Die for the Flame (36 page)

“Kobani people. I am told they live to the south where there are open plains. They are nothing to worry about. We will kill them as soon as we erase the Karran,” Ferman said, wiping his eyes as white smoke swept into them. “I wanted to rest our troops today, but it looks like the evil Karran want a fight right now,” he said with a laugh.

“We’ve got to rest our troops, Ferman. They’re exhausted. Our horses are almost dead,” argued Sulan.

“I’ll send a messenger to Clarian asking for a few days’ respite,” smirked Ferman, slapping his thigh. He was obviously in high spirits.

“We’re not ready to engage the enemy!”

The far-off streamers and banners caught the eye of an officer, who pointed it out to Ferman. Shielding his eyes, staring through wafts of smoke, trying to pick out details, his breath exploded from his lungs. “By the love of the Flame! Can it be? No! No! By all that is holy!”

“What are you yelling about?” asked Sulan.

“Over there on the high ground. See the banners? They have placed the Flame and their Flamekeeper into the battle line! Their new Flamekeeper, I might add, since the old one is no more.”

Officers crowded together, some pointing, as they shifted to see the strange and unthinkable sight.

“But why?” asked an officer.

Ferman smiled, his eyes crafty. “Because they believe the Flame will protect them and give them victory over us. Ah, Clarian. I wish I didn’t have to kill you. You would have made a good Maggan!” The smile dropped off his face, replaced by a cruel look. “I want all my commanders in my tent immediately.”

Within a short time, Ferman’s tent was crowded with commanders, including his Flamekeeper and Neevan. Across a long camp table lay a makeshift map of the area.

“Here is the strategy I propose. Sulan and his army will attack along the right flank. Our main army will attack to the center and the left flank. Naguran, with your mounted troops, sweep the left flank of the enemy and get into their rear area. Swing wide around their lines and come in behind them. Don’t waste time killing the farmers and villagers just yet. We must destroy their army first. Get to the ferry to cut off their escape. As some of you know, the Karran have placed the Flame and their Flamekeeper into the battle line near the center. Why there, I don’t know. But we are going to capture it.” Turning to Zefran, the Flamekeeper, he added, “Holy One, the Sacred Flame will soon be in your hands.” Beaming at the tired faces of the commanders, he said, “Prepare for battle, and may the Flame be with you!”

“The Flame!”

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

T
ime was short. Clarian galloped to the ferry, where he found Rostan helping soldiers unload supply wagons from Madasharan. Pulling him aside, his arm around his shoulder, he said in a low voice, “The battle begins now, my friend.”

“Yes, I know. I will be going forward to take my place with the Grasslanders.”

“No. I have other duties for you. If the battle goes against us, you must see to it that Rokkman and the Flame get on the ferry and escape to the far side.”

“If that is what you wish. I had forgotten the Flame was here.”

“Collect my mother and my aunt as well. Where is your bride?”

“Why, in the house helping them.”

Clarian hurried to the cottage, finding it full of women preparing food and bandages for the wounded, whose numbers would soon be overwhelming. He found Helan first and hugged her. She clung to him for a moment, trying to hold back the tears. Ranna was in the kitchen. He surprised her. With her arms around him, she spoke to him in Kobani. “I have called upon the Shadow Spirits of our people to guide and guard you, my son.”

Leaving the cottage, he rode among the townspeople, and they called out to him. “May the Flame be with you, Clarian.”

Tears stung his eyes, and he waved, unable to speak. Picking his way through the campsites, he made his way to the Grasslanders and Kobani. All were busy checking horses, lacing up breastplates, tying extra quivers onto saddles, and sliding lances into scabbards. It was a strange sight, Grasslanders and Kobani side by side after endless years of fighting against one another.

Jolsani spotted him and waved. Circling past a nervous horse that was dancing sideways, Jolsani shook hands with Clarian. They both turned to observe the combined force of warriors. It was a large number of fierce troops. Clarian was confident in their prowess.

“Cousin, the Kobani and Grasslanders must break the Maggan assault on this side of the battle, of this I am sure,” Clarian said.

“We are ready. Is Neevan out here?”

“I expect so. You may see her leading mounted soldiers today.”

“How do you truly think things will go?”

