by R K Lander
“Lainon asks that we find a way to celebrate a vow ceremony without running the risk of Rinon seeking out the Silvan.”
“Surely that can wait,” snorted Aradan. “There are more important things at stake here than one’s pride.”
“No Aradan. Not for a warrior, and before you try to refute that,” he said, one hand raised towards the councillor, “it is not a question of pride—it is a necessity—one the king insists on. I could not care less myself, but Lainon seems adamant. He asks it of me as a favour.”
“He has involved himself personally with this boy—hasn’t he?” asked Aradan thoughtfully as he sipped on his wine.
“Yes,” said Handir as he swirled his own wine slowly. “Perhaps too much. The possibilities of this project failing are high—I do not want Lainon hurt. His reasons are noble, though, even if they do not fully coincide with mine.”
Aradan stared at Handir’s profile. His face was apparently placid, relaxed, but his eyes were far away and even the king’s Chief Councillor could not rightly say what he was thinking on.
The truth was that Handir struggled with the thought of Lainon protecting this—Fel’annár as a brother would. To him he represented the departure of his mother, the separation of his family. Why would Handir even be expected to care about the boy at all.
‘Because he is unaware of it all—he does not know,’ his logical mind told him.
Even so, Handir had no feelings for him at all. The boy was a necessary player in this game but he would not be part of the future; he was not why Handir was doing this now. He was doing it for the good of the kingdom, for his father and his siblings—for himself.
And then Lainon’s face floated before his mind’s eye once more and as it did, a memory came to him quite suddenly, accompanied as so often happens, by a smell—of nut pastries hot from the oven and the scent of sweet honeysuckle. He saw his father’s smiling face and heard his mother’s joyous laughter. He remembered a rough table top that seemed to run the entire length of the room—the kitchen he realised. He sat on someone’s knees and heard the voice of his elder brother as he bounced Handir up and down, his own laughter joining that of their mother’s.
Wide-eyed, Handir was shocked at the intensity of the memory, so much so that a tear came to his eye and he swiped at it impatiently. He had been wrong; those memories of happier times when his family had been together, when his father had still been vibrant and strong—he had not forgotten, he had simply stopped remembering.
***
“I have already told you, there is little more we can teach you with your weapons, but where we are headed now, it is the mind that will keep you alive, Hwind’atór.”
Fel’annár walked between Turion and Lainon at the end of the line. They had been travelling on foot for a week now, and with every step they took, the trees seemed to be wilting under the weight of something that could not be seen. Sunlight filtered through the high boughs of foliage, playing strange shadow games on the ground. Why that should bother him was beyond him.
“Evil is not just the twisted face of a Deviant, or the dark machinations of some obscure Sand Lord. It is a deep, crushing sorrow that penetrates the body and arrests your mind, your soul. Your task as a warrior in the North will be to control your body and block that sensation, protect yourself against it so that you may protect others, think clearly when they cannot.”
Turion glanced at their young charge from the corner of his eye. He listened intently as he always did, a faint bruise still shadowing his left cheek, fruit of a nasty blow he had taken some days ago when he slipped on a patch of fresh resin and fallen hard. The boy had been indignant, claiming he had never fallen in a tree, and Lainon had to explain to him that here, not all trees were willing to host elves in their boughs. Fel’annár had been horrified and since then, had bombarded them with incessant questions as to why that would be.
“I have heard the stories, Turion, I know what they say. They flock to Valley for good reasons, for valid reasons, for how can one passively accept his fated death? How can you sit by idly and allow it to occur when there is a chance to change it?”
“Aye, and therein lies the tragedy of it, Fel’annár. They were once good people who never meant harm to anyone. But when their bodies begin to fail and yet they cannot die, the horror—the sheer terror of it, is enough to pervert them. Those only recently returned from Valley are not so dangerous; you can tell them apart for although they fight, they are not so skilled, not so aggressive, as if they still had doubts as to what they do. The older Deviants have no such doubts, and neither should you, Fel’annár. If you falter, if you think too much, they will kill our mothers and our fathers, our children—they will raze our world to the ground.”
Fel’annár nodded. He had not thought about it that way at all. He had simply killed Deviants as he would a mindless monster. And they were. The trick was, indeed, to not think about what they had been like before they had been turned, something he supposed he would, inevitably end up doing.
“How does a warrior guard himself against that? To not think on their origins?” he asked.
“Not all of them can. I have known many excellent warriors who cannot serve in the North. After but months, they return to the city and the healing wards, their minds in turmoil and their souls darkened and in tatters. It takes them months to regain their spirit and serve once more. Our commanders do not recruit just any warrior for these areas; they recruit only those who are stronger of mind and will.”
“Can one train to endure it? I mean, if you succumb at first, can you learn to block it? To guard your heart?”
“Yes. In fact, that is the way of it. Everyone suffers at first, until you learn to pinpoint its effects—that is when you can block it. Don’t go in there thinking you can guard yourself from the start Fel’annár. That will not happen.”
Turion watched the novice as he spoke, noting his wide eyes staring straight ahead, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly.
