by R K Lander
Handir had been whisked away as the first cry to arms had been given, and even then, Lainon had already known, had not doubted Fel’annár’s words for one second. Handir was reminded of Captain Turion’s odd words to him and Aradan after the North-western Patrol had returned and the news of the boy’s existence had been made known to them. The captain had said the boy ‘had a gift.’ He had not known what to make of it at the time and had not wanted to ask, had not wanted to show interest. He could still see him in the middle of the glade as battle erupted around them, field bow pulling back and then releasing, the glint of silver and amber upon one strong bicep and intricate braids at his temple. Funny, the things the mind chooses to see at a given time, and what Handir had seen was not a young Silvan lad of less than half his own age, whimpering and wallowing in self-pity; he saw a warrior; he saw his brother, he reminded himself. Why his mind chose to remind him of that fact sparked a glimmer of irritation. Could he not just accept it and move away?
Leaning into the wind and allowing his mount to follow after Lainon’s, he forced himself to think on his own feelings for the first time. Did he care that he was running from the danger? Running from his own young brother and leaving him to face whatever destiny had in store for him? Would he care if the boy fell? If he died?
He frowned, puzzled that he had even asked himself that question. Lainon interrupted his uncomfortable thoughts.
“Handir,” he shouted over the noise of their galloping horses. “The Corh’idén—the Corh’idén is ahead—we are almost there!”
Handir nodded his understanding, for the Corh’idén flowed close by the city fortress of King Vorn’asté, and as he turned his face to the wind once more, he wondered if anyone was still alive or whether they all been slaughtered in his name.
‘Almost there,’ he thanked the powers; any moment now, they would surely come across the sentinels and be escorted to Vorn’asté’s city. It was just as well, for should they be attacked now, Handir doubted Lainon would even be able to grasp his sword.
But why was Lainon slowing? he wondered, feeling his own horse as its strides became slower. Lainon held up a hand, but he did not turn back towards him, and Handir was suddenly alert once more. “Lainon?” he called.
“Stay close, Handir.”
He kicked his horse along until it stamped nervously beside Lainon’s. “What is it?”
Lainon turned to Handir. “We are being stalked.”
“Stalked? By what?”
“Hounds. We are so close, but we cannot rush forward lest we walk into their trap.”
“Trap…”
“Handir—if I tell you to go, you go, with all speed in this direction,” gestured Lainon with his arm. “The Tar’eastór guard will be close; they will find you.”
“Lainon ... ”
“Prince. This is my duty; let me do it.”
“I can’t leave you behind, brother. Don’t ask it of me.”
“I demand it of you. It is what your king demands, Handir,” said Lainon curtly.
A howl rent the air, so close Handir flinched. He had not heard their approach at all, and his eyes snapped back to Lainon, who was looking at him with an expression Handir could not rightly place. Sadness, fondness...
“They approach from the north and circle round even as we speak. You must flee east—remember, Handir.”
He couldn’t think, for Lainon’s words were a direct order, his compelling voice brooking no argument. He was torn, but he was no fighter; if he stayed, all he would do was hinder Lainon’s chances of survival or flight.
Another howl was promptly joined by the voice of the pack of Mountain Hounds as they closed in on the two elves, just inside the trees. One Hound, though, stood proud atop a nearby boulder and watched Lainon’s every move. Handir was mesmerized by it, for he had never seen a bigger hound. Its coat was thick, a luscious light grey, and the hair around its strong neck was longer, reaching down to the front of a powerful chest. That was where the beauty stopped, for its face was the epitome of malice. Blood-shot yellow eyes promised a slow and painful death, and the tips of yellow fangs could be seen under its jaw, fangs that could surely rip out an elf’s throat as easily as a bear sucks honey from the comb. As if to prove Handir’s thoughts, its jowls opened wide, black lips curling back to reveal razor-sharp incisors which curved forwards and then backwards, almost reaching the bottom of its neck.
“Handir—now, move!”
And he did. Kicking his horse and lurching forward, he galloped in the direction Lainon had shown him. He wanted to look back, but he couldn’t, for the weather and exhaustion obscured his vision; he needed all his wits about him to navigate the tree-strewn path before him. He was running away again, only this time, he was deserting his brother—Lainon.
