Suddenly, Mandred heard hoofbeats. A snow-white stallion leaped over one of the barricades. The woman riding it reined hard, wheeled the horse around, and aimed her bow. In a single smooth motion, she released one arrow and reached into her quiver for the next. With a scream, a bowman tumbled from a window of the tavern opposite.
Hoofbeats rang from another alley, and Ollowain flew over a barricade, cutting down a spearman as he came. He was leading Nuramon’s horse by the reins. “Come on, mortal. Mount up. You might have taught me something about honor, but that doesn’t mean I’ll wait for you forever.”
Mandred grabbed hold of the saddle horn and pulled himself onto the horse’s back. He saw Yilvina at a third barricade. She had dismounted and, with her twin short swords, was hacking into the soldiers like a berserker.
Suddenly, the air was filled with crossbow bolts. The horses whinnied shrilly. Something hit Mandred in the back, and he slumped forward.
Nomja was still firing arrows when a bolt hit her stallion in the head. Blood sprayed over the beast’s white hide, and it buckled as if struck by lightning. Nomja leaped nimbly from the saddle, evading the trampling hooves of the other horses. She raised her bow defiantly and fired back.
“To Yilvina,” Ollowain shouted. “She has cleared a path for us.”
Mandred steered his horse to Nomja’s side and reached a hand down to her. “Come on!”
“One more,” she shouted, and the arrow was already flying from the string. She turned to Mandred and a sudden jolt went through her. Mandred grabbed hold of her as she was about to fall and pulled her onto the horse. Despite her size, she felt almost as light as a child.
Mandred wheeled his horse around and spurred it forward. With a mighty leap, they cleared the barricade and rode down the alley at breakneck speed. Very soon, they were at the bridge. No more soldiers challenged them. It seemed that every last man had been at the small square by the brothel.
Only when he was on the bridge did Mandred dare look back. His son, Farodin, Nuramon, Ollowain, and Yilvina, they had all made it. Their band had taken a beating, to be sure. None had gotten away unscathed, but they were free.
A feeling of indescribable happiness came over Mandred. He had been so certain that he was about to die. He lifted his axe in triumph and swung it high overhead. “Victory! By Norgrimm! We got away! We escaped! Victory!”
He slipped one arm around Nomja, still lying across his saddle, to help her sit upright. Her head lolled to one side.
“Nomja?”
The elf’s green eyes were open wide, staring sightlessly at the sky. Only now did Mandred see the hole the size of a hazelnut in her temple.
The Holy Scriptures of Tjured:
Book Seven: The Death of the Prophet
And it came to pass that on that very day an angel appeared to King Cabezan in his dream. The angel had wings of silver and carried a silver sword. But of all the angel’s radiance, most radiant of all were its eyes, which were of a pale blue. And it said unto Cabezan, “Send out your soldiers, for an affliction has befallen Aniscans. The prophet Guillaume fears for his life, for the children of Alb have been sent to kill him for no reason but that one of them came too late to Guillaume’s healing hands.”
Thereupon, Cabezan ordered his best soldiers to mount their horses, and he sent them to Aniscans, and their captain was named Elgiot.
At that time, no wall surrounded Aniscans, and the children of Alb were able to enter the city undetected. They were seven in all, six elves and a troll, and they sought Guillaume in the temple. But Guillaume was not there, and they found only the other priests of Tjured. The children of Alb took the priests to the giant oak tree in front of the temple and killed them there.
Then the prophet heard what was happening in the city, and he left his house. And behold! He surrendered himself to the children of Alb. He stood before them and bowed. He spoke to them, saying, “Do with me what you will. Tjured will judge you on your acts.” When Guillaume said this, the elves beat him to the ground, and the troll hung him from the great oak. But the prophet still lived, and he prayed to Tjured, whereupon a she-elf took her bow and fired arrows at him.
While this was happening, King Cabezan’s soldiers rode into the city, and they fought the children of Alb for the life of the prophet. But the she-elf fired flaming arrows at the oak until it caught fire and burned utterly. The soldiers of Cabezan avenged her deed and slayed her. For Guillaume’s sake, they let the other elves and the troll escape, for they hoped in their hearts that the prophet still lived.
