The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  Farodin did not reply. Let Orgrim think what he wanted. The fact that the prince had saved his life changed nothing of the past. Orgrim embodied the soul of Aileen’s murderer. Whatever happened, he would never see anything in the troll but the warrior who had stolen the woman he loved from him.

  The burns vanished beneath Skanga’s healing hands. The prince stretched and stood up to observe the battlefield. Five of the trolls’ ships had made it as far as the mass of caravels. Hundreds of troll warriors were swarming aboard the Tjured ships. They would fight their way through to the longships of the Fjordlanders.

  Skanga stepped up to Farodin. She reached toward his face with skinny fingers. Farodin recoiled a little.

  “You don’t look so good,” she croaked. “No more pretty face.” The shaman blinked. For the first time, the loathing had vanished from her eyes. “I offer my help once, only once.”

  Farodin nodded, and her fingers probed his face. They felt cool, and the pain passed. He could feel his skin tightening again.

  Suddenly, the old woman grasped at her chest. Her entire body began to shake. “It’s here,” she said breathlessly. “It’s using . . .” She threw her hands before her face and let out a piercing scream.

  Farodin also felt a shooting pain behind his forehead. A prickling sensation ran across his skin, and he looked up to see the troll king’s flagship, half a mile away, bearing down on a large, three-mast caravel. But between the ships, a black cloud suddenly appeared on the water and grew rapidly. The strange apparition seemed to swallow all of the light around it. And it kept on growing. It was already half as big as the king’s ship.

  Black fog spilled out of the darkness, sending long fingers trailing out over the sea.

  “What do you see?” Skanga asked.

  Farodin described what was happening. The water in front of the cloud churned, as if a powerful current was flowing there. Boldor’s ship was attempting to turn away from the bizarre manifestation. It had turned broadside to the cloud, but the surging current was drawing the ship back into the darkness. A rim of light appeared around the edge of one of the fingers of black fog. The darkness spread no farther, but also did not recede.

  “Let me have your eyes,” rasped the shaman. “No one can see far away better than elves.”

  Scrawny fingers closed around Farodin’s neck. The elf fought against them, but his strength instantly faded. His limbs felt heavy and powerless. His eyes . . . everything blurred. In the distance, all he could see was a shadow on the water.

  He had an urge to rear up, to break free, but he did not have the strength to turn his thoughts into action. He looked down at himself in desperation. He could clearly see his fingers and the fine lines in his skin, but when he raised his eyes, the helmsman just a few paces away became no more than a vague outline.

  “The corrupter is here,” the shaman hissed. Her clawed left hand searched among the amulets that hung from her neck. “The Devanthar. It has opened a gate into nothingness, into the emptiness between the splinters of the Shattered World. Emerelle is trying to stop it. But she isn’t strong enough. It . . . what power. It has an Albenstone.”

  Skanga withdrew an elongated piece of jade, sweeping aside the raven feathers that had kept the stone hidden. Farodin saw five lines in the jade. They crossed to form a star. Did the old hag actually possess an Albenstone of her own? Was she the keeper of the greatest treasure of her race?

  The jade glowed from the inside. Skanga began to intone an undulating chant made up of only single-syllable sounds.

  Shouts of dismay came from the main deck. Farodin blinked helplessly. He could no longer see what was going on out there. “What’s happening?” he cried in despair. “Tell me, I can’t see anything.”

  “Boldor’s ship was pulled into the darkness,” the prince answered quietly. “There’s a small caravel that got sucked in, too, and it’s disappearing. It looks like the sea is falling into a chasm.”

  Farodin remembered how he and his companions had followed the glowing Albenpaths through the emptiness. He recalled the fear he felt, and the terrifying question of whether one’s soul would be lost forever if one died in there.

  Skanga’s chant turned into a screech. Her grip on his neck slackened a little, but Farodin no longer had any will left to resist the shaman.

  “Another galleass just disappeared,” said Orgrim. “Even from here, I can sense the pull of the abyss. The black fog is starting to dissipate. There’s a circle of light around the dark. The light and the darkness are fighting. Lightning is flashing through the darkness. The lightning is tearing pieces out of it. It’s melting away . . .”

