The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  “What is that?” asked Farodin, pointing to the muzzle of the wolf that Mandred soothed.

  To Nuramon, it looked like blood.

  The human looked more closely. “Frozen blood. But look how light it is.”

  Nuramon could make out a silvery shine but could not be certain that it wasn’t just frost.

  All of them moved closer and examined the blood.

  “The boar can be injured,” Mandred muttered. “Tomorrow we hunt it down and avenge our friends.”

  Farodin nodded. He had made up his mind, and Nuramon and Brandan had, too.

  Only Vanna did not respond. She looked closely at the muzzle of her wolf, which was also bloody.

  “What’s the matter?” said Farodin.

  The sorceress left the wolf and moved across to sit between Nuramon and Farodin. Her face was lined with concern, and she took a deep breath. “Listen closely to me. This is no normal elfhunt, and I say that not just because we have failed so miserably and two of our companions are dead.”

  “What do you mean?” said Mandred. “What do you know that we don’t?”

  “At first, it was just a vague notion. It seemed so absurd that I pushed it aside. I held my tongue. I felt a presence that was different from anything else I know. When we started following the manboar’s trail, I picked up its smell, and the suspicion returned. But the smell alone was not proof enough. Only when I finally stood opposite the beast and saw the wolves fighting it, when I looked into its blue eyes and it used its magic to . . . to do what it did to Lijema, only then did I know what we are dealing with. But I still didn’t want to believe it. Now that I see this blood, there can be no more doubt . . .” She fell silent.

  “About what?” Mandred pushed.

  “It might mean little to you, Mandred, but this creature you call a manboar is a Devanthar. One of the old demons.”

  Nuramon was stunned. Impossible. He saw the horror he felt on the faces of Farodin and Brandan as well. Nuramon knew little about the Devanthar, but they were said to be creatures of the shadows, dedicated to chaos and destruction. A long time ago, the Alben had battled the Devanthar and wiped out all of them. It was said that they could change their form and were powerful wizards. Probably the only one who really knew what the Devanthar were capable of was the queen. Nuramon could not believe that Emerelle had knowingly pitted them against such a creature. What Vanna was telling them could not be true.

  Farodin looked at the sorceress, his face a mask. He said what Nuramon was thinking. “That’s impossible. You know that.”

  “Yes. I thought so too. Even when I saw the creature right in front of me, I did not want to believe it. I persuaded myself that I was wrong. But this blood, with its strange silvery sheen, has opened my eyes. This beast is a Devanthar.”

  “Well, you are the sorceress. You know the old wisdom,” said Farodin, but he sounded far from convinced.

  “What do we do now?” asked Brandan softly.

  Vanna avoided the others’ eyes. “We are the elfhunt. We have to finish it. We will face a creature that was a worthy adversary for the Alben.”

  Mandred’s face revealed how horrified he was. Only now did he seem to truly comprehend what Vanna was saying. So the Alben and their power were known even among humans . . . perhaps, for Mandred, the Alben were akin to gods.

  “No elf has ever killed a Devanthar,” said Farodin.

  Nuramon exchanged a look with Farodin and thought once more of his promise to Noroelle. With resolve in his voice, he said, “Then we shall be the first.”

  The Whisperer in the Dark

  Farodin had withdrawn to the shadows at the edge of the clearing. Not much longer, and the last watch would be over. They had decided to break camp before dawn and try to pick up the Devanthar’s trail. They would stay together. The creature could not be allowed to toy with them again, using one of them as bait.

  The fire had burned down to a heap of glowing embers. The elf avoided looking directly into the light, knowing that doing so would mean impairing his night vision. He heard a soft snoring. Mandred had actually managed to fall asleep. Since the day before, when he realized that his village had not been ravaged by the beast, the human had changed. Despite the horrors they had faced, he remained calm. He was obviously still convinced that the elfhunt would kill the monster, even after Vanna revealed what it was they were hunting. There was something touching in the human’s naïve trust in the elfhunt.

  From the corner of his eye, Farodin noticed movement. Not twenty steps away, he made out a shadow among the trees. Farodin lifted the bow in his lap, then immediately lowered it again. The trunks of the trees and the thick undergrowth made a clear shot impossible. The creature was trying to provoke him, but he would not fall for it.

  The elf took several arrows from his quiver and jabbed them into the snow in front of him. He could shoot faster that way, if necessary. Were the Devanthar to attempt an attack on the camp from the edge of the clearing, he would get off at least three shots. The demon was certainly not invulnerable. It was time for it to pay for what it had done.

  Farodin blinked. Was that really the beast he could see there? Or was the night playing a trick on him? If one stared too long, one could see all kinds of things in a dark wood.

  Pull yourself together, the elven warrior rebuked himself. A light breeze swept across the snowy landscape. Deep in the forest, a branch cracked under its load of snow. One of the wolves raised its head and looked into the forest where Farodin had seen the shadow. The wolf let out a puling whine and lowered its head flat onto the snow.

  A biting stench hung in the air for the span of a single breath. Then all that remained was the smell of the cold.