The poor boy was nervous—they all were at this point in their training, but somehow Turion had almost thought Fel’annár would be impervious to it—he was not, and that was a comforting thought somehow.
Turion had spoken with Lainon about the strange events during their skirmish with the Sand Lords and they had both agreed to keep a close eye on the boy. They needed more information on the nature of his—gift—if that was, indeed what it was. Once they were better informed, they could find a way to help him with it. However, Lainon at one point implied that it was the Spirit that affected their young charge. It was a strange thing to say, for Lainon was Ari’atór, albeit he had not taken his vows, but it did lend him the advantage in all things related to Ari, and as such, Turion would not discard his words.
“Fel’annár,” called Lainon from his other side. “Your hair has escaped again. See to it that you secure it from your face before our next confrontation.”
A lovely blush blossomed on his bruised face as he turned to the Ari’atór. “I confess I do not know what to do.”
Lainon’s eyebrows rose, and Turion rather thought he saw an idea dawn on his lieutenant’s face.
“Well, there is one way. It is a little—exotic—but it could work. We Ari’atór have hair of a different texture to that of the other elven races as you know, and while you are not Ari’atór, your hair is thicker than any Alpine or Silvan I know. Our warrior braids could work, I think. I could show you when we make camp later.”
Fel’annár’s sceptical eyes shot to the strange, thick twists that stood high upon Lainon’s crown. “I will be a sight! An Alpine Silvan with the hair of an Ari’atór!”
“Popular with your lovers, boy!” jested the lieutenant in a rare show of emotion and Fel’annár chuckled while Angon and Fer’dán snorted behind them. Soon enough, the two warriors had shared the story with their companions, and by twilight, as they set up their camp, Lainon, their
mercurial Ari’atór, was braiding Fel’annár’s hair in a way none of them had ever seen on an elf that was not Ari.
Thick twists had been worked from front to back, from his hairline and then down his back, sitting atop the straight, unbraided hair beneath, both layers falling almost to the small of his back and when Lainon had finished and the boy turned, the troop hooted and cheered, cat calls echoing around them. Fel’annár blushed and stood, bowing theatrically first to Lainon, and then to his feisty audience.
“How do I look?!” he shouted merrily, no hint of his earlier anxiety. For the next half an hour, the warriors fooled around, swaying their hips and ‘ooing’ and ‘aaring’, linking each other’s arms and skipping—and Fel’annár, Green Sun, was always in the middle of it, laughing and flicking at their hair in return.
Lainon and Turion watched from their nascent campfire and smiled. “He is an extraordinary boy, Lainon. I wish the best for him.”
“I know,” said Lainon, turning to face his captain and friend. “You told me back at the barracks that here is something about him that inspires loyalty; it is why you left your beloved training fields; it is why I, too, am here.”
Turion held his friend’s gaze for a moment. Something important was happening, and they two would have a part in it. It was almost as if they had been appointed this task—appointed by who, though, Turion could not say and yet he felt it, in the deepest recesses of his mind he knew neither of them had ever had the slightest choice in the matter. And then, he thought, that even if he had had a say in it, he would still have chosen this path. The boy had wormed his way beneath Turion’s thickened, warrior hide, into his heart, had worked a strange, arcane magic that had captivated him from the very start.
They raised their mugs and clinked them together, before sipping on the hot tea, enjoying the entertainment, for tonight, the forest was at peace.
Chapter Thirteen
He is Ours
“To be a Silvan elf is to feel the Spirit, Aria, for it brushes against our souls – comes from the trees and is like air – life-giving. You cannot separate a Silvan from his woodland home for to do so is to leave him bereft of that touch, take away his joy and leave him lost, adrift in unknown waters.”
On Elven Nature. Calro
***
The next morning, the patrol kitted out in their heaviest gear and set out stealthily through the forest, towards the North-west and one of the denser areas of the forest. Had they continued due North they would have reached the Xeric Woods in a week, but as it was, Turion had no plans to take the patrol there and so they set a brisk pace towards their next stop, Sen’oléi, a village where they were to gain information on the enemy’s movements and establish whether its inhabitants needed help in the way of provisions or infrastructure. Being relatively close to the dry forest – the northern Xeric Wood, these Silvan foresters held great insight into how the enemy moved, and that was what Turion now sought.
It would be the first time in months that the patrol would encounter civilians, and the thought was a good one, for there would be hot food and comfortable beds. There might even be a day of rest in which they could bathe, wash their clothing and care more extensively for their weapons.
Fel’annár’s hair was a success, for he was able to gather up the thick top braids and tie them at the back of his head. It was perfect and Lainon had joked that it pulled at his eyes, making him look like an Ari’atór.
Turion confessed to being absurdly confused, for Lainon never joked. He was severe and curt, enigmatic yet fierce, frightening even, yet when he was around The Silvan, the Spirit Warrior smiled and made witty comments, and thought of other things that were not death and despair. Turion liked this side of his friend.
After two days, the patrol emerged from the dense trees and into a glade, where some sunlight still managed to filter through the high boughs. They had been smelling the wood smoke for many hours now, and the Silvan members of the troop began to reminisce on their own homes, so similar to the village they now entered.
