Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  “At first, Aileen accepted his gifts, for she did not believe the king’s wooing was serious. To understand how she could be so mistaken, you should know that a lamassu has the body of a large steer. But from his flanks grow sweeping eagle’s wings strong enough to carry him to the summit of the highest of all mountains. Only his head is like that of an elf . . . or rather, more like that of a human, for the faces of the lamassu are always heavily bearded. Some time passed before Aileen understood that the king was actually serious in courting her. Now, the Maurawan are well-known for wearing their heart on their tongue and for expressing themselves especially . . . vividly. And so it happened that Aileen told Nazirluma—to his face, before his entire court—that she would rather mate with a wolf than with a decrepit old ox like him.

  “They say that love and hate are two sides of the same coin. And as blinded by love as Nazirluma was, the injury to his pride was beyond measure. Aileen had hardly left the king’s high hall when he ordered his bodyguards to attack the elf and teach her the pleasure of being loved by a lamassu until she drew her last breath. And to their eternal shame, the soldiers did as they were ordered.

  “Aileen was able to shoot three arrows before she was attacked. With two, she killed two of the huge lamassu. But the third was a Gry-na-Lah, a curse arrow, and she shot it straight up into the sky, because she knew perfectly well who had sent the soldiers. She had written Nazirluma’s name on the shaft of an arrow and cast a spell on the missile. The arrow would fly onward, through the sky, unseen, until it found its target.

  “When Nazirluma came to his senses, it was too late to recall his assassins. As a learned man, the king knew the Maurawan, their magic, and their weapons well. And he hid himself away in a chamber with no window, no chimney, no shaft for air. One had to pass through three doors to get into the chamber, and the king ordered that never more than one of the doors was to be opened at one time. Nazirluma spent eighty-five days in his self-imposed prison, and in time his confidence grew that the Gry-na-Lah had lost its power. His servants also became careless, because they sensed how their master’s fear was abating. On the eighty-fifth day, Nazirluma ordered a bath to be prepared for him. His servants carried pitcher after pitcher of water into the king’s magnificent dungeon, and with all their toing and froing, it happened that they kept only the outermost of the three doors closed. That door, however, was less well made than the other two, and there was a knothole in it, a hole so small that I could only just squeeze my little finger through it. But the arrow found it and buried itself in Nazirluma’s heart. And the king died in his bath, in his own blood.”

  Sweat had broken out on Horsa’s brow by the time Ollowain finished his story. “What are you trying to tell me with this story, elf?”

  The swordmaster spread his hands wide. “Is that so hard to understand? Yilvina, our queen’s bodyguard, never puts her bow and arrows aside. And on one of her arrows is the name of your son, Egil.”

  Horsa sprang to his feet and lunged at Ollowain, but the elf easily dodged the attack. A kick to the back of the old man’s knee brought him down. Then Ollowain pressed one foot onto the king’s chest, pushing him into the dust. It all happened so fast that Alfadas found no opportunity to intervene—though he didn’t mind at all seeing Horsa lying in the dust.

  “I am sorry that this was necessary,” said Ollowain dejectedly. “We are allies in the war against the trolls, after all. Now listen to me, King. I see your threat against Emerelle and against the family of my friend Alfadas as an aberration, a moment of delusion, the kind of thing that can come over one in the darkest hours of the night, when one has partaken of too much wine. I know Alfadas as well as I know my own heart. And I promise you that your duke would never commit treason against you.”

  His foster father’s words made Alfadas feel ashamed. He thought back to the night on the ferry. Had his years in the human world changed him so much?

  “I am prepared to forget everything that has been said tonight,” Ollowain went on. “I entered your tent as your ally, King Horsa. Whether I leave it as an ally is now in your hands.” The swordmaster removed his foot from the king’s chest and took a step back.

  Horsa gasped for air, then sat up with some difficulty. His remaining eye was bloodshot. “I think I must have drunk too much,” he said, his voice strained.

