Elven Queen

by Bernhard Hennen

  “That’s a tree trunk they’re carrying,” Sigvald muttered. It had come from a tree that must have seen a hundred winters or more pass before the trolls had cut it down. The trunk was more than thirty paces long and as thick through as a wagon wheel was round.

  The drumbeat down below slowly increased its tempo, and even though they were moving uphill, the trolls picked up their pace.

  Kalf glanced up to the clifftop. Still no archers! Nothing would stop the trolls.

  “Get off the palisade!” he bellowed. “Down, all of you!” He grabbed one man and pushed him down into the snow. “Back to the longspears!”

  “What do you think—” Asla hissed furiously, but Kalf cut her off.

  “We can’t hold the wall. They’ll break through on the first charge. Anyone up here when they do is dead. Get back to the village! I’ll try to buy you a little time. Take the children and the old. Escape to the mountains, to the caves.”

  “You can’t just—”

  Kalf grabbed her and forced her to look down at the trolls. They were now no more than a hundred paces from the palisade. “See the trunk they’re carrying? It’s heavier than all the wood in this wall put together. What do you think is going to happen?”

  Asla pushed his hands down. “I’m staying with you,” she said firmly.

  “Then you’re letting the children die! Think of Kadlin. You have to flee. Fast!” He kissed her forehead. Then he lifted her down from the wall-walk.

  “Go, go, down from here!” Most of the men followed his order. Only twenty steps more. The beat of the drum thrummed in Kalf’s ears. He jumped, landing in the snow. “To the longspears. We counterattack when they break through!”

  He stumbled ahead to where the spears jutted from the snow like a trellis. Most of the men simply kept running. Kalf could not blame them. He snatched up one of the weapons.

  The trolls shouted a bloodcurdling battle cry. Their drum was pounding now faster than Kalf’s heart. Waving his arms, he managed to gather some of those fleeing around him. Kodran was one, and a baker from Honnigsvald, men who had never wanted to be fighters. They clasped the longspears in their hands in desperate, hopeless fury.

  Kalf was organizing the small group of the brave into a single line when, with an infernal crash, the battering ram smashed into the wall. The trunks forming the palisade folded like blades of grass—the trolls broke through with their first charge. Those at the front immediately pushed their way through the breach.

  “Attack!” Kalf cried. Everything around him faded. All he saw was a troll warrior who had smeared wide stripes across his chest with soot. The troll stepped over a shattered tree trunk. Then arrows rained down on the trolls in the breach. Finally! But the salvos from the archers did not stop them. They could sense how close they were to victory.

  “Attack!” Kalf cried, more and more desperately. “Attack!” He was screaming against his own fear.

  His legs planted firmly in the snow, he rammed his spear into the charging troll’s chest. The iron tip bore deep into the flesh, struck a rib, was deflected upward, and came out again close to the troll’s neck.

  The troll threw back his head and roared. The sudden movement snatched the spear shaft out of Kalf’s grasp. He drew his sword, holding the long leather-wrapped grip in both hands.

  His opponent snapped the shaft in two, lashing out furiously, trying to keep Kalf at a distance. The fisherman ducked under the blade of the stone axe. The troll threw up his left hand defensively, and Kalf’s sword struck him between the fingers, slicing through bone and wrist as far as the troll’s forearm.

  Kalf’s ears were filled with the troll’s screams. His sword was stuck fast in the troll’s arm, and the troll shook him aside like he was a small child. He fell in the snow. Heavy feet tramped past him as more and more of the enemy forced their way through the breach. He had no weapon left with which to fight them. Tears of rage blurred his sight as he pulled himself to his feet and began to run. He had to make it to the barricade. They might be able to hold the trolls there a little longer.

  The feeble line of men that he’d led against the breach had been crushed. Most lay dead in the snow, and those still alive were running.

  Stumbling, Kalf pressed onward. The trolls made better progress in the deep snow. A short distance ahead, he saw Asla. She tried to stop a few of the men and form a new defensive line, but there, in open terrain, it was hopeless, an act of desperation. They would be overrun in an instant.

