Elven Queen

by Bernhard Hennen

  “Thorfinn? Audhild?” Again, he received no answer. But even in the stable they would have been able to hear him. Gundar stepped over to the fire, picked up a rag, and lifted the kettle aside. Millet gruel. He stirred it. Black clumps rose to the surface. What was going on here? Was that a sound? Gundar looked up to the ceiling. Heavy black beams supported the roof. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw something white, but in the wavering red light from the fire pit, it was impossible to say if anything was really there.

  He shook his head. There would be a very simple explanation for everything. And what was supposed to be among the roof beams, anyway?

  “Thorfinn? Audhild?” Maybe they were outside with the children, chasing a goat that had wandered off. The priest looked toward the door that joined the parlor to the stable. It stood slightly ajar.

  Gundar returned to the entryway and fetched the oil lamp. Holding it in his outstretched arm, he entered the stable. It was pitch-black inside. He saw a few feathers in the light cast by the lamp. Some dirty straw. An overturned bucket.

  The priest took another step. Brown branches? He lifted the lamp higher. The corpse of a horse lay in the center of the stable, its legs no more than skin and bone. Gundar could see every rib of its shriveled body. He swallowed. Please. Not here, Luth, he thought despairingly. I beg you!

  Protruding from behind a chest-high wooden wall, he saw the sole of a boot. His heart pounding, Gundar stepped over the horse. Thorfinn! His thin face was frozen in a mask of horror. Audhild, his wife, lay beside him. Her skirts had slipped up as she had tried to crawl away from something. Her legs reminded him of driftwood sticks washed up on the shore of the fjord.

  Thorfinn still held a wooden hayfork in his hand. He seemed to have tried—uselessly—to hold something at bay. “Not the children,” Gundar whispered, and he moved on, into the back section of the stable.

  The flame of the oil lamp flickered. The priest felt a breath of air on his face, icy cold. He moved around several dead birds lying on the floor and found two goat carcasses as well. All of them had retreated to the very rear of the stable. Then he discovered Thorfinn’s elder son. The tow-haired lad had been twelve summers old. Gundar recalled his name now: Finn. He was half lying, half sitting, his back against the door that led outside. His hands were still pressed back against the gray wood. The door was slightly open, and snow was blowing in through the gap.

  Gundar kneeled beside the boy. He pushed against the door, testing it. It barely moved an inch. He raised the lamp and looked out through the narrow opening. A snowdrift had sealed the door. The snow outside was as high as Gundar’s waist. A strong man could not have opened that door.

  Finn’s eyes gazed into the darkness. Gundar tried to lower the boy’s eyelids, wanting to escape his stare, but the dried skin tore.

  Where were the others? Aesa, he thought. That was the daughter. And Tofi, the youngest. Finn was facing toward the sled. Gundar gulped. He was afraid of what he would find. Knees trembling, he crossed to the other side. A colorful horse blanket lay over a bench, an indistinct outline beneath it.

  He snatched the blanket back. Harness and tack were on the bench, but nothing more. Maybe the children had escaped. “Aesa! Tofi! It’s me, Gundar, the priest from Firnstayn. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

  Gundar listened into the darkness. The wind outside howled beneath the gables. Wood clattered. The priest turned in fright. Something was in the stable!

  “Who’s there?”

  Another gust wailed through the roof. Very softly, he heard a husky sound. A whisper!

  The stable was so cold that Gundar’s breath fogged in front of his mouth. The hand that held the lamp shook, and shadows danced over the stable walls.

  Softly, he began to pray. Step by step, he moved back through the room. The hayfork. It had slipped from Thorfinn’s hands. Someone must have bumped against it.

  “In the name of the weaver of fate, show yourself!”

  The whisper came again. Right at his feet! Thorfinn’s mouth twitched. His lips were dried and pulled back so far that Gundar could see the farmer’s yellow teeth. Hoarse sounds escaped his throat. Thorfinn’s sky-blue eyes were fixed on Gundar.

  “Chi . . .”

  Gundar leaned down, trying to hear better.

  “Children . . . the light . . . I see . . .”

