Elven Queen

by Bernhard Hennen

  “Of course.” Orgrim stood up. “I’ll take care of everything immediately.” Relieved to be able to leave the duke’s fire, he withdrew. Brud followed him.

  “Are you going to kiss his feet next?” the scout asked in a low voice. “Slice open his belly and strangle the bastard with his own entrails. The maggot hasn’t earned the right to be in command here.”

  “Let him do what he wants. I’m sure he’ll find a way to dig his own grave.”

  “But how many good warriors is he going to take with him? You can’t be indifferent to that.”

  “Have you tried Boltan’s new dish? Meat baked in clay—delectable! Come to my fire and be my guest.”

  “You owe me an answer,” Brud persisted. “He didn’t listen to you when you advised him to send the captured humans back to their huts to get their warm furs. And what happened? They froze to death on the ice, and now we’re almost out of food. What else does he have to do before you save us from him? If you don’t have the guts for it, then I’ll go and cut his throat myself.”

  “Then you might as well kill me while you’re at it. If anything happens to Dumgar and there’s even the slightest whiff that I might be behind his death, Branbeard will have me executed. The king’s just waiting for it! That’s why he gave the fool command in the first place. Branbeard was sure I wouldn’t be able to stomach Dumgar’s idiot orders for long. But if I raise a hand against him, then I put myself at the king’s mercy.”

  “I hate the power games you princes play!” Brud said, and spat in the snow. “As soon as this is over, I’m going off to the forest, and you won’t see me again for a long, long time. Being around you and Dumgar is poison for my soul.”

  “Help me find a strong oak tomorrow, and I promise you we’ll sweep the humans aside the day after. As soon as we’ve got Emerelle, we return to Albenmark. Maybe we’ll be lucky, and Dumgar will lose his way on the path through the void.”

  “You have the talent of making everything you say sound so simple.”

  Orgrim laid one hand on the scout’s shoulder. “It is so simple, Brud. Now forget your anger. Come and try a decent piece of meat.”

  THE FIRST TIME

  You know what to expect?”

  Asla watched Kalf as he turned his steady eyes from one to the next of the three men and two women standing before him. He had selected them personally, and it seemed that he had chosen well. Asla did not know the five, but all were able to meet Kalf’s gaze. They did not seem at all hesitant, let alone afraid. If they were lucky and the scouts really did find the scattered remnants of Horsa’s army, and if they then returned to Sunhill in time, then perhaps there was yet hope. Too many “ifs,” thought Asla gloomily. She should not start fooling herself now. It was unlikely that anyone would survive the trolls in the valley once the last palisade fell. At least these five will not perish with them, Asla thought defiantly. One of the two young women was very pretty. She had beautiful doe-like brown eyes, and around her neck hung an amber pendant almost the same hue as her eyes. No doubt she could have her choice of husband from many who courted her, if she managed to elude the trolls’ sentries. Another damned “if”!

  “Separate,” said Kalf. “Do not try to help each other if the trolls catch one of you. And if you make it out of the valley, head in different directions. But work your way mostly to the south. You’re more likely to find what’s left of Horsa’s army there. Don’t come back if you find less than a thousand men. You’ll need at least that many to beat the trolls. If you search longer than five days, again, don’t come back. You won’t find any of us left.”

  One of the men spoke up. “But the trolls haven’t attacked for two days. Maybe they’re sick of the fighting?”

  “Can you picture a wolf living peacefully among sheep? There are just as few trolls that get sick of fighting! I don’t know what’s stopping them, but I do know that they will attack again. Any other questions?”

  Asla thought of the sleeping queen housed in a hut with her aunt Svenja and Kadlin farther up in the village. As long as Emerelle was with them, the trolls would never rest. It was smart of Kalf not to say it openly. Asla would rather forfeit her own life than hand over the queen, but she was not at all certain that everyone else felt that way.

