Elven Queen

by Bernhard Hennen

  The big dog was almost dead on its feet. Mile after mile, it had led them down the fjord to a narrow side arm surrounded by steep mountain slopes. One of Blood’s back legs was bandaged and braced with two wooden splints, but he still limped pitifully. He lost his footing often, and each time it took him a little bit longer to struggle back to his feet.

  “He’s leading us nowhere,” said Lambi cautiously. He did not want to see the dog in agony anymore. “The survivors ran into the mountains. You won’t find Asla and Kadlin here.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Alfadas replied. He seemed feverish, resembling little of the man that Lambi had once known. After the battle, Alfadas had cut out the troll leader’s liver and fed it to the dog. Dealing with one’s archenemies like that was an ancient custom in the Fjordlands, but if Lambi hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed that Alfadas, the elvenjarl, was capable of doing it. Ever since they’d found the dagger in the pile of bones on the shore near Honnigsvald, something had been unleashed inside the duke, something that frightened even Lambi. It was a dark, destructive force. Some legacy of his father’s, perhaps? Lambi knew many of the stories about Mandred. He preferred the axe as his weapon and fought with the fury of a berserker. If he once flew into a rage, then no one would be able to hold him back, it was said, and now Alfadas was acting the same way. Their calm, ever self-possessed leader was gone. He’d given way to a man hell-bent on following his path to the end, casualties along the way be damned. The duke had hardly slept for three days. By Lambi’s reckoning, he ought to collapse at any moment.

  Lambi looked back. The cold eyes of the elven queen met his. Did she know what was going on? Why had she joined the small party accompanying Alfadas on his desperate search? Maybe she was the one responsible for the dark side of the duke’s nature. She was so cool and aloof, as if she were shut up inside a shell of ice. Lambi had seen her standing among the dead on the battlefield, in particular among the Maurawan, who had brought them victory in the final battle. The death of the elves did not visibly move her, but her race dealt with death differently than humans did. They died without a cry or a whimper. It was rare for one of their wounded to so much as groan. A young woman, her body shattered by the swing of an axe, had dissolved into silver light before Lambi’s eyes. He’d seen the same thing happen in the battles in Phylangan several times. But for it to happen there, by his fjord, among ancient, familiar mountains and forests, made it seem even more strange than before. The dying were absorbed into the light and ultimately smiled despite their terrible wounds. The memory of it rattled Lambi. The elves might be their brothers-in-arms, but they were still terrifying.

  Beside the queen walked Ollowain. Both wore spotless white and, in their cold unapproachability, looked like the children of winter itself. Lambi did not understand the swordmaster at all. Ollowain knew Alfadas better than anyone else—he was the duke’s foster father! So why did he not talk Alfadas out of this nonsense? If Alfadas did not rest soon, he’d kill himself. And it was up to him to determine the future of the Fjordlands. The surviving jarls had decided on that after the final battle, but Alfadas did not want to listen to them. And they would certainly not wait forever.

  Apart from the two elves, only Veleif Silberhand and the young jarl, Oswin, had come along on their futile search. All of them, in fact, knew better, for they had found survivors who had personally seen Asla and the other refugees fleeing up the reindeer trail from Sunhill. Silwyna and anyone else still strong enough were searching there. Apparently, a large troop of trolls had also managed to escape along the reindeer path.

  A weak bark made Lambi look up. Blood had reached a broad oak trunk frozen into the ice. From there, up the slope, stretched the signs of a past storm. The forest looked as if an immense and furious harvester had swung his scythe through it. Trees were smashed and fully uprooted, tossed, and tangled together. Some had crashed into the fjord. Blood pushed himself beneath a tree trunk that projected halfway out of the ice. Just a few steps beyond the barrier of dead wood, the side arm of the fjord ended at a sheer rock wall. Blood had led them nowhere—it was as clear as day. From where they stood, the only way out was through the fallen trees, and there was nothing on the ice.

  Alfadas sighed and leaned against the fallen oak. The big dog dragged himself on a little farther.

