Road of a Warrior

by R K Lander

  “You must have the gift of foresight, commander,” said Damiel, his gaze lingering on Pan’assár as he drank from his goblet, shrewd eyes reading the signs of growing agitation in the commander.

  “I do not need foresight, lord. Just common sense. The Silvans will do anything to be rid of their Alpine rulers. This boy could be the catalyst for serious conflict in the Great Forest, mark my words. He should be repudiated, made to swear oath to our king, and kept under careful scrutiny.” Any hope Gor’sadén had held to was now dissipating, for Pan’assár was riling himself more and more, and still he would not meet his friend’s eyes, would not allow himself to be anchored.

  “While an oath may be beneficial, I agree with Lord Damiel, commander. You cannot know this until you have met the child, heard his opinion on this matter,” said Vorn’asté. He was surprised at Pan’assár’s reaction. They all were, but Gor’sadén’s worry was rising with every word that left Pan’assár’s loose mouth.

  “Oh, but I can. He is Silvan, my lord. He will want vengeance for his mother’s plight, will rise to the temptation of lordship which his own people will surely vie for. He will rally our troops and turn them against us, ruin the mutual tolerance we have fought hard to attain.”

  “Tolerance?” Handir had not shouted, but his voice was loud enough to startle Pan’assár from his tirade. “Are you, commander general, telling me that we have mutual tolerance amongst the ranks of our warriors?” He smiled and stepped closer to the commander. “So, for example, my lord, the fact that ninety-five of the one hundred and one captains of the Inner Circle are Alpine is what you would call mutual tolerance? That eight out of ten lieutenants are Alpine? That the king’s council is comprised of twenty councillors, of which seventeen are Alpine...what tolerance do we Alpine have for the Silvan people, Lord Pan’assár? I see no tolerance. I see discrimination and wanton injustice.”

  Silence followed the prince’s words, and he used the moment to collect himself. He had been close to losing his temper with Pan’assár, for the commander was airing their internal affairs, forcing Handir to refute his absurd claims and offer more details on the internal conflicts of his realm than he had been willing to give.

  “You are yet young, my prince. You are still willing to believe in the goodness of others, but where the Silvans are concerned, you are too lenient.”

  “Youth has no bearing here, commander. Only reason. Do not seek to deflect an argument by invalidating the speaker.”

  “I am not a statesman, my prince. I am a warrior.”

  “That is plain to see, commander, but I ask that you refrain from this talk of Silvan inferiority. It is offensive. They are our subjects, have the same rights as any Alpine of Ea Uaré. You must never forget that—in your service to our king.” It would be enough, Handir told himself, enough to stop Pan’assár’s downward spiral, yet Gor’sadén knew he had not finished.

  “King Or’Talán forbade that marriage for a reason, my prince. That woman was not fit; she was a simple commoner, and your venerable grandfather, in his wisdom, stopped it before it was too late.”

  “Tell me, commander, why would the king not seek to wed a Silvan—for he rules over Silvan lands? I confess I did not know you adhered to the ideology of Lord Band’orán, commander.” Handir’s voice was mellow and lilting now, but there was a hint of danger in it, one that made Gor’sadén turn back to the scene he had not wanted to watch unfold, one he had known would come to this.

  “Lord Band’orán speaks many truths, prince. I agree with some of his beliefs. That you consider Ea Uaré to be Silvan lands I find—disturbing.”

  “Specifically,” said Handir, ignoring the commander’s words, “the question of race. Must I conclude that the use of words such as ‘half-breed,’ spat in hatred as you did moments ago, implies that you believe the Alpine people superior to the Silvan people?”

  “What has that got to do with anything?” asked Pan’assár.

  “Answer the question.”

  The commander’s eyes widened minutely, but it was enough for the others to see. “I believe the Alpine people are leaders. The Silvans are followers, good enough as warriors to see the job done. I am not a racist, prince. I simply state the facts as they are.”

  “As you see them, no doubt.” Handir’s jaw tightened, and he closed the gap between himself and the commander. “You will not speak in those terms in my presence again. Is that understood?”

