The Flame Beneath

The sun hadn’t risen yet, but dawn was nearing, and it was just bright enough for Dirabaya to make out a group of shadows on horseback, riding along the dusty road that led to the mountain cabin. They were way too far off for any sound to reach him, but the sight nevertheless filled his heart with joy. Their brothers had gotten their message, and were on their way to help them escape!

If you had asked Dirabaya of his fate in the earlier days, when the current government was young and bright-eyed, Dirabaya would never have suspected what was to come. A new era was promised, one where all citizens would be allowed to rise to their full potentials, and he had accepted this as a positive change, especially for the youngsters. Dirabaya knew how hard it had been to survive, when the old rulers were waning in strength and ability to help the weakest among them.

Between the sound of crickets in front of him and the occasional whisper behind, Dirabaya whispered a prayer of thanksgiving to Darataya for having provided their means of escape. The youngsters had been managing alright, but were growing impatient, and the older priests had been grumbling more and more by the day. Why would Darataya do this to them, they asked, why would she not save her people?

And Dirabaya would remained silent, offering a gentle smile and a bowl of rations warmed by crudely scratched runes on the side.

He withdrew from the window, letting the thin curtain drape back into place, and turned towards the men huddled around the upper room. Some looked up uncertainly at the noise, for Dirabaya had been keeping watch for some time, and all were anxious. The rest continued to stare at the wall or floor in resignation.

In a voice more hushed than normal, Dirabaya exclaimed, “Rejoice, for our brothers have returned! Prepare now and be ready to leave swiftly for our place of refuge.” At that, whispers rippled through the group, and Dirabaya sighed in relief at the lifting of their spirits and the prospect of being able to sleep without worry after several weeks of hiding.

Quietly, but with the occasional anticipatory murmur, the priests and their acolytes gathered what little provisions and rations they still had with them. Many of their weapons had been damaged from their earlier conflict, when imperial soldiers had raided their temple at night.

They were lucky that they had the numbers to be able to assign some to keep a nocturnal vigil over their temple’s flame, enough to run back and wake the rest. They hadn’t been prepared for an attack; everyone thought it was only those temples who protested against the government would suffer.

The soldiers had been taken by surprise at being met with flaming swords and kinetic launchers, ancient and rusty, memories of older days, but still functional. Those weapons had helped them fend the group off, who had expected no resistance, and most of them had been able to make it to the old cabin they now hid in.

Missa hadn’t made it. Sweet Missa, whose smile never left his face. Not a single day passed where Dirabaya did not pray for his soul to find its resting-place.

Seeing that all was going well with the preparations to leave, Dirabaya turned back to the window and pulled a curtain open once more. The sun, dim and scarlet, had peeked over the horizon, providing enough light to see the slightly clearer outlines of the riders. They rode marvelously quickly, reminding Dirabaya of those he rode in his youth, before Darataya had called him to serve the Flame. He had remained ever-proud of the noble horses of his homeland, always outpacing any Blood Stallion that would dare challenge them.

But now, as the riders drew closer, Dirabaya squinted as he noticed something off about these horses, who seemed to not be like those he was familiar with. Yes, they rode just as fast, but were stockier, quite unlike the lithe build of Flame Stallions. In the rising light, he noticed that one of the riders wore no cloak. It was difficult to see what he was wearing, but in a few moments, Dirabaya was able to make out a red-and-black suit.

His breath hitched, and he immediately whisked the curtain shut.

Those were definitely not Flame Stallions, and those were definitely not their brothers.

*By the Anvil of Darataya…don’t tell me they’ve found us, not so soon, not when I’ve given them hope. I must tell them, we must get out. But how can I bear with myself now?*

With a shuddering breath, Dirabaya spun around, and began, “Brothers,” and everyone stilled right away at the urgency in his tone. “I am so, so sorry, but we must leave—now. Those are not our brothers, they are soldiers, and they’ll see us dead or worse if we remain. We cannot hide from nor take them by surprise in this place.”

