by R K Lander
“It must not have been easy—your childhood.”
“No, Sir,” said the recruit quietly; but he would say no more and Turion frowned. His hurts ran deep, he realized, and perhaps it was not the time to push him any further. After all, he had as much information as he needed to make his decision.
“Fel’annár. I am sending you to the city barracks for novice training. You leave in two days.”
The downcast face transformed in an instant, the dark clouds of his troubled memories floating away, making way for a brilliant smile, face shining almost as brightly as his eyes; such passion in one so young, mused Turion and a shiver ran down his spine and it seemed a thousand ants crawled over his scalp. What drove a boy of this age to achieve what he already had and then wish to hide it all away? He would ask one more question, and then he would entrust the boy to Lainon at the city barracks.
“What is it that you want, Fel’annár?”
The recruit’s eyes anchored calmly on Turion. There was no self-doubt, no shame, no hesitation. Instead, there was conviction, surety and single-minded determination.
“I want to be a captain.”
***
The following day, the Silvan recruits enjoyed their first free evening in a while and they celebrated the day’s surprising news in pure Silvan fashion. The Company was leaving for the city and novice training. There were questions in the other recruits’ eyes, jealousy even. They had seen the three friends train and although good, they had not seemed inordinately so, except perhaps Fel’annár when they had been shown the basics of hand-to-hand. It was the news of the spiralling conflict in the North that helped them to understand; the army needed all the hands they could get and so, they thought, it would not be long before they, too, were called upon to move to the next step of their training.
Yet to the recruits, war was something they had not yet seen, could not really feel. They were still too far away from the Fortress and off the City Road. It was a distant certainty, a reality they had only just begun to prepare for, and nervous anticipation hung in the air.
For the moment though, they lay sprawled on the lawn before their dormitory. Bottles of wine both empty and full lay around them in varying states of disarray. Carodel, a young Silvan recruit with an artistic flare strummed a delicate melody on his lyre, a tune that did not match the bawdy lyrics at all, while Ramien danced a jig, miraculously managing not to rip his breeches in the process. Idernon too, danced a reel with a fellow recruit of dubious skill while the rest sat drinking and laughing.
Now, well into their cups, they swayed this way and that, even though they sat. Carodel leant forward with only a slight loss of balance and then peered into Fel’annár’s eyes, as if he looked into a mirror and sat mesmerized at what he saw.
“Are you really Silvan?” he slurred.
Here we go again, thought Fel’annár, but surprisingly, this time there was no irritation, something only partially explainable by the copious amount of imbibed wine—indeed it was his recent argument with Idernon and then Turion’s words just yesterday that had somehow bolstered his spirit, forcing him to see things from a different perspective. Why should he be ashamed of being half Alpine just because of his father? Why should he hide himself away? If he was to be picked on, then he would fight back and try not to get into trouble for it – but of course, that was the tricky part.
“I am—half Silvan” he said with a soft smile. “And before you ask, my mother died when I was too young to remember her. My aunt brought me up as her own son and I never knew my father.”
Ramien and Idernon shared a stunned look before turning back to Fel’annár with wide eyes and slack jaws.
“Did your aunt not tell you of him then?” they asked.
“Nay, she never would. I would ask her incessantly whether he was Alpine, yet I could never get her to tell me a single thing about him. It made her nervous and she would change the subject. I have always known there is some family scandal involved, that he must have done something—terrible—to be banished thusly by the Silvans of my village; I think perhaps he was an outlaw,” he mused as if to himself. “Either that or I was just not meant to be—an illicit child if you will—how would I know,” he finished with a shrug, unaware of the way Idernon and Ramien watched him.
