Die for the Flame

by William Gehler

  “I heard the Citadel was sending guards units to help,” said Mendan.

  “They did,” replied Orlan. “Several hundred. The Kobani were waiting and ambushed them. We have to do this ourselves or lose our farms, villages, and families. Of course, we can pack up and leave. Let them have all the Grasslands. We could move back to the lands near the Citadel or cross the river into the land of the Madasharan. They’re related to us. And there’s plenty of land over there.”

  “There’s plenty of land because it’s all desert,” said Mendan.

  The other men nodded, and several sniffed loudly.

  “Right,” said Orlan, smiling.

  “They’ve not come this far north before in large numbers, just small raiding parties,” said Mendan.

  “I think they want the ferry and control of the road east. That would mean the Grasslands would be cut off from the Citadel and all roads in and out. They win this, they win it all.”

  “What’s our plan?” asked Mendan. “I’m not giving up my farm to the Kobani!”

  Orlan cleared his throat and licked his lips nervously, looking around the room at each one as if he were appraising their stalwartness.

  “Well, Orlan?” asked Mendan, impatiently.

  “It’s up to all of you, but here’s what I’m proposing. They travel fast because they are a horse people, as most of us are here on the Grasslands. They will attack us in a few days’ time after they destroy the village of Elan, which is a several days’ ride southeast of here.”

  “I was born in Elan,” declared a young officer. “We need to defend it.”

  “There’s no time to defend it,” said Orlan. “They’ll be confident after they burn it. We can only hope that the town’s folk will abandon it and run. Then the Kobani will ride straight here following the river because that’s the easiest way. There’s no direct road from Elan here. And they won’t be expecting a large force waiting for them. Here’s my thinking. They always send advance riders out to scout the terrain. We will let them through and leave a few men here to fight them off if they decide to try to take the ferry, but we want them to think that the ferry is lightly defended. We want them to report back that the ferry can easily be captured.”

  “How many men will they have?” asked Mendan.

  “Five hundred. Maybe more.”

  “Oooh!” exclaimed someone.

  “We’ll be waiting for them when their main force arrives?” asked Mendan.

  “Yes,” answered Orlan, with a sly gleam in his eye. “We will have surprise on our side. We will set an ambush at Sandy Creek Marsh. There is high ground above the marsh, and the creek runs down and feeds the marsh.” He tapped the map. “Look here. I expect them to ride right through the marsh following the old traders’ trail. We’ll attack them from the flank and drive them deep into the marsh and the quicksand. There’s no cover for them. They could try to ride out through the creek, but it joins the river just a lance’s throw away, and no one can survive the rapids there.”

  Mendan pounded his fist on the table, shouting, “Orlan! We’ll drive them out.”

  “There’s more, Mendan. I propose we divide our forces into two groups.” Orlan leaned over the table and ran his finger down the map. “One group will execute the ambush. But the other group will ride on a forced march deep into the Kobani plains. There is a permanent village called Kila Sem about a four days’ ride from here. Most of the Kobani fighting men are away from home attacking us. Our second group will attack and burn the village. They won’t be expecting us. It’s never happened before, and the village will be lightly defended, if at all.”

  “Are you crazy? Attack the Kobani? In their own land?” exclaimed a red-haired officer.

  Orlan reached back for a chair and sat down, as the officers began talking all at once to one another, some shaking their heads in disagreement, others nodding. Finally, the discussions died out, and Mendan looked at Orlan, his brow wrinkled in worry. “One question. What if the Kobani intercept us on the way back from Kila Sem?”

  “They won’t. They’ll be dead.”

  Mendan sighed and glanced around to judge the sentiment of the group. There was little enthusiasm for Orlan’s plan, but no one had a better one. It was bold, each knew that, and each knew that Orlan was a ferocious and clever fighter.

  “We will do it, Orlan. May the Flame protect us. Who stays here and who rides into the land of the Kobani?” asked Mendan.

  “You will lead the attack into the land of the Kobani, Mendan. I will lead the ambush here.”

