Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  Ollowain looked out over the wide waters. The weather had turned, and the sky was now overcast, the waves carrying small foamy crests as they raced shoreward. Far out he saw a small boat, its sail reefed, struggling against the rising sea. He felt a chill run through him. The landscape radiated a raw beauty . . . it suited the humans, he thought. “Who does your son want to fight now?” he asked. “Who is this ‘king of the deeps’?”

  Alfadas waved a hand dismissively. “Just one of many stories the Fjordlanders like to tell on long winter nights around their fireplaces.”

  “Do you think one might also tell it to an elf on a gray autumn day?”

  The jarl looked at him in surprise. “It is really nothing special.”

  “It seems to have impressed at least your son quite deeply.”

  Ulric still stood on the promontory. He was holding his sword aloft now, as if he had just wrung a victory for the ages.

  Alfadas had to smile. “Yes. It is the kind of story that mesmerizes children, old soldiers, and fools. A long time ago, when iron was reserved for the weapons of the gods alone, a proud ruler reigned over the fjords, King Osaberg. Many called him Osaberg the Golden, for he wore a heavy breastplate forged from golden bronze. He wore a winged helmet, a mail shirt that reached to his knees, and a large round shield painted with the image of a sea serpent. He was a noble, rich king. Many wars had filled his treasure chamber and also brought him many enemies. Even his own princes envied him, because next to the king, the renown of even the bravest warrior was as dust. In those distant times, the rulers plied the fjords in boats with hulls of leather, as our own fishermen still do today. One summer, on a military campaign, Osaberg and his men were confronted by an enemy army and heavily outnumbered. They say his own princes betrayed him. Whatever the truth may be, they fled in their boats before a sword was even raised. Osaberg and his last loyal followers were surrounded. They fought desperately, but there were simply too many enemy soldiers. The king was the last still standing. When he saw that defeat was inevitable, he sliced through the leather skin of the hull and sank in the fjord in his heavy bronze armor. Before he went down, he shouted to his enemies that he would return and that he would erect a throne of their bones on the bottom of the fjord. Two days later, most of the ships of the traitors and the victorious enemy sank in a sudden storm. Ever since, it is said, King Osaberg wanders the bottom of the fjord restlessly. And sometimes he climbs from the waters to test the courage of the brave in single combat or to spread terror and death among the enemies of the Fjordlands.”

  “Maybe you should not allow your son to go shouting at that dark ruler. Aren’t you afraid that he might hear him?”

  Alfadas laughed softly. “We are not in Albenmark here, my friend. It is only a story. The king only lives in the imagination of boys like Ulric and a few old madmen. In my world, such creatures do not exist.”

  “And the manboar?” Ollowain objected. He still looked out at the restless waters of the fjord, but saw it now through different eyes. Was the ghost of an ancient warrior king lurking there in the depths? “And what about the trolls? Several of their fortresses are little more than three hundred miles from where we stand. And then there are the outcasts of Albenmark who have found refuge in your world . . . It may be that King Osaberg does not exist, but maybe something else is lying in wait at the bottom of the fjord.”

  “No, my friend. My father-in-law is a fisherman, and his father before him. The tradition goes back many generations. They know everything that lives in the fjord, and there is no king down there. It is a story, no more, something to terrify children and keep them from going too near the water.”

  Ollowain observed the boy on his rocky ledge. He was strong. Long, wet strands of blond hair clung to his neck. He kept his footing effortlessly on the slippery rocks. He would no doubt become a good sword fighter if Alfadas found the time to train him properly. “Your son does not seem to have been overly terrified by it.”

  The jarl’s eyes lit up proudly. “He is very courageous, it’s true. He will be a better leader than me because he knows where his heart belongs.”

