The Elven (61 page)

Mandred jumped to his feet. “What?”

“They have orders to break the resistance in the North,” Yulivee explained. “They weren’t very eager about it, but they said the high priest wanted it like that. He wanted to teach the elf-friends some humility, the men said.”

“We have to warn them,” Mandred shouted. He went to his horse, but quickly returned. “We have to risk jumping between Albenstars.”

“Out of the question,” said Farodin. “We first have to get our hands on the Albenstone and the djinns’ crown. That will probably stop them attacking at all.”

“
Probably
isn’t good enough for me,” Mandred shot back loudly. “This is about Firnstayn. The bastards want to burn us down like they did with Iskendria. I am not going to sit and watch it happen.”

Nuramon exchanged a look with Farodin. “Mandred is right. We have to break off our search for the stone. The gate on the cliff above Firnstayn leads close to the boundary of the heartland. The Tjured priests can’t be allowed to destroy it. Or even worse . . . imagine what would happen if they forced their way through to Albenmark. Think of the friends we still have there. We owe it to them to warn the queen. Could you stand in front of Noroelle and tell her that you did nothing, for her sake? Just to shorten our search by a few months?”

“They have never yet managed to open a gate to Albenmark,” Farodin insisted. “All they can do is destroy the gates. But you are right in another sense. It is a question of friendship.” Farodin turned to Mandred. “Forgive me.” He reached out his hand to the jarl. “You have been a true friend to us for so long. It is time for us to show our loyalty to you. Firnstayn can count on our swords. We will do all we can to protect you and your people.”

Mandred gripped the offered hand. “You bring two swords that count for more than a hundred axes. I’m proud to have you at my side.”

Farodin laid a hand on Mandred’s shoulder. “But we can’t take the Albenpaths from Fargon. They are not safe.” He turned to Yulivee. “You said the Tjured knights would sail before the autumn storms.”

The girl nodded.

“Then we leave Fargon by land. As soon as we are out of this kingdom, we can risk an Albenpath.”

“Farodin is right,” said Nuramon.

Mandred nodded and stared at the ground. “By Luth. I never would have thought that what we did in Aniscans could ever put Firnstayn in danger.” He looked to Yulivee and had to smile. “Thank you, little elf. You are a true companion.” Then he turned away. “Time to ride.”

Farodin followed Mandred to the horses.

Nuramon took Yulivee in his arms and carried her to Felbion. “You did well,” he told her. Then he lifted the little sorceress onto the horse. She gave him a satisfied smile. “But . . . ,” he added.

“But?” the girl repeated.

“But don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“You care about me, don’t you?”

“Yes. You are like a sister to me.”

Astonishment spread on the little elf’s face. “Really?”

Nuramon mounted Felbion behind her. Yulivee turned her head and looked at him. She was obviously waiting for confirmation. “Yes, Yulivee.”

“Then you have made me one of your relatives. Like the queen once told you?”

Nuramon nodded. “Just like that. And whatever happens, I would ride against a thousand warriors to keep you safe.”

Tears gathered in Yulivee’s eyes. Nuramon could feel what must be going on inside her, but he had told her the truth. She was truly like a little sister to him, and not like a daughter. She was too powerful for that. Nuramon could not say what fate had in store for him and his companions, but if there was one thing he wanted to spare the girl, it was a true battle. It was time to take her to Albenmark, and safety. Maybe Obilee, if she had not yet entered the moonlight, would be able to look after her.

A Time for Heroes

A
hundred ships are coming!” roared the king. A deathly silence fell over the banqueting hall. “And a second fleet will come to join the first hundred. That shows how much they fear the men of the North.”

Mandred saw many of the warriors and princes gathered there in the hall smile grimly. His descendant, Liodred, knew what tone to take to reach the hearts of fighters, and Mandred was proud of him. He was tall and powerfully built, every inch of him a fighter. Long, curly red hair tumbled to his shoulders, and his blue eyes shone like the sky on a summer afternoon. The only thing about him that Mandred disapproved of was the way he kept his beard cut short.

Liodred had acted quickly after they arrived. They reached Firnstayn late in the afternoon, and that same evening, he called together all the princes who were close enough to come, and along with the Mandridians, they gathered in the enormous royal hall. More than three hundred warriors sat at the long tables, and many of them were gazing in awe at the banquet table. Besides the king, two elven warriors, a young girl, and the king’s legendary ancestor, Mandred Torgridson, had taken their seats up there.

