Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  “Do it again and don’t stop until I tell you to.”

  Damn it, he spat to himself, but he started again, his mind frantic to hold on to the door so that it would not fly open and let everything out.

  Pan’assár scowled and elbowed Gor’sadén.

  “What is that?” he murmured.

  “When I spoke to him about it, just after the first Dohai, his eyes were scintillating. There is something about the Kah that is activating his ability. I saw this during the Kah test, although you would not have noticed.”

  “Is it purposeful?” asked Pan’assár as he continued to watch the strange wisps of light.

  “No. It frightens him because he cannot control it. He will not admit to that, though. He is holding back.”

  Gor’sadén walked towards Fel’annár, Pan’assár right behind him.

  “Your gift likes the Dohai,” he said softly as he watched Fel’annár work. He could see the worry in his disciple’s eyes as he swung his blades this way and that. “You hold back. You are breaking your word to me.”

  Fel’annár faltered and Gor’sadén shouted. “I did not tell you to stop!”

  Fel’annár resumed the sequence, but he was frowning deeply, concentrating on limiting the energy he channelled to his limbs.

  “Why do you do it? Why do you train half-heartedly? You promised me your all,” said Gor’sadén, eyes blazing, goading his disciple because he knew it was the only way for Fel’annár to let go of his fear and allow his worst dream to come true: to lose control.

  “Your projection is half-hearted. This is what I would expect from any other warrior. Mediocre! Anyone can do that, Fel’annár, but you are a Kah Warrior!”

  The trailing lights pulsed, and then they were colourful ribbons dancing in the spring breeze. Pan’assár stepped back, but Gor’sadén continued his onslaught, eyes wide and body tense.

  “Show me you are worth it! That I am not wasting my time. Unleash this thing, Fel’annár.”

  “I can’t,” he said unsteadily as he continued to work, his control beginning to slip.

  “I told you I wanted everything, in exchange for teaching you the Kal’hamén’Ar. You gave your word—you lied!”

  “I did not.”

  “Then show me, damn it!”

  The few trees to be had upon the small plateau groaned and creaked, and leaves swayed in a non-existent breeze. Low rumbling boomed in their ears, and a grating, high-pitched metallic sound broke through the droning.

  Fel’annár’s eyes flared into blazing green pools of pure energy, hair snaking around his head far too slowly to be natural, and still he did not stop the sequence.

  He had not lied. He was worthy.

  “Don’t stop!” shouted Gor’sadén over the noise, the groaning wind, the frantic thudding of his own heart in his mouth.

  Fel’annár’s movements were precise, fast yet elegant, infused with a power neither master had seen before.

  “Fel’annár, can you fight? As you are?” shouted Pan’assár urgently over the din, unsheathing his own blades.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Try. Fight us!”

  “I cannot trust . . .”

  “Do it!” thundered Gor’sadén, taking his own swords and striking a ready stance, Pan’assár at his side.

  Fel’annár brought both swords before him, facing the commanders who stood in a haze of green. The lights were everywhere, but Fel’annár struggled to ignore them, to concentrate on the warriors before him. It worked, and all Gor’sadén’s training came to him with startling clarity.

  Initiate, side and feign, back, then swivel left, flip sword right, then circle left. He was moving, fast and furious; he was projecting without reserve, and around him, blond hair fanned this way and that. Blue and grey eyes danced before him, around him, blue-white steel seeking to strike a blow and failing every time.

  The screech of sword against sword faded to the background, and his heartbeat was deafening, breathing fast but even, ears roaring with the rush of blood through his veins—or was it sap through roots?

  He saw it all, countered it all, avoided their blows and countered with his own. The world tilted to one side as he side-twisted, the flashing metal arcing below him, meeting nothing but air . . . until his feet hit the ground and the same blade whooshed over his head.

  “Fel’annár. Try to stop it now. Slowly, try to regain control,” shouted Gor’sadén as he fought.

  The words were muted, like a distant call from an eternal corridor.

