by R K Lander
They would not be ready in time to march out. Gor’sadén knew this, as surely as he knew Fel’annár would die trying.
Captains yelled their frantic orders, their powerful, urgent voices carrying over the courtyard, across the battlements, and still the trumpets called. Citizens ran into the palace or towards the town proper and their homes, children clutched to their breasts. Windows needed sealing, doors barricading. They needed provisions and weapons to defend themselves. All they knew was that the Deviants were coming and that they should defend themselves and their families.
In a mansion, not far from the fortress, Sulén dismissed his staff and ushered his son into a trap door under the floor of his study, sealing it from the inside, where they would be safe to hide . . . or to flee to the other side, into the lower caves and away from the city. This one, at least, had not been destroyed; years ago, Sulén had made sure it had not been detected by the city engineers, keeping it for just such a need.
In the courtyard and just before the now closed gates, the lines of warriors began to form, still buckling their armour and checking their weapons. Recruits ran down the ranks with stacks of arrows while others ran onto the battlements and filled the holders for the archers who would soon stand upon the walls.
Husbands and wives kissed desperately with hurried warnings about how to defend their houses—what to do should a Deviant come knocking. There were desperate assurances that they would see each other again, but they had never thought to live this day, the day the Motherland was attacked by Deviants.
As the trumpets continued to blast out their message, Commanders Gor’sadén, Pan’assár, and Hobin met at the front of the still forming lines of warriors. They peered through the small door in the gates. In the distance they could see the seven warriors who stood defiant, dressed in nothing but their simple civilian garb. But then the land sloped downwards and all they could see beyond were the very tops of the first line of trees. The watch upon the ramparts, though, had confirmed that the forest had turned black, and every minute they called out the enemy’s distance from the walls as they drew closer and closer.
Fel’annár and The Company could still make it back to the citadel. But they didn’t.
“What do they think they can do?” murmured Pan’assár, shaking his head.
“He means to give us time. You know him, Pan. You know he is unsure of this gift he has. This is a gamble—and he knows it. But even if by some miracle he should give us some more time, this is a suicide plan.” Gor’sadén could not stop the wave of grief that rolled over him. Pan’assár’s strong hand squeezed his shoulder.
“I cannot say what he is thinking. But whatever it is, he will have a victorious end, Gorsa. He dies a legend,” said Pan’assár, and Hobin nodded slowly, blue eyes shining brighter than was normal. Zendár’s grandson would fall before he could even begin to carry out Aria’s will.
But Gor’sadén could not speak. All he could do was watch as the grandson of Or’Talán, his own chosen son, waited for death to take him.
“The brave warriors of Tar’eastór need us, and we will not fail them!” said Master Arané. “Stay focussed. Emotion has no place in war. Stay calm, be efficient, compassionate. Make this city and our king proud,” he finished, his head healers before him, the juniors and apprentices behind.
“Arún! Mestahé! Ruaní! Nernan! Llyniel! With me here in the Halls. All apprentices and juniors to the barracks. Organise yourselves as you have been taught. Mestahé—triage. I want only the critical cases in here. The rest to the barracks. If any can be given over to the care of our citizens, you will allow it. We will need the space.”
The healers strode away, dark robes billowing around them even as the convalescing warriors already in the Halls rose and left for the barracks. Some limped, others swayed unsteadily on their feet, but they had heard the healer’s words. Even those abed were leaving with the help of their companions, and still, the mighty trumpets of Tar’eastór rattled the ground, shaking the ancient stone around them, drowning out the sounds of rising panic.
“Llyniel.”
“Arané.”
“Is it true? Is young Fel’annár out there, standing before those demons?”
Llyniel turned to the master healer, and when she spoke, it was soft and defeated.
“Yes. And I pray I will see that face again in life.”
She turned away, blind to Arané’s lingering stare only to come face-to-face with Sontúr. He was not wearing the robes of a healer.
“You are marching out,” she said.
“I belong with The Company, Llyniel. Serve well, Healer,” he said curtly, but there was a softness in his eyes that warred with steely determination. A true warrior prince and Llyniel felt proud to serve this land, this Alpine land.
“Stay safe, Prince. Bring them all home if you can,” she said, stepping forward and placing a reverent kiss on his brow. Sontúr startled and then smiled softly. He bowed, and then he was gone.
Inside the palace, Prince Handir was being fitted with armour for the first time in his life. They had given him a sword, which hung useless by his side. It felt wrong, but it was for his protection, they said. He was then led to the ramparts by two guards who left no sooner they had met with King Vorn’asté and Lord Damiel, both in their own armour and weapons.
“King Vorn’asté. What news?”
“Join us, Prince,” said the king as he looked out over the walls and to the small group of warriors who stood before the slowly spreading stain of Deviants. Handir stepped up to the king’s side and looked down: six warriors and in their midst, the silver locks of Fel’annár.
He froze.
Damiel half turned his head to Handir. “Your brother is brave, Prince.”
Brother. Your brother. He couldn’t understand why Fel’annár simply stood there, and he turned questioning eyes to Damiel.
“We do not know what he intends, Prince. All we know for sure is that they will not make it.”
