Road of a Warrior

by R K Lander

  “I know,” said Lainon.

  “… just a child.”

  “An Incipient, Fel’annár, not a child. She all but died weeks ago when her parents foolishly sought out the Source. They killed her; I eased her passing.”

  “But she was not yet turned. Her heart suffered, Lainon.”

  “All Deviants were human once. It is not an instant thing, Fel’annár. There is no clear line between human and Deviant. It is a process they suffer, some say a punishment, until their minds are turned and there is no feeling left, no empathy, no pity, no love. Only mindless hatred, a lust to see death inflicted upon the immortal, kill that which they once coveted but could never have. You felt the mind of a human in the body of a Deviant, you felt it through the tree.”

  “It dies,” he whispered after a moment.

  Lainon breathed deeply, a soft hand upon Fel’annár’s chest. “Most things do, Fel’annár.”

  Fel’annár’s swimming eyes focussed, and he swiped at the tracks of his tears. With a deep breath, he rested his head back against the stone wall. “Forgive me. She entranced me. I faltered.”

  “Yes, just like every young warrior does, Fel’annár. When you leave this cave with me, the veterans will remember their first time. They will understand.”

  “Another group approaches,” said Fel’annár, collecting his feet beneath him and straightening his uniform. Gathering his cape, he tied it back on and arranged his harness upon his back. Lainon took him by the shoulders, the veteran eyes of an experienced Ari’atór boring into him.

  “Do not let this distract you. We need you in the battle that comes.”

  Fel’annár nodded resolutely and followed Lainon into the light of day. The questioning gazes of The Company were met with Lainon’s hand for silence, a subtle shake of his head, but Fel’annár did not see it.

  “Captain,” called Fel’annár, falling into step with Comon, Lainon close behind. “There is another group—a returning party?”

  “Survivors from Valley?” suggested Lainon, and the captain considered his words. It was the only way to interpret Fel’annár’s words.

  “How many?” asked Comon.

  “… not all of them are warriors.”

  “How many warriors, Fel’annár,” pressed Comon.

  The mention of his name snapped him back to reality. “Seventy, perhaps eighty. There are what I now recognise as Incipients with them.”

  Fel’annár watched as the captain struggled to act on something he could not see, could not reason, and Fel’annár understood that battle better than most. So did Sontúr. He was just glad that common sense dictated Comon’s decisions; after all, Fel’annár had been right about the caves, and Pan’assár himself had urged the captain to use his gift. Still, it could not have been easy.

  An eagle’s cry signalled that the enemy group was approaching. Comon cast a speculative glance at Fel’annár before quickly deciding their plan of action. They needed to get down onto the plain below. The Deviants would sense their presence and would not climb the slope, and so Comon led them downwards. Soon enough, the entire patrol stepped onto the lower plain, and in the distance, a long line of Deviants and Incipients was already visible in the distance.

  They were outnumbered – but that had never stopped Comon. He was an Alpine captain; he would defend these mountains or gladly die protecting the land he loved.

  “They will not flee with Incipients in their mist,” explained Comon. “We advance until our bows are within range. They will come to us. Fel’annár, Idernon, Dúsor, Polán, fire from behind us until your arrows are gone or I call you, whichever comes first.”

  Lainon was glad for Comon’s order. Fel’annár’s mind would still be distracted with the child Incipient; he would be safer at the back, for as long as he could be spared, but the Ari’atór was under no delusions: this group was large. He turned and watched as Fel’annár took his place at the back and then drew his bow.

  “Warriors!” shouted Comon, his voice reaching far into the distance and drawing the attention of the Deviants. The fifty-strong patrol formed two lines; archers behind, swordsman at the fore, their steel drawn, stances set, eyes fixed on the enemy that first strode towards them, only to pick up speed and begin their charge. Filthy rags flew around them as they ran, their long, wispy hair of white and grey like the ruined banners of a doomed army, their rotting features set in a vicious snarl of base hatred. And then the wailing began, timid at first, growing as they approached, and then rose their putrid fists, rusted scimitars arcing upwards.

