The Gods of Garran (8 page)

Asta hurried across the room and to the archway. Daylight streamed through it. Pleased, Asta went outside onto a large terrace, wondering whether there would be a path from here that would connect up to the one she had come on before.

What she saw when she got outside astounded her—it was a huge lake, placid and beautiful. Near the terrace, the lake ended in a large dam. She almost laughed. That was the mysterious will of the gods that the villagers all feared—a dam. She doubted that any of them knew it was here. A reservoir of water that could sustain a city a thousand times as large as Wanthe. All they needed was to release the water.

Relieved and happy now to be out of the mountain, and away from the dizziness and whispering, Asta used her transmitter to send a message to the Agency, letting them know she was all right and that she was on top of the mountain.

Now she put her mind to this problem: where were the controls for the dam?

On the terrace, in a small alcove, was a single moonstone pillar slightly shorter than a man’s height. The top was rounded, so that it looked like some kind of crystal ball, except that it was made of moonstone. The surface was plain with a single rune on it—“bor”. God. Asta wasn’t sure where she knew that from and the thought gave her a chill.

The lake was nearly a hundred feet below, and the cliffs were shear on either side. There was no visible path down. However, sure that there was a control somewhere, Asta searched inside the entry chamber.

The search turned up nothing, no other doorways, no panels, no controls anywhere. Confused, Asta sat down to rest. There had to be a way. This was the most likely point to control the dam, as it was closest to it.

The more Asta considered it, the more unlikely it seemed that this dam was built by the Garrans—they simply weren’t advanced enough. They could barely build cities of their own. Tradition held that the Borrai built the seven God-cities. But these Borrai must have been another race, perhaps one now dead. Other inhabited planets in this sector had no records of such a race.

The Garrans accused the Chanden of killing their gods. But the legends said there were only seven Borrai. Surely there were more of the Borrai than that—if they were a
separate race. Or had the Chanden truly killed off an entire advanced race when they landed here a hundred years ago? The thought was disturbing.

Distantly, Asta heard singing--a high-pitched, familiar tune. She realized it was the song from her dream. Slowly she stood. The song brought back the fragment of a dream, dancing just outside of her memory, elusive and mysterious--like this place.

Asta went back outside to the terrace and stared at the moonstone globe. Nothing else here was of any significance--what else could be a controller? Asta placed her hand over it. As she did, she felt a little chill go up her spine, accompanied by a momentary dizziness. As she put the other hand over the controller, the dream that had eluded her became clearer, took shape. Then it made sense--the dream told about the gods of Garran--the Borrai. It was their song--a song of art and beauty, of loyalty, of the earth, of betrayal and doom. Asta closed her eyes and for a time was lost again in the dream. The whispering grew louder. Almost she could hear it.

Were the Chanden wrong?

^
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^
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Asta found herself outdoors sitting on a stone just off the lava path near the first chamber she had entered a day ago, or was it two? Disoriented, she stood up. She had been dreaming, but the memory of it quickly faded.

The terrace. The water. What happened? Asta had no memory of leaving that place, nor of what happened.

Asta ran over to the river and found it flowing once more with water. She felt a surge of joy for the villagers--that they'd have water again.

Then her logical mind began to take control again. She had no explanation as to how she had gotten back or how the water had been turned on. Had she done it? Was she teleported back here afterward? Or had she spent the whole day walking back in some trance, only to wake once she'd arrived here? What had the power to do that?

The more she puzzled about it, the more it disturbed her. The song, which was still faint in her mind, faded into silence.

The wind whipped Moorhen's hat around furiously. Cloth covered his whole face with barely an opening for his eyes. He was blind, between the sand and wind and the small slit he had to look out from. Fortunately, the
yithhe
had a double eyelid that helped shield their eyes against sandstorms. Moorhen wished he had such eyes.

By nightfall, they had reached the Dead Knolls, a place that hundreds of years ago was a forest. They were still a few days from the Upper Steppes.

The whole day the wind had blown terribly. Moorhen's wounds still hurt but he said nothing to his father, not wanting to be thought weak. Mirrhia had cleaned the wound; she said it would heal in time.

