The Elven (14 page)

The Way into the Ice

M
andred pressed four rings of mail over a rusted nail in one of the ironbeards, the effigies of Firn.
Stuck-up pack of elves
, he thought. Of course, not one of them thought to sacrifice anything to the god of winter when they passed by one of the ironbeards, and now they were in trouble. The driving snow was coming down heavier, and they still had not found the cave.

“Coming, Mandred?”

Mandred glared at Farodin, climbing ahead. He was the worst of them. There was something sinister about that one. Mandred thought he was too quiet sometimes, as were men who had something to hide. But Mandred made sacrifice for him, too. “Forgive them, Firn,” he whispered and made the sign of the protecting eye. “They come from a place where it’s spring in the middle of winter. They don’t know any better.”

Mandred rose to his feet, only to have to support himself on the shaft of his boar spear a moment later. He had to catch his breath. Never before had he been so high in the mountains. They had left the tree line behind hours earlier, and all around there was nothing but rock and snow. When the sky was clear, they could see they were close to Splitbeard and Troll’s Head, two peaks from which, even in the hottest summers, the snow never disappeared completely. They were so close to the gods that even a slight exertion left them short of breath. This place had not been created for humans.

Mandred reached for the reins of his mare. She seemed unaffected by the cold and, of course, did not need to trample a path through the deep snow. It made no difference how brittle the crust on the old snow was, she—like the two wolves and the elves—never broke through. They let him go ahead as pacesetter. Without him, they would no doubt have made twice the progress.

Mandred pressed ahead defiantly into the icy wind. The snow pricked his face like needles of bone. He squinted and did what he could to protect his eyes with his hand. He hoped the weather would not get any worse.

They were working their way up a long glacier, bordered on the left by steep walls of rock. High overhead, the winter storm howled among the crags.
Hopefully, that’s just the storm howling up there
, thought Mandred uneasily.
They say there are trolls here in winter
.

He turned and looked back at the elves behind him. They seemed untroubled by the cold. They must have cast some spell to protect themselves, but he would not grumble, and god forbid that he should ask the elves for anything.

Darkness was quickly gaining on them. They would have to stop soon. The danger of slipping into a crevasse in the glacier was too great in this gloom. The damned weather. Mandred ran a hand over his forehead nervously. His eyebrows were crusted with snow. He had to convince them that it made no sense to keep searching now. Even if they didn’t fall into a crevasse, they could easily walk right past the cave without seeing it.

Suddenly, he stopped. He smelled something foul, and it reminded him of the reek of the beast. He squinted into the flurrying snow. Nothing. Had he imagined it?

One of the wolves let out a long howl.

The beast was here. Very close. Mandred dropped the reins and wrapped his hands around the shaft of the boar spear. Just ahead, a shadow appeared through the snow.

“For Aigilaos!” he cried, charging.

Only at the last second did he realize what was standing there in the snow. Another ironbeard. But this one, unlike the others, was not facing higher up the glacier. It was turned to the wall of rock. Narrow stone steps carved into the rock led upward. They were far too narrow for the horses to climb.

“That’s it,” said Vanna as she came beside Mandred and pointed up the path. “Many Albenpaths cross somewhere up there. They form an Albenstar.”

“An Albenstar?” Mandred asked.

“A place of power, a place where two or more Albenpaths cross.”

Mandred was far from certain what she was talking about. Probably the paths once followed by the Alben. But what business did they have in Luth’s cave? Had they come to pay homage to the god?

“I have felt the presence of the paths for hours,” Vanna said. “If seven paths cross at this place, then we will find a gate there.”

The warrior looked at the elf in surprise. “A gate? But there’s neither house nor tower there. It’s a cave.”

Vanna smiled. “If you say so.”

Farodin turned to the blanket that was strapped behind his saddle. He withdrew a second sword and slung the belt around his hips. Brandan’s sword. Then he rolled the blanket out and threw it over the stallion’s back.

“The horses will find a place out of the wind and wait for us for as long as they can stand the cold,” said Vanna. She scratched the smaller of the two wolves between the ears and talked reassuringly to it. “You stay here and protect the horses from trolls.” She winked at Mandred.

