Road of a Warrior Page 8

  He moved his sword arm before him, his sabre in his other hand, aloft like the steely horn of some mythical creature. He watched as they came. But then something quite unexpected happened; they stopped before him.

  The foremost Deviant was taller even than Fel’annár, as bulky as Ramien, one side of its face eaten away. It stood silently for a moment, a strange clicking sound coming from its throat while the remaining Deviants were behind it, unmoving. This was their leader, realised Fel’annár.

  “Blessed Aria,” pleaded an Alpine warrior beside him.

  Leathery skin stretched over rotten teeth, a mockery of a smile, and a surge of power pulsed through The Silvan’s veins, setting his eyes to blazing and his hair to swimming around him. It was not the first time it had happened, but it was the first time he could feel it, hear it, aware of the other presence in his mind and the power it lent him.

  The Deviant screamed in wrath, black veins puffing in its throat, body shaking with the force of the screech, and in a second it was upon Fel’annár. The other Deviants surged forwards, and Galadan and the two remaining warriors were immersed in a desperate battle for their lives.

  Fel’annár’s last thought before the scimitar came towards him was for The Company.

  ‘Protect them—Aria,’ he whispered into the breeze, and although he could not hear it, the boughs rustled, complicit.

  From the side-lines, Dorainen the healer watched, wide-eyed and helpless, but movement further along the treeline caught his attention. He thought at first it was the enemy come to finish him, but he recognised the uniform of a trainee lieutenant. Silor crouched low behind a thick trunk, eyes wide, half-crazed in his terror as he watched the battle from afar.

  Dorainen frowned. Had the boy not seen battle before? he wondered, but then he told himself he must have, for he wore the livery of an officer. He wasn’t surprised, though, and despite his outrage, he felt a pang of pity. He was panicked by the desperate battle that played out tragically before him, perhaps even more panicked that he would be found cowering behind the trees. Movement to the right brought about the inevitable and the boy’s eyes landed on Dorainen. There was dread there in his Alpine eyes, and behind the dread was fear. The moment was soon lost as the boy retreated further into the trees.

  Is this what his people had come to? Promoting young elves without the slightest merit save that of their lineage? But no, this was not an Alpine thing; it was born of the Alpines of Ea Uaré.

  His eyes returned to the Silvan with the burning eyes for here was a warrior, young yet fearless as he struggled against the towering Deviant in his path. But then what had he expected from this one? Certainly no less, for battle was in his blood, and, perhaps, greatness would be in his soul, just like the one Dorainen had followed so many centuries before.

  The battlefield was mostly still and silent, had been for some minutes now and the only elf that was not lying dead was kneeling in the mud, his body hunched forwards. Only the sound of his own, harsh breathing reached his ringing ears, deafening though it was, and for a long while, it was all Fel’annár could hear, that and the frantic thump of his overworked heart. Breath came in harsh gulps, and he adjusted his position on the floor to ease its passage and replenish his starved lungs.

  Pain shot through his shoulder and one side of his chest, but he cared not. He needed to regain his breath, and so he held himself on all fours until slowly, the thumping and the gasping were replaced by heavy, even breathing. A drop of blood fell to the earth below his face, and he realised he could not see through one eye. A moment of panic took him, and he reached up to touch it, fingers now bloody. A cut on his head had bled into his eye, and so he blinked furiously, clearing the red haze enough to see; not blinded, thank Aria. The world focussed before him, not green or blue or purple, just sunlight and snow.

  And then he saw the Deviant leader on the ground beside him in a pool of black gunge. The stench made him gag, and he turned away for a moment to control his clenching stomach. Sitting back on his haunches, he tilted his face to the weak sun, closing his eyes for a moment as his head protested the movement. He grimaced through the stabbing pain at his temples.

  Swallowing thickly, he opened his eyes once more, and for the first time since the battle had ended, Fel’annár cast his gaze around their ruined camp.

  There were bodies strewn about the place, Deviants and elves splayed this way and that, limbs twisted unnaturally in death. His eyes desperately sought the slightest of movements, some sign there were other survivors. There was nothing; he needed to move.

