by R K Lander
“Fair. We are bumpkins and we are Silvan,” he conceded. “But these are our lands; it is not natural for the Alpines to rule them. What do they know of the forest? of woodcraft?”
“Nothing save for what they have learned, I suppose,” conceded Idernon. “They wish for power and wealth and well they know that is achieved by those who make the decisions. From their seats of power, they legislate to their own gain, contrive so that everything that’s decided upon favours them in some way. It’s not good government but it is the only one we have,” he finished with a hint of sadness.
Idernon had nothing more to say and so he watched as Fel’annár’s face hardened, eyes fixed on the path ahead, anger sharpening his extraordinary features, a face that contrasted starkly with the browns, greens and purples of the Silvan people and their forest home. His hair was not dark but the colour of winter wheat and his features were not full and generous but chiselled and sharp, high cheekbones and strong, dark eyebrows lending him a feral beauty that Idernon well knew had, paradoxically, brought him nothing but strife. It was his eyes, though, deep pools of river moss that shone overly bright. There was a light there that was unnerving. Those eyes were the only Silvan trait upon an otherwise foreign face, one that had always set him apart from the rest.
“We Silvans will be in the majority at the barracks with the warriors though,” said Ramien, his eyes looking to Idernon as if for confirmation. “The bulk of our king’s fighters are Silvan, albeit our commanders rarely are, at least that’s what they say.”
“It makes no sense unless you look at it for what it is,” said Fel’annár, fidgeting in his saddle, “discrimination, racism created to dominate – it is about power,” he spat and Ramien nodded his agreement.
Strangely, Fel’annár had experienced such discrimination from his own people, the Silvan people. He had endured it until he had been old enough to accept his lot, and then he had found Ramien and Idernon. It had been the dawn of joy, the beginning of what Fel’annár now knew was his path, the path of a warrior, well, a novice warrior to start. Idernon’s quiet voice brought Fel’annár back to the present.
“Calro wrote an excellent account of the days that followed King Or’Talán’s colonization of our lands – a must read – I have it if you are interested,” he said, eyes slipping to the side as if he were remembering the exact pages, the many tomes he had devoured on the history of Ea Uaré when it was still ruled by the Silvans. Indeed the Wise Elf had been thusly named for his insatiable quest for knowledge, one that had blossomed no sooner he could speak. Had he not become friends with Ramien and Fel’annár, his destiny would, perhaps, have been different; a scholar or strategist, perhaps.
“I don’t need a book to keep my wits about me. We’d do well to stick together with the other Silvans,” said Ramien, before adding, “mind you, if Felan here is mistaken for an Alpine, that may not happen.”
Silence stretched awkwardly between them before Ramien realized he should not have said that.
“Forgive me,” was all he said, cringing, wilting almost under Idernon’s stern gaze that lingered on him for a little too long, and despite Ramien’s considerable bulk, he almost seemed to shrink.
“Don’t fret, Ramien. I am well past that,” Fel’annár assured his friend, albeit he would not turn to meet his gaze. Ramien’s eyes did linger on the profile of his friend, a profile that screamed Alpine, until the face turned and green eyes stared back – Silvan eyes. It seemed almost cruel that destiny should have contrived to make Fel’annár singularly Silvan in his ways.
By midday, their stomachs growled and rumbled louder than any war-bound Elven battalion and the wholesome fare their families had packed for them began to weigh just a little more heavily upon their backs. Finding a suitably shady patch, the three friends dismounted and slapped their horses upon the rump, watching as they pranced away in a flurry of swishing manes and bobbing heads. Meanwhile, Ramien set about arranging their food upon his blanket, his head cocked to one side as he pondered on where to place each dish. It was an endearing sight, mused Fel’annár with a smirk, because the elf was so tall and strong it did not quite fit to see him fussing over the details of their lunch. The absurd notion of the hulking Wall of Stone as a royal cook, pinny too short and rolling pin overly large soon had him chuckling quietly.
