Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  They were opulent, fit for a crown prince. Rinon smirked to himself. Perhaps he thought to prepare, for should Barathon’s father succeed and take the throne from Thargodén, surely that was what Barathon would be. The mental smirk turned into a snarl he was hard-pressed to hide.

  “Here, try this!”

  Rinon reached for the goblet and allowed his eyes to fix on the thick amber liquid. He swirled it once and took it to his nose, inhaling the heavy aroma of wood and spice. His eyes watched Barathon as he drank with a scandalous gulp and a roar of delight.

  “So strong.” Barathon wheezed and then smiled, watching as Rinon took a sip of his own brandy and swallowed it down, his face as frigid as it almost always was in public. Barathon’s smile slipped a little as he gestured to the sofa before the hearth.

  “I wonder, Cousin, what your thoughts are with respect to The Silvan boy.”

  Rinon turned to Barathon, who sat beside him, staring into the flames.

  “My thoughts do not matter, Barathon. It is the king’s thoughts that matter.”

  “Rinon, I know you are loyal, but I ask as your cousin—he is, after all, your half-brother.”

  “I have one brother, Barathon, and that is Handir.”

  “Ah. Well, I cannot blame you for feeling that way. I certainly would.” There was silence for a while, until Barathon spoke once more. “You heard that forester, saw the reaction of the Silvan people to his tale. It worries me, Rinon, for they make of him a hero.”

  It was true; Rinon could not refute Barathon’s words. The Silvan people were desperately seeking a way to escape their submission, a way to make their voice heard, and The Silvan was the only claim they had.

  “I will give you that, Barathon. They have made of him a legend it seems.”

  “And legends are dangerous, Rinon. We cannot allow the Silvan people to rebel, to claim their own lord, their own prince. If we allow this, we hand them the power to overthrow our king.”

  Rinon’s eyes were back on Barathon, but he did not show his rising temper at being played for a fool. “Well, the boy is not here—and still they have turned their backs on us. I do not think they need him to rebel. They are already doing that.”

  “Yes. But Erthoron is not the one to move them, Rinon. They will be back. They need us to survive.”

  It was Rinon’s turn to smile, but it was not kind. “You underestimate them. We would do well not to push too hard lest they push back.”

  “Then we let them push. With no leader, no organised army of their own I see no need to tremble in our boots, Prince. This will end peacefully. The Silvans will not raise weapons against us. They may be many things, but they are not stupid.”

  “There was nothing peaceful about how the Silvans left the talks, Barathon.” Rinon watched his cousin from the corner of his eyes, observed the soft smile he tried to hide.

  “No. But we will not be goaded into a war, Rinon. We can temper their anger. What is important now, perhaps, is that they do not close off the Forest, impede our passage and thus grow strong, rebuild their army and stand against us.”

  “Speak clearly, Barathon. You are skirting the question with subtleties.”

  Barathon smirked. “There will be an important decision to take at the Inner Circle, one I believe will solve that problem. We must not allow them their warlord, especially not the one they propose. The vote must be negative, and many of our captains will look to you for guidance.”

  Rinon held his tongue for a moment so that Barathon would think he was considering it. “I will listen to that proposal and vote accordingly, of course.”

  “Of course. You are Crown Prince; you have a duty to be objective. I expected no less of you.”

  Rinon nodded and took a gulp of his brandy. It momentarily distracted him from Barathon’s oily presence, his naïve attempts at sounding him out, his failure to understand that Rinon had done exactly that. He would leave him guessing as to where Rinon’s loyalties lay, and then, he would report directly to his father and Aradan.

  Erthoron, Lorthil, and Sarodén sat together with Amareth at the evening fire. The Silvan camp was slowly being dismantled. They were in no rush to leave. Two months stood before them, two months of doubts and fierce discussion. Erthoron knew he would be hard pressed to keep the Silvan people united.

  “We need information,” began Erthoron. “We need to know that he is safe, that he knows who he is. We need to know that he will help us.”

