by R K Lander
“Close the door,” he called to the guards, and even as they banged shut, Pan’assár took off his boots and his tunic until he stood in nothing but his black breeches and the purple sash that once more marked him as a Master of the Kal’hamén’Ar. He had his doubts, but he had promised to give the boy a trial. He would not go back on his word.
“Spar with me, brother, and go easy on a lost master. I have not danced for many years.”
Gor’sadén smiled, and then he bowed respectfully, watching his friend as he did likewise.
Outside the doors, all conversation died out as the first ringing clashes of legendary swords met. The warriors listened, and fire came to their eyes. They longed to be on the other side, to marvel at absolute skill, but it could not be. They would have to wait and, if luck prevailed, they would one day watch the Dance of Graceful Death in the only two ways it was allowed: at a king’s behest or on a field of battle.
The world was upside down; long silver locks pooled on the ground around Fel’annár’s hands while the soles of his feet felt the warmth of the late-winter sun. His arms, though, did not shake, even though his muscles stood out in stark ridges under smooth skin. He lifted one hand from the ground and held it out to the side. Both legs, perfectly aligned, followed the direction of his arm while the rest of his body moved to the other side to compensate for the shift in weight.
Handir was far away, his father was in Ea Uaré, and Llyniel did not occupy his mind as she had done for the past few days. It was him and his body; his mind was in control, not his emotions.
“How long will he stay like that?” asked Galadan. He, Galdith, and Sontúr had never seen Fel’annár’s strange training routine, and Idernon took it upon himself to explain what it was he was doing.
“These routines are taken from the Kal’hamén’Ar. He learned them on his own, back when he thought the art had died. It was Tensári who set him right.”
“Is it not prohibited to perform the Kah in the presence of those who are not masters?”
“The sequences of the Dance are prohibited, unless performed before a king or on the battlefield, but this is preparation. These are the techniques a Kah master will use to train their bodies and their minds. These preparations are not secret.”
“I don’t understand this need for secrecy,” said Galdith as he watched the spectacle.
It was Galadan who answered. “The sequences of the Kah are highly orchestrated; they are dangerous to any who do not understand the underlying principles and how to deflect an attack. Only a Kah master can teach a Kah apprentice—none other can engage in such practices—in the same way a child is not allowed to touch a sharp blade or a novice warrior is not permitted the honour of charging in the front line of battle.”
“How does he do that? It must hurt,” mused Sontúr.
“It used to,” confirmed Idernon, “but he has done this so many times now that it is second nature to him. He had to hide it, though, always secreting away while Ramien and I covered for him. He knew the attention it would garner him, attention that would almost always be hostile.” Idernon’s eyes were unfocussed while Ramien looked to the ground as he remembered. “He has come a long way to earn this moment, this chance to become great. He deserves this, and we can only hope Commander Pan’assár does not undermine the years of diligent training, make his sacrifice meaningless.”
“He won’t,” said Galadan, his voice strong. “He is a warrior, Idernon. He will not act dishonourably in matters of the Kal’hamén’Ar.”
“I am glad you are convinced, brother,” said Sontúr. “I, however, will remain sceptical until it is over and I can see for myself that Fel’annár was given a fair chance, whatever the outcome.”
There was no sound when Fel’annár’s bare feet touched the ground, and he stood upright in one fluid movement.
“It is time.”
Fel’annár knew that the test had been publicly announced, but he had thought it would all be conducted quietly and discreetly. Yet even as he and The Company navigated the corridor that led to the training arena, he knew his assumptions had been wrong. The place was teeming with warriors, and more were arriving by the moment. They collected around the closed doors where Fel’annár knew the test would take place, talking and waving their hands about, speaking of tactics and movements, of what they knew, or thought they knew, of the Kal’hamén’Ar. The Ancient Art was returning to Tar’eastór, whether or not The Silvan passed the test, for others would now surely be allowed to dream that they, too, might be found worthy and taken as apprentices.
