Dawn of adakia silvan ou.., p.1
Dawn of Adakia (Silvan Outlands Book 1), page 1
Dawn Of Adakia
SILVAN OUTLANDS
BOOK ONE
R. K. LANDER
Contents
Prologue
1. Lássira Ara Zéndar Alei
2. Orsal Ar Thargodén Lássira
3. Taú of No Renown
4. Yasei Ar Uwendo Mabhet
5. Fel’annár of Lan Taria
6. Angon and Turion
7. Brenhin’aré
8. Whispers of a Legend
9. Hajnor Byren Adak
10. Talanor Ar Fel’annár Llyniel
11. Elderak
12. Legacy of the Past
13. Fateful Providence
14. Into Shadows
15. Lucky Break
16. Rhrawthir Fierce Face
17. Kimboon and Chockybob
18. The Gathering Company
19. Runaway
20. Ghiahan Ara Thargodén Lássira
21. The Arcane
22. Siblings
23. Council of Elders
24. Many Roads
25. Parting Ways
26. Greenleaves
27. Into the Hornet’s Nest
28. Spring Storms
29. What Fate Denied
Character List
Glossary
Pronunciation
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Fel’annár of Lan Taria was a warrior, commander, and Warlord of the forest realm of Ea Uaré, in the first elven world of Bel’arán. His destiny was that of a prince, but so too was it to die, as all Ari’atór must.
And so, it came to pass.
With the Warlord and his young son Talanor on the Short Road to the second elven world, the Lestari Llyniel took the Long Road to them, leaving her adult daughter Aralas behind, to walk her path as a novice, just as her father once had.
The Mothergod Aria once impeded Fel’annár’s death after the Battle of Ea Uaré, thus indulging Ortalan’s pleas for mercy. In exchange, when death revisited the Warlord, she demanded a second lifetime of service, not as Ber’anor but as a Shirán Warrior in the Order of Shirán.
Battle took Aria’s warriors south, under the command of Or’Talán, the once Great King of Ea Uaré and Fel’annár’s grandfather. The shape-shifting warriors vanquished the revenant demi-god Arzen, but not forever. With Naz’arán’s greatest enemy at bay, Aria granted Fel’annár a time of peace to compensate for once wresting from him his Choice.
With the trauma of death overcome, Fel’annár and his family stand upon the cusp of a new era in Naz’arán, free at last to seek out family and friends who had journeyed before, wherever they were.
Thus, I open my book once more, to continue my chronicles of the second life and times of the Silvan Warlord, no longer in Bel’arán but Naz’arán.
This was to be a time of peace and unity. How wrong I was.
Chronicles of Naz’arán. Marhené.
CHAPTER 1
Lássira Ara Zéndar Alei
Be strong, smile in the face of adversity. Serve well, my Ari’atór. We will meet again.
Last words. Lássira of Abiren’á.
Chronicled by Marhené.
“No archers spotted, sir. Fifteen warriors on foot; blades, clubs, and slings. Approaching from the north only. Malis Adak, sir.”
The captain nodded at his lieutenant. They were on the borders between Boscandia and the lands the Malis Adak claimed as theirs – Malisia as they called it. “Warriors. Standard defence. Two archers to rear guard. On my command.”
Obeying instantly, they ran, drawing swords and holding them in a ready stance while two archers strung and loosely drew their bows, backs to their companions. Most of them had dealt with Adaks before, knew what to look for. Still, it was no guarantee they’d see them, that their aim would be true.
The birds were silent; even the boughs seemed to cease their endless rustling, and the sun no longer dappled through the leaves, instead remaining behind them, casting the patrol into steady shade. It was just as well, mused the captain. Dappling would hinder their ability to spot the Adaks when they came.
