by R K Lander
Galdith had stopped to clear his swimming head, and Sontúr had helped him, reminding him of the breathing exercises they had all been shown. He would acclimatize to this harsh environment, assured the warrior prince, but Galdith remained sceptical; these lands were surely too high in the clouds for a Silvan from the Deep Forest.
Mid-morning, and the warriors sat, looking down upon the view of the village and lake, breath-taking, literally for the Silvans, while the Alpines watched them with a knowing eye and a sympathetic smirk. They thought, perhaps, that Captain Comon would not lead them much higher.
Water was boiled, and Sontúr made an infusion from the dried herbs and bark he always carried in his backpack. Steaming cups were handed out, and the warriors reached out gratefully for them, hugging the hot vessels to their chests so that the steam warmed their faces.
Fel’annár sipped on his tea and then sniffled. “How is your head?” he asked of Galdith.
“Truth be told, I feel as if I had drunk two barrels of my father’s home brew. Sontúr here has a few tactics, but still. How do you live in a place like this? How can you fight?” he asked the prince.
“You get accustomed, Galdith. The body adapts to its surroundings, but it takes years for our warriors to become adept in the heights. You are no exception.” Sontúr turned and began to pack away his supplies, and Fel’annár watched him. There was something about him, an unusual quietness.
“Sontúr,” he said as he turned to help his friend, his voice quiet. “Is there something wrong?”
Sontúr turned from his chore to face Fel’annár, eyes moving from one side of his face to the other. “Nothing that should concern you,” he said with a forced smile and then turned away, eyes staring out into the distance for a moment before returning to his work. Fel’annár followed his line of sight to a place further up and west.
“Will we pass that place?” asked Fel’annár.
Sontúr was looking at him once more and Fel’annár thought for a moment that he was angry. When he answered it was cautiously, with his emotions carefully controlled. “Yes.”
Fel’annár nodded and then turned away, momentarily surprised that Captain Comon was watching their exchange from afar.
On they marched and the further they came up the ridge, the quieter Sontúr became. It was only when they were close enough to see the statue that Fel’annár understood, watching as his friend broke off from the line of warriors and approached it. He stood for a while, looking up at the exquisite face that had been skilfully carved from stone. She stood facing north, eyes fixed on the horizon where Valley was said to lie. Her arms reached forwards, as if she would catch the sun or perhaps the moon, and at her feet was a pile of dried lilac blossoms.
This was Queen’s Fall.
Fel’annár glanced behind him, only to find the entire patrol respectfully watching their prince as one hand caressed the stone skirts. He could not remain still, and slowly, he made his way to his friend’s side. Sontúr sensed his approach, but he did not turn, did not take his hand away from his mother’s sculpture.
“Would that I could believe, Fel’annár. Would that I could take comfort in the knowledge that she is restored, that she lives a conscious life, that she remembers me and awaits my passing. Would that I could be more like my father in this.”
“But you can’t,” murmured Fel’annár. “And yet, you have me. I will believe for you, not because I am an elf of faith but because I simply know. I am glad that your father, at least, can take comfort in this. As for me, I feel no sorrow for her passing, my friend, only deep respect for her sacrifice, and joy that she is returned.”
There was silence for a while, before Fel’annár spoke once more. “You know, for as long as we have been here, in Tar’eastór, you have been with me, in one way or another. In the Healing Halls, in the King’s Gardens, on the training fields and at awkward breakfasts.” He smiled. “And for all that you are an exalted Alpine prince, you are delightfully irreverent—in a Silvan sort of way. It is funny, but I can no longer envisage The Company without your presence in it. Will you walk with us, Sontúr? Walk with The Company if your lord father would permit? Not as a warrior or healer but both. You could create something new, a new kind of warrior we will all benefit from.”
