The Elven (67 page)

Revelation

N
uramon had only been able to treat Liodred’s and Mandred’s wounds superficially by the time the queen returned to her galley with Obilee and some fifty elven fighters. Some of the new bodyguards secured the ship while their comrades aft gathered around the queen. Yulivee went with a young elf woman and fetched Emerelle’s water bowl from her cabin.

Obilee whispered to Nuramon that the queen had returned against her advice, before the news of the priest’s death had spread, but it did not surprise Nuramon that Emerelle knew about it before anyone else. She could see far, even without her water mirror.

Mandred and Liodred were fascinated by the mirror. A vague image appeared, seeming to float just beneath the surface of the water. Yulivee had to stand on tiptoe to be able to see anything. Obilee seemed well acquainted with the power of the mirror. She stood by quietly, watching those standing around the queen more closely than the events taking shape in the water. Nomja, by contrast, gazed into the bowl with wide-eyed wonder. It must have been the first time she had had the honor of looking into the queen’s mirror. Nuramon knew how she felt; it was the first time for him, as well.

The queen, through the water, was able to see what was happening at any part of the battlefield. On this side of the longship barricade, the fighting had subsided. The mirror briefly showed the image of Pelveric. He was kneeling beside the body of Dijelon. Nuramon had no good memories of Dijelon; the queen had sent him to take Guillaume from Noroelle’s arms and kill him. The soldier’s death hardly moved Nuramon at all.

Emerelle swirled her fingertips in the water. The image blurred and re-formed into another. Ollowain. He was fighting bitterly in the center of the barricade, trying to clear a route to board an enemy caravel. Many of the Fjordlanders who had earlier been relieved had now returned to the battle and were fighting beside Ollowain. It was good that the humans were back in the fight, for there was fear on the faces of many of the elves. Word had spread about what had happened aboard the
Elflight
. The queen, of course, had made certain that the elves knew she was still alive and that the priest was dead, but the fear was palpable that there were more priests with the same powers among the enemy.

Again, the image blurred, and a new scene unfolded beneath the queen’s fingers. It was a large ship ablaze, engulfed in bright flames. Trolls were jumping over the railing trying to save themselves, but there was fire on the water as well. It was an image so terrible that Emerelle took Yulivee aside so that she could not look at it.

Nuramon looked up and saw two columns of fire rising beyond the mass of ships. The sight made him feel ill. What kind of weapon was that? Were the Tjured priests burning the trolls’ entire fleet? A third flaming pillar rose into the sky. Nuramon hoped that Farodin was not on one of those ships. In such an inferno, courage and skill counted for nothing.

The image faded, and a new one materialized. Now the troll king’s flagship came into view, recognizable by the flag it flew, two white war hammers crossed on a black ground. The ship was sailing straight toward an enemy three-master.

“They will not repel the trolls’ attack,” said Emerelle in a firm voice.

Nuramon looked to the distant flames. Victory had seemed so close.

Over and over, the queen swirled her fingers through the water, and each time, a new location on the battlefield was revealed. The battle was far from won. The trolls had turned the tide, to be sure, and the enemy’s retreat was cut off, but all the Tjured needed was one of the powerful sorcerer priests to swing the fight in their favor again.

“Let us see who the leader of our enemy is,” said the queen, looking to the west. “Which ship is it likely to be?” A veritable forest of masts filled the fjord. On most of the priests’ ships, the sails had been furled. They would only get in the way in a battle where outmaneuvering the enemy played no part.

Mandred pointed at one of the few ships with its sails still set. “The three-master there.”

The queen dipped her fingers in the water again, and a new image formed. It showed the bridge of a ship, and on the bridge stood a priest. The queen’s hand recoiled in shock.

“Does he have the same power?” Obilee asked.

“No. Much worse . . .” Her voice sank to a whisper. “By the Alben. So you have returned.”

“Who is it?” asked little Yulivee.

Before Emerelle could answer, Mandred spoke up. “I know those blue eyes.”

Nuramon knew them, too. The man was tall and powerfully built. He had long blond hair and wore the dark-blue robes that the Tjured priests even in Guillaume’s day had worn.

“It is the Devanthar,” the queen breathed.

“By Luth,” Mandred muttered, and his grip tightened on his axe.

Hate stood in Obilee’s eyes, and in Nomja’s was fear. The only one who did not know what the queen’s words signified was Yulivee. She looked at those standing around her.

In that moment, Nuramon understood how and why the Tjured faith had changed so much over the centuries. How, from a religion that preached love and whose priests were healers, a faith could develop whose ordained knights subdued kingdom after kingdom and hunted down anything foreign with unbridled hate. Now this church had shown its true face.

Another man stepped up beside the Devanthar. It was a priest wearing a mask of gold that showed a familiar face.

“There,” Mandred exclaimed.

