Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  A hundred paces to his left, a flame shot up. Screams rang through the night. Yet another of the large galleasses had caught fire. It was not smart to light a fire aboard a huge pile of wood. Most of the oil-drenched balls of straw trailed a broad wake of sparks as they climbed into the sky. Some burst apart the moment they were fired.

  Orgrim climbed down from the aftercastle to the artillery deck. “Spread more sand,” he shouted to the men by the catapults. Then he silently counted the buckets of sand that stood in long rows along the railing. His ship would not burn! He could live for hundreds of years if he was careful. There would come a second chance for the title of duke. Now what mattered was to survive this night! If one of the large galleasses caught fire and was not extinguished with sand within moments, then it meant death for all on board. No troll could swim. Their bodies were simply too massive to stay on top of the water, and it made no difference how much they paddled or kicked. A troll in the sea was a dead troll.

  Two warriors rolled a large ball of straw across the deck. The artillery chief hauled it carefully into the great leather sling at the end of the catapult arm. Patiently, he checked that it was sitting as it should before hanging the end of the sling into a hook. The arm of the catapult was strained almost to the breaking point. Boltan, the artillery chief, lifted his torch from its holder on the railing. He stayed as far away from the ball of straw as possible, and with his arm outstretched, he held the torch to the gold-shimmering charge.

  With a sound like the death rattle of an old dog, the straw caught fire. Boltan jerked back the catapult’s locking lever. The arm flew high and slammed into the padded crossbeam. The leather sling opened, and the blazing straw flew away into the darkness.

  Orgrim sighed with relief. They had practiced firing the flaming charges so many times, but every time the flames took hold of the straw, he held his breath. He remembered one particular practice shot only too well, when a ball of straw burst apart above the ship and a flaming chunk fell back onto the deck. Boltan had thrown himself onto the burning straw and extinguished it with his own massive body. Even now, in the unsteady light of the only lit torch on board, the flat red scars were visible on his chest. He carried them proudly, as a monument to his courage. No combat could have won him as much renown as that single courageous act. He was known throughout the fleet. The king himself had invited him to his table to tell about his heroic deed and had honored Boltan by bestowing on him the name Fire Eater.

  The artillery chief came to Orgrim. Sweat poured in streams from his naked torso. “I’ve saved the worst of the fireballs for last. For at least two, I’d happily bet that they tear apart before they reach the city.”

  “Will they at least hold until they are over the water?”

  Boltan shrugged. “I wouldn’t bet on that.” He lowered his voice. “I’d like to throw the rest of them overboard. We’ve been lucky so far. Who knows how long our luck will hold.”

  Orgrim looked to the west. Somewhere over there lay Branbeard’s flagship. The king would hoist three red lanterns when they were to end their barrage and attack the harbor directly. But all that lit the night were torches and flaming bales. “If not for Gran, I’d agree with you. He’d betray me.”

  “Then we’ll throw him overboard as well,” Boltan growled. “He badmouths you to the men. It would be better if he had an accident.”

  “What about the warriors who might be his friends? And those who are hoping to make pack leader themselves if I fall out of favor?” Orgrim shook his head. “We’d have to throw half the crew overboard, and even then . . .”

  “Pack Leader! Ahead to starboard!”

  Orgrim charged to the railing. A shadow was sweeping between the pale towers at the harbor entrance. An angular hull split the black mirror of the sea, making it foam. They were coming!

  “Throw the rest of the fireballs overboard!” Orgrim commanded. Some of the warriors on the artillery deck looked at him in disbelief, but before any could protest, Boltan bellowed, “Go, go, go! Move your tails, you rat sacks! You heard what your pack leader ordered!” He grabbed hold of one of the large balls himself and, gasping, heaved it over his head. Then he threw it as far out to sea as he could.

  The pack leader hurried up the steps to the quarterdeck. He needed to stay close to the helmsman. The elves’ ships were faster and more maneuverable than the trolls’ galleasses. One mistake and they would be outmaneuvered.

