by R K Lander
Something hit him from the right and he was brutally thrown sideways, almost to the floor but he kept his footing and his eyes looked down to his shoulder where a thick black shaft was still quivering in his flesh. He heard someone calling his name as he reached up and pulled the arrow out and then slung it into his empty quiver.
His attention was only momentarily lost as a wave of agony made him shudder. It didn’t matter, though—and he turned around, his enemies lying around him upon the ground, dismembered.
Screams alerted him to a group of burning houses and he sprinted towards them, shielding his eyes from the burning flames. He called out but there was no answer and so he ran towards Lainon who was facing two Sand Lords close by; but before he could help, movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention. An archer was sighting Turion from across the field and the captain was oblivious to it, engrossed in his own desperate battle. Fel’annár was too far away he realised even as he sprinted towards his captain, not wanting to shout a warning lest his opponent take advantage of the captain’s inevitable distraction. The shot was nigh impossible he realised but still he was running, closing the gap so that his arrow would be in range; but his own movement over the uneven terrain would surely impede his aim.
There was no time to think and a rocky outcrop loomed before him—that was his answer. He ran faster, and then jumped onto it even as he reached back for the black bolt in his quiver. Fitting and sighting in one, fluid movement, he launched himself into the air, eyes centred on his target and the world went silent as he flew—and released.
He dropped his bow just before his feet hit the ground and he rolled with his forward momentum until he crouched on the ground, taking a second to regain his breath and control the pain in his shoulder. No time though, for there were black and silver boots to his left and he ducked under a flash of metal, and then pushed his sword through the belly of their owner with both hands, slowly pulling back lest the metal get caught on ribs.
In the distance a desperate cry carried over the din of battle, a warrior’s cry and Lainon’s heart sank as he defeated his last opponent, cruelly kicking the headless body to the ground and then wiping his forehead with a hand that still held a short sword, struggling to regain his breath.
Turning, he cast his gaze around the glade. The occasional scream of a Sand Lord soon gave way to soft crying—it was over and only now did Lainon realise that the sun was setting, drowning the land in bloody red light, the smoke from dying fires almost black as it swirled and danced on the soft breeze. He saw Turion standing awkwardly, bloody sword still in his hand, his chest heaving. He saw Angon crouched upon the ground, his head bowed and beside him, Fer’dán lay in agony, clutching at his bloodied leg. Exhausted warriors and shocked villagers roamed the glade, still numb, unable to understand the enormity of the tragedy of Sen’uár, one that would have been complete had it not been for one, young novice.
Turion straightened himself and then wiped his sword on the cloak of a fallen Sand Lord. Wiping his hand over his face he cast his eyes around him, spotting Lainon immediately and walking towards him. Their eyes met in silent sorrow and deep understanding, and with a simple hand upon the shoulder, they rejoiced for the air they both still breathed.
There were warriors to seek out, and civilians to help. There were bodies to burn and a journey to organise—back to Sen’oléi with as many refugees as they could.
It was Turion who first spotted Fel’annár, who knelt upon the ground beside the burnt cottages some distance away.
“Lainon, gather the warriors and arrange first aid. Once that is done, help them,” he said softly, his eyes moving from one Silvan villager to the next, schooling himself as best he could for their eyes told stories of utter pain and loss, of grief so deep it hurt the soul—how many times had he seen this, he said to himself. It was the reason he had refused to become a captain, so that he would not have to witness this suffering any more.
With a final nod at Lainon, he walked to Fel’annár, who remained upon the slick ground, the damp, bloody mud seeping through his leggings, his own blood running down his arm.
He held a small bundle, clasped tightly to his chest—a babe realised Turion in dawning grief.
Soft wisps of silken hair tickled his neck and Fel’annár’s bandaged hand moved up to smooth it down; his eyes though, did not dare to look for although he knew what it was he protected in the safety of his strong arms, his mind did not want to accept it, for to do so would surely be the end of his own, lingering innocence.
“What have you there, Fel’annár?” came a soft voice behind him. “Will you show me?” he asked once more; kindly spoken words meant to calm and to soothe, a father to his son, a captain to his novice.
Fel’annár did look down then, to the weight in his arms, to the harsh, tragic reality of war. A tiny, pink ear, so pointed, so perfect, peaked out from the downy locks of chestnut silk and his thumb caressed it lovingly. He pulled it to his chest once more, but it was useless, for the warmth had gone.
Turion sat beside him, his eyes turning to Fel’annár, who stared blankly off into the distance, the tears in his eyes making his green eyes look like polished glass.
“His light has gone, child. His mother too, has perished.”
“Why?” came the soft whisper, as if he spoke to the wind but his face changed not.
“That is the question, is it not? You ask yourself how this could ever be allowed to happen. Why the enemy should benefit from taking a life such as his—what is the purpose?”
Turion paused for a moment, drawing a long breath before continuing. “The answer is as plain as it is simple, Fel’annár. That babe was no warrior, but he was a weapon, the most horrific and ruthless weapon, for with his death the enemy weaves its madness amongst us; it debilitates us, takes from us not the blood from our bodies but that of the soul—where true agony resides. It takes from us all the good feelings and emotions and leaves us empty and wrathful, vulnerable to their wiles. It is a most powerful weapon they wield upon us—this, is the true battle—the one I told you would not be easy, the one not all of us can wage. Do you understand me now?” he asked kindly, his eyes overly bright.
