The Gods of Garran (6 page)

It was then that Asta realized that Molot was a talker. He did nothing but talk. She sat back on her
yithhe
and decided to soak in all the information she could. And she could learn a lot in the four days it took them to get to Wanthe.

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^ *

The road to Wanthe was neither pleasant nor safe. Robbers hid along the road--rogue Garrans that even the Outlanders themselves could not control. Asta learned that her escort, Molot, was indeed the son of the chief of the Greystone Clan--though not one very close in line for leadership.

The older man was Yance, Molot’s uncle and bodyguard. Asta began to sense that Molot was not much of a fighter. She also sensed that her
ooluk
greatly impressed Molot. Perhaps he had taken her for a priestess because he talked of many things openly with her, including--Asta noted with interest--the upcoming rebellion of some of the clans. Then again, perhaps speaking openly was just his way.

Asta raised her eyebrows. “Tell me about it,” she encouraged him.

Molot shrugged. “People are angry, as they are always angry, at the Invaders.”

That the natives could call them “Invaders” after a century amused Asta--as if they were still foreign to Garran.

“Some tribes talk of taking action, but most of the time, it is just talk.” Then Molot glanced at her. “What we really need is the return of the Borrai. We need the gods to champion us as they once did.”

Asta stared back at him. She almost felt he expected her to do something about this.

Molot sighed and looked away. “But, many say, those days are done. Perhaps,” said Molot, as though maybe the gods would appear at any moment to aid the Garran. “It is difficult to say.”

Difficult to say whether the gods would suddenly return and champion the Garrans? Asta hid her incredulity.

“But,” said Molot. “That is a subject for the Clan Conclave to decide.”

Now Asta’s heartbeat quickened. “The Conclave is going to convene?”

She’d heard of this Clan Conclave. It was a rogue body of government still maintained by the outland natives. The Chanden hadn’t succeeded in eradicating it because it had no particular location. The natives would call a Conclave and then convene in a new place each time. Members of each tribe would be represented. Rarely had the Agency managed to infiltrate such a meeting.

Molot only smiled. They continued on their way.

The wilderness near there was mostly barren. Except for the
tacha
, wild humanoids—small monkey-like creatures that roamed the wilderlands further out. They seemed to have no true speech of their own, and spoke only gibberish. They were practically animals. Even the robbers feared them. Few traveled that road unless need drove them.

This area was not as desolate as other desert areas. Patches of Thania grass grew wild here, where Moorhen had to plant it at his clan home. River shrubs added a reddish orange color to the landscape. And here the trees grew taller.

The town of Wanthe nestled at the foot of some hills called "The Hands of the Gods." These tall hills were considered blessed, as water flowed freely from them year round. Still no one would go up there lest they lay eyes on the gods of Garran. Absurd superstition, of course. None of those things frightened Asta.

They stopped at the head of the valley. The winds blew fiercely. Asta stopped and tightened the baggage on her
yithhe
to make sure nothing would blow free. The air had that dry, Garran-smell that irritated her nose. It seemed worse near Wanthe--the smell of the world of Garran.

Wanthe was not home to only one tribe but a mixture of the tribes and also a few Chanden. It held a Chanden school, which had been mandatory for years, though the law proved difficult to enforce. All
children were required to spend two years during the season of Dusk at the school. There was also a healthy marketplace here for the trading of goods, both Garran and Chanden.

As she approached Wanthe, the poverty and decay of the city impressed Asta. She had been here once before, on one of her training missions. Not a journey she wanted to make alone--but as an agent, she needed to be up to the task.

This trip, things seemed worse than the first time she'd visited. People looked thinner, their clothes more ragged (if that was possible), the houses looked more ancient and crumbly. Even the air seemed drier and more difficult to breathe.

“You must stay with the Greystone Clan,” insisted Molot, as they lumbered into town on their
yithhe
.

“Thank you,” said Asta, glad of a place to stay. She had no desire to enter this nearly all-Garran outpost alone.

The meeting with First Militia Commander Nyan went better than expected. Koethe had met him at the main barracks in Urrlan, the capital city. The review of the troops had taken less time than Koethe expected.

Nyan had asked some standard questions and Koethe had given standard answers. A few hours later, Nyan seemed satisfied.

