The Elven (44 page)

Finally, they came to a large, open hall. Perhaps a hundred trolls were gathered inside. Some were drinking or rolling bone dice. Others had stretched out beside fireplaces and were asleep. The place stank horribly of old oil, sour vomit, and spilled beer. It was more a cave than a banquet hall, Mandred thought. Along the walls stood rough wooden tables and benches, but most of the trolls seemed to prefer squatting on the floor. They were all frighteningly huge. His guide from the beach was far from being a giant among his peers. Mandred estimated that the largest of those there in the hall measured nearly four paces from head to foot. Only on second glance did he realize that not one of them had any hair. Many had decorated their coarse faces and hairless scalps with interwoven patterns of scarifications.

A rumble arose as the trolls became aware of Mandred. Shouts rang out, like the barking of dogs. The sentry who had led him this far held the branch high and bellowed louder than all the rest, and the hall grew a little quieter. But in the trolls’ amber eyes, Mandred read undisguised hatred.

In the distance came the sound of a horn. The jarl thought of Farodin. Had the trolls discovered him after all?

Mandred’s guide slumped onto a bench and grinned insolently at him. “Tell us what you came to say, little man.”

“Forgive me, but I will speak only with Prince Orgrim,” said the jarl firmly. He looked around in the hope of seeing a troll somewhere who was wearing golden armbands or heavy silver chains. That was how the heroes in the sagas always recognized the princes of great nations. But none here wore such things.

His guide bawled something across the hall, and loud grunting came from all sides. It took Mandred some moments to realize that they were laughing.

“What is so funny?” he asked coolly.

His guide tugged at his bottom lip and looked at him intensely. “You really don’t know, do you?” he asked in his heavy accent.

“What?”

“I am Orgrim, prince of the Nightcrags.”

Mandred looked at the troll. He was skeptical. Was this some kind of ruse? There was nothing about him to differentiate him from the other trolls surrounding them. But if, in fact, he was the prince and Mandred didn’t answer him now, then that would count as an insult. And if he was only pretending to be the leader of the trolls and Mandred revealed to him his fake message, then—at least by human standards—he could not be accused of behaving impolitely before his host.

“Queen Emerelle wishes to be informed as to whether any elves are still in captivity.”

Orgrim shouted something to the other trolls. It seemed to Mandred that some of them grinned hatefully. Then the prince clapped his hands and gave an order.

“Food and drink will be brought to us,” said Orgrim formally. “Let it not be said that I did not set before a guest the best that the larders of the Nightcrags have to offer.”

Two arm-length drinking horns were carried in. Orgrim set one to his lips and emptied it in a single draft. Then he looked expectantly at Mandred.

The jarl was having difficulty even lifting his horn. He could not allow himself to get drunk. Not tonight. But if he drank nothing, he would insult his host. So he swallowed a mouthful and let a good portion of the sticky mead run down his beard.

Orgrim laughed loudly. “The children here drink more than you, little man.”

Mandred set his horn down. “If I look around, I can imagine that the children here are born as big as me.”

The prince clapped him on the shoulder, nearly knocking Mandred off the bench. “Well spoken, little man. Our newborns are far from being soft little grubs like your children.”

“To return to the elf queen’s question . . .”

“We hold no elves in captivity.” Again, the prince pulled at his bottom lip. “Who said we did?”

“An elf woman who had been held captive here,” replied Mandred curtly.

The troll prince supported his chin on both hands and looked at Mandred thoughtfully. “What a confused creature that must have been. The war ended long ago. All of the prisoners have been exchanged.” If not for the powerful bottom jaw with its protruding tusks, Orgrim would probably have managed a winning smile. As things were, he produced a rather terrifying grimace instead. “I hope very much that Emerelle did not take such talk seriously.”

Mandred was deeply unsettled. Had it been anyone else but Farodin who told him about Shalawyn being held prisoner here, he might well have believed Orgrim. The prince was completely different from how he imagined a troll to be. In the stories, they were stupid, coarse man-eaters that could be fooled easily. None of that applied to Orgrim. On the contrary, Mandred sensed that the prince was toying with him.

