Dawn of a Legend

by R K Lander

  “Lord Erthoron.”

  “My Lords,” he began in a voice that was both sad and frustrated. “This,” he gestured to Band’orán, “is the reason the Silvan people are discontent.” He paused, looking slowly and carefully at the councillors around him. “This . . . discourse, this disdain, the sarcasm and the patronising words, the overt insult and the unveiled sneers. Had this child been Alpine, ‘bastard’ would become ‘illegitimate’; ‘child’ would become ‘son’; indeed had he been Alpine, you may well have taken advantage of his existence and turned him to your own racist ways if you thought there was some personal gain to be had.” His finger pointed straight at Band’orán.

  Band’orán looked on, impassive, but Aradan was not fooled. Or’Talán’s brother was not as skilled as he believed himself to be, and on the inside, there was no doubt that his anger was on the brink of boiling.

  “You speak against an elf who shares your blood, Lord Band’orán, you speak against your own nephew and your king, and you speak against the Silvan people. You call him ‘Silvan’, but he is half Alpine. You say he is a passing warrior when we Silvans know he will be the greatest warrior of our time. You take every advantage to mock and to scorn and to disqualify, and I will tell you what we think, my lord. We think you are scared, scared that with the appearance of this new Silvan lord, your dreams of Alpine dominance, your own ambitions for power and wealth will be dashed!” he shouted, and the roar that followed his words was inflamed and angry.

  Aradan closed his eyes; this was not going according to plan, for the Silvan people had been awoken and Band’orán had done nothing but add timber to the already roaring fire. He had few doubts that this had been Band’orán’s plan all along. It was a game of provocation which he would smooth over with words of reason and rhetoric, only to start once more. The question was—what was Band’orán pushing for? Did he want the Silvans to lose control? Did he want them to react negatively so that the councillors would rally against them? So that Band’orán could justify denying Fel’annár a vote on the council? It seemed likely to Aradan.

  “Lord Falagar!” called Den’hár.

  “My lords,” he shouted over the din. “Let us please calm these harsh words we throw at one another. We should be discussing whether or not Lord Fel’annár should have a vote on this council. This Alpine–Silvan confrontation is as destructive as it is unnecessary. There is no reason for it, and I bid you all stop it. We all do that which is best suited to our skills, to our very nature. The Silvan people care for the Forest, harvest her bounty, nurture Aria’s creation. You care for the trees and replant when they are lost, and that is a noble thing. We Alpine command our militia, because that is in our blood, our history. We legislate the land, for we have held great kingdoms and have the experience to do so efficiently. This, too, is noble. Can we not simply accept this reality and move forward?” he asked sincerely.

  The Silvan area was quiet, but there were baffled expressions, looks of confusion and disbelief at Falagar’s false assumptions, however good his intentions had been.

  “Lord Lorthil.”

  “I thank you, Lord Falagar, for your sincere words,” replied Lorthil. “However, although I appreciate your good will, you are nevertheless wrong in your assumptions. Think you there was no strife under the trees before the Alpines came from abroad? Think you we lived in chaos, incapable of ruling ourselves? We have spent millennia here, under the trees, and then more together with the Alpines—in harmony in the beginning under the rule of King Or’Talán. Even if you were right, my lord, even if you Alpine do come from a war-faring culture, do you not think that centuries are enough to learn? Do you not think our brave warriors capable, in all that time, of commanding a patrol as well as any Alpine? Tell me, then, why there are ten Alpine captains to every one Silvan captain when seventy percent of our troops are Silvan, my lord? And tell me, also, why there are no female warriors in our army?” There was a roar from the Silvans, and murmurs of outrage from the Alpines. The councillors, though, were divided. “Tell me,” continued Lorthil, “why our music does not play in your halls, at your feasts. Tell me why more Silvan councillors do not advise the king? Tell me why our books of lore are not read in your schools, or why our villages are raided systematically by Deviants or Sand Lords without the necessary number of troops to protect us. Tell me, do you seek to purposefully exterminate us?”