The others followed Farodin’s lead and threw blankets over the horses.

They’re probably not half as cold as me
, thought Mandred angrily. He patted his mare’s nostrils. She looked at him with her dark eyes in a way that Mandred did not like. Did she know something about his fate? Horses shouldn’t be able to look so sad.

“We’ll slit the beast’s belly and get out again as fast as we can. It’s far too cold to dawdle here,” said Mandred, spurring his own courage.

The mare pressed her soft muzzle into his hand and snorted gently.

“Ready to go?” asked Vanna quietly.

Instead of answering, Mandred headed for the rock wall. The weathered steps had been chiseled directly into the gray stone. Mandred made his way up with care. Ice crackled underfoot. He put his left hand against the stone to help keep his footing. The steps became narrower the higher he went until there was hardly enough room to set a single boot.

Mandred was gasping for air when he finally reached the top of the stone steps. In front of him opened a ravine, its walls so close that it was barely wide enough for two men side by side.

He cursed silently. The manboar had chosen this place carefully. Only one of them at a time could face him there. Far along the ravine, a reddish light flickered, making the overhanging snow on the rocks above look like frozen blood. Mandred made the sign of the protecting eye again. Then he moved ahead slowly. The thin air was heavy with smoke. Somewhere ahead, sappy spruce wood was burning. The smell would cover even the stink of the manboar. “Vile beast,” Mandred muttered.

The manboar had surprised them at every turn. It seemed almost as if it could make itself invisible. All that truly betrayed its presence was its smell. Mandred moved forward cautiously. High above him, a huge block of stone was wedged between the walls, framing the path like a lintel over a door. Is that what Vanna meant when she talked about a gate?

Pebbles clattered down from one of the rock walls, and Mandred lifted his boar spear in alarm. Far above him, something was climbing along the inside of the ravine, but in the darkness, he could not make it out.

He moved faster now. The narrow ravine gradually widened and dropped into a small basin. A dark mouth opened in a rocky wall, not a hundred steps away. The Cave of Luth. The valley floor here was littered with large chunks of rock. A fire crackled next to the mouth of the cave.

“Come out and surrender,” Mandred called as he lifted the boar spear in both hands over his head in challenge. “We’re here.” His voice rang from the rock walls all around.

“He will only show himself when we are where he wants us to be,” said Farodin grimly. The elf twisted free the brooch that held his cloak closed and let the garment fall.

Mandred considered doing the same with his heavy fur coat. It might restrict his movement in a battle, but it was simply too cold to disrobe. And if necessary, he could take it off in an instant with one hand.

Farodin strode ahead. He dodged between the rocks scattered over the valley floor with catlike grace.

“Stay together,” Mandred ordered. “We can defend ourselves better.”

Vanna wore her fear openly. Her eyes were wide, and the spear in her hands shook.

Nuramon was the last to come into the basin. The remaining wolf walked close beside him. It had its ears back and held its head low.

“Is there anything else you can tell us about the Devanthar, sorceress?” said Mandred.

“No one knows much,” said Vanna. “In the old stories, the descriptions are always different. Sometimes they were like dragons, sometimes like shadowy ghosts or huge snakes. It’s said that they can change their form, but I’d never heard of a manboar before.”

“That doesn’t help much,” Mandred muttered, clambering down into the basin.

Farodin waited for them at the fire, where a large pile of firewood was stacked—splintered tree trunks and branches of green spruce. The elf pushed one of the branches aside to reveal a log of dark wood. Mandred had to look twice to realize what it was.

“The Devanthar doesn’t seem to think much of your gods.”

Mandred dragged the carved image out from among the branches. It was one of the ironmen, this one an image of Luth himself. Many of the things sacrificed to it had been broken out of the wood, leaving deep notches. In disbelief, Mandred ran his fingers over the disfigured statue. “It will die,” he murmured. “Die! No one scorns our gods and goes unpunished.” He turned to Farodin. “Did you see it?”

The elf raised Brandan’s sword and pointed to the cave. “I suspect it is waiting for us in there.”

