by R K Lander
Idernon scowled. “How do you know?”
Fel’annár turned, his gaze landing heavily on Idernon. “I just do.”
Ramien glanced at Idernon and then turned to Fel’annár. “How—do you know?”
Fel’annár’s head snapped to Ramien, but he did not answer. Instead he stood. “We should tell Silor.”
“He is Listening,” said Galdith in dawning realization as he slowly stood, eyes fixed on Fel’annár. “I have seen this once before. We must warn the commanders.”
“Wait,” said Fel’annár, looking straight through Idernon who had moved to stand in front of him. He was Listening, thought Idernon, just as Galdith reckoned, and the Silvan warriors slowly rose to their feet, their eyes riveted on the young warrior, the one they knew was called The Silvan even though he looked nothing of the sort.
“There is something they do not know, Idernon—it is urgent,” called Fel’annár, a hint of desperation in his tone, a sinking feeling in his gut because Fel’annár knew it could happen again—the transformation—he recognised the signs now: the pressure at the back of his neck, the crackling, popping sound, the swirling colours, and the knowledge that what he knew, however he knew it, was the truth. He held one hand before his eyes; it took Idernon a moment to understand why.
“Fel’annár?” called Ramien, Carodel coming to stand at his side.
“Trust me,” said Fel’annár. It sounded stupid even to his own ears, for how could they not be alarmed? They knew nothing of the nature of his gift save for his transformation the other day, and since then, Fel’annár had not addressed the subject at all and the others had not dared. The hand before his eyes told him there was no green light, and despite the warning screaming in his mind, he was glad, at least, for one small mercy. He would not be taken for a demon and hung where he stood.
“Elo has gone for Silor,” shouted Osír, approaching slowly together with Galdith and the other warriors. Indeed, just moments later, Silor strode into their midst, anger furrowing his strict brow.
“What is the meaning of this?” he spat. “You are interrupting the morning agenda.”
“Sir, if you would listen to what I must say…”
“Get on with it, Silvan. Our scouts return.”
“There is trouble, sir. The scouts ride in with news, but there is something they do not know, some hidden danger.”
“And who says this?” asked Silor, his voice low and dangerous as he stepped up to Fel’annár, albeit his head only reached The Silvan’s collar bone.
“I am a Listener. I know of what I speak. Please, it is urgent. You must not waste time.”
“Silvan nonsense.”
“Sir,” called Galdith. “With respect, you should heed his words.” The other warriors nodded, but Silor was not impressed.
“Superstition—you are warriors, not children on your mothers’ laps—get back to work.”
“Silor!” shouted Fel’annár. “Allow me to speak with Lieutenant Galadan—it is urgent. There is danger, I am not wrong. Time is passing… ”
With one step forward, Silor stood before Fel’annár, and Idernon and Ramien stood ramrod stiff beside him, faces hard and forbidding. The other Silvan warriors moved closer, instinct telling them Silor should not have insisted.
A hand shot out and grabbed Fel’annár’s collar. Shaking it, he pulled Fel’annár towards him, until their noses almost touched.
“You would disobey me—Silvan? You are frightening the troop.” Anger dripped from his words as he shook the fisted material once more. “You, a half-breed peasant would defy an Alpine lord? You will hold your tongue and break camp…”
Silor got no further, for Fel’annár’s strong fingers clamped down on the hand grasping his collar and pushed it away so hard the trainee lieutenant stepped backwards clumsily and then fell on his backside.
“There is danger, and our commanders must be warned,” he said as he towered over the sprawling Alpine. “You are wasting time.”
“Who are you?” asked Galdith, slowly stepping forward, the other Silvan warriors behind him.
“I am Fel’annár, The Silvan,” said Hwind’atór, his voice strong and steady even though his skin was crawling: this was a part of his recurrent dream.
“What are you?” the warrior asked then, earning the confirming nods of the others.
“I am a warrior of his majesty’s militia. I am a Listener. This is not witchcraft—it is woodcraft…”
Against all odds, the brightest of smiles broke out on the veteran warrior's face as Fel’annár turned and jogged away. The Company was at his back, and behind them, the rest of the Silvan warriors who had witnessed the scene.
