Die for the Flame

by William Gehler

  Clarian turned to glance at the speaker just as the speaker turned to glance at him. The first thing Clarian noticed were the eyes, gleaming just like a cat’s with that star-shape in the center. Maggan!

  Both of them jumped back with startled grunts and both caught their feet in tree roots and fell. Clarian landed on his back. The Maggan recovered first and jumped on top of him. They wrestled furiously. The Maggan was smaller, but quick and strong. As they grappled, Clarian couldn’t reach his knife, and he worried that the Maggan would pull one. They rolled, fighting furiously, among the tree roots. Clarian grabbed at the Maggan’s head, and the helmet slipped off, and long black hair tumbled out. The Maggan squirmed away and, sitting up, planted a hard kick into Clarian’s chest. Clarian kicked back, and they both delivered a series of kicks, each sitting on the ground, leaning against a tree trunk and kicking the other as hard as could be.

  “You’re a woman!” exclaimed Clarian.

  “You Karran dog!” she snarled.

  “You’re a Maggan!” he exclaimed in amazement.

  “What did you think you’d find in our camp?” she hissed.

  “Surrender!”

  “You’re my prisoner!” she said.

  “You’re my prisoner!” he said.

  “You can never get out of here now,” she taunted him.

  “I can get out. Besides, I heard you eat your prisoners. I’m not interested in staying around for that,” he said.

  “I’m going to get a lot of pleasure out of eating your heart, Karran.”

  The kicking stopped as each struggled upright.

  The light from the many campfires cast enough light for Clarian to see her clearly. She had thick, shoulder-length, blue-black hair, braided on the sides; milk-white skin; green luminous eyes; and a face more lovely than any he had ever seen.

  Clarian and Neevan both stood up at the same time. Clarian was considering what to do. Neevan glanced sideways toward the camp.

  Clarian shouldered Neevan into a recess in a tree trunk, his hand over her mouth. Her body barely fit into it. She attempted to draw her dagger. Clarian knocked it away and drew his.

  Clarian pressed the blade against Neevan’s throat, his face only inches from hers as they stared into each other’s eyes. He was mesmerized by her eyes and by the sheer beauty of her face.

  “I have to sound the alarm,” she whispered. “It’s my duty.”

  “Why does it always come to this?”

  She turned her face, fully expecting the knife to bite deep into her neck.

  “Not today, woman.”

  He slammed the haft of his dagger against her head and as she dropped to the ground, he was gone, running hard for his life into the trees and the darkness.

  A horn sounded in the camp, and Clarian could hear shouting behind him.

  Heavily winded, he found his horse, mounted, and urged it into a swift gallop. In short order, he broke out of the forest. He raced across the valley, splashed through the stream, and thundered down the road away from the forest.

  The sound of horses’ hooves pounding hard behind told him all he needed to know. Clarian cast a look over his shoulder and could see riders in the gloom. He knew his horse was tiring after the long ride to the Forest of Darkness, and he was sure the Maggan were on fresh horses.

  The moon was breaking out, casting a dim light on the rough landscape. He could see just ahead that the trail climbed up a steep grade and topped a bare hill. At the top of the hill, he reined in his horse and retrieved his bow. He waited as the Maggan warriors raced for him. He deliberately notched an arrow, drew back his bow, and snapped off a shot. The arrow arched through the night and thudded into a Maggan soldier, who toppled off his horse.

  Clarian drew back again. Another shot, and a soldier flipped back over his horse. The Maggan soldiers reined in their horses, spinning about and shouting.

  At that moment, Martan and Lillan and the patrol crested the hill. Martan was furious and shouted, “What are you doing? Are you completely out of your mind?”

  “I had to see for myself.”

  “You are about to start the war!”

  “Yes, I might have,” Clarian snapped. “At any rate, we can’t outrun them on these tired horses. So, either we pick where we fight, or they will. Remember, no war has yet been declared. So they may not want to be the first to start it without orders. I think with us awaiting them here, the cost will be too high. They don’t know how many there are of us, and they might be afraid of a trap,” said Clarian.