  She saw eagerness and fear on all five faces. Each of them wore a long sheepskin coat. The refugees and the inhabitants of Sunhill had donated the clothes, and now their emissaries were dressed head to foot in white. That improved their chances of making it through the trolls’ lines alive. At least, Asla hoped it would. Again, she realized just how very little they knew about the trolls. Could they see well? In some of the legends, it was said that they turned to stone in sunlight. That had proven to be utterly untrue. Did they have a discriminating nose, like a hunting dog? Would they simply follow the scent of the scouts? How were you supposed to beat an enemy you hardly knew?

  Kalf said his parting words, warmer now, to the scouts.

  “May Luth have spun you all a long thread,” said Asla solemnly.

  The girl with the amber pendant embraced Asla and whispered in her ear, “Please don’t let the village fall. My grandmother is here. She is the last of my clan I have left. I trust you, Duchess.”

  “We will fight well,” said Asla, her voice unwavering. “And I put my trust in Luth and his mercy.” She could not lie to the girl and simply tell her everything would work out well. Asla squeezed her tightly to her breast.

  Kalf was standing in the doorway. All had been said. For a moment, the five clung to the security of the small hut, putting off their departure into uncertainty for a few more heartbeats. On the threshold between blackness and light, they did not want to take the step out into the dark, and yet they could stay no longer. It was the girl with the amber pendant who finally went out first. The others followed, and the small group quickly vanished among the dark trees.

  The hut that Asla had chosen as her quarters lay close to the second palisade, concealed in a small patch of woods. From there, it was less than two hundred paces to the wooden wall that would decide their fate. They had, in fact, built a third barrier at the entrance to the village proper, but everyone knew it would not stop the trolls for long. Whoever fought there was doomed to die. What mattered was to hold the trolls back long enough to unleash the white flood.

  “It’s getting cold,” said Asla calmly. Tomorrow they might all be dead, but she had made up her mind: that night she would find out what other road her life might have taken.

  Kalf was still standing in the doorway, peering out into the forest, although the five young emissaries had long since disappeared into the woods. Was he afraid? Did he not want this to happen? A surge of doubt came over Asla. Had she been wrong about him all along?

  Kalf cleared his throat. He opened his mouth, tried to say something, but did not find the words. Finally, he closed the door. He could not look her in the eye. “I’ve wanted you for so many years. But now . . . You were always the light in my life. I admired you from a distance, but won’t a man burn if he reaches for the light? Is it right . . .”

  For as long as Asla could remember, she had looked up to Kalf. Even as a small girl, she had decided that she would one day be his wife. His broad shoulders; his flowing blond hair; the self-confident calm he radiated—all these things had charmed her. He was so different from the other young men, who drank and boasted and thought themselves irresistible. His quiet ways had attracted her, and she had believed back then that he loved her in return. She had never doubted that, one day, they would dance around the stone together.

  Asla thought about what Alfadas had told her about love among the elves. They promise to separate before the first lie passes between them. They believe that when there is something they cannot discuss together, then it is time to let each other go. Alfadas had come into her life like a storm. He had charmed her and changed the course of her fate. The hero from the land of the elves, the man who had known women of inexpressible beauty, had come to her,
the fisherman’s daughter, and had asked for her hand. Back then, she had felt as if she were in a faery-tale-come-true. How could she have said no? Years had passed before she understood that one could not live a faery tale. At the start, it had not bothered her when he stood beside the house and gazed up at the Hartungscliff, where the stone circle stood, the gateway to the Other World. Only slowly had she come to understand the yearning inside him. Beyond the stones lay something that separated them, although she had never been able to put it into words. Alfadas loved her and the children, Asla knew. He had always been a good man. He came to her with more warmth and affection than most of the other women in the village ever got from their husbands. His pretty words and his smile still managed to captivate her. He tried to fulfill her every wish, but the way he looked up to the Hartungscliff wounded her more deeply with each passing year. In that place was something that she could never give him. He never talked about it, and that only made things worse.

