The Flame of Destiny

The gate of the north shall be opened on the day of the end of the world, and on that day shall evil go forth on the wicked. The earth shall quake and this gate which thou, Alexander, hast made will be opened. Anger with fierce wrath shall rise up on mankind and the earth shall be laid waste. And the nations that are within this gate shall be roused up, and the fiercest of all creatures shall be gathered together.

Unknown Greek author, 3rd century AD

Greater Caucasus Mountain Range, 199 AD, altitude: 15,000 ft

A lone figure was making its way swiftly over the steep rocky path leading up to the glacier. The traveler wore a plain grey felt travel cloak in the fashion of the nomads of the northern grasslands. Soft leather boots emerged from under the cloak at each step and expertly picked their way across stones and boulders.

The traveler paused at the edge of the icy glacier. Even in summer, the white surface stretched out for hundreds of yards. The figure threw off the hood, revealing her long black hair that was carefully braided. Her face, tanned from spending a life outdoors, was red from exertion. Beads of sweat dripped down from underneath a slim silver diadem.

She carefully took the bundle of cloth and blankets that she carried on her back and laid it on a soft patch of moss beside her. Under the coarse travel cloak, she wore a silk shirt and tunic. A shining amulet on a pendant conjured warm colors out of the pale rays of the morning sun. A bow and two dozen arrows in an embroidered leather quiver were hung over her shoulder while a long knife, carefully stowed in a stylishly jeweled scabbard, dangled from her sash.

From a leather travel bag, she took a pair of spiked iron soles, and attached them firmly to her boots. Then she gently picked up the bundle and strapped it fast to her back.

Despite her load, the woman walked swiftly and sure-footed over the slippery glacier that was cold and bleak, devoid of life. Only the irons piercing into the ice or scraping over the rocks disturbed the eerie silence.

After half an hour of steep climbing, she turned to the left, toward a protrusion of gray-black rocks at the edge of the glacier. There she sat down and took off the irons.

The journey had gone well, despite her delicate cargo. She hadn’t seen a living soul in three days, and so it must be on a secret journey.

Then why did she feel like something was wrong?

She looked wistfully at the desolate beauty of the white peaks of the high Caucasus. How she missed this place which she visited so often as a young girl. These are real mountains, she sighed, not like the barren hills of my new homeland. I wish I was back here and could ride free of worries and burdens like before.

She shuddered and reminded herself that those carefree days were over. Despite its outward charm, this was a place of brutal justice and harsh punishment. Not a hair on her lavishly adorned head wanted to go back. She was less than a day’s journey from the hidden fortress city that she so narrowly escaped just a year ago.

Ligeia was the stronghold of the terrifying Eagles, mighty and ruthless warriors who would kill her without hesitation for her betrayal. She had vowed never to return and had taken a new name of her own choosing, ‘Kallisto.’ A new life, a husband, a tribe and a noble lord waited for her in the great Parthian Empire far to the south.

But for this I just had to come back, she thought, one more time. My unmalleable husband will understand… eventually.

She blinked when she saw something out of place. It was as if the mere thought of the secret city had awoken something. Worriedly she peered down and squinted her eyes, avoiding the reflection of the sun on the glacier. Her stomach froze. Deep down in the valley, below the glacier, she saw a dozen black spots moving slowly upwards.

“They have followed me. I should never have come!” she cursed, furious at herself for taking this risk. Among the Kurdish tribes of the Zagros Mountains and even among the Parthian nobles, she was respected. But here, in the shadow of the fortress city, she was an outlaw and a traitor to be killed on sight.

Nobody ever leaves the Eagles. It is forbidden by their sacred oath. Their highest duty is to defend the mountain passes and protect the location of the fortifications from prying eyes. Eagles never leave the brotherhood. Not for money, not for power, not for friendship, not even for the gods and certainly, not in a million years, for love.

She hesitated on what to do and paced nervously back and forth until her silence was disturbed by soft crying. Kallisto calmed and crouched near the bundle of cloth. She gently caressed the infant that was wrapped in soft, warm blankets. “Don’t you worry my little princess,” she said in her most soothing voice. “They must have followed my tracks but they haven’t seen us. Besides, we’re almost there, I promise. You’ll be safe.”

