back?”
“What’s his name?”
“Ferman. He said his name was Ferman.”
Clarian, Rokkman, Martan, and Lillan, with some of their troops, galloped hard in pursuit of the Maggan wagons. As the afternoon waned, the Forest of Darkness loomed up ahead.
Martan shouted, “There! The wagons with the children!”
The Maggan saw the riders and frantically whipped the horses. It became clear that the wagons couldn’t outrun the charging Karran troops. The wagons dipped down out of sight behind a rolling hill.
Precious moments slid by. Clarian could not see the wagons. The horses labored up a slope. There in the distance, the Maggan soldiers were riding away, the wagons abandoned. For an instant, hope sprang in everyone’s heart until they drew closer to the wagons.
As they rode up to the wagons, they were shocked at the sight. Slaughtered children lay in the wagon beds and broken on the ground. The Maggan vanished down the road toward the forest.
Clarian stared in agony at the deaths. Rokkman stood amid the carnage, tears streaming. He stumbled up to Clarian.
“You will help us load the children into the wagons, and then you will help us bury them.”
The soldiers and Clarian gently placed the destroyed bodies of the children in the wagons, and then they headed back to the ruined village.
In a field near the village, Clarian helped dig graves for the dead. His heart was heavy with guilt. When all the dead were buried, Rokkman presided over the funeral service.
Clarian stood apart from the rest of the group. Rokkman approached, but Clarian appeared distant and wary.
“I need to speak to you,” said Rokkman.
“No, go away.”
“I can’t go away. This is how it begins.”
“I have seen death before. Many times in the Grassland wars against the Kobani.”
“I was a soldier once, too. Before I became a priest and chose to serve the Flame.”
“Your Flame does not protect you.”
“It’s your Flame, too. What? Do you have another religion?” asked Rokkman.
“The Kobani way.”
“I don’t think you believe in anything. You dream away by your river about what? A new spirited horse? A pretty village girl? No, not this time. Blood is on your hands now, my son. Fate will have its way.”
Clarian stared at the fresh graves, his face pale.
Rokkman stepped close. “You must do your duty. You see that now, don’t you?”
“Stop this constant harping. Can’t you make peace with the Maggan?”
Clarian strode heavily to his horse.
“Clarian,” called Rokkman.
“Leave me alone.”
The patrol rode slowly back to the Citadel. Clarian lagged behind with the rear guard. The day faded away, hot and dusty. Rokkman led, Lillan rode beside him, and Martan followed behind. Rokkman was in a solemn mood after the burials, his shoulders hunched under his violet cloak.
“He’s strange,” Lillan said.
“Perhaps he’s afraid,” answered Rokkman.
“No, I saw him kill two Maggan without hesitation. He has no fear.”
“I’m glad you found that out about him. I’ll be sure to tell the Flamekeeper.”
With that rebuke, Lillan let her horse drop back to where Martan slouched over his horse. Martan turned in his saddle and looked back over the troops. He called to Rokkman.
“Where’s Clarian?”
“He’s with the rear guard.”
“No, he’s not. Halt! Where’s Clarian? Who’s seen him?”
The patrol pulled up, bunching around Martan. A soldier spoke up.
“He turned off back there.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
Rokkman was seething. “Martan!”
“He’s your problem!”
Clarian had slipped away from the troop, and he rode into a small village just off the road. Children played, dogs ran, women washed clothes, and smoke rose from the chimneys. People were in the fields nearby. Older children waved to Clarian. He nodded and urged his horse through the village.
A small boy and his mother returned from the fields with a basket of vegetables.
The boy asked if he
“What’s his name?”
“Ferman. He said his name was Ferman.”
Clarian, Rokkman, Martan, and Lillan, with some of their troops, galloped hard in pursuit of the Maggan wagons. As the afternoon waned, the Forest of Darkness loomed up ahead.
Martan shouted, “There! The wagons with the children!”
The Maggan saw the riders and frantically whipped the horses. It became clear that the wagons couldn’t outrun the charging Karran troops. The wagons dipped down out of sight behind a rolling hill.
Precious moments slid by. Clarian could not see the wagons. The horses labored up a slope. There in the distance, the Maggan soldiers were riding away, the wagons abandoned. For an instant, hope sprang in everyone’s heart until they drew closer to the wagons.
As they rode up to the wagons, they were shocked at the sight. Slaughtered children lay in the wagon beds and broken on the ground. The Maggan vanished down the road toward the forest.
Clarian stared in agony at the deaths. Rokkman stood amid the carnage, tears streaming. He stumbled up to Clarian.
“You will help us load the children into the wagons, and then you will help us bury them.”
The soldiers and Clarian gently placed the destroyed bodies of the children in the wagons, and then they headed back to the ruined village.
In a field near the village, Clarian helped dig graves for the dead. His heart was heavy with guilt. When all the dead were buried, Rokkman presided over the funeral service.
Clarian stood apart from the rest of the group. Rokkman approached, but Clarian appeared distant and wary.
“I need to speak to you,” said Rokkman.
“No, go away.”
“I can’t go away. This is how it begins.”
“I have seen death before. Many times in the Grassland wars against the Kobani.”
“I was a soldier once, too. Before I became a priest and chose to serve the Flame.”
“Your Flame does not protect you.”
“It’s your Flame, too. What? Do you have another religion?” asked Rokkman.
“The Kobani way.”
“I don’t think you believe in anything. You dream away by your river about what? A new spirited horse? A pretty village girl? No, not this time. Blood is on your hands now, my son. Fate will have its way.”
Clarian stared at the fresh graves, his face pale.
Rokkman stepped close. “You must do your duty. You see that now, don’t you?”
“Stop this constant harping. Can’t you make peace with the Maggan?”
Clarian strode heavily to his horse.
“Clarian,” called Rokkman.
“Leave me alone.”
The patrol rode slowly back to the Citadel. Clarian lagged behind with the rear guard. The day faded away, hot and dusty. Rokkman led, Lillan rode beside him, and Martan followed behind. Rokkman was in a solemn mood after the burials, his shoulders hunched under his violet cloak.
“He’s strange,” Lillan said.
“Perhaps he’s afraid,” answered Rokkman.
“No, I saw him kill two Maggan without hesitation. He has no fear.”
“I’m glad you found that out about him. I’ll be sure to tell the Flamekeeper.”
With that rebuke, Lillan let her horse drop back to where Martan slouched over his horse. Martan turned in his saddle and looked back over the troops. He called to Rokkman.
“Where’s Clarian?”
“He’s with the rear guard.”
“No, he’s not. Halt! Where’s Clarian? Who’s seen him?”
The patrol pulled up, bunching around Martan. A soldier spoke up.
“He turned off back there.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
Rokkman was seething. “Martan!”
“He’s your problem!”
Clarian had slipped away from the troop, and he rode into a small village just off the road. Children played, dogs ran, women washed clothes, and smoke rose from the chimneys. People were in the fields nearby. Older children waved to Clarian. He nodded and urged his horse through the village.
A small boy and his mother returned from the fields with a basket of vegetables.
The boy asked if he
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