Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  He had to get up.

  He flexed his muscles but his leg would not respond, blood flowing freely. He stuck his own long sword into the ground beside him and pushed down until his good leg could gather beneath him and he rose, a mass of quivering limbs, teeth gritted in pain, glittering eyes defiant.

  He would not face death on his knees.

  The Nim’uán bent down and picked up a heavy, fallen log as if it were nothing but balsa wood, and then walked towards Gor’sadén, a smile on its face, eyes fixed on the commander’s sword that shook under his weight.

  The twisted smile widened and then he tossed the log at Gor’sadén. Letting go of his sword, he only had time to bring his arms over his face. He fell backwards, the log landing on his chest and pinning him to the floor while the rest of the Nim’uán’s sword buried itself to the hilt in his leg. His scream was strangled, almost whispered, for all the air had left his lungs, but his eyes searched desperately for his short sword, for anything to protect himself, but the beast was closing on him.

  Bending down, the Nim’uán reached out, grasped the pommel of his sword, and pulled hard.

  Gor’sadén screamed, and Fel’annár turned in horror. All other sounds muted, and he was immersed, under water on dry land. A chorus of distant voices approached until it was a climactic herald in his ears and everything moved too slowly. He turned, as if he were stuck in mud, hair too light, eyes turning to the elven Deviant and then his fallen mentor. Sounds welled from the depth of his soul, of panic and pain, of grief and fury, collecting at the back of his throat and then choking him. He filled his lungs and screamed from the heart.

  “Nooooooo!!!”

  The Nim’uán turned his head and looked right at him, even as he raised his bloody sword over his head. It meant to butcher the commander, make of him a macabre standard for the Deviants to behold. Was this what Pan’assár had felt—forced to watch the brother of his heart ripped and hacked to pieces before his very eyes?

  Streaks of light jetted this way and that across Fel’annár’s vision, even as his feet began to move, and he was hurtling over the ground. The world tilted as he jumped and twisted, the whizz of an arrow streaking through the air, just past his head. Running, he was running, and yet he could not feel the thump of his feet over the ground, could not hear his own frantic breaths. His swords were in his hands, and with a roar he threw the shorter blade at the Nim’uán. The beast turned, startled, and tried to swipe at the sword that was hurling towards him.

  Reaching up to touch the cut on its once flawless cheek, the beast hissed and turned to his new opponent, who had come to stand in front of his fallen mentor in nothing but plain civilian clothing, an equally plain sword in his hand. He was not deceived, though. He had seen the magic this one had unleashed, had chosen him from afar, just as he had done with Gor’sadén.

  Fel’annár heard Idernon’s voice from far, far away, heard Ramien roaring something closer by and then a string of almost unintelligible curses from Sontúr. But his mind was tunnelling, focussing on the Nim’uán, and whatever the others were doing, they faded away, the silent world broken only by the now steady beat of his heart and the streaking lights around him. Fel’annár edged towards where his short sword had fallen, careful not to take his eyes away from his enemy.

  The two warriors stared at each other in fascination. And then the Nim’uán smiled, sharp incisors slowly emerging and then retracting. He was an illusion. An elf turned monster, some hideous mutation that turned beauty into a thing of dread, an immortal soul turned from love to hatred. But how?

  “You are beautiful, like me—only I am surrounded by rot and decay.” A silky-smooth voice, like that of a poet or a bard expounding on the tragedy of love. Fel’annár’s blood froze. He had never heard a Deviant talk.

  “You have magic. They fear you, just as the Deviants fear me. Tell me, did you suffer, I wonder, as a child? Were you mocked for your skill, for your beauty? Mocked for being different? For being better?” he asked as he closed the distance between them. Fel’annár watched his every move, for when the Nim’uán attacked, it would be quick, in spite of its size. He needed his short sword.

  “I wonder what your mother thought of you. Did she love you as mine did me? Did she sacrifice herself for you as mine did for us?” The voice was wistful, its eyes momentarily lost to memories Fel’annár did not want to imagine.

  He stood now, beside his fallen sword. Manoeuvring the tip of his boot under the hilt, he brought his leg up and grasped the pommel tightly in his left hand.

