Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  When Alfadas stepped out of the stable, he pushed his cloak back from his left shoulder so that his sword was more visible. Beside the ferry house door burned the lamp that had shown him the way. He knocked heavily on the wet wood and stepped inside, to be met by a pall of musty air. The acrid smoke of a turf fire filled the low, long space. A blond fellow with broad shoulders sat hunched over an earthenware mug at a table beside the fire. The ferry house had a brick chimney with iron skewers for cooking, but the vent seemed to be blocked, and the smoke rolled back into the room.

  “Where’s the ferryman?” Alfadas asked loudly.

  The blond raised his head. He had watery blue eyes. His hanging jowls, unkempt moustache, and receding chin made him surly and self-pitying. “No more ferries today.”

  “Can I hear that from the ferryman himself?”

  The man at the table pulled a face and stabbed one thumb over his shoulder. “He’s buried behind the house. He’ll be sure to listen patiently if you want to complain. It was apoplexy. Hit him in summer while he stood at the tiller, and overboard he went. Sank like King Osaberg in his gold armor. By the time they fished him out again, it was far too late. The elders in Honnigsvald named me and my brothers as the new ferrymen because our father’s farm was in debt and we could not hold on to it any longer. For a miserable copper piece in this filthy weather, I won’t be taking you over.” He pointed to the sleeping niches along the wall. “You can spend the night here. There’s still a bit of soup on the fire. I’ll take you over tomorrow.”

  “The king is expecting me,” said Alfadas, trying hard not to sound threatening. “Believe me, I would much rather sit by the fire and wait for this rainy night to end.”

  A fleeting smile crossed the blond man’s face. It was now clear to him that he had no other choice than to ferry this stranger across the fjord, but he also appreciated the friendly gesture. He looked Alfadas up and down curiously. “You’re the elvenjarl, aren’t you? And that . . . that’s the famous magical sword.”

  He was so sick of this story! “I am simply a jarl that the king has ordered to attend him.”

  The young ferryman grinned broadly. His top teeth were missing. “No, no. You can’t fool me. That splendid sword . . . and you came from the north. You must be the elvenjarl! They say the queen of the elves and everyone in her court are paying a visit to Firnstayn. And that they’ve brought golden tents and amazing animals with them. And the air is filled with sorcery and the smell of roasting meat.” He jumped to his feet and went to the two most distant sleeping niches. “Torad, Mag! Come on, on your feet! We’re doing one more crossing. The elvenjarl is here and wants to be taken to the king.”

  Alfadas sighed. The blond man was probably hoping he would pick up a rock on the other side of the fjord and transmute it into gold to pay him. The ferryman’s brothers hastily got dressed, staring at Alfadas all the while as if he were a three-legged chicken or some other wondrous beast. Like their brother, they both had scruffy blond hair. They seemed to be somewhat younger, and one had a red brand shaped like a half-moon seared into his cheek. The sign of a thief. When the young man noticed how Alfadas was looking at him, he turned his head defiantly to give him a better view of the scar.

  “Mag stole a loaf of bread. We’d had nothing to eat for three full days,” said the ferryman unasked. “He was so weak that he could no longer run away fast enough when they went after him.”

  Alfadas made an effort not to look in Mag’s direction again.

  The blond laid one arm around Alfadas’s shoulders and took him outside. “Kodran’s my name.” Rain hit them in the face.

  Alfadas brought his horse from the stable while the brothers prepared the ferry. It was a large, flat vessel with enough room for two wagons or an entire troop of riders. The jarl felt a little lost as he boarded the spacious boat. It was not fair to make the three brothers do all that work for one man.

  With long poles, they propelled the ferry clear of the landing. Torad and Mag took over two long oars while Kodran remained in the stern. Only when they were well out on the water did a few lights on the far shore become visible.

  Alfadas pulled the wet cloak closer around his shoulders. He had not been in the ferry house long enough for even a single thread to dry, but long enough to feel the cold even more now.

