The Gods of Garran (23 page)

“Hear, hear,” shouted the others in the tent.

Moorhen looked desperately around the room. He was losing this argument. “The Borrai-Asta has called upon all of us to withdraw, including the Chanden. We must not go to war with them. You know how the gods of Old were about warfare. They never permitted it.”

“The Old Gods of Garran are dead,” said Channik solemnly. “We need new gods now, for a new day.”

Draypeth's new god--Ridjoffr? Moorhen stared at Channik.

“But, brother, that’s enough of concerns,” said Channik. “You must find your bravery, because the hour is at hand.”

“No, you must listen--”

“No,” said Channik angrily. “You must listen. I’ve heard your words. It’s too late to change our course. From this moment on, I want to hear no more talk from you about this. Do you understand me, little brother?”

Channik and Moorhen locked gazes.

“If you speak against this attack any more, I banish you again, and have you expelled from this gathering! I can’t let doubts like this fester.”

Slowly Moorhen nodded. “Yes, brother.”

“Good,” smiled Channik. “Then we will go to the Gathering.”

The village of Anik perched on the cliffs south of the Northern Cones, overlooking Rhashan and the Stony Dunes. Koethe and his men made for it. From there, they could monitor the battle.

The base was not well known. Koethe counted on that now.

After freeing the boy, Moorhen, Koethe had received orders to rejoin Godwin in his camp east of Draelea. He had sent a message telling of a mechanical failure on his airship and cut the message off before he could give coordinates.

Koethe was on the run.

Captain Bashan of Anik had always been an ally. Koethe believed he could count on her for help. She was a few years his senior and had been a fixture on Garran since long before Koethe had arrived twenty years earlier.

They had long been acquaintances. She had often joined in on their Razak card games on her visits to Urrlan. They'd passed many an agreeable drinking Cataberry wine and arguing Realm politics. She was a formidable woman.

They set the airship down nearby and approached the village. A cliff created a convenient wall on one side of the town. Long ago, a stone wall had been built around the remainder of the city, creating a small fortress. Nothing could get in, if the village didn't want it to. Even an approach from overhead would be difficult over the narrow village, most of which was sheltered under the cliff face.

The gate opened easily for them. Becnand and Fauke accompanied Koethe into the citadel. Chief Richt stayed behind to monitor communications in the airship.

They entered a guard tower, maybe 30 feet wide, and sparsely decorated. This would just be a waypoint in entering the city. The gate shut behind them and several guards barred them from proceeding through the double doors on the far side.

"What is this?" demanded Koethe, feeling genuine fear. Had he walked into a trap? Perhaps General Godwin already controlled this outpost. It was possible.

Koethe did some quick calculations. There were five soldiers in the room, against the three of them. But Koethe and his men were seasoned fighters. These might just be unpracticed guards. But he knew Maive Bashan. She was tough and he imagined she didn't keep 'unpracticed' guards in key positions.

He exchanged a glance with Becnand and Fauke.

"Captain Bashan is on her way, sir," said one of the men. "If you'll wait here."

The Anik soldiers all had their weapons handy, though they weren't poised to use them. But they were highly alert. No sense taking chances before he knew the true situation.

"Thank you," said Koethe dryly.

They didn't wait long. The double doors opened and a tall, tan woman with shoulder-length sandy blond hair strode purposefully into the room, followed by four more soldiers.

Damn the woman. Now they were outgunned. If it was a trap, Koethe would have a hard time fighting his way out of this one. But he doubted that Maive would side with the General in this conflict.

"What the hell is this I hear about attacking the
tsirvaks
?" were the first words out of her mouth. No greetings. No explanations.

Koethe felt a little relief. He was right about her loyalties. "That is not my doing. These are orders from General Godwin," explained Koethe.

She came to a stop five feet from where Koethe stood. "I don't care if they're orders from god," she said sourly. The four soldiers with her actually held rifles in their hands, armed and ready for action.

She didn't mince.

"He's gone over my head," said Koethe. "I have no intention of complying."

"Yet all the militia have been called out to Draelea to fight this insane war."

"I know," said Koethe. "But, I have a plan to counter him."

She stared at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Send native couriers to as many
tsirvaks
as you can reach from here, to warn them. They must leave the clan homes and hide in the hills. It won't be safe for them in the towns for the moment."

She made no response but continued to hear him out.

"I've given orders to send word to other
tsirvaks
in the south. As for those who remain here, you should imprison the Garrans and guard them. This could get rough."