He heard a screech as the first Hound was skewered by an arrow. He wanted to look, needed to see...
Lainon sat tall upon his stamping horse, squeezing its sides with his knees as he notched another arrow and killed another of the hounds that ran towards him. Seconds later, another flew, but four more were moving too close. Don’t stop, Handir; don’t stop, prayed Lainon as he threw his bow on the ground and reached back for his sword. He held it, feeling his horse’s back legs bunch underneath him, its own battle cry grating from its steaming mouth. He yelled as well, even as he heard the ground vibrate behind him. Horses...
Just as he was about to swing his sword down to kill the first Hound, a black-and white-fletched arrow slammed into the beast’s chest, and it fell dead beside him, but he couldn’t turn, there was no time. He swung his sword to the other side, beheading another Hound before it could bite into his horse’s neck. Another arrow flew, and another, and then the blurred figures of black riders streamed past him and clashed with the attacking Hounds. All he could see was black leather and silver steel, blond heads and pale skin—except for one.
A wave of cold ice spread over his body. His eyes registered the inky black twists of hair, the copper hue of skin and the blue eyes that shone too brightly to be anything other than what they were; the eyes of an Ari’atór—blessed eyes he had missed every day for the last century.
Tensári.
His sword felt heavy in his aching arm. It was so cold. His eyes stung, but there she was. It was not some cruel hallucination, and he watched, mesmerized, as she shot from her horse, hair flying this way and that around her crown, sword still in its sheath beside her. She was still beautiful, still lethal. He still loved her, and his eyes stung once more.
“Regroup!” came the barked order of the leader, a grey-haired warrior he immediately recognised, and as he came closer to Lainon’s stamping mount, Lainon spared him an exhausted smile.
“Prince Sontúr.”
“Lainon,” nodded the prince.
“Do you have my charge, Prince Handir?”
“We have him, Lainon. Rest easy. You have had a difficult journey, it seems.”
“Prince Sontúr, whatever is left of our escort will be a day or two behind us...”
“What happened?”
“We were attacked; I extracted the prince before the battle commenced, but I do not think it went well. Please, you must...”
Sontúr held up his hand and turned. “Lieutenant Tensári,” he called.
Lainon stiffened, eyes watching as she guided her horse towards them. Her eyes were on him, her face utterly still, and he fought to hold her gaze, to not look away in shame. He had tried to forget her for a century that had felt like a millennium. But he had failed.
“My prince.”
“Take the group and track Prince Handir’s journey back into the mountains. There will be survivors.”
She nodded, and with one last look at Lainon, she barked out her own orders. Sontúr watched Lainon as he watched Tensári leave.
“You have not forgotten,” he murmured as he held out a flask before Lainon’s face.
Nodding his thanks, he took it with frigid hands and guided it to his mouth with only a sl
ight tremor. He sipped, closing his eyes as he relished the thick liquid sliding down his throat, warming him and infusing his taste buds with the flavour of honey, herbs, and no small amount of liquor.
“No, I have not forgotten,” answered Lainon softly, battling with his mind to not think, not remember the times they had shared before duty had ripped them apart.
“Thank you,” he murmured, and Sontúr smiled, his head cocking slightly to one side.
“Come. My warriors will find your escort, Lainon. I will guide you to my father’s halls.”
Handir sat, frozen to the marrow. The painful, gnawing ache in his empty stomach was the only thing keeping him awake, that and the constant scream in his mind that he should find his warriors. His clothes were in tatters, stained and crumpled, his hair in utter disarray, and his face and hands were smudged with dirt. Exhausted beyond reason, his mind felt sluggish and dysfunctional even now as he sat before a roaring fire in the Healing Hall of the royal palace of Tar’eastór. This was not the way he had envisaged entering his father’s homeland for the first time in his life. Indeed, he had paid no heed to its splendour at all, even though he knew he had walked past marvels, at but a hand’s distance away.