  Pan’assár’s chin jutted, eyes narrowing, but all he could do was nod curtly.

  Handir turned to the others. “My lords, I do not pretend to know the Silvan boy’s mind, for I do not know him at all. I have seen him once and never spoken to him, and perhaps I never will. But that does not change the facts. He is here, he will be recognised, and I ask only that precautions are taken to ensure his safety, for strictly political reasons.”

  “Well then,” said the king, eyes darting between Pan’assár and Handir. “I accede to waiting until news arrives from Ea Uaré. I do not pretend to understand what scheming has brought the Silvan boy here, but I sincerely hope your intentions are noble, Prince Handir.”

  “They are. This I swear. You have my thanks, my lord, for your objectivity in this matter.”

  “Indeed, prince,” said the king, shrewd eyes following as Handir turned to Pan’assár.

  “Commander Pan’assár, I would have a word once you have those reports on the attack. For now, know that Warrior Fel’annár is under my protection. I am sure you understand my meaning, commander.”

  “You are protective of him,” murmured Pan’assár, but the vehemence had gone and in its place was the flat tone of one who was defeated.

  Handir scowled. “Protective? No. If I must deal with him, I will not treat him any differently from any other subject of the realm, from any other warrior.” Handir’s gaze was slow to leave the commander—a gesture that was not lost on Damiel.

  “He saved both your lives, prince, commander,” said Gor’sadén. “He saved the lives of your wounded warriors, and yet you would treat him as any other warrior? It makes me wonder what a warrior must do in Ea Uaré that he should enjoy renown.”

  Handir bristled while Pan’assár’s eyes narrowed at Gor’sadén. Strangely, for an unlikely moment, Pan’assár and Handir were together in their aversion towards Fel’annár, however much their reasoning and intentions were different.

  Collecting himself, Handir turned away from Pan’assár and spared a brief glance at Gor’sadén before turning to Lainon. “On the question of the boy’s safety, I want you to see to it, Lainon.”

  The Ari’atór turned disbelieving eyes on him. “My prince, I am charged by the king himself with your protection.”

  “I do not need it, lieutenant. The Silvan boy does.”

  “I cannot obey your order, my prince.”

  “You must, and if my father were here, he would tell you himself. I take full responsibility, should anything untoward happen to me, as King Vorn’asté is my witness.”

  Lainon stared at the prince, eyes momentarily flickering to the Alpine king before bowing stiffly.

  “I will see to Prince Handir’s safety, lieutenant,” assured the king.

  “Then I will see it done, my prince,” replied Lainon.

  “How old is this boy—Fel’annár you say?” asked the king.

  “Fifty-two years old, my lord,” stated Handir.

  “What?” blurted Prince Sontúr, followed by a disbelieving giggle. “How do you allow it? He is nothing more than an adolescent.”

  “It is a sad fact, a necessity in Ea Uaré, my lord,” said Pan’assár boldly, his jaw clenched at the perceived criticism. “Our lands suffer constant incursions, prince. Battle is an everyday reality.”

  Handir nodded at the commander, but Prince Sontúr’s expression remained sceptical.

  “Well, then, we await news from your king, prince,” King Vorn'asté said. “Meanwhile, Lainon here is assigned to the Silvan boy, and you are free to pursu
e your tutorship with Lord Damiel. Commander Gor’sadén, I would hear the results of your investigations, should any alterations to our defences be necessary.”

  “Of course, my king.”

  With a nod, Vorn’asté left with Damiel at his side.

  “If I may be excused?” asked Lainon.

  Pan’assár turned to him, eyes narrowed in dawning suspicion that perhaps Lainon knew much more of the story of the bastard child; indeed, he had been Handir’s guard at the time and had been deep in the king’s confidence.

  “Lieutenant.” He nodded slowly.

  Saluting, Lainon left, studiously avoiding Pan’assár’s gaze. He heaved a mighty breath as he strode down the corridors and towards the Healing Halls. Gor’sadén, Vorn’asté, Sontúr, and Damiel seemed positively inclined to the boy, while Handir pretended to sit upon the fences, unwilling to show the slightest concern for his wellbeing. It was Pan’assár who was dead set against him, the very leader of the Inner Circle of Ea Uaré. They did not need any more enemies—they already had enough, even though, for now, they stood mostly in the shadows, nameless save for one. Band’orán, brother of Or’Talán.

