The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  A smile played across the general’s thin lips. The other officers at the table gazed at Mandred in surprise. Several of them reached for their swords. Tarquinon lowered his head. “I bow to your daring, Jarl.” He reached for a pistol on the map table. “That said, I despise extraordinary stupidity.”

  Beorn jumped forward and struck at the general’s arm. Acrid white smoke poured from the pistol, and something hit Mandred in the hip, though he felt no pain. The jarl momentarily looked down at himself. His breastplate seemed undamaged. All around, the officers drew their swords.

  Mandred jumped forward. His axe swung in a wide semicircle, and fine drops of blood splattered across the battlefield map. Then the general’s head tumbled onto the table, throwing all the little wooden blocks into disarray.

  Beorn parried a sword stroke aimed at Mandred’s head. Back to back, the two Northmen faced the attacking officers. Mandred’s axe smashed a thin sword, and he stabbed the point of his axe through the attacker’s armor. Another officer swung, and his blade grated off the jarl’s shoulder plate. Mandred half turned and smashed another officer’s legs.

  Suddenly, he heard the loud reports of wheel-lock pistols. Bitter white smoke blew over the hill and enveloped the fighting men. It stank of brimstone, exactly as if the Devanthar were back among them.

  Mandred’s axe sliced deeply into the shoulder of the young officer who had led them up the hill. The man stared at him wide-eyed, then his knees gave way.

  Riders appeared through the smoke. With their long swords, they cut down the remaining staff officers and tore down the banner with the burned oak. Beorn had taken the horn from his belt and was blowing it for all he was worth. Above the heads of the horsemen, the banners of Firnstayn now unfurled. They showed a green oak on a white background. The living tree had defeated the dead. The entire army of Tjured soldiers would see the smoke rising from the command post on the hill and their enemy’s flags flying. Beorn was sounding the retreat. He could already see one unit breaking from the battle line and fighting its way back.

  From the side of the hill came the clash of weapons. “The halberdiers are attacking!” screamed a young Firnstayner.

  Mandred pulled himself onto a riderless horse. “Drive them back,” he ordered sharply. The hill could not fall back into their enemies’ hands, or it would all have been in vain.

  Mandred wheeled the black stallion around and rode toward the enemy. He took the reins between his teeth and pulled one of the two wheel-lock pistols from the saddle holster. Ahead of him was the formation of halberdiers. They had already cut down several of his riders. Mandred turned the weapon in his hand and hurled it into the enemy pack. One of the halberdiers cried out in surprise. Mandred would never fire a weapon that spewed the Devanthar’s breath into the world, but they made good throwing clubs.

  Mandred held the second pistol and drew back, ready to throw. He could still hear Beorn sounding the retreat behind him. More riders joined him, and together they formed a battle line. All of them drew their saddle pistols. As if at some silent command, the Mandridians fired simultaneously. White smoke enveloped them, and many of the halberdiers fell. The line of attackers began to disintegrate.

  “Swords!” Mandred bawled over the noise. Slim swords clattered from metal sheaths.

  “Charge!” The jarl spurred his stallion ahead. They were only a few paces from the Tjured soldiers. He threw the second pistol and reached for his axe.

  “For Firnstayn!”

  Fire and Brimstone

  Tongues of fire lashed out of the wall of white smoke down the hill. Something smacked into Farodin’s breastplate. The elf picked up the projectile from the ground. It was a small piece of dark-gray metal, squashed flat. “From that distance, they won’t get through any armor,” said Giliath. She raised her bow and fired an arrow into the smoke.

  The elf and her riders had arrived an hour earlier to reinforce the thinning ranks of defenders. Now she crouched at Farodin’s side behind the massive shield of a dead troll. They had wedged the shield between two posts of one of the archers’ redoubts. In a single, flowing movement, she drew a new arrow from her quiver, set it on the string, and fired. “I don’t understand these soldiers. Those fire rods of theirs are absurd. In the time it takes them to load it again, I can shoot five arrows back. After the second salvo at the latest, they’re so blinded by their own smoke that they don’t even know what they’re shooting at. They make a terrible noise, and they stink. And if their powder gets wet, they’re completely defenseless. I just don’t understand what they see in such nonsense.”