Nor did Moorhen want his father to think that he was trying to curry his favor by pointing out how he'd defended Rollech. His father ignored him now. And when his gaze happened to come Moorhen's way, it was an unfriendly glare.

Nothing Moorhen ever did was right, and all the accomplishments in the world, short of dying in battle, would not please his father. Moorhen chided himself for his self-pity.

Moorhen felt disappointed that the wind made it impossible to see. The Dead Knolls was a famous place. Once covered with trees, now all that remained were miles of charred stumps. He'd never heard why it happened. He couldn't blame it on it the Chanden; this was before their time. Since that desolation, nothing had ever grown back. The Dead Knolls was a cursed place.

A signal came back from the front of the line. They'd found shelter; for that Moorhen was grateful. Soon they made their way down a slope into a lava cave. Moorhen stayed in the upper cave to see to the animals as the others came in, relieved finally to be out of the sand and in a place that felt at least remotely like home.

Food was getting low for the
yithhe
. There'd been nothing to graze on all day, and the grain was in low supply. Moorhen had little water left and he feared that this storm might make it difficult to find more. There could be some stored here in the caves. Sometimes such caves were kept stocked with survival food and water. But these caves were very old and had not been used in a long while, if ever.

Once Moorhen finished tending to the animals, he went on down to find the others. He had no light and so had to find his way in the dark, but Garrans were used to finding their way in lava caves in the dark. Moorhen had grown up in such a place, and had no fear of it. He could hear the group farther ahead and could tell he was getting closer.

The passage then took a turn downward and before long the voices of his clan grew more distant. Moorhen realized he'd taken a wrong turn. He started back up but must have ended up in a side passage because this one, after a while, also started to go down. He stopped, confused. The air was warmer down here, almost uncomfortably warm. Warm and very dry.

Moorhen turned and made his way back, trying to find the original tunnel. But soon he found himself going down again. He did not often get lost this way, not even in a strange cave. He cursed and turned back. The sound of his clansmen were gone now.

Moorhen was lost.

Frustrated Moorhen turned and tried to retrace his steps, without success. Soon, he saw a faint glow ahead. Hoping it was the heatwell of his clan, Moorhen headed for it. At least it was light. The path he followed began to lead downward and the glow got brighter and the air warmer. Moorhen paused, doubting this was the right path, but he wanted to see the end of it. He felt that something was near down below.

The path went farther than he had guessed, making Moorhen nervous. He was already lost. If he went too deep into a lava cave, he could be lost for days. Yet the glow got brighter still and he could see the end of the path up ahead. Perhaps he could get his bearings somehow.

Moorhen arrived at the bottom, astonished to see a lake of brimstone. The heat was scorching. Moorhen had never seen a lake such as this. The caves they used on the plains had been dead for hundreds of years. But the Northern Cones were not dead. This lake seethed with fire, as though it could erupt at any time. Throughout the cavern occasional rumblings warned of danger. This place looked as though the lava pool used to be smaller or not there at all. This lava lake had grown and there was no telling how quickly the lava had come up this far. Down below, Moorhen saw another path that led right down into the brimstone.

The path Moorhen led over a bridge that climbed upward, then over the lake to a small cavern above it. Moorhen stood there looking at the lake. He should head back to his clan; this was not a safe place to stay. In fact, the whole cave was unsafe. Yet he didn’t know the way back. Up ahead, he could see something shining in the upper cavern. Could it be a way out?

With a sudden decision, Moorhen ran up the bridge towards the cavern. He stopped when he felt the blast of heat from below--then he started running. The heat was nearly unbearable. Finally he reached the top and ran inside the cavern. The heat vanished once he was inside and fell back to just being uncomfortably hot.

Strange moonstones along the walls lit this cavern. An altar, ringed by moonstones, dominated the far side of the room. Each stone was carved with ancient symbols, none of which Moorhen could read. On the altar lay a flat stone with more unfamiliar runes on it. Moorhen stared at it.

Whatever this was--it was important. It looked like a god-thing, a god-tablet of some kind. Surely this was valuable and something not to be left in a lava cave which could overflow. But Moorhen was no priest and didn’t know the rituals or ways of the gods. He should take it back to his father. If it was important, perhaps it could help Ashtan.

