The Elven (74 page)

The queen was sitting on her stone, which put her almost at eye level with Wengalf. “Then we have to try to find the right words to reconcile our differences,” she replied.

“There is only one path that leads in that direction.”

“I know. And I can only tell you the same as I told King Orgrim. A new Albenmark will exist once this final danger has been banished for all time. In the new Albenmark, there will be enough room for troll kings and elven queens and also for the king of the dwarves.”

“If that is the future, then count us as your allies,” Wengalf said and looked to Thorwis. The wizard stepped up beside him. “We will help you with your magic.”

Thorwis produced a stone from the folds of his robe. It was a quartz crystal through which five black threads were drawn. The Albenstone of the dwarves. “Thank you for keeping your vow,” the wizard said.

“I did not tell anyone that you had a stone, though I admit that I made some insinuations when I knew that you would come.”

“What is your plan, Emerelle?” Wengalf asked then.

The queen repeated what she had said before, that they would use one spell to cut off the land on the far side of the Shalyn Falah and a second to separate Albenmark from the Other World permanently. Thorwis and Wengalf listened closely to the queen’s words. “So shall it be,” Wengalf said when she was finished. “My army will stand on the right flank between the end of the gorge and the forest, unless the land has changed in the meantime.”

“It is still as you remember it to be. The humans are coming in vast numbers, though you will not have to fight alone.” The queen looked past the dwarves. “Mandred,” she called.

The jarl stepped forward, and the dwarves looked at him with curiosity. Nuramon had told them about Mandred.

“We need the Mandridians in this fight. You must go and rouse them for tomorrow’s battle.”

Mandred nodded gravely. “I will do it, Emerelle.”

“Farodin,” said the queen now, and Nuramon’s companion stepped forward and bowed. “You will defend the Shalyn Falah at the side of Ollowain and Giliath. You will lead my bodyguard. From now, they will take their orders from you.” She looked across to Orgrim. “And the trolls will support you. They know what it means to carry out an assault on the bridge. When defenders and former attackers stand together, the Shalyn Falah will not fall.”

“I thank you, Queen,” said Farodin flatly.

Emerelle turned and looked at Nuramon. “And now to you. I want you to lead the elves who will fight side by side with the dwarves.”

“Lead?” asked Nuramon.

“Sword fighters and riders from Alvemer as well as Nomja’s archers will be under your command, and the fighters of your own clan, too.”

“I thank you, Emerelle,” Nuramon heard himself say, though he did not see himself as a leader. Farodin was cut from that cloth, perhaps. Or Obilee, Ollowain, Giliath. He was not the right one to carry such responsibility.

The queen returned her attention to Wengalf. “If it pleases you, Wengalf . . . king of Aelburin. Take the place reserved for you in this gathering. Then the circle of fate will be closed, and we will be ready to face the storm that will end this age.”

Silence settled as the king of the dwarves, with Thorwis and Alwerich, walked back to the stone opposite the queen. There he stopped and looked around at the company. He gave Alwerich a sign, and as the king sat upon the stone, Alwerich drove the end of the pole with the banner into the ground with all his might.

A wave of jubilation swept through the camp, something Nuramon had seldom heard among the Albenkin. The elves cheered, the centaurs brayed, the trolls roared, and Mandred . . . Mandred roared, too.

The Living Ancestor

L
iodred’s body was laid out atop a carriage hung with white cloths. Fifty centaurs formed a guard of honor for the fallen king of Firnstayn. Mandred felt good to be at the side of the rough-and-ready centaurs, although the news about his people filled him with profound sadness. Few had voluntarily renounced the old gods to take up allegiance to Tjured. In retaliation, the knights had butchered entire villages. Emerelle had promised all of the people of the Fjordlands a safe haven in Albenmark. Mounted elves and trolls were dispatched to escort the refugees, but thousands had died in snowstorms and avalanches in the high passes. Those who survived the flight from the Fjordlands were led into the Lamiyal Valley, some ten miles from Emerelle’s palace. The queen and Ollowain had warned Mandred; the morale of the people was in tatters. They were starved and emaciated, and all the miseries of the past had left their mark. No more than two hundred were in any shape to take part in the forthcoming battle.

