Authors: William Gehler
Die for the Flame
DIE FOR THE FLAME
DIE FOR THE
FLAME
William S Gehler
Copyright © 2015 William S Gehler
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1517077613
ISBN 13:
9781517077617
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015915896
CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform
North Charleston, South Carolina
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I
want to thank my lovely wife Jan for her support for this novel and our grown-up kids, Drew, Beau, Greer, Oksana and Vanja, and to my nephew, Steven, who read the manuscript.
LIST OF MAIN CHARACTERS
The Karran People
The Maggan People
The Madasharan People
The Kobani People
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
T
he dogs alerted Clarian that riders were coming ahead of the storm. He tugged fiercely on the cable to pull the small ferry craft back across the river. His arms were like knotted ropes as he labored against the current, having just deposited a trader and his packhorse on the far side. The scar across the right cheek of his face marred an otherwise handsome and youthful appearance.
As he docked the ferryboat, he retrieved his bow and quiver, his eyes watchful, and followed the prancing dogs up the river embankment. He gazed eastward down the road and then up at the massing thunderclouds.
This was the frontier of the Karran lands, the Great Grasslands, a wild outpost set in a sea of waving blue-green grass. Clarian thought it unlikely that Kobani warriors were raiding this far north, not since peace with the warlike tribe had been agreed to less than a year earlier. Still, one could never relax in such a remote corner of the land, and Clarian’s bow was always at the ready. There was a bell on a post on either side of the river to alert him that someone wanted passage to the other side.
His ferry was the only way across the Blue River for many days’ journey north or south. There were no fords or shallows, and small boats were useless against the turbulent, rushing water. The river divided the Great Grasslands to the east from the arid plains and deserts of Madasharan to the west.
The sky darkened, and a spatter of rain appeared. As he mounted the embankment, he searched the rolling grasses that stretched as far as one could see, now rippled by the restless wind. Peering down the long road, he could see nothing. The dogs fidgeted on a nearby mound, and they yawned, lifting their muzzles up to catch a scent, and then they yelped. Clarian waited patiently and finally spotted several small figures appearing in the distance, disappearing and then reappearing on the undulating terrain, a dust plume following them. Riders were coming hard. He wondered what the hurry could be on such a hot afternoon. They were probably trying to outrun the coming storm, or maybe there was another reason. He walked to the whitewashed cottage that sat high above the river on the north side of the road to tell his mother and aunt that travelers were coming.
Three riders on exhausted, lathered horses reined up outside the cottage and dismounted. Their boots thumped hard on the ground, and the metal from their swords jingled around their waists. Two riders wore blue tunics signifying that they were Citadel soldiers. And the third, a gray-haired man with a beard, wore a violet cloak, the sign of the priesthood. The dogs glided in front of the waiting young man, who was waiting in a seemingly casual but defensive posture.
Clarian spoke first. “You’ve pushed those horses about as far as they can go.”
“You’re right,” grunted one soldier. “And about as far as we can go, too.”
Clarian took hold of the bridle from the man wearing the violet cloak. “This horse is almost dead,” he said.
Faces grimy from traveling dusty roads stared at him without speaking. One of the soldiers was a striking young woman. The older man appeared weak in the knees, and the woman slipped an arm under his for support.
Clarian clicked his tongue. “I’ll take your horses up to the barn and cool them down. Go into the house.”
“We may have to do an exchange of horses with you,” said the old man.
“Not for my horses.”
“We come in the name of the Flamekeeper.”
“I don’t care who sent you. This is the frontier.”
An older woman, appearing at the door, called to them. “Come inside! Clarian will see to your horses! You all look tired!”
The three riders stumbled, saddle-stiff, into the welcome coolness of the cottage just as a furious sky opened up with wild winds and slanting rain.
Clarian led the horses into stalls in the barn. He let the horses drink but not too much. He pulled their saddles off and began to wet them down with cool water. He spoke gently to the animals, rubbing them down with wet sacking. He was concerned about the exhausted mare, but she responded well. She nickered in pleasure and nuzzled him as he slipped her a piece of apple. Her rubbery lips felt soft on his palm. He laughed as he ran his hand over her neck, then forked out some hay and closed up the stalls.
Washing up at the spring in front of the barn, Clarian ran his fingers through his long, brown hair and turned to trudge down to the cottage. His leather boots crunched on the graveled path as he glanced up at the building storm. The clouds crowded above, gathering in a massive display, dark and billowing, spilling out toward him like a black carpet. The wind veered and snapped at his shirt and lightning shot down into the Grasslands with bright, pink flashes.
