The Elven (43 page)

The Wrath of Farodin

M
andred was not a man who scared easily, but the way in which Farodin had changed truly frightened him. What was hidden away in the depths of the elf’s soul? After all these years, he thought he knew his companion, but more and more he realized how little he knew. After Farodin heard what Shalawyn told him, something dark had been growing inside him. But no, if Mandred thought about it, the dark side to his nature had always been there. Farodin had simply kept it hidden. Now something had awakened in the elf that made him set aside everything else, even his search for the grains of sand.

Farodin had asked Mandred to ask King Njauldred Bladebreaker for permission to use one of the boatsheds. He also requested the help of several experienced carpenters. Generously, both requests were granted.

In the weeks that followed, Farodin spent all his time in the boatshed. He built a ship unlike any ever seen in Firnstayn, driving the carpenters hard and treating them almost like slaves. They cursed him for who he was, but spoke with admiration about what he could do. Farodin had never breathed a word to Mandred about how well he knew the art of shipbuilding, reminding Mandred that there was much one could learn when your life spanned centuries. It took just ten weeks until the small, narrow ship was finished. Its keel was carved from a single oak trunk, from a tree that Farodin himself had sought out in the forests north of the town. The same was true of the ribs that formed the skeleton of the hull. The sail was made of fine linen and reinforced with hemp ropes knotted into a net. The boat measured seven paces long but barely a single pace across the beam.

When the boat was launched, people came from every corner of Firnstayn to admire it. It was slim and beautiful, and its timbers overlapped, something Mandred had never before seen on a boat.

But when the elf—before Njauldred and his retinue—declared that he intended to set sail the next day, no one could believe it. To leave the fjord in winter and sail the coast northward was sheer madness. It made no difference how good the ship might be; no one could make it through the storms and the ice.

The plan was so insane that no one expected Mandred to follow the elf. To refuse to be part of such a voyage had nothing to do with a lack of loyalty to a brother-in-arms. But Mandred felt bound to Farodin. He, Mandred Torgridson, was not the invincible warrior in the songs of the skalds. He had not done the heroic deeds that were so often and so easily ascribed to him, but maybe he could melt the truth and the saga into a single alloy if he followed Farodin now.

Njauldred stocked the ship with the best provisions available. Bear meat, which quickly restored your strength after battle, clothing of fine otter fur that pearled away the icy water, and a barrel of sperm oil that protected the skin from frostbite. Mandred knew that his companion had nothing to fear from the cold. But for his own sake, he was happy to have the barrel on board.

Njauldred invited them to his royal hall and held a feast in their honor. It felt to Mandred like being a guest at his own wake. The skalds did what they could, but the mood stayed rather depressed. Farodin left the festivities early. Deep in thought, he stepped out into the night without saying good-bye.

Mandred, too, withdrew for the night, not long after Farodin. He could no longer bear the sad eyes of Ragna, Njauldred’s daughter, and he dared not get drunk the night before their foolhardy adventure.

A cold north wind tore at his cloak as he stepped out of the banqueting hall. A scraping noise made him prick up his ears. It was a moonless night. The stars hid behind clouds. Again he heard the noise. It was coming from the stone lions that flanked the entrance to the royal hall. It sounded almost as if they were scraping their claws restlessly on the steps.

A shadow broke from the bottom step. Mandred called out to the figure, but got no response. Like smoke billowing from the gables of a longhouse, the shadow disappeared into the night as if it had never existed.

Mandred’s hand dropped to the heavy axe at his belt. Slowly, he descended the steps. Apart from the wind howling through the rooftops, there was no sound to be heard.

“It was nothing,” said Mandred reassuringly to himself. He walked to the house that one of Alfadas’s sons had built for him. When he opened the door, a fire was burning in the fireplace. Smoke and a comfortable warmth filled the room. Farodin was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he had gone down to the boatshed. He had spent most of his nights there, despite the cold.

As Mandred swept off his cloak, he heard a sound and froze. Someone was there. The straw in the sleeping nook had rustled. A white hand pushed back the coarse, woolen curtain. Ragna, Njauldred’s daughter. Her cheeks glowed red. She could not look Mandred in the eye.

