The Elven (34 page)

“Maybe I should try—”

“Our shadows,” Nuramon cried. “Look. Our shadows have disappeared.” He looked up to the sky. “The sun is gone. Wherever we are, it is not the world of humans.”

A high-pitched cry sounded in the sky above. Overhead, a falcon circled. It seemed to be observing them. After a while, it turned and flew away.

Farodin looked up to the sky, a radiant blue that paled slightly as it neared the horizon. No clouds, no sun. The elf closed his eyes and thought of water. The more he focused his thoughts on water, the drier his mouth felt. Then he could sense it. It was like being momentarily dunked into a fresh mountain spring.

“That way.” He pointed to a large dune on the horizon. “Before sundown . . .” He stopped and looked up to the sky again. “Before it gets dark, we’ll find water over there.”

Nuramon said nothing. He simply followed Farodin. Every step drained a little more of the energy they still had. They were so exhausted that they could no longer walk on top of the soft sand. Instead, like humans, they sank to the ankle with every step they took.

The dune they were walking toward seemed just as far off as when they started. Or was Farodin just imagining that? Did time stretch endlessly when there was no sun overhead to measure the passing hours? Had half an hour or half a day passed when the blue of the sky, finally, began to fade?

When they eventually reached the dune, they were on the verge of collapse. “How is Mandred?”

“Unwell,” Nuramon replied. He continued to set one foot in front of the other without stopping or looking up.

Farodin’s silence demanded more than any question.

“He’ll die before dawn.” Nuramon still did not look up. “Even if we find water, I don’t know if I can save him.”

Water
, thought Farodin. Water. He could feel it. It wasn’t far. He slogged onward. The dune was worse than the plain had been. With every step, they sank into the deep sand, but also slipped back a little, as if the dune was trying to fend them off, to prevent them from reaching its crest. A light wind drove the fine grains into their faces, burning their eyes.

When they finally reached the ridge, they were too drained to take any pleasure in what lay before them. It was a lake, its water a deep blue, fringed by thousands of palm trees. Strange halls stood close to the shore.

Only two low dunes still separated them from the oasis. They half trudged, half slipped down the back of the large dune they had just climbed. Their horses neighed high-spiritedly. Now it was the horses leading the elves, pulling them along as they held on to the reins. The beasts had scented the water.

Without warning, something slammed into the sand beside Farodin. He reflexively ducked to one side. A black-feathered arrow had just missed him, but he could not see the shooter anywhere. And the falcon was back, circling over their heads again.

Then the air was filled with a whirring sound, and a cloud of arrows came flying over the low dune ahead. They stabbed into the sand just a few steps in front of them, forming an almost perfectly straight line, like a border they were not allowed to cross.

When Farodin looked up again, riders had appeared above them on the crest of the dune. There were three dozen, at least. They were mounted on animals the elf had never seen before. With their long legs and strangely formed heads on top of curving necks, the beasts were so extremely ugly that it took his breath away. They had white fur and a large hump growing on their backs.

The riders wore long white cloaks. Their faces were veiled. Some carried sabers, others were armed with long spears with hand guards, from which colorful tassels dangled. But most striking of all were the leather shields they carried. They were shaped like a pair of giant spread butterfly wings and were just as brightly colored. The riders looked down at the two strangers and said nothing.

Finally, one of the riders separated from the troop. He skillfully steered the beast he rode down the dune and stopped behind the line of arrows.

“Envoys sent by Emerelle are not welcome here.” It was a woman’s voice, muffled by the speaker’s veil. She spoke Elvish.

Farodin and Nuramon looked at one another, dumbfounded. “Who is that?” asked Nuramon in a whisper.

The rider had obviously overheard his words, because she said, “We call ourselves the Free of Valemas. In this part of the Shattered World, Emerelle’s word carries no weight. You may spend one night here, outside the oasis. Tomorrow, we will take you back to the gate.”

“I am Farodin of Albenmark, of the Askalel clan,” Farodin replied angrily. “One of my companions is closer to death than life. I don’t know what grudge you carry against Emerelle, but I know one thing. If you don’t help us, then you are sacrificing the life of my friend to your wrath. And I swear I will avenge him in blood if he dies because of your neglect.”

