Sajan had reminded her of her home and her parents. She would send them a letter, and maybe she would mention Clarian.
The night of the full moon was upon them. Clarian met with the Flamekeeper and briefed him on the impending struggle. Rokkman and the commanders joined them in the Flamekeeper’s office.
“How prepared is our army, Clarian?” asked the Flamekeeper.
“A small number of our soldiers are ready,” Clarian replied. “We’ve had only a few weeks to train the new troops. Many are very young. Many are women who have never fought or handled a bow or lance.”
The Flamekeeper’s face looked haggard, which Clarian hadn’t noticed before, and the old man’s body appeared bent with age and stress.
“Surely you will be ready when the Maggan come, don’t you think?” asked the Flamekeeper.
Lillan answered for Clarian. “Not if the Maggan come tonight or even next week, Holy One. We don’t have an army yet. We’re trying to build one, and we’re short on time.”
“Our army needs at least three months of intensive training before it is ready to face the enemy,” said Clarian.
Clarian’s words shook the Flamekeeper, and his eyes were wide with fear now. “When will they attack?” He glanced from face to face, his mouth parted as if he were gasping for breath.
“No one knows, Holy One, but they won’t wait for three months,” said Rokkman. “They are gathering at the forest’s edge at this moment. They may come any night. It’s the full of the moon soon.”
“You are the Chosen One, Clarian. You must find a way to defeat these creatures,” croaked the Flamekeeper.
“I know,” replied Clarian, looking tired.
The commanders, several dozen of them, surrounded the Flamekeeper, Clarian, and Rokkman, all silent, their faces solemn. Martan, commander of the scouts, cleared his throat. Everyone looked at him. “What is our plan if they come in the next few days?” he asked. Everyone looked at Clarian.
“They are not horse people. They will march on foot followed by supply wagons, and if they rest during the daylight hours, it may take them six or more days to reach the Citadel unimpeded. We will have time to go out and engage them. But that’s the easy part. We have to prevent them from advancing. They won’t like being out from under the forest and in the sun for very long. We will meet them in the ridge country and try to bottle them up between the ridges and cliffs. We’ll try to bring them down with arrows.”
“We’re not ready to fight your way,” barked Martan.
“You have been training your troops to die, Martan.”
“What do you know of armies?”
“Nothing. But soldiers die one at a time. We must make the Maggan die in great numbers, and we must do it my way.”
“Clarian?” asked Lillan, as she poked her head around a tall officer. “What if they break through?”
Clarian nodded. “I have thought about it. They can’t move fast. So we would be able to retreat to the Citadel and fight from here or abandon the city and flee into the Grasslands. And they might follow us all the way to the Grasslands in order to steal the Flame. If need be, we could retreat across the river into the land of Madasharan. They wouldn’t follow us there. It’s desert, with a hot blazing sun, and they can’t survive where there are few trees and no caves. It’s not a good prospect for us, either.”
“I think Clarian has a good plan,” offered Lillan.
Rokkman glared at her.
“It is your task to prevent that from happening, Clarian!” snapped the Flamekeeper.
Everyone looked uncomfortable at the tone of that remark. Rokkman silently motioned the officers out of the room. Rokkman closed the door behind them and leaned against it, looking at Clarian and the Flamekeeper. Clarian had a wary look about him.
The Flamekeeper stared at him with great intensity, his eyes sharp with fear. “You are the Chosen One. Foretold by the Oracle. Selected by the Flame and the Immortal Ones. You accepted the violet cloak of office. Do your duty! Stop the evil Maggan!”
His face haggard from lack of sleep, his shoulders slumped from the immense responsibility of saving all of Karran and its people and the Flame, Clarian picked up his cloak from the back of a chair and with a quick look at the Flamekeeper walked heavily to the door.
“You must find a way to save Karran!” called the Flamekeeper, as Clarian swept out the door, held open by Rokkman.
Clarian stopped and reappeared in the doorway. “Both sides signed in blood, did they not? Peace forever. And you believed them.”
“I don’t like your tone,” said Rokkman.
“Enemies have no need for truth,” Clarian shot back.
The Flamekeeper pointed at Clarian. “Enough. You accepted the violet cloak. Do your duty. Stop the evil Maggan. I demand a plan now.”
Clarian exited the room, and Rokkman asked, “Clarian? Where are you going?” as he rushed after the young man.
Out in the corridor, Rokkman grabbed Clarian’s sleeve. “You can’t walk out on the Flamekeeper. He must be obeyed.”
“I’m weary of all this whining.” Clarian pushed past Rokkman and hurried down the dim corridor.
“Clarian! Clarian!”
Clarian knew that it was beyond the current strength of his army to counter the danger the Maggan presented. But he resented the gruff manner in which the Flamekeeper had spoken to him. How did the officers feel about him? Did they have their doubts as well? A shot of anger passed through him. He hurried down the darkened corridor to the officers’ quarters. He needed some sleep. Perhaps in the morning, a new idea would come to him as it often did, just as he was lifting his head from his cot. Often he would pose a question to the Kobani spirits as he went to sleep, and in the morning the answer would flash through his mind. Well, he needed some answers now—and fast. He didn’t think he had more than a few days, perhaps a month, at most, before the Maggan would begin their march to claim the Flame. He wasn’t going to let them capture it; of that he was certain.
