Authors: William Gehler
CHAPTER EIGHT
S
o began a great stream of men and women, some young and some old, farmers and shepherds, boys and girls, driving strings of horses and wagons, all converging on the Citadel. The people of the city that surrounded the Citadel took many into their homes. Others were assigned to the fields of tents in the shadow of the castle fortress.
Clarian was everywhere, riding from one training area to the next. The young boys and girls and older men and women were organized into companies of archers. Older boys and girls and able-bodied men and women who could ride were given horses and trained as mounted archers. By Clarian’s decree, all soldiers were to be armed with bows and also trained with the sword and lance. Some of the younger children could not throw a lance very far or swing a sword well, but they all received training in each weapon.
Clarian took a personal interest in training the mounted archers, firing arrows at targets at a gallop to show them how to bring down the enemy. Clarian could be seen with Lillan and other archery officers observing the training and then offering suggestions. The training day started at daylight and concluded in the dark.
Not all soldiers could ride horses, and there was little time to learn, so wagons were collected to use as transports. Row upon row of wagons lined up in fields nearby. Horses were pastured in all the surrounding farms and paddocks. Great stocks of food and animal feed were stored to be on hand when the hostilities began. The older women in the city hurriedly sewed tunics for the growing numbers of new soldiers. The smithies worked around the clock to turn out swords and lances. Bow and arrow makers and their apprentices with little rest were crafting the implements through the night.
When the formal training ended each day, companies of soldiers began fortifying the walls around the city. Every hour counted; every task was of great importance. In the final days before the expected attack, great numbers of soldiers led by their officers went through maneuvers including mock charges by mounted archers, sweeping attacks from the flank, harassing tactics from the rear, and major withdrawals. Clarian applied everything he had learned from his father and from fighting the Kobani tribe. The Kobani had been very good at moving quickly and striking and then pulling back only to strike again when least expected. They were a horse people, and Clarian intended to use everything he had learned from them to his advantage in this war against the night people.
Meanwhile, two young Citadel soldiers traveled back to the frontier to relieve Parsan and send him back to the Citadel. Ranna and Helan had grown fond of Parsan, and they each gave him a hug just before he mounted his horse for the long ride back. It had taken him a few days to get used to Ranna, and he continually looked at the tattoo on her forehead with wonderment. Different peoples did not mix in these lands except for the occasional trader who would cross the border of a land but would almost never venture to the main city. Nevertheless, Parsan was a young warrior of happy countenance, and with Ranna and Helan barking instructions, he had mastered the transport of travelers on the ferry craft across the swift river, and he had developed a strong appetite for frontier cooking.
Ranna questioned the new arrivals, skinny boys in their teens, seeking news of Clarian, and they passed on what they knew—that Clarian was training the army and that the Maggan would attack soon, or at least that was what was being rumored. They related that they had seen Clarian a number of times on the training grounds and had heard him give instructions, and they were in awe of him. They were disappointed to be posted so far out on the frontier, disappointed that they would miss the battles when the war erupted.
Ranna would often climb the rise in front of the cottage, accompanied by the two dogs, and all three would stare off into the east across the grasses that never stopped waving in the wind, her thoughts on Clarian, as if she could will him to come back down the road, and this talk of war would disappear like the mist over the river when struck by the morning sun.
The bell rang on the other side of the river, signaling a traveler.
Ranna turned and squinted across the river, and she saw a single man with several pack animals waiting on the far bank by the dock. The two soldiers were scrambling and laughing and waving as they launched the ferry into the swift current, pulling on the heavy cables, slowly advancing to the other side to the waiting traveler.
Ranna had hoped there would more travelers coming from the east with information about Clarian, but travel had almost dried up. She had heard that almost all the grassland villages had sent many men and women to the Citadel and that the villages were almost empty. She prayed the Kobani would not take advantage of the situation and break the peace and begin raids.
As she entered the cottage, Helan was making a place at the table for the traveler. “Anyone coming down the road from the east?”
