Die for the Flame (37 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

T
he Maggan forces advanced all along the front, marching through the tall grass. The going was slow, and when they came to the ditches and the sharpened stakes, they bunched up and stalled. Officers shouted and ordered them on. They were within arrow range now. The sky filled with arcing missiles, and soon the fields rang out with the cries of the wounded. Karran forces, hidden behind the high ground and tall grass, moved up onto the crests and with deadly accuracy decimated the enemy ranks. The Maggan, shields held high, covered themselves as best they could. Maggan archers, standing behind the marching lines, fired their volleys into the Karran ranks. Soon archers were launching their arrows at one another as well as at the struggling soldiers.

The Maggan commanders were surprised at the numbers of Karran facing them. They had previously thought the Karran lines thin and predicted an easy breach, but with the appearance of more troops on the high ground, the complexion of the battle was changing. Karran marksmen were skilled and well trained. The slow-moving Maggan foot soldiers fell in great numbers.

From his vantage point, Clarian watched with some trepidation as the enemy ranks crossed the open ground and surged up the slope of the high ground to engage the Karran with lance and sword. Soon the long crest that ran from north to south was crowded with desperately struggling soldiers, stabbing and slashing at one another. Karran archers moved in close behind their front lines, launching arrows into enemy soldiers only a few paces away. Bodies piled up, and footing was difficult. Wailing went up all across the battlefield, mixing with shouts and screams of anger and terrible pain.

Soon swords flashed as soldiers closed to fight face-to-face. The roar of the Maggan attackers was met with the battle cry of the Karran: “The Flame!” Clashing metal added to the cacophony of sound, a vast din of noise. Clarian was touched on the shoulder by an aide, since he had not heard his name called.

“Rogeman reports that the Madasharan line is holding,” shouted the aide.

“Good. The Karran line is holding, too, but the fighting is fierce. I won’t wait any longer. Go to Amran and tell him to open the gap in the right flank, as we planned, to let the Maggan break through. Then we will spring the trap.”

Clarian waved to a young soldier holding Ruttu to bring her up. Mounting in one fluid motion, and with one last glance at the battle, he kicked his mount into a gallop toward the right flank. Behind the crest, he rode through the Karran mounted archers and Martan’s scouts, whom he would shortly lead into the fray.

Black clouds opened up, and a cold rain began to fall, pushed along by a colder wind. Clarian urged Ruttu up to the high ground and reined in next to Rokkman, who stood at the front of the gilded cart containing the Flame. The banners and streamers snapped briskly in the wind. Rokkman looked as if he had aged ten years, his face as gray as his beard. Surrounded by Citadel guards for protection, the battle raged only paces away. He ducked his head as an arrow sped by. He glared at Clarian, his eyes accusing and hauntingly sad. “Am I and the Flame close enough to the front for you?”

Clarian ignored him, his eyes and attention focused on the movement of enemy troops. He observed his right flank begin to give way, as planned, creating a gap. Already, large numbers of Maggan soldiers were cautiously slogging through the break in the line.
Good,
thought Clarian.
Let’s see if they take the bait.
He waited, avoiding Rokkman’s heated looks. Time seemed to slow. Ruttu grew skittish and pranced in agitation as men clashed in bitter combat only a short distance away. Lances probed and men died, thousands of voices pitched into a great shouting. The noise was deafening.
There, the enemy is gathering to rush the gap! Banners and streamers! Mounted troops in force! They’re coming at a gallop!

“I’ve got to pull the Flame back!”

“Wait! Wait! You must wait!”

“Then give me a sword. I might as well die here!”

“Let them see you clearly!”

The enemy’s eyes were on the Flame. They were rushing to it. Clarian did not dismount but maneuvered his horse closer to Rokkman and leaned down. “Wait, Rokkman, wait. Let them come closer.”

“I can feel their eyes on me, Clarian!”

“Yes. Let them come.”

Ferman, fully armored, a silver and leather helmet on his head, rode his big black stallion among his troops as the second and third waves prepared to assault the high ground. He had hoped to break through by now, but the enemy had proved stronger than expected. Drumaggan soldiers had clashed with Madasharan on his right flank and had been repelled. He ground his teeth in frustration.

At the moment he had his eye on the golden cart carrying the Flame, up on the high ground. He guided his horse forward to better observe the struggle. The rain was damping down the smoke from the smoldering fires.

