Authors: William Gehler
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
L
eaving 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.
Dismounting and handing his horse over to a soldier who recognized him, he pulled off his saddlebags and stomped into his house. The main room was full of Madasharan and Karran commanders, with Ranna and Helan serving food. Amid greetings from officers, Ranna and Helan pushed past everyone to hug and kiss Clarian. Ranna’s eyes filled with tears, her face haggard with worry. Helan appeared stalwart and gave him a strong hug before going back to the kitchen.
Everyone in the room was talking at once as Clarian squeezed by a number of officers standing near the door and found a place at the dining table. He did not respond to questions, but waved his hand, waiting for Ranna to bring him some food and drink, which he attacked with relish, not having eaten that day.
Finally, the room quieted, and all expectant eyes fell on Clarian. He finished and looked up. “The Maggan most probably have discovered that we did not give them the Flame. We gave them a fake. By now you have all heard of this.” He swept the room with his eyes, his face firm and strong, though lined with fatigue. “We will never give them the Flame. It’s ours.”
“Yes, Clarian! Yes! Yes!” came the response from the officers.
“I am awaiting a report on their exact whereabouts from our scouts, but from the last report, we know they are three or four days behind us. We cannot get the Karran people across the river and escape the Maggan horde. There isn’t time. We have only two small ferryboats, and we need them to bring the Madasharan army across. We could try to escape to the north into the mountains, but the terrain does not lend itself to wagons, and the Maggan would catch us on foot. We could flee to the south across the Grasslands, but because we move slowly, the Maggan would catch us out in the open. The Maggan will be upon us before we all can cross the river. And there are too many of us.”
A bearded officer asked, “Will we die here, Clarian?”
A torrent of excited voices erupted—anger, fear, and frustration barked out by tired men.
“Wait,” answered Clarian, holding up his hand, waiting for the room to quiet. “By morning Martan should arrive, and much of the Madasharan army under Rogeman will have landed on this side of the river. I understand the Kobani and the Grasslanders are streaming in.”
“They are here and more coming,” called a rough-looking Grasslander from the back of the room.
Clarian nodded. “Someone has asked if we die here. Listen well. This is my home. This land I know. This is the place I have selected for the final battle. This is the place where Ferman and the Maggan will die.”
The crowd of officers erupted into yelling and shouting words of encouragement. Hands clapped Clarian on the back and shoulders as he ducked out of the house and called for a fresh horse. He needed to visit the refugee camps and the army camps to see for himself their conditions and placement.
There was plenty to inspect. First he rode down to the ferry landing and was greeted by Rostan and several sweating soldiers ferrying troops across the river nonstop, day and night. He was pleased with the new craft, and everything seemed to be proceeding as he had hoped. With the two ferries in constant operation, the Madasharan forces should be all across within another day, according to Rostan. Their encampment was out in the tall grass north of the barn and Clarian’s fields and pastures. The grass was beaten down, and rows of tents were going up.
The Karran army camped directly east of the ferry on both sides of the road, spreading out to connect with the Madasharan troops on the north flank and south to the Grasslanders and the Kobani tribesmen. Behind the armies, the refugee camps lined the riverbank. Soldiers were busy keeping order, preventing overcrowding in any one spot. The din of the townspeople, villagers, and farmers was louder than the usual roar of the river. Over protests from farmers and herdsmen, soldiers drove the herds of livestock south past the Kobani camp into the Grasslands. There was no room and not enough grazing at the ferry, and when the battle started, the livestock would be a hindrance.
Late in the day, as the sun dived behind the Crystal Mountains, giving a brief glimpse of magenta streaks against the gray cloud banks, Jolsani, having heard Clarian was at the ferry, rode in from the Kobani camp and found him studying the lay of the land at the extreme right flank of the Karran army, where the Grasslanders had pitched tents.
“Our people are here in good strength, Selu.”
“That is good, cousin. I fear the enemy will be upon us soon.”
