Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  “You think you can tell me what a king has to do? Just because you led our people for a while, do you think you know what it takes to be a king?” Branbeard said venomously.

  “Enough!” Skanga snarled. “You are the king, and no one doubts that.” The shaman straightened up and stepped into the circle of dukes. “It was a mistake to attack Reilimee, Branbeard. They were warned. It was clear from the start that we would not overrun Reilimee as easily as we took Vahan Calyd.”

  “Keep your nose out of the business of warriors!” Branbeard threw the bone aside in anger. “Maybe it was rash to risk this battle, but we can’t back down now. If we retreat without a victory, it will send a signal to all the races of Albenmark. It will encourage them to oppose us. Reilimee must fall! And this time we let no one escape. When we move on from here, this city will be a field of corpses!”

  As much as Orgrim despised his king, he had to agree with what Branbeard said. They could not afford to lose this battle.

  “Besides, we need the supplies the city has to offer. All that meat, the well-stocked storehouses . . . the Snaiwamark is meager country. It can’t provide for an army as big as ours in winter.” Branbeard smiled patronizingly at Skanga. “Don’t tell me how to run a war, woman. You know well enough that my soul is rich with the wisdom of many kings.”

  “Yes. And the arrogance of many kings lives on in you, too. I see very clearly the benefits that victory here means for us. But think about Phylangan. Landoran is a cunning elf. He will know that we are coming. And with every day we lose here, he grows stronger, while our warriors bleed to death before Reilimee’s walls. The entrance to Whale Bay is still ice-free, and we can make it a long way west with our ships. With every day we lose, the ice wanders farther south. When Whale Bay freezes, our march to Phylangan will be hundreds of miles longer. Every mile will wear at the strength of our men, while Landoran grows stronger and stronger.”

  Branbeard laughed in her face. “This is exactly why women don’t wage war. They paint everything in such grim colors that they are defeated before the first battle even begins. What is the point of your carping? What is it you want to say to me?” His eyes locked onto Orgrim. “You’re a hero, aren’t you? The resourceful one, the one who builds bridges in masts to storm walls. What would you do? I know the ambition in you. Show me now that you have the brains a duke needs, not merely the courage.”

  Orgrim tried to picture the maps of the northern lands that he had studied before their departure for Albenmark. Phylangan lay at the end of a long, ice-covered pass. From the east, that was the only way to reach the stone garden.

  “What is it, whelp? Lost your tongue?” the king goaded. “Is that all you really have inside? Silence?”

  “Between Whale Bay and the pass that leads to Phylangan lies barren land. The elves believe that we are tied down here. But if four or five ships leave the fleet and sail north to Whale Bay, it should not attract too much attention. I think we could be able to take them by surprise. With a thousand fighters, I could cut off their supply route to the east until you arrive with the main army, Branbeard.”

  “So you want to cut off their supplies. A thousand warriors would do it?” The king sniffed and spat. “An army like that would have to be led by a duke. Is that what you’re thinking, you treacherous dog?”

  “You asked me what I would do—”

  “Silence, Orgrim! I know you! And you want to get away from here and wage your own war. All right, you’ve got it! I’ll give you one ship. Two hundred fighters.”

  “That is too few, my king!” Mandrag said. “When the elves discover how weak his forces are, they will wipe them out.”

  “More unasked advice, old man.” Branbeard turned to face Mandrag. “You will go with the whelp. He seems to be close to your heart.”

  “All our men are close to my heart,” replied Mandrag icily. “Only a fool wastes the lives of warriors.”

  “Well then, you’d better stick your clever heads together and come up with a plan to get through. Tying bridges to masts won’t do it this time, I’m sorry to say.”

  Orgrim was churning inside. His feeling swung between ire and pride. The king was demanding the impossible. But hadn’t it also seemed impossible, just a few days before, to storm the walls of Reilimee from the ships? Now he had his own command, far away from Branbeard’s army. If he completed this task well, then not even Branbeard would be able to deny him the title of duke.