  “I’m waiting for you in the mountains, Farodin with the blood-stained hands.”

  The elf started up in alarm. The words . . . he had heard them inside himself.

  “Show yourself.” His voice was no more than a whisper. He did not want to wake the others yet.

  “And again, I find one of you alone,” the voice inside his head mocked. “You seem very sure of yourself, Farodin. Would it not be smarter to wake your companions?”

  “Why should I do what you expect? Predictability is the truest ally of defeat. Why should we face you in a place you choose?”

  “Things have to happen at the right place, at the right time. That is important. You yourself plan the place and time very carefully when you travel in Her Majesty’s service.”

  “Which explains why I will not listen to you,” said the elf.

  “I could kill any of you with no more than a thought. You’re nothing but a pale reflection of the Alben. I’d hoped for more when I sent the human to Albenmark.”

  Farodin let his eyes sweep the camp. He could still hear Mandred’s low snore. Should he trust the words of a Devanthar? Had the queen been right in her suspicion?

  “Do you really think the human could have passed through the gate on his own?”

  “Why would you nearly kill your own messenger?”

  “To make him all the more convincing. He did not know in whose service he acted, and because of that, your queen could detect no lie in his words.”

  “If it is our death you want, then do it here in the camp. Now. I’ll wake the others.”

  “No. Ask Mandred about the Cave of Luth. I will wait for you there in the evening, three days from now.”

  Farodin thought about whether he might still stall the Devanthar and wake the others. Perhaps the wolves had injured it. Why did it not show itself if it felt so invincible? They should kill the beast here and now. He would accept no haggling.

  “One of my thoughts alone has the power to kill, Farodin. Don’t invite death.”

  “Then why are we still alive?” the elf asked with confidence.

  “As we speak, Brandan’s heart has stopped, Farodin with the blood-s
tained hands. Your doubt has killed him. If you are not in the mountains in three days, then all of you will die the same death. I thought you were a warrior. Consider well, do you want to die with a sword in your hand under the eyes of your enemy, or in your sleep like Brandan? You think yourself so gifted with a sword. Perhaps you will even kill me. I will be waiting.”

  Three steps away, a huge figure stepped out from between the trees. Farodin’s hand flew to his sword. How had the Devanthar been able to creep so close without his noticing? There had been no sound, no shadow among the trees. Even the foul stench of the creature had grown no stronger.

  The manboar nodded its head, as if in scornful greeting. Then it blurred again into the shadows.

  Farodin charged. The crusted snow crunched beneath his boots. In two heartbeats, he was at the place where the demon had just been standing, but the Devanthar was long gone. There were no tracks in the snow, nothing to show that the beast had even been there. Had the shadowy figure been no more than a phantom? Was the demon trying to lure him away? Farodin glanced at their camp. His companions still lay by the fire, wrapped in their blankets. Everything was quiet.

  In the old stories, it was said that a Devanthar could lie twice with one word. Farodin wished he could see what lay behind the demand to come to the cave.

  It had grown colder. He slapped his hands against his thighs to drive the numbness from his fingers. Then he returned to the tree where he had leaned his bow.

  He pulled the arrows out of the snow and checked them carefully. He had chosen war arrows for the manboar, with flat heads and barbs that curved inward. The points were only loosely attached to the shafts. Any attempt to pull such a projectile out of a wound resulted in the shaft pulling free and the head with its barbs remaining deep in the flesh. Farodin wished he had been able to shoot at least one of them at the manboar.

  Again, he looked over at his companions. He had to be sure. “They can lie twice with one word,” he repeated to himself in a whisper. If he went back to the camp now, he would be doing exactly what the demon expected of him. And they had been doing that ever since they had passed through Aikhjarto’s gate.

  Farodin picked up his bow and quiver and crossed to the fire. Fine ice crystals danced in the air. Never before had he experienced a winter as cold as this. What made humans settle in such an inhospitable place? He laid the weapon on his blanket. Then he kneeled next to Brandan. The tracker had turned onto his side. A smile was on his lips. What did he see in his dreams?

  Farodin decided that he would not disturb Brandan’s dream. He was already turning away when he noticed a tiny crystal of ice at the corner of Brandan’s mouth. Farodin leaned forward in alarm and shook the hunter’s shoulder.

  Brandan did not stir. In his sleep, his smile had become his death mask.

  Old Wounds

  May the firelight guide you through the dark.”

  Farodin held the flaming torch to the funeral pyre. The fire was slow in taking hold of the spruce branches. Thick white smoke rose skyward. It still carried the smell of the forest, the scent of pine needles and sap.

  Farodin turned away. It had taken them hours to build the pyre. It had been impossible to move the dead centaur, so in the end, they had carried Brandan and Lijema to the clearing.

  Mandred kneeled beside the fire. His lips moved silently. The human surprised Farodin. He seemed to have taken Aigilaos quickly into his heart like a brother.

  The wind turned. Like a heavy veil, the smoke enveloped them. The first odors of burning flesh hung in the air.