  Fel’annár watched, detached and unfeeling, eyes seeking out the larger specimens, the leaders. He would target them first. His eyes momentarily strayed to the first line where The Company stood. Lainon had positioned himself just behind the commanders. The Ari’atór turned then, and as the wailing drew closer and Tensári bellowed her orders, he smiled, nodded at Fel’annár, and then turned back, raising his sword before his face.

  “Archers!” cried Tensári.

  Bows creaked, strings resting at their cheeks, and the swordsmen before them tightened their grip on the pommels of their blades.

  “Fire!”

  Their bolts took flight, over the heads of those on the front line, hands already reaching back to reload.

  “Charge!” yelled Comon, and the warriors ran forward, cloaks billowing, swords held high as another volley of arrows passed overhead, slamming into the charging Deviants, skewering them from front to back and catapulting them backwards.

  With a ringing clang of steel, the wall of rotting bodies slammed into them. More arrows took down the foremost Deviants, affording the warriors room to step into their next victims.

  Lainon kicked out and then brought his sword in an upward arc, slicing under the arm of a Deviant who wailed away, blood spurting onto the Ari’atór’s boots. Beside him, Tensári smashed the pommel of her sword over a shorter Deviant’s head, face utterly straight as she watched it fall. She turned, catching another with her armoured elbow and then slicing through its exposed throat. She glanced backwards, noting the archers were using the last of their arrows.

  While the Deviants battled with the elves, the Incipients watched from behind. Mothers clutched at their children while the men stood in open fascination, even puzzlement. Fel’annár, though, chose to see nothing other than his own bow string before his eye, a bulk in the distance, a body crumpling to the ground.

  No more arrows.

  With a curt nod at Idernon, he dropped his bow and ran over the snow and towards the battle, reaching for his blades on his back. His eyes caught sight of a massive Deviant lifting its scimitar over Lainon’s head. Dread fuelled his mad dash, and he arrived with enough time to bring his long sword up and then sideways, slicing into its unprotected side. Lainon turned shocked eyes to Fel’annár, nodded his thanks, and then turned back into the fray.

  Fel’annár sliced into another, and then another, slashing across leather armour and into skin below, the stench of rotting innards suffusing the air around him, hot blood melting the snow beneath his boots. Even so, the rhythm was back; one, two, three, strike. They fell, one by one, until a towering Deviant stood before him. Its clothes were not so ragged, and its weapons seemed well-forged. A leader. It groaned and then wailed, as if it had been mortally injured, and yet it was not so—these were the only sounds a veteran Deviant was capable of making, he knew that now. Fel’annár battled with himself to not think why that would be. Instead, he presented his long sword, his shorter one behind, both tips pointing at the monster’s face. He tried to conjure his connection with the trees, focus on their distant voices, but his mind would not clear, and before he knew it, the Deviant lifted its weapon and brought it down hard. Fel’annár blocked it with his long sword, gasping at the power behind the blow as it vibrated down his arm. Groaning, he struggled to keep the sharp edge from cutting into his face, and with one, mighty surge of strength and a roar, he finally pushed the beast away from him. Just enough time t
o right his feet and feign left and then swing his sword low, arcing upwards and catching his opponent in the thigh. Dark blood quickly spread down its leggings, but it did not go down, did not scream in pain but bore down on Fel’annár with renewed strength. His muscles screamed at him to avoid the blows, dance out of the way, for every strike sent a bolt of agony down his arms, and the ground was slippery with red snow.

  Around him, Deviants and elves fell. If there had ever been a time he could use his skills, it was now, for his foe was not going down, and he cursed his own inability to conjure the light.

  Something crashed into him from the side, knocking him to one knee, his sword falling to the ground. Then a fist exploded with his temple. His own fist lashed out instinctively, hitting something hard, giving him enough time to stand and stagger back. Blood gushed from the Deviant’s smashed nose, but it moved forward again and Fel’annár thrust the heel of his hand into the bleeding mess. The beast roared in agony, or perhaps wrath, but the scimitar did not fall from its hands. Rotting lips curled back into the mockery of a smile and all the while, the trees were silent.

  ‘It is a two-way connection, I think.’