She got up and walked on with the child securely strapped to her back. The crying stopped as soon as she started to move and the child felt her reassuring warmth and rhythm. Swift and silent like a cat she crawled over and under massive boulders, until she arrived at the hidden entrance to a dark cave.

It was unadorned and looked just like any gap between the hundreds of granite slabs that littered the mountain. Yet the hair on her skin rose as she felt its sacred power tingle.

She crawled in on her knees. Beyond the narrow entrance, the cave widened and she got on her feet. She smiled when she felt the familiar warmth on her cheeks. It felt good and brought peace to her nervous mind.

She strode deeper into the cave until it opened into a large circular hall. A smile broke on her face when she recognized the wedge shaped signs on her left. The writing was so old that even her old mentor, the lore-master Diokles could not begin to make out their meaning. The north side was covered in fine Imperial Aramaic letters while the east was adorned with old Greek. She could still recite every word of them.

Finally in the south wall, opposite the entrance, older than any writing and more ancient even than words spoken by man, there were drawings of the Great Hunters. Her ancestors that came down from the northern steppes before even the Age of Heroes, when every man and woman needed to be a hero just to survive and feed their children. They took in the fire they and fanned out in all directions. Hailed as leaders and peacemakers they became founders of great dynasties across the known world. They brought with them many things that were hitherto unseen in the lands of the settled peoples, sheep whose coats made warm and comfortable clothes, powerful bows that made them unbeatable in battle and most important of all horses and carriages that brought them to distant lands. Protected from sunlight, the drawings of these items and animals had not altered over eons.

One thing in the cave had changed though, as change was its very essence. In the center of the room rose the eternal flame of the Original Fire, its fickle, flickering yellow-orange tongues throwing mesmerizing shadows on the wall.

She took off her cloak and fully embraced the warmth.

Kallisto had been here often and the flame was always different. Sometimes it was small and flickered like a candle, other times it was a bonfire. On days it would burn very clean with just a tiny puff rising up through the cracks in the ceiling. Other days the cave would be filled with black smothering smoke.

But never had it been like this. She had already suspected something when she felt the intense warmth at the entrance. But this? So large and so pure. What could it mean?

This is an ancient place, thought Kallisto. It is close to the heavens, yet connected to the depths of the Earth. A place suitable to honor an ancient power. A power far older than the peaceful God of the Christians whose devout followers had only so recently started to multiply. Older than Ahura Mazda, Lord of Wisdom, honored by my Emperor and lord in Parthia. Older even than the mighty Gods of Olympus that are still revered across these lands.

No, this power is as old as time itself, she thought and felt a deep connection to all of mankind as she basked in the heat.

People have always worshipped fire, from the dawn of time when the Great Hunters roamed the barren steppes on foot. Fire is what makes us human. Animals are scared of it while people are drawn to it and have learned to wield its power. These ever-shifting flames form the essence of our being, our very soul. In their flickering tongues she recognized the faces of her ancestors stretching back to the Age of Heroes.

Unlike all the other gods invented by humans, the eternal fire is neither good nor evil, thought Kallisto. It’s good and evil. It’s pure and impure. It’s change and stability. It creates and destroys. It fosters life and extinguishes it.

The Greeks tell the story of Prometheus, a Titan from the old world, older and mightier than all the gods of Olympus. He stole the fire from the heavens and brought it to mankind. The jealous Olympians were outraged and punished him. They chained him to this mountain, right above this cave on great Mount Kazbek, and condemned him to eternal suffering just because he wanted to help.

“But that’s not the true story,” whispered Kallisto to the little girl. “Fire has always been part of our world. It falls from the sky in a thunderstorm or is hidden in the depths of the earth and comes out with an eruption. Nowhere is this more evident than in this place. Because we’re with the Original Fire, where Prometheus took it and handed it to your ancestors.”

