by R K Lander
So absorbed was the Ari in his own inner turmoil that he visibly flinched when Fer’dán abruptly rose from the ground, standing tall, his body as tight as his bow string, his head tilted upwards as if he listened. But Lainon had no time to wonder, for the early afternoon silence was suddenly shattered as a cry from a distant guard cleaved the grieving silence.
The sound echoed eerily around the glade and for a moment all seemed to freeze, nothing seemed to move at all until the echo dissipated and understanding dawned upon them.
Someone approached.
Seconds later, the insistent call of a sparrow hawk had the elves slowly rising to their feet, and as a brambling joined the sparrow hawk’s song, the villagers and the warriors of the Western patrol lifted their faces to the soft breeze. Hair of dark brown and auburn, dark blond and black lifted softly as the wind played with the silky strands, as if it teased them or perhaps it soothed them.
The sparrow hawk and the brambling made way for others to join their melody and a chaffinch, a house martin and a siskin joined the harmony, adding deeper tones and trills. The Silvan foresters smiled into the weak winter sun and then lifted their own bird calls to join the woodland orchestra—woodpecker and spotted flycatcher, warbler and jay . . . it was frantic and it was utterly beautiful, and tears pooled in their eyes for bird and elf were rejoicing in song—this was not the approach of an enemy, it was a welcome, a solemn hail, in the purest of Silvan ways.
Placing one booted foot before the other, slow and tentative at first, Lainon inched forward, his body leaning from one side to the other, as if the movement would help him to discover the identity of what approached from the thick forest belt ahead.
The symphony suddenly ended and the thick, tense silence was back, warriors and villagers left standing amidst the echo of their ancient melody.
From the mist of the trees, an outline became visible, a form slowly defining itself. A warrior burdened both front and back and beside him, a shorter figure, hunched over and covered head to foot in a cloak that was too long for him.
There was no mistaking the tall, powerful warrior that was their novice and Lainon was striding now, his long legs propelling him so fast he broke into a run, bounding forwards, one word flying from his lips, a hoarse cry of utter relief that rent the air and set their skin to prickling.
“Fel’annár!”
An overwhelming sense of gratefulness infused Lainon and he smiled as he ran. ‘Aria be praised, not dead, not dead!’ he rejoiced.
“Hwindo!” shouted the warriors. “Hwind’atór!” they cried as their fists punched the air above them, sending the lingering smoke spiralling away and then running after their lieutenant.
The villagers too, moved forward although more cautiously at first, and even Alféna slowly stood, her eyes focusing once more on the world around her.
“Eloran?” she called softly, her eyes still blank but as she slowly began to walk with the villagers, her voice rose and her eyes leapt to life as she realised her son was staggering towards her, barely held up by the warrior at his side.
“Eloran?! she called, still unsure of what she knew was true but dare not believe and then she was running, and then sprinting as she shouted the names of her children, arms held out before her. It was enough for the spell to be broken and they all rushed forward, hair streaming behind them like standards on a dawn of victory.
Lainon skidded to a halt, his leather skirts still fanning around his trembling knees, only to hesitate as his eyes registered what it was that stood before him, not because he did not recognise the young novice, the fledgling warrior or the orphaned child whose mother had died, the boy who was yet to meet his father. A surge of pure emotion travelled the length of Lainon’s body and then lodged itself at the back of his throat and his eyes pooled at what his mind was beginning to recognise. Glancing sideways for a brief instant, he found Narosén staring straight right back at him, as if he too, was seeing something he had never seen before—as if he understood.
The children had been wrapped in cloths, their faces almost completely covered except for their red-rimmed eyes that nevertheless sparked with life. Alféna shrieked as she pushed roughly through the gathered crowd and engulfed Eloran in a bone-crushing embrace. He hugged her back timidly, too tired to make the effort and a healer stepped forward and promptly hoisted the boy into his arms and away to the Village Hall. Alféna watched them, and then turned to Fel’annár slowly, her eyes following the clever harness the warrior had fashioned to carry her children. They sat huddled inside, their heads poking over the top, hair and skin completely grey but alive.
Tears streamed down her face and she wrenched her eyes from her children to the warrior who simply stood and stared back at her. Her eyes danced over his dusty face and one, shaking hand reached out to cup his filthy cheek.
“I knew you would come back.”
Fel’annár did not react though, and Alféna joined Lainon’s attempts to loosen the cloth harness which had been tied so tight that it took their best efforts to loosen the knots. Eventually though, they came away and the children were freed and with one, last lingering gaze upon their saviour, Alféna and the children were gone.
Freed now of his burden, Fel’annár sank to his knees and bowed his head in utter exhaustion, his once glorious mane of silver blond hair flopping heavily over his chest and covering part of his face. Lainon sank down next to him, his eyes moving to Fel’annár’s burnt hands, his ripped tunic and ruined shirt below. Turion was removing his weapons harness and quiver, noticing he had no arrows left, but still, the novice did not move at all.
“Fel’annár?” called Turion as he worked.
Fel’annár lifted his gaze, as if his head weighed a thousand boulders, his red-rimmed eyes moving slowly, as if they had stuck to his eyelids and his breathing too shallow, too fast. The healer was back and knelt before the barely responsive warrior, peering into his eyes.