  His own words came back to him, and suddenly, he understood. In this tree-forsaken place he had looked for help in the wrong place. It was not only the trees that harboured this power; it was in him, too. He was an Elven Sentinel, in a sense, but there was no time to react. Rolling to one side, he grabbed his sword and then hefted it in one hand, his long dagger in the other. He whirled around, blades moving with him. Surprised, the Deviant could not avoid a stab to the side, but still it stood, had enough time to land a fist straight into Fel’annár’s face. His vision blurred, legs suddenly weak, and before he could react, the putrid face was inches away from his own. Milky eyes stared blankly at him.

  He had failed.

  But instead of the bite of steel sliding into his flesh, he started at the heavy thud of an arrow hitting flesh, and yet, there was no pain. The Deviant fell away from him, an Elven arrow through its neck, and Fel’annár stood alone. His knees buckled, and he crashed painfully to the ground, one hand holding him up, sword lax in the other. All he could hear were the fading sounds of battle, and as he lifted his heavy head, his eyes registered the battlefield. They had overcome, but the list of injured or dead would surely be high. He grimaced, coughed, and then spat blood out of his mouth. His face hurt, his knuckles stung, and a fiery pain lanced up his sword arm. Collecting his feet below him, he rose and then slipped his blades into the halter on his back.

  Standing straight, he breathed heavily, grimacing at the steady flow of blood from his nose.

  “Here,” said an Alpine warrior beside him, a cloth bunched up in his hand. Fel’annár nodded and pressed it to his nose, groaning at the pain of an obviously broken appendage.

  Captain Comon stood close by, and Fel’annár walked stiffly towards him, arriving just in time to hear his words.

  “The Ari’atór have come,” he murmured. “This group must have escaped them. They have pursued them this far.”

  Fel’annár peered into the distance, immediately spotting the spreading black blur that slowly defined itself. He relaxed his tense shoulders, for he had thought for one terrible moment that they would have to exterminate the group of bewildered Incipients themselves.

  The mounted Ari’atór pulled on their reins and dismounted before the cowering humans. Walking towards them, they drew their blades, but there were no battle cries, no charge. They simply surrounded them, and although Fel’annár could not see what they did, he could hear. His eyes welled, and it was all he could do to stop his tears from falling. Moments later, the Ari’atór left the bloody circle and walked towards the commanders and a stunned Fel’annár.

  The closer they came, the stronger the desire to step backwards, for never had he seen such a fearsome group of warriors. He was filled with a deep dread, an atavistic fear his soul reacted instinctively to. And yet he was also filled with respect, for the nature of their service to Aria was, perhaps, the hardest that existed.

  Their skin was autumn bronze, blazing blue eyes set in features that were angular and somewhat lined, brows pulled into an eternal frown. They wore the same locks Lainon weaved for him, only their heads were covered in them. Every single strand had been twisted, the locks pulled back harshly into tight tails that sat high upon their crowns. Even then they reached down to their waists, spilling chaotically over leather armour and fur.

  Fel’annár recognised the kinship between Narosén, Golloron, Lainon, and Tensári, but he had not been prepared for their intensity, these fierce faces, stony grimaces that would not ease.

  “Commander Hobin,” called Captain Comon with a respectful bow.

  “Captain Comon,” came the deep voice of the Ari commander, nodding in return and then turning to his own patrol. He spoke in a tongue Fel’annár could not understand a word of, yet try as he might, he could not take his eyes from them, staring unabashedly at their other-worldliness.

  “I would share intelligence, Hobin” said the captain. “Then we must leave to the Downlands with all haste.”

  Fel’annár scowled at the captain’s words. Why was he in a hurry? He shook his head for his ears had begun to ring. The captain seemed to sense his puzzlement, and he turned his head. “Lainon is in need of aid.”

  The ringing in his ears spiked, a cacophony of dissonant voices that seemed to be shouting, warning him. His eyes stung fiercely, and the world was cast into swirling hues of green, blue, and purple. His heart sped up, and he turned to the battlefield, scalp prickling, his own hair dancing in the corner of his eyes, and his neck popped.