“Our people want to see you before they fight.”
Without hesitation, they set their horses to a fast gait toward the Kobani camp. On the way they passed through the Grasslanders’ camp. Clarian rode in and met old friends. Standing on a wagon bed, he called out to the gathering, “I go now to meet our old friends, the Kobani.”
The crowd of Grasslanders surrounding him laughed.
“Old enemies are now friends.” He paused, scanning the faces before him, noticing below him a young blond boy not more than twelve, bow over his shoulder, standing with his father. “I need not tell you that we will soon fight to save our people from annihilation and to keep the Flame out of the hands of the night people. The Maggan have made the mistake of coming out onto the Grasslands. They do not know this country. We do. To this point, they have had us on the run. That has changed. We no longer run. Now we will lure them into the tall grass and kill them.”
Jolsani led the way south a short distance, the night flooding in with the promise of rain. He could see the campfires of the Kobani, and his heart quickened. It was a large camp, perhaps thousands. They passed through the horse herd and were soon dismounting before a large fire. Kajmin greeted him with an embrace, his face somber. Warriors pressed forward, coming over from the other campfires, word traveling now that Clarian—or Selu, as they knew him—was in camp. There were only a few tents. Around each campfire bedrolls, cooking pots, and weapons were placed in orderly fashion. Wagons with supplies were lined up behind the camp along with horse lines.
Torches were lit, and a wagon was dragged to the fire. Clarian climbed up into the bed and faced his mother’s people.
“You are dressed like a Karran, Selu,” called out a warrior.
“That is for the benefit of our Karran brothers, so that they can recognize me.”
The warriors laughed, and he nodded, grinning at his own joke.
“The night people pursue us. All Karran have left their homes and farms and lands. Karran is empty, except for these Grasslands. That is not enough for these Maggan. The night people seek us out to destroy us. They have a great appetite. Now they crawl out of their black holes in the ground and come down into the Great Grasslands to swallow up the Karran, the Madasharan, and the Kobani. They should have stayed in their Forest of Darkness. They do not know the Grasslands. They do not know that death awaits them in the tall grass. They will die here.”
Shouts burst forth from the warriors. Waving fists flashed in the firelight, and war chants rang out. The drums thundered as Clarian rode back through the night with Jolsani to the ferry. They cheered him, and his heart beat faster, and his blood felt hot. Jolsani broke out in a warrior chant, joined by Clarian, and they raised their voices in an ancient call for victory over their enemies.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
F
erman’s face blotched purple in rage. Surrounded by Sulan, Naguran, Neevan, Zefran and officers from both armies, he kept opening and closing fists that looked like talons, his burning eyes set deep in his chalk-white face, seeming to protrude as if there was a great pressure against them from inside his shaggy head. Candles flickered, and shadows bounced off the tent walls. The air was thick and tense.
“Tell me the truth! I don’t understand!” snarled Ferman at his Flamekeeper, who jumped at the vehemence in the voice.
“The Flame is extinguished. We noticed it fading away yesterday, but today it was gone, and the Karran Flamekeeper could not restore it. We called upon it, and it would not come. We knew something was wrong, and we became suspicious. So we called Beshan to question the Flamekeeper.”
“Yes? Where is Beshan? Well, Beshan?” growled Ferman.
A young, hard-eyed officer faced Ferman without fear. “We questioned him. He was evasive. Then he started weeping and saying it wasn’t his doing; that it was Clarian’s idea.”
“Go on! Come on, man. Out with it!”
“I could not get him to tell me what that idea was, so my men put the knives to him. He finally talked,” said Beshan.
A shocked voice from the back called out. “You put knives to a Flamekeeper?”
“He’s not
our
Flamekeeper,” retorted Beshan nervously. “What we learned is that the Sacred Crystal and the Flame given us by Clarian are fakes.”
