Elven Queen
Page 20
The swordmaster looked at the long row of openings in the wall of the tunnel. The time had come to accept Gondoran’s offer. Against all likelihood, they had managed to repel two attacks by the trolls, but they did not have anything to stop a third—except for the holde!
The last of those escaping would be far out on the ice of the high plain by now. The trolls would not catch up with them. At least, not today. Ollowain took the silver horn from his belt and put it to his lips. Three long blasts were his valediction to Phylangan.
“What was that?” Alfadas asked tiredly. “An invitation to the trolls?”
“No. A call to our last ally.” He turned to the others. “Retreat! Back to the Sky Harbor. Run as fast as you can. Our friend will unleash the dragon’s breath.”
Before anyone could ask, a distant, ominous whistling could be heard. Ollowain jumped down from the barricade. “Run!” he ordered. “Take the small ice gliders left behind.”
The whistling turned into a snarling hiss. His companions ran. The swordmaster snatched up the kobold and threw him over his shoulder. He would apologize later for the discourtesy.
The trolls broke out in roars of triumph. Ollowain heard the heavy stamping of their feet.
“What’s going on, Commander?” the kobold asked fearfully.
Ollowain did not have the breath to answer. His companions were a short distance ahead of him. Silwyna looked back, and he saw her eyes widen. The snarl reached the tunnel. Ollowain did not look back. Shrill screams rang in his ears, screams of death.
The kobold shrieked, “Run! Run! The dragon’s breath is catching up.”
Ollowain leaped over the twisted remnants of the Sky Gate. “Stay left,” he shouted. “Run to the docks! Do not run straight ahead!”
Beyond the door, he turned to the side and ran around the white-painted wall of the cave. The screams behind him had ceased, and the only sound now was the menacing hiss. A thick white jet of steam exploded through the destruction of the Sky Gate. His father’s bodyguard was caught by it and let out a short-lived scream. Only then did Ollowain realize he had called his warning in the language of the humans.
The others had escaped. They were running toward the ice gliders tied up at the docks.
Slowly, the steam spread in the expanse of the Sky Harbor. The floor of the harbor hall was covered in ice, and the breath of winter entered through the wide door that opened on the far side onto the high plain of Carandamon.
Ollowain put the kobold down. The little warrior’s beard was covered with fine silver droplets of water. An uncomfortably warm blast struck Ollowain’s face and burned on his wounded cheek.
“Thank you, Commander, for ignoring all protocol and throwing me over your shoulder like a sack of flour.”
Ollowain smiled tiredly. “Who knows how many times your crossbow saved my life? You owe me nothing.”
The kobold shook his head defiantly. “I owe you a life, Commander. You can call in the debt anytime you want. My name is Murgim. You’ll find me—”
“On one of the gliders!” Ollowain said, interrupting the kobold. A thick fog engulfed them. The little fighter blurred to a vague outline. “Stay close to the wall, then you can’t miss the docks.”
“Aren’t you coming with us, Commander?” Murgim called after him.
Ollowain felt his way back along the wall. The rock was slippery with warm condensation. He was not a commander anymore, Ollowain thought, and despite their defeat, he felt an endless sense of relief. Phylangan was lost. He had fought to the very end, but the fortress could not be saved. Now he would do what he should have done long before.
He found the stairway he’d descended once before and ran down into the depths of the mountain. There were no guards to stop him now. The stone forest was deserted, and the fountain among the columns had ceased to spray. The ground beneath his feet vibrated constantly. It was like walking on ice about to break up beneath the spring sun.
A hot, trembling stream of air flowed from the entrance to the Hall of Fire like liquid glass. The stream drove flurries of large flakes of ash before it that danced madly like black butterflies. Ollowain’s throat was bone dry. Sweat poured from his face and back and burned in his wounds. The air smelled of stone dust, and something bitter coated his tongue.
The hot air scorched his cheeks as he stepped into the hall. There were less than fifty Normirga still there, crouching on the floor. The benches along the wall were empty. They had no reserves left in their battle with the mountain.
