The Sylvanus Read online

  Ram 'en and Idhreno had wisely waited for Legolas to address the subject they knew was the cause of his anger and now, as they soaked in the hot baths, alone at last, Legolas spoke for the first time since the incident with Borhen.

  "I am not angry, my friends, in spite of what you may think," he said quietly, wincing as his bruised cheek smarted.

  Ram 'en and Idhreno shared a hopeful glance, before turning back to their introspective friend.

  "I am – disappointed."

  Their faces dropped as they waited for him to continue, for they obviously had not expected that.

  "I – understand – your actions, but I cannot condone them. You let your emotions rule you and that is a dangerous thing – it is the antithesis of what I want, of what I believe, it is everything I seek to avoid with our training – I thought you understood this."

  "We do," began Idhreno, but he was, surprisingly, interrupted.

  "No, no you do not. You think you do because your mind understands the need for detachment but you do not feel the need. You sought self-satisfaction, thought only of yourselves for what good will it do me to see their bruises? I will gain no satisfaction from it for I did not defend myself for a reason – and you made my sacrifice pointless," he finished, his face blank as he looked first at one and then the other.

  "I love you my brothers but in this – you have much to learn."

  They stared wide-eyed at Hwindo, and it seemed for a moment that they did not understand what had just happened and perhaps they didn't, because for the first time, Hwindohtar had become the commander he had always wanted to be, the leader they both knew had resided in him, latent, until now.

  Greenwood the Great was slowly falling into a battle to maintain its southernmost territories, which were slowly but inexorably being lain to waste by the darkness that had made its home there. No one yet knew the nature of it, only that it twisted their once vibrant trees and made of them a mockery of past splendor.

  It was a battle fought not only by Thranduil's warriors, but also the Silvan and Avarin foresters. Their only weapon was their woodcraft, their innate connection with the forest and their unparalleled knowledge of Yavanna's creation. Brave elves would settle inside the affected areas and clear the blight as best they could, bringing saplings with them in an attempt to repopulate those areas where the trees had been lost. Some called them the pilgrim settlers, while others thought them mad, for they prolonged the inevitable, they said, and taxed the king's warriors – for these foresters were no fighters, at least not in the traditional sense.

  Orcs too, were becoming more numerous, bolder, more ruthless, and so, Thranduil had ordered his commander in general, Celegon, to muster as many soldiers as he could, and assign them to the Eastern and Western quadrants. To the land in conflict – the South – he would send his most experienced warriors for it was reported that the air was heavy with a malice that affected the mind, that attacked the very soul of those unwitting of its devices. Only the older and braver fighters would take with them their best, and push back the black tide – it that were at all possible. It would be difficult to fight an enemy they did not yet understand.

  'Strange,' he mused, for such blackness, such cruelty and defilement to be rampant there, in what was starting to be called the Mirkwood and yet here – here lay this woodland paradise they protected with everything they had, even by denying its very existence, keeping it hidden form all those that would pollute it.

  It was here, that the king of Greenwood the Great now stood, upon the mighty overhang at the back of the fortress, the vastness of the green forest before him, rolling away into the horizon and beyond.

  A cool autumn breeze gently lifted his silver locks, revealing his chiseled features, a silhouette of strength and nobility and yet – there was no joy upon his face, no happiness in his eyes – no emotion at all save for the blank stare of a Sindarin lord, a king of elves who ruled over his subjects and secured their lands but enjoyed none of it for himself, for everything he had been, his very source of motivation, had left – gone from his side.

  Dark blue silk fell to the floor around his black boots, combining with a lighter blue over tunic that fell shorter than the other. A wide sash of black velvet wrapped his trim body, from which a ceremonial dagger peaked dangerously, glinting in the morning sun.

  An eagle's call drew his attention for a moment, his frosty grey eyes finding it as it soared higher. A spark of admiration flashed over his features, gone so fast one could almost have missed it. 'Would that I were an eagle …'

  Blank, cold eyes blinked once, sharpening the mind behind, for he was no longer alone.

  "My Lord," came the flat voice of his Crown Prince.

  "Speak," was all the king could find within himself to say.

  "I have spoken to captain Hûron and Commander Celegon regarding the early promotion of our better recruits."

  "And," he prompted monotonously.

  "They are in agreement. They will make an estimate of the numbers attainable and report to me in two days time. From there, we can be ready to ride in a week."

  Thranduil turned in a rustle of silks, his eyes latching onto the sharp face of his eldest son.

  "Very well. Secure those villages, else we lose the crop for the entire year," ordered the king calmly, his eyes riveted, daring Rinion almost, to contradict his words, to answer him with his usual cold, biting sarcasm.

  But Rinion did neither. He simply stood to attention, arms behind his ramrod straight back, nodding at the king' words.

  "We ride in ten days. I see no difficulty; the groups are small and apparently uncoordinated."

  "Do not underestimate them. Well you know we have been deceived and then ambushed on three occasions recently – they learn."

  "I do know, my Lord. Rest assured it will be done."