  “I can see how your concern for your son consumes you. I would not like to judge whether your fears are justified.” Ollowain offered Horsa his hand, and to Alfadas’s surprise, the old man took it and allowed the elf to help him to his feet.

  “There is only one power in the Fjordlands capable of damaging the duke’s loyalty to your throne,” said Ollowain earnestly. “And that power is you, Horsa. Remember that in everything you do.”

  The solidly built old man and the tall, slim elf stood facing each other. For Alfadas, Ollowain embodied everything that Horsa had lost. Youth, self-confidence, and wisdom. Was the king also aware of that? Tears welled in his eyes, and there was a longing there now, as if he could see the gleam of the halls of the gods on the horizon.

  “I believe I have also understood the deeper meaning of the story of the steer king. Thank you for opening my eye,” the king said, his voice breaking. Then he turned and looked at Alfadas. “I wish you luck in your campaign, Alfadas. And I hope we meet again. Do you need any more men? I could leave some of my escort for you.”

  Alfadas was on his guard. The king’s change of heart seemed too sudden. Or had Ollowain perhaps cast a spell on the king?

  “I am only taking volunteers,” he said decisively. “Men who have not yet started a family.”

  “They are good fighters.” Horsa wiped a hand across his eye. “You know many of them already.”

  And I thought I knew you once, too, Alfadas thought. “We will ask them tomorrow at the gateway. If you would allow us to retire now . . . ?”

  Obviously deep in thought, the king nodded.

  When they were out of earshot of the sentries, Alfadas decided to be certain.

  “Did you use magic on him, Ollowain?”

  “No. All I did was try to remind him of the man he used to be.”

  “I think it was the Gry-na-Lah that has made him think. The curse arrows are a secret of the Maurawan, aren’t they?”

  Ollowain laughed gently. “Oh yes. So secret that not even the Maurawan know about them. Do you think Emerelle would still be alive today if arrows like that really existed? We’d have no princes or kings at all. The noble houses would have wiped each other out long ago. I made up the story of Nazirluma and Aileen to frighten Horsa, but the old man surprised me. If you ask me, he understood it very differently than I intended. He cannot escape his own death. Life is a battle that we all, ultimately, lose. But to some extent, how people remember us is in our own hands. At the bottom of his heart, Horsa is a good man. He does not want people to remember him as a despot, and if he leaves a burden like that, then Egil will only have a harder time as king. Who wants to be ruled over by the scion of a tyrant? Everyone with a grudge against his father, but who fears the old man, will rise against Egil.”

  “I only hope that Horsa’s wisdom survives longer than one night,” Alfadas replied doubtfully. “I think I’d prefer it if Yilvina really had a Gry-na-Lah.”

  “Don’t underestimate Yilvina,” the swordmaster warned. “I don’t believe there is a human alive who could kill her, and she will also watch over your family. She does not need a curse arrow for that.”

  The two men had reached Alfadas’s longhouse. “I don’t think I will sleep tonight,” Ollowain suddenly said, and took his leave. Alfadas watched him go until he was swallowed by the darkness.

  Determined not to waste the last hours with his family in mute brooding, Alfadas stepped inside his house and was met by the familiar smell of smoke. Soon, his eyes began to water. He cursed softly. The coals in the fire pit were not enough to drive out the darkness, but they gave enough light to cross the large room without stepping on the guest
s billeting with them, who lay everywhere, rolled in blankets on the floor.

  A chain clinked, and Alfadas froze. It was only Lambi or one of his men moving in his sleep. As a precaution, Alfadas had invited the most rebellious of his fighters into his own house, not least to protect them from the king’s men.

  Alfadas waited for his eyes to adjust to the red twilight. Then he crept between the sleeping men to the niches along the wall. Blood kept guard in front of Kadlin’s bed—Alfadas saw the light from the coals reflected in the large dog’s black eyes. Blood did not move and made no sound, but he missed nothing that happened in the house, and woe to anyone who dared step too close to Kadlin!

