Behind him sounded the thwack of arrows, and before him, the thud of bolts piercing flesh. More screams, immortal screams. And then there was the overly loud crash of a dead weight upon the forest floor. Leaves danced on the ebbing wind, lingering over the ground as if afraid to land there. Fel’annár looked down. He looked away and then down again, glowing eyes as cold as iron as they landed upon a dead elven face.
He turned, wiping his blades with the hem of his cloak, and slid them into his harness. He looked at nothing except from the corner of his eyes. He saw Pan’assár peer at the dead faces, pulling their hoods back, while Gor’sadén watched as Handir and Llyniel were helped down from the trees.
Fel’annár looked at none of them, rebellious eyes returning to the dead elves.
Did I do this? he wondered.
He startled as a hand rested on his shoulder. It was not soft, not comforting. It was an anchor, heavy and grounding. Gor’sadén.
“You killed the enemy, Fel’annár. As hateful as any Deviant, as dangerous as any Sand Lord. You killed the enemy.” A fierce whisper, a last, powerful squeeze that almost hurt, and then his Master was gone. “We leave now. Fel’annár, at the fore.”
That night, they sat in nothing but moonlight at the centre of a natural stone circle. Pan’assár, Turion, Gor’sadén, Fel’annár and Galadan debated in fierce whispers.
“The Silvan encampment lies before the main gates,” said Turion. “We cannot go that way, not with Pan’assár and the prince in our midst. And should they see Fel’annár, our hopes of entering the city in secret will be dashed. I say our only hope is to approach the fortress from the east. The stables are close to the secondary entrance that warriors often use, guarded but not overly so. There is a stairway up to the main foyer of the palace itself, the route lords take to the springs. We wait for nightfall, enter the gates and make straight for that entrance. Llyniel and I can go to Aradan’s quarters and explain. From there, we must get ourselves from the foyer to the penultimate floor unseen.”
“It sounds risky,” murmured Gor’sadén.
“To a point,” said Pan’assár. “The king instructed us to take the Dark Road. But that is not going to happen if we cannot reach the entry point.” Gor’sadén stared at him in realisation, but Turion was confused.
“Fel’annár. Can we travel south-west?”
“No. That road is too dangerous.”
Turion was still confused, and Pan’assár clarified. “The Dark Road is a safety mechanism, a route of escape should our king find danger outside the gates and inside. You must not speak of it.” Turion nodded, and Pan’assár continued. “We must go with Turion’s plan. It is the only path left open to us. We need to rest, move at first light. There has been enough fighting for one—”
Fel’annár stood abruptly. Llyniel and The Company followed. “We move now,” said Fel’annár quietly, buckling his harness tight.
Within minutes they had left no trace of their passing and slipped quietly into the night, following Fel’annár, who walked with his right hand splayed, as if he reached for something they could not see. Below his hood, a green light illuminated the material on the inside.
They changed route three times that night and did not sleep at all. Still, they had moved closer to the fortress, even caught glimpses of distant lights. But come the dawn, Fel’annár stopped and turned, head moving from side to side.
“We are surrounded. There is no longer a safe route on the ground. The Silvan camp is close by, over to the right. Commander, I can show my face, make for the camp with The Company and draw the enemy to me. You must climb, navigate the trees towards the fortress, deliver our prince,” said Fel’annár, eyes moving from Handir to Llyniel.
“We can’t—”
“We are surrounded. The only way is up, Commander. Get into the trees, get our prince up there, out of the way. They will help you.”
For the first time, Pan’assár stood unsure. Fel’annár asked him for blind faith.
Handir could not even climb up a tree on his own, let alone navigate a forest as the Silvans could. He would plummet to his death. This wouldn’t work.
“The Company and I will be safe at the Silvan encampment.” Fel’annár’s eyes were blazing yet clear enough for Pan’assár to see the urgency, the conviction in them.
“Don’t let them see you, Fel’annár. You must not proclaim your return, not yet.” Handir’s urgent voice.
“I will reveal myself to the enemy so that they follow us. I will hide from our allies and wait for your instructions.”
Handir nodded, pale-faced, almost petrified at the prospect of jumping through the trees.
“You won’t fall. I promise.”
Handir started, met his brother’s unnatural eyes. He felt the breeze as it picked up, heard the boughs swaying to and fro.
“Fel’annár?” called Pan’assár.
“Commander. They are coming.”
One last nod and Fel’annár pushed his hood back, revealing his gently undulating hair, baring his face, his identity, a magnet for the assassins.
“Climb.” He gestured with his head.
Gor’sadén turned, eyes reluctant to leave the figure of his Disciple, but now, even he could hear the enemy’s feet trampling over the forest ground. The breeze became a wind, and he held out his hand for Sontúr. But the prince shook his head.
It was Gor’sadén’s job to see his prince safe, yet on this journey, Sontúr rode as one of The Company. The king had acceded to it, and against his instincts, he nodded, eyes full of words. Stay safe, keep him safe.
“Step up, reach for the branches.”
It was ridiculous. Handir knew he would never be able to reach that far. It was impossible.
“Step up!” shouted Pan’assár once more, and Handir did, knowing he would fall. He placed a boot in the commander’s clasped hands, felt the upward impulse from strong arms. Not enough, too slow. His hands reached for the lowest branch. Too far.
A creak of wood, a groan and the branch was suddenly before him. He encircled it with his arms, and his feet were free, kicking nothing but air. He really tried to remain silent, but all he achieved was a long, long scream as Prince Handir of Ea Uaré disappeared into the dense boughs of the Great Forest Belt.
“Ramien!” warned Carodel as his feet sped over the forest floor. An arrow flew past his ear, and he swerved sideways. They were running again, Shadows and mercenaries moving in from behind, left and right. Only the fore was open to them. Galdith fired to the left, then reached for another arrow whilst Galadan, Sontúr and Fel’annár fired their own bows, again and again, but still they came.
Fel’annár waited until The Company passed his position, heard the enemy crashing through the foliage and he was firing again. The Silvan camp was so close, so far.
Too far.
Their attackers closed in, came together, and The Company turned, slowed to a walk backwards, inching away from their pursuers, knowing it would come to blades. They could see their faces now, see their shock, their hesitation when their eyes rested on Fel’annár, glowing eyes and dancing hair. A forest mage, or was it the great king’s spirit, come for vengeance? They stared at him, both fascinated and horrified. They moved in, and The Company engaged.