by R K Lander
Warriors strode this way and that in varying states of urgency for some laughed and others hurried along with papers in their hands. Ramien spotted a lieutenant in a very fine uniform, and elbowed his friends, watching in awe as the commander’s shiny boots tapped over the cobbles. Ramien wondered with a dreamy smile if he would ever have boots as fine as those, and then thought perhaps his feet would be too big.
Beyond the courtyard, the training fields sprawled endlessly into the horizon. There were hardly any trees at all and Fel’annár repressed a shudder for it made him feel cold. Warriors, novices and perhaps even recruits like themselves were sparring, their blades clanking and scraping together, while others moved back and forth in perfect formation, the fierce shouts of instructors and weapons tutors piercing the air, shriller than any woodland peregrine.
This was what they had come for. Their dream would finally come true; all they had to do was keep their mouths shut, learn as much as they could, and exert themselves to the best of their ability. They were infused with a sense of purpose and their brows set in determination.
Uniformed stable hands appeared, gesturing for them to dismount somewhat rudely, thought Fel’annár and so they slid off and whispered a quick goodbye to their mounts before looking around one more time in wonder, their excitement equal to their growing nervousness. They looked at each other and grinned in spite of it though, and then walked towards a large doorway, assuming that was where they would find this Lieutenant Lainon.
It was an imposing entrance where armoured elves in ceremonial uniforms stood at either side, their spears reaching almost to the top of the arched doorway. Ramien wanted to stop and admire the workmanship, but Idernon yanked on his cloak and whispered in his ear, “Don’t you dare . . .”
No sooner had they stepped inside than a guard approached them, his hand held out towards them, albeit his eyes were riveted to the floor, as if his mind were elsewhere.
“Orders,” he snapped.
“Only that we report to Lieutenant Lainon,” said Fel’annár.
The guard looked up, but instead of leading them away, he froze where he stood, his eyes widening and his ears moving to the back of his head, momentarily smoothing out the lines upon his forehead. Righting himself immediately, he straightened his tunic as if he were embarrassed. “Yes, well, follow me,” was all he said curtly.
Ramien smiled mischievously but not so Idernon, for he had not missed the guard’s strange reaction. “It must be your good looks,” he whispered to Fel’annár, who returned the smile with a cheeky wink of his eye.
The guard rapped upon a massive wooden door, then stepped aside as the two panes swivelled inwards and orange candle light spilled out, lending just a little warmth to the cold grey walls. There, at the back of the room, sat an elf at a table so large it made him look strangely small.
“Come.”
The three friends walked forward, slower now, until they stood before the impressive desk. They did not quite manage to stifle their gasp as the elf looked up for the first time and revealed what they could only later describe as ‘remarkable’ features.
His copper skin was the colour of autumn leaves and his eyes were oddly slanted, bright blue irises shining with power and keen intellect. He was an Ari’atór, Spirit Warrior—their conjectures had been correct.
Lainon too, stared back at them, his eyes moving up and then down, until they fixed upon Fel’annár’s strange green eyes and did not move at all for a long while. It soon became embarrassing and Fel’annár shifted his weight.
“You have something for me,” said Lainon simply, his voice too deep for such an exotic face, mused Idernon.
“Yes, Sir,” said Fel’annár as he fumbled inside his tunic and removed the parchment Turion had given him. Holding out his hand, Lainon took it and unfolded it, his eyes latching onto the familiar script of his friend.
Lieutenant Lainon,
Before you stand three new recruits—and yes, they are Silvan, even the pale one.
I trust you will see fit to include them in your training programme. We have taught them all we can, but their level of skill is considerably beyond that of their fellow recruits, who will be joining you later.
I will see you soon, my friend. You found Farón, but I have found ‘The Silvan.’ Let it be known.
Lainon’s mask of indifference slipped for a brief instant and his surprise danced across his strange face. It was quickly veiled though and the lieutenant folded the parchment, shoving it into his tunic. Indeed, he had found Farón, his best recruit so far who was now a novice warrior serving in the North-east. He was destined for leadership and Lainon had boasted his find to his friend. From then on it had been an ongoing game and Lainon was now intrigued by what Turion suggested was his own find. Yet what truly bewildered him was that his friend had not mentioned anything else—as if he had no ken at all of what Lainon was only now beginning to accept and a rush of freezing, icy shards travelled the entire length of his spine.
Was it possible that Turion had not realised? that he had not seen the resemblance? Folding the parchment, he stood, heart hammering in his chest—his face utterly straight and controlled.
“Come with me,” he said flatly as he walked towards the door, his gait powerful, feline almost.
They passed recruits and novice warriors as they walked down multiple corridors, past mess rooms and leisure halls, bathing rooms and all manner of offices, and even an armoury the three friends yearned to investigate. But they could not stop for Lainon did not and so they matched his brisk pace until finally, they came to the sleeping quarters.
“The rest of the day is for yourselves. Wander freely. Your roommates will help you settle in. I will see you tomorrow when your training will begin,” he finished, his eyes resting once more on Fel’annár before striding from the room, leaving them alone and bewildered.
