The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  “It is just as I left it.”

  These elves led a simple life. It was probably the tree itself that kept the place clean, and Nuramon had never even thought about it.

  While Nuramon went upstairs with the few items he had, Mandred poked through the adjoining rooms. Although he had never been here before, the house felt familiar. Maybe it was because he knew Nuramon, and his home matched him.

  In the center of the tree house was a large room with a long dining table. What a waste, Mandred thought. The table was far too large for one person. Then Mandred remembered that Nuramon had spoken of his family. Perhaps, sometime in the past, his entire clan had lived here. A table that big could seat twelve with ease. It had to be dispiriting to live alone in a house like that with his memories. Mandred was well aware that exactly that was the reason he no longer wanted to live in Firnstayn. Being there alone with his memories of Freya . . . it was not for him. As much as he loved Alfadas, he could not be happy in the village again.

  Mandred was tired and sat down at a window in a neighboring room, where a heavy cushion offered a wonderful place to rest. From the window, he could see as far as the distant range of mountains. They seemed less threatening now than they had a moment earlier, when Nuramon spoke of the Darkalben and their children. Didn’t he say they had once lived over there? And what became of the children of the Darkalben? Mandred thought about that, and as he did, he fell into a peaceful sleep.

  He dreamed of a man’s voice on the wind, and it whispered to him, “It is time to break my silence. Tell me what happened to you.”

  Mandred told the voice in his dream about the manboar and his own failure in the ice and snow, about his rescue by Aikhjarto, the elfhunt, his son, and the search for Noroelle’s child.

  When Mandred finished, he waited for another whisper to come on the wind, but the voice was silent, and the wind died away.

  Mandred awoke with a jolt. He sat up and looked outside. It was dark. The wind softly jostled the branches and leaves.

  Mandred yawned and stretched. He had the feeling he had only been asleep for a short time, but he must have slept some hours, for it was night. He looked around. The barinstones gave off a warm light. Then he noticed a smell. Meat. He leaped to his feet and went into the room next door, to the dining table. On it lay raw vegetables. Freshly harvested, he could see. Through the open door to the kitchen, he could see Nuramon. He was standing at the stone oven and pushing something into it. Not only did Alaen Aikhwitan tolerate Nuramon living inside him, he allowed him to light a fire. It seemed not to make the slightest difference to the oak.

  The elf turned in Mandred’s direction and came to join him in the other room. “Finally awake, I see. I did not realize how exhausted you were. I’ve been out hunting in the forest in the meantime.” The elf picked up the vegetables from the table.

  Mandred was ashamed of himself. He had lazed around and slept and missed the hunt. “That spot by the window is too cozy. You can’t keep your eyes open.”

  Nuramon laughed. “My mother often sat by that window and talked with Aikhwitan.”

  The jarl turned and looked uneasily into the other room. It frightened him to think that a spirit had been inside him as he slept. “I felt as if I heard a voice,” he said, then told Nuramon about what had happened.

  Nuramon dropped the knife he’d been peeling the vegetables with. He looked surprised, but also a little hurt. “I spend my entire life here, and Aikhwitan never says so much as a word to me. But along comes a human, out of the blue, and he’s already chatting with him.” He shook his head. “Forgive me. Of course he would speak to you. Aikhjarto saved you, after all. He must have sensed that.”

  Mandred felt queasy. He had not asked for the goodwill of a tree and had not wanted to hurt Nuramon’s feelings. Trees. Who would have thought they could be so fickle? In his world, they said nothing. And that was a good thing. He took Nuramon by the arm. “Come on. Maybe he’ll speak to you, too.”

  They went to the window and listened, but there was nothing to be heard in the rustling of the leaves. The whispers did not return, and Mandred was left wondering whether he had really heard the voice or if it had just been a dream.

  “I can sense his presence everywhere, but that’s all,” said Nuramon. The elf was making an effort to play down his disappointment, but he couldn’t do it. “Let’s finish the food.”

