Road of a Warrior

by R K Lander

  Lainon would be there, protecting Prince Handir, and the thought of the lieutenant he had served under as a novice warrior brought a soft smile to his face, one that lingered as he turned back to the fire and gathered all the cups he could find. Adding aromatic herbs from a pouch, he ladled in hot water and left the tea to steep while he shared out the remains of last night’s catch. By the time the warriors stirred, breakfast was ready.

  Idernon, Ramien, and Carodel clapped Fel’annár on the shoulder as they sank down beside him, rubbing their eyes and smoothing down their ruffled hair. It had been this way since the outset of their journey, four of the five members of The Company at their fire, alone. Today, though, two Silvan warriors shuffled towards them. They nodded briefly then moved to the fire to warm their hands. Fel’annár watched them curiously before offering them tea, which they accepted with a silent nod of thanks.

  No one had shown the slightest interest in them so far. Indeed, the only attention they had received had been distrustful stares from the Alpines and the odd, curious glance from a Silvan. Perhaps the Deviant incident from the day before had changed things. He tried to recall whether these two had fought alongside them, and he was so absorbed with his own thoughts that he was startled when a voice of authority spoke out directly above him. He looked up into the steady eyes of Lieutenant Galadan.

  “Fel’annár.”

  “Lieutenant.” He saluted as he stood to face his commanding officer.

  Galadan studied him for a few moments. “Good shot,” he said, nodding stiffly before striding away, back to the tents at the front of the caravan. It took Fel’annár a moment to realise what the lieutenant was referring to—yesterday he had shot a lumbering Deviant just before it could slice through Galadan’s forearm. He had not thought the lieutenant had realised.

  The two newcomers stared speculatively from across the fire as they sipped their tea. “I am Galdith,” said one, and at his side the other spoke. “I am Osír.”

  Fel’annár and The Company nodded at them. Then all was silent once more, wary gazes lingering.

  “You do not act like novices. Have you all seen battle?” asked Osír.

  “Of course,” replied Idernon smoothly. “We will not let you down.”

  “I do not mean skirmishes like the one we saw yesterday, novice. I mean battle—to the north of our own lands.”

  “We three have not been to the front lines, but Fel’annár here was at the Battle of Sen’uár, if that counts,” said Idernon. He visibly jumped when Galdith spat his tea.

  “What?” he hissed. “You were at Sen’uár?” He whispered now, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “You witnessed that slaughter?”

  Fel’annár’s skin prickled painfully. As much as he did not want to admit it, the memory of that battle had burned itself into his soul like a glowing brand, revisiting him in his moments of rest. “I was there, Galdith.”

  Galdith stared back at him with eyes that were far too bright, eyes that now travelled over Fel’annár’s silvery-blond locks to his green eyes that seemed to reflect a light that was not there.

  “You lost someone dear...” guessed Fel’annár as he sipped his tea, desperately trying to block the rush of sounds and images: shrieks of pain and terror, wailing mothers, a babe’s cold cheek against his breast.

  “I lost everything,” spat Galdith. Straightening, he blinked and turned away as Osír’s hand came to rest on his forearm.

  Fel’annár looked to the ground. He could feel soft hair tickling his chin, chubby hands frigid, dull, unseeing eyes in the greying face of a child who had yet to walk or talk. Fel’annár blinked and then closed his eyes in a desperate, futile attempt to block the misery, and it was Idernon’s hand that squeezed his shoulder.

  “Such sacrifices we make to serve our king, our land and yet our own villages are left to fend for themselves,” began Galdith, as if he spoke to himself. “Foresters, Spirit Herders, craftsmen, and farriers left to fight Deviants and Sand Lords, and all because we refuse the call of life in the city, refuse to live where the trees do not—as if we ever had any choice in the matter.”

  Fel’annár agreed. All Silvans did, but this was dangerous talk.

  Galdith’s eyes resumed their wandering dance over the strange elf that sat before him, as if he searched for something. Then his brown eyes widened in sudden understanding and snapped back to Fel’annár’s face. Osír scowled beside him.

