The Elven (52 page)

The king’s face lit up. “There is still hope that Mandred will return to us,” he called to the gathered crowd, now quite huge and filling the square. “And the renowned Nuredred will stay in Firnstayn as our guest. An honor indeed.”

“My name is Nuramon. Nuredred is what you have turned me into,” said the elf in a low voice.

“You know the history of our ancestor,” the king said. “You were there. You were really there in the cave, weren’t you? And you can tell the skalds the truth. You can tell them what it was really like, so that the people can speak truly about what happened. You can do that, can’t you?”

“I can, and I will. Gladly.” Of course, he wouldn’t tell them the whole truth. He had promised Mandred that he would not tell a soul that they had held each other’s hand. The humans here saw in Mandred far more than the man Nuramon knew. They would certainly be disappointed if they discovered the truth. So he decided to relate everything about himself and Farodin exactly as it was, but when it came to Mandred, he would make sure his name became immortal. The people of Firnstayn would erect many more memorials for Torgrid’s son.

“Come,” said Njauldred, with a friendly clap on Nuramon’s shoulder. Then he pointed ahead. “Back there, where his old house once stood, there’s a new one that is forever Mandred’s. That is where you shall live. This will be a celebration. Your comrade, Faredred—”

“Excuse me, but his name is Farodin,” Nuramon objected.

“In any case, the lad certainly drank his share.” He slapped Nuramon on the back again. “We’ll see what you can manage.”

The humans could hardly offer him a bigger feast than what he had experienced among the dwarves, but he was open to surprises. He had to learn to live with the people here. Who knew how long Mandred and Farodin would be away? Maybe months, maybe a year. Maybe longer. He would wait and prepare for the day when he could continue the search together with his companions. The humans might even be able to help him. In the harbor, he had seen two ships that reminded him vaguely of elven ships. Perhaps one of the sailors here knew the island he had seen in the oracle’s cave. He would paint it, then show it to the humans.

Families of Firnstayn:

Nuramon the Elf

I
n those days, when Father Soreis began
The
Chronicle of Firnstayn
at the behest of Mandred Torgridson, Nuramon the elf came to Firnstayn. He said that he would wait for Mandred’s return.

I was still a child then. Now my life is approaching its end. And I can say with pride that I lived during the time that an elf dwelled among us. I was there when Nuramon came to us. I ran along beside his horse and followed him to the main square. And I was there when he rode away again at the side of Mandred and the elf Farodin.

Nuramon was a blessing on our city, and I look back on those days with a great deal of pleasure. I remember how, during his first spring with us, he won the contest of the skalds. Never before and never since have such legends, such songs, such verse been heard. With his melancholic words about his lost love, he won over the women. That angered the men, and the day ended with a brawl. The elf walked away from it without a scratch. Oh, how many times did Njauldred try to get elven blood into his royal line. But Nuramon was so true to his lost love that he turned away every woman, however beautiful she might be. But the elf was more than a skald. In one year, he practiced bow shooting and perfected the art. Never before had human eyes had an occasion to watch an elf progress from novice to master of an art. He carved statues and painted canvases of great beauty. He took two years and did nothing but come to the Temple of Luth to talk first to Father Soreis and later to me about destiny. He seemed to be a man of the spirit and of art, which led to not a little trouble, for the youth of Firnstayn took Nuramon as their ideal. And soon enough, many of them wanted to give up the sword and the axe and take up the lute instead. Some went so far as to complain that the elf represented a danger to the young men and—with them—the future of Firnstayn. When Njauldred called Nuramon before him and set out these accusations, Nuramon said he would train a handful of our young men to fight and remind them of Mandred’s virtues. He called his young warriors the Mandridians, the sons of Mandred. He taught them to fight with a sword, a bow, and also a battle-axe. It was true that he himself was rarely seen with an axe, but he showed the young men what he had seen Mandred do.

Because Mandred and Farodin had left their horses behind, Nuramon took over their care. He said that Mandred had always dreamed that his mare would be the start of a dynasty of great horses. The noblest stallions the North had to offer were brought to her, while Nuramon’s and Farodin’s steeds covered our most magnificent mares. This was the start of the Firnstayner horses.

In the nineteenth year of the reign of Njauldred, Nuramon and his small troop of fighters fought at the side of the king against the soldiers of the city of Therse. Nuramon rampaged through the enemy like a berserker and afterward served the king as his most prominent adviser. Every one of his fighters survived the battle.

