Die for the Flame

by William Gehler

  The old man cringed in his chair, fear clouding his eyes. Visions of what the Maggan would do to him once the hoax was uncovered were too horrifying for him to contemplate. He wailed and pulled his robe over his head as the other men left the room.

  It was dawn, and the opposing armies did not clash in the emerging day. Standing in the field as before, the Maggan with their party and Clarian with his, the grim offer was made.

  “We will surrender the Flame,” announced Clarian.

  Sulan broke into a smile, and Zefran almost danced, his body electric with excitement.

  “When?” asked the expectant Flamekeeper.

  Neevan remained dispassionate, her tired eyes showing no surprise at the terms. Clarian ignored her.

  “But there are conditions. You must pull back your army’s two-day march from here. The war is over. When you have completed your pullback, we will hand over our Flamekeeper and the Sacred Crystal to you.”

  Sulan held up a gloved finger. “You said conditions. That’s only one.”

  “We will abandon this land, and you must let us go unmolested.”

  His night eyes blinking in the morning light, Sulan rotated his neck as if to twist out a kink. “You don’t trust us, Clarian.”

  Clarian shrugged.

  “We will confer with Ferman, but I believe we will accept the arrangement.”

  Nodding, Clarian started to turn away as Sulan added, “No tricks this time, Clarian,” laughing low in his chest, giving Clarian a hard look.

  “Clarian,” Neevan said, “I need to speak to you.”

  Clarian waved Rokkman away as Sulan, Naguran, and Zefran hurried back to their lines, their steps lively with anticipation. Clarian faced Neevan.

  “I didn’t betray you,” she said softly.

  “It looks that way.”

  “I didn’t know this would happen. They are always talking about revenge against the Karran. Ferman planned this. He used me.”

  “You used me.”

  “I only wanted to be with you.”

  Clarian wanted to believe Neevan, but this disaster was so great as to put in doubt everything she said.

  “Clarian, I love you,” she said quietly. “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you, Neevan, but I’m betraying my people when I say it. You’re the enemy.”

  “I know. And you’re my people’s enemy,” she said. “No, no, that’s not right. Love makes no enemies.”

  “Hate leaves little room for love.”

  “When this is over, maybe we could go to another place, another land where there is no war, and build a life together. I have called upon the Flame to help you and me.”

  “When you saw the Flame, you never told me what happened.”

  “The Flame spoke to me, so the Flamekeeper said. I never heard it myself. The Flame said I was a woman who could live in two worlds, that I would find myself in great danger one day, but if I survived it would be because of a great love.”

  Clarian cleared his throat. “I must go. The Kobani believe in a Shadow World, a place where one goes after death. Perhaps we will meet again in the Shadow World.”

  “May the Flame be with you, my love,” she called to his fading back as he spun away, striding back to his lines.

  He didn’t answer, his mind already filled with dark thoughts.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The day broke, and it was evident that the Maggan armies were breaking camp and marching back in the direction they had come. Officers were shouting orders, wagons loaded with soldiers and supplies turned around, and other soldiers walked, their weapons over their shoulders, singing martial ballads. The war paused.

  Clarian left his army in position, not taking any chances with possible Maggan treachery. But he sent out riders to every corner of the land, ordering all Karran people to abandon their homes, farms, and villages, pack up their belongings, their livestock, and everything they could carry and make for the Blue River out on the frontier known as the Great Grasslands, where they would cross the river and seek a new life and home in the dry lands of Madasharan.

  The cries of grief and wailing from the city below the castle could be heard in Clarian’s office in the upper floors of the Citadel. When he crossed over to the south side of the castle, he could look down and see families with loaded horse-drawn wagons pulling out to begin the long trek to the river. By day’s end, the road west was choked with the migration, and the dust rose high in the sky. Babies and children, frightened by the fear they sensed in their parents and by being torn from their homes, cried incessantly, while nervous dogs ran alongside, barking and snapping at one another. Citadel guards directed traffic and assisted travelers as whole villages and towns emptied out. The road west became a river, a flood of refugees that filled the road from the Citadel to the Great Grasslands.