  Again, his words about the love of elves ran through her mind. If she were an elf woman, then she would probably have separated from him long before. But she was Asla, the fisherman’s daughter. She could not simply give up the man whose children she had borne. Nor did she want to!

  If the elves had never come to Firnstayn, maybe she would have found the strength to live with his yearning. Now she knew what it was he craved. She had seen the women. They were so different. Not only their beauty was bewildering. They radiated a strength and pride that Asla had never seen in a human woman. Everything about them was perfect. They could walk along a muddy path without dirtying their feet. They could gut a fish, and still a pleasant scent clung to them, more pleasant than the perfume of the loveliest flowers Asla knew. What was she compared to them? A flower at the end of summer, at best, its petals wilting and brown-edged.

  She had had to take all those women into her house and serve them, and not for a moment had Alfadas given a thought to how she felt about it. She might have been able to live with that if not for that one. Silwyna! There was something catlike about her, and the scent of the woods surrounded her. Silwyna had barely entered her house before withdrawing again. Alfadas had kept away from her, as well. But the way that he had avoided her, the way that he had not even exchanged a glance with her, betrayed him. Alfadas had loved that elf woman once, and his feelings for her were perhaps buried, but they were not extinguished. She was the one he was thinking of when he looked up to the Hartungscliff. Asla wished that she had never encountered her.

  She thought of her husband’s pledge of love, his last words before he stepped through the gateway into the alien world of the elves. He had promised to return to her. And because he had spoken so openly of his feelings for her, he had shown himself before the king and all the other men to be vulnerable. Men did not do such things. It was considered effeminate. But he was not like all the other men, Asla thought sadly. That was why she loved him. Even now.

  She looked to Kalf. He was still standing uncertainly before the closed door, avoiding her eye. The years had carved their lines deeply into his face, and yet she found everything there that she had always been attracted to. He was more mature, stronger, even when he could not find the courage to come to her and speak of his love. In that, he seemed as innocent as a raw youth. As far as Asla knew, Kalf had never had a woman he called his wife. Sometimes he’d go away to Honnigsvald for a few days to sell fish, or furs in winter. Maybe there were . . . but that would not be like him. Asla knew that if Kalf found a woman to whom his heart belonged, he would go to her. Her throat felt suddenly tight. She knew what it was. He’d found his woman, and that was why he’d stayed. For her.

  She went to him and reached tenderly for his hand. “It is good that you are here. Knowing you have someone at your side gives you so much strength.”

  Finally, he looked into her face. His eyes were endlessly sad. “Yes” was all he said.

  Asla resisted the urge to hug him. He was no little boy that she had to console. She wanted more from him. She wanted to lie in his arms, feel his love, and feel herself safe. If she hugged him now, then all that would be lost to her.

  Asla sighed. She had to find another way. “I don’t understand how some men can run around the whole day long in chain mail. It’s crushing me! When I take it off, I feel so light, as if a puff of wind would be enough to blow me off to the stars.” She loosened the broad belt that served to carry some of the weight of the mail shirt and let it fall to the floor. Then she raised her arms. “Now I know why soldiers usually wear their hair short.” She smiled. “The rings catch in your hair. Let me wear this thing for one moon, and it will turn me into a bald woman. Please help me take it off.”

  Kalf’s hands were strong. Carefully, he freed her from the heavy armor. Even through the mesh of rings, Asla felt his warmth. With the patience he needed when mending damaged nets, he freed her hair wherever it caught in the iron rings. Finally, he lifted the heavy load from her shoulders. It rattled to the floor.

  Only then was Asla conscious of what she was wearing under the armor. A heavy, padded dress onto which she had sewn wide shoulder pads made from old rags. The grease she’d rubbed into the chain mail had left black spots and streaks on the already plain dress, and she herself could smell that she’d been wearing it for days. The upholstered dress was indispensable, because the mail shirt was ice cold and sucked the warmth out of her body if she didn’t protect herself. But now, inside that shapeless garment, she felt like a rancid sausage. Filthy and stinking, her hair unkempt, no man could desire her, though his trouser-flap was all but bursting open otherwise.

