by R K Lander
Galadan awoke, disorientated and as stiff as a river reed in midwinter. Groaning, he stretched as he took in his surroundings, eyes momentarily registering the timid morning light. He had slept through the night in the recovery area of the Healing Halls; indeed, Galdith and Silor were only now beginning to stir beside him.
Standing, he straightened his crumpled uniform, wondering where his weapons would be, but he was distracted by a fuss at the entrance to the Hall. Silor, though, was standing, an uncharacteristic smile on his face. A finely-decked lord approached and bowed somewhat stiffly at him, eyes travelling over dishevelled hair and a crumpled uniform. This was Silor’s father, realised Galadan.
“Lieutenant Galadan,” called Silor as he walked back to his commanding officer. “My lord father has come to claim me. You may find me in the house of Sulén should you need me,” he said confidently, but his soft smile slipped when Galadan did not reply but simply stared back at him.
“Silor, you must stay until Commander Pan’assár gives you leave. You are still on active duty.”
“Sir, Lord Pan’assár may be incapacitated for days yet...”
“Then you will be on duty for days yet, warrior.”
“I, Lord Sulén, require the presence of my son, lieutenant,” his father said, as if Galadan had simply not understood.
“King Thargodén’s commander requires his presence, my lord. He is not free to leave, abroad as we are.”
“If Lord Pan’assár were here, he would reprimand you for your lack of consideration, lieutenant.”
“Lord Pan’assár is not here, my lord. As an Alpine lord, you are more than familiar with military protocol. I am surprised you would suggest our commander general would break that protocol.”
The lord stepped forward. Galadan could see Silor in the harsh, angular face of his cold father. He could see the same spite, the same disregard for those he considered below his station. “Lord Pan’assár will hear of this, as will Lord Gor’sadén. Who are you to gainsay the will of a lord?”
“Silor is under military command, my lord, a warrior of Ea Uaré, not of Tar’eastór. If you take my warrior with you now, I will personally inform Lord Pan’assár of his insubordination.”
“But that is what you were going to do anyway, wasn’t it, Galadan?” seethed Silor. “You were going to tell your lies, accuse me of malpractice when it is you who failed to keep our warriors safe.”
“If you truly believe that, Silor, then perhaps it is in the best interests of this army that you walk through that door,” said Galadan, the hint of a smile turning his mouth upwards.
Silor seemed confused for a moment, but a soft hand was laid on his forearm, his father’s silent command to leave.
“The gall…” spat Galdith beside him once they had left.
“He cannot be helped, Galdith. He is too far gone, too stuck in his lordly ways to see through his own stupidity.”
Galdith didn’t answer, but Galadan thought that he wanted to, and his eyes were drawn once more to the Honour Stone sitting impertinently in his auburn hair.
King Vorn’asté sat before his desk in his private study. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the stone walls—books stacked as high as the eye could see, colourful towers of wisdom and whim.
Chief Councillor Damiel stood browsing a treatise on trade protocols. He chuckled at something he read, would have laughed had the king not spoken.
“Damiel, join us,” he said, gesturing to the hearth and then nodding at the newly arrived Gor’sadén and the king’s second son, Prince Sontúr.
“What news?” asked the king.
“Well, as for Handir’s escort, all seem to be recovering satisfactorily, except for one—Osír. His fate is yet unknown,” said Sontúr as he sat heavily beside his father.
“You are a healer today, my son?”
“For today, father. Tomorrow, who knows?” he said with a wave of his hand, knowing that should he look, his father would be staring at him in disapproval for his inability to choose his path. It was not that the king criticised his calling as a warrior or as a healer, but he had often told his son that a prince must define himself. His elder brother, Torhén, was a statesman, and it had been assumed that Sontúr would be the warrior; it was what the people expected of him, and although his father was wise in the ways of philosophy, he was king. A compromise had to be made between what was rationally right and what was expected of a ruler.
“Handir and his guard fled the battle before it began, as we know,” began Gor’sadén. “So far, Lieutenant Galadan has given a cursory report. I do, however, have a full report from Lord Sulén.”