Fel’annár lifted his head and relished the timid warmth of the early winter sun on his face, smiling before opening his eyes and looking around the settlement. The Silvan foresters stopped to watch as the warriors walked single file towards the village hall, a large wooden construction which sat on one side of the clearing. Gathering closer, the villagers patted the lads upon the back and called out warm welcomes. The lasses though, were whispering and when Fel’annár passed them and winked saucily at them, they broke out into giggles. Angon poked their novice in the ribs while Fer’dán flicked at his hair, making the girls laugh even harder.
Children too, scampered around the warriors as they marched by, brushing their hands over worked leather and woollen cloaks, and when one of the more daring imps reached for a sword scabbard or a quiver, they were batted away with a good-natured scowl. The children screamed and squealed until their mothers scolded them and ushered them away with apologetic smiles.
Fel’annár felt a pang of nostalgia, for although much darker and enclosed, this village brought to mind his own forest home of Lan Taria. He understood this society, indeed they were the very reason he had chosen to do what he now did and of a sudden he could not wait to take his vows and be counted amongst the king’s warriors as an equal rather than a novice.
As a Silvan settlement, there would be a Village Leader, a Spirit Herder and a Master Forester; these three figures were the leaders of their people and their starting point would be to find them. Erthoron, Golloron and Thavron popped into Fel’annár’s mind and he smiled at the thought of them.
Soon, they arrived at the wooden hall where two tall elves stood waiting. Turion stepped forward and placed his fist over his heart.
“Well met. I am Captain Turion of the Western Patrol, and this is my Lieutenant, Lainon. We have come to ensure your safety and assess your defences.”
“Well met, Captain. I am Lorthil, leader of these people, and this is Narosén, our Spirit Herder. Be you welcome brothers.”
The entire patrol bowed to the two Silvan leaders, and then Lainon looked sideways at Narosén, his fellow Ari’atór, the Spirit Herder and bowed solemnly. Narosén returned it, his eyes just as blue and weighty as Lainon’s. Yet where Lainon wore the simple uniform of a lieutenant, Narosén was clad in long, black robes; his hair, equally black, was full of tokens, beads and stones, feathers and vines and braids of every length and thickness. It all lay in a jumbled mass upon his head and then streamed down his back and past his rump.
Once inside the village hall, they were led to a long table that sat before a large hearth that had only recently been lit. They had been expected, and now, three younger elves set bread and water on the tables, smiling at the staring warriors as they passed.
“Will you sit, warriors, and share a meal with us?” asked Lorthil, gesturing to the tables. The warriors’ eyes had gone round and their stomachs rumbled loudly, the promise of food—hot food—at a table with fresh bread made their eyes misty and their mouths water.
“We would be honoured, Lorthil,” said Turion as he turned and nodded to the warriors, the hint of a smirk on his otherwise rigid features.
An Alpine warrior reached for the bread, but Angon’s hand shot out to stop him, bidding him wait. Sure enough, a soft voice lifted against the silence.
“Aria, we thank you for the bounties of the forest. May we take sustenance from them, and replenish these lands, nurture your creation and praise thy name.”
With a smile, Narosén lifted his head and smiled, the sign any well-educated Silvan knew meant the meal could begin. Abashed, the Alpine warrior smiled ruefully as he reached once more for the bread, slower this time, offering it to Angon first, before tearing off a piece for himself and stuffing it into his mouth so that it bulged, and Fel’annár giggled.
Muted conversation broke out as the warriors ate and the leaders spoke of thei
r plans for the day. Fel’annár, eager to learn, had only one ear on his companions, and the other on Turion and his procedure, tucking away all his words and nuances. He might one day find himself in this very situation, as a captain he reminded himself.
“Tell us of the enemy, Lorthil. What of them?” asked Turion.
“We lost three elves in the fields a week past now. It was not a coordinated attack but a pack of scavengers. However, the enemy is pressing in—we can all feel it—there is something coming this way but we are unable to identify exactly what.”
Turion scowled as he turned to the Spirit Herder. “What say your omens, Narosén?” he asked respectfully. The captain was Alpine, but he was well-versed in the culture and rites of the Silvan people and their Ari Spirit Herders.
“They speak of many things of late,” said Narosén softly so that only Turion and Lainon could hear. “They speak of a dark wave of festering evil—something approaches, gnaws at the forest for the trees whisper.”
“What do they say?” asked Turion.
“We know only that they fight their own battle, Captain, on a plane we cannot perceive. But the more sensitive of our folk speak of resistance, a desperate fight our woodland sentinels seem to have taken up.”
“It sounds dire,” said Lainon. As an Ari himself, he understood these people’s superstitions, believed them and even felt them, to a point.
“Yes, but there are whispers of something else—it may be of no import, but they speak of—of an awakening.”
A strange tingling washed over the captain, turning his skin too sensitive and he glanced at Lainon with a scowl; but the Ari’atór was not looking at him but at Fel’annár—watching as the boy ate, seemingly oblivious and Turion wondered at that. He had not missed Narosén’s veiled glance at their novice, the gleaming blue eyes overly bright, and in them was the spark of something Turion could not place, even though he knew it was important.
