Die for the Flame (31 page)

As he looked on, Rostan noticed that Clarian let Neevan win the wrestling match. Neevan was sitting in the grass holding Clarian in a headlock, laughing, although Rostan could not hear her from his vantage point on the ferry. Her shoulder-length black hair was falling into Clarian’s face. The ferryboat bumped into the dock. Rostan looped one line over a post, then jumped onto the dock and tied off the other lines. When he glanced up, he noticed they had not moved.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

T
he sun eased behind the Crystal Mountains far to the west as Clarian and Neevan rode their horses north along the river, with lunch packed in their saddlebags. Pink and orange clouds draped across the tips of the mountains, backlit by the setting sun, as the ice fields turned from red to violet to black.

Neevan could never see enough of the mountains and thought that nighttime could never convey the grandeur of those sacred spires of rock, ice, and snow. There were some drawbacks to being a creature of the night, she thought. She desperately wanted to see the mountains close up.

“Clarian, I want you to take me to the Crystal Mountains.”

“I’m busy today, but how about tomorrow?”

She glanced at him quickly only to see him grinning, and she punched his shoulder. “I’m serious. We should go and ride up into the secret valley.”

Clarian sighed as he guided his horse around a boulder in the trail. “When there is a lasting peace between our peoples for all times, I will take you.”

She thought about that, knowing that would take some doing. Neither Ferman nor the Maggan Flamekeeper wanted peace—only revenge and to capture the Flame. How could peace overcome such animosity? She knew the discussions held by Ferman and the Drumaggan could lead to a concerted war effort against the Karran. The combined armies might overwhelm the Karran. Of course, if her people captured the Flame, it would be a joyous thing, and it gave her heart a lift. But what would happen to Clarian? And to the Karran people, whom she found to be much like her own?

“Tell me about your family,” she said.

“My grandfather and my father traveled up this trail looking for grazing land and a place to cross the river. They were originally horse herdsmen. They never found a place to cross. The river runs out of the far north from the mountain range. Snowfields feed it, and that’s why the color is turquoise. That’s why it’s called the Blue River. They traveled south following the river into Kobani territory but decided it wasn’t the safest place, partly because the Kobani are fierce warriors and don’t like strangers and because the river continued to flow fast and wide. So, they settled on this spot where the cottage is now. People kept showing up wanting to cross the river. They decided to build a ferry. I was born here.”

They passed through a clump of thick green willows where the trail dipped down close to the river’s edge before climbing back up to higher ground. A hot, dry wind coursed up from the dry lands, carrying the smell of the desert. Neevan tied her hair back to keep it from blowing about. The glow behind the Crystal Mountains faded as a lavender twilight spread into the big sky. As the horses plodded along the meandering trail, a three-quarter moon eased up over the horizon, and scattered stars blinked on in the rapidly darkening expanse overhead.

“How did you father meet your mother? She’s not of your people.”

Beginning the story when his father was a young boy, he recounted the early years of trading with the Kobani and the events that led to his father rescuing his mother.

“How romantic!” she said, grinning. “And you are of two peoples. Very unusual. That never happens among the Maggan.”

“It never happens here, either,” he said with a laugh. “Except for me.”

They crossed a shallow stream filled with colored pebbles and let the horses drink, then followed the trail on the other side as it cut through high rocks and along a cliff that dropped off into the river below.

Neevan had already told Clarian about her upbringing on the journey to the Grasslands—that she was an only child and that her father had died in the Great War against the Karran and that she had attended school at the temple and joined the army, rising to the rank of commander. She left out the part about being Ferman’s granddaughter.

As they
crossed a series of hills and swung away from the river, the tall grass disappeared, and trees and woodlands appeared. The trail forked, and, taking a faint path inland, Clarian guided the horses across a small meadow of wildflowers to a beckoning stand of trees and willows. Ducking down beneath the sagging branches as the horses threaded their way, they found themselves at a deep, spring-fed pool. Droopy-limbed willows lined three sides, and water lilies floated pink on the quiet surface. A grassy apron ran down to the water’s edge, and yellow flowers gathered along the stream that ran out of the spring pool.

“I used to come here often as a boy in the summer, like now, to swim and get away from the heat,” he said as he dismounted. “I thought you might like to see it and splash your feet in it.”

“It’s a beautiful place.” She swung off her horse and led it over to the water to drink with Clarian’s.

