The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  “I know,” Orgrim replied, still calm. He waved to one of the officers amidships. “Prepare the deck breakers!” All along the railing, the trolls were moving.

  Less than a hundred paces separated the two ships now. Farodin was holding on to the quarterdeck railing and bracing himself for the impact. He had no doubt that the trolls would win this first skirmish, but it would cost them valuable time. Time they no longer had if they wanted to come to the aid of Emerelle and the Fjordlanders.

  The crossbowmen in the forecastle of the caravel opened fire. One troll fell with a crossbow bolt through its forehead. Another grunted and yanked a bolt out of its bleeding shoulder. The troll fighters didn’t even bother to raise their shields to protect themselves from the knights’ salvos, but stood their ground stoically, defying death.

  Without warning, the caravel sheared off to starboard.

  “Starboard oars up!” Orgrim’s call was as loud as a row of trumpets. The drum below deck fell silent. The blades of the oars came out of the water. For a moment, they hung horizontally in the air, projecting from the hull. The caravel was now only a few paces away.

  Then the oars were pulled in quickly through the narrow oar-slots. The first few were splintered by the caravel as it swung past only two paces to starboard, but most were brought on board in time.

  “Deck breakers!” Orgrim called.

  More than a dozen trolls were ducked along the starboard rail. Now, in pairs, they hoisted the huge rocks that Farodin had seen earlier. Like apprentice millers in the human world tossing sacks of flour onto a high wagon, the trolls swung the rocks back and forth before hurling them high in the air above the caravel.

  The enemy ship lay much lower in the water than the trolls’. The knights on the main deck had their shields raised over their heads. Wedged together like that, the emblems on the shields formed a forest of dead trees. But they offered no protection at all against the rocks, which fell almost vertically on top of the shields, crushing the men and smashing through the planks of the deck. Crashing and cracking, the stone blocks disappeared into the hull.

  A crossbow bolt slammed into the railing beside Farodin. The elf looked up. The caravel’s crow’s nests were manned with crossbowmen. More bolts sliced into the quarterdeck. One hit the helmsman in the leg, and he cursed, but no troll made any move to take cover. Farodin was well aware that an archer would need to be extremely lucky to kill a troll with a single bolt. But for him, that was not the case.

  Beside him, his shield still leaned against the railing. He looked to the prince, who still stood leaning calmly on his war hammer. No, thought Farodin, I’m not going to give these bastards their little victory. No doubt they were all waiting for him to hide like a coward behind his shield while the trolls stoically took whatever shots came their way. Instead, he simply turned slightly sideways to make himself a smaller target.

  “We’ve worked a long time on our tactics with the rocks,” said Orgrim, as relaxed as if he were sitting at a banquet in the Nightcrags and not standing on a ship’s deck under enemy fire. “I would have liked to see how this kind of attack fared against elves. Your ships are built more lightly and have few decks, as far as I know, and the rocks would have gone all the way through to your keels.”

  “I don’t think we would let you get close enough to throw them,” Farodin replied, unruffled, though he was secretly pleased that the elves had never fought a sea battle against the trolls.

  “Don’t you want to protect yourself?” asked the prince, pointing at Farodin’s shield leaning against the rail. “I don’t want to have to explain your death to King Boldor.” The troll was bleeding from a deep graze across his bald head. “Or do you think your skull’s as thick as mine?”

  “I doubt that any human would shoot at an elf surrounded by much bigger targets.”

  Orgrim laughed. “For an elf, your heart’s in the right place. It’s a shame my distant ancestor killed your wife and you swore a soul feud against him. I won’t enjoy killing you when the battle is over and the peace between us ends.”

  “What makes you so sure you’ll survive the battle?”

  The prince grinned broadly. “There isn’t much that can kill a troll. That’s one advantage we have over your race.”

  Farodin was about to deliver a cynical reply when a second salvo of deck breakers slammed onto the caravel. The chaos and the screams of the injured were indescribable. Dark rivulets of blood ran from the scuppers and down the sides of the ship’s hull.

