Not a snake. A root.
A whispery echo, the lash of a whip, and a vine tangled around Dinor’s waist. He yelled, tried to reach for his knife, but his arms were caught. He staggered this way and that, a pathetic, boneless thing caught in a wooden embrace.
Band’orán looked down. He saw the inert loops and ridges of the roots below him, before him. Then they were writhing inside the sodden soil, interlacing and protruding, like fish riding the crests of waves. He stepped backwards.
The wind was rising, the storm approaching, enough to blow his hair across his face. He batted it away. From the corner of his eye, a black-green root reared from the ground. Dagger in hand, he slashed at it. It fell away and then whirled around. He swivelled the blade and cut through another. His feet moved, avoiding the larger roots until he stood on flatter ground, littered with pine needles. They crunched under his boots.
Someone was crashing through the foliage, and he turned, his two throwing daggers ready in his hands.
The storm had come.
Fel’annár slowed his pace through the Evergreen Wood until he came to a halt before a carpet of living roots.
He heard the blades before he saw them. Fine steel hurtled through the air. He brought both his swords up, deflected them, sending them into the bushes on either side.
A captain stood on his own two feet, but Fel’annár knew that, should the roots around his waist disappear, he would crumple. He was caught fast, blade nowhere to be seen, and his eyes were wide and wild, petrified. Nearby, another stood. He almost fell as he tried to free himself of the roots around his ankles. He, too, had been disarmed.
Fel’annár covered the final steps that separated him from his prey, just beyond the struggling captives. He was infused with the Dohai. But he felt something else join that power.
He stood in the shadows of greatness, under a leaf-spangled canopy. This Evergreen Wood that defied the call of winter, its majestic green, its scent of bark and loam—it all seeped into him, stirred him. So much power that he shook, muscles unaccustomed to the strength.
Images came to him of a giggling, kicking babe, a proud mother, dead mother looking down. He saw a colourful dawn, air in inert lungs, life where there had been none.
And then his eyes rested on Band’orán; saw his oily black robes undulating and rippling around him. He was untethered. Too fast, too skilled to be shackled by the trees.
Fel’annár stepped forward. He heard a scream in his mind, raw and primal. It was a memory he had been too young to recall. But the forest said it had wept that day, for a daughter bound for greatness. They said her bane was here.
Queenslayer.
The lights engulfed him, seized him, streaked around him, everywhere. They begged for movement, pleading with him to kill.
Band’orán’s glittering eyes stared, half-petrified, half-angry, one sword in each of his murderous hands. “You can’t beat me, demon. You are a Disciple. I am a Master.”
“In that, too, you are dishonourable. When did the rot start, traitor?” Fel’annár did not recognise his own voice. It sounded deeper, too far away from his own mouth.
Band’orán smiled. “What does it matter? I killed your mother. She would have made a good queen. Too good.”
“And you kill everyone who is good, that could be better than you. You destroy anyone who garners loyalty because you have none. You are a bereft soul seeking the love you never felt. I never thought I would pity my mother’s murderer. But so help me, Aria, I do.”
“Spare me your stupidity, boy. You are a child playing wargames, but this is a cruel world, Silvan. Now come, and beat this Master if you can.”
“And yet you dared step inside this ancient forest. Here, you are not master. I am.” The whirlwind of light around Fel’annár pulsed as he stepped closer to Band’orán. The lord stepped backwards, and Fel’annár heard the Evergreen’s mocking voice.
Coward.
How they wanted him. He could feel them, barely restrained, waiting for a sign that Fel’annár had finished with him. This was not the Deep Forest. This was something darker, something unforgiving.
The ground rippled, bulged, and then from it, roots and vines broke, rising into the air, taking Dinor and Bendir by the arms and legs. They shrieked, and Band’orán flinched. Trees bent forwards, groaning and creaking, closing in on Band’orán, judging him for his deeds.
“Who are you?” asked Band’orán, eyes on the trees and Fel’annár.
“I am Lord of these forests. They seek retribution, for there were always trees. When you killed Lássira, when you tried to kill me—they were witness to your evil. They do not abide your presence.”
Band’orán smiled as if he stood before a child. “Then come, Tree Master.” Two swords swirled and arced, skilful, graceful.
Fel’annár took up his guarding stance, slower. A droning pulse in the air, the creaking and groaning, the bass hum he had never heard before. He heard gasps behind him and prayed they would not come too close.
Wait. Not yet.
Band’orán’s eyes were everywhere, around him, back on his opponent. Then Fel’annár was moving, cutting into the air before him until his swords were descending on Band’orán, and they fought. First one and then the other gained the advantage, but they did not stumble, never lost balance despite the uneven ground over which they danced.
Fel’annár did not feel the pain as his opponent’s blade sliced over his arm, did not hear the gasp of pain his own blade wrought from his opponent. The lights no longer mattered; sounds and shouts from behind were muted. He heard nothing, nothing but the whisper of wind upon leaves. Calm and soothing. It was the silent world of a Kah Warrior, drawing from the sizzling, pulsating energy of the forest around him.
Forest Warlord.
Fel’annár turned away, too fast for Band’orán, and then he lunged. He was parried, but not fast enough to avoid the tip of his blade sinking into the space between his opponent’s shoulder and arm. Not deep enough to kill.
Deep enough to enrage.
One, two, three, strike. Parry. Start again.
One, two. Stop and move. Now. Feet swift over the ground, hands a flurry of movements he knew so well but fuelled now by raw, untethered energy.
A gasp and a growl, and Fel’annár pulled his sword back viciously, tip bloodied, but Band’orán still stood.
One, two, three, circle. He was dancing the Kal’hamén’Ar, Master versus Warlord. And yet the Master had no projection. No Dohai.
Band’orán fell, shortsword slipping from his right hand, landing far away. He rose as if pulled up by a string, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He flipped his longsword into his right hand, and with his left, he reached inside his robe. “Gor’sadén has taught you well. But it’s not enough, Silvan. You can’t kill me. I, who was born to be king. I, who have killed women, children. I, who broke your father’s pathetic heart, had your mother stabbed to death.”
The forest lights blazed blindingly in wrath, leaves hissing fury at their prey that was denied them. They pleaded with the only one who could grant it.
Kill him.
Fel’annár ignored the distant screams and shouts. He struck a high stance and moved in for the killing blow. Band’orán dodged to the right, and Fel’annár knew that he had him, swung his shortsword towards his enemy’s stomach. But then, he could see Band’orán’s hand racing towards him from the left.