Path of a Novice

by R K Lander

  “Fel’annár—you cannot go—I forbid it!” shouted the leader, his face stern and his eyes flashing but it was not enough—Afléna’s plight, her eyes were all he could see now and his ears were filled with a strange wailing, the sound snaking around his soul and choking it.

  Alféna ceased her struggle, and her wide, trembling eyes anchored themselves on Fel’annár, watching his every move, as if she dared him to fail her.

  “Alféna,” shouted Fel’annár, taking her by the shoulders and forcing her to pay close attention. “Eloran—your son?”

  “Yes!”

  “And he is with two other children?”

  “Yes!! My three-year-old twins, Eloran is still young. Please,” she ground out now, her voice but a painful, scratching echo of what it had been not minutes before. Her hands came up to clutch at his leather tunic, crumpling it in her desperate, clasping hands. “Please,” she whispered. Her eyes seemed to grow larger then brighter, and her face all but faded away. All that she was, all her despair was concentrated behind the honey-coloured orbs that screamed at him, compelled him so that he could not ignore her, could not fail her.

  “Fel’annár,” warned Lorthil one more time, but there was defeat in his tone—he knew he had lost.

  “I must try,” shouted Fel’annár urgently, his hand resting on the leader’s sleeve. “If you cannot stop the flames, lead your people to the South-east; it is relatively clear of the enemy; we will find you,” he yelled over the din, before nodding and turning one last time to Alféna.

  “I will find them—help your people to save this place,” he said, his own voice strangely unfamiliar to him, and then he dashed away, into the smoky haze until he was lost from sight, the tendrils of smoke swirling furiously behind him in waning circles and then disappearing.

  Lorthil watched after him with anger and respect. He himself had never been a warrior but he did merit himself with the skill of recognising one. That did not douse his anxiety though, for nothing could happen to this one.

  “To the pumps! Protect these trees! Foresters—you are in charge!” screamed Lorthil, once more the strong leader of Sen’oléi. Alféna’s eyes stared for a while longer at the spot where she knew the path to be, the path that could no longer be seen. Strange, green eyes came to her mind’s eye.

  ‘I will find them,’ he had said, and as Alféna turned to help her people, she realized that she believed him.

  ***

  Smoke burned his eyes, forcing tears to stream down his face, leaving streaks of stark white against his grey face. Wiping at his reddened eyes in irritation, he continued to track through the dense foliage, his ears straining to pick up the slightest hint of Alféna’s children. The good news was that he had not yet encountered the flames, but the smoke was a serious hindrance. He would pay the price later.

  The heat became ever more oppressive. Sweat poured down his neck and back. The trunks before him were but looming shadows of grey and black—there was no colour at all and the hiss and crackle of flames began to grow louder. The ground beneath his boots was hot and soon enough, pockets of fire could be seen here and there.

  Casting his eyes upwards, he could see furious flames just off to the West. He guessed the patrol would be right there, hacking away at the forest, clearing the dry wood away from the flames. ‘Eloran, where are you, boy?’ he asked as he stumbled on, unsure of how long he could keep going before he too, was forced to seek refuge.

  Reaching back, he pulled hard on the hood of his cloak and ripped it away from the collar. Tying it around his nose and mouth he pressed on, eyes streaming and lungs heaving.

  Hissing wood became the crackle of burning timber and the heat became almost unbearable, as choking clouds of smoke stole his breath and he coughed until his throat stung painfully. A mighty whoosh to his left had him staggering out of the way as a tree suddenly burst into flames and the wailing in his head became a shrill scream. He covered his ears as if to block the sound but it was no good and for the first time, he wondered if Lorthil had been right, that he should never have disobeyed his order—perhaps good leadership was exactly this—deciding the better of two evils, even when you knew your decision would cost lives.

  The sound was driving him to insanity but it unexpectedly stopped, just as his eyes anchored on a large oak. Even the hissing and crackling and the roar of encroaching flames was dampened to nothing and he knew he had found them.