  Farodin fought down a feeling of nausea. “We have to get moving,” he said. “The hour is already late.”

  Nuramon looked at him accusingly, as if he were completely heartless. Or did he suspect something? Vanna had been unable to say what had killed Brandan. Farodin had kept that part of his conversation with the Devanthar to himself. He did not want to rob them of their courage, he told himself. They could not be allowed to find out that the Devanthar could kill with a mere thought. Maybe it was just an illusion. Maybe Brandan had died from something else. It was enough if he were the only one to have to agonize over that question.

  “Let’s go.” Mandred stood and knocked the snow from his breeches. “We will hunt this monster down, and we will slay it.”

  To Farodin’s ears, the language of the Fjordlands sounded like a menacing hiss. The queen must have been mistaken. This human would never betray them. Like all of them, he was a dupe of the Devanthar, no more.

  The elf pulled himself into the saddle. He felt tired. He had lost his confidence and, along with it, a good part of his strength. Or was that the guilt he felt? Would Brandan still be alive if he, Farodin, had not hesitated? He looked at the wolves. Only two of those wild hunters were still with them. They carried their tails in fear, tucked between their hind legs, and trotted close to the riders as they left the clearing.

  Farodin eased his horse up next to the human as they rode. “What kind of place is that—the Cave of Luth?”

  Mandred made a sign in the air with jerky movement of his hand. “A place of power,” he whispered. “Luth, the weaver of fate, is said to have spent a long winter there. It was so cold that the walls of the cave turned white from his breath.” The warrior stuck out his bearded chin. “It is a holy place. We will finish off the manboar there, for the gods will be on our side, if . . .” The human’s eyes locked onto the polished shaft of the boar spear that lay crossways on the saddle in front of him.

  “If what?”

  “If they let us get that far,” Mandred said. He pointed north. “The cave is high in the mountains. The passes will be snowed under. No one goes there in the middle of winter.”

  “But you’ve been there?” asked the elf suspiciously.

  Mandred shook his head. “No. But the ironbeards will show us the way.”

  “Ironbeard? What is that?”

  Mandred smiled fleetingly. “Not an enemy and not something to fear. At least, not for us. It’s the trolls who avoid them. The priests took them up there. They’re carved from the trunks of holy oaks. Images of the gods. Anyone traveling to the Cave of Luth must make sacrifice. You win the gods’ favor that way . . . usually, anyway. The wooden statues have long beards, and you knock something iron into them. Nails or an old knife or the broken blade of an axe. In time, the wooden beards turn into ironbeards.”

  “You sacrifice nails to your gods?” said Farodin, dubious.

  Mandred looked at him disapprovingly. “We don’t swim in riches here in the Fjordlands. Iron is expensive. Chain mail, like the kind every guard in your queen’s castle wears, is something only the princes and kings in my land possess. Our gods know that.”

  And the trolls fear iron, thought Farodin, but he did not voice the thought. Their weapons were always made of wood or stone. He thought of the battle at Welruun, where the trolls had destroyed the stone circle and the gate that led to the valley of their royal caves. They needed no iron or steel. Their sheer strength was enough to bash in a helmet with a bare fist. But they shied away from the touch of iron, so armor actually offered a certain protection from the brutes. Farodin remembered his battles against those colossal ogres with disgust. Whenever he thought of them, he sensed their rancid stink in his nose.

  “You must sacrifice to the ironbeards.” The human’s voice jerked him out of his ruminations. “Even if you don’t believe in them.”

  “But of course.”

  Farodin nodded indifferently. He should not have stirred up the memory. Aileen. The trolls had killed her just five steps from him. He remembered the way she looked when the monstrous stone axe cleaved her chain mail shirt as if it were silk. Seven hundred years would pass before he could love again. In all those centuries, he had not given up hope. Every member of Aileen’s family had been killed in the troll wars, so it had taken a very long time for them to be reborn. And no one could have
foretold into which family they would be reborn. Farodin had spent centuries learning a seeking spell, finally tracing her to Alvemer. She had come back as Noroelle, but he had never said a word to her about her past. He wanted her to fall in love with him again, and he wanted her love to be pure, not some sympathetic affection born out of an old sense of duty. Seven hundred years . . .

  “You’re worried about the trolls, aren’t you?” Mandred said as he straightened up in the saddle. He stroked the shaft of the boar spear with his hand. “Don’t be. They will respect this. And they fear my clan as well. They’ve never managed to kill any of my ancestors.”

  Grimly, Farodin replied, “Then your ancestors and I have something in common.”

  “What do you mean? Have you run into a troll at some point?” asked the human with some awe.

  “Seven of them have not survived running into me.” Farodin was not one to boast of his deeds. All the troll blood in the world could not extinguish the burning hatred he felt for them.

  Mandred laughed. “Seven trolls? No one kills seven trolls.”

  “Believe what you like,” Farodin snapped. He pulled at the reins, turned his stallion aside, and dropped back until Nuramon and Vanna overtook him. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts.

  The Way into the Ice

  Mandred 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.”