Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  “You all took an oath, an oath to uphold the law, to serve our people – our people – Alpine and Silvan alike and yet you will not allow them to have a say in the rulings of these lands? None of you, not one, can convince me that this comes from your common sense or even your hearts. This vote is a consequence of your pride and your pockets. It is a grotesque manifestation of the rot that has taken hold of you, twisted you into servers unto yourselves. Greedy, power-frenzied elves, seduced by an elf who pursues but one thing. To take the throne from its rightful owner, take it all for himself.”

  He paused, eyes turning away from the councillors and landing squarely on Band’orán. “You couldn’t take it from your brother and now, you try to take it from your nephew.”

  The council was utterly silent, incredulous eyes turning from Aradan to Band’orán, watching as he stood, his black robes of velvet and silk falling gracefully around him but his face – his face was a twisted and warped version of the mask of indifference he had always maintained in public. Until now.

  Aradan suddenly realised what he had done, what he had said. He faltered, stunned that he had let go of his measure, of his control. Band’orán would use it against him now, call him weak and frightened, rally the Alpine councillors he had fought so hard to win over, use Aradan’s outburst as proof that Thargodén was ill-counselled. He had failed his king and he opened his mouth to speak. But no words would come, even though his mind screamed at him to stop Band’orán from speaking, for he would bend those words, warp them out of all recognition and strengthen his sway over the indecisive.

  What have I done?

  The dangerous hiss of one long sword sliding free of its scabbard jolted him and Aradan spun around to the source, to a king who stood tall, powerful, commanding and wrathful, the legendary sword of Or’Talán glinting before him—and he was thunderous: fearsome. Aradan’s eyes slipped to Rinon, just behind the king, his hand upon his own sword hilt, following his father as he strode towards the council.

  Aradan turned back to Band’orán, his eyes no longer slits of unsuppressed ire but wide and surprised, words frozen on his poisonous tongue. His mask slowly slipped back into place and Aradan stepped sideways as the king approached, but instead of continuing to the semi-circle, Thargodén turned towards the Alpine guard with a Silvan civilian lying bleeding at his feet. The guard turned, dropped his spear, had every intention of falling to his knees, but there was no time before the back of a jewelled hand impacted with the side of his face, sending him reeling to one side, his helm skittering across the floor.

  “Your oath is returned to you. I do not want it. You are not fit to serve in my army.”

  “My king,” pleaded the guard, kneeling before him with a split lip and messy hair.

  “You disgust me. Out of my sight,” he growled.

  The guard’s eyes widened, and then he seemed lost, did not even straighten himself, and the king turned to the Silvan on the ground, who looked up at him with wide eyes. Thargodén’s imposing ire seemed to simply disappear, one strange moment in which his face was soft and kind and love, not wrath, shone in his eyes. He held his hand out, watching as it was taken, tentatively, and he pulled the elf to his feet. He nodded, and then whirled on his heels and strode towards the semi-circle, eyes blazing a burning trail across his councillors. Some knelt, heads bowed while others stood wide-eyed, disbelieving, for before them was a version of their vanquished king which they had never seen. It was as if some more primal version stood before them, all atavistic power, as if he had surged from the depths of the earth to wreak terror upon them, and Aradan watched, wide-eyed, a surge of almost painful pride stealing his breath, and as Thargodén came to stand beside him before the council, for the first time in decades, Aradan stood tall, unfettered, unleashed, just like his king.

  Band’orán, though, stood watching, eyes apparently curious but Aradan knew better. For one, odd moment, the eyes of an uncle locked with those of his nephew. Thargodén’s eyes blazed in unchecked anger, unwavering, so intense that Band’orán felt his own resolve falter. He almost looked away, had almost been defeated, but the king’s eyes lifted from him.

  Thargodén had come to know who paid genuine obeisance to him, just as he knew the identity of those who had been swayed. They bowed, too, but the treachery in their eyes was so clear to Thargodén that he almost laughed at their pantomime. He could see it as plainly as he could see his father’s sword in his own hands.

