Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  Carodel shuffled where he sat and soon, his new lyre weaved a soft melody, and Fel’annár smiled, wondering where he had gotten the instrument when his original one had been lost in the battle on their way to Tar’eastór.

  “Lind’atór, Bard Warrior of Sen Garay. What would we do without you, brother?” said Fel’annár.

  “Um . . .” He smiled as he played. “And what would we do without Hwind’atór, Whirling Warrior?” asked Carodel with a smile.

  “There is that,” nodded Fel’annár seriously. “But then I would not be here were it not for the Wall of Stone—or the Wise Warrior,” he said with a grin.

  “And what of Galadan, of Galdith, and Sontúr?” asked Idernon. “Are we to call them by those stuffy names alone when the rest of us have been honoured with a warrior name?”

  “It’s hardly fair,” said Sontúr, while Galadan and Galdith stared expectantly at Fel’annár.

  “Well, that must be remedied!” proclaimed Fel’annár as he grabbed the open bottle of wine sitting on the grass. “Now let me see . . . Galdith.” He stroked his chin with his hand. “Do you not think that Galdith of Sen’uár has the face of a boy?”

  The others laughed, but Galdith was indignant. “I do not! I am a veteran warrior you Silvan lackwit!”

  The rest jeered, but Fel’annár had not finished. “You have the face of a boy, but in battle, it scrunches and warps out of all shape and becomes a thing of nightmares. Have you not noticed? The innocent boy becomes a fire-spitting demon, and he is terror incarnate. I say Galdith is fierce of face—he is the Fierce Warrior.”

  Galdith’s mouth was open in a silent “oh” while the rest stared at him, as if they were seeing that transformation only now. Idernon nodded. “That is a just name. All hail the Fierce Warrior!” he shouted.

  “Hail!” they replied, even Galdith who laughed and then drank once more. “At last!” he proclaimed. “I am a true brother of The Company! But what of Galadan and Sontúr?” he asked, and the rest leaned forward.

  “Galadan, too, has a trait you may have noticed. He is stone. His expression ever the same whether he drinks or fights. It is only the fire or ice in his eyes that speaks of his thoughts. But it is with anger that his transformation occurs. I say Galadan is the Fire Warrior, for the flames that dance in his eyes.”

  “All hail the Fire Warrior!” shouted Galdith.

  “Hail!” they answered, while Galadan, quite uncharacteristically, stood and bowed theatrically.

  And then all eyes were on Sontúr.

  But Fel’annár was scowling. “And now, I confess I am torn. I cannot rightly say what Sontúr will be. He is Alpine, of course, a prince, a warrior, and healer, but none of these things make him unique.”

  “That eyebrow of his is uncanny,” said Ramien as he pointed at the prince. “Gives me the chills.”

  They laughed.

  “But I can hardly call him the Eyebrow Warrior!” scoffed Fel’annár as he took another swig from the bottle.

  “Please don’t,” said Sontúr with his characteristic arch of the brow in question. “And if you drink any more of that stuff, Ramien, you will be swinging through the trees like one of those forest bears I have seen in books!”

  “No tree would hold him!” laughed Carodel with a flourish of his lyre.

  Ramien wagged his finger at Sontúr. “You Alpines have no idea how to navigate the trees. Can you even climb one?” he scoffed and then took a sloppy swig of wine.

  “Of course I can, you Silvan troll. We Alpines are alike to the red squirrel: fast and adept, sure-footed even upon the most slippery of barks.”

  The rest of the Silvans jeered and mocked his words in jest, and Fel’annár smiled at their antics.

  “Red squirrel, eh? Well, in the Forest we have black squirrels, this big,” said Ramien, showing them the length of his wrist through to his elbow. “Now they are skilled in the trees, even if the trees do not welcome them. They shake them off if they can, lest they bite through to the very sap, and if, by chance, they are allowed to latch onto your feet . . . heed me, Alpine, they will bite through to the bone, boots or not.”

  Sontúr’s eyebrows rose as he laughed. “Squirrels do not fall from trees, least of all Alpine ones,” giggled the warrior healer as he drank, and Ramien leaned forward.