“You all know the Tjured priests well enough, with their slick tongues. You know how they insult our gods and spread lies among our people. And I ask you, do we fear them for that?” the king called.

“No!” came the cry from hundreds of throats.

“They’ve mustered more than a hundred ships and thousands of warriors, all to attack Firnstayn by surprise. For no one has yet declared war on us.” Liodred leaned forward and pointed to a white-haired warrior with a wolfskin across his shoulders. “Is that fear I see in your eyes, Skarbern?”

The old man turned red and was about to jump to his feet when Liodred spoke again. “I share your concern, Skarbern. I fear our hotheaded Mandridians will have sent them all to the bottom of the fjord before we old men even get our axes out of our belts.”

Deafening laughter filled the hall. Mandred’s heart swelled. His descendant was truly a warrior king. Every single one of the men down below would walk through fire for him. Liodred’s words had even stirred Mandred’s thirst for battle.

“Men of Firnstayn. My friends. I have known most of you since I was a child. I know the courage of your hearts. I know your pride. I know your stubbornness. Men like you are only to be found in the Fjordlands. Drinkers, fornicators, comrades, and none better when push comes to shove. Men like you can only exist in a free land. Do you think the Tjured knights are coming because they want our gold? No. They have so much gold they use it to plate the towers of their temples. Do you think they’re coming to plunder and pillage, to lay fire and despoil your women?”

Liodred paused briefly and swept the hall with his gaze. “No, my friends. The knights of the Tjured order will come armed with large swords, but with nothing between their legs. How else can you explain why every one of them has taken a vow of chastity?”

Mandred snorted into his drinking horn and sprayed Farodin, sitting beside him, with mead. The elf remained completely unperturbed.
Maybe I should explain the joke to him
, Mandred thought.

“My friends, know that all of these are not the reasons that the Tjured knights are attacking us,” Liodred went on. “They are doing so because we possess something a thousand times more valuable. Freedom. They represent a race in which there are two kinds of men, priests and servants, a race that cannot abide freedom in its presence. So when I call you to arms, know what awaits you. It is more than just a sea battle. Were the priests of the order to be victorious, then what happened to the men of Angnos and Gornamdur would happen to us. They will kill every one of you who does not want to be a priest or a servant. They will burn the ironmen and the sacred groves and our temples. Nothing that reminds us of our proud ancestors and their way of life will be spared from the fire.”

Liodred paused again to let his words sink in. He raised his drinking horn and spilled some of it to pay homage to the gods. Then he set the horn to his lips and drank in long drafts. Many of the men in the hall below stood and did the same.

Mandred, too, was on his feet. He laid one arm across the shoulders of his fearless descendant.

“It is easy to speak big words in a hall like this, among friends,” Liodred finally continued. “I know that the Tjured priests only wage war if they are sure of victory. Theirs is not the lion heart of the warrior, but the petty heart of a penny-pinching shopkeeper. They count and they calculate and they only attack when they know they can set five knights against every one of their enemy’s warriors. The fjord will be red with blood when we face them in battle. And much of that blood will be our own.” He turned to Mandred.

“Here at my side stands Jarl Mandred Torgridson. The living ancestor. The founder of the royal line of Firnstayn. You all know the stories about him. He will return when his people’s adversity is greatest, it is said. He is the one who, today, brought me news of the treacherous attack awaiting us.”

A murmur went through the royal hall, and Mandred felt uneasy having so many eyes gazing at him. Many saw in him not only a hero, but also a herald of looming misfortune.

“My ancestor gave up his wife and his son to rescue Firnstayn. His courage has lived on in the songs and stories of our skalds for centuries. Now it is up to you to prove that you are no less valiant than our ancestor. Are you ready to fight?”

Now the last men still sitting jumped to their feet, too. “We fight!” The cry rang through the hall, taken up by hundreds of men. “We fight!”

Liodred stretched his arms wide, and silence slowly returned. “The Tjured priests force men from the lands they have subjugated to fight for them. None but the free fight for us. But we, too, have mighty allies. There is a pact from long ago, an alliance that must prove its worth now, in our hour of need. Centuries have passed since the elven queen called on the warriors of Firnstayn for help. Now we will ask the elves to stand by us. You see before you two men from the sagas of old. Elven warriors, noble and fearless and deadlier with a sword than any human. They have promised me they will go through the stone circle on the cliff this very night and ride to Albenmark. At dawn, all of Albenmark will ring with the sounding of horns, calling the warriors to the queen’s court.”

