There was a pattern, thought Fel’annár, and he remembered those nights on the road when Pan’assár had told them the story inside Or’Talán’s diary; the story he had tried to ignore but which had stuck in his mind.
“A true Master would not have missed my head with that kick. You’re not fast enough.”
Band’orán’s mind flashed silver-white, and he rushed forwards, reaching out with both hands for Fel’annár’s throat. He thought to throttle the boy as he had done Barathon, but a head smashed into his forehead, a boot in the knee, in the gut. Band’orán staggered backwards, almost fell as he gasped for air.
Not a novice. No simple warrior.
The four disciples behind him rushed forwards and this time, they were prepared, would use all their Kah training in hand-to-hand combat. Outnumbered, one leg shackled to the wall and his hands tied, all Fel’annár could do was prepare for the beating that would surely ensue.
Thargodén watched, and on his face, Band’orán saw horror, dread. It fuelled him, surged through him and fed his muscles, his desire to hurt, as others had hurt him. “It is hard to watch the demise of a son, isn’t it, nephew?” The voice was whimsical, far away and the king braced himself, watched Band’orán face his captive son. He stared for a moment, and then his fist flew, again and again. He struck the face, the chest, pummelled into him, eyes on nothing at all.
“Stop! Stop!” But Thargodén’s pleas were like oil for the fires in Band’orán’s eyes.
All Thargodén could do was watch as his son was beaten, as Band’orán threw him against the wall, against the floor, like a child’s rag doll, almost as limp, and when he had finished, he stood breathless over the crumpled form of Fel’annár, of Or’Talán.
“It all started with you, brother. You and your little birds. But I never belonged in the trees …” Nothing but half-whispers echoing off water-eroded walls, but Thargodén was piecing together the story, bringing together the fragments of the past.
‘You should have died in her arms.’
Band’orán flexed his hand. “She left because of you. She would have stayed, if only you had never existed.” He turned to Thargodén, walked towards him, and the king watched as Band’orán—the mad brother, the killer brother—changed before his very eyes. The madness was quelled in an instant. Gone were the strange glints in his eyes, the tremble of lips, the muttered and disjointed phrases. Band’orán was a lord once more, royal brother, councillor.
“I must leave for tomorrow’s proceedings. I will vote against the Silvans, as you already know. And perhaps you can guess what lies in store for your heirs. I am in no rush, Thargodén. But sooner or later, this realm will be mine. I will rule, and Or’Talán will be dead at last. Enjoy these last few hours, nephew. It is all you will ever have with him.” He smiled. “You will never see me again. You will both stay here, in the past. I walk to a new future, free at last.”
Thargodén watched him leave. But the Kah Disciples stayed. Unlocking the father and son’s shackles, they dragged Fel’annár away, pushing him along just behind. They descended, into the heart of the rock and at the very bottom, one guard opened a door which led into a shaft. Or perhaps it was a well, thought Thargodén. At the very top was a door, too high to climb. There were no footholds, just chiselled rock.
With their shackles back in place, the door banged shut. Thargodén gave thanks that Fel’annár could not see what he could.
Bones. Bones and chains, strips of wool and broken skulls.
“Fel’annár.” An echo. Another.
And then he heard it. Water, trickling, running, whispering over rock. He startled, felt the frigid water beneath him, soaking his clothes. He frowned, wondering where it was coming from. And then he realised. The dry lake above, the smooth rock below. This was an underground tidal lake, and the tide was rising.
Salo held up his hand to the patrol behind him. Dismounting, he walked into the small glade that had caught the Silvan lieutenant’s attention.
Further inside, at the base of a silver birch, was a body half-sat half-laid upon the ground. An Alpine captain.
Salo frowned as he knelt before him, inspecting the body. He reached out and tilted the head backwards.
“He has been strangled. Dead for two hours, perhaps. Search the area,” he ordered. “Henú, wrap him in something. We’ll take him back to camp. His identity may tell us something.”
Henú nodded. “Sir, there are tracks. Some ten riders heading north and south.”
“They split up, then,” deduced Salo. He glanced at the now black sky. Had they gone in only one direction, he would have followed, but his patrol was too small to cover both ways. “We ride home.”
With Barathon’s body wrapped in a blanket and slung over the back of Salo’s mount, they made for the encampment to report their grim finding to Lord Erthoron.
“Galdith?” Galadan peered into the trough they had come across, the light from Galdith’s torch illuminating the dirt on the walls. “Nothing,” he called back up. “Just a hunter’s trap. No exit except up. No blood, no tracks.”
Ramien threw a rope down to him and braced as he pulled Galdith back up. Standing, he dusted himself down and then mounted.
“We move,” said Gor’sadén, Galadan’s torch flickering wildly amongst The Company as they rode. At this rate, they would be back at the city in three hours. This was well-searched terrain, Gor’sadén knew. Still, Tensári’s eyes were still bright. Fel’annár was alive somewhere near, and frustration was beginning to gnaw at him. There would be no rest for any of them, no place left unsearched, not until he found his son.
20
To Arm a Silvan Warlord
“That day marked the return of the noble houses of the Silvan people. The Silver Wolf, the Grey Bear, the White Oak and the Fire Fox. They danced upon the standards, shone proudly in the eyes of warriors no longer enslaved but free to serve and to die with honour.”
The Silvan Chronicles, Book IV. Marhené.
As a new day dawned, the first day of his new life, Lord Band’orán stood before the doors of Analei. It had been his home for many years, a home he would now leave behind, never to return.
He was the epitome of a noble Alpine councillor, honourable member of the Royal Council. His black robes of office draped perfectly over his equally black tunic, the purple sash of a Kah Master carefully concealed below.
Around his neck was the symbol of his office, of what he had sworn to uphold. It was a beautiful collar, a solid silver semi-circle, reaching from one shoulder to the other, held around his neck by three chains fastened at the back. Lines of gems, blue for the mountain, green for the forest, diamonds for the strength of his loyalty to the crown. At the very centre, dripping from the precious metal was the acorn and emerald of Ea Uaré, gold and emerald, symbol of the house of Or’Talán. Many would fight for the honour of wearing this, even just to touch such an exquisite thing. Yet more than the worth of its materials, it was the honour and prestige it bestowed upon its bearer.