  The journey across the fjord seemed to take an eternity. Alfadas had a bad conscience for having hounded the three brothers out into the night. He groped for his moneybag—the leather felt oily and slippery from the rain. He fumbled at it with his fingertips until he finally managed to open the straps; then he fished out one of the heavy silver pieces from Aniscans. They were lovely coins, with the head of a horse embossed on one side, part of his booty from the previous summer. Asla would certainly not approve if she found out how magnanimous he was with their money, but jealously hoarding his coins was not something the elves had taught him.

  The ferryboat bumped against the rope-wound wooden pylons of the landing stage. Mag jumped from the ferry and tied up the heavy boat. Then he hauled on a block and tackle that lowered a drawbridge onto the flat deck of the ferry.

  Thick boards nailed crosswise allowed his gray to find a footing as Alfadas led it up the ramp. The stallion was nervous. The wood of the drawbridge was as slippery from all the hours of rain as if someone had smeared it with fish oil, and the gray’s hooves thudded heavily as it disembarked.

  Kodran reached for the reins and helped Alfadas lead the horse onto the level landing stage. “Will you be returning tomorrow?” the ferryman asked when they were off the drawbridge.

  The jarl nodded.

  “Then we will spend the night here. We’ll sleep in the boatshed.”

  Alfadas pressed the silver piece into the ferryman’s hand. “I don’t have enough money to change that,” said Kodran grumpily.

  “Then let’s just say that I’ve paid in advance for tomorrow’s return.”

  “Even then . . .”

  Alfadas raised both hands as if in surrender. “I insulted your brother by staring at him, and I hounded all three of you out of your warm house. Allow me to do something besides cause you trouble. I think that much silver will cover spirits and meat enough to drive the cold out of your bones again. And for a place to sleep that’s more comfortable than a boatshed.”

  Kodran grinned broadly. “I hope you are called to Honnigsvald more often, Elvenjarl.”

  Alfadas grasped the ferryman’s wrist in a warrior’s greeting. Kodran stepped back in surprise, but the jarl held his arm tightly. “For me, this is a greeting among men who do their job well. It does not make a difference if it is on the battlefield or at the oars. I’ll see you again tomorrow, Kodran.” He reached for the reins of the gray and led it up the landing stage toward the city. The horse’s hooves made a sound like thunder.

  “Who’s there?” called a voice from a shack at the end of the stage. The shade of a wooden lamp was pulled back. A ray of golden light cut the darkness.

  “Jarl Alfadas Mandredson!”

  “You came after all? We’d all given up on you.” An old man stepped out of the shack. “I’m the harbor watchman,” he announced proudly. He clearly could not care less that probably no one outside Honnigsvald would call a single wooden landing stage a harbor. “I’ll take you up to the banquet hall. Watch your step, Jarl. The rain’s made a mess of the roads, so don’t step in any puddles. Some of them are knee deep.” The night watchman went ahead of him through the wooden harbor gate into the weavers’ quarter, and from there they made their way up the hill to the banquet hall of the small town. Even from a great distance, the sounds of an orgy of eating and drinking could be heard.

  Alfadas insisted on taking his stallion to the stables himself. Only when he knew the horse was well provided for did he let the old man lead him to the banquet hall.

  A large fire burned in the center of the hall, and an ox rotated on an iron spit. On simple benches and at tables all around it sat dozens of carousing men. For the k
ing himself, a long wooden platform had been erected, allowing him and a few selected soldiers in his entourage to sit where they could be seen easily from anywhere in the hall. Alfadas had never enjoyed such occasions, where the men drank themselves blind only to wake the next morning in their own vomit. The first victims were already lying under the benches.

  Slave girls with iron rings around their necks hurried busily through the spacious hall. The two women turning the ox on its spit had removed all their clothing save a leather loincloth. Their expressions were apathetic, and they ignored the jokes of the drunks.

  Alfadas’s wet clothes began to steam in the stuffy heat inside. He unclasped the heavy bronze fibula of his cloak and laid the garment over his arm. Then he made his way through the ranks of drinkers toward the king.

