The Elven (24 page)

The Disaster

F
arodin slammed the door and slid home the wooden bolt. “Put your sword away, or you’ll kill the only ally you have in this town.” He looked around quickly. “Is there another exit?”

Guillaume stared at Farodin as if he were a ghost. “What’s going on out there?” Guillaume asked.

“Armed men. They occupied every road leading out of town, then stormed the temple. They don’t seem to like priests like you very much.” Farodin stepped over to the window that opened onto the temple square and cracked open the shutter. “Look.”

The soldiers outside were well equipped. Nearly all were wearing chain mail and helmets with black horsetail plumes. Half were armed with axes or swords, and their round red shields flaunted a white bull’s head. The rest carried crossbows. And though they dragged the priests out of the half-finished temple with no regard for their well-being, it was clear that they were more than simple bandits. They were disciplined, and their archers secured the square while the axe men hounded the priests across to the oak tree.

A blond giant barked an order, and one of the priests, a corpulent, older man, was separated from the others. A rope was tied around his ankles and the other end thrown over a strong fork in the tree. The priest was jerked off his feet. He tried desperately to push his robes up to cover his privates.

“Father Ribauld,” Guillaume whispered in shock. “What are they doing?”

“I heard them saying your name, Guillaume.” Farodin looked the young priest up and down. He was certainly no fighter. “You have mortal enemies in two worlds . . . what have you done to make these men come looking for you?”

Pensive, the priest swept his hair from his eyes. It was a small gesture, yet it filled Farodin with pain. Aileen and Noroelle had swept their hair aside in just the same way when they were deep in thought. Guillaume was surprisingly thin and delicate. In his face, Farodin saw Noroelle as if in a distant mirror. She lived on in him.

Farodin had followed Nuramon because he feared his friend might help Guillaume try to escape. In the three years they had been on the road, Farodin had come to terms with himself and accepted the queen’s order. The day before, in the temple square, he had been prepared to kill Guillaume. But now . . . he had to turn away. The man’s resemblance to Noroelle was too much for him. If he turned his sword against Guillaume, it would be like turning it against Noroelle.

Ollowain had given him a warning when he left the camp to secretly follow Nuramon. His words still rang clearly in his ears: “Don’t forget that he is the child of a Devanthar, a master deceiver. He abuses Noroelle’s face as a mask, but evil is hiding behind it. A Devanthar is nothing less than hatred of the Alben incarnate, and of us, their children. Whatever good may have survived in him will have been poisoned by the legacy of his father long ago. You saw what happened to Gelvuun. We can’t take him prisoner. In reality, we would be
his
prisoners. Even if we were to lay him in irons, a single word of power could kill us all. And imagine the damage a creature like that could do in Albenmark. How are we supposed to fight him? We have to carry out Emerelle’s orders. Today at midday in the temple square, I saw the queen’s wisdom with my own eyes.”

“They are here because of something I did
not
do,” said Guillaume in answer to Farodin’s question.

“What?” Guillaume’s words dragged Farodin out of his thoughts.

The soldiers in the square started beating Ribauld with long canes. The man swung back and forth helplessly. His screams rang out across the square and must have been heard even in the far corners of the town. No one came to the priest’s aid.

“You see on their shields? The bull’s head?” Guillaume asked. “Those are King Cabezan’s men, his personal guard. Cabezan sent for me once already. They say his arms and legs are rotting on his living body and that he’s dying slowly and painfully. He ordered me to heal him, but I won’t do it. If I save his life, hundreds will die. Cabezan is the cruelest of tyrants. He had his own children murdered because he feared they were after his throne. He’s insane, he’s possessed somehow . . . anyone wishing an audience must appear before him naked. He’s afraid of weapons that might be hidden under their robes otherwise. Any man who wants to be part of his guard has to beat a newborn to death with his bare fists, in front of Cabezan. The only men he tolerates in his presence are those with no conscience. He rules over Fargon, and evil rules with him. I will not heal him. I
must
not. When he dies, a curse will finally be lifted from this land.”

The cries of the priest still rang out across the square.