  “What are you? How did you turn Deviant?” asked Fel’annár cautiously.

  “Indeed, that is the question.” It glanced down at the blade in his right hand and then brought it up before his face, pale skin reflecting off the bloody, silvery surface. “This blade was given to me by my father. It has served me well, as it will serve me now—to kill you.”

  “Why are you doing this? What do you hope to achieve?” asked Fel’annár as he edged sideways, closer to Gor’sadén, who was struggling weakly with the log that was surely crushing him.

  “This,” said the monster as it struck a ready stance, eyes glittering in thrilled anticipation. “This . . . is a mother’s revenge.”

  There was a whirl of metal rushing through air, and Fel’annár brought his long sword up to meet the admittedly beautiful blade the Nim’uán wielded. Sparks flew with the ferocity of the blow, and a painful vibration rattled his bones. His foe was far stronger than he was, skilled enough to have found an opening in Gor’sadén’s defences. Fel’annár knew he had to steer the beast away from the fallen commander lest it use him to his advantage, as leverage—Fel’annár had shown his desperation, shown the Nim’uán how important Gor’sadén was to him.

  Fel’annár whirled sideways, attacking the Nim’uán´s right flank, but it turned, surprisingly fast, and blocked him, so hard that Fel’annár’s muscles bunched painfully and he was driven backwards. Bringing his blades back to the fore, he feigned left, then moved into the right flank and slashed before the Nim’uán’s perfect armour. One step back, and then two—not enough to steer the Nim’uán away, and Gor’sadén was before his mind’s eye and then Pan’assár, their words of wisdom echoing in his mind, reminding him of their lessons, of the Kal’hamén’Ar, and his feet moved of their own accord. He was dancing amidst colourful streaks of vaporous light, and the Nim’uán’s strikes were no longer so close, so dangerous.

  Colour was everywhere. One, two, three, strike. Now, the battle was not forwards and backwards but circular, yet still, the Nim’uán blocked Fel’annár’s strikes and did not step backwards. The enemy sword flashed in the corner of his eye, and Fel’annár jumped backwards, somersaulting just high enough to feel the blade as it cut through the air below his head. He landed squarely upon the ground and attacked once more, but their swords clashed so violently that Fel’annár’s shorter blade was knocked from his hand. Somebody shouted a warning, and he jumped and then flipped backwards, his foot landing on something hard—a broken pike. Placing the tip of his boot under the strong wood, he kicked upwards and then grabbed the weapon in his left hand. He held it out towards the Nim’uán, but it whirled around and then sliced through the wood, cutting off the steel tip. Fel’annár’s jaw clenched, but the Nim’uán simply smiled, pity warring with humour.

  Still there was a long, thick shaft of hard wood in his hand that would still serve a purpose. He stepped forward, jabbing at the Nim’uán with the pike, hand tightening around the wood as he once again remembered Gor’sadén and Pan’assár—willing tutor and reluctant ally. Those legends might now be dead, Gor’sadén crushed and bleeding, Pan’assár unable to breathe from the toxic fumes. His blazing anger was back, stronger than ever, and he was moving forwards as one hand whirled the pike over his head while the other slashed this way and that. His sharp eyes saw pupils closing and the beast stepped backwards for the first time. The Nim’uán met his furious strikes, only this time he no longer smiled
as he fought. Fel’annár ducked and rolled under the strange blade only to flip back up and strike the beast across the head. Blood oozed from a cut at the creature’s temple, but there was no sign of pain. He lunged forward with blade and pike and then swivelled sideways, scoring a blow to the Nim’uán’s forearm, kicking out and striking the side of its already battered head. Blood gushed into one eye, and it stumbled back but was soon rushing forwards once more, snarling now as anger replaced arrogance, fuelled his enemy’s violence.

  One, two and then three heavy strikes and Fel’annár was staggering backwards under the sheer power of the Nim’uán. A blade sliced over his hand. He kicked out, eyes catching the movement of his enemy’s blade as it arched towards his neck. He jumped sideways, body twisting in the same direction as the metal, pain lancing up his arm. On the ground once more, he swayed away from a boot that threatened to smash into his nose. He couldn’t remember the moment he had lost his blade, and he flipped the pike from his left hand and into his right. Deflecting a punch with his own forearm, he felt steel slice over his shoulder. He gritted his teeth and pressed forwards, kicking and punching—and then he felt the frigid bite of metal sliding into his side. His boot landed on a rock and his ankle twisted, sending him crashing to the ground, too close to Gor’sadén.