An old troll woman came and sat at the other end of the table. She had brought a wooden bowl of soup with her and a large, crooked spoon. Her crude dress had been patched hundreds of times, never twice with the same cloth. A milky film covered her eyes. She squinted severely whenever she looked up from her bowl. Around her withered neck were many leather straps with charms: little figures carved from bone, stone rings, feathers, the dried head of a bird, and something that looked like half a raven’s wing.

“Who is that?” Mandred asked in a whisper.

“Her name is Skanga, and she’s as old as our race.” There was respect in Orgrim’s voice, perhaps even a trace of fear. He spoke very quietly. “She is a powerful shaman. She speaks with the spirits and can calm storms or call them up.”

Mandred glanced covertly at the old woman. Could she read his thoughts? Then it was better to think of harmless things. “It was a long way through the wilderness, and I’m half starved,” he said. “I could steal the bowl from under the old woman’s nose.”

The prince apologized profusely for the food taking so long. It had to be killed first to keep the meat fresh for the table. Orgrim declared that pork always tasted more tender if you softened the beasts up a bit before slaughtering them. Apparently, the secret was to clobber the animal before it suspected that it was to be killed. Orgrim asserted that fear drew out noxious juices that tainted the meat. Mandred had never heard of such things, but he thought the prince made a good case.

While they waited, Orgrim filled the time by telling the jarl about hunting sperm whales. He flattered Mandred, praising the daring of the humans who had fought at the side of the elves in the last war. And he spoke highly indeed of the hero king, Alfadas.

Mandred smiled silently to himself. What would Orgrim say if he discovered he was sitting beside the father of Alfadas? Well, Mandred wouldn’t mention the fact. A melancholy pride overtook him as the prince told him of the battles his son had fought in.

After a long time, a bloated, jowly troll served them. He brought two wooden plates laden with steaming roast joints smothered with gravy and gold-brown rings of onion. The larger of the two joints would easily have been enough to stuff the bellies of three starving men. The smaller weighed perhaps two pounds, Mandred guessed.

“As my guest, the choice is yours.” Orgrim pointed to the plates. “Which would you prefer?”

The jarl recalled Farodin’s words of warning. If he took the larger piece and ate only a small portion of it, the trolls could well take it as an insult. “Considering my size, it would be more than reckless of me to even think about the bigger one,” said Mandred, his voice rather stilted. The smell of the meat was making his mouth water. “So I choose the smaller.”

“So be it.” The troll prince nodded to the fat cook, who set the heavy wooden plates before them on the table.

Orgrim ate with his fingers. He shredded the meat effortlessly and stuffed it into his maw in large chunks. Freshly baked bread came next, and they dunked it in the juices of the meat.

Mandred took the knife from his belt and divided his joint into six thick slices. As he sliced into the meat, dark blood oozed into the heavy onion gravy. The meat was delicious. It had a good, crisp crust and was still tender and bloody in the middle. Mandred ate hungrily. He’d had nothing warm to eat in the long days on the boat. Gravy dripped from the corners of his mouth as he chewed. He savored the pleasure of dipping the fresh bread into the gravy and onions and washed it all down with the heavy mead. Orgrim certainly knew how to treat a guest.

The other trolls, however, were behaving strangely. In the course of the little feast, they became quieter and quieter. Some roasted hunks of meat on long wooden spits, but most simply stared at Mandred. Did they envy him his delicious meal? Gradually, their unwavering gaze began to make him feel uneasy.

Mandred finished his meal with a stately belch. He had not been able to finish all the meat. He sat leaning forward on the wooden bench and groaned quietly.

“May I offer you anything else?” asked Orgrim politely. “Apple pieces preserved in honey, perhaps? Delectable, let me tell you. Absolutely delectable. Scandrag, my cook, is a true artist.”

Mandred stroked his belly. “Please forgive me. How did you put it just now? I am only a little man. I couldn’t eat another bite.”

Orgrim clapped his hands. A moment later, the troll who had served them appeared carrying another large wooden board. On top of it were two upside-down baskets. The board itself was dark with blood.

“Among us, it is a tradition to look what one has eaten in the eye. A custom of hunters, you could say.” Orgrim snapped his fingers, and the troll set the board down on a neighboring table. Then he lifted the larger of the two baskets. Underneath it lay the head of a wild boar, its mouth gaping. Its tusks were as long as daggers, like those of the manboar. It must have been an unusually large animal.