  The gold and silversmiths worked day and night to forge a fake container for the bogus crystal. A beautiful, giant, white crystal was found and placed in the bottom of the container, surrounded by violet and blue crystals, and when the light struck the crystals, they were magnificent and glowed brilliantly. The container, larger than a man could reach around with both arms, was covered in gold and silver filigree. The large object was placed into a gilded wooden box with handgrips on two sides so that two strong men might carry it. The entire piece was draped in a fine, transparent, violet veil. When completed, the crystal and its container were loaded onto a small, exquisitely built wagon, gilded in gold, with symbols painted in violet on the sides. Clarian, who had tasked Rokkman with the construction now that the Flamekeeper refused to speak with him, insisted that as part of the ruse, the fake Sacred Crystal and Flame must be eye-popping.

  Finally it was the day of the transfer. The Maggan were impatiently demanding the Flame and had a delegation waiting at the main gate of the castle. That morning, on the fourth day, Clarian had ordered the Citadel to be emptied, carrying away with them everything that could be loaded, and for the army to form up in good order and begin the long march out of Karran.

  The real Sacred Crystal and its container, along with other religious artifacts and sacred texts, were placed in plain wooden crates and loaded onto army wagons, accompanied by secretaries and assistants and minor priests of the Flame. Soldiers cried openly, but Clarian had no time for grief, and his commands took on a harsh quality. It would take three days before the Maggan realized they had been duped. That would give the Karran people a good start toward the river before the enraged Maggan mounted a pursuit—and he knew they would. He almost allowed himself a grim smile at the thought of their consternation when they realized something had gone wrong.

  Standing in his office for the last time, he directed his orderlies to pack up his papers and maps. He could not take everything, and there was so little time. He wanted to join the army and give the order to march as soon as the fake Sacred Crystal was handed over to the enemy. At a knock at the open door, he turned to see Rokkman standing there, dressed in the violet arraignments of the Flamekeeper. Clarian was surprised, and his face showed it. He had thought the old Flamekeeper would refuse to name a successor, but there was Rokkman with a sad look on his face.

  “Holy One,” said Clarian.

  “Hold off on that until I get used to it. It’s a sad day for all Karran. And this is an unthinkable thing we are doing, Clarian.”

  “You are not doing it, Rokkman. I am. It buys us time, and we still possess the Flame. The Maggan, once they discover the trick, will follow us to the great river. We must get there quickly and cross over to safety, with the Flame. Now, let us finish this hoax.”

  He strode purposefully out of the room, trailed by Rokkman, who turned away to fetch the old Flamekeeper. Clarian wondered if he would ever see this old castle again.

  Inside the gate in the castle courtyard waited the wagon with the fake Sacred Crystal, its cargo pulled
by a small white horse. A few moments later, Rokkman appeared, helping to carry the old Flamekeeper. He was helped up onto the wagon and seated behind the crystal container.

  “Open the gate,” ordered Clarian.

  The doors of the giant gate swung open, six men on each side leaning hard against the weight. As the opening gate revealed the waiting Maggan delegation, which included Zefran, the Maggan Flamekeeper, and several commanders, they all immediately bowed low to the crystal in the wagon, their mouths open in astonishment, marveling at their great fortune.

  “Give them the horse and wagon,” Clarian called. A horse handler, tears streaming down his cheeks, gave the lead to one of the Maggan soldiers. Another Maggan soldier turned and raised a horn to his lips, blowing a long blast that carried far out across the fields. The horn blast was followed by another and by another, as the trumpets carried the joyous sound of victory for the Maggan.

  A commotion caught Clarian’s attention. Several soldiers were restraining Dellan, the Flamekeeper’s longtime secretary, who apparently was trying to join the Flamekeeper on the wagon. Crying uncontrollably, face stricken with grief, Dellan wailed and struggled to break free to join the Flamekeeper as the gilded wagon rolled away.

