Path of a Novice

by R K Lander

  An eagle’s call drew his attention for a moment, his frosty grey eyes finding it as it soared higher upon the warm air. Envy, deep and bitter cut through his icy veil, for even though it was mortal, still, he would have traded his own, immortal existence right there and then, had he been given the choice.

  But it was all gone and in one, slow and purposeful blink, the coldness was back in his eyes, the mind behind them sharp and in the present once more for he was no longer alone.

  “My Lord,” came the flat voice of his Crown Prince, Rinon.

  “Speak,” was all the king could find within himself to say.

  “The Western Patrol is approaching; they have urgent news from the North.”

  “I will be along shortly.”

  “My king,” continued the Crown Prince, his expression sharpening, lip curling slightly—he was angry. “Captain Darón is dead.”

  Thargodén’s eyes closed and he breathed deeply. Another of his captains gone, one he had known well. “Sand Lords?” he asked quietly.

  “Deviants!” hissed the Crown Prince, his jaw working furiously, cold eyes flashing in barely-controlled wrath, eyes that had turned on the king so many times in the past.

  The king allowed his eyes to travel over the livid face, one so much like his own, but where Rinon was a fascinating contrast of fire and ice, he was apathy and water, ever running away, endlessly seeking to transcend the borders of its prison, one that had enclosed Thargodén the day he had lost everything, the day she had gone.

  ***

  The following day, the body of Captain Darón was sent off into the evening breeze amidst the sad songs of the Sprit Singers. The citizens flocked to the pyre and mourned the loss of another member of the revered Inner Circle, a servant of Ea Uaré. His family was inconsolable, even when the king approached them and placed an honour stone in the shaking hands of Darón’s wife; she would wear it in her hair if she so chose to. Thargodén though, remained aloof and Rinon clenched his jaw at his father’s apparent lack of emotion, while Handir was too busy fighting with his own emotions to notice anything at all.

  They had done this many times of late, and where Rinon was livid, ready to take up his sword and charge into the fray, Handir analysed and wondered what had to change in the council chambers in order to fight back this escalation, get the Alpine lords back on the same side as the Silvans with regards to how the battle should be fought, a task that was becoming more and more improbable with every failed council meeting.

  It was Band’orán, his great uncle, brother of the mighty Or’Talán, first king of Ea Uaré; he was the instigator, the mastermind behind the Alpine purists. While the king, his nephew, stood in the middle. On the one hand, Band’orán called for the Silvan foresters to pull back, closer to the fortress and safety, while on the other, the Silvans refused to leave. Their homes were there, not in the fortress. It was the army’s duty to make their lands safe, not pull them back and lose ground, forsake the trees that harboured them – it was absurd; incomprehensible to the mind of a Silvan.

  ***

  “I have spoken to General Huren and Commander General Pan’assár regarding the early promotion of our better recruits,” said Rinon later that day as they sat in the royal chambers at the Fortress.

  “And,” prompted the king monotonously.

  “They agree. They will make an estimate of the numbers attainable and report to me in two days’ time. From there, they can be ready to ride out in a week.”

  Thargodén turned in a rustle of fine cloth, his eyes latching on to the sharp face of his eldest son.

  “And the training campaign?” asked Thargodén after a moment.

  “Well so far,” replied Rinon with what seemed to be genuine interest. “We have received one hundred Silvan boys from the deeper villages; they are half-way through their preliminary training and Lieutenant Lainon is reported to have some promising individuals amongst them.”

  “Very well. Secure those villages, else we lose the harvest for the entire year,” murmured the king calmly.

  Rinon sat at the table with his arms folded, thinking that his father would continue, but he remained silent.

  “We ride in ten days. I see no difficulty; the groups currently penetrating the North-western border are small and apparently uncoordinated.”

  “Do not underestimate them—they learn,” warned the king quietly.