  “You are The Silvan,” said Galdith. Not a question but a categorical claim. It was The Company’s turn to scowl.

  “I am sometimes called that,” answered Fel’annár warily, unsure now of the reaction his confession would garner him, his body involuntarily straightening as if preparing for a fight.

  Silence stretched between them, and Idernon observed Galdith closely while Ramien seemed ready to spring into action. Carodel simply watched in stoic interest.

  “You do not look Silvan,” said Galdith, his face completely straight, but Fel’annár quite unexpectedly smirked for he was suddenly reminded of Angon.

  “Is that why you did not introduce yourselves before now, why you stared and excluded us from your company? Because you thought I was Alpine? Is that what they all think?” asked Fel’annár boldly, gesturing to the bulk of the Silvan troops.

  “Yes,” said Galdith, equally bold. “We thought you a privileged Alpine brat who had promoted to warrior status before his time—one the novices tag onto for favour perhaps,” he finished, his head jerking towards Ramien, Carodel, and Idernon.

  “You are brash, Galdith,” said Fel’annár, eyes unwavering.

  “I am Silvan,” he replied, the hint of a challenge colouring his words, head cocked to one side as if he dared the other to mock him for his claim.

  “So are we,” replied Fel’annár, his eyes narrowing, answering the challenge with one of his own.

  The shadow of a wry smile danced over Galdith’s face, and The Company seemed to sag with relief, as if they had unwittingly been holding their breaths.

  The veteran Silvan’s eyes continued to study Fel’annár’s face, but the shock was gone, and in its place was a thoughtful crease of his brow. His eyes caught a flash of colour and latched onto the source of it: an exquisite river stone that lay almost hidden amongst the mass of silvery-blond locks. It was an Honour Stone, an ancient Silvan custom which had been forbidden by the commanders of the Inner Circle. “Angon told me how you earned that,” said Galdith.

  “Angon? You know Angon?” asked Fel’annár, his features softening.

  “Aye, I know Angon. I have served with him many times. Says you are the best archer he has ever seen,” he said as he snagged a chunk of cold meat and stuffed it into his mouth. “And you’d best hide that.” He gestured with his finger to the Honour Stone, but Fel’annár said nothing.

  The truth was that Angon had said much more about Fel’annár, but Galdith was not telling. His smile, though, said all The Company needed to know, and soon, they talked quietly and companionably, the shadow of Sen’uár hovering just beneath the surface as The Company was finally granted timid entry into the circle of Silvan warriors, rear guard of Prince Handir’s escort.

  As the following day dawned and the morning fires were lit, the Silvan warriors went about their chores as they always did, and yet Fel’annár rather thought there was something in the air, an intangible weight he could not yet fathom.

  “Galdith, Osír,” greeted Idernon, gesturing that they should help themselves to the morning brew. Drinking from his own cup, Fel’annár caught a gleam in Galdith’s hair, and he leant forward, eyes searching. It was a small, opaque blue stone, barely visible from between the honey-coloured locks of Galdith’s hair. Fel’annár momentarily locked gazes with the Silvan warrior, and in his dark eyes he saw strength and defiance.

  “You should be careful with that,” said Fel’annár with a smile and a nod of his head, to which Galdith simply rose an eyebrow and then smirked.

  “Well, if I had one, I woul
d join you both, but as I have not, I will not,” said Idernon.

  Galdith frowned and turned to Fel’annár. “Is he always like this?”

  “Oh yes.” Fel’annár smirked. “Not in vain was he named the Wise Warrior, Galdith. He can run you round in logical circles until you are dizzy and red with ire. Never challenge Idernon in the ways of reason; you will disgrace yourself.”

  Galdith’s fascinated stare lingered on Idernon, who smiled even though his eyes held a challenge.

  “I will heed your warning, Fel’annár. I am a warrior, not an academic.”

  Idernon’s smile vanished. “I am a warrior and an academic. You think these traits antagonistic?”