Ollowain moved cautiously between magic weavers to the center of the hall. No one took any notice of him.
Lyndwyn still kneeled on the golden disk. She looked as if she had not moved an inch in all the weeks she’d been there. Her face was pale, her features silent and grave. The first strands of silver shimmered in her black hair.
The swordmaster kneeled before her. He laid his hands gently on her shoulders.
“Do you hear me?” he asked softly.
Lyndwyn’s face showed no reaction. Her eyes stared without seeing.
“It’s over.” He stroked her silvering hair tenderly. “We did all we could, and now we have to go.”
Lyndwyn did not hear him. Ollowain thought of what his father had told him about the chorus of the magic weavers. What would happen if he broke the keystone out of its arch, if he simply took the woman he loved away? Would she perish in flames if she woke from her trance too quickly? He did not know. But he knew what would happen if he just stayed there at her side. The trolls would come. Flush with victory, they would murder them all.
Ollowain lifted the sorceress gently in his arms. He carried her protectively, pressed close to his chest.
The spell was broken! All the magic weavers looked up. A young woman close to Ollowain burst into flames.
“Traitor!” A slim figure rose from among the sorcerers. His father.
Ollowain did not stop. Unwavering, he moved toward the entrance that led to the stone forest.
“We could still have beaten the mountain,” his father shouted accusingly. “You’ve made all our sacrifice worth nothing.”
The swordmaster said nothing. He had bowed to his father’s insanity for far too long.
“I curse you, my son! I curse you! Take her! It won’t help you. Lyndwyn knows where she belongs. You cannot possess her again. Even now, she is trying to banish the disharmony from the great song. You! You will never lie with her again. That is my curse!”
Ollowain tried to close his mind to the words. His father had no power over him anymore. His magic was bound up in the song.
The magic weavers lowered their heads again, and silence fell over the Hall of Fire. Even the distant rumbling had fallen silent. Only the sound of his own footsteps accompanied the swordmaster.
With Lyndwyn in his arms, he crossed the stone forest. The ground was vibrating more intensely now. Fine dust drizzled from the golden branches that curved along the arches of the ceiling. Ollowain kissed her and whispered endearments, but she woke no more than did Emerelle.
Desolately, he carried Lyndwyn up the long stairway. He knew he would not be able to make it back to the Sky Harbor. No ice glider would be waiting there for them. The trolls would have overrun the harbor long ago. Still, he turned to the west. And then the distant rumbling returned. The ground beneath his feet bucked, and a fretwork of fine cracks appeared along the passage.
Ollowain began to run. Here and there, he heard heavy footfalls and the guttural shouts of trolls. Finally, he reached a stairway that wound its way upward along the glowing face of the cliff, high above the lake in the Skyhall. The broad marble steps were strewn with rubble, and hot air swirled around him as he sped upward, the cliff rising on one side, dropping away on the other.
Far below him stretched the Skyhall. Many of its trees were burning. Where the lake had once been, fountains of liquid fire now sprayed from beneath. Hundreds of trolls were fleeing across the Mahdan Falah to a golden arch of light rising at its end.
The marble steps rocked. Ollowain looked back. A section of the stairway had broken away, and far below, the Mahdan Falah was descending toward the fiery lake. Two of its monumental pylons had cracked and failed.
Slowly, as if bowing in farewell, the white bridge leaned down toward the fire. The trolls slipped by the dozen from its smooth stone until, finally, it was empty. Flawless. It had shaken off the intruders and shone now like freshly fallen snow.
“You’ll die with us, little elf!” A dust-covered troll with a long bloody graze on his forehead was climbing the stairs after him.
Ollowain began to run. His legs hurt, and his strength was almost at an end. Closer and closer came the heavy slapping of the troll’s bare feet on the marble.
At the end of the stairs was a small grotto. Stalactites shimmered inside it, oily black. There had once been a crystal-clear pool inside the grotto, but now a wide crack gaped in the cave floor. The water had disappeared.