Before long, the three friends sat cross-legged, eager hands clutching at gravy-filled pies and crusty bread, cheese and cold meat. It was a feast not commonly seen upon the road, a testimony to their mother’s devotion, to provide them with one, last, wholesome meal before military training and hardship. None of them spoke until there was little left and the sun had passed into the West.
They sat in silence for a while. Idernon looked upwards, into the boughs, his mind away on some such philosophical question, while Ramien sat against a tree trunk, head jerking forwards as sleep threatened to take him. Fel’annár stared at nothing, his right hand caressing the root of the oak tree he sat under, pondering on a new close combat move he was yet to try out.
On any other day, they would have stayed to nap and then hunt, camp and tell stories, but today was the first day they were truly alone in the world, and their home village of Lan Taria seemed further away than it ever had. They were excited yet apprehensive, eager to impress yet unwilling to draw attention to themselves, for Fel’annár’s sake. He was a tough lad, but both Idernon and Ramien knew his weak spot. All it would take was for Fel’annár to be labelled as an Alpine and when that happened, he would struggle to check himself, and at the barracks, his irrational anger might well land him in trouble. It was the one thing that made him vulnerable, the flaw in his character that reminded them both that Fel’annár was not immune to mockery, even though he thought he was.
Thoroughly sated, they whistled for their mounts and were soon on the path once more, each lost to his own thoughts, of what they had left behind and perhaps more importantly, what was still ahead of them.
They purposefully chose to cross the meadow through a copse of trees, for it felt safer and Fel’annár smiled, eyebrows rising in delight for a nuthatch was singing in the boughs; these creatures were not easy to come across.
“A nuthatch!” he exclaimed, but contrary to the awe-inspired comments he had expected, Idernon shot him a warning look, one Ramien did not see.
“Bumpkin! —‘tis not a bird you hear but the call of an elven warrior!” he hissed.
Ramien chuckled at the joke, slapping his thighs and throwing his head back, hair flying chaotically about him; but then he almost choked on his own saliva, for in front of him, as if from nowhere, appeared a glaring Alpine warrior, a short bow slung over his back and the intricate pommel of an intimidating sword peaking over his armoured shoulder.
Idernon had not been joking.
“You boy!” called the warrior. “What is your name?” His sharp, scowling eyes pierced Fel’annár, who hesitated for a moment before answering, resisting a sudden urge to swallow. When his voice returned, he felt nothing but shame for the weakness in it.
“Fel’annár ar Amareth.”
The warrior’s scowl deepened and he cocked his head in thought. “I know of no Amaron of Alpine heritage,” he said, watching the youth carefully.
“Not Amaron, Sir, but Amareth, and she is Silvan, as am I.”
“And what of your father?” A clipped retort.
Ramien and Idernon clenched their jaws and looked to the ground for it would do no good to rile this admittedly imposing warrior whose appearance surely meant they were close to the barracks; for all they knew, he might be one of their instructors. If only they could find an excuse to help their floundering friend out of the bind he found himself in—again.
“My father died, Sir.”
“I meant his name you fool,” the warrior said, still staring openly at the pale blond hair and moss green eyes.
“I . . .”
“Well, speak up, boy. You do have a father . . . ?”
Silence was the only answer the warrior received, and understanding lit his sharp grey eyes. “Did he die in battle?” he asked, “or perhaps you are a bastard? That is a pity, Fel’annár. Whoever he was, he was obviously of Alpine descent.”
“I am Silvan,” hissed Fel’annár too quickly, his emotions getting the better of him as they always did, the words bubbling out of his mouth quicker than his mind could restrain them.
“Ooohh! Have something against the Alpines then?” he mocked, his grin twisted and challenging, his own, blond hair as much a declaration of his heritage as any flag.
Fel’annár was mortified at his outburst but he would be damned if he was going to apologize for it. The warrior was an ass, unnecessarily sarcastic and scathing.
“Well, well, Silvan. Proud and impulsive – not good traits in a recruit. You will learn soon enough though,” he said, his caustic smile softening a little, even though Fel’annár could not see it, for he simply looked away, embarrassed and annoyed at himself and this pig-headed warrior who had subjected him to impertinent questions and called him an Alpine, no less!