The prince congratulated his cook on preparing such an excellent meal. Then the cook lifted the second basket. Beneath it lay the head of a woman with short, blond hair. Her forehead was split open, the skin over her left eye mangled. Pointed ears protruded through the short hair. Her skin was paler than the skin of any elf Mandred had ever seen, almost as white as freshly fallen snow.

Mandred stared into the face in disbelief. Her injuries had obviously been inflicted by a blow from a club. The jarl knew this elf as well as he knew his own son. Three years they had ridden together, side by side. Yilvina. His stomach twisted and lurched.

The Kingdom of the Dwarves

A
fter a day and a night, when they finally left the forest, Nuramon
could hardly comprehend what he was looking at. In front of them rose a colossal rock face—the walls of the kingdom of the dwarves, the entrance itself a mighty iron portal. Windows, slits, and embrasures had been carved out of the rock face, but what most impressed Nuramon were all of the towers that sprang from the stone like mushrooms and reached skyward. Whoever had constructed this had been a master of his trade.

Nuramon dismounted from Felbion; he could not take his eyes off the fortress. “Impressive, isn’t it?” said Alwerich. “You elves couldn’t build anything like this.”

Nuramon gazed up at the banners fluttering from the tops of the towers. Huge cloth pennants, a silver dragon on red, so big that one could recognize the crest from many miles away. For whom were these banners intended? The dwarves lived such a withdrawn existence that it was hard to imagine any outsider ever finding their way here. The dwarves seemed less interested in utility than in what simply looked good. In that, they were similar to the elves, although what this masterful construction expressed was far from modest sufficiency.

Nuramon followed the dwarves to the towering entrance. The closer he came to the massive double gate, the smaller he felt. But perhaps there was something in their realm that required a gate this big. He looked up at the banners again, and especially the heraldic beast pictured on them. Such a gate would be big enough to allow a dragon to enter.

No guards were posted in front of the gate, but Nuramon was acutely aware of the numerous arrow slits in the rock wall and also the extended balcony high overhead. No more guards were needed here. Without a word from Nuramon’s escort, something clicked near the door, and squeaking and creaking, the wings of the gate swung out toward them. How had the dwarves managed to forge such an enormous gate from iron? How did they move it, and how had they mounted it? The only answer Nuramon could think of was magic.

Hunting scenes, heroes in battle, and landscapes were depicted in large ornamental frames on the gate. Because of the height of the gate, the uppermost of these images was difficult to make out. It showed a range of mountains, and Nuramon was certain that it was an image of the Iolid Mountains. Symbols had been engraved in the iron of the gate. Even at first glance, Nuramon could see that he was looking at the same form of writing he had seen in the rock at the oracle Dareen’s entrance.

So he had not been mistaken. He had come to the right place. In a fortress this size, there had to be at least one dwarf willing to go with him to the oracle.

Between the left and right wings of the massive swinging gate, Nuramon caught his first glimpse of the interior of the kingdom of the dwarves. An enormous hall supported by columns like trees opened beyond the threshold. Sunlight reached the floor in many places, coming in through many narrow light shafts high in the rock. Barinstones of every imaginable color were set in the columns and gave light wherever the sun’s rays did not reach. The whole place was alive with activity, and though many of the dwarves inside looked at the new arrivals with curiosity, most seemed only to be going about their daily activities.

“Do you have anything against your horse waiting outside for you?” Alwerich asked.

Nuramon did not, and he whispered something to Felbion. The stallion trotted away to graze close by the entrance. He seemed happy enough to wait on such a succulent meadow.

The dwarves led Nuramon inside, where he saw a guard for the first time. He was standing on Nuramon’s right and questioned Alwerich about who the newcomer was and where the dwarf was taking him. Alwerich told the guard the elf’s name and explained that he had come from Albenmark. “I will take him to the king,” he said.

They were allowed to pass. Nuramon noticed a large wheel being turned just then by several dozen straining dwarves. The gate slowly closed.

“This way,” said Alwerich, pointing ahead.

