Road of a Warrior

by R K Lander

  Galdith, in his despair, had been wrong. He was not alone. He had a wall of stone, a wise friend, a bard, a spirit warrior, and a half-Silvan Listener if Aria would hear their prayers; he had The Company by his side, and Osír’s smiling face floated before his mind’s eye, his spirit forever a part of Galdith’s soul.

  Pan’assár’s blond hair spilled over the pillow, framing the unmistakable face of Gor’sadén’s sworn brother, one of the best commanders he had known, second only to Or’Talán himself. He remembered Pan’assár as a prodigious warrior and respected leader, proud yet fair to a fault, and yet he had a formidable temper when riled. Whether it was just the result of his recent injuries, Gor’sadén could not say, but time had taken its toll on his friend. His face was still that of an immortal elf, but the lines of expression seemed more pronounced, as if he spent most of his time frowning. But then perhaps it was grief, for Aria knew both of them had suffered the absence of Or’Talán.

  Pan’assár had stirred from his prolonged unconsciousness just that morning, and they had enjoyed a brief reunion, time enough for a knowing smile and a warrior’s clasp. He had then been taken to Gor’sadén’s suite of rooms, away from the Halls of Healing Pan’assár had always hated so much.

  Night had fallen then, and still, Gor’sadén waited for him to completely regain himself, to share stories of the time they had been away from each other.

  After stoking the fire, Gor’sadén turned back to Pan’assár only to find him sitting up and watching him, and he smiled, striding to the bed and sitting. “Welcome to Tar’eastór, commander general,” he said.

  Pan’assár smiled and smacked his friend on the forearm. “I have a thumping headache, but it brightens my soul to see you again, brother.”

  “How are things in the forest?”

  Pan’assár’s smile faltered. “As well as they can be. I command an army of Silvan troops that do not take kindly to their Alpine rulers.”

  Gor’sadén scowled. “When did that change? I thought Thargodén a good king.”

  “He was. But grief is a powerful enemy. He roams as one numb to life. He lives, yet his senses are dulled to what goes on around him. Councillor Aradan does what he can, but Crown Prince Rinon is turning against him.”

  “Their relationship was never easy, it seems,” said Gor’sadén, not that he knew any of royal children. He had never met any of them until Handir’s arrival.

  “Hardly surprising, given that Thargodén all but sent the queen packing to Valley. Rinon resents him for that, and the king makes no effort to endear himself to his heir. It is as if he doesn’t care, almost.”

  A knock on the door interrupted them, and Gor’sadén opened it, then instructed the servants to place the food they’d brought on a low table before the hearth. Nodding his thanks, he helped a somewhat unsteady Pan’assár to the fire.

  “Eat,” he said.

  Pan’assár stared at the food, suddenly realizing that he could not remember what had happened. His last memory was of eating fish. He breathed noisily, and his eyes glanced at Gor’sadén, who he knew was watching him.

  “I can’t remember anything.”

  Placing his cup on the table, Gor’sadén pursed his lips. “All we know is that ten survived the battle. Two were lost in the aftermath, one just yesterday. There is still one warrior lost—he guarded the caravan of wounded as they fled here. The Last Warrior, they call him. Tensári is searching for him.”

  Pan’assár closed his eyes, and for a moment, he saw a fleeting image of silvery hair flying wildly around a face he should know yet could not place. “Damn it all.”

  “It will come, Pan. Your head is still muddled from that blow.”

  “And Galadan? Did he survive?”

  “Yes. I have requested his and Silor’s presence at the barracks tomorrow for a preliminary report. I had thought to collect it for you if you were not fit.”

  “I will be. I need to know what went wrong, why we failed. My prince’s life was placed in danger, and it was my duty, my responsibility to safeguard his life. I have failed, and I must know why.”

  “Do not blame yourself without reason, brother,” counselled Gor’sadén. “Wait for the reports.”

  Pan’assár nodded, but although he could not remember the battle, his instinct told him that he was to blame, that he had been at fault, and there was only one emotion that could achieve such a thing in the absence of memory. Guilt.