  “Man the oars!” he bawled over the noise on deck. “Drummer! A slow rowing beat! Warriors, boarding ramps on deck!”

  Orgrim felt his pulse quicken. With a little luck, he could win his duchy after all. Three ships had now made it through the harbor entrance. There was not even a hint of a breeze. The two galleys on the flanks both had their masts down. They were getting ready for battle. The third ship, a huge liburna, lay a little behind the other two.

  The pack leader snorted with disdain. The elves made it so obvious. The galleys intended to sacrifice themselves to give the liburna a clear escape route.

  The beating of drums sounded from the belly of the Rumbler. The oars rattled out through their ports in the massive hull and churned the smooth sea. A jolt ran through the ship, then it began to move. The last bales of straw bobbed in its wake.

  “Keep on the white galley!” he ordered the helmsman.

  The troll nodded. He leaned against the long tiller with all his weight, and the galleass swung to starboard with agonizing sluggishness.

  Orgrim saw the elven galley’s bronze ram glinting in the foam, pointing at the hull of the Rumbler like a huge arrow.

  “Drummer! Ramming speed!” he bawled down to the rowing deck. “Haul on those oars, or they’ll send us all to the bottom of the sea!”

  More galleasses had broken from the long chain of the trolls’ ships and formed in a broad semicircle around the mouth of the Vahan Calyd harbor. Other pack leaders had also sensed fate’s beneficence. Orgrim cursed. He would not be the first to reach their precious prey. “Pull, you lazy dogs! Put your backs into it!”

  On the main deck, six long boarding ramps lay at the ready. At their front end, sharpened hardwood stakes jutted from the thick planks. They would dig deeply into the deck of the elven ship when the ramp fell.

  Orgrim now recognized the crest on the great silk banner wafting languidly from the main mast of the liburna. The night had washed out the colors, but the pack leader could make out a light-colored horse on a dark ground, and he knew what it meant. The tyrant queen’s flagship was roiling through the water in front of him!

  A shadow moved slowly past the Rumbler. The Stonefist! The galleass was built a little lighter and had more oars. Orgrim knew he could not win the race against her!

  The white elven galley had picked up speed, too, to cut off the new enemy ahead of them. Orgrim reckoned that they would swing around at any moment to direct their deadly ram at the hull of the Stonefist. Dull-red points of fire glimmered on board the galley. Small figures gathered around them.

  “Keep us away from the Stonefist!” Orgrim ordered his helmsman.

  A fireball fell into the sea far behind the elven ships. Some of the galleasses had opened fire on the fleeing elves. Fools, thought Orgrim. It was not possible to hit even a stationary target with a catapult with any certainty. They were useful when it came to bombarding something the size of a city, not an elven galley.

  A second fireball drowned in a column of hissing steam.

  Boltan came up to the quarterdeck and brought Orgrim his shield and his massive war hammer.

  Suddenly, small flames appeared on the white galley, only to fly high into the sky in the next moment, like tiny copies of the fireballs, and fell toward their target.

  Roars of pain sounded from the Stonefist. Orgrim saw warriors staggering back from the bulwarks and collapsing on the deck. Flames crept like snakes across the planking. Then, with a dull roar, one of the large straw balls near the catapults caught fire.

  A second salvo of flaming arrows d
escended on the Stonefist, and the fire on board spread rapidly. The oarsmen lost their rhythm, and the galleass slewed off course.

  “Back to the artillery deck,” Orgrim ordered. “We’ll be next.”

  The artillery chief hit his scarred chest with his fist. “But we’re prepared.” He smiled grimly. “Those elven scum won’t take us so easily.”

  Orgrim pushed his arm through the broad leather loops of his shield. It was made of two-inch-thick oak timbers. No elven arrow would be able to penetrate it.

  The liburna had increased its speed and was already moving past the white galley. A wide hole now gaped in the line of troll ships. Only the Rumbler lay between the elven ship and the open sea.

