The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  “Couldn’t you use it to find Noroelle?”

  “No. She is in the Shattered World, but I may be able to find the gate we need to reach her.” He hesitated. After a moment, he added, “But to do that, I have to know what it is I’m looking for. I’ve been able to sense the grains of sand every time, provided I get close enough to them.”

  Nuramon struggled with the idea of chasing down grains of sand. “There has to be another way to free Noroelle.”

  “Maybe. But until we have found another way, this is all we have. We should find out first if we are able to open a gate between the worlds at all. I still have my doubts.”

  “We can do it. I’m certain.”

  “Unless the queen has sent someone to follow our tracks,” said Farodin.

  Nuramon looked back, but saw no one.

  “Just now, back at the clearing, there was someone hiding in the bushes,” Farodin continued.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” asked Nuramon indignantly.

  “It wouldn’t have changed anything.”

  Nuramon did not at all like the way Farodin kept what he knew to himself and made arbitrary decisions that affected all of them. “Whom do you think it was?”

  The elf shrugged. “Someone who prefers to avoid open confrontation. I’m hoping we can surprise whoever it is when we open the gate . . . if we manage it. And it would be smarter not to look back all the time. We should make whoever it is feel safe.”

  They rode on until they finally reached the edge of the forest and open grassland lay before them, then they let the horses have their head. They galloped toward the hill country between them and Yaldemee. The horses enjoyed the chance to charge across open land. Farodin’s chestnut led the way while Felbion and Mandred’s mare, which he still had not named, rode neck and neck.

  Mandred sat low in the saddle, leaning far forward over the mane of his steed. He drove her on with wild whoops. He seemed to be enjoying the race, and Nuramon fell back a little to give the mortal the small victory of not coming up last.

  They reached the hills without seeing any trace of a pursuer. Perhaps they had been successful in shaking off whoever it was. To be safe, they decided to take a detour and rode for some time along a shallow river to wash away their tracks. Farodin openly doubted that they would be able to fool Phillimachos with tricks like that.

  Late in the afternoon, they reached the small valley that the faun oak had told them about, hidden among the hills.

  They dismounted. The moment Nuramon’s feet touched the ground, he sensed the power of an Albenpath.

  Slowly, they led the horses forward. There was no more than an ash tree and a few bushes in the valley. The grass-covered hills rose steeply on both sides. With every step, Nuramon felt the surging of the Albenpath. It was like crossing a frozen river on ice so thin that he could feel the water sliding underneath.

  At the end of the valley, Nuramon stopped. Close to the ground, he sensed a vortex. The power of the Albenpaths streamed in from three sides, merged, and flowed apart again along three paths. They had reached their goal.

  Nuramon scanned the land around him. There was nothing to show that an Albenstar existed here. No stone marking the location, no clearing.

  Farodin, wary, searched the area for any traces of other Albenkin, but there was no sign that anybody else had visited this place recently. The faun oak had advised them well. They could open a gate to the Other World here without being disturbed.

  In the past few days, Nuramon had done his best to buoy his companions and, in particular, to allay Farodin’s fears. But now he felt the first pangs of doubt himself. He had learned a lot in the winter, and the faun oak had told him that he possessed great talent, but nothing could erase the fact that he had never before opened a gate.

  “We are here. I can feel the Albenstar,” Nuramon told his friends, but he spoke more to Mandred than to Farodin.

  “Do you think the horses will go through the gate, too?” asked Mandred, looking suspiciously at the grass as if there had to be some kind of sign that they were standing at an Albenstar. “I’ve gotten used to not wearing my feet down to the bone.”

  “We’ll just have to see,” Farodin answered.

  “Take a last look around. Breathe in the air,” said Nuramon. “This may be the last time we see Albenmark.” Anyone breaking the queen’s laws as often as they had could not count on ever setting foot there again.

  “I’m sure it’s the last time,” Mandred declared.

  Farodin said nothing, but Nuramon, deep down, felt that he would see Albenmark again one day, even if he had no right to.

  Nuramon began to weave the spell. Still standing, eyes closed, he concentrated on the streams of the Albenpaths that came together in the star. Then he raised his head to feel the sun shining on his face. The magic was a spell of light and warmth, and he felt both of these now on his skin. Magic and heat had often been allies in his healing and were not strangers to him. He opened himself to the power of the sun and let it flow through him and on to the Albenstar. The magic tore a wound in the vortex, and for a moment, Nuramon felt as if he would be sucked into the Albenstar. He fought against it with all his strength, but the power was too strong. Suddenly, something gripped him by the shoulders, and he threw open his eyes. He could hardly see. It was as if the power of the sun that he had absorbed now radiated from his own eyes. He was aware of two shadows close to him. Farodin and Mandred, he thought.