“You!” raged Silor as he stood, his furious eyes upon Fel’annár’s back as he ran to the command tent. “You are in trouble, boy. Get your backside to Lieutenant Galadan's tent now,” he yelled, even though it was obvious that was exactly where they were bound. It was no longer about Fel’annár and his strange words or Silor’s disbelief of them; it had become a Silvan thing, an Alpine attack on the most revered of their beliefs.
Soon enough, they all stood before Lieutenant Galadan, yet before Fel’annár could issue his warning, Silor was before his superior, gasping for air.
Lainon, Handir, and Pan’assár stepped out of the larger tent, stopping sharply as they stepped over the threshold. Lainon had paled, and Handir closed his eyes. The commander general, however, stood staring, but his face was no longer schooled as it always was; his blank stare was broken, shattered with shock and grief—for not ten strides away stood his beloved friend, Or’Talán, and Pan’assár was unable to move, unable to speak.
“Fel’annár,” called Galadan.
“Sir.”
“You have disobeyed your superior. What have you to say?”
“That it is as true as it was necessary, sir.”
“Disobedience is never acceptable, warrior,” warned Galadan, his voice even softer than before.
“It is if there is danger, sir; article four hundred and ninety-eight of the Warrior Code. Danger approaches us, and Silor will not hear my warning. Please, it is urgent. We are wasting precious time. You must organize the troop…”
Galadan turned his head to Silor in a silent request to explain, a deep frown on his face.
“He claims to be a Listener. I confronted him, and he threw me to the floor.”
The Silvans bristled at the blatant untruth, but Fel’annár’s patience was at an end. His head would surely explode, for the noises inside it were unbearable.
“Speak, Fel’annár,” said the lieutenant, his eyes momentarily registering the presence of the entire camp. The warriors and even Prince Handir stood in apprehensive silence as they watched the exchange. “Is it true that you threw Silor to the floor?”
“No, sir. He held me by the scruff of my neck—I simply removed his hand. He fell over himself. Sir, please. There are two attack points—not one—east and west.”
Galadan’s brow furrowed.
“Sir, I am a Listener. I know that our scouts have returned with grave news, and I also know there is an added danger—a danger we were warned about more than 15 minutes ago,” he said, his eyes momentarily straying to Lainon, the only one that would understand him.
Galadan walked up to Fel’annár and stared him in the eyes as if he had gone mad. But then he realised that Fel’annár’s eyes were on Lainon, and Galadan turned to the Ari. The lieutenant was already shouldering his pack and buckling his harnesses, cold determination on his face. All it took was a curt nod from Lainon, and Galadan whirled around, eyes latching on to Pan’assár, who did not move at all.
“Commander?” came his urgent call, but Pan’assár did not answer, could not. He stood there, transfixed, eyes anchored on Fel’annár as if he would fall should the boy move.
“Commander,” he called again. “Orders?”
Pan’assár’s head snapped to Galadan, eyes wide with shock. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but Ga
ladan was already barking out his own orders. “Prepare for battle! Silor, dispatch warriors to the west, and command them. Fel’annár, with me to the east.” Galadan called on the warriors he would take with him while Silor collected those he would lead to the west. With Lainon gone, he had no alternative but to trust Silor, for Pan’assár was distracted for reasons Galadan could not fathom. Their commander general had never frozen, never hesitated in the face of battle—until today.
Once the troop had been organized into the two groups, Pan’assár seemed to come back to himself, and he turned to his prince who was accommodating himself in his saddle. “Ride hard, Lieutenant Lainon; deliver our prince to Tar’eastór.”
With a solemn nod and a thudding salute, Lainon and Handir wheeled their horses round and thundered away. Lainon was acutely aware of the turmoil in Pan’assár’s mind; he had seen Fel’annár at long last, had seen Or’Talán’s grandson.
“One front?” asked the commander, falling into step with Galadan.
“Two, my lord—there are two. East, west.” He had tried and failed to curb his irritation.
“Says who?”
