by R K Lander
He cast a guilty gaze around the Halls and then grabbed his two weapons harnesses, thinking to make a sly escape. Straightening, he came face-to-face with Prince Sontúr. All thoughts of eluding the healers and their gruel crumbled before the acutely arched eyebrow of his friend.
“Just where do you think you are going?” he asked with a smirk. Sontúr was dressed as a prince today, silk and velvet garments vivid and clean, his grey hair immaculately braided, but his face was pale, eyes puffy and just a little slanted.
Fel’annár’s lip curled, but it was almost a smile as he slung his harnesses over his shoulder. “Are you going to stop me?” he asked with feigned anger. Sontúr’s brow arched even higher on his forehead.
“I came to rescue you, you fool. I have spoken with your healer. She says you are free to leave.” After a while he added, “She’s Silvan, you know.”
“Yes, I had noticed,” said Fel’annár, rolling his eyes.
“And she’s lovely.”
Fel’annár nodded. She was lovely and he wondered if Sontúr had plans. He turned to look at his friend, and Sontúr grinned, holding up both hands as if in surrender.
“Now, now. I’m just saying.”
“Do you know if she rode in with company? Has there been news from Ea Uaré?”
“Not that I know of. She must have ridden in with the Pelagians my father spoke of, in which case she’s only been here for a day.”
Fel’annár nodded and then clapped a hand on his friend’s velvet-clad shoulder. “Sausages,” he said challengingly, and for all that Sontúr was a prince, he loved his sausages as much as the rest of The Company did. It was time to leave this place that smelled of herbs and tinctures, but Fel’annár cast his eyes around the Halls one last time, in case he had missed something—but the honey-eyed Silvan healer with a sharp tongue and a soft touch was nowhere to be found.
Breakfast at the barracks was far too noisy, but the hot food was enough for Fel’annár to endure it. The Company had tried and failed to engage him with idle chat, but his mind was not at the table—it was in the war room where he knew the commanders would be. He had much to think about, things he was not sure they would believe. Still, he would try, even if it earned him a cold, cruel sneer from his own commander general. Instinct told him it was important, and he had learned not to ignore it.
“I’ve no idea what to do now. We’ve been away for so long, and suddenly I’m free and penniless in Tar’eastór,” said Carodel and then packed a hunk of bread into his mouth, cheeks bulging as he chewed.
“Penniless in Tar’eastór,” snorted Galdith. “There are plenty of things to do without money, Carodel.”
“Ah yes, let’s see. A picnic. What say you brothers? There is nothing better after a spree of Deviant slaughtering: a basket oozing culinary delights, a sultry amble through the woods, or perhaps a swim and a merry song to welcome the spring!”
“Carodel, you fool,” muttered Galadan before adding, “I’m sure our commander will provide us with our wages; in fact I’ll mention it to him.”
“We’ve yet to experience the city taverns. The others visit regularly, yet the pockets of us poor Silvans are filled with nothing but our own kneecaps—no coin to be found at all,” moaned Carodel.
Ramien laughed loud enough to turn heads, but he couldn’t care less. It was true, after all.
“Fel’annár.”
He jumped, almost toppling the sausage from his fork, and the Wise Warrior frowned. “I and Ramien will accompany you to Captain Comon. Later, perhaps, we could watch the blade masters. They are on the fields today, or so I’ve heard.”
“Yes, of course,” mumbled Fel’annár. He was listening, had heard everything they had said, but still he was tired, something he did not want to admit—tired and utterly distracted. Once he’d given his report, he told himself he could relax, sort out the mess in his mind and in his heart. There had hardly been time to mourn the loss of Lainon, and then their gruelling tour had been so arduous it had taken his mind off his lost friend. It was only when he stopped that he remembered the dark Ari, his unconditional support and his strange death. He would never forget that moment, and he thought perhaps that, one day, he would understand what had transpired the moment Lainon’s light had passed through him. It was then that Commander Hobin had called him “Ber’anor.”
He banished the word from his mind.