When the jarl reached the top of the rise above the valley, his heart grew heavy. Down below, a vast number of refugees was camped. They still had no more than a few tents, and the people had to sleep on the ground in the open air. The smoke from hundreds of campfires hung over the meadows like a dark bell.

The people stared at Mandred as he made his way down the hill toward them. They did not know him. How could they? No one in the elven camp could or would tell him how many centuries they had lost in the Devanthar’s trap. It made no difference anyway. The only thing that mattered was that they repel the attack the following day. But when Mandred looked at this desperate multitude, he could not say if it would do any good for them to take part in the fight. The sight of the children hurt him the most. Hollow-cheeked and with sunken eyes, haggard from their flight, they stood at the edge of the road and watched as the centaurs and the magnificent white carriage drew closer. Some laughed and even waved, although they were so weak they could barely stand up. What kind of monsters were the Tjured priests to drive even children to their deaths?

In the middle of the refugee camp stood a tent made of threadbare green canvas. At its entrance stood a giant of a warrior. He wore blackened armor and supported himself on a huge axe. His face was sullen, and he eyed Mandred with cold blue eyes. “So you’re the one the elves sent to pretend he’s our ancestor.”

The jarl swung from the saddle and checked an urge to punch the guard in the mouth. “Where do I find the king? I am bringing him his armor.”

“Your friends have instructed you poorly. The king lies dead up on the Hawk Pass. He took a stand there with a hundred men against the priests to buy our women and children a few more hours to escape.”

Mandred’s anger at the warrior evaporated. “Who has the command in his place?”

“Queen Gishild.”

“May I meet with her? Queen Emerelle has sent me. I . . . I’ve just come from Firnstayn. I saw everything.”

The guard stroked his moustache and creased his forehead. “No one has made it through the Tjured lines for days. How did you do it?”

“One of my companions opened an Albenpath,” Mandred replied.

A deep furrow cut across the warrior’s brow. He looked at the white carriage. “Why have you brought this wagon with you?”

“King Liodred lies upon it. He died at my side.”

The guard’s eyes widened suddenly in surprise, and he dropped to one knee. “Forgive me, Ancestor. I . . . no one believed anymore that the old prophecy would still be fulfilled. We . . .”

Mandred grasped the warrior by the arm and pulled him to his feet again. “I don’t like it when men kneel in front of me. You were right to be suspicious. I am proud that there are still men like you from the Fjordlands. What is your name?”

“I am Beorn Torbaldson, Ancestor.”

“I would be glad to have you at my side in tomorrow’s battle, Beorn.” Mandred noticed how the soldier’s mouth tightened, as if to hold down a sudden pain. “The king sent you down from the Hawk Pass, didn’t he?”

A muscle in the guard’s cheek twitched a little. “Yes,” he said, his lips barely parted.

“I don’t know what kind of man my heir was, Beorn. All I can tell you is what I would have done in his place. I would have chosen my bravest and most loyal soldier to take my wife to safety. And should I ever hear that anyone calls you a coward because you’re not lying there for the crows beside your king in the Hawk Pass, then I will beat him until he recognizes the truth. Ride tomorrow at my left. You should know that I hate to carry a shield. Be a shield for me.”

The warrior’s eyes gleamed. “No shield could protect you as I will.”

“I know it,” Mandred said and smiled. “May I see the queen now?”

Beorn disappeared for a moment into the tent, then came the voice of a woman. “Come in, Mandred Torgridson, ancestor of my clan.”