  “I do know, my Lord. Rest assured it will be done,” replied Rinon. And there it was, that note of irritation and sarcasm, not enough to constitute a lack of respect, but sufficient to remind Thargodén of his son’s disdain.

  “Thank you, Rinon,” he said simply, turning his back on his implacable warrior son who would not forgive him, and then facing the window and the Evergreen Wood once more, for only there did the king find some semblance of peace, a place where he was not judged.

  Rinon was a good warrior, a leader and a duteous prince. Yet he was not ready for the throne. He was volatile and Thargodén was unsure of his mind-set with regards to Band’orán. He had fulfilled many of Thargodén’s expectations yet still, in all things regarding his father the boy had no heart. But then what had he expected?

  He was his father’s son.

  ***

  Fel’annár sat cross-legged amongst the trees of a small copse that lay behind the barracks. Sliding a whetting stone over the sharp edge of his broad sword, he inspected his work carefully before laying it down beside him and taking up his sabre. Sharpening the shorter blade, he faltered as a pang of anxiety washed over him and he scowled, for his own musings had not merited such a reaction, indeed he had been thinking of nothing at all.

  It was not the first time such a thing had happened to Fel’annár recently and he wondered at the reason for it. It soon passed though, as suddenly as it had hit him and he shook himself, his fingers twirling his whetting stone obsessively. Perhaps he was just fretting too much about tomorrow. He had learned to avoid attention and it had served him well, until Borhen had forced him to show a little of his skill.

  All that would need to change now, for weapons training began tomorrow. They would be put to the test and then put into skill categories. But twenty of the better recruits would be selected by the lieutenants of the ten forest quadrants; these recruits would be promoted to Novice Warrior and sent away to serve; Fel’annár had every intention of being chosen.

  He was so young, so inexperienced, in fact he had never even seen an elven warrior fight in battle, had never seen a Sand Lord and much less a live Deviant! Another pang of anxiety squeezed his guts at the sudden thought of making a fool of himself. He had held back all this time, hidden his skill in order to survive, to live a normal life and not be singled out. It had got him this far but now, his strategy must change – it was the only way he could get on that list.

  It would come at a price, he knew. The questions would start again, the mockery and the disdain, they would laugh at his dreams and his wish to be counted amongst the Silvans. Anonymity had lent him a modicum of peace, and now, notoriety would surely bring him strife, but his goals were more important than his feelings. He had not understood that as a child.

  A deep breath and a long, slow stroke of the whetting stone and he peered once more at the edge, the shiny metal above and the reflection of his own eyes. How would he explain? How would they react if he were to use his aerial techniques? Or if he were to use what he had learnt of the Fell Dance? He had dredged it all up from the books he had read and the treatise he had studied as an adolescent. He had tried it and then mixed it all up, and with time came a purge of what worked, what didn’t, what might. Indeed, he was untried with it, even on the training field – it was all theory and but cursory practice he had kept to himself.

  Lieutenant Turion’s face popped into his head and his hand stilled half way down his sabre.

  ‘Why do you hide what you know?’


  Fel’annár had wanted to tell him then, that he hid it because it would bring suffering. It would bring mockery and alienate him from his people. All he had ever wanted was to belong and to the mind of a child, that meant being like the rest, even if he looked different.

  But he was a child no more; this was a pivotal moment there was no going back on. He would make the sacrifice, expose himself to the mercy of others, free himself of his past. He would hide no more.

  Pushing himself to his feet, he slid his blades into the harness on his back and walked back to the barracks, his mind set, his path clear but the dissonance brushed upon his mind once more, leaving him with a lingering sense of foreboding he simply could not shake.

  ***

  Two hours after dawn of the following day, the sound of thwacking arrows and the steely clang of metal resonated around the training fields. The piercing voices of instructors went up as they organized the recruits, while lieutenants and veteran warriors from every active patrol of Ea Uaré flocked to the side-lines, talking excitedly amongst themselves. They had lost warriors, some of them master archers and swordsmen – they needed replacing and now was the time to do it – only now, those veteran fighters would be replaced with novice warriors. It was surely a sign that something had to change, for should they continue with their current strategies, it was only a matter of time before they were forced back, swept South and to the sea.

