The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  Mandred heard what Liodred said, but he only had eyes for the priest. He tore the arrow from the young man’s body. Mandred had seen these silver-white feathers once before. And as he wiped the blood from the tip with his thumb and saw the glittering iron, he knew to whom this arrow belonged. Mandred looked around and saw Nuramon and Nomja standing at the stern of the elven galley. They raised their arms and waved.

  The jarl shook his head and grinned at Liodred. “That damned elf saved my hide again. And his witless family thinks he’s no good.”

  The Gift of a God

  The Grinder was no more than a few hundred paces from the longships of the Fjordlanders. Eight ships followed the prince’s galleass. The rest followed the king’s flagship, bearing toward the western end of the barrier where the Tjured forces had taken the upper hand. If they were not stopped, they would overrun the Fjordlanders’ defenses from the western flank.

  The smoke they had seen rising from this side of the fjord had dissipated. Farodin could see the wrecks of three burned-out ships drifting close to the cliffs. The fires had been extinguished.

  It seemed strange to Farodin that Boldor would choose to sail into exactly the part of the battlefield that Skanga had warned him about.

  “It is the king’s right to fight where winning will bring the most glory,” said the shaman without Farodin saying a word.

  Farodin turned angrily to her.

  “No, I am not going to stop reading what’s going on in your elven mind,” she said, her eyes burning. “Not as long as you wish to see him dead.”

  The prince ignored them both. He waved to his fighters amidships. “New deck breakers!”

  Farodin leaned out over the bulwark to see why Orgrim had issued his order. Three small caravels had split from the Tjured ships and were sailing toward them with the courage of the desperate. They’re insane, he thought. Hopelessly insane. They might as well cut their own throats now. The crew and the knights on the three ships could hardly have missed seeing the fate of the first ships to stand against the trolls. Still they dared to attack.

  New stones were hauled up from below the deck of the Grinder and piled along the railing. Farodin could hear the trolls joking with each other, betting which of them would manage to smash the mainmast.

  Alongside the stones lay the bodies of a number of the seamen. The trolls had fished them out of the sea after the fight with the three-master. Farodin already suspected why the trolls had hauled that meat on board. His allies’ customs sickened him.

  “To be recognized as a warrior among my folk, you must have eaten the heart of an enemy,” said the shaman, her voice raw and hoarse. “Many young trolls will be welcomed by their princes into the league of warriors tonight. This is how we honor our enemy. No troll would ever consider eating the meat of a coward.”

  “I do not want to hear that.” Farodin’s hands tightened around the railing. He leaned forward a little more, wanting to get a closer look at the three caravels sailing toward the Grinder.

  “There’s only one way for you to live, isn’t there, elf? And anything that deviates so much as an inch from that is wrong,” she said.

  Farodin closed himself to the old hag’s words. Nothing could justify the trolls’ revolting customs.

  Panic seemed to have broken out aboard the little caravel. Seamen slashed with axes at barrels that were lashed to the deck. An oily fluid lapped ankle deep across the deck and ran from the scuppers in gleaming streams.

  Only a few paces separated the two ships.

  “Oars up!” Orgrim called. The kettledrum instantly fell silent.

  The caravel disappeared below the hull of the galleass. Farodin saw some of the men on board jump into the sea to save themselves. There was a tremendous crash, and the impact of the caravel ramming the trolls’ ship threw the elf hard against the railing.

  From the quarterdecks of the Tjured ships massed against the barricade, dark streamers of smoke rose steeply into the sky. Flaming arrows.

  The helmless caravel grated along the side of the trolls’ galleass. Some distance away, the priests’ flaming arrows fizzed into the sea. They had fired too short.

  “Bring barrels of water on deck!” the prince shouted.

  The pointless attack surprised Farodin. Hundreds of flaming arrows left curves of smoke against the blue sky. The troll ships were almost out of range of the archers. Most of the arrows fell short.

  He looked at the abandoned ship. The caravel was trailing a glittering wake. Streaks of the stuff smeared the side of the galleass. Some of the trolls were trying to push the smaller ship away with poles.