  The Nim’uán was running towards him, and he rolled out of the way of the blade that sliced into the ground and then stuck there. The Deviant pulled desperately on the pommel. Fel’annár watched from where he lay as it finally slid out, and he breathed in, closed his eyes, and then projected all the energy he had left into his right leg, kicking with all his might. He was rewarded by the sickening crunch of bone, and the Nim’uán toppled to the ground, its blade flying sideways, out of reach.

  Fel’annár made to stand, but burning agony ripped down one side of his body and he felt his blood pouring free from the stab wound in his side. He crashed to the ground, helpless on his back, and the world blurred for a moment.

  He couldn’t get up, and even before he could ponder the implications, the Nim’uán was crawling towards him, its broken shin bone bent unnaturally to one side. It stopped, perched on one elbow. There were no weapons in his hands as it gazed down at him in fascination, respect even. Its mouth gaped then, throat working strangely, as if it was fighting to swallow something, and a trickle of saliva ran from the corner of its mouth. Fel’annár stared in horror, wondering if perhaps the beast thought to eat him.

  When the Nim’uán moved, it was so fast, all Fel’annár could do was hold out both arms over his chest and turn his head away. A heavy weight was on top of him, and then pain exploded in his side.

  He screamed, but the agony did not stop, and he turned his head back to the monster that had bitten into his flesh—beautiful blue eyes gazed back at him blankly, impossibly wide jaws clenching around his chest and side, razor-sharp teeth embedded, unmoving in his flesh, a defiant kiss of death that burned strangely in his veins.

  It wasn’t eating him—it was biting him.

  A deep creak of wood, like a moan of grief, and then the whoosh of a heavy branch moving through air and on, through flesh and innards. The Nim’uán shrieked, jaw releasing its victim, its movements ripping away a part of Fel’annár’s flesh, blood dripping hideously from its jowls. The killing branch drove further in, through half-rotten innards, emerging from the centre of the Nim’uán’s stomach, and Fel’annár strangled another scream even as his hand came around and thrust what remained of his pike into the monster’s gaping mouth, sending it through the back of his neck. The wail of an elven Deviant turned into a wet gurgle, and then the weight was inexplicably gone from Fel’annár. Through the patches of green, blue, and purple clouds that hovered above him, he saw the ruined body of the Nim’uán as it was hoisted aloft, far into the air, impaled upon a tree branch, limbs hanging loosely and feet twitching over the bloodied ground of a once vibrant woodland.

  An elf screamed, long and desperate from somewhere close by, but even that began to fade away.

  He lay flat upon the ground and turned his head, in search of anything to replace the horrific sight of the impaled Nim’uán. Fel’annár felt himself slipping away, dying, and he sought comfort in those final moments. He saw a hand, fingers reaching out, clawing at the ground. He lifted his own hand, as far as he could, the effort leeched his remaining strength.

  Gor’sadén.

  His mentor wasn’t dead. The legend who had taught him, listened to him, guided him and understood him. This was the father he had chosen for himself, and he lay beside him now, in his moment of passing.

  Turning his head to the trapped commander, they locked gazes. Gor’sadén stared back at him, despair and grief and love in his eyes.

  Fel’annár smiled, even though his lips trembled with pain. He whispered, unsure of whether Gor’sadén could hear him.

  “If a . . . son could . . . choose . . . a father, I—choose you.”

  The light in Fel’annár’s eyes began to dim, images fading slowly, colours paling to every shade of grey. The screams and shrieks fell away. All his childhood dreams, all his Silvan memories dissolved. Everyone he had ever loved sung a sweet farewell, and Fel’annár felt himself sail away, hand-in-hand with the only father he would ever know.

  Sixteen

  Junár

  “We don’t speak of the days that followed the Battle of Tar’eastór. But we don’t forget. We’ll never forget.”

