The Elven (33 page)

Farodin shook his head. “He’s such a pigheaded . . .” He fetched his horse, then asked, “Who’s next, you or me?”

“I opened the gate. I want to close it again,” replied Nuramon.

Farodin lowered his eyes. “Considering our rivalry for Noroelle, I’d like . . .” He broke off. “Let’s forget it and hold to what Noroelle said before the elfhunt.” Without another word, he followed Mandred into the light.

“To me, Felbion,” Nuramon called, and the horse came. “Go ahead. I’ll follow.” The horse didn’t balk, but stepped into the light and disappeared.

The magic that would close the gate within a few moments was something like a turn of a hand inside Nuramon’s spirit, a gesture he completed with his will. It was no more than a healing spell for the wound he had caused the Albenstar. When it came to that kind of magic, he knew what he was doing. The moment he thought it, it would be irreversible.

Nuramon was about to step into the light when he became aware of a figure standing on the hill at the entrance to the valley. It was a woman. She raised a hand and waved timidly.

Obilee. There was anxiety on her face. Even at this distance, he could see that. She may even have been crying. He waved back. There was no time to do any more. The column of light was already shrinking. He wondered why Obilee had not revealed herself to them sooner. Then he went into the cool of the light.

A heartbeat later, scorching heat was beating down on him. Was this the last thing he would ever feel? Had his sorcery failed? One step, and the light of the gate vanished. Overhead, a merciless sun beat down.

He was relieved to see that his companions were there, but when he looked around, his relief evaporated. On every side was sand, as far as he could see. It was the Other World, certainly. He could never confuse this sky with the sky over Albenmark, for the air here, even on the clearest day, still looked murky.

A desert. Of all the places they could have come out, they were in the middle of a desert. Fate was toying with them again. Mandred’s Luth had woven another of his nets, sending them into this wasteland. Nothing could show more clearly just how little hope they had of ever finding Noroelle again.

Mandred sat in the shadow of his horse, breathing heavily. Farodin simply kneeled in the sand in disbelief, picked up a handful of the stuff, and let it trickle between his fingers.

In the Land of Fire

I
will let nothing show
, thought Mandred.
One step after another.
They had been traversing the wasteland for two days. Nuramon told them they were following one of three paths, but Mandred could see no sign of it. At least they were no longer in the dunes. In front of them stretched an endless plain, where white rocks jutted through the sand like the bones of giants.

He could not stand the looks of concern the others kept giving him. “I’m fine,” he snarled at Farodin. Damned elves. The heat seemed to make no difference to them. They were not even sweating.

Mandred ran his tongue over his parched lips. His mouth was dry, and his lips felt as rough as hemp rope, the skin split and scabbed. His face was badly burned from the relentless sun, and it hurt.

He looked for his shadow. Too long. Midday was still a long way off, and the heat was already unbearable.

Mandred chided himself,
Don’t show any sign of weakness.
How could the elves put up with the heat? Nuramon did seem a little tired, and he wasn’t half as tough as Farodin, but he was still holding up well. Mandred thought back to the days when they were hunting the manboar. Nuramon had worked some sort of magic that had wafted warm air under his clothes. In the middle of the coldest winter ever, the elf had not frozen. Could they also cool the air under their clothes? Was that their secret? It had to be something like that.

He’d stopped sweating himself, too, Mandred thought tiredly. Not because he had grown accustomed to the heat, but because he was as dried out as an old chunk of cheese. He dabbed at his lips with his tongue again and realized it was swollen.

Mandred grasped the saddle horn. Even his horse seemed not particularly affected by the heat. He had shared the last of his water with her that morning, and she had looked at him with her large dark eyes as if she felt sympathy for him. Horses that felt sympathy for humans . . . this heat was driving him crazy.

It was so eerily quiet in the desert that you could hear the wind rolling the grains of sand.

Step by step. Ever onward. The horse was pulling him along. It felt good to rest, to let the mare support him a little. The two elves led their horses by the reins, but he let his horse lead him. He was too weak to do anything else.

