Road of a Warrior

by R K Lander

  Soon enough, Aradan came to the banks of a wide stream where a mighty willow arched over the sluggish water. The king was perched upon a low-hanging bough, as if he were Silvan and unconcerned, and Aradan watched him for a moment, marvelling at the sight, for despite his plain riding clothes and loose silver-blond hair, Thargodén could never be mistaken for anything other than what he was. It was something innate, something he shared with his father.

  Not wishing to interrupt, Aradan accommodated himself upon the loamy banks below and waited patiently, plucking a stone and then turning it in his hands, the rhythmic action helping to quell his mounting anxiety. He had left much unsaid yesterday, things he must now find it within himself to express, if the king was willing.

  “Aradan,” acknowledged the king from above.

  “Thargodén,” answered the councillor as he tossed the stone into the water, listening for the hollow thud as it hit the surface. He would wait, wait for the king to set the tone of their conversation, for in all honesty, Aradan simply did not know what to expect.

  “You must say goodbye now,” said the king, and Aradan's heart dropped to the soles of his boots. ‘What have we done,’ he said to himself as he waited with bated breath for the king to continue.

  “Your news has brought me closure, Aradan, a sad yet inevitable end to the torment of not knowing, because when you do not know, you cannot accept, and if you cannot accept, you grieve—is that not how it works?” he asked.

  “It sounds reasonable,” said Aradan, his breath oddly short as he answered.

  “Now that I know, I can, perhaps, learn to accept, and yet I will see her again for you see now—I know where to look, where to find her.”

  Aradan's mind echoed the king's words like a desperate mantra.

  ‘You must say goodbye…’

  He was leaving then, leaving for Valley, but his spiralling thoughts were abruptly stilled with the king’s next words.

  “Aradan. The grieving king, the failing king—he is leaving.”

  Aradan watched with round eyes as the king gracefully descended the tree and walked purposefully towards him, and for a moment, Aradan thought he moved too slowly. Yet before he could blink once more, the king was upon him, crouching before him, eyes level with his own as if he looked at himself in a mirror.

  “He has gone, and in his place is Thargodén, son of Or’Talán, king of Ea Uaré, father of Rinon, Handir, Maeneth and—The Silvan.”

  Aradan's skin prickled painfully, and he gasped at the sudden sensation then furrowed his brow, mind slowly processing the implications.

  “You are staying? You are back?” he whispered in mounting realisation.

  “Aye, Aradan. I am back.” The king’s voice was strong and vibrant, his eyes no longer unfocussed and distant, dull and crushingly sad. Gone was the hunched posture, the distracted answers, the despondence. This king was a ruler, had a purpose once more, and for all Aradan tried, with all his considerable might, he could not avoid the radiant smile that blossomed on his face like spilled milk on fresh linen. Words bubbled into his mouth and then tumbled free of their own accord.

  “Aria be praised, Thargodén. Blessed Aria be praised.”

  “What is his name?” came the sudden, soft question as the king straightened and turned into the glade, Aradan following tentatively behind.

  “Do you remember that special day when you first told me of her? When we were both still so young and full of foolish ideals? She had gifted you with one small thing, a Silvan thing, something I know you kept.”

  The king looked down for a moment, his mind’s eye marvelling once more at the beautiful face of Lássira, the one he would look at in his journal every day only to banish in anger, back to the dusty shelves were she now resided. But then he remembered the dry green-brown flower that always sat atop her sketch; it was surely the gift Aradan was referring to.

  “She remembered that, Thargodén. It was the most precious thing to her, I would wager, for she named her son after that one, small act—that Silvan proclamation of love for you...”

  Thargodén smiled back at Aradan through the silent tears that would no longer be restrained.

  “Fel'annár—she called him Fel’annár,” whispered the king in awe, and Aradan smiled.

  The king would have left for Valley for the certain loss of Lássira, but the father stayed for the part of her that lived on in Bel’arán; he would stay for Green Sun—he would stay for his children.

