by R K Lander
“What do you see in me, Dorainen? Why do I surprise you?” whispered Fel’annár. The answer he received was not what he had expected at all.
“I see your grandfather,” he said in a whispery sigh.
Fel’annár leant back in shock, eyes wide.
“I see ...” He broke into a fit of coughing.
“Dorainen?” he asked softly, wondering if the healer would ever speak again. He did, but it was so soft Fel’annár was forced to bend over him once more.
“There are stars in your eyes.” The harsh whisper set Fel’annár’s skin prickling, even as Dorainen’s face twisted in silent agony. “Funny, you have returned to me—my faith...” Another wave of pain rippled through the labouring body, and Fel’annár cupped his cheek.
“I see her...Aria. She smiles through your eyes.”
A tear fell from Fel’annár’s eyes as he watched Dorainen’s face change from agony to rapture before his eyes dulled and he moved no more, even though a hint of a smile pulled at his pale lips.
Another tear fell for this wise stranger that Fel’annár had felt so close to, and he let his forehead rest against Dorainen’s cooling skin. “Your journey was long. May you find yourself soonest, my friend, and return to your family and Aria.”
Rocking back on his heels, Fel’annár closed the half-lidded eyes and turned, only to find Galadan and Galdith staring back at him, their own eyes full of incomprehension, at what he could not say. All he could think about was honouring Dorainen, the ancient healer that had bestowed upon Fel’annár the story of his extraordinary life.
The following day was torturous, but Fel’annár weathered it by distracting himself from the pain and the cold. He thought of Dorainen and the things he had said. The greatest puzzle was why he had felt such an affinity with the ancient healer. They had held nothing in common, were of completely different ages of the world. They did not share the same culture, the same aspirations. They were as different as a bear and his catch.
Dorainen had migrated from Tar’eastór to Ea Uaré with Or’Talán, though, and perhaps it was that simple, he mused. The healer had been loyal to his grandfather, and Lainon had already told him that he bore a resemblance. But then, what of those comments that Fel’annár had somehow returned his faith in Aria? That there were stars in his eyes? The memory made him shiver, and he straightened in the saddle. He realised that Galadan and Galdith were talking quietly while Silor brought up the rear, as silent as he always was.
“Fel’annár,” called Galdith, holding out a skin of water. He took it and drank deeply before handing it back to the veteran Silvan whose eyes lingered on him just a little longer than was necessary, reminding Fel’annár that they, too, had their questions about whatever they had seen or heard last night. Dorainen had not mentioned his grandfather by name, but still, they would be wondering how the healer had known him.
“Lieutenant Lainon and the Prince Handir will surely have reached Tar’eastór by now,” Galadan was saying. “They may even have been intercepted, yet still, it may be a further two days until we are found. We will need some basic supplies.”
Fel’annár was listening attentively, but his eyes were beginning to burn, and his neck felt stiff. Another presence was entering his mind; he could feel it, and he did not reject it.
Alone, frightened, hungry…
Concentrating, he closed his stinging eyes and tried to relax, despite the uncontainable shivers that wracked his frame.
Alone, hungry, so hungry…
Scowling, he concentrated on the voice, keeping his eyes closed as he leaned towards Galadan.
“Lieutenant…”
“What is it?” came the equally soft answer.
“Do not be alarmed, sir. I am Listening; the trees...” He trailed off.
Galadan’s head whipped to the young warrior whose eyes were firmly shut, and when Fel’annár opened them again, Galadan could not help flinching backwards even though he had seen this once before, when Fel’annár had faced the Deviant leader on the battlefield. Galdith, though, was looking on in abject horror while Silor hissed a curse.
“Spawn of Galomú.”
“By Aria—what...” mumbled Galdith as he struggled to rein in his now-skittish mount.
“Please, it is a gift,” explained Fel’annár, hand outstretched. “It is what allows me to foresee danger.”
Galdith stared while Galadan nodded stiffly.
“Sir, we are being hunted. Mountain Hounds—cold and hungry,” he muttered.
Sitting straighter, Galadan's shock turned to resolute leadership in the blink of an eye.
“How long have we got? How many are there?”
“We have an hour or so, but their number is unclear. Sir, if I may...as we are, we cannot defend ourselves and our wounded. I believe our only option is for me to go out there and hold them off for as long as I can.”
“You are sure they will come?” insisted Galadan urgently.
Fel’annár’s strange, swirling irises landed squarely on the lieutenant. “Yes.”
“It is suicide...”
“I have a chance, sir; the trees are with me.”
“They are not armed, Fel’annár.”
“Sir, better that I should die than all of you.”
Galadan stared back at The Silvan before letting out a long breath and glancing briefly at Galdith.
“I cannot gainsay your reasoning, Fel’annár, and the wounded cannot spare another warrior to accompany you. Go then, and defend us if you can, give us what time you may. It may be enough for Tar’eastór to find us—and then we will find you.”
Fel’annár nodded and then saluted. He was about to wheel his horse around and away, but Galadan stopped him with a hand to his knee. His voice, when it came, was soft, but his words would not be forgotten by Silor, nor Galdith, words that took Fel’annár completely by surprise.