After securing the horses where they could graze, Clarian spread a blanket on the grass, dipped a small pot into the spring, filling it. He handed it to Neevan to drink.

“It tastes different. It’s sweet,” she said, appreciatively. She handed it back to him, and he drank deeply.

He emptied their food out of the saddlebags on the blanket. There were cakes Ranna had made and fruit from the orchard. The birds were silent at this time of the evening, and the only sound was the hot wind in the trees, rustling the branches.

Sitting down, he pulled off his shirt, boots, and socks and rolled up his trousers and then waded into the pool. “It’s shallow here. Deeper at the other end.” He splashed the cool water over his head and chest and sputtered as it got into his eyes and nose. When he came back to the blanket, Neevan sat tugging off her boots and rolling up her pants.

They sat together peering into the velvet night, quiet in their thoughts—of happiness together and sadness that all could be lost in a moment by forces beyond their control.

Clarian turned his head when he sensed her looking at him, a look of profound sadness on her face. “What’s wrong?”

She did not answer for a moment. “Nothing is wrong.” She reached out and touched his bare shoulder.

He did not know what else to say. He could not say anything, her hand on his skin. Feelings welled up in him, and he was afraid to speak what was in his inner self. He gazed deep into her luminous, green-fire eyes, now glowing in the dim light, hoping it all could last forever, hoping she would never leave, hoping he could ask her to stay and that she would say yes.

Clarian gestured to the trees bending over them. “The trees sweep over us like a bower.”

She moved next to him, leaning in.

“There are floating pink flowers over there and reeds and…”

“I know you love me,” she said softly, almost whispering.

“From that night in the forest. But I have no hope.”

“I love you too. Don’t be afraid that I will leave you. We’ll find a way.”

“They will never let us be together.”

“We’re together now. It will be so if we will it.”

“You shine in my dreams, and I have no dreams but of you.”

Neevan ran her fingers across the many scars that laced his chest and arms. She looked shocked. “They’ve cut you to pieces.”

“I can’t go to war again.”

“I know. We will find our peace.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and she clasped him close.

“I dreamed last night of us in a misty place where the breeze carried the scent of flowers, and the grass was soft. I kissed you for the first time.”

“We are there. And you are kissing me now.”

He reached out to her, and she slipped into his arms, kissing him with passion and tenderness. The entire world disappeared except them and their love. That night they swam in the spring pool, and time vanished. Her skin glowed like white marble in the crystal-clear water, and her eyes glinted green in the faint light from the stars overhead as she glided effortlessly through the water.

She stood naked on the blanket drying off, her body a statue silvered by a shaft of moonlight, her eyes hot with love. She beckoned to him, and he waded from out of the water to stand before her. “No man has ever seen me thus.” She gazed into his eyes, smiling, and pulled him close against her skin.

“I loved you when I first saw you in the forest. You are the joy of my heart, Neevan.”

“Let’s swim in this spring pool. It will be our special place. And tonight, my sweet love, I will make your heart sing.”

The night soon became dawn as if time was in a race toward daylight, and it came quickly, too quickly for them, in a suffusion of peach-colored light across the eastern horizon. They left the blanket on the grass and swam again in the spring pool and laughed and giggled and held each other close. As the morning light spread across the heavens, and the hot wind breached the little copse of trees that held the spring pool, they lay upon the blanket again, and birds awoke in the trees above, and the horses crunched grass and nickered as if eager to be on their way.

Some hours later, they arrived back at the ferry. Neevan decided not to stay up, and after a bright smile at Ranna and Helan and a secret look at Clarian, she disappeared into her bedroom. The looks were not lost on Ranna and Helan. Clarian grabbed a large piece of bread and without looking at his mother or his aunt ducked out of the house, mumbling about work he had to check on.

Between helping Rostan at the ferry, building the new ferry, and cutting timber for Rostan’s cottage, Clarian found time to show Neevan the countryside, day and night. Ranna and Helan were not fooled into believing these were strictly sightseeing expeditions, and Rostan had already assumed that this would happen, even though Neevan and Clarian were discreet.

Neevan learned to cook both Karran and Kobani style and helped out in the kitchen, but she always found it convenient to be wherever Clarian was. She took an interest in the construction of the new ferry, carrying lumber and taking her turn sawing. She teased Rostan about his future bride and his marriage plans. She wanted to know when he was going to bring his bride-to-be to visit them at the ferry and inspect the new cottage going up. He promised he would soon.