"I'm not going to arrest my native citizens," she said coldly.

"Maive," began Koethe.

"Don't you 'Maive' me!" she retorted loudly. Her feisty nature attracted him. She reminded him of his dead wife, Nona. Or even of his daughter, Asta.

"We're at war now," argued Koethe, hoping she'd be reasonable.

"I am not going to arrest people who have been loyal to me for years. Loyal to the Realm!" Her eyes flashed. He had to admire her. "I have Garrans in key positions here."

He took in a breath. "Then, send as many as want to return home to their clans. Give them the supplies they need for the journey."

"And this battle?"

"I've sent a coded message to my militia not to attack unless the order comes directly from me."

"Some may not comply," she countered.

"Perhaps …
some
," said Koethe. "What would you have me do?"

She stared at him thoughtfully. "I hear that the godstone has been found."

He nodded, dryly. "Yes," he said.

"And that the Garrans have a new Borrai?"

"You don't believe in any of that nonsense, do you?" he asked.

She raised her eyebrows at him. "Shouldn't I?"

He scowled. "It's my daughter, Asta. I don't know how she got in the middle of this."

"Your daughter is the new Borrai?" Maive beamed at the scandalousness of it. "That is interesting."

The conversation was becoming insufferable. "What's your point? You have a suggestion?"

"Yes," she said. "Do nothing."

"Nothing?"

"When the attack begins, withdraw your militia, if you can. The rest will meet on the Stony Dunes, the site of an ill-fated battle many decades ago. If the godstone has any
effect, it should happen then. Give the gods their moment. In the past, their wrath has been great."

"Not great enough to stop our invasion a hundred years ago."

"No. A miscalculation, perhaps. I've discussed this at length with my villagers. Under no circumstances should any of us participate in this battle at Stony Dunes. After that, who knows, maybe the choices will be simpler."

Koethe doubted that. He could scarcely give away half of the planet to the Garrans, as
'Borrai-Asta'
had demanded. The High Realm would never allow it. But he agreed with Captain Bashan. "We will see," he said.

All of the clans poured out of the tents at the sound of a single horn. They made for the large firecave at the base of the hill at Desert Wind Clan home.

Once again, Moorhen was a member of his clan. He had pledged his bow to his brother, Channik, who bore the title of chieftain since their father's death at Hobset. But those warriors who had survived that battle now planned to ride out to Rhashan and attack the Chanden there. Another suicide mission. His efforts to warn them were futile.

Moorhen, who’d been at the encampment for less than thirty minutes, followed his clan with an unwilling heart. No doubt the horn called them to some large rally led by one of the Upper Steppe Clan.

Beside Moorhen, walked his little sister, Crysethe. She was too young for such a mission.

“Is that it?” she asked. “Have you given up?”

Glumly, Moorhen looked up at her. “You heard them. They won’t listen.”

She considered this quietly as she walked. “Just because they won’t listen, doesn’t mean that the things you said aren’t still true.”

He spared her a glance but made no reply. Yes, still they were walking into a trap. Their clan homes would be attacked by Chanden. And the
Borrai-Asta
had warned all of them against warring against each other.

“I’m just one man,” argued Moorhen. “What can I do?”

She looked at him sideways. Perhaps she expected him to answer his own question. Moorhen sighed in exasperation.

Around him, his clan: Channik, his brother, the newly appointed chief; Pellan, their cousin; Missa, their sister; Mirrhia and Derish, their aunt and uncle; and countless other
of his cousins and brothers and sisters now marched towards their death. And Moorhen was powerless to stop them.

“Maybe I’m wrong,” said Moorhen.

“Because you won’t do what you’re told?” asked Crysethe.

“I’m part of the clan,” said Moorhen. “The clan has made its decision and I should abide by that decision.”

Again, Crysethe gave him a sideways glance, as though he was talking nonsense.

He ignored her and reconciled himself to trying to put away his fears and go along with his family. He moved up to walk beside Channik. This time, he would support his clan chief.

And if his whole clan perished but he survived--what would the point of his life be then anyway?

They approached the lava tube opening. It was wide enough for four men to walk abreast in it. Right there, next to the opening were two huge banners. Moorhen had never seen the like of them before. Three swords were arranged in a triangle and in the center was the face of a devil dog, its mouth open in a terrifying snarl. The dog was painted blood red against a white cloth. It gave him shivers to look at it.

Ridjoffr. Their new god.

