Die for the Flame (2 page)

The horses were restless when the thunder exploded outside, but everything looked as it should. Clarian secured the barn doors and hurried through the downpour, boots slogging through rivulets of muddy water, past the cottage down to the ferry to see whether the river was showing signs of rising as a result of the storm. Lightning cracked close by, plunging jaggedly into the ground. He doubled the heavy ropes lashing the ferry to the dock and with one last look trotted up to the cottage. He gave little thought to the travelers other than finding it interesting that Rokkman had known his father in the old days. He might ask Rokkman more about his father, he thought, as his boots splashed through puddles created by the cold, driving rain, and the wind pulled at his clothes.

Rokkman’s eyes had followed Clarian’s exit. He had sat heavily in his chair pondering the situation. He now knew there was no Orlan, but was he at a dead end? He wasn’t sure. There was this young man, a promising warrior, to be sure, but was he the one the Oracle was calling for, or would Rokkman and his band have to continue the search elsewhere?

“Who reads all these books?” asked Rokkman.

“Clarian,” answered Helan. “Sometimes days go by without a traveler, so he takes a book down by the river and reads. It helps pass the time.”

Rokkman was intrigued by this strange outpost far out on the frontier at the very end of Karran lands, and this exotic Kobani mother, Ranna, wife of the dead Orlan and mother to the young Clarian. Rokkman had never seen a Kobani before, but he had heard of them and their fierce, warlike tribe. He had seen people from other lands—the occasional trader at the Citadel, and several times priests had traveled through from Madasharan, Karran’s sister people in the west. But it was rare. The Karran did not mix with outsiders, and no one mixed with the dreaded Maggan, the night people of the Forest of Darkness.

The door flew open, pushed by a gusty wind, and Clarian ducked in and leaned his shoulder against the door to close it against the raging storm outside. With a grin and an apology to his mother and aunt for dripping water on the stone floor, he hurried to the back of the house to change into dry clothes.

Helan and Ranna cleared the table of dishes except the wine cups and busied themselves in the kitchen. Rokkman and the soldiers sat silently, each lost in thought. The dry wood in the fire popped, and the rain hammered on the slate roof, and the wind rattled the windows. The dogs lay quietly on a worn rug side by side, their eyes watchful, the smell of their wet coats pungent in the air, mixing with the aromas of cooking from the kitchen.

Rokkman looked up as Clarian entered the room barefoot, pulling on a dry shirt. He nodded at the travelers. “We get these storms from time to time. If the river starts to rise too much, I have to hitch up the horses and drag the ferry up out of the water and onto to land. I may be up all night.”

“Clarian,” said Rokkman, “the Maggan are organizing an attack. You are called to fight against them now, just as your father was years ago.”

“I can’t leave. My mother and aunt need me, and someone has to work the ferry.”

Helan came in from the kitchen just in time to hear the conversation. “There were to be no more wars. I lost my husband in the Great War.”

“I am truly sorry, lady,” said Rokkman.

“The Maggan signed the peace agreement for all time,” Helan said. “Forever. Signed in blood. Maybe there is just a misunderstanding.”

Rokkman nodded his shaggy head. “So they did. And we have kept the peace. And, no, dear lady, there is no misunderstanding. We have not ventured into their lands in the Forest of Darkness, as agreed upon,” he said. “But this is not about land. The enemy is gathering as we speak.”

“If this isn’t about land, what’s it about?” asked Helan, her voice filled with anxiety.

“We believe they want the Sacred Flame kept by our Flamekeeper within the Citadel. That is their goal. That is their desire. They may stop at nothing this time. Their Flamekeeper and Ferman, their military leader, have emboldened them. They hunger for the Sacred Flame the way a man lost in the desert thirsts for water. Their high priests have told Ferman and the Maggan people that the Sacred Flame is rightly theirs, stolen from them long ago by the Karran people. It is part of their legend.”

“We stole it?” exclaimed Clarian.

“Of course not! That’s their story, and it’s completely false. We have always possessed the Sacred Flame. But that is not a problem for us at this time. The Maggan and the Karran agreed to disband their armies. We did so believing in the lasting peace that had been promised. Now we find that the Maggan did not disband but in fact, under concealment, have been building a great force to come against us. We are not prepared. We have no army, only a few Citadel soldiers. We have few military commanders. And many of the commanders from the Great War, like Orlan, are no longer with us or are too old.”

