The Elven (59 page)

The Face of the Enemy

N
uramon cried out and vanished into the darkness. Before Farodin could jump back, the path under his feet tore open in spirals of spinning lights. He had the sensation of falling. The horses whinnied in panic. Yulivee shrieked. Suddenly, the darkness was swept aside like a curtain opening onto a new scene.

Farodin was standing in a high room. His companions were gathered around him. He heard the sounds of murmuring and shouting. The elf looked up. They were inside a huge tower. Galleries ran along the walls, and they were crowded with humans.

A fat man in flowing white robes approached Farodin cautiously. He held up a pendant with a golden ball high in the air. Sweat ran down his forehead in heavy droplets. The priest blinked nervously. “Go back, demon spawn,” he said in a loud, shaking voice. “This is the house of Tjured. He will scorch you with his wrath.”

Farodin held his stallion by the reins. The animal lashed out and tried to bite the priest. “Easy, my beauty,” whispered the elf. “Easy.” Farodin had no idea what had knocked them off the Albenpath and disgorged them here. He wanted no trouble. He just wanted to get out of that place. Quickly, he looked around. The temple was plastered white on the inside. Above an altar stone hung a banner that showed a dead black tree on a white ground. Farodin remembered seeing the same crest being carried by the holy knights who had taken Iskendria.

“How did this woeful tub of blubber pull us off the Albenpath?” asked Mandred in Fjordlandish. “Is he a wizard?” He pointed in the direction of the priest. Now he spoke in the language of Fargon, and so loudly that he was quite sure that everyone in the temple could hear him. “Out of my way, lard pail, or I’ll lay your head at your feet.”

The priest moved back fearfully. “Help me, my brothers and sisters. Destroy the offspring of the demons.” He made a sign on his chest and began to sing: “No trouble can assail me, for I am Tjured’s child. No upset can beset me . . .”

The rest of the congregation joined in the priest’s song. There was movement in the galleries. Farodin heard footsteps tramping down hidden stairways. “Out of here,” shouted the elf. He shoved the priest aside and made for the door that was obviously the way out of the temple. Above the double door hung a large picture of a saint painted on wood. It was amateurish at best, like most of the works produced by humans. The saint’s eyes were far too big, the nose looked like someone else’s . . . but there was still something familiar about it.

A knife caromed off the stone floor next to Farodin. “Kill them!” shouted a breaking male voice. “Demons! They murdered Saint Guillaume, who came to free us all!”

A veritable hail of missiles rained down from the galleries: caps, heavy coin purses, knives, shoes. A wooden bench missed Yulivee by a hair. Farodin raised his arms protectively over his head and ran for the exit. Mandred was close by his side. To the right and left, in front of the main door, two smaller doors opened off. That had to be where the stairs led up to the galleries. A heavyset man appeared at the door on the left. Mandred knocked him out with a single punch.

Farodin pushed open the temple door. A broad stairway led down to a cobbled market square. Nuramon had taken Yulivee in his arms and pushed out into the open air. From high above came the clanging of bells. Mandred held his axe in front of him threateningly. He was moving backward beside Farodin, who was leading the horses down the stairs to the square below. No one dared come close to the red-haired giant. From the temple came the braying of hundreds of voices.

The companions leaped onto their horses. Nuramon pointed to the widest street leading away from the square. “That way.”

They drove their horses along the cobbled road at a breakneck pace. High, colorful half-timbered houses lined their route. There were few people to be seen. Almost the entire town had been gathered in the temple, it seemed. Farodin looked back. The first of their pursuers were gathering in the market square. With raised fists, they screamed curses at the fleeing elves and Mandred. They looked ridiculously small in front of the enormous Tjured temple. On the outside, too, it was painted entirely in white. Its domed roof glinted brightly in the sunlight as if studded with plates of pure gold.

“Down there,” Mandred shouted. He had slowed his mare and was pointing to a side road, at the end of which one of the gates in the town wall could be seen.

“Walk the horses,” Nuramon ordered. “If we run for the gate like wolves are after us, they’ll close it before we get there.”

Farodin had trouble keeping his restless stallion under control. Nuramon, who had Yulivee in front of him on the saddle, rode in the lead. Behind them, the shouts of the enraged adherents were only slowly coming closer. None of the unarmed citizens really seemed to want to catch up with them.

A man in a white tabard planted himself in front of them at the gate. “Who rides there?” he shouted at them when they were still some distance away.

Farodin spotted a movement behind the arrow slits in the tower above the gate.
Crossbowmen, most likely
, he thought. A few more steps and they would be out of the shooters’ line of fire. Riding down the one guard standing before them would have been easy enough, but as soon as they left the gate behind them, they could be shot in the back from the other side, which made simply battering their way out impossible. They had to find some ruse.

