Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  She should have listened to Handir.

  She heaved a mighty breath and stepped forward, stroking loose strands of hair from his bruised and bloodied face. There was no going back, no “should haves.” Even if she wanted to, she could not undo the consequences of her actions.

  A roar of pain from Commander Hobin jolted her back to the present, to the royal infirmary and the aftermath of battle. The three commanders lay in beds behind her, receiving treatment from the head healers while Fel’annár lay inert upon a stone table before the fire, still dressed. There had been no time to make him comfortable. All they could think about was stopping the blood that oozed from the blade wound at his side and from the bite of the Nim’uán.

  But it wouldn’t stop.

  Arané was shouting orders to his team, and even now, Sontúr frantically unbuckled his own armour with a grimace of pain, watching as the master healer pressed down on the blade wound on Fel’annár’s side while Llyniel inspected the horrific bite mark. It spanned half of his lower chest and back. They said it had been an elven Deviant who did it, but Llyniel thought this surely the jowl of some larger beast. The teeth marks were clearly visible, but the flesh seemed half ripped away. A shiver ran up Llyniel’s spine, and her eyes slipped to Sontúr, who was walking towards them, wiping his hands on a cloth and then flinging it into the fire.

  “What manner of beast did this to him?”

  Sontúr turned to her, and in his eyes, she thought she saw fear.

  “The Nim’uán. Elven Deviant, a mutant creature that hangs dead from the branches. No one will touch it.”

  She shook her head and then moved in to inspect the wound, a bowl of herbal water at her side. “It still bleeds, although slowly. Arané?”

  “The blood is not clotting as it should. We have a problem.”

  “Poison?” she asked.

  “Perhaps,” he murmured. Llyniel was wracking her brains for an answer, for any other cases of bites she had treated that could bear some relevance. She checked for fever and found none. There was no laboured breathing, no twitching or abnormal bruising. It didn’t look like poisoning. If only he would wake, but the blood loss had been great. He had already been unconscious when they had brought him in.

  “Whatever this is, we need to replenish his blood or he is going to die on this very bench. I need surat and henum bulb, pettyhead and straw cane—quickly now.”

  “I’ll go,” said Llyniel, moving to the door but she turned, despair clawing just behind her eyes. “Don’t let him go, Arané, Sontúr.”

  “We will see him through this or hold his hand in death,” said Arané as he worked. “This warrior saved my city.”

  Llyniel nodded and then sprinted from the room, her mind retrieving the names of the herbs and roots she needed, swiping angrily at the tears that ran down her cheeks, oblivious to the pity in the eyes of those she passed.

  While Llyniel collected the supplies she would need, The Company made their slow and painful way to the Halls. They had not been quick enough to follow the stretcher bearers who had taken Fel’annár away, for they were all wounded and exhausted. Others supported them the entire way back, proud of the service they paid to Fel’annár’s brethren.

  This was The Company, they said, defenders of Tar’eastór.

  It had taken far too long, and by the time they entered the Halls, the need to know if Fel’annár still lived was urgent.

  “Where is he? Is he still alive?” Idernon groaned as the arrow in his leg moved.

  “With the master healers, Warrior. Hold still.”

  “Where?” ground out Ramien, gritting his teeth as his own wounds were cleaned.

  “Somewhere you cannot go. You would be in the way.”

  “I will go there, you will it or not,” spat Idernon and then moaned again as the healer braced his leg.

  “Peace, brave one. Let the masters work.”

  “Get this thing out of me, and then we shall see.”

  Galadan’s steady hand was on his forearm. “Idernon. Still yourself, Brother, otherwise that is going to hu . . .”

  Idernon screamed as the arrow was pushed through the other side of his leg, and Galdith held him down.

  “Hurt,” finished Galadan.