“Here on the flank, you must win using Kobani tactics, mounted archers riding fast, shooting fast, surprising the enemy at every turn. They will attempt to get around behind us and take the ferry. Over there,” he pointed back toward the fields where the main forces would clash, “the center of our line must hold. And the Madasharan army must hold. They are untested. And Ferman must fall for the decoy.”

Saying farewell to Jolsani, he rode back to where the troops he would lead were preparing. An aide took Ruttu’s reins. Horses were tethered on lines, already saddled. Soldiers were checking weapons, while officers prowled the ranks, inspecting everything. Martan arrived, his horse breathing heavily, as he led a large column of scouts in joining the others assembling in the swale.

“All is ready, Clarian.”

“I will be up on the high ground, there,” said Clarian, pointing. “I will know when the time is right as the battle unfolds. Then I will come down here, and together we will lead our force into the fray. You have done everything I have asked you, Martan. Now I ask you again to ride into the heart of the Maggan assault at my side, to cut the heart out of their evil purpose and gain victory over this foe.”

“We may die today, Clarian. But I will be with you now, and if it goes against us, I will be with you in the land of dreams beyond the Crystal Mountains.” Martan smiled as he led his horse away. He began calling for the troops to form up and stand by their horses.

Clarian sat on the grass and pulled a packet of bread and cheese out of his shirt and ate while he waited. Before him, facing the Maggan lines in the east, layers of smoke obscured much of the field. He noticed troops moving forward out of the enemy camps in formation toward the Karran lines. He observed a large tent with streamers, and he assumed that was Ferman’s headquarters. Good to know for later.

He decided against blowing horns to announce maneuvers, not wanting to alert the enemy that his forces were repositioning. Let everything be a surprise. Thoughts of his father drifted through his mind. The raids they had fought in, the lost friends, the smell of blood, the dying. He steeled himself, willing himself to be strong for his people, demanding of himself victory over the enemy. He fingered the violet stone talisman around his neck. He murmured words calling forth the Flame, but he was not confident. He then called out silently to his Kobani ancestors. He was not sure anymore about anything.

On the back side of the slope, Martan leaned against his horse, his right hand up on the saddle, his left hand holding the reins. His scouts were in formation behind him, nearly a thousand in number, each soldier standing by his or her horse, waiting. The horses were well trained and stood in place but snorted and shook their heads and stamped their hooves in anticipation of the coming fight. He could see the top of Clarian’s head up on the hill above him.

Martan closed his eyes, letting his thoughts drift—thoughts of his parents, long dead at the hands of Maggan soldiers when they overran the farm at the start of the Great War. Both his brothers killed in the same war. A younger sister still alive with her family was camped behind him at the river, preparing for battle. He had seen her briefly for a quick hug yesterday. Her husband and son in the line under Amran and a daughter too young to fight, but now armed with a bow, standing next to her mother on the banks of Clarian’s beloved river. Bitter thoughts coursed through him and soured the taste in his mouth. He opened his eyes and pulled a water flask from his saddle and gulped down several swallows. His horse shifted its feet, and he stepped back to gaze out over the gathered troops, his eyes missing nothing. When he glanced back up the hill, he could no longer see Clarian.

A small form slid into the grass beside Clarian. It was the girl scout, Mishan, her eyes roving across the battlefield before them and at the arrayed Maggan formations. No fear showed on her delicate face. The wind lifted her blond hair as she unconsciously checked her bow and quiver. She did not speak, not wanting to interrupt Clarian’s concentration, not even sure if he had noticed her, but he had.

“Mishan.”

“Clarian. It is time to call forth the Flame.”

“Will it come?”

“Assuredly and with great force.”

She placed her hand on his shoulder and spoke sacred words. Clarian could feel a kind of vibration around him, and it lifted his heart.

Ferman pored over his map, drawing lines and arrows, when the shouting reached his ears. He got up from his stool, parted the door flap, and stepped out into the smoky air. “What is it?” he bellowed.

The aides at his tent front did not know, but he could see men running back and forth below him, screaming orders. An officer raced up the incline to him, his face grim. “The water has been poisoned! Men are dying and so are the horses!”

Ferman’s mouth opened, but no words issued. He was dumbfounded. Poisoned water! He sprang into action, lumbering down the face of the hill into the ranks. “Get everyone back away from the water! Get back from the water!” He saw men doubled over, retching, others down on the ground writhing in agony, holding their abdomens, horses stumbling and collapsing. He stopped amid the ensuing chaos as commanders took over, sending out the alarm. He pulled at his hair in frustration.

