The Gods of Garran

by Meredith Skye

  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.

  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.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  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 befo
re, 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.

  CHAPTER NINE

  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.