Elven Queen

by Bernhard Hennen

  Suddenly, someone in pale-brown boots was standing beside Asla. She had not heard any footsteps in the snow. Had she been so lost in her thoughts? She looked up—beside her stood Yilvina.

  “Do you think I would be allowed to decorate his grave, as well?” she asked in that strange accent that invariably gave her words a melodic undertone. “He saved my life.” Her face betrayed no expression as she spoke.

  What does she feel? Asla wondered. Shame? Shame, because of all possible saviors, it had taken a human to rescue her and the queen from the monster? Or gratitude?

  “I think Gundar would be happy to know that you, too, will remember him fondly.”

  “I know that,” the elf woman replied.

  Her self-assured reply irritated Asla.

  “My concern is that the people of your village may take it badly if I honor him according to your custom.”

  “I can’t speak for the others,” Asla replied coolly. “But it is no slight to me if you pay your respects to Gundar.”

  Yilvina tilted her head. For a while, she looked at the grave, lost in her own thoughts. Finally, she drew her dagger, sliced a strip of cloth from her cloak and knotted it to one of the branches. “I was very close to him when he died.”

  Asla thought of the kiss the elf woman had given the dying priest. Yilvina’s behavior had struck her as strange, but not wrong. She had not understood exactly what was happening, but she had sensed that the elf woman was fighting to save his life.

  “The walls of his heart were as thin as vellum. His god must have held a protective hand over him, because he really should not have lived as long as he did. A heavy meal or a walk along the fjord could have killed him. He was very fond of your boy, but carrying Ulric did not cause his death. Nor did the ghost-dog’s bite. His time had come. He went in peace.”

  Asla bit down on her lip. She wanted to say something, but it was as if a lump had caught in her throat, choking her voice. How did she know how Asla had reproached herself? Until now, she had thought that Yilvina cared for nothing but the well-being of her queen. She always seemed so cold and aloof. And yet she had seen with perfect clarity what was weighing on Asla’s heart.

  Yilvina reached for Ulric’s hand. “Let us go up to the house. Gundar would prefer us to remember him over good food than by freezing at his grave.”

  STONY DAYS

  Almost more unbearable than the battles to come was the waiting. Eleven days passed before the trolls mustered before Phylangan, days of confidence and excitement. We knew how strong our fortress was. Any attempt to take the Snow Harbor in a straight charge would have meant a massacre. Almost all our forces were deployed to the positions inside the mountains that flank the valley. Every embrasure was manned. The tower at the end of the Mahdan Falah had also been completed. Anyone daring to set foot in Phylangan through the Albenstar would be met by a hundred arrows. The exposed narrow bridge made it all but impossible to miss one’s target.

  Although our commander, Ollowain, was quietly confident, many were worried. “Will the trolls surprise us, as they did before?” some asked nervously, covertly. The apprehension in the air only evaporated when the great black worm of their army appeared on the horizon. I had seen their army once before, at Rosecarn, but I was shocked at their sheer numbers. They stretched across the horizon like a dark stain, and how they had changed was terrifying to see. They were disciplined. They set up a decent, well-organized camp. Of course, compared to an elven army on the march, they were nothing, but they certainly made a more orderly impression than did our allies, the centaurs.

  The trolls took their time. They allowed themselves a full two days to prepare their assault. Only years later did I understand that this was one of their weapons: their self-assured calm and the waiting we had to do. Centuries of exile had changed them very much.

  When I think back on the long days before the attack, however, I remember nothing more clearly than the terror perpetrated in Phylangan by an evil spirit. It seemed to be everywhere and left a trail of death behind it. One day, we found seven dead in one of the kobolds’ bowmaking workrooms. The next day, five humans died in their beds in the lazaret. I will never forget the sight of two centaurs in particular. They had probably wanted no more than to sleep off the night’s drunkenness. It horrified me to see what the specter had done to their big frames, normally so bursting with strength.