The walls of the tent reduced the sunshine to a green twilight. The furnishings of the tent were spartan. There was a narrow cot, a small table, two iron-studded chests, and a beautifully carved reclining chair with a high footstool, the only luxury in there. Gishild was a young woman. Mandred guessed she was in her mid-twenties, no older. Her features were fine, but her skin uncommonly pale. Red hair, unfastened, fell to her shoulders. She wore a dark-green vest tightly belted over a white shirt. Gishild was sitting in the chair, her feet on the footstool. She had wrapped a thin blanket around her legs. On the table at her side, within easy reach, lay a thin dagger.

Gishild made no move to stand when Mandred entered. She dismissed Beorn with the slightest of gestures. “So now you come after all, Ancestor,” she said bitterly. “We hoped so much that you would come when they first breached Firnstayn’s walls. Or perhaps on the night my husband led a sortie against the knights’ camp in a snowstorm so that the survivors in the city could flee into the mountains. I even prayed to Luth when we were in the Hawk Pass, hoping that you would come at last. But you have arrived now, and now is too late. There is no land left for your people to fight for. We are refugees, beggars among strangers, dependent on Emerelle’s alms. And the way things look, not even the elves are able to break the power of the priests. The burned oak casts its shadow even into the heartland now.”

Mandred took a deep breath. What was he supposed to say to her? How hard it had been to have to stand in the Devanthar’s lair and watch helplessly as his own people fought a desperate war? “I can’t make what has happened go away. And there will be no way for us to return to our homeland, but Emerelle has promised that she will allow us our own kingdom in Albenmark. We will only have to fight one more time, and the Tjured priests will be repelled once and for all. Emerelle is going to seal all of the gates to Albenmark, and no priest will ever get through again to torture and murder even a single Fjordlander for staying true to the old gods.”

Gishild looked at him with tired eyes. “I have heard of too many final battles, Ancestor.” She pointed to the entrance of the tent. “You can see for yourself what has become of your people. They have lost all hope. All of the defeats have destroyed their pride.”

“We will give them courage again. This afternoon, I will bury Liodred. Then I want to speak to the people. Please stand beside me. I am sure they still look up to you, Gishild.”

“I will never stand beside anyone again.” Gishild threw back the blanket, and Mandred saw two inflamed stumps smeared with black pitch. Both her feet had been amputated just above her ankles.

“Not a word of sympathy. This is nothing,” she hissed. “My son froze to death in my arms in the Hawk Pass. I could not give him enough warmth . . .” She faltered. “A pair of frozen feet are nothing compared to that pain. I . . . I don’t want to look into an open grave ever again, Ancestor.
I
am an open grave. And in that, I am a mirror of your people.”

Mandred stared in bewilderment at her mutilated legs. “You could have asked the elves for help. Their magic is powerful. They would have—”

“Was I supposed to call one of their healers from the bed of a sick child? We brought more misery with us than their magical powers could deal with.”

Mandred felt utterly powerless. What could he possibly say to this embittered woman? Words of hope must ring like mockery in her ears. If only he had returned earlier. He bowed to her. “With your permission, I will withdraw and prepare King Liodred’s grave.”

“Wait, Ancestor.” She signaled to him to step closer. “Kneel down beside me.”

Surprised, he obeyed.

Gishild lowered her voice to a whisper. “I heard how you spoke to Beorn. Since that day on the Hawk Pass, he has been a broken man. You have given him back his courage. Take Alfadas’s armor and wear it when you speak to your people at the grave of Liodred. Perhaps you will manage after all to stir up a spark of courage among the ashes of our sadness. I don’t have that strength, Mandred Torgridson. But I know there are some still hoping for the return of the living ancestor. Talk to them. You are right . . . it cannot be that after all these centuries of friendship, the banner of Firnstayn does not fly at the side of the elves in the final battle. Spare our people that shame.”

