The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  “He’s dead?” Nuramon asked. There was sorrow in his voice. He would gladly have seen Mandred’s son again.

  “Yes. He grew up among the Albenkin, but his life was a human’s. He died when his time came.”

  “How long has it been since we left Albenmark?”

  Xern made an effort to put a number to the flow of the years. In Albenmark, time played a much smaller role than it did for humans or dwarves. Things barely changed in Albenmark, and life was long. What did ten or even a hundred years matter? In Albenmark, practically everything was as it was supposed to be. A dwarf could very likely have given him an answer on the spot.

  “Two hundred fifty summers. That was when you disappeared,” Xern finally replied.

  Two hundred fifty years. In the past, the number would have meant nothing to him as an elf. And though little had really changed in his own sense of time, he had learned long ago what two hundred fifty years meant for a human. So he was not mistaken. They must have jumped through time again.

  Xern went on. “A lot has happened in that time.”

  Nuramon recalled that the queen had posted guards at all of the gates. “Well, it seems Emerelle has revoked her ban on leaving Albenmark.” If not, Xern would certainly not have disobeyed the queen’s order just to talk to him.

  “Yes, which came as a surprise to all of us. Alfadas forged ties between the elves and the humans in this land of fjords. We fought the trolls side by side.”

  “Has there been another troll war?”

  Xern indicated the area around them. “This was one of the battlefields. It all happened very fast. Too fast for some of us. The queen said that a time had come in which we would have to accustom ourselves to the new.”

  Nuramon had many questions, but one in particular was on his mind. Had he made the jump in time with his companions, or without them? If they were already victims of time when they entered Iskendria, then Farodin and Mandred would be in the same situation he was in. But if he had jumped forward when he journeyed with Alwerich to the oracle, then Mandred might be long dead. And it would mean a bitter homecoming for Alwerich. “Have you heard anything about Farodin? Or Noroelle?”

  “No. Nothing about either of them. In this, at least, nothing has changed. No one talks much about you or your companions these days. There are other stories now,” Xern said as his gaze drifted into the distance. “We have an era of heroes behind us. Among the humans, they became legends long ago. Among us, they are alive and have earned their recognition. Or they have been reborn. Great names. Zelvades, Ollowain, Jidens, Mijuun, and Obilee.”

  “Obilee. Did she fight in the war?”

  “Yes. And she would have made her ancestors proud.”

  Nuramon imagined Obilee being admired by all around her, stepping before the queen as a warrior sorceress. She had already grown into a young woman when they returned from hunting the Devanthar. Since then, she must surely have become the elf woman that Noroelle had always seen in her. He had missed so much. Stories of the troll war would be told for a long time, as people spoke about the war that Farodin had once fought in.

  “You would like to see Obilee again, wouldn’t you?”

  “It seems my face is still easy to read,” Nuramon replied, smiling.

  “Obilee is said to be in Olvedes. I could take a message to her. She has not forgotten Noroelle. No doubt she has not forgotten you, either.”

  “No. It would only open old wounds.” And she might even insist on joining him on his search. The thought might have been selfish, but it eased Nuramon’s mind to know that the girl who had been Noroelle’s confidante was now someone of importance in Albenmark. His beloved would be proud of her ward.

  Xern tilted his head and shrugged. “As you like. I will tell no one besides Atta Aikhjarto that I met you.”

  “Thank you, Xern.”

  “I hope you find Noroelle,” he said. With that, Xern moved inside the stone circle and vanished into the thin mist.

  Nuramon looked back down at the city below. On the way here, he had kept watch for the place that Dareen had shown him. He had even taken a detour. Considering the trees he had seen, the gate they were searching for had to be in the cold north, by the sea or at a lake high in the mountains. That was all that he could say with certainty.

  The oracle had been right. He would need the help of his companions. With his knowledge and Farodin’s seeking spell, they would be able to trace the location together. Maybe Mandred and Farodin were waiting down below in Firnstayn for him. It was possible that fate would already reunite them down there.