Nuramon trained young Tegrod, the son of Njauldred. He not only taught him what he had already taught his Mandridians, but also showed him how he himself could teach others. And Tegrod’s skills spoke for themselves.

In his gratitude, old Njauldred gave Nuramon a ship as a gift, which Nuramon christened with the unlikely name of
Albenstar
. But he never took the ship out onto the fjord. He took care of it and stood beside it to look out to sea. He swayed from moods of happiness to moods of great dejection, and this was what characterized him more than anything else. Once each month, he spent a full day at Freya’s oak and paid tribute to Mandred’s wife, although he admitted to me on a winter evening that he had never personally met her. And once a month, too, he climbed to the stone circle. People said he met others of the Albenfolk up there. Once, he accompanied me into the mountains, to the Cave of Luth. He made sacrifice to the ironmen, as was customary, and when we were inside the cave, which since the days of Alfadas had again been consecrated, he told me what had once taken place in there.

And then—one day—he left. And his departure came as a surprise even for Nuramon
.

A
S
R
ECORDED BY
L
URETHOR
H
JEMISON

V
OLUME
T
WELVE OF THE
T
EMPLE
L
IBRARY OF
L
UTH IN
F
IRNSTAYN, PAGES 53 TO 55

Old Companions

N
uramon woke with a start from his midday nap. From out in the street came the sounds of shouting. Nuramon rose and dressed. He was still buttoning his shirt when the door flew open. It was Neltor, the young king of Firnstayn.

“My king? How can I be of service to you?” asked Nuramon. He had once trained the young ruler in the name of his father, and the young man still looked at him as a kind of mentor. In his looks, he did not take after his father, who had borne a strong resemblance to Mandred. Neltor was closer to Alfadas. “Is it another feud?”

“No. Imagine it.” His eyes shone. “As we speak, my ancestor is sailing up the fjord. How should I receive him?”

“Mandred? Mandred Torgridson?”

“The same.”

“By the Alben,” said Nuramon, and he sighed with relief. It almost felt as if the air he exhaled was the breath of the past forty-seven years. Finally, his companions had returned. Although he had found plenty to keep him occupied in Firnstayn, he had often found himself worrying about his companions—and often enough, he had been tempted to take up his search for Noroelle alone. “Is there an elf with him?”

“Yes.”

Nuramon smiled at the king. “You asked me how you should receive Mandred. As your trusted adviser, I say to you, you are already wearing the right armor.” It was the armor of Alfadas. “If you now arm yourself with your best axe and stand by the lion statues on the steps of your hall, then you will sufficiently impress Mandred.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“Neltor, call me your friend, call me your confidant, but please don’t call me Master anymore.”

The young man grinned and left.

Nuramon had to hurry. He stepped out into the street and headed toward the city gate. How would Mandred look now? He might well be an old man.

Suddenly, Voagad, another of his students, was at Nuramon’s side. Wide-eyed, he said, “Mandred Torgridson. This will be a celebration.”

“As usual, all you think about is drinking . . . which is good. Mandred will appreciate it. Go and round up the Mandridians. They should assemble at the Temple of Luth. Under no circumstances are they to come to the square before I give them a sign.”

Voagad was gone again. Nuramon watched as he ran off. Over the years, Mandred had become more than the ancestor of Firnstayn’s kings. He had become the forefather of Firnstayn itself, and Nuramon had done more than a little to bring about the transformation. He had painted Mandred in a light that now shone far beyond Firnstayn, spreading across the entire Fjordlands.

Nuramon had not told the people of Firnstayn the whole story, just as he had not mentioned that the Devanthar was still alive. Nuramon had thought of the demon often during his years in Firnstayn. Had it found fresh fields in which to sow its misfortune? Or was it lurking somewhere, waiting for the moment to face him and his companions again? He did not know. He often wondered why fate had been so hard on them, and whether the Devanthar hadn’t sometimes had a hand in things.

Jubilation rolled through the city. So Mandred was already here. A crush of people was pushing slowly along the street. Fifty years earlier, there would have been far fewer. Firnstayn’s growth seemed unstoppable. In another fifty years, Mandred wouldn’t even be able to move, so many people would be thronging the streets.

Nuramon waited it out. Somewhere there ahead of him, among the Firnstayners, were his companions. A gap opened up through the crowd.

There they were. Mandred and Farodin. They looked exactly as they did in his memory. He was happy that Mandred had not aged. His companions caught sight of him. The people all around held their breath. It seemed everyone wanted to see how Nuramon the elf finally reunited with his companion in arms Mandred.