  “We don’t even know if he’s alive,” said Lorthil. “The fact that we have received nothing from Tar’eastór suggests that communication is being intercepted, hindered at the very least. Lainon would not have left us guessing like this purposefully.”

  “No, he would not,” said Erthoron. “We are alone for now, as we have always been. We had one hope, and that hope is dwindling.”

  Amareth’s eyes caught Sarodén’s gaze from across the fire. If Fel’annár was dead, then her own isolated life of constant vigilance and censored words would have been for nothing. But something told her he was alive. Her question was whether he would accept this duty his own people laid upon him, which they all but demanded of him. But then, had the Alpines not just taken away his right to represent the Silvan people at court? Had they not just flung the decision regarding the warlord to the Inner Circle so that it could be summarily cast out?

  They had placed their hopes in Fel’annár, but of all of those present, Amareth knew Fel’annár the best. He would not be manipulated. He would not accept an imposition unless he saw the benefits, believed in them. She couldn’t blame them, though, because they could not feel what lay beneath the extraordinary face, could not feel his power, that unnamed element she had always known resided in her son’s soul.

  Lássira, too, had felt it.

  Clinking glass and then silence. Band’orán sipped his wine, and Draugole watched him while Barathon stared at the floor. The fourth elf in the room sat silently, nursing his goblet.

  “That was—unexpected,” said Draugole, breaking the charged silence in the room.

  “Yes. And we must now ask ourselves why we had not expected it. Thargodén was broken . . . until the Silvan bastard made himself known,” droned Band’orán.

  Draugole frowned. That note of anger was not characteristic of Band’orán’s day-to-day demeanour. He had seen it before, though, and his body tensed. “My lord, the king has vetoed his own council. We can exploit that, show Thargodén unfit for the throne.”

  “Yes. But what of those councillors? They cost us a great deal in time, money and promises and now, we have two months to stop them from changing their minds. The king will wrench from them an oath of fealty . . . under threat of exile should they break it. We will lose some of those votes.”

  “They may fear Thargodén, but they will fear you more, my lord. We can show them the consequences of a change of heart.”

  “But who will they fear more, Draugole? Me or the king we saw today?” The lord’s glacial eyes skewered Draugole, and the councillor hesitated to answer for a moment, because somehow, he knew that a wrong word would tip the precarious balance in Band’orán’s mind.

  “They will fear you more, my lord. We must assure them that those consequences are heftier than any punishment the king may impose upon them.”

  “Yes,” said Band’orán, temporarily placated, and then he turned to his son. “And you, Barathon? Who will they fear more?”

  Draugole resisted the urge to close his eyes, and Barathon stood frozen. “You, of course, Father,” he murmured, but the young lord’s face was petrified and Band’orán saw it. It satisfied him, and it disgusted him.

  “My lord,” called Draugole. “I will speak with our new councillors immediately, before the king’s summons. I feel confident I can make it clear to them the better option—the stronger king.”

  Band’orán’s head snapped to him as if he had been jolted from deep thought. Draugole knew that he had, just as he could feel the almost tangible relief fr
om Barathon at his intervention.

  “Very well. Report to me as soon as it is done. The next time this vote is taken, our path will be clear at last.”

  “Very well, my lord,” said Draugole. “Lord Barathon, a word if you will,” he said, cocking his head to the door.

  Barathon nodded and, with a bow to his father, strode for the door. Once on the other side, the young lord kept his eyes to the ground, unwilling to acknowledge that Draugole had rescued him from his father’s wrath, yet again. He was a loyal son, and it was times like these when Draugole rued the day he had been caught in Band’orán’s web. It was not too late for Barathon, but it was for him.

  He had seen too much, done too much, changed too much.

  Thirteen

  Let Go

  “To dive blindfolded over the edge of a cliff . . . close your eyes and fall backwards into the arms of a stranger. It takes faith and no small amount of temerity. Fel’annár knew this, just as he knew he could no longer avoid it. Perhaps there was water beyond that cliff, perhaps the stranger behind him was a brother—or a lover. And so he jumped and he fell, for this was the only way to understand what lay beyond.”