The tree was blackened from its trunk to its leaves before they could pour enough water on it to extinguish the flames. When they cut the prophet down from the tree, he, too, was blackened and lifeless. But behold! Water dripped from the tree onto his face and washed away the soot. Guillaume’s white face appeared from beneath. The soldiers washed the body of the prophet, and they saw that his only wounds were from the iron arrowheads in his body, and that the flames had not harmed him. Guillaume opened his eyes and took the leader Elgiot by the hand and said to him, “They have chosen their path. May Tjured grant them the mercy they deserve.” The prophet died beneath the blackened tree. Thus did the children of Alb bring a curse down upon them. So it is said.
FROM THE SCHOFFENBURG EDITION
VOLUME FIVE, FOLIO FORTY-THREE R.
The Jarl of Firnstayn
The companions rode north, high into the mountains above of Aniscans. They buried Nomja beneath a silver fir at the edge of a glacier lake. Her weapons they hung from the branches of the tree.
A gloom settled over both elves and humans. Nuramon did what he could, but even with his powers, it was two weeks before they had all recovered from their injuries. The damage done to their souls would take longer to heal. None of them had suspected that the death of the dour, taciturn Gelvuun might leave such a gap in their number, let alone the loss of Nomja, whom they all had liked.
When there was no longer any excuse to delay their departure further, they agreed to travel together to Firnstayn and from there return to Albenmark through the Albenstar at the stone circle above the fjord.
The journey to Firnstayn took them nearly three moons. They went out of their way to avoid villages and towns, to draw as little attention as possible. Twice, far off, they saw troops on horseback under King Cabezan’s banner. From traders whose caravan they joined for a day, they learned of the terrible incident in Aniscans. The town, it was said, had been attacked by demons who had murdered the benevolent healer Guillaume and desecrated the Temple of Tjured.
None of the companions spoke out. None tried to redress the wrong by telling the truth. Not even later, on board a huge grain ship taking them across the Neri Sea to Gonthabu, the royal city of the Fjordlands; in that week at sea, they heard ever more lurid versions of the story.
It was the height of summer when they finally reached Firnstayn. Alfadas was surprised at how small the settlement nestled on the shore of the fjord was. From the way his father spoke of it, he had imagined something much more remarkable. Nine longhouses and no more than three dozen small huts were ringed by a wooden palisade atop an earthen wall.
At the entrance to the settlement squatted a bulky, wooden watchtower. They had barely reached the crest of the hill above the village when a blast from a signal horn sounded. And as they approached the gate, a troop of archers lined up along the palisade.
“Hey-o! Have the people of Firnstayn forgotten the laws of hospitality?” Mandred yelled angrily. “Before your gate stands the Jarl Mandred Torgridson, and he demands his right to enter.”
“You who call yourself Mandred,” replied a stout, young warrior, “the clan whose name you have usurped has been erased. I am the elected jarl of Firnstayn, and you and your companions are not welcome here.”
Alfadas glanced at his father, expecting him to break into one of his outbursts of temper at any moment, but
Mandred remained surprisingly sedate. “Well spoken, Jarl. I would have said the same in your place.” His father removed a silver armband he had cheated a trader out of in a game of dice. “I offer this for a barrel of mead and invite you to drink with me and my son.”
The young jarl eyed Alfadas. Then he shook his head. “You are overplaying your hand, storyteller. How can a man have a son who is nearly as old as himself?”
“If you want to hear that story, then drink with me at my cost,” Mandred called back with a laugh.
“Open the gate, Kalf.” An old man pushed his way forward to the spiked top of the wall and waved to them. “Do you believe us now? Look. He’s even brought the elves back with him.” The old man quickly made a protective sign in the air. “Don’t make a fool of yourself by refusing to let elves enter the village, Kalf. You know the old stories.”
