The Gods of Garran

by Meredith Skye

  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.

  CHAPTER TEN

  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.

  ^ ^ ^ ^ *

  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.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Discover all you can about this Clan Conclave. But be careful," Ruben had sent back to Asta. She knew he would worry. This was her first truly solo assignment. "Who will be there? Where will it take place? But do not draw suspicion to yourself.” These were the instructions Asta received when she radioed her report back to the Agency before entering Wanthe.

  Asta spent several days poking about the town of Wanthe and making small talk with the townspeople, gathering information on the Clan Conclave and who ran it. She sometimes worried that her flawed Garran accent would give her away as a Chanden. She dismissed the fear as a form of stage-fright, right before an important performance.

  Meanwhile, Molot seemed somewhat taken with her, inviting her to dinner, talking almost ceaselessly, attempting to impress her with his appearance and strength. He failed, of course.

  Molot was Garran and she had no attraction for him whatsoever. Nor for any Garran. Yes, they could be very muscular, but there was something about them that she found insurmountable. A barrier. Still, he showered her with his attentions, which was to her advantage. Through Molot, Asta got invited to dinner with his father, Heyvaan, an invitation she had no intention of passing up--no matter how much Molot repulsed her.

  Their clan home was triangular, as were many of the buildings in Urrlan. So once inside, the place felt disturbingly familiar. But in Wanthe, these buildings were much older and more decayed.

  Asta said little to anyone. The less she said, the less they'd guess her identity as a Chanden. This silence made her all the more formidable to them--all the more ominous, and she knew. So be it.

  The dinner tasted better than she anticipated, having eaten in the villages before. Molot's family had a very good cook.

  They sat at the table. Molot's father, Heyvaan, as silent as Asta, sat across the room studying her. Once the formality of the dinner was over, the conversation turned to the town and how its people fared.

  Asta learned much about the people and the area--though by custom they spoke of nothing too secret, with a stranger present. She needed to break through the politeness, into their confidence.

  She knew what Ruben would say--sleep with the man. That was the best way to learn secrets. Ruben was an expert at this, as she'd found out. Another strike against him in her eyes. He'd sleep with anyone if it advanced his cause.

  And despite Ruben's training, it wasn't in Asta's nature to use her body to gain other people's favor. But sooner or later, she assumed that it would come to that, working for the Agency.

  Ruben had said to just gather information on the Conclave. But Asta was determined to do more than that. What if she could get invited to participate in the Conclave?

  Isn't that what the Agency wanted? Someone who could attend and find out what the Garrans were up to? What were their plans?

  Ruben would be furious. She smiled at this. Perhaps it was the best
plan after all.

  Asta couldn't just ask for their support into the Clan Conclave. Such a request might seem too direct. But maybe she would see how far she could get. She could show Ruben what she was capable of.

  And if she got in … she'd be even more valuable to the Agency. They'd need her. Make herself invaluable--that was the answer.

  She looked around the room at the other guests at the table.

  "Where are you from? You are not from anywhere near here," spoke the chief at last. His first words.

  "I am Te'jaste, of the Shing River Clan," she said. "My parents died when I was young. I was raised by my aunt, Miggreth, near Noloon." They nodded vaguely. The area wasn't well known to them. None challenged it. "When I was ten, she died and the Chanden took me to Urrlan and made me go to their schools. This I did for five years. When old enough, I ran from them and found my way back to Noloon." The story went on for a half an hour--about her long lost brother and a plague that hit Noloon.

  Eventually, the conversation came around to her ooluk, which Molot had named "Jir'cata."

  "You must show it to my father," said Molot. "Please, Te'jaste."

  "Of course," she offered, more than willing. "Anything to please the Greystone Clan." She smiled at Molot. Asta had never seduced anyone, but she imagined that Molot wouldn't take much persuading.

  The sword was impressive. Asta pulled it out and showed it to them. They would have put it to the test, to see its legendary sharpness. But none would touch it, out of superstition.

  "She must be touched by the gods, or they wouldn't let her carry such a weapon. They would destroy her." Such remarks as this she heard whispered around the table. Inwardly she smiled. If their gods knew how she planned to betray them, they would strike her down in an instant--if they weren't dead. But they were. Or better yet, they had only ever been a fable.

  “Who gave you this ooluk?” asked Chief Heyvaan, a clever man.

  “An old man,” she insisted. “He wanted his name to be kept secret.” She said, hoping that would work. This seemed to satisfy most of the Garrans at the table.