  Brinan leaned close to Clarian’s ear and whispered, “Which group are we in?”

  “With my father, I think. The ambush.”

  Outside, Clarian tied his bow and quiver to his saddle. Brinan led her horse over and stood close to him.

  “Clarian, I’m scared,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  She shivered. He put his arms around her, and she clasped him tightly.

  Clarian lay prone in the tall, coarse grass that grew out of a sandy dune above the trail that ran through the marshland. The marsh spread out for a thousand paces in either direction, north and south. Directly in front of Clarian, parallel to the trail, behind a line of willows, raged the great Blue River, its roar drowning out all other sounds.

  Next to Clarian were the rugged men of the Great Grasslands, a number of boys like himself, and a few women, their bows in hand, lying shoulder to shoulder on the high ground, obscured by a screen of low foliage. Horses and riders were gathered in two groups, one at the north end of the sandy dunes and the other group at the south end, back a good distance from the road so that the horses would not alert the approaching Kobani. Bows and lances were ready as the Grasslanders sat their horses, waiting for the signal to launch their attack.

  Orlan, on his stomach and camouflaged by shrubbery, watched the column of fierce Kobani warriors appear, riding effortlessly as only horse people can. The column of riders ten abreast were now splashing through the ground water of the marsh, approaching where Orlan and his men waited in secret. Kobani scouts had gone past two days before and returned, presumably with the information that the ferry was lightly defended. As the Kobani filed into the trap, Orlan scurried back to his horse and the waiting men, several hundred of whom were already mounted in the tall grass. He saw with satisfaction the determined look on the faces of the frontiersmen. Their bows were ready, arrows notched.

  The Kobani were an olive-skinned people with long, dark hair. Some of the riders wore bandages, a result of their recent encounter with the people of Elan. The riders were slack in their saddles, some dozing, obviously tired, and their horses plodded with effort.

  Clarian’s hands were sweaty and his chest tight as a drum. He licked his lips and did his utmost to remain motionless as he peered through the green foliage at the Kobani warriors. Brinan, who was lying in the dune grass next to Clarian, glanced over at him, her eyes jittery.

  The Kobani column was now stretched out over several hundred paces. Clarian was close enough to see the braids of their hair intertwined with red threads and the tattoos on their faces. A young warrior turned his head and seemed to look right at Clarian, who froze. But then the warrior looked away and rode by. The warriors had bows slung over their shoulders, and arrow quivers and lances hung from their saddles and short swords at their waists.

  Clarian’s hands began to shake. He held them down on the ground. It seemed as if his father would never give the signal to attack. In the middle of the Kobani column, several older, gray-haired warriors rode into view wearing short red capes draped over their shoulders.

  The first arrow buried itself into one of the wearers of the red cape. That was the signal. There was no shouting, no war cries, from the Grasslanders. They just began shooting from their hiding place on the high dunes, firing down into the Kobani at close range. Cries of alarm swept through t
he Kobani. Riders fell screaming, and horses went down kicking and thrashing. Many of the Grasslanders stood up from their camouflaged place of hiding and began firing rapidly, one arrow after another.

  Kobani leaders began shouting. Some kicked their horses forward and began galloping toward the head of the column, and some spun their horses around and began racing back the way they came. At that moment mounted Grasslander bowmen swept in at both ends and blocked all paths of escape.

  A group of Kobani lashed their horses up the dunes where Clarian and Brinan and others were frantically firing away. It all happened in moments. Suddenly a Kobani warrior burst through the protective brush and impaled Brinan with a lance. Clarian shot an arrow into the chest of the warrior, who rolled off his horse into the sand. A warrior on horseback slashed at Clarian with his sword. The blow glanced off Clarian’s bow and sliced into the right side of his face, from eye to jaw. Blood shot down his shirt. Clarian danced away, tripped, and fell down the slope of the dune into the heaviest fighting of the fray. He still had his bow but had lost his arrows. He landed next to a downed Kobani horse. He pulled the Kobani quiver off the saddle, drew an arrow, and from behind the dead horse began firing into the melee all around him.