Gasps and whispers sprung up, and Dirabaya continued, “Ibe, Yaroma, take the acolytes through the passage behind the building, into the mineshaft.” He saw one of them open his mouth, and before he could protest, said, “Speak not, Ibe, I know what you have to say. There is no time to argue. Leave at once!”

Ibe lowered his head and said something to the man beside him, who began rounding up the acolytes, themselves still whispering in fear. They, too, had had to fight at the temple, likely the first experience of violence in their short lives.

Quickly, all the acolytes and the two priests had left, but one trailed behind, and turned, saying, “Brother, please, don’t make me go. I can stay and help! I’ll fight them with you, and I still have my sword you gave me!”

In that moment, Dirabaya nearly wished he had not made those sacred vows all those years ago. To serve the Flame, to serve his people, to never leave anyone behind.

“Go, little one,” and as much as Dirabaya hated pulling this card as his superiors once had, he added, “It is what Darataya wills.” A voice called from down the hall; someone had noticed the boy’s absence, and he quickly turned and scrambled towards it. He had been Massa’s best friend, Dirabaya remembered.

But now was not the time to reminisce, and Dirabaya began instructing the rest of the group. They would remain and stall the incoming soldiers for time while the young ones escaped. But there was little to explain. These priests, too, had made their vows.

One of them approached Dirabaya, one of the younger among them, and asked as so many had recently, “What will become of us? Where is Darataya in this time?”

For once, Dirabaya felt compelled to answer. Softly, he said, “No metal can escape being struck if it wishes to be transformed into a sword, young Royada.” But before he could continue, the whinny of horses sounded outside, and the sound of the door crashing open downstairs was heard.

The priests steadied themselves, turned to face the door, prepared to face their doom.

The door was kicked open, and a shrill voice screamed in Prisedz, “Our leader has placed your kind under arrest for treason against our nation! Surrender now!” Though few besides Dirabaya had studied the language, not caring much for matters outside tending to their temple and local community, all in the room understood the message.

Dirabaya stepped forward, raising his hands as a gesture of surrender. To his side, he could see some priests twitching as if they wished to fight, but obediently remaining in their place. As more soldiers poured into the room, they stilled, now becoming cognizant that there would be no fighting back this time.

Facing the man who had no cloak, front and center and seemingly the squad’s leader, silver badges shining on his breast, Dirabaya said, “We surrender and will go with you without a fight.” There would be no fighting this way. Perhaps they would live, and perhaps they would one day return to their temple. To the life they had known before. But something told Dirabaya that things would never be the same.

The leader opened his mouth and jeered, “Bah! No wonder our leader despises your kind! What spineless weaklings you are, indeed!” Neither soldier nor priest responded, until one soldier moved to whisper something into the leader’s ear. Dirabaya couldn’t catch much of what he was saying, except a “captain” or two and something that sounded like “young.”

The captain muttered something foul, and his eyes narrowed into slits. His voice lowering and turning icy, he said, “Say… where has the rest of your sad group gone? Last I checked, even temples as miserable and poor as yours need fresh blood to survive, don’t they?”

Imperceptibly, Dirabaya stiffened, and made sure to let his face betray nothing of his thoughts. He said, “We have surrendered ourselves to you, as you asked. Isn’t that what your leader wants?”

The captain’s lip curled, and he said, “Here you are, speaking as if our leader doesn’t controls not this land and your very livelihoods!” He barked to his subordinates, “Search this filthy shack! I want the perimeter secured and every wall and door ripped open!” They scrambled to action, splitting up into smaller groups to carry out their orders.

Some remained in the room and restrained the priests. Dirabaya looked at the face of the soldier restraining him—he was young, barely into his aging years, with a pensive look in his eyes, and he seemed to be avoiding Dirabaya’s penetrating gaze as much as he could. He almost reminded Dirabaya of his nephew, but more stoic, troubled by the life of a soldier.