  Back in the kitchen, Mandred saw the source of the wonderful smell. Several pieces of meat were simmering nicely. He was amazed at how quickly Nuramon had prepared the meat. There were no leftover innards in the kitchen, no blood or skin to be seen. It was impossible for him to guess what kind of animal the meat came from. It was as pale as poultry. The sight of it made Mandred’s mouth water. “What is that?” he finally asked Nuramon.

  “Gelgerok,” answered the elf.

  Mandred was curious. During the long search for Noroelle’s son, the elves had often talked about gelgeroks and had described them in detail, but Mandred could still not really imagine what such a beast looked like. “Is the carcass somewhere around here? Can I see it?”

  “I’m sorry, Mandred. I shot it, and I left the parts I didn’t need for Gilomern.”

  “Gilomern? Who’s that?”

  “He lives in the forests. He is a hunter, but he’s happy to take what others leave behind.”

  “Is he also an elf?”

  “Yes.”

  “A friend?”

  “No. Gilomern doesn’t care much for friendship. But it is common practice for us to leave him his share. No doubt he has already fetched the gelgerok. Don’t worry. Sooner or later, you’ll see one of them.”

  Nuramon set about slicing the vegetables. “Mandred, would you take care of the gravy for the meat? I’ve cut the herbs, and spices are there. It’s best to pour off the meat juices from the pan and then mix everything how you like it.”

  The trust the elf had in him. Here he was, Mandred Torgridson, the jarl of Firnstayn, conqueror of the manboar, and he was being asked to cook. If the people of the Fjordlands knew that, they wouldn’t be telling stories about Mandred the jarl, they’d be warbling a drinking song about Mandred the cook. What was it Nuramon had said so many times during the search for Guillaume? “You’ll make a human of me yet.” If Mandred wasn’t careful, Nuramon and Farodin would make an elf out of him, and he’d end up actually enjoying cooking.

  Tentatively, he set about the task Nuramon had given him, and in no time, he was surprised at how good the gravy tasted. As he made it, he watched to make sure the meat didn’t burn and even took the bread out of the oven. When Nuramon tried the gravy and pronounced it delicious, Mandred could not hide his pride. Of course it was delicious.

  While he and Nuramon were setting out the food on the table, Farodin arrived. He was carrying baggage and laid it on one of the many empty chairs. “Looks like I arrived just in time.” He seemed to have come in a good mood and with a big appetite.

  “Finally, something decent to eat again,” said Mandred. What they had set out here was nothing like the small portions the elves in the palace had meted out to him. Nuramon had come up with vegetables and meat in abundance, and Mandred could hardly wait to sit and eat.

  As they ate, Mandred kept one eye on Farodin. What would the elf say about his gravy? So far, they had not mentioned it, but he would change that. Mandred turned to Nuramon. “This meat’s excellent, really. Even the vegetables taste amazing.” He looked at Farodin. “Am I right?”

  Farodin nodded politely and said to Nuramon, “Noroelle always spoke highly of your talents as a cook. And I learned to appreciate them, too, on our travels. This is superb. The gravy especially.”

  Mandred exchanged a wink with Nuramon, then he leaned back and asked, “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Naturally,” answered Farodin, pushing a small chunk of meat into his mouth.

  “I ma
de the gravy,” Mandred said with relish.

  Farodin hesitated, then went on chewing slowly. When he had swallowed, he smiled conspiratorially. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “Not for a moment,” said Nuramon.

  “Well then, Mandred. My compliments to you,” said Farodin, and there was genuine appreciation in his voice.

  Mandred was proud. If you could surprise an elf, you could find out what they truly thought. “But you have to promise me never to tell a soul that Mandred Torgridson stood before a stove,” the jarl said.

  “I’ll promise you that if you promise me you’ll never mention to anyone that I couldn’t tell the difference between a human’s cooking and an elf’s,” Farodin replied.

  It was a fair trade. Mandred could live with it.

  Soon, they had finished their meal, and Mandred saw it as an honor that they had left most of the meat to him. That was hospitality.

