ALSO BY BERNHARD HENNEN
The Saga of the Elven
The Elven
Elven Winter
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2014 by Bernhard Hennen
Translation copyright © 2019 by Edwin Miles
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Previously published as Elfenwinter: Elfen 2 by Heyne Verlag in Germany in 2014. Translated from German by Edwin Miles. First published in English by AmazonCrossing in 2019.
Published by AmazonCrossing, Seattle
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ISBN-13: 9781542094054
ISBN-10: 1542094054
Cover design by Mike Heath | Magnus Creative
CONTENTS
MAP
OF FALCONS AND WOLVES
SKIRMISH IN THE STORM
THE BATTLE ON THE ICE
COURAGE
THE LAST LINE
THE SNOW HARBOR
OF WHISKER WAX AND DEATH
THE BOOK OF THREADS
THE WOLFHORSE
THE GODSWHIP
PURSUED
FRIENDSHIP AND DEAD FISH
THE SPIDER UNDER THE RAINBOW
THE LOG OF THE ICE GLIDER ROSEWRATH
COUNCIL OF WAR
BREATH OF ICE
INTO THE DEPTHS
VAHELMIN IS YOUR NAME!
THE TAMED FIRE
DANCE OF THE BLADES
TWO HEARTS
STONY DAYS
KNIFE IN THE HEART
RETURNING FIRE
THE PRINCE OF THE NIGHTCRAGS
OF FORGOTTEN HEROES
GOLD AND STONES
WATER, AT LEAST
THE OTHER SIDE OF CHILDHOOD
BENEATH THE TREE OF ASH
MY NAME IS BIRGA
LIKE A TALE FROM CHILDHOOD DAYS
ALFADAS’S STAIRCASE
DARK OMENS AND A HERO’S DEATH
THE SHED SKIN
THE RAMPARTS OF HONNIGSVALD
RETURN TO THE ICE
NEW CHALLENGES
FAREWELL
HOME
THE FIRST WALL
RUNNERS
A STRONG OAK AND A DECENT PIECE OF MEAT
THE FIRST TIME
AWAKENING
THE REFUGE
JUST ONE WORD
WITHOUT HONOR
OF HONOR AND FULL BELLIES
ON THUNDER SCARP
THE WHITE TORRENT
ONE GOLDEN HAIR
HOPE
SHE’S LYING IN FRONT OF YOU!
TO THE LIGHT
THE PALE HAND OF A CHILD
PYRE FOR THE DEAD
THE KING
SUMMER
APPENDICES
GLOSSARY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
OF FALCONS AND WOLVES
Duke Alfadas looked back down the long, winding path they had been following for hours. The army had been making its way uphill for a day and a half. At first, their route had taken them through forests and along the gently rising slopes of the foothills, but it soon grew harder. The path twisted among rocky crags before rising along the face of a precipitous cliff. On the left, the cliff dropped away into an abyss so deep that the men felt already as if they were high in the sky. On the right loomed the sheer rock wall, and the sky directly overhead was a radiant blue.
Some of the men had lost their nerve and were blindfolded—the sight of the chasm had been too much for them. Three, unable to go on, lay tied to the dogsleds. Was it the beauty of the land stretched far below their feet that robbed them of their senses? This world felt so different, to say nothing of the amulets that took the bite out of the wintry world. This place was not made for humankind. Only death would allow a man to stay here forever.
Alfadas wiped the sweat from his brow. From far above him came the distinctive chopping of ice picks. Sparkling cascades of ice periodically blocked the path, and the elves had sent an advance party to clear these obstacles. Count Fenryl was a capable leader, and he had shown himself to be surprisingly receptive to the humans. So far, the different races had managed to get along very well. One less thing to worry about, at least, Alfadas thought. He was also convinced that their approaching rendezvous with the refugees was no coincidence—it had been planned from the start because, like this, the humans could think of themselves as protectors. But against whom did the fleeing elves have to defend themselves out there on the ice? The troll fleet was still hundreds of miles away, Count Fenryl had quietly told Alfadas. The refugees needed no escort, and that must have been clear to all the elves. The duke hoped that his men would not see through the subterfuge. If they did, they would probably feel as if they were being treated like children.
Chunks of ice tumbled with a roar over the side of the path. Alfadas watched them ricochet off the gray cliffside below and disappear in a shroud of glittering silver shards. Ahead, a signal horn sounded: the way was once again clear. Slowly, the long train of elves, humans, and dogsleds began to move again.
He found it oppressive to march through a winter landscape and not feel even a trace of cold. The wind slapped him in the face and tore at his heavy red cloak, but its fangs did not sink into his skin as they should have. Winter had had its teeth torn out. It was certainly more comfortable—no doubt about it. Alfadas saw the hoarfrost in the dogs’ fur, and he could imagine how murderously cold it had to be. If he were not wearing an amulet, he knew, his breath would probably freeze in his beard. The cold would wear his little army down and probably even kill the weakest among the men, so it was good that the elves looked after them. And yet the feeling remained that it was not right to walk through a world of ice and snow and not feel the cold at all.