It was burning like a blazing hot campfire. Flames went up above her head and sparks were thrown against the ceiling. The entire cave was covered in a warm glow. Even with near-freezing temperatures on the glacier outside, it was hotter than a hot summer day.

The little girl loved it. She basked in the warm glow and made soft noises of pleasure.

She’s already at home, Kallisto thought. Just a few months old, she already feels the power. She’s connecting to her ancestors and to the world.

Kallisto slowly walked to the blaze. The girl twisted and turned uneasily until Kallisto changed her grip and allowed her to look directly at the flames. Mesmerized, she fell silent; her deep blue eyes wide open in amazement.

They are talking to her, thought Kallisto, through the flames. The ancestors are impressing on her their pleasures and sorrows, their triumphs and failures. I hope they’ll consider her worthy, I know they will.

Kallisto squatted down and put the child on her lap. In a soft, soothing voice she began to recite a long series of incantations.

“I, Kallisto, Aisha, Guardian of the Original Fire, protector of Arta, the Eternal Flame of truth, bearer of the fire of Prometheus, descended from the Great Hunters present to you…” she paused and looked at the little girl. She smiled, “I present to you this small being, emerged from my own body as a spark from a flame. May her soul burn with the power and warmth of the true fire, may her body grow vigorous and lean like a thunderbolt from heaven, may her mind illuminate and clarify like a reflection of Arta, the Eternal Flame of truth.”

She closed her eyes for a silent moment of meditation. All the while, the little girl stared into the blaze with fascination and curiosity.

“The fire is even brighter,” Kallisto whispered in amazement when she looked again. The reflection of the red flames danced in the little girl’s deep blue eyes.

“Arta, the flame of purity and truth… I can see it in you already. Oh little darling,” she whispered and tears welled up in her eyes, “I have failed my mentor, I have deceived my friends, I have betrayed my city, … I have cheated my husband … I have faced hatred and loathing… I have endured hardship and sorrow…”

Thick tears rolled over her cheeks and dropped on the hot floor where they quickly evaporated. Kallisto hugged the child more tightly.

“But I would do it all again, just to look at you for a single moment and to be with you ... Oh my little princess, with you I feel complete...Maybe you can fix what I have broken.”

She regretted her last statement. “I shouldn’t put such a burden on you,” she corrected. “Repairing is a million times harder than breaking.” It was one of the most fundamental lessons of the fire. Ash cannot be turned back into wood, the dead can never live and innocence, once lost cannot be regained.

In her embrace, she forgot about time, until suddenly ... She shuddered when she remembered the moving black dots she had seen in the valley. They were enemies; that was sure. She had no more allies in these lands, not after breaking all the laws of the hidden city and betraying the sacred Eagle oath.

I have to lure them away, Kallisto thought. They must not find my daughter. They must not find this most secret of secret places. They will misuse the power and fame of the Original Fire for their own purpose. And without fire… what hope remains in these dark days?

She nursed the child and wrapped her in the soft blankets. The girl was sleeping peacefully and Kallisto put her gently on a blanket, a safe distance from the flames.

“I’m so sorry my love, but I have to leave you here for a while,” she whispered. “They’re coming only for me. They have no idea of the cave’s location and cannot know of your existence. If we stay here, they’ll find us eventually and everything will be lost. If I take you with me.” She shook her head, “I can’t think about it, these cliffs, it’s too dangerous.”

She kissed the sleeping girl softly on her little red cheeks, “I have no choice my little darling, I have to lead these evil men away from the cave and then come back for you. You’ll be safe here, I promise.”

She took her cloak and got up. For a moment she hesitated. She was overcome with an ominous feeling so strong it made her sick. But she had no choice. She looked back at the sleeping girl one more time, then dove into the darkness and ran towards the exit.

Outside, she blinked into the bright sunlight. Feelings of compassion, regret, and fear burned in her but could not erase the pride and joy she felt for her young daughter. The rocks around her shook and quivered reflecting her feelings.

There was a low rumble and a piece of ice slid down. Kallisto jumped back, ice chips scratched her legs. The entrance to the cave was covered with a thin layer of ice and snow blocked it from view. “They won’t find you like that,” she whispered.