  He slowly rose to his unsteady feet, hands leaning heavily upon his thighs as he adjusted to the pull on sore muscles and the bone-deep fatigue he felt. It was then that a hand fell on his shoulder, warm and distinctly Elven.

  “Are you alright?” asked its owner with a final squeeze before walking away, not waiting for an answer. “Come, we must help our brothers,” said Galadan flatly as he walked on, and Fel’annár stood up, walking cautiously for a moment so that he could take stock of his injuries. Well, at least he could walk, he mused. There was a shallow arrow wound in his shoulder, a slash over his bicep, a head injury, and some discomfort in his side. It was not serious, nothing that could not wait, for he stood upon a gruesome field of death and his stomach felt like molten lead.

  “The commander?” murmured Fel’annár as he checked the bodies upon the ground.

  “Alive, but his head injury is worrying, as is a sword wound through his side. I have moved him to Prince Handir’s tent. Fel’annár,” added Galadan, turning to meet his gaze for the first time, lingering for a moment before he spoke. “Can you sense the enemy nearby?”

  Fel’annár shook his head and then winced at the pain it caused. “No. I believe we are safe for the moment, sir.”

  With a nod, Galadan moved on. Fel’annár had not missed that moment of hesitation and knew what the lieutenant was thinking. He thought him a freak of nature—even the Deviant had screamed at him, not wailed but screamed, and the echo of that sound, the memory of its vibration in his chest sent shivers of dread down his spine.

  Turning, Fel’annár made for the tree line, crouching down painfully before Dorainen, who stared up at him in silence. His eyes quickly slipped away, unable to hold the green gaze, and Fel’annár sighed in exasperation this time before reaching down and hauling the Alpine healer to his unsteady feet.

  “Come, healer. We will need you in the hours to come,” said Fel’annár softly as he supported the elf and then walked slowly to the tent that Galadan had established as their meeting point, and all the time his eyes wandered to the trees, for the smallest sign of the enemy, and for the slightest hint that the battle had gone well—the other battle to the west.

  Fel’annár set Dorainen down on an expensive-looking carpet next to the unconscious Pan’assár and then stepped outside in search of Galadan, who was bending to check the last of the bodies. They were all gone, sundered, their spirits away to Valley to await the return of consciousness.

  “Lieutenant Galadan,” called Fel’annár, surprising himself with his rasping voice. “What of the other battle further behind?”

  Galadan turned, his eyes studiously blank as he answered, “I don’t know, Fel’annár. But whatever transpired, it is over now. It is all we can do to aid the wounded.”

  Fel’annár turned his ear to the wind once more, but again, he was met by silence.

  “And Silor?” he asked suddenly, turning to Galadan. The name had come out almost as a hiss for Fel’annár was angry at the fool for not acting sooner, for his accusations of insubordination, angry that Silor had even been allowed to train as a lieutenant in the first place. He reprimanded himself then, for the elf had most likely perished.

  The lieutenant started, as if it had only just occurred to him. “I don’t know.”

  Galadan’s eyes drifted over the dead elves, even though he knew Silor was not amongst them, couldn’t be, for he had fought with the western group. With a s
ubtle cock of his head, he gestured to Fel’annár, and together they walked westwards, to whatever would greet them there. With every step they took, Fel’annár's heart dropped further and further into his stomach. Dread was winning the battle over anger, and his knees felt weaker the closer they came to the place where he knew the battle had happened. Should he find them dead, Ramien and Idernon? He could not quell his rising panic, and from the trees he felt nothing.

  Soon enough, the glade emerged before them, and Fel’annár stopped dead in his tracks, Galadan at his shoulder. There was only one thing in Fel’annár’s mind, one image that filled his sight, and he let loose a shuddering breath.

