Die for the Flame

by William Gehler

  The Madasharan were coming as well, but it would be days before they could reach the ferry, much less cross the river and then push on across the Grasslands to the Citadel. It would be too late and maybe not enough. The Madasharan army alone might not consist of enough troops to stop the Maggan. The Karran army’s numbers were swelling each day as farmers, herders, villagers, and veterans streamed into the Citadel to join the ranks to fight the dreaded night people. It was too few, too late. He knew that now.

  Alone, in the darkness of his tent, he wept in bitter frustration. His pain for his countless dead countrymen upon the field of battle, the grieving families, and the dread of the ancient enemy about to crush and erase his people forever, crashed down upon him. Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, he grasped the violet stone around his neck, the talisman given him long ago by an Immortal One. In his despair, he called upon the power of the Flame to guide him, to come to the rescue of his people, to save the Flame. He called upon the spirits of his Kobani ancestors, the spirit people that dwell in the Shadow Lands of the Kobani myths, to save his people. In his heart, he was not sure his words mattered.

  He did not know how much time had passed. A soldier pulled back the tent flap for Martan, but glancing inside the tent, he saw Clarian seated, eyes closed as if asleep. When Clarian’s eyes did not open, Martan dropped the flap and walked away.

  Clarian’s mind drifted as scenes of battles passed by his inner sight, of dying men screaming, horses fallen, of Lillan’s body lying in the rain, of Neevan riding fast beside him, of his mother and aunt far out on the frontier all alone, the smell of smoke, the weight of fear as it clutched at him. And then it stopped, and he saw her, the tall, golden woman, the one who had come to his house when he was a child. He finally remembered it all. Neither smiling nor scowling, she stared intently at him. He was a child again, and they were both standing in the great room in his cottage by the river. Then they were outside on the embankment overlooking the river. She looked eastward, tilting her head as if she were listening. A sword of pure white light flashed in her right hand and with it, she pointed to the land that stretched out in front of Clarian and his cottage, the waving tall grass. Behind her came a thin man riding a white horse. Long, white, braided hair lay upon his shoulders, over his white robe. An intricate blue tattoo was displayed on his forehead. Clarian knew he was a Kobani spirit elder. A bow appeared in his hands, and he notched an arrow and let it fly out over the tall grass.

  Then they were gone. His eyes snapped open. The dream was gone. Was that what it was? His legs were heavy as he stood up, and his head ached. He rubbed his face roughly with his hands and willed himself to move. He was exhausted. His mind seemed to be reeling. What did it all mean? He was trapped. The Karran were trapped. Was this how it all would end? Death for every Karran at the hands of the bloody, dreaded night people? The Flame snatched away as the Maggan executed every man, woman, and child?

  Wagons rolled by outside the tent, voices called out, and cooks tossed wood on campfires. He became aware of a slight figure standing beside him. He turned his weary eyes to look down at a blond head.

  “Mishan.”

  “Clarian. Martan needs you. I’ll take you to his tent.”

  He did not move at once but gazed at the small young girl, bow and quiver slung over her little square shoulders. She stepped back and caught his sleeve and tugged, her blue eyes scanning his haggard face, her delicate face calm, as she led him out of the tent.

  “It’s good to see you, Mishan. I’m glad you survived.”

  “It’s good to see you, Clarian. You too have survived.” With that, a slight smile lit her sober face, and Clarian noticed a dimple in her cheek. He followed her as dawn showed in the east, no wind and the smell of horses and campfires heavy in the air.

  “You are worried, Clarian. It shows on your face. Don’t despair.”

  “The Maggan come in great numbers with two armies. They will be at the gates of the Citadel in a few days. There is no escape. We are beaten.”

  “I know. But they, even with their great numbers, will not prevail. You will prevail.”

  “How do you know?”

  “For it is written that the ferryman will save the people,” she said, looking at him with her piercing blue eyes. “He will heal the land.”

  “I wish I could be as certain as you,” he mumbled. “Must everyone die for the Flame?”

  “No. The Flame is truth and love. But hearts are hardened.”