  The Alpines to one side flapped their hands at what they considered an absurd question.

  “Lord Barathon!” called Den’hár.

  “Lord Lorthil,” began Band’orán’s son. “You exaggerate, of course, and I understand you do this to rally your people. I, too, could rally my own, and where would that get us, tell me? Our commanders are just, and if they choose an Alpine captain over a Silvan one, then that demonstrates their professional opinion. It is not discrimination; it is common sense.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the Alpines, and Barathon was encouraged.

  He continued. “You claim for yourselves a Silvan lord who will speak for you, return to you what you consider was lost, but that is not the answer. The answer lies in understanding the truth. We all excel in certain things, as Lord Falagar has already suggested. We Alpine are good warriors and commanders, and you Silvan are excellent troops and archers. The land finds its own balance, naturally, without the intervention of anyone. Let things lie, my friends; let us take the burden of rule so that you may enjoy your forests and your lore. It is as it should be.”

  There were nods of approval from many of the councillors, and Aradan curbed his exasperation as he watched the Silvans carefully. There could be no mistake in what he saw. They had started the summit warily, and then with the proclamation of a new Silvan lord, they had started to hope that something would change. Aradan had seen it in their eyes, that spark of anticipation and excitement. But it had promptly turned into sadness and then quiet, smouldering outrage. Band’orán and his son Barathon would not go unanswered, though, and Aradan braced himself as Erthoron stood to speak.

  “My Lord Barathon,” said Erthoron, walking slowly back into the centre of the circle. “Will you now tell us what we are good and bad at? Like a mother to her wayward child? You speak of common sense, and so, here, I will give you some. Why are Alpine councillors dictating what the Silvans can and can’t do in their own homes? Common sense would suggest it is because you think we cannot do it for ourselves. Common sense would imply that you do not want us to participate in the ruling of this land. Common sense tells me there is a reason for that, and that reason, my lords, is as plain as the lust for power I see in your lord father’s eyes. Common sense? Pah! You have none.”

  Murmurs rippled through the councillors and the visitors, and even some giggling could be heard—and not only from the Silvan spectators. Barathon stood red-faced and seething, but he could almost hear his father’s voice, demanding that he comport himself in a manner fitting an Alpine lord. He sat stiffly, avoiding his father’s gaze.

  “My lords,” continued Erthoron, “it is paramount that something be conceded by this Alpine council. These are Silvan lands with Silvan people. You push too hard and too far, and my people are digging their heels in the ground. Our culture is being lost, our languages ignored, our music and our writings are not heard or read here, but even more than this, you are not defending us against the enemy. Tell me, then, why the Silvan people need the Alpines? What is in this unspoken pact for the Forest? What is in it for us? Will you continue to take and take and take and give nothing back?”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the Silvans and silence from the Alpine public areas.

  “Lord Draugole!”

  “Lord Erthoron, I can tell you many reasons why the Silvans need the Alpines. For one, you have no central government. You have scattered leaders in scattered villages and therefore do not gather taxes. You have no money for provisions for an army. Where are your barracks, your swords? Where is the iron you need, the raw materials for your blad
es? You need money for these things. You must trade with Pelagia and Tar’eastór. How do you propose to do that without collecting taxes? Without appointing administrators? You can’t fuel an army to face Sand Lords and Deviants, and you know it. You need this government, our army to defend yourselves, to pay your warriors and protect these lands.”

  “Lord Erthoron!”

  “I do not deny these things, Councillor, but I must draw attention to your wording. Our fortress, you say; our army . . . you do not even realise that with every word you are claiming these lands and everything in it for yourselves. Or perhaps you do realise. Is that it, my lords? Is this talk, this apparently random choice of words in fact a slow but brutal indoctrination to reduce my people to nothing but a quaint nuisance so that you can claim our lands?”

