Road of a Warrior

by R K Lander

  “You have cracked something here. Have a care, warrior—no acrobatics.”

  Fel’annár turned back to Dorainen as he worked, watching as the healer studiously avoided meeting his gaze.

  “What is it, Dorainen? Do you think me strange? Is that why you cannot even look at me? Do you think me some freak of nature?”

  “No.” The voice was calm yet commanding, and the healer’s questing hand stopped over Fel’annár’s sinewy forearm. “I am old, Fel’annár. I am old, and I am Alpine. Few things surprise me; you are one of those things.”

  Fel’annár did not understand, and so green eyes stared unblinking at the healer.

  “I do not think you a freak. I saw you, child. When you saved me, I saw you.”

  He still didn’t understand, but it was now clear that Dorainen’s animosity had been nothing but a figment of his own, tired and angry imagination, and he was suddenly sorry for the self-pitying words he had spat at the healer. “I am sorry, Dorainen. I did not mean to offend.”

  “I know,” he said as his hand began to move once more. “Wash this as thoroughly as you can stand,” he instructed. “We don’t want infection to incapacitate our Silvan scout.”

  Fel’annár smiled weakly. Taking up a piece of ripped cloak, he soaked it in water and began to wash, and Dorainen turned back, momentarily catching Galadan’s gleaming eyes as he sat in a dark corner. There was complicity in his gaze, and the wise healer wondered what it was about this boy, this extraordinary warrior with the gift that lit up his eyes. It was something both he and Galadan felt, understood on some subconscious level. Yet some things Dorainen did know, for he had spoken the truth. He was old, Alpine—he had seen many things and many people, and that face could never be mistaken for anything other than what it was.

  And with age, wisdom often ensues. He would say nothing.

  Fel’annár woke with a start, his hands darting out to touch his weapons beside him.

  “Peace.”

  He drew a steadying breath and then turned to find Galdith crouching before him, briefly wondering how long he had been asleep, for darkness was beginning to tinge the sky.

  “Come.”

  At the entrance to their tent, Galadan stood together with Silor and a sickly-looking Dorainen. Galdith and Fel’annár joined them, still strapping their weapons onto their backs.

  “Galdith, it is time to search for the horses. Fel’annár, I need you in the trees. Dorainen, can you explain to Silor what you told me about those harnesses for the wounded?”

  “Of course.”

  “Dorainen,” called Galadan, scowling a little at the healer. “Are you well enough?”

  “I am, sir,” replied the healer, but the lieutenant’s ensuing gaze was proof enough of his disbelief. He nodded.

  “If Fel’annár signals danger, we light the pyres and defend the camp as best we can. If all goes well, we will have horses to make our way to Tar’eastór at dawn.”

  They shared one final glance at each other, a look of understanding, of determination. With a curt nod from the lieutenant, the four warriors and one healer set about their duties.

  Fel’annár tightened harnesses and strung his bracers, then walked away, onto the killing field to scavenge for arrows. Once his quiver was full, he spared a final glance at the tent some distance behind him. Snow was falling once more, and through the puffy flakes he saw Galadan and Galdith share a fraternal clap on the shoulder. He saw their respectful nod at Dorainen, who returned it before ducking into the tent; he saw Silor follow in silence.

  Galadan sat hunched over the nascent fire, stabbing at the base with a stick and sending orange sparks into the frigid dawn air. Fel’annár hurried his step, eager for a touch of warmth after a long night in the wilds. The woodsy smell transported him for one comforting moment to Lan Taria, to misty mornings in the Deep Forest before the hearth, to the smell of fresh bread and wet earth. It was a time of innocence, blessed ignorance. For all that he had wanted to know about his father, he suddenly wished Lainon had never told him.

  Galadan was boiling water, and to one side of the fire pit sat a plate with a humble meal, for him, he hoped. Fel’annár’s eyes were divided between the food and the horses that now stood quietly tethered beside their tent. Galdith had found them.

  Further away, Silor crouched beside what looked like a pile of cloth and branches. It was, in fact, the harnesses Galadan had bid him build for the wounded. Silor looked up as he approached, staring coldly at him, and however much Fel’annár had expected the response, still, he was irked at the Alpine’s stupidity.

