Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  Copyright © 2019 Ruth Kent (R.K. Lander). All rights reserved.

  This work is registered with the UK Copyright Service: registration No. 284728079

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Editor: Andrea Lundgren

  Beta Reader: M.Y. Leigh

  Cover art by kaprriss

  Map of Bel’arán: Hector G. Airaghi

  Contents

  Prologue

  1. Ever Present

  2. The Forest Summit

  3. Homecoming

  4. The Missives

  5. Becoming

  6. Warrior Lord

  7. The Test

  8. A Silvan Story

  9. Atonement

  10. Revelation

  11. Shores of Comprehension

  12. Revolt

  13. Let Go

  14. Silvan Interlude

  15. Prayer from the Maelstrom

  16. Junár

  17. Through the Eyes of Aria

  18. Night of a Thousand Drums

  From R.K. Lander

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Beyond Araria

  “Araria, city of defenders, city of the Ari’atór: Spirit Warriors. Few have seen its magnificence, for it is far to the north and bereft of trees, save for the Originals. It is hot, like the Xeric Wood of northern Ea Uaré, except it is sheltered from the ravages of Sand Lords by the Great Barrier Ridge, stone guardians of the Motherland. Beyond Araria, in a place only the Ari’atór can find, lies the shrouded land of Valley and within her mists, the Source, elven doorway to the Second Life. It is there that the Ari’atór Lainon rests.”

  The Alpine Chronicles. Cor’hidén.

  A dark warrior stood breathless before a line of stone carvings, sword dripping with the red blood of mortals who had wished to be immortal.

  Do not pass this place.

  Dark chiselled features, slanted eyes and long, thick hair that snaked around their heads in intricate twists, as if they were caught in an endless wind. Each of the eight figures, their features and weaponry clearly distinguishable, held one arm to the fore, palm to the front. A command to any human who sought to pass them by.

  Behold the Last Markers. Turn away.

  Beyond the stone sentinels was the land of Valley, and somewhere within lay a guarded passage that meant a new beginning for an immortal soul. But to a human, it was utter ruin, disguised as the promise of eternal life.

  Turn away and live in grace.

  But many mortals could not fathom the finality of death, could not fathom why there were immortals and mortals. What travesty of creation was this?

  Pass and face death at the hands of the Ari’atór.

  Death was a mercy for those who dared defy the Last Markers, for those who did not turn away. Survival would first turn these once innocent humans into Incipients, confused and unsettled souls whose minds would break down until they turned Deviant. That was when the rot would begin, and madness rose a victor. Immortal souls, mortal bodies and a twisted mind that sought nothing more than to sunder the lives of elves with unbridled hatred and relish.

  That was Tensári’s job, to slay those who would not listen, kill any humans who passed the Last Markers.

  Tensári calmed her breathing and then turned away from her stone brethren and towards the waning pyres her warriors had lit to dispose of the bodies, the lives she and her patrol had ended.

  She had met this group before. They had been rounded up and taken to safety, warned of what lay beyond, of why they should not pass. There had been a child with them, a beautiful hazel-eyed boy of perhaps eight winters. His smile had been wide and toothy, innocent to the horrors his parents unwittingly led him to, wondrous of the warriors around him, the Ari’atór with their dark skin, shiny blue eyes and their strange hair which he had wanted to touch. He was nothing more than ashes now, and she sent a prayer to Aria for the boy’s soul.

  “We ride home,” she called, watching as her warriors mounted. As for her, she turned one last time, eyes focussing on some spot behind the statues. Lainon was there, still dead yet as close as he could be to her. She didn’t want to leave, in spite of the stench and the chill that always surrounded this place.

  One hand reached hesitantly, as if to stroke his soft cheek, see that rare smile he reserved only for her—but all her fingers felt was the cold air, as frigid as her own heart.

  It had been one month since Lainon had died defending Fel’annár on the battlefield. One month in this strange place where nothing touched her, nothing except the memory of Lainon; that, and the growing resentment towards a young warrior with green eyes. Lainon had loved that boy, had died for him.

  Had he been worth it?

  She turned her back on Valley and faced her warriors. “Move out!” she called, striding to her horse and vaulting into the saddle. Tugging on the reins, she set a brisk pace home. With any luck she would have her warriors back in the city before nightfall, not that she cared for herself. No one was waiting for her. Lainon was gone and at best, Tensári would see him again, centuries into the future when she, too, died in battle and took the Short Road. For now, though, she was doomed to wait for his revival across the Veil, doomed not to feel him, to feel nothing at all.

  Then they were home, and she nodded curtly at the warriors as their horses were led away, once more missing the lingering stares of her brethren. She never looked at them when she dismissed them because she knew what she would see in their bright blue eyes: pity—pity for an Ari’atór who had lost her soul mate, her Connate. Pity for a sundered soul, neither here nor in Valley, half dead and half alive.

  Existing but not feeling, not living.