“No. The road is empty. I have had a bad feeling all day that something will happen soon.”
“They’ll send someone to tell us if anything happens.”
Ranna felt she had lost almost everything when the Kobani had killed her husband, Orlan. He had fought against the Maggan in the Great Grassland Wars and survived, only to be killed in a frontier skirmish. She had lived in constant fear as her only child, Clarian, had taken his father’s place, fighting with the Grasslanders against the Kobani until peace was achieved. It had been a year of grateful peace on the frontier and then war again. She suddenly felt her age. A stiffness of body and weariness of mind weighed on her.
She busied herself helping Helan with the noon meal. Helan put her arm around Ranna and gave her a light squeeze. Ranna tried to keep tears from coming, and she bravely flashed a feeble smile. She could hear the two young boy-soldiers in animated discussion with the traveler as they approached the cottage.
The sun was hot on Lillan’s shoulders as she observed the maneuvers of her newly formed mounted archers. Targets were stretched out across several fields below the hillock where she sat on her horse. Her junior officers directed wave after wave of galloping archers toward the targets, arrows arcing up toward the targets, many of them missing their mark. She shrugged in irritation.
Well,
she thought,
just a few weeks ago they were archers on foot. Shooting from a galloping horse, after all, is another matter.
She glanced to her right and saw Clarian in an adjacent field demonstrating to a gathered troop how to charge a straw-stuffed dummy from horseback, fling a lance into it, then spin the horse and draw out a sword, slash down into a second dummy, and sprint away. She felt a warm sensation inside when she thought of him—almost as warm as the beating sun—and especially now as she watched him, tall and lithe in the saddle, commanding respect for his skill. She was sure he watched her when he thought no one was looking. She wished there was time for them to talk more, alone. Lillan resolved to get him to herself soon. Perhaps that very night.
A young officer rode over to Lillan, who sat astride her horse. It was Sajan, a fair-haired man with cheery blue eyes who was from the same village.
“Lillan!” Sajan called out as he pulled his horse up next to hers.
She smiled at him. “Hello, Sajan. How is training going?”
“Not bad. I need more wagons and horses to carry my archers, but other than lack of transportation and the fact that many of my archers are half my age, I’m ready to march!”
Lillan laughed. “But can they hit a target?”
“Yes, they can. They are quite good, actually. But when they get tired, they want to rest, and they complain something awful. I don’t remember complaining like that when I was their age.”
“I’m sure you were the perfect son. But then again, you weren’t a soldier at their age.”
“No, I guess not,” he said with a chuckle. His smile quickly left his face, and he sat his horse round-shouldered, looking out across the training fields, which were full of soldiers going through drills.
His pensive look caught her eye. “What’s really bothering you, Sajan?”
He paused before answering, flexing his neck as if it were stiff. “I don’t know if my contingent will be able to stop the enemy once we engage them.”
Lillan’s horse nipped at Sajan’s, and Lillan reined him in and then leaned toward Sajan to get his attention, her voice firm. “They must, or they will die. Tell them. And tell them this. In the battle, see only targets, just like the bales of straw stacked out there on the training grounds. Targets. Everything is a target. The enemy is a target. Put the arrow in the target. Then put the next arrow in the next target and the next. Do not think. Draw the arrow back, aim, and release. Next arrow, next target.”
He nodded and thought about what she said. It made good sense.
They chatted about the days past when they were growing up in the village, going to school and working on their parents’ farms. Sajan’s eyes revealed a fondness for Lillan, but she was watching Clarian off in the distance on the training field. Finally, she waved good-bye and urged her horse toward a group of archers who had just ridden up and were setting up targets for some practice runs.
Sajan had reminded her of her home and her parents. She would send them a letter, and maybe she would mention Clarian.
The night of the full moon was upon them. Clarian met with the Flamekeeper and briefed him on the impending struggle. Rokkman and the commanders joined them in the Flamekeeper’s office.
“How prepared is our army, Clarian?” asked the Flamekeeper.
