“If you are decided on the matter, Prince, you must take adequate numbers with you to that camp.”
“There are a handful of those I trust implicitly, and then …” he paused, hesitated, turned to Aradan. “And then there is Angon.”
“Rinon …”
“Think about it. He is being blamed for this. It is in his interest to find the king. And he is not exactly going to sympathise with anything Band’orán may say.”
“He is being held for serious crimes; you cannot just take him out of the cells.”
“I can.”
“He is proclaiming Silvan independence.”
“Is he? That is not what he said to me. He said he wanted to be free. He said he wanted a voice in his own lands, to live where merit is recognised, not race. Isn’t that what these votes are about?”
“Yes. Still, I think you take unnecessary risks.”
“Turion is not here. I don’t know who to trust, Aradan. But I have many reasons to trust him.”
Aradan said nothing and Rinon turned back to the map. The Calro River, almost home. Handir, Turion, even Pan’assár. He needed them all if he was ever going to keep the kingdom together, find the king and preserve his throne.
Tomorrow, he would rally those he trusted the most, and then he would speak to Angon, test his own theory. If he was right, if he could trust Angon, then he would free him and ride in his company to the Silvan encampment. A favour for a favour. Rinon would stage the search and satisfy the demands of the Alpines, while Angon would rally enough Silvan warriors to search for the king, to show their Alpine brethren that they cared. He could counter Band’orán’s campaign of lies.
Over the years, Rinon had antagonised his father at every opportunity. And yet, after so many rebukes, angry words and hurtful comments, Rinon realised that the wrathful youth who missed his mother and pitied his siblings had gone and, in his place, stood a better elf, a better prince. Thus, the truth was bared to Rinon’s conscious mind at last.
He had always loved his father.
The sun had just reached the zenith of its upward journey, over the horizon, but Fel’annár’s shadowed hand in the air was clear enough to them all. They had only been walking for a few minutes, and already, there was danger. The hand motioned skywards, a signal to climb into the trees.
Now.
Carodel and Ramien vaulted onto the lower branches, reaching down for the chest and taking it from Galdith and Galadan. Pan’assár held his hand out to Handir. The prince reached out, latched on to strong arms and was hoisted aloft. Llyniel needed no such help, and before long, they were all sitting in the trees, peering down through the canopy.
A sudden breeze, light yet sufficient to set the trees to rustling softly, masking their breathing and the inevitable creak of leather or clank of metal. The wind covered their tracks, low-lying bushes scraping over the forest floor. Below, a line of cloaked figures passed, their quivers and harnesses full to brimming with metal and wood. They walked single file and disciplined, and the commanders had little doubt as to what they were.
Shadows.
Many minutes passed before Fel’annár signalled to Idernon, who repeated Fel’annár’s movements to the rest of The Company. Thudding to the ground, Ramien steadied the prince. Handir brushed himself down and then looked to Fel’annár. Eyes still bright, he ushered them along with a plea for silence.
Slowly and carefully, they pressed on. They rested in the trees, long enough only for dried meat and water. Then they continued, straight through the afternoon until twilight. One more day, just a few more hours, and they would be before the gates to the city. But they couldn’t make camp, not yet.
The hairs on the back of Fel’annár’s neck stiffened, ears ringing.
Move. Move now.
He turned, eyes wide. Pan’assár mirrored the expression. There was no need for silence, no need for hoods.
They had been found.
Handir ran to the chest, fumbled with the buckles and threw open the top. He grabbed at the papers and stuffed them messily into his tunic. His crown and his clothes were inside, but damn them. They needed to get out of here. Fel’annár flipped the lid closed and dragged the trunk to the base of a tree. He knelt and Handir watched. And as surely as he had seen it one moment, the next it had disappeared under a carpet of leaves. Handir turned to Llyniel, his own surprise mirrored on her face.
“Handir, Llyniel. Up!” Llyn was away into the trees, reaching down for Handir. He was too heavy, but Idernon was at her side, helping her to pull the prince up. Idernon nodded at the healer and scurried back down to the forest floor.
“How many?” murmured Pan’assár on Fel’annár’s left.
“Fifteen, maybe twenty.” Even as he said it, his heart seemed to flop over. He had never killed an elf in battle.
Pan’assár signalled for Turion and The Company to take to the trees. They would cover the Sword Masters with their bows until they were needed on the ground. Tensári hesitated. She wanted to stay and yet, if these three were to dance the Kal’hamén’Ar, she would hinder more than help them with her proximity. Reluctantly, she climbed into the foremost tree, almost above where Fel’annár stood.
“Shadows are not Kah Warriors, Fel’annár, but they are the next best thing.” Gor’sadén clapped him on the shoulder.
Fel’annár nodded, unable to avoid a glance over his shoulder at where he knew Turion and Galadan sat in the boughs. He wondered if they had ever killed an elf.
No time. Grey Shadows emerged from the trees before them, bows strung and notched, pointing forward. They searched the boughs as they advanced.
The creak of wood as bows tensed and Fel’annár and the two commanders darted sideways, taking cover behind the nearest trees.
It wasn’t necessary, for no sooner had the arrows been released than the soft breeze became a gust of wind, strong enough to make them all stagger sideways, their bolts flying haphazardly into the surrounding bushes. The Shadows discarded their bows and drew their swords, striding forwards, braids flying about their faces, eyes wide but jaws clenched.
Fel’annár steadied himself. He drew both his swords, almost in unison with Gor’sadén and Pan’assár, and bound forwards. The wind was not so strong around them.
Fel’annár repeated words in his mind, words that would allow him to fight, push back his fears, so that he could kill.
They are the enemy. They are elves. But they are the enemy.
The three Kah Warriors turned, moving sideways in their attacks, blades arcing around them. The Shadows jumped backwards, staring at the strange movements. Their pause didn’t last long, and they closed in, only to stagger back as the three moved again. Circles, overlapping but not touching; a strange steely machine that moved rhythmically, identically.
The Kah Warriors attacked, and one by one, their enemies began to fall. Shouts, elven shouts. Screams, not the wail of Deviants, not the shriek of Sand Lords. Fel’annár closed his mind—he had to. They were the enemy. They would kill Handir, kill Llyniel.
They were elves.
His sword sliced through flesh. He turned and brought his sword down, again. Again.