  That night, Tensári couldn’t sleep, not that she had expected to, and so she lay back upon her humble bed in a humble room, high in the towers that perched upon the loftiest mountain of Araria. It afforded her a shockingly spectacular side view of Aria herself, her face carved into the mountainside, large enough for the entire city and beyond to behold her impossible beauty. It was a reminder of their purpose, of the Ari’atór’s implacable duty as holders of the faith, as protectors of Valley.

  She stared at the wooden planks along the ceiling and then allowed her eyes to drift down the red sand walls and to the glassless window. Not yet dawn of another day of service, and yet she was empty—devoid of a purpose beyond mindless slaughter. She was angry with Aria, too, for ripping Lainon from her heart.

  Her body felt heavier in her bed and she closed her eyes, the hazel eyes of an innocent soul floating before her sight. She felt lighter, full of air and wind, and there was suddenly nothing beneath her. Her body stood vertically, but the ground felt further and further away from her. There was a cold breeze against her face, currents pushing under her arms and lifting her twisted locks around her. Her dreams would be strange this night, just as they had been these past months.

  She opened her eyes with a harsh intake of breath, for it was beautiful here in the heights. She wanted to cry for the majesty of this place, even though she had been here so many times of late.

  She felt her body tilt forwards until she lay upon the wind, and then she was moving over the land she had helped defend for centuries. She flew over hills and high plains and then skirted the mighty mountains of Araria. She caught the shadow of herself upon the white slopes, wings flapping slowly, noisily, talons tucked beneath her for extra speed.

  She squawked.

  These mountains were the highest point of the land, and as she peaked the crest, she circled around. She could see buildings, characteristic halls of red stone and black marble. The Last City of Araria towered upon th
e mountain, carved into it in jagged spires of harsh beauty. She was inside that towering palace, asleep, but her spirit had been allowed to wander free—again.

  She swooped down onto the high plains, just as she had done the night before and the one before that. She skimmed over the land, and it became greener the further she flew. There was light here, even though it was night-time. It was not sunlight, though, but divine light, for the Source lay just beyond. It was the golden light of a frosty morning, even at dusk.

  Valley and the Source, the crossing from one life to another. It was the end of the Road, long or short, willing or through death.

  For now, though, her dream would end here, as it had done these past months, and she braced herself for the familiar jolt of an abrupt awakening.

  But the jolt never came.

  She descended through the concealing cloud, and as she broke through the puffy humid towers, light exploded upon her face. It was bliss, and a tear escaped her eye. This was as close as she had ever been to the Source. It was eternal spring, never-ending life, a beauty so great it could never be described, only felt, and Tensári did, for the first time since she had been wrenched apart by the loss of Lainon.

  Over green fields and lakes of crystal blue, the Ari’atór could be seen escorting a group of elves upon their final, joyous steps in this world, tiny dots upon the sprawling land. Tensári smiled, but she didn’t stop, every beat of her wings taking her closer to the Source and the shimmering wall that separated Bel’arán from the other side.

  She didn’t expect to see a forest.

  Despite her excitement, she slowed her pace, tilting her wings forwards so that she would descend. Talons extended before her, and she landed atop a craggy outcrop and admired the thick circle of towering trees and at its centre, the column of shimmering light that jutted into the sky, as far up as her eyes could discern. It was not a steady beam of light, for it sometimes pulsed and then shimmered, pearly streaks pulling at the thin, gossamer fabric of the Veil, and for a moment, movement could be seen on the other side.

  Her eyes were drawn to the plain below, watched as the group of elves slowly walked into the forest while the Ari’atór who had accompanied them stayed behind, smiling as they disappeared into the trees. Tensári smiled too and then her eyes were drawn to another guard who stood with his back to her. He, too, watched his fellow Ari’atór, and Tensári’s head cocked to one side in thought.

  The guard looked over his shoulder, over and up, directly at her. His blue eyes shone with power and joy, and for a moment, a green shimmer passed through them. She felt too light, as if she would fall, but this feathered body was not hers: she knew she would not falter. He smiled and then turned his body towards her, his back now to the trees.

  Lainon.

  He lifted one hand and held it out to her, then placed it over his heart, and on his face was a message that needed no words, for it rang in her mind and flowed from her eyes.

  “I love you. I have found myself.”

  He backed into the forest, but his smile never faltered as he disappeared, and a surge of thankfulness hit her so hard it was all she could do to spread her wings and fly, fly fast and furious. She banked away from the Veil Lainon had just passed through, free of her grief at last. She could feel his presence now, slipping into a place he should never have left. She felt complete again.

  She soared, high, high into the clouds, fast and urgent. Utter joy exploding in her chest, love for Aria and the creations she had been born to defend, love for her Connate, Lainon, separated from her in body but no longer in spirit. His presence grew in her mind even as she flew fast and true, as if she knew where she journeyed.

  But she didn’t.

  The mountain rushed passed her, under her, and still she leaned forward, challenged the wind to bring her down if it could, but it never would, for love had returned to her spirit and she had a purpose once more.

