Road of a Warrior: The Silvan Book II by R.K. Lander

Author:R.K. Lander [Lander, R.K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-04-27T16:00:00+00:00

“Did you know?” asked Gor’sadén, shaking the rain from his cloak and hanging it behind the door.

“Know what?” asked Pan’assár from his chair by the fire.

“Did you know that Thargodén had another son?” he asked, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. “A son that is Or’Talán incarnate?” he growled as he approached the fire and sat heavily.

Pan’assár’s eyes were wide, fixed on the elf beside him even though his eyes conjured the silver-haired warrior that had all but danced on the battlefield. “No,” he answered softly.

“How could you not know? A contingent of fifty warriors, on the road for five, six weeks, and you did not recognize the face of our brother?”

Pan’assár could not answer, because, for the first time, he was seeing his own actions for what they had been. He had not seen this face because he had not approached the warriors at all. The idea suddenly seemed strange to him, so uncharacteristic. But it was true. “Galadan is a competent lieutenant,” he said at last.

“And you? What has happened to you, Pan’assár? Could you not be bothered with them, then?” he asked with a curl of his lip. He sat forward, reached for a bottle, and poured wine into a glass noisily.

“They are Silvan.”

Gor’sadén frowned and turned to his friend. “What? Of course they are Silvan.”

“They do not take kindly to Alpine commanders. They are fickle and flighty, know little of honour in battle.”

Gor’sadén frowned and set his glass down. “What madness is this? What talk is this—your own warriors, Pan’assár? You speak of them as one would a lesser species.”

Pan’assár hesitated. His hatred for the Silvan warriors had not always been there. It stemmed from Or’Talán’s death, he knew, and how could it not, for he was dead, a victim of his own warriors’ incompetence? The climate spread by Band’orán had then legitimized his hatred, given it form and substance, and Pan’assár had clung to it so that he could justify it. This talk of Alpine superiority, or what was the same, of Silvan inferiority, was normal at the king’s court, at the Inner Circle of Ea Uaré, yet it was unheard of in Tar’eastór. It had taken Gor’sadén’s outrage to rock his perspective, that and a mighty blow to the head.

He did not answer Gor’sadén. He couldn’t, and yet, his hatred was still there.

“Another son. Don’t tell me his mother is the Silvan slut Thargodén had once deluded himself about marrying.”

“Silvan slut...”

“It was that Silvan peasant girl, the one Or’Talán forbid him to marry. She was the one who turned our king; it was she who buried him in life, led him to ruin and disgrace. She wanted to marry a king—she a Silvan nobody—would not let him go so that he might marry a suitable Alpine lady. She would have tricked him into having a child so that he would marry her. She would make her half-breed child a prince. Yes, it all makes sense. It is common knowledge that she sought the throne; her people were ecstatic, thinking a Silvan would sit next to our Alpine king on the throne.

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