He turned a corner and headed down the darkened corridor to the officers’ quarters. He was suddenly grabbed by his tunic and pulled into a shadowed recess in the stone wall by unseen hands. He was startled, and just as he began to struggle, he felt the press of a smaller body against his and smelled the perfumed hair of a woman. In the dark he couldn’t see who it was, although he had a good idea. Lillan! His back against the cold stones, a soft hand caressed his neck and an arm went round his waist. He felt her breath on his cheek, sweet and warm. He let his arms enfold her. He was so very tired.
She kissed him on the lips, a soft yet searching kiss, unhurried, her lips probing ever deeper. He gave himself over to her, to her firm passion. They stood for a long moment in the dark, holding each other. She kissed him again and stroked his hair. And then she was gone.
The next several days were jammed with frantic training from dawn to dark, followed by night call outs and maneuvers. After the sharp words from the Flamekeeper, Clarian pushed everyone hard. Soldier formations, each engaged in tactics and weapons practice, blanketed the green fields around the Citadel. The frail Flamekeeper came out onto the training fields to see for himself, helped by one of his junior priests. Clarian avoided encountering him, riding out to the farthest fields when he appeared.
Ever mindful of the days slipping away, Clarian moved from one troop to another, assessing their readiness, and making suggestions, his violet cloak flaring out behind him. There were times when he was harsh in his criticism, and the officers dropped their eyes and rushed to do better. Even Lillan received several sharp remarks.
Many Karran from the countryside had grown up with horses and were easily converted to mounted archers, but others were town dwellers who had to learn to ride as well as how to draw back a bow while riding a galloping horse, and there was many a fall out of the saddle. Exhausted soldiers collapsed in their tents at day
’s end, worn out from the endless drills and the ever-watchful eye of young Clarian, only to be called out in the dead of night for a training exercise.
Clarian rode into the city frequently to oversee the making of weapons by the craftsmen. Entering the workshops, he reached for finished bows, pulling on the bowstrings, testing them and feeling their balance. It was the same with the sword and lance makers in the outdoor forges. He was met everywhere by serious faces and even saw fear in the eyes of older residents who had been to war with the Maggan in past times and knew of their cunning and cruelty.
At the end of each day, he met with his commanders in the Citadel or out under a great tent to discuss troop readiness, weapons, supplies, and morale. They were eager to report progress, but he knew the troops were far from battle-ready. He was pleased with the condition of the horse herds being driven in; they were strong animals of good stock, fat and fleet.
Scouts had been slithering into the forest each day to spy on the Maggan and determine their readiness, and based on the information they brought back, Martan reported that the Maggan were still gathering under the great trees of the forest but showed no sign of marching. He said there were few wagons or horses in sight. That was good news to Clarian, who knew that when the supply wagons were brought up, the Maggan would march.
On this evening, Clarian held a conference with his officers under a white tent pitched on a broad, green field in the lee of the towering gray walls of the Citadel. The sun had slid below the hills to the west, streaking the few clouds with orange and red. The wind was light and carried the smell of horses, whose whinnying could be heard across the valley. He was satisfied with the officers’ reports, although he was anxious to hear that the troops were making greater progress. The archers, many no more than children and others who were women, showed eagerness but did not have the stamina of seasoned warriors. Many of them would be on foot during battle.
Clarian decided to move the troops by wagon to the battle sites, where they would take a position to unleash their arrows, always keeping a distance from the enemy, and retreating to cover or back to the wagons after the assault for a quick exit. He explained this plan to his officers.
A short, dark officer spoke up. “The young ones will be vulnerable to a swift attack, even if the Maggan are on foot,” she said.
Clarian nodded. “If you are a commander of archers who are transported by wagon, formation training is the key. In your training, bring them up to the target, shoot, and then have them retreat upon command by wagon to a safer place. Reform the lines. Move in formation to another position. Add these maneuvers to your drills.”
“What if the Maggan charge us?”
“If they break ranks to pursue you, retreat, shooting arrows into them all the while, and once they are drawn out from the main body, we will attack them with mounted archers and cut them off.”
The air was warm under the tent, and Clarian could hear officers taking deep breaths and sighing, their boots scuffling on the grass as they digested his orders. “It is up to you officers to have contingency plans for every move. The survival of your soldiers is in your hands. But remember, an arrow shot from the bow of a thirteen-year-old is just as deadly as one shot by you or me. And remember that the Maggan have archers too. So, shooting from cover is important. The enemy will try to carry the fight at night. We must be prepared to repel them even at night. But we will make their day unpleasant, and we will not let them rest. I am just a frontier warrior. I have never seen large armies. But I know how to bleed an enemy. If you will follow me, I will turn the Maggan tide, and I will kill Ferman.”
Martan stared hard at Clarian. “I have just received a report that the enemy is massing in the forest. More than I expected.”
“Then we will just have to kill more of them than we planned.”
