The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  FROM THE ACCOUNT OF SKALDEN HROLAUG

  VOLUME TWO OF THE TEMPLE LIBRARY OF LUTH IN FIRNSTAYN, PAGES 16 TO 18

  The Price of the Promise

  When Mandred looked up to the spring sky, it was such a clear blue that it brought tears to his eyes. Free again. At last. With no sense of day or night, it was hard to say how long they had been in the cave. It could not have been more than a few days. Still, there must have been some kind of magic at work, for how else could they have entered the cave in winter and emerged again in spring?

  Mandred watched an eagle high over the glacier, soaring majestically in huge, slow circles.

  Up here in the mountains, the winter never completely disappeared, but the sun still warmed their faces as they made their way through the crusty snow down to the fjord.

  His companions were silent. In the morning, they had laid Vanna and the dead wolf to rest in a small cave not far from Luth’s valley. They seemed lost in unvoiced thoughts. And Svanlaib . . . there was something odd about the boat builder. No doubt part of how he was behaving could be explained by the awe he must have felt for the elves. What mortal, after all, had been granted the chance to meet in the flesh the characters from the sagas of the skalds? But there was something else in the way Svanlaib was acting. Something furtive. Mandred could practically feel the young man’s eyes boring into his back. Svanlaib had asked him a number of strange questions. Somehow, the boat builder seemed to know him.

  Mandred grinned with satisfaction. And no wonder. After all, he had personally killed seven men in the king’s name, and he had lured the invincible manboar high into the mountains and skewered it with his boar spear. He looked at the splintered shaft of the weapon he held in his right hand. A heavy, bloody bag hung from it just below the blade. The bag had been fashioned from a piece of the beast’s skin. Inside it was the Devanthar’s liver. I will keep my promise, Mandred thought grimly.

  The descent from the mountains to the fjord took three days, and they were days in which every step took them deeper into spring. New light-green growth adorned the branches of the oak trees. The smell of the forest was intoxicating, though the nights were still bitterly cold. Svanlaib had pestered Farodin and Nuramon with countless questions about Albenmark. Mandred was glad to not be bothered by the boat builder’s chatter, but he knew the young man’s eyes were still on him. Whenever he thought Mandred wasn’t paying any attention, Svanlaib stared at him. If he hadn’t rescued them from the cave, Mandred thought several times, Svanlaib would have gotten to know Mandred’s fists very personally by now.

  When they finally left the forests behind and all that separated them from their first glimpse of Firnstayn was a high meadow, Mandred began to run. His heart was beating like a drum. When he reached the top of the ridge, he could look down at the fjord and his village. High above him lay the cliff with the stone circle. He would make a sacrifice to the gods up there. But first, he would take Freya in his arms.

  And his son. He had dreamed about him in Luth’s cave. He had grown into a young man and was dressed in a long shirt of chain mail. A swordsman; his name was known far and wide in the Fjordlands. Mandred smiled. The part with the sword must have been a slip. A real warrior fought with an axe. That was one thing he would have to teach him.

  Mandred was amazed at how industrious the villagers had been. Three new longhouses had been added, the dock extended farther out into the fjord, and there were more than a dozen smaller huts. The palisade had been taken down and replaced by a much wider earthen wall.

  It seemed a lot of new families had come to the village during winter. Maybe they’d been driven out of their homes by hunger. Mandred’s hand gripped the boar spear more tightly. There would probably be some fighting. One was not born a jarl. It was a title that had to be earned, and there were bound to be plenty of hotheaded young men in the village who would be happy enough to challenge his rank. Mandred looked back to his companions, who had also crossed the high meadow now. If he went home with two elves at his side, some would perhaps reconsider picking a fight with him. Nuramon and Farodin would have to spend at least one night in his house. He wanted as many in the village as possible to see the two elves. Then, by the end of summer, the story of the hunt for the manboar would have spread even to the most distant valleys of the Fjordlands.