The breeze freshened. Mandred let out a rough, husky noise. Two days earlier, it would have been a laugh. A fresh breeze? Just wind. Wind as hot as the blast of air that would hit you when a baker opened his oven. What an ignoble way for a warrior to die. He could have cried, but he was too dry for tears. He was as arid as an old apple. What a godforsaken way to go.

He raised his head. The sun stabbed at his face, its rays like daggers. Mandred turned slightly to the side. His eyes scanned the horizon. Nothing. No end to the desert. Just bleached stones and yellow sand.

It started again. The air congealed. It became thicker and somehow streaky, almost like something set in aspic. Then it shuddered and melted away. Would he also melt away in the end? Or would he get so dried out that he suddenly burst into flames? Maybe he would simply keel over and stop living.

Mandred snatched the leather canteen from his belt, pulled off the cap, and lifted the rim to his lips. Nothing. He knew he’d drained the last drop from it long before, but a single drop would do. Just a reminder of water. In desperation, he twisted the leather, but all he wrung out of it was hot air. He coughed and let it fall again.

He looked ahead distrustfully at Farodin, walking ahead of him. His canteen was bigger. He still had water and just didn’t want to share it.

I will not beg
, Mandred rebuked himself. Whatever an elf could stand, he could, too. He was much bigger and stronger than those two bastards. It wasn’t possible that they could bear up to these agonies better than he could. Their canteens had to be bigger. Or maybe they had enchanted canteens that never ran dry. Or . . . yes, that was it. It wasn’t magic, no. They had stolen his water, at night, while he slept. It was the only explanation, the only way they could keep on going, step by step across this accursed sand. But they would not cheat him, not Mandred Torgridson. He touched the axe at his belt. He would keep his eye on them. When they were least expecting it, he would strike. Stealing his water. Scum, the pair of them. And after all they’d been through together.

His right hand slipped from the saddle horn. He staggered a few steps, then his knees gave out. Nuramon was at his side instantly. His skin looked reddish, and he had dark rings around his eyes . . . but his lips were not cracked. He had enough to drink.
His
water. Mandred’s left hand cramped around the shaft of the axe, but he couldn’t pull it from his belt. Nuramon leaned closer. His hands were pleasantly cool. When he stroked Mandred’s face, the burning in his skin stopped.

Close above him, Mandred saw the elf’s throat. A throat full of deliciously wet blood. All he had to do was bite. He still had the strength to tear open a throat with his teeth, didn’t he? He let out a rapturous sigh at the vision of all that blood soaking his marred face.

“Nuramon?” For the first time ever, Mandred heard fear in Farodin’s voice. “What is that?”

Farodin had stopped walking and was pointing to the southern horizon. A thin brown line had appeared between the sky and the desert beneath. It grew with every heartbeat.

For Mandred, the air felt like it had curdled into a tough, suffocating mass. His throat burned with every breath he took.

“A storm?” asked Nuramon, uncertain. “Could it be a storm?”

A gust whipped sand into Mandred’s face. He blinked to clear his eyes. Nuramon and Farodin grabbed him under the arms and dragged him behind a knee-high shelf of rock. Nuramon’s stallion nickered anxiously; his ears were back as he stared at the brown mass rolling down on them.

The elves managed to get the horses onto their knees behind the rock shelf. Mandred groaned aloud when he saw Farodin douse a cloth with the last of his water and wrap it around his horse’s nostrils. In her fear, Mandred’s mare was making strange growling noises. Suddenly, the sky disappeared. Flurries of swirling sand instantly reduced the world to something just a few steps across.

Nuramon pressed a damp cloth to Mandred’s nose and mouth. He sucked greedily at the moist material. He had narrowed his eyes to slits, but the sand still found a way in.

Farodin had chosen their refuge well. In the lee of the flat rock, left and right of them, they could see the fine sand like an endless veil flying past. Earth and sky seemed to have merged into one. From above, sand and dust peppered them, but the wind drove most of it over them and away.

Despite the cloth covering his mouth, Mandred felt sand seeping between his teeth and into his nose. The stuff was in his clothes, and it scoured his weather-beaten skin. The cloth was soon completely clogged, and Mandred again felt as if he were suffocating. Every breath was an agony, even though the storm at least protected him from the worst of the heat.