  The murmurs were back, Silvans nodding their heads in agreement with what Erthoron said. “I will tell you what we don’t need, Lord Draugole. We don’t need commanders who care nothing for the well-being of the Silvan people. We don’t need strategists who make spurious decisions regarding patrol routes, outposts, and defences. We don’t need Alpine commanders who send the Silvan troops to the front lines to be killed while the sons of their lords are made captains. We don’t need poor leaders who couldn’t care less when they make mistakes that lead to the destruction of our villages and then tell us it is our fault, that we must leave in order to be defended. We don’t need Alpines who come seeking the bounties of this land even while claiming their superiority over its native people. You say we need you, but it is you that need the Silvan people more,” continued Erthoron, his robes swishing around his calves as he paced before the onlooking councillors. “Timber for your fires, crops for your fine tables, honey, resins, medicinal plants and furs, troops, my lords. What does it matter if you can pay an army if you don’t have an army? Do not presume to sway the council with false presumptions, Lord Draugole. The balance is tipped against you. Should you force us away with your unjust laws, we will survive, but you will be isolated in your stone fortress, forced to trade with Pelagia and Tar’eastór for the goods you need, for the soldiers you will need. And how they will leech you, knowing that you have no choice but to barter.”

  The Silvan crowd was increasingly noisy in its support of its leader’s words, and Erthoron took a moment to watch those indecisive councillors, the ones who remained silent, the ones whose eyes did not seem to focus on anyone at all. And then he turned to the merchants who sat, opposite the Silvans, looking on, equally silent, expectant.

  He felt sick to his stomach.

  “All this can be avoided, my lords. We can live together if we so wish it. The Silvan people once had requests—requests that were never granted. Now, it falls to me to inform you of our demands.”

  The Silvans had fallen utterly silent while the eyes of the councillors darted here and there. The king sat forward on his throne, and Aradan and Turion shared a look of increasing alarm. What was it that Erthoron had not told them? What were these demands that had never been a part of their plan?

  “What we want is fair representation on this council and at the Inner Circle. We want all our own noble houses to be represented on this council so that votes are balanced, a true representation of the people of these lands. We want our warlord of old, our native warlord, our best warrior and strategist, so that my people will have equal say at least in the battle against the enemy, which I may add is fought in our forest, amongst our trees. Our warlord needs to represent the Silvan people at the Inner Circle, and for this task we propose Fel’annár Ar Thargodén.”

  The only sound in the hall was the click of Lord Barathon’s boots over the polished stone, and upon his face was a disbelieving smile, the kind of smile given by a father to his naïve child.

  “Lord Barathon!”

  “Surely you jest, my Lord Erthoron. Tell me, you would assign such a task to a child? He does not have the training, the experience, the command. He is a base warrior barely past his majority.”

  “Lord Erthoron!”

  “You find this amusing, Captain Barathon?” asked Erthoron. “You, a captain at barely one hundred. Tell me, Captain, how many battles have you commanded in the Forest? How many friends and brothers have you lost in the fight? How many hearts have you broken with news of some dreadful loss, or perhaps, perhaps you have lost a new-born daughter to Sand Lords, watched your home village razed to the ground so tell me—Captain—do you have the training? The experience? The command?” Erthoron smiled, but it was twisted and angry, and he sneered at Barathon’s red face and turned to the king, waiting for the jeers from the Silvans to die down.

  “These are our demands, my king, and we ask they be put to the vote.”

  The murmuring was back, but it soon became a surging tide of voices and exclamations. The Silvans shouted out how right they were, and the Alpines from the other side waved their hands at them and shouted their outrage.

  Aradan spared a glance at the king and Rinon at his side, their angular features sharp and harshly schooled. But from the corner of his eye, a chestnut-haired elf drew his attention.

  “May I speak?” he called loudly.

  Aradan turned to the Silvan, a forester if he was not mistaken.

  “May I speak?” he asked, louder this time.

  He was not a councillor—he had no rights to speak, but this meeting was fast becoming a diatribe on Alpine superiority. He could not stand by passively and allow Band’orán to continue rallying the indecisive Alpines.