  The sky was full of diamonds—sparkling and dimming, dimming and sparkling—and then flaring into bright, white light that sent needles of pain through his eyes to the back of his throbbing head. Slowly, the diamonds dissipated, and then there was white fog, and then grey, until colour defined the objects that lay before his barely-open eyes: leaves, twigs, branches, and beyond, a clear blue sky.

  He remembered rain and mist, and then yellow eyes and gnashing teeth, stinking hides and shocking pain. He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting a wave of nausea as agony flared in his side, and a gasp escaped him despite himself.

  The trees rustled and creaked, and suddenly, he felt colder than he had before, strangely bereft, and the flicker of a distant memory brushed his mind. A child sitting in the lap of an oaken Sentinel, a feeling of bliss as he looked up at the tree and pressed his cheek further into the brown bark and felt overwhelming love.

  The woman was there, not in the tree anymore but standing upon the ground. Such beauty he had never seen, for she smiled as a mother does upon her child, and in her eyes was the kind of love he had never felt. She stepped towards him, but his blurry sight played tricks on him. Her milky skin turned to copper, and bright blue eyes darkened to blazing midnight. Light blonde hair fluttered in a soft breeze, but that, too, changed to inky black, silken strands now thick locks of twisted braids.

  “Lainon?” he choked out.

  He wanted to rub his eyes, but he could not move. Lainon was standing over him, looking down on him, the light of Aria in his eyes, or was it the Lady in the Tree? He could no longer tell, for the colours would come and go, changing before his very eyes. Funny, though, that the image did not disappear, and as time spread on, he began to think the Ari’atór really was standing there, staring down at him in something akin to fascination and disbelief.

  The image began to fade, and he could feel himself floating. The white lady was back, only this time in his mind’s eye. She smiled and then took him in her arms, comforting and protective. Pain subsided, and love suffused him, and so he slept in her arms, warm and safe.

  Chapter Nine

  VISIONS OF PAST AND PRESENT

  “There are many shades of love: love for a brother, a mother, a father; love for a friend or a soul mate. Love for an unknown child, the majesty of the trees, the selfless warrior. Love drives the soul to goodness, an omni-potent force that binds us together—or pulls us cruelly apart. It is utter beauty, stark ruin, passion in its purest form.”

  On Elven Nature: Calro

  “Riders! Incoming riders!”

  Despite the lateness of the hour, windows were soon alight with the blaze of candles, illuminated faces jostling for a peek at the courtyard below, for a hint of who had come in the rain, for a sign that perhaps it was Lieutenant Tensári and the last warrior from Ea Uaré.

  The Company rallied together around Carodel’s bed. They had been too slow for a place at the window, so they fixed their eyes on the heavy wooden doors at the end of the long, wide aisle, hearts hammering in their chests, tongues stubbornly frozen. It could be a visiting dignitary, a messenger from abroad, a scout with urgent news; it could be Fel’annár, alive—or dead.

  They startled when the heavy oak panels burst inwards, bouncing heavily against the stonework behind and sending candles to flickering giddily in the sudden breeze. Two soaking elves struggled with a body that did not move at all, and Master Arané was there, striding towards them, rolling back his ample sleeves and then gesturing to his healers to follow him.

  Galadan stood, slipping on
his linen shirt and making for what remained of his warriors, or The Company as he now knew they called themselves. Moments later, Commander Gor’sadén arrived, closely followed by Prince Handir with Lainon at his shoulder. The lords jogged down the aisle after the master healer who was already disappearing into an adjacent room, trying and failing to avoid the trail of water the soaking warriors had left behind them.

  Idernon struggled to rise from his chair, reaching out for the back to steady himself; Galadan’s hand shot out to help.

  “Stop, Idernon. Sit. There is nothing you can do there. We will have news soon enough.”

  Idernon’s eyes stared defiantly at the lieutenant for a moment before logic seemed to take hold. With a curt nod, he sat back down, gaze fixed on the open doorway where Fel’annár surely lay.

  “It must be him,” said Ramien softly, but nobody answered.