Mandred swallowed hard. It all sounded grand, and the men below in the hall broke out in cries of jubilation at the news. But he was far from certain that Emerelle would receive his companions. And even if the elves were prepared to help, how long would it take to muster an elven fleet and sail to the Fjordlands?

Return to Albenmark

T
he queen’s castle, like the houses on the hills nearby, gleamed in the night. They only had to put the meadows behind them to reach the palace. Nuramon rode beside Farodin in silence. Even Yulivee, seated in front of him on the saddle, said nothing.

They had come through Atta Aikhjarto’s gate and had met Xern there. When they told him what they were planning, he told them in Atta Aikhjarto’s name about an Albenstar that would take them closer to the queen’s palace. Then they had jumped from Aikhjarto’s gate to the other star and avoided the Shalyn Falah.

They also did not pass the faun oak or Noroelle’s lake. Perhaps it was better that way. They were in such a hurry that they would not have done justice to the dignity those places deserved.

“Faeryshine,” said Yulivee softly. She seemed to be referring to all the little lights that shone in the palace and made it visible from far away. “Faster, Felbion. Faster.”

To Nuramon’s surprise, Felbion picked up his pace. Now his horse obeyed Yulivee. It wouldn’t be long before he would have to hand over the reins to his little foster sister.

The closer they came to the palace, the more Nuramon feared that they might be making a mistake, appearing before Emerelle as ambassadors for Liodred. They were elves, of course, but the queen would certainly not have forgotten that they had once opposed her.

They rode up to the palace gate. It stood open, and there were no guards in sight. The courtyard on the other side was empty. If not for the lights, Nuramon would have thought that the palace had been abandoned.

They did not go to the trouble of stabling the horses. Instead, they halted at the palace steps, dismounted, and simply left the horses standing there.

Nuramon took Yulivee by the hand. “Now, you know the stories. No one is ever rude or cheeky in the queen’s halls. Remember that.”

“I know, I know. Let’s go,” Yulivee replied.

Side by side, all three entered Emerelle’s brightly lit halls. Yulivee looked around with her mouth agape. She seemed to find the statues particularly interesting. The little sorceress was so mesmerized by the grandeur of everything around her that, to get anywhere at all, Nuramon was forced to pull her along behind him. They came to the atrium outside the Royal Hall. Here, for the first time, guards were posted. Two elven soldiers armed with spears stood before the closed door, waiting for them.

“Who are you?” said the burlier of the pair.

“We come as emissaries from the king of Firnstayn,” Farodin answered. “The time has come to repay what Alfadas did for the elves.”

The two men at the door exchanged an uncertain look.

“Who would have thought?” asked a voice beside them.

They turned, and Alvias entered the atrium through a side door. The master had changed. A scar marked his forehead. He must have been wounded by an enchanted weapon. “Who would have thought that those whose names have not been spoken in these halls for centuries would return as emissaries.”

“Master Alvias,” said Farodin in surprise. “It is good to see a familiar face.”

The queen’s confidant stepped closer and looked them up and down. “I wish I could say that I was happy to see you, but the arrival of emissaries means war, and
your
arrival might well invoke the queen’s wrath.”

Nuramon remembered the last time he had been in these halls. Back then, the queen had sent him out on the search for Guillaume, and everything since had followed its terrible course. “Will the queen receive us?” he asked.

“She will certainly admit emissaries from Firnstayn, but it may be that she will reject the two elves who once aroused her anger.” He looked them over again. “Wait here. I will announce your arrival to the queen.”

Alvias opened the door. Nuramon could not see into the room on the other side, but he could hear that many Albenkin were gathered there. The master stepped through the door and closed it behind him.

“What’s the matter, Nuramon?” Farodin asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I am just dreadfully afraid,” Nuramon replied. “The wrath of the queen. I would rather not get to know that.”

Farodin smiled calmly. “Well. No turning back now.”

Yulivee shook Nuramon’s arm. “Have you two done something dumb?”

