Road of a Warrior

by R K Lander

  “Well, after what I saw in the king’s gardens, I will not contest your claims, but tell me, how far are you willing to go—to learn, Fel’annár? How much will you sacrifice for the simple honour of becoming an apprentice?”

  Fel’annár’s eyes were wide and disbelieving, for if he had understood correctly, Gor’sadén was considering training him. He had been wrong; there was at least one Master left.

  Determination oozed from every pore of his body, hardening his features and setting his eyes to glistening. Gone was the self-conscious child only just past his majority. This was the other side of himself, the warrior, not the orphan, not the bastard.

  “I will sacrifice everything,” he whispered.

  “You do not know what it entails, and yet you say you would sacrifice everything?”

  “I trust you. I do not know why, but I have learned to accept some things as truths, even though I cannot reason them.”

  “Do you trust me enough to show me your weaknesses? Your fears and doubts? Do you trust me enough to be humiliated, driven to exhaustion and beyond; to give when you have nothing, to cry but never give up? Can you give me what I want?”

  “Yes. I can do that. To become your apprentice. It is more than I could ever have dreamt of, my lord,” said Fel’annár quietly, solemnly. “But what of Commander Pan’assár? He will surely not allow it.”

  “Leave that to me, Fel’annár.”

  Fel’annár nodded and then asked the question that was begging for freedom. “Gor’sadén, are you the last Master?”

  The commander smiled. “No. There are still two, and to accept an apprentice, the decision must be unanimous. I will speak with Pan’assár. Do not expect his joy or his participation, Fel’annár, but I can, perhaps, wrench from him a shrug of indifference.”

  “Then I shall wait. For as long as it takes,” he said, but there was hesitancy in his eyes, and Gor’sadén saw it.

  “What is it?”

  “Was—was King Or’Talán a Master?”

  Gor’sadén smiled. “Yes. The Three were the last remaining Masters of the Kal’hamén’Ar, Fel’annár. It is in your blood, child.”

  Fel’annár’s eyes were wide and full of a thousand questions, but his heart rebelled, for Or’Talán had ruined his mother’s life; he did not want to feel pride, and yet, not even this could spoil his growing excitement. Fel’annár’s smile spread slowly until it transformed his face into a vision of beauty.

  Gor’sadén watched and then breathed deeply, controlling the emotions that welled in his eyes, for Or’Talán was before him once more: the gleam in his eye, the quirk of his mouth. He could not resist this calling. It is what Or’Talán would have wanted, and he would make sure Pan’assár realised it. The question was, how?

  Fel’annár had said he had learned to trust some things without the need for reason, and Gor’sadén knew that this was one of those moments, just like the inexplicable, lingering smell of lilacs in the king’s gardens. If Tensári was right, then Gor’sadén would take him as an apprentice and accept everything that came with tutoring the Kal’hamén’Ar—everything—should his king allow it.

  Then Gor’sadén smiled and bid Fel’annár find his rest before leaving him alone once more. Fel’annár stretched and made for the door of the library where Lainon stood, watching him closely, knowing perhaps that Fel’annár would keep his secrets.

  “Gor’sadén has taken quite an interest in you,” commented Lainon as they began their walk back to the barracks, but Fel’annár simply nodded, unwilling, it seemed, to comment on what Gor’sadén had spoken to him about. It was not that he did not want to tell Lainon; it was because he didn’t dare believe there was the slightest chance that he would become a disciple of the Kal’hamén’Ar, not while he needed the approval of Pan’assár.

  Gor’sadén took his breakfast at the king’s table, as he almost always did, a hungry Pan’assár beside him. Lord Damiel spoke quietly with Prince Handir while the king himself sat alone and pensive, his mind still on his queen, perhaps.

  Gor’sadén’s eye caught sight of an outbound group of carrier birds. Most flew east, to the mortal lands of Prairie where Prince Torhén was visiting, but three flew west, to Ea Uaré, for the second time that week, the commander reminded himself. Carrier birds were almost always used by the king and his council for official business, yet Gor’sadén was unaware of any official missives had been sent to Ea Uaré.

