Gods of Garran

The Gods of Garran: Chapter 18

A novel by Meredith Skye

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In the morning Morrhan and his clan awoke before sunrise and prepared to ride against the Chanden. Morrhan felt hopeless about their chances. In this attack, they planned to kill innocent people—people who had never done anything to them. How could Morrhan go through with it? Yet all two hundred Sand Plain Clan warriors seemed set to do this thing—and no arguments had weakened his father, Ashtan's, resolve in the least.

Morrhan focused on his grief for Norbi—the brother he would never see again, a mere child killed by the thoughtless acts of the Chanden. He held onto this thought, using it to fuel his rage.

Would it be enough?

The clan held a ceremony of prayer to the gods for deliverance. Morrhan went to join the circle with a heavy heart, but Ashtan forbade him. "No. They will not hear you."

Angry, Morrhan paused only long enough to watch them prepare.

The warriors, all 200 of them, formed circles. Ashtan stood at the center, as the chieftain and heart of the tribe. His main warriors stood in a circle around him. The rest stood in a circle around them. All stood shoulder to shoulder, clad in their war dress, and ready to fight.

Morrhan went outside to see to the animals, feeding them the small bit of grain the Upper Steppe Clan had given them. It would last a day or two. Enough to get to Hobset but not beyond that. He doubted that the food they'd been given would last longer. After that, they'd have to hunt—but they'd be on the run from the Chanden then.

In the distance, Morrhan heard Ashtan pray and the tribe chanting after him.

Morrhan couldn't shake off the feeling that they were being set up by these two clans. Would they take revenge on the Chanden ... and rid themselves of an enemy clan at the same time?

Soon the warriors emerged from the firecave and began to mount up. Crysethe joined him. "Don't be afraid, brother, I'll protect you," she said, trying to console him.

Crysethe. Morrhan ran after Ashtan to speak to him. "Father, you won't take Crysethe, surely?"

Ashtan turned on him with a glare. "Why not? She has more courage than you."

"Send her back home. She's too young," objected Morrhan.

"I'm not afraid," said Crysethe, innocently.

Ashtan nodded approval at her. "And who would take her back? You?"

"No," stuttered Morrhan. It wasn't an excuse to get out of the battle.

"She'll come."

"Father—" protested Morrhan. This was madness.

Ashtan turned to him with a vicious look in his eyes. "I have a mind to banish you, boy. Speak one more time out of turn and I will."

"But—"

"I mean it!"

They locked eyes.

"You are not my son," his father said. He turned and walked away.

"Father, I'm sorry."

"You never were my son," said Ashtan without looking back at him.

All around him the others mounted up, ignoring him. He had lost all his father's respect. Was Ashtan just angry? He didn't mean that ... did he? Never his son?

"Morrhan," a soft voice pulled him out of his reverie. Crysethe rode up alongside him on her yithhe, and she brought his as well. "Let's go."

Reluctantly, Morrhan mounted the beast and followed the others southeast toward Hobset.