  The Alpine Chronicles. Cor’hidén.

  The battle had turned in their favour the moment the Nim’uán had been vanquished and hoisted aloft by the trees, as a warning to any remaining Deviants. It was a trophy the decimated forest kept for itself: behold the fate of the Nim’uán, dark bane—kinslayer.

  Small pockets of fighting still broke out further down the slopes as the uninjured warriors pursued the remaining Deviants, who were hiding amongst the boulders, thinking to flee the battlefield as soon as the elves had gone. But that would not be soon. There were injured to rescue and take to the Halls. There were bodies to honour and others to burn. The people of Tar’eastór swarmed the battlefield from the front line and backwards, knowing that it was there where the critically injured would be.

  Captain Comon had taken control of the field, shouting his orders here and there, clapping his warriors upon their weary shoulders even as he demanded of them that they continue, despite their wounds and fatigue. They were needed; it was not yet time for rest.

  Prince Sontúr directed the warriors assigned to getting the wounded back to the citadel, even as part of him constantly searched for Fel’annár, and when he found him, lying side-by-side with Gor’sadén, his eyes fell to the clasped hands. Tears welled in his eyes, not for the first time that day and certainly not for the last.

  And right there, Sontúr fought his second battle that day—the fight to save Fel’annár from death even before they could get him back to the Halls. Blood poured from a blade wound on his right side and from some horrific bite that had mangled his left side.

  Gor’sadén, too, was bleeding out, and the heavy log that sat over his chest had been carefully removed. Still he was black and blue, breath shallow, almost gone.

  Some distance away they had found an unconscious Pan’assár, blue lips a tell-tale sign that he had been gassed by the Lizard, and as for Hobin, his leg was barely intact, the pain almost unbearable.

  The prince sent a runner to Arané’s Halls as he worked so that the master healer would be prepared. Indeed, Arané blessed his royal boots for it and sent the junior healers to the supply rooms to retrieve the things he knew they would need. Meanwhile, the runner, a young recruit, star-struck, awe-inspired, and breathless from his run and the news he had gleaned, had gushed it all to Arané and Llyniel, and the din of ailing warriors and healers waned as the boy told the story and the healers worked.

  He told the tale of Commander Pan’assár and how he had defeated the Gas Lizard. Commander Gor’sadén had confronted the elven Deviant and almo
st vanquished it, and then Commander Hobin had razed the ranks of Deviants with a ferocity seldom seen. As for Warrior Fel’annár, he had stood together with The Company, alone before the oncoming hoards, and had conjured the trees. The trees had fought for Tar’eastór! Then, later, Fel’annár had saved Gor’sadén himself, had fought the Nim’uán—and then helped the trees to kill it.

  Oh, but they had danced the Kal’hamén’Ar, he said, and their enemy had fallen by the scores! The Three had returned and Tar’eastór was invincible!

  They should have been rejoicing, should have been celebrating their victory—but the fate of their bravest lay in the balance and all was muted and expectant. The glory days had returned, but they would not celebrate that return until their saviours’ fates were known.

  When Prince Sontúr finally arrived with the stretchers, the crowded Halls had parted before them, silent as they watched, and when they passed and then fell beyond sight, they thought that tonight, Tar’eastór would surely lose at least one of its glorious sons.

  Outside, captains were shouting orders while soldiers and civilians alike were cooking food at makeshift fire pits for the many elves who toiled through the night. Soft melodies floated on the air, songs of healing and heroism . . . songs of hope and in praise of Aria. Songs of farewell to the glorious dead.

  But Fel’annár heard none of it.

  Llyniel looked down upon the body that lay on the stone table before her, watched as Arané performed his preliminary diagnosis, and all the time a mantra played in her mind, telling her not to think of that morning, of how her life had changed, how she had fallen into that strange place without ever meaning to. A moment of weakness and she had leaned forward—for a taste of a warrior’s lips. She had not expected the world to tilt. Had never imagined herself thrust to the brink of the highest cliff edge, left to dangle there, her heart over a land at war. She should have leaned back, should never have longed to feel his lips against hers. She should never have felt that irresistible thing that had moved her forwards—to his mouth and her present despair. She should never have kissed this warrior.