Ferman screamed—a long, sustained cry of agony, anger, and bitterness. Everyone in the tent jumped back, startled and dismayed. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders quaking in grief and rage. He pounded the table, spilling the candles onto the ground.
Beshan’s face was fierce, and he hissed out the truth. “The fake was used to give Clarian and the Karran time to escape, carrying the real Flame away with them. They intend to cross the river into Madasharan. We’ve been taken in and fooled.”
Ferman raised his head, tears streaming down his face, and laughed—a hard, forced sound that chilled the hearts of those standing before him. “He sacrificed his own Flamekeeper. There’s a cold heart.” He started to say something more, but no words came out of his thin lips, moving but soundless, his face going slack, a befuddled look fogging his eyes. They slid over to catch Neevan’s expression of shock.
“You see what your friend has done, Neevan. He lied to us. He lied to me. He lied to you.”
Straightening her back, her face pale from the news, Neevan said, “I’ve told you time and again that Clarian is not to be underestimated.”
Standing up so fast that his stool went flying, Ferman jabbed his finger at Neevan. “We will run him down like the dog he is! I will not let him cross the river and escape!”
Neevan’s face was grim, and she did not flinch at his anger. Instead, she jabbed her finger back at him. “Let me offer this warning, Grandfather, though I know you will not take it. The Great Grasslands are a strange place and can be a deadly place to fight. Clarian is unpredictable. He is an experienced warrior of the Grasslands. He will not do what you expect. Our soldiers will die in the Grasslands.”
“Shut up and get out! Order the armies up to begin the chase. We will follow Clarian and his wretched people and take back the Flame. We will catch them in the open with nowhere to hide and erase the Karran for all time. We must not let them cross the river!”
As everyone left the tent, Ferman grabbed Beshan’s sleeve and put his wet red lips close to the man’s ear, whispering, “Kill the Karran Flamekeeper, but do it slowly. I want him to linger.”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
T
he band of riders began its survey of what would soon be a battlefield, starting at the ferry and working their way eastbound, in the direction from which the Maggan would come. The heavy clouds of the previous days reappeared, blocking out the sun, providing a gloomy morning as the wind brushed the tall grass back and forth. To the Karran commanders, the Grasslands looked remarkably monotonous; but not to the experienced eye of the Grasslanders and the Kobani. Clarian, followed by Martan, Rogeman, Mendan, and Jolsani and commanders from all the armies, carefully scanned the terrain, looking for advantage.
Topping a rise in the grassy landscape, a Kobani warrior was first to pause and get the attention of Jolsani, who in turn signaled Clarian.
“We could hide our true strength behind this low rise that extends north and south for as far as the eye can see,” offered Jolsani.
“I agree. It’s about as high a point as any we will find, unless we travel farther eastward,” said Clarian, in Kobani. Then he repeated his remarks in Karran. “But if we set out defensive lines here, we need to know where the Maggan will set theirs. And what ground will they cover in their attack to engage us. Let us ride farther.”
The group followed the road for several thousand paces before coming upon a fresh water stream with ample flow running north and south and lined with willows. The officers milled about on their horses, talking and pointing. Jolsani and a Kobani warrior walked their horses along the stream, reading the lay of the land about them. They soon rejoined Clarian, who was trying to visualize what might take place here.
Jolsani swept his arm in a broad arc and, in the Karran language, for the benefit of the other commanders, said, “If the Maggan are anything like the Karran—and not the Grasslanders, of course—they will set up camp here once they see us camped back there on the high ground. They will have open land between our lines, with no chance we can ambush them. They will have plenty of water for their soldiers and horses. They will not care if they don’t have the high ground, because they are overconfident. Besides, with the exodus of the Karran people, they will figure that the Karran army will be in disarray and disorganized. We think they will camp here and from this point launch their attack.”
Martan laughed and slapped his leg. “Where did the Kobani learn to fight like this?”
Jolsani translated, and the Kobani leaders grinned. One of them said, “After many years of fighting Grasslanders.”