  Farodin tried to see what plan lay behind the attack. Nothing made sense. Two more of the trolls’ ships had collided with the small caravels, but as far as he could see, the galleasses had taken no damage at all.

  A shower of arrows fell into the sea in front of them. Hissing, the flames died. But one left a small flame floating on the water.

  Fire, burning on the water. Farodin thought of the priests’ fleet in the harbor at Iskendria. The horrific images were still fresh in his memory. Many generations might have passed in the human world since Iskendria was taken, but for Farodin, only a few moons had passed.

  The elf wheeled around. Everything was suddenly clear. The humans were trying to set the sea on fire as far as possible from their own fleet. It was part of their plan for the caravels to carry out their ramming maneuver almost out of range of the archers. But why didn’t one of the fanatics simply set the ship on fire himself? Were they afraid they would burn too soon?

  “Away from the ship!” Farodin shouted and dashed to the helm. He pointed to the glittering streaks fanning across the water. “We can’t go into that! Get the oars out! We have to get under way!”

  “What’s gotten into you, elf?” asked the prince in surprise. “Are we still taking too long to get into the fight?”

  “We won’t get into the fight at all if we don’t move fast.”

  Orgrim’s brow creased, which opened up the cut on his scalp again. A drop of blood ran down the side of his wide nose. “The oars will go out again once we’re past the caravel. We can’t afford to lose any more,” the prince declared and turned away.

  “By the Alben, Orgrim. They’ve stolen Balbar’s fire, the wonder weapon that made Iskendria’s ships the rulers of the Aegilien Sea for centuries. We are dead if we don’t get away from this floating oil. Nothing can put those flames out once they’re alight.”

  “I’m not about to—” the prince began when, to starboard, a flame shot up from the sea. As it did, one of the two caravels that had attacked farther west caught fire, and flames raced rapidly up the sides of the Bone Shredder. All around the ship, the sea was suddenly aflame. The Bone Shredder was more than thirty mast-lengths away, but Farodin felt the heat of the fire on his face. Hulking figures engulfed in flame leaped overboard. Screams rang across the water that could not save them.

  A dull thud came from starboard. The mast of the caravel that had rammed them had caught on the protruding superstructure atop the quarterdeck of the Grinder. The hulls of the ships chafed against each other, creaking, and the heavy galleass, which was still making headway, pulled the smaller ship along with it.

  “Carpenter!” Orgrim bellowed. “To the quarterdeck! Cut the yards! Oars out!” Below deck, the droning boom of the drum began again. “Reverse oars! Back! Back!” Orgrim took hold of his war hammer and strode to the bulwark. He beat at the yards and rigging that had become tangled.

  Farodin had overcome his first fear and ran to the prince’s side. He slashed desperately at the ropes of the rigging. Orgrim slung a heavy rope around his body and lowered himself over the side to be better able to get at the caravel’s yards. The reefed sail was still holding the splintered wood together. Sailcloth and ropes were caught on a strut beneath the quarterdeck of the Grinder.

  Or
grim threw his heavy war hammer back on deck and tried to tear away the heavy rigging with his bare hands. His face was covered in sweat. He looked up to Farodin. “Wishing I don’t die? There’s a first time for everything.”

  The elf slid his sword back into its sheath and climbed onto the bulwark. “I wish you’d stop talking like an idiot and do your job.” Farodin jumped out as far as he could and came down onto the yard. His hands snatched at the ropes, then he swung one leg up and found a secure seat. He drew a dagger and began to cut at the sailcloth in dogged silence.

  Orgrim suddenly slid to the side, swung on the rope, and collided with the side of the Grinder. The trolls on the quarterdeck yelled in triumph. The galleass was free. Farodin still sat on the undamaged half of the yard, but with every heartbeat, the distance between him and the troll ship increased.

  Orgrim pushed himself away from the side of the ship and swung back out toward the caravel. But the rope was too short. “Jump, you damned elf!” the troll bellowed, reaching out a huge hand.

