The Elven (51 page)

“She will never give it to you. You must search for another Albenstone if you don’t believe in the path your companion Farodin is following. But whether you decide for this one or that, you should first reunite with your companions. Settle your dispute. There are no wrong paths. Each does his part to reach the final goal. Go north and wait for your friends in the city of the mortal. Be patient. Wait in the elven way.”

“I will.”

“Then this is all that Dareen has to say to you. Farewell, Nuramon.” She stepped into the shadows and was gone.

Nuramon waited to see if she would return, but it seemed that she was truly gone. He thought about what she had said. She had shown him the place where he could find the gate to reach Noroelle’s prison. But why was it so important to reunite with Farodin and Mandred? He had thought often of his companions and the foolish argument that had sent them down different roads. He missed them. And Dareen’s words urged him to make peace with them.

He would travel to Firnstayn and wait there for Farodin and Mandred.

The Book of Alwerich:

The Parting of the Comrades in Arms

T
he oracle’s words changed everything. You see things in a different way, especially your comrade in arms. He behaves indeed as he did before, but the knowledge you learned from Dareen makes you see even Nuramon in a new light.

On your journey north, he told you that Dareen had offered to give him back his memory but that he rejected the offer for what he could learn about his beloved. This act moves your heart, and your thoughts turn to Solstane. For her, you would have done the same. And now you can finally understand why Nuramon doesn’t want you with him on his search. You already have everything that matters to you. And yet you ask yourself if it might be worth one life to stand by the elf.

You set off on the return journey and avoid the eyes of suspicious humans. They think nothing good of dwarves and cause nothing but trouble. In the time that has passed, you have grown used to Felbion, but you turn down the offer to learn to ride. That would be overdoing things. You like the horse, but to sit alone on his back is not something you feel inclined to try.

The day of departure comes. At the foot of the mountains, you go your separate ways. You climb down from Felbion for the last time. Nuramon goes down on his knee to look you in the eye, and he lays his hand on your shoulder. You will never in your life forget the words he says: “Thank you, Alwerich. You were a good companion, a true comrade in arms, but the time to part is now.” He looks up at the mountains, then speaks again. “Say thank you to Thorwis and Wengalf for me. And give Solstane a hug in my name. You have told me so much about her that I have come to know her.” To this, you reply, “She will be sorry that you don’t come back with me.” Nuramon nods and says, “Tell her about Noroelle and my search.” Then the elf stands and says, “Farewell
,
my friend.” Nuramon holds out his hand to you and suddenly seems uncertain, as if he fears you might reject his offer. You take his hand and say, “Until we meet again, my friend. Maybe in this life, probably in the next. It may well be that we meet again in the silverlight.”

Nuramon smiles and replies, “We will meet again. Maybe we will even remember past meetings that we have no inkling of.”

The elf does not know how truly he speaks. He never asked me if we had met before in another life, but as we stand there, we know that things that happen are repeated. Friends find a way to one another, even if it takes several lifetimes.

Nuramon mounts Felbion and looks at you one last time with genuine appreciation. Then he rides away, and you stand and watch him go. You think of the oracle. If only you could prepare him for what is waiting for him. But Dareen insisted that you say nothing to him about it.

The elf rides out of sight. You have only a short way to go to get back to Aelburin, and you set off, to put that distance behind you and take Solstane in your arms again.

N
EW
H
ALL OF THE
C
HRONICLES,
V
OLUME
XXI
, PAGE 15
6

The City of Firnstayn

N
uramon looked out across the fjord. It was winter, as it had been when they had set off on the elfhunt. This is where everything began. Up there, at the stone circle, Mandred had battled death. Here was where the Devanthar set his game in motion.

He remembered how strange and foreign this world seemed to him at the start, but he was used to it now. He could estimate distances, and he knew how far it was from where he stood to the mountains. But one thing had not changed: the human world was a raw place. The journey here had proved that. It was a particularly hard winter even for the human realm, and it was as painful for him as it was for Felbion. Sometimes, this world was too coarse for an elf.