  Kalf bent down and snatched up the sword of one of the dead men, then hurried to Asla’s side. It was all he could still do: to die at her side. Trying to run now would be in vain. The trolls would be on them well before they reached the final barricade.

  The fisherman saw a troll grab Kodran by the hair and snatch him backward. The troll’s foot crashed down on the ferryman’s broad chest—it was like crushing a beetle. The ferryman spat blood and lay motionless where he fell.

  Asla touched Kalf’s arm gently. “You were always there,” she said sadly. “I wish I had understood that earlier.”

  The troll that had killed the ferryman charged toward them, his huge club raised.

  This is what death looks like, thought Kalf.

  And then a strange word cut into the night. Not loud, but forceful. The troll lowered his club. As if spellbound, the fighters on both sides stopped in their tracks. A slight figure dressed in white appeared from the shadows of the woods. The elven queen was awake!

  “Go back!” Asla cried. “Save the children!”

  Emerelle came directly to her. “So you are Asla,” she said, her voice warm. “I thank you for your hospitality.”

  Kalf noted that the trolls retreated a little, re-forming in small groups. All were looking at the queen. Some gesticulated wildly. The momentary peace crumbled.

  “Go and save the children!” Asla begged her again.

  “I will do that. Please forgive me. This war should never have been allowed to come to the human world. I did not see it . . . I . . . the trolls are here because of me. If I give myself up, the fighting will end.”

  “No! It can’t end like that!” Asla said rebelliously. “So many have died for you. You can’t just surrender to them now.”

  “It is the only way to protect the children. If I am captured, there is no reason to fight anymore. Farewell, Asla, and forgive me, if you can.”

  One of the troll warriors came to Emerelle. The moonlight gleamed on his bare head. The elf and the troll exchanged a few words, then the warrior signaled to his men to withdraw.

  Tears of fury flowed down Asla’s cheeks. Kalf wrapped one arm around her shoulders. “It’s over.”

  “Nothing is over! What power does Emerelle have as a prisoner? How is she supposed to stop the trolls from attacking us again tomorrow? These beasts will eat all of us. They’ll come back. She shouldn’t have gone.”

  “But maybe—”

  Asla freed herself from him. “No! Maybe isn’t enough! My only surviving child is up there. I’m going to take Kadlin and anyone else who wants to go with me. We will use the time we have and flee deeper into the mountains.”

  “I won’t go with you. My place is at the last barricade. If the trolls betray us, I’ll hold them back there as long as possible. And if they really withdraw, then I’ll come to the mountains and find you.”

  “I . . .” Asla bit her lip. “I’ll wait for you.”

  “Luth will protect us,” said Kalf with confidence. He trusted the weaver of fate. The god had always been merciful with him.

  Asla lowered her eyes. “Perhaps,” she said softly. Then she went up to the village.

  WITHOUT HONOR

  Barking madly, Blood bounded along the narrow strip of the waterline. The troll was too big to stand in the low cave and had to crawl out of the water on his hands and knees, pausing to swing a club studded with shards of stone in front of him. The way he crept along, trying to get to them, was grotesque. Grotesque, yet terrifying.

 
; Ulric and Halgard had retreated all the way back to the niche in the wall where the soldier’s body lay. The boy felt wretched. Yilvina had been awakened by the commotion and was groping for the sword that he had fetched for her. He could not simply leave her for the troll.

  A swing of the club just missed Blood. The big dog tried to snap at the troll’s throat, but the monster turned aside, and Blood’s fangs sank into his shoulder. That was a mistake! With a grunt, the troll reached up for the dog. He propped himself on one hand, grabbed Blood with the other, and hurled the dog against the cave wall.

  Ulric heard a crack. Blood’s bark became a high, plaintive howl. The dog shook himself and tried to get back onto his feet, but one of his back legs kept folding strangely and would not hold him up.

  Yilvina lunged forward, taking the troll by surprise. She took a two-handed swing at the arm on which the troll was propped, striking him just above the wrist. The silver steel sliced through flesh and bone, and the man-eater let out a bellow. With helpless rage, he jerked the stump of his arm upward. Dark blood pulsed in streams from the wound, spraying over the elf’s face.