  “Save your strength, Thorfinn. I’ll bring you to the fire,” Gundar said, and he tried to lift the farmer.

  Thorfinn’s hand shot forward, closing around Gundar’s left wrist. The skin was as thin as finely shaved vellum. Gundar could distinctly feel the bones in the farmer’s fingers. It felt as if a hand from a grave had grabbed hold of him. He tried to push the claw away, but Thorfinn summoned all his strength to hold on.

  “Life strings . . . eats . . . wolfhorse.”

  “A wolfhorse?”

  “Door . . . it goes through . . . just . . . through . . .”

  “Where are the children?”

  A shudder went through the man’s drained body. “Just through . . .” A single tear trickled down Thorfinn’s cheek. His features softened. He seemed to have found his peace. “They’re waiting.”

  “I’ll take you down to the village,” Gundar whispered helplessly.

  A rattle came from deep in the dying man’s chest. His hand released its grip. His eyes lost their shine.

  “May the gods light your way through the darkness. May they open their halls to you and welcome you to their eternal feast, for you were a true servant always, and your soul is—”

  Thorfinn reared up. The unspeakable horror had reappeared on his face, as if, on his journey into eternal night, he had once again encountered the terror that had come to haunt Wehrberghof. The farmer tried desperately to say something. His debilitated body tensed, then suddenly slumped. Thorfinn’s life-light went out once and for all.

  There was a puff of air, and the small flame from the oil lamp wavered and smoked and began to shrink. In a moment, it was little more than a spark. Gundar tried to shield it from the draft with his hands. Carefully, he set it on the floor. A red glow shone through the doorway that led back to the parlor.

  Gundar kneeled and prayed fervently that the flame would not go out completely. It was only a few steps to the door, but the darkness was like a cavern with no end. Not even as a child had he been so afraid of the dark. He was sure the wolfhorse was lurking inside it, and that as soon as it was completely dark, it would come for him. Only the dying flame of the lamp still protected him.

  Gundar tried to fight his fear. The beast must be gone by now, he told himself, or it would have attacked me long ago. But it could not be far away. He thought of the burned gruel. It could not have been more than half an hour since the family had fled the parlor for the stable. Gundar looked around fearfully in the darkness. Was it still here?

  The snowstorm eased. The small flame on its wick did not waver anymore. Slowly, it grew stronger. The circle of light it cast in the darkness grew with every heartbeat. And then Gundar saw them—the other two children! Aesa had her arms wrapped around Tofi protectively. They had crept beneath the large sled to hide.

  Tofi had his head pressed into Aesa’s shoulder. They were gone. Tears sprang to the priest’s eyes, and he wept silently. Helpless, he balled one hand into a fist and bit into it. Why were there gods at all if they let something like this happen?

  Was that a sound? The soft crunch of footsteps in the snow? Had the assassin returned?

  “Come into the parlor!” the priest bellowed in his fury. “I’m waiting for you!”

  Hardly were the words out of his mouth than he regretted them. What had he done? With trembling fingers, he fumbled for the knife at his belt. It had a narrow blade, barely as long as his hand. All his life, he had only ever used a knife to slice meat and gut fish. He had never been in a fight in his life—he was a priest! His job was to stop senseless fights from happening!

  He pulled himself together. If the beast was coming
for him, he wanted at least to see it in the light. He looked at the dead children one last time. Hiding would be pointless.

  He went into the parlor, turned, and barred the door to the stable. Then he threw pieces of firewood onto the coals until a bright flame shot up.

  Sounds came from the entryway. Something was tinkering around behind the heavy woolen curtain that separated the parlor from the small space.

  Gundar raised his knife protectively over his chest. To finally see the beast . . . maybe there would be some relief in that, at least? The curtain parted. A small figure dressed in white stepped into the parlor. Gundar’s eyes were blurred with tears. He blinked.

  It was Ulric!

  “What are you doing here?” Gundar lowered the knife.