  “Show us! Show us how Alpine squirrels traverse the trees!” he said with a challenge. “Two coins he falls on his noble arse!”

  The rest of The Company roared in drunken laughter, imagining the undignified image of Vorn’asté’s princely son rubbing his backside. Indeed, Fel'annár fell backwards into Idernon’s lap, holding his middle as he laughed scandalously.

  Sontúr stood and bowed, perfectly serious and lordly, save that he keened to one side for a moment before rectifying his balance.

  “Oooohhh!” they shouted as they pointed at him and laughed even harder.

  “You have no idea what an Alpine squirrel is capable of, therefore I move to enlighten your ignorant, Silvan preju—prejudice,” he corrected. “Watch, and learn . . .” he drawled and then disappeared into the nearest tree.

  The Company was silent for a moment, frankly impressed that Sontúr had been able to pull himself into the tree so fast for one so inebriated.

  “Where is he?” asked Carodel, his eyes searching the darkness.

  “I don’t know,” said Galdith, his head moving from side to side.

  “Shshs—listen,” said Idernon, trying to track Sontúr by the rustle of leaves, but there was no sound, and he frowned.

  “Is he already at the top? I can’t hear the leaves,” he said, puzzled.

  There was a sudden thud as something black fell hard upon the forest floor and then a groan of miserable pain.

  A mighty snort escaped Ramien, but Carodel elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Sontúr?” asked Idernon. “Is that you?”

  Silent expectation.

  “Yes,” came the breathless groan, and laughter erupted once more, loud and raucous.

  Galdith tried to talk through his laughter, only half successful. “He, he latched on to that—that low hanging branch and—froze!—like a fruit bat—that’s, that’s why we didn’t see him!!!” he roared. “He was but ten feet from the ground, and still . . .”

  Ramien tried to control his wheezing, “You owe me—two coins!! His arse will be as black as his cloak tomorrow!!!”

  They had fallen asleep in the gardens and then crawled to the barracks as discreetly as they could. It was closer than the palace, and so both Sontúr and Fel’annár decided it would be safer if they were to have breakfast with the troops. Fel’annár had missed that.

  Straightening their clothing and brushing their hair, they made for the noisy hall and found a table for themselves. They were surprised to see the two commanders sitting close by.

  But their surprise was quickly replaced by evil expectation as Sontúr sat next to Ramien, his face blank and noble, if a little pale, the perfect mask of a young and handsome lord. Yet when his body touched the bench there was the hint of a grimace, and that was all it took for the Silvan warriors to snort and then wheeze in mirth. Fel'annár desperately tried to cover his treacherous mouth as Idernon hooted even though he had tried to muffle it.

  All eyes fell on them, some askance while others in immediate understanding and a few with a smile of their own. It was clear the lads had been out the previous evening and some such mischief had occurred involving Sontúr and The Company.

  “Well, are you going to tell us what happened?” asked Gor’sadén in mock irritation.

  “Suffice it to say, Sir,” began Fel'annár, his voice a little strangled, “that Lieutenant Sontúr earned his warrior name last night. He is,” he struggled to finish his sentence, “he is Rafn’ator—the Winged Warrior!”

  Scandalous laughter exploded at The Company’s table as chair legs scraped over the floor and the warriors convulsed in uncontrollable hysterics, Ramien hitting the table over and over again, clay bowls thudd
ing in time to his fist.

  Gor’sadén chuckled while Pan’assár desperately tried to stop the corners of his mouth from twitching.

  “Do I want to know what happened, Lieutenant?” asked the commander, turning to his prince.

  “I, eh,” began Sontúr, “I was explaining about the kinetic qualities of—of Alpine squirrels!!!” he shouted and then slumped over the table in laughter.

  That was all it took for the commanders to work out what must have happened. Gor’sadén threw his head back and laughed as noisily as the rest of the warriors, slapping his leather-clad thighs. This, in turn, brought a rare smile to Pan’assár’s face.

  “Children!” he muttered.