A young officer rode up, waving at Ferman. “We’ve opened up a gap in their line!” he shouted excitedly. Turning in the saddle, he swung his horse around, pointing in the direction where the Flame stood with its banners waving. “The center is collapsing!”

“Attack!” shouted Ferman. Barking out orders, he directed foot soldiers and mounted troops to charge into the widening gap in the Karran line. Riding behind the running troops, he urged them on, waving his sword and exhorting them to victory.

“Now is the time to pull back, Rokkman! Go to the ferry! Go quickly! Run!” shouted Clarian.

Rokkman did not need extra urging. Yelling at his guards and the horse handlers holding the harness of the rearing horse pulling the cart, they all spun around and raced down the back slope through the mounted soldiers, who were waiting. Rokkman muttered under his breath as he ran alongside the cart, causing a young soldier sprinting next to him to think he heard him swearing.

It was at this moment that Ferman saw Rokkman and the Flame cart pull away and disappear behind the hill. And was that Clarian up there? Riding closer, careful to guide his horse around stakes and ditches, his shield deflected an arrow. Why did they pull the Flame away? And then it struck him. They’re falling back!

“We’ve been waiting for this! That’s why they drove the Flame off!” Bellowing for messengers, Ferman ordered the Maggan mounted soldiers under Naguran to begin his sweep of the Karran left flank and attack their rear. His voice thundered out to an aide, “Tell Naguran to capture the ferry. Don’t let them escape across the river with the Flame! Hurry!” Calling forward a large reserve of mounted soldiers, he announced that he would personally lead the charge in through the gap and break the enemy.

In short order, the assault forces were in formation and Ferman, grinning, drew his sword and waved them forward behind the force of Maggan foot soldiers already streaming through the gap. He fully intended not only to break into the rear of the enemy’s lines but to continue pursuing the Flame, capturing it himself, if need be. He felt a welling of pride flood his chest, mounted on his fine horse, surrounded by his troops. He waved his sword, flashing his teeth at his officers. “In a few moments, the Flame will be ours!”

It took time to cross the open ground, past fallen soldiers, ditches, and stakes. The enemy arrows darted in, dropping soldiers out of the marching ranks. Horses caught arrows and bucked and went down kicking. The fires continued to smolder, obscuring the field of vision.

“Why are we advancing so slowly?” demanded Ferman of his officers, pointing angrily at the troops.

When no one answered right away, a young officer spoke up. “No one has slept in days. None of the troops will drink water because of the poison. They’re exhausted.”

“Push them harder. They can drink at the river. This is almost over. They can rest all they want after we rip the hearts out of these dogs!”

The officers went among the foot soldiers, shouting, and the pace quickened. Ferman, grumbling, now feeling tired himself, started to drink from his water container, then looked at it and threw it away. “Clarian will die today. Perhaps they will capture him alive. What a pleasant thought!”

Ferman’s mounted troops reached the break in the Karran line and burst through. Because of the swales and the tall grass, they could not see far beyond the immediate area. He slapped his horse with the reins and lurched up the slope to where the Flame cart had been only moments before.

At the head of her column of mounted soldiers, Neevan followed Naguran as they made a wide sweep around the Karran flank, hoping and expecting to charge into the rear of the enemy. Black clouds continued to blanket the sky, and the cold rain fell in their eyes. She had a headache from lack of sleep and dehydration, from fear of drinking the water. They had lost many horses, and the mounted force was smaller than before. With her bow over her shoulder, she glanced behind her at her troops, satisfying herself that they were in proper formation.

Her mind drifted to thoughts of Clarian. Where was he? Was he all right? What would happen now? The Maggan had superior numbers, she thought, but with the poisoning, that number had dwindled dramatically. And their troops were beyond fatigue, desperate with thirst, and still Ferman drove them. She knew the Karran had their backs to the river. They would fight, but if Ferman won, all Karran would die. Was there any hope Clarian would survive? Her heart sank with despair, and she had to blink away the tears.

She could hear the roar of battle far to her right. Her orders were to ride into the rear of the Karran army and wreak havoc.
It will all happen in moments,
she thought as she unslung her bow.

The Kobani scout circled back at a hard run, pulling up his horse next to Jolsani. “The night people on horseback have swung wide of the battle and will be upon us shortly, coming from that point and riding down into the swale,” he said, stretching his arm out to the southeast.