“Or,” said Carodel, waving his hands in the air as if he were retelling a heroic ode from the Elder Chronicles. “Or maybe he was a mighty hero whose death is still too painful to be spoken of – or, or, a God who fell in love with the prettiest Silvan maiden of them all – no one ever speaks about the half-breed love children of the Gods!” exclaimed the tipsy Silvan. Ramien and Idernon closed their eyes and tensed their shoulders, anticipating the scalding reply that Fel’annár would surely provide. But only silence met Carodel’s flamboyant words. Wine was poured and their goblets clanked and still, Fel’annár would not speak. Carodel’s drunken imagination had grabbed Fel’annár by the shoulders and whipped him around – to a different perspective and he sat, shocked at the implications.
Someone filled his goblet and he took it to his mouth. He suddenly felt ashamed – at himself and his stupidity. He had led himself down the road of bitterness, had assumed the people’s silence to be a consequence of his father’s ill-doing. But Carodel’s words, however unbelievable and fantastic they had been, opened up the possibility that their silence was not a consequence of his evilness, but a possibility that he had been good, and that he was missed – that he was not a monster that had abandoned his son.
Fel’annár shook his head and drank again. “Half-breed love child?” he asked with a smirk.
“Ahh! they all cheered and with a toast and a thunk of wooden cups, they drank once more, only a small part of the liquid making its way into their mouths. Idernon simply smiled but Ramien beamed and his teeth could not be contained.
“Hwind’atór,” said Ramien as he sat forward clumsily “The Whirling Warrior. You are—destined for great things! he slurred. Gollo—Gollororollon—says it is so,” he finished with difficulty, before slurping on his wine once more and sloshing it over his breeches.
“Golloron,” corrected Idernon, just as inebriated as Ramien, even though he seemed completely in control of himself and his tongue.
“Golloron,” he explained to the others, “is the Spirit Herder of our village. He says,” he said pensively, creating an atmosphere of mystery and intrigue amongst the recruits and sending them into avid silence. “He says that Hwindo here has a great future before him. He has cast runes and has seen great battles, amongst other things,” he trailed off, his voice now full of awe as he drank from his cup.
“What else? what else did he see?” asked one young Silvan, his eyes wide and sparkling in anticipation of the tale, for in the Silvan culture, Spirit Herders such as Golloron were feared and revered, for they were Ari’atór, Spirit Warriors, albeit their weapons were not of steel but of the soul.
“He has predicted that Fel’annár will be a great leader—perhaps even a captain,” said Idernon with a proud smile, watching as the other youths nodded in awe.
“Well, there are few enough Silvan captains—it will be a welcome thing—we will all want to serve with you, Hwindo!” shouted Carodel.
“What a fine thing that would be,” said Fel’annár, his eyes misty and far away, as if he could see himself upon a magnificent warhorse, leading his warriors through the troubled forests, just as he had dreamed of together with his friends since for as long as he could remember. “Captain,” he said with deep respect.
Ramien slapped Fel’annár a little too hard upon the back, sending him reeling forwards and the Silvan recruits laughed hard, the solemn silence broken.
“To Captain Hwind’atór!” they shouted and then drank, before Carodel raised his cup once more.
“To The Company!” he shouted, and the merry little crowd exploded into cheering and laughter that carried on
the wind and echoed throughout the glade until it reached the ears of their commanding officer.
Turion listened, and upon his face, a smug, self-satisfied smile spread wide enough to show his white teeth. He had a letter to write, and coin to collect from Lainon for this bet he would surely win.
***
The Company left the following day amidst heart-felt goodbyes to Carodel and the others who sent them off with a cheer and a smile upon their youthful faces, in spite of their thumping heads and queasy stomachs. The Company would not be forgotten quickly, and from this first contact with the outside world, the lads from Lan Taria had made stronger ties than they could ever have imagined at the time.
As for Turion, he had handed Fel’annár a sealed letter which he was to deliver personally to Lieutenant Lainon, their next commanding officer, only this time they would be in the city barracks, close to the heart of Thargodén’s realm. “You take it, Fel’annár. Your, peculiar looks make you the best choice,” he had said dismissively. Fel’annár had frowned but Turion said no more, sending them off with a wave of his hand, as if he were happy to be rid of them.
