Road of a Warrior

by R K Lander

  “Pan’assár,” called Gor’sadén.

  The forest commander stopped, but he did not turn, his fists balled painfully at his sides. “I still remember that day. It is as if my life simply stopped, as if I cannot move forward. Night without a dawn. Everything turned dark that day.”

  Gor’sadén started. Pan’assár was talking about it for the first time, just like that. Years of silence stood between them on the subject of Or’Talán, a silence he had thought would never be broken, and yet here he stood as a part of the puzzle was unravelled. “What happened, Pan? You never gave me the full story.”

  “You don’t want to hear it.”

  “I do. I must. You must tell me, Pan.”

  “No.”

  The commander resumed his downward march, faster now, loose snow following him as if he walked in water. Gor’sadén lunged forward and caught his arm, spinning him round to face him, only he faltered at the fierce expression on Pan’assár’s face, raw and unguarded, a face bathed in shadow as the sun continued to rise behind him.

  “Tell me, Pan. Be free of these ghosts that haunt you, that make you a lesser elf. You have faded, brother. You have lost your way, your path. I would help, but you must tell me.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can. Look to the dawn before you, not the night behind.”

  “Stop!!” thundered Pan’assár, yanking his arm free, eyes glinting dangerously, but Gor’sadén knew it was the only way with Pan’assár: push him beyond his ability to control his emotions, and he would snap. The truth would surely follow.

  “I won’t stop,” said Gor’sadén. “He was my brother, too, or have you forgotten? I loved him as much as you did; I still do, but I will not let his death be the end of me. I will not become a living legend like you, a thing of the past to be revered and feared, doomed to fade into the annals of our memories. That is you, brother; it is what you have become. You are worn and tired, cruel and vindictive, you are trapped in a forest you do not love, bound to serve a people you do not respect…”

  A gloved hand shot out and grabbed Gor’sadén by the ornate collar of his under-tunic. Pan’assár was out of control, his face twisted into a rictus of pain and grief, of ire Gor’sadén had rarely seen on his face. His blue eyes were no longer frosty but dark and dangerous, glittering with barely repressed aggression.

  Another, equally gloved hand shot out and encased Pan’assár’s fist. “What was it that happened, commander? What happened in the forest that turned you to hatred?”

  “They killed him, Gor’sadén, as surely as if they had taken a sword to his throat and slit it themselves. The Silvans had not pulled their people back as had been ordered. They had stayed in treacherous territory we knew would be overrun. When the Silvan troop realised there were still civilians, they rebelled against the dictates of their king and refused the order to retreat. Or’Talán should have insisted, but he loved them too well to abandon them to their fate. He gave the order to engage in a battle he surely knew would be lost. The fight was fierce, and the king was taken alive by Sand Lords.” He heaved a mighty breath, eyes wide and lost. “Even as we fought, they cut him to pieces before our very eyes,” he raged, lips trembling as tears finally brimmed and fell fat onto his breast plate. “Limb by limb they dismembered him,” he shouted as he shook Gor’sadén’s collar, eyes swimming in misery. “I tried, I tried to stop them, but their rage was terrible, their glee at my despair only serving to prolong our brother’s terrible violation.”

  Pan’assár’s hand lost tension, and he turned and then sat clumsily on the ground. Gor’sadén looked down on him from behind, heart hammering in his chest, a crushing sense of grief squeezing his chest.

  Pan’assár’s eyes focussed once more on the snow beneath his knees. “And so you see, they killed their own king, and for what? Two useless leagues of dying forest? I cannot love them, Gorsa. I cannot respect them, for all I can see is their betrayal, their selfish adoration for the forest, a forest they loved more than their king. How dare they…” he whispered into the wind.

  Gor’sadén could not answer, could not speak, for his throat was tight with pain and grief, chest so heavy it hurt.

  Pan’assár collected his feet and stood slowly. The anger was gone, leaving the haggard remains of a once powerful warrior lord, empty and numb. Pan’assár hated the Silvan people because they refused to abandon their forest and Or’Talán had paid the price—and he hated himself too—for not being able to reach the king in time. From there on, it would have been all too easy for one so broken to slip towards irrational hatred, for was that not better than guilt?

