Road of a Warrior Read online

  Editor: Andrea Lundgren

  Beta reader: M.Y. Leigh

  Cover illustration: Anastasia Znamenska

  Cover design: Deranged Doctor

  Map: Hector G. Airaghi

  Blog: www.rklander.es

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  Link to Encyclopaedia of Bel’arán, including list of characters and pronunciation guide.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  THE JOURNEY

  “In the Deep Forest of Ea Uaré, the Silvan elves pass the frigid winter with stories, talking of omens and all things destined to be. Forest Dwellers are wont to do these things: indeed, they spoke of the desolation of Sen’uár and the slaughter of its people; they spoke of the encroaching enemy and their defilement of the land; but most of all they spoke of Sen’oléi and the arrival of the North-western Patrol. Turion’s elves had fought fire and saved their children, and the forest remembered, for they told the tale a thousand times—forester to farrier, baker to teacher, tanner to healer, and soon there was but one name upon the tongues of all—Fel’annár, Green Sun.”

  The Silvan Chronicles, Book IV. Marhené

  Once, he had been right pleasing to the eye, or so his Mavey had often said. That was before they had ventured to Valley and had become immortal.

  He’d been lured by stories of beautiful, shining faces that stood behind the Veil. Paradise was there, they said, a hand’s breadth away; why could mortals not pass and enjoy eternal life? He had all but forgotten the other tales, those the elves told of death and infection.

  He hadn’t believed them, still didn’t.

  But what did it matter? What good were his memories now that he was immortal? That much he had achieved, and yet he had not passed into the Source for the dark elves had chased him away. That was when the slow, implacable curse of mortality had begun, for although his spirit was immortal, his body was not meant for it. Entropy was his punishment, cursed to madness as he watched himself fall apart, even his mind.

  He shrugged. It no longer mattered; he no longer cared.

  They used to call him Rovad, he recalled, but when the rot had started his name was forgotten, for Deviants cannot speak, not as humans do. He repressed the instinct to laugh because he couldn’t do that anymore, either; his vocal chords no longer allowed it. All he could do now was wail. He looked down at his greying right hand, vaguely wondering when his finger would fall off. But then, what did that really matter—after all this time? Had he not wanted to be immortal?

  Turning, he raised his rusty sword and allowed his cloudy eyes to settle resignedly on the light ones that ran towards him in the distance. They had doomed him to years of horror, bitter years of watching as his own body fell away before his very eyes and for what? To protect the purity of their haven? To keep it from the taint of mortality?

  The elves would kill him, perhaps before he could kill any of them, and he could not say the idea was not attractive. He had lost his name, lost his Mavey. Nothing else really mattered, and yet, there was one thing he wanted more than death—more than anything he had ever coveted in his unnaturally long life. He wished to give death to the undying, sunder their immortality just as they had doomed him to die in horror. He would right the wrong that was done to the mortals of Bel’arán, for how does one live consciously under the shadow and surety of death? What twisted deity had made it so?

  It was not personal; it was a dying man’s wish to deal justice—one last time.

  His lips spread and his rotten teeth felt the cold air. They hurt. He wanted to yell a battle cry, but all that came out was another keening wail. His last sight was of an angel that bore down on him, its face impossibly beautiful, blade glinting pure and bright as it swooped towards him. He hated it, because in those eyes of deep emerald there was pity, pity for a rotting fool who had dared challenge the cruelty of nature.

  He fleetingly wondered if there was a paradise waiting for him somewhere, so that he could live again, so that all the moments of his life would not be forgotten, not that he really cared anymore.

  The cold blade sliced through him. There was no pain, only hatred and relief.

  “Ramien!” shouted Fel’annár, or the Whirling Warrior to those that knew him well. Bringing his long blade around, he turned to face his second Deviant, stabbing it in the eye. Then he flipped backwards and pivoted on his heels so that his back found the chest of another. He stabbed, feeling the body slacken behind him and then slump to the side. “Watch your flank!” he yelled over the din of the skirmish, even as he stuffed both swords into his harness and drew his bow, firing at a Deviant that was closing fast on their Alpine lieutenant, Galadan.