“There’s a riot at the temple,” he called to the guard. “They need every man.”

“A riot?” the man shouted back suspiciously. “There’s never been a riot here.”

“Believe me. Demon folk suddenly broke into the temple. I saw them with my own eyes. Can’t you hear the shouting? They’re after the congregation. They’re driving them through the streets like cattle.”

The soldier squinted up to Farodin. He was about to say something when a mob of the Tjured faithful appeared at the other end of the street. They had armed themselves with clubs and pitchforks. “They’re coming this way,” said Farodin grimly. “They’re possessed, all of them.”

The guardsman reached for his halberd, which was leaning by the gate. “To arms!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, waving to the men behind the arrow slits. “A rebellion!”

“Run for your lives!” Farodin shouted. Then he gave his companions a sign, and they raced out through the town gate. No crossbow bolts flew after them.

They fled along a dusty road that ran between fields of golden corn. In the west, the land climbed in gentle hills, where broad swaths of forest divided green meadows.

After a little more than a mile, they left the road and galloped cross-country. A herd of sheep scattered, bleating loudly, as the horses thundered through. Finally, they reached a forest and rode on in the shelter of the trees.

Farodin looked back toward the town. On the road, a small band of riders was visible. They rode together as far as the first junction, then separated and went off in different directions.

“Messengers,” Mandred growled. “Soon, every knight for a hundred miles will know that demons appeared in that damned temple.” He turned to Nuramon. “By Norgrimm’s battle-axe, what happened? Why were we suddenly in the middle of that place?”

Nuramon spread his arms in a gesture of helplessness. “I can’t explain it. We were supposed to step into an Albenstar and, from there, go along another path. It felt like someone pulled the ground out from under my feet. In the Albenstar itself, it was as if all the paths were dead.”

“Dead paths?” asked Mandred. “What kind of nonsense is that?”

“Magic is alive, mortal,” said Farodin now. “You can feel the paths pulsating. It’s like they’re the veins of this world.”

“Was it maybe that funny house that the humans had built?” asked Yulivee in a shy voice. “It was spooky, even though it was all white. There was something that tore at me . . . in me . . . Something wanted to take away my magic. Maybe it was the dead tree or the man with the big eyes.”

“Yes, the man in the picture.” Nuramon turned in his saddle and looked to Farodin. “Did you notice anything strange about the picture?”

“No. Except perhaps that it was a completely unremarkable work of art.”

“The man in it looked like Guillaume,” said Nuramon.

Farodin frowned. That was insane. Why should anyone put up a picture of Guillaume in a temple?

“You’re right,” said Mandred. “Now that you mention it, the man really looked like Guillaume.”

“Who’s Guillaume?” asked Yulivee.

As they slowly rode deeper into the woods, Nuramon told Yulivee about the Devanthar.

“So Guillaume was a human who could take away someone else’s magic when he did magic himself?” the girl asked when Nuramon was finished.

“Guillaume was no human,” Farodin corrected her. “He was half elf and half Devanthar. Humans have no . . .” He paused. No, that was no longer true. That’s how it had been as long as he could remember, but the events in Iskendria had proved that at least the Tjured monks could wield magic.

“Without magic, those bad knights would never have found out how to get into Valemas,” said Yulivee dejectedly. “In the temple, it felt like someone was trying to steal away my magic. Could Guillaume’s spirit be living in the picture?”

“Guillaume was not evil,” Nuramon said in a soothing voice. “And I’m certain there’s no spirit back there.”

“But
something
tried to take my magic,” the girl insisted.

“Maybe it’s the place,” said Mandred. “The temple itself. It was built directly on top of the Albenstar. If I understood you right, Nuramon.”

“That could also be a coincidence. Humans are only too happy to build their shrines where Albenpaths cross.”

A cold fear ran through Farodin. “What if they are consciously trying to destroy the Albenstars? They would be separating this world from Albenmark. They hate us and call us demons. It would make sense then, wouldn’t it, if they then aspired to seal off all of the gates to Albenmark? Think about it . . . They force their way through the gates into the Shattered World and destroy the enclaves there. And they seal off the gates to Albenmark. Don’t you see the plan behind that? They’re separating the worlds once and for all. And they’re wiping out everyone who doesn’t follow Tjured.”

Nuramon raised his eyebrows and smiled. “You really surprise me sometimes, Farodin. How can it be that you—of all people—suddenly put so much store in what humans can do? You’re usually so contemptuous of them.”

Mandred loudly cleared his throat.

“Not all humans, admittedly,” Nuramon qualified. “But someone is also creating new Albenpaths and new stars. That doesn’t tally with your theory.”

