by R K Lander
The commander’s eyes were wide, fixed on Fel’annár for a moment before turning further afield—to Pan’assár, who was trying to sit up. He must have hit his head, he realised, for he seemed unaware of the danger he was in.
Sitting targets.
Gor’sadén gestured desperately to a stone further behind Fel’annár. It would hardly shield him, but at least he could protect his head and chest. Reaching into his harness, he pulled out his bow and notched an arrow, searching for a target in the trees. The enemy was well-concealed, but still, he fired in the hope of throwing their attackers’ aims off balance.
“Move!” yelled Gor’sadén, a note of panic in his voice that Fel’annár had never thought to hear, but there was no time to think, for another warning washed over him with startling clarity, even as he finally managed to rip his cloak free.
“Arrows!” yelled Fel’annár with one last, desperate look at Gor’sadén, at a struggling Pan’assár, and then at the rock he was to take shelter behind. Making his decision, he rolled to his feet and sprinted towards Pan’assár, who had managed to stand, albeit he swayed on shaky legs.
Fel’annár skidded to a halt just before the commander, sending a veil of dust over him just as the trees screamed at him to move away. Grabbing the back of Pan’assár’s cloak, he dragged the sluggish commander towards him and then took one of Pan’assár’s arms and slung it over his shoulders. Fel’annár’s other arm supported him around the waist and together, they stumbled as best they could towards the nearest boulder. Arrows thudded around them, skittering off the stone, and Pan’assár felt Fel’annár turning him, angling to the left so that his back was against Fel’annár’s chest. He felt him jerk forward, almost losing his footing before regaining his balance and covering the last few steps to safety. Both collapsed breathless behind the stone.
Pan’assár looked up at him through blurry eyes. “There’s an arrow sticking out of your shoulder blade,” he murmured.
Fel’annár smiled grimly, raised one hand over his shoulder, and tugged on the loosely embedded shaft. He grunted as it came away and then slid it into his quiver.
“Not anymore.” Another volley of arrows whooshed over the top of the boulder and they ducked.
There was silence then, save for the wild neighing of their horses and their own harsh breaths.
“Fel’annár! Pan’assár!” came a shout from Gor’sadén.
“Here!” Fel’annár shouted as he stood.
“Get down, you fool!” hissed Pan’assár, tugging on his cloak.
“They have gone,” said Fel’annár coolly and then walked towards a frantic Gor’sadén, who emerged from behind his boulder, replacing his bow as he strode, thunderous, towards his apprentice.
“What in Aria’s name did you think you were doing!” he boomed, eyes roving over Fel’annár’s form for any sign of injury. But Fel’annár looked back at him calmly.
“Saving my commander’s life,” he said, turning and walking back to Pan’assár, wisely giving the commander no time to reply.
Pan’assár was on his unsteady feet, and Fel’annár turned to Gor’sadén. “He has a head injury.”
“And he has a hole in his shoulder,” said Pan’assár. Gor’sadén startled. “What hole?” he asked, looking at Fel’annár.
“He was hit dragging me to safety. The half-wit pulled it out himself,” Pan’assár said, collecting his weapons as they walked back to the open clearing and their three, still skittish mounts.
“It’s just a scratch; my weapons harness protected me well enough. Are the horses able to carry us back?” Fel’annár asked, concealing the discomfort he felt from the shallow wound that stung nonetheless.
“They will have to,” said Gor’sadén, eyes travelling from Fel’annár to Pan’assár. “Whatever frightened them, it has gone. I have only ever seen horses startle like this with tone flutes,” he mused. “Come, we move now lest those snipers come back for another try.”
Fel’annár was not going to argue with that, and after a few moments spent calming their mounts, all three were back in the saddle and galloping towards the citadel. He’d read about tone flutes in a book on northern warfare. Sand Lords used them to dismount their charging enemies. But there were no Sand Lords in Tar’eastór, were there?