  The signs of its killings were unmistakable. It seemed to melt the flesh from its victims’ bones. When found, there was little left but bleached, fragile skin stretched over sinew and bone. Their hair had turned gray or white, and sometimes, when they had seen their killer before they died, an inexpressible horror was etched into their faces.

  Of particular note was the fact that the ghost never murdered an elf. Our allies were quick to realize this, too. In those times of restless waiting, it drove a wedge between us.

  They found many names for the invisible assassin. The kobolds called it “the cold light,” the centaurs “frostbreath,” and the humans “deathbringer.” It made no difference how many sentries we set, it came and went as it liked. Soon, our defenders were more scared of the ghost than of the trolls, and they longed for the day when the attack would begin. Then, they hoped, the killings of that immaterial terror would come to an end. How foolish it was to imagine that the enemy would give up one weapon just because it had a second!

  In those stony days of fear, days spent trapped within the fortress walls waiting for our doom, the council of war was in almost constant session. Now, with the benefit of distance, I am filled with sadness and incomprehension when I think of the things upon which we could not agree. For days, we squabbled about whether the humans should be allowed to bury their dead in the Skyhall. Landoran argued against it vehemently. He did not want that wondrous place to be soiled with the cadavers of humans, nor that the trees there should take their sustenance from decaying bodies.

  The argument grew so bitter that the human prince, Alfadas, went so far as to threaten to leave. He and his fighters, he said, no longer felt it right to contaminate the pristine fields of Phylangan with their presence. Orimedes had taken Alfadas’s side; he also threatened the pact between us, saying that if the humans abandoned the fortress, then the centaurs would also go. In the end, Landoran had to accept the demand, not least because his own son, our commander Ollowain, also supported the humans.

  When I think now of what Landoran must certainly have known then about the days still to come, our bickering feels petty and mean, and I am overcome with deep shame. At the time, despite my debt to the humans, I took the side of the prince of the Normirga. For me, as for Landoran, the idea of corpses rotting in the most beautiful of all our halls was unbearable.

  As bitter as these memories may be, I recall with a smile one particular incident in those far-off days. Ollowain and Landoran were at each other’s throats again, this time about sending off the women and children through the Sky Harbor, when a small gray-haired figure entered the council hall. It was a holde, in the traditional dress of his race. Wearing only a loincloth and a circlet inlaid with gold, he seemed out of place, maybe even ridiculous, there in the lavish council chamber, all gold and marble. Everyone fell silent and stared at the newcomer. Only Landoran rose from his seat, went to the holde, and, to our amazement, bowed before him.

  “I greet you, Gondoran of the Bragan clan, master of waters in Vahan Calyd.”

  Ollowain and Orimedes, as it turned out, also knew the holde, but he had kept his true rank concealed from them. Landoran offered the master of waters a seat in the war council, but the holde replied, none too subtly, that as far as he could see, Phylangan did not need another fighter. Instead, he asked for plans of the cisterns, waterways, and hidden springs. In his opinion, he said, the stone heart of the fortress was sick, and he wanted to do everything in his power to heal it. He could better serve Phylangan like that than he could with a sword in his hand. At the time, I smiled at the holde’s request. Landoran willingly acce
ded to his wishes and allowed him to borrow the Stoneformer’s Eye, one of our most precious artifacts. It was a ruby set in a gold circlet. When worn, the stone rested in the center of the wearer’s forehead and gave them the power to form rock as if shaping soft clay.

  After his visit to the council chamber, I never saw Gondoran again. Later, though, he would show all of us that he was not some eccentric fool, but that the heart of a warrior beat in his breast. Thus did Gondoran of the Bragan clan become a mirror of my own arrogance, and the memory of him warns me not to confuse external appearance with the quality contained within.

  When the trolls finally drew closer to Phylangan, it was one of my duties to serve the stone garden as a scout. Once, I flew over their camp with Snowwing. They had brought a large amount of wood with them, and they used it to fashion crude protective walls and covers for three huge battering rams. The trolls seemed to know exactly what to expect when they charged up the wide pass to the Snow Harbor. Let them prepare, I thought, filled with hubris. Wood might protect them from arrows, but I knew how many catapults we had trained on the valley and also what awaited the trolls besides arrows and artillery, against which their wooden walls would not help.