  “My king. Where are the carriers headed this morning?” he asked.

  Vorn’asté turned to meet the commander’s eye and then frowned. “I have no idea.”

  Gor’sadén nodded slowly but the king was already asking a question of his own.

  “They fly west?” he asked quietly.

  “Yes. It is the second group I have seen flying to Ea Uaré.”

  “I will ask Damiel; perhaps he will know.”

  “Yes. Perhaps,” said Gor’sadén. It was a veiled exchange, and both king and commander knew it. There was a message under their apparently unimportant words, a mutual warning that there was intelligence being shared between the realms, the nature of which they could only guess at, and both lapsed into silence.

  Pan’assár interrupted his musings. “Is that Tensári?” asked the forest commander, eyes gazing through the windows and on to the training fields beyond.

  “Yes. She asked to be reassigned from the Ari’atór army some years ago. Too many years in the field without pause to recover. Even a Spirit Warrior needs time away from battle, Pan’assár, and she had had her fill. Commander Hobin was not impressed that I allowed her to take up a position on our patrols.”

  “I am surprised. I did not think she would take kindly to weapons instruction.”

  “Things change, Pan. She does it well, although I wonder how long it will be before she asks to be sent back into the fray; the northern quadrant misses her,” he said, eyes straying to Fel’annár in the distance as he trained with the rest, and an idea popped into his head.

  “Come with me to the fields,” he said lightly. “I would talk of military things, as we once did.”

  Pan’assár stared back for a moment before nodding curtly, the spark of suspicion in his cold blue eyes. “If this is about the bas...about The Silvan...”

  “It is about you,” said Gor’sadén.

  Pan’assár stared back at him defiantly. “Are you going to lecture me, brother?”

  “Not lecture you; I would not dare, but I do need to speak with you on matters that affect one of your warriors, and before you interrupt me,” he rushed to add, holding a hand up for silence, “this has nothing to do with the blood in his veins or the face he was given. It is a strictly military matter.”

  Pan’assár cocked an eyebrow. “Do not ask favours of me, Gor’sadén, not where he is concerned.”

  “I have no favours to ask of you, Pan’assár. I ask only that you listen to my reasoning and that you make a rational decision, based only on what reason dictates, nothing more.

  There was silence while Pan’assár studied his friend, and when he spoke, it was soft and slow. “Have a care, Gor’sadén.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Pan’assár placed a hand on his forearm and leaned forward. “He will hurt you, in the end.”

  “You cannot know that.”

  “Not for certain. But he is half-Silvan, his mother’s son. He will not understand loyalty, not in the way we do, Gorsa.”

  “Indulge me, brother. Hear me and promise only this one, simple thing. Answer with your mind, not with your heart. Answer me as a warrior.”

  Pan’assár straightened and then nodded, and soon, they were away. Gor’sadén reacquainted him with the military installations at the barracks while he explained the improvements that had been made since Pan’assár’s departure. They visited the weapons halls and the logistics wing, and for a while, things were as they once were.

  They came to stand on the side-lines of the training fields, watchin
g the warriors organise themselves into groups. “That is Comon’s patrol,” said Gor’sadén, gesturing to the group of Alpines and a smattering of Silvans. Some sparred with swords while others shot their long bows into distant straw targets.

  “Have you never lost your enthusiasm for this, Gorsa?” smirked Pan’assár as his eyes moved over the soldiers, even The Silvan who stood listening to a Bow Master.

  “Never. You used to love this,” said Gor’sadén quietly, and Pan’assár did not answer for a while as his eyes drifted from the warriors to the mountain ridges beyond.

  “I used to love many things, Gorsa. Things change. People change.”

  Gor’sadén used the ensuing silence to collect his thoughts. Pan’assár’s grief was still there, but after his breakdown, it seemed he was not so bitter. “Pan’assár. I have stumbled on some surprising news, news I want you to listen to before you judge. You must understand the circumstances and remember what I asked of you.”