  The mainmast was leaning. It had been broken through cleanly just above the deck by one of the chunks of rock and was only being held by the rigging.

  The priests’ ship was almost past the galleass. Now the trolls along the rail hoisted the smaller rocks. Like children tossing stones into the sea, they flung them into the thick of the humans. Farodin saw the helmsman get hit in the chest and flung against the wall that backed the quarterdeck. He turned away in disgust. He had had enough of the massacre.

  Ten Steps

  Mandred had fought his way up the boarding ramp, and he and the Mandridians had advanced as far as the forecastle of the caravel. It rose above the prow of the enemy ship like a fortress. There were only two stairways leading from the main deck up to where he stood. The position was easy to hold, but the enemy had formed a shield wall on the main deck and had already repelled two attacks.

  Enraged, Mandred charged a third time. His axe hammered into shields and sliced through the mail tunics. Whenever he swung the weapon, the Mandridians kept a respectful distance. But it made no difference how furiously Mandred charged; the rows of the enemy immediately closed again. Swords stabbed out through gaps and over the edges of the shields. They were as quick as vipers. The Tjured knights were experienced in this style of fighting, and they did not give up an inch. One stab caught Mandred above his hip. Warm blood ran down his leg. Covered by the shields of the Mandridians, he retreated to the forecastle.

  He looked out dejectedly over the bulwark. Between the queen’s flagship and the large caravel drifted a small galley. It looked as if it had been trying to get past quickly to reinforce Emerelle’s crew. No one on board still lived. Elven fighters and oarsmen lay on the decks and thwarts, collapsed in death, victims of the damned Tjured priest.

  Their position was desperate. The situation on the chained longships also looked dire. The Fjordlanders and the elves had thrown all but their last reserves into the battle. By contrast, the Tjured seemed to have an almost inexhaustible supply of reinforcements. However many fighters they lost, the gaps in their ranks immediately filled.

  Liodred came to Mandred’s side. “Are you hurt?”

  “Just a scratch,” Mandred growled. He was lying, though, for the wound burned as if a red-hot poker had hit him, not a sword. “There are too many of them. We have to limit ourselves to holding the forecastle.” He looked to a young Mandridian who was leaning exhausted against the bulwark and looking out past the queen’s ship to what was going on among the longships.

  “Will they send us any reinforcements?” Mandred asked.

  “No. They’re fighting defensive battles all along the line. The Tjured knights are attacking the entire front.”

  “Damn!”

  Mandred looked down to the main deck of the caravel. The enemy had re-formed and were now attacking the Mandridians. Fearlessly, they surged up the two stairways leading to the forecastle. On the left, they were led by a giant who slammed into the Mandridian blocking his path to the deck. His blade slit open the young warrior’s throat, and he used his shield like a ram to clear enough room to get onto the forecastle. He was followed immediately by more knights.

  Mandred hurled himself forward. He hated this kind of fighting. In a tussle like this, there was no room to swing his axe. He could only use it effectively when he lifted it over his head, but he would not let himself be tempted. To do that would leave his chest a
nd belly unprotected, and he had already found out painfully just how skillful the knights could be with their short swords. Grimly, he restricted himself to attacking with the spike on the end of his axe. He rammed it into the shield of the man in front of him. The knight screamed in pain. Mandred had hit his target: the arm bound by leather straps to the other side of the shield. The knight let his shield drop for a moment, just a moment, but it was long enough for Mandred to strike a second time. With a crunch, he drove the spike through the eye slit in the man’s helmet.

  Exploiting the sudden gap, Mandred attacked the man on the left, who was no longer covered by his comrade’s shield. The knight raised his sword to parry, but it was not nearly enough to counter the blow, and Mandred’s axe sank into his chest.

  The jarl had fought his way almost as far as the bulwark. On the main deck, between the rows of fighters, he spied the priest. He was ten steps away. The cleric’s dark-blue robes billowed in the wind. “Forward!” the priest cried in the language of Fargon. “Keep going, or the demon queen will escape!”