  “Fel’annár. Control it.”

  The voice seemed a little closer now, yet still his body moved, eyes registered everything, swords stabbed and arced and swivelled in his hands.

  “Come back.”

  He startled, for the words had been said by someone standing close by. He wanted to come back but how? It had all started by outwardly projecting the energy he had generated with the Dohai; perhaps the key was to take it back, draw it in, but how could he contain such power?

  He imagined those traces of light as extensions of himself, reaching out to the trees around him, and then he imagined pulling them back, coiling them in his chest. Too fast and he gasped at the sudden white-hot heat that slammed into his chest. He staggered backwards, stumbled and then held one arm out to brace his clumsy fall. Every nerve was alight with raw energy, his chest too tight, he couldn’t breathe. He cried out, and then his eyes focussed, enough to see the treetops as they swayed left and right, the dry leaves as they spiralled in the wind, still strong as it whipped around him.

  Too fast; he had pulled it back with a simple thought and he tried again. This time he imagined himself holding out one hand, calling the energy back, channelling it slowly into himself. Green, blue, and purple mist slowly dissipated, and his muscles regained their weight. He sat, starved lungs filling with air, deep breaths echoing in his ears. He closed his eyes, feeling his own hair fall heavily on his shoulders.

  Silence.

  “Fel’annár.”

  Breathe, just breathe and do not think, not yet.

  “Fel’annár.”

  “Yes.”

  “Open your eyes.” Gor’sadén’s voice.

  Slowly, he cracked them open to the bright light of day. Emotion came back to him, and he remembered Gor’sadén’s harsh words, Pan’assár’s intervention. He had stirred the world with his gift . . . and all that had happened was good. He had fought well.

  He had controlled it.

  The two commanders knelt beside their student, gaping in open fascination as his green eyes slowly lost the scintillating lights, and when they had completely dissipated, Pan’assár quite unexpectedly smiled a wicked smile.

  “Show off.”

  Fel’annár barked in laughter, his mirth mixed with disbelief for what had just happened. It was a small victory, one he could thank Gor’sadén for—he had purposefully goaded him so that he would not hold back, so that his fear would not hold him back.

  Only later, when the commanders were alone, did they speak of what had happened, of their shock and then of the nature of Fel’annár’s strange gift.

  “What are the limits of it, do you think?” asked Pan’assár, bracing his arm against the mantle in Gor’sadén’s rooms that evening.

  “Who can say? He doesn’t know; it is why he holds back, and I don’t blame him.”

  “Strange times,” murmured Pan’assár. “You know I sometimes wondered if my time in Bel’arán had concluded—that perhaps I had become a thing of the past, left behind by everyone I ever loved.”

  “You have much to do yet, Pan. This boy has much to achieve, and you can help him. He will need you before it is done.”

  Pan’assár scowled as he turned to his friend. “Before what is done?”

  Gor’sadén’s brow twitched, and he shook his head. “Before he becomes a master . . .” he lied. However much he tried, Gor’sadén could not shake the feeling of some impending event, that something important was to take pla
ce and that he would be a part of it. He had thought it the Kal’hamén’Ar and the birth of an extraordinary warrior, just as he had told Pan’assár, but the feeling persisted.

  There was more to it than that.

  Pan’assár’s softly-spoken words startled him. “We are in this together, Gorsa. Don’t think to deceive me. He will need us both. The question is . . . what for?”

  For seven days, the court of King Thargodén was a broiling, simmering cauldron of passionate discourse and intrigue in the Forest. Aradan had known this would happen, had warned the king—still, it was far worse than even he had imagined.

  Debate raged in every corner and at every table, sometimes loud and uncouth while at other times it was subtle and manipulative, and when the king happened upon one such session, sometimes the speakers would turn and bow low while others would gaze speculatively and offer only curt, stilted nods. The councillors pulled out every weapon they had. Rhetoric, fallacy, logic, faulty reasoning—it was a study in statesmanship, and Thargodén watched, listened, and soon, he came to understand who was loyal to him . . . and who was not.