  “Our road ends here, I’d say,” said Lambi softly. “Luth only knows what’s gotten into the dog’s head. Now let’s talk, Duke. The jarls want to crown you king, and you’d be a dunderhead if you didn’t accept. The Fjordlands need a man like you, a wise ruler, one who’s strong enough for all of ’em to accept.”

  “How am I supposed to rule a land when I can’t even protect my family?” Alfadas asked bitterly. “I don’t want a crown! I will search for my wife and child. Nothing else matters more to me.”

  Enough! Alfadas had to get his head straightened out. In desperation, Lambi grasped him by the shoulders and shook him. “Wake up! What are you doing, chasing after this lame cur? I don’t know what that troll said to you when he died at your feet, but the filthy bastards are liars. Forget him! His words were the last weapon he had, and all that shitpile wanted to do was hurt you. Get that into your skull! And it looks to me like he got what he wanted, hitting you right in the heart. You and me are brothers-in-arms. We’ve waded together through the blood of friends and enemies alike. You led me into a foreign world and back out again. Trust my words, not the words of that slobbering bastard of a troll prince. Now, I can see how you’d want to find your family. But why here?” Lambi pointed at the rock wall in front of them. “That goes nowhere. Why didn’t you go up the reindeer trail and into the mountains? This makes no sense. I’m tempted to wallop you over the head just so you get a few hours of rest. Once you’ve slept, you’ll see: you’re chasing ghosts here, that’s all.”

  Alfadas pulled himself free. “You don’t understand. Blood is my daughter’s dog. He doesn’t obey anyone but her. He’ll lead me to her. It has to be like that. You’ll see.” With that, the duke ducked beneath the tree trunk.

  Blood had stopped just a few paces short of the rock wall. He scratched at the ice as if possessed, but his paws only slipped on the cold armor with which the fjord had outfitted itself for the winter. A chill wind swept the snow in thin veils across the fjord and howled among the rocks.

  Tears of rage stood in Lambi’s eyes. What else could he do to make his friend see reason? He wished he knew what that damned troll had said, but Ollowain, who’d been with Alfadas at the time, would not tell him. What kind of words could drive a man like Alfadas to the edge of madness?

  Veleif stepped up beside Lambi. “Did you tell him?” the skald asked.

  “He doesn’t give a cold shit about the crown, and he’d be no man I’d follow if it were otherwise. Give him a few days, until he’s found his wife and daughter.”

  Veleif shook his head. “People wait. Kingdoms do not. He has to understand that. I doubt that the jarls will ask him a second time. One does not turn down a crown.”

  “Who else are they supposed to ask? Each of ’em has too many petty jealousies. No, Alfadas is the only man they can all agree on. They’ll ask him again,” said Lambi emphatically.

  “And if they asked you?”

  The jarl snorted. “Me? Did you ever hear of a king with half a nose? Forget it, Veleif. I remember all the grinning faces when I was dragged off to Albenmark in chains—only too well. They don’t even look at me as an equal. You’d as likely find a sheep that shits gold before those stuck-up whoresons would put me above them.”

  The skald crouched in the lee offered by the trunk. “Maybe I should compose a heroic song about you. In time, you’d be seen in a different light.”

  “What would you sing about? A hero who steals gold doors? No. If you want to write more than two couplets about my heroic deeds, you’ll have to lie through your teeth.” Lambi’s gaze drifted to the elves. They were standing together a short distance away. The icy wind tore
at their clothes. The queen wore no more than a thin dress and walked barefoot. Shivering, Lambi wished he’d been able to keep his golden amulet.

  Oswin came over to them. Lambi felt uncomfortable in the jarl’s presence. Oswin was too pretty for a man! With his green eyes, long red-blond mane, and hairless cheeks, he looked like a young woman. On top of that, whenever he was around the men who’d returned from Albenmark, he acted as awkward as a boy in love for the first time. For him, anyone who’d been to the elven kingdom was a hero.

  “May I join you?” Oswin asked.

  Lambi was tempted to say no just to see how the young jarl would react. Instead, he grumbled, “Course,” and looked over at Alfadas. The duke was crouched on the ice, staring into the dark water beneath. The demented dog was still trying to scratch a hole in the ice.

  “The things Blood could tell us if he could talk,” said Veleif, rubbing some warmth into his arms.