The smell of herbs and oils permeated the air, and elves in black gowns walked this way and that, their hair tightly braided behind their heads. They carried trays with bottles and tinctures that clinked softly as they moved in time with the swish of their long robes, faces studiously schooled, and yet that did not stop their eyes from wandering to the two elves that had been brought in not a few minutes past.
The Hall was a long, stone structure that housed this seating area. A large hearth glowed in comforting waves of heat that was slowly thawing them out. Handir supposed it was for the convalescing or visitors, perhaps. It lay open to a long passageway, lined with beds on either side and stretching all the way to the far end, where a wall of painted glass allowed the sunlight to illuminate the Hall in shades of red, green, and blue. It was spectacular architecture, but the details were uncharacteristically lost on him.
“Are you injured, my prince?” came the deep voice of an Alpine elf, and Handir flinched, for he had neither heard nor seen the elf’s approach. Had his wits been more about him, he would have realised it was King Vorn’asté himself.
“No, I am not injured. We fled the battle,” he murmured almost distractedly.
“Of course. Sit back and rest, Prince Handir. Food will be brought to you in a moment.”
With that, the elf gave him one last, lingering look, before turning to Lainon. “Lieutenant, are you injured?” he inquired again.
“No, my Lord Vorn’asté,” came Lainon's answer, and Handir desperately tried to control his suddenly heated face. ‘A fine start,’ he reprimanded himself as he watched the king nod and then, with a kind, knowing smile, turn to leave. Yet before Handir could check himself, rebellious words spewed from his wilful mouth, words that came straight from the heart.
“My lord. The escort will surely not be far behind us.”
“Of course,” said Vorn’asté with a soft smile. “We are scouring the way even now, as we speak.”
“You do not understand, my lord,” said Handir.
Lainon looked at Handir. His face was so often straight and inexpressive, and yet now, it seemed so young and vulnerable, desperate almost. Lainon tried to catch his gaze, but Handir’s eyes were anchored firmly on the king.
“What is it that I do not comprehend, Prince Handir?” asked Vorn’asté carefully, slowly walking back to where Handir sat.
“They—they may have given their lives to protect me. My lord, I beg you find them before night falls once more.”
“We will do our best, prince. Your guard has done well to extract you from the fray—it is standard protocol in our lands as it is in yours, I am sure. Do not feel ill that they made this sacrifice.”
“You don’t understand,” came the whispered words once more, and Vorn’asté crouched before Handir, placing one white, jewelled hand upon his knee, his silver eyes sparkling with wisdom.
“Who have you left behind, child?” guessed Vorn’asté just as quietly, albeit Lainon heard it, and he froze, eyes widening in sudden realization.
Handir’s stomach was twisting into knots: grief for the loss of life, anxiety at the thought of losing a half-brother he should not feel concerned about. It was not about blood, he reprimanded himself; it was about politics, nothing more.
“My—my people. I left them all behind…”
Lainon closed his eyes and stilled his frantic heart but Vorn’asté stared at the prince, shrewd eyes seeing behind the half-hearted attempt to keep the truth from him. The prince held a secret: something important was hovering just below his frazzled defences, something he had only just managed to keep from saying. Vorn’asté tucked the knowledge away; he might need it, later.
Their burdened horses laboured noisily through the snow, hot breath rushing from their mouths in jets of grey vapour, freshly fallen snow crunching under their hooves. Galadan rode with Idernon, Silor with Pan’assár, and Galdith with Carodel whose leg had been splinted and stuck out awkwardly. As for Osír, he lay in the cradle that Silor had fashioned. Dorainen and Ramien were well enough to hold their own seats, yet still, Fel’annár kept one hand on Ramien’s knee beside him while his eyes would constantly seek out Dorainen. The healer had seemed well enough, but now, a light sheen of sweat had formed on his brow. He had caught Galadan staring at the healer thoughtfully, and his stomach had lurched at the implications; infection had surely set in.
As morning turned to early afternoon, their path turned further upwards and the temperature plummeted. Snow fell fat and fast, and by nightfall, it had turned to ice. The need for shelter drove them a distance off the path, and soon enough, a sheltered copse came into view. Galadan called a halt. Dorainen sat hunched over his horse, hands fisted in its mane, hair hanging over his face, and Galadan’s face became grave.