“Trust me, sir. I cannot explain now.”
Pan’assár held Galadan’s gaze for a moment, for he was not a man of faith. There was conviction in the lieutenant’s eyes, and annoyance, while in his own eyes there was nothing but shock, confusion, and a hint of guilt.
The urgent yell of a sentinel split the air, and Pan’assár startled.
“Attack! To arms. Imminent attack, east!” But there was an echo of sorts just moments after. “Attack! To arms. Imminent attack, west!”
They were caught between two fronts, and Galadan shot a murderous glance at Silor’s back, watching from afar as he spat his own orders.
“You!” yelled Silor at a Silvan warrior. “Follow Lieutenant Galadan and get out of my sight!” Then he spun towards the rest of The Company and Galdith’s group. “And you, back to the west.” Silor, however, turned and ran to catch up with Galadan and Pan’assár.
“Back, Silor. Command those warriors,” said Galadan, and Pan’assár turned to watch the tense exchange. Silor opened his mouth to answer, but the urgent calls of the scouts had them taking up their places in an instant, archers into the trees, swordsmen upon the ground.
“Engagement,” warned the sentinel. It was then that they heard the first wails of the most dreaded of foes, the largest and most vicious enemy known to Elvendom: the giant Deviants of the Median Mountains.
Idernon and Ramien spared Fel’annár one last look over their shoulders as they jogged away to the west.
Before long, they were back in the glade they had woken up in, only this time Idernon scanned it with a critical eye, as did Galdith, who promptly turned to the Wise Warrior with worry in his eyes.
Silor had carelessly sent them down the line like bothersome children meddling in the affairs of their elders, and yet Silor was nowhere to be seen. Idernon’s blood boiled. He understood the scepticism over Fel’annár’s ability but not the disdain, the wanton disregard for all things Silvan.
A cry echoed down the line, and all too soon, the yells and screams of elves and Deviants clashing in battle were ringing in their ears; the scrape of metal and the familiar wailing and shrieking of the Deviants. Hwindo would be in the middle of it, and Idernon checked his wandering mind; the last thing he needed now was distraction.
“Galdith. We move up into the boughs, pick off as many as we can before we must face them—it may be our only hope to defend the line.” Idernon’s words carried confidence, but there was a subtle question in his tone that Galdith did not fail to understand. The novice’s reasoning was sound, though, and Galdith nodded curtly. You’re not wrong. I agree.
Hiding themselves deftly amongst the boughs, melting into the brown and green limbs, they took up their positions, checking bow strings and the arrows in their quivers. Their blood rushed frantically through their veins, hearts pumping furiously as the cacophony from afar became louder and more desperate.
It was Galdith who first signalled the approach of the group, and as they readied their weapons, Idernon caught his eye only briefly, time enough to see what surely lay in his own eyes: fear, dread, determination, courage. He, too, knew the truth of it.
Too many; there were too many.
Chapter Five
THE LISTENER
“There is magic in this world that is ill-understood, and such is the ability of the Listener. These gifted elves are mostly Silvan and are few to mention—indeed, many Alpines question the veracity of their claims, for most have never seen a Listener. But then most elves have never seen Aria, the Spirit, nor Valley, our paradise beyond the Source. Are we also to claim these things do not exist? Has faith no place in this world?”
On Elven Nature. Calro.
From his perch in the trees, Fel’annár shot in rapid succession, the rhythmic release of his bow string whooshing loudly even above the cacophony of battle below him, or so it seemed to him. Every arrow lodged itself with a satisfying thud in the neck of an enemy, the stroke of his bowstring over strong fingers his cue to reach for another arrow.
Precision, velocity, endurance.
When at last his hand met air, he discarded his bow and jumped to the ground, landing with a forward somersault until he stood in front of a Deviant, his blades already drawn. The creature wailed before it swung its filthy blade in a downward stroke that was easily deflected while Fel’annár’s short blade pierced its heart.
Moving sideways, Fel’annár dodged a falling Deviant, victim of an Alpine warrior beside him, and he stepped before his next opponent. Two strokes were all it took until he was facing his third, and then his fourth. These smaller specimens fell easily enough and soon, Fel’annár was at the centre of the fighting.