  Sinking to the ground before Galadan, he found the lieutenant’s eyes fastened onto him, startled. Then he nodded a greeting in a half-hearted attempt of hiding his surprise. Even as he gestured for Fel’annár to sit, he could not wrench his eyes away, for Fel’annár’s hair was wild, and some reddish-brown mud or clay streaked his face.

  Galdith joined them at the fire, his own brown eyes wandering over the unnerving sight of the young warrior. “Impressive camouflage” was all he said before his eyes momentarily strayed to his commander.

  “Sit and eat, Fel’annár, and tell me of the land,” said Galadan finally, handing out cups of what looked like hot mud.

  Taking it with both hands, the three elves drank, relishing for a moment in the warmth, if not the taste.

  “I found Mountain Hounds further afield. Not close enough to worry about yet. Of the Deviants there is no trace. It seems this pack used all its resources to neutralize our party. The trees though—they speak of other packs, Mountain Deviants and hounds further east; we must be vigilant.”

  Galadan nodded. “Dorainen is seeing to the wounded as best he can, and Silor is finishing the harnesses for Carodel and Osír. The rest will ride in the saddle with us. As for our brave dead, most have been honoured; it is time to leave.”

  Fel’annár nodded, then reached into his tunic and pulled out a handful of white roots. “Here. I found these,” he said as he ate, handing them to Galadan.

  The lieutenant’s eyes locked onto the deformed roots, knowing exactly what to do with them. He deftly peeled and sliced them, adding them to the steaming water. It was not much, but the pain-relieving roots would lend some comfort on their journey.

  “Fel’annár,” said Galadan, “you have done well…”

  Fel’annár smiled sparingly before nodding. “We all have, I think, sir,” murmured Fel’annár before adding, “Have you found yourself in a situation like this before, sir?”

  “Yes,” answered the lieutenant matter-of-factly. “Although there were more of us that time.”

  Fel’annár nodded and then watched as Galdith rebraided his filthy hair, making sure his two honour stones were visible. Galadan openly watched him, showing the Silvan warrior he had seen the forbidden items, but he held his tongue as his eyes strayed to Fel’annár, spotting the amber stone sitting at the end of an archer’s braid. With a frown, he looked into his cup and drank. Fel’annár and Galdith caught each other’s gazes and shared a soft smile.

  “Fel’annár,” said Galadan after a while. “How strong is your—connection—with the trees? If there were danger nearby, in a radius of say a league, would you know of it?” he asked carefully, looking up from the fire to meet the boy’s eyes.

  “Yes, sir. At that distance, certainly, although this gift is new to me. I cannot be sure it will always work—probably because I don’t know how it works.”

  “It is all we have,” replied Galadan. “We need some time to get the wounded mounted, gather our water, blankets, and administer this.” He gestured to the steeping roots. “Fel’annár. Inside. Rest a while before we must leave.”

  Fel’annár didn’t think he could, but it was an order, and so, rising to his feet, he saluted and headed inside.

  Alone now, Galdith turned to Galadan as the lieutenant prepared the brew.

  “Sir. About what happened with Silor before the attack...”

  Galadan turned h
is stony face to the Silvan warrior, and Galdith hesitated. There was strength in the Alpine’s gaze, strength and a warning. He did not heed it. “Sir, Fel’annár did not push Silor. He simply removed the fist from his throat. Silor had not expected it and lost his balance. It was not the boy’s fault.”

  Galadan stared back but said nothing.

  “He is a good warrior, sir. His heart is in it—it is all he wants.”

  Galadan’s blue eyes were piercing, and Galdith could no longer stand the weight of them. He looked away, hoping he had done something to restore his new friend’s standing in the lieutenant’s eyes.

  Moments later, when Galdith had lost hope of convincing his commander, Galadan’s voice startled him. “I know a warrior when I see one, Galdith. His attitude is not consistent with that of one who would wilfully disobey a commanding officer.”

  “Forgive me, commander. It is just that he is Silvan…”

  “And he is Alpine. It matters not, not to me.”

  “But you admit it matters to most?” asked Galdith softly, well aware of the risk he took.

