Elven Queen

by Bernhard Hennen

  Orgrim looked to the dead men tied to the shattered trunks of the palisade. “Maybe the king will give you the opportunity to redeem yourself as a warrior by handing you over to Birga. The pain will purify you, and when your soul clothes itself in flesh again, it will come back untainted.”

  Dumgar followed his gaze. He scratched his chin nervously. “All right. Then we’ll take her back. Lead us to the nearest Albenstar, Birga! We’re returning to the Snaiwamark.”

  “The nearest big star is close to the village that Orgrim destroyed,” the shaman explained. “From there, we can return home safely. It will take us three or four days to get there—at least, if the weather doesn’t turn.”

  Orgrim cursed silently. He knew what going back that way would mean.

  “So we’ll have to cross through ravaged lands,” Dumgar said. “The supplies we have will only last us two more days. We need meat.” He narrowed his eyes and looked at Orgrim.

  “No!” the prince of the Nightcrags said resolutely. “I gave the tyrant my word.”

  “Then I hereby absolve you of your promise.”

  “You might rule this army, Dumgar, but you do not rule my honor. I swore to Emerelle that the humans would live if she surrendered to us, and I will stand by that.”

  “What do I care about your word when five hundred troll bellies are at stake? We will overrun the village and take enough provisions for the return journey. You are mad, Orgrim! Did the tyrant give a damn about the promises she’d made when she ordered you and me to be pushed from the bridge? You owe her nothing. Tomorrow morning, at first light, we bring this battle to an end. And I expect you to fight!”

  “What the tyrant did back then is no concern of mine. My word is my word. It is as strong as granite.”

  Dumgar remained surprisingly calm. He even smiled. “So you rebel against my orders, Prince Orgrim. May I remind you that the king gave me overall command of this campaign? Branbeard will not be pleased to hear that a promise to Emerelle matters more to you than a full belly for his warriors. I’m looking forward to telling him all about it.”

  ON THUNDER SCARP

  A fine wedge of silver gleamed along the horizon, far beyond the fjord. Sigvald slipped away from the column of refugees and concealed himself among the trees. No one took any notice. The march through the snow was draining, and no one raised their head.

  From his hiding place, the wagon builder watched Asla march onward. What a woman! There were few women that men would listen to beyond their own four walls, but Sigvald had followed her gladly, and it grieved him now that he had to go behind her back. Ever since they had seen the night sky’s red glow behind them after their flight from Honnigsvald, no one challenged Asla’s decisions. She was what there had never been before: the duchess, the woman in command of the last remnants of the lost.

  Sigvald turned away and tramped deeper into the woods. His route led him upward, to Thunder Scarp, where the big sled stood. It had been Asla’s idea to take it up to the scarp. The wagon maker smiled, thinking of how he’d griped and grumbled when she told him about her plan! The duchess had no idea what it meant to haul a coach that heavy all the way up there.

  Thunder Scarp was situated at an angle to and overlooking the path that the reindeer took when they descended to the fjord. When the last barricade fell and the defenders had fled upward along the reindeer trail, Asla wanted to use the large sled to trigger a landslide. A good plan! But the previous night, Kalf and the men who were to stay behind to defend the barricade had come up with something even better.

  Sigvald had reached the edge of the forest. He looked out from the top of the steep slope that stretched down to the reindeer trail. Here and there, jagged outcrops raised their heads above the snow, but there were hardly any trees, not much that would hold the snow at all. Almost every winter, avalanches tumbled down from Thunder Scarp, and the village had been built a good way from it, on the other side of the mountain path.

  The sun now stood like a great red ball above the mountains in the east. To the north, the sky was still dark. A storm was gathering there, but it would still be many hours before it reached the valley.

  Up here on the scarp, a man could feel like a god, Sigvald thought. Everything was so far away, so tiny. The village huts lay below him like gravel stones among the trees, which looked like tufts of grass. The destroyed palisade at the entrance to the valley was no more than a twig, dark against the snow, and the trolls were like flies crawling over a white tablecloth. And like flies, he would crush them!