“No mention of the nature of this attack. This was a training accident. Once you have both received attention, we will meet in Fel’annár’s rooms and discuss what must be done. For now, you go nowhere alone, Fel’annár. That is an order you will obey,” commanded Gor’sadén.
Fel’annár nodded that he understood, although how he was going to hide this from The Company was quite another matter.
Gor’sadén’s gaze lingered for a while on his apprentice, watching even as they arrived, dismounted, and handed their dishevelled mounts to the stable hands.
They walked three-abreast across the courtyard and nodded at all who bowed as they passed, and once they were inside the Halls of Healing, Gor’sadén turned to them. “I will go first to arrange for a more private healer’s examination room for you. Even though this is to be the result of a training accident, it would be prudent to keep Fel’annár away from prying eyes. I want to make sure both of you are well before I go to inform the king and Captain Comon about what truly happened. Wait here.”
They nodded, watching as Gor’sadén strode away. Pan’assár studied Fel’annár, who was leaning against a pillar. This boy, this Silvan half-blood whom he had mocked, scorned, and mistrusted, even to the point of demanding an insulting oath from him to not harm his king, his own father, had consciously jumped into the path of danger, exposed himself unnecessarily to archers who were trying to kill him in order to save his prejudiced commander-general from harm. Never in all the cycles of the world had Pan’assár thought Fel’annár would put his life at risk for him. He knew Gor’sadén would snort at this notion, would remind him that Fel’annár had done so before, on their way to Tar’eastór when Galadan and The Company had rallied together and miraculously saved the survivors from sure death out in the wilds. He had shamefully ignored that sacrifice, pushed it away as if it meant nothing at all.
There was still a question in his mind, though, something about those hazy moments when Fel’annár had dragged him to safety that Pan’assár still did not quite understand, and his eyes focussed once more on Fel’annár, himself deep in his own thoughts. A cloud of brilliant blue light crossed over the green irises, and Pan’assár started. He had seen this before during the test he had subjected Fel’annár to in order to train in the ways of the Kal’hamén’Ar. It was what had triggered his own loss of control, when he had finally looked at Fel’annár and had nearly killed him. If the Silvan had not been as skilled as he was, he would have.
He was jolted from that moment as Gor’sadén returned and beckoned to them to follow him.
They walked together towards the first aid area under the curious stares of injured warriors and healers. Gor’sadén led them to a private treatment room near the end of the long aisle where a healer stood waiting for them. He gestured to a wooden chair.
“Which of you has the arrow wound?”
“Him,” replied Pan’assár, jabbing his finger at Fel’annár. Fel’annár sat and unbuckled his jerkin while Pan’assár stood cross-armed to one side and Gor’sadén looked on.
The healer pulled away the leather and then ripped the already torn shirt below, revealing a shallow wound on the shoulder blade, just as Gor’sadén had told him he’d find. It wasn’t serious, and before long, the wound was cleansed and bandaged and the healer stepped back.
“Free to go,” he smiled, holding out a jar of cream. “Use this once a day for a week and come back if you feel any discomfort.”
Fel’annár nodded his thanks and then stood, making way for Pan’assár to sit. He froze, legs tingling. He sat back down. How did the healer suddenly appear so close to him? he wondered.
“Warrior?”
“Yes,” he ans
wered, frowning at the oddness of the moment.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
Wrong? thought Fel’annár. Nothing was wrong, and yet it was, because the healer’s voice was too far away, his face too close to his own. He didn’t answer, and then he felt hands on him, under his arms. He thought he heard Gor’sadén’s voice calling him, but nothing registered clearly in his mind. His boots dragged over the floor and then the side of his face met with soft linen. Was he lying down?
There were frantic voices around him, scuffling feet, and then a hand upon his head, a hand he thought he recognised. He smiled into the pillow beneath him.
“Llyniel?”
The hand faltered for a moment, and then he felt himself being turned onto his back. He stared up at the blurring ceiling, only vaguely aware of what was happening around him. There were voices and strange lights, sounds he had never heard before. He felt fine, he mused. He felt more than fine. He was floating on a soft summer cloud, his mind wandering deliciously. He thought he would use his hand to touch some of the strange lights but found he couldn’t move, not any part of his body. He decided it didn’t matter.