As the days drifted by without word from the Citadel, Clarian relaxed and thought that maybe the peace would hold fast after all. His mind turned as always to Neevan. He tried to speak to her about their future plans, but she put him off until she could return to Minteegan and assess the progress toward peace. She wanted to have a serious talk with Ferman and gain his word that the days of war were over. Clarian shrugged, knowing she was being practical, but a part of him wanted her to remain at the ferry with him, never to return to the Maggan forest. They could build a life together as his parents had at the ferry. He could take her on a journey to Madasharan and to the Crystal Mountains. He could build a cottage for them next to the old house. He constantly dreamed of her, even when he was fully awake.

CHAPTER FORTY

I
t was late in the afternoon on a hot day when the dogs alerted him to riders. Neevan was sleeping in his room, the curtains tight against the light, Helan was gathering vegetables from the garden, Ranna was already in the kitchen preparing the evening meal, and Rostan was down on the dock. Clarian had just finished milking the cow and was carrying a pail of milk from the barn to the house.

By the time he came out of the cottage, he could hear the pounding of hooves off in the distance and could see three riders coming hard and fast down the road through the tall grass toward the ferry. In a short time, the riders, wearing Citadel guard tunics, came to a stumbling halt in front of Clarian, the horses lathered and blowing hard. The lean young soldiers were hunched over their saddles, exhausted, faces drawn. Stiffly, they dismounted. One of them was Parsan, the Citadel guard who had traveled with Rokkman to find the ferryman and who had been left to guard the ferry when Clarian was taken to the Citadel. He pulled a dispatch from his saddlebag and handed it to Clarian.

“The Maggan are marching against the Citadel. The call has gone out to all the land. They come in great numbers. The Flamekeeper directs that you return in haste, Clarian.”

Clarian and Neevan raced their horses back to the Citadel, changing horses at Citadel posts along the way. Neevan received glares and a few harsh words, but Clarian demanded obedience and courtesy from the soldiers. Only a few times did they stop to lie down by the road and sleep for a few hours. There was no time and no inclination for loving words or embraces. Dark thoughts and fear flooded both their hearts. Their worst nightmare was happening.

Sleep-deprived and haggard, Clarian and Neevan pushed their weary mounts up the hill and through the gates of the Citadel castle. It was night, and torches were burning in the wall sconces. Clarian rushed up the stone steps, shouting for an orderly. Within moments, Clarian was shown into the Flamekeeper’s quarters, where he found the old man, red-eyed and wringing his hands. Rokkman swept in, clothed in his night robe, his skin pale, his eyes haggard.

“What’s the situation?” asked Clarian, dropping into a chair. “I need something to drink.” Rokkman stepped to the doorway and called for drink and food.

“I believed we had achieved peace,” whined the Flamekeeper.

“What’s the status, Rokkman?” snapped a weary Clarian.

“Two Maggan armies are converging on us. One from the northeast and the other from the Forest of Darkness. It’s a two-pronged attack.”

“Who leads our army?”

“Martan. But he can’t stop them. They are fighting us on two fronts. The Maggan have covered their flanks this time. Ferman has taken the ridges above the road. They were all the way to Halfway before we discovered their intentions. The other Maggan army is following the old trading routes that you scouted out earlier. It’s rough going, but both armies are transporting their soldiers by wagon. Your old trick. They can move faster and not tire out the soldiers. They learned from us. And they have strong rear guard units. They also have mounted archers in force.”

Clarian slumped in his chair as a tray was brought in by an assistant and placed on a small table by his elbow. He drank deeply and ripped off a piece of bread from a loaf, chewing angrily. “How many of the enemy?”

“We don’t know, but more than we faced last time,” answered Rokkman, who found a chair.

The Flamekeeper waved his hand at Clarian. “Clarian, you are the Chosen One! You must…”

“Stop it! I don’t have time for that! You provoked their Flamekeeper by refusing to let him into the presence of the Flame. They hate you for that. You brought this on!”

“You may not speak to me that way!” shrieked the old man, pulling at his priestly robes.

Clarian ignored the outburst. “Has the army been formed up, and are the troops in position?”

“We’re fighting with a smaller army and the Citadel guards. We’re recalling all our soldiers that we sent home after the last war. They are streaming in, but it takes time to form them up. We’re putting them in the line without training.”

Trying to think, Clarian could feel the glare from the Flamekeeper. He glanced over, his eyes unkind in his assessment of the old man. “I advised you not to disband the army, and you wouldn’t listen.”