Already mounted, the Kobani warriors sat their horses, their hair in beads and braids, bows in hand. Next to them, Grasslanders, in their saddles, bows in hand, arrows notched. Hidden by the tall grass, Jolsani and his warriors and the Grasslanders, as one force, would attack the enemy column on three sides, bursting out of nowhere into the midst of the invaders.

Swinging his horse around, Ferman looked desperately for the Flame. It was nowhere to be seen. His soldiers flooded by him, attacking the Karran on both sides of the battle line. He knew he had finally defeated the Karran, after two wars and two humiliations at their hands. Soon the Karran would only be a story told to Maggan children about an evil people who had stolen their precious Flame, only to be recaptured by Ferman, their greatest leader. His father’s face flashed before him. “Oh, Father, today I avenge your death!” Ferman yelled.

An officer cantering up to his side interrupted. “Ferman, we have breached their line, but our soldiers are leaving their positions and sprinting into the gap. We’re losing discipline and order.”

“Never mind that. This is a rout now. The Karran are crumbling. Let our troops flood in.”

Waving his mounted troops forward, Ferman kicked his horse into a run, heading into the rear of the Karran army, hoping to find the Flame. He could not see ahead through the tall grass. He needed to get to high ground and pointed his horse up the nearest slope. He was feeling triumphant now, and he knew that in a few moments he would take both Clarian and the Flame. A broad grin broke across his hard face as he lashed his big black stallion up the slope.

CHAPTER FIFTY

T
he storm struck as the battle began its most intense struggle. The low-lying black clouds released sheets of rain, turning the fields of war into mud. The wind cut hard and cold from the east. The daylight dimmed to gray as night approached.

The scout, lying on his stomach in the wet grass on the top of the slope, scrambled to his feet and raced down to where Clarian and Martan sat on their horses with two thousand mounted archers. “The enemy is pouring through, mostly foot soldiers, supported by mounted troops headed this way to try to get into our rear,” he said.

“I need to see this,” replied Clarian, jumping from his horse and running up the hill. Keeping a low profile, he peered through the grass down at the battle raging below. The Karran center where it joined the lines of the right flank was under severe pressure from the Maggan troops that had broken through. But over in the Maggan lines, the enemy had abandoned its position as every soldier was hurrying through the gap. There was no longer a coherent Maggan line directly across from Clarian. He could plainly see the charging enemy approaching his position. Now was the time, he thought, as he crouched to return to his horse. But who was this coming with aides in attendance and carrying battle streamers? Could it be Ferman?

Clarian slid and almost tumbled down the slope to Ruttu, leaped astride, and reined in before his troops, his horse dancing, throwing her head in nervousness. With cries and the ring of metal on metal in the background, he shouted, “The battle will be won or lost by you, at this place, in the next few moments! Your children, your families, and all you possess line the riverbank behind you, waiting for you to save them or be devoured by the Maggan! The Flame is at stake! Let not your arm tire! In the name of the Flame!”

“The Flame!” came the returning shout, as bows came off shoulders, arrows notched.

His horse lunging up the slope, Clarian topped the rise and plunged down into the surprised Maggan ranks, followed by his swarm of scouts and mounted archers.

Ferman was galloping up the same slope when Clarian, his violet cloak streaming out behind him, swept down. The full weight of the massed Karran charge shocked the Maggan troops, who began falling back at the sight of the overwhelming numbers. Ferman jerked his horse up abruptly to reconsider his position.

The Maggan foot soldiers scattered in the face of the charge, but there was no cover. Karran and Maggan mounted archers loosed their arrows at close range as horses and riders collided in a chaotic dance of death. The Maggan could not find room to maneuver. They were crowded together by the Karran forces and had almost no room to draw their bows or swing their swords. In the face of the Karran fury, Ferman’s mounted soldiers bolted, racing to get away, trampling panicked foot soldiers. Discipline vanished. Banners were dropped as aides whipped their horses, leaving Ferman bewildered on his rearing horse. Thundering, pounding hooves, the shouts of Clarian’s archers, and the hale of deadly arrows fired rapidly at close range broke the Maggan surge.