  Within moments, the band of Maggan riders reappeared, swarming down the trail toward the waiting Karran, who presented a strong front, with archers on each flank, bows in hand with arrows notched, and ten warriors lined up across the hill. The Maggan had twice the number of riders as the Karran, but they slowed when they sighted the Karran waiting for them. At about two hundred paces from where Clarian sat upon his horse with the others, the Maggan stopped and milled about, talking and pointing. One of the Maggan was waving his sword in the air and shouting at the Karran, but his words were muffled. After several minutes, the Maggan turned and rode back the way they came.

  Lillan dismounted, and they all followed her lead, watering the horses in a brook that ran alongside the trail. All eyes remained on the path, not trusting that the Maggan had given up so easily. The thought remained that the Maggan might slip out of sight for a while and then try to catch the Karran unaware later.

  “You fool!” snarled Martan.

  Clarian glared back. “They would have lost half their men before reaching us, and then the odds would still have been in our favor because we held the high ground. They would have been at a disadvantage.

  Clarian held the reins of his horse loosely as he led it to water.

  Martan’s face was twisted in anger. “You took a big chance,” he said.

  Clarian stared at him hard and then ignored him.

  Some of the soldiers sat down on the sparse grass, some on large rocks, waiting to see whether the Maggan would return. Some took out food and began eating.

  After two hours of waiting, they mounted up and resumed their journey back to the Citadel on tired horses. Three soldiers trailed and watched the rear, but no Maggan appeared. The road widened as they passed out of no-man’s land and into Karran territory, and they made better time. By day’s end, they rode slouched with fatigue into the courtyard of the Citadel.

  Giving their horses to the grooms, the soldiers headed for the barracks. Rokkman met with Martan, and his face was soon livid, his eyes following Clarian. He hurried off, saying he needed to report to the Flamekeeper.

  Clarian followed the other soldiers into the barracks. A soldier pointed out the door to the sleeping quarters. The corridor was dimly lit from a small window. Lillan stepped in front of him. She studied him with a long, penetrating look so that he could not avoid her eyes. She leaned her body against his, forcing his back against the cold, stone wall, her solemn face inches from his. It was like an electric jolt to his system.

  “You are either stupid or brave,” she said, “but either way, you’re reckless.” She pulled away, her eyes fixed on his, and then she was gone.

  Later that day, Rokkman summoned Clarian. Standing behind his desk, overcome with fury, Rokkman confronted Clarian.

  “Do you have any sense of what we are facing here? The Maggan are poised to strike, and there you go, right into their camp. And I’m told you had a run-in with an enemy warrior? How you escaped is beyond me.”

  “You are too fearful of these night people, Rokkman. That’s half your problem.”

  “You can’t speak to me that way! I’m a high priest in service to the Flame. You should be begging forgiveness. Apologizing. You’re wild, like the frontier. From this moment forward, you will be escorted everywhere you go. You are forbidden to go off alone, and you may not ride out on hor
seback without my permission. And you may not call me Rokkman. I am ‘Your Holiness’ to you.”

  “You’re going through a lot of trouble just to have me join your army. Something is not right here. You’re not telling me everything, Rokkman. And I go where I please. I obey no one.”

  Clarian spun on his feet and charged out of the office, leaving Rokkman in shock.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Gleaming eyes peered through the dark night. A partial moon drifted over a small Karran village. Mounted Maggan troops swept forward, enveloping the village. Dogs barked furiously, and lights appeared in windows.

  The killing began. Men fell in the doorways of their homes, cut down by swarming soldiers. The cries of the dying and the terrified screams of women and children rang out.

  Ferman, a massive man with a cruel mouth sat astride his horse in front of a cottage. He ordered his lieutenants, “Don’t kill the children. Load them into the wagons. We’ll take them with us.”