  From the mass of ships behind Farodin, the dark streaks rose into the sky again. Now all of the Tjured archers seemed to be aiming for the Grinder.

  Revelation

  Nuramon had only been able to treat Liodred’s and Mandred’s wounds superficially by the time the queen returned to her galley with Obilee and some fifty elven fighters. Some of the new bodyguards secured the ship while their comrades aft gathered around the queen. Yulivee went with a young elf woman and fetched Emerelle’s water bowl from her cabin.

  Obilee whispered to Nuramon that the queen had returned against her advice, before the news of the priest’s death had spread, but it did not surprise Nuramon that Emerelle knew about it before anyone else. She could see far, even without her water mirror.

  Mandred and Liodred were fascinated by the mirror. A vague image appeared, seeming to float just beneath the surface of the water. Yulivee had to stand on tiptoe to be able to see anything. Obilee seemed well acquainted with the power of the mirror. She stood by quietly, watching those standing around the queen more closely than the events taking shape in the water. Nomja, by contrast, gazed into the bowl with wide-eyed wonder. It must have been the first time she had had the honor of looking into the queen’s mirror. Nuramon knew how she felt; it was the first time for him, as well.

  The queen, through the water, was able to see what was happening at any part of the battlefield. On this side of the longship barricade, the fighting had subsided. The mirror briefly showed the image of Pelveric. He was kneeling beside the body of Dijelon. Nuramon had no good memories of Dijelon; the queen had sent him to take Guillaume from Noroelle’s arms and kill him. The soldier’s death hardly moved Nuramon at all.

  Emerelle swirled her fingertips in the water. The image blurred and re-formed into another. Ollowain. He was fighting bitterly in the center of the barricade, trying to clear a route to board an enemy caravel. Many of the Fjordlanders who had earlier been relieved had now returned to the battle and were fighting beside Ollowain. It was good that the humans were back in the fight, for there was fear on the faces of many of the elves. Word had spread about what had happened aboard the Elflight. The queen, of course, had made certain that the elves knew she was still alive and that the priest was dead, but the fear was palpable that there were more priests with the same powers among the enemy.

  Again, the image blurred, and a new scene unfolded beneath the queen’s fingers. It was a large ship ablaze, engulfed in bright flames. Trolls were jumping over the railing trying to save themselves, but there was fire on the water as well. It was an image so terrible that Emerelle took Yulivee aside so that she could not look at it.

  Nuramon looked up and saw two columns of fire rising beyond the mass of ships. The sight made him feel ill. What kind of weapon was that? Were the Tjured priests burning the trolls’ entire fleet? A third flaming pillar rose into the sky. Nuramon hoped that Farodin was not on one of those ships. In such an inferno, courage and skill counted for nothing.

  The image faded, and a new one materialized. Now the troll king’s flagship came into view, recognizable by the flag it flew, two white war hammers crossed on a black ground. The ship was sailing straight toward an enemy three-master.

  “They will not repel the trolls’ attack,” said Emerelle in a firm voice.

  Nuramon looked to the distant flames. Victory had seemed so close.

  Over and over, the queen swirled her fingers through the water, and each time, a new location on the battlefield was revealed. The battle was far from won. The trolls had turned the tide, to be sure, and the enemy’s retreat was cut off, but all the Tjured needed was one of the powerful sorcerer priests to swing the fight in their favor again.

  “Let us see who the leader of our enemy is,” said the queen, looking to the west. “Which ship is it likely to be?” A veritable forest of masts filled the fjord. On most of the priests’ ships, the sails had been furled. They would only get in the way in a battle where outmaneuvering the enemy played no part.

  Mandred pointed at one of the few ships with its sails still set. “The three-master there.”

  The queen dipped her fingers in the water again, and a new image formed. It showed the bridge of a ship, and on the bridge stood a priest. The queen’s hand recoiled in shock.

  “Does he have the same power?” Obilee asked.

  “No. Much worse . . .” Her voice sank to a whisper. “By the Alben. So you have returned.”

  “Who is it?” asked little Yulivee.