  The Silvan Chronicles book V. Marhené.

  Captain Dagarí and his reconnaissance team had returned, and he stood now before the three commanders in the map room. Dagarí had positioned himself upon the carved cliff face of Queen’s Fall, and Gor’sadén followed as the captain slowly circled the area, Pan’assár and Hobin close behind.

  “Commander, we have observed multiple signs of old Deviant activity here.” He pointed to the entrance of a system of caves on the opposite ridge—Crag’s Nest. “While the tracks lead inside, there is nothing to suggest the Deviants left. We ventured inside, as far as we dared, but the truth is that those tunnels are narrow. I cannot understand what they are doing down there in the dark.”

  Gor’sadén’s boots clicked over the carved wood, hands behind his back.

  “Any engagement . . . anywhere?”

  “None, Sir. The only unusual Deviant activity is that there now seems to be none at all, not even at Queen’s Fall. However irrational this may seem, it looks as if they have all come together at this one point, inside these caves, and have just—disappeared.”

  “Is there any indication of their numbers, Captain?” asked Hobin.

  “Sir, our best estimate is a thousand at least. There could be more, though, for the tracks were multiple and sometimes three and four-fold. They are difficult to quantify.”

  “This is highly uncommon, Gor’sadén,” began Hobin. “Deviants band together for protection, but I have never seen groups of more than seventy or eighty.”

  “Sir, there is something else,” said Dagarí, his eyes darting from Gor’sadén to Pan’assár and then Hobin. “We found other tracks, not Deviant, and they also lead inside the caves. I have only ever seen such markings in the War Tomes.”

  “Show me,” ordered Gor’sadén.

  “Sir, we drew these,” he said, pulling parchment from one of the pockets in his tunic and showing it to the commander.

  Gor’sadén scowled while Pan’assár peered over his shoulder. Hobin stepped closer and took the parchment from Gor’sadén. He straightened almost imperceptibly. Turning, he stepped off the map and walked to a long table upon which a large, leather-bound tome stood open upon a frame, two candles flickering beside it. The War Tomes were always open, ready to be referenced at any moment the commanders might need information. Hobin flipped through the heavy pages until he found what he was looking for. He tapped the page three times and then turned to his companions.

  “They have a Gas Lizard.”

  “That’s not possible. They are extinct,” said Pan’assár.

  “We thought them extinct, Commander. It seems we were wrong,” said Gor’sadén.

  Gas Lizards had not been sighted for centuries. They were thought to have originated on the shores of the Pelagian Sea. The caves around those bays and inlets were once treacherous. Nobody ventured there save for the poor souls who had been shipwrecked and then left to the mercy of Lizards. The creatures were large, twice the height of an elf, with gills on either side of their heads. Dangerous in themselves, but it was what lay inside those gills that struck fear in the hearts of any unlucky enough to stand before the beast—bright orange gas, a toxic haze that rendered any who stood before it unconscious. It was a small mercy for its victims, as it would then rip apart their bodies and feed to its heart’s delight.

  “This is perplexing,” murmured Hobin, walking back onto the map and rounding on Queen’s Fall and then Crag’s Nest. “A fully-grown Gas Lizard is large, and Captain Dagarí has reported only narrow passes towards the back of these caves. How has it navigated those? Where has it gone?”

  Hobin’s strange blue eyes sparkled in the orange light, and Gor’sadén stared back at the Ari Supreme Commander, unable to answer the question they had all been asking themselves.

  “These caves must be deeper and larger than we suspected,” began Hobin. “There must be sufficient space, water, and food for them to remain inside. This is abnormal in itself, just as the company of a Gas Lizard and Deviants is unnatural. Why have they not killed each other?”

  “Sir, we know where they are. Surely that is all we need. We can wait for the thaw and then destroy the entrances. This may be a blessing in disguise. We could kill perhaps thousands of Deviants without engaging them in battle.”

