But for the low crackling of the fire, it was deathly quiet. Many of the men nodded, lost in their own thoughts. Lambi stayed silent for a few heartbeats, letting his words sink in.
“Next time I face the trolls, they should learn that their fears have a name. They should know who the man is that cut their battle balls off. His name will be my battle cry, and I want them to tremble when they hear it. Alfadas Trollkiller! Come on, let the trolls creeping around our camp right now hear it!” Lambi drew his sword and jabbed it toward the night sky. “Alfadas Trollkiller!”
The war jarl’s call was picked up by hundreds of voices. The men rose to their feet, crowding close to Alfadas. Their new battle cry rang out over and over, and they finally lifted Alfadas onto their shoulders. Lambi, too, was hoisted high by the crowd. He whipped up the men again and again with his battle cry, and it seemed to Alfadas that an eternity passed before the men finally settled down again.
Dozens invited the duke to drink with them, and he went from fire to fire almost until dawn, speaking with the men. All were burning for another chance to fight the trolls. Finally, Alfadas sought out Lambi and found him some distance away, lying in the lee of a sled. The war jarl was asleep, a half-empty wineskin pinned beneath one arm.
The duke looked down at him in silence and wondered how Lambi would surprise him next. Suddenly, he opened his eyes and blinked sleepily.
“No rest tonight for you, I guess,” he said.
Alfadas shook his head. “I wonder: Was all that just pretty words, or do you really believe what you told the men?”
Lambi grinned mischievously. “What am I supposed to believe? That Svanlaug is laughing in our faces? The mistress of war is a whore. You never know whose bed she’ll lie in next.”
“You know I’m not talking about that.”
Lambi sat up. His breath reeked of sweet wine, but his voice was clear. “A good commander is one that knows best who to put where and when. And a very good commander knows not to hold that man back once he’s decided for himself that his time has come.”
“You don’t have to flatter me, Jarl.”
Lambi let out a short, ringing laugh. “Do I look like a flatterer or a bootlicker, Commander? Learn to see the truth for what it is. And don’t let me down. You’re the man to make sure we kick the trolls’ asses so hard that they taste the soles of our boots on their tongues. I believe in you, Alfadas.”
THE LAST LINE
Landoran, prince of Snaiwamark and Carandamon, watched the envoy stride down from the Mahdan Falah. Sandowas was the last emissary to return to Phylangan. The elven prince waited for him in the small pavilion close to the bridge.
Gravel crunched beneath the emissary’s feet. As soon as he entered, he dropped to one knee and threw back his long cloak. Sandowas had gold-blond hair held in place by a silver circlet. He wore boots of suede leather that reached above his knees and a dark-green doublet studded with pearls. His red cloak was hemmed with a broad band of gold.
A little too grand, thought Landoran casually as he looked the young elf over. The sword and dagger, the cross guard of which had been designed to resemble a shell, were also rather showy. But like so many things, taste was a question of age. The prince wondered for a moment whether Sandowas had been the right man for the mission to the heartland. On the other hand, it had been a simple enough task, and the youngsters had to start gathering experience somewhere.
“What do you have to report?” Landoran asked, skipping the usual formalities.
“We can expect no support from the heartland. As long as nothing is known about the queen’s whereabouts, Master Alvias is in charge. He fears an attack on the castle and cannot spare a man.”
“Doesn’t he know that the troll fleet is sailing north?” asked the prince in annoyance.
Sandowas spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “He knows it very well. Hundreds of refugees entered the heartland through the Albenpaths just before Reilimee fell. The guards on the sea walls defended to the last man. They did everything they could to keep the path to the gateway in the Shell Tower clear. The trolls wreaked havoc in Reilimee, even worse than what they did in Vahan Calyd. Only those who made it to the Shell Tower escaped alive.”
“Then is it somehow unclear to Master Alvias that we have to stand against the tide of these monsters with all our might? If each of us fights his own battle, we will all perish. We can only succeed against Branbeard and his butchers and drive them out of Albenmark again if we work together.”