“Be safe—my prince.”
The day had dawned frigid cold, and snow was falling once more. With the wounded ready to leave, Galdith all but dragged his feet as he shouldered the last of their meagre belongings, his body hunching over, not with the weight but with exhaustion.
There had been no sign of danger during the night, thanks, perhaps to Fel’annár's scouting behind them—but who could say, thought Galdith. The fool had taken it upon himself to guard them, to protect them as they fled to safety. It was suicide, yet he had heard his reasoning, and, like Galadan, he had not been able to refute it. It was a necessary thing, and Fel’annár had known he was the best choice—he was a Listener and that gave him an advantage. There was something else, too, something Galdith instinctively knew as a Silvan; the light in his eyes was, in some way, connected to the trees, but he also knew that whatever it was, it would not be enough to guard Fel’annár from the jowls of the hounds. He just prayed the boy was as good with his blades as he was reported to be with his bow.
‘Be safe, my prince.’
Those words haunted Galdith, but he had not discussed them with Galadan, had not dared to, for he was a lowly Silvan warrior and Galadan was an Alpine lieutenant, an elf who hardly spoke at all, and even if he did, he doubted the subject of Fel’annár would be broached, not here in the wilds where distraction could cost them gravely.
Had Galadan meant it literally? he wondered. No, he did not think so, for the words had tumbled from Galadan’s mouth spontaneously; he had seen the surprise in the lieutenant’s eyes as the words left him. But then, why had Fel’annár not refuted them?
Turning and taking the reins of his mount, he spotted Silor fumbling with the saddle bags on his own horse, and Galdith resisted the urge to snarl. Silor pulled his weight well enough, but of all of them, he seemed the least affected. Galdith knew it was not due to his superior physical condition, for the elf was tall but slight, muscles hard but not chiselled and defined as those of a seasoned warrior. No, Silor had done his lot and no more, while the rest had run themselves to exhaustion. And then, he was also the only one of the
m not to have been injured in the battle. Galdith had seen him at the end, approaching from the other battle to aid a fallen Alpine warrior, but where had he been during the fight?
It was no use riling himself. All he wanted now was a soft bed, hot food, a steaming bath, and clean hair. He laughed at himself despite his discomfort, and soon, they were on the road again. All he could do was pray they arrived soonest, for infection was taking a firm hold on the wounded, two of whom had worsened significantly, while the others endured the pain that came with the movement of their mounts. As for the horses, they had barely managed to find any sustenance under the mantle of snow. They, too, were tiring.
Stay with me Osír—you are all I have to anchor me.
Galdith had served with Osír for as long as he had with Angon. They were the only two warriors that were left of his one-time brothers-in-arms. The rest were all dead, sleeping in Valley until such time they could find themselves once more, and perhaps Galdith would join them soon enough.
Progress through the snow was gruellingly slow, and Galadan, Galdith, and Silor were constantly checking the leather that held Osír’s stretcher to the horses. Their nails were broken, fingers cut, hands so numb they no longer felt them, and all the while, the cold persisted until late afternoon. Then a storm finally broke. Rain fell like taunting sheets of silver paper, the wind blowing it sideways until they were soaked in mere seconds. It took them three hours to find an overhang under which they could take shelter from the unrelenting torrent and start a small fire. If before they had been tired and in pain, now they were angry, for everything seemed to purposefully conspire against them; indeed, they avoided looking at the horses huddled under the overhang. Their strength was fast depleting; indeed it had been enough of an ordeal to get the injured onto the ground and guarded from the rain. It was a waiting game and their only hope was for the warriors of Tar’eastór to find them.
And so Galdith, Galadan, and Silor sat watch over the wounded, huddled around their spluttering fire, as near as they dared. They wrapped their soaked cloaks tightly around them, their breath frosting before them like steam from a doused dragon. Fat drops of rain dripped from their sodden hair, their noses, and their chins, and their eyes were lost, unfocussed, introspective, until a single howl abruptly brought them back to the present.
Galdith’s eyes wandered to the distant trees which creaked and groaned louder than perhaps they should have. It reminded him of the strange breeze that had whipped up as they battled with the Deviants. There were strange deeds afoot, there could be no denying it; his Silvan blood told him it was so.
Galadan’s angular face was the only visible part of him, for he sat almost atop the fire, eyes reflecting the fidgeting orange flames that danced in the rain. It was a strange sight, mused Galdith, like fireflies fluttering behind painted glass. Then something ancient brushed Galdith’s sub-consciousness, an intuition that perhaps only a wood elf could feel, and yet, perhaps not, for Galadan seemed to shudder and then closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he looked squarely at Galdith. Had Galadan felt it too, that arcane breath upon the back of his neck, a stroke of deep magic he could not fathom?
Another howl split the air, nearer now, and as Galdith and Galadan locked gazes once more, a silent, almost identical plea replaying in their minds.
Fel’annár, find them before they find us, for if you fail, our journey to Valley will be swift.