“Fel’annár—can you hear me?” he asked. The novice opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a painful rasping sound that rapidly turned into a fit of dry coughing that sent him to his hands and knees in misery.
Gesturing for the warriors to bring him in, Fel’annár lifted his hand and then grasped the captain’s tunic as if it were a lifeline. With a quiet rush of air, his urgent words were just loud enough for Turion to hear.
“Sand Lords, fifty, from the North-eastern river marching South-west. Half a day . . .”
Turion’s eyes bulged as he realised just what lay that way—Sen’uár—and then a terrible light came into them. His mind made up in an instant, he whirled around to meet Lainon and the warriors.
“Kit up, we move in thirty minutes.”
Lainon’s head whipped to the captain, and then to Fel’annár and the healer.
“Do what you can, my friend,” said Turion to the healer. “Make him ready to fight for the odds are dire . . . we have no choice,” he whispered.
***
Angon, Fer’dán and the Silvan healer had half dragged Fel’annár to the river where he now sat enduring the painful treatment he was subjected to. He had burned himself but the worst part was his throat and chest. He could not speak for he would cough and not stop until he wanted to wretch, his throat burning so much it sent tears to his eyes. And so, he remained silent, and allowed himself to be cleansed and bandaged. They would have bathed him had there been time, but thirty minutes was all they had.
“Stay close to us, Hwindo—we will watch your back,” said Angon as he worked. “You are not fit for this but fifty Sand Lords are a challenge for one patrol—we need you, however much it pains me we cannot tuck you into a bed and sing you to sleep,” he chuckled nervously, his eyes briefly dancing over Fer’dán, who scowled as he tied Fel’annár’s wet hair upon his head.
“Fel’annár,” called Angon, taking the novice by the shoulders and turning to fac
e him. “Can you truly do this?” he whispered.
“I must,” whispered the novice. “Water—and food,” he added encouragingly. The truth was that his body needed to sleep but his mind was screaming at him to move. He would not be responsible for holding up the patrol when Sand Lords were so close. Pushing himself up, he stood a little shakily and made his way to the bank, accepting the towels that were handed him. They watched as he dried himself and then sat to tug on his boots, wincing as he pulled them over his reddened feet.
Now, realised Fel’annár—it was now that all his training would be needed. His endurance and his strength, his capacity to concentrate, centre himself. There were so many things he needed to remember and think upon. The strange thoughts at the pump, Alféna’s eyes, how he had found the tree—the tree—and Eloran’s strange reaction to him. But no, none of that mattered now. He would not think of those things—he would not think of his body’s needs. He would block it all out and see only what he needed to see; the Sand Lords . . .
Narosén was beside him then, a bowl of food in his hands. “Eat and drink, you still have a few minutes,” said the Spirit Herder, and Fel’annár nodded, taking the bowl and eating as quickly as he could, all the while his eyes fixed on Turion and Lainon some distance away.
The stew was good but swallowing was painful and Narosén pressed his honey nectar into his hands. “Drink,” he ordered.
“Muster!” came Lainon’s voice of command, and the warriors spared one last, sympathetic glance at Fel’annár, who was now dressed and armed, his hair still dripping wet and his face pale and pinched with pain. They longed for the story the boy would tell of the fire, but there was no time—later, they said to themselves, when all was done and they could rest once more.
“Lorthil,” said Turion as he adjusted his harness. “Set a guard—if anything approaches that is not us, evacuate your people,” he said meaningfully. “Move South-east—we will find you.”
Lorthil nodded and then bowed to the captain respectfully. “Aria lend you speed, and a steady hand.”
The Western Patrol moved out of Sen’oléi in single file, under the sorrowful, respectful gaze of the villagers and when Fel’annár passed them their hands reached out to brush over his cloak. Narosén had tied a flask of his nectar to the boy’s weapons belt; he had done all he could and so he watched as the novice passed by, barely resisting the urge to pull him back, stop him from walking into what seemed like certain death. He could not lose Fel’annár—the Silvan people needed him—he was not expendable.
‘Aria protect him’ he whispered. ‘His destiny is yet before him.’
***
They moved through the forest in single file, following the track they had found soon after leaving Sen’oléi. The Sand Lords had moved fast and Turion set a brisk pace. Angon and Fer’dán walked behind Fel’annár, their eyes as much on him as their surroundings, and Lainon would often turn back to check on their novice.
But Fel’annár was oblivious to their attention, for his mind was centred on healing his body as much as it could, blocking his thoughts, eliminating emotion and pain. They needed him and he would not fail them now. With a deep breath, he reached out and pulled on Lainon’s cloak and then whispered as loud as he dared.
“The forest is uneasy. Further West,” he pointed, and then cleared his throat as it spasmed and threatened to send him into another bout of coughing. He remembered Narosén’s honey nectar and reached for the bladder, drinking deeply.
Lainon watched him for a moment, a sinking feeling slamming into him. “Sen’uár …” he murmured and then repeated louder in Turion’s direction. “We may be too late . . .” Whipping his head back to Fel’annár he asked urgently, “How far?”