  Every one of those seven days drew him further and further away from his old life, further away from the passive, symbolic king who had haunted the palace for the last fifty years. In seven days, his transformation was almost complete, and he took it upon himself now to mend the damage that had been done, that he had done, if that was at all possible.

  Just as the king observed the machinations of his councillors, so too did Aradan observe his friend. What he saw was both encouraging and profoundly disturbing. Now, more than ever, Thargodén needed his legendary measure, his composure so that he could think clearly, and yet with every day that passed, Thargodén drew quieter and quieter, and in his eyes, the glittering lights of his emotions grew brighter and brighter. It was times like these when Thargodén was capable of the most volatile of deeds. Aradan still remembered the days when Lássira had been forbidden to him, his silence, the inner turmoil that had then led to the unlikely day in which he had confronted King Or’Talán himself.

  But just as the king was returning, so was Aradan changing. He had always been the measured voice of caution and yet now, he wondered if it was, perhaps, time for him to show his colours, show his loyalty, and cease trying to pull people together, stop trying to negotiate and start imposing order rather than asking for it. Surely measure was no longer possible while Band’orán was still in the picture.

  But Aradan wasn’t like that. He never had been. He was a negotiator, a believer in a society that was diverse in its beliefs, in faith or in the lack of it. He had always believed that respect for others was the key to harmony. He had never doubted that—until now.

  The day had come to vote and still, there was no consensus at all.

  As Thargodén sat on his throne, head bent towards his crown prince as they spoke quietly, Aradan turned his head and watched the councillors in the semi-circle before them. They were already arguing, even before the session had begun. The two Silvans and half of the Alpine councillors were immersed in debate, while those Alpine councillors who either followed Band’orán or had yet to decide, listened, almost impassively. It was these councillors that Aradan watched the closest.

  Band’orán had surely lavished promises upon them in exchange for their negative votes, and Barathon and Draugole had undoubtedly reminded them of Band’orán’s determination to bring back the glory days of Tar’eastór. Rinon had remained neutral to the public eye, but every one of the last seven evenings, he had reported what he had seen, what he had heard, and then king, prince, and advisor would analyse and plan their tactics for the following day.

  For today.

  Now, there was no more time for persuasion: the day of voting was upon them. The council chambers were ringing with raised voices, not only from the semi-circle of finely-decked councillors but also from the public areas to each side of the room. Elves shouted and argued, waved their hands about, and Aradan thought General Huren wise to have set extra guards around the chamber.

  Hopes were high, tempers were high. Even Aradan’s.

  “Order, order!” shouted Den’har, banging his staff repeatedly against the stone floors, face red and veins bulging in his neck. “Order in the King’s halls!”

  The noise began to die down, and the master of ceremonies wasted no time.

  “To the proposal of an equitable council, in which the current number of Alpine councillors will be complemented by an equal number of Silvan councillors, state your vote ‘aye’ or ‘nay’ after your name.

  The silence was absolute now. From one side of the hall, the Alpines watched their rulers with keen interest while on the other, the Silvans looked on with barely-contained hope. Aradan watched them, saw Erthoron and Lorthil stand with their people and behind them, two Ari’atór.

  And then the voting started and what Aradan had first seen in Erthoron’s wise eyes began to change. The hope dulled, and for a moment he thought he saw grief. It was fleeting, and his endearing face seemed to sharpen.

  Hurt, rejection; despair, anger.

  Aradan closed his eyes, because his worst fears had been confirmed. The royal council had voted against equality. They would not allow any more Silvans amongst them, and all he could hear now was the beat of his own distressed heart.

  Den’har, master of ceremonies, wisely pushed forward and to the second vote, and while a decent number of councillors agreed to the return of the warlord, the rest refused to vote, stating that it was a military decision and, as such, should be voted by the captains, by the Inner Circle. It was utter cynicism, because the outcome of such a vote was clear. The Inner Circle was Alpine. They would never allow the return of the warlord and the Silvans knew this all too well.