  Farodin looked at the old gnome who lay at his feet. A bloody pulp oozed from where his left eye had once been. It seemed that the balls fired from those pipes could really do some damage to someone not wearing armor.

  The defenders of the Shalyn Falah had repulsed two attacks on their position, but they had paid a terrible price. More than half their fighters were dead.

  The trolls stood now in the front line with the archers. They were using their huge shields to try to protect the elves from the enemy fire.

  “When this is over, Farodin, I want to challenge you to a fight with practice swords. And I would be obliged if you would be good enough not to wear your ring,” Giliath said.

  Farodin looked at Giliath in surprise. “Are you still angry at me?”

  “It was a low blow, Farodin, a downright un-elf-like trick, the way you ended our duel.”

  “I could not afford to get wounded back then,” he replied curtly, hoping that that would close the subject. He did not think this was either the time or the place to discuss martial decency.

  “I would be glad to give you the chance to restore your honor in my eyes,” she replied.

  This cannot be happening, thought Farodin. They were crouching under a hail of enemy fire, and Giliath was challenging him to a duel. “You’ve lost an eye. I’d have a big advantage.”

  “I’ve had a lot of time to practice since our last duel. And I’m quite sure I was better than you back then. It would be interesting to find out if you’ve improved at all.”

  Farodin rolled his eyes. He found himself almost wishing for the next attack so this nonsense would end. With a crack, the Tjured soldiers fired their next salvo. The elf ducked behind the shield.

  “What do you think? Tomorrow at sunrise on the field in front of the palace?” Giliath asked.

  Farodin sighed. “So you assume we’ll still be alive tomorrow?”

  “I certainly will be,” she said with surprising confidence. “And I’ll be sure to look after you so you also stay among the living. The word going around is that you will be going into the human world tomorrow once and for all. I’d be happy if we could settle this matter before then.”

  “Why does this duel matter so much to you?”

  The elf woman looked at him in surprise. “It is a question of honor. You are the only one who has ever defeated me.”

  Farodin looked at her doubtfully. The dark strip of cloth over her destroyed eye made her look bold. Some victories come at too high a price, he thought.

  A gnome with a large willow basket on his back came and crouched in the cover of their shield, gasping for breath. Then he took two bundles of arrows out of the basket and laid them on the ground in front of Giliath. “We’re running out of fighters, but at least we have plenty of ammunition,” he grumbled. “I’m supposed to tell you from Ollowain that we still have more than a hundred arrows for every archer. He expects you to fire them all at the enemy down there.” The gnome flinched as the thunderous blast of the next salvo rolled up the hill. Without another word, he left them, heading away to resupply the next archers.

  Giliath cut through the leather cord that bound the arrows. She refilled her quiver. “The survivors of Valemas are very grateful to you and your companions for rescuing Yulivee,” she said unexpectedly. “Yulivee is completely infa
tuated with Nuramon. She even rebelled against the orders of the queen for him.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Farodin.

  Giliath looked up and gave him a cold smile. “I knew she hadn’t told you about it. She was very sad that she couldn’t set you free.”

  Farodin was slowly losing his patience. “What do you have to say to me?”

  Giliath straightened up and looked him in the eye. “She led me and my fighters through an Albenpath from Firnstayn to a fortified monastery close to Aniscans. She wanted to go through a second Albenstar there and look for you, but there was a spell on the gate. We could not open it and were discovered. In the battle that followed, we burned the monastery down to its foundations. Yulivee didn’t want us to do that, but these Tjured priests only understand one language. I personally think that you and your friends should know about that. I don’t think she would ever talk about it herself. She feels she owes you a debt.”

  A ball of lead sent splinters flying from the troll’s shield. Giliath raised the bow and took fresh aim at the wall of thick smoke.

  The drums and pipes struck up again. A line of men with fire rods strode through the black-powder fumes and started up the hill. A second and a third line followed. Giliath swore and fired.