  Again, the knights surged toward the two stairways leading to the forecastle. The giant at the left stairway was still there. Two dead Mandridians lay at his feet.

  Mandred looked back down to the main deck. It was impossible to get to the damned priest. Ten steps. Ten steps and they could still win this. But to do that, he would have to climb onto the bulwark and leap into the midst of the enemy below.

  The jarl ducked beneath a swinging sword and rammed his axe under his adversary’s shield and into his knee. The man dropped to the deck with a cry and tried to stab Mandred in the groin. Mandred kicked at the shield, knocking the iron-clad edge into the knight’s helmet. His head jerked back and Mandred rammed the spike of his axe into the man’s throat.

  Instantly, the jarl looked up again. If he jumped over the bulwark, he would be jumping to certain death. But perhaps, with his death, he could buy the queen’s escape and save Albenmark and the Fjordlands.

  The priest had his arms raised. He was starting to cast a spell. Mandred looked back. The last time the priest had cast a spell, he’d been at least ten paces farther back. Emerelle was in mortal danger.

  From the corner of his eye, Mandred saw a movement. The giant knight had fought his way through to him. Mandred fell back, and the giant’s sword scraped over his chain mail tunic. The strike went low and hit him below the knee, then a swung shield knocked Mandred back. Hands were reaching for him, pulling him into the safety of the Mandridians’ shield wall. Now the bulwark was too far away. He should have jumped.

  Close to the Touch of Death

  Nuramon and Nomja ran beneath the deck of the galley toward the stern. The sight of all the dead elves at their oars on the starboard side horrified him. The men and women simply lay there, some fallen forward over their oars, some on their backs on the benches. There were no visible wounds, and there was not the slightest look of fear on their faces. They seemed to have suffered no pain, nor to have seen their end coming.

  What pained Nuramon the most was not knowing if the dead would be reborn. Meeting Nomja had assured him that elves who died in the human world could be reborn in Albenmark. And the dwarves were living proof of that. Even in the human world, Albenkin were born again. But the priest’s sorcery might prevent it. He had not thought of that when he told Emerelle and Obilee his plan. If there was no rebirth, then his search could be at an end with the merest touch of the priest’s death spell. Then he thought of Master Alvias. Had he not entered the moonlight before Nuramon’s eyes? Wasn’t that proof that the priests could not destroy the souls of the Albenkin? The only question that remained was: who was supposed to conceive and bear children if all was lost?

  They reached the stern hatch and cautiously ascended the wide ladder. Nuramon put his head a short way out of the hatch to see what was happening at the forecastle. To his surprise, it was empty. The elves must have overcome the knights. Obilee and the queen were certain to be in safety on the longships. He climbed out of the hatch, keeping his head low. Over the railing, he could see that the Fjordlanders still held the forecastle of the caravel, preventing the Tjured knights from pursuing the queen.

  When Nomja had climbed up through the hatch, they crept to the railing together. Keeping low, they peered over it, observing the battle between the Tjured knights and the Mandridians.

  It did not look good for the Fjordlanders. They had been able to get onto the enemy ship, but that was as far as they could go.

  There was Mandred. He was fighting in the front row. Why did he always have to be so far out in front? He and his men were facing at least fifty knights. It was only a question of time before the Mandridians were overwhelmed.

  “I see the priest,” Nomja whispered. “Surrounded by bodyguards in full helmets.”

  Nuramon saw the man. He was only a few paces away from Mandred, near the railing of the main deck, but there was no way for the jarl to get to him. The shield bearers were too numerous, too tightly packed. And in a close fight like that, their short swords were more useful than the axes and long blades of the Mandridians.

  Nuramon took a deep breath and looked along the railing toward the bow. He saw a lot of elves lying there, victims of the priest’s magic. He and Nomja were now within its deadly range, too. Nuramon handed Nomja four of the dwarven arrows. “Here. Take them.”