“Sulén? How does he know about it?” asked Sontúr, frowning.
“He came to visit me with his son, Silor, who was trainee lieutenant under Galadan.”
“And why would this—Silor—visit you with his lordly father? Sulén is not a warrior,” said the king.
“They visited me to place a complaint,” said Gor’sadén with an arch of his brow. “Silor claims Galadan is trying to place the responsibility of the attack on his shoulders and thus exonerate himself in the eyes of Pan’assár. He claims Galadan will issue an unfavourable report to the commander general and is purposefully inventing tales of misconduct to discredit him, hinder his progress towards the Inner Circle of Captains.”
“I see,” murmured Vorn’asté. “And what is your opinion on the matter, Gor’sadén?”
“The elf is a fool. He thinks to convince me of his son’s innocence so that I may sway Pan’assár’s thoughts favourably. He is undoubtedly a politician,” he said pointedly as his eyes landed on Damiel, who frowned back at him.
“However, Silor did not mention this missing warrior—Fel’annár. Such an act of bravery should not go unacknowledged; indeed, according to Galadan, he may have been the reason the group was not attacked before we could find them. Silor does not speak of this. He also claims the escort was attacked from the west by a mighty host—so large it seems a number of Deviants managed to skirt around the main battle and penetrate from the east, taking Galadan by surprise. It does not coincide with Galadan’s report of two attack points.”
“Someone is lying,” huffed Sontúr.
“Agreed,” said Gor’sadén. “We can only wait for Pan’assár to leave his bed and for Lieutenant Tensári to return, with or without the last warrior. We need that report to establish the enemy’s movements, but also to clarify Sulén’s complaint. Pan’assár must see to the petty squabbling of his warriors.”
“Nothing Sulén does is petty. I hardly need to remind you, my king, of his family ties. You do not want him making your life more difficult than it already is,” counselled Damiel.
The king gave a sour smile, and Gor’sadén snorted.
“And you, Damiel. You have a prince to meet.”
“I do. I would give the boy some time to sort his people out before we begin with his tutorship. Did you meet him, Gor’sadén?”
“I saw him, yes. He bears a resemblance to his father. It will be interesting to see how much of Or’Talán is in him.”
Vorn’asté and Damiel caught each other’s gazes for a moment. Thargodén’s second son, grandson of Or’Talán, could surely never live up to Gor’sadén’s expectations where Or’Talán was concerned.
Nobody could.
The Company didn’t know much about Tar’eastór, but they had learned one thing in their last two days abed: music always seemed to play, and even now, it echoed down the hallways and danced off the stone walls, reaching even the confines of the Healing Hall. As the soft sound of strings and dulcet voices welcomed the darkening skies, fires were lit and candles set alight, sending shadows to fidget upon the intricate carvings on the walls. The rooms were warm and cosy, stone and wood decorated with lush fabrics; the ever-present smell of herbs and tinctures permeated the air. There were no doors here, yet even so, there was a modicum of privacy.
Almost two days had passed since their arrival, and the aftermath of
the battle had left them quiet and pensive, yet angry all the same. The loss of so many warriors, of Dorainen and now perhaps even Osír, was a bitter blow, even for Ea Uaré, a blow that should never have come to pass.
Food had been brought on trays, and Idernon watched as The Company pushed it around their plates. He himself had refused; he could eat nothing now—not while Fel’annár was still out in the snow and Osír lay upon the frontier of Valley. The weather had gone from bad to much worse, and time was their worst enemy. Every hour that passed made Fel’annár’s chances of survival slimmer.
They had come together around Carodel’s bed. The Bard Warrior sat somewhat awkwardly upon the bedding, his splinted leg jutting out before him. His lyre was gone, trampled by some Deviant no doubt. Ramien sat on the other side, arms folded and his gaze lost while Galdith rocked back and forth on a chair, unaware of the irritation on Lainon’s face at the incessant creak of old wood. There was something off about Lainon, but so far, Idernon had been unable to say what it was.
“I have asked Galdith if he would join The Company,” said Idernon, almost as if he spoke to himself, for his eyes fell on nobody.
