Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  “Fel’annár . . . don’t. Not for me . . .”

  “Trust me.”

  And she did. With all her heart she trusted him, but her tongue was tied. She should have told him when she had the chance—should never have pulled away from their kiss.

  They drew together and his hand brushed hers. Her fingers entwined with his for a brief second, even though the sight of him struck fear in her heart. Was this the same elf she had kissed in the tree? Her gaze briefly crossed with his strangely glowing eyes, his hair that seemed to move too slowly for the lunging strides he took. This was no longer Fel’annár, The Silvan. This was a force of nature.

  “Down.”

  Fel’annár’s muscles bunched and he surged forwards, powerful legs propelling him onto his hands, and he flipped forwards, feeling the rush of air just past his cheek as an arrow flew close by. A whispered warning, a streak of purple as if it traced the direction he should follow. Another arrow grazed the sole of his boot just as he landed, running with the momentum. Another thwack he knew he should not be able to hear, and he cartwheeled and then side-twisted, an arrow glancing over his thigh, ripping the material. A green wisp, like a gauzy green banner, and he followed it, summersaulting forwards as yet more arrows rained down on him, but they missed and he was sprinting towards two open-mouthed assassins who held their swords out before them—as if they stood alone before a charging host of Deviants.

  The arrows had stopped and Fel’annár could only pray to Aria that Llyniel had scurried away, that she had not been shot and that the trees would protect her.

  He jumped, one last time, both legs out before him, booted feet smashing into the elf that had been holding Llyniel. He crashed to the ground like falling timber, unmoving, and Fel’annár whirled around to face the second assailant, both blades before him.

  He lunged forwards, a probing move to test his opponent’s skill. The blades were parried, and this enemy countered. Fast enough, skilled enough, but Fel’annár easily blocked the move and stepped forwards again. He attacked, and his foe was hard-pressed to defend himself. He stepped backwards and then again. A crafty lunge to one side and then the other, meant to confuse, but Fel’annár had foreseen it, countered it, and then, with a flick of his wrist, his opponent’s sword flew from his hands and Fel’annár kicked out.

  The elf stumbled backwards, drawing a small dagger from his belt as he backed further towards the spindly birch tree. Using the trunk as leverage, he lunged forwards—and then seemed to stop mid-air, eyes bulging wide as he looked down to the source of his problem. A tree root had wrapped itself around his boot and would not let go. He shrieked and threw himself upon the ground, desperately trying to free himself.

  Fel’annár kicked the dagger from his hand and then turned with just enough time to duck and keep his head on his shoulders. Manoeuvring under the blade, he cursed his inattention, for the other soldier had not been knocked out. He had only fallen and then cunningly played dead. With one, perfectly executed frontal attack, Fel’annár disarmed him . . . just as a cloud of stones and dirt flew into his face. He was momentarily blinded, and it was all his attacker needed to move in. Before Fel’annár knew what was happening, he felt a body behind his own and his throat begin to tighten, rope burning into his flesh, squeezing. He was choking, and he instinctively dropped his blades, grappling with the rope that was throttling him. He felt himself tugged sideways, turned about, and then his attacker was shouting at his companion.

  “Shoot him, shoot him!”

  Fel’annár found himself face-to-face with a loaded bow even as he was being strangled from behind. The kneeling elf drew—a sure target, impossible to miss, and then an arrow came sailing through the air, hitting him in the temple. The arrow pointing at Fel’annár flew wide, and the body of his would-be shooter crumpled to the ground, tree root still coiled around his boot. There was another thud, and Fel’annár’s attacker momentarily loosened his hold on the rope around his neck. Fel’annár pulled hard and then drove his elbow into his opponent’s stomach. Kicking backwards, he sent the elf flying away until he fell, quickly rolling onto all fours, an arrow sticking out of his shoulder. Fel’annár was free and he crashed to his knees, struggling for breath, just as his attacker made to escape; but Carodel and Idernon were running towards him, bows trained on Macurian, who raised his hands in surrender, even as his eyes darted around, searching for a means to escape. It was Ramien who fisted the neck of his cloak and shook him like a dusty blanket until he stilled.

  The rest of The Company and Llyniel soon joined them, breath short and eyes wide.