  Eight

  A Silvan Story

  “There is power in unity—this Band’orán knew. The Silvans had no central government, and that was a singular advantage to one who sought to impose his own laws upon the natives. The Silvans, though, had once had a warlord, but that figure had been outlawed with the coming of the Alpines. Now, Band’orán’s only threat was the prince the Silvans were denied. He was but a child, a child the Silvans would use as a symbol: their own claim to power.”

  The Silvan Chronicles, Book V. Marhené.

  The Forest Summit was reaching its apex, and today, Erthoron and Lorthil would convey their requests to the king. They knew these requests would be debated, that they would need to be voted upon, and they set out to put forward their reasons to the very best of their abilities.

  They sat within the semi-circle of councillors, and opposite sat the king and crown prince. There was a public area at both sides which, on any normal council day, would be almost empty. Today, though, they were brimming, one side with the many Silvans who had ridden in from the Deep Forest while the other was made up of Alpine nobles and merchants.

  The king would listen to the opinions of his councillors and visiting dignitaries, but would not give his own opinion while the debate was ongoing. That was Aradan’s job. The king would, however, give a speech before voting took place. A strong king would always achieve the results he desired because his councillors were with him, trusted him and voted accordingly. Today, though, was the first vote they would take after Thargodén’s return, and Aradan was not so sure the king would have his way. Band’orán had been busy in his absence. But then that was his job. Aradan would exert himself as he never had before to communicate the king’s will, convince those councillors who had moved towards Band’orán’s position to come back to Thargodén.

  It was going to be hard for Den’har, the Council Master, to enforce the principle of equilibrium, allow everyone a turn to speak, to refute, to defend, and to correct false inferences, because it meant giving voice to the Alpine purists—it meant listening to their racist ways and their discriminatory words. Still, the freedom to speak was a sacred principle to Aradan. It was the only way that a nation could prosper, could serve the people it harboured in all their wonderful diversity. Should that freedom be used to spread hatred, Aradan wanted to believe that those responsible would, sooner or later, lose their right to speak, because no one would follow them, no one would respect them enough to back them in their destructive ways. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but then Aradan told himself that was exactly what politics was about; it was why he loved what he did.

  “Lord Band’orán, you have the floor,” shouted Den’har. Aradan’s gaze momentarily landed on Turion, who nodded encouragingly back at him while his right hand sat calmly over the pommel of his long sword, as if he stood upon a hill, watching his troops organise themselves for battle.

  “My Lords, I, and I am sure many of you, wish to express our displeasure at the king’s official stance concerning the bastard child Fel’annár,” he began amidst gasps from his fellow councillors and the crowds of Silvans over to one side. But not everyone was outraged at Band’orán’s choice of words, for there were nods of agreement and words of approval from the more conservative lords. The king, though, sat placidly upon his chair, his face completely devoid of emotion.

  “The Silvan has already been proclaimed a lord, but I move to limit his rights and functions at court. Specifically, I move to vote that his lordship be limited to a mere token. I do not say honorary title, as that would be like rewarding infidelity and mixed blood; it is not worthy of an Alpine king.” Band’orán’s eyes were now trained challengingly on Thargodén, yet still, the monarch sat like stone upon his ornate throne, and Rinon’s face was just as blank.

  “Let this Silvan lad serve in our army, for I have heard he is an acceptable warrior. Aria knows we need competent archers. But any inclusion in these hallowed council halls will be deemed an insult to our departed queen, a reminder of King Thargodén’s indiscretion, a reminder of how he has dishonoured this land and his noble father, our great king, Or’Talán.”

  Aradan saw Band’orán’s speech for what it was. He was using the brother he despised to glean the council’s approval. Or’Talán was revered, and his brother used that love to his own personal gain. His blood boiled. He could not allow this, could not continue to hold his silence. It was why Aradan had lost his only child. She had left, gone in search of a fairer land with fairer rulers, where elves were not afraid to act on their beliefs, where chief councillors were brave enough to face the likes of Band’orán. Thargodén had made his way back from his years of oblivion, but so too had Aradan taken an oath. He had promised to make Thargodén great once more, and to do that, the time for patience and caution was gone. He buried the heartache of his absent daughter and forced himself to concentrate on Band’orán and his slowly emerging tactics.