  His lungs heaved and he coughed violently, the fit doubling him over for a moment. Straightening, he strode towards the tree, and without the slightest hesitation, he scampered up the bark until his hand latched onto the first branch and he swung himself up, ignoring the painful heat as it singed his hands. Higher he moved, calling out for the children, eyes searching wildly about him.

  It was half way up the tree that he finally heard the desperate shouts of a young elf. A child, but not so young.

  “Eloran?!” shouted Fel’annár as he made his way up. “Eloran!” he yelled again and soon enough, he had his answer.

  “Here!” came the strangled cry of frightened youth.

  “Eloran! Guide me to you!!”

  “Over here! Please, over here!”

  With one, final spurt of energy, Fel’annár hoisted himself up another branch until he finally made out the hazy figure of a boy, lying flat along a wide branch, his arm outstretched towards a thinner branch that bent dangerously under the weight of two tiny children.

  Fel’annár’s heart ached. He could see them now, and although his eyes burned he could not blink. They cowered together upon their precarious perch, joined in a desperate embrace, short, chubby fingers grappling with the fabric of their bright, Silvan tunics, frozen in utter fear.

  He had no rope and even if he had, he doubted the children would let go of each other to catch hold of it. “Eloran,” he shouted as he approached, so as not to startle the boy.

  “Help them!” wailed the boy. “I can’t reach them and they won’t move!”

  Fel’annár’s eyes analysed the situation. They were, indeed, paralysed and even should they move, the branch would surely break, and should Eloran or himself try to approach them, the weight would be too much.

  The possibility that he would not be able to save them began to grow in his mind, but the pleading eyes of Alféna came back to him and he could not—he could not turn back for he was a warrior of Ea Uaré—he would die trying with Aria as his witness.

  The boy began to cry, his outstretched arm slowly returning to his side and for the first time he looked back, over his shoulders. Large, watery eyes anchored on Fel’annár and agony pierced his heart at the expression he saw there.

  Purple and green began to tinge the outer parts of his vision and Eloran’s face changed from grief—to fright and he shuffled away from the branch, pressing his back to the bark of the tree. Fel’annár scowled but he had no more time to think, for the colours began to invade his sight and he saw nothing but blue and green and all the colours of the forest, where just moments before all had been shadowed.

  He saw the pulse of brilliant blue sap as it pumped through the trunk and the branches, into each and every twig. He saw the brightness of the children’s souls, watched in fascination as the liquid life of the tree pulsed once, twice, and then of a sudden the branch which was too weak to hold him seemed to become fatter, wider, stronger, the light within the brown skin becoming so powerful it almost blinded him. He reached out to touch it in fascination, watching as it sparkled on contact with his skin and he wondered. Gingerly, he stepped down onto the branch, feeling it strong and steady, and although he did not understand it at the time, did not hear the desperate yells of Eloran, he knew he would not fall, that he could place his weight on it and that he would not plummet to his death.

  Fel’annár moved slowly along the branch, desperately trying to block the logical part of his mind that screamed at him to
jump away. He was soon crouching before the two children who remained firmly clasped in each other’s arms, their eyes scrunched shut. If he called to them now they would not heed him and if he touched them they could lose their balance and fall. He must be quick, give them no time to react.

  With startling speed, Fel’annár reached out with both hands and grabbed the children by the collar of their tunics, pulling them back towards the thick, central trunk where Eloran still sat rigid and wide-eyed. Panicking, the children reached out desperately for the trunk, their brother, anything within their reach, but Fel’annár could not allow it, for they would not let go and so he bid them cling to him, one to his chest and the other to his back.

  He had been quick and it had been enough, and they wrapped their short, booted legs around his chest and back, their arms locking around him in a painful embrace.