Below him, Firnstayn lay beside the frozen fjord. What had been a village had become a city. Of course, humans did not live long, which made it all the more important for them to procreate. Still, it amazed him that a settlement could grow so much in such a short time. He thought of the warnings of the faun oak. Perhaps he had become a victim of time. It was true that he had only traversed a small number of gates, but in Iskendria, he had had a strange feeling.

The city below, with its stone walls, proved that more than a few years had passed here since the last time he had stood at the stone circle on top of the cliff.

“So it’s true,” said someone next to him.

Nuramon drew Gaomee’s sword and spun around. At the edge of the stone circle stood Xern. He wore his massive antlers like a crown. Abashed, Nuramon returned the sword to its sheath.

“You actually came,” Xern said, his large amber-colored eyes glittering.

“But not to go home,” said Nuramon. “Though it is good to see a familiar face.”

“What brings you here?” Xern asked.

“My search is not yet finished. I’m going to wait down there, among the humans, and meet my companions again.”

“That is very likely a mistake, Nuramon. The queen has not forgotten what you did. She doesn’t speak about it anymore, but you should have seen how furious she was when she discovered that the three of you were gone. Few have ever ignored her command as the three of you did.”

“Are you here in her name?”

“No, in my own . . . and because Atta Aikhjarto told me you would come. You know his roots reach far. And Emerelle’s senses are no less far-reaching. She will see you if you stay near here. Even Firnstayn is too close to the gate.”

“I can’t change that. I am here because of the counsel I received from the oracle Dareen. And I trust her word.”

“Dareen. A name from the days of magic. She left Albenmark because the human world is a realm of change.”

“She was right. The city down there is proof.”

Xern stepped to Nuramon’s side, and they looked down at Firnstayn together. “Alfadas’s legacy . . .”

“He’s dead?” Nuramon asked. There was sorrow in his voice. He would gladly have seen Mandred’s son again.

“Yes. He grew up among the Albenkin, but his life was a human’s. He died when his time came.”

“How long has it been since we left Albenmark?”

Xern made an effort to put a number to the flow of the years. In Albenmark, time played a much smaller role than it did for humans or dwarves. Things barely changed in Albenmark, and life was long. What did ten or even a hundred years matter? In Albenmark, practically everything was as it was supposed to be. A dwarf could very likely have given him an answer on the spot.

“Two hundred fifty summers. That was when you disappeared,” Xern finally replied.

Two hundred fifty years. In the past, the number would have meant nothing to him as an elf. And though little had really changed in his own sense of time, he had learned long ago what two hundred fifty years meant for a human. So he was not mistaken. They must have jumped through time again.

Xern went on. “A lot has happened in that time.”

Nuramon recalled that the queen had posted guards at all of the gates. “Well, it seems Emerelle has revoked her ban on leaving Albenmark.” If not, Xern would certainly not have disobeyed the queen’s order just to talk to him.

“Yes, which came as a surprise to all of us. Alfadas forged ties between the elves and the humans in this land of fjords. We fought the trolls side by side.”

“Has there been another troll war?”

Xern indicated the area around them. “This was one of the battlefields. It all happened very fast. Too fast for some of us. The queen said that a time had come in which we would have to accustom ourselves to the new.”

Nuramon had many questions, but one in particular was on his mind. Had he made the jump in time with his companions, or without them? If they were already victims of time when they entered Iskendria, then Farodin and Mandred would be in the same situation he was in. But if he had jumped forward when he journeyed with Alwerich to the oracle, then Mandred might be long dead. And it would mean a bitter homecoming for Alwerich. “Have you heard anything about Farodin? Or Noroelle?”

“No. Nothing about either of them. In this, at least, nothing has changed. No one talks much about you or your companions these days. There are other stories now,” Xern said as his gaze drifted into the distance. “We have an era of heroes behind us. Among the humans, they became legends long ago. Among us, they are alive and have earned their recognition. Or they have been reborn. Great names. Zelvades, Ollowain, Jidens, Mijuun, and Obilee.”