“Sulan is sick!” an aide shouted as he sprinted up.

Ferman rushed across the camp to a large tent where officers crowded around outside the door flap. “Get away from that door! Where’s the physician?”

“He’s inside,” a frightened junior officer said.

Ferman brushed back the flap and ducked in. Sulan was lying on a cot, the physician bent over him. Ferman leaned close. Foam gathered along the lips of Sulan, and his knees were drawn up, his face blotched and contorted in pain.

“Can’t you do anything?” snapped Ferman.

“No. It’s not something I’ve seen before,” answered the physician. “It’s a deadly poison. Of that, I’m sure.”

“Do something, you fool!”

Sulan opened puffy eyes and tried to focus on Ferman. “I die in this dreadful place all because I listened to you.”

Recognizing Sulan’s imminent death, Ferman fled the tent and rushed back to his headquarters. He seated himself in his tent and reached for his water container, then stopped himself. He hurriedly poured it out on the ground.
I could have killed myself,
he thought. Clever Clarian.

A young Drumaggan commander, Robhan, who served under Sulan, pushed past the flap and entered Ferman’s tent unannounced. He stood glaring at Ferman, his eyes wild, his mouth downturned. Ferman did not know this commander well and did not welcome him now, as he was trying to figure out what he would tell his other commanders.

“Well! What is it!” barked Ferman.

“Sulan is dead!”

“I know that. It changes nothing.”

“I am in command of the Drumaggan army now. I am the senior commander after this poisoning debacle. Why didn’t you foresee this happening, Ferman?”

“Go back to your command and get ready to fight!”

“I am not taking orders from you. I am pulling our Drumaggan troops back to a safe area until I can regroup and assess the situation.”

Ferman looked stunned for a moment, his jaw slack, as he thought about Robhan’s announcement. His eyelids hooded, Ferman shrugged and pointed to the map on the table. “Look at this, Robhan.” Ferman rose from his stool and came around the table to stand close to the Drumaggan commander.

Robhan did not see the knife until it plunged under his ribs and up into his chest. His face in shock, his mouth open in agony, he sagged against Ferman, who shoved him down. As Robhan lay on the ground writhing, Ferman kicked the body in anger. Shouting for help, he had the body dragged out. “Don’t ask,” he snarled at the questioning look in the frightened eyes of the aide.

An hour passed before he could assemble his commanders and get a report on the condition of his army. The tent was not as full as usual. “How many have we lost?”

Naguran, late arriving, gave the news. “About a third of our armies are dead or dying. Some may recover, but it will be days. We’ve lost over half of our horses. We’re drawing water from streams in the rear. We test them first, of course. But it takes time to carry the water forward, and now the soldiers are afraid of any water. I don’t see how we can continue our attack against the Karran.”

“Shut up, Naguran! I’ll decide when and where we attack! We’ve come too far to turn back now. This fight will be over in a few hours, and we will have the Flame. The Karran dogs flaunt the Flame before our very eyes, daring us to come and take it!”

“And that’s what bothers me,” said Neevan, standing in the corner. “They are making it seem easy—too easy.”

Pounding on the table so that everyone in the room jumped, Ferman snarled. “That is an act of desperation on their part. They are finished, and they know it. No. We will advance and cut out their hearts. Order the advance all along the front—now!”

A scout elbowed his way up to the table. “Our scouts have reported the Karran are receiving reinforcements from across the river, and they are in large numbers.”

“What reinforcements? Who is out there to help these dogs?”

“The Madasharan,” Neevan replied. “Their cousins to the west.”

Naguran had a worried look on his face. “We don’t know the size of this new army, just as we don’t know the extent of these wild, tattooed warriors. They have been killing our scouts with great skill. They come out of the tall grass, and we never see them until it’s too late. There could be more to this enemy than we know.”

Ferman sweated, sneering at his officers. “What? Are we cowards? Forgot why we are here? Pull back and go home? So what if they have allies? They will die as well. We are two large armies, and we have them pinned up against a river that cannot be crossed without a boat. And they have only a few small boats. They are trapped. We will throw them into the river to drown.”

“Our armies are sick from the poison, and they are tired. Tired men make mistakes,” Neevan snapped back.

“Enough whining. Begin the assault now!”