Turion knew he would see the boy again, indeed he would make a point of following up on his find for he was sure there was the promise of command in this one.
That had been yesterday and now, as they rode through the outer settlements, ever closer to the city centre, they spoke excitedly to each other, their hearts hammering in their chests and their eyes bright with the thrill of adventure once more, only this time they did not walk blindly into the unknown and the thought was refreshing.
“So this, Lieutenant Lainon is to be our commanding officer,” said Ramien quite unnecessarily as his eyes danced over the buildings they passed and the ever-increasing number of people that walked this way and that.
“His name is not Alpine, I believe,” pondered Idernon, “yet neither have I heard it in our lands, and he would not be Pelagic, for they do not easily dwell where the sea cannot be admired.”
“Ari’atór, then?” asked Fel’annár, the whites of his eyes momentarily visible.
The three friends shared a worried glance, for the Ari’atór were feared, even amongst the immortals, in part because there were so few of them, but also because their aspect was so very different from the Alpine, Pelagic or Silvan races, and if this was indeed an Ari’atór, why had he not taken the vow and left to protect Valley, as would be expected of him as a warrior?
“If we are right, I wonder why this Lainon is here, a lieutenant in the training barracks and not with his brothers in Valley, or serving as Spirit Herder,” mused the Wise Elf.
“Aren’t we rushing ahead of ourselves?” asked Ramien. “He may not be Ari’atór, and even if he is, maybe he was injured and is no longer fit for active duty in Valley.”
“Perhaps it is as simple as that,” admitted Fel’annár with a nod; “Ramien, ever the practical one, the voice of common sense,” he added with a smile as they pressed on, all thoughts of the feared yet revered Ari’atór moving to the back of their minds for the moment—not forgotten, but merely postponed for truth be told, there was just too much to admire for eyes as young and inexperienced as theirs. There were buildings on the ground and talans in the trees. There were paths everywhere and people – so many people and so many colours.
“Well, Ari’atór or no, one thing is certain. We are now in the lands of the High-born—rich Silvan lords and merchants, Alpine councillors and legislators, wise healers and physics, famous musicians . . .” said Idernon with a flourish of his hand, before he was cut off by Fel’annár.
“And the most tantalizing lads and lasses!!” he said merrily.
“And that yes,” smirked Idernon, casting a mischievous glance at Ramien and then Fel’annár.
“And weapons training!” added the Wall of Stone. “At last!”
“Aye. At last,” echoed Fel’annár, for he above all of them, yearned to put himself to the test. He had only ever measured himself with his two childhood friends, and then those of his village. On that scale, he had nothing to learn, but here, in the city, where all the immortal races resided, where Lords and Ladies, lieutenants and even captains trained before riding out to defend the northern reaches, this was an entirely different matter. Here he would learn, he was sure of it.
The three friends soon fell into contemplative silence, for there was so much to think about, and the more they thought, the more butterflies danced and fluttered in their empty stomachs.
It was Fel’annár who broke that silence though, his gasp long and quite involuntarily, for before their eyes, not too distant on the horizon, stood Thargoden’s city fortress, his seat of power.
Mighty pillars and spires of stone rose to the very heavens, all nestled together, harmonious despite their stark differences. Some towered over others, long and pointed while others were curved and irregular. There were colourful domes that gleamed in the early afternoon sun, and covered platforms seemed to hang precariously off the side of the rock into which the structure was built. It was strangely alien amidst this forest landscape, a massive, sprawling structure that stood arrogantly, defiantly amidst the trees of Ea Uaré.