“It isn’t what you think,” she stammered. “I . . . I thought the elf had come in, so I hid. It was me who lit the fire, to warm this place for you. It is so cold and raw tonight,” she said, glancing toward the door.

“Thank you, Ragna,” Mandred replied, a little stiffly.

She was a pretty thing. Her skin was as white as milk, and pale freckles dotted her face. She had woven her red hair into two heavy braids. Ragna was in Alfadas’s bloodline, but Mandred could see no trace of his son in her face.

“Must you sail off with him?” she asked shyly.

“It is a question of honor.”

“To the devil with honor, then.” Her timidity was gone in an instant. Fury shone in her eyes. “You will never come back from there. No one comes back from the Nightcrags.”

Mandred held her gaze. Her eyes were the pale green of new fir shoots, as if holding a piece of spring captive. “I’ve been to many places that no one is supposed to come back from,” he said complacently.

“How can two men prevail against hundreds of trolls? Throw yourself from one of the cliffs into the sea if you want to die, you—” Shocked, she raised her hand to her mouth. “I didn’t mean that. I—”

“Why does it matter so much to you if I live or die?” he asked, then thought,
And why does my life mean so little to me?
Because I’ve been cast out of time? Because I live even though my bones should have been moldering in the grave for centuries?

“You are the noblest man I have ever met. You’re not like the big-talking boys in my father’s halls. Every inch of you is a hero.”

Mandred smiled. “It used to be the men who courted the women.”

Ragna turned bright red. “I didn’t mean it like that. I . . . it’s . . .” She raised her hands helplessly. “It’s just that it’s
not
all the same to me if you sail away to certain death tomorrow.”

“And you would do anything to have me stay?”

She raised her chin and looked challengingly at him. “You’ll have to find that out for yourself. Times haven’t changed that much.”

The Children of the Darkalben

N
uramon took a deep breath. The steep trail leading up to the pass had been strenuous. Felbion had followed some distance behind him and now moved up close beside him.

They were above the tree line but still below the snow. From where they stood, the trail led down steeply into a broad valley. The mountains all around felt familiar to Nuramon. It may have been that they resembled the mountains of his homeland, though he could see no obvious similarities. Perhaps his feelings for such things were keener than his eyes.

During his search for the dark elves, he had taken the risk of visiting the towns of the humans and had sought out their company to listen to the stories they told. He had always been careful to keep his ears well hidden, and all who met him took him to be a soldier from some land far in the west. The humans had other names for the dark elves and told tales of how they searched for their victims among the inhabitants of the mountains, and how they slaughtered them in dark gorges and caves and ate their flesh.

Nuramon had followed the Albenpaths into the mountains. The surroundings here were anything but dark, and at this altitude, the air was almost as clear as it was in Albenmark.

During the descent into the valley, Nuramon’s mind turned to Noroelle. He had come across two Albenstars on his travels whose paths were sealed. He had attempted to open them using the powers he had but was not successful in breaking through the magical barriers. Perhaps he had already been standing at Noroelle’s threshold. He wondered how he would even recognize the gate that led to his beloved. No answer came. Only the hope he placed in the oracle kept him from sinking into despair.

The downward path soon broadened and became less steep, and Nuramon could once again ride Felbion. As they trotted through the woods, he thought of the times he had spent with Noroelle. The memories were so powerful that they erased every doubt gnawing at him. He would find her one day, and free her, with or without Farodin.

Suddenly, Felbion stopped in his tracks.

Nuramon looked around. Something rustled in the bushes on his left, and on his right, he saw movement in the shadows of the trees.

“Who are you?” called a man’s voice. The voice spoke Nuramon’s language, but with an unusually hard accent.

Nuramon did not turn his head to the side. He simply let his hand drop to his sword. “I will gladly tell you and your companions who I am if you choose to meet me like honorable Albenkin instead of common vagabonds.”

“Big words for someone disturbing the peace of this valley,” the voice replied. “You are an elf.”

