The Gods of Garran (22 page)

Slowly, consciousness returned to Moorhen and he found himself slumped in the rear seat of the airship.

Moorhen struggled between rage and despair. The Chanden’s despicable nature repulsed him. How could they murder an entire village--including women and children? The natives at Brerrn had done nothing to warrant this attack.

Everything was spiraling out of control.

The General had said that the Chanden would go after the clan homes. That would wipe the Garrans off the planet … except for the “tame” Garrans who had learned to live in their cities and work in their factories. The Chanden would like that.

But the Garrans were not innocent either. Moorhen’s own father had slain innocent children at Hobset. His tribe had started this war. Moorhen felt nauseated.

Draypeth and the others of the Upper Steppe clan had taken to human sacrifice of Chanden in the name of their new god, Ridjoffr.

Up front, near the engine, the officers held a faint, but animated conversation. Moorhen fell into a stupor as the dark and shapeless land whirled by beneath him. Then again, he lost consciousness. Through a small window, he saw hundreds of Chanden troops mobilizing in the desert. Row upon row of tents.

For awhile, he slept, exhausted.

Finally, Moorhen awoke and realized that they had touched down again. Several soldiers helped him out of the plane. The night was late and the moon had set. The plane had landed in the desert, near one of the other clan homes: the Desert Wind Clan. Here, the clans had amassed for the coming battle. Furiously, Moorhen tried to think why the Chanden would bring him here.

Two guards forced Moorhen out of the plane. Koethe and Chief Richt climbed out of the cockpit. Koethe looked Moorhen over with distain.

“I don’t care what you want now. I’m through helping you!” shouted Moorhen, still worried about Crysethe despite his words. What would they do with her? But he couldn't stay silent. “You’re nothing but monsters and I hope the gods wipe you off the face of our world!” His words were hot and angry, but deserved. Defiant, he stared at the Chanden, daring them to justify their own actions.

They stood silently, as if they knew their guilt.

“My men had no part in that,” Commander Koethe said quietly, referring to the massacre at the Garran village. The man seemed sincere, but that did little to calm Moorhen’s fury.

The side door to the plane opened. Captain Fauke appeared with Moorhen’s old pack. He tossed it down on the ground beside Moorhen and with it Moorhen’s bow.

Chief Richt moved over to Moorhen and used his key to release Moorhen’s hands.

Free! Moorhen fought off the urge to attack these men and strangle them with his bare hands. Such an attack would never succeed.

“There’s food and water in the pack,” said Koethe. “You have maybe a day--or less--until the battle, Garran. Use it well.”

Moorhen's
head spun. They were letting him go? Why? What did they want from him?

Then Crysethe appeared in the doorway and hopped down. She ran over to Moorhen and threw her arms around him. Surprised, he hugged her back, scarcely willing to believe that they were both free.

Was this some trick? Moorhen looked up at Koethe.

“The General will target the clan homes. But you people know these hills like no one else. I trust you can find other places to hide. Warn them. Whoever rides against the Chanden tomorrow will die. Godwin won’t spare you.”

“You could stop it,” said Moorhen coldly.

“I can’t,” said Koethe. It was almost a plea. Somehow, Moorhen believed the man. “I’ll leave that up to you.”

“What about your daughter?” asked Moorhen. Would Koethe really give up this easily?

The man stared solemnly at Moorhen. “This is what she wanted, isn’t it--a cessation of hostilities? Cooperation? Perhaps she’ll choose to come back.”

Moorhen considered this. “But if your men march tomorrow, then there will still be hostilities.”

They locked eyes. “You do your part, Garran. Tell the clans to turn back. Leave the Chanden to me.”

Koethe and Richt turned to climb into the hover-plane. Moorhen watched them go. The doors closed and the plane slowly lifted into the air.

Once they were gone, Moorhen pick up his pack and checked the contents. Everything was there: the headdress, the ceremonial knife, the clan talisman and his father’s horn. At this, Moorhen felt a surge of relief. Some part of the clan had been saved. Perhaps he could save what was left.