Ferman, sensing he was about to be overrun, whirled his horse around, slamming into running soldiers. Horses were down, kicking. Dislodged riders tried to remount. Ferman whipped on the reins, keeping his horse from falling. He lashed the beleaguered horse hard as Martan and his troop swept through his position on their way through the gap and into the Maggan rear. He had led them all into a trap! He swiveled in his saddle, looking for a way out, and at the same time felt eyes lock onto his. He spotted Clarian’s violet cloak, and with rage consuming him, Ferman dispensed with caution. He raised his sword and drove his heels viciously into his horse, propelling himself toward Clarian, who swerved his horse around a cluster of soldiers fighting on foot. Dropping his bow, Clarian drew his sword, the sword his father carried in the Great War. He guided the big chestnut with his knees, leaping over downed bodies, sidestepping dead horses, and with a Kobani war cry he charged the hated enemy.

Their swords clashed as they swept by each other. The blades missed their targets. Spinning their horses around, the two bitter enemies galloped toward each other, Ferman, his red mouth wide in a primal scream, sword over his head, leaning forward in the saddle, his helmet gone, gray hair streaming, and Clarian, tall in the saddle, face composed, eyes fixed, holding the silver sword high above his head with two hands. The horses swept by each other as the warriors’ swords flashed downward and clanged loudly. Clarian reined his horse about and prepared to charge again. Ferman leaned over his saddle as his horse stopped. Clarian pulled up next to Ferman.

There was a deep cut across Ferman’s chest. Blood spilled out and down his front. His luminous eyes looked across at Clarian from under shaggy brows, lips twisted in pain. “You…you…” He toppled off his horse into the grass, sprawling, his arms flung out.

Clarian dismounted and, with his sword still in his hand, grabbed the prone Ferman by his long hair, lifting up his head.

One of Ferman’s hands clutched strongly at Clarian’s wrist.

Clarian clenched his teeth. “No more will you attack my people, Ferman.”

Ferman’s eyes stared at him in horror, his mouth trying to form words, “The Flame,” he whispered, “I only wanted…”

“Die!”

Clarian slashed down hard on Ferman’s neck, severing his head. Grasping the head by the hair, he waved down a soldier and told him to mount the head on a tall lance and carry it to the front lines. “Let the Maggan see Ferman’s head.”

Grinning, the rider rode off in a fast gallop toward the battle lines holding the bloody head out to the side.

Clarian turned to remount and there behind him, Ruttu was down, an arrow deep in her chest. She tried to right herself but kicked and slumped down. He caressed her head as she took her final breath.

The land undulated in swells and dips, and it was difficult to see over the tall grass. Neevan sat her horse in an easy lope, expecting to see the river appear shortly. Placed far back in the column, she did not see the Kobani and the Grasslanders launch out of the tall grass at first, but she heard the shouting and screaming of dying soldiers as arrows found their mark. All forward motion was halted as horses bunched up, and horses coming up from the rear slammed into them. Horses neighed, kicked out, and reared in panic.

Seeing high ground to the right, she waved to her troops to remain in place and urged her horse up the slope. Once on top, she could see the attack under way up ahead. Down from the slope, she led her troop in a swing out of the mass of horses and riders to the left, intending to get into the enemy’s rear. She had not progressed a thousand paces when Kobani warriors streamed out of the long grass, bearing down on her from two sides. There was nothing for her to do but fight. Notching her bow, she fired into the oncoming warriors. The two forces collided, horses milling and rearing, bows snapping, lances probing. The Kobani were quick and deadly. Up ahead she saw Naguran fall from his horse.

She felt the arrow strike her back, felt the piercing pain and the numbness. She could no longer use her left arm. Dropping her bow, she drew her sword. With little strength left, gasping for breath, she clashed with tattooed warriors in the swirling melee. She did not see the warrior until his horse collided with hers, and the lance impaled her, lifting her off her horse. She screamed in agony as she fell. The darkness closed over her.

As word carried through the Maggan camp that Ferman was dead, with the Maggan soldiers knowing that Sulan had died of poisoning, the will to fight deteriorated. Before long, Maggan soldiers began to run wildly from the battlefront. Those on horseback who tried to escape to the road leading out of the Grasslands were intercepted by Kobani and Grasslander patrols and cut down.

As Martan’s force drove into the rear of the Maggan army, the enemy lines began to collapse. The Madasharan army swept the foe from the field on the left flank, driving the retreating army before them. The slaughter began. No mercy was given and none expected. This was a war between arch enemies. Maggan soldiers fought to defend themselves, but they were encircled and shot down as they gathered in cowering groups. Kobani and Grasslanders roamed the tall grass, hunting down enemy soldiers who were hiding or too wounded to run. Karran reserve units made up of old veterans and townsfolk marched through the grass from the river, joining in the killing. The cries of the wounded and dying were pitiful. Many Karran lay injured among the Maggan. When quivers emptied, lances and swords did the work. The long battlefield was littered with corpses, and the streams ran pink.