Obilee drew back. “No . . . that is Noroelle’s face.”

“Guillaume,” Nuramon breathed.

“So that is our adversary,” said Emerelle. “It all makes sense now. The soldiers in Aniscans, the lies about Guillaume’s death, the power of the priest. All of that is written in the eyes of the Devanthar, as clearly as an Alben rune.” Emerelle leaned forward, as if she wanted to look at something more closely. Nuramon noticed that her hands were shaking. “Look. In its hand. An Albenstone. By the glory of the Alben. It’s planning something big.”

Nuramon gazed at the stone. It was not the fire opal from the djinns’ crown, but a translucent, golden, precious stone with five veins running through it: a chrysoberyl the size of a fist.

Everything fit. The Devanthar commanded the Tjured priests. Nuramon thought of all the new paths that crisscrossed Fargon and had their center in the kingdom’s capital, Algaunis. The demon was exploiting the humans to take revenge on the Albenkin for the obliteration of the Devanthar. And the humans in Fargon and all the other enslaved kingdoms believed they were serving Tjured.

The queen threw back her cape and unclasped a small pouch at her hip. From inside the pouch, she took out a gray stone.

A shiver of reverence ran through Nuramon. For the first time, he was seeing the Albenstone of the queen, the artifact whose power could fulfill his deepest desire. Reilif had been right. The furrows on Emerelle’s stone all crossed. The stone was rough and emanated a red glow from within, but Nuramon could not sense its power. The magic of the queen outshone it, and his senses were not finely developed enough to separate the power of the queen from that of the stone.

Emerelle turned to Yulivee. “You have to watch what I do now very closely, my child. Watch and learn.”

The Old Enemy

A
powerful hand reached for Farodin and nearly crushed his arm. The prince slammed into the side of the ship as the rope swung back, and the impact knocked the wind from his lungs. But he held Farodin tightly in his arms, almost like a mother with her child.

“Pull me up, you idiots,” Orgrim shouted angrily.

Farodin looked down and saw the oars beneath him churning the water. The galleass was moving backward, and with every stroke of the oars, they increased the distance between the
Grinder
and the floating streaks of oil.

Suddenly, there was a loud hissing sound, like the noise of a rampant dragon. A brilliant light blinded the elf. He jerked his arm up in front of his face to protect himself from the heat that clawed at him. Orgrim groaned.

Rough hands took hold of the elf. Still blinded, he felt himself being laid out on the deck. “Faster,” Orgrim growled. “Make them put their backs into it. Water down the decks.”

Blinking, Farodin opened his eyes. His face burned with pain. He sat up, dazed, and looked out over the water. Flaming arrows had hit the third caravel and ignited Balbar’s fire on and around it. The flames were so bright that it was impossible to look into them directly. The heat battered Farodin like dragon breath. He turned away.

Orgrim sat leaning against the railing. The old shaman was leaning over the prince, pressing at his face. His lips were split open, and blisters were already bubbling on his forehead. The prince smiled and showed his huge teeth. “I wish an elf could be reborn as a troll. A warrior like you would be the pride of our race.”

Farodin did not reply. Let Orgrim think what he wanted. The fact that the prince had saved his life changed nothing of the past. Orgrim embodied the soul of Aileen’s murderer. Whatever happened, he would never see anything in the troll but the warrior who had stolen the woman he loved from him.

The burns vanished beneath Skanga’s healing hands. The prince stretched and stood up to observe the battlefield. Five of the trolls’ ships had made it as far as the mass of caravels. Hundreds of troll warriors were swarming aboard the Tjured ships. They would fight their way through to the longships of the Fjordlanders.

Skanga stepped up to Farodin. She reached toward his face with skinny fingers. Farodin recoiled a little.

“You don’t look so good,” she croaked. “No more pretty face.” The shaman blinked. For the first time, the loathing had vanished from her eyes. “I offer my help once, only once.”

Farodin nodded, and her fingers probed his face. They felt cool, and the pain passed. He could feel his skin tightening again.

Suddenly, the old woman grasped at her chest. Her entire body began to shake. “It’s here,” she said breathlessly. “It’s using . . .” She threw her hands before her face and let out a piercing scream.

Farodin also felt a shooting pain behind his forehead. A prickling sensation ran across his skin, and he looked up to see the troll king’s flagship, half a mile away, bearing down on a large, three-mast caravel. But between the ships, a black cloud suddenly appeared on the water and grew rapidly. The strange apparition seemed to swallow all of the light around it. And it kept on growing. It was already half as big as the king’s ship.

Black fog spilled out of the darkness, sending long fingers trailing out over the sea.

“What do you see?” Skanga asked.

Farodin described what was happening. The water in front of the cloud churned, as if a powerful current was flowing there. Boldor’s ship was attempting to turn away from the bizarre manifestation. It had turned broadside to the cloud, but the surging current was drawing the ship back into the darkness. A rim of light appeared around the edge of one of the fingers of black fog. The darkness spread no farther, but also did not recede.

