Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  Ollowain moved forward again to keep up with the boat. The basin in this magnificent domed hall was not deep, and the water flowed so powerfully that the swordmaster struggled to stay on his feet, although the swirling masses barely reached his knees. The centaurs had an even harder job. With their horseshoes, they found little grip on the smooth stone underfoot and had to hold on to the edge of the boat to prevent themselves from being toppled by the current.

  The fountains beat down on Ollowain. Even the floor of the great chamber vibrated under the force of the falling water. And though all of them had to fight the ancient force of the water, Gondoran himself seemed unconcerned. He stood in the stern of the skiff, steadfastly holding the tiller, bellowing a song at the top of his lungs.

  Engulfed in the din of the water, Ollowain could not hear all the words; the song seemed to be about a holde woman whose breasts were bountiful springs. The quarrelsome little creature was a puzzle . . . was he singing to hide his fear, or was he truly as joyful as he sounded? The domed hall was incredibly beautiful—the light, the rainbows, the gleaming white stone of the walls. If not for the infernal noise, one could enjoy being in there simply to see it and to open one’s soul to the beauty of that hidden wonder.

  Gondoran steered the boat through a wall of water. His two companions bailed as fast as they could to stop the boat from filling up. The fountains were like a curtain of crystal, none closer than two paces from the marble walls of the domed hall. But just there, the current was even stronger. Large bricked arches in the walls greedily swallowed the outflowing water. Channels led out of the circular hall in every direction . . . Ollowain could not see that they were marked in any particular way. To him, all the openings looked alike, but Gondoran obviously knew exactly where he was. At the seventh channel they passed, he turned the rudder and steered the boat back into darkness.

  The tunnel seemed only to amplify the roar of the falling water. The holdes finally managed to relight the torch, which had been extinguished by the fountains.

  “Isn’t it wonderful? The Hall of Falling Waters . . . ,” the boatmaster said when the noise behind them had finally ebbed. “I’ve spent entire days in here.”

  “Wonderful is not the word that I would use,” said Yilvina. “Spectacular, perhaps.”

  “What do you know about the beauty of the water?” Gondoran replied, put out. “You have no idea how much work it takes to tend to the water.”

  “You talk about water as if you were tending a herd of cows,” the centaur prince mocked. “How hard can it be to take care of water?”

  “If we did not take care of the water, then all of Vahan Calyd would only have lukewarm, stale broth to drink! It starts with making sure that no rats or unwashed centaurs find their way down here for a bath. Every drop here is filtered through deep filter pits. The Normirga, our queen’s people, built Vahan Calyd a long time ago. They devised magical pumps that keep the water in motion, like a giant heart. Water was created to flow, to pulse, to tumble from heights. That’s how you keep it alive, manhorse. When it tumbles from the spouts in the Hall of Falling Waters, it breathes. And my people tend this magnificent creation.”

  “Well, I fear I just evacuated my bowels in your water, Gondoran. I’ll wear sackcloth and ashes and do penance, but I could not restrain myself any longer.”

  The other centaurs burst out laughing, but Gondoran only stared wide-eyed at the prince.

  “You . . . what?”

  “I’m afraid I overdid things a little at lunch. And then all the excitement. The fire. The escape. It does stimulate one’s digestion.”

  “That’s a joke, isn’t it?” said the holde pleadingly. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “I never joke about my own droppings,” Orimedes replied with a grin. “When it’s time to go, it’s time to go. And I must say, I’ve had some embarrassing moments at certain elven celebrations. We are as the Alben made us.” He shrugged. “But in this huge amount of water, it’s bound to spread well.”

  Gondoran did not reply. He and his two companions fell into silence while the centaurs continued with their crude jokes.

  The tunnel led them through a lock chamber into another cistern, and they had to swim again. Ollowain looked back from time to time. It would be a miracle if their pursuers had not lost their trail in the Hall of Falling Waters. Gondoran had not said anything, but the swordmaster was certain that the holde had chosen to pass through the curtain of water at a point a good distance above the tunnel that they had then entered. Whoever was following them had a choice of more than two dozen channels that led out of the domed hall.