  “Go on.”

  “The boy, Fel’annár. He has read of the Kal’hamén’Ar in the library of his home in the Deep Forest. He believed it to be extinct.”

  Pan’assár scowled and turned to face Gor’sadén. “And?”

  “Well, he took it upon himself to study it.”

  Pan’assár’s nostrils flared as his eyes narrowed. “I told you. Silvans know nothing of honour, Gorsa.”

  “You would be within your rights to discipline him, but I ask that you continue to listen before you decide what, if anything, should be done.”

  The forest commander remained silent, eyes back on the training warriors in search of Fel’annár.

  “It was Tensári who first recognised the signs and asked him about it. He seemed horrified that he had, apparently, misunderstood the importance of the Warrior Code with respect to the Kal’hamén’Ar. She believes he was sincere in his apology, that he did not do such a thing to willingly disrespect the Code.”

  “What are you saying, Gorsa? That he should be allowed to train? That you would take him as an apprentice?”

  Gor’sadén stood tall, turning to fully face his friend. “Yes. That is what I am saying.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “To start, he is too young. His skill will be nowhere near that required to become an apprentice. And then what of his blood, Gorsa? There are no true warriors left, not like you and I. We are a thing of the past. I told you I would concede no favours.”

  “And I asked you to make a decision based only on the facts. You assume he does not have the skill, that he does not have the heart. Tensári disagrees.”

  “And so do you, of course.”

  “I do not yet know. I have spoken with him and I believe he has the attitude for it, the blood for it, as you call it. And then I have stood here and watched him train from afar, and still, I think he has it in him. It is you who must take a closer look, Pan. If we can at least agree that the skill and the qualities are there, we can talk again. Just give him that much.”

  “You waste my time.”

  “You have something better to do?” asked Gor’sadén, frustration lending strength to his words. “This is a chance to bring our noble art back, Pan. It is a chance to return, in some small measure at least, to the days in which our young warriors could aspire to greatness, can be inspired to excel.”

  Pan’assár was silent, his gaze lost once more, and Gor’sadén watched him closely.

  “What do you propose?”

  “For my part, I suggest we go down to the fields and watch. Only that. Just look at the warrior, Pan, and forget his circumstances.

  The forest commander drew a long breath. “You speak of him as the grandson of Or’Talán; but I—I cannot even look at him.”

  “He is a warrior under your command, Pan.”

  Pan’assár didn’t answer him. Instead he stood and watched as archers drew their bows and their projectiles thudded into the distant targets. He saw Tensári spar with Fel’annár, the entire field stopping to watch them in respectful silence. He observed The Silvan as Galadan demonstrated a close combat move, flooring the boy and eliciting good-natured laughs from the troops. There was no racial separation, no antagonism. They worked together, laughed together, and Fel’annár was always there, encouraging the others, laughing and joking yet serious and focussed when the Masters spoke.

  Gor’sadén could not rightly say what Pan’assár was thinking, but thinking he was. The boy was good, and not even Pan’assár could refute that, and yet there was more. The Silvan was well-loved, respected despite his age, and his skill with blades was at least as good as Tensári’s. He was like Or’Talán, and that was the reason Pan’assár had not been able to look at him. It was this, undeniable reality that the commander had never wanted to see, because by seeing it, he would have to admit it.

  “One chance, Gor’sadén. I will give him that much, but it will be my rules; I won’t go easy on him.”

  Gor’sadén observed his friend’s profile as he continued to watch The Silvan train. It had been hard for him to concede this chance, and he suddenly wondered what it was that Pan’assár was thinking. ‘My rules,’ he had said. This would be no simple sparring session to test the boy’s skill with blades. If he knew Pan’assár at all, he thought perhaps that the test would not be of physical skill alone.

  No, he would not go easy on him. This much was clear.

  That night, Lainon had left Fel’annár with The Company and made for Tensári’s quarters, now that he knew where they were.