“A small number of our soldiers are ready,” Clarian replied. “We’ve had only a few weeks to train the new troops. Many are very young. Many are women who have never fought or handled a bow or lance.”
The Flamekeeper’s face looked haggard, which Clarian hadn’t noticed before, and the old man’s body appeared bent with age and stress.
“Surely you will be ready when the Maggan come, don’t you think?” asked the Flamekeeper.
Lillan answered for Clarian. “Not if the Maggan come tonight or even next week, Holy One. We don’t have an army yet. We’re trying to build one, and we’re short on time.”
“Our army needs at least three months of intensive training before it is ready to face the enemy,” said Clarian.
Clarian’s words shook the Flamekeeper, and his eyes were wide with fear now. “When will they attack?” He glanced from face to face, his mouth parted as if he were gasping for breath.
“No one knows, Holy One, but they won’t wait for three months,” said Rokkman. “They are gathering at the forest’s edge at this moment. They may come any night. It’s the full of the moon soon.”
“You are the Chosen One, Clarian. You must find a way to defeat these creatures,” croaked the Flamekeeper.
“I know,” replied Clarian, looking tired.
The commanders, several dozen of them, surrounded the Flamekeeper, Clarian, and Rokkman, all silent, their faces solemn. Martan, commander of the scouts, cleared his throat. Everyone looked at him. “What is our plan if they come in the next few days?” he asked. Everyone looked at Clarian.
“They are not horse people. They will march on foot followed by supply wagons, and if they rest during the daylight hours, it may take them six or more days to reach the Citadel unimpeded. We will have time to go out and engage them. But that’s the easy part. We have to prevent them from advancing. They won’t like being out from under the forest and in the sun for very long. We will meet them in the ridge country and try to bottle them up between the ridges and cliffs. We’ll try to bring them down with arrows.”
“We’re not ready to fight your way,” barked Martan.
“You have been training your troops to die, Martan.”
“What do you know of armies?”
“Nothing. But soldiers die one at a time. We must make the Maggan die in great numbers, and we must do it my way.”
“Clarian?” asked Lillan, as she poked her head around a tall officer. “What if they break through?”
Clarian nodded. “I have thought about it. They can’t move fast. So we would be able to retreat to the Citadel and fight from here or abandon the city and flee into the Grasslands. And they might follow us all the way to the Grasslands in order to steal the Flame. If need be, we could retreat across the river into the land of Madasharan. They wouldn’t follow us there. It’s desert, with a hot blazing sun, and they can’t survive where there are few trees and no caves. It’s not a good prospect for us, either.”
“I think Clarian has a good plan,” offered Lillan.
Rokkman glared at her.
“It is your task to prevent that from happening, Clarian!” snapped the Flamekeeper.
Everyone looked uncomfortable at the tone of that remark. Rokkman silently motioned the officers out of the room. Rokkman closed the door behind them and leaned against it, looking at Clarian and the Flamekeeper. Clarian had a wary look about him.
The Flamekeeper stared at him with great intensity, his eyes sharp with fear. “You are the Chosen One. Foretold by the Oracle. Selected by the Flame and the Immortal Ones. You accepted the violet cloak of office. Do your duty! Stop the evil Maggan!”
His face haggard from lack of sleep, his shoulders slumped from the immense responsibility of saving all of Karran and its people and the Flame, Clarian picked up his cloak from the back of a chair and with a quick look at the Flamekeeper walked heavily to the door.
“You must find a way to save Karran!” called the Flamekeeper, as Clarian swept out the door, held open by Rokkman.
Clarian stopped and reappeared in the doorway. “Both sides signed in blood, did they not? Peace forever. And you believed them.”
“I don’t like your tone,” said Rokkman.
“Enemies have no need for truth,” Clarian shot back.
The Flamekeeper pointed at Clarian. “Enough. You accepted the violet cloak. Do your duty. Stop the evil Maggan. I demand a plan now.”
Clarian exited the room, and Rokkman asked, “Clarian? Where are you going?” as he rushed after the young man.