  Yet Ollowain continued to look back. It had also been improbable that their pursuer would find the secret door so fast . . .

  When none of the holdes reacted to the centaurs’ provocations, the manhorses also soon fell silent, and the entire party drifted on through the dark without a sound in their little island of light. Now and then they passed one of the enormous columns that carried the cistern ceiling. Ollowain allowed his thoughts to wander. He thought back to the times with Alfadas. The queen, back then, had given him the task of raising Alfadas. At first, he had thought of it as a punishment. What could one expect of a human, after all? He was supposed to teach him how to fight with the sword, knowing full well that he would not live long enough to master even one of the twenty-seven arts of killing. Yilvina, his best student for centuries, had so far achieved mastery in four of the arts and could now best even Ollowain himself when fighting with two swords.

  The human had surprised him, though. Despite lacking the time to reach perfection, his burning ambition and his almost uncanny talent balanced out that disadvantage. In the world of humans, there would be no one to equal him. Ollowain wondered what had become of his student. Did he possess the maturity to handle the skill he had? Or had he used it to become a tyrant?

  If only Alfadas had never met Silwyna! The Maurawan had awakened a dark side in the human. She had wounded him in a way that had never healed. It was too bitter to think about that. There was so much that the young man could have achieved, but he chose instead to flee Albenmark.

  The swordmaster looked back over his shoulder and listened. Behind him lay only darkness and silence. He’d had no choice—he had to ask for her help. Silwyna was the best archer he was able to find at such short notice. He smiled grimly. If she had shot at the queen, she would never have missed her target.

  “Swordmaster?” Gondoran’s voice shook Ollowain out of his thoughts. The holde pointed ahead, where a tiny red point of light was visible in the darkness. “Something is not right ahead. Both doors to the cistern look to be wide open. That can’t happen. What should we do?”

  “How far is it to the door?”

  The boatmaster shrugged. “Three hundred feet, perhaps.”

  “Douse the torch!”

  Gondoran obeyed. “It won’t help now. If someone is there watching the cistern, they would have seen us coming long ago.”

  “I’ll go check. Stay here and wait on a sign from me. Is there a box of torches there?”

  “Of course. There’s one at every entrance.”

  Ollowain stripped off his tabard. The sword alone was heavy enough. He had never been an outstanding swimmer, so better to leave everything he didn’t absolutely need. He slung the leather sword belt across his chest and back and pulled it tight.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Orimedes. “Waiting here and doing nothing is not for me.”

  Ollowain sighed inwardly. The last thing he needed at his side now was the volatile centaur prince.

  “With no disrespect, my friend, I will attempt to reach the exit as covertly as possible. I appreciate your offer, but I must turn it down.”

  “I can move silently,” the prince persisted.

  “And who will protect the queen if I don’t come back? You are the born leader. You will find a way! I need you here, Orimedes.”

  The centaur grunted. “Sometimes I hate being a prince. Go
od luck.”

  “If you are able to follow me, I will swing a burning torch in a circle.” Ollowain pushed away from the boat. With strong, even strokes, he swam toward the light.

  THE CONFESSION

  You have broken the seal and foolishly ignored my warning. I ask you a final time, return this letter to its hiding place if you want your conscience to remain clean.

  A single, dark act can destroy a life of noble-mindedness. And it is such an act that I must report. I had hoped, for the part I played, to go into the moonlight. I thought it was my destiny. But I was mistaken. I cannot go on living with my knowledge of what happened on this night. And yet it would be a crime to sacrifice the truth to the lies, as it will happen. None among the Albenkin would believe the trolls. And even they are unlikely ever to discover what really happened. I have to write it down, for the truth may not be forgotten for all time.