Fel’annár did not answer. He simply sat there for a while longer before, of his own accord, he slowly rose, the cold babe still in his arms, and together, they walked to where their companions were already clearing the battle site, slowly and painfully with the help of those villagers who were still able.
Dense smoke rose from the pyres Angon and the others had prepared, and now they stood and watched as their young novice approached the fires, and gently placed the still body of the child next to those who had been his kin. There were no words of solace, for there were none to be had; nothing could help their companion save the merciful passage of time—this they knew, for they had seen it before and yet, when Fel’annár bent forward and placed a soft kiss upon the babe’s head, something seemed to snap inside and the tears they had all shed the first time they had walked into such a battle were back, after so many years they felt it as if they too, were novices once more.
It was when Fel’annár turned that the breath was stolen from their lungs for there, standing atop the pyre was not a broken, grief-stricken novice but a tall, powerful warrior, head tilted towards the blood-red sky, its glow bathing him and he shone, brighter than he ever had. His beauteous face was hard and angular, and his eyes, although still lovely, held a new light in them. The youth in them had gone though, flown away with the spirit of the babe and in its place was resolve, hard and unyielding.
Fel’annár had entered the Deep Forest a novice, but the novice had gone, fled to a kinder world and in his place stood a warrior, strong and powerful.
This was his baptism, his passage to warrior hood.
***
The dead were being sent off in silence, for no one had the heart to sing, and as night fell, the pyres
burned and the Silvans cried. The warriors of the Western Patrol mourned the loss of two of their warriors and only when they had been prepared and sent to Aria, did they collect the bodies of the Sand Lords, piling them up mercilessly over to one side, as far away as they could. If it were up to them they would have left them to rot, but the stench would have been offensive.
Fer’dán lay still upon a blanket, a Silvan healer kneeling over him and Lainon standing behind, his face blank and his eyes eloquent.
Opposite, Fel’annár sat on a boulder, his shoulder bare and bloodied as another Silvan lady bathed it in a foul-smelling liquid.
Turion was setting up a perimeter guard, even though there was no sign of the enemy. He was taking no chances and soon, as night fell, small fires littered the village clearing.
The warriors huddled together, with Fer’dán lying off to one side. His leg had been slashed wide open, barring bone and ruining the surrounding muscle. Miraculously it had not been severed, but the Alpine warrior had many months of recuperation before him. His life as a warrior was over for now. However, they still had to get him back home, first to Sen’oléi at first light, and then home to the master healers and his family.
Angon accepted a cup of tea that another warrior passed him and he breathed in the hot steam, closing his eyes and allowing it to comfort him. A cry pierced their quiet talk—another death—another Silvan had succumbed to injuries - lost to the barbarity of the Sand Lords. He just wanted to understand and before he knew it, the words were tumbling out of his mouth.
“Why, Captain. Why are there not more patrols, more outposts? How many deaths will it take for our king to protect his people? Does he not see? Does he not care?” he asked. His tone was one of anger but also of incomprehension, and Turion took no offence.
“Angon. I share your view on this matter, but it is not the fault of our king. There are those on the council that believe the Silvan people should fall back—leave the forest to the army, allow us to work unhindered in the field.”
“Unhindered?” answered Angon in mounting anger. “Since when are the Silvan people a hindrance—in their own forest?” he asked with a scowl. “Of course, by ‘those’ you mean the Alpine purists? The ones our king seems incapable of controlling?!” His voice had steadily risen in his anger and those close enough to have heard his words stared on, their eyes gleaming in the night. Turion’s scowl was enough to tell Angon he should curb his tongue and the Silvan warrior lowered his head. “Forgive me.”
“Are there so many, Captain,” whispered Fel’annár, accepting a cup of tea from Lainon gratefully, “so many purists that think that way?”
Turion took a deep breath before answering and when he did it was hushed.
“It is not a question of how many, Fel’annár, but who. It is Lord Band’orán, Or ‘Talan’s brother no less, that promotes these ideas. His influence is a powerful tool, one he uses most skilfully.”
Fel’annár had much to say on the matter, especially after what he had lived through that day, but something in Turion’s eyes told him not to proceed. It was not the time and certainly not the place and so he simply nodded that he understood. And he did, only that it sickened him and he wondered—how much longer would the Silvan people hold their tongue? How long before grief ended their patience?
He reached for Narosén’s nectar, shaking it with a scowl for there was barely enough left for one more swig. He finished it, and then cast it a baleful glare. He looked up at Lainon who was staring back at him and in his hand, a fresh flask of the miraculous brew. Fel’annár reached for it with a look of utter relief on his dirty face.
“Thank you,” he whispered with a respectful nod.
“No,” said Lainon a little too quickly. “Thank you,” he said fervently, but then strangely said no more and Fel’annár was left with the distinct feeling the Ari had wanted to say more.