Lieutenant Tensári of the Ari’atór led her contingent of warriors along the trail left by Lainon and Handir. After half a day of tracking, the weather had slowed their pace to a walk, and she had been forced to set camp for the night. Today, progress had been no better, but their course had been sure, and soon, the sounds of labouring horses and creaking leather finally reached their ears. Moments later, what remained of the royal escort emerged from the tree line, grinding to a halt only to stand in silence. The warriors of Tar’eastór stared at the elves mounted in pairs upon their haggard horses, stooped over, barely conscious. Some were strapped down to their mounts while a harness of some sort stretched between them. There was surely a heroic tale to be told, but Tensári’s thoughts were silenced as one elf slid from his saddle and hit the ground with a dull thud.
The Alpines dismounted, and Tensári ran to the unconscious warrior, sparing a quick glance at one of only two elves whose eyes were still open. “What has happened?” she asked, frantically searching the warrior on the ground for the origin of his injury.
“We were ambushed. I am Galdith, and that,” he gestured to the elf on the floor, “is Lieutenant Galadan. You must forgive us,” said Galdith, his voice becoming weaker and weaker as he spoke. “We are all—we are both ... ” He could not finish before his body sagged and keened to one side. An Alpine warrior caught him before he slipped to the ground.
Tensári looked to her second, their expressions identical; they knew the sacrifice these warriors had had to make to get their comrades to safety in this weather. Her eyes finally landed on the third able-bodied warrior who was slowly dismounting, an Alpine whose face was familiar. “Ar Sulén?”
With a respectful dip of his head, Silor nodded as he approached. “Aye, lieutenant. ‘Tis good to be home.”
Silor had been away for years, and yet he still thought of Tar’eastór as his home. He was a scion of the noble house of Sulén, but despite their dire circumstances, there was no urgency to his step, as if he did not care for the fate of his commanding officer.
It was then that Galdith found his voice once more, even if it was for just a moment. “Lieutenant, there is one more, you must—you must find him—find The Silvan.”
“The Silvan?” questioned Tensári, frowning in confusion—surely most of these warriors were Silvan. She turned back to Silor just in time to catch a hint of distaste as it rippled over his dispassionate face. Tensári did not like him.
“He defended us from behind, bought us time until you could find us,” gasped Galdith.
“Alone?”
“There was no other way,” whispered Galdith in misery.
Tensári held Galdith’s gaze for a moment before nodding and barking out her orders. They were only a day's ride out from Tar’eastór now that there was no trail to follow, and so, gesturing to one of her warriors to join her, she ordered the rest to mobilise the group and make their way back. They would scout around for this Silvan; he would not be far away, in the unlikely event that he was still alive.
“An ambush that size is—unusual,” said Gor’sadén. “From what the Ari’atór tells us, there were two fronts—a planned attack, Vorn’asté.”
“Yes, I had wondered at that,” mused the king. “It does seem to give more credence to the idea that the Deviants are organizing themselves into some semblance of society. To coordinate an attack like that you need strategy, the ability to deploy, and able commanders to see it done.”
“Agreed,” murmured Gor’sadén as he filled his goblet with the king’s fine wine. “And if that is so, I wonder who their target would be: Prince Handir or Commander Pan’assár—he is well-known to the enemy.”
“I find such motives hard to reconcile with Deviants, Gor’sadén. What would they gain by purposefully planning to kill a prince or a commander? This conjecture does not sit right with me.”
“It is unlikely,” agreed Gor’sadén. “It could, of course, be simple coincidence—that there were two packs of Deviants converging on the same objective at the same time...” Gor’sadén left the comment open, for it seemed even less likely than his first line of thought, and he rather thought Vorn’asté agreed.
Breathing deeply, the commander general turned to the window, to the great overhang beyond and the deep gorge below. “It has been many centuries since last I saw Pan’assár, shortly after the passing of Or’Talán.”
Vorn’asté half turned to his commander general, his stalwart friend since the elder days when they had been young lords, yet to prove themselves. He, too, remembered Pan’assár, but it was Gor’sad�
�n who had loved him as a brother, him and Or’Talán.
“We must trust to hope that he is well, that the rest of the prince’s escort are alive and travelling towards us as we speak.”
Gor’sadén wondered if the king spoke with that certainty which could not be explained, the inexplicable gift he possessed, or whether the words were simply meant to calm Gor’sadén’s rising state of anxiety at Pan’assár’s unknown fate. He had no more time to ponder though, for Vorn’asté, quite unexpectedly, changed the subject.
“Is there anyone else of importance in that group, Gor’sadén?”
“Not that I know of, no. Why?”
“Prince Handir hides something.”
Gor’sadén scowled and turned to face his king, a silent question on his face.
Vorn’asté made for the balcony and cast his grey eyes out over the jagged land before him, his home amidst the Median Mountains of Bel’arán. The weather was grey and frigid, yet the colourful fabrics of his people below seemed brighter for it. Digging his hands into the wide sleeves of his long tunic, his eyes slipped to Gor’sadén, who now stood at his side.
“It is likely of no relevance: a close friend, a lover perhaps,” said the king, waving his hand.
“A royal scandal is just what those Alpine purists want. That nest of vipers would be overjoyed at the slightest chance of mortifying their king—Band’orán would dance a Silvan jig in a skirt before the entire court for that information.”
