Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  The two trolls looked over the map in silence. The Slanga Mountains were like an enormous wedge driven through the heart of the Snaiwamark. On the edge of the map rose a single mountain, higher than all the rest.

  “What is that?” asked Orgrim curiously.

  “Albentop.” Mandrag quickly made a protective gesture. “A cursed place. The top of the mountain is hidden by cloud year-round. No one who has ever tried to go there has returned.”

  “Pack leader!” Brud, the head scout, came running across the garden. He wore an ice-encrusted fur across his shoulders, and his face was more darkly colored from the cold. Orgrim had sent him out the day before to go after the elves that had fled the Wolfpit.

  Puffing for air, Brud came to a stop at the map table. “We have spotted the refugees. There are a few hundred of them, very few fighters. Their progress is very slow; I don’t think they know where we are.”

  Orgrim looked at the scout in surprise. Why had the elves left the Wolfpit so suddenly if they had no idea how close to them their enemies were? “Did they see your men?”

  “Of course not!” Brud cried, offended.

  “Where are they exactly?” He pointed to the table. “Look, this is a map. This here is the Wolfpit, and there is the bay where we left the Wraithwind. Can you orient yourself to this?”

  The scout gazed at the table for some time, occasionally letting out a soft grunt. “This is amazing . . . it’s perfect! We have to take this with us. Even the mountains are shaped just as they are.” He pointed to a small hillock with a star-shaped depression on one side. “We rested three hours in this hollow last night.”

  “Where are the elves?” Orgrim pressed.

  “Here!” Brud pointed to the center of a plain. “They’re moving in this direction. There’s no doubt they want to get to Kingstor.”

  A good opportunity for a cheap victory, thought Orgrim eagerly. Maybe there were some important elves among them that they could hold as hostages, someone they could use to put pressure on the defenders at Kingstor. “If we leave immediately, where would we intercept them? Remember that our cargo sleds will slow us down.”

  Brud used his fingers to measure the distance to where the elves were just then. After a moment, he pointed to an area that lay close to a low chain of hills. “We’d catch up with them here. Even with the heavy sleds, you’d be there in three days, Pack Leader.”

  Orgrim thought for a moment. He wanted to bring as many elves back here with him as possible. They would make good slaves and would help get the Wolfpit back to its original state, as far as that was possible. And they would be a good source of fresh meat. “What does their caravan look like?”

  “A few warriors on horseback. I don’t know how those vermin can stand the cold. Most of them are riding on sleds, and some of those are even fitted with sails. They’ve got a long convoy of yaks, too, which is what is slowing them down, and a lot of kobold servants who do most of the work for them. Many of the elves are riding in fancy sleds with silver bells; you can hear them from a mile away. I saw a few dogsleds, too. Very mixed bunch. The whole procession is more than two miles long.”

  “Do you think you’d be able to force them to change direction without getting involved in an open battle, Brud?”

  The scout took his time answering, which Orgrim appreciated.

  “I’d need at least fifty men, Pack Leader, but I think I could outwit them. They’ll probably fall into a panic at the first troll they see.” He grinned broadly. “The way they’re behaving, they can’t suspect that we’re hot on their heels.”

  Orgrim pointed to a small incision in the chain of hills. “This looks like a wide valley that cuts through the hills. Push them through there. We’ll be waiting. When they find they’re caught between us and your men, the gutless imps will surrender. I’ll see you in three days on the battlefield!”

  THE FOUR-LEGGED FORTUNE

  There was something out there! Ole reached for his bow and quiver, which were leaning against the door. His dogs were restless. Not like they had been the night the elves came, but they ran back and forth in their cages. Something was creeping around the house or was close to the edge of the forest. He would not let himself be taken by surprise this time, Ole thought angrily. And he would take more than a club with him!

  Maybe it was all the magic flying around up there on the Hartungscliff that was winding up the dogs, but it was better to check before he had someone else standing at his door. He threw over the bandolier that held his whips, slung the quiver over his shoulder, and picked up the bow.

  The sun had set long before, but it was not yet fully dark. The ghostly faerylight was dancing across the heavens; its green glow deepened the shadows, but in open land, one could see quite well.