  “He will take the Wraithwind,” Skanga said in a voice that brooked no protest. “And Birga will go with him. She will find out what preparations have been made in Phylangan.”

  Birga was considered a foster daughter to Skanga, and her reputation was almost as bad as the shaman’s. Birga was so ugly that she had, allegedly, never touched a male, though some warriors copulated even with hollow tree trunks to purge their excess broth.

  The idea that the hag would always be nearby in the future made Orgrim shudder.

  PASSION

  Ollowain stepped into blinding white. The fabric-covered door slid closed almost silently behind him. The room he had been allocated in the mountain fortress was deceptive to the eye. Everything in it was white. The walls. The large bed. Even the barinstones set into the rock radiated white light and had been placed so skillfully that he himself cast no shadow.

  There wasn’t a single sharp edge in the room. The walls blended into the ceiling in a gentle curve. The bed was an elongated oval. Even the door through which Ollowain had just entered was round. The milky-white light contributed to blurring any contours.

  The swordmaster heard water pouring. He looked around tiredly. His room was large and manifestly designed to confuse the senses. He unbuckled his sword belt and laid it on the bed before looking around more carefully. It was some time before he discovered a white curtain that concealed a small room beyond, where he found a bath. That room, too, was completely white. The basin had been carved directly into the rock and did not look very deep. Pale vapors rose from the water, caressing Ollowain’s face. The bottom of the basin was uneven, inviting a bather to stretch out. Beside it stood a low marble massage table with an oval, padded, leather-rimmed opening for one’s head. The warm, moist air in the room was pregnant with the scent of exotic flowers. The fragrance made him feel lethargic and sleepy.

  Ollowain returned to the main room. He removed the coarsely woven clothes that Alfadas had given him and stretched out on the blanket, which had been sewn from snow-rabbit pelts. The fur felt wonderfully soft against his skin.

  After their encounter in the pavilion, Landoran had insisted on having them appear before the council of elders. The council, like Landoran, had rapidly acquiesced to handing over command of Phylangan to Lyndwyn. Such an excessive display of trust was not like his people at all, Ollowain thought. They had never before subjugated themselves to anyone. For centuries, they had even refused to attend the Festival of Light to pay homage to Emerelle as queen, and now they bowed to her supposed order. Something was not right!

  They had not even spent much time debating whether to tolerate a small army from the human world as brothers in arms in their fight against the trolls. The discussion had covered no more than details like what humans ate or how they could come up with enough amulets to protect them from the deadly cold of the Snaiwamark. Landoran, however, had flatly refused to allow the Fjordlanders to enter the Skyhall in Phylangan via the Albenstar. He wanted them to use a gateway that opened in the foothills of the Slanga Mountains, some three hundred miles away. A small troop of elves would wait for them there and lead them up to the ice plain, from where they would sail to Phylangan. Landoran explained that he felt it was smarter if the humans, at first, did not see many elves, to give them time to get used to them. And they should get to know the land in which they would be fighting a war. He also had in mind that they should unite with the centaurs on the ice plain. It all sounded very reasonable, and yet Ollowain had the feeling that the prince was only looking for excuses to keep
them as far away from Phylangan as possible.

  The entire council had paid court to Lyndwyn. She had to take out the Albenstone again and again and show it to them, and they had her repeat three or four times the lie about how Emerelle had entrusted her with the artifact. Were they all blind? Or did they trust Lyndwyn because she was there with him, the true and honest soldier of the queen? His thoughts kept circling around these questions.

  Something pressed gently on his temples. He had fallen asleep. Hands caressed his cheeks, glided over the nape of his neck, and began to massage his taut muscles.

  Ollowain opened his eyes. The pale face of a woman was leaning over his own, the irises of her eyes as red as blood. Her hair was pulled back tightly and as white as snow. Even her skin was flawless white but for the thin blue veins beneath the skin. Ollowain had never seen her before. “Who are you?”

  “Lysilla, from the people of the Normirga,” she said calmly while she continued to massage the muscles of his neck.