Sontúr considered the possibilities even as Fel’annár spoke. Would his father allow it? Could he himself to turn his back on his people, his duty? But then, what was his duty? In what way could he make a difference to this world? His head turned to the statue of Lerhal. It was the face of a healer that contemplated the mountain before her, and yet her hands were as strong as any warrior, just as her heart had been when she had sacrificed herself. His head whipped back to Fel’annár so suddenly The Silvan startled. Sontúr opened his mouth to speak, but he hesitated, for the finer hairs on the back of his neck stood rigid, skin prickling beneath for a surety washed through him in a surge so strong he wavered where he stood. Was this what it was like to have faith? he wondered. Was this, unfounded conviction what Fel’annár felt when he claimed his mother had been restored, or when the Ari’atór spoke of Aria without doubt? He wanted to find out. He needed to speak with his father.
A soft smile graced the prince’s face, in spite of his overly bright eyes, and Fel’annár had his answer. Both turned to rejoin the silently watching warriors, but it was The Company that moved towards the prince, and Fel’annár bent his head to tell them they were now eight. There were no cheers of joy, for the moment was solemn and sad, but they pulled him into their circle and squeezed his shoulder, and Fel’annár watched them proudly. His eyes drifted to Lainon who was already watching him. The Ari’atór nodded in respect, and Fel’annár smiled at the silent praise.
The following day they had started out early, Queen’s Fall now almost indistinguishable on the ridge behind them. Before long, though, a pang of misery hit Fel’annár in the centre of his chest, and he straightened, as if he had heard something, one hand covering his heart.
“Are you short of breath, too?” asked Sontúr, but his question went unanswered, for Fel’annár was Listening, his green eyes unfocussed, the colour swirling like ink in water.
“There is something strange, Lainon. A presence that does not seem—Deviant.”
Lainon stiffened. “Someone get Captain Comon, now.”
Idernon was away and soon back with the lieutenant and captain. They slowed their approach when they caught sight of the green tendrils of hazy mist that snaked before Fel’annár’s eyes, like morning mist rolling off the high plains.
Fel’annár grudgingly caught the captain’s gaze for a moment. “Sir, there is a presence some distance away. I am unsure as to its nature.”
“Animals? Elves?”
“No. Human, perhaps.”
“Not Deviants?”
“I cannot be sure—there is—confusion.” Fel’annár breathed deeply. He could feel an underlying tremor in his limbs, but it was not his thoughts and feelings that had instigated it.
The captain scowled, for he, too, was confused.
“Let the feelings out. Tell us what you sense,” prompted Lainon.
“Horror—beauty. Life, death. Soul-breaking pity. Fear...” The words all but bubbled from his mouth.
Lainon’s eyes were wide, but the captain was still scowling. “What is it, Lainon?”
The Ari’atór’s gleaming blue eyes briefly caught those of Tensári and then came to rest sadly upon the captain. “Incipients,” he said, and the captain’s eyes closed slowly before opening them once more and nodding resolutely.
“There will be Deviants close by, guarding them. Fel’annár, how far?”
“Two, three hours, up and west, sir.”
“Crag Nest is that way,” offered Sontúr.
The captain turned. “Tensári, Polán,” he called to his second and third in command, and within seconds, their makeshift camp had been collected while the warriors readied themselves, their eyes occasionally slipping to Fel’annár, who ha
d pulled his hood over his head. The captain’s eyes lingered for a while longer on The Silvan, watching as the mist seemed to collect itself and then dissipate. There was still something strange, a swirling brightness that danced stubbornly in the boy’s eyes even as he checked his gear.
“Fel’annár, with me at the fore,” he ordered, and The Silvan nodded. Lainon was right behind him, as the captain knew he would be, and soon, they were away, up and to Crag Nest.
They travelled in silence, aware of the likelihood that something lay in wait further above. Lainon had said there would be Incipients, and the news had spread through the troop, just like the strangeness of Fel’annár’s eyes, the subject of the warriors’ silent contemplations.
Denial, hatred. Hope, failure.