“Let me have your eyes,” rasped the shaman. “No one can see far away better than elves.”

Scrawny fingers closed around Farodin’s neck. The elf fought against them, but his strength instantly faded. His limbs felt heavy and powerless. His eyes . . . everything blurred. In the distance, all he could see was a shadow on the water.

He had an urge to rear up, to break free, but he did not have the strength to turn his thoughts into action. He looked down at himself in desperation. He could clearly see his fingers and the fine lines in his skin, but when he raised his eyes, the helmsman just a few paces away became no more than a vague outline.

“The corrupter is here,” the shaman hissed. Her clawed left hand searched among the amulets that hung from her neck. “The Devanthar. It has opened a gate into nothingness, into the emptiness between the splinters of the Shattered World. Emerelle is trying to stop it. But she isn’t strong enough. It . . . what power. It has an Albenstone.”

Skanga withdrew an elongated piece of jade, sweeping aside the raven feathers that had kept the stone hidden. Farodin saw five lines in the jade. They crossed to form a star. Did the old hag actually possess an Albenstone of her own? Was she the keeper of the greatest treasure of her race?

The jade glowed from the inside. Skanga began to intone an undulating chant made up of only single-syllable sounds.

Shouts of dismay came from the main deck. Farodin blinked helplessly. He could no longer see what was going on out there. “What’s happening?” he cried in despair. “Tell me, I can’t see anything.”

“Boldor’s ship was pulled into the darkness,” the prince answered quietly. “There’s a small caravel that got sucked in, too, and it’s disappearing. It looks like the sea is falling into a chasm.”

Farodin remembered how he and his companions had followed the glowing Albenpaths through the emptiness. He recalled the fear he felt, and the terrifying question of whether one’s soul would be lost forever if one died in there.

Skanga’s chant turned into a screech. Her grip on his neck slackened a little, but Farodin no longer had any will left to resist the shaman.

“Another galleass just disappeared,” said Orgrim. “Even from here, I can sense the pull of the abyss. The black fog is starting to dissipate. There’s a circle of light around the dark. The light and the darkness are fighting. Lightning is flashing through the darkness. The lightning is tearing pieces out of it. It’s melting away . . .”

The shaman was breathing heavily and released her grip on Farodin completely. Instantly, the elf could see everything clearly again. The black cloud on the water had vanished. “The gate is closed,” Skanga said. Farodin saw that the lines in her face had deepened. Exhausted, she had to support herself against the railing.

Jubilant cries reached them from the longships. The trolls had forced their way through to the defenders on the barricade and united with the humans and the elves.

“Victory,” cried Orgrim, thrusting his war hammer skyward. “Victory!”

From the mass of ships, individual caravels broke free, trying desperately to escape from the overwhelming trolls.

Below the cliffs on the west, an entire fleet of enemy ships was being brought about and making for open water. Among the fleeing ships, Farodin saw the flagship, but the trolls from the king’s unit were already close. With their salvos of stones, they were destroying every ship that came within range.

“I sense its fear,” came Skanga’s hoarse voice. “The queen has begun casting a spell that can kill it. It is the same magic the Alben once used to prevail over the Devanthar. It is trying to create a new star.”

Flaming arrows were fired from the escaping fleet of caravels. A wall of fire rose on the water, engulfing many ships.

Farodin was shaken. It no longer seemed to matter to them if their own comrades burned. The oarsmen on the trolls’ galleasses reversed oars, but two of their ships were still devoured by the flames. A breeze sent biting smoke across the waters. It stank of oil, burned flesh, and something else, something that was both foreign and familiar to the elf.

“Smell that, do you?” asked Skanga. “Brimstone. The smell of the deceiver.”

Farodin remembered where he had smelled it before. In the ice cave. Only there, the smell had not been as strong.

The troll prince swore enthusiastically at the enemy’s cowardly flight and cursed the Devanthar in words that not even Farodin had heard before.

“Be happy you have never stood eye to eye with it, Orgrim,” Skanga cautioned. “There is no more terrible foe. It is the master of deception. I can sense how it is opening a gate for its retreat even now. We have won. But who knows? It could be that it was only here to draw us into pursuing it and to lure us to our own ruin.”

Farodin pointed at the huge fleet around them. “To sacrifice all of this to tempt us into a pursuit? No. Nonsense. It came here to destroy Firnstayn and conquer the North. But it did not count on our alliance. And . . .” The elf hesitated. “It was the trolls who brought us victory in the end. Forgive me for doubting you.”

The old woman ignored his apology. “If you think you can see through the schemes and subterfuges of a Devanthar, then you are already caught in its net. A hundred ships and a few thousand human lives are nothing to it. Today we are the victors, but the fight has just begun.”