Mandred spread his arms wide and looked up to the night sky. “Gods of heaven and earth, give us the strength to be your avenging arm. Norgrimm, turner of battles, help me destroy my enemy.” He turned to the cave. “And you, manboar, fear my wrath. I will feed your liver to the ravens and the dogs.”

Mandred stalked toward the cave, making the sign of the protective eye one last time. The mouth in the wall opened into a tunnel that turned off sharply to the left and quickly opened into a cave bigger than the banquet hall of a king and stunningly beautiful.

In the middle of the cave was a large boulder. The cave floor in front of it was black with soot.
This must be where Luth sat at his fire
, thought Mandred reverently.

Shimmering ice gleamed on the walls. Behind the ice were uncountable lights, like small flames, that rose all the way to the roof of the cave where their light reflected in hundreds of icicles. It was as bright in the cave as a meadow on a summer’s day.

Stone columns came down among the icicles hanging from the roof of the cave and melted into massive shafts rising from the floor. Mandred had never seen anything like it. It looked to him as if the rock here could grow as icicles grew from the roofs of the longhouses. This was truly a place of the gods.

Behind him came the three elves. They looked around, obviously as impressed as Mandred. “I sense only five,” said Vanna.

Mandred followed her gaze. They were the only ones here. “Five what?”

“Five Albenpaths cross here. For one schooled in the magic, a way between the worlds opens here. One who starts his journey at such a place will not lose his way, but this gate is sealed. I doubt that we could open it.”

Mystified, Mandred looked at the elf. He didn’t understand a word she’d said. Elven mumbo jumbo.

“That is as it should be. You are not supposed to open it. Your journey ends here.”
The voice resounded in Mandred’s head. The jarl swung around in alarm. The beast was standing in the cave entrance behind them. It looked even bigger than it had the night he first encountered it, and its massive frame was stooped.

The head of the Devanthar was the head of a wild boar, covered with black bristles. Only its blue eyes did not look like an animal’s. They sparkled, mocking them. Tusks as long and lethal as daggers jutted from its jaws.

The beast’s torso was that of a powerful man, but its arms were longer than any man’s and hung almost to its knees. Its legs were an amalgam of human legs and the back legs of a boar, and they ended in large cloven hooves.

It spread its hands and talons extended from its fingertips. Mandred felt sick at the sight. The manboar
had
changed. When it had attacked him and his three companions that night in the clearing near Firnstayn, its claws had not been so long.

The wolf let out a long, low growl. It had its ears back and its tail tucked between its legs, but its teeth were bared.

The manboar tipped its head back and let out a spine-chilling bellow that started low and grew higher and louder until it became a shrill scream.

Vanna pressed her hands to her ears and fell to her knees. Was this some kind of magic? Mandred took a step toward the manboar, and a chunk of ice fell at his feet. He knew what was happening in an instant. Looking up, he saw hundreds of icicles break from the roof of the cave, a rain of crystal daggers.

Mandred threw his arms over his head. The cave filled with the noise of shattering ice. Something grazed his forehead, and an icicle as big as his arm hit the floor in front of him and exploded. He felt smaller pieces pelting his back, then something hit him hard on his head.

Vanna lay curled on the floor of the cave. An ice dagger had pierced her through the thigh. Her deer-leather trousers were soaked in blood. Nuramon had been hit on the head. He was leaning against one of the stone columns, dazed, rubbing his forehead. Only Farodin seemed unscathed.

“Enough games.” The elf drew his swords and held one of them high. “Do you recognize this blade? The man who owned it is dead, but it will strike you. I will cut the life out of you with it.”

Instead of answering, the manboar charged into the cave. Vanna tried to crawl out of its way, but the creature was on her in a heartbeat. A backhand blow sent her sprawling, and she did not move. Then the beast kicked a hoof down on her. Her skull cracked like a clay wine cask dropped on a stone.

With a piercing cry, Nuramon threw himself at the monster, his sword raised high. The Devanthar reacted with astonishing speed. Swinging to one side, it evaded Nuramon’s stroke. One of its taloned hands tore the elf’s cloak to tatters.