  It was late afternoon when they had sneaked into the fortress, and Aradan had spirited the king to his quarters, mostly unseen. He sat there now, watching as Thargodén reacquainted himself with his study, his books, and the papers upon his desk as if he had never seen them before, as if he had returned from a long and distant journey.

  The inertia of Band’orán’s slow but relentless poisoning, his bias, his prejudice, and scheming ways would slam against this wall of power, and Aradan knew he would need to brace himself against the ensuing battle; he would help the king hold this nation together as best he could, bring together their allies, and quash Band’orán’s pretensions once and for all. The time for political manoeuvring was over—there would be nothing subtle about the war to come, the war to keep Thargodén on the throne and unite their multi-cultural nation.

  There were tumultuous times ahead, dangerous tides to face.

  Aradan was ecstatic.

  The rustle of heavy fabric interrupted his thoughts, and his eyes snapped back to Thargodén, who stood before the open shutters, his gaze set on the stunning landscape beyond the Great Plateau—to the forbidden Evergreen Wood beyond.

  “Aradan, take note of what I say to you now, for there is much to be done. Call on whom you must to help you.”

  “Of course, my lord,” replied Aradan as he moved to sit at the smaller of two tables, reaching for a parchment and quill.

  “Tell me, when is Prince Rinon due back from the east?”

  “Two days, my lord.”

  “Good. No sooner he arrives I will see him in private. Meanwhile, I will write a letter for Maeneth in Pelagia. Arrange for a courier to ride out tomorrow morning. I will write personal messages for Vorn’asté, Handir and Lainon—these will be urgent and of priority. Have guards escort the courier, and Aradan,” added the king purposefully, “It is of the utmost importance that these couriers leave in secret. I want no one to know of these dispatches, no one except you, me, General Huren, and Captain Turion.”

  “I have it, my lord. No message for young Fel’annár, then?”

  The king's eyes glinted, and Aradan knew he was not quite used to the fact that he had another son.

  “Fel’annár, The Silvan, Hwind’atór,” said Aradan with a smirk.

  “Hwind’atór?” asked Thargodén, his brows coming together.

  “Aye, I am told there is a story to it, but you must ask Turion for it. I have not even seen the boy.”

  The king looked thoughtful for a moment before nodding and continuing with his barrage of orders for the councillor.

  “I am calling a summit to be held in three weeks’ time,” continued the king, momentarily startling Aradan from his musings. “I want all the Silvan leaders here, no excuses. We must ensure every village is represented.”

  “That will mean scores of Silvan delegates, my lord,” said Aradan in mounting alarm.

  “I know, yet it must be done. See to the logistics of it, Aradan.”

  “Can you spare me four weeks, my lord?” he asked urgently, for the magnitude of these requests was daunting.

  “All right, and Aradan—issue an invitation to Amareth of Lan Taria. I would speak with her…”

  Aradan's furiously scribbling hand paused for a moment before continuing once more, for the king was already speaking.

  “We continue.”

  “I am ready.”

  “I want General Huren and Captain Turion in my office after lunch.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Before the evening meal,
I will visit the training fields and our valiant warriors. I would have them know their king is grateful for their service to this realm.”

  Aradan smiled as he wrote, waiting for the next order. But none came.

  “You want more?” asked Thargodén blithely as he turned from the window to his chief councillor.

  Aradan looked up, his face open and joyous. “Welcome back, my king.”

  Chapter Four

  WOODCRAFT

  “Tar’eastór is a city of splendour indeed, but the journey there is fraught with danger. There are Mountain Hounds and mortal giants, Gas Lizards and wild men, but above all there are Mountain Deviants. It should not be forgotten that Valley lies to the north-west, inside the lands of the Alpine lords. Shrouded in the mists of uncertainty, it is guarded by the Ari’atór, Spirit Warriors, Defenders of The Source. They show the immortals the way to happiness; they show mortals what it means to covet immortality.”