They sat and drank
tami
, a favored drink from their homeworld of Vhorlend. The conversation relaxed from there and they spoke of matters of common interest: new military rulings and the war. Koethe learned that Nyan had spent several years on Koethe's own homeworld of Toolash, in the same principality that Koethe was raised in--Aggravis.

This led to reminiscing about their favorite bars, restaurants and sports teams. Koethe felt that he could work with Nyan.

But the interview he dreaded more was the one that afternoon with Second Militia Commander Montani. Anticipating that, Koethe reluctantly excused himself. All the visiting officers had been invited to dinner the following night.

"I'll see you then," said Koethe.

"I look forward to it," said Nyan.

He walked back to his office, enjoying the exercise. Commander Montani was waiting for him when he arrived. She was early. His own First Chief Richt waited with her. How long she'd been there, Koethe didn't know, but she already sat at a terminal with
access to the financial records, no doubt she had already begun viewing them. Chief Richt must have allowed her access.

She rose when he entered the room. "Commander Koethe," she said with stiff politeness.

"Commander Montani," he responded back, hiding his surprise at the early intrusion. "You're early." She knew he had an appointment with Commander Nyan that morning.

He knew he should make small talk or offer her a drink but her attitude angered him. Was that her plan? Did she want to anger him?

"I trust that you've been given access to the records you need." Koethe said with just enough politeness.

"Chief Richt has been very helpful, thank you," said Montani. Had she been questioning him about Koethe's activities? His anger spiked. She had no right to pry like this.

Koethe glanced at Richt, who looked a little uncomfortable. No doubt she had intimidated him. "Thank you, Chief Richt," he said. It was a dismissal.

"Sir," said Richt. Taking the hint, he excused himself.

"Take all the time you need to examine the records," said Koethe, attempting a friendly tone but only half succeeding.

"I will," said Montani somberly. He had no doubt. However, she did not sit down. "I do have a few questions," she said.

"Already?" he asked, wishing that he could pour himself a drink, but this would not be the time--and he begrudged offering her the courtesy.

"Yes," she said. "If you don't mind?"

"Why should I? I have nothing to hide." He leaned back against his desk, trying to appear casual.

"I see that in the last four years, you've funded over 26 schools--seven of which were built in the last three years alone."

This was her objection? "Yes?" he asked, waiting.

"There aren't even that many Chanden children here," she frowned.

"They aren't just for Chanden children," said Koethe.

"You put Chanden children in school alongside Garran children?" She looked taken aback.

"Why not? How better to merge our cultures?"

"I'm not sure that running schools is an approved budgetary expense," she said.

"I am trying to civilize a world," he said, standing up straight again. He couldn't keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"This is a military operation, yet these schools take 32% of your operating budget?" she continued, her disapproval clear.

"I can't expect to enforce the laws if the people don't understand them," he countered.

"Usually one hires more Enforcers when one wants to
enforce
the law," she said haughtily. "Not school teachers."

"I built schools to teach them our language. How can I deal with a people that can't understand us?" Koethe took a step towards her. Perhaps he wanted to intimidate her. "You may be a military commander, but obviously you know little about governing. When I took over 20 years ago, Garran was nothing more than a backwater planet. Now it is a full outpost."

"I see. And one day you hope to gain Province status?"

"Naturally," said Koethe.

"And
you
will be governor?" she asked with a sneer.

"All the progress we've made here, has been made by
me
."

"And the High Realm should pay for this? You'd have them fund your ambitions to be governor?"

A flash of anger went through Koethe and he restrained from speaking for a moment. This woman was a fool. Or--she was goading him.

"Or, maybe you're hoping for a Kingdom someday," she said. "Is that it?"

He didn't know what she was getting after.

"I've stayed within my budget," he said at last. "My expenditures have been reasonable. I won't have my motives questioned by you," he said.

She stared at him. "The Budget Commission will decide what is reasonable, based on my report," said Montani. With that, she turned and sat down, an obvious dismissal.

Koethe stared at him, thinking of several responses, but making none of them. Meanwhile, she ignored him.

Silently, he sat down at his desk. It would be a long day.

A hint of dawn stole across the red desert sands, waking the Sand Plain Clan from slumber.