  “You foolish idiot! I swear I could beat you to a pulp for what you just did,” roared Galadan in wrath, while Galdith pulled Fel’annár to his feet and then hugged him so tight it hurt, and when he let go, Fel’annár sucked in a much-needed breath of air. The others laughed, but Idernon was shaking his head, eyes a little too bright.

  “That was a mighty shot,” rasped Fel’annár as he clapped Idernon on the shoulder before nodding at Carodel. “Two mighty shots.”

  Carodel blushed. “I was aiming for the back of his neck …”

  Idernon’s eyes rose to the heavens but Fel’annár snickered and then coughed. “Good enough,” he rasped.

  “All the better for you, lackwit,” muttered the Wise Warrior, his fear slowly abating.

  Llyniel stepped forward, and Galdith moved to one side for her. Fel’annár’s eyes roved over her face, her body. She seemed mostly unhurt save for a bruise on her cheek and her messy hair. She wanted to speak, but she wasn’t capable of it. Too many questions, too many things she wanted to say, but her body moved of its own accord and she walked into his arms, relishing the strength and warmth of his chest—and the heart that miraculously still beat below, against all the odds.

  This was what Handir had warned her of, and she had foolishly discarded it, telling herself it was pleasure she sought . . . but Handir had always seen through her, seen what she herself had not wanted to admit.

  “Let’s get this one back for questioning,” said Idernon, gesturing to a still struggling Macurian. “I am sure he has a fascinating story to tell.”

  Fel’annár held Llyniel at arm’s length with a sigh of relief, before turning and nodding at Idernon and then bending to pick up his discarded blades. His eyes strayed to the dead attacker and then to the root that was still wrapped around his boot. He smirked, bent down, and brushed his fingers over it, watching as it loosened and then disappeared into the earth.

  Control. He smiled.

  Standing, he turned to Sontúr, who was striding towards the elf Fel’annár somehow knew had been stalking him all this time.

  “So you are the renegade Shadow . . .” said Sontúr, voice low and dangerous.

  “It is not personal, my prince.”

  “It is to me!”

  Macurian stared back at the furious prince, but he said no more—and then he startled when Llyniel gasped and then staggered backwards. All conversation stopped, and they turned to Fel’annár. A soft breeze lifted his hair behind him, and his eyes seemed overly bright—until they flared and Llyniel stepped backwards again, and then again, bumping into Galadan’s chest while Macurian struggled in Ramien’s grip, eyes wide in terror.

  “Don’t be afraid, lass,” said Galadan quietly.

  Everything was shaking. The ground beneath his feet was vibrating, something was surging from the depths, but he knew the others couldn’t feel it, just as they couldn’t hear the trumpet calls of the Sentinels as they echoed over the land. From far below and the Downlands to the tallest Sentinel upon the High Plains. They bellowed their warnings across the land—and to Fel’annár. His soul lurched, and deep dread weighed in his heart.

  “Company.” His voice sounded weak, but he could hardly hear himself over the din he knew the others could not hear.

  “Fel’annár?” called Ramien.

  “The Nim’uán. I didn’t understand.”

  “Nim’uán?” asked Ll
yniel, but Fel’annár was lost in some vision. He saw a tall, powerful being, sitting atop what he knew was a Gas Lizard, and in the creature’s keen, intelligent eyes was the light of curiosity. He was beautiful to behold in his fine armour, but then he smiled and the beauty was gone, and in its wake were the jowls of a predator. He seemed paler then, almost dead. This was a monster—and yet he was an elf.

  This was the Nim’uán, not beautiful monster but elven Monster.

  “Fel’annár?” insisted Idernon in growing anxiety.

  “The trees call Deviants monsters. I did not understand why they would say ‘beautiful monster.’ Beautiful is their word for elf.”

  Galdith hissed, and Sontúr strode forward. “What is happening? Is there movement? We should inform Gor’sadén and . . .”

  “Too late. They are here,” he murmured.

  “Who are here?” asked Macurian, still struggling before Ramien, his relentless fist bunching his collar.

  “The Nim’uán and his army. He rides atop a Gas Lizard as his Deviant army comes through tunnels deep in the mountain.”