  “Where can I turn?”

  “The Flame will protect you, and it will guide you as it did before.”

  “I wish I could believe that.”

  “The Flame does not need you to believe, only to let it do its work. We will call on the Flame.”

  He relaxed a bit in the glow of her optimism as, taking his arm, she led him down a row of tents. Anyone observing would have thought they heard a young girl lecturing a tall man in a violet cloak. The young girl stopped him under a dark tree and kissed his forehead. She placed her hands on his sagging shoulders and invoked the Flame.

  Mounting Ruttu as dawn broke, Clarian urged her in a northerly direction toward the battle lines. He found a clump of trees atop a hillock where he could observe the conflict. He watched as Karran mounted archers attacked a column of Maggan foot soldiers. The enemy used large shields to protect themselves and, backed by a small number of archers, they kept moving, their officers shouting as they drove them forward. The Karran swept by firing arrows into the ranks, but the ranks kept advancing. The night people would not be stopped, not this time, he thought, not here in the shadow of the Citadel.

  As he returned to camp, Clarian realized he could see the towers of the Citadel, the morning sunlight glinting off the windows. The silhouette stood in the distance against the horizon, and, he thought, the enemy could surely see it as well. Was this the end of Karran civilization? To be erased by an aggressive foe from deep in a black forest, a strange, alien people, a cruel people who tolerated no other peoples. But there was Neevan, beautiful Neevan. His mind turned gloomy as he decided to call a meeting of his commanders—perhaps his last, he thought ruefully.

  A plan was forming in the back of his mind, a plan so terrible that he was afraid to speak it out loud to anyone. But first there were details to work out. He scribbled a letter to his mother and aunt, explaining the events and what he thought would happen and how they must prepare. These were sent off with riders on the swiftest horses.

  In two days, the Drumaggan and the Maggan armies closed in on the Citadel, and Clarian set his defensive lines, one on the north side of the castle facing the Drumaggan and one on the east, facing Ferman and his Maggan columns. The west and south sides of the castle were too steep for assault and didn’t warrant defenses. The Karran army had its back to the castle walls. Soon the Maggan would encircle the Citadel and its city, and all would be trapped. And the Flame! It was trapped, too.

  Clarian brought into the castle large numbers of soldiers to repel an expected assault on the gates. The Maggan forces had not invaded the surrounding city, not wanting to divert soldiers from the primary task of defeating the Karran army and capturing the Flame.

  Standing on a high balcony overlooking the battle lines in the fields below where his army once trained, Clarian observed the Maggan massing for the final assault. Clarian’s soldiers dug trenches and planted sharpened stakes across the front of the Karran lines. His army was still a strong force and would fight to the death, which they must. The enemy could overwhelm them, but the cost in Maggan lives would be extreme.

  At his shoulder stood Rokkman and a few feet away the weeping Flamekeeper, with Martan. The enemy advance had stopped late in the morning. The enemy waited. The Flamekeeper was shaky and watery-eyed and would not speak to Clarian, that bond of respect long since shattered.

  “Why have they stopped?” asked Rokkman of anyone on the balcony.

 
“They are preparing for the final assault—probably tonight,” answered Clarian.

  In a small farmhouse east of the Citadel, Ferman, Sulan, Naguran, and a number of commanders met over a map spread across the kitchen table. Neevan stood off to one side, her expression guarded.

  “They have their backs to the wall. There is nowhere they can go. They can only die!” gloated Ferman, grinning at Sulan and glancing around the room for acknowledgment.

  “Yes, Ferman,” said Sulan, thoughtfully running his fingers across the map. “But their army is still large and well equipped. And they will fight to the last soldier. This is their homeland after all. We could lose half our armies before we break down the gates of the castle. It is well fortified with plenty of soldiers. We’ll do some dying, too.”

  “No loss of troops is too much if we can capture the Flame,” snapped Ferman.

  “There’s no need to be reckless,” said Naguran.

  “We could attack the city, burn it, and kill the inhabitants and make the Karran dogs watch. That will demoralize them,” said Ferman.