  A familiar melody penetrated the din, and a voice sang:

  “There comes the jarl of Firnenstayn

  with his elven blade so fine.

  The lion heart of many a fray

  Sent by the gods to win the day.”

  It grew quieter in the hall. Alfadas hated entrances like this, although he knew that the king’s skald, Veleif, meant no ill will with his verses.

  Horsa Starkshield rose from his seat. He was a tall, old man, but despite his gray hair, he still looked every inch a warrior. As a young man, he had lost one eye to an arrow, and he wore a black bandage over the socket; with his long nose and narrow face, he had the grim look of a bird of prey. Even there in the banquet hall, Horsa wore a short mail shirt. Broad gold bracelets encircled his arms. “My heart opens with joy to see you, Jarl Alfadas Mandredson. Even when you come in looking like a puppy someone’s just tried to drown.” The king’s voice was loud enough to hear above the noise of any battle, and everyone there in the hall could hear his words.

  The king raised his heavy mead horn, encrusted with gold, and held it out to Alfadas. “Come and drink, boy. This’ll drive out the chill, and when you’ve drunk enough of it, you can hear the ghosts of your ancestors whispering.”

  In all his years among the humans, Alfadas had never gotten used to this rough camaraderie. Every time someone welcomed him like this, he was lost for words and the blood rose in his cheeks as if he were a callow youth. Alfadas climbed up to the wooden platform. Unable to offer a quick-witted quip in reply, he simply took the mead horn and drank, letting a good quantity of the sweet liquid pour down his beard. He knew he needed to keep a clear head that night.

  He handed the horn back to the king, who smiled. “You’re coming on, boy. You’re coming on! The first time you sat at my table, you lapped like a kitten at a bowl of milk.” He pushed a slave girl aside roughly, just then leaning to refill his horn. “Make room! Make room at my table. The boy should sit at my right hand. I want to hear about the elves that have set up court in Firnstayn.”

  The other guests of honor squeezed closer together and another chair was brought up for Alfadas. Most of the men nodded affably at him, but there were some who had already drunk too much to hide their jealousy and hate. They envied the unqualified trust of the king that Alfadas, still so young, enjoyed, and they envied the place he took at the king’s table, a place they themselves had perhaps hoped to occupy. But most of them liked him, because the victories he had won had brought gold and slaves to the Fjordlands and had made all of them richer.

  Alfadas sat at the king’s right hand, as ordained. “It is not as has been reported to you, Horsa. Emerelle has not come with her royal entourage. She—”

  “My messenger saw a manhorse,” Horsa interrupted him. “He also heard that the queen was wounded in a battle. Is it true that elven women fight in their wars as well?”

  All conversation at the king’s table fell silent. Throughout the large hall, too, all conversation had ceased, everyone trying to catch as much of what Alfadas said as possible. Presumably everyone there had already heard that the elves had come to Firnstayn.

  The jarl did not want to lie to the king, but at the same time tried to reveal as little as possible about the Albenkin. The last thing he needed was a bigger audience camped around his house in Firnstayn.

  “Queen Emerelle, it is true, is injured. A sly enemy attacked her while the elves were celebrating an important event. They were taken completely by surprise and overrun. Emerelle had to flee. No doubt she will soon assemble an army to avenge the cowardly attack.” Alfadas had deliberately downplayed what had happened at Vahan Calyd and clothed the story in simple words. He knew that everyone there had heard stories of plundering raids and blood vengeance before. Like this, he could save himself long explanations.

  “Did you hear that, my friends?” Horsa cried. “That brave woman has been a victim of betrayal, and she has turned to us.” The king half rose, supporting himself with his fists on the tabletop. A breathless silence reigned in the hall. “Ever since Jarl Mandred asked the elves to help him defeat the terrible manboar, we have stood in debt to the folk who live beyond the magical gates. They sent us their best warriors to help where human courage and human swords failed.” He paused for a moment and let his gaze sweep across the men gathered in front of him. Suddenly, he lifted one hand to his ear. He frowned, and it seemed he was listening to a soft, distant sound.