  And there it was, that note of irritation, not enough to constitute a lack of respect, but sufficient to remind Thranduil of his son's disdain.

  "How is the training campaign unfolding?" continued the king after a moment.

  "Well so far," replied Rinion with what seemed to be genuine interest. "We have received one hundred Silvan boys from the deeper villages, they are half-way through their preliminary training and Lieutenant Lainion is reported to have some promising individuals amongst them."

  "Thank you, Rinion. You are dismissed," he said simply, turning his back on his cold, warrior son who would not forgive him, and facing the Evergreen Wood once more, for only there did the king find some semblance of peace.

  Alone once more, Thranduil breathed deeply, listening to the agitated step of his son until it faded into nothing. He was a good warrior, an excellent leader and a duteous prince. He had fulfilled all of Thranduil's expectations as the heir of the realm. It was pity, though, mused the king, that the boy had no heart. But then what had he expected? He was his father's son.

  ….

  His face hurt and his midsection ached from the beating he had received from the three Sindar, their leader one Barathon – Lord Barathon – no less, the king's nephew.

  Legolas was disgusted that one of such an exhalted line would comport himself in such an atrocious way. As a noble, Barathon was even more honour-bound to serve his people with humility, in exchange for the luxuries of his life, or so Legolas reckoned. And yet his arrogance, his cold heart and racist mind made for a disastrous warrior and an even worse leader.

  And then Ram en Ondo and Idhrenohtar had permitted themselves the luxury of beating upon Barathon's two lackeys, with not a care for the consequences it may bring. As it turned out, their bruises had been explained away as a fall from a tree, something their instructor had not believed at all.

  Legolas had refused to fight on principal and he had assumed his brothers would have reacted in the same way – he had been wrong and for some reason it hurt him, as if a part of himself had been torn away.

  A pang of anxiety washed over him and he scowled, for his own musings had not merited such a re
action and he stopped where he stood, listening for the source of his discomfort.

  But there was nothing.

  It was not the first time such a thing had happened to him recently and he wondered at the source of it. It was as if some terrible thing were about to happen and his stomach would flip, his breathing accelerate. It was an unnerving thing and he thought perhaps he should speak with his brothers.

  He smiled then, as his fingers twirled a blade of dry grass obsessively. Things were going well, apart from Barathon's antagonism of course. He had learned many things about organization and logistics, about protocol and first aid, and even the basics of strategy. The only martial art they had trained in was hand-to-hand combat, and here, Legolas had excelled. He had followed his tutor's instructions and had been careful to exclude his own, characteristic moves. It had not been the time to draw attention to himself, but simply to earn merit and get out into the field.

  Tomorrow, however, was a different matter. It was a pivotal moment which Legolas greatly looked forward to, as did the other recruits for twenty of them would be promoted into the king's ranks and ride out as novice warriors.

  He wondered at their skill level in comparison to his own, for although Legolas considered himself good, he had only Ram en and Idhrenohtar to compare himself with.

  He was so young, so inexperienced. He had never even seen an elven warrior fight in battle, had never even seen an orc! Another pang of anxiety squeezed his guts at the sudden thought of making a fool of himself.

  Well, he had no way of knowing, and fretting would get him nowhere and so, pushing himself to his feet, he walked back to the barracks to prepare for tomorrow and the wonderful things it would surely bring, and as he walked, the dissonance brushed his mind once more, leaving him with a lingering sense of foreboding.

  …

  The sound of thwacking arrows and the steely clang of metal resonated throughout the training fields, for today marked the beginning of the new recruit's weapons training.

  There was exhilaration in the air, for the would-be warriors would finally handle swords and bows, learn how to defend themselves and the people they would come to serve. It was also rumored that Commander Celegon had been ordered to promote the better recruits and continue their training in the field. It had sent a wave of excitement through them all, for who did not want that opportunity? They had chattered excitedly about who would be chosen and where they would be assigned, to which lieutenant, to which captain.

  They were young and impressionable, still carefree and inexperienced, too green to bother worrying about where they would go, only that they should go. They all wanted to be one of the twenty that would be promoted today, all wanted to show the commanders what they were capable of and so, for the first time, Legolas had decided to show a little of his own, peculiar ways.

  Ram en had smirked and Idhreno had suggested caution, for some of Legolas' techniques would draw much attention to himself. Of course Legolas had argued that that was, indeed the point, and even wondered at the comment for he had expected more encouragement from his friend. Later though, in the silence of the forest, he wondered if it was because Idhrenohtar feared being separated – that The Company – as they had been called, would now end.

  Legolas did not think that was the case, for of the hundreds of recruits here, Ram en and Idhreno were well above the average. They would all, surely, be chosen. The question was, would they all be assigned to the same commander? The same units?

  His mind focused on the present once more, as the sharp voice of his instructor called his name.

  "Legolas. Take Hanor's place on the archery field. Shoot a precision round, and then a speed round. Understood?"

  "Yes Sir! He answered, smiling as the others called out their encouragement and the instructor rolled his eyes.

