The Elven (26 page)

Farodin was more gasping than breathing, and his body felt cold. The wound in his thigh was bleeding heavily.

Guillaume, who had held on with one foot hooked through broken shingles and into the rafters below, half rose. He looked at Farodin’s wound with concern. “I’ll bind your leg. Or you’ll—”

A spark of life still flared in Farodin. In fear, he crawled away from Guillaume. “Don’t touch me. You—don’t try . . .”

Guillaume smiled tiredly. “Bind. I said nothing of healing. But I want—” Then he coughed. Blood ran from his lips. The priest raised one hand and dabbed at his mouth. He stared at the blood on his fingers. A darker patch spread rapidly across his cowl. A crossbow bolt had hit him just under the ribs and passed through his body.

Guillaume tipped sideways like a felled tree. Farodin tried to catch him, but it happened too fast. The priest tumbled over the edge of the roof. Farodin could only listen as Noroelle’s son struck the cobblestones of the temple square.

The Sealed Window

T
he roar of the collapsing scaffolding could be heard as far away as the vineyard. Mandred squinted against the bright morning light. The foreign soldiers were hanging something from the oak tree on the temple square, but it was too far for Mandred to be able to make out exactly what was happening.

“We have to go into the town,” said Mandred insistently.

“No,” said Ollowain for the third time. “Do we know what’s going on in there? Nuramon and Farodin have probably found a place to hide and are waiting for those murderers to disappear.”

“
Probably
isn’t good enough,” Mandred said as he swung into his saddle. “Seems to me that
friend
means something different to elves than it does to humans. I for one am not going to sit around here doing nothing any longer. What’s wrong with you?” He looked to Oleif and the two warrior women. He expected little from the elven women. They were too closely tied to Ollowain, but his son . . . They had been riding now, father and son, for three years. Had he failed to teach him even the slightest sense of honor in all that time? Of course, Mandred knew that by himself, he could do nothing, that even the five of them could hardly expect to prevail against such overwhelming numbers. But simply sitting there, waiting and hoping that their friends would escape? That was not the way a man ought to behave.

Oleif gave Ollowain a questioning look. His son seemed surprised at Ollowain’s lack of action.

“You all saw nearly a hundred men ride across the bridge at dawn,” said Ollowain.

Mandred stroked the shaft of the axe dangling from the horn of his saddle. “Then it promises to be an exciting fight. The way I see it, we’re evenly matched.” He pulled the reins and turned his horse onto the narrow path that led from the vineyard down to the valley.

When he reached the road that led into the town, he heard hoofbeats behind him. He didn’t turn, but pride filled his heart. For once, Oleif had chosen not to act like an elf.

They rode side by side without speaking. Their silence said more than words could.

Five soldiers had been posted to guard the bridge. Mandred saw one of them draw back his crossbow. A brawny fellow with a shaven head blocked his path, the tip of a spear aimed at Mandred’s breast.

“In the name of the king, turn back. This bridge is closed,” the soldier called out.

Mandred smiled broadly and bowed. As he did so, his right hand slid into the leather loop on the handle of his axe. “Urgent business brings me to Aniscans. Clear the way, my friend.”

“Make tracks, or I’ll slit your belly and hang you from the nearest tree with your own guts.” The guard jabbed his spear within an inch of Mandred’s throat.

Mandred’s axe came up and splintered the shaft of the guard’s weapon. A backhand swing split the man’s skull.

The jarl leaned low over his horse’s neck to offer the crossbowman as small a target as possible. Oleif jumped from his saddle and charged the surprised guards. He avoided their spears and swung his long sword in lethal sweeps. Neither shields nor mail could withstand the elven steel. In seconds, all five soldiers were on the ground.

The bridge was clear. It looked as if they had not been seen from the far shore. Mandred swung from his saddle and kneeled next to the crossbowman. The soldier was no longer conscious; a kick from Oleif’s horse had turned his face to a bloody pulp. Mandred pulled a knife from his belt and cut the man’s throat. Then he searched the dead men. He found a thin leather moneybag containing a few copper pieces and a silver ring, dark with patina.

“Father, you can’t.”

Mandred glanced up at his son then turned to the man with the shaved head who had threatened to hang him by his entrails. “Something bothering you?” asked Mandred, patting at the heavy man’s clothing in search of hidden coins.

“You’re robbing the dead. That’s . . . offensive. It’s immoral.”