  “Brace yourselves for the storm, brothers; Gor’sadén will recognise him,” murmured Idernon. Carodel and Ramien sat ramrod straight, but Galdith frowned, while Galadan seemed to stand a little taller than he had.

  “What do you mean?” asked Galdith curtly. “Who is he to be recognised?” he whispered.

  Idernon stared back at Galdith, but Galadan was already speaking. “He is of the House of Or’Talán, isn’t he?” he asked quietly, eyes challenging Idernon to gainsay his claim.

  Galdith’s head whipped to Galadan and then back to Idernon, as if he would refute what the lieutenant had said, but he didn’t. Instead, the Wise Warrior lowered his head so that only they would hear. “Fel’annár is a son of our King Thargodén.”

  Galadan stared blankly and Galdith swayed backwards. Idernon watched their eyes for any sign of disapproval, but he found none, only shock on Galdith’s face. Galadan, however, did not seem surprised at all.

  “You already knew,” said Idernon, but Galadan was shaking his head.

  “I suspected he was a family member, not that he was our king’s son. It makes the truth no less surprising,” he murmured.

  The ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of Galdith’s mouth. “I knew it. That comment you made, lieutenant; you called him prince, and I wondered whether you meant it literally. I thought at the time that you had surprised yourself with your own words.”

  “I did,” said Galadan. “I had not meant to voice my suspicions, for I did not know if even he knew. Dorainen did, though; I am sure of that now, for he told Fel’annár he had his grandfather’s face, just before he took the Short Road.”

  “Fel’annár does know,” said Idernon. “Lainon told him not a week past.”

  “He has known for a week?” Now there was surprise on the lieutenant’s face.

  “It is a long story, lieutenant. We will tell you of it when the time is right.”

  “Does Pan’assár know?” murmured Galadan.

  “No. At least, we do not think so,” answered Ramien.

  “I am not so sure. The way he froze just before the battle . . . perhaps he recognised the boy. But whichever the case, I do not trust his reaction, Idernon,” warned Galadan, for of them all, he knew the commander the best.

  They slipped into silence once more, broken only by Galdith’s soft voice. “There is something in that boy,” he murmured. “His spirit lightens the heart.”

  The rest of The Company stared back at him steadily, until Idernon leaned forward. “It is hope that you see, Galdith. Hope for the future of our forests, for our people.”

  Galadan and Galdith looked to each other in shared confusion. Strangely, it was not that they doubted the Wise Warrior’s words. What confused them was how Idernon could be so utterly sure and how, instinctively, they knew he was right.

  Handir, Gor’sadén, and Lainon stood respectfully to one side as the healers worked, but while Lainon’s ears were busy listening to the healers, his eyes had caught sight of Tensári, breathless and soaked as she, too, watched from behind, water pooling around her.

  Arané stepped backwards and watched as his healers worked, eyes following their every move. “Here, take it all off, carefully. Turn him over, let’s get a good look at this,” he said, pointing at a bite wound in Fel’annár’s side. The beast’s jaws had bitten into his entire right side, and one healer winced as she caught sight of a yellow fang embedded just below a rib. There were scratches over one side of his face and one leg, and one could almost imagine how the beast had sunk its teeth into flesh, paws on either side of its jowls for leverage.

  As they turned Fel’annár onto his back, the mass of filthy, sodden locks fell away from his face for just a moment, enough to reveal his pale, bruised features.

  A dull thud preceded the clatter of glass as it jostled and then smashed on the stone below, the pungent smell of herbs infusing the silence that had descended over the room. The healers stood utterly still, hands hovering over the inert body, eyes trained on the bloody, bruised face. Gor’sadén had fallen clumsily against the stone wall behind him and stayed that way until slowly he righted himself, moving forwards, hesitantly, glass crunching under his boots.

  Something moved before him, a blur of black and blue, and he drew himself up to his full height. Lainon’s forbidding face was just inches away from his own, blazing blue eyes shining with an unmistakable warning. Yet the Ari needn’t have worried; there was no danger in Gor’sadén’s gaze, only utter incomprehension. It was all he could do to grind out two words that, once spoken, sliced through the thick silence. “Or’Talán? Brother?”