  As he supervised the slaughter, he called to an aide, “Bring me one mother alive! Kill the rest!”

  Two soldiers dragged a young mother before Ferman. She was thrown to the ground, shuddering in fear, blood on her torn gown. She looked up at Ferman as he pointed to her.

  “We’ll take your children with us. If your people follow us, we’ll eat them. Tell your Flamekeeper.”

  The woman shrieked in horror. Ferman reined in his horse harshly. “Burn the village,” he ordered.

  Three wagons were loaded with crying children. Several older children resisted and were cut to pieces.

  An officer rode up to Ferman. “What do we do with the children?” he asked.

  “Take them into the forest. You know what to do.”

  Clarian pushed his horse into a steady trot toward the Great Grasslands. He was in an angry mood. He was finished with the Citadel, with Rokkman and the Flamekeeper, and with the pending war. It was not his war, he fumed to himself, and it wasn’t his religion. Yes, it was his father’s religion and Aunt Helan’s, but he trusted more the shadow ancestors of the Kobani world as his mother had taught him. He couldn’t figure out what the Karran wanted with him. He was only one man. They treated him differently, yet they gave him no direction and no responsibility. For some reason, they weren’t forthcoming about what they wanted, and he was no longer waiting for them to tell him. He was going home where he belonged. The Maggan were not his enemy. And then there was the beautiful woman in the forest. She was hard to forget.

  He heard them coming. Two Citadel soldiers raced toward him from back along the road. He stopped and waited. He knew they were coming for him. They pulled up, their horses blowing. One of the soldiers asked breathlessly, “Where are you going, Clarian?”

  “Home.”

  “There is something you need to see before you go home. We must hurry. Come with us.”

  Clarian followed the men and then, dismounting from his horse at the pillaged Karran village, the embers from the burned cottages still smoldering, Clarian found Rokkman, Martan, and Lillan waiting. Soldiers searched for survivors. The dead were carried out to lie in a grim row on the ground.

  “You provoked this, you young fool!” snapped Rokkman.

  Clarian turned his head away, his face showing that he knew he had triggered the enemy attack.

  “They took the children,” said Martan.

  “We have to try to save them!” barked Rokkman.

  “Maybe they haven’t reached the forest yet,” said Martan.

  The lone survivor, the young mother, sat on a large stone in front of a burned-out cottage. She was frantic with grief.

  “They took my baby. They took all the children. He said if you followed, he would eat them.” The mother sobbed as Lillan put her arm around her.

  “Who was he?” asked Clarian. “The one who took the children.”

  “Can you get my baby back?”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ferman. He said his name was Ferman.”

  Clarian, Rokkman, Martan, and Lillan, with some of their troops, galloped hard in pursuit of the Maggan wagons. As the afternoon waned, the Forest of Darkness loomed up ahead.

  Martan shouted, “There! The wagons with the children!”

  The Maggan saw the riders and frantically whipped the horses. It became clear that the wagons couldn’t outrun the charging Karran troops. The wagons dipped down out of sight behind a rolling hill.

  Precious moments slid by. Clarian could not see the wagons. The horses labored up a slope. There in the distance, the Maggan soldiers were riding away, the wagons abandoned. For an instant, hope sprang in everyone’s heart until they drew closer to the wagons.

  As they rode up to the wagons, they were shocked at the sight. Slaughtered children lay in the wagon beds and broken on the ground. The Maggan vanished down the road toward the forest.

  Clarian stared in agony at the deaths. Rokkman stood amid the carnage, tears streaming. He stumbled up to Clarian.

  “You will help us load the children into the wagons, and then you will help us bury them.”

  The soldiers and Clarian gently placed the destroyed bodies of the children in the wagons, and then they headed back to the ruined village.

  In a field near the village, Clarian helped dig graves for the dead. His heart was heavy with guilt. When all the dead were buried, Rokkman presided over the funeral service.