“We can ride out and bring them back.”
“The army is not ready,” explained Damiel. “Look down, Handir. See our commanders, our captains as they still organise our ranks? There are warriors still arriving, shields and pikes to be distributed, arrows to be hoisted up onto the walls, fires to be lit. You will learn these things in time.”
Handir saw the pity in his tutor’s eyes, and he rebelled against it. He looked back down and allowed his eyes to register what his mentor had said. The troops stood waiting, armour glinting in the afternoon sun, but they were not yet ready to face the enemy, just as Damiel had said.
Movement from the corner of his eye and Sontúr was striding past him, clad a warrior, buckles and blades glinting in the afternoon sun, his grey hair braided intricately into patterns he had never seen. He was reminded of Rinon, but where Sontúr was grey, black, and silver, Rinon was blond, green, and blue.
He watched as the prince knelt before his father, his king. Vorn’asté bid him stand and placed both hands upon his son’s armoured shoulders. He could not hear the words the king spoke, but he knew they would be of love, honour, and duty. A sense of sadness rolled over him, for even though there had never been friendship between them, Handir respected the prince for what he did now. He may die this day, and he realised that he cared, just as he wondered if his own father would ever look upon him the way Vorn’asté did at Sontúr—with pride in his eyes.
Handir was jolted back to the present by a distant spectacle that approached from the skies beyond the walls. A chorus of squawks and screeches exploded above them, and all heads turned skywards, watching in awe and dread as every bird in the Median Mountains seemed to pass overhead, fleeing the onslaught of imminent battle, leaving only the carrion birds behind.
The world had gone mad, thought Handir. This could not happen. Fel’annár could not die now. Handir didn’t understand why he simply stood there when he could flee to safety. Fel’annár was destined to return to the Forest and help bring the Silvan peop
le back to their king—he could not die before justice was returned to the Forest people—he could not die without meeting his father, his sister. Handir realised, then, that he would never be able to call Fel’annár his brother.
Anger, as strong as he had ever felt it, stiffened his body and hardened his features until they were ridges of pure, unyielding ice. Hatred for the Deviants that would kill Fel’annár. Hatred for Or’Talán and how it had all begun. Hatred for Band’orán and what he had made of his forest home.
Hatred for himself and his own blind selfishness.
He had doubted Fel’annár’s heart, his devotion to his people. He had withheld his father’s message, not bothered to tell him of his unknown family in the Forest, and he had blamed Fel’annár for his mother’s departure. And then he had dissuaded Llyniel from loving him, even though he had seen the depth of feelings in her eyes, seen the spark of love in Fel’annár’s own gaze. He would have cleaved them apart, just as Or’Talán had done with Thargodén, his own son.
So many crimes. So many reasons to beg forgiveness.
I’m sorry, Brother.
I am so very sorry.
Fifteen
Prayer from the Maelstrom
“Aria, lady of light and air, earth and water,
Lend us strength at the time of our sacrifice.
With our end we serve you unto death and beyond.
For duty and honour—for justice and for love.”
Book of Initiates, Chapter III. Hulan.
The trumpets of Tar’eastór sounded once more, and Fel’annár took one last, deep breath. The enemy was thick in the forest. It was time. The trees had named him lord, and he would call upon them now, in Tar’eastór’s hour of direst need.
Holes were breaking open in the rocky ground, and from them, Deviants began to ooze, spreading like a black velvet cloak billowing in the breeze. It seemed to Fel’annár that the rock had turned liquid, running not down the slopes as it should but up, through the forests and beyond, to the six warriors who barred their path towards the citadel. They could no longer see the trees for the Deviants, and everywhere they looked, the ground was splitting open.
A mighty crash sounded further down the slopes, and then another, like lightening striking a tree. The explosions came faster and then another, closer by, and they watched as debris shot into the air.
“Don’t be afraid, Brothers.”
“We’re not. Death is our destiny as warriors. We face it at your side,” said Galadan.
“Don’t be afraid of the trees,” he whispered, turning his head to them. His eyes changed from green to blue to purple, until they were all three and the light flared so that his face could no longer be seen.
“Aria . . .” whispered Galdith.
A pungent smell of onion and rotting vegetation prickled Fel’annár’s nose, setting his eyes to watering. He wondered if the others could smell it or whether it was the trees that told him of it.
It didn’t matter anymore, because the clacking of rusty armour and the wails of thousands of Deviants could finally be heard. They were climbing up the slopes, and Fel’annár could feel the trees recoil in disgust, their outrage for the unholy violation of the earth in which they lived.
But they could not move.
Fel’annár sensed their frustration. They wanted to fight, he realised, but they had not been born to move. Why, then, were they screaming at him? Why were they beckoning to him to touch them?
A lone wail resounded over the rest, and The Company stood taller. The Deviant commander was surely just beyond their sight, urging on his troops, but then a shrill scream joined the macabre choir, sending a stab of pure fear down their spines. The sound was unfamiliar, but it reminded Fel’annár of the Deviant that had screamed in his face the day they had been ambushed on the way to Tar’eastór. He knew what it was, though. It was the shriek of the Gas Lizard—the trees had shown him.
