The Elven (55 page)

Farodin smiled. “In other words, you want to travel like the Alben.”

“That is exactly what the faun oak was suggesting,” said Nuramon.

“What do you say to that, Mandred?”

The jarl grinned broadly. “You’re asking me if I want to travel for moments instead of months? How else could I possibly answer? By Luth, yes!”

Farodin nodded. “Then let us return to Firnstayn, and from there, we travel in the footsteps of the Alben.”

The Chronicle of Firnstayn

O
n the fifth day of the fourth moon in the third year of the reign of King Neltor, the
Albenstar
returned to Firnstayn. Mandred, Nuramon, Farodin, and the Mandridians, all of them came back safe and sound. It was a day of rejoicing, and the people celebrated their homecoming with a great feast. Tharhild brought her son and presented him to Mandred, and the jarl acknowledged the child as his. King Neltor even offered to hand over his crown to Mandred if his ancestor so wished. But the jarl declined the king’s offer, saying that the kingdom needed a steadier ruler than he would be, one who could be there to take care of things. Mandred’s fate, though, was to wander restlessly and to spend time in Firnstayn only rarely. As he held the child in his arms, there was a sadness in his eyes, as if he knew he would never see his boy again. After that, he avoided the child.

Mandred and his companions stayed ten days more, preparing themselves for another important journey. But the Mandridians who had accompanied the three companions told of the land far to the east and spoke about the magic of the two elves, and Mandred’s wisdom. It had not been a voyage into battle, but one of magic.

When Mandred, Nuramon, and Farodin set sail, we thought it likely that we would never again see the return of the jarl in our lifetime. In the days that followed, a gloom settled over Firnstayn. The king assured us that Mandred would always be there if we were faced with grave danger. Ever since that day, we have been waiting for the return of the mighty jarl of Firnstayn. There are some who fear the day, for when he returns, a time of adversity will be upon us.

A
S
R
ECORDED BY
L
URETHOR
H
JEMISON

V
OLUME
S
EVENTEEN OF THE
T
EMPLE
L
IBRARY OF
L
UTH IN
F
IRNSTAYN, PAGE 89

New Paths

F
arodin stroked his stallion’s neck soothingly. The animal was as unsettled as he was. He peered into the darkness suspiciously. Nuramon had told Mandred and him exactly what to expect, but Farodin had not counted on it tearing at his nerves like this.

The silence was eerie. He had the unrelenting feeling that there was something lurking out there. But what could survive in nothingness?

With great care, he followed the narrow path of pulsing light that stretched through the endless darkness, making sure he did not stray from it. It was impossible to say what was waiting for him outside the path. Was it like a narrow bridge that spanned an abyss?

After a few steps, they reached a point where four paths of light intersected. An Albenstar. Nuramon, who led the way, stopped for a moment. Then he changed to a reddish light path and waved to them to follow him.

Farodin and Mandred looked at each other uneasily. There was no way at all to orient oneself here. You had to know the latticework of glowing paths, or you were hopelessly lost.

Again, they took no more than a few steps. In the human world, it might have been hundreds of miles. At the next Albenstar, six paths crossed. A seventh sliced vertically through the hub of the others. Suddenly, Nuramon seemed to tense.

Farodin looked around. Thin wisps of fog curled in the darkness. Was that a sound? A scraping noise, as of claws? Nonsense.

Just then, an arch of light rose in front of them. Nuramon led his horse through it. Farodin nodded to Mandred to go ahead. After the jarl disappeared, the elven warrior also left the sinister paths that connected the worlds.

They found themselves in a wide vaulted cellar. The floor was a colorful mosaic depicting a rising sun, with seven cranes flying away from the sun in different directions. On the walls around them were pictures of a banquet, with centaurs, fauns, elves, dwarves, and other Albenkin. But the faces in the pictures were scratched out or smeared with soot. On each wall, a black tree had been painted. Magical symbols in dark colors were smeared on the mosaic floor. Burned-out candles had left flat puddles of wax.

Farodin’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword. He knew this place. The vault lay beneath the villa of Sem-la, the elf woman disguised as a trader’s widow, who watched over the one major Albenstar that led from Iskendria to the library of the Albenkin.

“What’s going on?” asked Farodin. “Why didn’t you take us directly to the library? We could have stabled the horses in the centaurs’ quarters.”

Nuramon seemed unsettled. “The gate. It was different. There’s a—” He hesitated for a moment. “There’s a barrier.”