  Aradan spared a momentary glance at his king’s profile. Something had changed in that stony countenance, and he wondered if Rinon on his other side had noticed. There was feeling in the normally blank stare the king wore on occasions such as these, and the colour of his face was not so pale and frosty. His features were not slack and placid but pulled tight, ready to snap.

  Chaos erupted in the hall.

  “Order! Order!”

  But Den’har’s pleas for silence were drowned beneath seething words of anger and equally heated words that called for dignity and acceptance. Guards tightened their fingers around their spears, eyes darting around for some sign that perhaps they should intervene. Most were Silvan, struggling to ignore the plight of their people and yet keep them from invading the semi-circle. They wanted to stand with them, shout out their own indignation, but their sense of duty and honour would not allow it.

  One Silvan jumped over the wooden railings that separated the public from the council, waving his arms and shouting madly.

  “Have you all lost your minds! We are not your slaves!”

  Laughter from some of the younger Alpine spectators far on the other side of the hall followed the impassioned words, while the councillors stood in alarm at the breech. Soon, more Silvans were jumping the railings and converging on the council, and guards ran to block them, holding their spears out to stop them. Civilians crashed with the guard and clamoured for a way past them, but they were held at bay while the councillors made to flee, eyes wide and disbelieving. Only three stood their ground, one with a smile of disgust, one with distant, cool interest and the other in growing trepidation for what his father had unleashed.

  But some Alpines bowed their heads in shame, even as others shouted and gestured for the Silvans to get back, to behave themselves like elves and not animals.

  One Silvan managed to worm his way through the barricade but was caught by the gloved hand of an Alpine guard and thrown to the ground. He stood defiantly, only to be viciously backhanded, but the shouting did not stop—and now, it was accompanied by screams from both sides, and even from the semi-circle itself. Vardú held her arms out to her compatriots, a desperate plea for calm while others looked wildly around them.

&nb
sp; Another Silvan ran through the struggling line of guards and made it to the semi-circle. Standing in fury before an Alpine councillor who had given a negative, had sneered at his people, his fist reached out to grab the fine cloth of his tunic and then he shook hard while most of the remaining council scattered in alarm, scrolls left abandoned upon the now almost empty benches.

  “Why? Why? Have you no shame?!”

  The councillor was jostled wildly, blond hair flying around him, panicked eyes and hands held up in surrender. The Silvan was pulled back by another guard and pushed away, back to the Silvan enclosure and timidly, the councillors crept back to their places, albeit their eyes did not leave the angry Silvan mob that was now being successfully contained as more guards ran in to reinforce the barricade.

  Aradan stood, almost as if he had been pulled up by some invisible entity. He strode up to the front benches of the semi-circle and then filled his lungs with air with a sonorous rush. He bellowed long and hoarse into the air, all the frustrations of the past days rushing from him violently, all the years of measured patience suddenly gone. It was not only the king who had changed. It was him.

  Aradan had snapped and one word rolled from his mouth.

  “Silence!”

  An echo—and then another.

  The councillors turned shocked eyes away from the Silvans and to the king’s chief councillor. Aradan had never shouted, not once . . . and never like that, not that hoarse, pent-up roar of anger. Soon enough, even the public areas had fallen silent, their curious eyes upon Aradan, even those of his Silvan wife who stood at the very back, anonymous in her long cloak and hood—but she did not stand with the Alpines. She stood on the Silvan side.

  Aradan had things to say—things that would no longer be contained behind his steel doors of temperance and measure.

  “I am so very ashamed,” he hissed. “So very humiliated to be a part of this mockery of a royal council!” he thundered. “Where is your dignity? Your pride? Where is your loyalty to your king and your vocation to service—unto others? Where are your scruples and your common sense? Where are your hearts? By Aria, have you none?