And there, on the side of the door, stood a pole with three claw arms outstretched in three separate directions. Tied to the end of each of these were a victim: two were men, and one a woman. They looked ragged and beaten. Their mouths were gagged. A ragged red tunic, made to look like blood, had been draped over each of their shoulders.

Human sacrifice. A good luck offering to the god of war, Ridjoffr, before battle. Just as the Upper Steppe Clan had done the day of their attack on Hobset. Looking at it, Moorhen went cold inside.

Not again.

This could not be happening.

Horrified, he looked at the clansmen and women around him. All of them walked past the victims and said nothing. They made no reaction. Surely, he was not the only one to object.

He glanced at Mirrhia. She caught his eye and he saw that she was disturbed but then she turned away. Moorhen glanced back behind him. Missa also stared at the Chanden sacrifices a moment before looking away. Derish was looking right at Moorhen, when he turned back around, as though expecting him to object.

Why couldn’t one of them just
say
something? Channik had made it clear that Moorhen was not to speak out anymore. If he said anything, Channik would surely cast him out of the clan. This time forever.

The trek inside the cave felt long. The lamps that burned cast a red glow around the cave walls, giving the cavern a gloomy atmosphere. The room was large enough to hold a thousand men. A large dais sat in the center of the cavern. All around the clan assembled in the amphitheater. Moorhen ended up near the front of his tribe, not far from Channik.

Ten warriors stood at the bottom of the dais. Each wore a bronze colored mask in the shape of the devil dog. This was not the clan way--it was meant to strike terror into the hearts of fellow clansmen. They'd been refining their religion.

On the rear wall had been painted two large devil dogs, each twice the height of a man and surrounded by the three swords.

Long ago, before the Borrai, Garran priests had sacrificed three animals before a battle, to appease the gods. This was called this a Triune. Three goats or three eke. But now they would sacrifice three Chanden at the beginning of the battle?

Moorhen shivered.

Ridjoffr. The new god of Garran.

Along the back wall, drummers drummed out a steady march as the warriors entered the hall and assembled. The whole cave repelled Moorhen’s sensibilities. The drumming, the swords, the blood colored lights.

He felt as though he’d been caught up in a rushing river that was plunging headlong to the edge of a cliff.

Conversation was impossible with the loud beat of the drums filling the cavern. They waited patiently until all the warriors, that could fit, had entered the cave. This firecave had four entrances, three leading outside. The last led down deep into the earth where the Desert Wind Clan lived--their
tsirvak
.

Finally, the drums stopped. Draypeth, heir of the Upper Steppe Clan stood at the center of the dais and raised his arms. He wore a bright red tunic. None of the clans wore this color. It was the color of death.

“Warriors!” Draypeth cried. “I greet you!”

The crowd grew still to listen to Draypeth, the leader of the rebellion.

“This is a day that will go down in history. The Chanden have killed our people. This will not go unpunished! We will strike back!”

This brought a cheer from the crowd.

“Today, we will show them that we will no longer accept their rule!”

Again the drums sounded with their loud, steady beat. The Chanden prisoners were brought in, their hands still tied above their heads to a pole. They struggled a little, knowing their time was nearly up, but mostly the fight had gone out of them already. Who knows how many days they’d been kept prisoner and tormented by the tribes.

It shamed Moorhen. No doubt they were just farmers or factory workers who had strayed too far from their village. He didn’t believe they were guilty of anything. At least not guilty of anything deserving of death.

Two tribesmen carried the pole and set it down at the base of the dais. Three of the masked swordsmen drew their swords and slowly approached.

Moorhen shouldn’t have come back. He shouldn’t have joined the tribe. The whole ceremony made his skin crawl.

But what was the difference between killing innocent Chanden here or killing innocent Chanden later in the village when they attack? Perhaps no difference.

But it was wrong.

He took a deep breath, then he stepped out in front of the group. “I’m sorry,” said Moorhen, glancing up at Channik. “I can’t.” Moorhen moved down the slope towards the victims, out where the crowd could see him.

“Can’t you see that this is wrong?” shouted Moorhen. A quick glance at Channik showed how displeased he was with Moorhen. “What crimes have these three people committed … that they deserve to die?”

At this challenge, Draypeth descended from the dais, his red tunic flowing in the breeze. “They are Chanden. Isn’t that a crime enough?”

The people cheered.

“They stole our cities from us and killed our gods,” said Draypeth. "They are thieves and murderers!"

“Not all of them!” said Moorhen. “I went with Sindke of Firebird Clan. In the Northern Cones, we found the ancient godstone."