“I must not . . .” Tears stood in his eyes. “Father Ribauld is like a true father to me. I grew up in a poor farming family. When my parents—my foster parents—died, he took me in. He is . . .”

One of the younger priests, dragged from the temple with the others, was pointing an outstretched arm toward Guillaume’s house.

“Is there another way out?” Farodin asked again. Two soldiers were already marching across the temple square toward them.

Guillaume shook his head. He picked up a long bread knife from the table and slipped it into the sleeve of his cowl. “I’ll go. Then at least they will not kill you as well, but King Cabezan will never see me alive.”

Nuramon stepped into his path. “Don’t do it. Come with us.”

“You think it is smarter to follow you to a queen who sent you to kill me?” There was no challenge in Guillaume’s words, only a deep sadness. “I know you wish me no evil, but if I go out there now, maybe I can save your lives and the lives of my brethren. And if you are able to tell the queen of my death, then perhaps she will have mercy on my mother.” He pushed back the bolt and stepped out onto the temple square.

Farodin could not believe that Nuramon did not try to stop Guillaume. He ran to the door, but he was too late. Guillaume was already in the hands of the soldiers.

“Knights of the king,” he proclaimed. “Leave my brethren in peace. You have found me.”

The blond captain signaled to his men to lower their crossbows. He stepped over to Ribauld and grabbed the old man by the hair, twisting his head far back.

“So you’re the wonder healer,” the captain shouted. He pulled a knife from his belt and calmly stabbed Ribauld in the throat. “Then show us what you can do.”

Farodin held his breath. Guillaume was still standing too close to the house. If he used his healing powers, he would kill both of the elves.

The old priest hung from the tree like a slaughtered cow on a butcher’s hook. He swung back and forth on the rope, clutching at his throat.

Farodin threw open the shutters, and they cracked against the wall. He gripped the sill with both hands and vaulted through the window, landing nimbly in front of the house. “Keep your hands off my prize, mortal.” His voice was like ice.

The blond captain shifted one hand to the pommel of his sword. “You’ve made your entrance. Now leave.”

“You reach for your weapon? Shall we duel?” Farodin smiled. “I am the queen of Albenmark’s best fighter. Do you really want me as your enemy? I came here to fetch Guillaume, the priest. As you can see, I was in his house. I found him before you did, and I will not let you snatch away
my
prize. At midday yesterday, he killed an elf. And he will answer for that.”

“The queen of Albenmark’s best soldier,” the captain mocked. “And I’m Umgrid, king of Trollheim.” The men around him laughed.

Farodin swept back his hair, revealing his pointed ears. “So you are Umgrid?” The elf tilted his head. “You’re certainly ugly enough for a troll.” He turned in a half circle and looked at the rooftops of the buildings enclosing the square.

“Anyone not a troll had better leave now. This square is surrounded by elves, and we will not let Guillaume be taken from us.”

Some of the soldiers exchanged nervous glances and raised their shields.

“Words! Nothing but words!” shouted the captain, but his voice betrayed his unease.

“You should ask our permission before you let any of these cutthroats go,” said Nuramon now. He had his sword drawn and was standing in Guillaume’s doorway.

“Shoot them down!” The captain snatched a crossbow from one of his archers and took aim at Farodin.

The elf dived forward. He braced against the rough cobblestones with his hands and rolled over his left shoulder, the leap carrying him almost as far as the well. The crossbow bolt grazed his cheek, leaving a bloody streak.

Farodin kept moving, jumping around, not giving the crossbowmen a stationary target. He landed at the feet of an axe man, who hit him with his shield. The blow knocked Farodin off balance, and he staggered back, bumping against the edge of the well. He dodged to one side, and an axe swinging at his head missed by a whisker.

Farodin knocked the human’s shield aside with a kick. He drew his sword and, in a backhand swing, slit the soldier’s belly open. The elf snatched the axe from the dying man’s hand. Soldiers were closing in on all sides. Nuramon, in the doorway, was holding off two more. The situation was hopeless. They were outnumbered at least ten to one.

Farodin sprang from the edge of the well and slung the axe at a crossbowman who was taking aim at him. The axe found its target with a grim crunch.