Ollowain’s breath came in pants. The air was filled with fine, stony dust that burned his eyes and parched his mouth. Every breath was agony. Just a few more steps to the forbidden door. Half blinded, he forced himself onward. Once he locked the door behind them, they would be saved.
Finally, he reached the concealed corner beyond which the door lay. It was gone, smashed out of the rock!
The troll was close behind him. Gently, Ollowain laid Lyndwyn on a wide bench carved from the rock and bedded her head on dusty silk cushions. Then he turned and drew his sword.
The troll, too, seemed exhausted. He glowered at Ollowain from red-rimmed eyes. “Wretched elves! You couldn’t just let us have it, could you? You’d rather destroy Kingstor than lose it to us.” Swinging his axe wide, the troll attacked.
The swordmaster tried to duck clear, but at the last second, the troll changed the direction of his swing. The broad blade of the stone axe missed Ollowain’s shoulder by a hair. He slipped on rubble, but, half sprawling, he managed to jump clear of his enemy.
“Then I’ll kill your woman first,” the troll grumbled, clomping toward the bench where Lyndwyn lay.
Ollowain tried to shout, but only a croak escaped his raw throat. He leaped forward. His sword sliced into the troll’s arm.
“Nasty little man.”
The troll’s elbow caught Ollowain in the chest. He was thrown off his feet and fell back hard against a rock.
His enemy was after him instantly. Dazed, the swordmaster threw himself to one side. Too slow! This time the troll’s axe did not miss his shoulder! His chain mail tunic gave way. He felt bone splinter, and bright sparks shot before his eyes.
The troll leaned down to lift him, and Ollowain swung his sword up. The troll jumped back, straightening quickly to avoid the blade. There was a crunch. Too tired to attack again, the swordmaster waited for the final blow to fall.
But the troll did not move. Blood poured from beneath his chin.
Ollowain blinked. So the mountain beat you after all, he thought. The point of a stalactite jutted from the troll’s chin—the stone spike had pierced his skull cleanly as he jumped up.
Ollowain pulled himself to his feet and staggered over to Lyndwyn. She still lay in a trance. Ollowain’s left arm hung uselessly. He felt nothing in it. Blood flowed darkly from the jagged wound.
With a groan, he tore a broad strip of cloth from his tattered tunic and stuffed it into the wound. He pushed his sword into his belt and lifted Lyndwyn with his good arm. Just a few more steps.
A massive jolt ran through the mountain. Stalactites broke from the cave ceiling and clattered to the floor. The dead troll slipped from the stone spike impaling him.
Ollowain crossed the threshold that had been forbidden to him for so long. Whoever took that step moved beyond their childhood. Blinking, he looked around inside the narrow stone chamber. He knew it only from stories he’d heard. Two sleds with high-curved runners stood on the floor of the chamber before a tunnel mouth. Here, in solemn procession, were led those who were to face their final test.
Ollowain lifted Lyndwyn in front of him onto the first of the sleds. Then he pushed off with a foot. Steel grated over stone. The sled tilted forward in the tunnel.
The swordmaster jammed his feet behind the runners, and the sled raced down the tunnel toward a spot of light that rapidly grew bigger. Then they were surrounded by brilliant, blinding light. The sled made a jump and came down hard on a steep ice field.
Wind burned against Ollowain’s cheek. He could hardly see a thing. Desperately, he held on to Lyndwyn and did what he could to steer the sled. The most treacherous rocks, he knew, had been removed from this part of the mountainside. All he had to do was keep the sled on course. If they kept going more or less straight, they would be carried many miles out into open country. The trial by ice began with this sled run. Young elves whose magical powers were thought strong enough to protect them from the cold and defy the elements began their journeys here. If they made it back across glaciers and crevasses to the Skyhall on the other side of the mountain on their own, then from that day forward, they were seen as adults among the Normirga.
Ollowain let his chin fall onto his chest. Lyndwyn’s hair whipped into his face. It smelled of stone dust. The bright slope blurred before his eyes. Then there was just light, the grinding of the runners, and the song of the wind above the cliffs.