Nuramon’s words sounded reasonable, and Farodin wished nothing more than for him to be right. But the doubt kept gnawing at him. “Do you know this area?”

Nuramon nodded.

“Then lead us to the nearest large Albenstar, and we’ll see if there is a temple on top of that, too.”

Lost for All Time?

F
arodin looked out through the shattered panes of the ruined temple toward the edge of the forest. He had already been convinced the day before that he would be proved right. Then, on their way through the hill country, they stumbled upon a small chapel that stood on a minor Albenstar. Only three paths crossed there. Or rather, three paths had once crossed there, for the place had lost all trace of magic.

Mandred kicked a soot-black beam that creaked and tipped sideways. “It was a while ago. I’d say it burned down at least half a year ago. Seems strange that they didn’t rebuild it.”

“Why should they?” replied Farodin irritably. “It had served its purpose after all, hadn’t it?” He looked over to Yulivee.

The girl had narrowed her eyes to slits and was pulling a face. “It’s here,” she said quietly. “Just like in the other white building. Something’s trying to steal my magic. It’s pulling at me. It hurts.” She opened her eyes wide and ran to the entrance.

Mandred, on a signal from Farodin, went after her. He could not focus when Yulivee ran around alone.

“I don’t sense the pulling at all,” said Nuramon uncertainly.

“But you believe her?” Farodin asked.

He nodded. “She has a finer feeling for magic than either of us. There’s no doubt about that. What is also beyond doubt is that there is no longer a gate here that leads to Albenmark. All of the magic has been drained from this place.”

“And destroying this temple made no difference,” said Farodin soberly. “Once the magic has been taken from a place, it never comes back. Or do I have that wrong?”

Nuramon raised his hands helplessly. “How are we supposed to know that? I don’t understand what’s going on here. Why were these temples built? Who came here to destroy this one? Why did they simply give up on the temple after it was destroyed? Why didn’t they rebuild it?”

“I can answer the last one, at least,” replied Farodin calmly. “This place is in the middle of the wilderness. There’s no town here, not so much as a village. The one and only reason this temple was built was to destroy the Albenstar. That’s also why there was no need to rebuild it. It served its purpose.”

“Maybe some priests were looking for solitude,” Nuramon objected. “This is a beautiful place.” He looked out through the shattered window and down to the small lake below.

“No. Didn’t you hear what that fat priest shouted? We’re demons. We murdered Saint Guillaume and cheated humanity of salvation in the process.” Farodin laughed bitterly. “Could they have twisted the truth any more? It has to be clear to you what that means for us. So many kingdoms have already fallen to the priests. They are forcing their way into the broken world and hunting elves and other Albenkin. Their faith demands that they see all of us dead. And if they cannot get to Albenmark itself, then they will destroy every gate they can possibly find.”

“We don’t know nearly enough to go jumping to conclusions,” said Nuramon. “You’re listening to your heart, not your reason. What’s gotten into you, Farodin?”

It beggared belief. Nuramon was willfully ignoring what all of this meant. “We are immortal, Nuramon. We are used to things taking a very long time. But suddenly, time is running out for us. Are you blind to the danger? They’re destroying Albenstars. What will happen if they destroy the one that leads to Noroelle? Or even worse . . . what if they force their way through it to the Shattered World and kill her?”

Nuramon frowned. Then he shook his head resolutely. “That’s nonsense. Her Albenstar is at the end of the world. There is no kingdom there to conquer, probably no humans at all. Why would the Tjured priests even go there?”

“Because they want to destroy every Albenstar. They are waging war against Albenmark, even if they can’t set foot in our homeland. We cannot risk using unsafe gates anymore. Look around, Nuramon. Look at what’s going on in this world. A few hundred years ago, a priest was murdered, and now his insane followers rule half a continent. Imagine what would happen if we jumped in time again. The power of the priests is growing faster and faster. Can you really be sure that the Albenstar to Noroelle will still exist in a hundred years?”

“You may be right,” Nuramon admitted.

Farodin was relieved that his companion finally understood his fear. “We should keep on the move. Have no doubt that the Tjured knights have not given up searching for us. We spy them out, then we take the Albenstone and the djinns’ crown.”

Nuramon paled. “The crown. They must know what we’re planning. The djinn’s library contains all knowledge, even that of the future.”

“That may be,” Farodin replied, unruffled. “But the Tjured priests are obviously too stupid to get their hands on it. We would hardly have survived the jump into the temple if they had known we were coming. It would not have been parishioners standing in the galleries. It would have been soldiers with crossbows. They have no idea what we’re going to do. And no one with any sense would ever think that a pathetic little band like us would try to steal their greatest treasure.”

“Two men attacking the trolls’ fortress wasn’t enough?”

Farodin grinned. “One can always do better.”