“Obilee. Did she fight in the war?”

“Yes. And she would have made her ancestors proud.”

Nuramon imagined Obilee being admired by all around her, stepping before the queen as a warrior sorceress. She had already grown into a young woman when they returned from hunting the Devanthar. Since then, she must surely have become the elf woman that Noroelle had always seen in her. He had missed so much. Stories of the troll war would be told for a long time, as people spoke about the war that Farodin had once fought in.

“You would like to see Obilee again, wouldn’t you?”

“It seems my face is still easy to read,” Nuramon replied, smiling.

“Obilee is said to be in Olvedes. I could take a message to her. She has not forgotten Noroelle. No doubt she has not forgotten you, either.”

“No. It would only open old wounds.”
And she might even insist on joining him on his search.
The thought might have been selfish, but it eased Nuramon’s mind to know that the girl who had been Noroelle’s confidante was now someone of importance in Albenmark. His beloved would be proud of her ward.

Xern tilted his head and shrugged. “As you like. I will tell no one besides Atta Aikhjarto that I met you.”

“Thank you, Xern.”

“I hope you find Noroelle,” he said. With that, Xern moved inside the stone circle and vanished into the thin mist.

Nuramon looked back down at the city below. On the way here, he had kept watch for the place that Dareen had shown him. He had even taken a detour. Considering the trees he had seen, the gate they were searching for had to be in the cold north, by the sea or at a lake high in the mountains. That was all that he could say with certainty.

The oracle had been right. He would need the help of his companions. With his knowledge and Farodin’s seeking spell, they would be able to trace the location together. Maybe Mandred and Farodin were waiting down below in Firnstayn for him. It was possible that fate would already reunite them down there.

Nuramon took hold of Felbion’s reins and set off down the cliff path. At the bottom of the descent, he mounted the horse and rode toward the city. His mind wandered back to the elfhunt. Even though, for him, it had happened just a few years earlier, he had the feeling it had happened in another life. Aigilaos’s death, the battle with the Devanthar, and the terrible return to Albenmark . . . it all seemed so long ago, as if he had spent an eternity searching for Noroelle.

Nuramon rode up to the city gate. The watchmen must have seen him coming from far off, but the gate stood open, and Nuramon was able to enter without a guard asking him about his origin or what business he had there. Instead, Nuramon announced in Fjordlandish that an elf had come. Although—as Xern had said—the Albenkin and the humans here now had a closer bond, it still seemed to be a special event to have an elf come to Firnstayn.

Nuramon sat on Felbion’s back and rode the horse at a walk between the rows of houses, accompanied all the way by children and by friendly faces at windows and pleasant greetings. He had no idea what the people of Firnstayn saw when they looked at him. They probably looked at him as a hero of the troll wars. That did not please him, for he had done nothing to merit that honor. He dismounted, not wanting to put on unwarranted airs.

Nuramon tried to orient himself, but nothing was as he remembered it to be. Finally, he came to an open square above which rose a stone longhouse. This might well be the seat of the new jarl. A wide stairway flanked by statues of lions led up to the building at the top. The people gathered around Nuramon but kept a respectful distance. No one dared come too close to him. He thought of his departure from the dwarves. What a change that was in his life, to be met or farewelled with respect wherever he went.

A human soldier came hesitantly down the steps toward him. He was a big, powerful man with a broadsword at his belt. “Are you here to speak to the king?” he asked.

Nuramon did not answer immediately. In the past, they had called their leader
jarl
. Was that also part of Alfadas’s legacy? What would Mandred say to discover that there was a king in Firnstayn now? “I am looking for Mandred Torgridson,” said Nuramon.

A whisper ran through the crowd, followed by a deathly silence. He had spoken a name that they must only have known from legend . . . which made the soldier’s answer all the more surprising. “Mandred was here. And there was an elf named Farodin with him. But they left again long ago.”