  Sigvald felt a surge of pride as he eyed the sled that now stood just a few steps from the edge of the forest. He’d done a magnificent job with that wagon. The roughly hewn construction set up on top of the wagon bed bothered him a little, but that was not his handiwork.

  Sigvald reached for the heavy rope that led from the front axle back to a strong fir tree. Fine ice crystals shimmered on the pale hemp. The wheels of the wagon had been removed, and it stood now on wide runners. As a sled, it was harder to steer. He looked down the slope. It seemed to him now that the rocky outcrops had multiplied. Had there always been so many?

  He held on to the rope tightly and clambered down the short distance to his wagon. With care, he loosened the big stones that held the runners in place, freeing them from the crusted snow and cautiously moving them aside. The last thing he needed now was for one of those stones to go tumbling down the slope.

  When the work was done, Sigvald climbed up to the driver’s seat. He swept the snow from the bench, enjoying the feel of the smoothly polished wood beneath his fingers. A pity that he would build no more sleds, no more coaches. Just the day before, he’d come up with a way to make the struts that fixed the runners in place even better than they were.

  He thought about the future his workshop might have had. This wagon would have made him famous! King Horsa had spent the night on it, and the elven queen herself, as well. Duke Alfadas had driven with it, and Duchess Asla had led the flight across the fjord aboard the same vehicle. Anyone who thought anything of himself would have to own a wagon built by Sigvald, the wagon maker of Honnigsvald. Such a pity . . .

  Sigvald took the small hatchet from his belt. He swept the last of the snow from the seat and noticed a couple of stick figures scratched into the smooth wood. Presumably some high-spirited lad trying out his new knife. How irritating!

  He laid the small axe beside the rope, which led over the driver’s seat and down to the front axle. Then he rummaged in his pocket for the whetstone he’d brought with him.

  With calm strokes, he honed the blade of the hatchet. One swing was all he wanted to use. He leaned forward a little. Asla had been right once again. Tiny dark points were crawling over the snow down in the valley: the trolls on the pass trail were storming up toward the barricade.

  “Little flies,” he murmured to himself. He reached inside his fur-lined vest and took out a flat silver bottle. He removed the cork with his teeth and raised the bottle in a toast to the valley. “Sorry I had to lie to you in the end, Kalf. It wouldn’t do just to cut the rope. There are too many rocks on the slope, and the heavy sled might lose its way. Someone has to show it where to go.”

  Sigvald emptied the little bottle in a draft. There was really just one good swallow left inside anyway. Then he carefully stoppered it again and put it away inside his vest.

  The weaver of fate is a god with a sense of humor, Sigvald thought, and he smiled. “Thank you for letting me end my life with a sled ride. What better death could a wagon builder ask for?” He reached for the hatchet beside him. A shame, a crying shame, that he’d now have to leave a notch in the seat himself.

  THE WHITE TORRENT

  Kalf gazed down at the trolls. The final barricade lay at the narrowest point of the reindeer trail, and the man-eaters were charging toward him in a tightly packed mob. With grim satisfaction, the fisherman raised his poleaxe. Only ten men had remained behind—his collaborators. He’d sent the rest of them away, up the path,
despite their protests. Those who had stayed with him had lost everything already, men whose wives and children no longer lived, or who, like himself, had never married.

  He stood stolidly on the bed of a sled. They’d hauled everything that could be moved to the reindeer trail—wagons, cupboards, and chests—to build this last line of defense. The fisherman knew that the trolls would overrun it almost instantly. But a few moments were enough. They did not have to hold out against the enemy longer than that.

  Kalf’s mouth was dry, but his hands were sweating. It was always that way before a battle began. A troll that had painted a spider in soot over his face had gotten ahead of the rest. Luth will make you pay for that, thought Kalf. The troll hurled a short throwing spear at him.

  Kalf turned slightly to one side, and the spear shot past, missing him by a fingerbreadth. A blow shook the sled, almost knocking Kalf off his feet. The spear thrower had rammed his shoulder against the side of the heavy sled’s bed, as if trying to simply flip it over.

