by R K Lander
On she walked, eyes registering, mind cataloguing: this one was built for archery while that one was for swords. Another she thought would be a good all-rounder while the big one could, perhaps, wield a heavier weapon. She had left the one they called The Silvan for last. This was the warrior she had rescued in the wilds, the one she had found nestled amongst the trees. It had been a strange way to find a wounded warrior, almost as strange as his overly-bright green eyes and the light they harboured. This was the one Lainon protected; even if he had not told her, she would have known, any Ari’atór would.
Her eyes drifted over the band upon his bicep—Master Archer—and then she registered the rest of him, tall and strong, muscles acutely defined. For one so young, he was disciplined. There was promise here, she knew.
“What bow do you favour?”
“I am equally competent in short and long-range bows, sir.”
“Blades?”
“Broad sword, sabre, and daggers.”
Her jaw pulsed at the arrogance he had surely inherited from his father, if the rumours were true. She knew they were, though. The boy was Or’Talán incarnate, heartbreakingly beautiful. She was staring, she realised, and so she turned and walked back to the centre of the line.
“For the first part of your training and adaptation to this army, no under tunics, only your jerkins. Keep your hair away from your face and shoulders lest you would have me slice it off,” she said, glancing at Fel’annár. “Run to the marker and back. It is not a race; stay together. Fel’annár, Carodel, not you.”
They scowled and then glanced at Lainon, but he was already jogging away with the rest. Tensári walked towards them.
“Prince Sontúr has asked that you train only to the limits of your recovery. No running or hand-to-hand combat for the moment.”
Fel’annár opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand for silence. “This is not debatable, warrior. I will not go easier on either of you for the rest of our training, if that is what worries you.”
He closed his mouth and nodded, and Tensári arched a brow before turning to watch the rest of the warriors as they jogged back towards her.
A little further away, a healthy group of Alpine guards watched with sceptical eyes as the forest warriors ran. Amongst these onlookers was Sontúr. He and his patrol, under Captain Comon, were to serve with these strange elves for the next few months—Alpines and Silvans working together against the common enemy—but this was the mountain. Silvan elves were at home in the trees, not on these high, frigid slopes, and no one wanted the added onus of patrolling with elves that could not navigate through cloud.
Tensári gave them a moment to catch their breath, and all the time she watched with the eye of a master. Approaching Galdith, she slapped his abdomen a little too harshly, eliciting a surprised yelp from the veteran Silvan and a giggle from the rest.
“You must learn to breathe properly, warrior.”
Galdith nodded that he understood, but he didn’t and turned a baffled eye to Galadan, who gestured that he would explain later.
“Pick up a training sword you are comfortable with and return here,” she said, moving to the side and watching them as they headed to the rack of weapons. Her eyes moved from their hands to their faces and back. The Master Swordsman, Galadan, had tested his weapon expertly, while Carodel had swivelled it with artistic flare, something that would impress some but would offer him little information as to its suitability. Strangely, the others had deferred to Fel’annár, watching him as he chose his own sword. They followed him despite his age, she realised. The information was duly registered and catalogued for future use. Her eyes momentarily landed on Lainon, unsurprised that he was already looking at her.
“I want a figure of ten stances. Front, back, left then right swing, angle arch left then right, undercut, overcut, forward stab and half turn. Do you have it?” she shouted.
“Aye,” they called.
“Do not stop until I tell you to. Do not make the same mistakes over and over again. Perform, rectify, and improve. Do you understand?” she shouted, louder this time.
“Aye!”
And so they began, bare-chested in the freezing cold, attacking an invisible enemy as they performed the stances and Tensári watched.
“Again,” she bellowed at Ramien, jaw clenching and eyes narrowing as she studied the impressive Wall of Stone and then moved to the next in line. “Again—more power. Carodel—move.” She checked his posture and showed him what she wanted by demonstrating it herself. Minutes later, she stood before Fel’annár, eyes following the slow movement of his sword hand and the strange too-and-fro of his empty hand. A gleam came to her eye, and she turned to the weapons’ rack, picking a short sword and then tossing it skilfully at Fel’annár. He caught it just before it could hurtle into his head.
She was surely not wrong.
“Now, do it again, with both blades.”
Adjusting the weapon in his left hand, Fel’annár’s eyes darted to Lainon, who gave a subtle nod. Widening his stance, he held the long blade in his right hand and then lifted the short sword over his head. Crouching low, he turned both tips towards Tensári.
Sontúr and Comon’s patrol had stopped, but Tensári did not care, for her mind was reeling at the implications, far too distracted to care at all. She had not seen this for a long, long time. The question was, how far had the boy come in his training?
Metal glinted in the morning sun as it was slowly whirled and swivelled, and the whoosh of a long sword slicing sideways began to dance along with it. She saw the tell-tale rhythm of feet and blade: one, two, three—strike—one, two, three—strike. Feet stepped forward, backward, the movement soft, almost imperceptible. Body and blades moved continuously, like a ribbon in water, but metal never touched metal. It was graceful, it was deadly.