“Yes,” Nuramon answered with a nod. He had told Yulivee about their search for Noroelle only in the broadest of strokes and omitted the fact that Yulivee’s beloved Emerelle had treated them very badly. “We left Albenmark against her will. Like you scampering out of camp at night.”

“She will forgive you. She is very gracious,” Yulivee declared.

The queen kept them waiting for a long time. Yulivee in particular grew restless and whiled away the time by going over to the guards and asking them questions, to which the two men gave only the most perfunctory of answers. She asked them about their armor and the weapons they carried, and how one became a guard for the queen. Nuramon listened only halfheartedly to the discussion and paced back and forth restlessly.

Farodin stood calmly and kept his eye on Nuramon. “Did you lose all your patience in Firnstayn?” he finally asked. “Or did you learn that from watching Mandred?”

Nuramon stopped pacing. “If you only knew how I fear for us and our quest.” The longer the queen kept them waiting, the greater the danger seemed to grow. Emerelle was probably preparing her verdict for them.

A sound came from inside the Royal Hall. Yulivee quickly ran to Nuramon and took him by the hand again. Then the door opened, and he could see past Alvias and between the rows of assembled elves to Emerelle. She sat motionless on her throne.

“The queen will receive you,” said Master Alvias, and he walked ahead of them.

The companions followed him. Nuramon was surprised that the hall was as full as it had been for the departure of the elfhunt. The Albenkin to left and right seemed amazed to see them. Nuramon knew some of the faces, but most were strangers to him. Someone somewhere suddenly whispered, “Farodin and Nuramon.” And both names passed in whispers through the hall. Far ahead, a loud discussion began. The queen raised her hand and silence returned instantly.

“Welcome, Nuramon,” whispered somebody on Nuramon’s left. It was a young elf, a soldier in white linen armor. Nuramon did not know him, but behind the young man, he saw Elemon, his uncle, and others from his clan. Apart from Elemon, most of the faces wore expressions of joy, even pride. “Welcome, cousin,” said a young woman softly, again someone Nuramon had never seen before but who bore a resemblance to his aunt Ulema.

Nuramon met all of them with friendly gestures, but he did not stop.

Several from Farodin’s clan were also there. They greeted their relative with reserve, but Nuramon read great reverence on their faces.

And then they were close enough to the throne to read the face of the queen herself. What Nuramon saw there was coldness.

Around the throne, Nuramon saw many familiar faces. Ollowain was there and Dijelon and Pelveric. Obilee, too. It made Nuramon glad to see Noroelle’s confidante. She looked more dignified than ever and was not able to hide her own joy at seeing them again. She had woven her blond hair into heavy braids that hung past her shoulders. She wore red-brown armor with runes painted on it, clearly the armor of a warrior sorceress.

Nuramon and Farodin bowed their heads before the queen. Little Yulivee curtsied. Before they could say a word, Emerelle spoke. “So the day has come. The day that the children of Alfadas ask us to repay what we owe. The day on which Farodin and Nuramon return. What has happened that you dare to appear before me?”

She was looking at Farodin, so it was he who answered. “We have come because of our friendship with Mandred, Alfadas’s father. Firnstayn is in great danger. Tjured’s followers have crushed the humans race by race, and now they are preparing to attack Firnstayn. The fleet of the order will soon set sail.” Voices were raised across the hall, but Farodin did not let them disturb him. He went on. “In the name of Liodred, descendant of Alfadas Mandredson, we have come to request the aid of the Albenkin.”

“The queen of Albenmark will honor her promise and make the necessary preparations,” declared Emerelle.

Farodin bowed. “We thank you, in Liodred’s name.”

“Then your service to him is done. Your master will be satisfied. But let us say good-bye to Liodred’s emissaries and hear from Farodin and Nuramon . . . two whose names have long been unspoken in these halls, but who, out in the forests, have attained the status of legend. Farodin and Nuramon. The elves who opposed the queen to go in search of their lady. When I discovered that you had defied my order, my fury was beyond measure. You show great courage to stand before me after all that has happened. You came here, although you knew that this could spell the end of your search. You, Farodin . . . you even carry with you the sand that I once dispersed in the human world. And you, Nuramon, dared to spend a human lifetime before my eyes in Firnstayn.”

Nuramon was about to speak, but a sideways glance from Farodin stopped him.

“Did you want to say something, Nuramon?” the queen asked, her voice ironically pleasant.