He squeezed his burning eyes closed. All sense of time passing was lost to him. The storm was burying them alive. His legs were already half engulfed in sand, and he had no strength left to fight free.

Mandred felt utterly desiccated. He thought he could feel his thickening blood slowing in his veins. So this was what it was like to die.

Elven Paths

L
ook at this.” Farodin waved his companion over. Nuramon hesitated. He was leading Felbion by the reins, and they had tied Mandred across the horse’s saddle. The human was in a deep coma. His heart still beat, but slowly, and his body was far too warm. A day at most, Nuramon had said in the morning. Since then, eight hours had passed. They had to find water, or Mandred would die. The elves could not survive the heat too much longer either. Nuramon’s cheeks were sunken, and fine creases had formed in rings around his inflamed eyes. It was clear that his struggle to save Mandred’s life had driven him to the limits of his own endurance.

“Come on,” Farodin called. “It’s beautiful and horrible at the same time. Like looking into the water in Emerelle’s bowl.”

Nuramon went ahead to Farodin. Now that he stood so close to his companion, Farodin said he could almost physically feel Nuramon’s exhaustion.

“You have to rest,” Farodin said.

Nuramon shook his head without emotion. “He needs me. The only thing keeping him from dying is my healing power. We have to find water. I . . . I’m afraid I won’t be able to hold out much longer. Are we still following the elven path?”

“Yes.” It had fallen to Farodin now to lead them along the invisible path. They had cast lots for which of the three Albenpaths to follow. And since it had fallen to Nuramon to keep Mandred alive, it was up to Farodin to keep them on the right track. It had to lead somewhere, even if only to another Albenstar.

“What did you want to show me?” Nuramon asked.

Farodin pointed some distance ahead, to a flat patch of rock that was almost completely buried beneath the sand. “There in the shadow. You can see the direction from my tracks. Do you see it?”

Nuramon blinked against the bright light. Then he smiled. “A cat. It’s sleeping.” He started to walk toward it happily.

Farodin followed behind, more slowly.

Curled up close to the rocks lay a cat, its head lying on its paws. Its fur was a yellow ochre and matted with sand, like the braids in Mandred’s hair. It was emaciated, the body haggard and the fur disheveled. It looked asleep.

“See where her head sticks up slightly above the rock?” asked Farodin.

Nuramon stopped.

You had to be very close to the cat to be able to see the back of its head. It was bare. More than bare. The fine, blowing sand had worn down the fur and the skin beneath and had polished the bone of the cat’s skull, making it gleam white.

“She looks so peaceful,” said Nuramon gently. “She laid down in the shadow of the rocks, fell asleep exhausted, and died of thirst in her sleep.”

Farodin nodded. “That’s what must have happened. The dry heat preserved her body, and the rocks protected her from the flying sand. She may have been here for weeks. Maybe even years. Impossible to say.”

“And you think it’s like looking into Emerelle’s bowl? Is that our future?” Nuramon asked.

“If we don’t find water soon. And I don’t hold out much hope of that. Since we came through the Albenstar, we have not seen a single animal. Not even tracks. Nothing living walks this desert.”

“The cat did,” Nuramon replied, with surprising vehemence.

“Yes, she did. But coming here was a mistake, and she died for it. Do you think Mandred will live to see the next sunrise?”

“If we find water . . .”

“Maybe we should slaughter one of the horses and give him the blood to drink.”

“I think it would be better if one of us took the two strongest horses and rode ahead, switching the horses when they get tired. You or I, we could cover a lot more ground and look for water.”

“Which of us do you have in mind?”

Nuramon looked up. “Is that so hard to guess? My healing power is keeping Mandred cool and alive. You can’t do that. I’ll stay behind. The horses will last until at least this evening. If you find water anywhere, let the horses drink, then fill the canteens and come back in the cool of the night.”

“And if I don’t find water by sundown?”

Nuramon looked at him without expression. “Then you have another day to save at least your own life.” Farodin returned his gaze as if sizing him up. “A day on horseback will preserve your own strength. I’m sure you’ll get through another day that way. It makes no sense to then come back to us.”

“A solid plan,” Farodin said and nodded appreciatively. “Thought through with a cool head. It’s just that it would take a braver man than me to see it through.”

