Gods of Garran

The Gods of Garran: Chapter 43

A novel by Meredith Skye

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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, Morrhan 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.

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

"Is that it?" she asked. "Have you given up?"

Glumly, Morrhan 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 not to war against each other.

"I'm just one man," argued Morrhan. "What can I do?"

She looked at him sideways. Perhaps she expected him to answer his own question. Morrhan 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 Morrhan was powerless to stop them.

"Maybe I'm wrong," said Morrhan.

"Because you won't do what you're told?" asked Crysethe.

"I'm part of the clan," said Morrhan. "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. Morrhan 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, Morrhan went cold inside.