  Nuramon took hold of Felbion’s reins and set off down the cliff path. At the bottom of the descent, he mounted the horse and rode toward the city. His mind wandered back to the elfhunt. Even though, for him, it had happened just a few years earlier, he had the feeling it had happened in another life. Aigilaos’s death, the battle with the Devanthar, and the terrible return to Albenmark . . . it all seemed so long ago, as if he had spent an eternity searching for Noroelle.

  Nuramon rode up to the city gate. The watchmen must have seen him coming from far off, but the gate stood open, and Nuramon was able to enter without a guard asking him about his origin or what business he had there. Instead, Nuramon announced in Fjordlandish that an elf had come. Although—as Xern had said—the Albenkin and the humans here now had a closer bond, it still seemed to be a special event to have an elf come to Firnstayn.

  Nuramon sat on Felbion’s back and rode the horse at a walk between the rows of houses, accompanied all the way by children and by friendly faces at windows and pleasant greetings. He had no idea what the people of Firnstayn saw when they looked at him. They probably looked at him as a hero of the troll wars. That did not please him, for he had done nothing to merit that honor. He dismounted, not wanting to put on unwarranted airs.

  Nuramon tried to orient himself, but nothing was as he remembered it to be. Finally, he came to an open square above which rose a stone longhouse. This might well be the seat of the new jarl. A wide stairway flanked by statues of lions led up to the building at the top. The people gathered around Nuramon but kept a respectful distance. No one dared come too close to him. He thought of his departure from the dwarves. What a change that was in his life, to be met or farewelled with respect wherever he went.

  A human soldier came hesitantly down the steps toward him. He was a big, powerful man with a broadsword at his belt. “Are you here to speak to the king?” he asked.

  Nuramon did not answer immediately. In the past, they had called their leader jarl. Was that also part of Alfadas’s legacy? What would Mandred say to discover that there was a king in Firnstayn now? “I am looking for Mandred Torgridson,” said Nuramon.

  A whisper ran through the crowd, followed by a deathly silence. He had spoken a name that they must only have known from legend . . . which made the soldier’s answer all the more surprising. “Mandred was here. And there was an elf named Farodin with him. But they left again long ago.”

  Suddenly, the crowd parted to let a human through, recognizable as their leader by the magnificent plate armor he wore. The armor was not the work of men but had been made by the blacksmiths of Albenmark. Perhaps it was a gift from Emerelle, or it may even have belonged to Alfadas. Now it was worn by a gray-haired man. He strode toward Nuramon and planted himself in front of the elf. He, too, was a giant of a man, and he wore a sword at his belt that seemed too narrow for the people of these parts. “I am Njauldred Bladebreaker, king of the Fjordlands,” he said and nodded. The man radiated a menacing strength, leaving Nuramon in no doubt that the wrath of Njauldred, once loosed, knew no bounds.

  “Hail, Njauldred,” said Nuramon, surprised that the king wore no crown, which was unusual among humans. It also seemed strange that the Fjordlands were ruled at all from Firnstayn. Was that also something that could be traced back to Alfadas?

  “You are l
ooking for Mandred?” Njauldred asked.

  “I am. I hope you are able to tell me where I can find him,” Nuramon said in a friendly tone.

  “It depends who is looking for him,” said the big man, crossing his arms over his chest. “He happens to be my ancestor.”

  Nuramon could detect a certain likeness between Njauldred and Mandred. The king’s eyes, especially, were like Mandred’s, but this man was much older. Nuramon was still not very good at estimating the age of humans, but he believed that Njauldred was past fifty because his hair was gray. Most of the lines of his face were half hidden behind his beard. Only around his eyes and on his forehead were they fully visible.

  “My name is Nuramon, and I—”

  Njauldred did not let him finish. “Are you Mandred’s companion in arms? Do they call you Nuredred, the elven prince?”

  Nuramon was surprised. It seemed the humans had embellished Mandred’s history somewhat. “I am Mandred’s companion in arms. That much is true. But as for the rest of it, I fear you see more in me than I really am.”