They led the priests out of the room and in front of the cabin, and Dirabaya noticed a pair of soldiers standing a ways off from the rest. It was difficult to tell in the still-dim light, but their sharp features betrayed them, and he saw that they looked like those merchants who would sometimes travel to his town as a child.

*Purples,* he thought, *they’ve hired Purples. Is that why the horses were so fast? Is this government so desperate, or is it but a display of power? But nevermind that, how are the rest?*

Surveying the rest who were being brought out, he noticed that most were surprisingly well, considering the circumstances, except for Ssapara, but with his weak constitution and aged body, one of the few older than Dirabaya, it wasn’t surprising. The spirit of perseverance had been kindled in the hearts of his brothers long ago, thought Dirabaya. This trial would be for them a breeze, either to blow their flames away, or set them ablaze. He hoped it would be the latter.

“Stop gawking and get a move on, old man,” grunted the soldier, dragging him along and onto a horse. “Drop your weapons,” he added, “I know you’ve got them on you—not like they’d have been of any use had you chosen the hard way out.”

Dirabaya obliged, responding, “On my belt, in the back, I have a knife. Keep it, my son, for it’ll be good use if you find yourself lost in the wilderness.” Out of the corner of his eye, he could see other soldiers poking and grabbing at the items hanging on the belts of the other priests. When the soldier retrieved the knife, Dirabaya felt him stiffen. He wondered if the lad had ever seen runes before, for the line carved into it was an ancient verse, passed on to him by his grandfather as a boy.

The soldier pocketed the knife, saying nothing. From inside, the captain called, voice shrill once more, “Get a move on, boys! Those of you searching, keep at it! I want those rascals found and brought back.”

He came out of the house, striding up to Dirabaya, and once he reached him, he spat in his face. Dirabaya flinched, and he sneered, “What I wouldn’t give to be in Kaxad’s position right now. Fella’s a lucky one tonight.” Dirabaya turned his face to the ground; the captain, seemingly bored, went back to yapping, and Kaxad tugged him onto the horse, his touch firm but with a surprising gentleness.

The horses and their riders began to take off towards the sun, likely towards Sloliclapingrad—no, in his heart it was still Crimsongorod—except Kaxad did not follow them. He led his horse instead north, up a path into the foothills, and Dirabaya was confused, but said nothing.

Yet… he had been the head keeper of the temple, and he knew what was likely valuable information that the captain would be wanting. Was that what he had meant earlier? He shivered—for his stoic demeanor, Dirabaya was fully aware of his weakness, and he worried that, Darataya forbid, he would come to betray his brothers if they tortured him for information. But such had not come to pass, yet—perhaps there was another meaning he had missed.

Kaxad remained quiet as they traveled along the path, the horse’s hoofsteps and the rustling of leaves filling the silence, The ropes burned his wrists, but it was nothing compared to what others had to suffer in a time like this. Trying to distract himself, Dirabaya looked around, taking in the scenery underneath the now bright sky. It was a beautiful day, and an incredible pity for it to be ruined as it had.

He prayed for his brothers, on their way to Darataya knows where, and for those escaping to the tunnels—for their safety, for their courage. Kaxad kept looking forward, but as they continued on, he began looking left and right, as if he was scanning for some other presence in the area.

Suddenly, he jerked the reins to the left, and they dipped off the road into the forest, leaves crunching beneath them. They came to a pile of boulders in front of a cliff; though Dirabaya knew this road, he had seldom ventured off of it, and closed his eyes and prayed for courage at what he suspected would come to pass.

Kaxad dismounted the horse and said in Goriztai, “Wait here.” Dirabaya was startled, not expecting him to have known it, but before he could ask, Kaxad stepped behind the boulders, his footsteps quickly fading. For a moment, Dirabaya wondered if he could run off, but discounted the idea, as he knew he had no chance to outrun a soldier far younger and far more well-fed than he was.

The footsteps returned, followed by Kaxad surveying the area once more before stepping over to the horse and pulling Dirabaya off, cutting the ropes tying his wrists off with the knife he had taken from Dirabaya earlier. As soon as blade met rope, a faint searing noise was heard, and the area he cut quickly melted and fell apart, and they were undone in a moment.