  Ramien, known as the Wall of Stone to his friends, was the largest elven warrior anyone had surely ever seen, and yet he moved with unsuspected agility, dodging to the side at Fel’annár’s shouted warning. Lashing out with a fist, he brought his battle axe around, slicing through the neck of a Deviant that snarled defiantly back at him, a snarl that became a bubbling gurgle as thick, black blood gushed from the gaping wound.

  Beside him, Idernon, the Wise Warrior, blocked a scimitar that threatened to lop his head off, and then ducked under a second weapon that skimmed over his crown of auburn hair. Bringing his sword around and up, he swung downwards, cutting cleanly through a foetid arm. His agile mind wondered if it would be enough or whether he should slit its throat. He opted for the latter and then cast his eyes around him.

  Carodel, the Bard Warrior, had just finished off his last opponent, and he stood now, shaking his arm with a gasp of utter disgust, eyes fixed on the strange, green gunge that had splashed onto his sword hand.

  “Victory!” shouted Galadan from further away, his voice carrying powerfully around the glade, and the troop cheered as they gave swift death to the last of the Deviants that had dared attack the royal caravan of Handir, second prince of Ea Uaré.

  “Clean up!” shouted Galadan, and the warriors set to piling up the bodies, hideous carcasses of mortals cursed for daring to defy their own, inevitable death. Their flesh was already rotting away, even though they had only just been granted death. The affliction was a cruel one, thought Galadan, but so, too, was the very idea of mortality.

  Ramien slapped his friend upon the shoulder as he passed, silent thanks for the life-saving warning, but Fel’annár could not return the gesture for he was dragging a gigantic Deviant over the ground, gritting his teeth, eyes stinging at the pungent odour as the soles of his boots dug into the ground for leverage.

  “Hurry up!” shouted Galadan. “Regroup in ten minutes!”

  The small group of warriors under Lieutenant Galadan’s command had broken off from Prince Handir’s fifty-strong escort so that he and his civilian attendants might be spared the grotesque faces and unnerving wails of the Deviants.

  It had been a small group, and the warriors of Ea Uaré had neutralised the threat easily enough; indeed, Commander General Pan’assár had not deemed his own presence necessary and had instead delegated command to his Alpine Lieutenant Galadan, who stood now before the gruesome pile of bodies. He should have felt pity, but he did not, and his eyes strayed to the trees nearby, calculating their distance. Once satisfied they would not be burnt, he set light to the stinking mound. There were no prayers, no pity, only the stare of a veteran Alpine warrio
r who remembered the slaughter of his own kin with a stony face and dry eyes.

  Mounting his steed in one, practised move, Galadan’s steady gaze took stock of his warriors, wavering only momentarily as they flitted over the striking face of Fel’annár, the green-eyed Master Archer—the Whirling Warrior as his friends called him. The boy reminded him of someone long gone, but Galadan’s emotions were his own, not to be displayed in public, and so, raising his arm in a signal to ride, he wheeled his horse around and cantered away.

  The warriors at the rear of the royal caravan shouted a victorious greeting to the returning troops while Lieutenant Galadan cantered to the front of the line to give his report to Commander General Pan’assár, just as he had done on so many occasions before.

  The threat is neutralized, the watch is set, to which Pan’assár would reply with a curt nod and silence.

  Another day’s work—unacknowledged.

  Tar’eastór. The motherland, realm of the great Alpine Lords, and Pan’assár, commander general of Ea Uaré had been great, one of the legendary Three. But that was long ago, when the world had been different and there had still been three.

  But then Or’Talán had died.

  Pan’assár hadn’t been to his birth-land for many centuries, and he asked himself now, had he missed the breath-taking High Plateau, the frigid lakes of turquoise marble, or the eerie beauty of the High Path? All those hallowed places floated in his mind, seen through the eyes of a much younger self, an ambitious captain with an honourable purpose, a life yet to fill with adventure and service. Pan’assár blinked at the unexpected emotions these memories stirred, emotions he had locked away out of sight so that others would not see the turmoil in his mind, and yet the closer they travelled to Tar’eastór, the harder it became.