  Amidst a sea of death, Idernon sat upon the ground, as did Ramien, while Carodel lay before them, alive—The Company was alive and Fel’annár could not repress the brutal onslaught of emotion that surged from him. It was utterly absurd, so very unlikely, and yet here they sat amongst the dead—and a thick carpet of branches and leaves. Had they heard him? Had the trees given their aid to his unwitting brothers? Even though he was unaware of the answer, gratitude welled within him, filling his eyes, but Galadan’s heavy hand on his shoulder pulled him back from his spiralling thoughts. Together, they strode across the ground, stepping over the dismembered bodies of elves and Deviants, eyes fixed only on the few that remained—The Company, Galdith, and Osír—and slightly further away, Silor sat upon the ground, a dead Alpine warrior in his lap.

  Dusk was falling and so was the temperature. Fel’annár had gathered all the cloaks and blankets that were salvageable and then returned once more in search of anything that could be used. He found a handful of bags with dried meat and shortbread, but every other box or sack of food had been pillaged, or worse, was still scattered upon the bloody ground. He turned back to the tents, but a familiar pattern caught his eye: a carved root design framing a rough, leather-bound book. His journal. His journal had somehow avoided the stamping feet of Deviants and warriors.

  A flood of tears came to his eyes, and he lifted his head to the slate-grey sky to steady himself. Bending down, he reached out and brushed over the unassuming cover. There was so much of himself inside its protective embrace, so much of his heart he could not show to anyone else. Sniffling, he stowed it away and returned to the tent, their makeshift headquarters where the injured warriors now lay, including Dorainen. The healer sat with his back against the central pole of the tent, issuing his orders to Silor and Galadan as they gave what first aid they could. Silor ripped cloaks into strips for bandages, and Galadan used them to staunch bleeding wounds, and all the while, Silor studiously avoided Dorainen’s steady gaze.

  Ramien lay insensate, and Idernon laboured in the twilight of consciousness—neither here nor there. Carodel had suffered a scimitar wound to the thigh that had reached through to the bone while Commander Pan’assár had a severe concussion and a sword wound. Osír, though, was the object of their deepest concern, for a stab wound to the side still bled sluggishly despite their efforts to stop it. It was a mercy Dorainen had survived, although he, too, had been run through with a blade to the side, an injury Fel’annár had not seen during the battle. Even so, Dorainen was hale enough to see them through these first hours, but they needed to get to Tar’eastór, to the Master Healers as quickly as possible.

  But that did not seem likely.

  Snow had begun to fall in thick clumps; they had no herbs to dull the pain, and their horses had scattered. The injured suffered, desperately trying to stifle their moans of agony, and it was all Dorainen could do to sit still and watch, damning the piercing agony in his shoulder and side.

  Meanwhile, Fel’annár had set himself the task of collecting water. It was no easy job, for the water source nearby was frozen over. He had cracked the surface with the heel of his boots, cut his numb hands as he pushed the pail inside, and gathered the water, but there was no larger recipient to collect it in, and so he made continuous journeys to the stream for Dorainen asked it of him. More water was always needed.

  Galdith stood guard outside the tent, wrapped tightly in his cloak, watching as Fel’annár hauled bucket after bucket of water into the tent. With the final pail, Fel’annár lost his balance and crashed to his knees, water slopping onto his already sodden clothes. He was exhausted. He could no longer feel his cut and bruised fingers. A bloodied hand came up to wipe over his brow and free his eyes from the loose strands of filthy hair that had stuck to his forehead. Sniffling miserably, he collected himself.

  “Fel’annár?” came a soft voice from one of the pallets. Idernon.

  “Brother?” gasped Fel’annár as he made his way over. “What do you need?” he asked with a frown, a shaking hand rising to clear a lock of hair from the Wise Warrior’s face.

  “Better not ask,” he groaned.

  “A little more to the right, and we would have lost you,” said Fel’annár quietly.

  “How are Carodel and Ramien?” he asked, fighting the battle to stay awake.

  “They will be well, so long as we make haste to Tar’eastór. With luck we are but a few day’s ride away.” They were merciful lies, for there were only five of them, and two days would surely become four, at best, in these conditions, if they could find their scattered horses. Fel’annár wondered then if Prince Handir and Lainon had made it safely to the mountain realm, for help would then surely be on the way to meet them.

  “We are closer than I thought…” murmured Idernon.