The Grasslanders eyeballed one another but did not smile. Their faces remained grim, remembering bitter days of warfare.
Clarian dismounted from his horse and pulled at the grass. “It’s dry but not very. We can start some fires, but they may be more smoke than fire. That might work for us. We’ll need a good wind at our backs and into the enemy’s face.”
An older Kobani, braids hanging from his head, a blue tattoo on his forehead, sat his horse, staring at the stream. He pointed to the water and spoke in low tones, motioning Clarian over. After a brief conversation, Clarian asked several officers to ride farther east and look for more streams and when they found them, wave back. Several were found, much to Clarian’s satisfaction. A strategy was emerging, but the killing stroke he must deliver to the enemy still eluded him.
Clarian’s cottage was packed with officers and leaders. The hour was late. Senior commanders sat around the kitchen table, which had now been moved to the center of the room. Other officers crowded around, looking over shoulders. Candle lamps were lit throughout the room. A large map draped over the table. In front of the table stood Clarian, waiting to get everyone’s attention.
Rokkman, the new Flamekeeper, stood to one side, while Madasharan, Karran, Grasslander, and Kobani commanders pressed close. A rare sight was the group of Kobani warriors, looking fierce and uncomfortable, standing shoulder to shoulder with the others, once enemies. Jolsani nodded to Clarian. Clarian rearranged blocks of wood on the map that represented troop units.
“Our scouts have informed us that the Maggan are racing at top speed to catch us before we can cross the river. We must stand with our backs to the river and fight. When the Maggan approach, they will find us on the high ground spread north and south across a large battlefront. We will not show all our strength, but as recommended by our Kobani brothers, we will hide troops in the depression behind the high ground.” He waited as Jolsani translated. “We expect the Maggan to spread out in front of our lines in the low ground we have provided for them, with lots of fresh water and good grazing.”
There were a few snickers.
“They have pushed hard to catch us before we escape with the Flame. They will need some time to regroup. They will be overconfident. After all, they have us on the run, or so they believe. They will be running low on food and supplies. Their supply lines are very long, so they cannot wait too long before attacking.”
“What about those supply lines?” asked Martan.
“I do not think the battle will be protracted. It will be won or lost in one day. But to be on the safe side, Martan, send a scouting force behind them and cut them off. Make the force of sufficient strength that it can also attack the enemy’s rear and harass them, burn supply wagons—anything to distract them.”
With a smirk on his face, Clarian glanced at the Kobani, standing together next to Jolsani. “As the Maggan enter the Grasslands, they will have scouting parties out. Could we not lure them into the tall grass and ambush them?”
As Jolsani translated, a Kobani leader pointed to the map. “He says that they will conduct ambushes south of the road and that the Grasslanders should do the same on the north side.”
“Good.” Clarian looked around to find Mendan, leader of the Grasslanders, who nodded agreement, to Clarian’s satisfaction. “The Madasharan army is still crossing the river but should be fully across by tomorrow. Rogeman is deploying the Madasharan army to secure our left flank.”
The Madasharan commander, Rogeman, reached over and moved several blocks on the map, repositioning them on the left. “What do I have in reserve, Clarian?”
“We will place behind you units we’re just now assembling, made up of old veterans who can still pull back a bow. Behind them, we are arming townsfolk and will move them into position as well, under experienced officers. It’s not great, but some of them have fought in wars before. Everyone, including townsfolk, villagers, farmers, herdsmen, all will fight. Young. Old. Women. Even children. We fight for our very existence. Bows, lances, swords, axes, and clubs will be issued. Everyone must stand against the foe and fight. There can be no holding back. And Rogeman. Your troops are horse warriors, but initially you may have to dismount and fight on foot. There is little room for horse maneuvers until the enemy collapses.”