  Kalf smiled. He stroked her hair smooth. She hardly dared to look up at him. Was he laughing at her? What was he thinking? Since the battle on the palisade, he’d been avoiding her. For two endless days. When he did not come to her the night after the battle, she’d felt like dirt, like a smutty whore. She never wanted to exchange so much as a word with Kalf again.

  But her vow had not held for long. She could not bear being without him. He and Kadlin were all that gave her strength. She could not let herself think about Ulric at all. Yilvina had not returned, and that could only mean one thing.

  Asla had ordered the five emissaries to her hut to see them off. She knew that Kalf would come with them. He had chosen them, and he could not simply let them go off without sharing a few final words. He was not the man for that. Of course, he might have waited for them at the palisade and spoken with them there, but Asla had prayed that he would take the opportunity to come to her hut. Like this, no one would find anything untoward in his being there.

  Kalf stroked her cheek gently. “You are a beautiful woman.”

  She looked up at him angrily. How could he call her beautiful, the way she looked? Was he trying to mock her? The sadness was gone from his eyes. They were radiant. Asla’s anger evaporated. He truly meant what he said.

  She took his hand and placed it over her right breast. He let it happen. “We can’t—”

  “Why? Don’t you want it?”

  This time, he did not avoid her eye. “I’ve wanted it since the first time I saw you watching me secretly from the shore when I went out with my boat. On that day, I knew you were the woman Luth had chosen for me. No other.”

  She smiled sadly. Why had they never found their way to each other? What plan was the weaver of fate following with them? She would have to lead Kalf along the path of love. The idea that he had never lain with another woman excited her, and at the same time it filled her with melancholy.

  “We can’t . . . the people . . . ,” he said, but he did not take his hand from her breast.

  “Forget the people! Before the moon is full again, there may be no people left alive who know that you even entered this hut. We were meant for each other. We need to forget the years that have passed.” Asla smiled coquettishly. “Imagine it’s still that summer night when you crept after me to watch me bathe in the lake in the beech grove.”

  Kalf looked at her in surprise.
“You knew about that?”

  “I wanted it. The trail past your hut was not the shortest way to the beech grove.” She reached for his weapon belt and unbuckled it.

  Suddenly, Kalf grabbed her, pulled her to him awkwardly, and kissed her passionately. Asla gave herself over to him, even as she felt the child in her belly move. For a brief moment, she thought of Alfadas, but the thought did not make her feel guilty. What was happening then was right.

  She sank into Kalf’s arms. It felt as if she were drifting in warm water.

  Gently, the fisherman laid her down on the bed of old blankets. He did not let go of her for a second. His wild kisses and the weight of his body robbed Asla of breath. His large, powerful hands ranged over her body, pushed beneath the padded dress. Clumsy, yet filled with craving.

  “Undo the leather loops at the sides,” she whispered.

  She heard the worn fabric tear as he tugged at the dress. She felt for the loops, trying to help him. Their hands touched; their fingers locked together.

  Suddenly, Kalf froze. Then he straightened up and listened.

  Now Asla heard it, too. The long, wailing blast of a sentry’s horn. The trolls! They were attacking the palisade.

  With a leap, Kalf was on his feet. He reached for his weapon belt. Only when he reached the door did he stop. “I’ll return.” Then he disappeared into the night.

  Asla saw a tiny spider scurrying across the rushes on the floor. Angrily, she stomped on the little creature, crushing it. “I curse you, Luth. Couldn’t you have granted us just one hour? One hour in a lifetime? Was I asking too much?”

  She reached for her sword. There was no time to get the chain mail on again. Asla ran out into the cold. She knew that neither she nor Kalf would ever return to this hut. Luth would never forgive her for cursing him. And she would never forgive the capricious god!