  The recruits too, were excited, for their grand day had finally come and they would now get to show their abilities, if indeed they had any. Their tutors placed them into skill groups, knowing that the Forest’s lieutenants looked on, eager to complete their outbound patrols. Twenty of these boys would see action before the month was through, kill their first Deviant or Sand Lord and the thought was as exhilarating as it was terrifying. They were young and impressionable, still too green to bother worrying about where they would go, only that they should go. They all wanted this, and the only way to achieve it was to show the lieutenants what they were capable of.

  The Company was no exception and when Fel’annár had told them of his intentions to finally show his skill, Ramien had smirked but Idernon had suggested caution. Fel’annár wondered at the Wise Warrior’s reaction for he had expected more encouragement from his friend. Later though, he wondered if it was because Idernon feared being separated—that The Company would be parted even before it had truly begun. Ramien and Idernon were certainly well above the average as recruits, but what about these novice warriors? They had been in weapons training for months, was The Company any better than they were?

  His mind focused on the present once more, as the sharp voice of his instructor called his name.

  “Fel’annár, take Hanor’s place on the archery field. Shoot a precision round, and then a speed round. Understood?”

  “Yes Sir!” he answered, smiling as the other Silvan recruits called out their encouragement and the instructor rolled his eyes.

  The lieutenants perched on the fences or leant against them, critical eyes and folded arms. Beside them, their Master Archers and Blade Masters counselled them on who to watch more carefully.

  There was rivalry aplenty, some of it healthy, but for others it was a matter of pride of the misplaced kind. Some of the Alpine warriors and lieutenants searched the recruits for light hair, disregarding the darker-haired Silvans while others could not be bothered with such nonsense.

  Yet it was not only the Alpines that showed their racial preferences—the Silvan veterans did the same, their eyes latching onto the browns and auburns of the Deep Forest where they said the best archers came from. Wagers though, were being placed by Alpines and Silvans, for in this one thing at least, they were alike.

  Lainon stood with his arms folded, watching as the arrows flew, some true and others atrociously astray, while one ear was turned to the tried and tested warriors standing around him.

  “ . . . most of them Silvan, except for Borhen and, what’s his name?” Jeering began amongst them at the mention of Borhen, albeit these lieutenants were mostly Alpine themselves. Lainon smirked; that trouble maker would be a thorn in the backside of any patrol captain, and they all knew it. Yet what to do with him? for much to Lainon’s disgust, he knew the child’s lordly father would have seen to it that his son be chosen for early promotion to warrior-hood; it was a foregone conclusion.

  “Look at that!” gasped one Alpine lieutenant by the name of Sar’pén, his arm straight out in front of him, pointing to one of the five elves currently on the archery field. “Look at his stance!” he shouted in disbelief.

  “Yes, yes I see it. It is . . . he’s Alpine,” said another in surprise.

  ‘Thwack,’ and the arrow sailed true, into the very centre of the target, embedding itself up to the base of its metal tip.

  The group of warriors dropped from the fences as one, standing tall now as they craned their necks to get a better look at the elf with the perfect stance.

  ‘Thwack,’ another arrow split centre and Fel’annár was already reaching for another projectile. He fired three more, taking careful aim, unaware of the silence that had descended around him. Nobody spoke while he fired and when it was over, one warrior murmured quietly to the rest.

  “That was precision. Let’s see how the boy fires at speed,” said Sar’pén, his eyes never leaving the silvery blond recruit he was sure was Alpine. The Silvan warriors however, scowled for although they could not deny the boy’s skill, it irked them that the best archer on the field was an Alpine. They enjoyed so few privileges, and to have their status as master archers called to question was nothing short of irritating.