Two Swords and Memories

N
uramon stood in the chamber of Gaomee. The queen had allowed him to use it one last time. He had been more than surprised to find an image of himself on the wall. Any man or woman who spent the night before the elfhunt in this chamber also had a scene dedicated to them in the frieze covering the room’s interior, but Nuramon was not prepared to see his own face on the wall. What amazed him most of all was the way that he had been depicted. He was standing, holding his two swords in his hands and threatening a shadow that enclosed a golden stone: the Devanthar with its Albenstone. Either the painting had been completed sometime after the sea battle or the queen could indeed see very far into the future.

Nuramon scrutinized the lines of his own face in the image. He saw the visage of a courageous elf, capable of facing any danger, but still with something grim in his expression. The elf pictured there was no doubt a good leader. The only question was whether Nuramon would be able to do justice to the image the next day. The day not yet over would not necessarily lead anyone to that conclusion. It had been a hard day, not least because his memory was still confused.

He had passed on a great deal of responsibility to Nomja, and in so doing, he had not even met with her in person, instead communicating with her via messenger. She was in the camp on the right flank, a good five-hour march from the palace. She and Wengalf had discussed the deployment of the troops, and Nuramon had put everything into her hands.

Instead of commanding, he sat in this chamber and tried to think. His clan had visited him, to help equip him for the battle ahead. At his wish, they had given him a suit of plate armor, fashioned after Gaomee’s dragon armor. A short time later, he had said his farewells to them, not least because there was no one among them whom he knew from earlier times. Old Elemon had gone into the moonlight many, many years before, and even the younger of his relatives, like Diama, were long gone. Among her descendants, Nuramon had become a legend. What disappointment they would feel the next day if the great Nuramon—the Nuramon who, with his companions, had defeated a Devanthar—rode into battle like any other elf and nothing happened to elevate him above the rest.

He had to smile. Back then, the first time he had been in this chamber, his clan’s antipathy toward him had hurt. Now he found it uncomfortable that they should meet him with awe and recognition. That could not be true. His returning memory told him that he was no stranger to such recognition. He had experienced it before, especially among the dwarves, but that had all been in another life.

Slowly, slowly, his memories rearranged themselves. It would not be much longer before he could reassemble the individual stones of the mosaic. Right now, there was simply too much that he had to try to understand. He could recall, once, being in love with an elf woman named Ulema. From their love had come a child, and they had named the child Weldaron. This was the name of the founder of their clan. Was he, Nuramon, then the father of Weldaron? He could not believe that was true.

He was also confused by all the feelings he had once held for Emerelle, feelings she had never been able to return. No doubt there were many elves who saw Emerelle and dreamed secretly of her love. There was no woman for whom more love poems or songs of courting had been composed than for the queen of the elves.

The sound of footsteps outside the door provoked a memory of the night before the elfhunt rode out. Nuramon turned around. He had an idea who was coming to visit him. As the door opened and he saw Emerelle, he knew that he had not been mistaken. The queen had come to him, as she had the night that everything had begun for him. And as she had then, she wore the gray robe of a sorceress, and her dark blond hair swelled gently over her shoulders. He looked into her pale-brown eyes and found there the same shine as on that night so long ago.

She closed the door behind her and smiled at him, as if waiting for some stirring of emotion in him.

“Emerelle,” he said and looked at her for a long time. “It is no accident that you come to me now, is it?”

“No. Nothing that we say or do happens by accident. This is where the circle closes, Nuramon, father of Weldaron and son of Valimee and Deramon.”

As the queen spoke the names of his first parents, his memory of them returned. His father had been a soldier, his mother a sorceress. They had gone into the moonlight when they were still young, but they had loved him as only the first of the Albenkin had loved their sons and daughters. “Am I that old?” he asked.

The queen nodded. “I have known for a long time that a momentous fate would be yours one day. At that time, you were one of my companions in arms. We met for the first time in Ischemon, in battle against the sun dragons. There was no queen then. I was still searching for my own destiny, and we went to the Oracle of Telmareen together. And you know what she said.”