With a steadying breath, Fel’annár walked towards the uncharacteristically guarded door, and once there he knocked and then turned to face The Company. Silence had fallen, thick and expectant, and Fel’annár’s eyes fell first on Ramien and then on Idernon, his companions through a lifetime of preparation for this very moment, even though he had never understood that until now. They smiled, understood the words that did not leave his mouth, and with nothing but shining eyes, they spoke to him of strength and hope. They believed in him, and now, all Fel’annár had to do was believe in himself. With a resolute nod, he turned and walked through the now open doors. They groaned and then banged shut behind him.
The arena was empty save for the two commanders. Gor’sadén walked towards him, his expression guarded, no sign of his customary smile.
“Fel’annár. Are you rested?”
“I am, Sir.”
“Are you ready then?”
“I am.”
Gor’sadén stepped to one side, and Pan’assár came into view. He wore nothing but his black breeches, and around his waist was the purple sash Fel’annár had never seen him wear. He had heard stories of Pan’assár’s greatness, every warrior in Ea Uaré had, but he had never seen the evidence of it—until now. It was just one more part of the puzzle that Pan’assár represented to him.
He breathed deeply, a strange feeling of finality descending over him, and for some reason it made him sad; it was almost as if he were saying goodbye. The chubby face of a child came to his mind’s eye, sparkling eyes and a cheeky grin, mouth covered in crumbs. But then the vision of himself as a child was replaced by Pan’assár’s angular features as he came to stand before him, far too close for comfort on any day, but it seemed to Fel’annár that the Forest commander had never truly looked at him, had always seemed to avert his gaze if he could help it. He did it even now.
“Commander Gor’sadén has asked me to consider your candidature as an apprentice of the Kal’hamén’Ar and I have conceded to put you to the test. Only if you pass this test will I consent to his request to train you in the ancient art.” The commander looked to the ceiling for a moment before his unfocussed gaze was back on Fel’annár. “I must tell you, now, that I do not believe you will pass this test.”
Fel’annár blinked, his heart jolting at the commander’s words.
“How does that make you feel?” he asked, turning away from Fel’annár, the muscles in his back rippling menacingly beneath the soft, pale skin.
After a moment, Fel’annár found his tongue, unsure of whether to truly speak his mind or simply go with what he thought the commander wanted to hear. He was suddenly reminded of a similar situation with Turion back at novice training. He opted for the truth.
“I am disappointed, Commander.”
“Why?”
“I am disappointed that you do not think me capable.”
“Why should I? You are fifty-two years old; you are half Silvan. Silvans know nothing of the Kal’hamén’Ar.” He turned back to Fel’annár. “Now, how does that make you feel?”
Fel’annár stopped himself from speaking without thinking. It would be all too easy to show his anger, but then, wouldn’t the commander see it anyway? And then it occurred to Fel’annár that Pan’assár was purposefully goading him, that perhaps the test had already started.
“Youth or race should not be a reason to be excluded, although I understand it is unlikely I wo
uld have the necessary skill . . .”
“What else?”
“I am disappointed that you feel being Silvan is a reason to doubt my skill.” Fel’annár stood defiant, and still, after what he had said, the commander’s gaze seemed off centre, focussed on some object behind him. He could see Fel’annár, but he did not look at him, he never had, realised Fel’annár. Still, there was something dangerous in the commander’s eyes, and Gor’sadén’s words came back to him.
“He will not make this easy for you . . . ”
“Ready yourself, warrior,” said Pan’assár. “Do not hold back; I won’t.”
Turning, Fel’annár unbuckled his jerkin and then removed his shirt below, revealing bare skin and the band of Master Archer sitting over his right bicep. He wasn’t sure if he was required to, but Pan’assár was bare from the waist up, and Fel’annár imagined that was what the test called for. Arranging his clothes neatly on a bench, he removed his boots and then reached up and secured his hair into a single tail.
