Fel’annár’s longsword shrieked down his opponent’s shorter blade. A Shadow, one of the leaders, he knew. In his left hand, his shortsword angled this way and that. Testing, gauging, every move was countered, anticipated. He was good.
Steel moved towards his face. He lurched sideways, swung around, and thrust his sword through his opponent’s side. He fell, but another came.
A glint to his left. He blocked a strike from the side, felt a blade graze over his right cheek. His own elbow drove into a face, with the crunch of bone and the thud of a body falling to the ground. He stepped forwards, found another, killed him.
He saw Tensári beside him, wielding her sword with both hands. A terrible sight, all in black as she bore down on them and Fel’annár strode towards his next opponent. There was another behind him. He crouched low, brought his blades around and felt a frozen sting across his arm. He ignored it, stood and lunged. His sword was blocked, so he twisted sideways, shortsword stuck on a scimitar. His longsword took off a hand, blood spurting everywhere. He moved back and kicked the flailing body away.
Everywhere he turned, there were Alpines. It was only a question of time before one of The Company took a serious injury. They needed help, but he couldn’t risk unleashing everything. It was too dangerous. Trees were not precise in their movements. It would be too easy to be caught in the maelstrom.
Topple them. Hinder them. Distract.
The energy inside him pulsed, his hand splayed, and the breeze became a whirlwind. Hair and braids flew this way and that, while Shadows fell to the floor and others crouched low, clutching at the foliage. Beneath their feet, roots swirled and coiled. The Company knew what it was, but not so the shocked and horrified enemy. Tensári thrust her sword through the chest of one who had been struggling to rise, while Ramien cut another’s throat. But the enemy were soon on their feet once more, distracted but not defeated.
Something brushed against Fel’annár’s mind, no time to think and he saw a Silvan figure he did not recognise beside him, and then another. Not the enemy, surely, for they were engaging the mercenaries.
Thrust and kill. Dodge, kick out. A strangled moan.
Get up.
Turn, slash and slash again, a rhythm found.
One, two, three—strike.
Lights, green and purple, made colourful trails behind each movement of sword, arm, leg, head. They danced around his face as his arms moved, swords arcing left, right.
He ducked, though not quickly enough. Something pierced his shoulder. Not deep. He felt a hot rush beneath the leather as he brought his blade up and sliced open his enemy’s throat. A wet gurgle. He stepped back, watched the remaining attackers run. They would surely regroup and try again.
His chest heaved, and the wind died. A dark, familiar presence at his side and then another before him. He stared, smudged face and messy hair, brown eyes afire. The figures sharpened before him, and the elf spoke.
“There are still ten left. We must follow.”
“Wait,” said Fel’annár.
“They’ll get away, you fool.”
“They won’t. They can’t.”
No one spoke, not even the Silvan warriors who had joined the fight. As The Company came to stand beside Fel’annár, a sound rent the air, ripped through it and chilled their blood. A trumpet blast, the deep groan of some giant monster. They stood, too petrified to move. From beyond the trees, they heard screams and shouts, a call for retreat cut short. The boughs swayed violently, and wood creaked and cracked.
The Silvan warriors watched with eyes too full. They stepped backwards, simple clothes blowing in the wind that did not come from above. One of the Silvan warriors chanted over and over as he watched, panic tinging his voice.
“Aria lady of light and wind.
Aria spirit of earth and wood …”
It stopped as suddenly as it had begun, boughs still, the wind gone, but when the Silvan leader turned back to Fel’annár, his hair was snaking around his head, eyes glowing like liquid glass under water.
“What the hell?” hissed the Silvan leader, scowling, even as he stepped away from the mage.
The Company arranged themselves behind Fel’annár, Tensári and Idernon at his side. They were exhausted, wounded, hungry, but if they had to face another battle, even with their own people, none of them would falter.
Fel’annár had not been able to hide his features from these warriors, and now, as the forest calmed, the danger gone for now, his hair settled around him and the glow dimmed but did not die. The Silvan fighters who had aided them dared a step forward, eyes wide with curiosity. And hope.
“You’re Ar Lássira, aren’t you?” asked the leader.
Fel’annár nodded, pulled his hood back over his hair.
“What we just saw …”
Fel’annár stepped forward, a stubborn lock still teasing his peripheral vision. “What’s your name?”
“Farón.”
Fel’annár hesitated, recalled a teasing conversation between Lainon and Turion back when he was still a novice. They spoke of who had found the better warrior, of the bet they had placed on whether it would be Fel’annár or Farón to be promoted first. “You were Lainon’s pupil?”
Farón swayed backwards. “Did you read my mind?”
Fel’annár resisted the urge to chuckle. Instead, he shook his head. “A distant memory. I, too, was Lainon’s pupil.” He smiled at the unlikely coincidence, inexplicably glad that a little part of Lainon’s legacy had come to aid them. “Will you take us to Lord Erthoron, Farón?”
The warrior stared back at the figure of Or’Talán returned, the one he knew was Green Sun. And then he nodded, confused thoughts waring in his mind, unsure of what to think, of how he felt. He gestured with his arm that they should follow him. As they walked, Fel’annár drew abreast with Farón.
“My presence must not be announced. The future of this forest depends on my anonymity.”
“Good luck with that. They said you were dead. Many believe that. When they learn that you are alive, and here at the camp, there will be no stopping them. They have placed their hopes in you, and whether that is justified, I cannot say.”
Fel’annár nodded. “All I need is two days.”
“What’s going on?”
“Take us to Erthoron and hear it for yourself. But help me pass through your camp a simple warrior, come to join the cause.”
“A simple warrior,” echoed Farón. “What are you? I thought you were a Listener.”
“I am.” He turned to look at the warrior, held his gaze and said no more. The warrior turned away, clenched his jaw.
“Hide those Alpine features, then. I would hear what you have to say.”
The truth was that Farón had believed Band’orán’s lies. Many of them had. It was why Angon was so popular with the warriors. Popular aye, but foolhardy, rash, unsuited to command. Indeed did he not sit now in the city dungeons? Farón huffed. No, Angon was not the leader they needed.
Handir knelt upon the forest floor, unsure whether he could stand on his own two feet. He daren’t look at the others. His throat was raw, had made sounds he had not thought himself capable of.