  Clarian stood apart from the rest of the group. Rokkman approached, but Clarian appeared distant and wary.

  “I need to speak to you,” said Rokkman.

  “No, go away.”

  “I can’t go away. This is how it begins.”

  “I have seen death before. Many times in the Grassland wars against the Kobani.”

  “I was a soldier once, too. Before I became a priest and chose to serve the Flame.”

  “Your Flame does not protect you.”

  “It’s your Flame, too. What? Do you have another religion?” asked Rokkman.

  “The Kobani way.”

  “I don’t think you believe in anything. You dream away by your river about what? A new spirited horse? A pretty village girl? No, not this time. Blood is on your hands now, my son. Fate will have its way.”

  Clarian stared at the fresh graves, his face pale.

  Rokkman stepped close. “You must do your duty. You see that now, don’t you?”

  “Stop this constant harping. Can’t you make peace with the Maggan?”

  Clarian strode heavily to his horse.

  “Clarian,” called Rokkman.

  “Leave me alone.”

  The patrol rode slowly back to the Citadel. Clarian lagged behind with the rear guard. The day faded away, hot and dusty. Rokkman led, Lillan rode beside him, and Martan followed behind. Rokkman was in a solemn mood after the burials, his shoulders hunched under his violet cloak.

  “He’s strange,” Lillan said.

  “Perhaps he’s afraid,” answered Rokkman.

  “No, I saw him kill two Maggan without hesitation. He has no fear.”

  “I’m glad you found that out about him. I’ll be sure to tell the Flamekeeper.”

  With that rebuke, Lillan let her horse drop back to where Martan slouched over his horse. Martan turned in his saddle and looked back over the troops. He called to Rokkman.

  “Where’s Clarian?”

  “He’s with the rear guard.”

  “No, he’s not. Halt! Where’s Clarian? Who’s seen him?”

  The patrol pulled up, bunching around Martan. A soldier spoke up.

  “He turned off back there.”

  “Why didn’t you say something?”

  Rokkman was seething. “Martan!”

  “He’s your problem!”

  Clarian had slipped away from the troop, and he rode into a small village just off the
road. Children played, dogs ran, women washed clothes, and smoke rose from the chimneys. People were in the fields nearby. Older children waved to Clarian. He nodded and urged his horse through the village.

  A small boy and his mother returned from the fields with a basket of vegetables.

  The boy asked if he could pet Clarian’s horse.

  “You can rub her nose.”

  The boy gave the horse some green toppings from the vegetables. The mother shielded her eyes and looked up at Clarian. She saw the scar on his face.

  “You’re the one. The scar. You’re the Ferryman.”

  She turned her head and called to the other villagers. “He’s here! It’s the Ferryman!”

  Villagers gathered about a bewildered Clarian. They reached up and touched his boots.

  Rokkman galloped up, his lips a thin line. Clarian didn’t understand the attention.

  “What’s this about, Rokkman?” Clarian asked, exasperated.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “You want something of me?”

  “Yes.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Clarian stood before the Flamekeeper in the Chamber of Light.

  “The Flame has chosen you, Clarian, to lead our army against the fierce Maggan. Why it chose you, I do not know. The Flame is pure intelligence that pours forth from the Immortal Ones. They surely know, but I do not. It matters not what you believe. Nor what I believe. It is written. It must be obeyed. I could not tell you until I was sure.”

  Clarian was in a state of disbelief. “No. This cannot be. I am no one.”

  The old Flamekeeper held Clarian’s gaze for a long while. “It is so.”

  Clarian was less than confident and looked less than happy. He really didn’t want to be there and didn’t want the responsibility.

  “You’re not sure. Not at all,” said Clarian.

  “No, it’s true.”

  “I have only led small bands of warriors in the Great Grasslands. I know nothing of armies.”

  “I know. But the Flame is infinite intelligence, and it knows the path where it will lead you.”