To one side of the arrowhead formation, the captain peered through the trees, his sight focussed on nothing, so that he could detect movement from any direction. His peripheral vision revealed shadows, glimpses of enemy warriors moving in. Experienced Adaks would not become visible until it was too late to react, until they were close enough to poke you in the eye before you could blink. These warriors were surely novices, or perhaps young lads hoping to earn their rite of passage as Adak warriors. His heart suddenly weighed more than his thoughts. All they wanted was to fight for this piece of land they believed was theirs by right. To achieve it, they came to kill King Uwendo’s warriors, his patrol. He couldn’t allow that.
“Ready!”
Swords up and to the front, the warriors deflected the first projectiles as they came hurtling at them, clacking off well-worn steel, some impacting with flesh, or ricocheting off leather armour, and thudding to the ground. Another round of stones came flying, and the captain raised his arm, knocking one away from his face.
“Forward!”
As one compact unit, the arrowhead formation advanced, forcing the Adaks to take up their weapons and show themselves fully, at least that was the captain’s plan.
Rippling leaves, the flash of hair, of flesh, a colourful streak of fabric; the Adaks were surrounding them, distracting them with yips and battle cries that seemed to come from all directions, meant to disconcert and intimidate them.
“Circle!”
The arrowhead expanded, curving until the line came together, long swords in perfect formation, just as the captain liked it.
A scream, an Adak skewered upon the tip of a sword, now in plain sight, then another, a painted face caught in a rictus of surprise and pain.
“Attack and expand!”
The warriors moved forward, keeping their circular formation whilst slowly increasing the distance between their companions beside them. One fell, rolled away and into the centre while the others closed the gap behind her.
The Adaks fell to skilled blades, while the elven warriors took only minor injuries. But how the Adaks fought, hopeful eyes full of pride, excitement, and the conviction that they stood for what was right. Face paint, copper bracelets, carved symbols braided into long, dark locks, their identity was undeniable, their camouflage almost perfect. Still, it wasn’t enough to keep them safe, to earn them the right to become warriors of Adakia.
The last of them fell with a long-drawn-out cry of pain and grief, for he had seen the rest of his brothers die, only to fall himself in the end. He lay face up, breathing ragged and irregular, wide eyes on the boughs above him. Signalling to the patrol, the captain approached, knelt at the dying Adak’s side. He was too far gone to wrench his eyes away from what would be the last thing he’d see in his young life, the treetops of his ancestral home.
His chest stilled, eyes relaxing but not closing, and the leader whispered a silent prayer for the young warriors he wished he hadn’t needed to kill. He had though, and he would do it again, because he was captain, and the lives of his own warriors came before anything else. Still, their deaths weighed heavily on his soul, and whispered words of farewell fluttered upon his lips, one hand on the lad’s fur-lined tunic. Reaching out, he dragged the palm of his hand over open yet unseeing eyes, then leaned back, gaze on the now peaceful novice Adak warrior.
The captain stood, honour stones clacking together until they settled across his shoulders. He heard someone laugh as they dragged a body into the centre of the glade, and a spike of anger banished his grief, if only for a few moments. Striding towards the offender, he didn’t stop until he was a palm’s length away, face thunderous, voice steady, yet loud enough for the entire patrol to hear. His words were not meant for one but for all.
“Never laugh while you give peace to your enemies. Instead, respect them, for they, just like you, fight for a cause, one they believe in enough to fight, and sometimes, to die. In my patrol, you will respect that, do you understand me?”
The warrior stepped back so that he could focus on the face of his captain, the one all the young warriors of Boscandia wished to serve under, even though he had not been born here.
“I meant no disrespect sir.”
“Then you must be more mindful. These lads were young, perhaps even novices. Look at them! How they prepared for this moment, how they wanted to make their people proud by defending these lands they say are theirs since time immemorial. They fought for their people, for a dream they believe is a good one. What is so funny about that?”
The captain’s gaze travelled from one warrior to another, until he had included them all. Heads bowed, hands at their sides, they bore the pregnant silence humbly. No one wanted to be left behind next time, assigned to someone else’s patrol because they weren’t good enough. They wanted to be here, under the orders of this Silvan captain who had one day taken the Short Road from Bel’arán to Naz’arán, he whose name they all knew from the Silvan Chronicles.