  He found nothing close to the house, so he went to the kennels. The dogs were pacing restlessly along the sides of the large box kennels he had crafted for them.

  “Killer! Skullbiter!” he snapped. He showed the bloodhounds the whips to remind them who their master was. “Come, we’ll do the rounds.”

  For a moment, he thought about tying them to long leather leads but then thought better of it. Everyone in the village knew that it was better not to venture anywhere near his house at night. Ole was still furious about the afternoon, about how that half-elf bastard had been given an official send-off by the king. Couldn’t anyone see what a self-important do-gooder Alfadas was? If he, Ole, owned a magic elven sword, then he could also be a duke! All that blah, blah, blah about heroes and eternal glory made Ole want to vomit. Most of those supposed heroes would shit in their pants if they ran into one of his dogs at night.

  “Skullbiter, what are you doing? Out with you!” The bloodhound was lying flat against the floor of his kennel, although the gate stood wide open. Ole took the whip and thrashed angrily at the dog until the iron spikes tore the gutless beast’s hide. Blood dripped from the twisted leather knots. Reluctantly, the dog crept out of its wooden box and looked up at him, its eyes filled with hate.

  “Are you looking for a real hiding, you mongrel?” Ole raised the whip threateningly.

  The dog ducked its head but did not let Ole out of its sight. That’s good, thought Ole. Let them fear me! It would make them better dogs. Because they couldn’t do anything to him, they would take out all their pent-up rage on anyone else close by.

  “Well, Killer? You’ve already learned that lesson, haven’t you? You don’t try your luck with me anymore. Clever mutt. Now go! Search!” He cracked the whip in the air. “Show me what’s got you so nervous.”

  Skullbiter replied with a deep, throaty snarl, while Killer ran off immediately into the night. Killer wasn’t quite as big as the other dogs. He had short rust-brown fur and a long snout and looked far too nice to try to sell him as a bear dog. But he was brave and obedient. It had only taken a few decent beatings to raise him.

  Skullbiter was a very different beast, from the same godforsaken litter as Blood. On the outside, the whole damned litter had the makings of monsters, but the dogs were so pigheaded that they were almost impossible to manage. And then there was that whole thing with Kadlin! To this day, it made Ole ill to think of how the cur had licked the little girl’s face. Blood knew exactly what he was doing. He and his brother, Skullbiter, were too clever for dogs. Even the whip hardly helped. You had to be on your guard with them the whole time. They simply would not let themselves be beaten down. But I’ve come out on top of every dog I’ve ever raised, Ole thought proudly. When they came back, he would beat Skullbiter until his mangy black fur hung off his bones. He would see who had the stronger will around there!

  They had come within twenty paces of the forest edge. Killer was standing as if rooted to the spot, staring into the undergrowth. Ole took an arrow out of his quiver and edged forward. There was something there. Big and pale, too big for a deer. It was white! By Luth’s cock! A white elk, a cow! A fortune on four legs! White elks were so rare, the kind of thing anyone saw only once a century. At
least, that’s what people said. It could have been an exaggeration, of course, but it was certainly true that the hide of an animal like that was worthy of a king.

  Ole already pictured himself going after the king. With a little luck, he would be able to catch the king still in Honnigsvald. His onward journey to Gonthabu had been delayed. Something had happened that had put the king in a rage, and he had sent men out in every direction, as if they were looking for something. Had he perhaps heard rumors about the white elk?

  Whatever the truth, a lucky star was shining down on him, Ole of Firnstayn, that night! With the money from a hide like that, he could spend a whole month in Honnigsvald drinking and whoring!

  “Go, Killer, Skullbiter! Drive the cow out of there!” But their quarry had got wind of them and was moving deeper into the forest. Ole let out a curse, then thought, You won’t get away from me.

  “Luth sent you here to me,” he said aloud, but in such a friendly voice that Skullbiter looked up at him suspiciously, not recognizing the tone at all. “You might as well stop! Doesn’t matter where you run, I’ll get you, so why not save us all a lot of running around and stop right where you are.”

