“Aye!” they roared into the smoky air that swirled and coiled around them.
“So come. Let us scare the Alpines, if we can, and not kill them … if we can. We ride to the gates, and then fate will show us the way. For King Thargodén!”
“Aye!”
“For Lássira of the White Oak!”
“Aye!”
“For the return of the Deep Forest!”
“Aye!”
The chorus echoed across the plains, and in their wake, the drums began. It was a rhythm of war, a marching rhythm, the sound of a people united. And then the chanting began, the singing and the clapping, and Captain Dalú caught Idernon’s gaze as he approached the first line. Angon was with him, the same fire and determination in his eyes.
Fel’annár had asked if the Silvans would ride in the king’s name, and Dalú had once hesitated. Now, though, he had his answer.
They would, because at last the day had come. The day they would be set free.
The Warlord had returned.
“Well now, who would have said. Lord Band’orán is not against the Silvan people. You sit, and you stare, unconcerned, confident that the Council will not vote against your wishes.” Handir walked to the centre of the floor, pointed at Band’orán. “There is the hint of a challenge in your eyes. I can see it. You say, stop me if you can. You think that I can’t.”
Aradan’s brow twitched from further along the semi-circle. This approach that Handir was taking was bold, a trait previously unrecognisable in his pupil.
“Since you ask, let us see if I can’t. As you all know, I have spent the last six months in Tar’eastór, under the tutelage of Lord Damiel, by the grace of King Vorn’asté Ar Carenar. Lord Fel’annár Ar Thargodén,” he emphasised before continuing, “was serving as a warrior in my retinue. We spoke. I conveyed the king’s wishes that he be a lord and that he come to his father on his return.” Handir turned back to Band’orán’s chair. “And then, someone tried to kill him.”
There were murmurs amongst the crowd, but the councillors sat and listened, amongst them, Erthoron and Lorthil.
“He escaped, but then it happened again with hired assassins, and the question is, who hired them? Remember my question, councillors.”
Draugolé tried not to turn to Band’orán at his side. Handir was attacking with everything he had, and Draugolé braced himself for what he would say, and perhaps more importantly, how Band’orán himself would react. Not for the first time, he wondered where Barathon was, whether he had said too much last night.
“’Who hired them?’ we asked. But then battle came to the Motherland. That is a mighty story that will one day be told, one of extreme bravery by the hands of Lord Fel’annár and The Company, warriors all, loyal to King Thargodén—but today is not the day. Commander General Gor’sadén and Prince Sontúr Ar Vorn’asté came with us, to thank our king personally, bring tidings and commendations, King Vorn’asté’s unconditional support for Lord Fel’annár and for his ally, King Thargodén. The Motherland, councillors. The Motherland is with King Thargodén.”
There were whispered comments amongst the crowds behind, but the councillors sat in silence, listened to the challenge Prince Handir was answering. Aradan thought it shrewd, indeed. None of these Alpine lords wanted to become an enemy of the Motherland. He was reminding them of the consequences of turning against Thargodén.
“After that war, we uncovered missives, messages, correspondence that had been intercepted on its way from Ea Uaré to Tar’eastór. Messages from my king, important missives for Commander Pan’assár. We even found a map with scribbles in the margin, giving thanks to Lord Band’orán. Oran Dor had been crossed out, and in its place, Sulén Dor.”
There were shouts of outrage from Erthoron, Lorthil and Vardú, from the smattering of Silvans amongst the dignitaries behind the councillors.
“It is almost comical, except that the security of this realm was placed in danger. And suddenly, we knew.” Arms out, Handir turned full circle. He stopped and stared at Band’orán, returned that knowing gaze. He was rewarded with a flicker of concern, one Band’orán tried to hide.
“The person charged with all these vile deeds is here. He sits with a challenge in his eye and the threat of a satisfied smile. But those scrolls are here, for any who wish to read them. The map is here, for your perusal. And as we speak, our security forces are searching for Lord Sulén, a holding order from the Motherland in their hands. He will be questioned and then charged with high treason. I wonder what he will say.”
The shouts from behind the councillors were almost too loud for Handir’s voice to be heard above them, but he pushed forwards, over the din.
“How many more will be charged with high treason after today?”
“Order! Order!” The bang of the Council Master’s staff upon the stone floor, voice powerful. The noise subsided and finally petered out.
Rinon watched, wide-eyed and engrossed, shocked at his brother’s skill. Before him was a master councillor, and his eyes strayed to the rest of the Royal Council, where Aradan stood watching his pupil. He recognised the shine in his eyes.
Pride.
“But it doesn’t stop there. Our journey back was similarly fraught with persecution, and I myself was placed in danger many times. I thank Lord Fel’annár and Lord Pan’assár for my life. But the question is, who was responsible for all these events? Remember this question, councillors. Remember it well.”
Handir glanced at the door, but still no Pan’assár. Something had happened to him, Handir was sure of it.
“You rallied your followers and succeeded in instilling fear in the indecisive. The Silvans will attack us, you said. They are already beating at our doors, ready to expel the Alpines. You said Lord Fel’annár was dead! Said it to wrest hope from the Silvan people. You had it all worked out, didn’t you, Lord Band’orán? But there was one thing, one person who eluded your web of treachery. Lord Fel’annár had to die because you knew that he was the unifying factor. You knew that he would lead the natives of this land and make them strong. He was in your way. That is why you tried to kill him, why you still try.”
Band’orán’s eyes had changed from clear blue to icy cold grey, the pupils strangely dilated, as if he stood in the dark. A shiver ran the length of Handir’s spine, but he was almost there, had to push on.
“Remember my question, councillors. Who is responsible for all these events? Consider, if you will, the common factor. No, not Lord Band’orán.” He looked beyond the Royal Councillors, to the audience behind. “King Or’Talán.”
Gasps, frantic murmuring, but Handir pressed on, faced Band’orán – not too close. “Or’Talán was your undoing, wasn’t he, Kes?” He watched in satisfaction as his enemy wavered, shocked that Handir should know that term of endearment.
“He was the sun that drowned your light, and now his grandson shines just as brightly. He marks your ending, Lord Band’orán and we both say, you cannot have this throne. It was never yours. It is over.”