“Give them peace, in the way of the Adaks, and do it in silence. See to our wounded. We leave in thirty minutes. By nightfall, the Elderak will come.”
The warriors looked up, faces burning in shame, the glint of fear in their eyes. Silently, they turned away from their indignant captain and carried out his orders. Beside him, the voice of one he knew well.
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“I don’t believe in superstitions, lieutenant, you know that.”
“I do know. But you are from Sen’uár. I am from Sen’tar.”
The captain turned to him with a smile. “So you are, my friend. Let’s get the hell out of here, just in case.”
Lieutenant Nurodi smiled at his friend, stood proudly at his side. He knew the warriors would never make the same mistake again, for of all the captains in King Uwendo’s Scandic army, Galdith was the most revered. Across worlds and beyond death, he was still of The Company, one who died protecting Fel’annár of Lan Taria.
In King Uwendo’s forest army, there was no greater honour.
Lássira Ara Zéndar Alei had died too young, too soon to witness the fate that awaited her green-eyed son. She smiled up at his full-length portrait over the fire, gaze travelling from his thick, twisted silver locks, over his Silvan armour, down the velvet folds of his undertunic to his lush brown boots. He stood upon Silvan lands, in the Motherland of her birth – Bel’arán. His was the face of Or’Talán, although there was no denying his resemblance to his father, Thargodén.
As a young woman, Lássira’s family had moved from Abiren’á to Lan Taria, where one day, her life had turned from the path of normalcy, and onto the road of royal love. She’d been deep in the forests on a foraging trip, had seen a vision sitting in a glade, wheat-blond hair shining in the spring sun. His Alpine blue eyes were cast upward and to the green boughs of the lands his father, the Great King Or’Talán, had colonised. Crown Prince Thargodén had seen her then, stared at her for longer than propriety allowed. Far from embarrassing or annoying her, she had not wanted him to look away. Since that day, he never had, and never would, until the wheels of conspiracy turned and she was murdered, not before she had hidden her son in the only place that was safe – amongst her Silvan people, where his Alpine enemies would not think to look.
Every day, the same memories, the same feelings, the same grief and yearning would visit her. Her eldest son was still in Bel’arán, not here, in the second world of Naz’arán. Yet the only way he could come was on the Short Road, for Fel’annár was Ari’atór, she’d always known that. He was denied the Long Road, instead fated to die before he could enter the Source, the divide between worlds.
Lássira turned away from the portrait and sat in a padded chair before the full-length windows of her palace of stone and wood. It sat high upon forest-covered hills, to the north-west of Boscandia. Pulling up her legs, she wrapped her arms around them, and allowed her gaze to wander.
Treetops spilled over the undulating land like a fine, woollen rug of deep emerald, only to rise sharply, until boughs merged with rock, and the northernmost cliffs of King Uwendo’s arboreal realm jutted skywards, into the radiant blue canvass beyond.
Spring was her favourite time of year, for every shade of green seemed more vibrant, so rich it made her mouth water, her fingers tingle and reach for the intangible. Emerald, like the Fel’annár blossom of the Deep Forest of Bel’arán, like the light in her firstborn’s eyes, the power she had once seen there as a babe and known that his was no ordinary destiny. Where was he now, more than a hundred and fifty years later? He had married Llyniel Ara Aradan Miren, but did she make him happy? Had he raised a family?
Did he remember her?
Lássira had missed his entire life, spent most of hers soaking up the stories of Fel’annár’s times in Bel’arán. She never tired of listening to the retelling of the Silvan Chronicles, attending the plays about battles and court intrigues, the romance, and the treachery, how Band’orán received his due in the end. She especially enjoyed the tales from those who had known Fel’annár personally, the people who had lived through those turbulent times with him: Aradan, Miren, and of course, Thargodén himself, amongst others. One day, her son would come, and she would hear it all from his lips. Would he answer her? Did he blame her? Did he resent her for not being there when he had needed her the most?