  As I turned to fly back, I sensed a dark power. It planted the seeds of despondency and thoughts of impending death. I had felt it before, at the Swelm Valley, but here it was far stronger. The trolls’ shamans were working blood magic.

  Back then, I sensed very clearly that they were casting spells that made a mockery of all the powers of nature, spells suffused with deep maliciousness. And I sensed their confidence. They were certain they would defeat us.

  From The Eye of the Falcon, page 783

  The Memoirs of Fenryl,

  Count of Rosecarn

  KNIFE IN THE HEART

  Orgrim shouldered the goat leather sack containing the heavy iron rods. He’d had to rely on the help of the kobold slaves to forge them, and even through the leather sack, the metal caused an uncomfortable tingling on his skin.

  A chill wind swept across the ice, and in the sky the green winterlight rippled in broad belts. He had five hundred warriors at his command, a fighting force that at any other time only a duke would lead. My days as pack leader are numbered, he thought confidently. If he were victorious this time, Branbeard would have no choice but to grant him the title of duke. The bloodbath that the three ice gliders had left behind when they had carved a path through the troll army had only served to reinforce his resolve: he would dare, and he would win! And Skanga’s ghost-dog had given him all the information he needed.

  Orgrim eyed the solid wooden wall with its two wheels. Three long shafts allowed the contraption to be pushed forward and also served to support the barrier the moment they were set down. Right and left of the wall, shields as big as doors could be folded down to extend the heavy barrier downward. Skanga’s ghost-dog had sworn there were no catapults where they intended to launch their attack. Victory or defeat hung on whether that son of an elven bitch was telling the truth.

  The pack leader looked at Brud. The wound in his chest had healed well. The scout had suffered a deep gash in the ice glider attack, and the falcon on his chest looked as if someone had cut its throat. Brud had been furious beyond measure at the mutilating wound and had talked day and night ever since about how he could hide the scar with other decorative scars to give the falcon back its dignity.

  Brud carried a heavy roll of rope over his left shoulder. Half of the trolls were similarly equipped. Boltan, Orgrim’s artillery master, joined them and spoke.

  “Skanga says she’s ready.”

  Orgrim inhaled deeply. The shaman was standing beside the black stone column that jutted skyward there. It projected straight out of the ice and marked the large Albenstar that lay close to the needle of rock.

  “Are you afraid?” Orgrim asked softly.

  The artillery master smiled nervously. “I won’t be once we get over there. I’m not scared of the elves. But the way there . . .”

  “Only cowards are afraid,” taunted Gran, who was standing behind them and had heard the exchange.

  “Can you really be brave if you’ve never had to get over your fear?” Boltan snapped back angrily.

  Gran’s forehead furrowed. “Are you calling me a coward?”

  “No, a blockhead!”

  “Enough!” Orgrim hissed. Then he raised his arm and gave Skanga the agreed sign. Almost simultaneously, an arch of shimmering light grew from the ice. “You know what you have to do?” Orgrim asked, fixing Boltan’s eyes with his own.

  Boltan nodded once. “I’m to sing the song of King Slangaman, all the verses. We follow then, and only then, five at a time.”

  “We need the time over there. You know how little room there is where we come out.”

  Boltan grasped his wrist in a warrior’s grip. “Good luck, Pack Leader. With a victory this time, they’ll soon be singing the song of Duke Orgrim.”

  “Let’s hope Skanga’s cur hasn’t been lying to us.” The pack leader turned away and grabbed the center shaft behind the wooden wall. Several warriors rushed to help him. Brud and Gran were at his side.

  With an uneasy feeling, he pushed the heavy construction slowly toward the gate of light. Skanga clambered over the thick shafts to join him.

  “I’ll lead you,” she said in her creaking voice. She stroked Orgrim’s forehead with her thin fingers. Her touch was like a dead branch scratching over his skin. “When you’ve won, Pack Leader, we shall talk. There’s something you need to know.” Her blind eyes looked up to him. “You have to win today!”