“Fel’annár—hello—is the Whirling Warrior home?” asked Galdith, and Fel’annár batted at the hand that waved before his eyes. The Company smiled, but it was fleeting and soon, they had agreed to meet after Fel’annár, Idernon, and Ramien returned from the War Room at the Inner Circle.
Striding over the thin sheet of melting snow, they crossed the courtyard and then passed the guarded doorway into a singular building of black stone and dark wood. It was a four-layered, circular construction, peculiar in itself, but what truly drew Fel’annár’s attention was the lack of windows. It was a cave above ground, he mused. Still there was beauty in it; it took skill to design this perfect circle and achieve the smooth, polished surface over such a vast expanse of stone. It must have taken centuries to construct, he realised.
This was the Inner Circle of Tar’eastór, the heart of military command. Passing the armed guards at the entrance, they began to navigate their way towards the War Room. All they had been told was to take every corridor to their right. By the time they had taken three, they began to hear voices, voices that grew until they were loud enough to grate on the ears, and sharp needles of pain stuck into Fel’annár’s brain. He pinched the bridge of his nose and promptly remembered the bruise that sat high on his cheek.
“I hope Captain Comon is not in there,” muttered Idernon half-heartedly behind him, but a passing lieutenant confirmed that he was. They had arrived at the closed doors of the War Room, and so the three friends sat on a wooden bench a little further along the corridor and waited.
And waited.
Sometime later, Ramien’s head was tilted backwards, leaning against the cold stone behind, eyes closed, and Fel’annár’s head had fallen onto one of his friend’s enormous shoulders, mouth slack. As for Idernon, he stood peering at a wall mural of the Battle of Prairie.
“There you are,” came a voice from above. Ramien snorted loudly and Fel’annár startled, only now understanding that he had fallen asleep. He stood a little too fast and Ramien’s arm steadied him while Idernon turned to face Captain Comon.
“Yes, well,” said the captain with an arch of his brow, eyes focussed on Fel’annár’s crumpled tunic.
Fel’annár looked down at himself and then pulled hard on it, smoothing a hand over his hastily braided hair as he fell into step with Comon. The noisy crowd of captains and lieutenants was gone, the corridor now silent, and the three Silvans and one captain passed through the solid oak doors that led into the War Room. Comon spoke as they made for the centre of the Hall, and although Fel’annár listened, he was acutely aware of the strange perspective of the room. The back portion of the hall was raised, so much that he could only see the elves that stood there from the waist up.
“Our commander has questions,” said Comon matter-of-factly, unaware of the wonder in the eyes of the Silvan warriors as they scanned their surroundings.
There were no windows, no natural light at all, but the white-orange glow of candles illuminated the place well enough to guess, at least, at the height of the vaulted ceilings above them. Standards and flags of different colours and symbols hung like velvety stalactites from the heights, dampening, if only a little, the click of their boots as they walked. A crushing sense of history descended on Fel’annár, only now truly appreciating just where he was. This was where it had all started—where the Warrior Code had been written and ruthlessly upheld, where the greatest warriors on Bel’arán had sat strategising, moulding the defences of the Motherland, masterminding the colonisation of the Great Forest, his own home.
They stopped at the steps that led up to the raised
half of the floor. Fel’annár could see Gor’sadén and Pan’assár’s heads in the distance. To the left were two others and a little further away, two more, and although they all stood in different places, all of them were looking downwards, to the floor.
Fel’annár was curious beyond words, and as they took the first step upwards, all eyes turned on him, staring weightily at Fel’annár, remembering Or’Talán, perhaps, as he used to stand with them centuries into the past.
Gor’sadén nodded a curt greeting and then gestured with his head that the three Silvans should climb the four remaining steps. Pan’assár watched impassively, light flickering oddly in his cool eyes while the other captains watched and wondered if what their warriors were saying was true, that this Silvan was some kind of mage warrior.