By the look of the sun, it was dawn. He’d slept the night on their flight here.

“Come on,” said Moorhen, shouldering the pack. He picked up the bow. Even Crysethe had her knife and bow.

Crysethe looked up at Moorhen. “Maybe the gods aren’t foolish, picking the Commander’s daughter as a Borrai.”

Moorhen glanced at his little sister. Always the quick one. He smiled.

Crysethe followed as Moorhen chose a path to Desert Wind Clan cave. The trip would take hours. Koethe had been cautious not to land too close.

^
^
^
^ *

Light spread across the morning sky as Moorhen and Crysethe struggled through the harsh desert towards the Desert Wind clan home. Moorhen had been to this place before. They had a very large firecave, capable of holding up to a thousand Garrans. Many times this had been used for gatherings or, in old times, as a rallying point.

In the valley before the firecave spread out a sea of tents. Banners from each of the Thirteen Desert Clans could be seen. The gathering was the largest Moorhen had seen.

Crysethe and Moorhen stood together on a peak above the valley and stared at the gathering in wonder.

“Why didn’t the Chanden just bomb the valley?” asked Crysethe. A good question. Moorhen turned this over in his mind.

“Because many of the Garrans will be spread out throughout the firecaves,” he replied. “An old tradition.” One Moorhen had heard of in his childhood. A hundred years ago, their people had been bombed from above and had not forgotten it.

“I see,” she said. Silently, she followed Moorhen as he made his way towards the valley.

The camp looked well organized and well armed. The tents had been quickly made, though, as most Garran chose to sleep in firecaves when they traveled. But even firecaves couldn’t house this many warriors. There had to be close to a thousand gathered. Possibly a lot more.

But it didn’t matter how many warriors the Garrans had at this point. The Chanden would win. They could keep their promise to wipe out the Garrans. Of this, Moorhen had no doubt.

The guards challenged them, but Moorhen was quickly recognized and allowed into the camp. He strode past row upon row of tents until he found the banner of the Sand Plain Clan, a dagger and horn.

Soon, he stood before the camp of the Sand Plain Clan. Moorhen dreaded this meeting, bearing the news of the demise of most of the war party. Who would they have found to come to this gathering? Only twenty warriors were left at home.

“We’re here,” prompted Crysethe impatiently.

Moorhen gave her a wan smile. Then they entered the tent.

There were maybe 15 to 20 people, some sitting, some standing--all familiar faces to Moorhen.

“Mirrhia! Derish!” Moorhen exclaimed upon seeing them. They turned to stare at Moorhen in surprise. “You’re alive!” he said. They had been in the fateful war party that attacked Hobset, where Moorhen’s father Ashtan perished.

“Moorhen!” said Mirrhia. His aunt rushed to embrace him. Some of the others crowded around with greetings. “We thought you were lost!” She turned and hugged Crysethe. “And you!” She beamed.

“You survived Hobset?” asked Moorhen.

“Yes,” said Pellan, another warrior who had been there. “We did. I’m surprised to see you here.” Pellan was a cousin and a close friend to Channik.

“How?” asked Moorhen, thrilled at this news. “How many?”

“Thirty-nine in all,” said his uncle Derish, smiling. “We ran, once Ashtan died. And found our way back to the Upper Steppe Clan.”

At this point, Channik entered the tent from the door in the rear. Channik was eldest brother to Moorhen and the Ashtan’s Chosen successor.

“Moorhen! It’s true then!” He hurried over to embrace Moorhen. “We thought you must be dead.”

“No,” said Moorhen. “The Red Sun Clan pursued us.”

“There were more of you?” asked Channik.

“Yes, but the Red Sun Clan killed Gudhel and Rollech. Taglethe was wounded and sent to the Greystone Clan. The Chanden killed Draiha, or so I thought.” Now, Moorhen was unsure. He’d also thought Crysethe was dead. But here she was.

“The Chanden pursued
you
?” asked Channik.