It was the hardest thing he had ever had to do: overcome the knowledge that he walked into this test with the surety of defeat. He had always held back in his sparring, in his training, because it garnered him unwanted attention. Now, though, all he could do was show everything that he had and remember that victory was not the purpose; all he had to do was sufficiently impress the commander.
He had trained for this, all his life had been dedicated to this, one moment.
“Silvans know nothing of the Kal’hamén’Ar.”
But they did. He was Silvan, and although he was no expert, he did know something of it, more than most Alpines. But that didn’t matter now, nothing mattered except the strength of his muscle, the clarity of his mind, and the sharpness of his own senses.
“Select your weapons,” said Pan’assár with a tilt of his head. To one side of the arena, a weapons rack stood dripping with long and short swords. Some were thin and curved while others were shorter and broader, but all of them were exquisite, and he ran his fingertips over the hilts. He wanted to pick them all up, feel them in his hands, feel their weight and guess at their origins and whether they had been wielded in battle.
Taking note of the weapons Pan’assár held in his hands, Fel’annár chose a long, curved sword and another shorter sword. Gor’sadén’s eyes darted sideways to Pan’assár, who was watching Fel’annár’s every move.
With one weapon in each hand, Fel’annár turned and walked into the centre of the ring until he stood before the commander, while Gor’sadén stood where he had from the start, to one side, feet firmly planted on the ground, his own purple sash caressing the tops of his boots.
“Present arms,” said Gor’sadén, and no sooner had he spoken than Pan’assár held his weapons before him, like some spiny insect from Calrazia, poised to jump and sting its victim.
Stepping backwards, Fel’annár pointed the long sword at the commander and then held the shorter blade over his head, the tip pointing in the same direction. He held his position and fixed his eyes directly on Pan’assár. Just as he had expected, Pan’assár’s eyes seemed unfocussed, and ultimately, Fel’annár understood it was not because he was Silvan—it was because he was Fel’annár.
When Pan’assár moved, it was so quick that Fel’annár was hard-pressed to dodge his strike. He avoided the tip of Pan’assár’s long sword by mere inches, leaning so far backwards that he almost lost his balance.
Shaken, he danced sideways and then brought his sword around to the front, but Pan’assár was no longer there, and he turned, adjusting his stance. He had been taken by surprise, had underestimated the commander’s speed and agility, but there was no time to think, because a short sword swung past his face, catching his cheek with a glancing blow that stung like ice on heated skin. Bringing his own blade up and outwards, he parried one blade and then ducked under Pan’assár’s long sword. He tried to penetrate the commander’s side defence, but his long sword clashed violently against Pan’assár’s, the vibrations running painfully through his bones and up to his shoulder.
Whirling around, he tried again but was parried all too easily. A foot against the side of his ankle and he was on the floor, but there was no time to wonder how that had happened. All he could do was roll out of the way of the swinging blade that was surely meant to take his head off. He kicked his legs over his head and flipped to his feet, bringing his swords before him once more, but Pan’assár was back before he could blink. Too fast and he was on the floor once more, a short sword hurtling downwards. He kicked out, catching the commander’s blade—and by some miracle he did not lose his own. Fel’annár grappled to his feet.
Do not think; do not feel.
A whispered breath, a calm sea, a gentle breeze . . . Heartbeat, the flow of blood through veins, the strength of skilled muscles. Peaceful, acute perception.
Harmony.
Metal clashed with a violent clank, and Fel’annár pushed the invading blade to one side. He stepped back and resumed his stance, moving in to attack from the right. Parry and loop around. Again, and again, and then he had it, the rhythm.
One, two, three, strike.
Every attack was parried, just as he parried every attack, and soon his body was moving in circles. Forward, backward in a rhythm of four, the flow fuelling his own capacity to concentrate, to focus only on what was important—the blades in his hands and in those of his opponent.