  …

  Instructors and officers of all ranks stood around the fences, talking of training techniques, weapons, and their latest incursions into the forest. Indeed even though they were on leave, with only a precious few days to recover before returning to the fight, they would not miss this day for all the gold of Erebor. It was an opportunity to gain members for their own, hard-pressed units and so now, their eyes glanced over the recruits from afar, commenting on them, pointing out their fault and their merits, and claiming their stakes.

  Lainion stood with his arms folded, watching as the arrows flew, some true and others, atrociously astray, one ear on the tried warriors standing around him, listening attentively to their comments.

  "…. most of them Silvan, except for Barathon and, what's his name…?"

  Jeering began between them at the mention of Barathon, albeit these lieutenants were Sindar, and Lainion smirked. That trouble maker would be a thorn in the backside of any patrol captain, and they all knew it. Yet what to do with the boy, for much to Lainion's disgust, he knew the king's nephew would be chosen for early promotion to warriorhood, it was a foregone conclusion.

  "Look at that!" gasped one, his arm straight out in front of him, pointing to one of the five elves currently on the archery field. "Look at his stance!" shouted the elf.

  "Yes, yes I see it. It is…"

  "Thwack," and the arrow sailed true, into the very centre of the targets, embedding itself to the very base of its metal.

  The group of warriors dropped from the fence they had been perched upon and now stood tall, craning their necks to get a better look at the elf with the perfect stance.

  "Thwack," another arrow split centre and Legolas was already reaching for another arrow.

  He fired three more, taking careful aim, and the warriors stood watching in silence, until one finally spoke.

  "That was precision. Let's see how the boy fires at speed."

  They murmured between themselves, before falling into silence once more as the boy adopted his stance once more, his right hand flexing, his left shoulder rolling back once.

  Silence.

  It happened so fast they were left with their mouths slack and their eyes wide, for this – boy – this, green child had fired so fast they had barely been able to follow his moves, and as their eyes travelled now to the target, they found five quivering projectiles, deeply embedded at dead centre.

  The noise returned so fast it was soon a great din, as they fought between themselves, and Lainion smiled in satisfaction. He had never seen Legolas shoot like that, had known the boy had been holding himself back. He was sharp, for he had chosen the best moment to draw attention to himself. He smiled again, but this time not in satisfaction but in fond memory, because truth be told, Legolas was so much like he himself had been as a child.

  The archery concluded and blade work began. The recruits had been organized into four groups of twenty. Each group of twenty recruits were paired off. The rules were simple; use your blades to defeat your opponent. Those who lost would leave the field and those that won would find others without partners, until there were none left. It was a test of skill with blades but also of endurance.

  Lainion's eyes found Legolas and watched as he was assigned a different group to his two inseparable friends. 'Good', he thought to himself. All three would have their chances at promotion, it seemed.

  The first round lasted forty minutes, at the end of which only one lad was left standing, panting and sweating, as the onlookers exchanged coins and celebrated their winnings.

  Legolas' group would take the field now, and expectation was high, just like the wagers that were frantically being placed. Every single elf now watched from the sidelines as the group of twenty boys stood before their respective partners.

  A fierce cry from their instructor marked the onset of the round and the recruits began their sparring.

  Shouts and grunts and cheers echoed around them as some were defeated, leaving progressively fewer opponents. Legolas sailed through his bouts and Lainion knew they were no match for him. It was strange but this was the first time Lainion had seen the Silvan perform with an opponent before him and yet
he had known the boy would be extraordinary. However Lainion would never imagine what would happen in just a few minutes time, would never have been able to predict just what it was that his friend Turion had found.

  A gasp from the crowd focused Lainion's mind and his eyes sharpened upon Legolas and his opponent. So far, the boy had used the standard moves for the long sword but now, as he faced off with a strapping silvan lad, he produced another, shorter sword from the harness upon his back. Taking pause he presented both blades to his opponent, widening his stance and stretching his back leg so far behind him his shin grazed the ground. The short sword was swiveled back over the blond head and then pointed at the now wide-eyed silvan, as if Legolas would stab him from afar.

  As it was the boy stood puzzled. That quickly changed though, as Legolas moved forward, but instead of facing his opponent, he turned his back on him, the tip of his long sword touching the tunic of the open-mouthed silvan, just over his heart.

  Mark.

  The boy looked down at his own chest, still not understanding how he had been bested even before he had moved, for all he could see was the crown of Legolas' head, and the long, thick plait that kept his hair from obscuring his vision. Legolas turned to face him, nodding respectfully, and then moving away, in search of his next opponent.

  It was over in minutes, and Legolas was left standing alone upon the field.

  "That one comes with me!" roared one lieutenant.

  "Nay, I need him in the Eastern quadrant, the terrain.."

  "No – I need him and I will make sure Celegorn understands…"

  "Stop!" was all Lainion said and he was instantly obeyed.

  "None of you can have him," said the Avari slowly, "for you see, he is already spoken for." It was a lie, but Lainion had his own plans – he would simply, stretch the truth, so to speak.