Sandowas allowed himself a smile, which Landoran felt was out of place. “The queen’s chamberlain requested that I inform you that we are to send all our troops to reinforce his own. He says that because the trolls are now able to move along the Albenpaths even aboard ships, the direction in which they happen to be sailing means nothing. They could appear anywhere at any time. He is convinced that their next goal will be Emerelle’s castle.”
Exasperatingly, that line of reasoning is not so easily dismissed, Landoran thought. The prince looked to the Mahdan Falah, suddenly concerned. The stoneformers were still hard at work on the huge defensive tower that was intended to secure the end of the bridge. Already almost twenty paces high, the massive construction destroyed the harmony of the Skyhall. Two hundred archers and crossbowmen were supposed to occupy it. If the trolls dared to set foot on the Mahdan Falah through the Albenstar at its end, they would be met by a storm of arrows. The bridge would run red with their blood, which would pour down its snow-white columns.
Landoran sighed. Maybe all their preparations were in vain. He looked down at the hundreds of kobolds busily watering the Skyhall’s gardens. Dark clouds had gathered beneath the roof of the cave, and the air was as humid as a mangrove swamp in Vahan Calyd. Not even the power of the Albenstone had caused their fortunes to change.
Sandowas cleared his throat softly.
“Yes?”
“Might I be permitted a question, my prince?”
Landoran smiled with amusement. “Now that you have already asked one question without my permission, you are granted a second.”
The emissary blushed. “I . . . what about the other races? Who will send us help?”
“The centaurs have not forgotten the old bond between us, but how much use are manhorses when it comes to defending a fortress? Maybe some of the Maurawan will help, but you can never tell what’s going on in their heads, let alone who they think their allies are. The host of humans will soon reach Phylangan. That’s it. Those are all the allies we can hope for.”
“But all our sister races? They can’t—”
“Branbeard has sent out emissaries of his own,” the prince said, interrupting the young elf. “The trolls have changed a great deal since we drove them out of Albenmark. Branbeard inflicted his cruelties on Vahan Calyd and Reilimee very deliberately. He intended from the start to sow the seeds of fear, and his harvest has been abundant. His emissaries are promising that only we Normirga and Emerelle need fear the wrath of the trolls. But whoever supports the queen and her clan will perish like our brothers in Reilimee.” Landoran’s face stretched into a mocking smile. “Some of our elven brothers at least had the decency to hide behind the lie that no decisions could be made until the line of succession had been determined. Others said openly that they had no desire to bleed for the feuds of Emerelle and our people. So we will have to hold Phylangan with the help of the humans and centaurs, and that is all. We are the last line of defense.”
“Can we win, my prince?”
Landoran laughed. “This is the strongest fortress in the north. It does not matter how many trolls there are. One of our warriors is worth four of theirs.”
Sandowas paled. He was clearly imagining how he would fare in battle against four trolls.
“The strength of our walls will help us, boy. The trolls probably won’t even make it as far as the Snow Harbor. Besides, we all know that Carandamon is as good as defenseless if Phylangan falls. Branbeard has sworn to wipe out our peo
ple. He should not have done that. Everyone who fights here knows that there is no turning back. The stone garden will not fall!”
“Where is my sword needed?” Sandowas asked, newfound defiance in his voice.
“Report to the Snow Harbor. Defense preparations are being organized there. You may go now, Sandowas.”
The young elf bowed once more, briefly, then hurried away.
Landoran looked up at the dark clouds beneath the dome of the Skyhall and thought about how much more relentless the power was against which Lyndwyn fought. In the end, it might be she alone who decided whether Phylangan was destroyed.