The Flamekeeper hissed and tried to speak, fear showing in his face, but no words came out.

“I have to have a few hours’ sleep. I haven’t slept in days. I came as fast as I could. At sunup, I will ride out to the battle lines. You will come with me, Rokkman. We may need a miracle this time.” He paused. “I need to see Neevan. We may have to send her back to the Maggan lines. Maybe she can talk some sense into Ferman.”

Rokkman shook his head. “It’s already done. I ordered an escort to take her to the Maggan lines as soon as she arrived. She’s gone.”

“Without speaking to me first?” barked Clarian.

“She was a spy!” howled the Flamekeeper. “She distracted you from your duty. Now we are all in peril because you were stupid!”

Clarian jumped out of his chair, bared his teeth to the Flamekeeper, and stomped out of the room, heading for his apartment. Rokkman scrambled after him into the corridor, grabbing his arm.

“There was talk the Citadel guards were going to kill her. I had to get her out. Even now she rides wearing a Citadel uniform so as not to draw attention.”

Clarian’s mind spun, the fatigue of riding nonstop for days bearing down, and he nodded and staggered to his rooms.

The advance of the night people was moving according to plan, thought Ferman, sitting in his tent and studying a map spread across a camp table. The Drumaggan under Sulan were advancing briskly through the rough terrain on his right flank and would approach the Citadel from the north within days. Ferman’s army marched the direct road to the castle, straight for the Flame. He allowed himself a moment of glee. This time, he sent out troops to secure the ridges and the flanks. No more ambushes by that clever Clarian. A large force protected the entrance to the forest, and defensive walls had been erected around the caverns at Minteegan. His supply train was well guarded by a reinforced troop. Use of wagons was his best idea yet to bring the battle to the Karran quickly, he thought, conveniently forgetting that it had been Sulan’s idea. Even after a week on the march, his soldiers were fresh and ready to engage the enemy. There had been some grumbling by the old soldiers about going to war before they were truly ready, but he had prevailed, after making some threats.

He chuckled to himself, pleased with his work. It was true that he had taken many youths into the army, and the training had been brief, but there were plenty of veterans in the ranks to shore them up. Besides, there would be no great battles this time, except perhaps the final assault on the castle.

The tent curtain parted, and Neevan stepped in, her face drained of color, exhaustion showing in her slumped posture.

Ferman smiled graciously and motioned for her to come in and sit. “Neevan, it’s good to have you back, and just in time to witness the obliteration of the Karran dogs.”

“I was an emissary of peace. You sent me to the Karran to achieve peace.”

“There can be no lasting peace with the Karran. Yes, you were the emissary and a grand job you did, drawing Clarian out to the far reaches of their land, keeping him occupied. That gave us the opportunity to take advantage of their vulnerability. You should be rejoicing. Why the angry face? The Flame is within our grasp at last.”

“You used me!”

“Yes. For the good of our people.”

“Clarian will believe I betrayed him.”

“And you did betray him. Oh, yes, my dear. You did betray him. In your heart you knew what you were doing. Don’t pretend to be so naive. How you could befriend our greatest enemy, I don’t know, but he trusted you. And so did I. Well, done, Neevan. Now get into a Maggan uniform and report to Naguran. We have need of you in the battle lines. Your name will go down as a heroine in our history.”

The tent was pitched behind a wooded hill southeast of the front lines. There was a large map draped over a makeshift table, and the tent, its sides rolled up, was filled with Karran commanders. No wind stirred, and the heat of the day was intense. All around the tent were troop units, lined up in orderly fashion, along with tents, wagons, horses, and supplies. Clarian noted the good discipline and was pleased. But he also noticed the meager number of troops encamped there.

Standing by him, Martan, Amran, Rokkman, and Clarian’s Kobani cousin, Jolsani, crowded around the table, each assessing the grim situation. Earlier Clarian and Jolsani had greeted each other warmly and exchanged words in Kobani, with Jolsani alerting Clarian to the untenable situation.

Martan began the briefing. “There are two armies, the Drumaggan driving toward us from the north under the command of Sulan, and Ferman coming down the road as before from the east. They transport most of their troops by wagon and move more quickly than on foot. Their flanks are protected by patrols. We are falling back on all fronts because we haven’t sufficient troops to stop their advance. Our army is too small to hold them. Our former soldiers from the farms and villages are rushing here, but it takes time we don’t have to form them up. Most have not yet arrived. The fact is, Clarian, we can’t stop the Maggan advance.”