The dwarves they encountered on their way through the imposing fortress all wore metal on their body, although they certainly faced no danger in there. It seemed that metal, for the dwarves, was more akin to clothing than armor. Some preferred heavy chain mail and looked more than capable of defending themselves in it. Others wore coarse-meshed shirts over light material, the shirts studded with metal plates. None of the clothing they wore escaped entirely metal-free, apparently.

All of the dwarves they met stared at Nuramon as if they had never seen an elf before in their lives. And that might well have been true. Some whispered, some welcomed him with reserve. He greeted them as a friend and hoped that his gestures would not be misunderstood.

For the first time, Nuramon saw dwarvish women. All of the craftsmanship this mountain race possessed was expressed in the women’s clothes. Metallic threads and jewels adorned their dresses; even those who could not afford gold or silver wore beautifully embellished works made from less precious metals. One dwarf woman in particular stood out; leaf-shaped copper scales had been sewn onto her dress. And though her stature was short and broad, she reminded him of a tree faery of the sort he had once seen visiting Alaen Aikhwitan.

The faces of the women made them look soft and amiable. They wore their hair long, and most had it tied in braids. The woman with the copper-covered dress had blond hair that fell in four heavy braids over her shoulders. Nuramon’s gaze, directed so intently at her, clearly embarrassed her. She smiled at him, then turned her dark eyes away and looked at the floor.

When Alwerich and his men led him between two columns on the right and away from the main hall, Nuramon wondered why he found this world of stone so appealing, even though he had not seen a single living plant here in the halls of the dwarves. Was it normal for him to like this place so much? Or was it just another example of his peculiar way of seeing things, something his clan had always mocked him for in Albenmark? He did not know. Either way, he felt the beauty of this place despite its foreignness to him . . . and despite the fact that among these stout dwarves, he looked like a thin giant.

Nuramon followed Alwerich into a second hall, no less impressive than the entrance hall had been. Here, the individual columns were grouped into massive pillars set on broad pedestals and supported huge stone arches overhead. Wide stairways created small public squares and connected one to the next. One moved from square to square along the stairways, climbing level by level. Many of the squares were in active use; tables and benches were set up, and all kinds of goods were on sale. This was a market, and it was loud. The chatter and haggling of the dwarves was overlaid by a steady rushing noise. Somewhere close by, there had to be a waterfall.

At the edge of the hall, they reached a stairway that climbed steeply and was divided by gigantic columns. In front of the stairway was an impressive fountain, where two huge, stone dwarf women held barrels from which water flowed constantly, tumbling into the large basin around their feet. The noise would swallow any conversation carried on close to it. The air above the fountain shimmered in the shafts of light that fell from a large opening in the ceiling high overhead. It did not look like sunlight, though, for it had a bluish sheen. Spray wafted against them as they passed the fountain. It tasted fresh and slightly salty.

Leaving the steep stairs and columns behind, they crossed another hall and came to a spacious curving stairway that, at first, disappeared into the rock, then reappeared high on the left, opening onto a view across the hall of the stairways. In the distance, Nuramon could see the columns of the large hall at the entrance.

Alwerich indicated to him to keep going, and they finally came to a halt at the start of a wide corridor guarded by two soldiers. The guards were not willing to let Nuramon pass, so Alwerich decided to go ahead alone and present Nuramon’s situation at the king’s court. Nuramon would have to wait there in the meantime.

The elf stood and took in his surroundings. Here, too, the light seemed to hover beneath the ceiling. He would have given a great deal to discover the secret of that light. Although he was a stranger here, he felt as at home as if he were in Albenmark. Like Yulivee in Valemas, the dwarves had re-created their homeland. They had openly cultivated crystals as well. To his left, on the far wall, he could see jeshilit crystal emerging in large quantities from the walls, glittering like grass in morning dew. On his right, huge quartz crystals rose to the ceiling. They radiated light from the inside and seemed to enclose woodlands.

Nuramon observed dwarves going about their business on stone walkways and wooden bridges high in the air. For them, the grandeur around them must have been as normal as the sight of Emerelle’s palace was for him. But no doubt, there were dwarves who saw the magnificence of these halls as he did and were in awe of it.

After some time, Alwerich returned and sent his companions away. He put on an expression of distrust. “Follow me, please. Master Thorwis wants to speak with you.”