The veiled rider looked up to the other warriors behind her. It was impossible for Farodin to see which of them might be the leader. They were almost identically attired. Neither did their weapons betray anything about their ranks. Finally, one of them raised an arm high in the air and let out a shrill whistle. The rider was wearing the heavily padded glove of a falconer. High overhead, the falcon responded with a shriek of its own. Then the bird folded its wings and dived, landing moments later on the outstretched hand.

As if this were a signal for peace, the woman nodded to them. “Come. But remember, you are not welcome here. I am Giliath of the Free, and if you want to start a fight with anyone, Farodin, then I hereby accept your challenge.”

The Free

T
he white-cloaked warriors gave them water. Then they surrounded the three companions and led them into the oasis. In the shadows of the palm trees, vegetable beds had been laid out and a kind of grain unfamiliar to Farodin had been planted. A network of narrow channels traversed the palm grove, and as they approached the lake, Farodin saw wooden bucket wheels.

Scattered among the trees stood small cob houses, their walls painted with complex geometric patterns. Looking at the houses, Farodin could see with how much care they had been built and were now maintained. There were no beams or windowsills that had not been painstakingly carved and decorated. But it was nothing compared with the magnificence that Valemas in Albenmark—although abandoned—still possessed. Its inhabitants had left many centuries earlier, and no one knew where they had gone. The people here had to be their descendants. Farodin looked around, taking in everything he could. He had been in old Valemas just once. Every house there was like a palace, and even the streets had been decorated with mosaics. It was said that the inhabitants of Valemas, in their pride, had once revolted against the queen. They would not tolerate anyone ruling over them. After countless disputes, they had finally turned their backs on Albenmark.

As things now appeared, the descendants of the people of Valemas had neither forgotten their resentment of the queen nor lost an ounce of their pride. The only difference was that they no longer lived in palaces. Along the lakeshore stood seven arching halls unlike any others Farodin had seen. They had been built from the curved trunks of palms, bent until they looked like the ribs of ships, and then anchored into the earth at both ends. Between the trunks stretched mats of elaborately woven reeds that formed the walls and ceilings of the halls.

When they reached the open square between these reed halls, Giliath made a sign for them to stop and dismount. Curious locals came from all directions: women draped in colorful robes and men who wore skirts. They stood silently and gazed at the new arrivals in mute hostility. Not even the children laughed.

Mandred was lifted from his horse and carried away. Farodin wanted to follow, but Giliath blocked his path. “You can trust us. We know what the desert does to careless travelers. If he can still be saved, he will be.”

“Why do you treat us with such contempt?” asked Nuramon.

“Because we don’t like Emerelle’s bootlickers,” Giliath replied. “Everyone in Albenmark defers to her. She smothers anything and anyone who is different. If you live there, you live in her shadow. She’s a tyrant who presumes the right to decide for herself what is right. And what is not. We know very well how you all try to ingratiate yourselves with her. You’re no more than the dust under her feet, you—”

“That’s enough, Giliath,” interrupted a sonorous male voice. A tall warrior stepped forward from the troop that had escorted them. On his hand, he carried the falcon; over its head he had slipped a colorful cap. He nodded his head in a brief greeting. “My name is Valiskar. I command the soldiers in our little society, and I am responsible for you as long as you remain our guests.” He looked fiercely at Farodin. “I remember your clan. The descendants of Askalel were always very close to the queen’s court, unless I’m mistaken?”

“I am not—”

Valiskar interrupted him. “Whatever you have to say you can say to the council. Know that in Valemas, decisions are not made by one person. Now follow me.”

He led them into the largest of the seven halls. Inside, almost a hundred elves had gathered. Some stood in small groups, conversing, but most of them were sitting on carpets along the side walls.

At the end of the hall, in front of a blue banner emblazoned with the horse of Valemas, sat a silver-haired elf. He had his hands folded in his lap and seemed to be deep in thought. As Farodin and Nuramon moved through the hall, silence settled over the large room and the remaining elves moved back to the walls. The closer they came to the silver-haired elf, the more clearly Farodin sensed the aura of power that surrounded him.

He only raised his head when they were standing directly in front of him. The irises of his eyes shimmered like amber. “Welcome to Valemas.” With a gesture, he indicated to them to sit before him on a carpet. Hardly had they sat when two young elves hurried over with a jug of water, clay cups, and a bowl of dried dates.