  Kalf was too busy keeping his balance to swing at the troll with his poleaxe. A chunk of hurled ice missed him by a good margin. More trolls reached the barricade. Wild war cries rang from a hundred throats. A quiet young man from the ranks of defenders was caught by a lasso and vanished into the mass with a scream.

  High above them, a low rumble could be heard. One of the mountains had raised its voice, and, faced with its wrath, even the trolls recoiled. The man-eaters looked up, and Kalf savored the look of fear in their eyes. One of them bellowed something. Then the first of them broke and ran.

  Kalf swung his poleaxe forward. The long spike disappeared into the eye of the troll that had reached him first. “Luth would like to have a word with you about spiders,” he said.

  The sled shuddered. Cornices of snow slid from the trees all around, as if the trees were shaking themselves free. In panic, the trolls tried to escape, pushing and elbowing each other on the narrow reindeer trail. Those who fell were trampled. A few tried to climb the cliffs on either side.

  A deep peace came over Kalf. He pulled the spike from the skull of the dead troll and threw the weapon aside. He did not turn around. Since he had said good-bye to Asla the previous evening, he had accepted that he would die. The duchess had always been right when she had urged them to flee. She’d been right in Firnstayn and right in Honnigsvald. Why should she be mistaken now? And although he knew that, he had argued against her and stayed behind. Someone had to stay so that the rest could save themselves.

  Kalf spread his arms wide. The cold breath of death engulfed him. The air was filled with fine ice crystals. He breathed in deeply. Then the avalanche struck. The white torrent engulfed him, sweeping him along with it.

  Kalf paddled with his arms. He was enclosed in a muffled roar. Then it grew dark. Still, he struggled against the unstoppable force that had swept him up. Something slammed into his shoulder, and he felt himself spun around. A searing pain shot through his head. Then, suddenly, all was still.

  The fisherman lay curled up like a sleeping child, held captive in a tight-fitting cloak of cold. The thunder of the avalanche still reverberated in his ears.

  Kalf tried to stretch, but the snow held him tightly. The chill was already eating its way into his limbs. He pushed his feet against the snow underfoot, and his boots crunched into the caked powder. He tensed his shoulders, but his prison did not shift. Then he realized that he could not tell which way was up or down. Swept along by the avalanche, he’d tumbled again and again. In the darkness of his icy prison, he could not orient himself at all.

  He pressed against the snow wall in various places and managed to expand a little the space in which he was trapped. The rumbling in his ears had diminished now, and in its place he could clearly hear his own gasping breath. He ran his hands over as much of himself as he could reach. Everything hurt, but nothing seemed to be broken, and the cold dampened the pain. His sword belt was gone, but he still had the fishing knife stuck in his boot. Carefully, he jabbed the blade into the ceiling of his tiny cave. With both hands, he moved the chunks of snow he loosened—he would dig his way to freedom.

  A sound made him pause. The snow creaked. Someone passed by underneath him! Kalf laughed silently. Not underneath him, of course. He’d been digging in the wrong direction. With renewed strength, he went back to digging, working to turn himself around.

  Soon, the snow was less compacted. He found he could push it aside with his hands, and finally he saw a spot of gray winter sky. Carefully, inch by inch, the fisherman pushed himself clear of his icy prison. The avalanche had dragged him several hundred paces with it. A little to his left lay a large clothes trunk. Farther down the slope, he saw trolls probing the snow with spear shafts, looking for the buried.

  Watchful, Kalf pulled himself out into the open. His clothes were crusted with snow, his hair full of ice. Slowly, he crawled up the slope. A little more than a hundred paces away lay a dark forest of fir trees, untouched by the avalanche.

  Now Kalf discovered a small group of trolls above him, moving higher up the slope. One of them must have stepped over his icy prison, showing him the right way to freedom. The group stopped and turned back.

  He pressed his face into the snow and lay still, hardly breathing. Again he heard the creaking steps slowly coming nearer. They stopped, and he could clearly hear the trolls’ voices. They seemed to be arguing about something. Finally, the heavy steps moved away again.