  Galdith laughed and held both hands up in a sign of surrender, and Osír snorted into his cup.

  It was a happy morning, but as Fel’annár cast his eyes further afield to the other Silvan warriors, he wondered how many of them had Honour Stones they were not ‘allowed to wear’—if there would ever come a day in which they could bear them openly and proudly, as they once had before the coming of the Alpines.

  No one spoke of Fel’annár and Galdith’s Honour Stones, though they would sometimes push their way out from between silken strands of brown and silver, and as the day progressed, the antagonistic stares that Fel’annár had constantly borne since their departure had changed to curiosity and respect. It warmed his heart. The Alpine warriors, though, remained as aloof as they had been from the start.

  Fel’annár’s mind took him back to just last week, when he had said his goodbyes to his kin, to his Village Leader, Erthoron, and Turion, his first captain in the field. But it was his farewell with Amareth that stuck stubbornly in his mind. At the time, he had explained it away as the logical reaction of an aunt—a mother—to her recently promoted warrior nephew—or son as she claimed him. She worried for his safety and that was to be expected, yet now, as he pondered it, her reaction had seemed uncharacteristic, as if she had thought perhaps that she would not see him again.

  And strangely enough, even Lainon seemed distracted, as if he sat upon the edge of his seat, undecided as to when he should stand. Something was wrong with the Ari lieutenant, but there was nothing Fel’annár could do to find out what it was, not from here at the back with the Silvan warriors. He would simply have to wait for an opportunity to present itself, if it ever did, he thought sourly.

  That night, as the watch was set and a half-light cast a bluish tinge to the thinning trees, Fel’annár lay on his bed roll before the fire. Sniffling, he reached into his pack and pulled out his journal. Opening it to the first page, Amareth and Erthoron stared back at him in grey-black strokes of charcoal, and then it was Idernon reading a book, Carodel with his lyre, and a smirking Ramien honing the edge of his recently-acquired battle axe. Later came the dour Lorthil and the enigmatic Spirit Herder Narosén. Alféna smiled softly up at him, and then her son, Eloran, stood to rigid attention. ‘I will be ready,’ he had said, and Fel’annár smiled as he remembered the young lad he had rescued from the fire in Sen’oléi.

  On the very last page was the face of an Alpine lord who had stared at him from afar the day he had become a novice warrior. His face was pale and smooth, beautiful to look at, and yet there had been a sadness in the set of his features—as if he suffered despite his obviously privileged position.

  There was an enigma, thought Fel’annár as he carefully closed the small book and placed it at the bottom of his pack. The scene played out in his mind, as it had so many times before, and even so, he would shiver every time their eyes met.

  Tomorrow he would draw Galdith with his Honour Stone, not hidden as he wore it now, but sitting at the very end of his front braids for all to see. For now, though, it was time to sleep, to hope that nothing would interrupt his well-deserved rest: no lady in the trees, no green eyes, no unknown Alpine lord or the all too familiar feeling of unrest that always seemed to lurk just below his consciousness.

  Another frigid day on the road. The ride had been long, and their bellies were empty. A collective sigh of relief rippled through the troop as Galadan’s command to set camp rang out over the convoy.

  “Oh, good. My backside is completely benumbed,” protested Ramien, resisting the urge to rub the sore muscles.

  Idernon guffawed. “Benumbed? You’ve been reading Cor’hidén again,” he drawled sarcastically.

  “So what?” answered the Wall of Stone with an indignant scowl. “You’re always telling me my vocabulary is limited. I mean, I could have said my arse is...”

  “Shut it, Ramien,” said Carodel, snickering as he dried the cup in his hand.

  "Well, at least I have some meat on mine—lovers like that you know, not scrawny backsides like yours,” said Ramien quirkily, flicking his auburn hair over his shoulder.

  “Well, let me tell you...”

  “Quiet!” bellowed Silor, his volume quite unnecessary given that he stood not five paces from them.

  The Company jumped, and the warriors behind them snickered, but not unkindly. Silor watched them all, as if he would remember their faces, and the laughter was gone.

