The Elven (64 page)

The arrow buried itself in the man’s chest.

Mandred wheeled around and struck the warrior, who was already falling, with a blow that sent him tumbling overboard. Then he looked around in surprise and waved several men to him. Among them, Nuramon recognized Liodred, wearing the armor of Alfadas. Mandred pointed up toward Nuramon, but it seemed he had not recognized him. Then he pointed toward the Tjured fighters who had cut them off from the elves. The Fjordlanders on the
Albenstar
gathered around Mandred and Liodred. They wanted to break through, but it meant fighting their way past two lines of enemies.

“Mandred and King Liodred are there!” Nuramon shouted to the archers around him. “They’re surrounded, but they want to get through to us!”

Obilee came to Nuramon’s side and looked over at the
Albenstar
. Then she ordered, “All on Nuramon’s left, shoot the first arrow at the fighters on this side of Liodred. Those on Nuramon’s right shoot at the Tjured behind them. One shot! After that, shoot only at the pursuers. Let none of the enemy through!” Then she left the railing and let the archers do their work.

They waited until Mandred gave the order to break through. There. The jarl raised his axe, and with loud battle cries, the men around him leaped onto the fourth ship in the chain.

Nuramon and the other archers fired their arrows. They rained down on the enemy like heavy hail. Those who were not hit did not know what was happening and tried to duck for cover.

Mandred and some of the Firnstayners seemed to hesitate momentarily, then they surged forward again. The second salvo hit only the soldiers pursuing them, holding them back for a moment. Their shield bearers were already pushing through to the front. But this valuable time was enough to let Mandred and his men break through. The knights attacking from behind were now almost completely surrounded. When they realized that their position was hopeless, they retreated to their two-master. Mandred made it through to Pelveric’s elves, and Nuramon saw Pelveric pointing back up in his direction.

Mandred raised his axe high and bawled out, “Nuramon!” Then, followed by the Mandridians, he ran through the rows of elven warriors toward him.

Nuramon breathed a sigh of relief and looked out over the battlefield. The queen’s plan seemed to be working. All along the barricade of ships, elven warriors were relieving the exhausted Fjordlanders, and the battle line across the ships still held. They were inferior in number of both soldiers and ships, but when the trolls came, the tide would turn in their favor.

Strong Magic

L
ower the foresail.”

Farodin’s fingers tightened around the ship’s rail. It was unbelievable. The troll ships were already painfully slow, and now they were taking in the sail. The elf was standing on the tower-like quarterdeck of the
Grinder
, Prince Orgrim’s flagship. Twenty vessels were in the fleet that Boldor, the king of the trolls, had assembled. Each of the lumbering ships was a floating fortress, and the largest of them had more than three hundred troll fighters on board. It was a force that would prove decisive once they joined the battle.

Prince Orgrim was standing with the helmsman and conferring with his shaman, Skanga.
This is enough to drive a man crazy
, thought Farodin. They were coming too late as it was. He could make out the sails of the enemy fleet as a thin white line on the horizon. Columns of smoke showed that the battle had already begun. The arrival of the trolls would decide the outcome. And what were these traitorous elf eaters doing? Reefing the sails.

“Why so grim, Ambassador?” Orgrim and the shaman had come to him. The troll prince was armed for battle. He wore a breastplate of dark leather and a bearskin over his shoulders. He leaned on his war hammer, its head carved from gray granite.

“It must be my naïveté, but I find myself unable to deduce the strategy behind your assistance in this battle,” Farodin replied, making an effort not to say openly what he truly thought of their allies.

The shaman stared at him darkly. Farodin felt the power of the magic in her.

“He thinks we are going to wait calmly until the Tjured knights have defeated the Fjordlanders and the elves. He doubts our intention to hurry to the aid of our former enemies,” the old woman said.

“Farodin is a clever man, keeping such thoughts to himself. If he were to openly insult my people by voicing such opinions, I’d have to have him stuffed into a sack of stones and thrown overboard.” The troll prince looked intently at Farodin, who wished he, too, could read the thoughts of his old enemy. He had seen Orgrim again at the court of King Boldor. The king had received him with all due honor as Emerelle’s ambassador, and to Farodin’s surprise, Boldor had agreed to the elves’ request after spending the night conferring with his princes.

After Boldor announced his decision, Orgrim stated his express wish that the queen’s ambassador join him on his ship. From the moment that Farodin was back among the trolls from the Nightcrags, he felt their hatred. He was convinced he would not survive his first night aboard the
Grinder
. But the prince took pains to attend to him, attempting many times to draw him into conversation. He went as far as to ensure that no meat of any kind was served to him.

