Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  The Silvans murmured solemnly, nodding their heads as they remembered. Some of them had lived through those events while others had heard the story many times over. The Alpines, too, sat on the edge of their chairs, and even the king was leaning forwards. Sarodén, though, was so engrossed in the story he did not see the expectation he had created.

  “The Silvan warrior had known he was needed, for the trees told him it was so. He rescued the children from a situation that was almost impossible, stepping upon a branch that would not hold his weight, escaping the burning tree against all the odds.”

  The Silvans gasped, as if they had forgotten where they sat and had suddenly been transported into the forests, into the burning glade.

  Sarodén paused and took a deep breath, a breath that echoed around the utterly silent hall.

  “This is the story of a Silvan elf, a warrior still in novice training. This is the story of The Silvan, of Hwind’atór, the one we have always known resided amongst us, have always known would one day step into the light and stand for his people. That day has come, for this is the story of Fel’annár Ar Thargodén, son of Lássira, Lord of Ea Uaré.”

  The echo of a chair leg scraping over stone, the clank of a sword against a belt, the ruffle of a standard swaying high above their heads.

  “Lord Erthoron,” called Der’hán quietly.

  Erthoron nodded at Sarodén from across the room, and the forester bowed in respect to the Silvan leader. “You asked, my lords, why we would choose a child as our warlord—what we see in him. This is our answer. We see an elf who stands before a mountain of flame to save a child’s life; we see a warrior with the skill of an Alpine blade master; we see a Listener, the youngest ever Master Archer. We see an elf with the face of an Alpine king and the heart of a Silvan forester. He carries the blood of kings and commanders, should have been a prince but would have none of that for himself. And above all these wonderful things, we see his wish, his need to serve, not for the promise of personal gain or renown—but for the simple joy of it. We see these things in no other save for Fel’annár Ar Thargodén. You need to understand how much this means to us so that you can understand the consequences should you vote against our petition. You will it or not, these are the wishes of the Silvan people. These are our demands.”

  And there it was. The Silvans were forcing the king’s hand. In that final sentence was a warning, and his eyes caught those of Turion once more. This was what Erthoron had kept from them. This was why they had sheltered Fel’annár all of his life, why they had hidden him away. The Alpines had not allowed Lássira to sit upon the throne, had denied Fel’annár his right as a prince. But they would not deny the Silvan people their warlord.

  “Lord Draugole.”

  “You will it or not, you say? That sounds very much like a threat, so tell us, Lord Erthoron, are the Silvan people, indeed, threatening their king? Would you now sway the vote of the council with your Silvan tales, spoken by a forester?”

  Aradan closed his eyes while Erthoron stood in a flurry of robes.

  “You!” he thundered, “you make an insult out of our most noble occupation? You laugh because he is a forester?” he shouted. “Let me explain our position, Draugole, in such a way that even you will understand. We have made our demands, and should you refuse them,” he pointed with his finger at the Alpine councillors, “should you continue to hold your silence despite your obvious dissent with this elf, then you may as well join him in his absurd claims—you would be just as responsible as he is for the result of your disdain!” he proclaimed.

  “What result, Erthoron?” said Draugole dismissively, sitting imperiously upon his padded chair.

  “If you refuse, I and every one of us in this hall will turn our backs on you—on all of you.”

  There were gasps and urgent murmurings as reality seemed to sink in, a reality that spoke of rupture, of confrontation, and perhaps rebellion.

  The king stood and strode towards his Alpine councillors, sparing a cutting, icy glare at Band'orán, Draugole and Barathon.

  “There are but two points on your agenda, my lords. Two questions that you will vote upon in seven days. I urge you to think deeply on the things that have been said, and I urge you to be fair and selfless, to understand the consequences of your vote.” He walked around the circle, looking at every one of his councillors, Alpines for the most part.

  “My vote is that we agree to Lord Erthoron’s requests, with some minor amendments, and I urge you all to see the wisdom in this. However, you must seek counsel, be just in your deliberations. Think of the collective good, Councillors, and be brave. Know, though, that I will not allow an unfair vote to be passed. Whatever the result, if your reasoning is not sound, I will veto it.”