  The shaman was breathing heavily and released her grip on Farodin completely. Instantly, the elf could see everything clearly again. The black cloud on the water had vanished. “The gate is closed,” Skanga said. Farodin saw that the lines in her face had deepened. Exhausted, she had to support herself against the railing.

  Jubilant cries reached them from the longships. The trolls had forced their way through to the defenders on the barricade and united with the humans and the elves.

  “Victory,” cried Orgrim, thrusting his war hammer skyward. “Victory!”

  From the mass of ships, individual caravels broke free, trying desperately to escape from the overwhelming trolls.

  Below the cliffs on the west, an entire fleet of enemy ships was being brought about and making for open water. Among the fleeing ships, Farodin saw the flagship, but the trolls from the king’s unit were already close. With their salvos of stones, they were destroying every ship that came within range.

  “I sense its fear,” came Skanga’s hoarse voice. “The queen has begun casting a spell that can kill it. It is the same magic the Alben once used to prevail over the Devanthar. It is trying to create a new star.”

  Flaming arrows were fired from the escaping fleet of caravels. A wall of fire rose on the water, engulfing many ships.

  Farodin was shaken. It no longer seemed to matter to them if their own comrades burned. The oarsmen on the trolls’ galleasses reversed oars, but two of their ships were still devoured by the flames. A breeze sent biting smoke across the waters. It stank of oil, burned flesh, and something else, something that was both foreign and familiar to the elf.

  “Smell that, do you?” asked Skanga. “Brimstone. The smell of the deceiver.”

  Farodin remembered where he had smelled it before. In the ice cave. Only there, the smell had not been as strong.

  The troll prince swore enthusiastically at the enemy’s cowardly flight and cursed the Devanthar in words that not even Farodin had heard before.

  “Be happy you have never stood eye to eye with it, Orgrim,” Skanga cautioned. “There is no more terrible foe. It is the master of deception. I can sense how it is opening a gate for its retreat even now. We have won. But who knows? It could be that it was only here to draw us into pursuing it and to lure us to our own ruin.”

  Farodin pointed at the huge fleet around them. “To sacrifice all of this to tempt us into a pursuit? No. Nonsense. It came here to destroy Firnstayn and conquer the North. But it did not count on our alliance. And . . .” The elf hesitated. “It was the trolls who brought us victory in the end. Forgive me for doubting you.”

  The old woman ignored his apology. “If you think you can see through the schemes and subterfuges of a Devanthar, then you are already caught in its net. A hundred ships and a few thousand human lives are nothing to it. Today we are the victors, but the fight has just begun.”

  The Chronicle of Firnstayn

  And our city and the kingdom were saved. Humans, elves, and trolls won out against the fleet of the Tjured priests and forced the demon leading them to flee. Never shall the night after that victory be forgotten. Firnstayn was bright with fires of celebration, and humans and elves danced together. The trolls celebrated the victory aboard their ships, and the r
umbling of thunder reached as far as Firnstayn. But there were many who mourned the fallen that night. They prayed for the dead and were proud that the fallen had played a role in the great victory.

  Even the elf queen, Emerelle, came into our city, and never had any here seen a woman of such grace. She walked nobly through the streets of Firnstayn and spoke to many of the people she encountered. The unworthy writer of these lines himself enjoyed the blessing of her words. She said, “You are the memory of this kingdom? Then make it known that the destiny of the Fjordlands will forever be bound to the destiny of Albenmark.” And so it is written.

  When morning came, Mandred and King Liodred had already left the city. The elves said they had gone to kill one of the leaders of the enemy. We were fearful, then, for the life of our king, for his son was far from being of an age to accede to the throne should the worst come to pass. But we were also proud of him. Now another Firnstayner has gone on a journey at the side of the elves. May Luth spin a good thread for them all.

