The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  It was late in the afternoon when they caught their first glimpse of it. Still far in the distance, the palace perched high atop a steep hillside beyond a broad swath of woods and meadowland. The sight of it made Mandred’s breath catch. The palace seemed to grow directly from the rock it sat atop. The rooftops of its highest towers looked as if they pierced the sky. The walls were radiant white, while the rooftops shone with a blue-green shade that reminded Mandred of the color of old bronze. No royal seat of a prince of the Northlands could compare in even the slightest detail to the towers of this castle. King Horsa’s golden hall itself appeared insignificant against such splendor. The woman who ruled this land . . . how powerful she must be. And how rich. So rich she could probably have all the longhouses of his village shingled with gold with a snap of her fingers. He should keep that in mind when he named the price she had to pay for his dead companions.

  Mandred was secretly surprised at how slowly they seemed to approach the castle. Although the horses flew like the wind through the countryside, the palace on the horizon hardly seemed to grow any larger.

  They passed a tree that looked as old as the mountains. Its trunk was as thick as a tower, and curious objects could be seen in its immense spreading crown. It looked as if the living wood had woven its own branches into round huts, and rope bridges stretched through the crown of the tree, connecting the huts. Mandred saw figures half-hidden among the branches. Were they elves like Ollowain? Or some other strange residents of this land?

  Without warning, as if at some inaudible command, a flock of birds rose abruptly from the tree. Their feathers shimmered in all the colors of the rainbow. They flew low over Mandred’s head, described a wide arc in the sky, then circled above the two riders. There must have been thousands, and the air was filled with the beating of wings. The play of colors in the birds’ feathers was so brilliant that Mandred could not take his eyes off them until, gradually, the flock dispersed.

  Ollowain had been silent for the entire ride. He seemed to be deep in thought and unimpressed by the wonders of the heartland. Mandred, though, could not drink in enough of what he was seeing.

  They came to a shallow lake, the bed of which sparkled with gemstones. What kind of beings are these that they would throw such treasures into the water without a second thought? But even as he thought this, he remembered that he himself had made offerings to his gods. On a silent night beneath a full moon, at the holy spring buried deep in the mountains, he had offered up the axe of the first man he had beaten in battle as a gift to Norgrimm, the god of war. And Freya and the other women honored Luth by braiding artfully woven bands of cloth into the branches of the linden tree in the village. The elves were obviously rich, so perhaps it wasn’t out of proportion for them to offer their gods precious stones. And yet the wealth of the elves angered Mandred. He did not know how he had come here, but this kingdom could not be so far from his Fjordlands. Here they had more than they could ever need, but among his folk, in winter, there was always hardship. A tiny fraction of these treasures could banish that hunger forever. Whatever he asked as blood money for his dead companions would be a meaningless sum for the elves.

  He wanted something else. Not gold or gemstones. He wanted revenge. The beast, the manboar, he wanted to see it dead at his feet.

  Mandred observed Ollowain. A fighter of his caliber would be able to defeat the monster with ease. He was certain of that.

  He sighed. Everything seemed easier here.

  Together, the riders entered an open forest of beech. The lilt of flutes drifted on the air. From somewhere in the treetops rang a voice so clear that one’s spirit was uplifted just by the listening. Mandred understood nothing of the song, but his anger vanished. What remained was sadness for the friends he had lost.

  “Who is that singing?” he asked Ollowain.

  The white-robed warrior glanced up to the treetops. “A girl of the forest folk. Strange creatures. Their lives are closely tied to the trees. If they don’t want to be seen, then no one can find them—except perhaps others of their kind. They are renowned for their song and their skill with the bow. They move among the branches like shadows. Beware their forests if you ever find yourself in a feud with them, human.”

  Mandred looked up to the trees uneasily. Occasionally, he believed he could make out a shadow up there, and he was glad when they were out of the forest again. Still, the melody of the flutes followed them for some time.