“And because you are still standing in the shadows of the trees and clearly avoid the sunlight, I assume you are the children of the Darkalben,” Nuramon said, knowing it was a gamble. But either he was right or using the name would at least serve to intimidate these hostile Albenkin.

No answer came. For a long time, nothing happened. Then he heard the rustling sound again. Nuramon’s grip on his sword tightened, but when he saw what emerged from the thicket and from beneath the trees, he let go of the sword in surprise.

They were eight in all. Eight small men. They had long beards, and the biggest of them was perhaps as tall as Nuramon’s chest. Despite their size, they were powerfully built. Five carried axes in their hands, two had broadswords, and one had a crossbow. Were these the dark elves?

Each of the stout little men wore heavy iron armor and a belt that held more weapons: daggers, short swords, and long knives. They were a troop clearly prepared for a battle.

One of the men stepped closer. He seemed to be the youngest among them. “How do you know the Darkalben? And who told you about their children?” asked the man. Nuramon recognized the voice as the one that had spoken to him from among the trees.

“I heard of them within sight of the Iolids.”

The small men looked at each other in astonishment. “You have seen the Iolids?” asked their leader.

“With my own eyes,” Nuramon said, thinking of all the hours he had sat at the window of his home and looked out to the blue-gray mountains in the distance.

“Don’t believe a word he says,” said the crossbowman. “He’s lying. He’s just trying to buy time to cast a spell on us.” Nuramon realized that the crossbowman was aiming at his head. He tried not to let his tension show. “Come on, let me shoot him.”

“Enough,” shouted the leader, raising his hand. He turned back to Nuramon. “Welcome to Aelburin. My name is Alwerich, and these are my comrades.” He introduced each of them in turn.

“My name is Nuramon.”

“What brings you to our valley?” Alwerich asked.

“I am here to find the children of the Darkalben . . . and knowledge of the oracle Dareen.”

“You have found the children of the Darkalben. As far as the oracle is concerned, you will find here all of the answers we are able to offer.”

“Very hospitable of you.”

“Indeed. We are known for our hospitality.”

A barbed reply was on Nuramon’s tongue, but he managed to keep it to himself.

“Follow us,” said Alwerich.

“One more question, please.”

“Ask away, elf.”

“If you are the dark elves, then how is it that you are out and about in daylight? I had heard that you live in darkness.”

Alwerich grinned. “You elves live in the light of day, but I still saw you walking in the night.”

Nuramon felt doubly abashed. On the one hand, he had not noticed Alwerich during the night. And on top of that, he should have seen such a reply coming. He had left himself wide open.

“By the way, we’d prefer it if you called us
dwarves
,” the small man added.

Dwarves. The old stories told of beings called
dweorgas
or
dwarrows
. They were masters of mining and once lived beneath the earth or in rocky regions of Albenmark. Nuramon would never have thought that the dwarves were the children of the Darkalben.

The crossbowman finally lowered his weapon and went ahead with his companions. Nuramon followed them on Felbion at a gentle pace. After riding behind them for a while, he noticed that the dwarves were constantly looking back warily. But the distance they kept, they were keeping from Felbion, not from him. Could it be that the dwarves were afraid of a horse?

The Nightcrags

T
here it was again, that metallic scraping noise. Mandred did not have to turn around to know where it was coming from. Farodin was standing in the stern. He had the tiller clamped under his right arm and was sharpening the blade of a dagger. Since leaving Firnstayn, he had done exactly that at least twenty times. The sound tore at Mandred’s nerves. It was a grating, abrasive sound. A sound that promised death.

Ragna had been right. The country of the far north was not made for humans. It was a place for elves, trolls, and ghosts, but
he
did not belong there.

The linen sail of their little boat was encrusted with ice. Frozen and stiff, it creaked when the wind caught it. For seven days, they had been following the line of the coast northward. Mandred thought nostalgically of the days aboard the
Purpurwind
in the Aegilien Sea. He thought of the warmth and of how he had stretched out at midday beneath the shade sail and dozed.