Farodin let out a flat sigh. “A barrier? Tell me that’s not true. You have to be making a joke.”

“No. But the defensive magic here is not like what we found on Noroelle’s island. It . . .” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s different.”

Mandred grunted. “A few things have changed here.” He pointed to the symbols on the floor. “Looks like some foul kind of witchery. What’s happened?”

“None of our business,” replied Farodin harshly. “Can you open the gate, Nuramon?”

“I think—”

A ringing noise came from outside.

Before Farodin could stop him, Mandred had drawn his axe and, in three long strides, was on his way up the ramp that led out of the vault.

“Damned hothead,” Farodin cursed and turned to Nuramon. “Stay here. Open the gate. I’ll bring him back.”

Farodin ran up the ramp after Mandred, passed through several small basement rooms, and heard a piercing scream.

He found Mandred in the larder. He’d hauled a man out of a corner, a cringing, gaunt man with dark stubble of a beard. On the floor stood a flickering oil lamp. All around lay thick shards of broken amphorae. Beside the oil lamp stood a small bowl that held a few lentils. The man whimpered and tried to twist free of Mandred’s grasp, but he was helpless in the Northman’s grip.

“A looter,” Mandred declared, his voice thick with disdain. “He was stealing from Sem-la. I nabbed him as he was about to smash one of the amphorae.”

“Please, don’t kill me,” Mandred’s prisoner pleaded in Valethish, the language spoken along the coast from Iskendria as far as Terakis. “My children are starving to death. I don’t want any of it for myself.”

“Sniveling for mercy, is he?” asked Mandred, who obviously did not understand a word.

“Look at him,” Farodin shot back. “Look how hollow his cheeks are. His legs are as thin as spindles. He’s talking about his starving children.”

Mandred quietly cleared his throat and avoided the elf’s chastening gaze. Then he let go of the man.

“What’s going on in the city?” asked Farodin.

The man looked at them in surprise but dared not ask why they were so uninformed. “The white priests want to destroy Balbar. They’ve had the city under siege for more than three years. They came from across the sea to kill our god. The west gate fell three months ago, and they’ve been advancing street by street ever since. But the temple guards keep driving back the disciples of Tjured with Balbar’s holy fire.”

“Tjured?” Farodin asked in surprise.

“A miserable bastard,” the gaunt man replied. “His priests say there is only one god. And they claim that we do business with demons. They’re raving mad. They’re so mad they refuse to accept that there’s no way for them to win.”

“You said they’ve already taken over parts of the city,” Farodin replied soberly.

“Parts,” the gaunt man said, waving his hand dismissively. “No one can conquer Iskendria completely. Balbar’s fire has already burned their fleet to the waterline twice. They’re dying by the thousands.” Without warning, the man began to sob. “Since they took the harbor, no supplies have been getting through at all. There aren’t even any rats left that you could eat. If only these damned knight clerics would see that they can’t win Iskendria. Balbar is too strong. We sacrifice to him ten times a day now. He will make our enemies drown in their own blood.”

Farodin thought of the girl they had seen burn on the palms of the god statue’s hands. Ten children every day? What kind of city was this? He personally would waste no pity on Iskendria if it fell.

“Are you friends of Mistress Al-beles?” The human looked over at the amphorae that were used for storage. “I did it for my children. There’s always a few lentils or beans left in the big amphorae. You never empty them completely.” He lowered his eyes. “Unless you smash them open.”

Farodin had heard that several times in the past, Sem-la had slipped into another role, claiming to be her own niece to keep her trading house going. As an elf woman who never aged, she was forced into such deceptions every twenty years or so. Farodin did not doubt that Al-beles was the same woman he had come to know as Sem-la.

“What happened down there, in the vaulted cellar?” Farodin asked.

“When they occupied this quarter, monks came here. I think they went down to the cellar as well. It was said that they were searching for demons.” The man lowered his voice. “They search for demons everywhere. They’re mad.”

“Let’s go, Mandred,” said Farodin in Fjordlandish. “We have to know if there is any danger of being disturbed or if Nuramon can work his magic in peace.”

“I’m sorry about his children,” Mandred said sheepishly. He pulled off one of his wide silver armbands and gave it to the man. “I was too hasty.”

Farodin felt no sympathy for the looter. Today, he was doing what he did for the sake of his children, but he suspected the man would feel honored tomorrow if the priesthood came and demanded one of his daughters to be publicly burned.