  None of them were seriously wounded, but the healers had not seen fit to send them to the barracks and the junior healers. These warriors had faced certain death with the Forest Lord . . . and they’d had enough dealings with warriors to know it would have been futile to separate them. And so, they allowed The Company to sit in the antechamber to the royal infirmary. There was a fire and clean water there, and they sat now, filthy in their ripped and torn clothes, wounds bandaged and smarting. The fire was gloriously warm, yet still they sat hunched and stiff.

  “They won’t let anyone near Fel’annár nor the commanders,” said Galadan, eyes fixed on the door he knew led to the royal infirmary.

  “You tried?”

  “Oh, yes. Sontúr is in there, knows we are here anxious for news. He won’t leave us second-guessing for longer than necessary.”

  “No,” said Idernon softly.

  It had now been hours since Fel’annár had been brought in. The implications were not good, and they waited, drooping eyelids stubbornly held open in spite of their bodies’ demands for sleep.

  A healer did finally come, but it was not Sontúr—it was Llyniel, and The Company sat straighter, watching her face closely for signs of what had happened, but all they could see was her exhaustion and an uncharacteristic coldness in her expression, as if she were not there at all.

  “I won’t lie. Not to you,” she said as she wandered over to the fire. “He was stabbed in the right side and arm, bitten on the left side and chest by that . . . that monster. His wounds won’t stop bleeding, and we are working hard to keep him with us. Those fangs held some substance we are trying to understand, but it seems to be hindering the blood from clotting. His heart is compromised, and the bite itself is swollen and bruised. Had he not lost so much blood his chances would be better. If only we could make it stop, regenerate what has been lost, then he may have a chance.”

  “You must find a way,” said Galdith.

  “We are missing something, Galdith. If I could identify it—or administer something that will counteract it . . .”

  “But surely if you treat the symptoms . . .” said Carodel.

  “Then whatever is inhibiting his blood from clotting will continue to work until he bleeds to death. There is something we are missing . . .” She shook her head, eyes turned inwards, to her books, to all the things she had learned as a healer.

  “We want to see him, Llyniel,” said Idernon.

  “You can’t.”

  “If he’s going to die, we’ll be with him when he does.”

  “Even as the healers work to save him? You would push your way through so that you can hold his hand?” She stood wide-eyed and rigid, anger glittering in her tired eyes.

  Galadan placed a hand on the Wise Warrior’s rigid shoulder. He shook it off.

  “If he dies without his brothers at his side, you will answer to me.”

  “I know,” she murmured, the anger leeched from her. With a last glance at them all, she visibly calmed herself and left.

  “That was not necessary,” said Galadan. “Not hours past she was snatched away and held hostage. She has been working for hours to save Hwindo, left his side only to tell us how he fares. I wager she has not seen to her own comfort at all.”

  “I need to see him, Galadan.”

  “We all do. But not now. Trust her. She is a head healer, Idernon—yet more than this, can you not see that she loves him? That she will do the best for him? Isn’t that what you want?”

  Idernon looked down, and when he caught Galadan’s gaze once more, his eyes were filled with acceptance and apology.

  The frantic work of the healers did not stop, even when King Vorn’asté strode purposefully down the main aisle and towards the royal infirmary. Handir
was beside him, his eyes taking in the scenes of war, scenes he had never before lived through. His father would have, though, for Ea Uaré had lived through a battle such as this one—the Battle Under the Sun, when Or’Talán had died and Thargodén had become king.

  On the outside, Handir was a cool, determined leader, but on the inside, his heart leapt about in his chest and his soul cried for the suffering of the injured warriors. Llyniel herself was somewhere here, easing their pain . . . easing their passing. He felt such respect for her, for being able to help where he himself could not. Handir’s job was to avoid war, not wage it—not clear up the mess it left behind.

  He wondered if the rumours were true, that perhaps they had exaggerated when they said that Fel’annár would die. He needed to see for himself, and yet with every step they took towards the infirmary, the slower they seemed to be moving and the faster his heart hammered in his chest.