  Ollowain thought wistfully about how he had never had a child of his own. He had never even had a woman at his side for any length of time. There had always been something else in his life that came first, something that seemed more urgent. For hundreds of years, he had dedicated himself solely to serving Emerelle. His conviction that he had made the right choice ran deep, as strange as some of the queen’s decisions appeared to be. She looked hundreds of years into the future—no one was able to say what moved her. She fought covert battles to protect the Albenkin, often employing cunning, intrigue, or intimidation, which helped avoid open warfare. Ollowain knew that Emerelle’s only goal was what was best for Albenmark. Now, too . . . and yet, when he thought of the fall of Vahan Calyd, he was plagued by doubts. How much had she known? What horrors of the future justified such extreme sacrifice now? He would find that out only if he continued to be loyal to her. He had to save her now, and he had to have the patience to wait and see what the future brought. For the moment, however, he could do nothing more than hope that Emerelle would soon awake from her magical slumber.

  Or . . . no, in fact! As long as Emerelle slept and was not in imminent danger, he had time to devote himself to others. By himself, there was nothing he could do against the trolls. Only the queen had the authority to call all of the Albenkin to war. The races of Albenmark would not follow anyone else.

  Ollowain looked from Alfadas to his son. His memories of training the jarl to fight with a sword were still fresh. He had taken great pleasure in the formative role he played in Alfadas’s development and in seeing his talent grow. He smiled abashedly, then gave a slight nod.

  “It would be an honor for me to be permitted to instruct Ulric a little in sword fighting. Though your own father despised the sword as an unmanly weapon, he had a gift for fighting with one. It seems to me that this legacy lives on in your son.”

  “What better teacher could Ulric ever have? He will be thrilled when I tell him that. He thinks the world of you, Ollowain. I have told him about you many times.”

  Blood, who had been loping about aimlessly on Ulric’s promontory, suddenly began to bark loudly at something in a cleft in the rocks. Ulric ran to the large dog, then waved to his father. “There’s something here . . . a dead rabbit. It looks funny.”

  Ollowain followed his friend out onto the rocks. Ulric, in the meantime, had pressed himself flat onto the rock and was prodding around in the cleft with his wooden sword. Deep down lay the cadaver of the rabbit. It was as shrunken and shriveled as a dried plum. Its fur betrayed no obvious wound.

  “What happened to the rabbit, Papa?”

  “It’s nothing out of the ordinary,” said Alfadas lightly. “It must have fallen down there and could not get out again. The heat of the last few days has dried it out, and ravens and other carrion eaters can’t get to it down there. That’s why it is so well preserved.” The jarl took his son’s wooden sword, lay flat on the rock, and, with his outstretched arm, succeeded in turning the rabbit over.

  Ollowain noted with surprise that no maggots were to be seen on the cadaver.

  “Do you feel how warm the rocks still are?” Alfadas asked his son. Ulric pressed the flat of his hand onto the rock and nodded.

  “The midday heat has not faded—down there, the rabbit is in something like an oven. It’s completely dried out. All that’s left is fur and bones.” Blood growled as if the explanation did not please him, and Kadlin, whom Alfadas had finally set free, began to growl with him.

  The jarl gave the little girl a small poke with his finger, pulled a face, and growled back. Then Ulric joined in, too, and began to bark. Ollowain watched in amazement. He would never understand humans. The elf felt out of place and withdrew. He did not want to spoil the others’ fun. He moved off the rocks and looked back out to the fjord again. The boat he had seen a while earlier was now within a hundred paces
of the shore. It was a simple, almost circular fishing boat with a hull of animal skins. The only person on board was an old man, who now raised one arm and waved and shouted, but the gusting wind whipped away part of his message. “Alfadas . . . village . . . soldiers!”

  THE CHRONICLE OF FIRNSTAYN

  In the fifth year in which Alfadas Mandredson served as jarl of Firnstayn, the elves returned. They sought refuge in his hall, where today the Hall of Kings stands. And no less a figure than the elf queen herself fell under his care. The queen of the Albenlands, perilously injured, driven out by her enemies, recalled her foster son. But when she reached the land of the fjords, she fell into a deep sleep. Neither shouts nor shaking, not even the power of magic were able to waken her.

  But her final words before she slept were spoken to Alfadas Mandredson, bold duke to the king of the Fjordlands. And she asked him for help in the war against the thieves who would steal her crown.

  Now the last of Emerelle’s loyal followers were stranded, and they remained many days in Firnstayn, pondering in their despair on what they should do. Word of their presence spread like the wind. And it was not long before King Horsa Starkshield himself discovered who had descended from the Hartungscliff.