  There was a hiss from one healer, a gasp from another, but Handir was speaking. “Fel’annár,” he said, a slight waver to his otherwise strong voice.

  Gor’sadén’s eyes snapped to the prince, side braids dancing around his temples. “Fel’annár?”

  Handir’s own gaze was steady and challenging. This was not the face of a weakling prince who could not even hold a sword, let alone wield it; it was the face of a leader, bold and steady. This was, indeed, Or’Talán’s grandson.

  “Who...” Gor’sadén got no further.

  “This is Fel’annár, third son of Thargodén King.”

  Gor’sadén stared back, eyes round and bright, but the chaos behind them was clear for all to see. Utter confusion, deep grief, irrational anger. The healers were working once more, Arané urging them to move, and in a sudden whirl of crimson velvet and leather, the commander general turned and stormed away, his left hand splayed as if he would reach out—for what they could not say.

  Had Pan’assár known? wondered the commander. Shaking his head, Gor’sadén closed his eyes and breathed deeply, but his rising emotions would not still themselves. The Last Warrior, The Silvan, was Or’Talán incarnate. This was no simple resemblance as it was with Handir; it was something much more difficult to comprehend.

  Away, he needed to get away and stop the pounding at his temples. His eyes felt ready to burst, and his heart beat so fast he was close to running down the corridors of the royal palace in search of fresh air so that he could breathe. He passed wall murals and paintings of times gone by, bright crystals winking in the half-light, but they were nothing but a blur of meaningless colour to Gor’sadén, for his mind’s eye had all his attention. Silver hair framed a stunningly beautiful face, and Gor’sadén stifled the emotions that were clawing for freedom at the back of his throat.

  He strode down the hall and through the doors, out into the public areas of the palace and then outside. He passed warriors that saluted him, but he did not see them: all he could see was the first king of Ea Uaré, his heart-brother. Turning from the main path, he made for the king’s private gardens, and even then, he did not stop, not until he was at the opposite end and there was nowhere else to go except backwards.

  He sat heavily on a stone bench, hands gripping the front edge as he struggled with the tears in his eyes. Fel’annár, Handir had said, but it couldn’t be. It was surely Or’Talán, but he had died upon the hot sands of Calrazia; the Battle Under the Sun—the curved blade of a Sand Lord had claimed his life.<
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  Third son of Thargodén, Handir had said, and Gor’sadén knew it must be true, but the shock had been great, for there had been one, strange moment in which he thought his friend somehow returned from Valley. Whatever was going on, it did not seem to be common knowledge, and his shock slowly changed to intrigue and a rising sense of urgency, and so he stood. Righting his uniform, he wondered if he should wait, should calm himself before he told King Vorn’asté, but no, there would be no peace for Gor’sadén tonight, and sooner or later, one of those healers would talk. It was when he turned to the palace once more that he realised he was not alone. Prince Handir stood there, his Ari guard some distance behind him.

  Prince Handir stood under the weak light of a waxing moon. There was no denying the blood of Or’Talán in this second prince, one Gor’sadén did not know at all. He was a statesman, not a warrior like himself, which went against the more conservative dictates of Alpine culture.

  “Are you well?” asked the prince kindly, but he did not move at all, creating a strange stillness that sent a shiver down the commander’s spine.

  It took a while for Gor’sadén to answer him, but when he did, he did so honestly. “I will be.” He walked towards the prince, head shaking slowly from side to side. “I cannot believe my own eyes, prince. You share a likeness with your grandfather, but that boy . . . ” He gestured with one hand.

  “I have seen my grandfather in books, in paintings, and I can see the close similarity but you—you seem to feel it more than I do. Perhaps it shouldn’t surprise me,” mused Handir. “I never met my grandfather.”

  “No, no, you did not have that privilege, prince. I knew him as well as I know myself. Every line of his face, every curve of his nose, the arch of his brow, and the planes of his cheeks. Anyone who knew your grandfather would think the resemblance as impossible as I do. How have you kept this secret?” he asked, eyes boring into Handir’s. It was a simple assumption, but the prince soon confirmed that the boy’s existence was not common knowledge.