The True Faith

By Mike Ramon

A novella. A group survives a battle with pirates in the Quarthari desert. Stranded, they take refuge in a village, awaiting a ship to take them off-planet. There, they must deal with the continued threat from pirates. One of the survivors, Rori Cloudd, learns of a mysterious ritual that's meant to end a long drought. When she learns the nature of the ritual, she must decide what to do about it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Ramon
• Release date: Feb 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005565459

Mike Ramon

Born and bred in the Midwest.

Book preview

THE TRUE FAITH

Mike Ramon

Smashwords Edition

© 2021 M. Ramon

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http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

I

The desert sands burned under the merciless glare of the nearer sun and the pale light of the farther one. The big, bright fronds of hearty jundleen trees faintly stirred in the barest of westerly breezes. The purplish leaves of the trees were the bruised color of the sky at suns-set. It had been eighteen months since the last rains. In the village of Gaalinteen, in the Court of the Great King, a few priests knelt in flagellation, whipping their bare backs with whips made of leather, striping their flesh as they chanted quiet prayers in hopes that the All-God would forgive the people of the settlement their sins and would send the blessed rains to cool them and quench their collective thirst. The village’s deep wells were nearly dry; without the return of the rains, the village would soon find itself in the direst of straits. The nearest neighboring village was a week’s journey away, and even if a few brave souls were to make the trek across the desert, they would have done so for naught; they would surely be turned away, as that village would have no more water to spare than Gaalinteen. None of the villages dotting the Goban Desert would have water to spare, each of them just trying to weather the dry spell, each with its own priests praying for rain.

A cart rushed down the Avenue of the Cattle God, the boro pulling the cart snorting with the effort, its thick muscles rippling under its gray skin. A few children scattered out of the street just in time to avoid being crushed under the legs of the beast or the wheels of the cart. This wasn’t a novel event in the village, and the children returned to the game they were playing in the street as soon as the cart had passed. The cart made a sharp turn onto the Avenue of the Serpent God, the wheels on the left side of the cart lifting from the street for a moment before coming down hard again. The cart driver took it all in stride, not fearing in the least that he might lose his balance and tumble from the cart. Here and there the cart passed people lounging in whatever shadows they could find beneath the eaves of houses and under the leaves of one of the jundleen trees which dotted the town, smaller than the behemoths that grew outside the village walls. The trees required little water to thrive and had been known to withstand long droughts without too much trouble. While their leaves were poison, their shade was welcome.

Elsewhere in the village, near the Central Plaza, three sisters of the Order of the Blessed Suns drew off two buckets of water each from one of the village wells as two members of the Water Guards looked on. The Water Guards had the responsibility of keeping watch over all of the wells in the settlement, making sure that everyone drew off only the amount of water they were allowed under the current rationing scheme. They had shock batons strapped to their sides, the weapons gleaming in the light of day. One of them watched the nuns as they walked away, as if he suspected them of being up to no good. When the nuns turned down the Street of the Painted Mask, disappearing from view, the suspicious guard spit the seeds of the jamafruit he was eating into the dirt and continued a conversation with the other guard. The suspicious guard told a joke that would have made the nuns blush, and the other guffawed, displaying a row of crooked, blackened teeth.

In the Northern Quarter, where the village’s wealthier residents had their homes, Mayor Trunch watched as Larkin Vortho, the wealthiest of the village’s wealthier residents, gave a speech to the small crowd assembled in the yard of Vortho’s home. The Mayor knew that Vortho’s support was the main driving force that had propelled him into office, and that a withdrawal of that support could be the main driving force that would propel him out of office, so he fought to keep his eyes open and to feign interest as the large man prattled on. Everyone there owed something to the rich man, and so they all did the same as the Mayor. Everyone, that is, except for Elder Qhard, who headed the village’s chapter of the Crescent Brotherhood. Elder Qhard’s position was a lifetime appointment, and he had no fear of Vortho; accordingly, he shut his eyes early in the speech, and an occasional snore escaped from him, which everyone did their best to ignore.

…and as we all of us, those gathered here as well as those… Vortho gestured with his hand towards the walls surrounding his home, …out there, live our lives in service to the All-God, as I needn’t remind the good Elder Qhard…

At the mention of his name, that man snorted in his sleep. Vortho went on as if the snort were nothing more than a show of support.

…and as we look to the sky and beseech the Lord of Lords to send the rains…

Mayor Trunch tuned the rich man out, careful to nod occasionally lest anyone think he wasn’t listening raptly. He wiped the sweat from his brow as he daydreamed of the snowy hills of Renturia, a place he’d read of but had never been to personally. He’d never seen snow in his life, but he knew that it was white and fluffy.

In a less prosperous part of the village, the warren of nameless streets known as Rat Alley, a celebration was going on. The event being celebrated was the marriage of the great-granddaughter of the neighborhood's oldest resident with the grandson of the neighborhood’s second-oldest resident. A small band of amateur musicians played a discordant melody, the beat of the tumbras thumping, the notes of the stringed malaka floating up in the air. Adults danced the vigga as children mimicked them, doing their best to copy the moves of the grown folk. People feasted on little cakes and roast boro, and there were sweets for the children. These were hardy folk, and the furnace blast of the suns was such a normal part of their lives that they only had to rest occasionally, dipping into one of the hovels along Rat Alley to cool down and get a drink of water or wine.

In the Holy Quarter, where the temples housing the Order of the Blessed Suns and the Crescent Brotherhood faced each other across a large, empty fountain that would have been filled with water in better times, the nuns who’d drawn water from the well near the Central Plaza made it back, carrying the water into the home of their Order as a few of the brothers from across the way sat lounging on the rim of the fountain, their legs dangling down into the fountain as if they imagined they were dipping their feet into cool water. One of the brothers was regaling his fellow holy men with the story of the time he traveled off-planet on a proselytizing mission. They’d all heard the story innumerable times, but they listened anyway. He had a way of gesticulating wildly with his hands as he recounted certain points; his hands were flying as he told the part about the savages of Grotha Minor who’d attempted to make a dinner out of him and his fellow missionaries. The holy brothers had been saved when a ranger patrol happened on them by chance. The savages were driven off by the rangers, and this man had come away with a story he would be telling for the rest of his days.

The hot, dry stillness hanging over the town was split with the sound of a Felk Horn blasting out three long notes. The flagellating priests heard it, pausing briefly before continuing with their flagellation; the boro cart driver heard it as he steered the cart through the gate of his shop; the children he’d nearly run down in the street heard it as they kicked a ball back and forth; the Water Guards at the well near the Central Plaza heard it, and their hands went instinctively to the handles of their batons as if they expected trouble; the people gathered at the rich man’s house in the Northern Quarter heard it, and their heads turned in unison towards the sound of the horn (all except for Vortho, who went on talking, and Elder Qhard, who went on sleeping); the revelers in Rat Alley heard it, but went on reveling; the brothers seated at the fountain heard it also, and took it as their cue to abandon the fountain and head back inside their temple. On the Western Wall, the Village Watchman who’d sounded the horn looked out over the desert with his nocs, adjusting the power so that the group of people approaching the city came into clearer view. They were a bedraggled lot; some of them looked as if they could barely keep on their