The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  Obilee smiled, and finally she reminded him of the lighthearted girl he had once known. “Thank you, Nuramon.”

  The elf had no fear of death. For death would not mean the end of his search, it would just delay it. The night before they had sailed, he had told his clan the stories of his travels and had asked them to keep the knowledge in case he died in battle. He had already begun to write his own soul book, as his dwarven friends did. He knew he should have started earlier, but he had never looked Death so directly in the eye before today.

  They came to Obilee’s fighters; on this ship, they were the only ones from Alvemer. The emblem emblazoned on their tabards identified them: a silver nymph on a blue ground. Fifty men and women, half of them armed with long swords, the others with bows. While Obilee spoke to them, Nuramon tried to look ahead. But the fighters were massed too thickly, blocking his view on all sides.

  When could they finally start? Somewhere ahead of him, Mandred was locked in battle, and he was trapped on a galley that was hardly even moving. He could only hope that the ships from Reilimee had already reached the Fjordlanders.

  Nuramon thought of Farodin. It depressed him to think of his companion with the troll prince, even though Farodin had told him repeatedly that he should not worry on his account.

  A woman in a warrior’s armor pushed through the crowd of fighters. “Are you Nuramon?” she asked.

  He looked at her in surprise. “Yes.”

  “My name is Nomja.”

  That was the name of the young elf woman who had traveled with him on the search for Guillaume. “Are you . . . ?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Your companion from Aniscans. I was reborn.”

  She had no resemblance at all to the woman she had been before. Now she was short and wore her black hair close-cropped. She seemed much more mature than the young warrior who had ridden with them on the hunt for Guillaume, but she had the same joy in her eyes as he had seen in her back then. Nomja’s death during their escape from Aniscans had hit them all hard, especially Mandred.

  Nuramon threw his arms around her in a warm embrace, like meeting a friend he had not seen for a long time. “I am glad you’re here.”

  When he released her, he realized how much his hug had taken her by surprise.

  Nuramon saw the bow in her hand. “You are an archer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Back then, you were very good.”

  She smiled but said nothing. He must certainly seem strange to her. She had no memory of her previous life, of course, and here he was greeting her as a dwarf would greet someone who had been reborn.

  Suddenly, Nuramon heard the sound of shouting coming from in front of them. “Be ready,” Obilee cried.

  Nuramon craned his neck. Still he could see nothing, but he could hear the sounds of battle: the ring of steel on steel and the screams of the injured.

  From port came the shouts of fighters. “Faster!” they were crying. Nuramon pushed aside two elven soldiers and forced his way to the port rail. What he saw made him catch his breath. A mighty three-master was bearing down on them, the black tree of the Tjured resplendent on the mainsail. The enemy must have made it through the reef on this side and were now trying to intercept the queen’s ship.

  From midship came more shouting, and crossbow bolts flew overhead. Clearly, the battle had come to them.

  A jolt ran through the ship, and a second nearly knocked Nuramon off his feet. The enemy’s three-master had rammed them. Chaos broke out. Fighters to the left and right yelled battle cries.

  The warriors around him were restless. Nomja, too, looked nervous. Only Obilee seemed to have no fear. “Archers to starboard!” she ordered, and Nuramon followed her command without hesitation. He pushed to the other side of the forecastle, where the archers were taking positions along the railing.

  Some distance ahead, he could now see the entire line of the Fjordlanders’ longships. Many of the enemy’s ships had stuck fast to the barricade, but the galleys from Reilimee were also there and had joined the battle. The caravels from Fargon formed a dense throng; heavy lines now bound them together, and the Tjured knights coming as reinforcements had to climb across several ships to get to the battle line. The battlefield was growing, and the Elflight, with Nuramon on board, was now in the thick of it. He tried to make out Mandred among the Firnstayners, but his companion was not to be seen in the dense fighting.