  Blinded, she tried to crawl away, but the troll was able to grab hold of her leg. He pushed his mutilated arm into Yilvina’s chest where the bone jutted through her skin. She twisted in pain. The sword slipped from her grasp.

  Again, the troll struck at her wound, making strange grunting sounds as he did so. Yilvina did not move anymore, but the monster kept beating her.

  Halgard was weeping and holding on tightly to Ulric. The boy felt for the sword in the alcove. When it comes to killing, he thought, he’d never seen anyone who acted with honor. No one observed the rules of chivalry that his father had taught him.

  Finally, the troll stopped hitting Yilvina. He pulled a glowing branch from the fire and, wailing and wheezing, pressed it against the stump of his arm. The stink of oily flesh filled the cave.

  Ulric got to his feet. The monster, still crouching close to the fire, was too occupied with his own pain to pay Ulric any attention.

  “Troll!” said Ulric loudly. He was standing now directly in front of the warrior, who rocked back and forth in agony. Finally, the troll looked up at him.

  “Die!” Ulric slashed the dead man’s blade across the troll’s throat. Then he jumped back. A deep gash opened on the troll’s neck. He looked up at Ulric in disbelief. With his remaining hand, he snatched at his throat. He made a gurgling noise and tried to stand up but knocked his head hard against the ceiling of the cave. His mutilated arm tried to reach for the club beside the fire but could only prod helplessly at the weapon.

  Again, his eyes fixed on Ulric. He did not dare to move his hand from his throat. Blood welled through his fingers.

  The boy did not look away. He’d had to do it, he told himself, even though there was no honor in the act. The beast was a man-eater! They had to be killed, and it made no difference how.

  Halgard sobbed quietly.

  Ulric took her hand in his. “Everything will be all right. Everything will be all right.” He stood and watched as the troll died, and felt dead himself. He felt nothing. No triumph, no anger, not even fear.

  Slowly, the giant slumped forward. Ulric waited. He held the girl and stared at the troll. Only when the fire had burned down to dark coals did he dare approach the troll again. Blood hobbled over to him and sniffed at the body as Ulric, cautiously, pushed at it with one foot. The troll no longer moved.

  Ulric sighed with relief. Then he gathered the rest of the branches and fanned the fire to life again. As the dancing flames forced the shadows back into the farthest corners, he kneeled beside Yilvina. Her breathing was shallow. He did not know how he could help the elf woman. A cut was something he could have bandaged. But this . . .

  Finally, with Halgard’s help, he pulled Yilvina close to the fire. Even together, though, they could not move the troll. He was as heavy as a block of stone. After several failed attempts, they sat on the other side of the fire, as far from the dead giant as possible.

  Blood lay at Ulric’s feet. He licked one of his back legs and whimpered softly.

  “I’m hungry,” said Halgard.

  The boy still had the smell of burning troll flesh in his nose. He couldn’t eat anything. He rummaged in Yilvina’s leather hunting bag but found only a hard piece of cheese. He handed it to the girl.

  “What about you?” Halgard asked.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Halgard put the cheese on the rocky floor in front of her. “Then we’ll share it when you get hungry.” Her blind eyes stared in his direction. With her snowy hair and withered skin, she looked unearthly.

  For a long time, they listened in silence to the crackling of the fire. “This cave is a grave, isn’t it?” the girl finally said. “King Osaberg and the dead troll, and Yilvina is dying.”

  “But we’re still alive,” replied Ulric heatedly.

  “How much wood is left?”

  “Enough to keep the fire going for a few more hours.” He thought of the darkness that would then follow. The thought unsettled him. He wasn’t scared of the dark. He just didn’t like it.

  “If we stay here, we’ll starve to death. If we go back through the water, the winter cold will kill us,” said Halgard calmly.

  “We’ll send Blood. He’ll fetch help.” Ulric scratched the thick fur of the dog’s neck. “Right, Blood? You rest a little longer, and then you can go and find Mother or Kalf.”