As he pushed open the door into the great room, he saw the three travelers seated at a long wooden table, gratefully accepting the food being served by two women, one fair-skinned with silver hair, and the other swarthy, with black eyes and black hair streaked with gray and a blue tattoo on her forehead. The men glanced at the woman with the tattoo, but she ignored them.
Clarian sat in a chair close by the fire, running a cloth over his wet hair. There was no conversation, only the sounds of the three hungry strangers attending to their plates. The guests ate and drank as if they hadn’t eaten for some time. As they finished, they glanced about the great room with interest. The walls were whitewashed plaster with heavy, hand-hewed wooden beams supporting the ceiling. At one end of the room was a great stone fireplace with a black iron kettle over a low-burning fire. A doorway led to a kitchen and a second doorway to back rooms. One wall was covered with weapons and another lined with books.
The older man’s eyes showed fatigue but were still very alert. “My name is Rokkman. I am a priest serving the Flamekeeper. This soldier is Lillan, a commander of the Citadel Guards,” the old man said, pointing to the woman. “And this is Parsan. We are on a most urgent mission for the Flamekeeper.”
“Where are you going? Over to the lands of Madasharan?” asked Clarian.
“We don’t know. Perhaps. All we know is that we are to seek out a man known as ‘the Ferryman.’ I heard the lady call you Clarian.”
“I am Clarian.”
“Are you a ferryman?” Rokkman asked.
“Yes, I am a ferryman,” said Clarian. “I can help you cross the river if that is what you require. But not tonight. The river will rise.”
“I knew a ferryman from long ago who lived out here on the frontier. His name was Orlan.”
“That was my father.”
“And where is Orlan? It is most urgent that I speak with him, for we come far and fast upon an errand that affects all the people of Karran,” said Rokkman.
The silver-haired woman replied, “My brother died some years ago at the hands of the Kobani tribe.”
Rokkman looked back and forth between the two old women, then jutted his chin at the dark-skinned one. “And who is she?”
The silver-haired woman spoke up immediately. “She is Ranna, wife of Orlan and mother to Clarian. I am Orlan’s sister, Helan.”
“No offense, but she is not a Karran!” said Lillan, a deep frown on her face.
“I am Kobani,” Ranna replied in a defiant tone.
The soldiers glanced at each other in surprise at this news. The room was uncomfortably quiet.
“I have never heard of a Karran marrying a Kobani,” said Rokkman. “I knew your father from the Great War, but he never mentioned…”
“You knew my father?” asked Clarian, a curious, friendlier expression on his face.
Rokkman nodded, smiling. “I knew him well. He was a commander of archers during the Great War and a brave and fearless warrior. He was present when we forced the foul Maggan army to accept the peace and return to their Forest of Darkness. I remember him telling me that the Maggan would someday break the peace. No one believed him. We all wanted peace. Under the terms of peace, which their Flamekeeper signed, both sides would disband their armies. With the exception of the Citadel Guards, we did, but apparently the Maggan have been building up their forces and are now poised to attack. There is very little time to prepare a defense.”
“I am sorry you have come all this way to find my father. As my aunt said, he is no longer with us,” said Clarian.
Rokkman thought for a moment. “Well, that is why I am here. Our high priest, your Flamekeeper, sent me to seek out the ‘ferryman.’ He didn’t say ‘go find Orlan.’ Of course, I assumed Orlan would be out here on the frontier. The Flamekeeper said ‘seek out the ferryman.’”
Clarian thought about this. “Well, I run this ferry. It’s the only ferry on the river in these parts. I’ve never been there, but I have heard there is a ferry far to the south in the delta where this river spreads out before it runs into the sea. It’s a long journey, and you have to go through Kobani lands, but maybe the one you seek is there.”
“Yet you say you are a ferryman,” mused Rokkman, eyeing Clarian sharply.
“Yes, but I am not ‘the ferryman’ you seek, sir.”
“How long have you been a ferryman, young man?”
“I was born here. I learned this trade from my father.”
Rokkman rubbed his drawn face with his hands and pushed back his long, gray hair. He caught Lillan’s eye, a question showing in his face.
Rokkman looked down at his empty plate and didn’t reply for a moment. Then he lifted his head and stared hard at Clarian and said, “The ferryman is somewhere.”