“And what did he answer?” asked Ramien softly, as if Galdith were not there at all.
“He asked what it was—what The Company is.”
“Ah,” said Carodel somewhat theatrically. “Now there is a story…” he said with a soft smile. During his service as a novice together with Ramien and Idernon, Carodel had heard all the tales, had imagined them in his mind and then, admittedly, had added a little drama of his own—as any worthy Silvan bard would do, yet the essence of their stories had permeated his soul, had clicked in his mind; he had heard their words and felt the emotions behind them as if they were his own.
“I am not the most veteran of those, brave warriors,” said Carodel with a widening smile. “Ramien, Idernon, and Fel'annár of Lan Taria founded that venerable institution, one I am proud to belong to!” he said mischievously, his eyes flitting from one warrior to the next, drawing them in. Galdith watched with a bemused smile and then sat back against his chair, allowing his worry for Osír to fade for just a while.
Carodel whisked them all away, away from the dreadful wait to Lan Taria and the Deep Forest. He was transformed as he told the tale of childhood in the deepest of the Silvan lands of Ea Uaré. He spoke of a friendship that would not be broken, a pledge to protect and to respect, a shared destiny of service and obedience. He told of anecdotes that made them laugh, hardship that was shared, burdens that were lessened by the simple presence of another—he spoke of brotherhood beyond the bounds of blood. Only half of it ever really happened, yet all of it was true, and by the time he had finished and the night was dark, Galdith sat staring at the four warriors with a soft smile.
“Why would you want me? I have done nothing to merit it; you do not know me at all,” said Galdith, eyes moving from Carodel to Idernon, Ramien and then Lainon. Idernon bent forwards and placed his book carefully upon the bed.
“You brought us back, through physical and mental hardship. You did not waver. I see the same strength in you as I do in Lieutenant Galadan,” he added, head only half turning to where he knew the lieutenant sat. “But it is not only for your merits that we open our arms to you, Galdith; it is your heart. You see in Fel’annár what we do—you see hope for your people and for yourself.”
Galdith’s blue eyes sparkled as they strayed away from The Company and to the elf he had shared hardship with, an elf he felt affinity with, one who stared back at him now from just outside their circle as if he understood exactly what Galdith was thinking.
Galdith lifted one hand and absently smoothed his fingers over one of his honour stones. “Yes,” said Galdith somewhat numbly. “I cannot explain it. I have no idea why I should feel the way I do about a warrior so young and inexperienced. I have been in the field too long, seen too many things. My heart was numb, my mind purposefully shuttered lest its ghosts escape. And then there was Sen’uár. I lost everything, and yet from that very same battle, hope has found me quite by chance.”
The Company smiled but held their silence, sensing that Galdith had not finished.
“I would be honoured to join you then, if you are all in agreement?” asked Galdith tentatively.
They smiled, even Lainon, and Galdith allowed himself a moment of joy for the first time that night, joy that was only marginally tempered as Galadan walked past them, sparing them all a curt nod before turning to the hearth further away.
“There is an Alpine lieutenant I respect deeply,” said Galdith. “I would speak to you of him, if you would allow it, when we are all together. You know,” he said, sitting forward, “Galadan saw something in him, too. That night when the Mountain Hounds began to hunt us. Fel’annár sat upon his horse, and he was a sight, brothers. A Silvan warrior—one with the trees, for the locks of his hair seemed frozen and his face streaked with clay, like living roots, eyes blazing with some magic I do not understand, and as he turned to leave, Galadan called out to him. I hesitated at his tone, turned to watch our lieutenant for there was something in his voice that was uncharacteristic—emotion.”
“What did he say?” asked Idernon, eyes gleaming in the half-light.
“He said, ‘be safe—my prince.’”
Silence followed the revelation, and Lainon’s eyes widened only slightly, a warning Idernon had no intention of ignoring.
“I would hear your story, Galdith, of those two days of bravery and sacrifice—when Fel’annár is here to listen,” said Lainon.