Nuramon remembered everything the queen talked about. Her words were like a magic formula, restoring his memory chapter by chapter, bringing back everything he had ever felt. He suddenly saw the illuminated form of the oracle again, and her voice rang in his ears still: “Choose your kinfolk for yourself. Pay no heed to your reputation. Everything you are is within you.”

The queen now stood directly in front of him, and her gaze shifted back and forth between his eyes. “In those days, there were few rules. We had to make them for ourselves, and that is why, your whole life, you have always found it hard to live by the rules of others. Do you remember what I said to you before you took your last breath?”

He had been wounded, then, by the burning light of a sun dragon. Now he recalled Emerelle’s words and spoke them: “‘At the oracle, I saw you and the mighty child.’ Yulivee. You saw Yulivee back then?”

“Yes. And ever since, I knew that you would lead her to me one day, but I did not know when. So I learned to be patient. I had to wait so long and do things and say things that did not come from the heart, but everything I said the night before the elfhunt was the truth. I had to keep some things to myself, of course, as the oracles tend to do. But now you should hear the truth as you have not heard it before. Come.” She took him by the hand and led him across to the stone bench, where they sat down. “I cannot feel what you now feel, for I have never died. My memories are those of a single long life, but I know that it is not easy to come to terms with everything you are experiencing. To be able to comprehend it all, you have to grow. And that is one of your strengths.” She let go of his hand and pointed up to the ceiling, to the image of Gaomee. “Before the elfhunt, when I chose to give you the great Gaomee’s room, I chose with care. I was aware that you had a long journey ahead of you. It was the right time to give you her sword, but I did not tell you everything about the weapon.” Emerelle stood up and moved across to Nuramon’s bed, where she picked up his two swords. Then she returned to his side and slid Gaomee’s short sword from its sheath. “The dwarves must have told you something about this blade.”

“They told me it had been forged by a dwarf named Teludem for an elf.” A suspicion rose within Nuramon and he asked, “Was the sword perhaps given to me at one time?”

“No. The dwarves gave it to
me
. They said they would go into the Other World to search for a realm in which Wengalf could remain king. It was a time in which I was not able to tolerate anyone beside me, so that what will now happen would be able to. We separated in anger, but Wengalf is no fool. He presented me with the sword and said that I should send it to him when I was ready to respect him as king.”

“The dwarves did not tell me anything about that,” Nuramon replied.

“I gave the sword to Gaomee because she came from the family line whose destiny it was to reconcile with the dwarves.” The queen seemed to be waiting for Nuramon to speak.

Suddenly, it was clear to Nuramon what she was saying. “Gaomee came from my clan?”

“She not only came from your clan. She was your daughter.”

The revelation hit Nuramon like a sudden blow. Gaomee was his daughter. “I don’t remember her.”

“You had been dead for quite some time when Diyomee gave birth.”

“Diyomee,” Nuramon breathed to himself. It had been an unfortunate love affair. Her father had hated him, and Nuramon’s rival had killed him in a duel.

“The family cast Diyomee out. So I decided to take her in with me. She gave birth to the child, gave her the name Gaomee, then went into the moonlight. I raised the newborn child. When I called her to the elfhunt, I sensed that it was right to entrust her with the short sword. I told her everything about her father, and she admired you for the things you did in Ischemon. Only like that could she defeat the dragon Duanoc.”

“But I was reborn. Why didn’t she come to me?”

“She didn’t dare. She was afraid you might reject her. But before she found her own love and went into the moonlight, she returned the sword to me and told me that I should look after it for you and give it to you when the time was ripe. And I did that.” She returned Gaomee’s blade to its sheath. “You took the sword to the dwarves, and they soon realized how this age would end. They found out from Dareen when they would have to return to their ancient halls.” Emerelle now drew the long sword, Nuramon’s old weapon. “Thorwis and Wengalf were wise. They gave you your old sword, and when I saw that you had it, I knew that you had been among the dwarves. You were fate’s messenger, and with this weapon, you told me that the dwarves would come, and you reminded me of where this weapon came from.”