  He could see his father charging at the head of a large group of Grasslanders down from the high dunes and into the midst of the confused Kobani. The Kobani turned and rode to escape in the only direction from which there was no attack—farther into the marsh and the quicksand as Orlan had planned. The Kobani never had time to mount a counterattack. As they splashed their horses deeper into the marsh and quicksand, they became bogged down as their horses floundered. Riders dismounted and tried to run, only to be caught by the grip of the quicksand.

  A Kobani warrior spun his horse around and charged Orlan, his lance low. Orlan dropped his bow and unsheathed his sword. The horses collided. As Clarian watched, the lance brushed Orlan’s shirt, and Orlan’s sword cut through the air where the Kobani had leaned out wide to the side. Orlan’s horse slipped in the marsh and faltered, falling to its knees, frantically trying to regain its footing. As Orlan jerked on the reins, the lance caught him deep under the ribs. Clarian shouted out in anguish as he saw his father’s face twisted in agony. Orlan dropped off his horse into the marsh. Other riders rushed in, and Clarian’s view was obscured, but he knew what he had witnessed.

  The Grasslanders rode slowly after the Kobani at a leisurely pace, remaining out of the deeper areas of the marsh and the quicksand, and they began carefully picking the warriors off one at a time. In an hour, it was all over. Horses and Kobani were crying out as they were sucked under the quicksand. Others died from grievous wounds as they lay in the shallow waters. Some made it to the river and dove in, only to be swept away into the rapids by the fast-moving current.

  The bodies of the Kobani who were not consumed by the quicksand and some who were seriously wounded were dragged to the river’s edge and kicked into the pull of the powerful torrent to be carried downstream into the rocks.

  Clarian sat by Brinan, crying—crying for her and for his father. Her eyes flickered at him as she choked and died in his arms.

  The Grasslanders gathered up their dead and wounded. They buried the dead in the sandy soil above the dunes, and Clarian watched as Brinan was wrapped in a cloak and placed in the trench with the other dead. Brinan’s father was away with Mendan, riding deep into Kobani territory. Clarian decided to take his father’s body home to the ferry.

  The young girl tapped Clarian on the shoulder, startling him for a moment, bringing him back to the present and out of his reverie. The rain fell softly on the dripping tarp. The memory of the Kobani war closed, and he was back with the new war and the hated Maggan. The girl’s blond hair was tied back, and she had a bow slung over her shoulder with an arrow quiver on her back and a patch depicting a white flame on the left shoulder of her blue tunic. Her childlike face expressed deep respect as she leaned over Clarian. “Clarian. The Flamekeeper has come. He waits for you,” she said in a small voice.

  He nodded and studied her fine features. “What is your name?”

  “Mishan.”

  “You are a scout?”

  “Yes.”

  As he looked at the young girl, he thought of Brinan.

  “Where do you come from?”

  “Beyond the Great Grasslands. Why do you look at me so, Clarian?”

  “You remind me of someone. She was your age.”

  “Was?”

  “She fell in battle. Long ago.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Be careful, Mishan. There is death everywhere.”

  “The Flame protects me as it protects you.”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes. You must trust the Flame and call upon it. It will guide you.”

  “I see only dying around me.”

  “It will guide you past the darkness. Come. There are more challenges that await you. But the end of all this has already been written.”

  Clarian followed the girl down from the rock, his cloak pulled up over his shoulders to ward off the rain, though the moisture soaked right in. The rain continued to fall, and the battlefield below filled with a heavy mist as night closed fast. At the base, they mounted horses, Clarian awkward from the pain of his wound, and rode past camps of Karran soldiers and around hundreds of smoking fires, to a sheltered area with trees and a stream. There, a large camp had been set up with rows of tents and not far off in the grass, herds of horses were watched over by mounted soldiers.