  “Dogs that talk? It takes a skald to come up with nonsense like that.”

  “Well, Blood will have had some reason for dragging Alfadas all this way.”

  Stupid talk. It made Lambi angry. “I don’t have a reason for everything I do. Just imagine, sometimes I scratch my rear when it doesn’t even itch.”

  Oswin looked at the ice underfoot, abashed. This was clearly not the kind of discussion he’d expected from heroes. Lambi’s mood improved instantly when he saw how embarrassed the young jarl was.

  “So you’re comparing yourself to a dog?” Veleif said, his tone arch.

  “Why would you think that? Is that meant to be a joke? Another quip like that, and I’ll knot your fingers so hard you’ll have to use your feet if you want any joy in your lonely nights!”

  “But you—” Veleif began, then stopped as Oswin dropped to his knees.

  “Did you see that?” He swept aside some snow. “By the gods! Those are children!”

  All Lambi saw was indistinct, pallid figures. Something was caught among the dark branches, swaying gently with the current. A hand brushed suddenly across the ice—the pale hand of a child. A face appeared, just for an instant, but long enough for Lambi to recognize it. He had only seen the boy once before . . . but the elven dagger . . . how was it possible? The boy was back in Honnigsvald.

  The current pushed the boy a little deeper until he was once again just a faint shadow. Lambi’s stomach tightened. He glanced over at Alfadas. How could he tell him about this? Should he tell him at all?

  “It’s his son, isn’t it?” Veleif whispered. “I thought . . .”

  Alfadas looked up. The dog was still scratching at the ice. “The ice has been broken through over here,” said the duke in a heavy voice.

  Lambi, by the tree trunk, straightened up. Why had he come along? Alfadas had to be told. He had to be able to tell his son farewell.

  PYRE FOR THE DEAD

  Alfadas’s hair clung to his forehead. He had been inside the cave and had read the traces he’d found there. He fought back tears and pressed his lips together tightly in his despair. His boy.

  He had defended Yilvina and Halgard. Why had Ulric gone into the water? How long had he sat there in the dark? How long had he waited for Blood to bring help? Alfadas made a fist of his right hand and bit into the flesh, but the pain in his hand could not cancel out the deeper pain. He should not have waited! If he’d followed Blood immediately . . . he had come only a few hours too late. A few stupid hours.

  Yilvina was still alive. Emerelle was confident that she would survive. She would be able to tell him what had happened. A single, bitter laugh escaped Alfadas’s throat. He had believed his son to be dead, and now it was true. And yet it felt as if Ulric had died a second time.

  Ollowain came to him across the ice.

  Alfadas held up a hand to fend him off. He did not want to speak to anyone. Along the shore, a little way past the storm-ravaged patch of forest, was the pyre. The last gleam of sunset washed the mountainside in pink light. The night spread its wings from the east.

  Lambi came up beside Ollowain. The elf held him back. Alfadas nodded a silent greeting to Ollowain, then turned and looked back at the pyre. This was how heroes were farewelled in the Fjordlands. In the end, they were not given to the worms. Their bodies became smoke and ash and were supposed to ascend like that to heaven. The fire was also a sign to the gods that a hero was coming to their halls. The gods observed the world and kept watch for that sign, said the priests. Alfadas wished he could believe that. It would be easier if he could, if he knew that Ulric would be more than just smoke, that there was something else beyond life.

  If only Gundar were there. He had taunted the priest so many times. Gundar would have been certain to find the right words to send Ulric . . .

  With heavy steps, Alfadas moved back to the shore. The darkness was rapidly displacing the sunset now. He owed it to Ulric to set fire to the funeral pyre at this hour, for this was the hour when the gods were especially watchful. Alfadas knew that Ulric believed those stories. He was still a child, after all, and he had loved stories about gods and heroes and trolls.

  Again, the duke bit into his hand. Now Ulric himself was only a story.