  Wide-eyed, she gazed at the glittering arrowheads. “Thank you, Nuramon,” she said softly, but she took only two.

  She was right. They would not need any more than two. If the priest was still alive after two shots, then they were as good as dead.

  Nuramon fixed an arrow on his bowstring and waited until Nomja had done the same. He breathed in deeply. “Now,” he whispered, and they both stood.

  Nuramon took aim at the priest in the dark-blue robes, then released the string and sent the arrow on its flight. Nomja’s shot followed a heartbeat after his.

  Nuramon’s arrow hit one of the bodyguards in the shoulder when the man happened to step in the way. Nomja missed the priest by a hair. They quickly set new arrows. Nuramon saw the fighters raise their shields around the priest, covering him. They had to act fast, or the Tjured priest would work his magic.

  Nomja shot first, but her arrow was deflected by a shield boss. Nuramon’s hit a shield and penetrated it. The fighter holding it cried out and fell forward, giving them a clear view of the priest. He stood bending forward slightly, but his hands were raised over his head. He was casting a spell. As soon as the gap left by the fallen knight closed up, the chance would be gone. One more shot. One shot!

  Nuramon rapidly took aim with a new arrow, and Nomja also took another from his quiver. Nuramon aimed and fired. The arrow flew just past the priest’s head. The knights edged closer together, closing the gap in their rank. One of them pointed an outstretched arm in their direction and shouted something.

  There. Nomja’s arrow. It was the matter of a moment, only the smallest of gaps was still open in the wall of shields. Nuramon was expecting the arrow to bury itself in a shield, but then the inconceivable happened. The arrow disappeared between the two shields. Nuramon saw the priest throw up his arms. Then he fell among the knights.

  Breakthrough

  Panic suddenly spread among the Tjured knights. Mandred could not see why, but they fell back to the main deck. Even the huge knight who had attacked him so fiercely gave up the assault and covered his comrades’ retreat.

  “Mandridians! Forward!” Mandred bellowed, and he lashed out with his foot at the giant’s shield. The big man stumbled on the blood-smeared steps and fell, taking many of his comrades down with him. Mandred leaped after them, landing on his adversary’s shield. This was the breakthrough.

  The jarl set the spike of his axe at the huge knight’s throat. He could see the terror in the man’s eyes.

  All around, the fighting had come to a standstill. They faced almost no
resistance anymore. Most of the enemy now cowered behind their shields.

  “I do not ask for your mercy,” the giant coughed.

  “And I don’t grant it.” Mandred’s axe came down, but he struck with the flat of the blade, knocking the man out. The knight had fought well. To finish him like that would have been dishonorable.

  The retreating knights tried to form a shield wall. Mandred flew at it without hesitating. They could not be allowed to establish another battle line. He batted shields aside, held his axe in front of him in both hands, and lunged forward as hard and fast as he could, driving a wedge through their lines. Liodred and the Mandridians would take care of the rest.

  The last defender fell aside, and Mandred was suddenly face-to-face with the priest’s bodyguard. The sight of them rekindled his fury. He threw himself at them like an frenzied bear, ducking under swinging swords and swinging his axe into the ribs of one of the guards. In his wrath, Mandred did not feel one of the blades penetrate the mail protecting his neck. The steel rings took most of the force of the blow, and the blade left him with no more than a shallow cut. He stabbed one of the enemy fighters in the groin with the spike of his axe, pulled it free, and parried a backhanded swing aimed at his throat. The elven steel of the axe sang its song of death, but the priest’s bodyguards fought to the last man.

  When Mandred, exhausted, finally lowered his axe, he was startled to find that the rest of the Tjured fighters had laid down their weapons.

  Breathing heavily, the jarl looked around and finally found the one enemy he was looking for. The sorcerer priest lay among the dead. The blue-garbed priest was young, which took Mandred by surprise. An arrow had ended his life.

  Liodred came to Mandred’s side. “They’re surrendering,” he declared, though his voice was weary. “They’ve given up the fight on the lower decks, too.”