  Obilee led them to a gap in the railing. A wooden ladder had been attached there and dropped to just above the first of the Firnstayners’ ships. “Swordsmen forward to me!” Obilee shouted. “Archers hold the railing! Pick your targets and be sure of them!”

  More archers came from the rear of the ship and filled the space to the end of the railing. Others formed a second row, ready to join the moment an archer at the rail fell.

  Like the archers to his left and right, Nuramon drew an arrow from his quiver, laid it on the bowstring, and searched for a clear shot. There. He saw a knight climbing down a boarding ladder to the longship directly in front of them. Nuramon was about to let his arrow fly when he saw Nomja beside him shoot and hit his target.

  The individual fighters were moving too fast and unpredictably for Nuramon. Finally, he spotted a squad of enemy warriors gathering some distance away, apparently preparing for a concentrated attack. They were a good hundred paces from him, but there were so many of them and they were clear of adversaries just then, so Nuramon fired at the group. He did not wait for his first arrow to reach its target, but immediately shot a second.

  One of the soldiers fell to his knees with the arrow in his belly, causing the men around him to duck for cover behind a low railing. More arrows made them fall back until they were out of range.

  Searching for a new target, Nuramon caught sight of a flag with a blue star on a silver background. The banner of the Albenstar that King Njauldred had once presented to him. It was no longer the same ship on which he had sailed east with Farodin and Mandred. The new Albenstar was much bigger, but it was clear that someone had kept the original flag, perhaps to recall past glory.

  Nuramon caught sight of Mandred. The jarl had taken a position along one side of the Albenstar, where he had enough room to swing his axe. He and his men were in trouble. They were far outnumbered. A lone Tjured ship had penetrated the line of elven galleys and was attacking the longship next to the Albenstar. The knights stormed onto the longship, their assault threatening to break through the Fjordlanders’ battle line, which was now under attack from all sides. They were driving a wedge between Mandred and the elves.

  Nuramon took aim at the Tjured ship. He sighted on the short plank that connected it with the ship next to it. A Tjured fighter tried to board the Albenstar. Nuramon let his arrow fly and it curved high, striking the man’s body a moment later.

  The elf was not satisfied. He had been aiming for the head. Too much time passed before an arrow hit its target. It was just a matter of time before he hit a friend instead of a foe.

  He set a new arrow onto the bowstring. Then what Nuramon had feared happened: a Tjured knight was creeping toward Mandred from behind while he faced two in front. Nuramon quickly took aim. He had to be certain of hitting the man. One mistake, and he might kill Mandred instead. As the enemy warrior raised his sword, Nuramon threw all caution to the wind and released the bowstring. He held his breath as the shot flew toward its target in a high arc.

  The arrow buried itself in the man’s chest.

  Mandred wheeled around and struck the warrior, who was already falling, with a blow that sent him tumbling overboard. Then he looked around in surprise and waved several men to him. Among them, Nuramon recognized Liodred, wearing the armor of Alfadas. Mandred pointed up toward Nuramon, but it seemed he had not recognized him. Then he pointed toward the Tjured fighters who had cut them off from the elves. The Fjordlanders on the Albenstar gathered around Mandred and Lio
dred. They wanted to break through, but it meant fighting their way past two lines of enemies.

  “Mandred and King Liodred are there!” Nuramon shouted to the archers around him. “They’re surrounded, but they want to get through to us!”

  Obilee came to Nuramon’s side and looked over at the Albenstar. Then she ordered, “All on Nuramon’s left, shoot the first arrow at the fighters on this side of Liodred. Those on Nuramon’s right shoot at the Tjured behind them. One shot! After that, shoot only at the pursuers. Let none of the enemy through!” Then she left the railing and let the archers do their work.

  They waited until Mandred gave the order to break through. There. The jarl raised his axe, and with loud battle cries, the men around him leaped onto the fourth ship in the chain.

  Nuramon and the other archers fired their arrows. They rained down on the enemy like heavy hail. Those who were not hit did not know what was happening and tried to duck for cover.