“Nuramon, you old blowhard,” Mandred shouted as he stormed up the road toward him.

Farodin said nothing, but his face showed his relief.

Mandred threw his arms around the elf and squeezed so hard that Nuramon could hardly breathe. In the years with Njauldred, he had learned to accept such well-meant indelicacies.

Nuramon looked down at the jarl. “I was starting to think I’d never see you again.”

Mandred grinned broadly. “We had to boot a few trolls in the ass.”

“And it seems we rather lost track of time,” Farodin added, causing astonished looks on the faces of many around them. Nuramon understood that they had become victims of time when they passed through an Albenstar.

While Mandred luxuriated in the crowd of well-wishers, Farodin and Nuramon went ahead. Farodin told him about the trolls, about Yilvina’s death, and how they freed the other elves who were being held prisoner.

Nuramon took the news about Yilvina hard. She had been a good companion during the search for Guillaume. And it was only because of her that they had made it out of Albenmark in the first place. If she hadn’t let them knock her unconscious, then it was possible that they never would have found a way to leave and start their search for Noroelle.

“How long have you been waiting?” Farodin asked, dragging him back from his memories.

“Forty-seven years,” Nuramon replied.

Mandred’s laughter reached them from behind. “Then you’ve lived here longer than I ever did. So are you a real Firnstayner now?”

Nuramon turned around. “Maybe. But it might also be that the Firnstayners have turned into real elves.”

Mandred laughed even louder, and the people with him. “What’s the name of the king these days?”

“His name is Neltor Tegrodson. You met his grandfather, Njauldred.”

Mandred pushed through to Nuramon and asked quietly, “Is he any good?”

“He’s a wise leader and—”

“I mean, is he a good fighter, a true—”

“I know what you mean . . . yes, he’s a good fighter. He’s an outstanding archer.” He saw Mandred frown. “Impressive with the long sword, but even more so with the short sword.” Displeasure deepened in the human’s expression. “But unrivaled with the axe.”

Mandred’s face transformed instantly. He practically lit up. “Then the best weapon won through after all,” he said with pride.

“Come on. I’ll introduce you to your descendant,” said Nuramon, pointing ahead. “And later I’ll show you your mare and
her
descendants.”

“Mare? Descendants? Did you . . .”

“Just as you are the forefather of the kings, your mare is the foremother of the Firnstayner horses.”

Mandred grinned proudly. “Nuramon, I’m in your debt.”

When they reached the main square, it was clear how much had changed in the city. All of the roads were paved, the houses made of hewed stone, but the Temple of Luth was what really caught the eye. People from across the entire kingdom had spent thirty years building it. The square was practically empty of people, although the residents of the city jostled shoulder to shoulder in the side streets and at the windows of the buildings.
Neltor did a good job with that
, thought Nuramon. This way, Mandred could meet the king and his retinue freely.

“Is that him?” asked Mandred, looking over to where Neltor stood.

“Yes. Come and meet him.” The three crossed the square side by side and stood before Neltor.

“Welcome, Mandred Torgridson. I am Neltor Tegrodson, your descendant.” He bowed. “Stay with us, and be safe in the knowledge that for us, you will always be Jarl Mandred.” The insecurity that Neltor felt now that he was faced with his famous forebear was clear to see. He had trouble holding Mandred’s eye, and his hands shook a little.

It seemed to make no difference to Mandred. He was moved by the reception, and spoke little while Neltor searched for the friendliest words he could find to express his esteem for Mandred and what he meant to him and to their city.

When Neltor spoke of Nuramon’s service to himself, his father, and his grandfather, the elf gave a signal, and from the side street beside the Temple of Luth, the Mandridians marched into the square.

“Mandred, there are some Firnstayners I think you ought to meet.” Nuramon pointed to the two dozen assembled soldiers. They wore light leather armor, and each was armed with a short sword and an axe. Some also carried a bow and a quiver, while still others had strapped a round shield to their backs. “These are the men I have trained,” he said. “The Mandridians.”

Mandred looked at the troop in astonishment. “By Norgrimm, I’ve never seen such determined faces. I’d campaign with these men tomorrow.”

“I’ve taught them everything I know,” Nuramon said, proud that he had trained all of them to handle the axe well. He remembered everything that Mandred had taught his son, Alfadas, spicing it a little with what Alwerich had shown him. “They’ve proved themselves in battle many times over the years.”

“With these men at our side, we would have brought back the troll prince’s liver for the city dogs,” Mandred muttered grimly.

Nuramon exchanged a look with Farodin. Barely perceptibly, Farodin shook his head.