  It had, of course, been a rhetorical question, a simple exercise he subjected himself to so that he could remember the reasons that had taken him away from Tar’eastór. He had followed Or’Talán into Ea Uaré, participated in the colonization of the Silvan elves and then witnessed the coronation of their first Alpine king. His friend had been a foreign ruler, loved almost until his death at the Battle Under the Sun, and he, Pan’assár, was duty-bound to remain in the Great Forest, for he had promised, had sworn his service to the line of one so great his heart had never had a choice in the matter. Or’Talán had been of The Three, his brother even in death, and Pan’assár’s vow to him was the one unbreakable reason he had chosen to stay.

  It was not for the Silvans; they had no ken of vows or honour.

  Yet despite the loss of Or’Talán, it had all been worth it. The Alpines had ventured into a virgin land of wood and feather, fur and bone, a land of Silvan natives and Ari Spirit Herders. They had created a realm, had built places of beauty, and had founded a kingdom from nothing more than isolated villages and a council of scattered elders. They had brought with them culture, history, music, and lore, the finest smiths and craftsmen, and, of course, they had created an army to fight Sand Lords from the north and Deviants from the east.

  Deep blue eyes shut out the eternal world, like a long and cherished book carefully closed, its final pages yet to be read, and when he looked out once more over the camp, the distant cry of a victorious herald turned every head in the caravan. Lieutenant Galadan had returned, the Deviant threat neutralized. He had expected no less.

  He was reminded of Or’Tálan, sitting tall upon his destrier, a wild, strong-willed spirit, skilled with the spear and sword, an extraordinary strategist. Yet above all these wonderful things, Or’Talán was a leader, an elf capable of inspiring loyalty in the most unlikely of places, capable even of sacrificing the heart of his son for the well-being of his subjects. Indeed, it was this very deed that had turned the Silvans against Or’Talán in the end, for the king they had once loved had forbidden his own son to court a Silvan woman. It had been the perfect match, they had said, the union of Alpine colonizer and Silvan native. Pan’assár could only thank Aria that union had not happened, that the pure blood of the Alpines had not been tainted with that of a Silvan commoner.

  “My lord,” called Galadan, moving his horse parallel with Pan’assár’s massive grey charger. “The path is clear and scouts are reporting every thirty minutes.”

  The commander nodded. “General Huren did a good job preparing the way for our prince,” said the commander, his eyes moving smoothly down the line and to the back. “Do not tell them though.” He smirked. “The praise will distract them.”

  Galadan said nothing, but had Pan’assár looked more closely, he would have noticed the subtle twitch of his lieutenant's brow.

  “It is early days, my lord. If the Deviants are so few here, it is because General Huren has pushed them back into the foothills we have yet to traverse. It will not be easy once the High Path comes into view.” His voice was soft, but the tension behind it was patent, and Pan’assár’s eyes lingered on his lieutenant for a while.

  “There are enough of us, if our scouts are efficient.”

  “We have the best Silvans on the job, my lord.”

  They were indeed good at that, conceded Pan’assár. The finest trackers were Silvan, for their senses were more attuned to the trees, to the voice of the forest. They were also able archers, perhaps as good as the Alpines. It was with blades where they could not compare, thought the commander. Or’Talán had been good, he himself was good, but it was Gor’sadén who boasted the highest skill with that weapon, and the image his mind conjured brought a rare smile to his lips. They would meet soon—for the first time since Or’Talán’s death—and despite how much Pan’assár loved him, his smile slipped.

  “How is Silor performing?” he asked, eyes sliding to where the young Alpine warrior stood further along the line, overseeing the warriors. Son of the powerful Sulén family, Silor had been included on the journey as aspiring lieutenant as per his lordly brothers’ insistent demands. Pan’assár had no qualms so long as he performed his duties well.

  “Well enough, although he is too curt with the warriors. They do not take kindly to him.”