Nuramon had never heard the name. He followed the dwarf without another word. They passed the two guards and walked down a quiet corridor, past individual guards and well-dressed men and women who looked at Nuramon as if he were a glowing ghost. He did his best to keep his orientation, but without the sky, or at least a canopy of branches overhead, he found it difficult.

For Nuramon, the surprise on the faces of the dwarves was easy to explain. He was probably the first elf ever to walk along this corridor. He could only hope that the dwarves did not see him as an emissary of Emerelle. He did not even know whether or not the dwarves were generally well disposed toward the elves. What if they had left Albenmark because of some ancient dispute? If that were the case, he might well be walking to his doom.

“This is it,” Alwerich said and stepped into an atrium with at least two dozen high doors leading off, some with guards posted. Alwerich went directly to an old, white-haired dwarf waiting in front of one of the doors. “This is the stranger, Master,” he said, and bowed.

The old dwarf eyed Nuramon stonily. “You have performed your duty well, my young warrior. Now leave us.”

Alwerich cast a final glance at Nuramon, then returned the way they had come in.

“Look at me, please,” the old dwarf said.

Nuramon did as he was told and looked the dwarf directly in his gray-green eyes. Thorwis seemed to be scrutinizing every minute detail of his face. Magic was strong in the old man, Nuramon sensed. The plain gray robe he wore made it clear that he was no warrior. He was the only dwarf Nuramon had seen here who wore no metal. Even his ring was jade.

“Follow me,” he finally said. He opened the door and stepped through. On the other side was a narrow corridor. After Nuramon had stepped into the corridor, Thorwis closed the door and bolted it.

Nuramon followed the old man through a series of passageways that were far removed from the other parts of this place that he had seen. The walls here were plain and without any form of embellishment. Only the doors were artfully decorated, and no two were alike. They seemed to be matched to whatever room they opened into.

“Very few ever lay eyes on these corridors,” said Thorwis. “No elf has ever set foot—” He broke off suddenly and his eyes fixed on Nuramon’s sword. Then he smiled. “Forgive me. What I meant to say was, you can consider yourself fortunate to be here.”

“I do” was all Nuramon said. He was surprised at the dwarf’s conduct. Was it unusual to carry a sword in these passageways?

Soon, they came to wider corridors, where other dwarves were again to be seen. These wore expensive clothes and seemed no less surprised to see him than those Nuramon had encountered when he had first entered. Some literally jumped in fright when he turned the corner with Thorwis.

“In a kingdom as large as this, those with the power to make decisions have to be able to pass between critical locations quickly and inconspicuously,” the old man explained.

Nuramon realized that the passages he was moving through had not been built willy-nilly. Many of them followed Albenpaths. Anyone wanting to move quickly from one part of the dwarf kingdom to another could probably use an Albenstar to do so.

At the end of a long passage, Thorwis stopped, opened a door on his right, and stepped through. Nuramon followed him and found himself in an empty hall, small in comparison with the corridors and halls he had seen so far. On his left was no wall at all. From here, one could look out over the valley. Daylight shone across the room to the wall on his right, a mosaic that re-created the valley in precious stones.

“Excuse me,” said Thorwis. He indicated that Nuramon should wait there and went out through a door that opened into the mosaic.

Nuramon wondered what the dwarves made of him. Apparently, they believed that he wanted something from them that justified his being received in this grand section of the kingdom. For him, it would have been enough to simply find someone down below in the main hall who had the courage to go with him on his journey to the oracle.

He stepped over to the open wall and looked down into the valley. The clouds scudded low across a blue sky, and Nuramon had the feeling that they formed faces laughing down on him. Of the wind that drove the clouds up there, Nuramon felt only the faintest breath where he stood. He held one hand out into open space and felt himself reaching through something invisible. Outside, the wind swept past his fingers. In his house in Albenmark was a similar magic. Alaen Aikhwitan made sure that no drafts entered the house, and in the queen’s palace, the same spell was at work, forming an unseen ceiling over her Royal Hall. Again, he had discovered a correspondence between the dwarves and the elves.

Suddenly, the door in the wall of precious stones opened again and a dwarf entered. He wore a fine chain mail tunic and a green cape, and on his head, he wore a small crown. Behind him followed Thorwis and a number of other dwarves of his court, some of them soldiers.