“When do we attack?” asked Farodin impatiently. The ship was battle ready. On the main deck and the forecastle, trolls carrying huge shields jostled for space. Stones intended as projectiles were lined up along the railing, at the ready. The smallest of them was the size of a child’s head, the largest, massive chunks of granite. Farodin wondered how even a troll could lift stones as big as those.

“Don’t you sense it?” Skanga asked. With every movement, the feathers, bones, and stones sewn to her coarse leather robe and hanging in countless bands around her neck rattled and rustled.

“Don’t I sense what?”

“The power of the magic, little elf. The power of the magic,” the shaman snickered. “The tides have changed. The ebb tide won’t come. Can you imagine how much power it takes to change the ebb and flow of the tides? Strong magic, that is.”

“Reef the mainsail,” Orgrim ordered. “Drop anchor.”

Farodin felt a knot tighten in his belly. This could not be happening. “Would you be so kind as to tell me what this means, Orgrim?”

The prince pointed to the king’s ship. A large red flag had been hoisted from the mainmast. “Boldor is calling all of the princes and shamans to a council of war. He will want you to be there, too.” Orgrim turned away briefly and waved to one of his soldiers. “Ready the tender.”

“You can’t be serious,” Farodin hissed.

“Elf, I know what you and your kind think of my race. But we are a long way from being the halfwits you believe us to be. We don’t rush into our battles blindly. We plan them. And that’s how it will be this time, too. We had not reckoned with a sorcerer among the humans, and certainly not with one this powerful. We will modify our plans accordingly.”

“He’s afraid we want to cast in our lot with the white priests,” said the shaman.

Farodin could have wrung the old hag’s neck.

Orgrim growled deep in his throat. Then he dropped to one knee, bringing himself to eye level with Farodin. “I know that you would most like to see me and all the trolls dead, and that you don’t trust us any farther than you can spit. Still, I hope that a final flicker of good sense remains in the wasteland of your vengeful mind. The Tjured priests want to destroy all of the Albenkin. They don’t differentiate. Centaurs, elves, flower faeries. And trolls. We are fighting with you because we know that we are stronger at the side of the elves and the Fjordlanders. And also because, sooner or later, the white priests will attack the Nightcrags and all our other fortresses. You are a survivor of the troll wars, Farodin. You know we don’t wait for the war to come to us. We take it to the lands of our enemies. That is why we are here.”

“And what is there to stop you from sitting and watching your enemies slaughter each other, then going in and finishing off the survivors?” Farodin asked.

Orgrim abruptly stood up. “An elf might think like that, but not a troll. Tread carefully, Farodin. You’re close to breaking the camel’s back.”

Before the Queen

M
andred took off his helmet and ran his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. Nuramon was leading Liodred and him to the stern of the galley. The jarl was proud to have friends like Nuramon. The elf had saved his hide, and a warrior with the soul of an old companion had helped him. Nuramon had introduced her as Nomja . . . 
the
Nomja. For the first time, Mandred could see for himself what rebirth really meant. He had watched Nomja die, and now her soul had returned in a new guise. She was standing in the bow of the ship, protected by a shield bearer, and was what she had been in her previous life: an archer.

Elven warriors surged aboard a large caravel, its bow towering above the midship railing of the
Elflight
. It looked as if the elves would soon take the ship.

Ignoring the battle behind them, Nuramon led them on toward the quarterdeck, before which the queen was expecting them.

“Mandred!” Yulivee squealed when she saw him. She ran to him. The jarl was surprised to see the little sorceress there, but Emerelle, no doubt, knew what she was doing. Mandred picked Yulivee up in his arms, and then she pressed a kiss on his cheek. “Nice to see you,” she said, playing with his braids.

Nuramon turned to the queen. “This is Liodred of Firnstayn, and I am sure you remember Mandred.”

“Of course,” said Emerelle. “But first, tell me how the battle is going.”

“At the moment, we are gaining ground,” Nuramon replied.

“The enemy outnumbers us by far,” said Mandred, speaking up. “We were not able to protect our flanks. They will do their best to encircle us. How many ships and soldiers have you brought, Your Majesty?” The jarl set Yulivee down on the deck.

“Mandred Aikhjarto, I see you speak as unburdened by royal etiquette as ever,” said the queen with a smile. “It lightens my heart to see you again. And I am just as happy to meet you, Liodred, king of Firnstayn. We have come with all the ships and fighters that the elves of Albenmark have to offer. We will secure your flanks, and my fighters will relieve your warriors on the front line, along the barricade. Pull your men back, Liodred, and let fresh blood come. We are here as Albenkin, to repay our old debt with our blood.”