  They made their slow and silent way back to their rooms, but Gor’sadén’s mind was rushing forward. He thought he understood now why Pan’assár hated Fel’annár. He was half-Silvan, and yet he shared the very face of Or’Talán. Cruel paradox, the perfect reminder that Or’Talán had died for love of the Silvan people. Fel’annár was the one thing that synthesised Pan’assár’s irrational hatred—and his love.

  It was early afternoon when a pale and strangely serene Pan’assár had listened to Galadan and Silor’s reports on the battle and the arduous journey to Tar’eastór. Gor’sadén had tried and failed to convince him to put their meeting off until the following day, for they had not slept and Pan’assár’s revelation hung about them like a heavy velvet drape. But Pan’assár had refused, and Gor’sadén had accompanied him, standing discreetly by should he be needed. He had bristled on many occasions during the reports, but he had held his tongue as he knew he must. There would be time for talk later.

  Galadan had remained calm and aloof, clinical in his recounting of the events while Silor had been defensive one moment and then offensive the next.

  Silor had lied when he said there was only one attack point, had lied again when he failed to explain his exchange with Fel’annár. He had then disobeyed Galadan’s orders twice; first when he failed to lead the western contingent in battle, and again when they had arrived in Tar’eastór and he was ordered to remain on duty until Pan’assár could receive their reports. Silor had denied it all, but both Pan’assár and Gor’sadén had been commanders for many years: they almost always knew when a warrior was lying, and Silor was. He was too vehement, too eager to appeal to what he thought was their shared disapproval of the Silvan warriors. Pan’assár knew he had given him that impression. Galadan had implied many times that he was being too harsh, that Silor was too curt with the Silvan troops, but Pan’assár had not listened, had been all too happy to vent his anger and hatred. Yet now, away from Ea Uaré, in the wake of a battle that he himself had failed to command, in which it seemed Galadan had made all the right decisions, he began to doubt himself. The Silvan boy had tried to warn them and then had excelled in battle, however much Pan’assár wanted to deny it.

  Silor was a fool and a liar, vindictive to a fault, for he had tried to discredit Galadan, a lieutenant Pan’assár had chosen to lead his warriors on many occasions. He had also tried to discredit the Silvan boy, called him ‘demon spawn,’ and claimed his ambition led him to constantly compete for Galadan’s approval at Silor’s cost. Thargodén’s bastard he was, but it had been he to save the surviving warriors from certain death—not Silor.

  Yet what truly irked him was the complaint Silor’s father had issued to a foreign commander. Lord Sulén was a fool to think he could sway his decision regarding Silor’s command by recruiting Gor’sadén’s help. Should they meet, Pan’assár would have some choice words for him, and as for Silor, Pan’assár had dismissed him from duty until their return to Ea Uaré. There was no point in tempting fate, for the antagonism with the other warriors had been left gapingly obvious. He would seek General Hurén’s counsel on the matter once they were home. For all that he wanted to expel Silor from the army entirely, there were political concerns that needed to be addressed.

  And again, he wondered how he had ever been persuaded to allow Silor a chance at leadership. He remembered being unconcerne
d at the time. Let the boy try, he had thought. Silor was the son of a noble Alpine house, destined to be promoted to the Inner Circle of Captains one day. Galadan would either knock him into shape or recommend he stand down. It was funny, because now, Pan’assár was unsure that he would have listened had Galadan given a negative report.

  The report finished at last, Pan’assár studied the map that Galadan had used to illustrate the discussion, and Gor’sadén was soon at his side, his own eyes observing the markers.

  Reaching out, one long finger landed on the second attack point from the west. “A Listener...” said Pan’assár thoughtfully.

  “A Master Archer...” replied Gor’sadén, “and Spawn of Galomú, according to Silor.”

  “Silor is a fool. Fel’annár is just a child,” said Pan’assár.

  “And yet he commands their respect,” said Gor’sadén carefully. “Does he not remind you of someone?”