  Whereupon the old warrior determined to once again saddle his old warhorse Mjölnak and ride the long road to Firnstayn. He brought with him the most renowned among the healers. Horsa knew well that the king was the soul of the country and that if the king were to fall ill, his country would suffer with him. In the generosity of his heart, he had decided to aid Emerelle with whatever means he commanded. But nobility of mind breeds envy and resentment. And in that autumn, no one suspected the disaster that the king’s selfless act would call forth that very winter.

  Recorded by Haddu Hjemwal

  Volume Two of the Temple Library of Luth in Firnstayn, page 15

  ROYAL PLANS

  You’ll come home tomorrow?” Asla asked.

  Alfadas had been preparing for a fight, but Asla had remained surprisingly amenable. And what choice did he have when the king ordered him to come?

  “Yes, if all goes well, I can be back tomorrow evening.”

  “I hope so. I’m used to guests who throw up on tables and benches when they’re drunk, but I am not used to them shitting beside the fire . . .” She glanced censoriously in the direction of the centaur. Orimedes was making himself useful, splitting firewood. The rest of their guests had retreated inside the house. “What does the king want?”

  Alfadas sighed. She had already asked him that three times. “I really don’t know. He has ordered me to come to Honnigsvald. The messenger said no more than that. My guess would be that he has gotten wind of our guests and he would like to know what is going on.”

  “Don’t go off to war for him again. Please. I need you here.” She stroked his cheek softly. “All the signs point to a particularly hard winter. Don’t leave me alone when the time of storms and darkness begins.”

  What a silly fear! He took her in his arms and pressed her tightly to his chest. “Don’t be anxious. No one is fool enough to go to war in winter. Horsa will not ask me to lead his army before next spring.” He kissed her and hoped he had been able to allay her fears. Then he swung into the saddle and walked his horse down the hill. Below, several men who had witnessed his leave-taking grinned at him. He hoped the weather would turn for the worse soon—then these gaping idiots would finally abandon their siege of his longhouse.

  He turned back one more time at the foot of the hill. Asla was standing in the doorway. She wore her green dress and the fine red shawl that he had brought home for her the previous summer. Her hair hung loosely over her shoulders. The wind blew a long strand of hair—as gold as ripe grain—across her face.

  Alfadas was worried. She had never said farewell so tenderly when he rode off to the royal court, and this time it was only a two-day journey. Was she perhaps pregnant? He should talk with Lyndwyn when he returned. As a healer and sorceress, she could no doubt tell if a new life was growing in Asla.

  The jarl steered his gray stallion contentedly onto the road that led southward along the shore of the fjord. This time, he would be with Asla when the child came. Whatever the king demanded of him. Enough, fool, he chided himself in his mind. You don’t even know if your wife is with child and you’re already planning the coming year.

  His gaze wandered out over the gray-blue waters of the fjord. The clouds hung low in the sky, swallowing the distant summits. With hammering wings, a flock of guinea fowl flew loudly from the undergrowth on the edge of the forest. The gray shied sideways. Alfadas peered into the undergrowth—something was there. But he had no time to get caught up in Silwyna’s games. If she had something to say to him, then she should come out and say it. He was not the one constantly running away, after all. And if she did not come out and say whatever she had to, then she could rot. He let the stallion feel his spurs and trotted on.

  Alfadas felt her eyes on his back as he rode away. Was Ollowain right in his suspicions? That was no concern of his now, he told himself, and yet he kept looking back. Why was she here? Could she not leave him in peace after all? He eased the gray back to a walk. If she were really there at the edge of the forest, she could easily catch up with him now. He wanted to know what she was doing here. And he had to admit to himself that despite everything that had happened, he was not indifferent. Had Asla and the children been unable to extinguish his love for her? What would happen if she stepped out of the forest now? Would he again be captivated by her? He could not allow that! His life was here, in Firnstayn, at the side of his family! He spurred the stallion on again and dashed away. He could not let the past catch up with him again.