  Alfadas patted Blood’s massive head. The dog did not react, neither with a friendly snuffle nor, like other dogs, by rolling onto his side so that Alfadas could scratch his belly. He lay there tensely and watched the sleepers; once, he twitched when someone in the darkness murmured to himself in his sleep. Only when Alfadas stood up to check on Kadlin did Blood briefly press his damp snout into Alfadas’s hand.

  The duke thought back on the events of the evening. Almost every man sleeping there on the floor had killed. They were hard-bitten men, and under normal circumstances, he would not have wanted them under his roof. They had nothing but scorn for the rules of honor that he tried to teach his son. For them, honor meant winning. How they won made no difference. In times of peace, they were bad company, but they were exactly the right men with whom to march into a hopeless battle. Maybe Horsa was right in wanting to be rid of them. The Fjordlands had peaceful times ahead. There were no true enemies, and these men were troublemakers. Even Blood had realized that. Since they had been in the house, the dog had neither eaten nor drunk anything. He had not let the men out of his sight, not for a heartbeat. The men had realized the danger the massive black dog presented. They had sensed that he would attack without warning if they made the slightest mistake, and that the beast could rip out a man’s throat with a single bite. Lambi and his cronies had been placid, had avoided getting drunk, and had stayed a respectful distance away from Blood.

  Alfadas scratched the dog’s ears—it was good to know that Blood was in the house. He would look out for Asla and the children.

  Carefully, he pushed aside the curtain covering Kadlin’s sleeping niche and looked inside. The little girl had kicked off her blanket and lay with her bottom up in the air and her head pressed into the moss-filled pillow. She wore a serious expression on her face, as she sometimes did when she tried to explain something important. Alfadas smiled. It puzzled him how anyone could sleep like that, but Kadlin’s breathing was deep and regular. He pulled her blanket up gently, then watched her as she slept. He wanted to burn that image deep into his memory. It would be his secret treasure in the dark hours yet to come.

  Finally, he tore himself away to check on Ulric. His son also lay in a deep sleep, the dagger that Ollowain had given him pressed close by his side. It was a long, slim weapon, almost a short sword. Small pieces of turquoise had been embedded in its silver sheath. Ulric had counted them: eighty-three. The grip had been carved from whalebone and engraved with two lions standing on their hind legs, caught in a deadly embrace. Both had their fangs sunk in the other’s neck. The dagger was a gift fit for a king, and since Ulric had received it, it had been his constant companion. Considering their guests that night, it was certainly smarter not to leave such a precious piece lying around. One day, Alfadas thought, his son would make a good warrior. And no doubt he would get annoyed whenever anyone claimed that he owed his strength and his skill to an enchanted elven dagger.

  He stroked the boy’s mussed hair gently. Ulric squirmed restlessly in his sleep. Cautiously, Alfadas retreated. Then he undressed and slipped into the sleeping niche he shared with Asla.

  “What did the old goat want you for this time?” she asked quietly, once he had pulled the wool curtain closed.

  “He is worried that I could cheat him when it comes to dividing up the spoils of war. Horsa is convinced that we are all going to come back loaded down with treasure,” Alfadas lied as he pushed beneath the blanket. The night was bitterly cold. The first snows would soon arrive. He thought of the men freezing by their fires along the shore. In Albenmark, at least, they would not be cold.

  “And what are you going to bring me? Another wagon?”

  “Is there something wrong with the one you have?” He slung one arm around her and pulled her to him. Her body was pleasantly warm.

  Asla shivered. “It’s like winter just crawled into my bed.” She turned around to him and kissed his forehead. “Come back to me from Albenmark. That is the only gift I want from you.”

  The feeling that his stomach was full of ice returned. Did she suspect something? “The elves build very beautiful coaches,” he said, to change the subject.

  Asla slapped his face playfully. “Are you trying to turn me into a coach driver? Have I uncovered one of your secrets? Do you like elves who take the reins?”

  Alfadas pulled her to him. “Actually, I prefer wild riders.” Asla’s long hair touched his face. Her hands clasped his shoulders.