  The Silvan Chronicles. Marhené

  The Median Mountains loomed before them, and necks craned upwards in awe at their majesty, their perilous beauty. The Alpines looked on in pride of the motherland while the Silvans stared in apprehension, for many had never seen the mountain proper, the powerful beauty of ice-laden rock. These mountains were the natural divide between the eastern borders of Ea Uaré and Tar’eastór. Even Fel’annár’s eyes were drawn to the silent grey sentinels that cut brutally into the horizon; this was the home of the Alpine elves—his father’s homeland.

  The colours were so different here. There were no earthy browns, no vibrant greens—it was all white, grey, and black, save for the occasional tree that sprawled naked in the cold, spindly and bare. Fel’annár shivered, for the temperature was plummeting. By evening, it was freezing cold. The elves’ excitement was contained, their senses tuned to a higher level of diligence, for the sounds of nature were muted by fresh snow. What seemed to Fel’annár like an unhealthy silence hung in the air, as if they teetered on the border of some unknown peril. Funny, he mused, that there were few trees here and yet he heard them all the same, a distant echo in his mind.

  Amareth had never taken him anywhere, and now that he knew of his heritage, if indeed it was true, it all made perfect sense. He was not quite sure how he felt about the 'need' for deception. A nagging irritation at the back of his mind told him she was wrong to have kept the truth from him, wrong to have left him wondering if his parents had been outlaws, oath breakers, or something worse. Had she not realised that her subterfuge had been obvious to him? That he had always known she hid something transcendental from him? And then there was Lainon; he had known, too.

  Of course, it might not be true.

  Idernon was looking at him again; he could feel it, so he met his friend's gaze and nodded—he was well, all he needed was some time to sort out the storm inside his head, the one that had been unleashed in a few strange seconds. It kept him mostly silent on the outside yet cringing at the cacophony within—the incessant dialogue in his mind that sent his emotions this way and then that.

  His mother. Lainon had spoken of a love that was meant to be but that could never be, whatever that meant. She would have been a humble Silvan lass who had fallen in love with the future king. How that had come about he could not fathom, but he could well guess she would not have been deemed appropriate for Or’Talán’s son. Was that what had happened? he mused. Had they been forbidden to see one another for rank or race—both? And if that was so, why had they conceived a child, knowing they could never be together? And then what of the king's legitimate children? Prince Handir knew; Lainon had told him so, and even if he hadn’t, there could be no confusing the expression upon the prince’s face just yesterday in the royal tent, moments before his own world had disintegrated around him, his hard-earned blindfold mercilessly ripped from his willingly blind eyes.

  Crown Prince Rinon and the Princess Maeneth. Did they know? Would they blame Fel’annár for their father's indiscretion? Did this have something to do with the queen’s departure to Valley? Well, he would never know, he realised, for none of them would welcome a half-blood bastard into their noble house, and even if they did, Fel’annár did not want it—not anymore.

  He shook his head to stop the constant rumination, the movement enough to draw Ramien's attention, and from somewhere deep inside, Fel’annár mustered a soft smile, one that widened when he saw the reaction it gleaned from his friend. He had frightened them, unnerved them in so many ways; he owed it to them to pull himself together, to weather the tide one day at a time. He was good at that—weathering the tide—ignoring reality.

  But inside this whirling vortex of questions and emotions, one thing, at least, was clear. He would not be ashamed; he would not lower his head, and he would not be mocked. He was Fel’annár of Ea Uaré, a warrior and master archer. He was a good elf and loyal servant of his king—not his father. He had not been wanted, and Fel’annár would make sure that was the way it stayed. He did not want a father—those days were far, far away, drifting like gossamer snow upon an early winter wind.

  Then again, it might not be true at all...

  He shivered, pulling the woollen cloak tighter around him. The sky was empty, a grey-blue tinge deepening as twilight advanced. They were stopping. Fires were lit, and it was soon hard to find a space before the heat, for the warriors had shuffled as close as they dared, leaving just enough room for the cooks to set up their frames over the fires. Even the Silvan–Alpine divide had disappeared as they formed a common front against the cold—the only thing that had succeeded in bringing them together.