  Pan’assár didn’t answer, but Gor’sadén saw the reluctant resignation in his eyes just the same.

  “Vorn’asté has procured me some fine wine from Prairie,” said Gor’sadén. Without waiting for Pan’assár to respond, he moved away to pour them a glass. Turning back, he handed one to his friend.

  Pan’assár took it without looking, for his eyes were still riveted on the map.

  “What are you thinking?” prompted Gor’sadén.

  “How different the Silvan people are. After all these years, I still cannot fathom them, not as Or’Talán did. Their perspective on life is so very strange to me, for they say one tree’s life is equivalent to the life of an elf, that to leave them to their fate would be like leaving your own family. I don’t understand that, Gorsa. I can’t. It is not in my Alpine blood.”

  “Do you think they truly believe that?”

  “That is what they say. Even now, when the enemy is pushing us harder than it ever has, still they refuse to pull out of the northernmost villages. They will not leave, and they die, their children slaughtered, and still—they will not let us help them.”

  “What is it they want? How would they solve the problem?” asked Gor’sadén.

  “They want permanent outposts so that they can maintain their villages, and we argue that to do so would decimate our forces along our north-eastern borders, that even should we create those outposts, the danger is there. We cannot protect them if they will not get out of the way of war.”

  Gor’sadén considered the question as he sipped on the wine. “This is the good stuff,” he murmured as he admired the crimson liquid that lapped at the sides of his glass. “You know, if someone told me that Tar’eastór must be abandoned, that I must leave the mountains and dwell on the plains, I cannot say how I would feel.”

  “You would do it. You would let our warriors reclaim it so that we could return.”

  “There is a warrior in us all, Pan’assár. Perhaps the Silvans believe it is their job to defend the land, as much as it is the duty of a warrior.”

  Pan’assár looked sharply at Gor’sadén, but he did not speak for a long while. Then he said, “They risk their children in the process.”

  “Yes. It seems strange that they would do so, strange—if you do not consider their reasons. They must be powerful, Pan’assár, for I do not believe they are lesser beings. I do not believe they feel loss differently to us. They cry, and they laugh, as easily as the rest of us, and if this is so—what would lead a mother, a father, to risk the life of his child in exchange for life amongst the trees?”

  Pan’assár shook his head, but Gor’sadén was already speaking again. “I can only think of one thing that could move them so much. Their nature. Their identity. The wood is what makes them Silvan. Take them away from her, and they could be Alpine save for the blood in their bodies. Take an Alpine and raise him in the woods, and he would be Silvan...to leave the woods is to become Alpine, to lose their identity once and for all. Perhaps that is the last frontier for them, the last step upon the path of cultural annihilation, in which the natives become the colonizers. Perhaps it is this—their perceived acceptance of defeat, the ultimate submission to a foreign culture.”

  Pan’assár breathed heavily, and Gor’sadén watched him as he shook his head minutely. “I am sorry I did not tell you, brother, of Or’Talán’s demise. I did not want you to suffer as I did.”

  Gor’sadén could not speak for a moment as he desperately tried to block the images that Pan’assár had painted of Or’Talán’s gruesome demise, for he could not imagine himself there, fighting for his own life even as he watched his brother cruelly tortured.

  “I know,” he said softly. “But tell me, can you not find it within yourself to regain your true self? the one I used to know?”

  Pan’assár’s head turned to face him, and for a moment, he was quiet. “Perhaps. And yet the forest is so deep in its turmoil, Gorsa. It is hard to see the way out.”

  “Tell me, why did you follow Or’Talán all those years ago?”

  Pan’assár smiled. “It was a shared dream. Colonizing new lands is in our Alpine blood, Gorsa. You will remember we of The Three swore an oath of mutual support and protection, but Orta and I shared another promise, one that bound me to the forest. I once swore to him that should he fall, I would protect his legacy, protect its people. I failed in that, for I came to hate them.”

  “You can change that.”

  Pan’assár did not answer, and Gor’sadén knew he had achieved as much as he could—for now.