  Killer charged off enthusiastically into the forest. Barking furiously, he tried to cut off the elk’s path. Ole had a lot of difficulty following the dog through the undergrowth, but the cow elk seemed to have no trouble with it at all. And she moved so cleverly that she did not even reveal where she was with the breaking of branches. Ole stopped several times and listened. He heard Killer’s excited yapping moving farther away, indeed, but he did not hear the snapping of twigs that one actually had to hear from an animal as heavy as an elk. Ole also found himself able to pick up its trail. It was like the beast was bewitched.

  In places, he saw the imprint of Killer’s paws in the muddy forest floor. Good dog! He would get a good chunk of loin. He hoped the dog did not bring the cow to bay alone and ruin the valuable hide with his attacks.

  The forest had grown quiet now. The noise of Killer’s pursuit had stopped. Ole cursed inwardly. With every passing moment that he did not hear the elk, the probability grew that she had escaped him.

  His stalking had led him deep into the forest. Not far away, he recognized a group of stone blocks that were often used by hunters as a campsite. Ole thought about lighting a fire and spending the night there, returning first thing in the morning. The way through the dark forest was tricky and arduous when one was not caught up in the fever of the hunt.

  “Skullbiter?” The pigheaded cur had disappeared into the underbrush, although he had stayed close to Ole most of the time.

  The hunter blew on his fingers. They were dark with the cold. He leaned his bow against a tree and clapped his hands against his chest. He had been holding the weapon so tightly that his fingers had cramped.

  “Skullbiter! To heel! Where are you, mongrel?” Nothing moved. Had the dog taken its chance and bolted? Ole stomped over to the rocks where the forest there was not as close, and one had a good view of the night sky. Here and there, stars gleamed beyond the veils of green faerylight. The rocks had a gray-green hue. The old fireplace looked like a festering wound in the forest floor. The night was deathly still, without the slightest breath of wind to rock the bare branches of the trees.

  Ole looked around suspiciously. Something was off. The campsite, that night, was not welcoming at all. Uncertain about whether he should stay or turn back, he leaned down to check the niche beneath the rocks where there was always a supply of dry brushwood. It was a long hollow that had probably been carved out of the rock long ago by a now-dry spring. In heavy rain or storms, one slim man could find refuge there from the raging elements. Whoever last used the spot always restocked it with a fresh supply of firewood before moving on, so that the next wanderer could kindle himself a fire.

  Ole reached into the low gap and instantly jerked his hand back. He had touched something dry and furry! He quickly drew his long hunting knife and waited. Whatever lay there in the niche did not move. Maybe a hunter had left his canteen behind or a hunting bag made of hide. It was foolish to make such a fuss about nothing!

  Ole looked around uncertainly. He saw no one close by. Finally, he worked up his courage and reached into the gap again. He tugged at whatever it was until, with a jerk, it came free and slipped out onto the ground in front of him. The dried, shriveled corpse of an animal . . . its flews were pulled up, revealing long fangs that glimmered greenly in the faerylight. Then Ole saw the choke band, and he understood what he was looking at.

  “Killer?” he whispered, and stroked the short fur. The dog looked smaller than ever. Something had melted away his flesh until all that remained was skin and bone.

  Killer had clearly still been alive when he had looked for sanctuary in the hollow. He had pulled his legs in close to his body, and his snout poked forward defensively. But what had he been hiding from?

  If Ole had not seen the dog himself just over an hour before, he would have sworn black-and-blue that the cadaver in front of him was of an animal that had been dead for many, many weeks. Killer still felt warm. Whatever had killed him must still be very close by!

  Ole sensed now that he was being watched. Something was behind him—he had heard a noise, very low, like the scratch of a paw on stone. He swung around, his dagger raised to fend off any danger. Between the rocks stood Skullbiter. The large dog lifted its head, sniffing the air. Ole had never been so happy to see the stubborn beast!

  “We should get out of here, my beauty. We don’t want to end up like Killer!”

  The big dog looked at him as if sizing him up. Its eyes were black pools, and in the dim light, Ole could clearly see the scars on its snout. Skullbiter let out a sharp snort, then turned and trotted away.

  “You can’t just run off, you misbegotten . . .” Ole ran after the dog.

  Skullbiter had disappeared into the undergrowth. Ranks of thorns tore at Ole’s clothes. What a miserable night! Fairies or goblins or some other magical creatures had probably come through the portal and were getting up to their mischief in the Fjordlands.