  “There is something else I’d like to have. That smug, dark-haired elf cow who you wanted to poke around my belly . . . Lindone, or whatever her name was. She had a small glass bottle with a kind of water in it that had a wonderful smell. I watched her once as she dabbed a little of it on her neck, and afterward she smelled like a flower garden. The perfume made me feel quite wonderful, and I would like to have something like that, too.”

  Alfadas buried his face between her breasts. “I like the smell of your skin. No perfume could intoxicate me like that.”

  She pushed herself up on top of him. “You are a terrible liar. I don’t know any man who washes as often as you do. Why would you like my smell if you can’t even stand your own?”

  “Sometimes, after we’ve made love, I don’t wash for days.” He pulled her down and kissed her. When they made love, everything was like it was in that wonderful first year . . . at least, as long as Asla didn’t tease him. Back then, she had admired him too much to laugh at his expense. What was behind her wish? Perfume! He really did like the smell of her! It was too dark there in their bed to see anything, but he was certain she was grinning at that moment.

  Asla rubbed against him lightly. A pleasant shudder ran through Alfadas’s body. The ice in his belly vanished.

  “Will you grant my wish?” She raised herself a little.

  “I will bring you an entire collection of perfume!”

  She rubbed against him again. “One small bottle will do. Then I will forgive you if you come back with another wagon.” Her warmth encircled him. Alfadas bit his lips. He did not want the men outside to hear him groan in his lust.

  Asla began to move with a slow rhythm. Her warmth flowed over him and carried him away. Away from Horsa and all his cares. They made love more passionately than they had in a long time, and later, as she slept with her head on his chest, he swore that he would return. Whatever happened. That was his last thought before he, too, fell asleep.

  Ole plagued him in his dreams. He had brought a dog with him as big as a horse and wanted to sell it to Asla.

  GOOD-BYE

  Ollowain reached for the hand of the sleeping queen.

  “She is still cold,” said Yilvina. “Ever since Lyndwyn worked her magic, the warmth refuses to return. I can give her nothing to eat and barely a drop to drink. Her breathing is so shallow that I sometimes think she is like one of the little lizards that stiffens and sleeps in winter and wakes again at the start of spring.”

  The burns on the queen’s face had completely healed and had left no scars. The swordmaster had to think of Lyndwyn’s words. Was the queen fleeing from her deeds? Was it that she did not want to wake up? He had known Emerelle a very long time. To run from fate was not like her.

  “How are you holding up?” Ollowain said, glancing up at Yilvina.

  She looked back at him tiredly. “Life here
is not exactly thrilling. I never leave this house. At night, I sleep by the queen’s bed. I am always close to her, in case she suddenly awakens.”

  “You should not lock yourself in,” Ollowain urged her.

  “I promised to watch over Emerelle,” Yilvina replied stubbornly.

  “But there are no enemies here.”

  “And that king?” she said. “I don’t trust him. His offer to take Emerelle to his court in Gonthabu sounded to me like he’d been thinking of holding her hostage.”

  “He won’t bother you anymore.” Ollowain thought of the night before. He had stayed and watched the king for a long time. The old man had lit more fires inside his tent, and his outline was clearly visible through the canvas walls. Horsa had sat at his table the entire night without moving. Then he had called in his guards and delivered a moving speech on the transience of youth and the eternal glory of valiant deeds. Horsa was a boozer and a whoremonger, a man of power little plagued by scruples. Despite those failings, he had charisma, and he knew his Fjordlanders. Every word he spoke had struck home with them, had lodged in their hearts. In the end, all of them wanted to depart with Alfadas, but he had allowed only one hundred to join his duke’s forces.

  The army had broken camp hours earlier, but Ollowain had stayed behind to say his farewells to his queen undisturbed. He was also at least a little driven by the hope that Emerelle would perhaps awaken if he kneeled by her bed and talked to her softly. But the queen still lay there as if dead in the bed that Asla had prepared for her.