  “Hold on,” he shouted. “Don’t let go—you will not fall, I promise,” he said, with a confidence he did not feel. “Eloran—move!” he yelled, for the boy was rooted to the spot and Fel’annár frowned—was he not happy his siblings were off the branch? There was no time to ponder the question for plumes of billowing smoke were all around them, and Eloran spluttered and choked, finally moving his back from the bark and following Fel’annár. They burned their hands and scraped their skin and they coughed until they wretched and finally, they were upon the ground—a wall of fire looming over them from the West.

  “Run!” screamed Fel’annár, but no sooner had he said it than he realised they could not—it was all they could do to stagger away, away from the wall of destruction and choking fumes as the flames devoured the wood around them, engulfing it, destroying what was once beautiful and Fel’annár’s heart broke for the tragedy of it.

  The wailing in his mind stopped, leaving a ringing silence in its wake—as if something had died.

  When the smoke finally became thinner and their backs could no longer feel the burning heat, Fel’annár’s mind began to work through his predicament. He needed to continue eastwards and if he was lucky, he would find water, for that was the only thing that would save the young ones now.

  It was a simple calculation, he mused. Find water now, wherever it takes you, and should you walk into the enemy, then your death will be just as certain as if you had not tried at all.

  ***

  The people of Sen’oléi battled the fire for many hours. Now, they were exhausted and sat in stunned, grieving silence. It had been enough to save their settlement, but they had lost three children, and their eyes were drawn to the figure of Alféna, who would not stop to take rest. Instead she collected the pails, filled skins of water and organized food to be prepared. Her gaze was often drawn to the forest path but her face remained completely blank, as if she had banished all emotion, preparing herself, perhaps, for what might emerge from the smoke – or perhaps what would not.

  The Western Patrol returned to the knowledge that Fel’annár, their novice, had gone after the children, disobeying Lorthil’s express orders. Fer’dán had said only that the novice had acted strangely, and that he had taken off suddenly, without the slightest of explanations.

  They were black and burned, red-eyed and spluttering and they staggered towards the river, throwing themselves upon the bank where Lainon and Turion’s trained eyes raked over their warriors.

  Some of the villagers were there in a moment with cloths and bowls and other provisions they had anticipated needing and soon enough, those with some knowledge of the healing arts were sitting with the warriors and seeing to their needs.

  Two had burned their forearms badly and another had twisted his knee and as for the rest, they coughed and spat out grey phlegm, and then lay back on the cool grass as they sought to calm themselves.

  Angon removed his gloves with a grimace, and then inspected his reddened hands. Pulling his boots off, he scowled at the burns he found there and then dragged himself to the bank, gasping as he lowered his feet into the cold water.

  Fer’dán was soon beside him, looking over in sympathy at his friend’s burned skin.

  “Was it intentional?” he asked simply.

  “Aye. We found evidence of Sand Lords. Even now they will probably be reaping the rewards of their vile deed and pillaging the water source nearby.”

  Fer’dán’s nostrils flared at Angon’s words, for any hope he had been clutching to that perhaps Fel’annár had made it out of the flames and to water and safety, had suddenly been dashed.

  Nearby, Turion sat in nothing but his breeches and boots, despite the cold weather. His bare chest was red and painful to the touch, and the mere brush of clothing would surely be excruciating. Lainon sat in a similar fashion, his under-shirt open, black and ripped, revealing a nasty scratch across his ribs. His strange, dark face seemed black now for he had not bothered to wash himself and the whites of his eyes stood out starkly, setting off his deep, blue eyes. Yet there was no sparkle in them now for they were dull and unmoving and a perpetual frown marred is forehead.

  “Perhaps he escaped the flames, Lainon. Perhaps he lost his way and is waiting for the smoke to dissipate.”

  Lainon turned to Turion, seeing his own reflexion mirrored on his captain’s face.

  “Who can say,” replied the Ari quietly but it was flat and lifeless, and Turion knew he despaired. “Look at us, Turion. We barely made it out of there—together. He is alone and has been inside that place of death for far too long. No one could have escaped that, not alone.