  They went into a large adjoining room with a floor made of small stone slabs. In the center of the room, a mosaic of gemstones had been fashioned. It showed an elf defending himself from a troll. This seemed to be where Nuramon’s family once held councils of war.

  Farodin positioned himself beside the broad window that offered the sweeping outlook over the land. Far in the distance, the lights of Emerelle’s palace glittered. Mandred stood at the mosaic while Nuramon leaned against the wall close by the door and stared at it. Restlessness had taken hold of Mandred. If it had been up to him, he would already be on his way.

  The cheerful mood during their meal was gone. Farodin turned his back to them. One didn’t have to be a priest of Luth to know what was on the elves’ minds. Although no longer allowed to leave Albenmark, they still desperately sought some means to rescue the woman they loved. Their long silence only underscored how hard all of this was for them.

  Nuramon looked at Mandred. “I’ve been wanting to ask you something for days, Mandred. Please excuse me for being so direct. But why didn’t you stay back there in Firnstayn?”

  “Because it is my son’s place now,” he replied without hesitating. “Sometimes fathers have to leave their sons their inheritance early. If I had not been trapped in the ice cave, I would be an old man now. My time in Firnstayn has passed. It was a question of fairness, and it was right for me to leave, to give Alfadas the chance to become jarl if he can prove himself in the eyes of the people.”

  “You’re a fighter, Mandred. Is it enough for you to be the father of a jarl? Is that all you still want to achieve?” Nuramon asked.

  Mandred looked at the elf in surprise. Was Nuramon trying to insult him? Of course that was not enough. “I’m going to hunt down the manboar—I mean, the Devanthar. It robbed me of the life I was supposed to live, and I’ll kill it for that. Because of what it did, I lost my wife . . .” He bit his lip as his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. “And I would like to help the two of you. Nothing and nobody can give me Freya again. But you . . . you can still get your beloved back.”

  “Such confidence from the mouth of a human,” said Farodin cynically. “The queen has guards at every crossing. Even you can’t get back to your own world.” The elf did not turn to face them as he spoke.

  “Farodin’s right,” said Nuramon. “The queen may keep the gates closed for hundreds of years. It is possible that you will never see your homeland again.”

  “I’ve said my good-byes to my homeland. Don’t give yourselves a headache for my sake. Think about how we can rescue Noroelle.”

  Nuramon lowered his eyes. “At least we know we can expect no help from the queen. She will never change her mind.”

  “What exactly did the queen do with Noroelle?” Mandred asked. “I’ve never really understood what happened to her. Explain it to me. Then I might be of more use to you.”

  Farodin snorted contemptuously.

  Nuramon, though, was still friendly. “The queen took her to the Other World and, from there, exiled her to the Shattered World.”

  “And what is this Shattered World?” Mandred had heard the elves talk about that place often enough in the years they had spent searching for Guillaume, but he had never managed to get a clear picture of what it was. “How can a world break? I mean . . . a world is not a clay pot.”

  “The Shattered World is an ancient battlefield,” said Farodin. “It is the place where the Alben fought the Devanthar and destroyed them. In the course of the war, the world was torn apart. There are only a few gates that lead there, from here or from the human world. It lies between our world and yours. Think of it as a few islands adrift in an ocean of nothing. It is of no consequence anymore, so we call your world the Other World as if the Shattered World no longer existed at all. The path to Noroelle leads us first to your world, Mandred. When we get there, we have to search for the gate to that island in the middle of nothing where Noroelle is a prisoner. Once we’ve found the gate, we will have to break through the queen’s magic. And I’m afraid that, against the queen’s will, we will never be able to free Noroelle from her captivity. It is hopeless.”

  Nuramon took several steps in Farodin’s direction. His companion’s words seemed to anger him. “Nothing is hopeless. Just because we don’t see a way does not mean there isn’t one. The question is how far we’ll go to reach our goal.”

  Farodin turned around and looked at Nuramon. His expression was icy. “You know how far I would go.”