  There was a challenge in Thargodén’s eyes, trained now on his uncle’s glacial gaze. Band’orán had not expected him to speak in those terms and was hard-pressed to hide his anger.

  “This session is adjourned until next week. I urge our Silvan compatriots to enjoy our hospitality at the feast this evening. I would be honoured by your presence, my lords,” he said.

  He was pleased, though surprised, when an Alpine councillor stood and, in a clear voice, spoke. “I, too, would be honoured by the presence of our forest kin!” he said bravely, courageously, to which Erthoron bowed in satisfaction and Thargodén smiled a genuine smile of pride. Only then, did another Alpine rise, and then another, and when they had finished, Erthoron stood once more.

  “It brings joy to my heart that not all the Alpines have been turned against us. “Personally, I must decline your offer, my king. We have said all we can for today. We will speak once more in seven days.”

  Seven days, mused the king. They would be long, hard days of ferocious debate and dispute, of political wrangling and negotiation. He knew that Band’orán would make his final move while Aradan and Rinon would rally those who had embraced Silvan culture, endeavouring to persuade the indecisive. As king, Thargodén could veto laws he deemed detrimental to the land, but he knew that that was precisely what Band’orán would want—so that he could justify his move on the throne, claim Thargodén was a dictator.

  Thargodén would watch, pull out every resource he had to grant the Silvan people their wishes. He would do everything in his power to pull this nation back from the brink of revolt, from the horrific yet looming threat of civil war.

  Fel’annár. Hwind’atór, The Silvan. His son was becoming a legend to the Silvan people, and pride swelled in his heart for a child he had yet to meet.

  Commander Hobin’s journey from Araria had been eventful, and Commander Gor’sadén’s claims of increased Deviant activity had been confirmed time and again.

  Hobin now sat bent over a bubbling pot of water, preparing tea for the patrol. There were fifteen others who could have brewed it, but Hobin always insisted he take his turn. It was just one more reason why the Ari’atór revered him as they did.

  High above them, the land sloped upwards. There was a forest up there that almost obscured the plateau from sight. Still, he knew they would arrive tomorrow evening, and the day after that, he would seek out Commander Gor’sadén, tell him what they knew and in turn, he would hear what it was that had the commander as worried as he had seemed in his missive. After that, Hobin could seek out the Ber’anor, tell him of Lainon’s return, understand, if he could, the nature of the Silvan’s duty.

  They would not be expecting him to have answered Gor’sadén’s call personally, and that suited him well. If they had known, they would have prepared lavish rooms, organised a feast, and other such extravagant events. He wanted none of that. He had a duty to perform, one that called strongly to him. The Silvan Ber’anor had lost his Ber’ator, at a time when perhaps the boy had needed him most. Hobin had seen his grief, his disorientation, just as he had seen the power that lay behind his eyes. That, too, was a mystery to Hobin.

  He wondered, then, if Fel’annár knew the truth. Did the boy know his own nature? Did he know
what Aria asked of him? Tensári didn’t—it was why he had sent her away, so that she could think upon what Aria had shown her and that which she had yet to understand. And when the time came, when she finally did understand and could forgive, only then would he send her out to confirm it for herself, to step upon her own path.

  It was not his place to tell her.

  Nine

  Atonement

  “We cannot undo the past, but we can reshape the future, and in doing so, create a different past. But to perceive fault, accept its nature, and rid oneself of the ensuing sense of failure is no easy task. Only through atonement can it be achieved—through the daunting task of begging forgiveness.”

  On Elven Nature. Calro.

