The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  The manhorse broke into a gallop. Mandred’s hands held tight to the leather strap of the quiver. Aigilaos had not lied. He raced like the wind across the field and past a massive ruined tower. A hill rose behind the tower, at its summit, a circle of stones.

  Mandred had never been a good rider. His legs began to cramp from gripping the manhorse’s flanks so hard. Aigilaos laughed. He was playing with him. But Mandred would not ask him to slow his pace, he silently vowed.

  They passed through a bright birch grove. The air was filled with golden seeds. All of the trees were straight and fine, their trunks glistening like ivory. On none of them did the bark hang down in scraps and tatters as on the trees he knew from the Fjordlands. Tendrils of wild roses spread across scattered boulders of gray stone. It seemed almost as if, there in the grove, a strange, wild order prevailed. But who would waste their time tending to a patch of forest that yielded nothing? Certainly not a creature like Aigilaos.

  The path climbed steadily and was soon little more than a narrow game trail. The birches gave way to beech trees, their canopy of leaves so thick that barely a gleam of light made it through. The tall, slender trunks looked to Mandred like gray pillars. It was eerily silent, which only made the muffled hoofbeats on the heavy bed of fallen leaves louder. Now and then, high in the crowns of the trees, Mandred noted strange nests resembling large sacks made of white linen. In some of the nests, lights glowed. Mandred sensed that he was being observed. Something was up there, and it followed them with curious eyes.

  Aigilaos was still galloping at breakneck speed. They rode through the silent forest for an hour, perhaps even longer, until they finally came to a broad path. The manhorse wasn’t even sweating.

  The forest began to open up. Overgrown with moss, wide bands of gray stone cut through the dark earth. Aigilaos began to slow down. He looked around, alert.

  Between the trees, half hidden, Mandred made out another stone circle. The standing stones were covered with ivy. A massive fallen tree lay across the circle. The place looked to have been abandoned long ago.

  Mandred felt the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The air was a little cooler here. He had the oppressive feeling that something was lurking there, just beyond his field of vision, something that even the manhorse found sinister. Why had this stone circle been abandoned? What had happened here?

  The path they were following led upward to a cliff top that afforded a breathtaking view of the land around. Directly in front of them lay a deep gorge that looked as if Naida the Cloud Rider had split the rocky earth with a tremendous bolt of lightning. A narrow trail hewed from the stone led down to a bridge that spanned the chasm below in a bold arch.

  On the far side of the gorge, the land climbed again in gently rolling hills that, far in the distance, transformed into gray mountains. A multitude of small streams foamed into the abyss over the distant rim of the cliffs.

  “The Shalyn Falah,” said Aigilaos reverently. “The white bridge. They say it was carved from the finger bone of Dalagira, the giantess. Anyone crossing the bridge enters into the heartland of Albenmark. It has been a very long time since a human has seen this place.”

  The manhorse began the descent into the gorge. The ground underfoot was smooth rock, wet with spray, and Aigilaos moved cautiously, cursing as he went in a language Mandred did not understand.

  When they came to a broad rock ledge, Aigilaos told Mandred to dismount. In front of them lay the bridge. It was only two steps wide and sloped away from the center line so that the spray did not gather in puddles but ran off. There was nothing to hold on to.

  “Truly a wondrous construction,” murmured Aigilaos testily. “Except it never crossed the builders’ minds that creatures with metal-shod hooves might also like to use it. It is better for you to go across on your own two feet, Mandred. You are expected on the other side. I will take another route. Most likely it will be evening before I reach the palace, but the queen expects you at dusk.” His face twisted into a smile. “I hope you don’t suffer from vertigo, warrior.”

  Mandred felt slightly queasy as he looked at the bridge, as smooth as glass. But he would never show this manhorse his fear. “Vertigo is not in my nature. I’m a warrior from the Fjordlands. I can climb like a goat.”

  “You’re as hairy as one, at least.” Aigilaos grinned insolently. “See you at the queen’s court.” He turned away and clattered rapidly back up the steep path to the rim of the gorge.