With each step Fel’annár took, what lay beyond them slowly came into view. His eyes pulsed wide at the looming spectacle, and he heard Idernon and Ramien’s soft exclamations behind him. There was no scuffed and worn table upon which a curled map lay; no carved figurines of warriors and Deviants, no stone markers to show rivers and villages. Instead, the entire floor jutted upwards in three dimensions, a floor that had been sculpted and moulded over years of painstaking work, work that told of a skill beyond Fel’annár’s ken. His mind struggled to quantify his astonishment, because over and above the workmanship, to walk upon a sculpted map, to feel the land beneath your boots, to touch the caves and crags, the high passes and the valleys—it made strategy come to life, he realised. It gave a sense of what you fought for, what you were up against. It was sheer brilliance, and Fel’annár was in awe of the very idea.
Eyes roved hungrily over varnished mountain ridges and etched gorges, painted forests and coloured lakes and rivers, and around every feature of the land, a narrow walkway allowed strategists and tacticians to walk comfortably from one place to the other. Here stood the entire realm of Tar’eastór, and at the very end, to the far north was what Fel’annár could only assume to be the Last Markers, stone statues of Ari’atór, one hand held out to the fore, a silent order to stop. He peered closer, realising that every sculpture was different and he was once more reminded of the statues that stood upon the ramparts.
He was gaping, he knew it, but how could he not? He wondered if they had such a carved map in Ea Uaré. They must have, he thought, for most of the Forest commanders were Alpine; they would have stood in this very room themselves. They would surely have mirrored this building, this map.
“I asked Warrior Fel’annár to report to me this morning regarding the information he has gleaned from the trees.” Comon straightened almost imperceptibly, eyes travelling over the captains and two commanders, thinking perhaps that they would laugh at him. They didn’t, though, and instead, their eyes landed once more on Fel’annár.
“And why has he not shared it with you already?” asked one captain.
“Warrior Fel’annár was in the Healing Halls until this very morning, Captain. He did wish to speak with me. It was I who told him to wait until today,” he clarified, closing the gap that separated him from the others.
“You may already know that he is what the Silvans call a Listener. This is the second time Warrior Fel’annár has patrolled with me, and I do vouch for the veracity of that claim; this ability, however, seems to be evolving. He has successfully scouted for my patrol without having to ride ahead, a great asset as you can all imagine. I cannot help but wonder if there are other Silvans with this capability that could be put to great service.” Comon’s eyes briefly looked at Pan’assár, but his face was unreadable. Quiet murmurs ensued, and Fel’annár resisted the urge to fidget where he stood.
“Fel’annár, tell us what you have perceived. What do the trees say?” finished Comon.
He had wanted to speak with Comon privately, but he had not been given the chance. And then he realised that perhaps the captain had done this purposefully so that the commanders could ask their questions directly, so that it would be easier for them to believe. Then again, perhaps it had simply been about Comon being embarrassed to speak of what he perceived as magic.
“Speak, Warrior,” said Gor’sadén.
“Sir, I have heard a strange song from the land these last weeks. I hear it even now, although it is calmer, quieter than it was. It speaks of some new danger.” His eyes slipped suspiciously to the other captains behind the commanders, knowing they would not believe him.
“What new danger?” asked Pan’assár slowly.
His eyes snapped to the commander. “They have named it Nim’uán.”
“Beautiful monster,” murmured Gor’sadén with a frown.
“Who is ‘they’?” asked Pan’assár.
“The trees, Sir. They often refer to Deviants as monsters. It is the beauty that has me perplexed.”
“And your thoughts?” asked Comon.
“Sir, I cannot say. Perhaps a sub-species of Deviant? The implication of beauty would imply they are not so rotten, or perhaps that they rot at a slower rate. It is a passing strange thing to think. Then again, it may not be a Deviant at all—some new beast, perhaps.”
“This is an unexpected development,” said Comon.
“Forgive me, Captain. I had meant to speak with you about it yesterday.”
“I know. But there were priorities.”