Liodred bowed. “We will not stay away long, and will rejoin the battle as soon as we can. The king must be close to his fighters, or they will lose their—” Liodred was interrupted by horrific screaming. A group of elves amidships collapsed onto the deck as if struck by invisible arrows. Some writhed in agony, screaming hideously, but most lay motionless.

Mandred looked over to the enemy caravel and could not believe what he saw. Just moments before, he had seen the elves taking the upper hand, but now there were only enemy faces at the bulwark. All the fighting on board the large caravel had ceased.

Without warning, three guards directly beside the queen fell to the deck as if a stiff gust of wind had come and torn the life from their bodies.

Appalled, everyone still on their feet fell back to the starboard side.

“By the gods, what is going on here?” Liodred roared. Pure dread was inscribed on his face. “What kind of treacherous murder is this?”

Nuramon dragged Yulivee away with him. Only the queen seemed transfixed. She stiffened, gazed over at the caravel that had rammed them, and whispered, “So it’s true . . .”

Mandred followed her gaze, and on the quarterdeck of the caravel, he saw a man wearing billowing dark-blue robes. He had his hands raised high and looked like the monks they had seen among the knights of the Tjured in Iskendria.

“Emerelle!” shouted Nuramon.

Master Alvias leaped in front of the queen and pushed her back. In that moment, something seemed to seize him. He staggered and clutched at his chest. Then he fell at the queen’s feet.

“Alvias?” Emerelle said with disbelief as she kneeled beside the aging chamberlain.

Alvias’s breathing was labored. He was trying desperately to say something. “Forgive my lack of decorum, my queen,” he gasped, his voice shaking. “It is my fate, to . . .” His eyes glassed over, and his breath stopped.

At first, there was only bewilderment on the queen’s face, but then a smile came.

Mandred was shaken to see her smile at such a moment. Did Emerelle feel no sympathy at all? Not even for the man closest to her? Her old chamberlain had given his life for her, and she smiled.

Suddenly, around the queen, a pale light glowed. It came from the body of Alvias, flowing around him, enclosing him like a glittering silk shroud. Then Alvias’s form began to blur in the silvery shimmer. The queen still held his hand, but even as her own fine hand remained clearly visible, Alvias’s turned transparent. His armor and the sword he wore also paled. Finally, Alvias dissolved entirely into the silver glow around him. Then the light dissipated like smoke on the wind. Nothing remained but the smell of flowers, a smell Mandred knew. He had noticed it in Firnstayn, in the room in which Shalawyn had died.

The gleam surrounding Alvias must have been the moonlight. Nuramon and Farodin had spoken about it so many times, but all their words had never been able to adequately describe to Mandred what it was really like. The jarl had the feeling he had just witnessed something divine, something miraculous.

The others, too, were deeply stirred at the sight and, for a moment, forgot the battle around them. Yulivee stared openmouthed at the place where Alvias had vanished.

The queen allowed Nuramon to help her back to her feet. “He saved me,” she said. “It was his destiny.”

“What killed him?” Yulivee asked Nuramon. She seemed so terrified that she could only speak in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Nuramon answered.

Mandred looked over at the man in the dark-blue monk’s robe. Alvias’s death and his passing into the moonlight had taken only moments. The Tjured priest looked completely exhausted. He stood at the railing and had to hold himself upright with both hands. Knights quickly surrounded the cleric, shielding him.

Damned priest
, thought Mandred. These bastards had nothing in common with the healer Guillaume, whom they had turned into a saint. Nothing could be further from what Guillaume believed in than . . . The jarl thought of what had befallen them in Aniscans. By Luth. It was not possible. He made the sign of the protective eye. “Remember Aniscans, Nuramon?” he asked, his voice half choked. “Remember what happened in the market square?”

“By the Alben.” His eyes wide with terror, the elf looked up at the high-decked caravel. “They’ll kill us all. They don’t even need their swords.”

A boarding ramp crashed onto the elves’ flagship. A squad of knights was already forming up there, ready to storm the queen’s galley. The priest and his bodyguards left the quarterdeck and moved forward to join the fighters.

Nuramon turned to Emerelle. “My queen, we have to get away from here, or all is lost.”

Liodred pointed out to starboard. “The shield wall on the ships still holds, Majesty. We can make it across the longships to another elven galley.”

The few surviving elves on the
Elflight
charged at the boarding ramp to hold back the Tjured knights before too many made it on board.

“Mandridians, to me!” Liodred ordered and waved to the fighters on the closest longship. “The king demands your blood!”

“My queen?” Nuramon asked.

Emerelle simply nodded. She took Yulivee’s hand and looked at the child. Emerelle seemed lost in thought. Mandred saw a single tear pearl down her cheek, as if she were already weeping for the end of everything.