  Was he still dreaming? Ollowain looked around uncertainly. The white chamber was as if made for him. Was it too perfect to be real? And yet . . . Landoran perhaps still remembered how obsessed he had been with the color white as a child. There had even been a time when all he wanted to eat was white food.

  Ollowain stretched his neck to better see Lysilla, who was standing behind him. She wore a tight, pure-white wrap dress. He had to smile—this was a dream!

  “So you want to be able to see me. But don’t get tense. Just tell me.” Lysilla stepped to the side of the bed. She laid her hands on his chest; they were warm and felt pleasant. For a moment, she pressed his nipples between her thumb and forefinger, and a warm shudder ran through him. Her hands slid up to his throat. Was it perhaps not a dream at all?

  “Who has sent you?”

  “No one. They talked about you, Ollowain. But no one sent me.” Her hands brushed over his eyes. “Don’t look at me. Don’t look at anything. Just feel. As long as you keep your eyes open, you cannot be free.”

  Ollowain obeyed but hesitantly. Lysilla’s hands slid around to the back of his neck again. They were strong. He felt callouses on her right hand, but the skin of her left was soft. He knew what that meant. He knew only one kind of work that caused callouses only on the right hand. He opened his eyes and tried to sit up, but Lysilla pushed him back down.

  “You are a fighter, aren’t you? A sword fighter.”

  She laughed. “I would not be so presumptuous to call myself that. I am a student of sword fighting, but I am much better at what I am presently doing, at least if you follow my instructions.”

  “Why should I close my eyes?” Ollowain asked warily.

  “You will be able to relax better. And even polite liars can’t really bear to look me in the face for long. My eyes . . . they unsettle others. To say anything else is well-mannered nonsense.”

  She was right. The red irises of her eyes were uncanny. Her gaze was penetrating, disdainful . . . sensual?

  “Why are you doing this?”

  Her finger touched his lips. “Don’t ask. Do you want to experience something wonderful? One or two perfect hours? Then don’t ask.”

  “But—”

  “Trust me. Words destroy the beauty of the moment.” She took his hand. “Stand up. Come with me.” Lysilla crossed to the bathroom. On the floor stood several small crystal bottles that had not been there before. The strange, intoxicating fragrance still lingered in the moist air.

  She pointed at the stone massage table. “Lie down. You will enjoy it.”

  Ollowain obeyed. He was curious. He had never met anyone like Lysilla before.

  The stone of the marble table was astonishingly warm. He bedded his face against the leather padding. Something oily dripped onto his back, and then her hands were on him again, strong and tender. Skillfully, she kneaded the tense muscles at the back of his neck. Then her hands slipped down his back. She leaned forward until he felt her body touch his. She was no longer wearing a dress!

  “Turn over,” she breathed softly.

  A strand of her hair had come loose and fell over her shoulder. Lysilla had the small breasts of a warrior woman. The musculature of her right arm was more pronounced. What was he doing? He was looking at her with the eyes of a sword-fighting teacher.

  Lysilla leaned forward again. She picked up the band from her dress. “Let me bind your eyes, or else the magic cannot work.” She smiled mysteriously. “Stop thinking. Just feel.”

  Ollowain let it happen. She wrapped the fabric of the band over his eyes twice and pulled the blindfold tight. “Listen to the rush of the water.” Lysilla laid one hand on his chest, the second beneath his neck, and gently pushed him back until he was lying flat again. Oil dripped onto his chest. Her fingers toyed with his nipples, then slid down between his thighs. Then she cupped his testes in one hand. Her grip tightened until a sweet pain made him groan.

  Ollowain felt dizzy, although he was lying down. Now her hands were feeling their way over his belly. He bucked, moaned. It was as if she were drawing trails of flame across his skin. He wanted her fingers to go deeper again, and at the same time, he did not want her to stop what she was doing just then. Her skin felt softer . . . It must have been the oil.

  “Come into the water. I will lead you.” She took one hand in hers.

  He sat up obediently. She took his other hand. He slipped from the side of the marble table and felt the cool stone floor underfoot. The dizzy feeling increased. To trust another so completely was a new feeling for him. There had to be some kind of intoxicant among the scents rising from the water, he thought.