  They passed through the open doorway, watched as healers came and went, some walking, others running. There was no time for protocol save for the odd bow, and soon enough, king and prince stood to one side of Gor’sadén’s bed, far enough away to allow the healers to tend to him. Vorn’asté looked down on him, but Handir’s eyes travelled over to the next bed and Pan’assár, and then to Hobin, and finally, to the inert body of Fel’annár on the far side.

  Then Vorn’asté’s hand was on his forearm, bringing him back. Handir was accompanying Vorn’asté on an official duty and he would have the prince’s full attention. It was a lesson in kingship, and Handir nodded a subtle apology.

  “Commander,” said the king, eyes roving over the heavily-bandaged leg, the mountain of cushions behind the commander’s back, the tightly bound chest and the ashen hue of Gor’sadén’s skin.

  “M’king.”

  “We will not tax you with questions. Know only that Tar’eastór is so very grateful for your service, brave commander, and when you are well enough, our people will show you.”

  The king’s eyes came to rest on the commander’s leg. “How bad is it, old friend?” he whispered.

  “I will—live,” came the laboured reply.

  “And your leg?” he insisted.

  After a moment, Gor’sadén answered, his voice almost inaudible, and Vorn’asté had to bend down to hear him.

  “I will live.”

  The king stood straighter, his singular face turning almost to stone at the implications. Should Gor’sadén lose his leg, he would not be able to teach Fel’annár, would never dance the Kal’hamén’Ar again. Fel’annár would be devastated—if he lived. Yet more than this his friend of old would surely take the Long Road. Vorn’asté couldn’t imagine this life without Gor’sadén in it.

  The king’s hand rested on the commander’s forearm for a moment, and then he moved on, to Pan’assár’s bed, but he was hacking so badly they walked on and to Hobin. But he, too, was suffering as his leg was rebandaged. Agony would not allow him to speak or even to concentrate on who was standing before him.

  They were finally at the bed at the end. Llyniel and Sontúr were there, working together in silence. It was then that Handir realised that they had not exaggerated at all. His eyes stared down at the horrific bite—and for all that he tried he could not rip them away. Llyniel caught his gaze, stared back at him in silence. He willed her to speak to him, tell him it was not as dire as it looked . . . that Fel’annár would live. He willed her to admonish him for rejecting his own brother, for blaming him for the bitter moments of his own life—and he willed her to remind him that he had tried to dissuade her from loving Fel’annár. But she said nothing. She didn’t need to.

  It was all true.

  Vorn’asté was talking quietly with Arané, and Handir listened as he spoke. When the master healer explained Fel’annár’s condition in somewhat technical terms, Handir all but blurted out his question.

  “Will my brother live?”

  Vorn’asté’s brow arched acutely, but Handir didn’t see it—for his eyes were boring into Arané’s.

  “There is a . . . slim chance . . . that something may be done for him.” Arané’s bright eyes were filled with compassion for a fleeting moment before he schooled them and turned back to the king, even though Handir’s eyes lingered on the healer, as if he had not quite understood what Arané had just said.

  The master healer thought Fel’annár would die.

  Handir spared one last look at his half-Silvan brother from where he stood. He tried to school his features, quell his mounting desperation. He needed Fel’annár—for the Forest and his father’s continuity on the throne, but he also needed him as a brother. He had realised that upon the ramparts, just before the battle had begun. He had stopped fooling himself, forced himself to watch and to finally understand his own path forwards.

  He needed to show Fel’annár that he cared.

  Vorn’asté’s hand was on his shoulder. Time to leave but Handir would be back, not as a prince but as a brother. He paused upon the threshold of the room, and Vorn’asté allowed it. Handir watched as Fel’annár was rolled to one side, arm falling limply over the side of the bed, unaware that Gor’sadén also watched, his pained blue eyes fixed on Fel’annár’s lax hand—the same hand he had held upon the battlefield when the Nim’uán had been skewered and Fel’annár lay dying. Fel’annár had called him father, and the memory of it brought tears to his tired eyes. But he couldn’t move, couldn’t reach out and take that hand once more . . . not as he had before as an offering of comfort before death, but to feed him with strength, tell him he was not alone— to will him back to life.