“We need Master Arané here, now,” ordered Gor’sadén.
“He is busy, Commander. He will come shortly. Calm yourself and tell me exactly what happened,” she said, the other healer standing at her shoulder in alarm.
“He took an arrow in the shoulder. It was shallow, and he pulled it out himself,” replied Gor’sadén.
Llyniel turned to him. “Do you have the arrow?”
“It’s in his quiver,” gestured Pan’assár to the door. Gor’sadén was gone and was soon back, just as Arané was arriving, standing over Llyniel’s other shoulder and peering down at Fel’annár, who lay placidly, unmoving and unresponsive, staring at the ceiling.
Gor’sadén gave the singular arrow to Arané who took it and sniffed the tip. He blinked rapidly. “Red leaf or . . . or . . . it smells fruity, like binny pod. No, wait. This is black berry—canimbula poisoning.”
Llyniel whirled around, heart racing. “Tell me you have spade root, Master Arané.”
Arané frowned, eyes darting to one side, remembering. Mestahé had made a list of the missing stock that had been taken from their supply rooms just the other day.
“Sweet Aria, this was planned,” he muttered. The commanders shared a meaningful glance at each other and then turned on Arané.
“Explain,” ordered Gor’sadén.
“Someone broke into our store rooms two days ago. We made a list of the items taken. The spade root, the key ingredient to the antidote for canimbula, was missing.”
Pan’assár closed his eyes in anger, and Gor’sadén looked to the ceiling, quelling his rising panic. “Tell me you have an alternative to spade root, Healer,” he said carefully.
But Arané was shaking his head, even as his mind worked to provide an alternative.
“Master Arané, do we have black bark?” Llyniel’s urgent voice from beside him.
“Black bark, black bark . . .”
“You call it charflake, perhaps?” she insisted, eyes wide.
“Charflake. Yes, but surely . . .”
“Where is it?”
“Aisle five, section four . . . Llyniel?”
“Give me two minutes!” she called over her shoulder and then darted from the room, and Pan’assár turned to Arané.
“Do you know what this charflake is?” asked Pan’assár.
“I know what it is, but I have never heard it used to counteract canimbula poisoning. We must pray she is right, though; black berry poisoning is fatal within one hour,” he said grimly, and the commanders’ expressions darkened. “How long since he was shot?”
“Around thirty minutes,” said Pan’assár before adding, “Do you trust her?”
Arané frowned. “From what I have seen so far, she is an able Head Healer, Commander, an expert in deciduous tree bark. And, quite frankly, she is our only hope.”
Pan’assár nodded. Aradan’s daughter was a fiery half-blood who had always looked upon him with disdain, and he knew why. Just months ago, he would have ordered her away with the flick of the wrist, would have been unconcerned with her aversion to him, and yet now, it stung. It made him angry.
“Where in Aria’s name is she?” He stood and began to pace despite his thumping head, and Gor’sadén watched his friend carefully. Fel’annár had risked his life to save Pan’assár, had been hit in his endeavour, and that fact had affected his friend deeply. It had somehow unbalanced him, thought Gor’sadén.
“I am here,” came Llyniel’s curt voice, cutting eyes boring into Pan’assár as she passed him and sat at Fel’annár’s side, a vial of green liquid in her hand. In spite of the tense situation, Gor’sadén felt like rolling his eyes at the open antagonism between the Silvan healer and Pan’assár. They obviously knew each other well, too well, he decided.
“What is that? An antidote I hope.” Pan’assár’s voice was rude and demanding, but Llyniel’s voice was sharp.
“This, yes. Canimbula is quick to act and kill but equally easy to counteract—for a Silvan at least.” She turned and smiled grimly at the commander. “Black berry has been used by Sand Lords extensively these last few decades in the far north of Ea Uaré. I see it has been a while since you last visited,” she said, even as she held Fel’annár’s head and fed him the potion, her face changing from anger at Pan’assár to tempered concern for her patient. She was confident in what she fed Fel’annár, even though there was always an element of danger where poison was concerned.