  Nuramon looked up at the stone circle, and Mandred could see the yearning in his eyes. But Mandred said, “Be my guests for one night, my comrades. We will sit at my fire and drink to the memory of our dead friends.” He hesitated briefly, then added, “You would be doing me a great service. I want every man and woman in the village to see you.”

  The two elves exchanged a look. It was Farodin who nodded. Together they began the descent to the village.

  Ever since seeing Firnstayn again, an uneasiness had been growing in Mandred that simply would not settle. Had Emerelle already come? No, that was impossible. A year, she had said. He still had time. He would find a way to save his firstborn.

  It was the village . . . something about it was not right. It had grown too quickly. They had stored a great deal to last them through the winter, but it would never have been enough to feed so many. And the rooftops of the new houses . . . the wood had darkened, and white trails of seagull droppings caked the ridges of the roofs. The wooden shingles looked as if they’d seen more than one winter come and go.

  Mandred recalled the other dreams he’d had in Luth’s cave. They had been grim, filled with the clashing of weapons. There had been trolls and powerful soldiers, and he had finally seen himself riding under a magnificent white banner flaunting a green oak tree as its crest. The men who followed him were strangely armed. They wore armor made entirely of iron plates, and their faces were hidden beneath heavy helmets. They looked to Mandred like a wall of steel. Even their horses were clad in steel. Mandred had worn the same armor as the men he led. He smiled and tried to suppress his somber mood. The armor was a good omen. If he could afford so much steel, it meant he would one day be very rich. The future held good things in store. And soon he would be holding Freya in his arms again.

  When he reached the shore of the fjord, Mandred waved his arms and called out wildly at the top of his voice to draw the attention of those on the other side. “Hey-o, come over! There are three warriors and a pilgrim waiting here, and our throats are parched!”

  At that point, the fjord was still more than a hundred paces across. Someone on the dock saw them and waved back. Then one of the round leather boats the fishermen used was made ready. Two men paddled it across the fjord but stopped at a safe distance from the shore. Mandred had seen neither of the men before.

  “Who are you? And what business do you have in Firnstayn?” shouted the younger of the two suspiciously.

  Mandred had already considered that the two elves might be frightening to his fellow villagers. Tall and well armed, they did not look like regular travelers. The fact that they were not human would not be noticed by anyone at first glance.

  “I am Mandred Torgridson, and these are my companions, Nuramon, Farodin, and Svanlaib Hrafinson.”

  The reply from the boat rang across the water. “You bear a dead man’s name, Mandred. I hope you are not here to poke fun. Firnstayn is not the place for such humor.”

  Mandred let out a guffaw. “The manboar did not kill Mandred. I slayed the beast.” He thrust the boar spear high in the air so that the men in the boat could see the bag tied to it. “And this is my trophy! You two must be newcomers. Fetch Hrolf Blacktooth or old Olav. They know me well. Or bring Freya, my wife. She’ll knock your heads in with a ladle if you keep me waiting any longer.”

  The men in the boat conferred quietly for a moment, then they paddled the leather boat to the shore. They stared at him, and their expressions were strange. “You really are Mandred Torgridson,” said the elder of the pair, and there was reverence in his voice. “I recognize you, though you don’t seem a day
older than the last time I saw you.”

  Mandred looked the man up and down. He had never seen him before. “Who are you?”

  “Erek Ragnarson.”

  Mandred frowned. He knew a child by that name. A cheeky scamp with red hair. He was the son of his friend Ragnar, who was killed by the manboar.

  “Take us across,” said Svanlaib. “Let’s discuss these things over a jug of good mead. My throat’s as dry as a dead dog’s bone, and this is no place to receive tired travelers. You remember me at least, don’t you? I was in the village not a few days ago.”

  The older fisherman nodded. Then he made a sign that they should come aboard. When Nuramon and Farodin climbed over the gunwale, Mandred saw that Erek secretly made the sign of the protecting eye. Had he noticed what they were?

  The short trip across the fjord took place in silence. Erek continually glanced over his shoulder. Once, he seemed ready to say something, but then he shook his head and turned away again.