A rumbling from below brought Moorhen out of his thoughts. The lake was growing, he was sure of it. Moorhen hesitated in front of the tablet, muttered a quick prayer to the gods for forgiveness and took the tablet.

After a deep breath, Moorhen ran back down the bridge hoping to find the tunnel leading out. He ran as quick as he could down the ramp, through the searing heat, then stopped suddenly after a loud rumble. The bottom of the ramp was already covered in lava. The way was cut off. He turned and ran back up to the god-cavern.

Now Moorhen panicked. He couldn’t escape. Perhaps it was the anger of the gods. He put the god-tablet back and prayed an apology. But he didn’t know the ways of the gods--or whether his prayers would be heard. Only priests knew how to pray properly.

Soon the lava would enter this cavern, if not within the hour, surely within the a day. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. Maybe there was another way out.

Moorhen began searching this cavern. The edges were dark and perhaps there was a passage he had not seen. Soon he found one. It had a gentle upward slope. That was good enough. He made sure that there were no other passages--this was the only one. Hoping it was a way out, he started up it. Again he heard a loud rumble. He feared that the lava would follow before long.

Then he remembered the tablet. Should he bring it? Otherwise, it would be consumed by the fire. Surely that wasn’t the will of the gods. Or had he offended them by touching the stone in the first place? But the lava had already formed a lake before he'd ventured in. Perhaps he could save the tablet and please the gods by it. Moorhen turned back and ran into the chamber.

The heat had intensified. The lava grew closer. Moorhen grabbed the tablet and ran back up the passage, tucking it in his pack. For a long time he ran, stumbling in the dark, turning corners and winding upward. But there were no other passages that he could detect. Eventually the heat grew less and he no longer heard the rumbling. Were the gods pleased with him or had he just gotten ahead of the disaster?

For an hour Moorhen made his way through the dark tunnel before finding himself back outside in the sandstorm. He wasn’t sure how long he searched through the blinding storm to find the entrance to the caves again. A cousin greeted him and showed him the way down to the clan.

When Moorhen arrived, he found them all sleeping, except for the watch. Moorhen quickly found his father and woke him. “Father,” he began.

“Moorhen?” asked Ashtan, shaking himself awake. “Where have you been?”

“I took a wrong turn down a passage that led underground.”

“Lost in a lava cave? At your age?”

“Father, this cave is active. There is brimstone fire in it, rising even now.”

“What? Nonsense. Perhaps you are mistaken.”

Ashtan didn’t bother to lower his voice now and some of the others were stirring. Ashtan began to rise. Moorhen stood with him.

“No, this cave is active, I tell you. I saw it--a lake of fire and terrible rumblings. There was a god-cavern and--“

“You entered a god-cavern?”

“Yes, it was--“

Ashtan slapped him. “You fool! Is there no end to your stupidity?”

Moorhen stared at his father in surprise. “I meant no harm but--"

“You meant no harm? These are not matters to trifle with! You are not
Shaheak
!”

Moorhen shook his head. “I am sorry, Father.” Now Moorhen felt terrible guilt and shame for taking the god-tablet--but he feared to mention this to his father, so he kept silent.

“The gods take no apologies,” quipped his father, looking around the cave.

“The fire rises,” said Moorhen. They had to get out.

“I know.” Still his father looked hesitant. “This was our best shelter. This wrath is your doing, Moorhen.” His father walked past him and began waking the others, urging them to pack up to leave.

Moorhen stood there a long while, watching. He felt guilty for getting lost; guilty for entering the cavern; and guilty for the lie he just told his father by not mentioning the god-tablet. Could he take it back? No, surely the lava would have covered it by now. He doubted he could even find the opening in this storm. There was no hope--only the small hope that the gods would not be as angry as they thought.

As the others left, Moorhen followed them.

They searched for a new place to camp but with the storm made that difficult. They must get to higher ground, in case of an eruption of fire, and also to put distance between them and the Dead Knolls, where the brimstone could overflow. They traveled for hours through the night before the storm let up enough that they found partial shelter under a cliff rock.

Everyone was downcast and in an irritable mood, their anger aimed at Moorhen, as though he had caused the lake of fire to rise. Perhaps he had. He was too tired to think anymore. Soon he fell asleep in the little bit of shelter they found.