Fel’annár thought that he finally understood what it was he had to do. He would unleash the power without restraint, even though he did not know the limits of it, even though it terrified him to think of it. That pulsating source of power he had felt the other day as it struggled to break past his control . . . he had quashed it then, but now, he opened his mind, projected as Gor’sadén had taught him, and then he held out a hand to touch the tree beside him. But just before his fingertips reached the bark, he stopped and turned to Idernon and Ramien, to Galdith and Galadan, to Carodel. He smiled at each of them and then turned back to the oncoming tide of rotting humans.
His hand touched the bark.
A light breeze, a silent farewell to the world, but then a deep, pulsing hum grew around them, the droning of some arcane magic and the breeze became a wind which whipped around their braids and buckles and Fel’annár’s Heliaré. He could feel the rest of his hair rise around his head, but it did not whip around his face—rather, it floated around him, just as it had around Aria in his dream.
And then the lights came, first green then blue and purple, playful wisps chasing each other, darting around The Company like dancing sprites, and Galadan murmured a prayer from the maelstrom that was engulfing them.
Galdith, Galadan, Carodel, and Ramien lifted their swords in salute while Idernon’s hand tightened around his pommel and Fel’annár raised his free hand outwards.
The wind grew and expanded, travelling towards the Deviant-filled forest like a devil bent on destruction, and the boughs thrashed and twisted. The Company stood before it, amidst it, feet firmly entrenched, yet still their bodies swayed with the force of it. Deviants shrieked and moaned, and the noise became deafening. But when they looked closer, through narrowed eyes, they realised that it was not only the wind that moved the trees; it was the trees themselves that began to move their branches, thick trunks swaying from side to side. Although still deeply rooted, even their thickest branches bent alarmingly, coming down upon the Deviants in a creaking whoosh or sometimes swiping them into the air by the scores.
And still The Company stood firm, praying that the trees would not stop their dance of death, counting every second that was afforded them, time for Gor’sadén to ready his army, protect his people.
Through Fel’annár, Aria had conjured an army of wood and leaves for as long as they could withstand—to whatever end.
“The trees boughs are moving!” called the tower guard, unable to hide the rising panic in his voice. The wave of disbelief that followed was almost tangible, and Gor’sadén damned the steep incline which hampered his own vision. All he could see through the small hatch in the gates were the backs of the warriors and a haze of light just over where the forest would be. It was enclosing the trees, like a shimmering dome of translucent gossamer, and a strange rhythmic rumble was shaking the ground beneath his boots. He had heard that sound before, softer.
“The trees have turned on the Deviants! They are killing them!”
“He has conjured the trees,” said Gor’sadén to the commanders and captain beside him, all four peering out of the small door in the gates.
“That’s impossible,” whispered Captain Comon at his side.
“It is not,” said Hobin, but he stopped himself from explaining, and he sought Gor’sadén’s eyes, seeking confirmation that the commander had understood. This was the perfect time to march out—while the enemy was trapped in the woods. There was no guarantee that Fel’annár could keep up with what he was doing, and they were as ready as they were ever going to be.
Whirling around to face the troop, Gor’sadén bellowed.
“Steady!”
There was a loud clap of metal as the troops saluted and hoisted aloft their shields and spears, yet still, warriors were joining the ranks, more archers running up the stairways as the recruits scurried away to join the rear guard. The commander waited for them to take up their places.
“Ready!” A practised voice of command.
Weapons masters distributed their last batches of spears and then sprinted to their
own units, still pulling on their helms.
“For Tar’eastór! For the Motherland!”
“Aye!” thundered the troops, all black and silver.
“Open the gates!” shouted Captain Comon from the other flank.
“Commanders from abroad, you bring honour to Tar’eastór.”
“Wherever you fight,” said Pan’assár, stepping forward, and Hobin nodded. Standing before the troops, the three commanders stood defiant before the emerging slopes and the haze of coloured lights that awaited. The wind howled and the Deviants screamed and wailed, and the earth rumbled and hummed. When they charged, it would be blindly—until the path bent downwards and they would face their enemy.
Gor’sadén reached backwards and curled his fingers slowly around both blades. Pulling, he brought them over his shoulder and then held them out before him.
With one final gaze, Gor’sadén and Pan’assár said goodbye to each other, not for the first time, and then turned to the fore.
The Company watched as the boughs thrashed to and fro, so violently they wondered how their trunks did not snap. Live wood raked the ground, tufts of leaves and branches were thrown into the air . . . and other things they could not make out but well guess at. Coloured lights flashed over the forest, and the deep droning was accompanied by the trumpeting of trees that continued to decimate the ranks of Deviants.
Fel’annár watched, unable to reconcile the actions of the trees with what he was doing. All it had taken was one simple touch and a mind open to the natural world: no filters. No fear. The question was—how long would it last? His hand gripped the tree bark tighter, eyes burning and scalp prickling so hard it hurt, but he dared not let go. The odds were being evened, but more than this, they were gaining the precious time they needed for the army to meet the enemy here, on the slopes and not upon the very walls. But he wondered if it would be enough for Tar’eastór. It wouldn’t be for him or The Company; they were all now past the point of safe return.