Suddenly, the crowd parted to let a human through, recognizable as their leader by the magnificent plate armor he wore. The armor was not the work of men but had been made by the blacksmiths of Albenmark. Perhaps it was a gift from Emerelle, or it may even have belonged to Alfadas. Now it was worn by a gray-haired man. He strode toward Nuramon and planted himself in front of the elf. He, too, was a giant of a man, and he wore a sword at his belt that seemed too narrow for the people of these parts. “I am Njauldred Bladebreaker, king of the Fjordlands,” he said and nodded. The man radiated a menacing strength, leaving Nuramon in no doubt that the wrath of Njauldred, once loosed, knew no bounds.

“Hail, Njauldred,” said Nuramon, surprised that the king wore no crown, which was unusual among humans. It also seemed strange that the Fjordlands were ruled at all from Firnstayn. Was that also something that could be traced back to Alfadas?

“You are looking for Mandred?” Njauldred asked.

“I am. I hope you are able to tell me where I can find him,” Nuramon said in a friendly tone.

“It depends who is looking for him,” said the big man, crossing his arms over his chest. “He happens to be my ancestor.”

Nuramon could detect a certain likeness between Njauldred and Mandred. The king’s eyes, especially, were like Mandred’s, but this man was much older. Nuramon was still not very good at estimating the age of humans, but he believed that Njauldred was past fifty because his hair was gray. Most of the lines of his face were half hidden behind his beard. Only around his eyes and on his forehead were they fully visible.

“My name is Nuramon, and I—”

Njauldred did not let him finish. “Are you Mandred’s companion in arms? Do they call you Nuredred, the elven prince?”

Nuramon was surprised. It seemed the humans had embellished Mandred’s history somewhat. “I am Mandred’s companion in arms. That much is true. But as for the rest of it, I fear you see more in me than I really am.”

Njauldred shook his head. “Modesty is the virtue of heroes.”

Nuramon looked into the faces of the people gathered around. They were staring at him as if witnessing the return of the Alben themselves. As he looked around, he noticed something. He was standing near the lion statue on the left at the foot of the stairway. On its shoulder was an inscription.

“A wonderful piece of work, isn’t it?” said Njauldred.

“Definitely” was all that Nuramon thought of to say. His eyes were fixed on the artfully flowing elven runes of the inscription. They read, “Forgive me, and wait for us if you can. Farodin.”

“Alfadas had the lions put here in memory of Mandred, the ancestor of all of the kings of Firnstayn.” Njauldred’s expression darkened. “Someone scratched these symbols in it some years ago. Whoever it was certainly didn’t come from Firnstayn. No one from around here would desecrate a memorial to Mandred Torgridson that way.”

Nuramon stroked the palm of his hand over the inscription. “I think they’re beautiful. Perfectly executed, and the words praise the hero Mandred. It seems to be the work of an elf.”

Njauldred looked surprised. “Really?”

Nuramon affirmed his opinion. And as he looked into the king’s good-natured face, he reprimanded himself for deceiving him about the words’ true meaning. It was time to change the subject. “King Njauldred, I have a question. Did Mandred say where he wanted to go?”

The king’s eyes grew more serious. “When they arrived here, they discovered that we were caring for a dying elf woman. She had spent many years in the Nightcrags, one of the trolls’ fortresses. They say it lies far to the north of here. Not since the days of King Alfadas has any human dared to go anywhere near it. But Faredred, the elf who is Mandred’s friend, was bent on sailing to the Nightcrags to free the other elves who were held captive there. It has been more than three years since they set sail. No one has heard from them since.”

Nuramon nodded gravely. Two men against a fortress full of trolls . . . that was just like them. “With your permission, King, I will remain here in Firnstayn and wait for the return of Mandred and his elven friend.”

“Do you think they will both come back after all this time?”

“I don’t think it. I know it,” Nuramon replied with a determination that surprised even himself. Their mutual search for Noroelle could not end like this.