  “You think I do not see the injustice, Galdith? That Lainon does not see it? Do you think us numb to the discrimination this army dispenses towards its Silvan warriors? Do you think my soul is at peace when warriors like Silor climb the ranks, and warriors like you, like Fel’annár, are relegated to little more than kitchen scullions? Do you?”

  After a moment, Galdith answered, his own eyes searching those of his new-found friend. “No—no, I no longer think you indifferent, and yet, there are so many Alpines that sit and watch, passive and compliant with the unspoken rules of Alpine dominance, and I must surely ask myself if that is because it benefits them, or if it is because they are afraid...”

  Galadan held Galdith’s stare for a moment before he leaned forward. “And can you blame them? These attitudes, this discrimination comes from the very Inner Circle.”

  Galdith blinked and then pursed his lips. “No, I cannot blame them,” he conceded. “I, however, have no rank or title to defend; I have little to lose, just like most Silvans.”

  Galadan nodded as he began to poke the fire, but Galdith had not finished.

  “Sir, I would ask you a question, if I may.”

  Galadan turned back to Galdith, his expression carefully schooled.

  “Before the battle, did you deploy Silor to command the western group?”

  “Yes,” said Galadan flatly.

  Galdith stared back at the lieutenant, his suspicions confirmed. “He was not there, sir. I only saw him at the end of the battle when he sat with one of the fallen…”

  It was time to leave. They had laboured for the better part of an hour to fit the harnesses to the skittish horses and then get the injured inside. They would soon set out on what would surely prove to be a slow and arduous journey towards Tar’eastór.

  Frosted breath escaped Galdith’s slack mouth, blue eyes watering with the sting of a November frost. He was hungry, and tired—so tired, it was all he could do to keep his eyelids from shutting of their own accord. His ears were freezing, and the pain was, perhaps, the only thing that was keeping him awake. That, and the smart of the colourful collection of cuts and bruises he had acquired during the battle or after, as he had struggled to herd their horses.

  Silor’s smirking face floated before his mind’s eye as he adjusted his quiver upon his aching back, rolling his shoulders to ease them. What would come of his misconduct was yet to be seen, for Galdith did not know Commander Pan’assár at all; all he knew was that he was Alpine, and Silor was the son of the powerful Lord Sulén. It did not take a mastermind to foretell the outcome: a few harsh words and a slap on the wrist, a fool’s payment for misjudgement, for ignorance that had probably cost the lives of many elves. Galdith had been in the military long enough to know it was an institution run by the powerful, but which survived thanks to the Silvan warriors that constituted the bulk of Thargodén's army. It was their lot, he said to himself bitterly, to fight and then allow their superiors to take the merit. It was profoundly unfair—and dangerous, he knew, for sooner or later, the Silvan people would rebel, something that could bring about consequences he did not wish to contemplate.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, and his eyes sharpened upon the slate grey towers of a storm that lay but a handful of leagues away. What else would Mother Nature throw at them on this ill-fated journey? How much more could they endure before there were only four, and then three? he thought bitterly. Their situation was dire, so dire Galdith had not, for one moment, thought on the strange events during the battle until now. The trees had groaned and bent in a wind so sudden it could never have been simple coincidence. Branches had thrashed this way and that, and the Deviants had seemed unsettled, enough, at least, to give the elves the upper hand. Galdith wanted answers, but he knew he would not get them here.

  With a heavy breath, he turned, his mood dour and his spirit heavy, worry for Osír weighing him down even more. Galdith had already lost everyone close to him in the Battle of Sen’uár; Osír was his only remaining close friend, besides Angon, and to lose him now would be to fall into the welcoming arms of bitterness—and anger at the Alpine commanders who would not protect their northernmost settlements unless the Silvans abandoned them, but they never would. After all this time, the Alpines still did not understand the Silvan elves, could not fathom their nature. Asking them to live without trees was like asking a bear to bask in the sun like a lizard, a fish to settle on land.

  Galdith turned and checked his mount, and for a moment, his eyes met those of Fel’annár quite by chance. Then the boy smiled, so radiantly that it seemed the sun had found an unlikely path through the laden clouds. Galdith’s dour mood lightened, his spirit flared for a single, strange moment, stirring beneath the heaviness for reasons he could not fathom at all.