  When this is complete, I will erase my memory of it forever and will never again touch the seal of this letter. Be warned one final time, unknown witness to my disgrace! You do not want to know the truth! Never again will you look at Albenmark with innocent eyes if you read on now.

  Emerelle issued an order for the king and the dukes of the trolls to be taken to the Shalyn Falah. It was said that from there, they would be led to their imprisonment in a secret location, but that their folk would forever be banished from Albenmark. We paid too dearly, with too much blood, for our victory. We attacked them from every side, and the trolls imagined they were lost. For that reason, they surrendered their weapons and put themselves at our mercy. They believed that we had surrounded them with far superior numbers, but in truth they were stronger than we, and if they had risen a final time, nothing in Albenmark would have been able to stand in their way. Our victory was tarnished, achieved through deception as it was. All of us, that night, knew that the children of the Alben would need decades to recover from the preceding battles.

  But all of that cannot excuse what happened. Still my hope is that you, unknown witness to my disgrace, can at least understand why it happened. Could we allow the reign over Albenmark to pass into the hands of its most terrible children?

  The troll king and his dukes were gagged and led out onto the Shalyn Falah with their eyes bound. They probably thought they were to be taken to the dungeon of the fortress on the other side of the bridge. Then Emerelle commanded her swordmaster to push the trolls into the abyss. But honorable Ollowain, who had never before hesitated to follow his queen’s command, refused. Then another warrior, by the name of Farodin, offered to carry out her command. Farodin’s lover Aileen had been killed by trolls. But Emerelle forbade him—she did not want an act of revenge. She wanted an executioner with a cold heart to commit the bloody deed and thereby to save Albenmark. And so I stepped forward. Gagged and blind, they fell in silence, like stones, into the chasm.

  In the belief that their dukes were our prisoners, the trolls would not begin a search for their leaders. And it may be that their souls can no longer clothe themselves in flesh in the human world. No one knows if that is possible. I hope for peace. But I fear that the trolls will one day discover the secret of this night. For then peace will never again be possible, and Albenmark will drown in the blood of its children.

  From the estate of Master Alvias

  THE VOICE FROM THE LIGHT

  The elven ship scraped along the harbor wall, and several trolls jumped from the deck to tie it up. A spear hit one of the warriors.

  Orgrim pointed to the tower bathed in cold light that stood at the end of the wall. “Go and smash that door down and kill the elves inside.” The pack leader was furious. First, he had had to ask other pack leaders to tow the elven ship, and then it was impossible to actually enter the harbor. Orgrim had pictured himself entering the city in triumph, carrying the queen’s body on his shield so that everyone could see her. But fate was threatening to steal away his fame. Entering the harbor would be insane with dozens of burning wrecks still drifting around. The troll fleet was now tying up at the long outer wall, which had been built to protect the inner harbor from the waves of the open sea.

  More and more warrior packs were jumping down from the ships and storming toward the city with shrieks and bellows. As far as Orgrim could see, they were met with no serious resistance anywhere. After the fight on board the queen’s ship, he was happy about that. The elves were small and weak, that much was true. A single blow from a club would break their bones and make them cough up their lungs, but it was damned hard to hit them in the first place. And their blades were quick and cut deep.

  “Pack leader, a visitor!” Boltan had come storming onto the quarterdeck and pointed now out to sea. “The king!”

  A huge shadow was emerging from the wall of grim ship silhouettes. The red lanterns lit the mainmast. The Deathbringer, the king’s own ship! Had he seen who had boarded the elven liburna first? Orgrim mentally cursed himself for a fool. The king was only coming to see the captured ship. How could he have observed the boarding battle from a distance and at night?

  Orgrim stepped up to the bed where the tyrant’s twisted body lay. His large hands stroked the swan crown. It had really happened. He had killed the queen’s swordmaster and captured Emerelle’s cadaver. No one could take that from him. He had no need to take part in the fighting in the city.