At this, the crowd grew very still.

“We have a new Borrai among us--the Borrai-Asta. She has said that we must stop this war and go back to our clan homes,” said Moorhen. For the first time, he believed that they would listen.

“And where is this new Borrai?” asked Draypeth. “Why isn’t she here?”

Moorhen had no idea.

The tall warrior took a few steps towards Moorhen. “We have no need of your absentee gods! Now we worship Ridjoffr, the God of War!” The people cheered at Draypeth’s words. “And you come to us now, when we are on the verge of victory?”

“Victory?” scoffed Moorhen. He pointed across the plains. "There are thousands upon thousands of Chanden troops waiting for us at Rhashan near the Stony Dunes. The Chanden have vowed that they will wipe us out. We’re walking into an ambush.”

A warrior from the ranks of Dark Cloud Clan stepped forward. “It’s not an ambush, if you know about it. We are aware of what’s waiting for us,” said the man. It was Jarvaine! He had been with Sindke, Asta and Moorhen when they found the godstone and fought the Chanden. Moorhen had assumed he was dead.

Jarvaine smiled at Moorhen’s surprise. “Yes, they released me as well.”

“But, you saw their armies.”

“I did. And it’s true. They have thousands upon thousands of soldiers. But, all told, we have two thousand Garran warriors who are fierce and ready to fight!”

At this the crowd cheered.

“And as for this new Borrai--I say, she is no friend to the Garrans. She is a Chanden.”

A hush fell on the crowd.

“The gods of Garran will never accept her,” said Jarvaine. “The stone will drive her mad and she will die.”

Draypeth smiled. “And this--this is the god you want us to trust … a Chanden?”

Now Channik took a few steps forward. “Moorhen, that’s enough! Stop this.” He beckoned Moorhen to come back to them.

But Moorhen shook his head. He still couldn’t let these innocent Chanden die. “I can’t stand idly by while you murder these people.”

“Be smart, Moorhen. Listen to your clan,” said Jarvaine.

“No,” said Moorhen, placing himself between the executioners and the Chanden.

Again Channik waved Moorhen back towards them. His face was angry. “Come on.”

Moorhen ignored him.

“Then you leave me no choice,” said Channik. “I banish you from the tribe. You didn’t even last an hour! Now, begone from this gathering. We don’t want you here.”

“Wait, I have something to say,” said Moorhen. “The Chanden know where each of our clan homes are. They plan to attack them during the battle,” said
Moorhen. "The
tsirvaks
must be warned."

“So you say,” said Draypeth darkly. “Are you a friend to the Chanden then, that you know all their secret plans? Now leave here, boy, before it is too late!”

“Let these people go,” said Moorhen.

“We will not,” said Draypeth.

“Leave!” commanded Channik. He reached down a picked up a rock. Moorhen watched him in disbelief. Channik paused a moment then threw it at Moorhen, hitting him lightly on the shoulder. Moorhen fell back a few steps.

Others reached down and picked up stones. Another hit Moorhen on the side of the head. Several missed. “No!” said Moorhen. The crowd laughed as another rock hit Moorhen’s leg.

From the side of the amphitheater, the sound of a rattle grew as an old man with long gray hair and a grey beard stepped forward. He came down onto the lower platform and stood in front of the assembly.

“My name is Chimont,
Shaheak
of the Firebird Clan,” the man said, his voice thin and shaky. “The gods have spoken to me, in the old ways. This is what they have said: We must abandon this war. We must return to our clan homes. The gods will not look on this conflict with a friendly eye. The boy is right.”

Chimont raised his arms. “All those who believe this, must leave with me now.” He shook his rattle and began to amble for the exit. From the ranks of the Firebird Clan and the Greystone Clan next to it, a number of people began to follow.

Surprised, Moorhen watched them. Not as many left as he might have hoped but a few dozen did.

Then a woman with unruly hair stepped forward. Her eyes had a slightly crazed look in them. “I am Avindra,
Shaheak
of the Lost Hill Clan. The gods have spoken to me. There will be a great sandstorm. Nothing in its path will survive. Come, we must go home and find shelter.” She shuffled off towards the door. Not as many followed her, but at least a dozen did.

Lastly, a short, wrinkled man with white hair stood. “I am

Widdan of the North Wind Clan. The gods also spoke to me. They said that death … is never a thing to be worshipped.”

He also headed for the exit and people began following him out, more than followed either of the other two
shaheaks
. Still, it wasn’t enough.