Fel’annár breathed deeply as he vied for control over the foreign emotions, but they were strong, stronger than they had ever been. He didn’t understand, for there were hardly any trees around. Where did this information come from? Pressure was building in the middle of his chest, and then a sharp pain lanced through his skull. He stopped dead in his tracks, eyes becoming brighter once more.
“Captain, we are close. If it is Incipients I sensed earlier, there are Deviants with them. An hour away at most.”
“How many?” came Comon’s curt question.
“Forty or so, on our present course.”
Comon waved the patrol forward, but soon after, a droning buzz rose above all the other sounds that were still assailing Fel’annár, and he held his hand out for them to stop. “There are archers above those caves.” He pointed. “There is a—barrier of snow? They think to loosen it.” Not even Fel’annár knew what he was talking about, but Comon and the Alpine warriors had no doubts. It was a defence tactic the Deviants used to create an avalanche and thus decimate their enemy’s numbers before engagement.
Comon’s hand signals became fast and furious. They were to skirt around, avoid the central ascension point. Should they be caught in the snow, they would stick their bows into the snow and hope the tips would bring them rescue. Fel’annár and The Company had learned this on their adaptation training.
Comon’s group, which included Fel’annár and Lainon, crept up the eastern side while Tensári and the rest of The Company climbed the western side together with a handful of Alpine warriors. Fel’annár had done his job; it was time for Comon to command them to victory, and although Fel’annár’s features remained sharp and intense, he was once more in control of himself, the dull ache of someone else’s grief repressed mercilessly.
A low, keening wail was followed by another, shorter. They had been spotted, and the snow beneath their feet lurched and then shifted. They dug the tips of their boots into the snow and held to the boulders as best they could. A river of tumbling snow cascaded past them, and two warriors from the western slope fell into the white surge. Fel’annár followed their fall until they disappeared, but the wooden tips of their bows soon appeared. They were not deeply buried, but they would miss the onset of battle.
Fel’annár readied his field bow. Reaching for an arrow, he fitted it and waited for the captain’s signal. On the other side, Idernon readied himself with his own bow, one eye on Tensári and the other on the Deviant archers above the caves.
“Now,” whispered the captain. Fel’annár stood and pulled back, sighting his enemy, gauging the breeze, rectifying his aim. The projectile flew from his bow in a whispery whoosh of power, sailing through the air and into the milky eye of the Deviant. An accompanying thud marked the death of the second archer, Idernon’s arrow through its neck.
Comon stood and signalled with his sword held aloft. “Engage!”
They ran up the slope, knowing that the Deviants would wait for them there, bent over the edge to cut them down before they could tread level ground. But the Alpine warriors had their own techniques, fruit of centuries fighting Deviants in the heights. As they approached the top of the slope and the plateau before the caves, Fel’annár and Idernon stopped and stood side by side, their massive field bows drawn and fixed on the lip. The Deviants could see them, knew they should not stand too close lest they become an easy target for the elven archers. It was then that half the Alpines ran forwards and then turned their backs to the edge, holding out their hands to create a step for the warriors that ran towards them. With a mighty heave, they were catapulted over the Deviants and onto the plateau behind, skilfully somersaulting so that they landed behind the enemy. Engagement was instant, and the rest were free to roll onto flat ground and hoist themselves aloft, just in time to defend themselves from the heavy scimitar blows of men-turned-Deviant. The clang of metal rang in their ears, and Fel’annár and Idernon scampered up the slope to join the fray, casting their bows to one side and drawing their swords.
One Deviant came towards him with a soft wail, and Fel’annár stepped to the side, blocking the blow. With just enough time to adjust his feet, he began the all-too-familiar pattern. One, two, three, strike; one, two, three, strike. Every count was a movement of his feet and a swivel of blades, but only the fourth was a killing blow. Back and forth he moved, his blades whirling around him so fast none could get close enough to touch him. His sword thrust forward on the fourth count, the tip puncturing his enemy’s belly and then sliding through to its guts. It roared in agony, and Fel’annár pulled back, the first count of his next sequence. Two, three, strike, a slash across putrid flesh, an artery severed, blood splattering onto his armour and across his face.