  Mandred and some of the Firnstayners seemed to hesitate momentarily, then they surged forward again. The second salvo hit only the soldiers pursuing them, holding them back for a moment. Their shield bearers were already pushing through to the front. But this valuable time was enough to let Mandred and his men break through. The knights attacking from behind were now almost completely surrounded. When they realized that their position was hopeless, they retreated to their two-master. Mandred made it through to Pelveric’s elves, and Nuramon saw Pelveric pointing back up in his direction.

  Mandred raised his axe high and bawled out, “Nuramon!” Then, followed by the Mandridians, he ran through the rows of elven warriors toward him.

  Nuramon breathed a sigh of relief and looked out over the battlefield. The queen’s plan seemed to be working. All along the barricade of ships, elven warriors were relieving the exhausted Fjordlanders, and the battle line across the ships still held. They were inferior in number of both soldiers and ships, but when the trolls came, the tide would turn in their favor.

  Strong Magic

  Lower the foresail.”

  Farodin’s fingers tightened around the ship’s rail. It was unbelievable. The troll ships were already painfully slow, and now they were taking in the sail. The elf was standing on the tower-like quarterdeck of the Grinder, Prince Orgrim’s flagship. Twenty vessels were in the fleet that Boldor, the king of the trolls, had assembled. Each of the lumbering ships was a floating fortress, and the largest of them had more than three hundred troll fighters on board. It was a force that would prove decisive once they joined the battle.

  Prince Orgrim was standing with the helmsman and conferring with his shaman, Skanga. This is enough to drive a man crazy, thought Farodin. They were coming too late as it was. He could make out the sails of the enemy fleet as a thin white line on the horizon. Columns of smoke showed that the battle had already begun. The arrival of the trolls would decide the outcome. And what were these traitorous elf eaters doing? Reefing the sails.

  “Why so grim, Ambassador?” Orgrim and the shaman had come to him. The troll prince was armed for battle. He wore a breastplate of dark leather and a bearskin over his shoulders. He leaned on his war hammer, its head carved from gray granite.

  “It must be my naïveté, but I find myself unable to deduce the strategy behind your assistance in this battle,” Farodin replied, making an effort not to say openly what he truly thought of their allies.

  The shaman stared at him darkly. Farodin felt the power of the magic in her.

  “He thinks we are going to wait calmly until the Tjured knights have defeated the Fjordlanders and the elves. He doubts our intention to hurry to the aid of our former enemies,” the old woman said.

  “Farodin is a clever man, keeping such thoughts to himself. If he were to openly insult my people by voicing such opinions, I’d have to have him stuffed into a sack of stones and thrown overboard.” The troll prince looked intently at Farodin, who wished he, too, could read the thoughts of his old enemy. He had seen Orgrim again at the court of King Boldor. The king had received him with all due honor as Emerelle’s ambassador, and to Farodin’s surprise, Boldor had agreed to the elves’ request after spending the night conferring with his princes.

  After Boldor announced his decision, Orgrim stated his express wish that the queen’s ambassador join him on his ship. From the moment that Farodin was back among the trolls from the Nightcrags, he felt their hatred. He was convinced he would not survive his first night aboard the Grinder. But the prince took pains to attend to him, attempting many times to draw him into conversation. He went as far as to ensure that no meat of any kind was served to him.

  “When do we attack?” asked Farodin impatiently. The ship was battle ready. On the main deck and the forecastle, trolls carrying huge shields jostled for space. Stones intended as projectiles were lined up along the railing, at the ready. The smallest of them was the size of a child’s head, the largest, massive chunks of granite. Farodin wondered how even a troll could lift stones as big as those.

  “Don’t you sense it?” Skanga asked. With every movement, the feathers, bones, and stones sewn to her coarse leather robe and hanging in countless bands around her neck rattled and rustled.

  “Don’t I sense what?”

  “The power of the magic, little elf. The power of the magic,” the shaman snickered. “The tides have changed. The ebb tide won’t come. Can you imagine how much power it takes to change the ebb and flow of the tides? Strong magic, that is.”