  Fel’annár’s limbs felt as rigid as worked steel, cloak fanning turbulently around his boots. He did not see the warriors step backwards, could not hear their shouts of dismay, but even if he had, nothing mattered. He remembered his last opponent, the arrow that had saved his life when his powers had failed him. Lainon—it had been Lainon’s arrow.

  He was walking, or was he floating? He could not catch his breath, as if he had been punched in the chest. There, crouched around a boulder was The Company, and in their midst was a fallen warrior. He caught a glimpse of Sontúr’s grey hair, but he couldn’t see the healer’s face: he needed to see his face.

  The light pulsed inside him: he had found it, but it had been too late to stop Lainon from sacrificing himself. But then he had not known where to look, had not understood the nature of it.

  ‘It is a two-way thing, I think.’

  Damn his foolishness. How had he not realised?

  He walked towards them, slow and stilted. “Lainon?” he called. His eyes registered Tensári leant against the boulder, her entire body surrounded by a light only he could see. She shone brighter than the rest, and lying against her chest was Lainon, his light slowly dimming.

  The sounds in his mind peaked to higher notes, metal and voice, a choir of something unearthly. Before he knew it, he was kneeling down beside Sontúr, who turned his schooled face to Fel’annár, but then he startled, flinching backwards, unable to fathom the swirling green, blue, and purple lights that scintillated in The Silvan’s eyes. It was not the face Fel’annár had wanted to see, and dread surged through him.

  “Why aren’t we leaving?” he asked, his question silently begging Sontúr to deny his surety. Sontúr’s eyes softened.

  “We must wait here,” he murmured.

  “The wound,” murmured Fel’annár, pointing to where a thick, black shaft protruded from Lainon’s right side. His brother had surely stood still in the midst of battle in order to fire his bow and save Fel’annár’s life, leaving himself open, vulnerable to attack.

  “Fel’annár. The arrow has pierced his liver. His blood is tainted.”

  “But you can help him...” his own voice echoed, so weak amidst the roaring cacophony in his head.

  “I can’t, Fel’annár. No one can. It is too late. He fades.”

  He heard the words as if he
floated under water, muffled and unclear, but their meaning was understood on a primal level at least. Tears flooded his burning eyes, so quickly it was painful, and he looked down upon an unconscious Lainon, head resting on Tensári’s shoulder, inky black hair spilling around him. He dared not look at her eyes.

  “He can’t die...” he whispered.

  “He can, Fel’annár. He will. We must help him step upon the Short Road.”

  Lainon was his brother, he could not disappear. Fel’annár needed him for the journey ahead, needed him to keep him sane. He was the only one that understood his mystic nature, and yet all that was nothing compared to the pain of Lainon’s absence. He could not imagine it at all. It was absurd. When did this happen? How had he not realised?

  The Company watched him, his struggle to accept even as they, themselves, battled to hold their ground, for Fel’annár was caught in the maelstrom once more, the power emanating from his body, from his eyes frightening them on an instinctive level. And yet the love they had for him, for Lainon, was enough to anchor them.

  Pain and blood loss had turned Lainon’s dark skin clammy and paler than it usually was, the colour of him fading, the aura of light that surrounded him almost dark, but as Fel’annár watched, his eyelids fluttered, shocking blue eyes blazing as if all the light of his being had concentrated there. A forced smile warred with a grimace of pain.

  “Hold still, Lainon,” ordered Sontúr as he desperately tried to stop the incessant flow of bright red blood. His hands were quickly covered once more, and Tensári’s grip on Lainon’s body tightened.

  Fel’annár did not register The Company’s soft kisses upon Lainon’s brow, their gentle hands upon his own shoulder; all he could see was Lainon behind his impressive desk at the barracks that first time they had met. Lainon sitting behind him and weaving his locks. He saw an Ari’atór’s wrath upon the battlefield, remembered words of comfort and encouragement, others that had shocked him.

  ‘Your father—is Thargodén.’

  He saw the Ari’atór’s quiet bliss as he stood before Tensári, and then he heard the words Lainon had spoken just two evenings before as they had gazed out over the wild beauty of Tar’eastór.