  “Would you still do it if it meant never being able to return to your family because you had brought eternal disgrace onto yourself? Or if it meant being exiled if the queen ever saw you again? Or if Noroelle herself would turn from you because of the things you’d done? Would you accept all that to save her?”

  An oddly cryptic smile flashed over Farodin’s face, although Mandred had found no humor in Nuramon’s words. “Without a moment’s hesitation.”

  “Then we speak no more about the queen’s proscriptions, but about what we have to do.”

  “I will go with you, wherever the road may lead,” said Mandred. “I have a debt to repay. At least one.” If he had never come to the elven world, then Noroelle would still be with Farodin and Nuramon today. The manboar had used him as bait to lure the elfhunt to the human world. He had never understood why that mattered to the Devanthar. Did it simply want to kill a few elves and show Emerelle that a Devanthar had survived the war with the Alben? Or did it have some deeper plan? And why had it sired Guillaume? Unlike Emerelle, Mandred could not see what danger might still arise from the dead demon child. It made no difference what the final goal of the Devanthar might be. One thing was certain: it was Mandred who had given the fiend a way into the world of the elves, and he had to do his part to make up for the damage done. But his other debt weighed far more heavily on him. With his promise to Emerelle, he had killed Freya. And this promise, too, only came about because of the manboar. His wife had cursed him rightly.

  “Whatever path you tread, Mandred Torgridson will tread it at your side.”

  “But how are we supposed to get to the Other World?” asked Farodin.

  The jarl balled his fists. To him, it was obvious who they had to fight first. “If you’re ready to defy your queen, then we should go out and fight for a way to the Other World.”

  Farodin dismissed the suggestion with an elegant gesture. “No, Mandred. If the queen has something guarded, then it is secure. The gates are not open to us.”

  “If the door’s closed, then we bash our heads through the wall.”

  Farodin grinned. “With these walls, not even your skull would make a dent, mortal.”

  “Wait.” Nuramon’s eyes lit up. “Through the wall. A good thought. A brilliant thought . . . through the wall with our heads.”

  Mandred had no idea what had gotten the elf so excited. Farodin was actually right. These gates were not gates as a human would understand them. And there were no walls either.

 
Nuramon laughed. “We’re blind. We need a human to open our eyes to our own world.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Farodin.

  “It’s obvious. We will take the same path to the Other World that Noroelle took. We’ll ignore the guarded gates and create our own.”

  “Nuramon, you’re overestimating your abilities,” snapped Farodin. “That is the most foolish thing I’ve ever heard you say, by far. We don’t possess Noroelle’s skill with magic.”

  But there Mandred thought differently. “Nuramon is a great magician,” he protested vehemently. “You of all elves should know that. You were no more than a piece of raw meat in the ice cave . . . and Nuramon saved you from certain death. If that wasn’t the power of sorcery, then I don’t know what you call magic at all.”

  “Just because a horse wears horseshoes, it’s a far cry from being a blacksmith.”

  “What do horses have to do with this?” Mandred shouted.

  “Let me explain it so a human can understand . . . Alfadas is an outstanding fighter, no question. Ollowain turned him into a master of the sword. But how good is he with an axe, Mandred?”

  The jarl understood. “Mediocre at best,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “And the same is true of Nuramon. I am deeply in his debt for healing me, not only in the ice cave but also when we escaped from Aniscans. I don’t want to call his skills into question in any way, but opening a gate is simply a different thing. Penetrating the border between two worlds . . . you are talking about potent magic.”

  “I watched while Nuramon fought for you at the border between life and death, and he brought you back to life. Show me a boundary more insurmountable than that.”

  The elves looked at each other in surprise. It was clear that they had never looked at it from that vantage point.

  Nuramon seemed slightly embarrassed. Finally, he broke the silence. “What did your parents tell you about the Albenpaths when you were a child?” he asked Farodin.

  The elf hesitated before answering. “They told me that they run through our world and connect it with other worlds.”