THE SNOW HARBOR
They had been marching up the glacier through the wide valley for more than half a day. Slowly, the mountains on both sides closed in, joining to form a towering barricade of stone at the end of the valley. The narrow slits in the snow masks meant that one could only ever see a small section of the mountain panorama. Sunlight sparkled from the snow-covered mountainsides and gray-blue ice of the glacier—the army was wading through light. The sheer dazzle and splendor of it all was overwhelming for human eyes. And though the blinding light did not inconvenience the elves, they seemed to have lost all sense of wonder at the mountainous world around them.
Alfadas was relieved that they would soon reach Phylangan. Lambi’s predictions had proven correct. On several occasions, small parties of trolls had tried to attack by night but had been repelled easily each time. Two nights before, however, a pair of sentries had vanished without trace. It did not fit with the style of the other attacks. Silwyna had tried to pick up the trolls’ trail, but heavy snowfall had wiped out any traces. Patrolling centaurs had found neither the sentries’ bodies nor the trolls that must have been behind their disappearance.
Alfadas stepped away from the marching column and climbed a low hill that rose like a large boil from the glacial ice. Having the world reduced to what he could see through a narrow slit was getting to him more and more, but he resisted the urge to remove his snow mask. A few more hours and they would reach the safety of the fortress.
His gaze drifted to the horizon. He could not understand why the trolls had not tried to attack them again. Since the battle on the ice, he had expected a renewed assault at any moment. What was holding them back? Were they too weak? Had Lambi been right with his fiery speech?
Even though no serious attack had taken place, the commander felt constantly as if he was being watched by something other than his men and the elves. Something was lurking on the ice. It was never far away, and yet it stayed out of sight. He had talked with Ollowain about it, and the elf had confided that he felt the same. It could have just been the trolls’ scouts, but an inner voice warned Alfadas that something else lurked out there, something far more treacherous than trolls.
Alfadas looked ahead, toward the end of the valley. Just a few more miles. The wall of rock rose almost vertically. These were natural walls, higher than any human could have built. Several broad outcrops jutted like domed towers from the faces of the cliffs. Snow lay on narrow ledges and in cracks. There was no way up. The Snaiwamark ended with this valley. Beyond the mountains lay the high plateau known as Carandamon. The elves could not afford to lose this fortress. From the east, it was the only way to reach the high plains. If the fortress fell, the plateau beyond was all but defenseless. The forts of Carandamon were smaller and had not been built to withstand a determined attack.
He recalled the evenings in Honnigsvald, when Lysilla had talked about Phylangan—its towering halls, the labyrinth of passages, two large harbors, and all the other marvels that were there.
Alfadas descended the hill again and joined the shepherds accompanying the army. Their herd of sheep had shrunk considerably. Fewer than a hundred beasts remained, and those that did were skinny and exhausted. The duke shared a few jokes with the men and after a while went to speak to Egil.
“Well, Ralf,” he said, addressing him by his alias. “The shepherds’ work will soon be done. What would you like to do next?”
Horsa’s son looked around cautiously. Only when he was sure that no one was within earshot did he reply. “I’ve spent years training with the sword. Take me as a soldier.”
“The other shepherds say good things about you. You’ve earned their regard, although they suspect you’re of noble birth. You can’t hide your birthright. The way you talk, the things you know, even the way you move—it all gives you away. But they have kept your secret to themselves. Do you want to leave these men behind?”
Egil sighed. “Should not every man do what he does best?”
“Are you sure you have discovered what it is that you do best? Even today, I am plagued by doubts about whether I have followed the right path in my life.”
The king’s son laughed. “You can’t be serious, Alfadas. You’re an incomparable swordsman. There isn’t a man in the Fjordlands who can measure up to you, and you are renowned as a commander. How can you doubt the road you’ve taken?”
Alfadas smiled. “None of that counts here. Among elves, I’m an average swordsman, at best. But perhaps I would have been an incomparable fisherman or hunter? What I’m trying to say to you, Egil, is that you should give yourself time. You already know how good a soldier you are. But can you be a friend? The other shepherds don’t know who you really are. Enjoy the freedom you have! One day, when you sit on your father’s throne, you will never know who is truly a friend and who is just a flatterer with no interest but their own advantage. You will do well to be distrustful—kings have very few friends.”