“For the love of Aría,” exclaimed Ramien with a sonorous rush of air. Idernon heaved a mighty breath of relief before sitting heavily on what seemed to be a free bed, and as for Fel’annár, he simply stood there, his mind elsewhere, and it took a shove from Ramien to bring him back.
“Funny eyes . . .” murmured Fel’annár.
“Well you can talk!” exclaimed Ramien, “but yes, he is strange and I for one will not be crossing him,” he resolved as he moved towards an adjacent bed, claiming it as his own, but Fel’annár had not moved. He simply turned his head to his friends, eyes far away.
“The way he looked at me,” he murmured.
“Well, maybe he fancies you,” said Idernon as he inspected the bedding, oblivious to the strange turn his friend had taken.
“No, no it’s not that. It was—it was as if—as if he recognised me.”
Idernon and Ramien shared a worried look but Fel’annár turned away, his mind recalling Carodel’s words. ‘…maybe he was a mighty hero whose death is still too painful to be spoken of …’
No, his father was dead – he would think no more on it.
***
“Forward, forward, side, arc, down! Again! Forward, forward, side, arc, down, Again!”
They had been at it for hours and Fel’annár had no doubts as to why they wore only breeches and boots, for sweat dripped from his body as it had never done before. His throat was parched and his long hair stuck to his neck, albeit he had braided it just like the rest of his recruits, or so he thought; but then Fel’annár’s hair had never obeyed the laws of nature.
Idernon and Ramien were in a similar state but the three were nowhere near their limits. Many recruits had faltered or even stopped, receiving the most spectacularly embarrassing tongue-lashings, both in the Alpine and Silvan dialects and all the while, the unnerving Ari’atór, Lieutenant Lainon, watched from afar, his face inscrutable and his gaze heavy.
“Stop. Five minutes for water!” shouted the instructor.
T
he recruits groaned and threw themselves to the floor while others ran to the barrels and scooped water into wooden bowls, drinking greedily.
Ramien turned to his friends and grinned, before jumping twice and showing them he was nowhere near exhausted. Idernon and Fel’annár laughed merrily as they drank sparsely, throwing the rest of the water over their heads.
One unfortunate recruit had drunk too much too fast, and was now paying the price as he vomited his water miserably. Fel’annár placed a hand on his heaving shoulder, but said not a word. It was enough though, to draw attention to himself and he soon heard his name called—his new name.
“Silvan!”
Slowly, Fel’annár turned to see a smirking recruit with two others at his shoulders.
They stared impertinently, the spark of spiteful challenge in their clear, grey eyes; Alpine eyes.
Within seconds, Idernon and Ramien were behind their friend, staring just as intently, searching the newcomers’ faces for any signs of ill-intent—and finding it.
From afar, their tutor, realising there was a potentially dangerous situation unfolding, made to break them up, but Lainon’s strong hand stopped him.
“Wait,” he ordered simply.
“They may fight,” said the flummoxed tutor but Lainon interrupted him.
“I take responsibility, just wait.”
“What is it you want, Alpine?” asked Fel’annár.
“Oh, just a question, nothing of import. Tell us—why an Alpine wishes to be Silvan,” snorted the recruit with a wave of his arm. “Are you ashamed?” that annoying smile still plastered falsely on his pale, angular face.
“I am Silvan,” came Fel’annár’s measured response. The two Alpines at the recruit’s shoulder shuffled nervously.
“Oh yes, yes, we can see that—look here. Long, long hair of pale silver wheat, skin whiter than white — you are no Silvan,” he sneered, “well save for those queer eyes.”
Fel’annár bristled, for his eyes were those of his mother. “Think what you wish, Alpine. It makes no difference to me,” he ground out, hands balled into fists at his sides despite his attempts at remaining calm.
“Oh, but it should — see we think you are a half-breed,” smiled the recruit, his eyes searching for proof that he had, perhaps, riled the youth.
“And your point is?” asked Fel’annár, battling to keep his voice calm and his fists from striking out.
The smirk vanished and the recruit walked towards The Silvan until he was almost nose to nose, for his tactic had failed and in its place, frustration and anger came to the fore.
“You are arrogant; can you not just answer a simple question, boy?”
“And what is the question?” asked Fel’annár, his eyes never faltering from those of his antagonist.
“Pray I do not need to fight alongside you on the battle field, half-breed,” spat the elf, his face now twisted and wild.
“You may have to, one day,” answered Fel’annár, his antagonist’s comment somehow ameliorating his aggressive emotions rather than exacerbating them.
The recruit glared at Fel’annár, his eyes gleaming with irrational hatred but the green eyes that stared back at him were feral and unnerving; it was not long before the recruit turned away, the intensity of it too much.
“Pray I do not, for you will find no help from me,” he sneered.
Fel’annár simply smiled through his victory, watching as the Alpine and his group of friends walked away, his own fists slowly loosening.
“Well done,” murmured Idernon, as Ramien’s massive hand slapped him on the shoulder.
On the side-lines, the tutor turned to Lainon then, a question ready to burst in his wide eyes.
“That is Turion’s find. They call him The Silvan,” said Lainon.