  Kalf waited a moment longer. Then he pushed himself up and ran toward the woods. He stumbled, sprawled, stumbled again. Only when he was among the trees did he risk looking back. No one followed him. Had they not noticed him? Or did it simply not matter to them if one of the humans escaped?

  His shoulder ached, and his head felt as if a coach horse had trampled on it. Exhausted, he made his way up the forested slope just off the reindeer trail, staying in the cover offered by the trees, afraid of running into trolls.

  He pushed himself onward throughout the day. The sun had almost disappeared behind the treetops when he smelled a fire. He stopped in his tracks and peered ahead as far as he could see. A figure in a red cloak was leaning against a tree. The crimson sky of evening made her golden hair look like a crown of light. Asla!

  At last, Kalf ventured out onto the path. He could move more easily now and hurried toward Asla. She cradled Kadlin in a sling of cloth at her breast.

  “I knew you’d still come,” she said, smiling.

  The sight of her filled Kalf with renewed strength. She was so beautiful. None of the radiance that she’d had even as a young girl had faded. He wanted to take her in his arms then and there but was afraid of the others’ prying eyes. “Do you have a camp in the woods?”

  “There’s a big hunters hut up there.” Asla suddenly seemed reserved.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I ordered the caravan of refugees to disband, and it has caused some quarreling. There are some camped up there who don’t want to listen to me. But we can’t go on as we have been. We don’t have enough who can fight to face the trolls again. It would be like last night, after the palisade was stormed . . .” Her voice faltered. “I had to give the order! The trolls look at us as if we are livestock to be slaughtered. Now it’s up to us to stop acting like cattle! Reindeer form huge herds because they’re safer that way. The wolves weed out the weakest, the ones that don’t have the strength to run with the herd. But no herd of reindeer was ever hunted by hundreds of wolves. It’s not safe for us to move on as a group. If the trolls find us, they’ll kill all of us. Only if we form smaller groups, if the herd separates into individual families again and each family goes its own way, will at least some of us make it.”

  Kalf nodded toward the pale column of smoke rising among the trees. “What about them?”

  Asla’s face hardened. “The weak and dispirited and those who can’t leave them behind. They’ve decided to stay in the hunters hut and trust the mercy of the gods.” Her voice turned husky now. “The
y . . . if we all went on together, we would have had to leave them behind anyway.” Asla closed her arms around Kadlin, who snuggled close, asleep inside her sling. “The trolls will not get my little girl! Most of us who’ve escaped have decided that it’s better to freeze in the woods than wait like cattle for the trolls to come.”

  “Where will you go?”

  Asla pointed to the west. “They say there are caves at the far end of the valley. We can find refuge there.”

  Kalf looked to the clouds gathering slowly in the north. They had a few hours, no more. “How far is it to the end?”

  “If we don’t rest in the night, we should make it to the caves early in the morning.”

  Kalf held out his hand to her. “Then we should be on our way.” She was right. Anything was better than waiting there.

  ONE GOLDEN HAIR

  Orgrim felt respect for the humans’ courage. He never would have believed that the fragile little creatures were capable of inflicting such heavy losses on them.

  The duke gazed out over the churned field of snow. The evening sun doused the slope in pale, pink light. Warriors with long poles were still searching for their missing comrades, although they had already recovered more than sixty bodies from the snow.

  Orgrim shook his head. The humans must have known that none who stayed at the barricade to fight would survive. The barricade had blocked the narrowest point of the path up the mountain, the very place where the flood of snow, rocks, and smashed trees would be at its deadliest. They had sacrificed themselves to take as many trolls as possible with them.

  His mind went back to the attack of the ice gliders in the Swelm Valley. With their fanatical willingness to perish, the humans had proven themselves almost as dangerous as the elves. Waging this war in the Fjordlands was foolishness. It was costing too much troll blood. They would do better to withdraw, to go back to the Snaiwamark or to the mountain fortresses far in the north, on the edge of the permanent ice. Orgrim thought of all the women waiting for him in the Nightcrags. He was tired of fighting. His people had won back a place for themselves in Albenmark. The humans had been punished. It was time to go.