Helan stepped into the firelight. “Shouldn’t you be about getting an army together to defend us and forget this errand to find a ferryman?”

Rokkman sighed. “It would seem so, but there is more to the story. The Flamekeeper consulted the Oracle.”

“Oracle?” asked Helan.

“I cannot reveal the secrets of the Sacred Flame. I am secretary to the Flamekeeper, and that is why I wear the violet cloak. The Flamekeeper swears me to secrecy. However, I can tell you this much: the Flamekeeper performs a ceremony of great magic with the Sacred Flame and calls it forth, and the Sacred Flame speaks to him. That is the Oracle.”

Clarian raised his eyebrows as if to ask whether that was really possible. Half-listening, he rose to stand by the window, staring out at the river below the house. He would have to go out again soon to check on the ferry’s moorings. It was almost too dark to see things clearly from the cottage.

“Can it be?” asked Helan.

“There is great magic in the Citadel. I have seen things,” said Parsan.

“That will be all, Parsan!” barked Rokkman.

“So what did the Flame say?” inquired Helan.

Rokkman paused for a moment and then cleared his throat. “‘Find the Ferryman.’ I cannot say more at this time, lady. But this is no idle errand.”

The strangers sat silent in their wooden chairs at the table, wondering how this strange and bizarre story would unfold.

Helan stood by the fire, silhouetted by the flames behind her, and Ranna poured more wine into the cups.

Rokkman peered into each one’s eyes in turn, his face solemn and grim. “There are things we cannot know, and the future seems most uncertain. But the Oracle has spoken. There is no doubt. So we seek ‘the Ferryman,’ whoever he is, wherever he is. The rest will be revealed later.”

“You wear the violet cloak, sir. We live so far out at the end of Karran land that we don’t hear about these things like those living in the Citadel,” said Helan.

“The violet cloak signifies high office in service to the Flame, the Flamekeeper, and the Immortal Ones of the Crystal Mountains. The Flamekeeper selects only a few to wear the violet cloth,” replied Rokkman.

“Long ago when Clarian was quite little, a woman came here wearing a violet cloak,” said Helan.

“A woman? We have several women in our service, but I don’t ever remember any traveling out here. What did she look like?” said Rokkman.

“Well, she stood tall—taller than Clarian’s father,” said Helan. “And most unusual-looking, if I might say so, but beautiful all the same. Her hair was like spun gold, and her skin was a pale golden color as well. Her eyes were a shade of violet. She wore a violet cloak like you, sir, with a hood. The cloak was held together by a large clasp of purple stone at her throat. She spoke to Orlan in low tones right here by the fire.”

“Were there others with her, lady?” asked Rokkman.

“No. In fact, I don’t know how she came to be here. She had no horse. She just knocked at the door one night. She stayed for a while talking to my brother, as I said, and then she walked out the door and was gone.”

“Most unusual, I would say,” added Parsan. “Was she from the Citadel, Rokkman?”

Rokkman ignored Parsan and looked at Ranna. “Did she speak with you, lady?”

“A few words of greeting. She and my husband talked. He didn’t tell me what she said to him.”

Helan spoke again. “Her interest was in Clarian. She held him in her lap. She kissed him on his forehead when she left.”

“I wish my brother was here to tell you what was said,” added Helan.

“There was one other thing,” said Ranna.

Rokkman raised his eyebrows, “Yes?”

“She left a good luck charm for Clarian.”

“Good luck charm? May I see it, lady?”

Ranna left the room and soon returned. She opened her hand to Rokkman, and in her palm was a large, violet stone set in silver on a silver chain.

He scooped the charm from her hand and held it up to the light. He could see that in the center of the stone was the image of a carved flame.

“Mother, I don’t remember you showing me that,” said Clarian.

Rokkman stared at the stone, wide-eyed.

“What is it, Rokkman?” asked Lillan.

“She didn’t come from the Citadel,” Rokkman said, catching his breath.

“No, I think not,” said Helan, her eyes knowing, as she gazed at Rokkman.

“Where did she come from, then?” asked Lillan.

“She came from the Crystal Mountains,” said Helan.

“How do you know?” asked Lillan.

“She spoke to Ranna in Kobani. She called me by my name.”