It was Kal’hamén’Ar.
“Enough.”
The blades slowed until they stopped naturally, and Fel’annár drew his two feet together and bowed his head as if Tensári had been his opponent. The weapons master watched him for long moments, eyes drawn once more to the light behind the boys’ eyes, a light that should not have been there, and she briefly wondered what Aria had in store for him. Holding her hand out for the blade, she realised she had been wrong about him: he was not arrogant—he had been telling the truth.
Fel’annár handed the blade back reverently, pommel first.
“Where did you learn that?” she asked quietly so that only he could hear.
“In books, sir.”
“In books,” she repeated. “Who is your Master?”
Fel’annár scowled, eyes glancing back to Lainon. “I have no Master, sir.” Fel’annár was confused, for there were no Masters, not anymore. The Kal’hamén’Ar was extinct.
Her eyes twitched, the only movement on her face. “That is forbidden, warrior.”
Fel’annár blanched. “I apologize, sir. I do not mean to offend.”
With a slow, thoughtful nod, Tensári turned away from him, her own eyes glancing over to Lainon. The warriors further afield slowly resumed their training, but Tensári called for a five-minute break, for those she trained but mostly for herself, yet she would not speak to Lainon, for if she did she would lose her focus. Later though, she would have her questions answered.
The Company turned to Fel’annár, whose face was unreadable to all except Lainon, and perhaps Idernon. He was confused, alarmed under the veil of well-being he wore so well. He had surprised Tensári, fuelled the incessant gossip. His fleeting performance had reaped pregnant silence and surreptitious glances.
The rest of the day was taken up with close combat, archery, and power training, and all the while, Tensári watched The Silvan, almost as much as she watched Lainon. This Fel’annár was cool and somewhat distant while he trained, as if his mind were not in the present. The boy was skilled far beyond his age. She could see power rippling beneath pale skin, Alpine skin in spite of his name. She could sense the know
ledge he possessed skilfully channelled into his movements. There was magic about him. He was unchallenged here.
He was wasting his time.
Chapter Twelve
KAL’HAMÉN’AR
“The Alpines of Tar’eastór are the greatest warriors upon Bel’arán. The Warrior Code was written in the first ages by the very founders of the Elven guard, and within those pages, the sacred discipline of Kal’hamén’Ar was described. Fell Dance, Dance of Graceful Death, the utmost proof of skill, dedication, and humility, not to be studied without the guidance of a Master.”
The Alpine Chronicles. Cor’hidén.
A further week had passed, and with training and Sontúr’s exercises for his foot and shoulder, Fel’annár had found his form once more. As Sontúr performed the repetitive exercises, at times mercilessly, he had come to know the prince much better. At first, he had been a little distant, and Fel’annár suspected he knew the reason: the blooming Sentinel. He would be struggling not to believe Fel’annár’s claims that his mother had been restored in Valley, his inability to explain what he had seen and sensed wreaking havoc on his rational mind. And so they had talked, and Fel’annár had explained that it was much the same for him, only that he had learned not to expect an explanation. Sontúr had arched a brow at him, and from then on, their relationship had blossomed.
When Fel’annár was not with the prince, he was spending time with The Company or on the fields, either with the troops or on his own, away from prying eyes and with Lainon sitting in a nearby tree.
Gor’sadén had sometimes stood on the side-lines to watch the warriors train, and Fel’annár wondered if Tensári had told him of his illicit practice of the Kal’hamén’Ar. Yet so far, there had been no summons from a higher source. Still, he worried incessantly that he would be disciplined or even repudiated for breaking the Warrior Code. He realised there was something he must do, and so, freshly bathed and changed, he slipped out of the barracks and into the twilight, only to freeze mid-step. Someone was following him. Whirling around, wide-eyed, he came face to face with Lainon.
“Not without me,” he said flatly, disapproval in his eyes and an apology in Fel’annár’s. Falling into step with each other, they made their way to the Royal Palace and the public library that lay on the ground floor. It never closed, or so Idernon had assured him; indeed, the towering doorway was wide open and unguarded when they arrived. Lainon himself stopped at the door, nodding at Fel’annár who returned the gesture ruefully.
The library was almost overwhelming; he had no idea where to start his search, and so he walked towards a scholarly-looking elf who sat behind a large desk near the entrance. The chief librarian pointed him in the right direction, and before long, Fel’annár sat before a large tome, open at page four, the light of a candelabra illuminating the elegant script and the silvery shine of his hair as it fell over his shoulders and onto the parchment.
‘The Kal’hamén’Ar cannot be practised by any warrior. Only a Master can choose an apprentice, one skilled enough—brave enough to learn.’
Fel’annár scowled. The books he had read back home had broached the subject only summarily. There had been no details as to why it was forbidden to practice the art alone.
‘It is a discipline of the body, of the mind, and a Master must choose his disciple wisely. Between a master archer and a passing warrior, the choice may seem obvious to the uninitiated, yet the Master sees beyond skill with a weapon. A Master sees the blood of a warrior, sees his heart, sees the root of his service...’