“Can I get anyone more food? Some wine?” asked Helan.
“Thank you, lady,” said Parsan, holding out his cup.
“Is there anyone else who works this ferry with you?” asked Rokkman.
“No, I run it all by myself. I ferry travelers and traders and herdsmen across the river to the other side, and I carry others from the dry lands of Madasharan to this side.”
Rokkman rose from his seat and walked around the room, inspecting the books, and then stopped in front of the wall that held all the weaponry. “These are fine weapons. The finest I have ever seen. How did you acquire them, may I ask?”
“Many are my father’s, brought back from the wars. Some are mine, from the border wars against the Kobani tribe,” said Clarian.
“You fought against the Kobani? Even though your mother is Kobani?”
“Since I was thirteen years old. Many battles. I rode with my father against the Kobani in the Grassland Wars, which went on for years until peace was finally achieved less than a year ago.”
“He had no choice. The Kobani would never accept him,” said Ranna.
“He led men twice his age into battle far into Kobani territory,” said Helan, proudly. “It was he who negotiated the peace with the Kobani.”
The soldiers looked at Ranna, but she avoided their eyes.
“Now that you mention it, I heard about it. But I didn’t know you were the son of Orlan. May I?” Rokkman picked a handsome bow off the wall and held it in his hands.
“Of course.”
“You must have a dozen bows here.”
“In the Grasslands, we fight from horseback with bow and arrow. And with the lance,” said Clarian.
“What about the use of the sword?” asked Parsan.
Clarian walked over to the wall and lifted a sword off the pegs. “We carry a smaller sword, not as heavy as yours. If you have to draw your sword, then you are very close to the enemy, and you will suffer losses. Better to fight from a distance and pick your battleground, too. Never let the enemy decide where to fight.”
Rokkman turned the bow over in his hands, admiring it, and then he replaced it on a peg. He faced Clarian.
“We’ll have to go back and tell the Flamekeeper that the ferryman is no more,” offered Parsan.
“Don’t be absurd,” Rokkman snapped impatiently. “I can’t do that. If the Flamekeeper sent me, then surely the ferryman is somewhere.”
“Are there any other rivers nearby?” asked Parsan. “How about in the dry lands west of this river?”
“I am told by travelers that there are streams near the Crystal Mountains, but no rivers like this one.”
“You have been to the Crystal Mountains?” asked Rokkman.
“No. But one can see them clearly on a good day. My father told me that they hold the sanctuary of the Immortal Ones.”
“That is true, but I know of no one who has ever climbed to the high reaches of those mountains to the sanctuary. Not even our Flamekeeper. He received the Sacred Flame from his previous Flamekeeper and he from his and so on, back to the time the Karran came to this land carrying the Sacred Crystal, given to them by the Immortal Ones. From the Sacred Crystal springs forth the Flame. The Flame is the light that protects our people.
“The Sacred Flame was originally passed to us by the Immortal Ones who live in a golden city high in the Crystal Mountains. They are like gods, and the Flame itself comes from the ‘One Whose Name Cannot Be Spoken.’ The Flamekeeper is the voice of the Immortal Ones and is the leader of our people.”
“Why haven’t the Maggan a crystal and a flame?” asked Clarian.
“They were expelled long ago. That’s another story,” said Rokkman.
Ranna poured more wine, moving around the table, listening attentively to the conversation, her black eyes probing. Through the windows to the east, darkness dropped behind the gloom of the blue-black clouds. Thunder cracked overhead, and rain pelted the roof.
Helan moved to the west windows. “There are the Crystal Mountains. Look.”
Far to the west, the sun was dipping behind a line of towering mountain peaks. Blue from the ice fields glistened on the slopes, and the jagged peaks were tinged with orange and red. The three strangers gathered by the window and craned their necks to peer at the sight of the majestic mountains. They sucked in their breath in awe and amazement.
Clarian threw more wood to the fire, and Ranna lit several candle lanterns as the storm outside shut out the day’s light. Outside, the dogs scratched at the door, and Clarian let them in. They shook their coats, to Ranna’s disgust, and she told them to lie down in the corner. Clarian became distracted by the storm outside. His concern was the horses and the ferry, and he slipped out the door to run to the barn. It was raining heavily, and he was instantly soaked. He checked on the horses, including his own, and his milk cow, securing all the animals in their stalls.