“Well, for one so young and—green—he holds himself well,” said the tutor, still watching as Fel’annár sat with his friends.
“Yes, he shows potential. He shows the promise of command,” mused Lainon.
“Well, we could do with more Silvan officers,” said the tutor, turning to leave.
“One more thing,” added Lainon, “watch and report—to me only. There is a song upon the air,” he said softly, his eyes losing focus as he cast them sideways and towards the forest. “It comes from the trees,” added the Ari’atór, almost to himself now. The tutor watched him for a moment, used as he was to his colleague’s strange ways, before nodding and striding back to the group. Far be it from he to distrust the word of an Ari’atór.
Lainon looked back at the group of recruits but his eyes remained distant as he listened once more.
‘Tis a song of welcome . . . a proclamation.’
***
If they had thought their training harsh at the village barracks, this was plain torture to some yet still, it did not push Fel’annár to his limits. More physical training, endurance training, climbing and rescue protocol was honing his body so that he was fitter than he ever had been. In the little free time he had, he concentrated his efforts on centring his mind, disciplining himself to focus on the task at hand and not be side-tracked with other thoughts and emotions. It was a technique he had first read about in the War Tomes, an ancient Alpine treatise on warrior training. He had practised it every day since then, even if he was not going to train. It had become a part of his life, a part of his training routine he had not been able to keep up these past weeks, for should he be seen, the questions would come and so he came here, secretly, with the help of Idernon and Ramien.
Cross-legged upon the grass, he closed his eyes and emptied his mind. Straightening, he stretched his back and rolled his shoulders, breathing deeply. Standing slowly, he doubled backwards until he stood upon his hands, his arms straight, legs skywards. Concentrating, he stilled the tremble of muscles until he was completely still. This was how the three Alpine recruits found him.
“What is he doing?” asked one with a malevolent sneer.
“Perhaps he wishes to join the king’s buffoons,” chuckled another.
“You would do well, freak,” said another, watching their victim expectantly.
Fel’annár bent from the abdomen, his legs straight until he stood elegantly, his plaited hair falling back into place. His face was rigid and tight, his mind slowly returning to his present predicament.
Circling now, one elf reached out and flicked the end of a side plait. “You are pretty, there is no denying,” he murmured as the others jeered. “Lovely hair and striking eyes, perhaps it is not the king’s buffoons you should join but his courtesans—they do say our lord enjoys a bit of this and a bit of that . . .”
Fel’annár felt his anger surging from the depths and he calmed himself for his mind threatened to rebel against his own will and beat the fools to a pulp. Instead he remained silent and watched, mind analysing his own position, his attackers’ positions, their clothing . . .
“You do not defend yourself, Silvan. Have you no words for me today, no witty rebuke?”
“Witty? Nay—only that you will have no satisfaction from me—I will not hit you, Borhen,” he said but there was a gleam in his eye.
“Oh—am I not good enough for you then? You think you are better than a pure-blooded Alpine warrior?” said the blond recruit.
“You are a warrior, yes, and—I will not strike you, whatever your race,” said Fel’annár, his eyes fixed upon Borhen, no emotion apparent on his face at all, only a subtle warning that the Alpine failed to see.
“You sound like Lainon,” said his antagonist with a curl of his lip.
“Lieutenant Lainon—have you no respect?” growled Fel’annár, his voice dangerously low, his control slipping.
“Respect?” spat Borhen. “Here’s the thing. We don’t like you, boy. You are a freak, a bastard, a half-breed,” he mocked, his mouth so close to Fel’annár’s ear that his s
ilvery braids danced with the insults. The words brought memories long buried, repressed but still there.
Across the field, Ramien tapped Idernon on the shoulder and nodded to the far edge of the green, close to the tree line, drawing the attention of the other recruits behind them. Sharing a panicked look, they ran off, even though they knew that by the time they arrived it would be too late.
“You are strong,” said one Alpine as he slapped Fel’annár’s taut abdomen a little too hard. The leader nodded at his friend who moved to stand behind their victim, but to Borhen’s utter surprise, instead of enjoying a pained cry from The Silvan as his friend punched him in the kidney, a shock of silvery hair flitted past his face, only to be replaced by his friend’s panicked eyes as he lurched forward to the ground, falling clumsily with a sharp cry.
After a moment of confusion, another Alpine took Fel’annár from behind in a neck lock, but before he could pull backwards and throttle him, the Silvan had grabbed his attacker’s free wrist and moved back out from under his attacker’s arm, twisting the limb behind the Alpine’s back and forcing him to the floor lest Fel’annár dislocate his shoulder.
Borhen was livid. He had expected the slap of skin against skin, a split lip or a broken nose, grunts and gasps of pain and yet there he was, the only one standing before the strange elf. He would not stand for it and so he reached back and swung his fist straight at Fel’annár’s emotionless face. But it never made contact and he felt his wrist squeezed painfully. Before he could reason what had happened, his entire body followed his fist and he was on his back, looking up at a fierce warrior with wild hair and dangerous eyes who pinned him to the floor with nothing but a warning glare.
