Sons Of Adakia Private Scene Peek. - Author R.K. Lander

Scene From Sons of Adakia, launching February 9th, 2025

Turion, one-time Commander General of Ea Uaré, leaned over his galloping mount, arms pumping, cape billowing behind him like the flags of war, eyes shuttered against the south-easterly wind. Beside him, Fer’dan, the elf who had once served with him in his forest patrol back in Bel’arán. He, too, was shocked silent, surely just as shaken at the events that had unfolded in the city of Boscandor mere minutes ago.

Speed was paramount, the information still fresh, slowly seeping through the upper layers of the military. Soon, it would start to sink deeper, spread wider, until the whole of Boscandia knew. And then chaos would erupt.

Captain Galdith’s patrol had been attacked. Only three had survived to return and bring the gruesome news home. Lord Orsal, Captain Galdith, and Crown Prince Yasei were dead.

Turion’s world had fallen away from under his feet – until he had heard Fel’annár of Lan Taria’s name amongst the victims.

The air had shifted then, and alarm had turned into spiking anger. He felt strange, violent, wanted to smash everything apart until it lay wrecked upon the ground, no matter who stood in his way. It felt like a self-indulgent dream, conjured to liberate pent up frustrations in a way he would never do in the waking world. And yet he was awake, and the thought that he would be capable of such mindless brutality jolted him.

The three survivors had been lucid enough to report their falsities and had swiftly been taken to the royal infirmary for rest and recovery. They said it had been Adaks who had ambushed the patrol, killed their warriors, then desecrated their bodies, left them hanging from the ruined trees, heads staked on Scandic swords, bodies skewered upon pikes. Through this act of wanton barbarity, they claimed the Adaks demanded independence, that they had done it all in the name of Adakia.

Until yesterday, that dream had been remote, nothing but dust-laden paper sitting on the council table for decades. Today, that dream was finally laid to rest, along with the lives of the elves Boscandia had most worshipped. The Adaks would never achieve independence now. Instead, their barbaric acts would surely garner a declaration of war from King Uwendo. It may come this very day if the king could find it within himself to stand and speak after the supposed loss of his crown prince.

Turion should have been livid, outraged, raving, and screaming like the rest of Boscandor. But he wasn’t, not now that he had managed to control his base instincts. It was all lies, nothing but a fabrication, created by the same traitors who had tried and failed to kill Fel’annár, the same vipers who had intercepted a Shirán message from Origenta to Greenleaves, Or’Talán’s announcement of Fel’annár’s coming. Resolve cemented in his soul, hope flaring with it, because Fel’annár was alive, and in Turion’s mind, that meant there was a chance for Orsal, Yasei, and Galdith, too.

Farmers and foresters cleared the way for the two galloping horses, stared after their dust-shrouded riders, even called out to Captain Fer’dan. But he remained silent, eyes on the road ahead, mind on how to tell the Lords of Greenleaves that Orsal was in trouble, perhaps even dead alongside his childhood friend the crown prince, and Galdith, a member of their son’s Company, exalted captain of Boscandia. They should never have been on that patrol, wouldn’t have been had Orsal not run away from the daunting prospect of meeting his elder brother. Yasei had followed him, left everything behind in the hopes of bringing him back. Instead, they had walked into the enemy’s gleeful hands.

Thargodén, Lord of Greenleaves

Turion and Fer’dan didn’t slow their pace, not even as they galloped into the courtyard, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel as they pulled hard on the reins. Without waiting for their mounts to settle, they vaulted from the saddle, and strode towards the door, where a thunderous Quainam waited for an explanation for their rash behaviour. But there was none, and with a deep, surrendering breath, and a resolute nod at Fer’dan, the Byren Adak butler stepped aside. The two warriors entered Greenleaves, striding straight into the parlour without preamble. Quainam followed, standing discreetly to one side, surely sensing the urgency. Angon was on his feet in a flash, blocking Talanor from the disturbance, while Thargodén turned abruptly to the noise. Lássira stood slowly, eyes darting between Fer’dan to Turion.