  OF HONOR AND FULL BELLIES

  Birga lifted the amber pendant from the neck of the dying woman in whose lidless eyes stood madness. The shaman had stripped the skin from her face, and still the young woman smiled at Orgrim. The duke turned away. He did not find it difficult to look on as prisoners were tortured. It’s just the way things were. At some level, they were due some respect for it: they had an opportunity to redeem themselves for the shame of not having fought to the death. One who showed courage in the face of torture won back the goodwill of their forebears. And the woman had showed courage.

  “What did she tell you?” Dumgar wanted to know.

  Birga pointed to the other bodies. “No more than the others. It seems Emerelle has been hiding in the human world for many weeks.”

  The Duke of Mordrock poked at his teeth with a thin bone and spat on the ground. “Why didn’t Skanga know that?”

  The shaman pushed the woman’s amber into a pocket tucked away among the folds of her dress, then wiped her bloody hands clean in the snow, taking her time. With every moment she delayed her answer, the silence grew more oppressive. Dumgar threw his toothpick away and began to toy nervously with a leather strap hanging from his loincloth. He wore no more than a fur wrapped around his hips. Like most of his warriors, he went barefoot in the snow.

  “Well, Birga? Will you answer me?”

  “Aren’t the actions of Skanga and the king answer enough for you? Is that thick skull of yours nothing but bone? Haven’t you understood what’s happened? Who sent us here? Skanga and Branbeard. And who do we find? Emerelle. Do you really think she didn’t know that the tyrant was here? Do you think it was just a coincidence, a trick of fate? She wanted us to catch Emerelle. This was meant to be your chance to win perpetual renown. That’s why you’re here, not just to burn a few run-down huts!”

  The Duke of Mordrock wiped his hand over his forehead. “They should have told me what they wanted of me.”

  “Why? So you could march to war with the humans trembling with fear? Think of the feasts that followed your victories. Could you have celebrated like that, without a care in the world, if you’d known that the tyrant was here? Would you have gone after our enemies like a hungry wolf and never let them rest? You know the answer!”

  Orgrim enjoyed watching the shaman toy with Dumgar, but he did not believe a word of it. If Skanga had really known where Emerelle was, then she would have sent him through the Albenstar on the mountain at the end of the fjord. Ten warriors would have been enough to capture the tyrant there.


  Dumgar began to pace. “It isn’t right, doing things like that.” He looked to Emerelle. She was tied up, crouched in the lee of the destroyed palisade. “We should kill her right now. She’s an evil that has to be wiped out. Can’t you feel it? All she has in her head is our death!”

  Birga laughed. “Have you been eating rabbit meat, Dumgar? Look at our little tyrant there. Her hands are tied to stop her from weaving any magic. Her mouth is gagged to keep her words of power stuck in her throat. And her eyes are blindfolded to stop even her glance from causing any trouble. What are you afraid of, Dumgar? All the tyrant has left are thoughts of revenge.”

  Renewed silence followed Birga’s words. Orgrim observed the elven queen. She was so small, so fragile. It seemed unimaginable to him that she possessed such power. She had once had him murdered, and Orgrim had always believed that, if he were ever to meet her, the memories of that night on the Shalyn Falah and of all his previous lives would return. But the gateway to those faded days was sealed well, and maybe it was better that way. What did a tree care about the leaves of the year before?

  “Don’t you sense the evil that clings to her?” Dumgar murmured. He kneeled in the snow beside the tyrant. His hand groped for the stone knife at his belt.

  “You know why Branbeard wants to have her alive,” Orgrim said. “She has to walk out on the Shalyn Falah. She has to fly and embrace the depths, as we once did. What do you think Branbeard will do when he finds out you’ve killed the tyrant?”

  Dumgar stood up. Anger flashed in his eyes. “Are you threatening me?”

  Orgrim’s hand slid as if by mere chance to the heavy war hammer at his belt. “On the contrary, Dumgar. I’m worried about you. I’m trying to imagine what Branbeard would do when he found out about the demise of the tyrant.” He pictured himself bashing in the fool’s skull. But no! He had to control himself. He only had to let Dumgar follow his own path. He was born to walk into trouble if no one got in his way.