  She had greeted him with a smile and a soft kiss that had all but melted Lainon’s knees. Then she smiled, glad to see she had not lost her ability to command his body in such a way.

  There were no decorations at all in Tensári’s quarters except for an embroidered bed cover in green and blue hues. The room was just like the woman who lived there, he mused, for there was nothing superfluous about Tensári. She was simple in her perfection.

  Accepting a goblet of wine, he sat on a cushioned chair, folding one leg beneath him, eyes travelling down her body as he drank.

  “Still hungry, warrior?” she smirked, and Lainon smiled.

  “Always.”

  “Well, will you at least satisfy my curiosity before you sate it? A hundred years stand between us.”

  “We have much to catch up on,” admitted Lainon. Yet for the long years between them, there was really only one event worth mentioning, the one that had separated them and then brought them back together again. It was of the future Lainon would speak, not the past. When Lainon did not continue, Tensári seemed to understand.

  “You are thinking that it doesn’t matter, and perhaps you are right. You are here because the boy has brought you here.”

  “Well, in a sense it is actually I who have brought him here. It is a long story, Tensári, one I have not always understood, as you know.”

  “Will you tell me then?”

  And he did. He told Tensári of their plan to restore Ea Uaré, to strengthen Thargodén upon his throne, to prepare Fel’annár for the journey home and what he would find once they arrived. He even told her the fundamentals of his gift with the trees. Yet still, there was one, final question to be answered.

  Tensári walked to the window, and Lainon was soon at her side. “And so, you wait to return to the forest and the reactions the boy will garner.” The light beyond the window had long gone; still she knew the snow-capped mountains were there, a constant muster she continued to refuse.

  With a slow exhale, Lainon answered. “That is the short of it.” His eyes followed hers to the dark mountains she contemplated. “Prince Handir and I have been expecting riders from Ea Uaré for days now. Chief Councillor Aradan will surely have told the king of his son, and he, in turn, will send instructions to Prince Handir, just as Aradan and Turion will surely counsel me.”

  “You are not confident?”

  “No, not entirely. Crown Prince Rinon is unlikely to be sympathetic with the plight of
his half-brother, and Thargodén will not risk the purists turning against him, not while he is in a vulnerable situation.”

  “You have managed to well and truly wedge yourself into a fully-fledged political intrigue.”

  “I have, and there is no turning back, Tensári. I do this with the hope that Aria will reveal her plans, or perhaps confirm them, show me that I am right in my assumptions.”

  “And what are those assumptions?”

  He turned from the window and to the fire that flickered softy in one corner. “I believe that he is meant to unite our people, unite the cultures of Ea Uaré, protect the Silvan way of life, under the boughs—that their legacy not be lost, trampled by those that yearn only for wealth and power.”

  “You suggest he would become a king?”

  “No. No, not that. I suggest that he will do all this under Thargodén’s rule. I cannot yet see the details, Tensári. And then again, I may be wrong.”

  Her rough, calloused hand came up to cup the dark copper of his cheek. “Your intuition has served you well thus far.

  “Yes,” he admitted as his own hand reached for her face, allowing his fingers to softly caress her skin, the curve of her ear. “But tell me; what stops you now, from returning with me?”

  She stared back at him in silence for a long while, her hand still in his hair. “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I have not thought on it.”

  “But will you? We will be here for six months, time enough for you to search yourself, decide on your path. Perhaps Aria will show you.”

  “Well, if she does, I hope she will be less cryptic with me that she has been with you. Besides, I am a warrior, Lainon, not a Herder. I am not Ber’ator like you, I cannot simply abandon Valley.”

  “It could be argued that it would be acceptable because you are helping me.”

  “A long shot, Lainon. Still, we have time and yet, for now—I remember telling you that a hundred years stood between us.”

  “It is far too long,” he agreed, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around her leather-clad waist. “Kiss me, Tensári. Wash away these years of solitude and doubt.”