They pulled the injured onto the ground and accommodated them as best they could while Silor lit a fire. Fel’annár watched as their lieutenant checked on the injured, offering them the last of the concoction he had mixed that morning. When Galadan finally sat down, Fel’annár checked on his brothers while their fire gained strength, orange cinders dancing above it.
“Can you sense anything, Fel’annár? The enemy? Our allies?” asked Galadan.
Fel’annár shook his head. “Nothing, sir. I know only that the forest is tense.”
“Tense?” scoffed Silor. “Is that all you have?”
“If you prefer to scout, Silor?” asked Galadan evenly, turning to stare at his fellow Alpine.
“I would, sir.”
“Then go,” gestured the lieutenant, turning his head back to the fire. Galadan was near unflappable, but Silor was his greatest challenge yet.
Saluting, Silor was away.
“How is Dorainen?” asked Galdith.
For a moment, the lieutenant’s stare was open, and both Galdith and Fel’annár understood his meaning. “He may have broken a bone in his shoulder, or perhaps a rib—the probability of a generalized infection is great, especially in these conditions. It may also be that the blade that wounded him was tainted, purposefully or otherwise. His breathing is laboured ... his heart is compromised, I think.”
Fel’annár listened, his grief inexplicable considering he hardly knew the healer at all. “Sir, you have much knowledge of the healing arts,” he ventured.
“Only what experience has taught me, Fel’annár, and my mother, when I was a child.”
“She was a healer?” asked Galdith. “Was she born in Tar’eastór?”
“Yes, as was I.”
Fel’annár and Galdith started in surprise. “How, eh, how old are you, sir?” asked Galdith, eyes wide with curiosity.
“Seven hundred and ninety-four.”
“What?” blurted Galdith and then hunched his shoulders. “Sorry, sir.”
Galadan’s eyes
held humour, but his face remained as straight as ever. Fel’annár, however, was frowning. “Sir, I hope you don’t mind but why...”
“Why am I not a captain?”
“Yes.”
“That is simple, Fel’annár. I do not want to be a member of the Inner Circle.”
Galdith and Fel’annár shared a perplexed look.
“Of course, now you will ask why, and that is more complicated. I will answer you, one day, but for now we should see to Dorainen.”
The healer lay restless beside them, lying upon a bed roll they had placed as close to the fire as they dared. Galadan and Galdith watched as Fel’annár shuffled to the healer’s side, sitting cross-legged and then adjusting his own cloak around his shoulders.
“Dorainen?”
“Hmm...”
“Is there anything that will help you? Some herb or bark? I could search...”
“No, Fel’annár,” he murmured. “I am beyond your help now.”
Fel’annár scowled at the wistful tone. “But why? I did not think you so sorely wounded; we could at least try...”
“No, child. Heed me. My heart is failing, my blood is tainted; it is too late.”
Fel’annár opened his mouth to protest again, but Dorainen’s hand was on his forearm, and despite his fever, the healer smiled. “You already saved me, warrior. Now you must go to the aid of others that will need you.”
“You speak in riddles, healer.”
“Blame it on the fever, if you wish,” he said tiredly. There was silence then, except for Dorainen’s laboured breathing.
“Dorainen. Back at camp, you said you were old. How old are you?” The revelation that Galadan was over seven hundred had been a shock, and Fel’annár’s curiosity was piqued.
“I have walked this land for over two millennia, child. As I said, I have seen many things, done many things, and regretted a few of them, too.” He stopped to cough, and once he had settled, he continued, for Fel’annár sat in quiet rapture of the healer’s words while Galadan and Galdith stared into the fire. The ancient healer spoke of his childhood in the mountains, of his training as a healer, his migration to Ea Uaré with Or’Talán and Pan’assár. He spoke of his family and then the loss of them, and with them, his own faith in Aria. Fel’annár thought it strange that the longer Dorainen spoke, the more urgent his words became, even though his voice became quieter, as if he needed to tell his story, aware that he might not get to the end of it. Soon, he spoke in a quiet murmur that was almost a whisper, and he closed his eyes. Fel’annár bent over him, startling when blue eyes opened once more.