His footwork had taken him closer to the caves, and as he cut down his latest enemy he cast his eyes over the battle. There was little left to be done, and so he turned his face to the gaping black hole. There were no Deviants inside, but the source of his earlier emotions had come from here, he knew. His eyes travelled upwards and to the rocky lip of the caves. There, perched to one side was a tree, spindly and half skewed to the sun. How it had grown with so little earth beneath it was a mystery to Fel’annár, but his eyes were soon back on the black hole. There was something there. Not an enemy.
He entered.
He was momentarily blinded, but slowly, shades of grey became discernible in swirling blotches. A soft whimper, a sniffle, a harsh breath.
Fel’annár’s eyes strained to pinpoint where the sound had come from.
A gleam from the corner fixed his focus, and he stepped closer. Another whimper that became a soft whine, the tone high, sweet almost.
Fel’annár realised that he cried, but the tears were not his own. His body bent forward, towards the gleam and the whimper, chest crushed under the weight of someone else’s grief, someone else’s panic and anguish.
Pupils wider now and a face appeared before the far wall. Soft, smooth skin blemished only by the trails of her tears, dark hair falling in filthy rivulets of what once would have been a glorious mane of chestnut silk. She was beautiful even though she wept, her eyes wide in horror that Fel’annár could feel.
“Don’t be afraid.”
Legs tucked up, knees below her chin, one hand resting against the wall behind her, a wall covered with tree roots, and Fel’annár suddenly realised how the tree he had seen outside had managed to stay aloft. It was dying, though, just like she was.
A strangled moan escaped her trembling mouth, eyes wider as they watched the figure of Fel’annár stare back at her as he cried her tears. She was human, not yet grown. How had the Deviants allowed her to live? Had they kept her for their own, twisted pleasure? He stepped forward as she pressed her back into the stone behind her. She must be cold, he thought, and reached up to unclasp his cloak.
“Fel’annár. Step away.”
Lainon.
The girl was crying in anguish, mighty gasps of anxiety bubbling from her mouth.
“She is just a child, Lainon,” whispered Fel’annár, his hands finally unclasping the fur-lined cloak he wore.
The creak of a bow drawn, string taut, and Fel’annár froze.
“Don’t...” he begged softly, eyes unable
to leave the horrified face of the lovely girl, but she was staring at Lainon. “Don’t kill me,” murmured Fel’annár. He did not see Lainon flinch, nor his eyes as they registered the girl’s hand, flat against the root-strewn wall of the cave. Her chest heaved alarmingly, up and down, not enough air for so much anguish, for such a little girl.
Her hand left the wall and slowly extended towards Lainon, a plea for aid, fingers fumbling forwards, shaking and taut.
“She only wants to live,” whispered Fel’annár through his tears. “She’s human...”
Her hand stretched to its limit, towards Lainon, begging, mouth opening to speak, but all that came out was the keening wail of a Deviant. Shocked horror danced over her lovely face, unable to comprehend the sound she herself had made. There was blessed little time for her to register the twang of Lainon’s bow, the thud of metal impacting with skin and bone.
Fel’annár staggered backwards until his body met stone and he slid down the rock, sitting heavily, eyes swimming, heart racing.
Movement at the mouth of the cave, and Tensári rushed in, eyes registering the presence of her two warriors, alive, and the child that had been shot expertly through the head. Slowing her pace, she stopped before the dead Incipient, a gloved hand sliding over wide, terrified eyes and closing them. Turning, she spoke quietly to the Ari’atór. “Five minutes, and we must move, Lainon.”
Lainon nodded, grateful for the time he was allowed to get Fel’annár back from wherever he had ventured. It was his first time with an Incipient, hard enough for any young warrior to endure, but Fel’annár had been connected to the tree, just as she had been, even though she would not have known it.
“Fel’annár.”
“She was human, Lainon. She thought and felt as we do. She felt fear and anguish, incomprehension—she did not understand what was happening to her.”