  Farodin drew two short swords that he had taken from dead elves. The two-hander was too unwieldy to fight with in their own line of defense.

  Knights armed with swords and round shields followed the men with the fire rods. Among them were some holding flaming torches, and all of them had small wooden boxes buckled over their stomachs.

  A new volley cracked from the fire rods. One of the shots knocked Farodin off his feet. A deep dent had been knocked in his breastplate.

  The shooters in the first row stopped and reloaded. They were marching in an open formation and did not block the soldiers coming up behind.

  Arrows rained down on the attackers. Giliath fired ceaselessly, shouting the most blasphemous curses the whole time. The courage of the humans amazed Farodin. It must have been clear to them how much of their blood would be spilled in such an attack, but still they came.

  When the next row of shooters stopped, Farodin crouched behind the heavy wooden shield. He was worried. Tongues of fire flashed, and more shots crashed into the wood. Farodin saw a troll get hit by several of the lead balls. It staggered a few steps and collapsed.

  The elves fought desperately, doggedly, returning arrows for bullets. Salvo after salvo flew into their attackers, but nothing seemed able to stop their advance.

  When they were less than forty paces away, the third row of the fire rod men jammed their forked supports into the ground, swung their heavy weapons onto them, and blew on the smoldering fuses.

  “Down!” Giliath shouted, turning her bow aside and lying flat on the ground. Farodin crouched beside her. As the volley of shots flew, he heard the wood of their shield splinter. From all around came the screams of the wounded.

  The elf rolled onto one side and came up again awkwardly. He saw the holes in the heavy troll shield. Slowly, he was beginning to understand why the humans were so set upon these new weapons. Between the shooters, the soldiers with the wooden boxes strapped over their bellies came running. Each man held in his hand a small, round clay flask. They ignited strips of cloth on the bottles, and a thick, oily smoke rose. Then they flung their strange projectiles at the defenders.

  One of the flasks smashed against their shield. A tongue of flame shot high, and Farodin retreated before the sudden heat. Fires flared all along their defensive lines. Farodin saw a flask hit an archer. The elf was instantly transformed into a living fireball. He threw himself on the ground and thrashed and screamed, but nothing seemed able to extinguish the flames.

  “Balbar’s fire,” Farodin whispered. “The curse of Iskendria.”

  “Fall back to the second line!” Ollowain’s voice rose above the inferno. “Back! And catch me a few of those flasks.”

  Farodin and Giliath ran toward the ruins of the tower at the top of the steep path.

  “Catch the flasks? Are you out of your mind? Get out of their way!” Orgrim screamed.

  “We need them to light a fire on the bridge!” Ollowain yelled back.

  But the spirit of the defenders had been broken. The last survivors pushed and scrambled their way down the cliff path.

  The first of the humans had already reached the archers’ redoubts. Swordsmen and men with fire rods pushed between the posts, and the soldiers with the flaming torches and the wooden crates came through with them.

  The fire flasks were now falling in the midst of the jostling defenders. Orgrim took a small troop of trolls and tried to lead a counterattack to at least hold back the humans a little longer. Giliath, retreating at Farodin’s side, fired arrow after arrow.

  The elf had slid both of his swords back into their sheaths. He hurried to Ollowain. “We need that damned fire to block the bridge. We have to hold them back longer.”

  Suddenly, Ollowain jumped forward. His hand flew up, and he snatched one of the accursed clay flasks out of the air. He pulled out the burning strip of cloth and set the little bottle carefully on the ground. “Well, that works.”

  Farodin let out a tight breath. “I’d prefer to get a crate this way.” He clenched his jaw and charged behind Orgrim.

  At the point where the trolls were attacking, the Tjured soldiers were falling back. With the courage of desperation, Farodin threw himself into the midst of the enemy. In a deadly dance, he whirled around, blocking swords, fighting his way through a gap in the defense. A backhanded swing slashed the throat of a soldier with a fire rod who could not raise his heavy weapon fast enough to block the blade. A jab with one of Farodin’s swords went through the defenses of a swordsman and stabbed him through the mouth. Farodin ducked low, jerked the blade free, and parried a second swordsman’s swing. He pushed the man to the ground with his shoulder and ran him through mercilessly.