  Before Emerelle could answer, Mandred spoke up. “I know those blue eyes.”

  Nuramon knew them, too. The man was tall and powerfully built. He had long blond hair and wore the dark-blue robes that the Tjured priests even in Guillaume’s day had worn.

  “It is the Devanthar,” the queen breathed.

  “By Luth,” Mandred muttered, and his grip tightened on his axe.

  Hate stood in Obilee’s eyes, and in Nomja’s was fear. The only one who did not know what the queen’s words signified was Yulivee. She looked at those standing around her.

  In that moment, Nuramon understood how and why the Tjured faith had changed so much over the centuries. How, from a religion that preached love and whose priests were healers, a faith could develop whose ordained knights subdued kingdom after kingdom and hunted down anything foreign with unbridled hate. Now this church had shown its true face.

  Another man stepped up beside the Devanthar. It was a priest wearing a mask of gold that showed a familiar face.

  “There,” Mandred exclaimed.

  Obilee drew back. “No . . . that is Noroelle’s face.”

  “Guillaume,” Nuramon breathed.

  “So that is our adversary,” said Emerelle. “It all makes sense now. The soldiers in Aniscans, the lies about Guillaume’s death, the power of the priest. All of that is written in the eyes of the Devanthar, as clearly as an Alben rune.” Emerelle leaned forward, as if she wanted to look at something more closely. Nuramon noticed that her hands were shaking. “Look. In its hand. An Albenstone. By the glory of the Alben. It’s planning something big.”

  Nuramon gazed at the stone. It was not the fire opal from the djinns’ crown, but a translucent, golden, precious stone with five veins running through it: a chrysoberyl the size of a fist.

  Everything fit. The Devanthar commanded the Tjured priests. Nuramon thought of all the new paths that crisscrossed Fargon and had their center in the kingdom’s capital, Algaunis. The demon was exploiting the humans to take revenge on the Albenkin for the obliteration of the Devanthar. And the humans in Fargon and all the other enslaved kingdoms believed they were serving Tjured.

  The queen threw back her cape and unclasped a small pouch at her hip. From inside the pouch, she took out a gray stone.

  A shiver of reverence ran through Nuramon. For the first time, he was seeing the Albenstone of the queen, the artifac
t whose power could fulfill his deepest desire. Reilif had been right. The furrows on Emerelle’s stone all crossed. The stone was rough and emanated a red glow from within, but Nuramon could not sense its power. The magic of the queen outshone it, and his senses were not finely developed enough to separate the power of the queen from that of the stone.

  Emerelle turned to Yulivee. “You have to watch what I do now very closely, my child. Watch and learn.”

  The Old Enemy

  A powerful hand reached for Farodin and nearly crushed his arm. The prince slammed into the side of the ship as the rope swung back, and the impact knocked the wind from his lungs. But he held Farodin tightly in his arms, almost like a mother with her child.

  “Pull me up, you idiots,” Orgrim shouted angrily.

  Farodin looked down and saw the oars beneath him churning the water. The galleass was moving backward, and with every stroke of the oars, they increased the distance between the Grinder and the floating streaks of oil.

  Suddenly, there was a loud hissing sound, like the noise of a rampant dragon. A brilliant light blinded the elf. He jerked his arm up in front of his face to protect himself from the heat that clawed at him. Orgrim groaned.

  Rough hands took hold of the elf. Still blinded, he felt himself being laid out on the deck. “Faster,” Orgrim growled. “Make them put their backs into it. Water down the decks.”

  Blinking, Farodin opened his eyes. His face burned with pain. He sat up, dazed, and looked out over the water. Flaming arrows had hit the third caravel and ignited Balbar’s fire on and around it. The flames were so bright that it was impossible to look into them directly. The heat battered Farodin like dragon breath. He turned away.

  Orgrim sat leaning against the railing. The old shaman was leaning over the prince, pressing at his face. His lips were split open, and blisters were already bubbling on his forehead. The prince smiled and showed his huge teeth. “I wish an elf could be reborn as a troll. A warrior like you would be the pride of our race.”