After catching her breath from the mental effort, she cleared her mind from all the worries about her daughter. She focused on one thing: luring the enemy away. She was no longer the young mother, nor was she the Guardian of the Fire and of Arta. Her warrior training took over and she moved and thought like an Eagle from Ligeia.

With feline agility, she scrambled back to the edge of the glacier. Taking care not to be seen, she carefully peered through a crack in the rocks.

It was not what she had hoped to see. At least twenty men had spread out in small groups and were climbing slowly on the glacier assisting each other with ropes. She saw the sun reflecting on their metal armor and shields. These are heavily armed warriors, she thought. In a way this reassured her. They didn’t come looking for the cave, she thought, they’re simply here to kill an intruder.

She spotted another five warriors below the glacier, guarding the small rocky pass. It was the only exit from the cirque, the high round valley that stretched a few hundred yards below the glacier and was surrounded on three sides by steep cliffs.

I cannot draw them to the other side of the mountain, she thought, I don’t have the tools for such a dangerous route and it will lead them too close to the cave. She sighed. There is no choice, I have to go back across the glacier and draw them away towards the valley below.

She pricked her ears when snippets of voices reached her from the soldiers and echoed against the cliffs. They were strange foreign voices. She peered down again.

Foreign mercenaries from the west, she thought. There isn’t a single Eagle in their ranks. That’s good; I might still have a chance. But how? I only have a bow and a knife, there’s no way I can fight a platoon of heavily armed warriors.

She exhaled deeply. She had a plan, a crazy plan, but it could just work.

Staying clear off the glacier, invisible against the rocks in her gray cloak, she climbed higher and higher. It was a steep climb but without the burden of the little girl, she ran fast and smooth like a lynx.

When she reached the top of the glacier, her chest heaved with exhaustion, yet without taking a break she turned right and followed the edge of the ice just below the rocky peak.

To the warriors below, she was just a tiny speck and she only left the cover of the rocks for the blink of an eye when she had no choice.

A raw cry sounded from below. They have seen me, thought Kallisto, but it doesn’t matter, I’m almost far enough.

She reached a spot over the middle of the glacier and was now directly above the pass that was the only exit of the cirque. She gazed down. Despite patches of gray rock, the glacier looked like a smooth, white carpet. Thousands of tiny droplets of molten ice gleamed in the sunlight and turned it into a vision of surreal beauty, like a field of diamonds.

Straining her eyes, she could just make out the five men guarding the pass, two thousand feet lower at the other end of the glacier. The twenty warriors that had followed her tracks on the ice were now to her right, moving clumsily upwards without irons, secured only by their ropes.

“You can do this!” she told herself, “you’ve done it before.”

She sat down on the edge of the glacier then took the quiver with her precious bow and arrows from her shoulders, and wrapped it in a sturdy blanket before putting it on her lap.

“Arta protect us!” she shouted and pushed herself onto the glacier.

As soon as she hit the ice, she started sliding down. Faster and faster.

“There he is!” shouted one of the mercenaries, and pointed at her.

The warriors looked up, dumbfounded as Kallisto slid towards them at high speed. They didn’t even have time to reach for their spears when she sled past.

“Idiots!” shouted the leader, a huge bearded warrior, “go after him!”

He started running and sliding down but didn’t get far. He felt a sudden jerk as the rope pulled tight and fell hard on his back, cursing loudly. Other warriors lost their balance and fell.

Only the cloaked man that followed the mercenaries kept his cool. He walked to intercept her then planted his stick firmly in the snow. Kallisto saw him from the corner of her eyes. She drew her knife and when she was ten paces she threw it at the man with all her strength aiming for his face.

She heard him scream in pain, but had no time to even look. The swing had thrown her of balance and she rolled and bumped, skidding past the man that was cursing and wailing.

Somehow she managed to stop rolling and slid further on her back, still holding the bow firmly in her trembling hands, she would need it.

That was not the end of her troubles though. She accelerated and had no control over speed or direction. She barely managed to lift her head above the ice.