A strange song echoed off the distant walls around him, of crashing blades and harsh breaths, of an ancient drum that beat in his own heart, as if he could hear the Kal’hamén’Ar dances of old at the king’s court. Music enveloped him, heavy drums and the minor notes of a lone flute. It snaked around him, and he was whirling this way and then that, blades impossibly fast in his hands.
Something cut the air before his mouth, and he leaned backwards and then spun around. Jumping, he twisted into the air so that he would land on the other side of his opponent. He ducked low to avoid Pan’assár’s blade slicing towards his throat and then swiped at the commander’s feet with his long sword. Pan’assár jumped, and then, with a move Fel’annár could not comprehend, the tip of Pan’assár’s short sword cut painfully into his skin, just over his heart. He staggered backwards, eyes pinned on the commander’s face, wondering if he would call an end to the test now that he had scored a blow, but Pan’assár was coming for him once more, slashing both swords so close to his chest that Fel’annár flipped backwards and then sailed into the air, twisting sideways and out of their way.
He stood gasping for air. He had almost been defeated. The music had gone and he had lost his rhythm. He needed to regain it, to focus.
Pan’assár attacked. Fel’annár parried. Fel’annár attacked, Pan’assár dodged, but they slowly slipped into a rhythm, and before he could even register it, the music was back in his mind, the rhythm of four commanding his feet and his blades, better than it had before, and the true battle began.
Pan’assár’s eyes were on the Silvan’s face, somewhere to the right of his nose, but he did not see him, had never wanted to. Instead, as his body performed the Dance, he realised the boy was good, better than he had ever expected him to be. Gor’sadén had been right. Why he chose that moment to finally allow his eyes to focus on Fel’annár’s, he could not say.
He would regret it in hindsight.
They were Silvan eyes, forest eyes, but a sliver of brilliant blue passed over the deep moss green irises, and it was Or’Talán who was before Pan’assár, no longer in the training arena but in northern Ea Uaré, upon the arid sands of the Xeric Wood, years into the past. He was at the Battle Under the Sun once more, staring into his brother’s eyes for the last time, and a stinging blow ran the length of his forearm. He whirled out of Fel’annár’s reach, and when he faced him once more, it was the face of a Sand Lord that glared fiercely back at him. Pan’assár lunged forward—a flurry of three combinations and his opponent was staggering backwards. He once more heard foreign shouts of gl
ee: how they had mingled with the cries of pain and outrage from Or’Talán, his own raw screams as Pan’assár tried to cut through the enemy line and save his friend!
His arms were moving, whirling in skill, fuelled by anger, yet still his opponent was standing and then jumping high into the air. A whoosh of heavy metal as blades were brought down over his head, and he crossed his own swords above him, meeting those of the enemy, and then pushed outwards. He had expected the clatter of falling metal as he disarmed his opponent, but it did not come. A heavy thud sounded behind him instead, and Pan’assár swirled around and brought his swords up to face his adversary.
The blows came hard and heavy, his own breath ragged, but still he could not reach Or’Talán. Desperation drove him now, and all reason was abandoned. He was moving forwards in a frenzy, gaining ground at last, his enemy cracking under his thunderous onslaught. But then the Sand Lord was gone and his own face stared back at him in shock. He was fighting himself, and his long sword arched around, stopping just inches away from his opponent’s chest—his own chest. He staggered backwards, away from the blades that swung before him, and then he froze.
Breath came in mighty heaves of air, sweat poured down his face, his chest, eyes wide as his mind struggled to understand what had happened. The hot sands of the Xeric wood were now the cool dirt of the training arena, the shouts and screams faded away to nothing but harsh breathing, and the elf before him was not himself but Fel’annár Ar Thargodén.
A hand on his shoulder and he whirled around, the face of Gor’sadén just inches from his own, sword drawn, but he said nothing. His friend simply gestured with his head that he should move away, and he did, his mind slowly emerging from the mists of history, the faces of the Sand Lords, the Silvans, Or’Talán and himself fading away, and in their place was realisation and the onset of understanding.