  The shore road soon narrowed to a track no wider than a game path. Travelers seldom found their way to Firnstayn. It was the most northerly village on the fjord and too small to be of interest to traveling merchants. Anyone in need of good cloth, a sturdy horse, or iron arrow tips traveled to Honnigsvald, which called itself—ambitiously—a city because some of its buildings were built of stone. Admittedly, it had ten times the population of Firnstayn, but measured against the cities that Alfadas had seen, Honnigsvald was little more than an outhouse. A useful outhouse, though: he would take something back for Asla, time permitting.

  It began to rain. Alfadas untied the rolled cape from the saddle and slung it around his shoulders. Through the hazy veils of the rain, the far shore was almost invisible. The world closed in. The distant mountains were lost in the gray of the sky. Soon, despite the cloak, the jarl was soaked to the skin. He thought wistfully of the wonderful clothes that the elves had made, the fabric from which rain pearled away as it did from the petals of flowers. One could learn so much from them, if only the band that linked their worlds were a little tighter. But the way things stood, it was entirely up to the elves to decide, for no human had ever managed to pass through their gates unaided. Only his own father, Mandred, had once miraculously managed to do so, although he had never been able to explain how.

  The forest there pushed down almost all the way to the waterline. The black trunks of the fir trees retreated up the hill as if in a hall filled with columns. The lower branches had died off because light no longer reached them, and a thick cushion of brown needles covered the ground, absorbing the sound of the horse’s hooves. Rain swished among the branches. Everything smelled of resin, decay, and mushrooms. Alfadas pulled his head down between his shoulders and steered his horse through the dark hall of the forest. At least the thin black trunks offered some protection from the rain. Once the sun disappeared, a distinct chill entered the air.

  His hair hung in his face in wet strands. The leather of his sword belt creaked softly when he moved. Like the bones of a dead giant, rocky outcrops jutted skyward from the earth. Where the route he had chosen became too difficult, Alfadas had to sidetrack deeply into the woods. Sometimes, when the fjord swung between the mountains in wide bends, he was able to take shortcuts. Whenever possible, he
stayed close to the water. He was keeping an eye out for the silvery backs riding the tides—it would not be long before the salmon came. He would sail out with Erek and spend days fishing the fjord. His father-in-law was slowly losing the power of his younger days. Gout had crept into his bones, as it did with everyone who spent their life on the waters. Too many hours of damp and cold had worn him down, but when the salmon started to run, the old man came back to life and his power returned as if by magic. Once, at night by the fire, he had confided to Alfadas that when his time came, he wanted a huge fish to pull him down to the bottom of the fjord. He did not want to perish miserably, coughing blood, on some bitter autumn day or live so long that his old bones grew as frail as moldering wood. “All my life, I have eaten fish. If they get to eat me in the end, it is only fair. Let them lay their roe between my ribs. I will gladly offer their young a safe place to hide,” Erek had said back then.

  Alfadas liked the old man. One could sit an entire day in a boat with him and not say a word, and yet they would have gotten on famously.

  The hours meandered by. The rain did not stop. At dusk, Alfadas climbed down from his saddle. With darkness approaching, it made more sense to look for a place to spend the night, but Honnigsvald was not much farther. Two miles, or three.

  Clouds and rain smothered the crimson of evening and hid the moon and stars. Soon it was so dark that the jarl could barely see where he was putting his feet. He stumbled repeatedly on the broad gravel shore. He would not keep the old king waiting. Horsa Starkshield had grown stranger and stranger in the last few years, and if one disappointed him, his reaction was utterly unpredictable.

  Finally, Alfadas saw a tiny point of light. It led to the old ferry house, perched with its steep roof like a large boulder high above the shoreline. Beside the house stood a small, dry stable, where Alfadas led his gray. He loosened the girth but did not remove the saddle—they would not be staying long. The straw on the floor of the stable was black and looked as if it had not been changed for many moons. There were no other horses inside. Alfadas rubbed the stallion dry with an old blanket and attached a feedbag full of oats. The large, black eyes of the horse blinked tiredly. The jarl scratched it just above its small, almost circular blaze, where it like to be scratched most of all, and he spoke softly to it, thanking it for carrying him on the long road to Honnigsvald.