  The sun was already grazing the distant mountains by the time they reached the broad valley above which the queen’s palace towered. An encampment of tents had been erected alongside a small stream. Silk banners fluttered in the wind, and the tents themselves seemed to vie with one another to be the most extravagant, the most magnificent. On the hills stood houses flanked on all sides by porticos. Some of these houses were connected to one another by long patios, overgrown with roses and ivy. The structures on the hills all around were so diverse that Mandred could scarcely look away. He was struck by the fact that there was no defensive wall encircling the elven settlement and that not a single watchtower could be seen on the surrounding hills. It was as if those who dwelled here were absolutely secure in the belief that this valley would never be attacked. Even the queen’s palace, as impressive as its sky-high towers were, was hardly built with defense in mind. It was meant more to please the eye of a peaceful observer than to deter a ravening army.

  Mandred and Ollowain followed a broad avenue, shaded by trees on both sides, that led to the gate. Oil lamps had been lit along the sides of the avenue, bathing it in a golden glow.

  The tunnel that served as a gate here was shorter than the one at the fortification in the pass behind the Shalyn Falah. Elven soldiers in ankle-length chain mail tunics stood leaning on their shields. Their eyes followed Mandred—alert, but discreet. In the expansive courtyard, various high officials were gathered, and they looked at him, unflinching, as he passed. Beneath their gaze, Mandred felt dirty and insignificant. They were all attired in expensively embroidered garments that caught the light from the oil lamps. Their clothes were adorned with beads and stones for which Mandred didn’t even have names. He, though, was dressed in rags. A pair of torn, bloody breeches. A worn-out fur jerkin. He must have looked like a beggar to them. He raised his chin defiantly. He would clothe himself in pride.

  Ollowain swung out of the saddle. Mandred noted a fine tear in the warrior’s cloak. Had he actually struck him during their duel after all? Ollowain would not needlessly or heedlessly put on something torn.

  Mandred, too, dismounted. A goat-legged servant hurried over and took the gray’s reins. Astonished, Mandred stared at the bizarre stable hand. The servant stank like an old billy goat. Another half-animal, half-man thing. They even let them into this grand palace.

  A tall elf stepped forward from a group of dignitaries in the courtyard. He wore a long, dark cloak hemmed with silver braid embroidered with an intricate pattern of interwoven leaves and flowers. Lustrous white hair cascaded to his shoulders, and a crown of delicate, silvery leaves encircled his temples. His face was pale, almost colorless, and his lips no more than a thin line. His eyes burned a cold, light blue. Ollowain bowed briefly to the newcomer. The difference between the two of them could hardly have been greater. They looked to Mandred like light and shadow.

  “It is my privilege to greet you, Master Alvias. As Queen Emerelle wished, I have escorted the human safely to the palace.” Ollowain’s voice left no doubt that his queen’s wishes were his command.

  Each looked to be taking the other’s measure with his eyes, and Mandred had the impression that they were talking silently with one another. Finally, Master Alvias made a sign to Mandred to follow.

  They climbed a wide stairway that led to a portico, and as they rose, Mandred felt a sense of dread engulf him, as if he were trapped in a nightmare. Everything around Mandred had an air of oppressive beauty and was steeped in a strange
magic. It was a place of such consummate perfection that it frightened the jarl.

  They passed through two expansive halls, either one large enough to have contained his entire village. In galleries hung enormous banners decorated with eagles and dragons, but also with animals the likes of which Mandred had never seen. Though he could feel no draft, the banners rippled as if touched by a light breeze. The walls themselves were even stranger. Looking closely, he could see that they were made of white stone, like the bridge of Shalyn Falah and the fortification beyond the pass. The stones of the walls, radiating a pale white light, must have been enchanted. From any more than a few paces away, one lost the impression of being surrounded by stone. It was like moving inside a hall of pure light.