Fel’annár suddenly wanted to be closer, to see the detail he knew stood upon the balustrades, that wound around the spires and decorated the mighty halls of carved rock and worked wood. He had seen it all in his books, the ornate gardens and the clever fountains. Oh, but the smells and the colours, the hustle and bustle of city life—lords and ladies decked in finery, warriors clad in skilfully-wrought armour. It was a strange thing though, he mused, for the architecture was artificial, so unlike the Silvan abodes of the Deep Forest that strove to emulate nature, sought to mimic its surroundings. This structure seemed designed to achieve the opposite yet even so, the trees embraced it, enclosed it in their protective boughs—so like the Alpines themselves, mused Fel’annár—welcome visitors. But what did the Alpines give back? he asked himself. What did they do to give thanks for their acceptance? The answer was not clear to Fel’annár at all.
He heaved a deep breath and his horse moved beneath him, as if impatient to be gone. He yearned to see it all but that was not meant to be, not yet. It was a cruel temptation that mocked them from afar; recruits did not reside there, he thought, not Sivan ones at least.
They sat for a while longer and marvelled at the extraordinary sight of Thargodén’s city fortress, at a loss for words until common sense dictated they move, for they were surely close to their destination and it would not do to be caught in the dark.
Soon they were forced to ride single file to make way for the traffic; people, horses, carts loaded with merchandise, bound for the city and the king’s table no doubt.
A distant shout demanded the road be cleared and the three recruits pulled over, watching in wide-eyed alarm as ten warriors thundered by in single file, bodies hunched over the reins, legs bouncing off the sides of their heaving steeds. They were dusty and bloodied, and two horses bore more than one rider.
“Wounded, from the North-east I would say,” murmured Idernon, his sharp eyes finding the insignia on their leader’s cloak as it billowed behind him.
Soon the warriors were gone, bound for the fortress, leaving in their wake a cloud of grey dust that lingered silently over the path as if it mourned their passing. Slowly, the people took to the road once more, quiet and sad and the din that had prevailed before was now muted and sparing.
It was the first time they had seen real evidence of the conflict and Fel’annár sat in quiet contemplation. There was a sad melody in his head, and a weight in his heart for these were a brave people, colourful and different, harmonious here amongst the workers and foresters and his head turned back to the distant fortress, knowing that it was different there, that many of these simple people would be frowned upon, scorned and mocked should they walk the halls of that place of power. How cruel, he thought, ho
w utterly senseless. The passing of the North-eastern patrol had been over in seconds, but the impression it left on Fel’annár would linger always, for they had, quite unwittingly, shown Fel’annár exactly why he wanted to be a warrior, a captain. It was not about fighting Sand Lords and Deviants, it was about these people, their joy, their wish to live in this colourful harmony.
Following Turion’s instructions, they turned at the market square, barely resisting the urge to dismount and run wild amidst the stalls of rich cloth, baubles and hot snacks. So many things to buy and no money to do so—thought Fel’annár, laughing at himself and his puerile ways but he could not help it, and even as they rounded the corner, his head was the last thing to turn to the fore.
“Bumpkin,” said Idernon with a sly smile even though his own eyes twinkled in excitement, for he had spotted a book stall, where two elves sat and debated, or so it seemed to the Wise Warrior. He would return there, should he be given leave.
At the end of this path, they forked left and finally, their horses stood before the large, grey stone building that would be their home for who knew how many months. Just like their previous destination, it was bare and solemn in comparison to the distant fortress city and the teeming market they had just left. Yet it was still impressive in its enormity, the sheer magnitude of it stealing their breath for a moment.
Fel’annár glanced sideways, first at Idernon and then at Ramien, and with a steadying nod, they spurred their horses on until the thud of hooves became a clatter and they entered the open gates, their eyes following the high stone arch that floated above them until they were past it.
The courtyard was massive, closed in on two sides by buildings of varying shapes and sizes. Some were three or four floors high, while others were ground floor studies, for the commanders perhaps. There was a healing hall off to one side, something Fel’annár could immediately tell, for the smell that emanated from that place reminded him of scraped knees back home. He wondered what the other, longer buildings were for and he thought perhaps they would be store rooms—supplies for outgoing patrols or even armouries.