  “But he is not any one, Lainon. We have seen strange things of late and I think that if anyone could, perhaps pull off such a thing—it would be him.”

  But Lainon did not answer and so, they simply sat, their thoughts turned inwards, to the strange child, the skilled warrior, the joyful soul that had touched them all, to the fool that disobeyed Lorthil’s orders and dashed away on some hero’s mission he could never fulfil save in his own imagination.

  Muted footfalls heralded the arrival of Lorthil and Narosén and together they sat, depositing two large baskets on the ground beside them. Inside were skins of what they assumed would be water.

  “Do you mind if we join you?” asked Lorthil quietly, holding out one of the bottles to the captain.

  Turion simply nodded tiredly and then coughed, before drinking from the bottle and closing his eyes. “Honey?” he asked, surprised.

  “Nectar, yes—it will soothe your throats and calm your cough,” he said as he watched Lainon help himself. Soon, the skins were being distributed amongst the troop, and Turion watched them before turning back to the village leaders.

  Turion’s voice, when he spoke, was loud and his tone curt. “Why were those young children out in the wood? Surely you could see the potential danger? Forest fires are not new to you.”

  Lorthil frowned and looked to the ground before answering. “Children often accompany their elders into the fields. Thus, they learn and become productive members of our society. Should we cease to take them, what a great victory for the enemy that would be, do you not think?”

  “And an even greater one to have claimed their lives,” stressed the captain.

  “You do not understand,” said Narosén from the other side. “You are not Silvan. It is our way, one which sustains our society so that this land may prosper, so that you Alpine can feast at your kingly tables.”

  Turion’s nostrils flared at the acetic words. “Not all the Alpine are as you imagine them to be, Spirit Herder,” he said shortly, looking away then, a clear message to the Silvan mystic that he did not wish to speak on the subject any longer.

  Narosén let out a long breath, before raking his own long hand through his dark locks. “I am sorry. This is not the time for petty argument.”

  Turion turned back to the Ari, nodding his agreement before turning away again, but he stopped halfway, for the Spirit Herder was speaking again, albeit softly, as if to himself.


  “They may not be lost, Captain. I cannot be sure, but there is a song on the breeze, a song of guidance.

  Turion was not a religious elf and although he respected the Silvans and their superstitious ways, he simply could not bring himself to believe.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Fanfare

  “The northern lands of Calrazia are a sea of sand where nothing seems to grow and the sun knows no rival. All we know of its inhabitants are their warriors; Sand Lords we call them, for although cloaked and hooded in black, their gauntlets and armour are finely wrought, their vambraces graced with gems that sparkle as brightly as their honey eyes. But it is not a good light; it is dark and forbidding, the promise of infinite cruelty laid bare for the enemy to see.”

  The Silvan Chronicles, Book III. Marhené.

  ***

  One full cycle of the sun and still, Turion sat alone, away from the warriors, and Lainon understood him well. The Alpine was proud to a fault and did not want to be in anyone’s company whilst he mourned what now seemed to be the certain loss of their novice, for with every passing moment, mourn he did.

  Alféna had finally allowed herself to sit, her face no longer cold and detached, eyes fixed on the smoky path ahead. Someone had draped a blanket around her shoulders and had left food and water at her side. But she had not moved at all and so she sat, and she waited, and she broke their hearts.

  Lainon however, had yet to believe that Fel’annár had perished, and while Turion slowly descended into silent despair, Lainon surfaced from its murky depths. It had been Narosén’s words, he thought, for Lainon was Ari too, understood the Spirit Herder better than most for their perception of the world was different, and yet it was not something he could readily explain. But then, even had Narosén remained silent, he had somehow concluded that it was all together absurd, incomprehensible that the boy could perish, after all they had been through, after all the careful planning. They were on the brink of carrying it all off, the hope of restoring a strong and powerful king upon the throne so very close.