  He had a report to give to his king, and a question, too, one that concerned Galadan’s strange words regarding Fel’annár and his ability to Listen to the trees. He had thought the figure of the Silvan Listener a question of myth, simple superstition, and yet Galadan, a veteran Alpine lieutenant had referred to it as fact.

  He was intrigued.

  “You are sure no additional taxes would be payable?”

  “If my motion is passed in council tomorrow—no additional taxes.”

  “Alright. I will rally my kin, Lord Band’orán. It is good business if those trade routes can be opened.”

  “They will be. You and your people must simply continue to trust me, as many of our most exalted families already do. The forest yields many goods the humans of Prairie covet. They will pay a handsome price for them. If we all work together, those routes may be open in a scant few months. This opportunity must not be lost.”

  “And your part in this, my Lord Band’orán? You are no merchant.”

  “No, I am not. I ask only that you support me when I need you.”

  Silenced followed Band’orán’s words, uttered as if he spoke of the weather.

  “My lord, I would see no harm come to my king...”

  “And it won’t, my friend. I seek to return this realm to greatness, as it once was under the rule of my brother. I would not harm Thargodén, but I will not allow him to continue in his misrule. In his silent grief he has pushed us to the brink of ruin, and should we fall over the edge, we will be nothing but peasants, poor and bereft of everything that once made us great. We will be Alpine Silvans, good for nothing but to swing haplessly amongst the trees. Is that what you want, my friend? You who were born into one of our most honourable families? You who still remembers the greatness of the Alpines, a greatness we can regain if we all come together in this. Thargodén is defeated; he must step down and allow another to rule, one that will make this realm mighty again, bring back the glory days of honour and renown.”

  “Yes, we all want that, Lord Band’orán. We have drifted aimlessly upon the memory of Thargodén’s initial rule before the queen left us, before he drove her away with his faithlessness.”

  Band’orán smiled sadly, even though his heart rejoiced at the chief merchant’s words.

  The lord looked to the floor, slowly shaking his head. “You have my vote, if I have your promise the king will not be harmed, that you will not humiliate him. He is Or’Talán’s son—he has my respect.”

  “And he has mine. I seek
only to rebuild our ailing realm—it is nothing personal. Thargodén is my family, but Ea Uaré is my land, my heritage.”

  The merchant held Band’orán’s eyes for long moments before he bowed low and then left. Band’orán watched him, and when he turned a corner and was out of sight, his smile widened. To turn the chief merchant to his side was a mighty victory, for with him would come the entire Merchant’s Guild. Band’orán would soon activate the last part of his plan, and if Thargodén stepped in his way, he would be seen to. He had not lied. He would not harm the king personally, but he would not hesitate to defeat him in the only way Band’orán knew he could: grief, that was Thargodén’s weakness, that and his family.

  The door to his chambers opened once more, and an elf entered, a large bird perched proudly upon his heavily gloved hand. “My lord, a missive for you from Tar’eastór.”

  Band’orán approached, admiring for a moment the dangerous glint in the beast’s eye, its curved beak and talons that could rip the hide of a Mountain Hound apart and yet caress a hand so softly. Dangerous, raw beauty. Reaching out, he unrolled the tiny piece of parchment and turned his back on its keeper. His eyes dropped to the cypher, one he recognised well, and by the time he had read the message, his eyes were wide and a chill had invaded his entire body. ‘The fool,’ he spat to himself. He schooled himself and turned back to the waiting elf with a practised mask of cool authority. “Come back in an hour; I will send a reply.”

  The elf nodded and turned, but the bird’s beady eye remained on Band’orán, and for a moment, the royal councillor could not look away. He knew what it was, of course. It was the shadow in his mind, the one that spoke to him sometimes, the only one that dared speak the truth to him, that did not fear him.

  Chapter Ten

  THE SILENCE OF THE SILVANS

  “To protect is an act of love, and from love, cruelty sometimes ensues. By hiding the truth, we shield the heart, shield the body from harm, but what of the soul? What of every child’s need to be loved by a mother, by a father? What of the steady rock of family where falls can be broken, errors are simple lessons in life, dreams are fed with encouragement? All this can be lost for the cruelty of love.”