Alfadas clambered over a boulder on the path. Life was too easy if he had time to fret about a hardship they’d been spared. The path hacked from the rock was growing narrower and narrower. How long must it have taken to build this path up the cliff? he wondered. He saw no signs of pickaxes anywhere. If anything, the path seemed to be a natural formation, but no cliff he’d ever seen came with a convenient walkway! The winding route had probably been formed by magic.
He looked below to the forested hills they had left behind. So that was Silwyna’s homeland. He had never visited the Slanga Mountains before. They were considered a wild and inhospitable place, and nowhere else were there as many souled trees. Many were the tales told about the forest. It was said the magic in it was so strong that spontaneous supernatural phenomena were not unusual. Just as one never knew where lightning would strike in a thunderstorm, in that enchanted forest one could never be certain of not falling victim to ungoverned magic. Silwyna had told him many stories of strangers strangled in the night by wild, thorny tendrils, and he’d heard of wanderers infected by a mania that made them walk in circles forever after. Now and then, the forest drained the very life from those who entered it, turning them old in a single night. The land was as dangerous and unpredictable as those who lived in it. No one in their right mind went there voluntarily.
Silwyna had been keeping her distance from him for the past two days. It seemed she had understood correctly his parting words to Asla in the human
world. He was in Albenmark because he was forced to be there, and he wanted to return to his home. The bond that had once connected him with the elf woman had been cut—and he was not the one who had cut it. She should not have any false hopes!
Alfadas slipped and had to brace against the rock wall to stop himself from falling. The path was icy. The advance party had strewn sand and ash from the last campfire—a stopgap better than nothing, but not by much.
Never in his life had he been so high in the mountains. Neither trees nor bushes grew. Again he thought how out of place humans were here. It was too beautiful. The Maurawan forced her way into his mind against his will. He would do better to watch where he put his feet than brood over her. She was not supposed to have any place in his head now. Why was he not able to separate himself from her? He had a wife who loved him and two wonderful children. What could Silwyna offer him compared to that? Disappointment, no more.
His gaze swept the wild mountainous country they were leaving behind. There was something uncanny about the abyss. It beckoned him, and Alfadas had to make an effort not to stray too close. Was it the same for the other men? Climbing so high, so close to the heavens, made him feel like a bird. It was almost as if he could fly.
The ascent was taking more out of him than he had reckoned. His breath came in pants, although he kept the tempo slow. Something was robbing him of air. The other men around him were the same, puffing and wheezing along as if an army of old men were struggling up the mountain.
He looked ahead. Another fifty steps to a switchback. Several men were moving very close to the edge of the abyss. The new world and the magic that protected them from the cold had made them high-spirited. Others marched half-naked and had painted their bodies with grotesque faces to look like berserkers. He would have to talk to the men before they broke camp next day. High spirits could cause trouble.
A cry startled him, and a man rushed past barely two arm’s lengths away, his eyes wide and shining. His arms outstretched like the pinions of a gull, he plunged into the depths.
Now Alfadas stepped close to the path edge. A long way below, he saw the unfortunate man strike the rock wall. There was a spray of blood, and the man kept falling until he disappeared into the haze farther down. While Alfadas was still staring into the depths, a second cry rang out. Shriller, wilder. Its wings tucked close to its body, a snow-white falcon plummeted from the sky. It, too, vanished into the mist at the foot of the cliff.
Shaken, the duke stepped back from the edge. “Onward!” The entire column had stopped in its tracks. With a few harsh words, he drove the men on and marched with them, not wanting to think about the dead man. Alfadas had forgotten his name, but he could still remember how he had come to him in Honnigsvald. At first, the man had been quite reserved, but after a while he had spoken with more and more fervor. He was the blacksmith who had conceived the poleaxe.
What bothered Alfadas most was the expression on the man’s face. The smith had not fallen. He had jumped. And he had looked happy.
The duke peered forward. Another hour, perhaps a little more, and they would have the cliff behind them. Whatever delirium had seized the smith, he hoped it would not infect any more of his men.
Alfadas had underestimated. It took them more than two hours to reach the broad, snow-covered plain at the top of the cliff. While he was organizing the men into groups as they left the cliff path, Ollowain and Count Fenryl came to him. In their white garments, the two elves almost blended into the snowy background of the plain.
Fenryl had warm pale-brown eyes. His full lips and wild curly hair made him look less indifferent or aloof than the rest of the elves did. He wore a plain but elegant white tunic and a silk cloak that billowed with the slightest breath of wind. Only on second glance did Alfadas notice the falconer’s glove on Fenryl’s left hand.
“It will be night soon, Duke,” the count began, dispensing with pleasantries. “I would suggest that we keep the army marching until dark to put some distance between us and the cliff. I’m worried.”
“Why?” Alfadas looked sharply at the count. Had the elf been keeping something from him?