  Standing under a stretched awning, Rokkman watched as Clarian and the girl dismounted. The girl took the reins from Clarian and walked away leading both horses. Rokkman nodded toward the large tent behind him. Clarian pulled back the flap and went in.

  Seated on a camp stool was the Flamekeeper. A brazier glowed with red-yellow coals, giving off welcome heat. Two candle lanterns emanated a soft yellow light.

  The Flamekeeper looked up as Clarian entered. Both the Flamekeeper and Rokkman were shocked at Clarian’s appearance once they saw him in the light. His face was pale and thin, and there were dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. But most of all, his shoulders slumped forward, and he moved with great heaviness. The bandage wrapped around his chest bulged out from beneath his blood-stained tunic.

  “Sit down, Clarian,” said Rokkman. “The Flamekeeper has come to see you. We were about to send for you.”

  “I know. Your scout found me.”

  “Scout? Never mind, you are here.”

  Clarian bowed stiffly and, with some discomfort, sat on a stool looking over the brazier into the Flamekeeper’s eyes. The Flamekeeper, dressed in a violet cloak, leaned forward with a gentle smile on his face.

  “You have stopped the dreaded Maggan, my son. You have done what was asked of you. And you are driving them back to their night lair. So, I have come to thank you.”

  Clarian nodded.

  “You grieve for those you loved who have fallen. Now I ask you to put aside your grief until the war is over, as hard as it may seem to be. There will be days of mourning, but they must wait until the peace is secure.” The Flamekeeper waited to see whether his words registered on Clarian.

  “Now that you have beaten the Maggan, it is time to make peace with them and let them go back to their forest.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” yelled Clarian, his eyes daggers of anger.

  “Clarian! You are speaking to the Flamekeeper!” shouted Rokkman, jumping to his feet.

  “I’m not letting them go! I’m going to kill all of them that I can!”

  The Flamekeeper held up his hands. “The war is over, Clarian. They are beaten. They will not come out of the forest again, of that I am sure. Twice Ferman has been defeated. They will not follow him again. And you have burned their homes. They won’t forget the mighty arm of Clarian. I am convinced they will never again attac
k us.”

  “They don’t attack us, they attack you, Holy One! They want the Flame! Don’t you understand? This isn’t about land! This is about religion! They want the Flame for themselves! They will never stop!”

  The gentle smile on the Flamekeeper’s face was replaced by a hard expression. “You will negotiate a peace settlement with them, Clarian. I command you!”

  “You were the one who made peace the last time before the Maggan were destroyed, and look what has happened! And now you want to make that same mistake again!”

  “You cannot speak to the Flamekeeper in that tone, Clarian,” barked Rokkman.

  “Our soldiers are dying. Many are now dead and lie waiting to be buried out there in the rain and the mud. I speak for them. There is no peace. This is not yet over.”

  Anger flared across the old priest’s face, and he pointed his jutting jaw at Clarian’s face. “You are wrong and you will make peace. Let the Maggan go!”

  “I intend to kill Ferman and crush these vermin once and for all!”

  The Flamekeeper, trying to control his emotions, waved his arms as if to brush aside Clarian’s objections. “I am going to bestow on you great honors. I will raise you and your name to all the people of Karran as their prophesized rescuer. Your name will be forever written in the Great Book of Karran. I will…”

  “Stop it! I don’t care about any of that. I just want to go back to my ferry and the Blue River to live in peace. And I can’t go if I leave Ferman alive behind me.”

  The Flamekeeper rose to his feet and pointed at Clarian, his eyes hot, his mouth a thin line. “You will do as I have ordered you to do. Serve me as I demand. I am your Flamekeeper. My word must be obeyed. Go make peace, Clarian.”

  Clarian stared hard into the Flamekeeper’s eyes, then rose, abruptly knocking over the stool he was sitting on, and barged out of the tent. He was seething. How could they stop now when they had the enemy by the throat? The only wise thing to do would be to crush the Maggan for all time. What did the old Flamekeeper know about war?