  Dusk was coming on by the time they moored the boat. Smoke billowed from the roofs of the longhouses. Mandred smelled meat cooking and fresh bread, and his mouth watered. Good food again. Roast meat and mead instead of mulberries and spring water.

  He walked along the dock, his step firm and long, but he felt as if a large seagull were flapping wildly in his belly. He hoped he could stop himself from shedding tears when Freya came.

  At the end of the dock, a large dog blocked his path. It growled menacingly. Other dogs came running from the village, followed by men with spears.

  Mandred unfastened the hide bag from his boar spear and tossed the dogs bloody chunks of flesh. “Here, mutts. I brought you something to eat.” Then he looked up. He knew none of the men.

  “Mandred Torgridson has returned,” announced the older fisherman in a solemn voice. “It was a long hunt.” With a gesture that showed his authority, he shooed a path between the armed villagers. “Make way for Jarl Mandred.”

  Good man, thought Mandred. He did not know him, but Erek seemed like a man he could trust to get things done.

  More and more villagers gathered to gawk at the strangers. Mandred threw the rest of the liver to the dogs that ran around the villagers’ legs and finally tossed them the piece of hide that had served as a bag.

  He was a little surprised that Freya had not come. No doubt she had some urgent task to finish first. When she baked bread and cooked, nothing could drag her away from her stove.

  His longhouse had survived the winter well, but someone had replaced the two carved horse heads on the gable with two boar heads.

  Mandred opened the solid oak door, threw the heavy woolen curtain aside, and waved his companions inside. Smoky twilight filled the interior of the windowless hall. Coals glowed red in the long fire pit in the middle. A young woman was turning a spit with a goose impaled on it. She looked up in surprise.

  “Mandred Torgridson has returned,” Erek announced, pushing past Nuramon and Farodin at the entrance.

  “For shame, Erek. Drunk before sundown,” the woman chided him. “Take your drinking mates and get out. There’s no place in my house for them.”

  Mandred looked around in astonishment. He could not see Freya anywhere. “Where is my wife?”

  The fisherman lowered his head. “Bring us mead, Gunhild,” he hissed in a tone that left no room for protest. “Then call the elders together. Send for lame Beorn and Gudrun and Snorri. And bring mead for everyone, damn it! Today is a day our grandchildren will talk about.”

  Mandred hurried past the wall with the sleeping compartments and threw back the last curtain. Freya was not there, either. Beside her bed, the cot he himself had carved at the start of winter hung from the ceiling. It was empty.

  “Sit down, Jarl.” The fisherman gently took him by the arm and led him to the fireplace. Mandred sat, straddling one of the benches. What was going on here? He felt his head spinning.

  “Remember how you once gave little Erek Ragnarson an old knife and spent the afternoon with him, showing him how to dress a rabbit?” The fisherman’s words came haltingly. His eyes were moist and shimmered in the firelight.

  Gunhild set down a jug of mead on the bench between them and set a loaf of bread beside it. It smelled delicious. Mandred tore off a chunk of bread and stuffed it into his mouth. It was still warm. Then he took a long draft of mead.

  “Do you remember?” Erek persisted.

  Mandred nodded. “Yes. Why?”

  “The boy . . . that . . . that was me, Jarl.”

  Mandred set down the jug.

  “We all thought you were dead,” said Erek, and the words came flooding out of him. “We found them . . . my father and the others. But not you . . . and not the monster. There are many stories about what happened that winter. Some believed you lured the manboar out onto the ice and sank into the depths of the fjord with it. Others thought you went into the mountains. They say that Luth was saddened and hung a curtain of ice over the mouth of his cave for you. Nothing could convince Freya that you were dead. She drove the men out of the village to search for you all through the following spring. She went with them herself until the child was born. A strong boy. He brought her peace. His name is Oleif.”

  Mandred breathed slowly and deeply. Time had passed, that much he knew. It was spring, although it should still have been winter. It had always been light in the cave. Only the light beyond the ice flared brightly before falling dark again, over and over. He forced himself to stay calm.