  “What in hell is a Nim’uán?” asked the assassin in rising panic. He couldn’t see this army Fel’annár spoke of, yet still, the others did not question the veracity of his claims, for they stood wide-eyed and pale, and for the first time he wondered just who it was that Silor had ordered him to kill. For the first time he questioned himself.

  The ground lurched, and rocks and boulders began to fall around them. Ramien jumped sideways, losing his grip on Macurian. A large rock caught the Shadow in the side of the head, and he fell away, rolling with the boulders until he was lost to their sight.

  The rock slide was the first evidence that something was happening, and Fel’annár turned urgent eyes to them.

  “Listen to me, Sontúr. They are too close to the citadel. Your army will not be able to march out in time before they are breeching the walls. We can’t allow that to happen.”

  Sontúr visibly paled, eyes wide. “What are you saying? Breech the walls? You speak of an army!”

  “They come by the thousands, Sontúr.”

  He had not understood the magnitude of Fel’annár’s claims. None of them had.

  “But what is it you think you can do? Charge them all by yourself? What will that gain us? We all run back now, raise the alarm, and then we march out with the army.”

  “Listen to me, Sontúr,” hissed Fel’annár, taking his friend by the shoulders, his grip bruising. “By the time Gor’sadén organises our ranks, they will be upon the gates. He needs time, time we do not have. You are a lieutenant—you know I am right. He needs to gather our warriors, archers, captains, and lieutenants. He needs to stock the ramparts with arrows, prepare the defences on the high walls. Warriors need their armour, shields, and pikes. The Halls need to prepare. If they are not ready when the Deviants charge, the war will be fought inside your city. I must make sure that does not happen. That Gor’sadén can meet them outside the wall, away from the citizens. Heed me, Prince.”

  Sontúr released a shaky breath and half-turned away from Fel’annár.

  “I can’t leave you here to die . . .”

  “You must. You are their prince. They will heed you.”

  The prince closed his eyes, and when he opened them once more, he looked at Fel’annár and The Company, eyes pleading with them to gainsay Fel’annár’s words.

  But they didn’t.

  “What are you going to do, Fel’annár?” he asked.

  “I must try to use this gift I have. It may not work, and yes, I will die. But there is a chance that it will work, enough at least to give Gor’sadén the time he will need to march out with the army.”

  “And if your gift is not powerful enough and you die, I must live with the knowledge that you died for nothing.”

  “No. You will live with the knowledge that I died for love. That is the warrior’s pledge.”

  Sontúr’s eyes filled with tears and he stepped back, but his eyes stubbornly refused to leave those of his friend, this brother he had found just months ago. He knew this was the last time he would look upon that extraordinary face, one he would never forget. Fel’annár’s eyes were glowing bright, but there was no mistaking the farewell in them. Sontúr wanted to scream, he wanted to stay, but his duty was to his people, to his city, and his king. Drawing his sword, he saluted with the pommel of his blade, fighting back the tears. “I will march out and avenge you, all of you. This is my promise.” With a nod and a watery smile, he turned to Llyniel.

  “Come, Healer. There is much to do,” he said. She returned his gaze of water and steel and then turned to Fel’annár. Panic threatened to loosen her tongue, but she stilled it. She did not know what Fel’annár planned, and there was no time for explanations. Still, his eyes shone unnaturally, his gift with the trees bared to them all. But what good would that do him before a host of thousands of Deviants, as he claimed were coming?

  She was angry, told herself she was confused, but she wasn’t. She was denying her heart like a fool, and her legs ran to him and embraced him hard, as if he were dangling from the edge of a cliff—as if she thought perhaps that she could save him from inevitable death. He pushed her back by the shoulders and then bent his head and kissed her so hard she grabbed hold of his sleeves lest she crash to her knees. She felt him then, his passion and his love—she felt his soul as it blazed its last, felt it sinking into her, joining with her own, simple Silvan heart, as if he gave a little of himself to her . . . for her to keep safe when he was gone. It flared: something new, something that would last precious little, but still she would have lived for millennia for this one moment of realisation.

  There was no doubt left in her mind, because the choice had been taken away from her. He was a warrior, he would surely die and she—she had always loved him.