  It was Fel’annár’s first day of training, the first day he had seen this—remarkable place. He had met Gor’sadén at the stables before dawn and then ridden for a short while until they had reached the rocky western ridge of the Great Plateau on which the city stood. There was surely nowhere else to go, he had thought, but then they had dismounted and walked, and then climbed, downwards, and to Fel’annár’s utter surprise, they had come across a smaller plateau, almost circular save for the cave inside the sheer mountain face. He had marvelled at the sights beyond the plateau, the land far below. He felt his head in the clouds, like a god looking down upon his creation. This truly was a secret place, for no one could ever get close enough to watch the Kah Masters and their apprentice, not without discovery. He had then turned and spotted Pan’assár, sitting in simple garb upon the ground, caring for his weapons like any other warrior. Looking up, he simply nodded and returned to his work, apparently unconcerned with the day’s events.

  “Strip to your breeches. No boots,” said Gor’sadén, himself standing naked save for his own leggings and his purple sash.

  Complying, Fel’annár stood still and waited, wondering what Gor’sadén would show him first. He watched as the commander came to stand beside him, a strip of sumptuous grey cloth in his hand.

  “Here. Watch and learn.”

  Gor’sadén’s deft hands wove the material around his waist and then tied a knot on one side and then smoothed down the ends which tapered to his knee.

  The material lay heavily around his waist, an intimate reminder of what he was, who he would become should Gor’sadén allow it.

  “Now. Watch, and when you are able, follow, and once you are following, listen and rectify. No questions until the exercise is finished.”

  Aligning himself due east, he brought his arms up and before him, so slowly that Fel’annár was reminded of a water weed swaying in a soft current.

  “Slowly. Feel your hand as it pushes through air, feel its resistance. The energy within your flesh and bone slices through it, even before your fingers do. They tingle with the energy you conjure.”

  Fel’annár mimicked his movements, eyes trained on Gor’sadén’s arms and hands. One leg slid backwards, equally slow, utterly precise, movement so controlled. He understood this principle, had read about it and adopted it in his own training exercises, and he found it strangely satisfying to be able to put a name to it.

  Dohai.

  He copied, and he listened, and before long, the sun was peeking over the horizon and he was falling into the routine, feeling everything the commander was murmuring. He felt heat at the centre of his chest, energy he imagined was concentrating there, ready for him to use at will.

  “Slowly, feel the power as it suffuses your muscles, moves them in tempered strength. The Dohai centres your power, allows you to control it.”

  Arms to the sky, palms up, slowly dropping to his sides, palms down, back straight. Only his waist moved now, from side to side as arms moved in cyclic swirls, moving the energy around him, the grey sash of a Kal’hamén’Ar apprentice swaying softly against his thigh.

  “Feel the earth beneath you; that hums, too, the same energy that warms you pulses beneath us. Draw it, allow its tendrils to climb, up legs, around your waist, let it in.”

  Fel’annár did, and as he moved in continuous, languid strokes and swirls, his belly and chest pulsed with energy from the earth, the sun-bathed stars, the trees around him. His eyes burned, and he wondered if that, too, was part of the ritual. He faltered.

  “What is it?” asked Gor’sadén.

  “My eyes . . .”

  Gor’sadén’s face was before him as he cracked his eyes open. He knew it was him, logically it had to be, but the commander was immersed in blue, green, and purple light. Gor’sadén scowled. “Is there danger? Is something happening?”

  “No. I don’t understand . . .” He had lost his concentration. “I’m sorry,” he said, but Gor’sadén was not interested in Fel’annár’s apology but in the sparking lights in his eyes. They weren’t blazing as they had done in the king’s gardens; they were twinkling, like stars on a frigid night.

  “Try to work as you are, tell me what you see.”

  Fel’annár started the Dohai once more, eyes open, and the lights were still there, around the stone of the cave beside him, around Gor’sadén and Pan’assár, who sat further away, apparently unconcerned with his training. But it didn’t frighten him, he realised. Nothing was happening except that he could physically feel everything Gor’sadén said he should.

  “The sequence concludes and the warrior is ready,” murmured the commander. “You must do this every day at sunrise, wherever you are. You will perfect the technique, your strength better channelled by your mind, body more efficient for battle. Kah masters will perform the Dohai before practice, or before the Dance. It is not forbidden to do so in public; only the Dance.”