  Duck, parry, strike. Blood sprayed his face. One of the fire rods cracked so close that he felt the heat of the flame from its barrel, but the ball flew wide. His mouth was filled with the taste of brimstone. These were truly the Devanthar’s kin. Farodin slit the shooter’s belly open, and the man screamed and fell to his knees.

  “Retreat!” bawled Orgrim. “They’re cutting us off from the others!”

  From the corner of his eye, Farodin saw one of the Tjured knights taking aim at the troll king. The man was too far away for Farodin to reach him in time. Instead, the elf threw one of his swords. The blade sank into the soldier’s back almost to the hilt.

  Farodin crouched and snatched a sword from one of the dead.

  “Back, you damned berserker! You won’t defeat them alone!” said Orgrim, now at his side.

  One of the oil flasks shattered against Orgrim’s shield. Bright flame licked at the wood. Balbar’s fire sprayed onto Farodin’s armor as well, but the dark flecks of oil did not burn.

  Close by, Farodin saw two of the soldiers kneel down with their loathsome wooden crates. “We’ll get those,” he shouted to Orgrim. “Then we can pull back.”

  The troll king let out a curse that would have made Mandred blush. Farodin didn’t care. Three sword-wielding soldiers were running at him. He intercepted the first swing and let the attacker’s blade slide down his own. Then he half turned, changed his grip, and rammed his sword into the soldier’s back, at the same time blocking an overhead stroke with his second sword. Orgrim’s club smashed the second soldier’s skull.

  Farodin went at the surviving soldier with both swords. With a turning motion, he trapped the man’s blade, then he stabbed past the soldier’s shield into his belly.

  A long leap took him within range of the men with the fire flasks, and he cut them down ruthlessly. The small wooden chests were divided inside into eight sections. Each of the sections was padded with braided str
aw so that the thin-walled clay flasks could be transported safely. In the first chest there were still five bottles; in the second, four. That would have to do.

  Orgrim picked up one of the wooden crates. “Back to the bridge. They’re overrunning everything. The best we can do is stop them at the Shalyn Falah.”

  Farodin nodded silently and took the second wooden crate. Ollowain was there with a few of the trolls and archers around him. He was doing his best to cover them.

  Thick, billowing smoke drifted across the battlefield. From all sides came the roar of the fire rods. The elves’ battle lines were in tatters.

  Farodin hacked off the hand of an officer aiming a pistol at him at close range. A backhand strike hit the man in the face, above his gorget. The force of the blow smashed the man’s teeth.

  Another foe collapsed beside him, felled by an arrow. Farodin glanced up and saw Giliath standing beside Ollowain. He had to smile. The elf woman was probably worried he wouldn’t be there for the duel they’d arranged.

  Suddenly, flames hissed high in front of them. Farodin jumped to one side. For a moment, he lost sight of his companions. Then he saw Ollowain. The elf jumped forward and caught one of the fire flasks in midflight. Triumphantly, he held his booty high. As he did, a lead ball shattered both the bottle and his hand. Dark oil sprayed and ignited on the burning wick. In a moment, the flames swallowed up Ollowain’s head and armor. For a heartbeat, the elf stood completely still. Then, with his uninjured hand, he drew his sword and ran screaming toward a line of soldiers about to fire.

  Farodin could barely breathe as he saw what happened next. White smoke surrounded the Tjured soldiers, but none of their shots were able to stop the keeper of the Shalyn Falah. Engulfed in flames, he disappeared into the wall of smoke.

  “A fighter like him comes along once in a thousand years,” said Orgrim, and he laid a heavy hand on Farodin’s shoulder. “Let us go before their reinforcements come.”

  Giliath stopped at the burned towers and, with a few more archers, covered their retreat. They had reached the highest part of the cliff. Farodin looked out over the path that snaked down to the bridge. There were fires already burning down there. No more than three hundred of the defenders were still alive, and most of them were wounded. Black with soot, exhausted, they were retreating to the fortress on the other side of the gorge.