“I greet you, Erek Ragnarson,” Mandred called. “Good to see that you and that leaky relic you call a boat aren’t yet at the bottom of the fjord. Will you sail out with us? I want to teach my son to fish before I move on.”
“Open the gate,” Erek ordered, his voice firm. No one opposed him.
Mandred and the elves stayed in Firnstayn for three weeks, three weeks in which Alfadas learned to see the world of humans through different eyes. He enjoyed the rough respect with which he was treated and the way the young women looked at him. Life was simple. The most important thing you had to remember was to watch out for bad-tempered pigs roaming the muddy village paths. There was no luxury. The coarse wool that the women spun scratched the skin. The houses were drafty, and the smoke stung your eyes when you sat till late in the longhouses and drank and told stories. Alfadas listened in disbelief when Kalf spoke of scouting parties of trolls being seen in the forests across the fjord the previous winter. That was why they had reinforced the palisade surrounding the village. Even the elves took the news seriously.
After twenty days in the village, the elves, especially Ollowain and Farodin, began to push for them to ride up to the Albenstar.
Kalf was the only one to feel relieved when, on the morning of the twenty-first day, Erek Ragnarson ferried the small band across to the far side of the fjord. But Alfadas went with a heavy heart, for he left Asla, Erek’s granddaughter, standing on the shore. In her quiet way, she had captured him body and soul. There wasn’t an elven woman of Emerelle’s court who was not more beautiful than Asla, but in Asla burned a passion that the elves, who counted their lives in centuries, barely knew. She was not one to hide her feelings behind pretty words, and there were tears in her eyes as Alfadas crossed the water.
Again and again, Alfadas looked back as they rode up the path to the standing stones. When he could hardly see her any longer, the girl in the blue dress, with her blond hair blowing in the wind, still stood by the waterline.
“You should acknowledge Kalf as jarl,” said Mandred abruptly. “He is a good man.”
Alfadas was surprised at his father’s words. “You are the jarl of Firnstayn,” he replied, upset.
Mandred looked sharply at him. “More than thirty years ago, I was. I don’t belong to this world anymore. It would not be fair to Kalf and all the others born after me if I returned to Firnstayn. And not fair to you either, my lad. Your time has come.”
Alfadas didn’t know what to say to that. They had dropped back a little behind the elves, and the others could not hear what they were saying.
“Every year, come the midwinter gathering, the village elects the jarl for the year ahead. I don’t think anyone would make you jarl this winter. You have to prove yourself first—in battle and also in day-to-day matters. I see all the signs of a fine leader in you, my son. And I know you will find your feet if you stay here.”
Mandred reined in his mare and looked down to the village. His voice was hoarse as he went on. “She’s still standing there and watching. Look . . . but don’t think too long. You won’t find a woman like her in Albenmark. She’s proud, and she won’t take any guff from you, and no doubt she’ll make your life a misery more than once. But she loves you, and she will grow old with you. No elf can give you that. One day, the only thing keeping an elf-wife at your side will be sympathy or habit.”
“If I were to stay, then it would be because of that news about the trolls,” Alfadas replied earnestly.
His father suppressed a smile. “Of course. And I have to say, if I were a troll, I’d think twice if I knew there was a man in the village who’d been schooled in swordsmanship by Ollowain and who’d learned every dirty trick that I know in the last three years . . . And just in case you don’t like the life here, come up to the stone circle on a night when the moon is full and call Xern’s name. I’m sure you’ll be heard.”
“I’ll stay one winter, for now,” Alfadas decided. And he was surprised at how relieved his decision made him feel.
“Fine . . . because of the trolls,” Mandred said, and he glanced almost casually back down to the far shore of the fjord. “She’s a stubborn lass. She’s still waiting for you.”
“Won’t you stay, too? Firnstayn could use your axe.”