  Mandred looked at the bridge. In the tales of faeryland, the mortal heroes usually had to pass some kind of test. Was this his? Or had the manhorse led him astray?

  Idle thoughts not worth thinking. His mind made up, Mandred stepped onto the bridge. It surprised him to find that the soles of his winter boots gave him a good grip. He carefully set one foot before the other. Fine spray from the river below beaded on his face. The wind tugged at his beard with invisible fingers. And soon, Mandred stood high above the abyss. The spray swept over the bridge in clouds that grew heavier with each step he took. So this is what being a bird must feel like, flying between heaven and earth . . .

  Mandred’s eyes roamed curiously over the stony surface. Nowhere could he see a joint. It seemed the bridge had been carved from a single stone. Or was the bridge truly fashioned from the finger bone of a giantess as Aigilaos had claimed? It was as smooth as polished ivory. Mandred banished the thought from his head. A giantess so huge would bury every inch of the Fjordlands if she fell. The story was no more than a fable, he decided.

  The farther he went, the more his bravado grew. Finally, he stepped close to the edge of the bridge and looked down into the rift. The depths exuded a strange attraction. They aroused in Mandred an urge to simply jump, to give himself over to the freedom of the fall. The longer he looked down, the stronger the desire to give in to the urge became.

  “Mandred?” A tall, slim figure stepped toward him from the mists. He was dressed head to foot in white, and his left hand rested on the pommel of the sword at his waist.

  Mandred’s right hand sprang instinctively to the place where his axe normally rested in his belt. It was only when his fingers went wanting that he realized he was unarmed.

  The newcomer had not missed the movement of Mandred’s hand. “I am not your enemy, human.” He swept the hair from his face with a casual movement. “My name is Ollowain. I am the keeper of the Shalyn Falah. My queen has charged me with leading you on the last part of your journey to her palace.”

  Mandred appraised the man. His movements were as nimble as a cat’s. He did not look particularly strong, but an aura of self-confidence surrounded him, as if he were the hero of many battles. His face was thin and pale. Pointed ears showed through light blond hair, stringy from the spray. His eyes did not betray his thoughts. Ollowain’s face was a mask.

  Mandred thought of the stories that were told on long winter nights. There could be no doubt; he was looking at an elf. And the elf knew Mandred’s name. “Why does everyone in this place know who I am?” he asked, suspicious.

  “News travels fast in Albenmark, human. Nothing that happens in her land escapes the eyes and ears of our queen. She sends her subjects messages that fly on the wind. Come now. We have a long ride ahead of us, and I will not allow you to keep my queen waiting. Follow me.” The elf turned on his heel and stepped down into the narrow ravine that lay on the far side of the bridge.

  Stunned, Mandred stood on the spot and watched the elf go. What was that about? This is no way to treat a guest, he thought angrily. What galled him even more was that Ollowain obviously did not doubt for a moment that he would come trotting along behind. In a temper, he followed the elf into the ravine. The reddish rock walls were seamed with strata of blue-gray and black, but the beauty of the canyon was lost on Mandred. He could not stop thinking that he was following the elf like a dog would its master.

  If a Fjordlander had treated him like th
is, he would have struck him down without hesitation. In his homeland, no one would have dared treat him with such disrespect. Was he doing something wrong? Maybe the fault was his? The elf, no doubt, was open to a compliment. Every warrior is happy to speak about his weapons. “You carry an impressive sword, Ollowain.”

  The elf did not respond.

  “I favor the axe in battle myself,” Mandred said, trying again.

  Silence.

  Mandred balled his fists, then opened them again. Self-important halfwit. He was keeper of a bridge and errand boy for his queen. What difference did that make? For a true warrior, he was far too slender. “Among my people, only weaker men carry swords. The queen of the battle is the axe. It takes courage, strength, and skill to fight with it. Few warriors can count all three virtues in equal measure.”

  Still, the elf showed no reaction.

  What was Mandred supposed to say to upset his composure?