  Njauldred shook his head. “Modesty is the virtue of heroes.”

  Nuramon looked into the faces of the people gathered around. They were staring at him as if witnessing the return of the Alben themselves. As he looked around, he noticed something. He was standing near the lion statue on the left at the foot of the stairway. On its shoulder was an inscription.

  “A wonderful piece of work, isn’t it?” said Njauldred.

  “Definitely” was all that Nuramon thought of to say. His eyes were fixed on the artfully flowing elven runes of the inscription. They read, “Forgive me, and wait for us if you can. Farodin.”

  “Alfadas had the lions put here in memory of Mandred, the ancestor of all of the kings of Firnstayn.” Njauldred’s expression darkened. “Someone scratched these symbols in it some years ago. Whoever it was certainly didn’t come from Firnstayn. No one from around here would desecrate a memorial to Mandred Torgridson that way.”

  Nuramon stroked the palm of his hand over the inscription. “I think they’re beautiful. Perfectly executed, and the words praise the hero Mandred. It seems to be the work of an elf.”

  Njauldred looked surprised. “Really?”

  Nuramon affirmed his opinion. And as he looked into the king’s good-natured face, he reprimanded himself for deceiving him about the words’ true meaning. It was time to change the subject. “King Njauldred, I have a question. Did Mandred say where he wanted to go?”

  The king’s eyes grew more serious. “When they arrived here, they discovered that we were caring for a dying elf woman. She had spent many years in the Nightcrags, one of the trolls’ fortresses. They say it lies far to the north of here. Not since the days of King Alfadas has any human dared to go anywhere near it. But Faredred, the elf who is Mandred’s friend, was bent on sailing to the Nightcrags to free the other elves who were held captive there. It has been more than three years since they set sail. No one has heard from them since.”

  Nuramon nodded gravely. Two men against a fortress full of trolls . . . that was just like them. “With your permission, King, I will remain here in Firnstayn and wait for the return of Mandred and his elven friend.”

  “Do you think they will both come back after all this time?”

  “I don’t think it. I know it,” Nuramon replied with a determination that surprised even himself. Their mutual search for Noroelle could not end like this.

  The king’s face lit up. “There is still hope that Mandred will return to us,” he called to the gathered crowd, now quite huge and filling the square. “And the renowned Nuredred will stay in Firnstayn as our guest. An honor indeed.”

  “My name is Nuramon. Nuredred is what you have turned me into,” said the elf in a low voice.

  “You know the history of our ancestor,” the king said. “You were there. You were really there in the cave, weren’t you? And you can tell the skalds the truth. You can tell them what it was really like, so that the people can speak truly about what happened. You can do that, can’t you?”

  “I can, and I will. Gladly.” Of course, he wouldn’t tell them the whole truth. He had promised Mandred that he would not tell a soul that they had held each other’s hand. The humans here saw in Mandred far more than the man Nuramon knew. They would certainly be disappointed if they discovered the truth. So he decided to relate everything about himself and Farodin exactly as it was, but when it came to Mandred, he would make sure his name became immortal. The people of Firnstayn would erect many more memorials for Torgrid’s son.

  “Come,” said Njauldred, with a friendly clap on Nuramon’s shoulder. Then he pointed ahead. “Back there, where his old house once stood, there’s a new one that is forever Mandred’s. That is where you shall live. This will be a celebration. Your comrade, Faredred—”

  “Excuse me, but his name is Farodin,” Nuramon objected.

  “In any case, the lad certainly drank his share.” He slapped Nuramon on the back again. “We’ll see what you can manage.”

  The humans could hardly offer him a bigger feast than what he had experienced among the dwarves, but he was open to surprises. He had to learn to live with the people here. Who knew how long Mandred and Farodin would be away? Maybe months, maybe a year. Maybe longer. He would wait and prepare for the day when he could continue the search together with his companions. The humans might even be able to help him. In the harbor, he had seen two ships that reminded him vaguely of elven ships. Perhaps one of the sailors here knew the island he had seen in the oracle’s cave. He would paint it, then show it to the humans.