“You know that?” Nuramon asked in surprise.

“Don’t you remember?”

Nuramon pondered the sword. It had been at his side through a number of lives. His companions in arms had always taken it to his clan, where it had waited for him to be reborn. But where did it come from?

“Don’t worry,” said Emerelle, and she sheathed the sword again. “It was a gift from me. I once gave all of my companions a weapon.”

Nuramon could not remember receiving it, and it angered him that he could not.

The queen laid one hand on his shoulder. “Your memory will return. You will need time to rediscover everything. It is a very special journey you are on, very different from the one you have experienced so far. Approach it like the dwarves do. Remember my words until you remember yourself.”

Nuramon gazed at the weapon that lay beside the queen. “Then the magic in this sword is your magic.”

Emerelle laughed. “I was a different person then, in the same way that Yulivee used to be someone else. Even the Devanthar would not have recognized the magic of your sword.”

Nuramon looked down at the floor. The things the queen was telling him were opening a thousand gateways in his memory, and he did not know through which of them he was supposed to step first. Emerelle was right; it was a journey. She was leading him into forgotten realms. “Where do I go from here?” he asked. “I feel lost, like I’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere along my long path.”

“My words should provide you with at least a little solid ground,” she replied. “They are meant to show you that you are more than you believe yourself to be and that you can be so much more than you have ever dreamed.”

The queen was speaking as if he faced no dangers, as if the way ahead were free of stumbling blocks. “Will I die tomorrow?” he asked.

Emerelle raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Nuramon, you know I would not tell you that even if I knew. The outcome of a battle is never clear, even for me. Fate can change too often in something like that. Too many swords, too many arrows, too many movements make it impossible to see the end of everything. I cannot even be sure that we will save Albenmark. All I know is what
should
be. And that I have to keep to myself, because otherwise it cannot happen. But I know why you ask. You fear that you and Farodin might both die.”

“Yes. And then Noroelle would be lost and I would be born into a new life in which I would remember her bitter fate without ever being able to do anything for her. Why are you unable to overturn your verdict? Why must the spell to separate Albenmark from the Other World be cast straight after the first spell?”

“Because I saw my own death if we only cut off the land beyond the Shalyn Falah,” Emerelle said. She turned away and stared into nothing. “An arrow finds me, and then the spell can never again be cast. But the Tjured priests will open other gates into Albenmark if we don’t separate our world from theirs.” She blinked and turned back to Nuramon. “Noroelle has to stay where she is so that I can live, but don’t think I am acting out of selfishness. For me, all that matters is Albenmark. Even the queen knows sympathy, and suffers when she has to say and do things that contradict the wishes of her heart.” Emerelle laid her hand on his shoulder. “And my heart tells me that there has to be hope for Noroelle.” Her eyes shone. “And I promise you this. If Farodin and you should die tomorrow, I will entrust my throne to Yulivee and turn my back on Albenmark in your place.”

Nuramon had expected anything but that. “You would do that?” he asked.

The queen nodded. “Yes. Because in all the centuries of my destiny to come, it would be unbearable for me to live in a flourishing age and to see you and Farodin reborn. And I could no longer bear Obilee’s suffering either. It would be a debt I could not live with. So you see that there is still hope for Noroelle, if only we are victorious tomorrow.”

Nuramon took the queen’s hand in his and kissed it. “I thank you, Emerelle. I am no longer afraid of fighting tomorrow.” He looked at his two swords. “I would like to give you Gaomee’s sword, because you are right. This is where the circle closes.”

“No. Not for that sword. You have to hold on to it for now. It has fulfilled its purpose for Albenmark, but for you, it is a sign of the path ahead, which is not yet at its end.” She kissed him on his forehead in farewell, then stood up. “Survive the battle. Find Noroelle. Then you can give the sword away with an unburdened heart.” And with that, the queen left Gaomee’s chamber.