He looked ahead into the wintry twilight and kept a lookout for icebergs. The white giants heaved their way southward, silent and dangerous. Farodin had warned him to watch out especially for the small chunks that were almost completely hidden in the water, as they could damage the hull of their small boat. Mandred’s mind was straying. He was tired and thinking of Firnstayn. The women there, no doubt, would have already begun preparations for the coming midwinter feast. They would be fattening geese in the final days and setting mead to ferment in large tubs. The smell of little honey cakes would be hanging over the entire town.

The jarl slipped off one of his mittens and dipped his hand into the barrel with the sperm oil. It had hardened in the cold. He dug out a clump of the stuff and held it in his hand until it softened, then he spread the oil over his face and wiped his fingers on his heavy sealskin jacket. Damned cold.

Farodin drove the boat on relentlessly. Only occasionally did they anchor in the lee of cliffs or a protected bay to sleep for a few hours. The elf seemed to have become one with the ice that surrounded them. He stood at the tiller as if frozen in place, his eyes fixed straight ahead. He had stowed the dagger in the bundle that lay behind him in the stern. It occurred to Mandred that Farodin might not be sharpening the same dagger repeatedly. It was unlike the elf to do the same thing again and again for no reason, though it might also just be a reflection of Farodin’s unease, which he otherwise hid extremely well.

Mandred looked up at the sky to distract himself from his fruitless brooding. They were so far north that the sun no longer showed itself. Instead, green faerylight spread from horizon to horizon. It surged overhead like pleated bolts of cloth. Mandred had very little to do. Farodin could have managed the boat just as easily alone.

Many times, the jarl sat for hours in the bow and watched the light in the sky. It comforted him in this wasteland of choppy seas and black cliffs. The wind chilled him to his bones when he sat and dreamed like that.

Glaciers towered along the coast. Once, in the distance, Mandred saw an avalanche of ice tumble into the sea, churning the water. Another time, he thought he saw a sea serpent.

On the ninth day of their journey, Farodin grew restless. They had sailed into a fjord. Gray tendrils of fog crept over the water toward them. Mandred stood at the bow to watch for hidden reefs. The waters were calm. Soon, the fog had swallowed them completely. From not far away came the gentle sound of waves lapping the shore.

Farodin seemed to have been here before. He knew about the shallows even before Mandred called a warning.

A huge shadow rose before them in the mists. At first, Mandred thought it was a cliff. Then he saw a low light glimmering. A rancid stink hung in the air. The fog was now very warm. It condensed on Mandred’s beard.

Suddenly, a hoarse voice cut the silence. The voice was deep, like the rumble of an angry bear. Farodin gave Mandred a sign not to move, and he laid a finger to his lips. Then he answered in the same tone in a guttural language unlike any Mandred had ever heard.

A terse greeting came back. Then the shadow disappeared. Farodin stood silently, unmoving and tense. An eternity seemed to pass. The fog took away all sense of time. Finally, the elf nodded to him. “Soon we’ll reach the Nightcrags,” he said. “There are warm springs in this fjord. They keep it free of ice year round. They are also the reason for this fog, which keeps the trolls’ castle hidden. You know how you have to behave?”

Mandred nodded. What was to happen at the Nightcrags had been the only topic of conversation Farodin would put up with during the voyage. That was not, however, the same thing as talking about the elf’s plans. But Mandred trusted his companion. Farodin knew what he was doing.

The jarl had instinctively dropped one hand to the axe in his belt. He thought of Farodin’s advice for fighting trolls and of the stories he had heard in his childhood. Trolls had to be hunted in packs, like hunting cave bears. One man alone could not defeat a troll. Mandred’s mind then turned to his son. Alfadas had been quick to support the elves in the third troll war. He had been the victor of many bloody battles with these monsters.
But in the end, he was killed by them, too
, Mandred reminded himself. He stroked the blade of his axe. One more reason to come here.

The fog dissipated. In front of them rose jagged cliffs. Farodin pointed to a rocky outcrop that looked vaguely like the head of a wolf. “There’s a cave there that can’t be seen from the fjord. I hid my boat there last time.”