Egil looked toward the other shepherds. There were only five of them, hard-bitten fellows. Sun and wind had made their faces dark and craggy. “What will they do when we get to the elven fort?”
“I’ll ask them, but I do have plans for them. There’s a weapon that is easy to master and no less deadly than a sword. When we get to the fortress, I want to train them in its use. Do you want to stay as one of them?”
Horsa’s son looked down, abashed, at his snow-encrusted boots. “I don’t know.”
The duke clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to reason. Listen to your heart. You’ve pleasantly surprised me in recent days. I’d have been willing to bet that you’d give me nothing but trouble. I trust you; I know you’ll make the right choice.”
Alfadas dropped back to the very end of the column. On the dogsleds lay the wounded from the battle. Dalla tended to them. The mere sight of a human woman seemed to work wonders for most of the men. Veleif, too, spent much of his time among the wounded. He had them tell him about their lives—the skald had given himself the goal of getting to know every man and his history.
Veleif got around with the aid of a walking stick made of pale wood. He wore a fine linen shirt that looked like it had come from one of the elves. His long gray hair was not tied, and the winter wind toyed with it. On his back, safely wrapped in leather, was his lute. As with the rest of them, a broad strip of leather hid his eyes. He seemed to be in a surly mood.
“Ah, Father of Songs, is today not a good day?” Alfadas joked.
The bard pointed ahead at the steep rock wall. “Why should I be in a good mood today? I talked to that snow-woman, Lysilla. She told me about the splendid elven castles to the south and about Emerelle’s palace with its garden of enchanted trees. And where do I end up? In a rocky nest about as fetching as an empty aerie. Nothing here reminds me of the magnificent elven castles of our faery stories.”
“Don’t be too quick to judge. Just wait! I’m quite sure the elves will manage to surprise you yet.”
Veleif edged closer to Alfadas. “There’s something here,” he whispered. “Most of the men don’t have senses fine enough to notice it, but have you?”
Alfadas did not want this particular story spreading. He shrugged. “The elves say that the air up here is so thin that it makes us see things that aren’t really there. I’m tempted to believe them. They know their land.”
The skald swept a strand
of hair out of his face. “Making people see things is my stock in trade. Thin air . . .” He snorted. “I know what I know.”
Suddenly, the valley reverberated with the solemn sound of golden lurs, large trumpets with mouths designed as dragon or horse heads. In the cliff in front of them, a gap opened, growing wider and wider, as if some gigantic monster was opening its maw. From inside radiated a silver-blue light almost as bright as the sun, but it did not blind the eyes.
An ice glider pulled up beside them, its runners crunching in the snow. Ollowain waved to Alfadas. “You should enter Phylangan at the head of the column. As commander, it is only right.”
“Would you like to come along, poet?”
A smile finally appeared on Veleif’s face. “Maybe you were right about elven surprises, Duke.”
The two men climbed onto the steel runner of the ice glider, and Ollowain pulled them up beside him. The strange vehicle looked like a sled on which the builder had fixed a slender mast. It was controlled with a lever fitted at the bow that allowed the runners to be adjusted and thus to either slow the glider down or steer it in a wide curve. The glider was no more than five paces long. There were no sides to help passengers hold on, but wide leather loops on the deck provided grip for the feet, and there were ropes to hold on to as well. Sailing on an ice glider was like riding an arrow in flight.
“Hold tight!” Alfadas warned the skald. Then he slipped his feet into a pair of the leather loops and grasped one of the ropes with both hands. The large triangular sail swung into the wind, and with a jolt the glider began to move. As if flying, it shot along beside the marching column. The wind burned in their faces as they sped toward the silver-blue light. In Alfadas, the thrill of speed fluctuated with pure terror. To fly as fast as a bird was sublime, but if he fell overboard in a moment of inattention, he would break every bone he had on the hard ice!
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