“Fool,” spat the mercenary leader at Kallisto, “even if you survive this slide, you will not get past Godric alive.”

It was early autumn and there was barely snow to soften the glacier. The hard icy patches tore at her clothes and sharp rocks ripped through. Her cloak was in tatters and her leather trousers had deep cuts. Her body bumped up and down on every little unevenness. A shoulder guard shattered on a rock. The silver necklace with the shining amulet was torn off.

And still she slid on, ever faster. Her head hit a rock and for a brief moment, everything went dark.

Finally, she slowed down and then stopped, remaining motionless on the ice. She was only fifty paces from the edge of the glacier.

“Finish him off!” snarled Godric. He was one of the five tall bearded warriors that guarded the exit. Four of them drew their long spatha swords and slowly walked over to Kallisto who lay still on the ice.

The warriors approached within thirty paces and still she didn’t move. The closer they got, the faster they walked. They grinned, anticipating the pleasure of an easy kill.

“We brought thirty men for this,” scoffed Godric, “what a waste.”

Suddenly Kallisto jumped up and drew her bow in one swift move. It was a finely crafted recurve bow, compact and powerful. The wooden shaft and the bone laths were decorated with intricate carvings. The soft eagle feathers stroked her cheek as she pulled the long steel-tipped arrow all the way behind her ear.

Swearing loudly, the warriors charged forward. But they couldn’t move very fast on the slippery ice.

At this distance, my arrow can pierce any Roman armor easily, thought Kallisto. “I’m an Eagle Warrior”, she whispered to herself, “no matter how deep my betrayal, I will always be an Eagle…and I never miss.”

The leading warrior grimaced when he saw that Kallisto didn’t waver or tremble. Instead, the woman looked at him with a lethal calmness.

Pausing her breathing for an instant to enhance her precision, Kallisto released the first arrow. It hit a warrior in his stomach, just below the breastplate and the triangular steel tip bore deep into his flesh.

He looked confused. The blood oozed out in large gulps. He slumped as he felt his strength drain away.

A second arrow whizzed through the air. It crashed into the shield of another warrior. He cursed in pain when the arrow penetrated the shield and skewered his wrist.

The other two warriors also kept charging forward. Seconds later another arrow tore the windpipe of the wounded warrior. He didn’t even manage to scream in pain.

The remaining mercenaries were only ten paces away and approaching fast with their swords raised as they prepared to strike.

Kallisto had already taken a new arrow and calmly, almost leisurely pulled back her bow.

The lead warrior stopped with a grunt. Deeming the odds of survival too feeble, he turned around and headed back to the safety of the rocks. The other warrior cursed and followed suit.

Kallisto hesitated for only an instant. “I’m an Eagle,” she whispered, “I show no hesitation, no mercy.” Two arrows flew through the air in rapid succession. The third warrior groaned as he slumped down. The fourth warrior fell with his face forward in the snow, just as he reached the edge of the glacier, a long arrow stuck out from the back of his neck.

Kallisto winced. Only now did she fully feel the pain of the scratches and bruises from the sharp rocks. Her bright silk tunic was splattered with earthy red blood stains and her back ached.

But she could not rest. She anxiously scanned the area. “Where is the fifth warrior?”

Above her, the sounds of the large group on the glacier grew louder. They were running down clumsily, falling and stumbling, but still approaching steadily. Biting back her pain, she started to run. First slowly, then quicker as she reached firm ground.

Godric jumped from behind a rock. He swung his long spatha wildly but Kallisto dropped underneath the blade, tumbling forward, and got up behind the warrior.

She kept running downhill.

“Try and catch me in your heavy armor,” she scoffed.

The warrior raised his spear.

“Hell!” shouted Godric when his target had already disappeared behind a rock before he could take aim. He gestured wildly towards the twenty mercenaries that were slowly making their way down the icy glacier, “hurry up idiots!”, then jogged down the path.