  “Where is my wife? And my son . . .” Mandred looked up. The men with the spears had come into the hall and were staring at him. More and more strangers entered through the low oak doorway. Nuramon and Farodin avoided meeting his eye, and Svanlaib, too. What did they know that he did not?

  Erek laid one hand on his shoulder. “Mandred, I am the boy you gave that knife to. You’ve been gone nearly thirty winters. Do you remember . . . when I was still very little, before I could even walk properly, one of Torklaif’s dogs set upon me.” Erek pushed up the left sleeve of his coarse shirt. His lower arm was furrowed with deep scars. “I’m that boy. And now tell me why you are not an old man, Mandred. You were more than twice as old as me, but I see no silver in your beard and no weariness in your eyes.” He pointed to the longhouse door. “You are the same man who left this house nearly thirty years ago to fight the manboar. Was this the gift you paid for with your son?”

  A cold fury gripped Mandred. “What was that? What about my son? Where is he?” He jumped to his feet, knocking the jug of mead from the bench. The onlookers recoiled from him. Farodin’s right hand rested on the pommel of his sword. He was keeping a sharp eye on the spearmen.

  “What happened to Freya and my son?” Mandred shouted, his voice breaking. “What is going on here? Is the whole village bewitched? Why are you all so different?”

  “You’re the one who’s different, Mandred Torgridson,” snapped an old woman. “Don’t look at me like that. Before you chose Freya, you were happy enough to have me sit on your lap. It’s me, Gudrun.”

  Mandred stared at the weathered face. “Gudrun?” She had once been as fair as a summer’s day. Was it possible? Those eyes . . . yes, it was her.

  “The winter after the monster came was even worse. The fjord was frozen solid, and one night, they came. At first, all we heard were their horns in the distance, then we saw the chains of light. Riders. Hundreds. They came across the fjord from the Hartungscliff, from the stone circle. They rode straight across the ice. No one who was there will ever forget that night. They were like spirits, but alive. The faerylight was like waves rolling across the sky, and the village was covered in green light. Their horses’ hooves hardly even scraped the snow, but they were flesh and blood, the cold elf queen, Emergrid, and all her court. They were beautiful to look at. And terrifying, too, for their eyes mirrored the chill in their hearts. The most magnificent of their horses carr
ied a delicate woman. She wore a dress that looked like it was made from butterflies’ wings. She seemed untouched by the cold, though the night was bitter. A man in black and a soldier in a white cloak rode at her side. In her entourage came falconers and lutists, soldiers in shining armor, and women dressed as if for a summer feast. And wolves as big as highland ponies. They came to a stop in front of your longhouse, Mandred. In front of this hall.”

  In the fire pit, a piece of wood exploded, sending sparks flying to the soot-blackened roof, and Gudrun continued. “Your wife opened her hall to Queen Emergrid. Freya met them with mead and bread, according to the laws of hospitality, but the elf queen took nothing. She demanded what you promised her, Mandred. Your son. The price for this village to survive and for the beast to be taken from us.”

  Mandred buried his face in his hands. She came. How could he ever have promised her that? “What . . . what of Freya?” he stammered. “Is she . . . ?”

  “When the elves took away her son, they took away her will to live. She wept. She begged for mercy for her child. She offered her own life instead, but Queen Emergrid took no pity on her. Freya ran barefoot through the snow, and she followed the elves all the way to the Hartungscliff. We found her there the next morning, in the center of the standing stones. She had ripped her dress to rags, and she cried and cried . . . We brought her back to the village, but Freya did not want to be under one roof with us anymore. She climbed to the top of your grandfather’s burial mound and called on the gods and the darkest spirits of the night for revenge. After that, her own spirit grew more and more confused. We always saw her with a bundle of rags in her arms, holding it the way you might hold a baby. We took food to her, Jarl. We tried everything. On the first spring morning after the equinox, we found her dead on your grandfather’s barrow. She died with a smile on her face. We buried her that same day in the barrow. A white stone marks her grave.”

  Mandred felt as if his heart must stop beating. His anger was gone. Tears flowed over his cheeks, and he felt no shame for it. He went to the door of the house. No one followed him.