The elf dodged another axe, parried a sword, and stabbed one of his attackers in the shoulder over the top of the man’s shield. The soldiers had him encircled now, but they kept their distance.

“So who else among you wants to die?” Farodin challenged them.

During the fight, the giant captain had donned a helmet and buckled a shield to his arm. “He is ours,” he bellowed, raising a twin-bladed axe and charging Farodin.

They came at Farodin then from all sides. He crouched low to avoid the first furious wave. He swept his sword in a low circle. Like a hot knife through wax, it sliced through the legs of any who came too close.

Something grazed Farodin’s left arm. Warm blood soaked his shirt. Lethal and calm, he fended off an axe blow aimed at his chest, his sword shattering the wooden shaft. The humans moved clumsily, he saw. It was something he had observed often in Mandred. They were courageous and strong, but compared with an elf who had spent centuries mastering the sword, they were like children brandishing sticks. Still, the outcome of this battle was hard to doubt; there were simply too many of them.

Farodin moved through the ranks of his enemies like a dancer. He ducked under thrusting swords and used his own to parry, returning blow for blow.

Until he came face-to-face with the blond giant.

“I’ll wear your ears on a string around my neck,” hissed the man. He attacked furiously with a mighty swing at Farodin’s sword arm, but changed direction in the middle of the swing.

The feint made no difference. Farodin danced clear of the sword, then kicked the bottom edge of the giant’s shield. With an ugly crunch, the iron-clad top edge of the shield slammed into the giant’s chin. His teeth went through his bottom lip, and he spat blood.

Farodin spun and kicked the captain’s shield again, knocking it aside. He swung his sword and hit the giant in the face with the flat of the blade.

The captain staggered back. Farodin caught him, pulled the helmet off his head, and set his sword at the man’s throat. “Enough! Stop now, or your leader dies!” the elf cried in a loud voice.

The soldiers fell back. An unnatural silence settled over the square, broken only by the groans of the wounded.

Nuramon moved away from Guillaume’s house. His leather helmet was smeared with blood.

“We’re pulling back to the temple!” Farodin shouted to him.

“You’ll never get out of Aniscans alive,” growled the captain. His tone was threatening and loud enough for his men to hear. “The bridge is guarded. Every road is sealed. We came prepared for the healer to cause trouble. Surrender, and I promise you a quick death.”

“We are elves,” replied Farodin calmly. “Do you really think you could stop us?” He waved to Nuramon, and his companion retreated inside the portal of the temple together with two priests.

Guillaume was as pale as a corpse. During the battle, he had simply stood and watched. He was so clearly incapable of hurting anyone.

“You are bleeding, elf,” said the blond soldier. “You’re flesh and blood, like me. And you can die like me. Before the sun goes down, I’ll drink wine from your skull.”

“For a man with a sword at his throat, you seem remarkably confident about the future,” Farodin said as he retreated slowly, backing toward the high temple gate.

The crossbowmen around them reloaded.

Farodin thought of Mandred and the rest of their troop. He had left them behind at their camp in the vineyard. Would they come? They must have seen the attack on the temple.

He threw his prisoner to the ground and jumped through the temple gate. Crossbow bolts whizzed past. Nuramon slammed the heavy oak door and swung the crossbeam into place. Farodin looked at Nuramon’s blood-soaked tunic with concern. “How bad is it?”

The elf looked down. “More human blood than mine, I’d say.”

Inside the temple, it was dark and cool. Massive wooden columns rose to the ceiling, which was supported by heavy beams. The temple was a single high room. There was no furniture and no platform on which a speaker might stand. The only decoration was a menhir, half as high again as a man, with intertwined lettering engraved into its surface. The temple walls had been whitewashed and were separated by two galleries that ringed the walls at different heights. Above the galleries, high windows set in the walls let in a feeble shimmer of morning light. Oil lamps burned in niches along the walls, and pale smoke rose from copper incense pans that had been laid in a ring around the menhir.

The entire construction reminded Farodin more of a fortress tower than a temple. What sort of god was Tjured? Judging by the behavior of his followers, he was certainly no warrior. The two priests went down on their knees before the menhir in the middle of the circular hall. They prayed humbly to their god and thanked him for their liberation.