“She was one of the Immortal Ones,” Rokkman said. “I know it in my bones!”

Thunder crashed outside, and the rain cascaded down on the roof, drumming hard. Clarian leaned against the wall by the west window, his face next to the glass, knowing he needed to check the river levels soon.

The women looked at each other, Ranna’s face fearful and Helan’s sad, her mouth turned down.

Rokkman turned his eyes to Clarian, and his face relaxed. “Our mission is fulfilled.”

“What? This young man?” asked Parsan.

“Yes, I think it is so,” said Rokkman. “He must be the one.”

“He’s a boy,” said Lillan.

Clarian turned back to those in the room. His eyes searched the faces of the men. He was perplexed, and thoughts rushed in. “A boy? And what? You think it’s me? That can’t be. I’m just a ferryman out here on the river. Really! I mean, you can’t be thinking it’s me. What could I possibly do for you? And all this talk of Immortal Ones. It’s not my war, priest.”

The strangers peered at Clarian with intensity, wondering at the improbability that they had found the one they had been looking for: the Ferryman. And where was his passion to rush to the aid of the Karran people in time of grave danger?

Ranna’s face was bunched up in fear. Tears filled her eyes. She knew a terrible journey was about to begin for her son, a journey fraught with danger and struggle and death. She stepped behind Clarian and placed her hands on his shoulder. He glanced up at her over his shoulder, his look stubborn, his jaw tight. She leaned down close to his ear and whispered words in a strange language. He listened and raised his face to her. He shook his head and raised his hands as if to say, “Not so fast.”

Rokkman leaned toward Clarian and held out the stone and chain to him. “Put this on, my son. This is not a good luck charm. It is a talisman to protect you. Never take it off. Not as long as you live.”

Clarian grasped the talisman and slipped the chain over his neck so that the violet stone lay upon his chest, gleaming in the firelight.

“I don’t understand any of this. What is it you want of me?” Clarian asked Rokkman.

“That is not for me to say. The Flamekeeper will explain all. None of this is coincidence. But you have a choice. You can refuse and remain here until the Maggan soldiers arrive to kill you and your family. Or, you can come with us to see the Flamekeeper and receive your instructions. It is up to you. You have free will. And ask yourself what your father would have done in your place.”

“I have been fighting since I was a boy. I’m tired of fighting and killing. Besides, the Maggan will never come out here to the Grasslands.”

“They will come, Clarian,” said Parsan.

“If they come, we will fight them here and defeat them,” stated Clarian.

“They will come in too great a number for the Grasslanders to defeat. You will be swallowed up,” said Lillan.

“I have no wish to leave my home to fight far away, in a war that is not mine and for a religion I don’t believe in.”

“You may be on the frontier, and you may call yourself a Grasslander, but you are still a Karran. We are all one people,” argued Lillan.

“When we fought the Kobani for years, the Citadel soldiers provided no help. We were on our own. My father might still be alive if you had sent soldiers. Where were you then?”

Swallowing hard, Rokkman nodded in understanding. Lillan and Parsan shifted uneasily in their chairs. Lillan opened her mouth as if to say something, but Rokkman waved her silent. The fire in the hearth crackled, adding to the pounding rain, the flares of lightning, and the thunder in the clouds.

“It’s true what you say. I can’t deny it. More help could have been given. The view was that the frontier is a long way from the Citadel, as unfair as that might seem.” Rokkman gave a deep, tired sigh. “We leave tomorrow morning, returning to the Citadel and to the Flamekeeper with our report. Come with us or stay. You must decide.”

He turned from Clarian. “I implore you, Ranna, to speak with your son and you, Helan, and convince him that all of Karran hangs in the balance and that he has been chosen by the Flame to fight against the dark hordes of Maggan. That is all I have to say. Now I am tired and must rest. Lady, can you show us where we can sleep?”

“What is so important about me? I am only
one
warrior,” said Clarian.

Her hands on her hips, Ranna stepped close to Rokkman, her black eyes flashing angrily in the firelight. “Must everyone die for the Flame?”

Spreading his hands wide in surprise, Rokkman replied, “Lady, please, what would you have me do? Do you not believe in the Flame? Perhaps not.”

“I believe in my own religion. Clarian is all I have left. Would you take him to die far away in your strange land? You are not from here.”