  There was no time to waste, for now that the news had been officially released, he did not dare leave Fel’annár alone, and he trusted no one save those of The Company. He needed to speak to the others, needed to stand guard over his charge.

  He needed to see Tensári.

  Gor’sadén watched Pan’assár, the last one to leave the room. He was well aware of his friend’s embarrassment, for he had lost his temper, had aired the deep-seated cultural divide of the Great Forest before the lords of a foreign realm, and had argued with his prince in public.

  As Pan’assár turned to leave, Gor’sadén fell into step beside him, unwilling to leave his side, for Pan’assár was volatile now, and for all that Gor’sadén loved him, he did not trust him—not after what he had just witnessed. It was as if something had been shattered, something his friend had protected but which had escaped his clutches and would not be contained. They strode down the almost deserted corridors in silence, until Pan’assár could take it no longer.

  “For the Gods’ sakes, Gorsa, just say it, damn you, and be done with it.”

  “Alright. You are a fool who cannot hold his wayward tongue. Your hatred disgusts me, and I daresay Vorn’asté and Damiel feel the same.”

  “I don’t give a Deviant piss what they think. They know nothing of our cares. You know nothing.”

  “I know you are out of control, Pan. Stop, look at you. You are furious—and for what? At what? I will tell you. You are furious with yourself!”

  “Hold your tongue, commander!” He stopped and pulled hard on Gor’sadén’s sleeve, forcing him to stop and turn. “That boy...”

  “What? What is it?” interrupted Gor’sadén. “What is it he represents to you, Pan?”

  But he couldn’t answer, and instead, he pulled his hand away and continued his forward march—to the Halls of Healing, realised Gor’sadén with a sinking feeling.

  With the first stirrings of waking patients and the busy steps of the healers, Idernon knew he needed to rise and dress. His head was pounding, but still, Fel’annár needed him and he was too far away. The seconds that separated him from his life-long friend felt like leagues now that his identity was known and they were in unknown territory. He trusted no one except himself and The Company, and perhaps Galadan.

  Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and looked around for his clothes, finding nothing. His eyes landed on Ramien, himself in a long, linen tunic. It looked strange on one so bulky. It reminded him of their childhood in Lan Taria. Infants were clad in tunics such as these for bedtime, but they had always looked odd on the Wall of Stone. Idernon resisted the urge to smirk then scowled at himself for allowing his mind to wander at a moment such as this.

  The night had been long, and none of them had found rest. It had been hours before the healers had finally allowed them to sit at Fel’annár’s bedside, and even then, only one at a time. Assistants constantly visited to administer medicines and flush the infected wounds in his side, yet still he did not wake, though a light sheen of sweat coated his forehead. Idernon had finally succumbed to exhaustion and dragged himself to his bed, but with the coming of dawn, his eyes had opened and refused to close again, his sharp mind constantly analysing their situation. He was saved from his own thoughts by the rest of The Company and the arrival of a rather pale-looking Lainon.

  “Brothers. I bring urgent news,” said the Ari’atór as he helped Carodel to stand. “Who is with Fel’annár?” he asked.

  “Lieutenant Galadan is with him, and Prince Sontúr himself has just arrived; he is a healer, it seems,” said Galdith.

  “What news of Fel’annár?” asked Lainon as they walked together towards the open room where they knew their friend lay.

  “They are not saying, and silent healers always worry me,” said Galdith with a deep frown.

  “I have been reassigned to Fel’annár’s safety,” began Lainon urgently, his voice just loud enough for them to hear. He would brief Galadan later. “We need to guard him, brothers. Trust no one, do you understand me?”

  With a nod and an apprehensive glance at each other, they were soon at Fel’annár’s bedside. Galadan stood in one corner while Master Arané and Sontúr bent over the bed.