  Whenever they approached a portal, the doors swung wide as if moved by an unseen hand. In the middle of the second hall, there was a spring that spilled from the mouth of a stone monster and poured into a small, round pond. The beast was surrounded by armed warriors, also made of stone. Unsettled at the sight, Mandred felt his heart beat harder. If he needed final proof of the magical powers of the elf queen, this was it. She turned anyone incurring her displeasure into a petrified ornament for her castle.

  Another high door swung open before them, and they entered another hall, the walls of which were hidden behind a shimmering, silvery curtain of water. This hall had no ceiling overhead, the sky instead arching high above them, glowing dusk red. Soft music hung in the air. Mandred could not think which instrument might be able to pour forth such delightful sounds. The music swept away the dread that had been growing in his heart since he had entered the first courtyard. Yet this was still no place for humankind, and he knew that he was not meant to be here.

  Some three dozen elves were waiting in this hall, and all eyes suddenly turned to look at him. It was the first time that Mandred had seen elven women. They were tall and slim, their hips more boyishly narrow than those of human women, and their breasts were small and firm. Among humans, Mandred would have found no pleasure in the sight of such childlike bodies, but the elves were different. Their faces had a beauty that made one forget everything else. Was it the curve of their lips, their ageless faces, or their eyes, the depths of which beckoned with the promise of mysterious pleasures? Some wore flowing dresses of a cloth so fine it seemed to have been woven from moonlight. Rather than concealing the merits of their slim bodies, the dresses they wore emphasized them all the more. Mandred’s eyes settled on one of the women, even more tantalizingly dressed than the others. Her breasts shimmered rose-colored through the cloth, and alluring shadows lay between her thighs. It was a dress no human woman would have dared to wear.

  Opposite the door they had come through, seven steps led to the elven throne. The throne was a plain chair made of dark wood, inlaid with black and white stones depicting two snakes twisted inextricably together. Beside the throne rose a low column with a flat silver bowl on top. In front of the royal seat stood a young elven woman, somewhat shorter than the other women in the hall. Dark blond hair fell in waves over her naked, milk-white shoulders. Her lips were the color of forest berries, and her eyes were the same light brown shade as the fur of a fawn. She wore a blue dress threaded with silver.

  It was before this woman that Master Alvias bowed. “Emerelle, my queen, this is Mandred, the mortal who entered your realm unbidden.”

  The queen looked intently at Mandred. It was impossible for him to read her thoughts from her face, which remained unmoving, as if carved from stone. An eternity seemed to pass. The music had faded, and now everything was still and silent, save for the rush of water.

  “What do you seek, Mandred the Mortal?” the queen’s clear voice finally rang.

  Mandred’s mouth was dry. He had spent many hours on the ride here thinking of what he would say when he faced the elven queen, but as he stood before her now, his mind was suddenly empty. All that remained was concern for his loved ones and fury for the death of his companions. “I demand blood money for the murders committed by one of your subjects, Queen. That is the law of the Fjordlands,” he said.

  The water’s hiss grew louder. Mandred heard scandalized murmurings behind him.

  “Which of my subjects is supposed to have committed such deeds?” asked Emerelle, her voice calm.

  “I don’t know its name. It is a monster, half human, half boar. I have seen many similar beings on my way to your castle.”

  A deep crease appeared between the queen’s brows. “I know of no being as you have described, Mandred.”

  Mandred sensed the blood rush to his cheeks. Such an impudent lie. “A half man, half horse was your messenger, and in the courtyard, a mangoat led the horses away. From where else should a manboar come, Queen, if not from your realm? I demand—”

  The water plunged down the walls in a loud roar.

  “You dare call our queen a liar?” shouted Alvias, indignant. A host of elves surrounded Mandred.

  He closed his hands into fists. “I know what I have seen.”

  “Observe the rights of hospitality.” The queen had barely raised her voice, but all present obeyed her. “I invited the human to this hall. Anyone who raises his hand against him raises it against my honor. And you, Mandred, rein in your tongue. I say to you, such a being, as you have described it, does not exist in Albenmark. Let us hear your account of what this manboar did. I know very well that you humans avoid the standing stones. What was it that brought you here?”