  “Do you hear that?” Horsa said.

  It was so quiet in the hall that one could hear the crackle of the burning wood in the long fire pit. No one in the hall dared even breathe. Very softly, Alfadas heard the sound of the rain spattering against the shingles on the roof of the banquet hall.

  “Norgrimm in his Golden Hall has set the war horn to his lips. I hear it calling.”

  “I can hear it, too!” cried one of the men below. “Very clearly!”

  Alfadas knew the man. It was Ragni, one of the king’s bodyguards. Now others also shouted that they could hear the god’s war horn. Fools, the lot of them . . . but then Alfadas started. There was something. It came from the river. Softly, distorted by the wind. A horn. Its blasts deep and solemn. A shudder ran through Alfadas. There were no gods! That was impossible!

  Horsa spread his arms wide toward the ceiling. “We hear you, Norgrimm! We hear your call!”

  “We hear your call!” repeated a hundred voices. No man still sat. All had reached for their swords and axes and swung them now on outstretched arms above their heads.

  The guests of honor around Horsa were all on their feet, too. Alfadas was among the last to stand. He could not believe what was going on around him.

  “When the elves came to us in our hour of need, I was still a young man, my beard as soft as a cat’s fur. But a Fjordlander forgets no debt!” Horsa raised his head, and he seemed to gaze out beyond the soot-black beams of the ceiling and into the starry sky. “I have heard you, Norgrimm. And from this hour onward, the men of the Fjordlands stand at the elves’ side!” Horsa himself now drew his sword and thrust it high in the air. “Norgrimm, we hear you!” the old king cried with all his might. “And we follow your call, to honor you, to bring glory on ourselves!”

  Horsa abruptly turned and looked at Alfadas. “Jarl of Firnstayn. It is you who has made our kingdom strong. When I call, you come to be my sword. I hereby relieve you of your jarl’s title. From this hour forth, you are once again my duke, commander of my army, and first among my soldiers. Lead my men to Albenmark and do not rest until the last enemy has been defeated. And when—and only when—the swords have returned peace, the hour will have come in which you may again be called jarl. Then we will gather here again and celebrate your victory in the majesty of this hall.” The king stepped forward and kissed Alfadas on the forehead, sealing his reappointment to duke.

  Alfadas stood as if paralyzed. This was madness! But he could not interrupt the king, not there in front of all his guests. He waited until Horsa picked up his mead horn and drank. Then he leaned close to his king and whispered to him, “My king, we cannot fight Emerelle’s enemies. They are trolls, each as strong as a cave bear. And Emerelle would never ask us for something that can only end
in blood and death.”

  “Have you ever seen a troll?” the king asked.

  “No,” Alfadas admitted.

  “Then take it from an old king that soldiers are much the same as hunters. With every passing year, the defeated enemies grow stronger in your mind. Besides, I can assure you that my hunters have brought down cave bears before today.” He turned his attention back to the crowd in the hall, who were looking to him as if spellbound. “Are we warriors?” he called to them. “Or gutless milksops?”

  “We are warriors!” they bellowed back, and beat their fists against their chests.

  “And what does a warrior do when a woman come and asks him for help? Does he fight, or does he think up a clever excuse not to?”

  “He fights! We’ll fight!”

  A tear brimmed in Horsa’s remaining eye. “The heart of the land speaks from your throats. A courageous heart, insatiable and wild. I am proud to be your king. I am proud to stand here! This very evening, messengers will ride out in all directions, out to the most remote farms, and call all my soldiers to arms. I will review my army in four weeks, here on the shore by Honnigsvald. And Alfadas, my duke, will select the thousand best among my warriors, who will pass through the magical gateway to fight with the elves and take back the queen’s throne.” Horsa slung one arm around Alfadas’s shoulders and pulled his newly appointed duke to his side. “To our duke!”

  The men in the hall roared again and raised their swords and mead horns in salute to Alfadas. The thrill of battle was in their eyes. Damned fools! They could not begin to imagine what it meant to fight trolls. Even the elves feared those monsters.