A maid entered the room, a tray balanced skilfully in her painted hands. She placed it carefully on a low table before the open fire, then poured lemonade into an earthenware cup. Smiling at Lássira, she approached and offered it to her. The lady took it absently, glanced at Jenna, knew what she was thinking. She had worked at Greenleaves ever since her arrival, was Silvan herself, like many others who worked on the estate.
“It’s a fine day, my lady. Will you ride out today?”
Lássira took a sip of her drink, stared into the dark depths of the cup, then looked up at Jenna. “In a while.” Her gaze drifted to the portrait once more, and Jenna followed suit. With a short bow and sorry eyes, she left the room, nodding respectfully at Thargodén as he entered.
With a rustle of cloth, and the creak of leather, Thargodén perched on the arm of Lássira’s chair. She could feel his warmth, then his arm as it wrapped around her. She stared at his ring where it sat on her shoulder, the roughly cut emerald that had once been broken. Together again, the two halves of the symbol of his enduring love for her shone brightly, just like Fel’annár’s eyes when he listened, or so the legends said.
They had called the ring Fel’annár, after the spring plant of the deep forest. Later, Lássira graced their son with that very name, in honour of the love she held for Thargodén, the love that had almost broken him when she had died, that had finally brought them together again in Naz’arán when he had taken the Long Road. Now, in this time of peace, they were free to live and love at last, if not in anonymity.
Everywhere they went and everyone they knew in Boscandia looked upon the house of Thargodén and Lássira like a living statue, a homage to the past, and the promise of Fel’annár’s second coming. Their son was a legend of old, a name and a legacy that was taught to children, read to them at night, used as a symbol of courage and strength, of how a great heart can never be stopped, even in death.
Yes, Lássira wanted Fel’annár to come, but the gods knew she didn’t want him to die. Yet supposing that he did, that he came to Greenleaves, would he be free to take his place on the estate? Share in the business of creating generous wines? It was a dream; one she wasn’t sure Fel’annár would share. He was a warrior from birth, marked by the gods as Ari’atór, destined for greatness. He had achieved it, become a prince of Ea Uaré, kept those lands safe as the Silvan Warlord. He had walked with kings and queens, shared cups with the greatest minds in Bel’arán, was a friend to princes and commanders. How could he ever revert to a simple life on a vineyard? Would he deny the Choice Aria would put before him as Ari’atór, turn away from divine duty to become a winemaker like his father?
She would know when that time came, because Or’Talán was a general in the Order of Shirán. Her law-father would tell her when Fel’annár came, whether he had accepted the Choice.
Thargodén pulled her close. “He will come, my love. One day, we will be complete, our family whole.”
“But will he stay? Or will he accept the Choice and join the Order? The gods will not easily give up a lightwielding Listener.”
Thargodén didn’t answer her recurring question. Instead, he turned his head to the hearth and the painting that stood proudly over it. Lássira followed his gaze. The Silvan Warlord stood side-on, twisted silver braids dancing in a breeze, a quiver on his back. He wore the ceremonial armour his people had made with love and care. Vibrant green eyes shone with determination and love for the lands of his birth, the lands he had finally united through battle and war, even with his own people. Pride warred with yearning, dread for the day he would die, excitement for the moment he would. Lássira had asked him a question, and in his heart, Thargodén knew the answer, even though he couldn’t bring himself to tell her.
A door opened, then banged against the wall, jolting Lássira and Thargodén from their musings. Blinking slowly, Lássira turned to the distraction of bickering children, even though the offenders were some years past their majority.
“Why the hell would I want to go and see a bunch of Adaks march into the city?” A young elf threw his standard-issue cloak over a nearby chair and turned to his sister, arms akimbo, chestnut hair settling around him.