  “Seven of you have failed to offer satisfactory reasoning as to your votes. Seven of you offer no reasons as to your unwillingness to accept Silvan councillors amongst you. Racism is not a reason, it is a fundamental fault in your characters. But then, some of you have done nothing but remain silent. Not one word. Tell me, how can you vote – in all conscience – if you have no opinion? And tell me, how can you have an opinion, if you do not listen? Are these the acts of a worthy councillor?

  “They are not. It is unworthy. You are not fit to serve on this council, and I have lost all faith in you. You can redeem yourselves though, if you can prove that you are willing to serve my people, all of them, and that you are loyal to this crown.

  “Hear me, all of you,” said Thargodén, his voice ringing with inherent power, inborn command. “Your king vetoes the decision of this council until such time that each and every one of those seven unlikely votes can be duly documented, and their casters deemed loyal. To this end I will speak to each and every one of you. With due consideration, your vote may be considered valid . . . should your reasoning be sound, and should your loyalty be deemed genuine. If, at any time thereafter, your treachery is revealed, I will cast you from these lands in public shame, never to return.

  “This shameful council session will be repeated two months hence. Time enough to reconsider. Time enough to prove your loyalty. Time enough for Commander General Pan’assár to return home and oversee the vote regarding the return of the warlord. When these conditions are in place, we will pass judgement once more and my right to veto will be void—the future of these lands and its people will be in your hands.”

  The king breathed deeply, spared one, last, searing gaze at his councillors and then turned to Aradan beside him. The chief councillor bowed low to his king and Thargodén returned it, the deep friendship they shared flaring to life, and from the depths of the Silvan side, at the very back of the stunned crowd, a cloaked lady wept silently, for joy and for pride, and the yearning of a mother who wished with all her heart that her daughter could see her father now.

  Back on his throne of dark, carved wood, Thargodén schooled his features but not so his voice. “Heed me, Councillors—Alpine and Silvan people of Ea Uaré. I will not tolerate treachery. I will not tolerate violence. I will not tolerate discrimination, and I will be implacable in my punishment. This kingdom was built upon the noble premises my father held in his heart his entire life. Service to others, not to himself. Love for others, not for himself. Bravery when honour is called to question. These three things I bid you hold in your own hearts so that you may shine as he once did.

  “In two months’ time I will know where your hearts lie. This mockery of a royal council is dismissed.”

  Thargodén turned to face Rinon, who bowed from the waist for long moments, and Thargodén watched his eyes, saw the fire and the conviction, a captain poised for the final charge. His throne suddenly felt comfortable, for the first time in years—just as Or’Talán’s sword no longer felt frigid, cold in his lax hands. It was a burning lance, a beacon that had somehow shown him the way back to kingship. He had hated his father for tearing Lássira away from him, but so too had he loved him. It was why his father’s treachery had broken him. It was why Rinon hated him so much—because he loved him.

  The three elves cast their eyes over the now softly murmuring hall. Erthoron caught Thargodén’s eyes, and when he did, he bowed slowly, purposefully, giving his people time to notice what he did, copy him if they would, but they didn’t. He straightened, nodded, and
then turned to the semi-circle of councillors. He took a moment to watch as they murmured quietly, and then he turned his back on them, waiting for the rest of his people to do likewise. They all did, and soon, the entire Silvan side stood with their backs to the council hall, and the quiet murmuring turned to shocked silence.

  Aradan closed his eyes and then watched as the Silvan leaders and their people left in silence, watched as Band’orán’s eyes twinkled and glinted oddly.

  Outside, Erthoron turned to his people, his eyes dull, the spark of hope gone and, in its place, the blank stare of one defeated. With his next words, the first Forest Summit ended, as surely as their faith in their Alpine rulers had shattered, as surely as the forest would now be tossed into a heaving mass of indignant and embittered Silvans Erthoron knew he would be hard-pressed to control.

  “We have failed.”