  Commander and lieutenant watched as the returning troops dismounted, smiling as they clasped their fellow warriors’ forearms. Silor stood with his arms crossed, straight-faced and impatient. There were no words of praise, no nod of recognition, only the look of one who was unimpressed—even irritated.

  “Are there any Alpine commanders the Silvans take kindly to, Galadan?” asked Pan’assár with a tired sigh. “They are too young. Most of them are a scant few hundred; they have no ken of the elder days of splendour, know nothing of the Warrior Code,” he scoffed. “They do as they are told, and they are good enough at it.”

  Galadan turned his eyes from Silor to Pan’assár, wondering, perhaps, if they had been observing the same warrior at all. “We can hardly blame them for losing their lives, my lord. We send them to the front; it is logical they would be young. There is no time for them to mature as warriors before we are leading them to battle.”

  Pan’assár’s head turned to Galadan, the ghost of a frown on his imperious face. “You wax soft, Galadan. You must remember to keep the troop in line. I understand they are young and the wherewithal of that, but do not let sympathy undermine your authority; this is not Tar’eastór.”

  “No, my lord,” answered the lieutenant duteously, and Pan’assár knew he did not agree—indeed it irked him, and so he added, “Silor does well to command them thusly. It is what young boys need—a hard hand.”

  “I understand the need to be firm, my lord. I do not understand the need to be rude.”

  “You place too much importance on their emotional well-being. Leave that to their Silvan mothers, Galadan. You are their commander,” he finished curtly.

  “Aye, sir,” came the flat answer. It was the tone of one who knew it was useless to argue.

  Turning slightly, Pan’assár’s blond hair lifted in the breeze, wrapping round his mouth for a moment before it was blown back into place. Prince Handir sat a
stride his magnificent mount, his Ari guard, Lainon, close by. Lainon was a formidable warrior, conceded Pan’assár, which was just as well, for the prince himself was not a warrior, and the commander general did not think that right at all. All Alpine princes should be warriors, he thought. Theirs was the onus of protecting their people, of commanding them. It is what Crown Prince Rinon did.

  “Galadan, thirty minutes’ break. Set an honour guard for our prince.”

  “Commander,” saluted Galadan and then turned his horse away.

  Before long, they were back on the road towards the mountains and Pan’assár’s ancestral home, towards a family he had forsaken for duty, towards the only other remaining member of The Three and the stilted silences that would surely stand between them. Pan’assár had never spoken of the day three had become two; he couldn’t.

  ‘Who am I?’

  Fel’annár’s head snapped to one side. Distantly, he was aware that he needed to breathe, to quell the overwhelming anxiety that twisted his guts and squeezed the air from his lungs.

  ‘I am Fel’annár. I am the forest…’

  His body jerked, and he sat up, ramrod straight in a flurry of silver-blond hair and a grey woollen blanket. The blue-eyed lady in the tree smiled softly down upon him as she always did, but it was the glowing green eyes of another that lingered before his mind’s eye. It was a face he could not grasp, and for some reason, his heart hammered in his chest.

  “Fel’annár?” a soft voice spoke beside him.

  “Go to sleep, Idernon,” he whispered, knowing that he himself could not, and as the sun finally stroked the jagged horizon, Fel’annár smiled into the rays of timid winter warmth. This was the dream that mattered, the waking one. He was a warrior, a Master Archer, servant of King Thargodén and protector of his people. He was Silvan, a bastard with no name—but that didn’t matter, not anymore.

  He shook his head, straightened his uniform, and turned to look down the long line of warriors, carts, horses, and supply waggons. Then he focused on the two circular tents further on. Their leaders—prince and commander general—were only a few minutes’ walk away, and yet the distance between them seemed strangely unsurmountable. Indeed, Fel’annár had not been anywhere near the front of the escort, and now, many days into their journey from Ea Uaré to Tar’eastór, he still had not even seen the Lord Pan’assár, let alone Prince Handir, not even during yesterday’s Deviant skirmish. It would be nice, he thought, to see one of the elves he had only recently sworn to protect, to see nobility for the first time, in the flesh.