“So you’ve been to the Nightcrags before.”

The elf nodded. “Once, more than four hundred years ago. Back then, I killed the prince of the trolls, the head of their army, who led the trolls during their campaigns in Albenmark.”

Typical Farodin, revealing what he knew at the eleventh hour. “You really could have told me that earlier,” Mandred grumbled.

“Why? Would it have changed your decision?”

“No, but I—”

“Then it was not necessary for you to know it. By the way, there’s been one change to our plan. You will go to the Nightcrags alone.”

Mandred’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“They will never let me into their fortress. Do you know what they call me? Death in the night. They’ll kill me the moment they see me. So you must see that there is no other way. You have to go in alone. I’ll find another way in. Unlike me, as a supposed ambassador, you are protected by the rights of hospitality. They can’t do anything to you as long as you don’t violate that right . . . which they will try to trick you into doing. You have to stand firm, whatever they do.”

“And why should they accept me as an ambassador? A human? They eat my kind.”

Farodin kneeled and unwrapped the bundle he had been keeping in the stern. He showed Mandred an oak branch wrapped in fine linen. “This is why they will accept you. This is a branch from a souled tree. Only emissaries of the queen carry this sign, and whomever the queen sends is untouchable.”

Surprised, Mandred took the branch and wrapped the linen around it again. “It’s real, isn’t it? Where did you get it?”

The question clearly made Farodin uncomfortable. “It grew from one of Atta Aikhjarto’s acorns. I hope you can forgive me. We needed it.”

“You cut it from the oak tree over Freya’s grave?”

“She let me take it. She knows what we need the branch for.”

Mandred was not sure whether Farodin meant the oak tree or Freya’s ghost. His hands began to shake. He jammed them under his armpits. Farodin must have noticed his trembling. “Damn cold,” the jarl muttered. He did not want to look like a coward.

“Yes.” Farodin nodded. “Even I feel it. Think of Yilvina. She and the others are worth the risk.”

The boat rounded a rocky headland that loomed above the fjord like a tower. They were sailing directly toward the cliffs. The elf maneuvered skillfully between the walls of rock. Then he dropped the mast. Mandred reached for the oars and pulled against the tide. Just ahead, concealed among the cliffs, was the low mouth of a cave.

“The cave can only be reached at low tide,” Farodin shouted over the hiss of the surf. “Even at mid-tide, the entrance is underwater.”

The thought of entering a cave that was flooded at high tide gave Mandred a queasy knot in his stomach.
Farodin knows what he’s doing
, he reminded himself again. But this time, it did not help him overcome his disquiet.

The cave mouth was so low that they had to duck their heads. A swirling current took hold of the boat and wrenched it forward, and in a moment, they found themselves in total darkness. The gunwales scraped past invisible rocks. Mandred cried out.

Finally, they came into calmer water. Farodin lit a lantern and held it high overhead. Surrounded by a small island of light, they glided on. Mandred strained at the oars, now and then looking over his shoulder. A little way ahead, a broad band of gravel appeared. The boat slid up onto it with a crunch.

They jumped ashore and hauled their fragile craft well above the high-tide mark. Mandred looked around in astonishment. The cave was far bigger than he had thought.

Farodin came to him and laid one hand on his shoulder. A comfortable warmth spread through Mandred’s body. “I am grateful that you came with me, mortal. I would not make it through this alone, not this time.”

Mandred doubted that he would really be of much help. It took all he had just to keep the fear inside him under control, a struggle that had certainly not escaped Farodin’s notice.

The elf led him across a rocky ledge at the edge of the water to a hidden exit. Then they picked their way across smooth, ice-encrusted rocks until they finally reached a beach. Time to part. For a moment, they stood facing each other in silence. Then Farodin grasped Mandred’s wrist in a warrior’s grip. It was the first time his companion had said good-bye to him in this fashion. The gesture said more than any words could.