Calling for a stool, Clarian slumped over the table, looking like he had aged ten years. Lines were drawn on the map showing the positions of the armies and their movements. The tent grew quiet except for scuffling of boots and an occasional cough.

“Martan,” said Clarian, “You are engaging the Drumaggan, and Amran is taking on Ferman, is that correct?”

“Yes. We’ve had to split our forces. We could have some success stopping one of the armies, but we are unable to stop two.”

“Where is Tobran?” Clarian asked, his eyes searching for familiar commanders among the faces present.

Martan shook his head, his face without expression. There was an uncomfortable, sad silence until Clarian picked up the conversation again. “The Maggan were very clever this time. That was their plan from the start, to box us in with two armies. Very clever, indeed. We don’t know anything about the Drumaggan. They have come from far away to help their little brothers.”

His remark drew a few smiles and snickers.

“So, what’s your plan?” asked Rokkman impatiently.

“Could you give me a few more moments, Rokkman?” said Clarian, sharply, glaring at him. Looking up at Martan, he said, “The Drumaggan have no supply line. They are carrying everything they feel they need with them. They are counting on a short war. Ferman has a supply line, but it will also be stretched thin. Both armies are counting on a quick fight and a quick victory.

Martan pointed to the Forest of Darkness on the map. “They’ve placed a large force at the forest’s edge to block us from attacking Minteegan again.”

Speaking in Kobani, Clarian asked Jolsani’s advice. Jolsani’s grasp of the Karran language had improved, and he could follow conversations, but Clarian wanted to be sure he understood clearly whether Jolsani had any suggestions, and he did. Clarian translated for the other commanders.

“Jolsani?” Clarian gestured for him to speak.

“Kill all the Maggan horses. The wagons are of no use without horses. Make the Maggan walk. This will slow them. Draw out the Maggan horse soldiers and ambush them. Then they will have no scouts, and they will not be able to pursue our horse warriors.”

There were nodding heads. Martan pressed his forehead with his hand, a worried look on his face. “We tried setting the grass on fire, but the summer has been too wet. Another thing. They aren’t stopping to rest during the day. They keep moving. They will be at the gates of the Citadel in a week or less.”

“Selu? There is something else I should tell you,” offered Jolsani in Kobani. “You can’t defeat this enemy here in this place.”

“I know,” answered Clarian in Kobani.

Grim-faced, Clarian acknowledged that the situation was grim. “Use the long Karran bows to shoot their horses. Shoot fire arrows from a distance and set fire to their wagons. There is no point in engaging the larger forces hand-to-hand at this time. We work to delay them and make them pay dearly for the territory they gain. Make them use up their supplies. Their armies can’t fight if they can’t eat. Let’s attack their supply lines. Meanwhile, we will send out a call for help to the Madasharan people, our cousins in the west, and to the Kobani people of the south plains. May the Flame protect us!”

“The Flame!” chorused the officers.

Neevan climbed into a supply wagon and told the driver not to wake her; she slept for sixteen hours straight. She would have slept longer, but the screaming horses awakened her. Throwing back the cover she had drawn over her, she struggled to sit upright, still groggy, in time to see flaming arrows arcing out of the sky and into her column, striking wagons and horses. Soldiers ran by holding shields over their heads, stumbling over fallen comrades.
Not again,
she thought. Her heart was heavy with worry for Clarian and sad because she was sure he would believe she betrayed him. She was torn now, her loyalty to Clarian on one hand and on the other, her allegiance to her own kind and their right to reclaim the Flame. She mounted and kicked her horse into a gallop toward the right flank where Naguran’s command was gathering. The air was thick with dust and smoke and the smell of blood. Naguran greeted her and told her casualties had been light, and the Karran were being pushed back. They should be celebrating in the Citadel in a few days, he bragged.

Jolsani, carrying a letter in Kobani from Clarian, dashed off with Citadel guards to protect him in Karran country and through the Great Grasslands, to alert the Kobani and ask for help. Jolsani’s experience with the Karran and the might of the Maggan assault, Clarian hoped, would convince the Kobani to come to the aid of the Karran. Clarian knew, though, that even if the Kobani chose to send warriors, it would take many days, which he did not have, for the Kobani force just to reach the Grasslands. He did not think they would venture all the way to the Citadel to take the fight to the Maggan. He believed they would fight only if they thought the Maggan would invade their lands.