As soon as Moorhen awoke, he remembered with a pang of regret that his sister, Crysethe, had followed them without permission. Somehow he had been blamed. He groaned and got up.

They left the ravine and traveled across the Dry Sea. Sometimes in the spring, it filled with water. But now it was parched and dry--a source of salt for all the Garrans. But the place was a wasteland. No one could live there. The winds blew fiercely, discouraging plants and animals both from inhabiting the place.

To the east lay the White Sands of Vannith where mile of miles of sand dunes covered the land, choking out all other life. Water there was scarce.

Moorhen's thoughts were dark as they rode their
yithhe
through the desert sands. Crysethe rode up near Ashtan, favored by him despite her stupid stunt of following them. The others still avoided Moorhen, as though he were cursed. Speaking against Ashtan was not something members of the Sand Plain Clan usually dared. Dissension wasn't tolerated where leadership decisions were concerned. There could only be one leader. And no matter how crazy a plan Ashtan came up with, he was well-loved by all.

Whereas Moorhen was a puzzle to them. He was tolerated by the warriors, since many times his ideas turned out to be useful.

Moorhen knew he thought too much and he wondered at times about his own mother and whether she was truly of the Sand Plain Clan or not. In the past, whenever Moorhen had asked his father about his mother, he had said she was dead and refused to talk about it.

The Dry Sea stretched as far as the eye could see--a barren, flat, salty valley, devoid of variation. The morning stretched on as endlessly as the plains they traveled. No one spoke much as they crossed here. The place felt eerie. Sometimes as Moorhen stared out at the white sands, he thought he saw it move, almost as if it was alive.

The sun was high in the sky, and still they had not stopped for lunch. They pressed onward through the white desert, traveling swiftly almost as though pursued by some enemy.

Moorhen rode near the rear. His aunt and uncle, Mirrhia and Derish rode up further ahead of them. Two of his cousins, Rollech and Tylol, followed behind him. His cousins kept a nervous eye on the desert.

A sound alerted them and all three turned to the rear as something lunged at Rollech, knocking him off his mount. The creature was white, making it nearly invisible in this landscape. Moorhen could barely see it. He drew his dagger. Another beast sprang up against Tylol and brought him down. Both Tylol and Rollech were fighting a losing battle against the slim, white creatures whose teeth tore at them.

"Attack!" yelled Moorhen, finding his voice. He looked back, where the creatures had come from and saw a whole pack of the white-furred creatures, their white eyes a bare
outline against their fur as they ran towards them. Spurring his
yithhe
, Moorhen put some distance between him and the beasts. "We're being attacked!" he shouted again. He whirled and drew his bow. Soon he shot at one of the beasts on Rollech, dropping it. Now more beasts caught up and bounded past the two fallen comrades towards the group.

The other clan members had stopped and turned their
yithhe
to see what the trouble was. They seemed confused, looking for the enemy. The dogs' white fur made them difficult to spot. The beast's name came back to Moorhen's memory--
voltche
, salt dogs. He'd never seen one but knew they were dangerous.

Moorhen strung another arrow and shot, missing his target. "Help!" he cried.

Ashtan wasted no time but lunged his
yithhe
towards the rear as did those closest to him. A moment later, the rest of the clan sprang into action. Soon the beasts were everywhere and Moorhen struggled to get a clear shot. Quickly he rode over to Rollech and Tylol, who lay on the ground. The beasts had moved on to other battles.

Mirrhia fought off two salt dogs. Her husband Derish shot one of them with a bow. She killed the other.

Moorhen's heart pounded as he jumped off his mount and hurried over to Rollech. He was alive, his arm badly wounded. Moorhen felt relieved. A growl gave Moorhen warning and he drew his dagger and whirled to find a
voltche
leaping towards him.

Moorhen rolled away and the beast missed him but quickly swung around to face him. As Moorhen tried to get to his feet--the
voltche
lunged.

Determined, Moorhen swung, but missed. The creature caught Moorhen's left arm in its mouth. Moorhen screamed, more out of fear than pain. Such a beast could bite through his arm. They ate flesh, so he'd heard. He cried out again as the
voltche
bit deeper--but there was no help nearby.