“It’s the air. It’s different at altitude. For most elves, it makes no difference. We just breathe faster when we exert ourselves. But your men . . . I don’t know what effect it will have on them. Kobolds are known to become intoxicated to the point where they are no longer masters of their own senses. They suffer hallucinations and imagine the strangest things.”
“That they can fly, for example?” Alfadas asked sharply.
Ollowain, abashed, avoided his eye. But the count nodded. “Yes. That has happened.”
“You should have told me that in advance.”
“We thought it would not affect you humans because you are so much bigger and stronger.”
“Is there anything else you think won’t affect my men, Count? I would be grateful to you if, in future, you could tell me in good time when you know of any minor details you think might possibly be a threat to their lives!” Alfadas had grown louder as he spoke, and a number of his soldiers were already turning to look at them. They had been speaking in the language of the elves so that the Fjordlanders would not be able to understand. Veleif Silberhand looked across curiously, and they had caught Lambi’s attention, too.
“Please lower your voice, Alfadas.” Ollowain had raised his hands placatingly.
“Might we face other problems that are bound to particular hopes on your part?” Alfadas persisted. He was finding it difficult not to become loud again.
“The light on the ice,” Ollowain said. “It can blind you.”
“It’s only temporary,” Fenryl added quickly. “We do indeed have your men’s well-being on our minds. The light on the ice does not represent a danger, only a hindrance. We know it from the centaurs and fauns. It does not affect kobolds at all. Besides, it is easily avoided. Your men only need to wear eye masks of leather with narrow slits cut in them to see. They protect the eyes.”
Alfadas looked up at the sky. Clouds had gathered in the last few hours. The sun was low on the horizon, night not far away. For today at least, snow blindness was no longer a risk. He had heard of the condition before. Hunters who risked the perils of the far north in winter spoke of it. Such blindness could last for days.
“I’ll make sure my men protect themselves. Anything else I should know?”
The count smiled. “Forgive me. I should have taken the thin air into consideration, but I have no experience with you humans.” He paused. “There is something else. If we find ourselves in a snowstorm, make sure your men know that they should stop where they are when the storm hits. The amulets will protect them from the cold, but marching on is almost a guarantee of losing one’s bearings. The column would fall apart and end up scattered in all directions. In a storm, it is crucial to simply stay put and sit it out, in which case I will temporarily assume command. My lieutenants will tell your men what to do.”
“What does that mean? That I lose command when it starts to snow?”
“Only in case of a storm,” Ollowain said, trying to clarify. “You cannot imagine how devastating a force of nature an ice storm here on the plain can be. If you don’t find shelter, you can be simply blown away.”
Alfadas did not understand why he should now concede to Fenryl’s demands. “We will decide that for ourselves if we get caught in a storm.” He nodded in the direction of the clouds. “Is one coming?”
“No, only driving snow.” Fenryl abruptly raised his left arm. A white falcon landed on his gloved hand, a blood-smeared amulet in its beak.
Alfadas looked at the bird in astonishment. “That’s from the blacksmith, the man who fell off the cliff! You’ve trained the bird to recover amulets—you knew what would happen!”
“No, no, no!” Count Fenryl shook his head adamantly. “I have merely trained Snowwing to recover lost amulets. They are extremely precious, Alfadas, and it takes a long time to create such a talisman. We have to get t
hem back for our children. They cannot simply be replaced. I thought it likely that some among us might die with no easy way to recover the body, so I brought my falcon along. I can’t see into the future, Duke. I knew no more than you that someone would die during our ascent. But even without magic, it was clear to me that there would be losses. There must be. That is simply what happens in war.”
Alfadas turned and walked away without a word. The count was right, and what he had done was only sensible. Yet Alfadas found it hard to accept that the elf had deliberately prepared for deaths among the humans, the first of which had caught the duke off guard.
He was suddenly aware of how long he had been away from Albenmark. And at the same time, he wondered, with shock, if the people of Firnstayn perhaps looked at him in the same way as he himself now saw the count, whose foresight was certainly practical. But making preparations to recover amulets from hard-to-reach corpses seemed to Alfadas deeply inhuman. His mistake. What else did he expect from the elves? How were they supposed to be “human” at all?
“What’s the matter with you?” Ollowain had followed him.
“Nothing!” Alfadas waved Ollowain’s question away tiredly. He wanted to be alone, as much as that was possible for a duke among an army of marching men.
“Count Fenryl would like to know if he has offended you somehow. If so, he would like to apologize.”
“I have some things to think about. Tell the count that everything is all right.” That was a lie, but Alfadas did not have the strength to carry on a debate with the elf about something that no one could make him understand. The matter with the falcon . . . it made perfect sense, yet it horrified him.
Alfadas marched with the men. Like all of them, he carried a bag with emergency rations, and he turned down the offer to ride one of the few horses. It bothered him that he could not remember the blacksmith’s name. He talked with the simple farmers who had never seen a landscape that consisted only of ice and rock, a land in which nothing would ever grow and for which, still, war was waged. He talked with the young soldiers from the king’s bodyguard who had joined forces with them at the end. They were burning for their first battle, hiding their fear behind swagger.
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