“A braver man?”

“Do you think I could stand before Noroelle and tell her I abandoned my two companions in the desert so that I could find her?”

“So you still believe you can find Noroelle like that?”

“Why not?” asked Farodin harshly.

“How many grains of sand have you discovered since we came back to the human world?”

Farodin lifted his head defiantly. “None. But I have not been looking. I was . . . the heat. I’ve been using what little magic I have to cool myself a little.”

“Which would hardly have used up all your strength.” Nuramon gestured broadly to the expanse of horizon. “This here is what has robbed you of your strength and your courage. This view. I don’t believe that we are here by coincidence. Fate wanted us to understand how senseless our search is. There has to be another way.”

“Then how? I can’t listen to you going on about some other way anymore. What is that other way supposed to look like?”

“How do you think you can find all the lost grains of sand?”

“My magic carries them to me. I just have to be close enough.”

“And how close is that? A hundred paces? A mile? Ten miles? How long will it take to search the Other World? How will you ever know for certain that you have found all of them?”

“The more I find, the stronger my seeking spell becomes.”

Nuramon swept his arm over the desert again. “Look around you. I don’t even know a number to use to talk about how many grains of sand are out there. It is utterly futile . . . and because you obviously have the strength to attempt the futile, then you are the right one to look for water here. If one of us can do it, it’s you. Use your magic to find the next waterhole.”

Enough was enough. “Do you think I am that stupid?” Farodin asked. “Finding something as tiny as a particular grain of sand in a desert is one thing. Finding a waterhole is far, far simpler. Do you seriously think I haven’t already used my powers to search for water? Why do you think I showed you the dead cat? That is our future. There is no water within at least a day’s ride of us. Only the water inside us. Our blood . . . It’s as simple as that. I tried the first time just before I saw the cat. There’s nothing.”

Nuramon gazed east. His face was strained. He seemed not to be listening to Farodin at all.

“Has the sun burned the last trace of civility out of you? Say something. Did you even hear what I said?” Farodin demanded.

Nuramon pointed ahead into the empty desert. “There. There’s something there.”

A gust of wind puffed a thin wave of sand toward them. Like a breaker against a rocky shore, it collapsed onto the few rocks protruding from the sand. Not far behind it, a second thin wave of sand followed.

“There it is again,” shouted Nuramon, excited.

“What?”

“We’re standing here on the Albenpath. It runs through the desert as straight as an arrow. Imagine it going straight on from here. A little over a mile, I’d say . . . See how the flurries of sand blow over it. There’s something there.”

Farodin looked where Nuramon pointed. But there was nothing to see. No rocks, no dunes. Just sand. He looked doubtfully at his companion. Had he lost his mind? Had the hopelessness of their situation driven him mad?

“It happened again. Damn it . . . look!”

“We should try to find a little shade,” said Farodin, trying to sound soothing.

“Another wave of sand is coming. Will you please look.”

“You . . .” Farodin could not believe what he saw. The sand wave split. For a second or less. Then the gap closed again. It was as if the flying sand had glided over and around a rock that had momentarily blocked its path. Except that there were no rocks there.

Farodin’s hand automatically fell to the grip of his sword. “What is that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Some kind of invisible creature?” Who would benefit from being invisible? A hunter. Someone waiting for prey to wander past. Had he been secretly watching them, waiting for them right now on the path they were planning to follow? Farodin drew his sword. It felt unusually heavy in his hand. The sun had drained the power from his arms.

It made no difference what was out there. They had to face it. Every moment they hesitated only cost them more of the little strength they still had. “I’m going to take a look. Watch what happens.”

“Wouldn’t it be better—”

“No.” And without letting himself get caught in more discussion, Farodin swung onto his saddle. He held the sword angled across his chest.

He reached the place in a few moments. Once again, the desert had deceived him, making something look much farther away than it actually was. He found a ring of dark basalt stones set into the sand. They looked like large cobblestones. Not a single grain of sand lay on the flat stones. Was it a magic circle? Farodin had never seen anything quite like it before.