  In the meantime, the heavy galleass had picked up speed. The distance between them and their prey was decreasing, but flaming arrows now flew from the tyrant’s ship, too. Orgrim positioned himself protectively in front of his helmsman and raised his shield. The arrows hammered against the dark wood like puppies’ paws, their flames charring smoky tongues into the wood.

  The Rumbler was washed in the golden light from the arrows that had struck home. The ship looked as if it were lit with dozens of candles. Boltan harried several men across the main deck, smothering the flames with damp felt blankets.

  A second rain of arrows pelted onto the deck. One warrior went down gurgling behind the bulwark, a feathered wooden shaft protruding from his neck.

  The liburna was less than a hundred steps away. A kind of bed had been set up on its aftercastle, and a figure dressed entirely in black was leaning over it. Was the cowardly tyrant commanding her ship from a daybed of furs and silk? Orgrim grunted with contempt. That fitted with the stories he had heard about Emerelle since his birth.

  The Rumbler was closing on the elven ship at a sharp angle, but they would miss their quarry by a few paces. The liburna would escape.

  “Grappling hooks!” Orgrim screamed.

  A fresh hail of arrows descended on the galleass. Now the elves on the white galley were shooting at them, too, just two ship’s lengths behind.

  Wooden grappling hooks sailed through the air. Orgrim saw one elf caught between the hook and the ship’s rail. He was crushed like a rat. A jolt ran through the Rumbler. The two ships swung toward one another. The fighters on board the liburna chopped desperately at the tough leather lines. A shrill command sounded. On the port side of the elven ship, the oars were rapidly lifted from the water and pulled inside, to stop them from being smashed between the two hulls.

  “Pull the oars—” Orgrim began, but it was too late. The trolls’ oaken oars splintered against the elven ship, and from belowdecks came cries of pain as the oarsmen were hurled from their benches and arm-length shards of wood flew all around.

  Orgrim stepped to the bulwark. On the artillery deck, the first of the boarding ramps was being run out. But the wooden spikes missed the liburna’s railing, and the heavy ramp crashed into the sea. The pack leader saw Gran getting ready to leap onto the elven galley. The huge troll looked down uncertainly at the broad swathe of dark water that still lay between the two ships. In the meantime, the elves prepared themselves to repel the coming attack.

  Orgrim cursed quietly. Under no circumstances could he allow his rival to be the first on board. He slid his shield off his arm and lifted it high over his head. Arrows buzzed around him like angry hornets. A shot grazed his temple. With a cry, he hurled the shield into his enemies, and then he leaped after it. For a moment, a gap appeared in the ranks of the elves. The stone head of his war hammer slammed against the enemy shields, the wood bursting apart beneath his furious blows.

  The elves fought with silent doggedness while Orgrim bellowed like a raging bear. His enemies dodged back, and a swing went wildly through air. Now the elves threw their shields aside, too. They were different than Orgrim had expected. They eluded his hammer. They neither gave up nor fled. They were like dancing vipers, waiting for the moment to strike. He should not have given up his shield so quickly!

  The pack leader swung his heavy hammer in a circle, trying to keep the elves at a distance. Like thunder, the boarding ramps descended onto the ship of the wretched little imps. Wood shattered. The air filled with screams and the insidious whirring of arrows. A numbing blow struck Orgrim on the shoulder. Then a blade shot forward and stabbed him through the heel.

  Orgrim went to his knees. He tried to create space for himself, swinging his hammer with all his strength. Then his men were beside him, their large wooden shields covering him.

  “Throw them into the sea!” he roared. “Kill them all!” He tried to stand, but his leg collapsed beneath him again. Suddenly, Boltan was there. “This battle is over for you, my friend.”

  Orgrim supported himself on his war hammer and heaved himself to his feet again. “Your belt!” Glaring light danced before his eyes. “Wrap it around my heel. I have to be able to stand again!”

  “There isn’t one among us who did not see your courage, Pack Leader. You don’t have anything to prove.”

  “The belt!” Orgrim persisted. “This is not over yet! Wrap my heel with it as tightly as you can.”

  “They will kill you.” Boltan kneeled beside him. He pulled the leather so tight that it creaked.