  “Councillor Vardú!” called Den’har. A dark-haired woman, one of the few Silvans on the ruling council, stood.

  “I am outraged at your words, Lord Band’orán. I will not discuss my king’s personal affairs in these public halls, as you seem so willing to do, but you speak of ‘half-blood’ as if it were a curse, a taint upon your Alpine heritage.”

  Band’orán smiled sadly at her from where he sat, and her eyes flickered wide. She stepped backwards, in shock that he had not refuted her words, that he had so openly defined himself and that no one would stand up to him. And Aradan watched her as if she were Llyniel.

  “Councillor Band’orán!” called Den’hár.

  “Well, you are Silvan, Lady Vardú. You defend the boy, and there is honour in that. But tell me in all truth, what has he done to deserve a lordship? What has he done to merit our respect, our deference?”

  Den’hár nodded for her to continue, but she was interrupted by a Silvan voice from the public area.

  “And how many of our captains deserve the uniform they wear?”

  “Order!” shouted Den’hár, banging his staff against the stone floor.

  Band’orán chose to ignore the comment and rounded on the Silvan councillor. “Tell me, Lady Vardú. What has he done to deserve such an honour?”

  “He is who he is, Lord Band’orán. As you are a lord for the blood in your veins. What have you done to deserve the power you wield?”

  “Aye!” shouted the Silvans.

  “I serve my king, here at council. I protect these lands by helping to decide what is best for our future.”

  “And Fel’annár is a warrior, he too serves this land, protects it with his life.”

  “Aye!” they shouted again, and Den’hár called for silence once more.

  “And are we to make lords of all our warriors, Lady Vardú? Come—you can do better than that,” he smirked.

  “Lord Band’orán, unless I have sorely misinterpreted our king’s intentions, this summit is to bring us together, to find common goals, and instead you spit your hatred for my people as you always do. I am deeply saddened that so few of my fellow councillors have not spoken out against such provocation.”

  There were murmurs all around them, but Band’orán was quick to use his rhetoric.

  “Calm yourself, my lady. You cannot serve on this council if you cannot control your emoti
ons,” he drawled, knowing full well how it would rile her.

  She stood as if he had slapped her, and she turned accusing eyes upon her fellow councillors. But they would not look at her, and her expression turned from one of anger to sadness. She wanted to shout at them, shake them awake, scream in their faces that this was wrong, but she stood alone before a demon. But then one voice broke through the silence.

  “Councillor Aradan.”

  “Lord Fel’annár is a child of the Forest, born to Lássira of the Silvans,” said Aradan pointedly, “and King Thargodén of the Alpines. You insult one you have never met, one you do not know the worth of—under the simple pretext of being a bastard. Tell me, Lord Band’orán, are there no worthy bastards? Are all bastards evil and inept, deserving of the most deplorable insults? Are they not, then, elves to be judged with the same measure as any other? Is it simply who they are born to that matters to you? Are you that . . . prejudiced, my lord?” he finished with a smile that was not friendly at all.

  A mighty cheer went up amongst the Silvans; indeed many Alpines were nodding their heads in approval of Aradan’s words, albeit they were surprised that Aradan had been so vocal.

  “Lord Band’orán.”

  “Indeed, there are rules and laws that govern our lives. As elves we have legislated and passed them. They are there for a purpose, and in this, Lord Aradan, you must concede. A child born outside the bonds of matrimony cannot be heir to a king, cannot be a prince of the realm, for to allow it—what then, is the point of matrimony? Why would a king secure for himself, and his realm, a queen that is both noble and honourable if he is then free to impregnate the first elf that takes his fancy?” he said theatrically, and the gasps were back, some Silvans even rising to their feet in protest.

  “I do not mean to offend, my lords, only to illustrate my point,” said the councillor calmly. “Laws exist for a reason. The Silvan child must not be given a vote at court, for to do this would be to infringe upon those laws,” he concluded and then sat.