  But he couldn’t. All he could do was lie there and watch as Fel’annár’s life slowly slipped away.

  That night, Arané sat by the fire, his head half inside a large tome. Llyniel sat opposite him, eyes moving from the title of his book to his bent head. Arané lowered the book and stared back at her blankly . . . and then he shook his head.

  Arané had found nothing.

  Her heart plummeted to her boots. The problem was clear to her. Excessive bleeding leads to slow circulation, which compromises the heart. Replenish the blood and treat the heart but stop the bleeding—find something they had not already used.

  She turned her head, eyes on Fel’annár’s bed. He did not move at all: so still, so pale. She was reminded of Rovad, a rather handsome human warrior she had treated after a skirmish with bandits during her early years in Pelagia. He had almost bled out.

  Rovad, yes, that was his name. He’d been married to Mavey, a plump lass who showed promise in the healing arts. She would visit the Halls frequently, and Llyniel had tried not to become too friendly with her. She was mortal—she would die. Still, Llyniel was Silvan, and she had failed to purposefully distance herself. They had been friends until the couple had moved on.

  Rovad had lived even though she remembered thinking that he wouldn’t. Her skin began to tingle, an image popping into her head of a day she had ventured out to the high hills on the island of Dan’bar. Gurgling streams and wide, shallow rivers graced the land, and along their banks had been a tree she had never seen before. Triangular leaves and a flaky, silvery bark had captured her attention. She had carefully harvested the bark . . .

  She stood from her chair opposite Arané. “I will be back in a moment,” she murmured, turning from the room and walking slowly to her quarters. Arané nodded into his book.

  Another specimen for your collection?

  Yes. I have never seen this tree before.

  Her skin prickled and she walked faster. She needed to remember . . .

  Light grey bark sitting in the sun, inquisitive fingers prodding it, then grinding it, using it on herself . . .

  She pushed her door open so hard it banged against the back wall, and she was striding to her book, the one that always sat open on her table. She picked it up reverently and shuffled through the pages, backwards in time until her fingers froze, eyes landing upon the sketch of a tall, spindly bark and sprawling branches. She
scanned her own scribbled words and doodles, and her heart raced.

  Junár. Junár bark . . .

  She turned, walking briskly from the room. She had found it in Pelagia, on the Island of Dan’bar. Dan’bar—a wave of dread hit her. They surely wouldn’t have it.

  The paintings upon the corridors she had first admired on her arrival in Tar’eastór flew past her in colourful streaks, but all she could see was the silvery bark of the Junár tree and a fatally-injured warrior.

  Rovad had lived . . . but he was human. It may not work for an elf.

  She ran through the waiting area, past The Company who were on their feet, watching as she dashed past them and then entered the room, a startled guard closing the door behind her. She stood breathing hard, book clutched to her chest, eyes wide, mind only now emerging from the mists of her memories. Arané stood slowly, his own book forgotten on the side table.

  “What is it? What have you found?”

  “Tell me you have it, Arané. Tell me you have Junár bark . . .”

  “Junár?” he scoffed. “Why? Someone got an upset stomach somewhere?”

  “Upset . . . you have it?” Her eyes bulged wide.

  “I keep some for upset stomachs, yes. One of many remedies for that ailment. We don’t use it much and . . . ” His voice trailed off. “Mestahé,” he called, gesturing with his hand, but his eyes were trained on Llyniel.

  The healer left Fel’annár’s side and walked to his colleagues, looking between one and the other.

  “What do you need, Llyniel?”

  She turned to Mestahé. “One part Junár bark, one part star blade and echin—a milk decoction. Five measures.”

  “One part Junár bark, one part star blade and echin . . .” He scowled and shook his head.

  “Mestahé, trust me. One part Junár . . . ”

  “Yes, yes. I have it.”