His shoulder twanged painfully and then all the hurts of his body finally began to complain. His chest hurt, his throat was agony, his shoulder sent white hot sparks of pain down to the tips of his fingers and he was utterly exhausted. It must have shown, for a strong hand was pushing him down onto his bedroll and Fel’annár had not the strength to fight against it. Flat on his back now, his eyes caught the retreating silhouette of Angon, before searching for the nascent moon; he would never forget this day—never forget the tragedy that brought with it a new kind of wisdom, one that would change him from this day on.
***
The following day, the warriors of the Western Patrol broke camp quietly, following Turion and Lainon’s gentle orders. There were only eight of them left and the loss and impending news their captain would break to their families was a heavy burden.
They had fashioned stretchers for those that could not make the walk to Sen’oléi, amongst them Fer’dán, who lay in a daze, oblivious to his companions’ worried eyes.
They were tired and sore, they limped and their faces were pinched and pale, but their troubles seemed frivolous in comparison to the Silvan refugees of Sen’uár. They had collected as many of their belongings as could be saved and wrapped them in the colourful cloth that had once served as table linen and blankets. It broke Fel’annár’s heart even more for they were a simple people, quiet even in their grief. It would have been so easy for them to lash out against the warriors, or the king himself yet they said nothing at all - as if there was no fight left in them.
Finally on their slow, painful way, the warriors took turns in scouting around and guarding the sorry caravan and those left with the main group helped where they could. There were many women and children, but much fewer men but they all struggled with their children and their most precious belongings.
Most of their carts and wagons had been lost in the battle, but one had been salvaged and it now rattled over the forest floor, piled high with all manner of personal effects, even furniture. Fel’annár’s jaw clenched in mounting anger and Turion’s warning stare at Angon from the night before was enough to keep him silent, but on the inside, Fel’annár was indignant, his mind bursting with unanswered questions.
They stopped at midday and even Fel’annár was required to stand guard, despite his sorry state. He still couldn’t speak properly and his flask of nectar had long ago been depleted. His shoulder was on fire and his whole arm felt rigid but it was the exhaustion that was truly impeding him. He had braved the flames to rescue Alféna’s children—Eloran and the twins—and no sooner had he returned, than he was marching to Sen’uár where he had fought the longest and most difficult battle of his life, one that had truly shown him the ravages of war.
Running a weary hand over his filthy face he rubbed it in irritation and stood, starting when he found Lainon standing before him.
“Is the way clear?” asked the Ari almost conversationally.
“Yes, Sir. Nothing to report.”
“Very well. We should arrive in a few hours,” said Lainon unnecessarily. “There are things we must discuss.”
Fel’annár’s brow twitched as he turned to face his lieutenant but this time, there was no insecurity. He knew he had done well. Whatever it was that Lainon wished to discuss, it was not about his shortcomings.
“We fought a hard battle at Sen’uár, the kind the Sand Lords use against us to whittle away at our resolve, make us doubt the wisdom of what we do . . .” he trailed off, his face turned to the fore so that Fel’annár was left staring at his profile, wondering if the Ari had read his mind.
“I am angry, Lainon. I cannot help it. The plight of these people is a tragedy; Angon’s words yesterday . . .” he whispered.
“Many of us agree with him, Fel’annár,” said Lainon, cutting off whatever the novice was going to say. “Many of us know that political—cultural division is giving the enemy the edge they need and that while our lords squabble amongst themselves, the Silvans are being slaughtered. Even Turion knows this, Fel
’annár.”
“But last night . . .”
“Angon spoke too loudly—‘tis all.”
Fel’annár nodded his understanding. “I am faithful to our king, Lainon.”
“We all are. But sometimes, even kings can lose faith, Fel’annár—given the right circumstances.”
Fel’annár stared for a long while, processing the information. He had always thought of the king as a strong, untouchable symbol yet to consider him vulnerable was strangely unnerving. ‘Given the right circumstances’ he repeated to himself—and he found himself wondering what had happened to their monarch that he would lose faith. His throat was burning and he coughed miserably.
“Come,” said Lainon, turning on his heel. “We leave, and when we are back, clean and fed—you,” he poked Fel’annár in the chest, “have a story to tell us.”
“The fire,” began the novice.
“The fire, and the outcrop,” he said meaningfully. “Turion was most impressed,” he drawled as he walked away, leaving a blushing novice in his wake.
***
By late afternoon, the refugees reached the village of Sen’oléi, closely guarded by what remained of the Western Patrol. Lorthil stood duteously together with Narosén, Sarodén the forester and the entire population. They carried blankets and had prepared pots of steaming food, and those with knowledge of the healing arts stood ready to usher the wounded to the village hall, their faces solemn and the children quiet.
No sooner had they emerged from the forest path, than the villagers moved forward, approaching the women and children and leading them away to their own homes, their faces open and saddened, arms outstretched in silent, solemn welcome. Fel’annár battled with his own tears and tried not to watch their interaction too closely for it moved him too deeply. A heavy hand on his shoulder jolted him out of his misery and he half turned to catch Angon’s profile as he moved away to help a villager. He smiled softly for the Silvan veteran was fast becoming a steadfast friend, despite his initial antagonism.