With light steps, Farodin moved quickly away down the beach and disappeared in the fog. He left no more than the slightest of traces in the snow, and the wind soon erased them. Mandred turned away and kept close to the water. The icy stones crackled beneath his feet. Where the waves broke over the gray gravel, there was no snow. He would leave no telltale traces there either.

He walked along the beach for an hour, until the fog vanished from one moment to the next. Without cover, no sentry could fail to see him. He had the feeling he was being watched, but no one showed himself. Mandred took a step back and turned around. It was as if he had crossed an invisible borderline. Behind him, long fingers of fog clawed in from the sea across the gravel beach. But in front, the night was clear.

The faerylight billowed uncommonly low across the sky. Ahead of Mandred rose a craggy tooth of rock on top of which perched a colossal tower. Yellow light shimmered dully behind clouded windows. The Nightcrags looked very different from how he imagined something built by the trolls would look. This was a darker, rough-hewn version of Emerelle’s palace. Flanked by columns and buttresses, the tower loomed high in the sky, reaching even the faerylight. Its windows must have numbered in the hundreds. In places, posts protruded from the walls like massive thorns. Without doubt, the Nightcrags was a masterful construction, but the builder had put all of his skill into making it look gloomy and threatening.

Mandred unwrapped the oak branch from the linen cloth and held it in front of his chest like a shield. He thought of Luth, the god of fate, and that there would be no one to sing his hero’s song if he died that night. Should he have listened to Ragna? The night spent with her had been completely different from his adventures in the brothels. She loved him honestly . . . him, her own ancestor. Nothing could ever come of that love, he knew. Despite so many generations separating them, his memories of that night did not sit well. It was good that he had sailed with Farodin.

“What brings a mortal to the shadow of the Nightcrags?” a deep voice suddenly spoke. A gigantic figure emerged from beneath a rocky overhang perhaps twenty paces from Mandred. It was half again as tall as a man, with a terrifyingly broad back. Its forearms alone were heavier than Mandred’s thighs. Yet despite the cold, it wore no more than a hide wrap around its loins. In the cold faerylight, Mandred could not clearly make out the face of the troll. Indeed, there was something fundamentally shadowy and unstable about its entire form. “What are you doing here?” the sentry asked, speaking the language of the Fjordlands with a heavy accent.

“I am an emissary of Emerelle, queen of the elves.” The jarl held the oak branch high. “And I demand the hospitality of Orgrim, prince of the Nightcrags.”

There came a kind of gurgling sound. “You demand?” The troll leaned forward and took the branch. He sniffed at it for a moment. “You smell truly of elf, little man.” His knotty hands stroked the branch carefully, and he looked out over the dark waters. “How did you get here?”

Mandred looked up. He still could not see the troll’s face clearly. The jarl wished he knew more about trolls. In the stories he’d heard as a child, they were never particularly clever. Would this one see through a lie? “Do you know what the Albenpaths are?”

The troll nodded.

“I traveled the Albenpaths. An elf opened a minor gate for me, on the beach not far from here. And I came out in the heart of the troll kingdom.” Mandred thought it was a good lie. It explained why no scouts had discovered him earlier.

“Ah” was all the troll said. Then without warning, he turned. “Follow me.”

The troll led Mandred to a harbor that lay at the foot of the Nightcrags, with rock walls on all sides. Huge, dark ships were tied up there. They looked like fortresses that had been shown how to swim. From the pier, a path led up into the cliffs. It disappeared into the mouth of a tunnel, sparsely lit with barinstones.

They passed sentries several times—dark figures leaning on heavy clubs and stone axes as big as a man. Mandred’s guide seemed to soak up their respect as they passed. In the light of the barinstones, he could see the troll better. His skin was a dark gray sprinkled with lighter spots, making it look not unlike granite. The troll had a receding forehead, and his lower jaw jutted forward. His eyes were strange. They glowed amber, like the eyes of Xern, the first of the Albenkin Mandred had met. The troll’s arms were not in proportion with the mass of its body. To Mandred, they looked too long. Knotted strands of muscle testified to their strength. In battle, a troll must be a terrifying adversary.