  Sulan nodded and grinned. “One problem. That would divert our forces from our main objective, which is to capture the Flame. We can kill them all later whenever we want, and we will. Keep in mind, since Clarian took over their army, our losses have been substantial and much of our supplies destroyed. This final battle will be costly unless we can avoid it, but I don’t know how.”

  Neevan pushed forward from the corner of the room and approached the table. Ferman glanced up at her as she spoke. “Negotiate with Clarian,” she said.

  Murmurs coursed through the room, and there were a few snickers. Both Ferman and Sulan looked surprised. Moments passed, boots scraped on the wooden floor, someone opened the door and came in, and another coughed. Leaning back in his chair, pulling on his long, gray beard, Ferman raised his eyebrows at Sulan.

  Sulan shrugged.

  Ever the clever one, Ferman bared his small, yellowed teeth at Neevan.

  “Clarian! The Maggan want to talk!” a young officer reported.

  “What?”

  “The Maggan have sent a delegation to talk. About what I don’t know, but they await you out there between the battle lines.”

  Clarian hurried to the balcony from his office, where he had been meeting with several commanders regarding the buttressing of the gates. Always in the back of his mind was the thought that somehow there must be a way out of this predicament. Looking out beyond the ranks of soldiers below to an open space between the battle lines, he saw three figures flying a banner, apparently waiting. Retreating to his office, he put on his violet cloak and yelling for Rokkman and Martan, he headed down the long corridor to the stairways leading down to the courtyard of the castle. By the time he reached the main gate, which had been pulled open to let him through, he had been joined by Rokkman and Martan, each puffing after the run to catch up.

  They walked through the packed ranks of Karran soldiers, sitting on their shields, others behind barricades, with bleak looks on their faces. It took time to pass through the lines, cross the ditches, and traverse the open ground.

  As the Karran group approached the Maggan, Clarian was shocked to see Neevan standing there in her black soldier’s tunic, waiting, with Sulan, Naguran, and Zefran, the Maggan Flamekeeper.

  Clarian halted a few feet away, his face expressionless. Each group assessed the other. No one spoke. The day was hot, and there was no wind. Behind the Maggan party, Clarian could see Maggan soldiers standing, watching. Clarian’s eyes probed Neevan’s, but she remained tight-lipped and flicked her eyes away from him.

  “Neevan,” Rokkman spoke first.

  “Holy One.” She nodded at Martan, who did not respond. “This is Sulan, Naguran, and our Flamekeeper, Zefran.”

  “Where’s Ferman?” asked Clarian.

  “He doesn’t like you,” replied a smiling Sulan.

  “I remember you,” said Martan to the Flamekeeper. “From Minteegan.”

  “I remember you, Karran dog,” answered the Flamekeeper, his eyes cold and his face smug.

  “We should have burned you with the rest of your priestly vermin,” barked Martan.

  Everyone looked at Clarian, expecting him to speak, but he remained stiff and aloof.

  “Clarian. Ferman offers terms,” said Neevan.

  Clarian said nothing, and his eyes were unreadable.

  “What terms?” asked Rokkman.

  Neevan addressed Rokkman, but her eyes were on Clarian. “Give us the Flame, and we will leave. The war will end now.”

  Martan snorted and glanced over at Clarian, as if expecting him to reject the offer vehemently. Rokkman looked stricken and stared off into a corner of the hot sky. Thousands of eyes from all the armies were pinned on the negotiators.

  “I will take your offer to our Flamekeeper,” said Clarian, who spun around and quickly walked away, leaving everyone open-mouthed. Hurriedly, Rokkman and Martan trotted after him as he made his way back to the castle.

  Neevan turned with Sulan, Naguran, and Zefran, and strode back to where they could see Ferman pacing impatiently.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The old Flamekeeper wept, his frail, aging frame slumped in his violet chair. Rokkman and Martan argued that it was better to die than to give up the Flame, as Clarian sat off to one side, saying nothing, since he had delivered the offer. The Flamekeeper blamed Clarian for failing to protect the Flame and its people. Clarian refused to show his feelings as the accusations piled up, keeping his silence. After a while, Rokkman and Martan tired of bickering and looked to Clarian.