“So the legends are true,” whispered Kaxad, more to himself than to the man besides him. “Come,” he said, grabbing ahold of Dirabaya’s wrist with one hand and the horse’s reins with the other, leading both behind the boulder. Behind it was some sort of mineshaft, seemingly abandoned, the metal beams holding it up rusted and worn out.

Kaxad left the horse near the entrance and pulled a carrot from somewhere in one of his pockets, quickly feeding it to it and taking Dirabaya deeper into the tunnel. Despite his confusion, he was now less intimidated somehow, and asked, “So, young man, are you going to torture me?”

They were deep enough into the tunnel where there was hardly any light anymore, and combined with his poor eyesight, Dirabaya could not see anything at all. But he felt Kaxad twist to look at him, and could have sworn he heard something between a chuckle and a cough.

“Hah, well, I suppose that was my assignment.” And he said nothing after, continuing to lead them down the mineshaft, occasionally making confident turns, the path running up and down. If left alone here, Dirabaya would surely be lost forever, and he absentmindedly wondered if that would be worse than the torture. But his thoughts were cut short as Kaxad whispered, “Shh,” despite Dirabaya not having made any noise. They came to a stop, and Kaxad fished for something in his pocket and pulled out something that rattled.

He let go of Dirabaya’s hand and a moment later, struck a match, the passage filling with light. Now, Dirabaya saw a narrow corridor branching off the main path, barely enough for a person to fit single file through. “Come along,” said Kaxad, and Dirabaya didn’t need to be told twice—not like he had a choice, anyways.

The match went out, and they began to make their way through the tunnel, Dirabaya feeling his way along the walls. It was refreshing to be now free of restraint, but his situation was growing ever more confusing, and he wondered if he would see light again.

In front of him, the sound of footsteps stopped, and Dirabaya stilled with him. Kaxad knocked on the wall, except it rung hollow like wood, not stone.

Then, Kaxad said,

“The mighty eagle may see all that roams upon the earth, but the crafty fox buries beneath it and remains invisible.”

At that, what seemed to be a door creaked open, and lamplight filled the runnel, and Kaxad once again took Dirabaya’s hand, leading him inside. Blinking at the sudden change in lighting, Dirabaya looked around, making out several figures standing around a room, whose heads turned towards the newcomers.

A man stepped forward, seemingly the leader, strongly built yet with an easy aura about him/Kaxad saluted him, “Comrade Taribessa! I’ve found the priest you asked for. And don’t worry, as far as the old man will know, he’ll have died before he could have even been ‘interrogated’.”

*What?*

Taribessa smiled at Dirabaya, saying, “Welcome, comrade! And fear not, your brothers passed on the message to us. They’ll meet your brothers in the mines soon. As for those on the road—we’ll see what we can do.”

Dirabaya could not believe his eyes nor his ears. Taribessa continued, “And while we certainly won’t be torturing you, we’ll still need your help. Word has it that you’re wise in the runic arts, and we’ll need all the help we can get if we want to stand a chance against the regime. I’ve heard about how you fended off those villains at your temple, and we can do that and more.”

The other members in the room whispered excitedly at this new boon, and Dirabaya looked at Taribessa firmly in the eyes and smiled, “Count me in!”

At his agreement, Taribessa cheered, “Long live the Revolution!”

“Long live the Revolution!” The group cheered back, some of them giving whoops and whistles, which mellowed out and gave way to conversation that must have been going on before they had arrived. Looking around, at the smiling, bright faces, of these brave souls fighting against what Dirabaya would have thought was an unstoppable force, something like hope started in his heart.

If you had asked Dirabaya of his fate a few hours ago, he would never have suspected what was to come. But as he gazed at the flickering lamps, at the flames burning within, Dirabaya realized that Darataya had never left his side.

He smiled to himself, and whispered, “Long live the Revolution.”