Grins creased the faces of the officers.
The officers dispersed, most of them trudging away toward the lines of white tents. Some headed back to the Citadel.
Clarian sat on a large stone and let a tired sigh escape. The light wind flapped his violet cloak, which looked black in the falling darkness, around his shoulders. The fields of white tents gleamed in the pale light. The campfires burned down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that one officer was still present. It was Lillan. She approached him, a horse blanket under her arm. Even in the deepening gloom of evening, Clarian could see how beautiful she was and how proud, her chestnut hair swept to one side, her blue cloak streaming out in the breeze, her lips smiling.
“Lillan!” he said, surprise in his voice. She didn’t answer him. Instead, she threw down the horse blanket on the thick grass in the lee of the stone, reached up for Clarian’s hand, and pulled him down with her onto the blanket and pressed against him, her mouth seeking his. Clarian could smell the rich horse odor on the blanket and her fragrance and the brush of her hair and the taste of her lips. The wind whipped the pungent grasses around them as crystal stars burst out of an ebony sky.
Clarian pushed her away. “No. Lillan. Go back to your troops. Go.”
“I want to stay here tonight with you.”
“Others may see us.”
“I don’t care.”
“Go back to your troops. Go now.”
She angrily grabbed the blanket and ran into the darkness.
CHAPTER NINE
The full moon came, and the Maggan did not sortie out of the Forest of Darkness. It was believed that the Maggan liked to march in the full of the moon, but so far they remained within the giant trees’ canopy.
The ensuing days were filled with frantic preparations and training, and the army began to show good discipline, and the maneuvers became crisper. The mounted archers under Lillan’s guidance progressed better than Clarian had expected, and he was pleased. She looked hurt from time to time, but he knew she would get over it. She tried to approach him about that night but he told her they must postpone their personal relationship until the war was over. He also knew that once warriors were engaged in the chaos of deadly combat, their true courage would manifest. Romance must wait. He was cautiously pleased with the foot archers who were transported by wagon. Their accuracy improved daily, and their morale was high, but he worried that in the heat of battle they might retreat in an orderly fashion to their wagons or that they would panic when charged by the enemy and be overrun. Here might be the weakness he feared. He decided he would step in the next day to lead the training personally.
Rokkman hurried up the flights of stone stairs to the Flamekeeper’s quarters. He was anxious, not so much because he needed to see the Flamekeeper but because there was so much to do to prepare the Karran for war. Supplies of food and clothing and weapons were pouring in from the countryside, but they were not coming in fast enough. The production of weapons was going well, but who knew how many arrows and lances would be needed in the end? And horses, he thought, there are never enough trained horses. And then the impossible task of turning awkward farmers and townsfolk into soldiers and some of them children, no less! And some gray-haired! Grandfathers! The herders and Grasslanders are easy to train, and they are horse people, but the others! May the Flame help us!
As he stomped up the stairs, his legs not as strong as he remembered them being, he reflected on his own life, first coming as a youngster from a town not far from the Citadel to an autumn festival and seeing the Citadel soldiers for the first time and hearing the Flamekeeper speak and bless the crowds of celebrants.
He had been a serious student and came to the attention of his teachers in his little school, who recommended him to the Citadel for further study. In time, he became a secretary to one of the Flamekeeper’s assistants. At the same time, he was sent for training as a Citadel guard, at which he had excelled.
When the Great War began, he became an officer and led Karran soldiers into battle many times against the Maggan. At the conclusion of the war, the Flamekeeper
chose Rokkman as an advisor and priest and in time elevated him to the violet cloak.
Now the gray-haired, gray-bearded Rokkman, secretary to the Flamekeeper and sometime advisor to the Citadel guards and to Clarian, feeling his many years, entered the offices of the Flamekeeper.
“I want your honest assessment of our situation, Rokkman. No pleasing words. No adornment,” said the Flamekeeper, seated in his heavy dark wooden chair behind his great desk, wrapped in his violet robe. Lit with candles and brightened by early morning rays through several windows, the room still felt dim, the air heavy. A new fire in the hearth tried to take hold on the freshly chopped kindling. The Flamekeeper looked grim, his long white hair and beard bright against his aged gray face. Rokkman did not know how old the Flamekeeper was, but he had been there long before Rokkman was born.
“The training goes well, Holy One. And the—”
“I told you I want to know exactly what our situation is. ‘The training goes well’ tells me nothing.”
Rokkman looked away for a moment and then shrugged. “We are not yet ready. If the Maggan attack soon, we are lost. If they wait another month, Clarian may be able to complete enough training of the army and put his defensive plan into action and stop them.”
“What confidence do you have in Clarian?”
“He knows how to fight. His new ideas are our only hope. He is young, but he is unafraid of the Maggan. His years of fighting the fierce Kobani tribesmen have made him bold. But if you are asking me if we can hold out against the Maggan, I do not know.”
The Flamekeeper pulled at his beard, his eyes harsh and searching. He slammed his fist down on his desk. “I fear for our people, Rokkman. And for the Flame. I expect more leadership from you. You must push Clarian to greater efforts.”
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