  Later, Aradan, Rinon, and Thargodén sat in the king’s chambers in silence, a glass of wine in their numb hands and a far-away look in their eyes.

  “We have two months,” said the king. “Two months to wrench an oath of fealty from those councillors—under pain of exile should they break it. That may be enough to dissuade them from openly supporting Band’orán in his endeavour to take this throne from me.”

  “Dire measures,” murmured Aradan.

  “Dire stakes, Councillor,” replied Rinon, and Thargodén turned to his crown prince in approval.

  “Some will call you dictator, Thargodén,” warned Aradan, but there was no disapproval in his voice.

  “Only by those Alpine councillors who cleave to Band’orán. That will be his game now, calling me a tyrant for overruling the vote of the council. I am conducting an investigation into the finances and movements of those councillors who sided with him. I would compare the before and the after, what they have now and what they end up having after the vote. I can hopefully discredit them with proof of their treachery, at least.”

  “It may not matter. By then you may no longer be king,” said Rinon.

  “That will not happen, Rinon,” said Aradan, his jaw clenched, and Rinon stared back at him thoughtfully. “We obtain the oath of fealty as the king says, we make those councillors see that they are under our scrutiny, and we should make that a public fact. It is entirely possible that they will change their vote for fear of public humiliation.”

  “If that happens, Band’orán will be stretched to breaking. He will be desperate,” said Rinon.

  “Yes. Yes, he will,” murmured the king. “But years of hatred and scheming, years of treachery and careful planning—it must all come to a head, one way or the other. I believe that time has come.”

  “It has,” confirmed Aradan. “And that end will be defined in two months. Pan’assár will be back by then. He will help us obtain a favourable vote for the reinstatement of the warlord.”

  “Will he?” asked Rinon with a scowl. “You are far more optimistic than I. It is he who has filled the Inner Circle with mewling lordlings who know nothing of warfare. Any soldier knows of his aversion to the Silvans.”

  “He will do it because I will ask it of him,” said Thargodén, and Rinon turned to his father.

  “You would coerce him then? Order him to act against his own beliefs?”

  “Yes. The consequences of a second negative vote will bring war to these lands, Prince. This Alpine army would force the Silvans into submission and a monster would ascend to the throne of the House of Or’Talán. I will do everything, anything, to stop that from happening.”

  Aradan breathed deeply. “I believe you, my friend; indeed I second your words. However, we must be prepared, for two months is a long time to wait and to think, especially when there is no hope. The Silvan people believe they already know the outcome of the vote of the Inner Circle, and they have lost faith that you will be able to change the vote of the council, in spite of what they saw today. They see Band’orán as a powerful, influential elf that others listen to.”

  “But so too did they see their king, Aradan. Thargodén Ar Or’Talán is back, and that must surely give them a glimmer of hope at least.”

  Aradan turned to the crown prince, eyes roving over his glacial form as if he were seeing him again after a long sojourn. “It will be enough for some, sufficient perhaps for Erthoron to try and convince his people that not all is lost. However, we all saw how they left. We all saw their resolve. This land is fractured.” He sighed deeply. “I wish Handir were here, I wish Pan’assár were here, and believe me, I never thought to say those words of late.”

  “The situation is volatile at best,” murmured the king as he sipped absently on his wine. “I am so deeply disappointed in my people, Aradan. So ashamed . . . just as they have been of me.”

  “They have been poisoned, turned slowly and deftly,” said Aradan. “Band’orán is skilled and he is patient. His plan is unfolding, and it is a brilliant one, but heed me, Thargodén. Your years of absence are not the main cause of this. I had your back.”

  Thargodén smiled sadly. He was grateful for what Aradan tried to do—exonerate him from the guilt of having led his nation to the cusp of civil war. But he couldn’t. No one could rid him of the facts, however one wished to justify his motives. But that did not mean that the fight had gone from Or’Talán’s son.

  He had been the cause of Band’orán’s dangerous rise in power, but so too would he be the one to wrench it away from his greedy, grasping hands.

  Rinon watched his father closely, and all the while his mind was working through Band’orán’s plan, even as Aradan spoke.