  AS RECORDED BY TJELRIK ASWIDSON

  VOLUME SIXTY-SEVEN OF THE TEMPLE LIBRARY OF LUTH IN FIRNSTAYN, PAGE 45

  Beyond the Victory

  It was night, and Nuramon walked at Obilee’s side along the beach. All along the fjord gleamed campfires, lanterns, and barinstones. Firnstayn, the ships, and even the forests were brightly lit. The humans and the elves were celebrating together, but the trolls remained on board their ships and kept their own company. The booming of their drums reached the shore, and the smell of roasted meat hung in the air.

  They had wrested a historic victory. Many of those at the fires were celebrating with song and dance, but many had lost relatives and friends and were in mourning for them. The bodies of the dead had been laid out in the Temple of Luth and the adjoining halls. Those of the elves had already been burned. Their funeral pyre, now collapsed into a pile of coals, still smoldered outside the city.

  “Do you really want to take the risk?” asked Obilee.

  “Yes,” said Nuramon. “The Devanthar was behind what happened to Noroelle. It is the one that remains a danger to Albenmark and the humans here. And it has an Albenstone.”

  “But the danger.”

  “Would you risk any less for Noroelle?”

  “No. But a Devanthar. How can you possibly win against something like that?”

  “We will find a way. No doubt it is ready for anything, but not for us.”

  “Perhaps I should come with you? King Liodred already is.”

  “Liodred is coming because he admires Mandred and because he loves adventure. A king going off with his ancestor on his legendary journeys. No, Obilee. It is not your destiny. Your place is with the queen. Don’t let yourself be tempted by our sad path. Perhaps you will achieve through your loyalty what we are trying to do through disobedience. Maybe, one day, the queen will free Noroelle as a favor to you.”

  “Very well. I will stay,” she said and smiled. “And I will tell Yulivee that we will have to wait for you together. She will miss you terribly.”

  “I’m afraid she’ll try to do something silly.”

  “The queen won’t let her. She loves the girl just as much as you do.”

  Nuramon knew that Obilee’s skills would be immeasurably valuable to them in their search for the Devanthar, but the thought that Noroelle might lose all who remained loyal to her in a single stroke was unbearable to him. Maybe he was being selfish, keeping Obilee away like this, but the knowledge that she would remain at the queen’s side among her greatest warriors would give him strength.

  They approached the fire where, earlier, they had been sitting with Farodin and Mandred. Nomja, Yulivee, and Emerelle were there now, too, with the queen’s bodyguard. To Nuramon’s surprise, Ollowain had also joined the small party. Nuramon had only seen him from a distance earlier, but the keeper of the Shalyn Falah had lived up to his reputation and fought like a dragon.

  Yulivee came running toward Nuramon. He crouched and threw his arms around her.

  “I want to come along,” she said.

  “But you can’t. The queen needs you here,” he replied.

  “She’ll get by just fine without me.”

  “No, Yulivee. She would certainly be very disappointed.”

  “I thought we were brother and sister.”

  “My house has been empty for too long, and Felbion will certainly feel lonely. Someone has to take care of him and also Mandred’s and Farodin’s horses. And I would like to know that the house and horses are in the best hands. I’ve told you about Alaen Aikhwitan. He is lonely.”

  “But then I’m all alone.”

  Obilee stroked Yulivee’s hair. “No. I’ll be here to keep you company. And don’t forget Emerelle.”

  The little sorceress looked scared and stared wide-eyed at Nuramon. “But what if you don’t come back? What will happen to me if you die?”

  “Then, one day, your little brother Nuramon will be born. And you will have to take care of him.”

  Yulivee smiled and kissed Nuramon’s forehead. “All right. I’ll stay . . . and I’ll learn lots of magic from Obilee and the queen.” She turned to Obilee. “We can have lots of grand adventures. Yulivee and Obilee . . . that sounds good. We can be friends. I never ever had a best friend. I only read about them in books, and I’ve always wanted one.”

  Obilee hugged the little girl. She whispered something in her ear. Yulivee nodded, and together, they joined the others.

  Farodin was on his feet, ready to go. Mandred had just said good-bye to Nomja and had his hands on her shoulders. Liodred stood up from his place by the fire and buckled his weapon belt.