  Uncertain what his best course of action was, Ole stopped. Just there, the forest rose along the flank of a mountain. In some places, bare rock broke through the forest floor. Behind him, the mountain dropped away steeply. Roots half covered in leaves made for treacherous snares . . . it was the height of foolishness, traipsing around there at night with no light.

  Just at the edge of his vision, he noticed a dull glow. Ole turned toward it. Fairies, he was sure of it! He knew all about them; he’d heard all the stories about the malignant little cousins of the elves. Taunting lone travelers was their favorite pastime.

  “You won’t get me!” he murmured to himself. “Not me!”

  There it was again! Something moved silently between the trees. And then he saw a massive white body behind a bush. The elk cow! It must have been moving through a depression in the ground. That was the solution. There were no fairies there, just a terrified dog breeder. Ole laughed softly at himself. The faerylight was making him see ghosts—every child knew it could do that. People were known to go insane when the green light stretched across the skies. But now his lucky star had returned. There was no reason to be afraid. He . . . Ole could have cursed aloud. His bow! He had been too startled by the husk of Killer to realize until just now that he had left it at the campsite! Luth was determined to make a fool of him! Without his bow, there was nothing he could do to the elk. It would hardly just stand there if he went over and tried to cut its throat with his dagger. But maybe he could get close enough to try a throw? If the elk was wounded, then he would be able to track it more easily.

  Ole crept forward cautiously. He managed to get within ten paces of his quarry without the elk cow turning her head in his direction. A breeze had come up and was blowing toward him. It could not pick up his scent! Was Luth on his side after all?

  The elk cow was standing behind a low, thorny thicket. Maybe, with a leap, he could get
onto its back and stab the dagger past the backbone and directly into its brain. It would drop dead on the spot, and its hide would hardly be soiled by blood at all. Ole knew very well that that was not how one hunted elk and that an attack so daring stood little chance of success, but maybe fortune was truly smiling on him.

  Five paces. Inch by inch, he moved forward. No mistakes now! A cracking twig, a stone rolling down the mountain—something small like that was all it would take to spoil the hunt.

  Two paces. Ole had almost reached the patch of thorns. He tensed, ready to jump. The elk cow’s head was still down. It suspected nothing of its fate.

  Ole grinned. The thicket was quite low, hardly higher than his knees. The elk cow had to be standing in a ditch on the other side. Ole pushed off, leaping over it. At the same moment, the elk looked up. Its head was strange. Too slim. And its teeth . . . with a spring, the beast dodged aside. Unbelievably fast.

  Ole’s heart missed a beat. There was no ditch behind the thorns! Tumbling head over heels, he crashed down a steep slope covered with boulders. Unable to break his fall, he slammed into tree trunks and rocks. He felt as if a band of robbers were thrashing him with clubs. He let go of his valuable dagger and did his best to protect his head with his arms. A blow to his back knocked the air out of his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. He tumbled faster and faster. His nose was bleeding. Suddenly, something snatched at his left foot, and his fall ended with a tremendous jolt. He was swung around, and his shinbone slammed against something hard. He clearly heard a dry crack, felt a searing pain shoot through his leg. He screamed out his agony in the forest; it felt as if he’d been hit with an axe. Tears poured over his cheeks, and he was washed with nausea. He tried to sit up, but his foot was still caught—he realized that it was trapped in a root. Painfully bright lights danced before his eyes. He could only vaguely see what had happened to his leg. A broken branch seemed to have bored through his calf.

  Ole was panting with the pain. After some time, he managed to sit up. He had to pull the damned branch out of the wound, then bind it with his belt. But his leg was twisted in an odd way. His foot, still trapped by the root, was turned out at a strange angle. At the sight, a new wave of nausea came over him. He closed his eyes and reached for the accursed branch with both hands, pulled on it with all the strength he could muster. The pain slashed him like a whip. He bellowed like an animal, gasped, cried. It was as if someone had jammed a red-hot iron bar into his leg. Through his tears, he gaped at his blood-smeared hands and then at his leg. It was no branch protruding from the torn skin. It was his shinbone.