  “And thank Aria for that,” said Fel’annár with a soft smile. “Now, you rest, I work. Keep your knife close, brother.”

  Idernon’s eyes slipped to the blood on Fel’annár’s shoulder then to the tangled mess of his hair and his pale, drawn face. “We need you to get us to Tar’eastór.”

  Fel'annár held his compelling stare and then simply nodded.

  Hefting the remaining water to one corner of the tent, he made for Galadan, who stood over an unconscious Pan’assár, one hand holding the tent pole too tightly.

  “Sir. There is water aplenty and enough firewood for tonight, I would guess. I found little in the way of food, but I could try to hunt. If the enemy has been eliminated, there is a reasonable chance at catching something.”

  “Have we no supplies at all?” asked Galadan as he gestured for Galdith, Dorainen, and Silor to join their hushed conversation.

  “A slab of dried meat and a handful of wafers, sir. It is all ruined; the Deviants seem to have gone for it with a purpose. What they have not trampled on they have split apart and destroyed. We have cloaks aplenty, though, and I have retrieved as many canteens as I could find and have filled them, in case we need to move quickly.”

  Galadan nodded. “And of the horses?”

  “I believe they are close by, sir. I could try to herd them.”

  “Will you not leave something for the rest of us to do?” seethed Silor, irritated, it seemed, at Fel’annár’s initiative and perhaps his own inability to brief the lieutenant. Before Galadan or Galdith could answer him, Fel’annár stepped towards him in one lunging stride until his nose was almost touching Silor’s.

  “Then why didn’t you do it yourself? Are you not an aspiring officer? What are you doing for us? What have you ever done for us other than show your disdain, your hatred for those better than yourself? You cannot hide your incompetence behind your noble house, not forever.” He had raised his voice to the son of a lord, and he could not have cared less.

  “You dare...”

  Galadan placed his arm between them, forcing both to lean back. He turned first to Silor. “Hold your tongue, warrior.”

  “Lieutenant,” corrected Silor.

  “Not if I have anything to say about that, and I do.”

  “You do not have the authority.”

  “I do not, but Commander General Pan’assár will hear my report. You can redeem yourself, Silor, but first we must get to Tar’eastór, and for that to happen, we must work together.” Galadan turned then to Fel’annár. “Keep it together, warrior.
This is not the time for confrontation.”

  Fel’annár’s wide eyes dropped to the floor, and he nodded, muttering a half-hearted apology. He respected Galadan, but Silor brought out the worst in him. Anger had changed him, anger at Silor’s incompetence, at the others for their incessant stares, at Amareth for her deceit, at his king for abandoning him. He shook his head and closed his eyes.

  Meanwhile, Dorainen’s eyes were back on Silor, cool and steady; it was too much for the young Alpine lord, and he looked away with a frown, wondering if the healer had told the lieutenant of what he had seen during the battle.

  “Now, we must see to our own wounds, and when that is done, Silor and I prepare the pyres, but, else we draw the enemy’s eye, we do not burn them unless Mountain Hounds come to scavenge. Galdith, you search for our horses as soon as the light permits. Fel’annár, you are our eyes in the night. I want you to scout around, warn us of any impending danger, and Silor,” he said, turning to face the trainee lieutenant, “We trust his word—it is all we will have,” he said, pointing at Fel’annár, and the trainee lieutenant nodded. Then he sneered at Galadan’s retreating back.

  Fel’annár moved to one side of the tent and slowly lowered himself to the ground. He sniffled as he unbuckled his quiver and harness, keeping both close by. Unfastening the leather armour over his chest, he slowly peeled it away, wincing as his wounds protested the movement.

  He had not meant to gasp, but it had hurt. Unlacing his undershirt, he removed it slowly and then knelt before a pail of water. A hand on his bare shoulder: Dorainen.

  “Let me help you” was all he said. He did not wait for Fel’annár to answer, and although he only had the use of one arm, Dorainen’s skilled hand moved over the cuts and abrasions, the arrow wound and the bruises—as if he could read them, feel their reach. He pressed down on one side of Fel’annár’s chest, and a stifled groan escaped the kneeling warrior.