Path of a Novice: The Silvan Book 1

Chapter One: Enough

Har'Sidón, venerable captain of the Inner Circle – was dying.

The blood-curdling scream turned into a hoarse wail, the waves of his agony piercing the very souls of those that tried to help him. But there was no hope; this, Rinon knew, even though he was not a healer.

All he could do was sit there, his own, bloodied hand clamped desperately against the shoulder of the writhing warrior. Let it stop, he begged to himself, let the suffering stop – it is enough – it is too much.

The warrior's breath shuddered to a halt as another wave of excruciating torment wracked his frame and it seemed all the muscles in his body tensed involuntarily, lifting him for a moment from the soiled bedding. Spittle flew from his lips, as another howl of brutal agony swelled in his chest and then split the heavy silence once more. Tears welled in Rinon's eyes as his hand pressed bruisingly against Har'Sidón's shoulder, eyes unwilling to register the mangled flesh and shattered bone, the ruined remains of his legs.

How could it be, he asked – that one so skilled and powerful – could be reduced to this? He had laughed and cried with this warrior. Had witnessed his troth, saved his life, drank cups with him. How could it be that he lay here now, upon the borders of Valley, screaming and writhing – incomprehensible agony his last, bitter taste of life.

Let it stop – please- let it stop. It is enough...

Another cry escaped him, but this time it was weaker, voice breaking, mouth frozen wide, eyes open yet unseeing – glazed, absent.

Healers were atop him but Rinon did not look and Har'Sidón's head lulled to the side, the muscle beneath his hand softening.

"Har..." his own voice broke, eyes brimming in crushing pity and terror, for his friend was slipping away in a haze of ill-deserved suffering.

A hand shot up and latched onto Rinon's collar, pulling him down with surprising strength until their faces were mere inches apart. But no words passed Har'Sidón's lips for his breath had caught in his throat and would not be loosed, eyes bulging in sudden surety and utter terror.

Rinon watched through a watery haze as the immortal light in his friend's eyes slowly petered out, leaving them dull and blind, eyelids drooping half-shut as his chest shuddered, and then was still.

The healers froze and silence descended upon them, watching as Rinon's head fell carelessly against the cooling forehead of Captain Har'Sidón, commander of the Northern patrol of Ea Uaré.

Rinon slowly moved back until he looked down on his friend's lifeless form and even though he cried, his jaw clenched and his eyes sharpened until they were piercing shards of ice.

"We will leave you for a moment, my Prince," came the soft voice of a healer, his strong hand squeezing Rinon's shoulder in sympathy before moving away.

Rinon's mind showed him his friend's bride, his children, eyes begging for answers yet how could he tell them of the horrific death their father had suffered? How could he tell them that he had been caught and mauled by Deviants, that they had bitten into him like starved bears – not for food but for the sheer, perverse pleasure of wrenching shrieks of agony from his friend. He would not and he suddenly wanted to laugh bitterly – what was the expression? Ah yes – 'he died honourably in battle.'

He would lie to them, save them from the anguish of truth.

Rinon's eyes swivelled to the right at the rustle of silk at his side.

"Rinon."

"My King," came the soft, flat voice of the Crown Prince. His eyes lingered a while longer upon the ruined form of Har'Sidón before turning to his father, who was already staring back at him, expression unreadable but his eyes – his eyes were those of Har'Sidón – dull and blank, unfocussed even though he lived.

Dead eyes, set in the face of one whose will had faded many centuries ago, an elf that had shut himself away from the world, even from his own children.

Rinon despised him for even now, while bitter tears lingered in his own eyes, his father's eyes were as dry as the northern sands. Unfeeling, frigid, lifeless.

His nostrils flared and his eyes sharpened. With a curt nod, he spun on his heels and left amidst the saddened stares of the healers and Thargodén was left alone before the evidence.

His land was at war.

He was a failing king.