The elf moved quickly up the stairs and stepped out into the villa’s wide courtyard. Overhead stretched a night sky as red as blood. The air was filled with choking smoke. Mandred joined him, and they crossed through the main hall and raced to the terrace at the rear of the building. The villa had been built atop a low hill, affording them a good view over the city.

“By the gods,” Mandred cried. “What a fire.”

The entire harbor stood in flames. The water itself seemed to be on fire. All around it, the warehouses had collapsed, and the massive wooden cranes had vanished. Farther west, glowing white balls of fire plummeted from the heavens onto one of the city’s inner quarters. Farodin saw white-robed warriors, masses of them, surging through the narrow streets, all trying desperately to escape the rain of fire.

“Rotten flesh has to be burned out,” said a voice from behind them. It was the looter. The lank figure stepped out onto the terrace. His eyes shone frenetically. “The temple guards are burning the quarters of the city that have been lost.” He laughed. “Iskendria cannot be conquered. The white priests will die to the last man.” He pointed down to the harbor below. “Their fleet’s been frying for two days already. The temple guards fed Balbar’s fire into the harbor through the canals, then set it alight. All these priests will burn, just like their precious . . .” He broke off and pointed to the lane that led up the hill. “They’re coming back.” A group of soldiers in white tabards were escorting a number of monks in night-blue robes. Singing solemnly, they were heading directly for the villa.

“You were good to me,” said the man frantically. “So I’m telling you to disappear, fast. You look a little unusual . . . and those down there, they kill anyone who looks unusual.”

“What’s he saying?” Mandred asked.

“That we shouldn’t rely too much on the hospitality of the city. Come on, we should get back to Nuramon.”

The jarl ran his hand over the blade of his axe. “Those few men down there don’t frighten you, do they?”

“If two armies, both of them obviously taking orders from madmen, start tanning each other’s hides, then I would do everything I possibly could not to stand in their way. We have no stake in their war. Let’s get out of here.”

Mandred grumbled something unintelligible, and they left the terrace. Nuramon was already waiting for them in the vaulted cellar. A golden arch of light rose in the middle of the mosaic. The elf grinned. “Breaking through the barrier was not difficult. The defensive spell had an unusual structure, as if it had not been created to keep Albenkin out.”

Farodin reached for the reins of his stallion and took no further notice of his companion’s explanations.

Nuramon’s smile vanished. “Something the matter?”

“We can’t waste any time getting out of here.” Resolute, Farodin stepped through the arch. For the space of a heartbeat, he was blinded. Then he found himself looking straight into a cocked crossbow.

“Don’t shoot!” a raw voice rang out. “They’re elves!”

“Liuvar,” shouted someone else.

Farodin had instinctively ducked, reaching for his sword. The Albenstar was circled by an odd conglomeration of sentries: two red-cowled keepers of knowledge with swords drawn, several gnomes armed with crossbows, and a white centaur whom Farodin immediately recognized as Chiron. The stone gallabaal was also among the strange assembly.

Nuramon and Mandred came through the gate, leading their horses.

The gallabaal took a crunching step toward the human. One of the gnomes took aim with his crossbow at Mandred’s broad chest.

“Liuvar! Peace!” the centaur shouted. “I know these three. The human is a puffed-up good-for-nothing, but they’re not our enemies.”

“What is going on?” Nuramon asked.

“I suspect you can answer that better than we can,” replied Chiron condescendingly. “What is going on in the human world?”

Farodin reported on their encounter with the looter and the burning city. When he finished, the assembled guard looked at each other with confusion.

Chiron cleared his throat. “You must have jumped in time when you passed through the gate. Iskendria has been no more than a ruined wasteland for more than a hundred years.” He stopped for a moment to give the three newcomers a chance to let the news settle. Then he went on with his explanation. “The Tjured monks have still not given up trying to break through the barrier to the library. They have control over the Albenstar. They have even built one of their temple towers there. Like that, they prevent the Albenkin from reaching us from there. You are the first to make it through in years.” He bowed in formal welcome. “I greet you in the name of the keepers of knowledge.”

“Are they really a serious threat?” asked Nuramon.

Chiron’s tail twitched restlessly. “Yes, they are. They are driven by blind hatred of any of the Albenkin. The question is not
if
they will get through to our refuge here in the Shattered World, but
when
. No one here has any illusions about the danger. All of our visitors and most of those who used to help us have left.” His voice was sharp with bitterness. Then he spread his arms in a pathetic gesture. “This dying library is at your disposal. Yours, too, human. We welcome you.”