Galdith frowned and then nodded, eyes drifting to the other members of The Company. Their eyes were cast to the floor, and he thought perhaps he should speak no more. He turned then at the rustle of cloth behind him, eyes landing on the Master Healer. With a subtle tilt of his head, Arané turned away, and Galdith visibly paled. Rising slowly, he spared one last glance at The Company and followed, unaware that The Company made their own way behind him, even Carodel, who leaned heavily on Ramien.
Galdith had lost his wife, their two-year-old son clutched to her still chest—at least that is what he had been told. His aunt and a cousin had also perished, and yet some had lost their entire families. The Battle of Sen’uár had been a foreseeable massacre, one Galdith could never forgive. Pan’assár had refused to create an outpost because the Silvans refused to abandon their homes and live like Alpines. The commander general did not understand the nature of the Silvans—he did not even try.
And now Galdith was faced with the impending death of Osír. After him, there was only Angon left, the only one that had known him as a child, remembered his family, and again, the Alpines and their discrimination were surely to blame. Had Silor done his job and not wasted so much time, if he had been with the western group and commanded it as Galadan had ordered, perhaps Osír would be alive; had Pan’assár deemed it necessary, an outpost would have sent warriors to defend Sen’uár.
Osír’s bed had been screened off, and as Galdith walked into the protected space, another healer rose from the bed and moved to sit in a quiet corner. Arané placed one hand on Galdith’s shoulder, nodded, and then joined his colleague.
A laboured breath broke the silence, and Galdith sat on the bed. Placing a slow, careful hand on Osír’s shuddering chest, he spoke quietly.
“Peace, Osír. You will have peace soon.”
Another laboured breath, and Galdith wondered if his friend could hear him. He doubted it; he would be too busy concentrating on his breathing, on the pain.
“Perhaps I will see you sooner than you think,” murmured Galdith. “I have joined The Company, see?”
Arané’s eyes slipped to the warriors who stood respectfully behind the screens, his usually cold eyes now warm and moist.
A fumbling hand found Galdith’s forearm, and Osír’s cold fingers tightened surprisingly hard around him.
“I know what you would say my friend,” said Galdith. “To seek out Anorí, tell her, look after her. You need no
t say the words,” he said, blinking furiously. Had he turned, he would have seen five others, not a dry eye between them save for Galadan and Lainon, yet the grief was there all the same—for Osír and for Galdith, for another sundered friendship, one the older members of The Company understood so well.
“I will miss you, Osír. Miss your idiot comments, your bow at my side. Miss those Silvan nights of dance and song, your quiet strength,” he whispered, even as he felt his old life disappearing beneath his feet, just as surely as Osír was dying.
The hand around his forearm tightened, iron strength from one that was almost gone, but soon enough it slackened as a long, whispered breath left Osír and with it, the last of his life, eyes slipping to where the sun would soon rise.
He had known, and yet disbelief was the first emotion to assail him. Anger and grief soon followed, outrage and injustice: it was all Galdith could feel, and when Arané’s hand squeezed his shoulder he shook it off and stood, eyes blazing, heart bursting, choking him. Swivelling on his heels, he strode from the room, down the hallway and out of the main house, across the courtyard and into the trees, as far away as he could from Pan’assár, from Silor. Galdith had served for many years in silence, studiously ignoring the cool indifference and barely-concealed disdain of his Alpine commanders: what had it all been for? He had lost his father, his wife, his child, his friend...Osír.
Emotion welled in his eyes as he desperately sought a place of solitude, his shaking hand coming to rest on the rough bark of a birch.
He remembered their desperate flight to Tar’eastór when Osír was still alive. He remembered the cold and the futility of their circumstances. He remembered a puny campfire and a green-eyed lad with a smile he would never forget.
He was finally alone in the word. Almost everyone had been taken from him. He would not cry—he would fight until he himself succumbed to the cruelty of the enemy; it was all that was left him.
Later, as he slowly made his way back to the main building and the Healing Hall, he was met by The Company. He slowed his pace, anger ebbing away as he allowed them to pull on his sleeves until he was amidst them. There were no words, no useless apologies or pitying gazes.