Twin looks of caution from his friends tempered his simmering anger and he schooled himself as best he could. He had been rash.
He decided that he would no longer avoid the inevitable questions, for that had led his errant emotions astray. He would call himself Fel’annár ar Amareth for that was his only name; he would say that his father had been Alpine, for that he could not deny; he would say that his father was dead for even if he weren’t, to Fel’annár’s mind he might as well be.
None of it mattered, it was of no consequence.
He did not care at all.
***
“You three! Briefing is in one hour. Do not be late,” said Calenar, the Alpine warrior who had guided them to the barracks, or Nuthatch as the three friends had baptized him.
He knew how overwhelmed these Silvan village boys could be when traveling to the outer city for the first time. Life here shared few similarities with their routines back home, and these three, by the looks of them, were no different save for one, surprising thing; one of them was an Alpine.
As he made his way to his commanding officer’s study, he could not help wondering about the strange blond boy who had claimed to be Silvan, despite the evidence. True his name, Fel’annár, he recalled, was clearly Silvan; only the Forest Dwellers would name their children after a plant.
Nay he was Alpine, however much it seemed to rile the youth. Youth, he snorted, he was barely out of swaddling cloths, and yet he had been the leader of the three, or so it had seemed to Calenar, in spite of the boy’s outburst and ensuing anger. The others protected him and the warrior realized he was intrigued; with no father to call his own, the boy’s face was simply extraordinary. He would be popular with the lasses—and with the lads he added with a sardonic smile. Yet it would not be easy for him with those looks and that temper. Lieutenant Turion would soon knock him into shape, and a few of the other recruits too, he wagered, for envy was an ugly thing indeed.
It was times like these that Calenar waxed pensive, for the battles on the northern borders were increasing alarmingly, the death toll spiralling almost out of control. They needed more recruits to become warriors so that they could travel North and work to stop the tide of Deviants and Sand Lords. He wondered if that was why he was sometimes so curt with them – so that he would not become too attached. They would fight and die all too soon and he must guard his heart – everyone had limits.
Shaking his head to rid himself of his dour thoughts, a recent memory came to him, just as he reached Lieutenant Turion’s door. Calenar had been called many things in his life as an instructor, most of them unpalatable—but never had he been likened to something as innocent and endearing as a nuthatch!
***
Still four days’ ride from the mighty city fortress of Thargodén King, the training barracks were, nevertheless, a sombre place. Grey stone and dark wood dominated everything and not one item of decoration graced the walls or any other part of the long dormitory they had been assigned to. Ramien and Idernon inspected the depressing room in silence, while Fel’annár scowled, eyes desperate to latch on to the slightest manifestation of nature, a leaf or vine, anything to connect the room with the outside world. He had always had an affinity with the trees back home. His window would always be open, even in the thick of winter, as if he could not stand the press of enclosing walls, the separation of his immortal soul from the land beyond.
Their beds were basic. Thick woollen blankets lay neatly folded beneath a single pillow and a bedside table lay on either side; on one a jug of water stood, a simple drawer beneath while the other provided basic shelving for personal effects.
Idernon sighed and glanced momentarily at Fel’annár, watching as he sat slowly upon an unoccupied bed at the end of the room, the small window above it drawing him like a beacon.
Idernon’s gaze sharpened on one long finger as it brushed softly over a green leaf that had invaded the crack between the stone wall and the wooden frame. It had always fascinated Idernon, that gesture that was so ingrained on Fel’annár and he wondered what it was he felt; it was something he did constantly and every time it was accompanied by that strange expression on his face—one that spoke of fascination and perhaps just a hint of confusion.
As they settled in and unpacked their meagre belongings, more new recruits were steadily arriving, stepping slowly into the room and looking around in trepidation. They were all young, all eager to fight the war that was said to be waged on their northern borders, the war they had never seen or heard. It existed though, for their warriors died and songs were sung.