  “I . . . I came to help you. I . . . You won’t send me away now, will you?” Alfadas’s son spoke quickly and avoided looking the priest in the eye. “It’s already dark outside. I can’t go back to the village tonight! I wanted to spend the night in the stable so you wouldn’t notice me. But I guess you heard my steps, didn’t you?”

  Gundar slumped onto the heavy wooden bench beside the table. “Why did you follow me?”

  “I’m going to fight the monster with you!” the boy said ardently. “When we’ve killed it, Halgard will get better. That’s how it always is, isn’t it? When the heroes kill the monster, everything is better again.”

  Gundar felt a lump rising in his throat. What was he supposed to tell the boy? That things for Halgard would never get better? Maybe miracles could only happen if someone believed in them. What had happened to the girl, after all, had also been a miracle, although of the most terrible kind. “Does your mother know you’re here?”

  Ulric shook his head. “She never would have let me go. But I had to come.” The boy was wearing a thick coat made from white leather. It had a hood and was lined with sheepskin. His boots, too, were pale leather. No wonder he’d been able to hide so well in the snow.

  Ulric unbuttoned the coat. At his belt, he wore a long dagger. “That’s my magic sword,” he declared proudly. “The elves forged it. We’ll be able to beat any monster with that, Gundar. You know, Halgard is my princess. I’ve always protected her. In the village, they say you went out to deliver us from evil. I’ll be by your side. I’ll fight with you.”

  The priest looked at the boy in disbelief. Every word he said was spoken earnestly. He truly believed that he could save Halgard. But could he take Ulric with him? What would happen if they actually encountered the beast? And yet, couldn’t that happen in the village just as easily? And if he took Ulric back to Firnstayn, would he find the courage to go out again, now that he knew for certain that the creature was also up here?

  Ulric was looking at him. He could not send the boy back. “Be my companion on this quest.” Gundar was surprised at the emotion in his voice. The boy had opened a door to a world that had long been closed to him, one in which the belief that, in the end, everything would work out had not been extinguished by years of bitter experience.

  The pieces of firewood that Gundar had thrown onto the fire were already half burned. Darkness was returning to the parlor when they took their places side by side at the long table. The priest ladled two bowls of millet gruel for them from the kettle and found some stale bread.

  “Where are Thorfinn and his family?” Ulric asked abruptly, dunking his bread in the gruel.

  Gundar sighed deeply. Could he tell him the truth? Wouldn’t a lie only slam shut the door that the boy had just opened for him? “They’re gone,” he finally said evasively.

  “Where? They can’t stay outside in the storm.”

  “They’re dead, Ulric. A wolfhorse, a . . . ghostly thing . . . was here. The very same that almost killed Halgard.”

  The boy placed his chunk of bread back on the table.

  “It killed them all?” he asked very quietly. “The children too?”

  Gundar nodded. “Yes, also the children.” He pushed his bowl of gruel away. That was that for dinner. He couldn’t eat now.

  “Where are they?”

  Ulric slid over, and Gundar finally laid his arm around the boy’s shoulders and drew him close. “They’re out in the stables. We can’t bury them now. I’ll send others up when we get back to the village.”

  “Do they all look like Alfeid?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s good that Halgard couldn’t see her mother like that. She looked so . . .” Ulric suddenly began to sob.

  Gundar embraced the boy tightly. He was close to tears himself.

  After a while, they pushed the table and the bench aside. They spread their coats on the rush-covered floor, close to the fireplace. They could not sleep in the beds of the dead. To do so felt wrong.

  They lay beside one another in silence and listened to the crackling of the fire and the storm.

  “Do you see it too?” Ulric whispered. “Up there, all the way in the corner. It’s sitting up in the beams, watching us.” His voice was trembling. “Is that it? The wolfhorse?”

  Gundar squinted. There really was something white up there. A head? Thorfinn’s words came back to him. It goes through . . . just through . . . Was the beast sitting on the roof? Had it pushed its head down through the shingles to watch them? Gundar blinked, but he could not see the thing clearly. He threw back his coat, jumped to his feet, and threw a handful of kindling onto the coals. An eternity seemed to pass before bright flames leaped.