“Fel’annár.”
He jumped violently, barely containing the yelp that had leapt to the back of his throat.
Gor’sadén’s smirk turned into a smile as Fel’annár scrambled to his feet and saluted.
“At ease, warrior. We are not on duty.”
Fel’annár nodded, unable to hide his embarrassment, and Gor’sadén took pity on him. Casting his eyes to the table and the book that lay open, he sat opposite The Silvan and broached one of the subjects that had brought him there.
“Sit, and tell me why you take it upon yourself to read of the Kal’hamén’Ar.”
Fel’annár’s eyes dropped to the floor. Had Tensári told Gor’sadén? Or was the commander simply commenting on his choice of book? Either way, he realised it made no difference.
“Sir, I...”
“We are not on duty, Fel’annár.”
“Gor’sadén. I have been reading the Kal’hamén’Ar for many years, and first I will say that I meant no disrespect; I did not understand the importance it carries in Tar’eastór.”
“You did read the part that expressly forbids a warrior to initiate himself in the discipline?”
“I did.”
“Why did you break that law?”
And there it was. He did know. “I did not know there were still Masters, that it was still practised or even remembered, and even if I did, I had no choice.”
Gor’sadén scowled, but his eyes would not leave Fel’annár.
“I have spent many years training in solitude, Gor’sadén. My years in Lan Taria began with standard military basics, but I needed more, and this was the only thing that would challenge me. I knew it was wrong, but I did not think anyone would even mind. True, I have always been mindful that it was stated as forbidden and I have not openly practised it, until now. I thought it obsolete, Gor’sadén, a thing of the past.”
“Did you tell your weapons master all this?”
“No. To do so would have been presumptuous. Besides, I would not have been allowed to leave Lan Taria.”
“I don’t understand. If your attitude was humble and you were able to show that you needed further training, why would he or she not accede to advancing your knowledge?”
And there it was. He admired Gor’sadén, and to explain why he had never said anything was to open the door to his past woes, a past he had locked away in order to continue upon his chosen road. His hesitation was all Gor’sadén needed.
“Why did you hide it?” he pressed.
“I always have,” he blurted and then wondered if he should continue; indeed, why he had even said it? “Look at me, Gor’sadén. Do I look like a Silvan lad from the Deep Forest? I have always been reminded of the differences between me and those I call my kin. I have always been aware of my strangeness. As a child, I wanted nothing more than to be equal, even if it led me to mediocrity.”
“But you read the Kal’hamén’Ar.”
“Yes. Alone and in secret, save for Idernon and Ramien. I began to experiment with it, away from the others. I could not help it, Gor’sadén.”
“You wanted to belong,” murmured the commander, and Fel’annár’s eyes widened in shock at how easily he had been read. He would not deny it, though; it had taken him a year in the field to understand himself.
“Yes.”
“I admire self-criticism, Fel’annár. That you can see your faults at such a tender age is a good thing.”
Fel’annár nodded awkwardly, and Gor’sadén’s eyes narrowed. “Fel’annár, I would have you understand, for I believe that is the reason I find you here, in the library. The Kal’hamén’Ar—Fell Dance, or as others call it, Dance of Graceful Death—it is not a dance but a discipline, a martial art in which the mind is trained to train the body, so that the body becomes the mind. It will draw strength from the stars, from the earth, from Aria herself. No one can defeat a Master of the Kal’hamén’Ar unless the odds are dire, no one except another Master.”
He paused here, waiting for a response, but there was none, no words at least, but Fel’annár’s face was alight in curiosity and wonder, so engrossed that he sat hunched over the table, hands reaching forward as if he would grab at Gor’sadén’s collar in desperation to hear more.
The commander continued. “To train the body, you must first train the mind. This cannot be done alone, not properly. It is this first and fundamental premise that dictates the Dance must not be initiated alone.”
/> “I—understand. Should the tactics used to train the mind be incorrect, the mind would train the body incorrectly…”
“Precisely. The question is, has that happened to you? Have you truly understood what you have read?”
“I have no way of knowing, Gor’sadén.”
“You see, the mind is never empty, is always occupied with one thing or another. To truly see the world, one must see it with a naked eye, free from experience and expectations, free from past woes and future dreams. No prejudice, no history. You must simply see…”
“Yes,” nodded Fel’annár. He knew, he had read this...
“Tell me you have achieved this.”
Fel’annár sat back. He had not expected the question, and Gor’sadén watched him carefully.
“No. Not entirely. I cannot rid myself completely of my thoughts, of my impressions.”
“Why?”
“Because I am never alone.”
It was Gor’sadén’s turn to sit back in surprise.
Fel’annár’s features had turned unsure once more. He was afraid of something, and Gor’sadén would surely have seen it.
“Never alone...”
“The trees, Gor’sadén. If I empty my own mind they are still there. Their emotions, their fears, their joy. I do not know how to block it, not entirely.”