  “Perhaps, Captain. But I do not think that is the case at all. We cannot ignore these strange movements, this strange alliance of Deviant and Gas Lizard,” said Gor’sadén. “Your thoughts, Commanders?”

  “This Gas Lizard could be what Fel’annár’s trees were referring to,” mused Pan’assár. “The creature has the most colourful patches of skin around those fiery gills, and while it is vile in every other aspect, that collar is quite spectacular, lovely from what I have seen in books.”

  “Then it may make sense that this thing, the Nim’uán, is the Gas Lizard. Still, it does not answer the questions of where the Deviants are, why they are converging, and why a Gas Lizard is with them.”

  Pan’assár nodded. “Still, we can try to seal those entrances, bury them. The thaws are upon us—by the time we arrive at Crag’s Nest, the risk of avalanche will be over.”

  “I don’t like this,” said Gor’sadén, shaking his head. “There are too many unanswered questions, too many unlikely events. I am calling a General Alert. Dagarí, I want all our captains in the briefing hall tomorrow at the ninth hour. Anyone on leave is to return immediately, effective as of tomorrow. I want Master Healer Arané to join us for the briefing tomorrow morning—if we are to face a Gas Lizard, I would have our warriors understand the risks and how to avoid the fumes. I need our engineers to take us through the details of how to seal those caves, and I want the weapons masters to prepare spears and shields; we may need long-range weapons, heavier than arrows.

  “We ride in two days, Commanders, and we will be ready for every possible outcome—even full-out war. Commander Hobin, are you with us?”

  “I am with you. Araria will see this done.”

  Gor’sadén’s stern gaze lingered on Hobin, who returned it steadily. Pan’assár passed his friend, eyes moving from him and to the Ari’atór and then leaving, sensing Gor’sadén’s need to speak with the commander, thinking perhaps he had an inkling as to why.

  Alone in the map room, the doors banged shut and Gor’sadén turned to Hobin.

  “Will you tell me now, why you are here?” His voice was slow, soft, not that of a commander.

  Hobin raised his head and then turned slowly, towards the table where the War Tomes stood open. Gor’sadén followed.

  “Ari’atór do not lie, Gor’sadén. I am here at your behest, although admittedly, there is a second reason.”

  “You are here for Fel’annár.”

  Hobin turned, and then nodded. “Yes. He was close to Lainon; I thought to tell him personally, tha
t he has found himself, alive once more in Valley.”

  Gor’sadén scowled. “So fast? Surely that is not normal.”

  Hobin stared back at the commander, unwilling to disclose Lainon’s status as Ber’ator, because Gor’sadén would guess the rest and it was not for Hobin to tell him. Only Fel’annár could do that, if he saw fit to.

  “It is not unheard of, commander. Lieutenant Tensári was shown his return, by the grace of Aria,” he murmured and turned to the War Tomes, one finger tracing over the ancient parchment.

  “However,” continued Gor’sadén, “you met Fel’annár but once, you do not know him at all. Why did you feel the need to tell him personally of Lainon’s return? Surely Tensári was the obvious choice. Hobin. I know you do not lie, but neither do you offer me the truth. I have taken Fel’annár as my apprentice in the Kal’hamén’Ar. As such, he is my responsibility. If there is something I should know …”

  “Gor’sadén. I cannot tell you what you want to know.” He walked towards the commander, head cocked to one side, as if he was reading into his mind. It took a lot to unnerve Gor’sadén, but Hobin did just that, even though he would never allow him to see it. “I understand that you are close to him, that your concern is genuine, and I am thankful that he has you to guide him. He will need you, but as to why; only he can tell you that.”

  “Then answer this one thing, Hobin. All Ari’atór find themselves, yes. But there is only one reason I can think of, as to why Lainon has returned so fast. It is in your books of lore. I am sure you understand my meaning …” Gor’sadén’s eyes were bright in the half light of the map room but Hobin’s shone from the inside and he was reminded for a moment, of Fel’annár.