“I am Malawayn, the oldest among the people of this oasis. You must excuse our modest fare, but the days when we lived in excess are long gone. Now tell us why you have undertaken the long journey from Albenmark to Valemas.”

In turns, the two companions told the story of their travels and adventures. The longer they talked, the clearer it became to Farodin that the hostility they were met with at first was disappearing. Obviously, anyone who rebelled against Emerelle could count on unconditional hospitality in Valemas.

When they finally finished, Malawayn nodded. “The queen decides, and explains nothing. So has it always been. In my view, she has done the two of you and Noroelle a terrible injustice.” He looked at those assembled in the hall. “I believe I speak for all of us when I offer you our assistance in your search.”

There was no sound to be heard inside the large hall, no murmur of assent, and hardly anyone gave even the slightest nod or other gesture to confirm Malawayn’s words. Yet the difference from the mood when they arrived could not have been greater. Indeed, Farodin could still sense bitterness, melancholy, and anger, but he also felt that they had been accepted into the hearts of the gathered elves. Like them, he, too, was a victim of Emerelle.

“How can you sit there in peace with these strangers?” At the end of the hall, a young woman stood up. Farodin recognized her from her voice. It was Giliath, the veiled warrior woman who had spoken with them at the foot of the dune. It seemed she had joined the gathering late. She had exchanged her equipment and white robes for a simple wrap skirt and a short silken blouse. Now one could see her long dark-brown hair tied back in a braid. She was so fit and her body so well trained that one could more suspect than actually see that she had breasts. She was not pretty. Her chin was too angular, her nose too big, but she had full, sensual lips, and her green eyes glittered with passion when she pointed angrily at Farodin. “That one, not an hour ago, threatened blood revenge against our people if we did not bend to his will. We retreated to this place to escape Emerelle. We wanted our freedom, and now you tolerate an elf from her entourage who treats us with the same condescension as his queen? I insist on my right to teach him better manners with the sword.”

“Is it true that you threatened our people with blood revenge?” Malawayn asked, his voice cool.

“It was not like she said,” Farodin began, but the old man cut him off with a gesture.

“I asked you a simple question. I expect no excuses, just a clear answer.”

“Yes, it’s true. But you should—”

“Are you now trying to tell me what I should and should not do?”

“It was not like it sounds,” said Nuramon, trying to appease the old man. “We—”

“And you think you have to explain to me how the things I hear are to be understood?” Malawayn seemed more disappointed than angry. “I should have known better. Anyone coming from Emerelle’s court brings their arrogance with them. According to our laws, Giliath has every right to challenge you, Farodin.”

Farodin could not believe what he was hearing. How could anyone be so stubborn? The friendly mood all around them had vanished. No one there had any interest in hearing what they had to say. “I apologize for my words. I do not want to fight with anyone.”

“Are you so smug to think you are invincible, or is your tongue driven by fear?” Giliath asked. She stood before him with her legs apart and her hands on her hips.

“If the insult is too serious, then only blood can atone for the words spoken,” declared Malawayn. “You will dance to the blade song. Your duel will end when the first blood flows. If you are injured, then your blood will pay for your words. If Giliath loses, then you have earned a place among us, and we will accept what you have told us, for we are a free people.”

Farodin drew his dagger. Before anyone could restrain him, he cut the back of his own left hand. “Women and men of Valemas.” He raised his hand high so that they could all see the blood running down his arm. “I have spilled my own blood to make amends for my words. May this settle the dispute.”

The assembly stared at him in icy silence.

“You should really stop trying to inflict your will on us, Farodin,” Malawayn said. “Though your journey through the desert may have weakened you, you will bow to our customs, and you will fight.” He stood and clapped his hands. “Bring the drums. In the blade dance, every stroke follows the rhythm of the drumbeat. We start with a slow rhythm to give you time to accustom yourself to it. The fight and the beat of the drum will both increase their tempo quickly. Traditionally, each dancer wields two swords. Do you require a second?”

Farodin shook his head. Sword and dagger were enough. He stood and began to stretch, to loosen his aching muscles.

Nuramon came up beside him. “I don’t know what’s gotten into them. This is absolutely insane.”

“I’m beginning to understand why Emerelle never offered them the chance to return to Albenmark,” Farodin replied in a low voice. “But don’t say anything else about it. We don’t want to give them any grounds for another blade dance.”