BENEATH THE TREE OF ASH
She danced on the warm wind. Far below her were flames that waned and vanished when her gaze met them. Voices murmured in her head, whispering to her, telling her to smother the flames, but try as she might, the fire stayed. And yes, it grew stronger. The flames came higher, and now her dress was burning. Someone tore it from her body. A shadowy figure. Strong arms embraced her. The fire moved far away. Cold breath grazed her cheeks.
Lyndwyn blinked. She was lying in snow. Something menacing was close by. She hardly dared to breathe. How did she get there? She remembered the Hall of Fire, the magic weavers’ chorus . . . and the one night with Ollowain.
Something translucent glided past. Snuffling, ravenous. Lyndwyn sensed the Albenstone against her breast. Nothing could defeat her. She stretched and sat up. Snow fell from her dress. She found herself on a mountainside. Close beside her, the runner of a sled jutted from a snowdrift.
When she became aware of a distant rumbling, she looked up. She was at the foot of a mountain. Miles away towered a dark-gray column of billowing smoke, its top spreading like the crown of a tree, a deep-red glow flickering along its base. The wind dragged the smoke westward. Points of light shot upward through the smoke, only to tumble to earth again in long arcs. Where they landed on the mountainside, bright steam flew skyward. The summit had changed. It looked wider, and the snow had vanished beneath a layer of gray ash. Lyndwyn saw a stream of red spilling down the southern slope of the mountain, and she felt the earth tremble beneath her several times.
She recalled the choir. She sensed that all her singers were silenced now, forever.
How did she get there? She looked around. Farther down the slope lay a figure, doubled over, half buried in the snow. On unsteady legs, she made her way down. Her knees hurt with every step she took.
The long blond hair. The white tunic! Lyndwyn began to run, stumbled in the deep snow, pulled herself up, and tried again. It was Ollowain. He had come for her.
With trembling hands, she held his face, felt his cheeks like ice. One shoulder had suffered a deep wound. She laid a hand on his forehead, closed her eyes, felt her way into his body. His heart beat weakly, yet steadily, but he had lost a lot of blood. His left collarbone was shattered, his shoulder blade cleft, and one rib broken.
She gave him, her beloved, warmth, more than the amulet around his neck could. Then she reached for the Albenstone’s powe
r. With the strength of her mind, she healed the bones and rejoined ruined muscle. But she could not replace all the blood he had lost.
His heartbeat was stronger now. He lay in a deep sleep. Lyndwyn put his head on her lap.
“Ah. How moving it is to witness the bloom of young love.”
Lyndwyn started—the voice was inside her head.
“It is me, Granddaughter. Shahondin. No need to fear.”
“Where are you?” Lyndwyn looked around in surprise. Apart from herself and Ollowain, there was no one to be seen on the expanse of mountainside.
“Promise me you won’t be frightened.” The voice sounded immeasurably sad now. “The trolls took me prisoner. They have done something terrible to me, my girl. I am not the grandfather you knew before.”
“Prove you’re my grandfather! Tell me something only he could know.”
“Wise girl. Why should you trust a stranger’s voice? You were always clever. Do you remember in the pavilion by the sea, how we first composed the bird of light? The moon stood low over the bay when you made the bird fly for the very first time. You were still a little girl. Your first attempt, admittedly, was a little unbirdlike. Its wings were like sheets of parchment, and its head was just a ball.”
Lyndwyn could only smile. Yes, she remembered that first bird. She had been very young, just a child. Afterward, Shahondin had taught her how important it was to look at things very closely, for the form of nothing that lived was random. “Show yourself, Grandfather.”
“Please, child, do not let yourself be swayed by how I look. The trolls have treated me monstrously. But I sense the power that surrounds you. It is a power that can change everything. You can bring me back.”
Lyndwyn had steeled herself for anything imaginable, but the thing that now rose from the snow was something no one could truly prepare themselves for. The huge ghostly dog with its blood-red eyes had nothing in common with her grandfather beyond his memories.