  “Novices, go for water, and you,” shouted Silor to Carodel and Fel’annár, “Three fire pits for the Alpine troop.” No eye contact, just clipped orders and stabbing fingers. The Silvans had already lit their own fires, and they watched the Alpines further away as they honed swords or checked their gear, apparently unconcerned by Silor’s commands and content to be waited upon.

  With furtive curls of the lip, they set to work, and once their chores were done, they returned to their own fires with clenched jaws and furrowed brows.

  “They treat us like kitchen scullions,” said Carodel. “Can they not even light their own fires?”

  “They see a chance to be waited upon, and that is all we are good for in their eyes,” added Fel'annár.

  “It is for us to prove ourselves, I suppose,” mused Idernon. “Yet our purpose on this mission is to learn, or so we have been told. All I am learning from them is how not to do things,” he said as he unbuckled his harness and sat heavily on the ground. “Look at them: so caught up in their inborn prejudice against those of us who have always dwelled in the woods—before they were claimed by King Or’Talán. They do not trust us, but more than that, more than being novices, we are Silvan,” he emphasised before sipping from the tea Ramien had passed him.

  Galdith glanced at Idernon. “Well said, novice. And for your information, Silor despises Fel’annár here because he considers himself Silvan, despite the evidence to the contrary. He cannot fathom why you would do such a thing, reneging your Alpine heritage in favour of being Silvan.”

  “The rift between us seems so much more pronounced here,” mused Fel’annár. “It was not so bad back home. Not that I have had much experience, mind.”

  “You were lucky,” replied Galdith. “You served under Turion, and Lainon—speaking of whom...” He trailed off, his head turning to watch the forbidding Ari’atór as he strode towards their fire amidst whispered conversations and a sea of curious eyes.

  Lainon, seemingly unfazed by the attention, lowered himself beside the novices and accepted a mug of tea from Ramien with both hands.

  “So, you are discussing the social complexities of Ea Uaré?” he asked with a sly smile on his face as he blew on his steaming cup.

  “That we were,” said Fel’annár with a smirk of his own, shifting his weight on the ground. He wasn’t afraid of Lainon, not anymore, but he did understand the apprehensive stares the lieutenant was receiving.

  “Get used to it,” said Lainon flatly. “Remember our first incursion into the north, Fel’annár? This is no different. Once they have fought together with you, it will become bearable ... if you comport yourselves well in battle.”

  “You sound as if you accept this attitude as natural,” said Fel’annár softly, a scowl on his face.

  “I do; it is,” said Lainon, staring straight ahead.

  “Perhaps you should not,” said Fe
l’annár flatly, knowing he had potentially overstepped his boundaries; indeed Lainon’s head slowly turned towards The Silvan, holding the green gaze for a while before speaking once more.

  “You are an idealist, Fel’annár. It would take a lot to change this culture; it is ingrained in us all, although in some more than others. It is not just an Alpine thing—don’t forget Angon and our company in the North-western Patrol.”

  Fel’annár did not answer him, but he did nod his understanding, and the silence stretched on for a little longer than was comfortable.

  “Galdith here served with Angon,” said Fel’annár eventually. Lainon’s eyes swivelled to the silent Silvan who stared back at him in curiosity, his head cocked to one side.

  “An excellent warrior. He served well at Sen’uár.”

  Galdith’s eyes flickered at the mention of his ruined village, and Fel’annár sighed. “Galdith is—was, from Sen’uár, Lainon.”

  The Ari’s eyes did not waver at all as he continued to stare at the Silvan warrior. “I am sorry for your loss, Galdith,” he said softly, a tone that did not fit the fierce mien of the Ari’atór, and the warrior slowly nodded his thanks, albeit he remained silent, his jaw clenching in anger, or perhaps it was grief.

  The camp was stirring further along the line, and Lainon strained his eyes towards the prince’s tent in case he was needed. He was distracted by the arrival of Silor, who leered down at Fel’annár, sparing only a cursory glance at Idernon beside him.