  The queen had done all of them the honor of healing them, and certainly suffered no pain in doing so. Now Emerelle was standing at the water, looking to the ships out on the fjord. She seemed to be deep in thought. The wind tugged at her gray robe and stirred her hair.

  “Ready to go, Nuramon?” Mandred asked, approaching him. “Do you have your weapons?”

  “Yes,” he said as he picked up his bow and the quiver with the dwarven arrows that remained. He unwrapped the long sword and weapon belt from a sheet of cloth, the weapons he had received from the dwarves. In his earlier life, he had killed a dragon with those. Perhaps they were strong enough to damage a Devanthar.

  The queen turned around and came back to the fire. “My Albenkin, the time has come. The Devanthar is expecting me or the shaman Skanga or some other with an Albenstone. All of its senses are attuned to that. If I were to go, it would be aware of my presence too soon. If you go, maybe you will take it by surprise. Everything has been prepared. Several volunteers from my bodyguard will go with you to keep the Tjured knights at bay, but you must fight the Devanthar alone.”

  “How will we find it?” Farodin asked. “Should we follow the path it used to escape?”

  “No,” she replied. “That is a trap. The route simply stops. You would come out in the middle of a mountain and die instantly. I have looked in my mirror at all the paths open to you. Whichever one you choose, the shadow of Death hangs over you. I have also studied the web of new Albenpaths here in the human world. You have to go into a monastery in the mountains of Aniscans. I will open a gate for you to get there, but you won’t have much time. You will come out at an Albenstar, and from there, you have to immediately open a second gate that will lead you to the Shattered World. That is where you will find the Devanthar.”

  “But is there any way we can beat it with the arms we have?” Farodin asked.

  “Hold your weapons in the fire,” replied the queen.

  Farodin took his sword and his parrying dagger and Liodred his axe, and they pushed them into the flames. When Mandred and Nuramon raised their weapons, the queen said, “Nuramon. Mandred. Not you.”

  Nuramon returned his sword to its sheath. He knew that his old long sword was enchanted. He had already sensed it w
hen he was with the dwarves, and there was magic in his bow and the dwarven arrows, too. He wondered, though, whether Gaomee’s sword was also steeped in magic.

  Nuramon exchanged a look with Mandred. The jarl seemed bewildered and turned to Ollowain, who was smiling. He seemed to have known all along that Mandred’s axe was enchanted. Nuramon had not sensed it at all. It seemed whatever enchantment it was under was well concealed, which could be to their advantage in the fight against the Devanthar.

  The queen called Obilee to her side. “You must cast the spell. Your magic is unknown to it.”

  The warrior sorceress stood beside the fire and drew her sword. The weapon still impressed Nuramon. Its blade was completely covered with runes, and the guards attached to the brass hilt formed an interwoven magical symbol. Obilee held her sword in the fire alongside Farodin’s and Liodred’s weapons. There was a hissing noise, and the flames leaped brightly, then changed to a light-blue color and licked greedily at the blades. Obilee kept her focus on her own sword. It crackled, and glittering threads of light spread from her blade to those of the warriors. The runes on Obilee’s weapon began to gleam. The guard surrounding her hand also began to glow. With every heartbeat, the power shot from Obilee’s blade through the filaments, now swollen to cords of light, and into the swords of Farodin and the king. The power was so great that Nuramon felt something like a gust of hot wind emanating from Obilee’s blade. Finally, she withdrew the weapon and slid it back into its sheath before the hot glow of it had faded. She stepped back to make room for the queen.

  Farodin’s and Liodred’s weapons had a matte sheen, and the pale-blue flames gradually returned to red. “Take your weapons,” said Emerelle.

  The two fighters carefully withdrew their blades from the fire and looked them over as if they had just received them as a gift. For all the power Nuramon had felt when the spell was being cast, there was almost nothing he could feel now coming from the swords. That was the secret of casting a good spell on a weapon. Your opponent realized only too late what power lay in the blade.