Seila turned to the sound of thundering hooves behind them. “Help at last!” he said, drawing himself up and waiting for the approaching group. But his face dropped no sooner he caught sight of them.
Bare chests and leather skirts, some with breeches. Painted faces and ornate bows jutting skywards from behind their shoulders.
Silvan rebels.
They had been warned of this itinerant group that had been hampering Alpine merchants, confiscating goods and threatening them, should they return and ‘steal’ from the Silvan people. But Seila and his associates had had no choice. They were not rich lords but humble merchants that needed to feed their families.
Seila stepped forward, an appeasing hand before him. “We need help, brothers. We cannot free our wagon.”
“A wagon full of Silvan produce you have surely paid a paltry price for.” A Deep Forest accent, sure and accusing.
“We paid what was asked of us. We are honest merchants, not thieves.”
“You’re Alpine,” explained the leader as he slung one leg over the saddle and dismounted. His ten companions followed suit and they walked towards the small group of merchants. They were a daunting sight, feral and tribal in their scant clothing and colourful beads. “You’re Alpine and you’re not welcome in these lands you think you rule. Go back to your stone fortress and your puppet king and tell them. Angon of Ea Nanú will suffer no Alpine thieves in the hallowed forests of the Silvan people—not while they think to rule over us without our consent.”
“We are not politicians, Angon. We are peaceful folk making an honest living,” said Seila, hands out to either side.
Angon’s jaw pulsed and his eyes narrowed. He walked until he was before the merchant, eyes glittering in mounting anger. “You do nothing while your leaders tread on my people. By doing nothing you are just as guilty as they are. You’re happy to sit back and watch your Alpine rulers take what’s not theirs. It doesn’t concern you; it doesn’t move you. You are not welcome.”
Seila turned to his companions who stood staring at the group of strange Silvans. They had never seen the like and they were not about to intervene. Seila had been brave enough to confront them but none would gainsay the imposing leader.
"May we at least take our wagon and horse with us?”
“We’ll help you with your horse, but the rest is ours.” With a jerk of his head, the Silvans set to work and had soon freed the wagon of its confines and handed over the skittish mare. Hooking the cart up to one of their own steeds, Angon turned back to Seila.
“Where did you get this?”
“Lan Taria,” replied Seila, rubbing a shaking hand against his thigh.
Angon gestured southwards with his chin. “Leave these forests, merchant. And don’t come back. Remember. You’re not welcome.”
The group cantered away, their wagon clattering behind them and Seila turned to his companions, kicking at a bucket that had fallen from their confiscated wagon and sending it clattering into a tree. Blowing out a long breath of utter frustration, he scratched his head, and then turned to one of his two colleagues as he spoke.
“It gets worse by the day. First we’re pelted with acorns and stones and now this. It’s as if they’ve gone wild, reverted to elder days and ways. We must inform the Merchant Guild. This place is no longer safe.”
“Three merchants dead.” Huren stood a general, boots planted firmly upon the fine rug beneath. There was no hint on his face of the blatant lie he had just told his king.
“The merchants resisted them?” A thoughtful voice from the wall of shutters that looked out over the Evergreen Wood.
“We don’t know. Only that they were attacked on the road between Oran’Dor and the city. Our merchants may soon have to hire mercenaries if they are to extract produce from the forest and escape those Silvan rebels.”
“Does Erthoron condone this?” asked Crown Prince Rinon from where he sat before the hearth.
Huren turned to the crown prince but it was the king who answered. “He can’t contain them for much longer.” Thargodén turned from his favourite spot at the window. “He is a good leader, but the Silvans have been pushed to the limit. The people demand action and yet we must wait for the votes to take place, try to contain this escalation as best we can.”
“And meanwhile, Band’orán uses the situation against you. To many, it is the perfect reason the Warlord must not be allowed to return.” Aradan paced, one hand swiping down his face, over his mouth.
“The Silvans were already turning on us,” Huren said. “What will they do with a Warlord to fight for them?” He watched and waited for a reaction to his words.
“And I would tell our people that we turned on the Silvans first. It falls to us to fix this.” Thargodén faced his general, eyes gleaming, crown glittering in the morning sun. Huren controlled his impulse to step backwards. He had seen Or’Talán, the king’s father, for just a moment. But he would never tell Band’orán that.
Aradan closed his eyes and heaved a deep breath. “This is just what Band’orán needs. Conflict. This Angon has played straight into his hands. I would speak with Erthoron once more.”
“He will not come,” said Rinon. “He made his position clear. The Night of a Thousand Drums was much more than a tantrum. It was a declaration of intentions. The time for talk is over. They wait for us to vote, and by the Gods, it must be for equality, for the return of the Warlord.” Rinon stood and walked towards the general. “Because if it isn’t … we may be facing civil war.”
Huren answered carefully. “Yes. I believe we will.”
Rinon turned away from him, walking towards where his father stood. The forbidden Evergreen Wood sprawled away into the southern sky until the sea barred its journey, somewhere beyond the horizon. He almost startled when his father spoke, softer now, and Rinon wondered if Huren could even hear him.
“We need Handir here. We need all our assets, all our skill and all our wits if we are to pull this land back together; heal the damage I have done.”
Thargodén’s profile was strong once more, and yet there was a bone-deep sadness in his eyes—not for his lost soulmate but for his years of aimless wandering, years that Band’orán had used to grow strong, weave his lies, his half-truths. It was regret, and something else.
Rinon thought he knew what it was. Something he had never seen before in his father’s eyes.
Fear.
Huren’s status report had not been comforting, and later that afternoon, King Thargodén and Councillor Aradan sat on the lawn on the highest rooftop of the Royal Palace of Ea Uaré.
The king’s private garden looked out over the Evergreen Wood, Or’Talán’s gift to the Silvan people. It was their own piece of paradise, he had said. A forest prohibited to all save the Silvan foresters and those their leaders allowed inside. It extended from the back of the palace, beyond to the mountains and then the cliffs and the Pelagian Sea. It was a constant bone of contention with the Alpine Purists. They had once moved to keep the gates open to allow at least Thargodén’s court to venture inside. But Thargodén had never allowed that, had never even agreed to discuss it.