  “The Maggan will kill us all, even if we give them the Flame. They have no honor. Their word to a Karran means nothing. Surely, all of you know this to be true,” said Clarian.

  “What choice do we have?” asked Rokkman. “Except to die!”

  Clarian pointed at Rokkman. “The enemy will destroy this city and maybe this castle, pulling it down, that is for sure. The Flame must not be here when they do. We must escape with the Flame to fight at another time, another place.”

  Rokkman paced across the room. “There’s no chance of escape!”

  “Yes, there is. I have a plan.”

  “Are you in your right mind? We’re beaten!” shouted Rokkman.

  “No, we are not beaten yet. The Kobani, the Grasslanders, and the Madasharan armies are assembling in the Grasslands at my ferry crossing at the great river.”

  “The Maggan will not let our army go unscathed. And what about our people here in the city and out in the countryside?” barked Rokkman.

  “I think we can negotiate with the Maggan to leave this land. I think that initially, in order to acquire the Flame, they will let us go. After they have the Flame, they will follow us to wipe us out. But we will have a chance—a bit of time—to make a great exodus of all Karran people to the Grasslands and then escape over the river into the land of Madasharan. We will leave with all the belongings we can carry, our livestock, our army and retreat across the Blue River into Madasharan.

  “But they will have the Flame, you traitor!” screamed the Flamekeeper.

  Clarian blinked at the charge. “Holy One. You can call upon the Flame at any time. We all know this. When you are away from the Flame, can you also call it forth?”

  “Of course I can! I am the Flamekeeper!”

  “Can the Flame be seen by others?”

  “If I’m away from the Sacred Crystal? Yes. I call the Flame, and it comes, and anyone can see it. But after three days, it fades to the ordinary eye. It still comes, but it can’t be seen. What is this?”

  Clarian leaned forward in his chair, his face grim, his lips pale. “Here is my proposal. We offer to give the Flame to the Maggan. We demand they pull back their armies to a safer distance.”

  “We can’t give them the Flame!” railed the Flameke
eper.

  “That is correct, Holy One,” said Clarian. “We cannot, and we won’t. We will build a crystal and its container that appear to be the Sacred Crystal and Flame. They have never seen it, so they won’t know it’s a fake.”

  “But their Flamekeeper will know because it will not emanate the Sacred Flame, you idiot!” cried the Flamekeeper.

  “No. It will burn for three days because, you, Holy One, will go with it when we give it to the Maggan. Your assignment is to call in the Flame and keep the Maggan Flamekeeper occupied for three days while we escape with the true Flame, carrying it with us to the river.”

  Martan brightened in his chair. “By the Flame, Clarian, that’s a devious plan, but it might work!”

  “No one can know except us in this room and those who are helping us. We must keep this a secret. Our plan can’t leak out.”

  Smoothing his beard, Rokkman walked over to a chair and collapsed into it, trying not to look at the old Flamekeeper. “When they figure it out, they will come at us with a vengeance.”

  Clarian nodded. “Of course, but we will be across the river by then.”

  Rokkman shook with fury. “You send our beloved Flamekeeper into the abyss.”

  “An abyss of his own making. Let him take his priestly pride into the foe’s camp to turn their eyes from us for a moment, to let us escape. Our hope flickers like a candle against a vagrant wind. I can give you nothing else. Do this or die.

  “You betrayer! You’re worse than the Maggan! You send me to my death! They will tear me apart!” shrieked the Flamekeeper at Clarian.

  Nodding, his mouth in a hard line, Clarian spoke hoarsely. “Your fate has already been written. It is not me who sends you to your death. It is the eons of time in which hatred has been permitted to fester. You want to save the Flame? Do your duty! It is the only path open to you and to us. I am not a holy man, but it is clear to me that your first duty is to the Sacred Flame. You must pass your mantel of authority as Flamekeeper of the Karran people to another.”