  He pulled away and then pushed her toward Sontúr.

  “Go,” he said with difficulty and then watched as they both sprinted away. Llyniel felt a part of him inside her and she knew that a part of her had gone with him, for it pulled tight as she ran away from him, so tight that it hurt.

  “I can do this alone, Brothers,” said Fel’annár, turning back to The Company.

  “You can, but you won’t. Whether this works or not, I will stay to find out. You will not do this alone,” said Idernon.

  “It is suicide,” said Ramien even as he stepped beside him.

  “I know,” said Fel’annár with a smile.

  “I will either die with you or live to write the greatest panegyric of all times,” said Carodel with a crooked smile, and Galdith nodded, resolute.

  “You stood by my people at Sen’uár when they were cut down. I will do no less for you.”

  “Dear gods,” murmured Galadan, eyes fixed on the thicker part of forest in the distance below them. It was darkening before their eyes, as if ink had bled from the stars and was slowly staining the forest floor. It was then that they truly began to understand.

  “What is that?” asked Carodel, even though he thought he knew.

  “Deviants, Carodel. An army of them, under the command of the Nim’uán, for a purpose we have yet to understand.”

  “Holy Aria,” exclaimed Galdith quietly. “How did we miss this?”

  But Fel’annár did not answer. Instead, he began to climb the path back towards the citadel, to higher ground, and as they navigated the thinning wood, they shouted warnings to the already retreating civilians who ran upwards, towards the gates, their belongings left behind in their panic to retreat, to reach safety behind the mighty gates of Tar’eastór.

  They were back at the lonely tree they had passed on their way down. Beyond it, a fifteen-minute walk through open, rocky terrain led to the citadel, but Fel’annár turned his eyes back to the slopes and the gradually thickening forest beyond.

  “They must not pass this point,” he said, knowing The Company stood behind him, watching the slowly spreading stain of Deviants. “There is still time for y
ou to get back, Brothers.”

  “We’ll all die,” said Galadan, drawing his blades.

  “Yes. Soon, The Company will be reunited,” whispered Fel’annár. He had come this far. He had learned of the family he never thought to have, had excelled as a warrior, found friendship and love, even though he had still to confess it. All this would end today, and he would make it a mighty ending. He would make Gor’sadén proud, make Lainon proud—and then join his brothers in Valley.

  The darkness was moving faster now, no longer liquid but reminiscent of a swarm of insects spreading over the horizon.

  The mighty blast of the trumpets of Tar’eastór sounded behind them, shaking the ground beneath their feet, and then a deep rumble and a resounding boom as the gates to the citadel closed. Sontúr and Llyniel had given the warning, and even now, Gor’sadén would be organising the army, readying them to march out. Sontúr would have told him what came, of the Nim’uán and his Gas Lizard, and then he would tell the commander what Fel’annár would try to do. Gor’sadén would think it madness, and perhaps it was. But madness was the only chance they had to keep the battle away from the people, away from their very homes and their children.

  “Move!! Comon, to the gates, Dagarí! Spears, shields, Polán! Archers on the battlements. Barhai, I want every warrior in armour here in ten minutes.”

  “Sir!”

  Gor’sadén’s voice yelled out orders hard and fast. He was in control—and he was frantic. Fel’annár was out there, standing before the enemy, waiting for him to organise his warriors and march out to meet them . . . away from the city gates. He was a whirlwind, desperate but controlled—precise. Pan’assár had sprinted to the barracks and even now was organising the captains and lieutenants while Commander Hobin helped with the provisions, as if he were a base warrior and not the Supreme Ari Commander.

  Just minutes ago, Sontúr had come with Fel’annár’s outlandish claims on his lips—thousands of Deviants would march upon them and the Nim’uán was an elven Deviant who had a Gas Lizard and was commanding them. Gor’sadén had not doubted his words, however incredible they had sounded, and that had given him precious time to initiate the city’s defence plan. But an army cannot be organised in minutes. Deviants would walk in their city this day, he did not doubt it. The tower guard had sighted the enemy spreading over the horizon; they were already inside the forests below them. It would take them less than an hour to reach the gates, and only The Company stood between them.