“News from the forest. Galdith’s patrol…”

“Tell me Orsal is well.” Lássira stepped forward, brow deeply furrowed. Below, her legendary green eyes held a disturbing intensity that was almost too much, even for Turion. He forced himself to face her, to grind out the words as best he could.

“I can’t tell you he is well. But if you ask me what I believe, I say he is alive. However, the official news is that the entire patrol was slaughtered by Adaks. Three warriors managed to escape and brought the news directly to the Inner Circle. Fer’dan and I left immediately.”

Thargodén stood frozen, eyes on Turion, in case there was more, in case he had misunderstood. There was certainly more, but Turion needed to give them a moment to register what he’d said.

“Why do you think Orsal is well? You don’t believe the news?”

Turion’s face twisted until it was almost unrecognisable, frozen in a rictus of hatred and wrath. Again, he was battling with that unsettling sense of madness, the barely contained rage that threatened to force his hand. He glanced over at Fer’dan, at his clenched jaw and iron-tight fists. “Because they claim that Fel’annár of Lan Taria was with them, that he perished in the most atrocious of ways. They bring his Shirán short sword as proof.”

Thargodén swayed backwards, fury swirling in his blue eyes. Behind him, Angon exchanged words with Quainam, who promptly ushered Talanor from the room and closed the door behind him. He was back moments later.

Thargodén looked at Turion, visibly collecting himself before he tilted his head back. “And so they make their move,” he murmured. “If they have his short sword, then these are the same villains that tried to kill him on that boat.” Breathing deeply, hands on hips, he turned away for a moment, visibly thinking through the mess. “Who else knows of this?”

“The generals, the Inner Circle. The barracks will know by now. By nightfall, the entire city will say Adaks have slaughtered their crown prince, cut down Fel’annár of Lan Taria, and staked his body high over the forest as a sign to the Scandics. I fear a massacre, Thargodén.” He glanced at Quainam, standing pale to one side.

“No one has questioned the news?” asked Lássira.

Lássira, Lady of Greenleaves. Brenhin’aré.

“Why would they, my lady?” replied Fer’dan. “Our own Scandic warriors bring this news. They bring Fel’annár’s sword, and the gods know what other symbols and tokens they have. Only we know that it’s a subterfuge because we know that Fel’annár wasn’t there, that he is not dead. And yet we have nothing to prove that save for his mere presence.”

“If he shows himself, it will prove it’s all a lie.” Lássira turned from Turion to Angon, then Thargodén, who was already shaking his head, while the commander explained.

“All it would prove is that the warrior they found in the forest was of Alpine or Xiondarian origin, that they thought it was him because for some reason, he had Fel’annár’s Shirán weapon – an understandable mistake, wouldn’t you say?”

“Perhaps. But Fel’annár would reveal the assassination attempt, tie that in with this supposed slaughter. How else would they come by my son’s blade?”

“It is one of many options, my lady, one I am not sure will entirely disprove the attack. Why would our own warriors lie? Is it not easier to believe it is true than to believe there is treachery at play? The assassination attempt could have been old enemies from Bel’arán, intent on revenge, nothing to do with whatever is happening in the forest right now.”

Captain Ferdán.

“I agree,” said Fer’dan. “But it’s early days. We can’t discard anything just yet. And, if I may, Fel’annár himself will have something to say on the matter.”

Thargodén clenched his jaw, while Lássira turned away. “How real is the threat to the Adak citizens of Boscandor, Turion?”

“It is hard to say at this early stage, my lady. But it’s not good. The outrage will be widespread and heartfelt, for Yasei, for Galdith, and for Fel’annár. This will break our people in two at best, bring civil unrest – even war at worst.”

“The reserve…”

“We need to warn them,” said Fer’dan.

“They will already know, Angon,” said Lássira with a wave of her hand. “They may decide to evacuate, make for the forest. There are hundreds of Avax Adak there – civilians and children who still cannot merge as their parents can. Ghiahan is there as we speak.”