The beast growled. Moorhen was sure that the beast would take his arm. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Moorhen remembered the dagger in his right hand. The angle was not good to stab the beast but Moorhen had no choice.

Grimacing at the pain, Moorhen struggled to get to his knees, trying to throw the creature off but this only made the pain worse, clouding his mind for a moment. Finally he got up enough and took aim at the creature's neck then struck. The dagger sliced open the dog's throat and it cried out. The pressure on Moorhen's arm lessened. He pushed the dagger further into the head and twisted, sickened at the sight of red blood that spurted forth. Soon the beast fell dead, its jaws still clinging to Moorhen's arm.

Fighting nausea, Moorhen struggled free of the creature, realizing that much of the blood on the beast and his arm was his own. A wave of dizziness passed over him. His jacket had protected his arm somewhat from the
voltche's
fangs but still he was wounded. He could barely feel his arm--and he couldn't move it.

Moorhen pulled his knife back out and pushed the creature back from him. Hastily wiping the blade and sheathing his weapon, Moorhen scrambled over to Tylol to check him. His cousin's eyes were frozen open in a look of pain. Blood covered his chest. He was dead.

Moorhen staggered backward and ran away a few steps. The nausea overcame him and he threw up, repeatedly. Never had he seen death so close up, not even that night with Norbi in the Black Hills.

Dazed, Moorhen sat there a moment or two. Slowly feeling came back to his arm. He flexed it carefully, fearful of another attack. Then he remembered Rollech, scrambled up and ran over to his side.

"Are you all right?" he asked. "Rollech? Can you stand?"

Rollech was regaining consciousness but moaned in pain. His right leg was torn up.

The battle was over. The clan slowly recovered. Ashtan made his way over to Tylol, saw his lifeless face. "What happened?" he asked Rollech.

"They attacked from behind." said Rollech. "This one ran." He pointed to Moorhen. Ashtan glared at him.

"No," said Moorhen. "I … I didn't." What had he done? He felt dizzy. "I wanted to--"

"Silence, coward," said Ashtan with disgust. "I have no ears for your excuses."

"But--"

"Shut up!" Ashtan took a few steps toward him and Moorhen recoiled. "Help him, before I decide to leave you for the salt dogs!"

Moorhen stared after him. He hadn't run; he had moved back to shoot his bow and warn the others. The dark color of his jacket concealed his own wound. Frustrated, Moorhen bent down to help Rollech.

"Don't touch me," spat Rollech. "I once heard you were a half-garr. Maybe they were right. Coward." Moorhen stared at him. A half-garr? No one had ever said this to him. It was a great insult. "Go take care of Tylol," said Derish.

Mirrhia hurried over to Rollech's side to tend to him, pouring out water to clean the wound.

Without arguing, Moorhen moved over and closed Tylol's eyes. He removed the pouch he wore with his personal things and laid his body out, ready for a ceremony. Ashtan raised his tribal medallion and spoke a blessing over Tylol, commending his spirit to the winds. Then they buried him.

The evening turned cold.

Sonthhe was north of there a few hours. They camped well outside the city that evening. Ashtan and ten warriors, including Draihe and Channik, accompanied him to Sonthhe, searching for Nevehan and the Red Sun Clan.

^
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A night passed and a day. Still there was no word. The clan grew restless but Ashtan had been clear. They were not to move nor approach the town, afraid that the Chanden would spot the group. Sometimes the Chanden patrolled these remote villages.

"I don't like this," said Gudhel, fretting about Draihe's absence. "They've been gone too long."

"Negotiations take time," said Moorhen, but he also worried. Gudhel and many others spent the day hunting and caught a few eke. It made for a good meal that night. Moorhen regretted that they didn't have time to dry any of the meat. He saw that the meat was well cooked. It would last several days.

Another night passed. No one was happy but few complained.

In the morning, Ashtan and the warriors returned with the four travelers: Nevehan, Kresha, Shann and Serra.

Having the Red Sun Clan among them gave Moorhen a sense of foreboding.

"I have spoken to the other clans and we are in agreement. We will ride to the Upper Steppes," said Ashtan, determined. "Where we will hold a council on what to do."

It felt like they were going to war. Moorhen worried what the outcome to this would be. The Chanden were powerful. They couldn't win a fight with them.