“Mandred, you would honor me to join me in my hall for beer and mead,” said Neltor then.

“An offer that Mandred could never refuse. But the men there,” he said, pointing to the Mandridians, “they are coming, too.” He turned to Farodin and Nuramon. “What about you?”

“I’d say that’s a matter for the jarl to take up with his descendants,” Farodin replied.

Mandred said nothing, but let himself be led away by his family. They seemed to be talking to him from all sides at once. The people at the edge of the square and in the side streets followed the royal train.

“He’s enjoying this almost too much,” said Farodin.

“He’ll be able to feed off it for a while on our way to Noroelle’s gate.”

Farodin looked at him in disbelief. “Have you found it?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“What does it look like?” Nuramon had never seen Farodin so curious.

“Come with me to Mandred’s house.”

Farodin followed him. He seemed on edge, as if he had run out of patience, for which Nuramon could hardly blame him. Still, he himself had waited nearly fifty years here for Farodin and Mandred, although he would much rather have gone in search of the place he had seen in Dareen’s star grotto.

When they reached Mandred’s house, Farodin looked around in surprise. Nuramon had changed a few things over the years. He had become something of a headache to the craftsmen of Firnstayn. Cupboards, tables, and chairs had to be made not only to accord with Mandred’s tastes but also with those of an elf. At the same time, the weapons, the chests, and the shields on the walls had to remind a visitor that this was the house of a warrior. Nuramon was particularly proud of the large battle-axe. The smith had forged it to his specifications and had done the same with another axe modeled after Alwerich’s.

“Mandred will like this. It’s plain, as a warrior’s house should be. And this painting . . .” He stepped before a portrait of Alfadas. “Did you paint it?”

“Yes.”

“You surprise me.”

“Then you should see this one,” said Nuramon. He stepped over to a covered painting standing on an easel. Then he removed the cloth covering the painting, one he had been working on for thirty years. It showed the landscape he had seen in the oracle’s cave.

Farodin took a step back to look at the painting better. His eyes traversed the large picture: the water, the island, the mainland behind it with its forests, and, behind them, the range of peaks.

“When I left Iskendria, it took me some time to find the gate to the oracle,” Nuramon said. While Farodin scrutinized the painting down to the finest detail, Nuramon told him about the puzzling entrance, about the children of the Darkalben, and the image he had seen in the star cave. “Dareen told me I should reunite with you and Mandred. I was supposed to wait here for your return. You have no idea how many times I was tempted to go out and find this place, but Dareen’s words and your inscription on the statue held me back.”

Farodin touched the painting. “Is this yalpaint?”

“Yes. I made it myself. The people here know nothing about the pigments from Yaldemee.”

Farodin looked at him with respect. “It’s a masterpiece.”

“The days can be very long. And you should see my early attempts. But this, now, is what I saw. Dareen said something else . . .” He fell silent and thought of the oracle and her appearance.

“What was it?”

“She said that there are two ways to break the enchantment that seals Noroelle’s gate. With the help of the hourglass or of an Albenstone. I’ve thought about it a lot and wonder whether we need the actual hourglass and not just the sand.”

“Let’s find this landscape first. The depiction is wonderful. Which part of the world does it show?”

“On my way here, I tried to find it. And I’ve asked seafarers if they know it. All without success. You don’t know how happy I am that you are here.”

“This picture will help us. With the grains of sand, we should be able to find this island.” Farodin stepped up very close to the picture. “I can’t tell if this is a lake or the sea.”

Nuramon had spent years pondering the coastal landscape in the image. “It is the sea. I’ve spent a long time looking at the waves. They are ocean waves.” He ran one finger over the painting. “This mountain range could be useful. It is certainly a big range, but not so high that there is snow on the peaks.”

“It could be a fjord. Is it close to here, perhaps?”

“No. Mountains as bright as these don’t exist here. I’ve asked every seafarer, every wayfarer, everyone who knows this part of the world. And on my way here, I kept a lookout for these mountains. They are not in the Fjordlands.”

Farodin stepped back again and looked at the picture in its entirety. “By the Alben. I did you an injustice in Iskendria. This painting. I feel myself drawn to search for this place.”

“We did each other an injustice. But we had to go our separate ways so that we could both move ahead . . . along our path to Noroelle. I think the faun oak sent us through that gate and into the desert on purpose. Perhaps it had some inkling of what lay in the future. I’ve thought about it often, and not a day has passed when I haven’t wondered why the queen did not simply send out a troop to take me back.”