  Idernon’s stomach lurched at the sight of Fel’annár. “What is his condition, my lord?” he asked Sontúr, but it was Arané who answered him.

  “There is an infected bite here on his side, and this arrow wound was sustained some days ago, also infected. This ankle is sprained. Four ribs on this side are cracked, and this shoulder was wrenched from its socket with some damage to the ligaments. We suspect concussion, but until he wakes we cannot be sure. And then we add hypothermia and exhaustion.”

  “Is his life in danger?” asked Idernon somewhat lightly. He did not look as the healer answered him.

  “Perhaps, warrior, but if he is as strong as he looks, he has a fighting chance.”

  Idernon raked a hand over his own pale face and then turned to the rest of The Company, all of them pale after Arané’s somewhat precarious prognosis, but there was also silent complicity in their eyes, even in Galadan’s, who was the only one to break the silence.

  “What grace has been given to this child I cannot say,” he murmured, “but we will anchor him here, as Aria is my witness.”

  Arané nodded curtly at Galadan and then left. Sontúr was left wondering how this Alpine lieutenant could be so very different to the commander he had just seen in his father’s chambers. He himself had felt the need to come here no sooner the king had dismissed them, to enquire as to the boy’s health, his curiosity winning over the temptation to sleep. He was glad he had, because Galadan had, in some measure, restored his faith in the Alpines of Ea Uaré, and the young Silvan warriors had reminded him that the forest natives were ordinary elves, noble and loyal as any Alpine warrior he knew. He could only hope the boy would make it after the sacrifice he had made. Pan’assár, however, had not been impressed, and that had shocked him.

  Sontúr sat beside the bed, listening to the quiet talk of Lainon and the rest of the warriors. He could not hear everything, but he did know Lainon was briefing them, warning them, perhaps, and he was glad of it.

  A commotion drew their attention to the main doors of the Healing Hall, and as one, The Company and Galadan stood, as did Sontúr, his heart sinking when he caught sight of the two commanders that were striding towards the bed. Pan’assár was angrier than he had been during their early-morning council, for his face was red and his eyes glittered with barely-repressed ire. Gor’sadén nodded at him from over Pan’assár’s rigid shoulder. There was a warning there.

  “Out of my way, warriors,” ordered Pan’assár as he came to a halt before the wall of warriors, Galadan and Lainon directly before the livid commander. It took an appeasing hand from Gor’sadén for them to obey. Even
then they did not stray out of arm’s distance as Pan’assár came to stand over Fel’annár, staring down at him in silence. Others would see shock and disbelief on the commander’s face, but to one who knew him as a brother, he saw guilt, regret, and then utter defeat. Pan’assár looked lost, confused even, as if he did not know what to think, what to feel. There was a war raging in his mind, one Pan’assár did not have the weapons to win. Pan’assár turned, raised his head, and stormed away.

  Gor’sadén’s gaze met them all, nodding in approval and perhaps thanks, and then strode away after his friend. Pan’assár had snapped, and Gor’sadén knew it would be his only chance to look into his friend’s mind, to finally understand why he had fallen from glory—to know, at long last, what happened the day Or’Talán passed.

  Pan’assár’s stride had become longer and faster the nearer they approached the outer doors of the royal palace. His breathing was erratic, his muscles tense. Gor’sadén dared not speak yet, not until they were alone.

  They passed the main doors and the curious stares of those few they encountered along the way. Gor’sadén was only half aware of them, but Pan’assár was oblivious to everything except his own flight.

  Then they were finally outside. The sky had softened to a midnight blue that was lighter behind the distant mountains, their forms still black against the early dawn sky. It was a creeping sort of light, an allusion to something yet to come, thought Gor’sadén. What colour would it be? What kind of world would it paint, for it would surely not be the same one?

  Snow crunched underfoot, and still they strode towards the main gates, past the sentinels and onto the boulder-strewn slopes. Downwards, first Pan’assár and behind him Gor’sadén, and yet he could not resist one last glimpse as the sun finally broke over the horizon. The sky was all alight with shocking reds and oranges, and their path down the mountain was suddenly bathed in gold, the sun’s timid heat lending him strength.