  Eventually, the steep rock faces fell away, and they came to a high white wall. It was built in a broad semicircle, as if retreating from the front of the narrow pass. Mandred knew the significance of the form: it made the wall longer. More archers could take up position in case an enemy was ever insane enough to try to attack the heartland of Albenmark through the pass.

  At the center of the rampart rose a slim tower. A large, bronze-studded door opened as they approached.

  “If that tower stood at the end of the bridge or, even better, higher up on the path on the other side of the gorge, the heartland would be easier to defend. A handful of men could hold off an army,” said Mandred offhand.

  “No blood may be spilt on the Shalyn Falah, human. Do you actually think you’re smarter than the architects of my people?” Ollowain said without taking the trouble to turn as he spoke.

  “If we’re talking about architects who forget the rails when they build a bridge, then frankly, I have no great respect,” Mandred replied sharply.

  The elf stopped in his tracks. “Are you truly so simpleminded, or are you merely relying on the fact that you stand under the queen’s protection, human? Didn’t your wet nurse ever tell you what elves do to humans who show so little respect?”

  Mandred licked his lips nervously. Baiting an elf . . . Was he completely out of his mind? He should have kept his mouth shut. But if he didn’t respond now, he would lose face, unless . . . He smiled. There was another way.

  “It says something about your courage, elf, to taunt an unarmed man.”

  Ollowain spun around, his cape swirling wide. His sword came to a stop with the hilt foremost, barely a finger’s breadth from Mandred’s chest. “You think you would be a danger to me with a weapon in your hand, human? Do your best.”

  Mandred grinned mischievously. “I don’t fight unarmed men.”

  “They say the easiest way to recognize a coward is by the speed of his tongue,” Ollowain shot back. “I hope you don’t piss in your breeches.”

  Mandred’s hand shot forward. He grabbed hold of Ollowain’s sword and jumped back. That did it. He wouldn’t really hurt this pompous fool, but a swat with the flat of the sword ought to show him he’d taken issue with the wrong man. A quick look to the battlements that topped the rampart showed that no one was watching. That was good. Ollowain himself certainly wouldn’t go spreading the word that he’d taken a thrashing.

  Mandred eyed his adversary. He was splendidly dressed, definitely, but he was no hero or wizard. Who would you appoint as keeper of a bridge, especially a bridge that no one in his right mind would ever cross? A snot nose. A nobody. He’d teach the peacock some respect, even if he was an elf.

  He slashed the blade in the air a couple of times to loosen up his muscles. The sword was unusually light, completely different from a human sword, and sharp on both edges. He would have to be careful if he didn’t want to injure Ollowain by accident.

  “Are you going to attack me now? Or do you need a second sword?” asked the elf, bored.

  Mandred stormed at him. He raised the sword high as if he wanted to split Ollowain’s skull, but at the last second, he changed the direction of the strike to deliver a backhanded blow to the elf’s right shoulder. The stroke caught nothing but air.

  Ollowain had dodged by enough that Mandred missed him by inches. The white-robed warrior smiled arrogantly.

  Mandred moved back again. The elf might have the stature of a young lad, but he knew how to fight. Mandred would try his best trick on him: a feint that had already cost three of his enemies their lives.

  He moved forward again, his left fist raised as if to clout Ollowain in the face. As he did so, his right hand started a sword stroke from the wrist, taking aim at his adversary’s knee. The first his enemies knew of this stroke, executed with such a slight motion, was when the blade struck home.

  A punch knocked Mandred’s hand aside. A kick hit the tip of the sword, causing it to miss its target. Then the elf rammed a knee between Mandred’s legs.

  Stars danced in front of Mandred’s eyes. The pain . . . he could barely breathe. A blow to the chest knocked him off balance. A second sent him sprawling. He blinked, trying to see clearly again. The elf was so fast that his movements were blurry, almost ghostlike.

  Mandred, helpless, lashed out around him to keep his rival at a distance. Something hit his right hand. His fingers went numb with pain.

  His blade was now guided by no more than his instincts as a fighter. He felt powerless, while Ollowain seemed to be everywhere at once.