  Beside the pyre, a flaming torch protruded from the gravel on the shore. Ulric’s final bed was built of layers of birch trunks. It smelled of fresh resin. Halgard rested at his son’s side, and Ollowain had given his white cloak to cover the naked children. Their faces looked so peaceful, as if asleep, their arms folded over their chests. Emerelle stood by the children’s heads. She was wearing her thin white dress. A plain-looking stone hung on a thin leather band, suspended at her breast. The wind toyed with the queen’s untied hair. When she heard Alfadas’s footfall on the pebbles, she looked up. Then she stepped back without a word.

  Where they had erected the pyre, pale birch trees grew all the way to the water’s edge. The wind whispered in their thin branches, a dying lament for his son.

  Alfadas looked into Ulric’s face. He had grown thinner since the last time he’d seen him. His face seemed harder, and the lips that had so often smiled at him conspiratorially were now pressed together.

  The duke thought back to their playful duels with wooden swords and to summer afternoons when they lay on a mountain meadow and looked up to the clouds. He had told his son stories, faery tales, and sagas that spoke of a world filled with wonder.

  “I was in the cave. I read the signs.” Tears choked Alfadas’s voice. “You loved them, my stories, and you lived them. For you, the Fjordlands were a place where brave warriors rescued enchanted princesses, a place where good always triumphed over evil. People like you are precious, my son, because they have not lost their belief in wonder and can give wonder to others.” He took the elven dagger and pushed it beneath his son’s folded hands. “Luth spun you only a short thread, Ulric, but you were what you always dreamed: a hero. Veleif, I know, will compose a saga for you. It will probably be as short as your life, but I believe that the people in this land will always remember you, just as they remember King Osaberg. You went to save your princess, and you killed a troll, all at an age when other children are still riding stick horses. Halgard and you . . . you walked your last road together . . .” Alfadas faltered as his voice failed him. “You . . .”

  Something that King Horsa had once told him came back to him then. You know as well as I that the sagas of our heroes always end in blood and tragedy. That is how things are in the Fjordlands.

  “I wish you had not been born in the Fjordlands.” Golden birch pollen danced in the last glow of sunset. Alfadas brought down the torch. The logs of the pyre were mingled with many young shoots and would not catch fire properly. Even as Alfadas looked at the pale trunks, a leaf unfurled on one of the green shoots.

  He looked up. The air was awash with golden pollen. Fresh greenery embellished the birch trees by the shore, and they stood in full bloom . . . in the dead of winter.

  “Put aside the torch,” said Emerelle softly. “You won’t need it. The life-light of th
e children was not completely extinguished. A spark still burned. I gave them some of my light. They will come back from the darkness. Give them a little time.”

  The queen looked exhausted. In the failing light, Alfadas saw small creases around her eyes that he had never noticed before. She stroked the plain stone at her breast. “You were right, Alfadas. Those who have not lost the belief in wonder are able to give wonder to others. Now lie down and rest. I will watch over your sleep.”

  THE KING

  Filled with anxious hope, Alfadas gazed up the reindeer trail in the fading light of the evening. Ten days had passed since they had fought the trolls. He had now returned to Sunhill with the children.

  Ulric and Halgard were both well. To Alfadas’s surprise, Emerelle had remained in the human world. She took care not only of the children but also of others among the injured and infirm. She had changed. She was as distant as ever, but he had never thought that she would enter the stinking, overfilled quarters of the refugees to relieve old women of their gout, or save the frozen toes of children, or close his fighters’ wounds.

  From all around, the survivors of the troll war came to Sunhill, people who had lost everything but their bare lives. Gradually, it became clear just how savagely the troll leader had raged through the Fjordlands. Every town and village that lay north of Gonthabu had been razed. All along the shore, they discovered piles of skulls and bones like the one at Honnigsvald where Ulric’s dagger had been found. Nobody was able to say how many survivors were still out there. Hundreds had frozen to death on the fjord and in the forests.

  Alfadas had sent out riders and sleds to search for refugees. He looked out over the valley and saw the first lights were burning. Freezing figures huddled close to fires in the snow. Like a patchwork rug, the meager shelters of the lost were dotted along the reindeer trail below him. They had been built of whatever was at hand—sailcloth, old blankets, woven fir tree branches. Some had walls of snow, but many were nothing more than a roof. They were not suitable to withstand a winter that would last many weeks yet.