  They talked among themselves for a while, before falling into silence as Fel’annár took up his stance once more, his right hand flexing, left shoulder rolling back.

  It happened so fast they were left with their mouths slack and their eyes wide, for this—boy—this, green child had fired so fast they had barely been able to follow his moves, and as their eyes travelled now to the target, they found five quivering arrows, deeply embedded at dead centre.

  Sar’pén turned to the rest, eyes as round as his mouth before bellowing out his claim on the recruit. “He is mine!”

  The claim was promptly contested by Sar’pén’s colleagues who waved their arms and shouted even louder. The Silvan warriors scowled at their commanders as the noise around them exploded into a great din, as they fought between themselves.

  “Sar’pén, you lost Abhen, your master swordsman, you already have some of the best archers—you do not need another!” shouted a veteran Silvan, but the Alpine lieutenant was having nothing of it and the argument continued.

  Lainon smiled in satisfaction. He had never seen Fel’annár shoot like that, even though he had known the boy had been holding himself back. Fel’annár had been sharp, for he had chosen the best moment to draw attention to himself. He smiled again, but this time not in satisfaction but in fond memory, because truth be told, Fel’annár was so much like he himself as a child. Different, precocious, driven by some inexplicable goal.

  The archery concluded and the avid audience all but ran to the next area, where blade work would now begin. The recruits had been organised into five groups of twenty. Each elf was then paired off. The rules were simple; use your blades to defeat your opponent. Those who lost would leave the field and those that won would find others without partners, until there were none left. It was a test of skill with any weapon available, but also one of endurance.

  Lainon’s eyes found Fel’annár, watching as he was assigned a different group to his two inseparable friends. ‘Good’, he thought to himself. All three would have their chances at promotion, it seemed.

  The first round lasted forty minutes, at the end of which only one Alpine lad was left standing, panting and sweating as the onlookers exchanged coins and celebrated their winnings.

  Fel’annár’s group would take th
e field now, and every single elf watched from the side-lines as the group of boys stood before their respective partners.

  With a fierce cry from their instructor, the recruits began their sparring, and Sar’pén and his veteran Alpine archer pushed their way to the front once more, determined to secure the recruit for their own patrol. Beside them, a Silvan warrior was pointing at Fel’annár as he sailed through his first bout.

  “That is The Silvan,” he said to a warrior beside him. Sar’pén scowled at the ridiculous comment, before turning back to the recruits. Shouts and grunts and cheers echoed around them as some were defeated, leaving progressively fewer opponents. Fel’annár won his bouts in mere seconds and was sometimes at a loss as to who else to confront, often having to wait until a recruit won his own bout and then discreetly allowing him some moments to catch his breath.

  Lainon knew they were no match for him. He had known he would be good, just as he had on the archery field, but not even the Ari’atór could begin to imagine what would happen in just a few minute’s time, could never have predicted just what it was that his friend Turion had found. A gasp from the crowd focused Lainon’s mind and his eyes sharpened on Turion’s find and his latest opponent.

  A strapping Silvan lad stood before Fel’annár, an axe in one hand and a broad sword in the other. There was a challenge on his dirt-smudged face and Fel’annár’s head cocked to one side. With his long sword in one hand, he slowly reached back over his shoulder and unsheathed a sabre. He stood now, a blade in each hand, and then he smiled at his opponent.

  Taking pause, Fel’annár presented both blades, widening his stance and stretching his back leg so far behind him his shin grazed the ground. The short sword was swivelled skilfully back over the blond head and then pointed at the now wide-eyed Silvan. As he was, Fel’annár reminded Lainon of a desert scorpion and suddenly pitied the strapping Silvan lad. As it was, the boy stood puzzled. That quickly changed though, as The Silvan moved forward, but instead of facing his opponent for the attack, he spun around and backed into him, the tip of his long sword touching the tunic of the open-mouthed recruit, just over his heart. He had never even moved.