“It was not my intention to anger you,” he began haltingly. “When I was in Firnstayn, I knew that you could have sent others to fetch me at any time, but you did not. You must have had your reasons.”

The queen tilted her head to one side. “Do not think for a moment that I would have changed my position on Noroelle. But I see that I cannot hold you here. Your love is too strong. You can try to rescue Noroelle, but know that you do so without my blessing. Time has passed since you contravened my command. I was able to see you from here often enough. Some of the things I saw pleased me. Others did not. You, Nuramon, spent time among the renegades. Fundamentally, a queen should find it displeasing when one of her subjects seeks refuge among those who have rebelled against her, but no one is likely to condemn you for visiting the children of the Darkalben.” A murmur spread through the hall. No doubt those gathered there were asking one another about the secrets surrounding the dwarves, and they would have given a great deal to find out what Nuramon had experienced among them. The queen looked around the hall but made no gesture to silence the whispering. She simply continued. “And the same is true of your stay in Firnstayn. No one here is closer to Firnstayn than you. And for that reason, you shall bear a special responsibility. You shall sail into battle on board my ship.”

“I thank you, Emerelle,” Nuramon replied, although he did not know if he was being punished or honored.

“And now to you, Farodin. You talked Mandred into representing himself to the trolls as my ambassador. You waged your own private war against the trolls in a time of peace . . . and in the end, you did the right thing. It hurt me to discover what the trolls did to Yilvina and the others. Our dead bodies decay, but our souls live on. There is one thing you must understand, Farodin. We need the trolls in the battle against our enemy. And we must make sure that they believe in our good intentions.” The queen’s face had transformed to that of a good friend, which did not match very well with the words she was speaking. “What would Orgrim, prince of the trolls, say to you sailing into battle aboard his ship?”

Farodin, barely noticeably, swallowed. “He would no doubt see it as an honor,” he replied.

Nuramon could not believe that the queen honestly wanted to hand Farodin over to the trolls as their hostage. More than two hundred years had passed since Farodin’s attack on the Nightcrags, but the trolls had long memories. They would certainly try to kill him in some kind of regrettable and dubious accident. Was the queen trying to separate the two of them? To send the companions to their deaths to ensure the search for Noroelle failed? He had to do something. He released Yulivee’s hand and took a step forward. Farodin managed to touch his hand, apparently wanting to hold him back. But now he had taken the step, and the queen was looking at him in surprise.

“Yes, Nuramon?”

“The trolls will murder Farodin, but any other elf would certainly come back alive. I beg of you, send me to them and keep Farodin at your side.”

Farodin stepped up beside Nuramon. “Please, Emerelle, don’t listen to him. I will submit to your will.”

Yulivee followed the two companions and slipped her little hand into Nuramon’s.

“I am impressed by your readiness to stand up for each other, but that changes no part of my decision. Farodin, I will hand you over to Prince Orgrim as a hostage. It is the only way to ally the trolls to us. It is not revenge nor a grudge that I carry. It is proof of my trust. It is as I said to you before, most recently before the elfhunt. Remember the words with which I sent you on your way. I don’t want you to simply be a hostage, but a model for all elves to follow. You are to protect the life of the prince as you were supposed to protect the life of Mandred during the elfhunt. Will you do it?”

Farodin hesitated for a long moment. Then the corners of his mouth turned up in an almost imperceptible smile. “I will do it, my queen.”

Something had passed between Farodin and Emerelle. In the hall, hardly anyone seemed to have noticed. They all seemed to think that they had witnessed a reconciliation that at first glance appeared to be a punishment, but what did Emerelle mean when she said that Farodin was
supposed
to protect Mandred? The queen spoke as if his companion had failed and was now being given the opportunity to make up for his failure. After all these years together, there was still a lot about Farodin that remained hidden from Nuramon.

The queen suddenly smiled. “I have only one more question.” She looked at Yulivee. “Who is the girl holding your hand so tightly, Nuramon?”

“This is the sorceress Yulivee, daughter of Hildachi of the Diliskar clan. She may be the last of the Free of Valemas.”

A rumble of voices rose in the hall, telling Nuramon that Valemas and the Diliskar clan had not been forgotten.

“Yulivee. What a name that is,” said the queen, gazing at the girl as if Yulivee were one of the Alben. “Come here to me, Yulivee.”