“If they saw us going over, I am sure they do.” Handir winced at his gravelly voice. He didn’t know what a marker was. But he did know that Llyniel would be frantic and Pan’assár would be in a terrible rage. “How long have we been here?”
“This is our first night.”
“We fell just this morning?”
“Yes.”
Handir frowned. It felt as if he had slept for a week and his brother’s knowing eyes looked back at him.
“You were unconscious for a while. Sometimes that slows the perception of time. Other times it is as if seconds have gone by.”
He spoke from experience, realised Handir, and he was once more struck by how prepared he was. How tough and skilful the warriors of Ea Uaré were. He had always appreciated their service, but he had never really understood their sacrifice, the hardship of it; until now.
Fel’annár made to stand, but Handir stilled him with his voice. “Thank you.”
Fel’annár stared back at him, unwavering. “No thanks, prince. This is my sworn duty.”
“Then thank you for that oath, Warrior.”
Fel’annár remained silent for a moment. Those anguished moments of just this morning when he had thought Handir dead; the emotions that fear had garnered. He needed to lock them away. He needed to bolster his discipline if they were to survive in the wilds with nothing but this makeshift spear. Distraction could mean death. He turned, rose stiffly, and took up his place before the fire.
Yes, it was his sworn oath, but Handir was observant indeed. His own hair had been released from its braids. It was clean and loose. The cuts and bruises that littered his own body had been cleaned and washed with something that pulled at his skin. His head was cushioned with every piece of dry cloth to be had.
Would Fel’annár have done this for anyone? Did his actions transcend the duty of a warrior towards those in need?
Not only owls hoot in the night, and distinguishing a call from a Silvan warrior was not easy if you weren’t from the Deep Forest. Pan’assár had always been in reluctant awe of their ability to mimic birdcall.
After the discovery of the marker that afternoon, they had travelled for the rest of the day, leaving the river some two hours ago and scouting every rocky outcrop, everywhere a warrior may seek shelter. Not far to the east was an elevated ridge that hosted a cave system. That was Pan’assár’s objective.
The lilting song of a hermit thrush made Pan’assár start. A proximity warning. He raised his hands, produced a flurry of hand signals. Weapons ready and lips sealed, The Company took up their positions in silence, keeping Llyniel at their centre, together with Carodel and Galdith who carried the chest.
Even before they had left Tar’eastór, Sontúr had warned of the dangers of this area. Cave Deviants, Mountain Hounds, this was their domain, and Pan’assár had sent Idernon and Ramien ahead to scout. Through their birdsong, they had kept the commander informed. Hounds were ahead of them, following some scent that was not them.
That was when they had begun to hope. And to fear.
Minutes later, they were so close they could smell the foetid hides of their quarry. They didn’t need light to know their tracks would be deep, long, curved claws that could scrape an elf’s face off in one strike. Fel’annár knew this enemy intimately, had fought with them on their journey to Tar’eastór.
Danger.
Fel’annár’s head shot up from his peaceful whittling and turned to the entrance of their cave.
Move.
“Get dressed. Stay inside. Don’t let them see you.”
“Mercenaries?”
“Hounds. Keep out of sight. Whatever happens, Handir. You must live.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Hounds have caught our scent. I must face them on the slopes. It is our only hope.”
“Oh, you who can hardly stand, and that stick. Do you mean to smack them on the backside with it?”
“Obey. You are no good to me in a fight.”
That much was true, and Handir shrugged his way into his now dry tunic and leggings, desperate to smother a cough lest he attract the Hounds’ attention. Tying his cloak around his neck, he shuffled into one dark corner, light-headed and heaving. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. Too hot. Still, his eyes wandered to a number of sizeable stones littered around the cave floor. He would use them if it came to it.
But Fel’annár had other ideas. “See that rocky shelf?” He pointed to the very back of the cave. “Let’s get you up there, in case any of those Hounds get past me.”
It was absurd. He could not possibly get up there, but Fel’annár was pulling on his sleeve. Handir climbed onto a boulder, felt Fel’annár pushing him up. He scrabbled up another, Fel’annár behind him. Reaching up, Handir was just about able to haul himself over the rocky ledge. Stones, pebbles and sand skittered down the wall as he clambered upwards, then sat awkwardly on the ledge, panting, sweating and coughing. He was higher up than he had first thought, and the cave swayed before his groggy eyes.
“Use those stones if they get too close,” Fel’annár said, pointing to a crumbled part of the ledge further along. “Aim for the eyes.”
Fel’annár climbed down. With his bruised feet back on the ground, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, hands clutching at his sides.
“Fel’annár?” A distant, whispery echo. He turned, looked up at Handir and smiled crookedly.
“Stay safe, my prince. Commander Pan’assár will find you.”
“You will find me, Fel’annár.”
But he was gone, and all Handir could do was watch as he walked towards the cave mouth in ragged clothes with a would-be spear in his right hand. His left hand was oddly splayed as if he searched for something, his gait awkward but determined. Handir moved further back into the darkness, pulling his legs up. All he could do was wait—wait and listen for a sign that Fel’annár had beaten back the Hounds.
Wait for his brother to come back.
He felt like a child, powerless and desperate. And then he prayed to Aria for the first time in years, for the first time with conviction in his heart.
Protect him.
Silhouettes moved in the dark, blocking the silvery barks of the birch in the near distance. Fel’annár stood still on the slope, the terrain his only advantage. Their prowling was impatient, repetitive. They grudgingly awaited the signal from their leader to attack.
A growl, low and menacing, broke the silence, followed by more as the pack became agitated. So eager for the kill, to lap at his blood. He had faced these beasts before, on his way to Tar’eastór. It had been the trees that had rescued him then. Here, though, all he had were the spindly birch spread wide and, perhaps, too far away for rescue. They screamed, though, for him to run, to climb.
But he couldn’t. When they finally found a path upwards, to the ledge and then the cave, they would find Handir. And then they would rip him to bits.
He focussed on his surroundings, heard their tongues lapping at saliva. He trained his ears on the trees and centred himself. He called on the energy he had stored from the Dohai, conjured it from the depths of his core, felt it pool in his damaged chest and back and then seep into his blood. Thoughts faded away. Pain receded, leaving behind only his body and its preparation for defence.