“Yes,” said Moorhen. His throat suddenly felt dry at the task at hand--convincing his clan to leave the Gathering and turn back home. “We found the godstone. Sindke was there and others from the Conclave. The godstone is awake again. We have a new Borrai.”

At this, Channik’s face changed and he suddenly became distant. He withdrew from Moorhen a few paces, regarding him with a serious face. “The last I’d heard, Father had banished you from our clan for being a coward.”

All eyes turned to Moorhen to see his response. The tent grew very quiet. “I’m no coward,” said Moorhen. “The Red Sun clan betrayed us--”

“Do you plan to contest my right to lead the clan?” demanded Channik.

Moorhen was taken aback. So, that’s what this was about? “No,” he said quickly. “Of course not.”

“Have you come to pledge your bow to me, then?” asked Channik, his voice challenging.

At this, Moorhen paused. He had no desire to join the clan in a mad attack on the Chanden--an attack that was doomed.

“If not, then you have no clan. And you have no business being here,” said Channik gravely.

“Channik,” exclaimed Mirrhia in surprise.

“I will not have you sowing discontent on the day of battle, Moorhen. Not this time.” Channik was firm.

Moorhen stared at him. His heart sank as he realized that they wouldn’t listen to him. They would attack the Chanden--no matter what he said.

“But, you are my brother,” said Channik, sitting down in the highest chair--reserved for the clan chief. “And I will give you one more chance. Do you want to join us again, Moorhen? Or wander the desert as an outcast?”

This wasn’t much of a choice. But he hadn’t come here to fight alongside them. Then again, if Moorhen didn’t join them, Channik might have him thrown out of the Gathering.

“You do want to be part of the clan, don’t you?” asked Channik.

“Of course,” said Moorhen. What else could he say? This was his clan, for good or bad. He knelt in front of Channik, and held his bow out in front of him. “I offer my bow to you, Channik, the rightful heir of Chief Ashtan of the Sand Plain Clan.” He bowed his head in deference. Channik visibly relaxed. Did he really fear that Moorhen would challenge him for leadership? Moorhen had no desire to lead the tribe. Channik was the eldest; he was the rightful heir.

“And you will heed my counsel and obey my decisions?” asked Channik.

“Yes,” said Moorhen, hoping he was not dooming himself.

“Then, I welcome you back to the clan, Moorhen,” said his brother, with a smile.

“I can do more than pledge a bow,” said Moorhen. He reached over and from his pack he withdrew Ashtan’s horn, his headpiece and dagger.

“The horn and dagger!” said Channik, awestruck. “You kept it.”

“I couldn’t let the Chanden have it,” said Moorhen. He came forward and handed the horn and dagger to Channik. He held up the headpiece and put it on Channik’s head and the medallion around his neck.

“Thank you, brother,” said Channik, almost choked up. “This means more to me than you know.”

Moorhen smiled at this. He withdrew a few steps. There was a pause. Now, he had to bring up the dreaded subject. He took a deep breath. “And now, brother,” said Moorhen. “I have some concerns about this upcoming battle.”

Channik looked at him, considering this and then sat back in his chair. “All right, little brother, tell me your concerns.”

“The Chanden know of your plans to attack Rashan in the Stony Dunes and they’ll be ready for you. You’re walking into a trap.”

“Of course, we knew they would divine our intentions eventually. But we are brave. We will fight them anyway.”

“I’ve seen this army,” said Moorhen. “They have thousands of men. You will be out numbered.” He had also read many of the history books of these wars, but he didn't mention this. His clan didn't think much of books.

“But we have Chanden weapons,” countered Channik. “And each of us are ten times the warrior that the Chanden are.”

This brought some approving laughter from the clan.

Moorhen shook his head. “They have sworn to wipe us out--all those who go to battle. None will be spared.”

“Maybe we won’t spare them either,” said Channik.

“They’re going to attack our clan homes, while we are in the battle field. We need to protect our families.”

Channik rose from his chair with determination. “The Chanden are monsters. The sooner we bring them down, the better for all Garrans.”