  “He is not a councillor!” shouted Draugole from the circle, but Der’hán held up one hand while he banged his staff repeatedly upon the ground.

  “Order! Order!”

  Aradan stood, holding his arms up for silence, but the Silvans were too enflamed. They were angry, unwilling to hold their silence, and the Alpines were outraged at the breech of their solemn protocol.

  “Silence!” he shouted, but to no avail.

  Moments later, the entire hall fell mute, their angry shouts still ringing off the walls as King Thargodén stood, and he waited. Once satisfied that no one would interrupt him, he spoke to the forester.

  “On what grounds would you take the floor, Forester?”

  “There are no councillors here who can speak for Fel’annár, Sire. Only Lord Erthoron and Lord Lorthil. But the Silvan people can speak for him. You cannot vote if you do not have the necessary information. You cannot make a decision if you do not understand why we ask this of you—that Fel’annár be named Warlord.”

  “You have not earned the right to speak at this summit!” shouted Lord Barathon and then Lord Cal’hedin.

  “And what of the right of the Silvans to participate in this council?” thundered Erthoron. “Where are they? I see twenty councillors and three of them—three—are Silvan. What is this travesty?”

  The chaos was back, and King Thargodén rose his voice, anger dripping from every sound, an innate ability to command projected into the only word he said.

  “Silence!”

  He was immediately obeyed.

  “What is your name, Forester?”

  “Sarodén of Sen’oléi, my king.”

  “Sarodén, you have my permission to speak,” he said, eyes travelling from Band’orán to Barathon, Draugole and Cal’hedin before turning back to Sarodén, nodding, and sitting on his throne once more. Rinon straightened his stance, head tipping upwards.

  Sarodén stepped forwards until he was at the front line of the public area, all the Silvan spectators behind him.

  “I am Sarodén, Chief Forester of Sen’oléi. My lords,” he said, and then cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. He was nervous, unused to speaking in public. He was a humble Silvan elf from the Deep Forest. “I have a story to tell; it is the story of a Silvan elf, a warrior still in novice training. He travelled on his first mission to the village of Sen’oléi, where he and his patrol stayed for three days, under the command of Captain Turion here.” He gestured to where the captain stood and Turion
nodded at him. “The young warrior worked hard to fulfil his captain’s orders. Humble and servile, he toiled along with the rest of us. He was witty and kind, unassuming and quick to help, and the source of much giggling from our younger lads and maidens.” He smiled as he remembered, garnering a few soft chuckles from the crowd that had now settled in to listen to Sarodén’s story.

  “It was on the second day that a cry went up from our brothers in the distant fields. ‘Fire!’ they cried, ‘Fire in the woods!’. The patrol organised itself, leaving two behind at the pumps, for should the wind change, the flames would surely engulf our village. And so they worked, one Alpine and one Silvan. They worked and they worked until their hands shook, but still, our people came for water. It was then that the Silvan warrior turned to his Alpine brother in arms.

  “‘I must go,’ he said, and so, securing a villager to take his place at the pump, he ran into the village. Alféna’s children were trapped in the woods, but to go after them would mean sure death. The flames were too near, the smoke too thick.”

  “What has this got to do . . .” came a sudden protest.

  “Sshshshshshshs,” a chorus of whispered voices answered back.

  “He ran, nevertheless, into the forest, away from safety and was lost. Later, his patrol returned, wounded and exhausted, barely having made it out alive, but there was no sign of the Silvan warrior or Alféna’s children.”

  Aradan’s eyes fell upon Turion, who turned to meet his gaze, and then he momentarily glanced at the king, but his eyes were trained on Sarodén, silently willing him to continue with his tale. This was the first time he was hearing about his son, about his deeds.

  “The next day, though, we all lived the most extraordinary of events, a moment that I will cherish always. The birds . . . the birds sang a herald, and we, the Silvan people, sang with them. It was sacred thing, a fanfare of nature, and it was beautiful, and as we wound our strange choir to a soft end, the Silvan warrior stepped from the ruined trees, and upon his back were two children, another at his side.”