  Mandred told her about the futile hunt and the power of the manboar. When he had finished, the crease between Emerelle’s brows had only deepened. “I am sorry for the death of your companions, Mandred. May they be received with joy in the halls of your gods.”

  Mandred looked at the queen in amazement. He waited for her to continue, to make him some kind of offer, but none came. That can’t be the end of it, he thought, but the silence only grew deeper. Mandred thought of Freya. Every hour he lost here put her in greater danger, and there was no telling if the manboar had already attacked Firnstayn.

  Awkwardly, Mandred lowered his eyes. What was his pride worth if it was paid for with the blood of those dearest to him? “Queen Emerelle, I . . . ask for help in the hunt for this monster. I . . . I beg forgiveness if I have offended you. I am just a simple man. Battling with words is not what I am good at. I wear my heart for all to see.”

  “You came into my palace, Mandred, and insulted me before my royal court. Now you ask me to consider endangering my hunters for your cause? You wear your heart for all to see, indeed, human.” Emerelle’s hand moved in a circle over the silver bowl, and she glanced fleetingly into the water. “What do you offer me for my assistance? Is not blood settled with blood among your people?”

  Her response surprised Mandred. The princes of the Fjordlands would have stated their demands openly, not haggled like shopkeepers. He kneeled before her. “Free my land from the manboar, and I will be at your command. I will belong to you.”

  Emerelle smiled softly. “Mandred, in truth, you are not a man I would wish to have around me every day.” She fell silent and looked again into the silver bowl. “I ask for what your wife, Freya, carries beneath her heart. Your firstborn child, Mandred the Mortal. The friendship of the elves is not won with a few cheap words. I will come for the child one year from today.”

  Mandred felt as if he had been struck by lightning. “My child?” He looked pleadingly at the other elves but found no sympathy on their faces. What was it the faery tales said? The hearts of elves are as cold as winter stars.

  “Take a dagger and stab me in the heart, Queen. Take my life, here and now. That price I will pay without a blink, if you help my people.”

  “Fine words, Mandred,” the queen replied coolly. “But what would be gained by spilling your blood on the steps of my throne?”

  “What do you gain with a child?” protested Mandred in despair.

  “This child w
ill cement a bond between elves and humans,” she replied, as calm as ever. “The child will grow up among my people and will have the best teachers. When your child is old enough, it can decide for itself whether to stay with us forever or to return to its human brothers. If the child wants to return, we will send rich gifts with it, and I am certain it will find a place among the leaders of your folk. But the most valuable gift it will take to the human world is the friendship of the elves.”

  Mandred felt as if this graceful woman were squeezing his heart in a hand of iron. How could he promise his unborn child to the elves? But then . . . if he refused, was it possible his child would never be born at all? How long would it be before the manboar invaded the little settlement at the fjord? Had it perhaps been and gone already?

  Despondent, Mandred asked, “Is Freya . . . is my wife still alive?”

  The queen’s hand glided over the silver bowl. “Something conceals the creature you call the manboar from me, but it seems to be waiting close to the stone circle, even now. It has not yet attacked your village.” She looked him in the eye. “What is your decision, Mandred?”

  I will have more children with Freya, he thought to himself. Perhaps she is carrying a girl there under her heart, and the loss will not weigh so heavily. He was the jarl of his village. He was responsible for everyone who lived there. What was one life against many?

  “You will have what you ask, Queen.” Mandred’s voice was little more than a whisper. His lips did not want to form the words, yet he forced himself to answer. “If your hunters kill the manboar, my child will belong to you.”

  Emerelle nodded toward an elf dressed in light green, indicating that he should step forward. “Farodin of the Askalel clan, you have proved yourself often and well. Your wisdom and your experience should help make the hunt successful. I name you to the elfhunt.”