  “You know, for the last few months I have been pondering Band’orán’s strategy, striving to understand him so that I can anticipate his next moves. And then I noticed a strange pattern I did not think important at the time. Now, though, I begin to realise.” He turned to face the others. “Petitions from lords to acquire land in the Forest, and I do not speak of land surrounding the fortress. I speak of land in the deeper areas of the forest. Tell me now, why would they wish to set up residence there, where they say the Silvans should leave in order for us to protect it? Why would they venture into lands they say cannot be protected in the presence of civilians? Lands they vote not to protect until they are emptied?”

  Rinon’s eyes widened, but Thargodén’s expression was one of tired realisation.

  “They are colonising.”

  “Yes. That is what I believe. And if this is true, then we must also accept that our military reports—are spurious.”

  “No, Huren and Pan’assár are loyal, I am sure of that,” said Thargodén, shaking his head.

  “They may be, but what of the other generals? Maybe they, too, are being played,” mused Aradan. “And if this is the case, the Inner Circle will clearly vote against the return of the Warlord, with or without Pan’assár. The Silvans already believe that—they have been on the receiving end of our Alpine commanders for too long without justice.”

  Silence settled upon the three elves until Rinon’s uncharacteristically soft voice broke it.

  “I wonder if this is not the first time Band’orán has targeted you, Father.”

  King and advisor turned to the crown prince in curiosity. “What do you mean?” asked Aradan.

  “Or’Talán was a warrior king. He led our troops into battle. It was surely a question of time before he fell to the enemy. But of course the king had an heir, one that would take the throne after his demise . . . or not.”

  After a while, the king spoke quietly and thoughtfully. “That is an interesting theory, Prince.”

  “There are many ways to destroy one’s enemies,” added Aradan, eyes moving from one side of the rug to the other. “There are many weapons with which to clear the path to the throne . . .”

  “I wonder,” said Rinon, “I wonder what it was that Band’orán used against Or’Talán in order to separate you from Lássira.”

  “That is, perhaps, the last part in the puzzle, is it not?” asked Aradan. “If you are right, Rinon, and t
he gods forgive me but I believe you may be, then Band’orán had something to bargain with, some asset, some knowledge that was more important to Or’Talán that the heart of his own son.”

  Thargodén considered their words and he could not help but think his uncle was capable of this and much more. “There is a spark of strangeness about him. I have always felt it, writhing beneath the surface.”

  “And I,” said Rinon. “Handir, Maeneth, and I discussed it often. We were frightened of him when we were younger.”

  “So was I,” admitted Thargodén. “Now, though, all he provokes in me is disgust . . . and pity. If he did have something to do with why my father broke me, my hand will not be stayed. I will strike him down, so help me Aria. There will be no exile for him.”

  Aradan looked to Rinon in alarm, but the crown prince was watching his father and in his eyes was something new, something that Aradan, in spite of the dangerous spiral of events, could not help but rejoice at. Upon the crown prince’s face, he saw respect—and he saw pride.

  As for Thargodén, he marvelled at his faithful councillor, his friend of many centuries. Would that his wife, Miren, had seen him standing for the Silvans as he had never done in public before; would that his daughter, Llyniel, returned and mend his heart—see just how brave her father was.

  “Cousin!”

  Rinon turned, watching as Barathon walked towards him and then clapped him on the forearm. “Barathon.” The crown prince smiled stiffly. The meeting he had just left with Aradan and the king had left him in deep thought; the last thing he wanted was to have to deal with his fool cousin.

  “Come, I have human brandy and some time to spare before the evening meal. Drink with me.”

  Rinon considered his offer. He had just left his father’s rooms and he needed to think, but he also knew that human brandy was Barathon’s attempt at gleaning information, at gauging his own reaction to the king’s veto, to the Silvans’ gesture of rejection and the upcoming inquiries the king would conduct. But Rinon had his own information to glean, so he nodded and followed Barathon to his nearby suite of rooms.