  At the centre of their camp lay two tents, one bigger than the other, where Prince Handir would be, together with Lainon. The other would be for their commanding officer, Lord Pan’assár. As far as Fel’annár could see, the imposing Alpine left all things of command to his lieutenant, Galadan. Did Pan’assár know? he wondered, for their commander general had been one of the Three, had been as a brother to Or’Talán; Fel’annár had read those heroic tales many times as a child. Funny that he had never seen their portraits, though.

  Or’Talán—his grandfather.

  Carodel, Ramien, and Idernon sat talking quietly of the things they had seen upon the road, but Fel’annár could tell their hearts were not in it. Galdith and Osír were with them, explaining things here and there, and every so often their eyes, too, would stray to Fel’annár.

  “Pass me some tea?”

  Their hushed conversation stopped, giving way to an awkward silence.

  “Don’t fret,” said Fel’annár quietly, before accepting the cup from his friend.

  “Fel’annár, ‘do not fret,’ after what happened is—optimistic of you. You cannot ask it of us,” whispered Idernon, his expression indignant, eyes darting to the two veteran Silvans lest they overhear.

  “I can. I do. I am all right.”

  “Fel’annár,” began Ramien carefully, “you have a reputation for convincing yourself nothing is wrong when it is—you cannot blame us for doubting your word on this one thing.”

  It was a bold statement, and Fel’annár held his friend’s gaze for a moment, his irritation swiftly replaced by grudging acceptance, for Ramien was right. He had deceived himself all his life about not caring about his heritage. His own reaction to the news proved that he had always cared, he still did, and anger sparked in his chest—at himself for not being stronger. He didn’t want to care because it made the truth easier to bear.

  ‘Say nothing,’ Lainon had ordered, ‘do not draw attention to yourself.’

  Well, Fel’annár was good at that. He could slink in the shadows, hide his features, temper his skills, and when they arrived in Tar’eastór, he could wear his hood and follow the lords. Silently. In turn, they would make him feel like an outlaw, a burden, a problem to be solved.

  He would not allow it.

  He fingered the stone that sat defiantly upon his shoulder, stroking it for a moment before his hand dropped into his lap. Tomorrow would mark
the final leg of their journey, but tonight, and to their horror, the weather had unleashed a bitter snowstorm that had already covered half the camp in a frigid sheet of utter torment. Indeed, it was all they could do to keep their fires burning and their hoods upon their heads.

  The duty guards called out their time signals—enemy at bay, their bird calls echoing strangely, dissonant upon the moaning wind, and Idernon cocked his head to the full moon, holding the hood of his cloak in place.

  ‘’Tis a strange night,’ he mused to himself before curling up beside the rest of The Company and falling into a fitful sleep.

  Further away, Lainon, too, held his gaze to the moon, the stirrings of unrest rising in his chest. Handir had retired, but Lainon would find no sleep tonight. It was often the way with Aria. There were no words or clues—only emotion, feelings that only the Ari’atór and the Listeners interpreted. Fel’annár, too, would be restless this night.

  By dawn, the warriors were covered in snow. Stirring to life, they shook it off in irritation, rubbing their hands along their thighs in an effort to regain some feeling in their frozen bodies. Breath frosted before them, and Lieutenant Galadan watched, his face grave as Lord Pan’assár came to stand silently beside him.

  “This will set us back, my lord. Pray it does not get worse.”

  Pan’assár turned to look at his lieutenant but remained silent, for there was nothing else to say, and so he cast his eyes around the camp one last time then turned into the prince’s tent, leaving Galadan with his thoughts.

  On the other side of the slowly-awakening camp, The Company sat sipping on their tea, their last small comfort before they set off once more. Idernon was about to launch into a fully-fledged mental rant about how uncomfortable their present predicament was, but he was distracted by a sudden movement beside him.

  Fel’annár held his head tilted upwards, his eyes closed. “The scouts return in haste; they have news…” he said, loud enough for the other Silvan warriors nearby to hear him.