“Sir, there is one more thing.” His eyes were darting from one elf to the other as he grappled for the words he needed to make them understand. “It’s much more subtle and open to interpretation, and I cannot be sure . . . but I’ve seen something in the enemy’s eye, a spark of some emotion that was never there before, except once. Commander Pan’assár, you may have heard of the Deviant leader of the attacks on our escort on our way here . . .”
“The one that screamed?”
“Yes, Sir. I saw it in his eyes too.
“What did you see?” insisted Pan’assár. “Your best guess, Warrior.”
“I believe it’s . . . hope.” Even as he said it, he was surprised at the word he had chosen.
“Hope?” repeated Gor’sadén.
“Yes, Sir. Purpose beyond mindless killing,” he said, eyes unfocussed, ironing it out in his own mind even as he spoke.
Silence followed Fel’annár’s words—he had expected nothing less, for his report was strange at best. He had not been sure of his thoughts until the moment he had given voice to them, and it unnerved him, because there was no reason for it. It was knowledge beyond reason, and he knew what the commanders would be thinking.
“I thought your ability was to listen to the trees. How can you perceive emotions in Deviants?” asked Pan’assár.
Fel’annár nodded. “Sir, my ability concerns the energy around us. This energy is channelled by trees, essentially. Sometimes, I hear and feel what trees do, and other times they feel what I do. As to how I could perceive an emotion, I can only conclude that perhaps it was the trees conveying that thought to me. I cannot say for sure, Commander.”
“How can you know this?” asked a captain as he stepped forward, a frown of confusion on his face.
“I don’t know, Captain.”
“So you could be wrong?”
“I could be. But I never have been, so far.”
The captain remained silent, mouth pressed into a tight line. Fel’annár knew he was sceptical.
“So if you capture this energy from trees, the closer you are to them, the stronger this connection? The more precise information you can glean?” asked Gor’sadén.
“I believe so, Commander. That’s the way it’s been so far, but in all honesty, this gift is unstable, Sir, in that there are new facets still revealing themselves to me. I have no way of knowing how this ability will change; there may be further developments I cannot foresee.”
Gor’sadén held his gaze for longer than was comfortable. Fel’annár had given himself away, he realised. Gor’sadén had seen his fear.
“Warrior, step closer. Can you show us where you felt these sensations?” Pan’as
sár’s calm words, not Gor’sadén’s. Fel’annár was surprised yet no less enthusiastic about being invited to step onto the map—in fact, given the chance, he would have pulled off his boots and allowed his bare feet to wander all over it. He wanted to reach out and touch it all like a child with his first bow.
“Here was where I first sensed the song of the Nim’uán,” began Fel’annár, pointing to an area just north of Crag’s Nest. “The song was just as strong here, on the opposite mountainside, and yet at Queen’s Fall, precisely where the fighting is at its worst, the song was at its weakest.”
Gor’sadén’s eyes lingered on the lands surrounding Queen’s Fall. This was indeed the focal point of the fighting, and it seemed strange to him that this song would not be at its highest where the conflict was.
“It is possible that, whatever this Nim’uán is, it comes from around Crag’s Nest, where the song was at its highest and where the fighting is not so bad,” murmured Gor’sadén as he walked along the pathways, Pan’assár and the captains behind him.
“Which would indicate that the Nim’uán is not in the same place. It is not fighting with the Deviants. This is either a momentary coincidence, or there is a diversion tactic in place,” said Pan’assár.
“We have scouted the caves at Queen’s Fall as well as we can with so much conflict, but they continue onwards and downwards with little to no natural light,” said the captain. “But the dangers of going any further are too great. Once the thaw begins we can block those entrances, but we would be destroying the natural habitat of many of our indigenous species. However, the caves here, at Crag’s Nest and the opposing rock face here are familiar to us. We have had no cause to revisit them—until now.”
“Could the Deviants be massing in there? Would it be possible for them to hide in there and sustain themselves? Air, water, food . . . ” asked Pan’assár. “Perhaps this is the reason the fighting is happening at Queen’s Fall, to draw our attention away from this . . . muster . . . if it can be called that.”