“No one is waiting there for me anymore. I couldn’t stand living in the shadow of the oak over Freya’s grave. The Devanthar took away the woman I loved. I’m going to help Farodin and Nuramon find their way to the one they love. And I’m going to finish my feud with the Devanthar. My past is ashes, and my future is blood. I feel better knowing you won’t be riding beside me. Maybe . . .” He hesitated. “When the Devanthar is dead, maybe I can live in Firnstayn in peace.” He smiled. “I mean, if Jarl Alfadas Mandredson doesn’t mind letting a stubborn old man into the village.”
The shadow of a cloud edged over the rim of the cliff above. The birds and crickets fell silent, and Alfadas had the feeling that he would never see his father again.
Silvernight
They rode in silence through the night forest. A mild autumn wind plucked the last of the leaves from the branches. Mandred had never before sensed the magic of Albenmark as keenly as he did at that moment. The moon hung low in the sky and was bigger, far bigger, than in the human world. It shimmered red against the darkness. “There’s blood on the face of the moon,” he’d heard the elves whispering, and he understood that it was a warning that something bad lay ahead.
The light was the strangest of all. It was not unlike the faerylight he’d seen sometimes over Firnstayn on clear winter nights, but this light was silver. And it wasn’t spread across the heavens, but hung among the trees all around, like veils made from a cloth woven of moonlight. Occasionally, bright sparks danced among the branches, like stars come down from the night sky.
This time, their path had not led them to Emerelle’s palace, and they had not crossed the Shalyn Falah, the white bridge. Nuramon had explained to Mandred that, on the last night of the fall, the elves celebrated Silvernight. They gathered in a clearing in the middle of the Old Wood. It was from that clearing that the Alben had abandoned the world. On that one night, Emerelle was able to cast a spell that allowed the elves to hear the voices of their ancestors—the elves who had gone into the moonlight.
The companions had already been riding through the woods for hours, and by Mandred’s reckoning, it must have been close to midnight when they heard the first soft strains of music. At first, it was no more than a breath, a barely perceptible change in the sounds of the forest. The whoo-whoo of owls and the rustling of mice in the dry leaves faded more and more as the music of a flute sounded in the distance. Mandred thought he saw a goat-legged creature playing a shepherd’s pipe among the shadows of the trees and dancing to his own tune.
Then other sounds mixed with the music of the flute, sounds the mortal could not ascribe to any instrument he knew.
The elves seemed restless, almost like the children in the Fjordlands waiting for the sweets they were given during the apple festival.
Between the silhouette
s of the trees, Mandred could now see the glow of a red light. A huge lantern—no, it was a tent with a light burning inside. The forest opened up, and Mandred was spellbound by the sight that met his eyes. They had reached an enormous clearing, in the middle of which a large hill sloped up to a pinnacle of rock, like a stone needle jutting from the summit. Seen from below, it looked as high as the moon. Fifty men with outstretched arms would not have been enough to encircle the base. Thousands of lights danced around the rugged stone to the sound of the music.
Surrounding the hill stood dozens of menhirs, like little brothers of the needle of stone. Among the menhirs, all around them, the elves were dancing a high-spirited farandole. The rest of the clearing was a field of tents, lighting the night like giant paper lanterns. There were so many; it was clear that far more had come to the festival than only the elves of Emerelle’s court.
The rhythm of the music suddenly changed, and Mandred saw a single figure break from the ranks of the elves’ dance. Swathed in glistening light, the figure floated to the tip of the stone needle, and with arms spread wide, it seemed to greet the moon.
As if in answer to the greeting, flowing light spilled from the stone needle, quickly enveloping the entire hill and pouring out over the clearing. It came as far as Mandred and his companions, and the jarl held his breath in apprehension. He had seen a similar light once before, when he had dived into the clear waters of the fjord one summer afternoon. He could clearly remember how he had looked up to the sun from underwater and how the water had altered the sun’s rays.
Still, he dared not breathe. A feeling of dizziness overcame him. The light seemed to flow through him and to carry him along with it.
Mandred heard voices.
“No, he seems well enough.”
Blinking, Mandred looked around. He was lying in the long grass. “What happened?”
“You fell off your horse,” Nuramon replied. “But it doesn’t look like you’ve hurt yourself.”
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