Nuramon reached for Farodin’s hand. A pleasant warmth spread through Farodin, and when Nuramon released him, the cut was gone. “Don’t kill her.” Nuramon smiled, trying to cheer his friend.

Farodin looked at his opponent. Valiskar had trusted her to be able to cope with two warriors alone when he sent her down the dune to meet them. He would have to be on his guard. “Let’s hope she doesn’t chop me to pieces. Something tells me she’d rather stick her sword through my heart than let the duel end with a little nick. ‘When the first blood flows.’ That can mean many things.”

Farodin unbuckled his baldric so that it wouldn’t hinder him in the fight. Then he took a small ring from the leather bag in which he kept the silver bottle and Noroelle’s stone. The ring was the only thing that remained to him of Aileen, apart from memories. Three small dark-red garnets were set in it; the cut of the stones captured the light from the oil lamps on the walls. He ran one thumb over the stones as if testing them. They would ruin the lining of any glove. It had been a long time since he had last worn that ring.

“Ready?” called Giliath. She had chosen two short swords and stood waiting in the center of the hall.

In the meantime, two drums had been brought to the entrance of the hall. They were as big as the huge wine barrels they had seen during their escape through the vaults of Aniscans and had been set up with the skins vertical. An intertwined pattern of knots was painted on the pale skin. Two women stood beside them, drumsticks crossed across their chests, waiting for a signal that the blade dance should begin.

The spectators in the hall had moved all the way back to the walls, leaving a fighting area perhaps twenty paces long and five across.

Farodin took up his position.

“Each beat of the drum stands for one step or one stroke,” Giliath explained. “The perfect sword fighter moves with the lightness of a dancer. Even if you lose, you will save face if you have fought with grace.”

Farodin nodded, though he fundamentally disagreed with her. He had never fought to impress anyone with his skill. He fought to win.

Giliath signaled to the drummers. “Begin.”

The first drumbeat sounded. Giliath took a step to one side and raised her swords. Farodin followed her movement with a turn.

With the next drumbeat, she aimed a slow, sweeping stroke at his head. Farodin parried with his dagger.
Any child could fend off such a stroke
, thought Farodin in annoyance. This blade dance was simply foolish.

The natural cadence of the drums was very deep, and Farodin could feel it in his belly. The drums were struck in turn, so each beat resonated for a long time.

Slowly, the tempo increased. Even though Giliath started with strange, exaggerated movements, she was, without doubt, an experienced fighter. Farodin followed the rhythm but did not copy Giliath’s style just to pander to their audience. He parried her strokes with economical movements and stayed on the defensive, studying his adversary’s movements.

The faster the drums beat, the more Giliath’s movements flowed. Stroke followed stroke. She drove him away, then jumped back, danced around him playfully, then darted forward again. Drumbeats and the ring of steel on steel merged into a melody that now began to take hold of Farodin. Unconsciously, he moved to the rhythm and began to enjoy the fight.

Suddenly, Giliath crouched and took Farodin by surprise by dodging one of his strokes instead of parrying. Quick as a snake, her blade shot forward. Farodin tried to dodge, but the blade sliced through his breeches. The drums fell silent.

Giliath stood back. “You weren’t bad for one of the queen’s bootlickers.”

Farodin touched the leg of his breeches. He felt no pain, but that meant nothing when one fought with very sharp blades. Carefully, he separated the cloth. His thigh was uninjured. She must have missed him by a hair’s breadth.

Giliath’s brow creased. “Lucky,” she shouted to the crowd.

Farodin gave her a disdainful smile. “If you say so.” He could see her arrogance crumble. She would try to land a second blow quickly, and perhaps, in her impetuousness, she would drop her guard.

“Then we continue,” Giliath said, and she raised her swords, taking up a peculiar stance. The sword in her left hand stretched before her as if for an attack. She raised the sword in her right hand over her head, angled forward, the tip directed straight at Farodin’s heart. She reminded Farodin of a scorpion with its sting raised in threat.

This time, the drums rapidly increased in tempo. Giliath came at him forcefully and pressed him back hard, but she made no move to attack with the sword in her right hand. The whole time, she kept it raised over her head, ready to strike the moment the opportunity came.