Commander Pan’assár was a whirlwind of power as he struck down his opponents, and Fel’annár dearly wanted to watch, to admire the ancient technique that few, if any, could still perform, but there was no time; he could not allow himself the distraction. So he kicked at the legs of a Deviant that fought with Galadan and then thrust his broadsword through its back. Galadan nodded and was away, towards Pan’assár’s position while a cry off to Fel’annár’s left had him running forwards to Dorainen, their healer, as he struggled to parry the heavy blows of a lumbering Deviant that pressed its bulky advantage. Dorainen’s shoulder was hanging awkwardly, useless, and one side of his face was a river of blood. Launching himself into the air, Fel’annár sent the tips of both his blades into the junction between neck and shoulder, killing the towering beast from behind so suddenly that it crumbled to the ground in silence.
Dorainen fell with a pained cry, but there was no time to help him, and so Fel’annár spun, keeping the Alpine healer behind him. Flipping one wrist until his blade was concealed by his forearm, he used it to slash an unsuspecting Deviant across the throat before turning to face an open-mouthed Dorainen. He thrust his sword arm backwards into the Deviant behind, a grim smirk and a sparkle of satisfaction in his eyes when he heard the scream of pain as the blade pierced its innards. Pulling back viciously, he turned once more, kicking out and catching another beast under the chin before twisting to the side, causing another Deviant to overcompensate and crash to the ground where Dorainen stabbed it clumsily before it could rise.
Too many, there were too many, thought Fel’annár to himself as he fought with a vulnerable Dorainen behind him.
Something pierced his flesh from behind. An arrow had lodged itself loosely in his shoulder blade. With a grimace, he reached behind and yanked it free with an angry hiss. No time though, for another two Deviants were running at him. Dropping to the floor he swooped below their sword arms and then kicked out with his legs, bringing one beast down with a crunch of bone before flipping himself upwards and thrusting his blades into the other beasts’ lungs.
With a moment’s respite, Fel’annár quickly pulled Dorainen to his feet and dragged him into the trees. The Alpine
did not speak, for the pain of his dislocated shoulder would be excruciating, not to mention the blood staining his side. Fel’annár was thankful he kept silent and allowed himself to be led away from the fray, however unceremoniously. Momentarily dropping his sword, he seized Dorainen’s forearm, nodded once, and then pulled and twisted. The healer stifled his scream as best he could and then leaned back against a tree, white as milk.
Towards the other side of the field, Galadan dragged his forearm over his eyes, but there was no time to finish the movement before he was assailed once more. He was slowing, but a gasp from Pan’assár beside him was enough for him to forget his exhaustion and pain. The commander general was on his knees.
“Warriors to me!” shouted the lieutenant, and he was immediately joined by two Alpines who took up defensive positions over the crumpling form of Pan’assár. Fel’annár made his own way towards them, but his progress was slow. A Deviant rushed him from the side, not fast enough, and Fel’annár danced out of the way before cutting through its abdomen. Another approached from behind and Galadan turned in time to see its ugly head tower over Fel’annár’s shoulder. Opening his mouth to call a warning, he promptly closed it as Fel’annár thrust his sword backwards and then scooted to one side as the Deviant fell forwards.
Galadan nodded at the bloodied Silvan as he joined them. There were hardly any warriors left; none in the trees and but a handful of them here, defending the life of their commander, and still, the Deviants came.
Fel’annár nodded at them as he came to stand beside Galadan, checking his stance, steadying his breathing. He would need all his skill to survive this fight.
The enemy wailed as they ran, and Fel’annár closed his eyes, opening them to the other world, the one in which he swam in blue, purple, and green waves of energy he did not fully understand. Had he done that? he wondered. Had he transformed himself purposefully? Had he controlled it?
The wails were silenced, and his heart was the only sound he could hear now, that and the rush of breath as he inhaled and exhaled. There was the low drone of something outside himself, rhythmic and powerful, and he thought perhaps it was the light in his eyes that emitted it.