  “Don’t let him go!” called Clarian to the soldiers. “Rokkman! He’s your secretary now. Go calm him down. We don’t have time for this!”

  Zefran, the Maggan Flamekeeper, crowded close to the wagon as it slowly pulled away, his face flushed with happiness. The old Karran Flamekeeper turned his head and gave Clarian one last look of utter hopelessness and despair. Rokkman was crying and started to raise his hand to wave to his former mentor but dropped it to his side in frustration and pity. Maggan soldiers, who had accompanied the delegation, soon mobbed the wagon. A song burst forth from their lips, a song Clarian had never before heard about the Flame.

  Martan came out into the courtyard from the officers’ quarters on the ground floor. He stopped beside Clarian to watch the gilded wagon roll down the road toward the Forest of Darkness. “We’re ready to march, Clarian.”

  Soldiers were still carrying items out of the castle, rushing about, and loading boxes into waiting wagons.

  “How much time do you think we have before they catch up with us?”

  “Maybe ten days. We need to be across that river before then.”

  “Clarian. I’m an old soldier. Tell me the truth. We don’t have enough time to get all the people of our land across the river to safety, do we?”

  Giving him a knowing look, Clarian said in a low voice, “No, Martan, we don’t.”

  “But you’ve been saying we’ll cross the river over to the land of Madasharan.”

  “Yes. I had to give our people and our army the necessary hope so that they would hurry to the river. But with only two small ferry boats, we couldn’t possibly transport all of Karran over before the enemy finds us.”

  “So, what is to be done?”

  “When the time comes, I will tell all of Karran that we haven’t time to cross the river. The enemy will be upon us. All of Karran will be with its back to the river. Every man, woman, and child who can lift a bow will fight. We will turn and fight to the death. The Madasharan army and the Kobani will join us if they arrive in time. The Great Grasslands is my home. It is what I know. I know how to fight in the Grasslands. I have selected the place of battle this time. Somehow, I will find a way to kill Ferman.”

  Riding in a bumpy wagon made it difficult to write out orders, but there was no way around it. Clarian dispatched officers to the ferry with orders on where to bivouac the Madasharan, the Kobani, the Grasslanders, and the Karran armies and to encamp the Karran people now flooding the area. The fleeing city folk, villagers, farmers, and herders would camp at the ferry along the riverbank. No one would be allowed to cross over the river to the land of Madasharan until the entire Madasharan army had crossed over into the Grasslands. He had not received word from Rostan as to whether the second ferry craft had been built and put into the water. Ferrying the Madasharan army with wagons, horses, and supplies would take days. He thought of his mother and aunt in the middle of this catastrophe. How were they coping with all the refugees?

  Late in the day, a courier found his wagon. Clarian was half-asleep beside the driver, tucked in behind a long line of army wagons, dust hanging in the air from the vast land armada trailing down the dirt road to the Grasslands. Opening the dispatch, he withdrew Jolsani’s letter. The Kobani were coming in strength but would not mix with the Karran, the Grasslanders, or the Madasharan soldiers. They preferred to stand apart. If the Maggan set foot in the Grasslands, they would fight. Clarian was pleased.

  The roadway was jammed with wagons, two abreast, loaded with items salvaged from homes and barns, piled high with beds, furniture, farming equipment, supplies, and children. Young boys on horseback drove cattle and horses along the side of the road next to the lines of wagons. Riders made better time than the wagons, and troops of mounted archers charged by. Crowding became a problem where side roads joined the main road, causing delays. The lines of wagons extended as far as the eye could see in both directions. There was ample water for refugees and animals at the many streams, but there was no time for grazing.