“Note—day one, fifteenth hour. One third charflake, one third loár, one third white root,” she said over her shoulder to Arané, who scribbled on a parchment. Pan’assár watched her, reluctantly acknowledging Aradan’s daughter as a resolute and effective healer. She would be an excellent battlefield physician, he thought.
“With a few days of rest, he should be fine,” said Llyniel, gazing down thoughtfully at Fel’annár. “May I stay and administer the antidote, Master Arané?”
“Of course,” said the master healer. “I would speak with you later, though. You have much to tell me of this charflake,” he said carefully, eyes moving from Fel’annár to Llyniel and then to the commanders.
Gor’sadén blew out a breath. “All right. As you have already deduced, this was a planned assassination attempt. Our attackers are still at large; he is still in danger, and I want him moved to the safest place you have,” he said meaningfully. “Whoever did this has already broken into your store rooms.”
Arané nodded and then gestured to the still mortified healer. “Help me move him, Mestahé,” he ordered, moving to lift Fel’annár’s other side. But Pan’assár stepped in to replace him, his chin lifted high. Arané frowned at him, intelligent enough to know it would get him nowhere to argue with the mule-headed commander.
“Once you are done, Pan’assár, you will sit down and allow us to see to that knock on the head.”
Pan’assár nodded, and before long, Fel’annár was lying in a very different bed, a light sheen of sweat on his brow, staring blankly at the ceiling. Gor’sadén sat on one side while Pan’assár stared down at Fel’annár from his other side. A bandage had been woven around his head, one Gor’sadén knew he would rip off no sooner he stepped out of the Halls.
Arané had left and Llyniel stood beside the roaring hearth. With the next dose of charflake already prepared, she set to crushing herbs in a bowl, but her eyes were almost always on Fel’annár.
“Now that the immediate danger has passed, I need to speak with the king,” began Gor’sadén. “You will watch over him until I return?” He watched his friend closely for a while, for although he understood that Pan’assár was grateful to Fel’annár for getting him to cover and safety, for taking an arrow for his efforts, there was something more about his friend that he could not quite fathom.
“My oath,” nodded Pan’assár, sitting in his chair at last, a frown on his
face.
“What is it, Pan?” murmured Gor’sadén, stepping closer so that Llyniel would not hear.
“I—I didn’t understand. When he grabbed me and we ran, well, he ran and I staggered—I didn’t understand why he turned me around . . .”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand you,” said Gor’sadén, frowning, but he was leaning forwards, searching his friend’s eyes.
“You heard him during the attack, Gorsa, heard how he sensed every single volley. The arrow that hit him—he knew it was coming, and he did not duck. He spun me out of the way, turned his back to it so that it would not hit me.”
Gor’sadén was quick to understand, and he leaned backwards. Pan’assár had been labouring all this time to understand what Fel’annár had done, and perhaps more importantly, why he had done it.
Gor’sadén smiled softy. “I am not surprised, Pan’assár,” he whispered. Placing one hand on his friend’s shoulder, he murmured, “Watch over him.”
Pan’assár nodded, not turning to look at Gor’sadén, listening as his friend began to leave. But before he stepped out of the room, he turned to the Silvan healer further away.
“You have my thanks and my gratitude, Lady Llyniel,” said Gor’sadén, bowing.
Llyniel inclined her head respectfully and then smiled, watching the commander leave. She respected him, understood where his reputation as a warrior came from, could see his command, his leadership. So different to Pan’assár—and yet so close they were, she mused.
“Healer Llyniel,” called Pan’assár, startling her from her thoughts.
“What is it?” she murmured, moving towards the bed and fiddling with the bedclothes.
“My thanks, too, for your intervention.”
She turned, cool honey eyes staring back at him. “I did my duty, Commander.”
He knew what she meant but hadn’t said, and he wasn’t inclined to argue with her. His head was thumping—and she was right.