Jolsani found Clarian watching the last of the fighting from a knoll. Large masses of Maggan soldiers, enveloped by archers, were systematically and methodically being shot down. The enemy fought back halfheartedly but mostly cowered behind shields.

“We destroyed their mounted warriors,” reported Jolsani.

Clarian nodded.

“We are killing the wounded and the stragglers and those trying to escape. We don’t want these creatures to come back.”

Listening but not answering, his energy level low after all the fighting, Clarian glanced at his cousin, his expression devoid of emotion.

“I may have seen Neevan, but I’m not sure.”

Without hesitating, Clarian got to his feet and called for a horse. “Take me there, cousin.”

They set off on a fast pace, and in a brief space of time, Jolsani showed Clarian the site of the pitched battle, spread over a large area. Kobani warriors were off their horses, spread out, walking among the downed. Occasionally, a sword would descend. Others called for help when a Kobani was found. The wounded were loaded on wagons.

“Where?” asked Clarian, a note of urgency in his voice.

“Well, I’m not sure now. Maybe over there.”

They picked their way through the dead bodies of men and horses, weaving back and forth, checking the faces of the corpses. Clarian desperately scanned for anything that might signal it was she. The night and the heavy rain fell upon them, and the wind carried the smell of blood and death.

Clarian leaned low over the body of a woman lying broken beneath a horse, but it was not her. Jolsani left his horse and walked along a small stream, then crossed over and worked his way back. A Kobani warrior was nearby, checking for life. His sword flashed in a short, hard arc.

“Selu.”

Jolsani stood over a pile of dead horses and a cluster of Maggan bodies. Clarian hurried over, and together they pulled apart several bodies that had fallen over one another to look at the one on the bottom, lying twisted and bloodied, with long black hair tied in the back. It was a woman, but was it Neevan, and was she alive? A moan escaped the lips as they rolled her over. Clarian wiped the bloodied face with his sleeve as a Kobani warrior walked up.

“I’ll do that, Jolsani,” he said, drawing his sword and stepping forward.

“No, not this one, brother,” replied Jolsani.

The warrior shrugged and moved on, inspecting bodies as he went.

“It’s Neevan,” whispered Clarian. “It is she, Jolsani.”

“She looks almost dead.”

“She’s badly wounded.”

Clarian pulled off his violet cloak and wrapped it around Neevan to hide her Maggan uniform. Jolsani didn’t help.

“You cannot save her, Selu. She’s Maggan. She must die.”

“No.” Clarian snapped off the arrow protruding from her back. “Get a horse.”

When Jolsani returned with Clarian’s horse, Clarian mounted. “Lift her up to me.”

Jolsani lifted Neevan’s sagging body and pushed her into Clarian’s arms. He cradled her over his saddle. He touched his horse’s flanks and slowly moved off. Shortly, he crested a rise, and his white cottage appeared, lamps casting light through the windows onto the courtyard. He could hear the continuing shouts and cries off to his right as he made his way through hurrying soldiers and townspeople. His name was called, but he paid no attention as he guided his horse through the crowd in front of his house.

He called to a soldier standing by the door. “Come and help me!”

The soldier took the limp form from Clarian’s arms. Clarian jumped down and nodded toward the door as they carried the wounded woman. Clarian covered Neevan’s face at the door and then pushed it open.

Ranna saw him first, with Helan close behind. Somehow they knew and rushed over. “It’s Neevan.” The room was filled with soldiers in chairs and on benches along the walls, being treated for wounds. No one paid much attention to Clarian and his bundle—just another wounded soldier. They carried her into Clarian’s room and placing her on his bed. He thanked the soldier and ushered him out before turning to his mother.

“Neevan is hurt badly, Mother. They are killing all the Maggan soldiers.”

Ranna nodded as she wiped dirt and blood from Neevan’s face. “I will try to save her, my son. I will use all my knowledge.”

“Tell no one.”

“I know.”

Putting her hand on Clarian’s arm, Helan asked, “Is the war over?”

“Yes.”

“Are there any other Maggan you wish to save from death, Clarian?”

“What do you mean?”

Helan had already turned away and was rolling Neevan onto her side.

“Go now. We’ll do this,” said Ranna.