  The Deathbringer’s oars were pulled in and lines cast out. Slowly, the huge ship turned alongside the wall. Its decks lay more than eight ells higher.

  The elven ship groaned as it became wedged between the Deathbringer and the harbor wall. Orgrim heard wood split. The miserable little vermin could not even build a solid boat! It amazed him that their thin-skinned ships managed to survive storms at all.

  A boarding ramp crashed onto the deck of the liburna. King Branbeard and his entourage climbed down. The king of the trolls was a stocky figure and somewhat shorter than most of his kind. Bony bulges protruded above his eyes, giving the impression that two horns were beginning to emerge from the base of his forehead. Branbeard’s nose was broad and somewhat crooked. Impressive scars adorned his face and scalp—the king had been victorious in single combat many times. A wolfskin cape hung over his shoulders, and he wore a greasy leather kilt. “Hey-ho, Fire Eater!” Branbeard approached Boltan and clapped him on the shoulder. “Congratulations on your catch!” He swept his eyes across the dead elves on deck and smiled with satisfaction. “You really tanned their hides. Tomorrow you shall sit at my table.”

  “I . . .” Boltan squirmed with embarrassment. “Orgrim is pack leader. I am only the artillery chief.”

  “I know that.” The king sniffed sharply, then blew his nose out on the deck. “But you really gave those elven cockroaches something to think about.” Branbeard pointed to a cut on the artillery chief’s arm. “And I see you did not shy from those accursed elven blades either. I was talking about you just yesterday, Boltan. Smothering a fire with your own body! By the Alben, I need more men like you! It’s as I said: tomorrow evening, I want to see you at my table!”

  Orgrim was struggling to contain himself. What was the king doing? Was he trying to insult him in front of all his warriors?

  Branbeard turned around. He stank of mead and patted Orgrim’s cheek patronizingly. “Well, my whelp. Was it clever of me to give you a pack of your own?” His eyes blazed beneath his bulging brows. “Where is your ship?”

  Orgrim ignored the question. Calling someone “whelp”—a helpless creature not yet weaned from its mother’s teats—counted as a terrible slur among troll warriors. Only with an effort was Orgrim able to keep his composure. The king was obviously drunk.

  “The tyrant is dead. And I struck down her swordmaster.” He pointed to the makeshift bed of skins on which Emerelle was laid out. “Our rain of fire destroyed the elven queen.”

  The king sniffed loudly again. “That’s supposed to be her?” He stepped to the body and stared at Emerelle for a long time. “Her face is too burned. And she’s wearing the dress of a yo
ung maiden. Elven witch! I’d been hoping . . .” He shook his head. “No, I don’t remember her anymore.” He spat on the swordmaster’s body, which was still lying where Orgrim’s war hammer had felled him. “She stood and watched when I was led out onto the Shalyn Falah. Mandrag!” He waved over one of the men in his entourage. “Do you remember how she had me sent flying?”

  A gray-haired old warrior stepped to the king’s side. He bit hard on his bottom lip as he stared at the tyrant queen. Then he reached for the crown. Orgrim saw tears of rage sparkle in the old troll’s eyes. “I remember this.” He lifted the crown and showed it to all around him. “She wore this on the night of treachery. I recognize it! It has to be her.”

  Branbeard grunted in annoyance. “Has to be isn’t good enough! Bring Skanga down here!” The king turned to Orgrim. “You still owe me an answer, whelp!”

  Orgrim did not understand.

  “Your ship!” the king snarled at him.

  “The elves sank it. They rammed the Rumbler when we boarded here, but they could not repel us from the queen’s ship again.”

  “Could not repel us from the queen’s ship,” Branbeard mocked. “I entrusted a ship to you, whelp, because I’d been told you were worthy of being a pack leader. And where is it now? Lying on the bottom of the sea!”

  “None of my men went down with it, and I captured this elven ship. If I had not boarded it, the elves would have escaped with the body of their queen.”