  Orgrim cautiously put his weight on the foot. It was numb, but it did not fold beneath him. With determination, the pack leader picked up his shield and was pushing his way through the crush to the front when an infernal roar erupted behind him. The white galley had reached them. The ram spike bored deep into the Rumbler’s hull.

  “Abandon ship!” Orgrim bellowed over the noise. “To me, men! We will take the tyrant’s ship for our own. To me!”

  More galleasses reached the elven ships. They were like wolves attacking an old elk. The elves knew there was no escape, but not one of them yielded. They were not the elves of the songs. Little bastards, slightly built, true, but bastards that knew how to fight. Orgrim would never have thought that their victory would cost them so much blood.

  He was among the first to storm the quarterdeck. The last defenders stood between the trolls and the tyrant’s bed. Orgrim noticed one elf in particular, in a ragged silk shirt. He fought like a wildcat and mocked the trolls. Nothing seemed able to kill him, and finally he was the last elf standing. A steel breastplate shimmered beneath the tatters of his shirt. Beside him crouched a woman, dressed in black and silver. She seemed to be a shaman. Her face was painted, her hair the color of ripe corn. She held the hand of the figure on the bed. Whoever lay there had a silken sheet pulled over her face.

  The victorious trolls stood in a broad circle around the bed. The battle had cooled the warriors’ battle lust. No one wanted to die now.

  The elf raised his blade, challenging them. “Come on! Where’s your courage! A hundred against one, that ought to be enough, even for you.”

  “Lay down your weapon, and I’ll spare your life.” The pack leader felt respect for the paltry creature. It would be a shame to kill him. He was wounded, too—he bled from a deep cut to one hip. He would not survive another melee.

  The elf laughed and threw back his long blond hair. “Your stink offends my queen. Withdraw from the quarterdeck, and I’ll refrain from slaughtering you like the beasts you are. I’ll count to three, slowly. That’s how much time you have left. Anyone still standing up here after that is dead.”

  Gran pushed to the front. “The guy’s mad. He must have got a knock on the head.”

  “One!”

  Orgrim noted with annoyance that several trolls actually backed away.

  “Two!” The elf staggered slightly. He had to hold himself up with one hand on the magnificent bed.

  “Thr—”

  Orgrim’s war hammer flew through the air. The elf tried to duck beneath it, but his wound and the long battle had exhausted him. The massive head of the hammer caught him full in the face. A sharp crack rang out, and bloodied teeth rattled across the deck. Slowly, as if unwilling to concede defeat even in death,
the elf sank onto his knees, then fell forward.

  Orgrim stepped up and retrieved his war hammer. “That’s my meat,” he announced in a hoarse voice, and he pointed to the dead elf. “He was stupid, but he was brave. Take an example from his courage!” The troll reached for the silken sheet.

  The elf woman fell onto his arm. “Defile me if you want, but let my queen die in peace.”

  Orgrim looked at her in incomprehension. “What am I supposed to do with a woman who would snap in two if you held her too tight?”

  “I beg you, sir. Show mercy!”

  “Mercy? Like your queen, who threw our king and the captive dukes into the abyss from the Shalyn Falah and banished my race from Albenmark? No, woman. We have learned a lot from you elves. Mercy turns a victor’s strength into weakness.”

  “I’ll do anything for you!”

  Orgrim looked at the woman in surprise. Did she want to die? If he chatted with her much longer in front of his warriors, his reputation would suffer. He nodded toward the elf with the smashed face. “Who was that man?”

  “Ollowain, swordmaster to the queen.”

  “Can I have a piece of him?” ask Gran reverently.

  Orgrim looked down at the dead figure. His name was almost as well-known among the trolls as that of his queen. Prince of the Bone Bridge, the Dancing Blade, Flenser—his race had many names for this warrior. And if he was there, then it could mean only one thing. Orgrim pulled back the silk sheet and looked into a face disfigured by burns. A diamond-studded diadem encircled the dead woman’s forehead. The swan crown of Albenmark!