Kallisto ran as fast as she could on the steep rocky trail. Limping and hobbling, grunting and groaning she struggled on, all sense of feline grace had gone. A single misstep and she would drop more than a thousand feet down the cliffs. In the distance, she heard her enemies regroup for the pursuit. This is hopeless, she thought, I am wounded and I still need to get back to get my child.

When she saw a boulder near the edge of the slope, she had an idea. She wrapped the bloody remains of her cloak around it and pushed it over the ledge. She screamed at the top of her lungs then hid behind a bend in the trail. The boulder rolled, then fell, taking smaller rocks with it, until something resembling an avalanched crashed onto the rocks below.

With pounding heart, she waited. The voices came nearer but then stopped. “I told you I took care of it,” snorted Godric.

“This is your lucky day,” snarled the mercenary leader.

Kallisto breathed a sigh of relief. They bought it.

“Go down and check it out,” said a new voice. This one didn’t have a western barbarian accent when it spoke Latin. It was calm and measured. A chill went down Kallisto’s spine. Where did I hear that voice before?

“Go down yourself,” snarled Godric, “We’ve lost enough men today. Besides, you can see from up here that she’s dead, nobody survives such a drop.”

“She?” replied the calm voice curiously?

“Yes, it was a barbarian witch,” replied Godric, “She tricked us with spells…” He rambled on, making up a fancy story of dark magic, how else to explain their failure against this lone woman?

“Enough,” hissed the educated voice not sounding so calm anymore, “I’m pretty sure I know exactly who she is. We’ll not rest before we’ve burned her corpse! Now get down there with two men and bring the body back to me.”

Then he shouted to the captain, “take ten men and search every inch of rock from here to the top of the glacier. I want to know if she was really alone out here.”

“Of course lord,” replied the captain meekly, “what about the rest of us?”

“With me down the trail. She didn’t walk all the way to the mountain, there must be a horse somewhere. If she’s alive, that’s where she’ll be heading now.”

“But lord, your face! You’re wounded,” said the captain with genuine concern. “You should stay here. Let the healer take a look. We can deal with the witch.”

“Shut up,” snarled the lord with cracking voice, “if I trusted you to do your job without me I would have stayed in the bathhouse. Go now, we’ve lost enough time.”

Kallisto leapt back into action. She limped down as fast as possible. Could she outrun these mercenaries?

An hour later, she emerged from the rocky trail onto a grassy slope. She was completely exhausted and still bleeding profusely. She whistled. A horse neighed in the distance.

“Briska,” she moaned, “good girl. Thank Arta they didn’t find you.”

A large gray mare arrived with a smooth gallop and stopped right beside her. As if she felt the agony of her mistress, the horse bent down. Groaning, and whimpering in pain Kallisto pulled herself on her steed. “Take me away, Briska, take me to safety.”

She glanced up and saw the white capped peak of the great mountain through a haze of tears.

“I’m sorry my darling... I’m so sorry. I’ll come back as soon as I can. I promise.”

As the horse accelerated to a swift trot, Kallisto slipped into a darkness.

Oblivious to these events, the little girl slept for many hours or perhaps even days in the comfortable heat of the fire until eventually she woke up. Feeling neither hunger nor thirst she simply sat there, staring into the mysterious fire, enthralled by the dancing flames, until she became drowsy and dozed off.

A tall middle-aged man dressed in long white robes entered the cave like he had done so many times before. His face was old and wrinkled from years of travel but his eyes sparkled bright and his gait was brisk. He proceeded into the cave, using his staff to feel his way in the dark.

It took me a long time to get here with the entrance hidden by ice and snow, thought Diokles. And then there were these strange tracks. But by the beard of Socrates, I didn’t come in vain. It has never felt so warm here!

The fire was burning hot and bright, illuminating the entire cave and basking it in a comfortable heat.

Then he noticed something near the fire.

“What...” he dropped his staff in surprise. Scratching his wild red beard he smiled, “I have traveled far and wide in these lands, but this is a sight I didn’t expect to see.”

He knelt down and gently took the infant in his arms. “Don’t worry, little princess,” he said, “you’re safe with me.”

The girl smiled and looked at him with big curious eyes of the deepest blue.