  Occasionally, wagons pulled out of line into a pasture to rest weary horses, or so someone could have a baby, or they could bury an old person who had died. Crying children and sobbing mothers were heard over the stamp of the hooves and the creak of the wagons. When wagons bumped into one another, men shouted in anger and waved fists. Soldiers patrolled the road, settling disputes and in some cases giving pointed orders to the frustrated.

  Clarian allowed little rest and pushed the people and his army without mercy. Horses died and were dragged out of the roadway into adjoining, now empty fields. Wagons had to be lightened. Frightened people had to be reassured. Clarian, mounted on his horse, rode back and forth, encouraging haste and in some cases unleashing a seldom-seen temper to get the weak moving. People collapsed from exhaustion and stress, some who were walking gave up and lay beside the road. Some were picked up by townsfolk and put into passing wagons. Soldiers loaded stragglers into army wagons. Some died in the fields along the way.

  It was the exodus of an entire people from their lands, yet no word of recrimination was directed toward Clarian. He was seen, his violet cloak flaring out behind him as he sat on Ruttu, galloping past the lines of wagons, shouting commands to officers to pick up the pace. But the army had caught up with the fleeing people, and wagons became intermingled, especially as outlying towns and villages streamed with their wagons and herds onto the main road joining the already choked thoroughfare.

  In the back of his mind, Clarian knew that once Ferman discovered the fake Flame, he would rush to catch up with the Karran to attempt to capture the true Flame before it was carried beyond his reach and to wreak bloody vengeance on the people who had tricked him. There would be no mercy. Every Karran would be slaughtered.

  Frantic to get to the ferry and the river before the Maggan caught up with him and the bunched up mass of Karran people on the road, Clarian was almost angry about the slow rate of speed. He had to get to the ferry to position his troops and coordinate with the Madasharan and Kobani. He gave little thought to defeat, for that meant death for him and the thousands of his people. Mind sharpened, heart hardened, he ranted and cajoled all around him in the final push to the Grasslands.

  At last, after days and nights of travel, Clarian and a contingent of soldiers left behind the sprawling fields, pastures, and woodlands to crest over the last rise before dropping down into the Grasslands. Word came that many refugees were already encamped at the river. A soldier on a heaving horse waved at Clarian as he galloped through a herd of cattle.

  “The Grasslanders are streaming in at the ferry from all over the Grasslands, Clarian.”

  “Have you seen them with your own eyes?”

  �
�I have. My commander sent me, believing you were near and would want to know.”

  “Where are the Grasslanders being positioned?”

  “That’s the interesting part. They are camping in the fields to the south of the ferry, next to the Kobani. Those Kobani are a scary bunch.”

  For the first time in days, Clarian smiled. “Who is organizing it? Your commander?”

  “No. That’s the strange thing. A Kobani named Jolsani who speaks our language talked the Grasslanders into camping next to the Kobani warriors. He argued that the Grasslanders and the Kobani, though long-time enemies, know one another well.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Leaving the endless lines of wagons snaking their way through the Grasslands, Clarian urged his horse into a fast gait. Now only hours from the ferry, he skirted the slow-moving wagons and animal herds, dashing for the river and home. He cut through the tall grass, following an old trail that looped to the north, swinging wide of the road, the one he had taken with Neevan. It was longer but faster. Neevan! Where was she?

  He slowed his tired horse as he cantered out of the tall grass and crossed into one of the pastures north of his barn. Below him, he could see the ferry and his cottage. There was still light in the day, though the sky was overcast and gray, and the day was fading fast.

  Impatient soldiers directed the rivers of incoming wagons away from the ferry dock to the designated campsites: army to the middle fields facing the direction from which the Maggan would come, and city folk, townsfolk, and farmers to the banks of the river behind the soldiers. When he reined his horse in, before his cottage, the whole area was bedlam. Madasharan soldiers, wagons, and horses were disembarking at the ferry. Clarian could see that both ferries were in operation. Frightened families were arguing with officers, demanding to be allowed to cross the river, and were being turned away. The far side of the river was crowded with waiting Madasharan soldiers.