  Families of Firnstayn:

  Nuramon the Elf

  In those days, when Father Soreis began The Chronicle of Firnstayn at the behest of Mandred Torgridson, Nuramon the elf came to Firnstayn. He said that he would wait for Mandred’s return.

  I was still a child then. Now my life is approaching its end. And I can say with pride that I lived during the time that an elf dwelled among us. I was there when Nuramon came to us. I ran along beside his horse and followed him to the main square. And I was there when he rode away again at the side of Mandred and the elf Farodin.

  Nuramon was a blessing on our city, and I look back on those days with a great deal of pleasure. I remember how, during his first spring with us, he won the contest of the skalds. Never before and never since have such legends, such songs, such verse been heard. With his melancholic words about his lost love, he won over the women. That angered the men, and the day ended with a brawl. The elf walked away from it without a scratch. Oh, how many times did Njauldred try to get elven blood into his royal line. But Nuramon was so true to his lost love that he turned away every woman, however beautiful she might be. But the elf was more than a skald. In one year, he practiced bow shooting and perfected the art. Never before had human eyes had an occasion to watch an elf progress from novice to master of an art. He carved statues and painted canvases of great beauty. He took two years and did nothing but come to the Temple of Luth to talk first to Father Soreis and later to me about destiny. He seemed to be a man of the spirit and of art, which led to not a little trouble, for the youth of Firnstayn took Nuramon as their ideal. And soon enough, many of them wanted to give up the sword and the axe and take up the lute instead. Some went so far as to complain that the elf represented a danger to the young men and—with them—the future of Firnstayn. When Njauldred called Nuramon before him and set out these accusations, Nuramon said he would train a handful of our young men to fight and remind them of Mandred’s virtues. He called his young warriors the Mandridians, the sons of Mandred. He taught them to fight with a sword, a bow, and also a battle-axe. It was true that he himself was rarely seen with an axe, but he showed the young men what he had seen Mandred do.

  Because Mandred and Farodin had left their horses behind, Nuramon took over their care. He said that Mandred had always dreamed that his
mare would be the start of a dynasty of great horses. The noblest stallions the North had to offer were brought to her, while Nuramon’s and Farodin’s steeds covered our most magnificent mares. This was the start of the Firnstayner horses.

  In the nineteenth year of the reign of Njauldred, Nuramon and his small troop of fighters fought at the side of the king against the soldiers of the city of Therse. Nuramon rampaged through the enemy like a berserker and afterward served the king as his most prominent adviser. Every one of his fighters survived the battle.

  Nuramon trained young Tegrod, the son of Njauldred. He not only taught him what he had already taught his Mandridians, but also showed him how he himself could teach others. And Tegrod’s skills spoke for themselves.

  In his gratitude, old Njauldred gave Nuramon a ship as a gift, which Nuramon christened with the unlikely name of Albenstar. But he never took the ship out onto the fjord. He took care of it and stood beside it to look out to sea. He swayed from moods of happiness to moods of great dejection, and this was what characterized him more than anything else. Once each month, he spent a full day at Freya’s oak and paid tribute to Mandred’s wife, although he admitted to me on a winter evening that he had never personally met her. And once a month, too, he climbed to the stone circle. People said he met others of the Albenfolk up there. Once, he accompanied me into the mountains, to the Cave of Luth. He made sacrifice to the ironmen, as was customary, and when we were inside the cave, which since the days of Alfadas had again been consecrated, he told me what had once taken place in there.

  And then—one day—he left. And his departure came as a surprise even for Nuramon.

  AS RECORDED BY LURETHOR HJEMISON

  VOLUME TWELVE OF THE TEMPLE LIBRARY OF LUTH IN FIRNSTAYN, PAGES 53 TO 55

  Old Companions

  Nuramon woke with a start from his midday nap. From out in the street came the sounds of shouting. Nuramon rose and dressed. He was still buttoning his shirt when the door flew open. It was Neltor, the young king of Firnstayn.