Mandred turned the guard onto his side. He had large, fleshy ears and wore a single earring set with a pretty pearl. The jarl jerked the ring from the man’s ear. “Immoral?” He held the pearl against the light. It was the size of a pea and gleamed with a pink sheen. “Stealing from the living might be immoral, but it does these men no harm if I relieve them of their valuables. If I didn’t do it, their own comrades would.”

“Don’t talk about comrades. Right now, it seems to mean nothing to you that your so-called friends might be fighting for their lives. Ollowain was right.”

Mandred went to the next corpse. “Would you keep one eye on the other shore while you preach, Son? You and Guillaume would get on like a house on fire. And what exactly was Ollowain right about?”

“He said you were like an animal, acting only on instinct. Neither good nor evil . . . just primitive.”

One of the dead spearmen wore a silver ring set with a large turquoise. Mandred tugged at the ring, but it was tight on the man’s finger. “You keep the far shore in sight” was all he said. Mandred spat on the dead man’s hand and rubbed spittle on the finger to make the ring slide off more easily, but it didn’t help. Irritated, he drew his dagger.

“Don’t do it, Father,” Oleif said.

Mandred set the tip of the dagger at the base of the finger and whacked the handle with the flat of his hand. With a gristly crunch, the steel sliced through the thin bone. The jarl picked up the finger, slipped off the ring and put it in his leather bag with the rest of the loot.

“You’re
worse
than an animal,” shouted Oleif.

Mandred rose to his feet. “I don’t care what you think about me or animals, but never again say that my friends don’t matter to me.”

“Ah, I understand. In pure unselfishness, we bide our time here while they fight. You don’t want to spoil their fun.”

Mandred swung up onto the saddle. “You really don’t understand what we’re doing here, do you?”

“Oh, I do. I do. That’s very clear to me. You’ve been filling your purse . . . I guess so you can drink yourself blind in the next town and go whoring. Maybe that’s why Freya cursed you.”

Without warning, Mandred slapped Oleif hard on the side of his head. “Don’t
ever
mention your mother’s name and whores in the same breath again.”

The young warrior swayed in the saddle, dazed by the force of the surprise blow. Red streaks marked his cheek.

“Now shut up and listen to me. You might learn something,” Mandred said, speaking in a low voice that accentuated his words. He had to stay in control. More than anything, he would have liked to give this big-mouthed son of his a decent hiding. What had the elves done to him?

“Most human soldiers are afraid of battle. They talk big, but when it comes down to it, their guts are filled with fear,” he said to his son. “My own fear is that there might be crossbowmen in the buildings over there, waiting to shoot us down the moment we cross the bridge. If they are posted there, then they’ll wait until we get so close they can’t miss. I dismounted, and I’ve been filling my purse to give them a little more time to sit with their fear. Because they fear us just as much as we fear them. They’re afraid of missing us, and afraid we’ll get inside those buildings before they can reload. The longer they can see us and the longer they have to wait, the more likely one of them is to get rattled and fire off a bolt. Then at least we’ll know what’s waiting for us.”

For a few heartbeats, a tense silence stood between father and son. All there was to hear was the sound of trees and branches in the river, scraping past the sturdy pylons of the bridge.

Oleif looked to the houses across the river. “You’re right,” he said. “If we ride blindly into a trap, then we will be useless to Nuramon and Farodin. Nothing is moving over there. Do you think we can cross the bridge safely?”

Mandred shook his head. “War and safety make poor bedfellows. Besides, whoever’s waiting for us on the other side, they’re not the usual breed of soldier. Your run-of-the-mill soldier would have tried a shot by now. Instead of greenhorns, we might be facing some crafty old bastards, veterans who’ve been through plenty of battles. They’ll know this game, and they’ll be happy to wait.”

Mandred leaned low over the neck of his mare and dug in his spurs. “See you on the far shore.”

They rode across the long bridge at a flat gallop.

Mandred eyed the buildings suspiciously, but no hail of arrows greeted them as they rode off the bridge. The five soldiers they had left behind were apparently the only guards posted on this side of the town.

Mandred and Oleif reined in their horses. Before them lay a broad, meandering road that led first to the market and then continued to the temple square and the hill. Aniscans appeared to be deserted. Nobody moved in the alleyways. Slowly, they rode on. Frightened eyes followed them from behind half-closed shutters. From the hill ahead came sounds of screaming and shouting, and they could hear the clear ring of sword on sword.

“If I were in charge, I’d let us ride into the town then close off all the exits,” Oleif declared.

Mandred nodded. “Looks like the elves taught you more than pretty words or how to warble a song. Let’s dismount. We’ll be more mobile on foot.”