  Fel’annár turned to his master. “Why would I transform if there is no danger, no message?”

  “It is encouraging, I think,” said Gor’sadén. “Perhaps it is the imagery, the conjuring of one’s own inner strength that may help you with this gift of yours, to control it, even.”

  Fel’annár nodded slowly. It made sense, and he was encouraged. The Dohai was one important concept of the Kal’hamén’Ar, just as important as projection, as Gor’sadén had called it. Gor’sadén had set Fel’annár to striking a wooden plank with the heel of his hand and then had explained the relationship between the intention of the mind and the execution of the body. This combination would give added strength and precision to every move. When Fel’annár applied the technique, he had been in awe of the results, had even broken the wood without the slightest twinge of pain.

  “You must practise projection, apply it to everything, even the Dohai,” said Gor’sadén as they sat closer to where Pan’assár had set up his own personal camp. It was lunchtime, and Fel’annár was ravenous.

  Gor’sadén held out a flask of water. He took it and drank. Fel’annár rummaged through his own bag and pulled out a tied napkin. Opening it, he held out the cloth, upon which sat a pile of nutty biscuits. Blue eyes lit up as Gor’sadén’s fingers plucked one. Fel’annár held it out to Pan’assár, who simply shook his head.

  “Where did you get these?” asked Gor’sadén, wiping the crumbs from his lips, his eyes already fixed pointedly on the rest of the biscuits.

  Fel’annár chuckled and pushed them over, watching Gor’sadén pick another one and stuff it whole into his mouth. He couldn’t help turning his eyes to Pan’assár as he ate his own lunch, body half-turned away from them. He wasn’t interested, thought Fel’annár, unaware of the memories in Pan’assár’s eyes—of this place and of another elf who had been so much like this one.

  It had been a long day, but Fel’annár was ecstatic and the weather agreed with him, for in spite of the cold, a radiant sun beamed its late afternoon warmth down on the three elves as they made their way back to the fortress.

  The song of the Nim’uán had dimmed to a nagging echo, and he had learned so much of the Kal’hamén’Ar he had not wanted to stop. He had begun to understand the Dohai, had grasped the concept of projection, had even seen the lights and controlled his gift. That was progres
s, and he could not wipe away the smile that had taken up residence on his face. Gor’sadén had praised him—and Pan’assár had ignored him, but at least he had been there.

  They climbed the rest of the way up until they were back on the main plateau. Retrieving their horses, they mounted and started the upward trek towards the city. The land here was mainly open, with the occasional group of large boulders and the odd copse of fir or spruce trees. The city gates were less than half an hour away, and the further they progressed, the busier the main road would become. For now, though, there was nobody here off the beaten track.

  It started as would a discordant choir, voices steadily rising until it was a shrill scream that sent a lance of pain through Fel’annár’s temples. His smile faltered, and he stiffened in the saddle. A frown and he turned towards the copse of trees in the distance.

  His horse shrieked and then reared, so suddenly he slipped in the saddle. He clung desperately to it, and when all four hooves were back on the ground, Fel’annár found himself hanging from one side. Gor’sadén and Pan’assár’s mounts were bucking, panicked by some unseen terror, and Fel’annár struggled to understand what had frightened them. His horse reeled sideways, and he thudded hard onto the ground, instinctively rolling away from the stomping legs. He sat up, dazed and winded.

  Their horses had scattered, and Fel’annár had seen Gor’sadén land some ten paces away from him, on his feet, while Pan’assár was further away, holding himself up on all fours, stunned no doubt from the unexpected fall.

  Fel’annár barely had time to take in the commanders’ positions before a wave of dread washed over him. They were being attacked.

  “Incoming arrows!” He threw himself to the floor, lying flat. Four arrows thudded around him, one of them pinning his cloak beneath him. He pulled hard on it, desperately trying to rip it free but it wouldn’t budge. He yanked on it again and again, head whipping sideways and to Gor’sadén, who sprinted to a nearby boulder and then tucked himself behind the stone.