They were excited too. For many it was their first time so close to the city, albeit it could not yet be seen. Still, there were Alpines here and that was a testimony to how close they were. True, most were Silvan and they stared now at the blond boys with mistrust in their eyes.
Idernon could see the darker elves’ ill-concealed stares at Fel’annár, heard their whispering and strangled chuckles. It would be a matter of seconds before Ramien heard them too and when that happened …
“You,” gestured the Wall of Stone towards a group of Silvan recruits. “I like a laugh and a joke. Tell me, what is the object of your humour?” he said, eyes landing heavily on one brown-haired recruit.
“We were wondering – about him,” gestured the recruit, head nodding at Fel’annár. You don’t get to see many poor Alpines. Maybe he wants to be Silvan – and who can blame him?” he asked, looking at his friends and sniggering.
Fel’annár scowled, glancing down at his simple linen shirt and worn tunic.
Before Ramien could answer, one of the Alpine recruits further away walked forwards, turning to the dark-haired Silvan.
“He is Alpine – you have a problem with that?” he asked them, jaw clenching as his friends reached his side.
But Fel’annár scowled. “I am Silvan,” he said simply, blank gaze resting on the Alpine recruit that had thought to defend him.
The Silvan recruits stared dumbly at Fel’annár for a moment, before turning to the Alpine who was scowling back. “You are Alpine; and you want to be Silvan?”
“I am Silvan.”
One of the Alpines from behind their leader snorted. “You think to fool us?”
“No. I am half Alpine, and Silvan.” His eyes stared back challengingly.
“A half-breed – who reneges his Alpine culture – is no friend of mine. You would do well to stay away from us,” said their leader.”
Fel’annár smiled, but there was a menacing gleam in his eye. “That would be my pleasure.”
The Alpine stiffened, before turning and walking away, to the other end of the room where he and his friends had taken beds.
The Silvan recruits turned to
Fel’annár, their expressions now open and curious.
“I am Carodel of Silvervale,” said one.
“Nurodi of Sen’tár.”
“Oden of Lan Bedar.”
Fel’annár nodded. “Fel’annár of Lan Taria,” he said simply, before turning back to his pack, taking the last of his clothing out and putting it away in a drawer.
Ramien and Idernon turned, and then introduced themselves somewhat stiffly, for these recruits had tried and failed to antagonize their friend. They had made up for it but there was no friendship between them, not yet.
***
“How do I look?” asked Ramien as he held his arms out to the side, showing his friends his new uniform. It was simple and practical for a forest warrior. Black breeches that hugged the legs and equally black boots with no other qualities to mention. A brown, knee-length tunic and a reinforced, sleeveless vest completed the outfit. Black and brown, wool and leather and just like the barracks – not one item of decoration. Still, it was fine leather and although plain, was still a uniform, one Ramien felt absurdly proud of.
But of course, Ramien was no ordinary Silvan warrior. He was at least a head taller than Fel’annár, who was counted tall. His chest was broad and his waist thick, just like his legs – his nickname had not been given to him in vain. He was a Wall of Stone and his tunic – was too short, too tight, and his vest sat too close under his arm pits.
Fel’annár guffawed and Idernon smirked playfully.
“These fabrics were not designed for Walls of Stone, my friend,” exclaimed Idernon, before Fel’annár continued with the light-hearted banter.
“Aye, and look at this.” He laughed harder now. “The clasps on this vest are straining so hard they will surely pop open no sooner you sneeze!”
Ramien was disappointed, his scowl deepening as he turned to the voice of Idernon once more.
“Oh, oh, and what’s this!” said Idernon as he lifted the back of his friend’s skirt and flapped it around, revealing his taut backside. “One fart and you will be the laughing stock of the barracks!” he exclaimed, sending Fel’annár off into a wheeze of laughter, which only worsened as he watched Ramien dance out of the way, batting Idernon’s hands from the hem of his tunic. The other Silvan recruits laughed as they watched the three friends, until a mighty yell from the open doorway shot through them, and they stood to mortified attention. Calenar, their superior officer stood arms akimbo, face grim and eyes twinkling in hidden mirth.