Fel’annár could see the pattern. Band’orán wanted the king, was sending large numbers of troops in his direction. He wondered if he had given the order to kill him or capture him. But in order to do that, they would first have to face the Kah Masters.
Pan’assár swept sideways, killed two, but was soon back, as close as he could get to Gor’sadén and still fight. Fel’annár could see the slight imbalance, how he sometimes needed to correct his footwork.
“Dalú!” shouted Fel’annár. He gestured to the main battle, an order to lead them.
Dalú nodded. He watched Fel’annár as he inched closer to the commanders. Soon, he was within the sight of the enemy, who had so far failed to take the commanders down.
And then Fel’annár saw it—or had he felt it? They widened the space between them, enough for Fel’annár to move forward and breach the gap, make it even. Then there were three, whirling and swirling, arcing and ducking, spinning and slicing, twisting and kicking.
Invincible.
Fel’annár briefly caught the king’s eye as he circled round, saw the crown prince fighting at his side and Turion at last. But as he fought, he realised that something was wrong. They were being surrounded, cut off from everyone else. A gully was forming around them, widening.
“We’re being isolated.”
“Hold steady,” said Gor’sadén.
And he did, but as he wielded his blade, his eyes searched for Tensári, for Idernon. He found them, pressing against a growing wall of warriors. He knew Idernon understood the tactic.
An arrow whizzed past Fel’annár’s cheek, thudded into a captain behind him. Another embedded itself in Pan’assár’s pauldron.
“Sniper!” shouted Fel’annár. He heard Dalú yelling from across the slowly widening gap. Another arrow clattered off his forearm.
“To the Warlord!” Idernon’s warning split the air as they pressed harder, cutting down the enemy, slowly pushing towards Fel’annár and narrowing the divide as more Silvans flocked to the cause.
Then Angon was through, ran towards them, fought beside them, and behind him, Dalú and Idernon. Fel’annár killed another, felt Gor’sadén stagger sideways, compensated for the gap between them. Tensári was running towards them, sword high, yelling some Ararian curse as she crashed into the circle of combat.
Pan’assár stumbled and fell to the ground beside him, then a clash of swords meeting at the crossguard. From the corner of his eye, Fel’annár saw Dalú’s painted face, just before he took the head of a warrior. He nodded curtly at Pan’assár, who was back on his feet, an arrow through his shoulder.
And still, more arrows came, one after the other.
They were tiring, couldn’t keep up the frantic rhythm much longer. Something had to change.
“No. Father! Turion!” Rinon’s desperate cry.
The king had fallen sideways, far enough from the line for the enemy to surround him, cut him off from the rest.
Pan’assár killed one and turned enough to see him, see Or’Talán as he was set upon by Sand Lords.
“To the king!” shouted Gor’sadén, moving closer to Fel’annár, compensating for the gap Pan’assár left as he lurched backwards. He gave a last glance at his brother of old, a goodbye in his eyes. He ran towards Turion and Rinon, helped fight off their opponents and then ran for the surrounded king. He remembered the Xeric Wood, how they had been left without backup, how the king had perished.
He would not let it happen again.
With a mighty roar, Pan’assár broke the circle, and one after the other, the black-armoured warriors fell, under some unnatural strength that had lent itself to Pan’assár. He had only been able to watch Or’Talán die that day, but today, he would deliver his son, or he would die trying.
Rinon fell with a gasp, an arrow in his upper leg. Angon lurched forwards, parried a downward strike meant for the prince’s chest. But he was not quick enough to turn and meet the Kah Warrior behind him. He felt the impact on his upper back, felt the fire as the blade cut through leather and cloth, skin and muscle. He knew that it was fatal.
He fell, and looked up to the churning skies. He saw Prince Rinon looking down at him, confusion in his eyes. Confusion and admiration.
“Win that bet, Prince. Win it for us all.”
He was rewarded with a determined nod, three words, the last Angon would hear in this life. “Safe journey, Warrior.”
Angon closed his eyes and made for Valley.
“Angon!” Dalú’s desperate cry. He ran forward, crashed into Pan’assár’s remaining opponent and then skidded to a halt. He fell to his knees, wide eyes wavering and watering at the death of the one he thought of as a son.
The Kah Warriors around the king had thinned to almost nothing and any stragglers were cut down by Gor’sadén, Pan’assár and Fel’annár. They were safe for now, and Fel’annár cast his gaze over the battlefield. The numbers had dwindled greatly, and black no longer dominated.
“Dalú!” he called, then felt him at his side, eyes wet, jaw clenched. “One last push, Captain. One last push and we have them.” Fel’annár clapped his hand on his shoulder, felt his sadness, his exhaustion. The captain jogged unevenly away, rallied the remaining Silvan warriors and pushed back into the dwindling enemy.
From afar, amidst the shadows of distant buildings, Band’orán, Bendir and Dinor watched in silence.
The king had been cut off, all but dead. But Pan’assár had reached him and rallied the others. The tide was turning, and the king was still alive. Fel’annár was still alive.
Band’orán surveyed the field, littered with the dead, with mud and blood, stray limbs and strewn weapons. His Kah Warriors all but vanquished. How had he lost? He had sat upon the throne of Ea Uaré, had all her rulers at his mercy. He had felt himself king at last.
But The Three had returned, and his eyes lingered on Fel’annár, on Or’Talán. He had tried to rid himself of his brother, tried not to love him. Still, that indomitable flame had haunted him, always would. He loved him. Hated him. He backed away, turned to his right. But Barathon wasn’t there.
It was Captain Bendir, with Dinor at his side. They nodded. It was time to leave.
Fel’annár killed his last opponent and then doubled over, desperate for breath. He rested one hand on his knee, trying to fill his heaving lungs. Beside him, he heard the Masters.
Exhausted.
He turned to his right, to Gor’sadén who would not look at him. Instead, he held himself up with his longsword, eyes closed. A heavy hand landed on Fel’annár’s shoulder.
Pan’assár.
But when Fel’annár turned, caught his gaze, he started. Those cold, blue eyes were warm and wide, no longer shuttered, despite the broken arrow through his shoulder. The lines around his brow had gone and in their place were smooth skin, bright eyes. Fel’annár knew what it was.
Peace.
He slowly stood, a grimace fixed on his face. His eyes surveyed the field. Galdith was cradling his arm, Sontúr leaning over him. Ramien sat close by with Carodel while Idernon and Galadan stood over them, watching. He saw Tensári, too, helping a nearby warrior to stand.