  “Careful, there’s a step.”

  Abashed, Ollowain laughed. He was no longer the master of his senses. Lysilla’s voice sounded like it came from beside him, but she was right in front of him! She still held both his hands in hers.

  Deliciously warm water swept around his ankles. Feeling his way forward cautiously with his feet, he stepped deeper into the basin until the water came above his hips.

  Lysilla pulled him to her. Her breasts pressed against him. Ollowain sensed her arousal, and he felt her thighs embrace his hips. Their lips met, and he kissed her passionately. Then he dug his teeth into the soft flesh of her neck, caressed her breasts, dived down, and let his tongue explore her most hidden parts.

  Lysilla pulled him into shallower water. Their love play grew wilder. They fell on each other like wildcats fighting. Ollowain resisted the urge to remove the blindfold. Although it was soaked through, it still hid all sight of his passionate playmate. He had never done anything like this before, not in all the centuries he had lived! What he had missed! And he had never before given himself to an elf woman he had known not even an hour.

  In the past, his love affairs had always been conducted in slow, tentative steps. A shy search for proof that his affection would be returned, and always prepared, at any moment, to retreat into the false safety of loneliness.

  Lysilla’s body shivered. She let out a long, pleasurable groan. Her breath brushed his face. Then, without warning, she bit his bottom lip. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

  Ollowain reared up. Lysilla’s hands caressed his chest. She had not said a word since they had stepped into the water. The language of passion alone expressed what no words could say.

  Lysilla’s bite had scared Ollowain, yet had driven him to greater ecstasy. Now her hands seemed to be everywhere at once. She dictated the rhythm of their lovemaking, and he enjoyed it. He put off the moment . . . the brief instant of release.

  Wherever her fingers glided over his skin, he responded with trembling. His body felt as if it belonged completely to her. She made him shout with joy or hunger for the next touch. And then she set him free, ending his sweet torture. He cried out loud, over and over, rose up and embraced her. Wrapped around each other, they sat in the water. Too exhausted to keep going. Her hands stroked his back as if consoling a child.

  The magic was gone. Her touch no long
er set his skin aflame. It was pleasant. Calming. Slowly, sense and reason returned. A warning voice penetrated the ebbing current of lust. Something was wrong. Something had been wrong the whole time. Lysilla’s right hand . . . there were no callouses!

  In shock, Ollowain grasped the blindfold and pulled it down. Through the confusion of wet, black hair, he found himself looking into green eyes sprinkled with gold. Lyndwyn’s eyes!

  “It was the only way,” she said softly. “We would never have got closer than we did on the bridge, when we looked into each other’s eyes. Your reason would have silenced your heart.”

  Ollowain still could not believe what had happened. “Lysilla, how . . .”

  “She found it . . . interesting. Landoran was the one who decided to send her to you. She was supposed to massage you and . . . cheer you up. His words. He said something about how you were besotted with everything the color of snow. And thus, Lysilla. Landoran seems to know you very well . . . he knows everything about you. I could not bear the thought that Lysilla . . .” She faltered. “For her it would have been no more than a game. She thinks you are interesting. I . . . I persuaded her to . . .”

  Ollowain felt as if he were standing naked in the middle of a snowstorm. Although the room was almost oppressively warm, he slung his arms across his chest. He could not believe what had happened. Or that he had not noticed! What was going on with him? “How did you persuade her?” he asked quietly, too hurt to be harsh, let alone to abuse Lyndwyn.

  “She wanted something from me. I’m not allowed to speak about it. It is no betrayal. A secret, rather . . .”

  “What?”

  Lyndwyn swept her wet hair out of her face. “I can’t tell you,” she said. “I don’t regret it, Ollowain. It was the right thing. If you could listen to your heart, then you would know that, too.”

  “What? That I desire a traitor, a thief? You stole the greatest treasure of our people. And today your lies made you the ruler of Phylangan and made me . . .” He could not find the words. She had simply taken him for herself, just as she had taken the Albenstone.