“If I may,” began Turion, holding his hand out for calm. “Fer’dan should travel back to the city and watch, keep us informed as best he can, and warn us if danger should come this way. All Boscandor knows of your affinity with the Adak people, my lords. You will be scorned for that. You must both lay low, stay out of the discussion, lie if it comes to that. We must make our enemies think we believe their story – that Fel’annár and Orsal are dead, and you mourn the passing of your sons in circumstances such as these. It will keep you safe, but more importantly, it will keep Angon and his nephew safe.”

“And you, Turion?”

The commander turned to Thargodén. “I ride for the reserve now. Fel’annár must stay out of sight until the time is right, until we can prove these lies, if not discover those who spread them and why. Do you have a cellar?”

“We do. We collect barrels there, then transport them to and from the vineyards.”

“It will have to do for now. These are temporary measures until we have more news, until Uwendo makes his move. Whether that is to protect the Adak citizens of Boscandor or hunt them down remains to be seen.”

“If our people don’t take things into their own hands first. Their crown prince is dead. Fel’annár of Lan Taria is dead. There is no telling what the night will bring.”

Thargodén stared at Fer’dan, processing his words, knowing he was right. “Turion. Get Fel’annár, Llyniel, and Ghiahan home, and do it quickly. Keep them out of sight. Quainam, and speak to Panpanoram, Bardor, and Jenna. Tell them our plans, offer them the chance to leave if they so wish.”

“They won’t, my lord. We will stay, to whatever end.”

Thargodén offered Quainam a grim smile, then turned to Lássira. “Time to play the grieving mother once more, Brenhin’aré.”

Nostrils flaring, eyes all but spitting green fire, Lássira’s lip curled as she spoke. “And what an act I will put on.”

Thargodén nodded resolutely at her, then sought out Angon. “Whatever happens, Angon, you must stay with Talanor at all times. He is your priority. Do you understand me?”

Lieutenant Angon.

Angon stood tall. “No offence lord, but Fel’annár asked it of me. I won’t go back on my word to the Warlord.”

Thargodén nodded respectfully at him. “So he did, Grav’atór.” His gaze drifted from the Bear Warrior to Turion, Sar’atór, the Steadfast Warrior, then to Fer’dan and Lássira. “Hard times approach. Danger is coming to Boscandia, upon the wings of treachery. I believe this is an attempt to discredit the Adak people, with the sole intention of ridding the crown of their resistance in the forest, so that they can exploit the mines without opposition, throw their plans for independence off the council table for good.”

“With respect, Lord Thargodén. I believe there’s much more to it than that,” said Turion, his eyes drifting from the ex-king to his wife, to Fer’dan and Angon, even Quainam. “This is not about wealth and land. This is about power. I believe we may be standing on the cusp of a coup; a forceful transference of power.”

“Uwendo?”

“The very throne of Boscandia.”

“But… but why?” Fer’dan turned to Turion, unaware that his thoughts had wandered in such a drastic direction.

“Why bring Fel’annár into this? Is it not enough to claim they killed Yasei? The crown prince? Why try to assassinate Fel’annár in the first place?”

Fer’dan stood thinking on Turion’s words until it hit him. “They fear him.”

Turion nodded. “And that has nothing to do with the mines, Fer’dan. It has to do with what Fel’annár was once capable of, that which eludes him now, not that his enemies know that. I believe they think he can still hear the trees, that he can command them, and for some reason, that does not suit their plans.” He wasn’t sure that Fer’dan was convinced, but he had certainly given the captain and the Lords of Greenleaves food for serious thought.

Talanor Ar Fel’annár Lássira.

“One more thing, commander, captain, lieutenant.”

They turned to Lássira, expectant and curious.

“No one must know who Talanor is.”

Turion raised a brow, while Fer’dan glanced anxiously at Angon, dread seeping into the very marrow of his bones.