  But what was that purpose?

  The snow was thinning, giving way to bare rock and then sparse vegetation, and then lower, there were towering evergreen trees and rocky escarpments, but still, she did not stop, could not. This was surely Ea Uaré, the Great Forest, but why had Aria seen fit to show her this?

  Lainon had been born here, in the small village of Abiren’á. Perhaps this was Aria’s message: to find Lainon’s folk and give them the news that he lived once more on the other side, even though it had been but a month since his fall.

  But there was no time to ponder any longer—she was falling, plummeting to the ground, and she gasped, body jerking upwards until she sat, chest heaving and eyes wide, eyes that brimmed with grateful tears, for she could feel Lainon’s presence, warm and safe, cradled in the protective arms of her mind even now when the dream had gone and she was awake.

  It had not been a dream.

  Aria had shown her, and Aria, spirit of nature, did nothing on a whim. There was a reason for her journey, one Tensári would now set out to discover, and there was only one who could help her: Commander Hobin, divine leader of the Ari’atór. She would seek his wise counsel, and then perhaps she too could live again, serve again and when the time came for her to sacrifice herself in battle, then she would do so willingly, knowing that beyond sacrifice would come paradise in Lainon’s arms.

  Tar’eastór had the Inner Circle, and the colonising Alpine rulers of Ea Uaré had emulated that tradition. In Araria, though, the central seat of military power was a cathedral.

  Tensári strode down the central aisle until she stood at a respectful distance from the raised platform at the centre of the main hall. Upon it stood a tall and powerful Ari’atór, strong arms held out to the side, head tilted backwards before the black marble carving of Aria.

  He knew she was there, but Commander Hobin would not interrupt his praise of Aria, and so she waited, and she wondered how long it had been since she herself had given praise. She would, though, as soon as Hobin had heard her questions.

  With the distant chime of a soft bell, Hobin lowered his arms and bowed his head. He turned, eyes just a little too bright. His connection with Aria was strong, and the echo of green Silvan eyes came to her in a rush of mixed emotions: curiosity, resentment . . .

  “Tensári,” said Hobin as he stepped from the platform and faced her, head cocked to one side as he read her face and the emotions in her eyes. A soft smile played about the corners of his mouth. “You bring news,” he stated.

  She wanted to explain, give her report as any worthy lieutenant would, but all that came out of her mouth was, “Aria be praised.” She was shocked at how unsteady her voice had sounded, but Hobin was suddenly directly before her, his benevolent eyes of vivid blue boring into hers. They widened suddenly, and before she could ponder that, his arms encircled her and pulled her head to his chest.

  “Aria has seen fit to bring him back to us soonest. I have never seen this, and I say it is justice, for he was Ber’ator. The deeds he sacrificed himself for have yet to play out, Tensári. His death was not in vain, and now, through your connection to him, he will have some ken at least of what he died for.”

  He knew her mind, not because he could read it, but because he was the most empathetic being she had ever known, ever would. She needed to know why Lainon had died; she needed to know that it had been worth it. That Fel’annár had been worth it.

  “I have questions, Commander.”

  “And I will answer them if I can. Come,” he said, releasing her and walking to another section of the grand hall. There was a square table upon which rested a map of Araria. Behind, books covered an entire wall, and in another corner, a mighty hearth crackled overly-loud.

  “Did she show you? Did you see him pass?” murmured Hobin.

  “I did. I did not know there were trees around the Veil, Commander.”

  “You have never been posted there; only our veterans work there, those who can no longer fight. They do not speak of that place, as you know, but Aria has seen fit to show you nonetheless.”

>   “Then I am blessed. But I wonder. There are no trees in Araria; only there.”

  “They are the Originals, Tensári. Aria’s first means by which she communes with us. They are all Sentinels, guardians of the Source. But come, ask your questions.”

  “Commander. I have dreamed this dream for a month, but only last night did the dream complete itself and Lainon came back to me. But it did not stop there.”

  Hobin turned briskly, a scowl on his face. “Go on.”

  “I journeyed on, past Tar’eastór and into Ea Uaré. It felt as though that is where I should be, but the dream ended. I am left with the certainty of some task I am to carry out. I think perhaps I am charged with telling Lainon’s folk of his return.”

  Hobin’s eyes studied his lieutenant, but he did not answer immediately. Instead he turned to the fire and crossed his hands behind his back. Tensári came to stand beside him, the warmth calming her growing sense of urgency.

  “We have received missives from Commander Gor’sadén of Tar’eastór,” Hobin said, his voice soft, her indirect question unanswered. “He requires our presence to discuss the increased Deviant activity we in Araria have not noticed. It is strange that the number of humans breeching the markers has increased but that Deviant kills has not. They are massing somewhere; we must confer with Tar’eastór, find out why this is happening. I am leaving in two days.”

  Tensári started. Their holy commander had not left Araria for many years save for the occasional patrol he would lead across the borders and into Tar’eastór. It was an unlikely event that merited a question.