  “Reef the mainsail,” Orgrim ordered. “Drop anchor.”

  Farodin felt a knot tighten in his belly. This could not be happening. “Would you be so kind as to tell me what this means, Orgrim?”

  The prince pointed to the king’s ship. A large red flag had been hoisted from the mainmast. “Boldor is calling all of the princes and shamans to a council of war. He will want you to be there, too.” Orgrim turned away briefly and waved to one of his soldiers. “Ready the tender.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Farodin hissed.

  “Elf, I know what you and your kind think of my race. But we are a long way from being the halfwits you believe us to be. We don’t rush into our battles blindly. We plan them. And that’s how it will be this time, too. We had not reckoned with a sorcerer among the humans, and certainly not with one this powerful. We will modify our plans accordingly.”

  “He’s afraid we want to cast in our lot with the white priests,” said the shaman.

  Farodin could have wrung the old hag’s neck.

  Orgrim growled deep in his throat. Then he dropped to one knee, bringing himself to eye level with Farodin. “I know that you would most like to see me and all the trolls dead, and that you don’t trust us any farther than you can spit. Still, I hope that a final flicker of good sense remains in the wasteland of your vengeful mind. The Tjured priests want to destroy all of the Albenkin. They don’t differentiate. Centaurs, elves, flower faeries. And trolls. We are fighting with you because we know that we are stronger at the side of the elves and the Fjordlanders. And also because, sooner or later, the white priests will attack the Nightcrags and all our other fortresses. You are a survivor of the troll wars, Farodin. You know we don’t wait for the war to come to us. We take it to the lands of our enemies. That is why we are here.”

  “And what is there to stop you from sitting and watching your enemies slaughter each other, then going in and finishing off the survivors?” Farodin asked.

  Orgrim abruptly stood up. “An elf might think like that, but not a troll. Tread carefully, Farodin. You’re close to breaking the camel’s back.”

  Before the Queen

  Mandred took off his helmet and ran his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Nuramon was leading Liodred and him to the stern of the galley. The jarl was proud to have friends like Nuramon. The elf had saved his hide, and a warrior with the soul of an old companion had helped him. Nuramon had introduced her as Nomja . .
. the Nomja. For the first time, Mandred could see for himself what rebirth really meant. He had watched Nomja die, and now her soul had returned in a new guise. She was standing in the bow of the ship, protected by a shield bearer, and was what she had been in her previous life: an archer.

  Elven warriors surged aboard a large caravel, its bow towering above the midship railing of the Elflight. It looked as if the elves would soon take the ship.

  Ignoring the battle behind them, Nuramon led them on toward the quarterdeck, before which the queen was expecting them.

  “Mandred!” Yulivee squealed when she saw him. She ran to him. The jarl was surprised to see the little sorceress there, but Emerelle, no doubt, knew what she was doing. Mandred picked Yulivee up in his arms, and then she pressed a kiss on his cheek. “Nice to see you,” she said, playing with his braids.

  Nuramon turned to the queen. “This is Liodred of Firnstayn, and I am sure you remember Mandred.”

  “Of course,” said Emerelle. “But first, tell me how the battle is going.”

  “At the moment, we are gaining ground,” Nuramon replied.

  “The enemy outnumbers us by far,” said Mandred, speaking up. “We were not able to protect our flanks. They will do their best to encircle us. How many ships and soldiers have you brought, Your Majesty?” The jarl set Yulivee down on the deck.

  “Mandred Aikhjarto, I see you speak as unburdened by royal etiquette as ever,” said the queen with a smile. “It lightens my heart to see you again. And I am just as happy to meet you, Liodred, king of Firnstayn. We have come with all the ships and fighters that the elves of Albenmark have to offer. We will secure your flanks, and my fighters will relieve your warriors on the front line, along the barricade. Pull your men back, Liodred, and let fresh blood come. We are here as Albenkin, to repay our old debt with our blood.”