Looking across the room for Rokkman, he fixed his eyes on him. “Holy One, I have an important task for you. You are to take the Flame in its cart and place it here in the battle line, with all its banners and yourself in your finest arraignments for the enemy to see.” Clarian pointed at a place in the line on the right flank.
“Are you out of your mind! Risk the Flame?” choked Rokkman.
“Not at all. The Flame is already at risk. I want Ferman and all the Maggan to see the Flame and you. I am using you as the lure. Once the battle is engaged, we will pull you back. But first I want to bait Ferman into charging right at you.
“You can’t do it, Clarian! You can’t risk the Flame. What if your plan doesn’t work? What if they do something you don’t expect? I’ve been a soldier. I know things go wrong! I want to take the Flame across the river, now.”
“No. Every Karran and our cousins, the Madasharan, and our brothers, the Kobani, risk everything. Let the Flame protect us. Even if you cross the river, the Maggan will track you down. If we die, they get the Flame anyway. Besides, everyone will fight better if the Flame is with us, not across the river.”
Rokkman glared at Clarian, his mouth a tight line, his eyes narrowed.
Moving several more blocks of wood to the center of the map, Clarian said, “The Karran army will hold the center of the battle front and the right flank. The center must hold fast, Amran, and the right flank, Martan. We will put our strength there, and the army will fight with bows, and when the Maggan closes, it will be with lance and sword. It will be a hard day. We have trained mainly as horse soldiers, but with our backs to the river, this is what we must do. You will be backed by the townsfolk as we are doing behind the Madasharan army. However, here is the trap we will set for the Maggan.”
Jolsani was softly translating.
“We will not let the Maggan rest when they arrive on the field. They will be exhausted when they arrive. We will entice them to attack before they are organized and ready. First, we will dig pits and plant sharpened stakes in the open spaces between our lines and theirs. Next, we will set fire to the grass if the winds are in our favor. After they have established their camp and gotten everything in order, our Kobani brothers will ride upstream and poison the water. That should slow them down.”
Exclamations rocked the room, and expressions of surprise crossed grim faces. A few smiled, and chuckles could be heard.
Martan stretched his stiff neck and caught Clarian’s eye. “Finish your plan, Clarian. I still don’t see how we win this.”
“Ferman will attempt to capture the Flame and Rokkman, who will be waving at him and shouting, ‘Over here, Ferman!’ At that position in the line, the line will appear to falter, and a gap will appear. Our line will fall back and open to the right and the left, inviting the Maggan troops and Ferman to pour into and through the gap. Rokkman will run as fast as he can to get out of there once he sees the enemy commit to the charge.”
“That’s very dangerous!” said Martan.
“Yes, it is. Remember, their troops will be exhausted from the march across Karran; tired and hungry and poisoned. They’ll be afraid to drink anything. But what I’m counting on is that when the Maggan surge into the gap we create for them, a gap opens in their line as well and that their control and discipline evaporates as they pour through. Positioned and hidden behind our lines will be our mounted archers. Once the Maggan have committed to their charge and are pouring through the gap, we will meet the Maggan head-on and from both sides, break them and roll up the enemy line on their own left flank. I will lead that charge.”
Murmurs rippled through the room as this was digested.
“One other thing. On the extreme right, I believe they will try to sweep our right flank through the tall grass with mounted troops. They will be met by the Kobani warriors and the Grasslanders, who will destroy them and then drive into the rear of the enemy’s left flank. When the Madasharan army senses the Maggan faltering against them, they will pivot, swinging their forces like a spoke on a wheel and sweep the Maggan toward the center of the battlefield. We will bunch them up. They will not be able to maneuver or fight. The Maggan will die there.”
The room was silent as each gave thought to their part in the plan and its possibilities for success. Boots scuffled on the floor, and the Kobani spoke among themselves in quiet tones.
“Tomorrow, we will practice our maneuvers. We are no longer outnumbered, and we will not be outfought. We will prevail over our enemy. It has been foretold. Let each take heart that the Flame is with us.”
“The Flame!”