He walked his horse around the stones. The blowing sand divided around the circle as if it were running into a glass wall. Some distance from the circle, half buried, Farodin noted a low, inelegant pyramid made of quarry stones. A human skull perched on top of it. Farodin looked around and noticed a number of other low stone mounds close by. On one of them lay several human skulls. What kind of place was this? Alert, he looked around, but apart from the stone ring and the mounds, there was no sign that either humans or elves had ever lived here.

Finally, Farodin dismounted. The ground there was steeped in magic. Albenpaths came from every direction and merged inside the ring. Carefully, the elf stretched one hand toward the invisible barrier. He felt a light tingling in his skin. He stepped into the ring. Nothing held him back. Apparently, the aversion spell on the circle only kept the sand at bay. But why the skulls? The coarse mounds did not match the elegant plainness of the ring itself. Had they been built later? Were they meant as a warning?

The area bound by the basalt ring measured a good twenty paces from one side to the other. The stones that formed it were a single pace across, if that. Inside the ring, the ground was sandy, no different from the desert all around.

Farodin closed his eyes and tried to turn his mind entirely to the magic of the Albenpaths. There were six paths that met inside the ring. Opening a gate here would be easy. And wherever it spat them out again, it had to be better than this desert.

He waved to Nuramon, who brought the two horses and Mandred.

“An Albenstar,” Nuramon cried in relief. “Salvation. Open the gate.”

“You can do it better.”

Nuramon shook his head angrily. “I’m too exhausted. It is all I can do to keep the last spark inside Mandred burning. You have learned the magic, too. Do it.”

Farodin cleared his throat. He was about to say something, but checked himself. He almost wished there had really been some kind of invisible monster lurking there. The way of the sword, that was his way. The ways of magic were still foreign to him, despite all the hours he had spent learning from the faun oak.

He laid his sword on the sand and sat with his legs crossed and eyes closed. Then he tried to free himself from every thought, every fear. He had to empty his spirit and fuse it to the magic. Slowly, before his inner eye, an image of paths of light formed, paths that crossed in the darkness. And where they crossed, they also distorted. Their lines warped and twisted into a vortex. Every Albenstar was unique, with a distinctive pattern of these interweaving lines at its heart that differentiated it from every other star. Experienced sorcerers used the patterns to orient themselves as they traveled the Albenpaths.

Farodin imagined himself reaching into the middle of the paths of light with his hands. Like a gardener untangling tendrils of flowers, he pulled them apart in his mind until he had created a hole that grew larger and larger and finally transformed into a gate. It emanated a dark attraction from within. It did not lead to Albenmark.

Unsettled, he opened his eyes. He was looking at the naked, gleaming skull atop the pyramid of stones. What was it trying to warn them of?

“You’ve done it,” Nuramon said, but there was doubt in his voice that belied his words.

Farodin turned around. A gate had opened behind him, but it looked completely different from the one that Nuramon had created. Bands of light in the colors of a rainbow streamed around a dark mouth that seemed to open into nothingness. A line of white light, straight as a ray of sunlight, cut through the dark, but it was not able to brighten the blackness that surrounded it.

“I’ll go first,” said Farodin. “I—”

“I think this gate leads to the Shattered World,” Nuramon said. He gazed at it with a look of frank unease. “That’s why it looks different. It looks just as the faun oak said it would.”

Farodin ran his tongue nervously over his lips. He reached for his sword and slid it into its scabbard. With the palm of one hand, he patted sand from the folds of his breeches, realizing even as he did so that he was doing it simply to delay making a decision. Then he stood up. “The gate is wide enough. We can go through together if we lead the horses.”

As they stood at the threshold of the gate, Nuramon said softly, “I’m sorry. It was not the right moment to argue with you about the grains of sand.”

“Then let’s have the argument some other time.”

Nuramon did not reply. Instead, he tugged at the reins of his horse and stepped forward.

Farodin had the feeling that the gate actually sucked him in. With a jolt, he was inside the darkness. He heard a horse whinny but could not see it. The line of light had disappeared. He felt like he was falling, falling for an eternity. Then he felt soft earth beneath his feet. The darkness dissolved, and blinking, Farodin looked around. Icy fear took hold of his heart. The spell had failed. They were still standing inside the black ring of basalt, and the desert stretched away to the horizon on every side.