Handir stared back at her. He knew who she was, had always thought her an academic. But her face was sharp and harsh, and something told him she should not be denied. He nodded.
“The rest of you take refuge upstairs. Make rooms ready for the wounded, should the Healing Halls be overrun. Light hearths and prepare clothing. Do what you can, but stay safe.”
There were no more shouts, just urgent muttering as the people flocked to Peldor, Miren and Lerita to help. Others climbed the mighty stairs while the lines were formed to bring water from the springs into the Council Chambers.
Erthoron, Lorthil and Narosén stood beside Aradan, near the half-closed grand doors of the palace, eyes on the prince. Handir could not rid himself of that terrible moment in which Band’orán had toyed with them, made them say goodbye to him thinking he would be killed. Handir had realised then just how much the councillor meant to him, like Gor’sadén to Fel’annár, he thought.
Handir approached, nodded at Aradan. “The other councillors?” he asked.
“Those with other skills have joined your effort, Prince. Some are in the kitchens, others help Lerita or have retreated upstairs. There has been some strife with those closest to Band’orán but—”
An elbow to his ribs, and he turned to Lorthil, who was gesturing to an elf in a long, black cloak. He was making for the grand stairs, and Handir followed at a distance.
“Draugolé!” The hooded figure stopped, his back to the prince. “Did you think you could spirit away? Are you going to meet with your new lord?” Handir’s voice was loud enough to turn heads, and the noise in the foyer was replaced by the sounds of the battle beyond the doors.
Draugolé turned, his confident, placid face now rigid and wary. “Band’orán is not my lord. I was making for my rooms, as you ordered, my prince.”
Handir smiled, stepped towards him. Lerita and her two veterans inched behind the councillor. “Of course you were. After all that has happened. After all your lies and your manipulation. Still, you take me for a fool?” He was angry, and then the vision of Fel’annár hitting a mercenary on the Pelagian Queen came to mind. Handir had hurt his hand when he had punched a pirate. This time, he knew what to do.
Draugolé watched dumbly as a ringed fist, perfectly formed and tight, hurtled towards him, too fast to dodge. He fell onto his backside, Handir towering over him.
Lerita stared, stony face cracking into an expression of shock and then satisfaction. “Get him up! Storeroom four!” she bellowed.
Draugolé was dragged away amidst the jeers and yells of the crowds. Someone spat, someone kicked out at him, and Handir gestured for Lerita to go, make sure they did not kill him before he could be brought to trial.
Handir heaved a breath. He watched Llyniel bow at him from the doors, felt the lingering stares of others as they passed.
It had come from the heart, like a fantasy come true. He had always wanted to punch Draugolé.
A Kah Warrior shrieked, blood streaking after his fall. Angon was advancing, Dalú never far. They were close, now, to the centre of battle where the lords fought.
Band’orán cut down a Silvan, brought his sword around and stuck the tip of it into another’s shoulders from above, not so deep so that his blade would catch on bone. He killed everyone around him, fast and efficient.
Too easy.
He was good, mused Fel’annár. But that would not stop him. Nothing would stop him on his road to retribution.
Grandfather. Mother. His people. The Forest.
A Kah warrior crashed into Fel’annár but Tensári was upon him in an instant, like a black eagle, all power and steel. Too quick for him to counter, she killed him quickly, searched for another.
And she found him, the one she had sworn she would kill.
Striding forward, Galdith at her back, a Silvan warrior crashed to the ground before her. She had not killed him—Farón had. She stood before him, knowing exactly where Fel’annár was, where The Company fought. She knew that Galdith was behind her.
“I will have your life, traitor.” She struck a stance all Ari’atór were taught, from the first day they were allowed to hold a blade at the tender age of twelve. She could see his shock, knew that he thought he had killed her, that he could kill an Ari’atór with Dream Vine.
“It’s not personal, Ari’atór. I couldn’t allow him to become the Warlord because he would have obeyed the dictates of Thargodén. That king is weak but Band’orán will take us back to the days of glory.”
“By enslaving your people?”
“No. Pan’assár already did that. I would speak for the Silvans, make them great once more. I would teach them of the Kah and we would be invincible before the enemy.”
“You know nothing of the Kah. You were never a warrior, Farón. Warriors don’t turn on their brothers, don’t drug them and deliver them to their enemies. Warriors don’t betray the trust of those who took it upon themselves to train you, to mentor you.”
Farón frowned as he struck a guarding stance, followed her as she circled him. “You speak of Lainon?”
Tensári bared her teeth at him, blue eyes on fire. “Did you feel remorse? Did you falter at all when you gave him over to Band’orán? Lainon gave his life for Fel’annár, not so that you could squander it.”
Farón’s eyes flickered wide. He shook his head, even as he parried her first downward attack. “I didn’t know. If I had, I may not have done that.”
“You know now. Your ignorance will be the death of you.”
Another attack from the side, so vicious Farón staggered but soon righted himself. He attacked his opponent, fast and precise, and scored a blow across her arm. She hissed, wheeled away and turned back.
“You can’t beat a Kah Warrior alone, Ari’atór. I don’t wish to kill you.”
She smiled a grim smile, took up a high stance. “You are nothing but a would-be Warlord, one the Silvans do not wish for. Did you think they would accept you after your treachery? Did Band’orán tell you that they would? You are weak, vain, power-hungry but above all this, you have no honour.”
She lunged forwards with three heavy strikes, full of ire and vengeance. He parried them and then he stepped on a fallen sword, his leg wavering. He reeled sideways, righted himself, only to find the tip of her sword at his neck. He daren’t move, but chanced a question.
“Who are you?” He watched as her bright blue eyes flared.
“I am Tensári. Divine Protector. I sentence you to death.”
He only had time to widen his eyes before the frigid steel pierced his flesh, heard as it cut through his windpipe. Tensári watched, knowing that her back was covered. She waited, did not look away as Farón gagged and gurgled, a wave of red soaking his front. He crashed to the ground, and she turned, nodded her thanks to Galdith and threw herself back into the fray.
“Left! Front!” called Fel’annár to any who could hear, anyone free to help the warriors who were struggling. He heard Dalú seconding his order, and he turned.
“Salo! Henú!” Fel’annár shouted again. Dalú repeated again and slowly, they pushed towards where Gor’sadén and Pan’assár danced the Kal’hamén’Ar, the field always empty around them. Behind them, Fel’annár had caught a glimpse of the king and prince still alive, but where was Turion?