  “What do you want?”

  The shaman shook her head. “First, you win. Then I’ll talk with the king and you! Forward, now!”

  Orgrim obeyed in silence. His hands were wet with sweat. He was not afraid of battle, but he, too, feared the path through the void.

  “Let go and stay behind me,” he ordered the warriors on his left and right. Then he gritted his teeth and leaned his shoulder against the protective wooden barrier. Behind him, Gran grabbed hold of the shaft and helped push forward. The path through the nothingness was narrow, and the wooden wall would project beyond the sides of it. Anything that was not on the path could be attacked. That was why they had lost so many ships when they had come back to Albenmark.

  Flickering light danced on the surface of the wood. The north wind blew against Orgrim’s shoulder. Then he took the step. He stood in darkness. There was no wind anymore. At his feet was the golden path. The pack leader could see no more than the bit of the path that lay directly before him. But he sensed the shadows that lurked beyond the light. He felt their hungry eyes on him.

  Keep moving, he mentally ordered himself. Just don’t take your eyes off the path. A piercing scream sounded behind him and was cut off abruptly. Don’t leave the path!

  His shoulder pressed against the wall. His head tilted, he stared at the path. Skanga would protect them! They just had to keep going straight ahead. Something tore at the barrier, as if a gust of wind had caught it, but there was no wind there.

  Orgrim pushed ahead with all his strength. Don’t give in! Suddenly, white stone glowed beneath his feet, and a humid heat washed over him. The pack leader looked up. Far above him stretched a strangely transparent cave roof the color of the summer sky. Thick clouds drifted up there. The Sky Cave!

  Jubilant cries sounded from behind Orgrim as more and more of the first fifty warriors stepped through the gateway. The cave was breathtaking. Skanga’s cur had told Orgrim about it, about its scale and magnificence, but all the words in the world would not have been enough to prepare him for what he now saw. It was a wonder to behold, and at the same time false, warped. Like everything the elves did! The pack leader knew that he was in the heart of a mountain, but it felt as if he were looking out over a wide valley. The elves had robbed the cavern of its majestic gloom. Everything around him was wrong! Caves should not look like that—the elves had robbed the mountain of its heart, had
hollowed it out like worms eating into an apple. This mountain had once been Kingstor, the rock fortress of the troll king. How could it ever be that again after what the elves had done to it? How could a mountain with neither heart nor dignity be the throne of a ruler?

  Angrily, Orgrim tore his eyes away from the spectacular sight. The elves would pay. He would crush them underfoot like worms!

  Signal horns were blaring. The dance began. “Man the shafts!” Orgrim ordered, and he gave his own place to a young warrior. The polished stone of the Mahdan Falah was treacherously smooth, and the sides of the bridge had no rails. Only an elf could come up with that kind of nonsense! Orgrim moved with care along the narrow walkway over the abyss. The wooden wall projected a good way beyond the bridge on both sides. The pack leader released a catch, and a large wooden shield creaked down on one side of the wall, dropping past the side of the bridge. On the other side, Brud released a second shield.

  An arrow fell almost vertically from overhead and smashed against the bridge close beside Orgrim. The wooden wall protected them from any direct shot from the tower at the end of the bridge. A defender could only hit one of his warriors by shooting upward at a sharp angle and letting the arrow fall along an even steeper path once it had reached the zenith of its flight. But the pack leader had prepared for that, too.

  “Shield bearers to the shafts!” he ordered calmly. “Cover your comrades.”

  Warriors moved forward, carrying long wooden shields over their heads so that they covered not only themselves but also the fighters pushing the shafts. Orgrim hurried back to the center of the wall of wood.

  Arrows bored into the shields with muffled thuds. He looked back along the bridge and smiled. He had not yet lost a man on the Mahdan Falah, and all the first-wave fighters were now assembled behind him on the bridge. Skanga waved once, then disappeared through the gateway of light. Boltan would soon appear with more warriors. There was no time to lose.