  Mandred’s sword swung in a sweeping arc. Then with a jolt, the sword was ripped out of his hand. A puff of air brushed his right cheek. The fight was over.

  Ollowain had stepped back a few paces. His sword was back in its sheath as if nothing had happened. Slowly, Mandred began to see more clearly. It had been a long time since anyone had beaten him so soundly. The tricky elf had avoided hitting him in the face. No one at court would notice what had happened.

  “You must have been very scared, elf,” Mandred gasped, “to turn to magic to beat me.”

  “Is it magic if your eyes are too slow to follow my hand?”

  “No human can move that fast without magic,” Mandred persisted.

  The specter of a smile played across Ollowain’s lips. “Very true, Mandred. No human.” He pointed to the gateway that opened into the tower, which now stood wide open. Two horses were waiting there, already saddled. “Would you do me the honor of following me?”

  Every bone in Mandred’s body hurt. He moved stiffly toward the gate. The elf stayed close to his side. “I don’t need anybody to hold me up,” Mandred grumbled.

  “If you did, you’d cut a miserable figure at court,” said the elf with a friendly glance that took the edge off his barb.

  The horses waited patiently beneath the arch of the gate. No stable hands were to be seen, no one who had brought the horses here for them. A vaulted gateway ran like a tunnel through the stonework of the mighty tower. The gateway was empty, as were the merlons that topped the wall. Again, Mandred sensed that he was being watched.

  Did the elves want to hide the strength of the garrison guarding the gate to the heartland? Was he considered an enemy? A spy perhaps? But if that were the case, would the oak have healed him?

  A white horse and a gray were waiting for them. Ollowain stepped up to the white stallion and playfully patted its nostrils. Mandred had the impression that the gray was looking at him expectantly. Though he didn’t know much about horses, he could see that these beasts were lightly built. They had slim fetlocks and didn’t look very strong at all. Then he remembered that he’d been fooled by Ollowain’s appearance, too. The horses probably had more endurance and were stronger than any other horse he’d ever ridden, Aigilaos excepted. Mandred smiled at his recollection of the blowhard manhorse.

  Groaning, he pulled himself into the saddle. When he was halfway upright, Ollowain signaled
to him to follow. The unshod hooves of the horses resounded dully from the walls of the tunnel.

  Ollowain struck out along a path that took them over gently rising green hills. It was a long ride to the palace of the elven queen, past dark woods and over countless small bridges. Now and then, off in the distance, Mandred saw houses with boldly sweeping domed rooftops. Carefully set into the landscape, they looked to Mandred like gemstones mounted in an uncommonly precious setting.

  What he rode through with Ollowain was a land of spring, and he remembered the faery stories that told of an elven world of perpetual spring. Again, Mandred wondered how long he might have slept beneath the oak tree. It could not have been more than two or three days since he had passed through the stone circle. Perhaps no more than a single day.

  Mandred focused on organizing his thoughts; he did not want to find himself standing before the queen like a fool. He had managed to convince himself that the manboar had come from here, from the elven world. He thought of Xern and Aigilaos. Here, it seemed quite normal for humans and animals to be merged into one being—just like the manboar.

  When the princes of the Fjordlands met to determine justice, it was Mandred’s job to represent Firnstayn. He knew what had to be done to stifle a blood feud before it started. If a man from one clan was killed by a man from another, then the murderer’s family had to pay the victim’s family blood money. If this was paid, then there was no longer any foundation for revenge. The manboar came from here. The queen of the elves was responsible for the beast, and Mandred had lost three companions to it. Firnstayn was so small that the loss of three strong men threatened its very existence. He would demand a high recompense for the loss. Luth alone knew how many men from other villages the creature had slain. The Albenkin had wrought the damage, so they had to pay for it. That was only fair.

  The elves had no reason to fear a blood feud with Mandred’s village, but still he owed it to his dead friends to raise his voice at the court of the queen and call for justice. Did the queen of Albenmark already suspect as much? Was she aware of the debt she owed? Was that why she was having him brought to her palace with such haste?