They left the main road and moved into the labyrinth of narrow lanes and alleys, leading their horses by the reins. Mandred looked around uneasily. The entire town was a single enormous trap. They could only hope that no one had observed the carnage they’d left at the bridge.

The two men crossed a narrow square of compacted clay. A large building with walled-up windows loomed over one side of the square. With its high gateway leading into a rear courtyard, it looked almost like a castle.

“We’ll leave the horses there,” said Mandred, and he led his mare through the gate.

Many windows opened onto the courtyard on the inside. The building seemed strange to Mandred. For a moment, he saw a young woman with a half-open bodice at one of the windows. Then she disappeared. No one stepped out through the only door that led into the building, and no one called down to them from the windows. Mandred was happy enough for it to stay that way.

Opposite the gate stood an open shed with a long workbench. Wooden shoes were stacked on the bench, and beside them, neatly organized, lay an array of wood-carving tools: planes, chisels, and knives with oddly crooked blades. Here, too, there was no one to be seen.

Mandred slung the reins through one of the iron rings set into the wall. Then he gazed up at the windows that looked out on the courtyard. “I know you’re watching us. If these horses are not here when I return, then I’ll come up there and cut your throats.” He reached into the leather purse on his belt and withdrew a single coin, which he held high in the air. “But if I find the horses watered and fed, then I’ll leave this silver piece.”

Without waiting for an answer, Mandred shouldered his axe and went back out through the gate.

“Do you have a plan?” Oleif asked.

“Of course,” Mandred replied. “Don’t worry. All we need to do is follow the sounds of battle.”

His son’s brow creased. “Is there another plan?”

Mandred waved off the question in annoyance. “Too many plans give you headaches, and you end up doing nothing at all. A good leader doesn’t just talk. He acts.”

Mandred broke into a jog. He stayed close to the walls to give a shooter a more difficult target. The clang of swords was very close now.

Suddenly, a soldier came staggering out through the door of a house. Strapped to his arm, he carried a large round shield with a white bull’s head. In the doorway behind him, Nuramon appeared. The elf had one hand pressed to his left hip. Dark blood welled out between his fingers.

A punch from Mandred sent the surprised soldier to the ground before he could raise his shield.

“It’s good to see you, mortals,” Nuramon croaked. He lowered his sword and leaned against the door frame, exhausted.

The two men followed the elf back into the semidarkness inside the house. They crossed a devastated kitchen, stepping over two bodies that blocked the entrance to the dining room. Here, too, all the shutters were closed, the light from outside only falling in narrow stripes. Farodin lay on the long dining table that dominated the room. A young priest with flaming red hair was leaning over him.

“You must not move, my lord,” the young man was saying to Farodin, his voice almost pleading. “The wounds will open up again. And you have lost a lot of blood.”

Farodin pushed the Tjured priest aside. “I can lie around when we’re clear of this town and in safety.”

“But you’ll . . . ,” the priest began again, upset.

Nuramon calmed the young man. “I’ll take care of his injuries later.”

Farodin sat upright and turned to the humans. “You took long enough. Where’s Ollowain?”

Mandred avoided the elf’s eyes.

Farodin snorted contemptuously. “I thought as much.” In a few words, he told Mandred and Oleif about the attack on the temple and their escape.

“What about Guillaume?” asked Oleif when Farodin was finished.

The elf pointed to the closed shutters. “Out there in the square.”

Mandred and his son crossed the room and looked out carefully through a narrow gap. The king’s soldiers were everywhere. They had piled wood from the collapsed scaffolding all around the holy oak. From one of the branches, head down, hung two naked and defiled bodies. One a stout older man, the other . . . Guillaume. Their bodies had been flayed with canes. Crossbow bolts and the broken shafts of spears jutted from their torsos.

Mandred turned away in disgust. “Why are they doing that? You said they were supposed to present him to their king.”

“Guillaume was no longer presentable after he fell off the roof,” said Farodin, his voice cold. Then he pressed his mouth shut until it was no more than a thin, bloodless line.

“The crossbow bolt that hit him was meant for Farodin,” said Nuramon in a flat tone. “I—”

“Guillaume wanted to die,” Farodin interrupted him angrily. “You know that. He wanted to go out and give himself to those murderers.”

“To save us,” replied Nuramon. “I’m not accusing you of anything. Between Emerelle and Cabezan, Guillaume saw no room to live anymore. All he had left was the choice of how he wanted to die. When the soldiers picked up his body, they flew into a rage. They desecrated his body and hung him from the tree.”