  ‘Who are you?’ Galdith remembered asking that question just before the battle, and the question remained. There was something lodged in this boy’s spirit, something behind those extraordinary eyes—something completely out of the ordinary. It was inspiring and unnerving, and Galdith found himself smiling back, for he knew then, without the slightest shadow of doubt, that they would not fail. That somehow, with this extraordinary warrior in their midst, they had a chance of making it to safety.

  The Pelagian Sea laps incessantly at the base of towering grey rock, a naked wall of unyielding stone, natural guardian of the realm of Tar’eastór.

  A closer look reveals carved stairways that ascend far up the smooth greyness, leading to the mouths of dotted cave holes. Should one venture inside, they would see a web of connecting tunnels and chambers. They would find clear, pure lakes of frigid spring water and colourful walls of gems and crystals that many mortals would covet, even at the risk of plummeting to their deaths, for to navigate these stairways was foolhardy at best, wanton self-destruction at the worst. Not in vain was this place called Glistening Falls, for it was not only water that fell to the sea.

  Upwards, and the foreboding grey wall ends, giving way to a jagged horizon of mountain ridges, snow-laden peaks, sprawling escarpments, and deep, treacherous gorges.

  A turquoise lake extends towards the uneven horizon, and then higher, terraced slopes of crops and livestock line the valley walls. The land underfoot soon disappears to infinity, though, and over this chasm, a mighty plateau extends far into the distance.

  Upon this plateau, towers of granite and marble stand in admired beauty, a city of domes, of coloured rock and encrusted gems twinkle under sunlight and moonlight. It is mesmerizing, humbling in its beauty and workmanship. This is the motherland, the origin of all elves, or so they say.

  Upon this plateau, at the heart of this glittering city, a building perches over the chasm, and on its breath-taking balcony, two elven lords stand side by side.

  “They have crossed the Corh’idén. They should be here by tomorrow.”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?” The golden-blond wa
rrior lord turned his face and studied the fine silhouette of his grey-haired king as he stared out over the balcony to the lands beyond, the domain he had ruled over for many centuries.

  “There are only two,” answered a puzzled King Vorn’asté, his bright silver eyes deep pools of wisdom that spoke of a surety that could not be denied nor explained.

  A fleeting moment of surprise, and the blond lord turned, nodding curtly and striding away, his long burgundy cloak fanning around him, revealing, for just a moment, a blazing sword carved upon silver plating and the pommel of an ancient blade, forged in the valleys of his venerable ancestors. Gor’sadén, commander general of the Forces of Tar’eastór, one of the Three.

  There was no point in riding out to meet them, for they were close and moving fast; they would be intercepted by the Home Guard soon enough, and their questions would be answered. What had happened to the royal escort from Ea Uaré? Was Prince Handir safe?

  Three warriors drifted across Gor’sadén’s mind, a memory of his youth. Pan’assár, Or’Talán, and Gor’sadén himself. They had been known as The Three; warrior lords the likes of which Elvendom had never seen. But then Or’Talán and Pan’assár had set their sights on the distant forest and The Three had been sundered in life, and then in death when Or’Talán had been slain at the Battle Under The Sun. Pan’assár had sworn to stay, to protect his brother’s royal line, and so it had been, until now.

  In his solitude, the shadow of grief pulled at Gor’sadén’s lips. ‘Where are you, Pan’assár?’ he whispered into the frigid wind.

  Chapter Six

  THE HEART WILL PREVAIL

  “Tar’eastór boasts a natural beauty that is sharp and dramatic, inspiring yet humbling, noble yet unforgiving; a land so much like its inhabitants, the Alpine elves.”

  The Silvan Chronicles, Book I. Marhené

  Handir’s face was so cold he could no longer feel it. Blue eyes watered in misery, blurring the figure of Lainon beside him as they galloped over the land; his sharp eyes were dry as he scanned their surroundings for any signs of danger, for the slightest hint of help, senses tuned to the trees, no doubt, and their subtle whispering, voices Handir wished he too could hear.