“A few hours at most,” he whispered back, his eyes sad, and Lainon closed his eyes in dread. With a cock of his head, he gestured for Fer’dán to scout ahead. He was back too soon and the news was dire.
“Their track is clear. We are on route to engage, close to or in Sen’uár,” said Fer’dán urgently, his eyes momentarily slipping to Fel’annár. “Captain,” he added, “their group seems to be carrying wounded.”
Turion turned questioning eyes on his novice. Fel’annár shrugged and then whispered. “There was an incident,” he trailed off and Turion stared back at him, tucking away the comment for later; it was not the time for stories.
The forest was even quieter now and Lainon repressed a shiver. It was a tense silence, the kind that pre-empted storms and he checked the patrol behind him yet again, before moving to Turion’s shoulder. “They are close,” he murmured.
“Full alert, Lainon,” warned the captain.
Nodding briskly, he turned back to the warriors, resorting to hand signals now. Silence was paramount and Fel’annár reached for his honey nectar again, ruthlessly quelling the urge to cough. Lainon’s eyes danced over him yet again, and then resumed his place at the fore. Angon’s heavy hand clapped the novice on the shoulder, his silent promise to watch his back renewed and Fel’annár allowed himself a soft smile.
Not even the birds sang and as the minutes passed the warriors changed their step, no longer masking themselves as they drew closer to the outskirts of Sen’uár. They needed to engage the enemy before they reached the village, but they were already so close and still, no Sand Lords.
“Fel’annár,” whispered Turion. “Anything?”
The novice closed his eyes and tipped his head upwards, trying desperately to understand what it was he was feeling, putting it into the only words that occurred to him at the time.
“Grief—I feel grief,” he rasped, his eyes suddenly round and full of unshed tears, some brutal onslaught of raw emotion ripping through him.
“We are too late,” said Turion with a sinking feeling and when he looked up once more, there was murderous intent in his flashing, Alpine eyes. There was no more need for silence and with a mighty call to battle, Turion drew his sword.
“We run!” he shouted, and the patrol drew their bows and unsheathed their blades as they jogged behind him. Soon, the sounds of battle began to permeate the silence, distant screams, the scraping of metal, the bellow of livestock and whinnying horses. Their wrath spurred them on even faster, until they ran into a thinner part of the forest and it was here that they came across the first terrified civilians who ran chaotically towards them, unsure of where to go as they clutched their wide-eyed children, screaming and shouting for lost family and friends. Turion gestured frantically at them to run in the direction the patrol had emerged from. Women, men and children dashed past them as the warriors sprinted forward, their faces set and their steel flashing, until the thwack of elven arrows heralded the first sighting of Sand Lords.
Smoke billowed into the air as thatched roofs were engulfed and the people stumbled out of their homes, choking and crying as they desperately searched for a way out, but the Sand Lords were everywhere, their black cloaks billowing in the winds of battle like the leathery wings of black bats grappling for prey. They descended upon the Silvans with their jewelled swords and senseless cries of fury, severing limbs and slitting throats, sending a frenzy of terror throughout the disorientated villagers.
Some had no time to react as they were run through, while others ran too slowly and were taken from behind, gloved hands twisting their heads mercilessly with a sickening crack of bone.
Fel’annár saw it all through hazy eyes as he fired, again and again until there were no more arrows and he pulled his long sword in one hand and sabre in the other. He saw them fall, saw the women die such tragic deaths, their panicked children reach even to the enemy for comfort, only to be cruelly slaughtered. He saw it all and he fought—the battle before his eyes and the other in his mind; do not think—do not feel.
Screeches and screams mixed with the sound of scraping metal and the thud of arrowheads imbedding in flesh. A roar of victory from the Sand Lords surel
y meant a warrior had gone down.
With a ruthless flash of metal, Turion slit another Sand Lord’s throat, his lip curling in disgust and then chanced a glance at Fel’annár who was facing off with two cloaked devils that twirled their scimitars deftly in their hands. The novice simply held his stance and watched them, long sword poised strangely over his head, and although Turion wanted to watch, he had his own foes to face. Moving before his next victim, he bore down on the black demon in utter fury, until a panicked cry escaped the strange being and Turion moved in, thrusting his sword right through his opponent’s chest, the squish of flesh and organs leaving no doubt in the captain’s mind that he was dead.
Fel’annár’s blades whirled and swivelled, sliced and parried. There was no confusion, no anxiety even though the colours were back. His mind was sharp and in control, all its skill centred on his body and his senses, despite the death and carnage, the suffering of his kin and of the trees. He felt none of this, did not hear the scream of frantic mothers or the desperate wails of injured civilians, he did not feel the weight in his chest or the pain in his throat. Duck, bend, flex; push, cut, slash and stab. Flip backwards, somersault forwards, side twist and parry; kill, kill, kill.
He could feel the precision of his movements, his mind anticipating each and every one of his opponent’s moves, killing them all before they could even approach him. They were too slow and he was too fast; not even the long cut on his upper-arm had brought him out of his protected place. He had not felt it, it had not hurt, it was not important.