken planet.

The sun cast a bronze hue over the sandy ravines as she plunged into the wilderness. Her goal was Wanthe. It was too far out for the convenience of the Chanden colonists, and too near the Eye of Innurlan for some natives, a cursed place that even some Garrans found unsettling.

Wanthe was one of the smallest of the seven ancient cities. It held another major Garran temple. The winds there were terrible and only a handful of Garrans chose to live in it.

In her mind, Asta reviewed her own story, which must be convincing when she came up with natives this far from the capital. The clan she pretended to come from was a very old one, scattered far and wide, the Shing River Clan. No one could prove her claims one way or the other. Plus she could read and write both Chanden and Garran. She had practiced her fighting skills for years, even with primitive Garran weapons.

Asta's best weapon was the long bow. But now Asta had this
ooluk
--a priest sword. She had trained in sword-fighting but hadn’t been tested in a real battle. That was her one reservation. Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

She stopped in a small outpost named Cassel. Nothing but a few mud huts. She stopped there by a well and watered her
yithhe
.

Two Garran men stood there, watering their own
yithhe
. She nodded at them. One, a tall, dark man just a few years her senior observed her
ooluk
with interest.

“Are you
Shaheak
?” asked the man. Unlike some Garrans she’d met on the road, this man was clean-shaven. He wore a tailored vest and a wool cloak that looked finer than the average Garran would have. Around his neck he wore an amulet that could be meant to show status--perhaps a chief’s son.

Asta stared blankly at him and then realized that he had seen her priest sword, mistaking her for one of the order.
“I’m Te'jaste,” she said.

He shook his head. “Your
ooluk
,” he nodded at the sword that hung at her side. “It is a god-sword. A Borrai weapon.”

The other man looked over at her, glancing at the sword. This man seemed to be a companion of the first, though older and more worn-looking.

She stared at him, not sure what to say. It was a priest-sword, she knew that much. Is a god-sword the same thing? Would the man know it had belonged to the priest? She hadn’t thought that anyone would recognize it. She shifted uncomfortably.

“Let me introduce myself,” said the Garran man, with unusually good manners. “I am Molot of the Greystone Clan. Where do you come from,
Te'jaste?”

Her heart pounding, Asta hesitated. For a moment her mind blanked. Her thoughts raced, she mustn't falter like this! “I’m of the Shing River Clan,” she said, perhaps a little too quickly as she remembered the name. Inwardly, she cursed herself.

“The Shing River Clan?” said Molot. “It is far from here.”

“Yes,” was all that Asta could think of to say.

“May I have the privilege of looking at your
ooluk
?

Now Asta hesitated even longer. She didn’t want to show him the sword. She wished she had never taken it. She wanted this conversation to end. Nonetheless, Molot’s manners were impeccable. He didn’t seem like a Garran rebel, more like a trader or the son of a rich clansman.

Reluctantly, Asta drew the blade from its scabbard. Asta heard a slight metallic ringing as she did so. In the light, she saw a series of ancient runes on the side of the blade--like nothing she had ever seen of the Garran writing system. She should have sent it on to the museum, but the blade was too fine not to be used.

She handed the blade over to the man. He studied it for a moment

“Yes,” said Molot pensively. “The blade is named Jir’cata. It is a god-sword. You have wielded it?” He stared at her closely, waiting for her answer.

“Yes,” she said. From the look he gave her, it’s like he expected the blade was haunted or something. Molot and his friend exchanged a glance.

Suddenly finding her bravery, Asta asked “You can read it?”

Molot studied the blade a moment. “Only a little,” he said. “I know only a little of the ancient language of the Borrai. Where did you get such a sword?”

Now Asta felt urgent to leave. This conversation had already gone on too long. She held out her hand for the
ooluk
. Molot handed it back during the uncomfortable silence.

Molot smiled then, unexpectedly. “Where are you going?”

Asta wanted to lie, not sure which way this man was going. “To Wanthe.”

“Ah,” smiled Molot. “As are we,” he said with delight. “We should travel together. You are young and the desert is a wild place--even for a girl who carries the
ooluk
Jir’cata.”

She stared at Molot, slipping the blade back into its scabbard. There was something about the
ooluk
--not just its sharpness or lightness in her hands, nor the beautiful workmanship. Holding it felt right. In her hands, it almost felt alive.

But that was nonsense.

Asta nodded at last. “Very well,” she said. Perhaps it would help to have a friend on this trip to Wanthe. Maybe Molot was influential. That could come in handy. And as an agent, she needed to begin to collect contacts. But now, she wished that she hadn't shown him the sword. She didn't like people asking her questions about where she got it.

Molot beamed at her. “Wonderful,” he said. They all mounted their
yithhe
and continued towards the city of Wanthe.

She was taking a risk, but she felt the Agency would approve.

Asta also had one last resort--an internal locator. The Agency installed it so that it couldn't be removed or detected. If she went more than 50 hours without checking in, the Agency would use the locator and start a rescue mission. She'd never had to use it, but it was comforting to know that if anything went wrong, help would come.