Misdirection.
He swayed backwards, too late, and a puff of fine purple powder streaked across his face. It engulfed him, settled in his eyes. He screwed them shut, staggered to the left; felt searing pain, and he was down on one knee. He opened his eyes despite the agony, and dread wrenched from him a cry of horror.
He could not see.
Band’orán had blinded him, had violated the most sacred laws of the Warrior Code. Now, he was at his enemy’s mercy.
He needed to get up. Band’orán would move in for the killing blow any moment now. The trees screamed, screeched, and their boughs swayed violently. Creaking wood, hissing leaves and the ground beneath his enemy reared upwards. He could hear fast, heavy breaths, a sword through the air, but not yet close enough to kill him. Band’orán was fighting with the trees, battling with the wrathful wood, branches reaching, indiscriminate save for the Warlord.
“Fel’annár!”
He could hear Idernon, Gor’sadén, Sontúr, yelling at him from further away. He half-turned his head in their direction, knew that they were fighting their way in, that the trees would not stop for them. “Stay away!”
Heavy footsteps. He threw himself sideways, rolled and stood, circling, blades held out clumsily. The screaming would not stop, from the trees, from The Company. He couldn’t hear the voice …
Stop!
The rustle of cloth, heat. Something heavy cut through the air louder. He jumped backwards, lost his balance and crashed to the ground. Gods, but his eyes burned.
“This is Or’Talán’s grandson? If he could see you now, he would disown you.”
“But he can’t. Did you kill him, too?” asked Fel’annár, breathless as he stood slowly, faced the voice, wavering blades still before him.
“Would you care if I did?”
It was a good question, one there was no time to consider. The screams had subsided, the forest’s voice clearer.
Focus. See.
But he couldn’t. It was all dark. But at least he knew where his enemy stood.
“Fel’annár!”
“Stay away, brothers. It’s too dangerous.”
A breath, not his own, and heat coming towards him. Band’orán moved, so fast that Fel’annár staggered sideways, with barely enough time to parry the downward sweep of a blade. Band’orán was toying with him.
“Or’Talán was good. Better than me. Much better than you.” Band’orán’s next attack was meant to finish him. Fel’annár parried, once, again. Shock waves rippled down his arms. How had he known where the blade was?
He turned, sure that he faced Band’orán.
Focus. Feel. See.
Heat, sound, touch. The nearer Band’orán was, the hotter, the more acute the buzzing sound in Fel’annár’s mind. He no longer heard the cries from The Company, didn’t even know if his eyes were closed or open, but he could see patches of colour, like painted fog, swirling and mixing together. Some patches were darker than others. He turned to the dark grey, struck a stance and lunged forwards.
His long blade clanged against Band’orán’s.
The colours spiralled, blues and greens, and then there it was again. The shadow amidst the lights. He turned left, swivelled one sword, pulled his other back.
Faith.
Fel’annár flew forwards, blade glancing over his opponent’s. He felt the heat as it turned left. He faced it. A back stance, a closed stance, feign, feign. Fel’annár lunged towards the shadow, felt the sting of sharp metal over his cheek. Not deep.
Intentional.
A guarding stance. He watched the shadow move. He turned with it.
“I could have killed you there.”
Fel’annár ran for the shadow once more, but stumbled, almost fell when Band’orán sidestepped. He turned fast, swords before him.
See.
And then the lights pulsed, no longer a fog but shapes, clear outlines. Trees and plants, roots dancing in the air. Green, blue, but almost all of it purple. He saw the shape of his enemy, saw his blades.
“You were good, brother. Used to be the best but now … look at you. Staggering around like a drunken fool.”
But Band’orán’s goading no longer meant anything to Fel’annár. The shouts from The Company were distant, the screaming of the trees dampened, and he concentrated on the buzzing, droning sound in his mind, constant, steady unless he moved. Then it would pulse and flare.
He surged towards the shadow, saw his enemy’s surprise in how he parried a little too late. Sparks of blue speckled across his strange sight and he whirled sideways, blades following, one and then the other. His feet felt sure beneath him. He could see Band’orán’s form, dark purple, almost no colour. He saw a blade hurtling towards his face, and he parried, heard it slide down his blade’s edge, up to the very guard. He pushed, muscles quivering. He sidestepped, staggered and then threw himself to the floor, twisting out of the way, watching the killing stroke sink into the ground. It bought enough time to stand, breathless and gasping.
But Fel’annár was not finished.
He took up his guarding stance, slower. He called on the trees, heard the creak and groan of their reply, the bass hum as the two captains were hoisted aloft. People gasped somewhere behind him.
And then Fel’annár held his blades high and waited for his opponent to mirror the move. He did.
A high stance. A final stance. With his Master’s words in his mind, Fel’annár turned full circle, blades angling, changing paths, impossible to predict.
‘You must not only see it. You must feel it.’
Band’orán brought his blades up, too slow, and although Fel’annár could not see it, his grey eyes widened. He saw the legendary move too late, and he cried out, braced for impact.
Enha’rei.
But no limb fell to the ground. It took Band’orán a moment to understand. And then he heard it, the heavy thud of a Royal Councillor’s collar, the envy of all jewels, marking service to king and land. It lay sprawled upon the still undulating forest floor, chains severed, the acorn and emerald of Ea Uaré flaring on a streaking light.
The lash of something hurtling through the air. Fel’annár knew what it was. He twisted sideways and then stood fast before his opponent, feet wide, blades out to his sides. Band’orán stood rooted, shocked that he was still whole, utterly petrified, wordless, almost boneless as the vines hurtled towards him. Too slow, and they slashed at ankles and wrists. Fel’annár watched impassively as another circled Band’orán’s bare throat.
Wait.
The forest held its breath. Fel’annár wondered what he would see in his enemy’s eyes. Would he see wrath? Fear? Acceptance? It was only now that he realised he had won, though it did not feel like victory.
He was blind.
With his enemies held fast, the forest stilled and Fel’annár felt the approach of others, felt the nearness of his father. It was Thargodén who moved past him.
“You have been tried and condemned for conspiracy to usurp the throne. You have brought us to civil war. You attempted to murder your king and Lord Fel’annár. You did murder King Or’Talán and Lássira of Abiren’á, and I wonder … if your own son fell at the hands of the father he always loved.” Thargodén took a step closer to the spread-eagled lord, eyes searching, but finding no denial.