  Ulric had his dagger in his hand, ready to strike in a heartbeat. The boy seemed to know no fear. Then, suddenly, he burst into laughter. “It’s a chicken!”

  Gundar squinted at the ceiling again. Ulric was right! There was no apparition. A frightened chicken had pushed itself up against the slope of the roof right at the end of a roof beam. It must have escaped from the stable through the door he’d found ajar. Gundar began to laugh along with the boy. It was liberating. Perhaps they really could win, and everything would be good again when they found the desecrated ironman and had pleaded forgiveness for Ole’s crime.

  They lay down again, and Ulric soon fell asleep. Gundar propped himself on his elbow and looked at the boy. Ulric was smiling.

  The old priest stretched and rolled himself in his coat. Did he smile in his own sleep sometimes? What a foolish idea, he thought wearily. And who was supposed to watch him when he slept anyway?

  All that remained of the fire was a matte glow. Something moved in the darkness behind the table. A spider with a body the size of a pig was looking at them. Its jaws clicked softly. No, it spoke: “At the spider under the rainbow lies a gift for you.”

  FRIENDSHIP AND DEAD FISH

  Ollowain had reached the large lake in the center of the Skyhall. He looked up at the Mahdan Falah. Where was she? It made no difference who he asked. All he got were evasions and shrugs. But she was not far away; she had not left Phylangan—he could feel that she was close by. Sometimes he even dreamed of her.

  No. That was nonsense. He had no magical talent. How was he supposed to “feel” that she was close by? It was wishful thinking. He simply did not want to admit the truth: she had betrayed him. She had stolen the Albenstone and absconded with it.

  Ollowain suspected, though, that the truth of the matter lay elsewhere. He gazed up at the bridge again. He would give anything to be standing up there with her, looking deep into her eyes, feeling the soft pressure of her hands. In his heart, he felt that she had not broken faith with him. Landoran knew where she was. She’d let him talk her into some foolish business or other, hoping that the old scoundrel would help her. If only she’d come straight to him, Ollowain, without sending Lysilla ahead.

  Ollowain moved his fingertips over the snow-white lotus flowers that grew along the shore. Their heady scent lay over the water, and the air was oppressively hot. Lyndwyn had been right, of course. He would never have let her get close to him by herself. She had been forced to blindfold him so he would follow the voice of his heart. What a fool he’d been.


  Hoofbeats caught Ollowain’s ear, and he saw Orimedes come trotting down the path to the shore. He carried a wineskin over his shoulder and held two heavy silver goblets in his hands. “I have to tell you, White Knight, that you are not the easiest elf to find. Can you help me knock off this wine? This, at least, is not destined to end up as loot for a troll.”

  “So you also think the trolls will win?”

  The centaur raised his eyebrows. “You don’t? The question is not whether the trolls will win. That part is beyond doubt. The only question is how long we can hold on.” He raised the wineskin. “Which is why we should polish off this wine.”

  “Maybe you and your men should leave Phylangan? You still have time. What sense is there in dying in a hopeless fight?”

  Orimedes opened the wineskin and filled the silver goblets. “You’re staying, too.”

  “These are my people. I don’t have a choice. And . . .” He thought of Lyndwyn. He would not abandon her. The Albenstone could not be allowed to fall into the trolls’ hands. He had to stay close to the sorceress.

  “And?” Orimedes repeated, handing him one of the goblets of wine. “I hope you will do me the honor of drinking with a barbarian like me.”

  Ollowain took the proffered cup. “You’re not a—”

  The centaur clanged his goblet against Ollowain’s. Wine slopped, splashing over Ollowain’s sleeve, but it pearled off without leaving the slightest mark. “Don’t tell me what I am or am not, elf. I know perfectly well what you think of me and those like me. You can’t abide anyone who’s relieved himself in your queen’s ballroom.” The centaur grinned broadly. “I can understand that, and I’m sorry I did, really. What can I say? Some things are stronger than I am.” Suddenly, he grew serious. “I’ve come to say thank you. If not for you, I would have died in Vahan Calyd.”

  The swordmaster waved it off. “We both did our duty for the queen, no more.”