  Nuramon closed his eyes again and tried hard to hold on to the magic that was threatening to escape his control. He kneeled, laid his hands on the warm earth, and allowed the sun’s power to flow down through his arms, as if the Albenstar were someone injured whose wounds Nuramon had been called upon to heal. This was no healing spell, though, and the wound he had opened was not supposed to close, not yet. What he had thought of as a wound in the Albenstar had to be part of the magic. Maybe the wound itself would become the gate. He felt the power flowing out through his fingertips and expected the pain that had always come when he performed his magic. But it didn’t come, and because of that, Nuramon stayed on guard. If it came suddenly, he did not want to be caught unawares and be overwhelmed.

  Something began to pulse, a force in one of the paths that set it apart from the others. It was like the difference between water from a stream and water from the sea. This had to be the path that would take them to the Other World. Then, without warning, the pain came. Searing heat poured down through Nuramon’s hands to his fingertips. He fought desperately to withstand it, but the pain grew and grew and soon became unbearable. Nuramon threw himself back from the Albenstar and opened his eyes. The light that had taken away his sight was gone, and he saw his companions standing at his side. Beside them rose a broad column of light that made Nuramon think of a gash in the world.

  “You’ve done it,” cried Farodin.

  Nuramon rose to his feet and cautiously stepped closer. He had caused an injury to the Albenstar, and released the power of the sun into it.

  While Mandred stood gaping, as if nailed to the ground, Farodin circled the pillar of light. Nuramon could feel how the column was drawing power from the vortex. He was terrified; if he had made a mistake, they might all die. “Do you think this really is the gate we wanted to create?” he asked.

  “I’m not connected to the fabric of your magic, but from outside, everything looks just as the faun oak described it,” said Farodin. “What choice do we have? I’m willing to risk it.”

  Mandred tugged at the reins of his mare. “Let me go first.”

  “Out of the question,” said Farodin. “It’s too dangerous. It’s for our sake that you are even here, so let me go ahead. If I burst into flames, then feel free to tell Nuramon what I think of him.” He forced a smile.

  “We’re going to my world, and no one but Mandred Torgridson will be the first to set foot there.” And with
that, he simply strode ahead and suddenly disappeared into the light.

  Farodin shook his head. “He’s such a pigheaded . . .” He fetched his horse, then asked, “Who’s next, you or me?”

  “I opened the gate. I want to close it again,” replied Nuramon.

  Farodin lowered his eyes. “Considering our rivalry for Noroelle, I’d like . . .” He broke off. “Let’s forget it and hold to what Noroelle said before the elfhunt.” Without another word, he followed Mandred into the light.

  “To me, Felbion,” Nuramon called, and the horse came. “Go ahead. I’ll follow.” The horse didn’t balk, but stepped into the light and disappeared.

  The magic that would close the gate within a few moments was something like a turn of a hand inside Nuramon’s spirit, a gesture he completed with his will. It was no more than a healing spell for the wound he had caused the Albenstar. When it came to that kind of magic, he knew what he was doing. The moment he thought it, it would be irreversible.

  Nuramon was about to step into the light when he became aware of a figure standing on the hill at the entrance to the valley. It was a woman. She raised a hand and waved timidly.

  Obilee. There was anxiety on her face. Even at this distance, he could see that. She may even have been crying. He waved back. There was no time to do any more. The column of light was already shrinking. He wondered why Obilee had not revealed herself to them sooner. Then he went into the cool of the light.

  A heartbeat later, scorching heat was beating down on him. Was this the last thing he would ever feel? Had his sorcery failed? One step, and the light of the gate vanished. Overhead, a merciless sun beat down.

  He was relieved to see that his companions were there, but when he looked around, his relief evaporated. On every side was sand, as far as he could see. It was the Other World, certainly. He could never confuse this sky with the sky over Albenmark, for the air here, even on the clearest day, still looked murky.

  A desert. Of all the places they could have come out, they were in the middle of a desert. Fate was toying with them again. Mandred’s Luth had woven another of his nets, sending them into this wasteland. Nothing could show more clearly just how little hope they had of ever finding Noroelle again.

  Mandred sat in the shadow of his horse, breathing heavily. Farodin simply kneeled in the sand in disbelief, picked up a handful of the stuff, and let it trickle between his fingers.

  In the Land of Fire

  I will let nothing show, thought Mandred. One step after another. They had been traversing the wasteland for two days. Nuramon told them they were following one of three paths, but Mandred could see no sign of it. At least they were no longer in the dunes. In front of them stretched an endless plain, where white rocks jutted through the sand like the bones of giants.

  He could not stand the looks of concern the others kept giving him. “I’m fine,” he snarled at Farodin. Damned elves. The heat seemed to make no difference to them. They were not even sweating.

  Mandred ran his tongue over his parched lips. His mouth was dry, and his lips felt as rough as hemp rope, the skin split and scabbed. His face was badly burned from the relentless sun, and it hurt.

  He looked for his shadow. Too long. Midday was still a long way off, and the heat was already unbearable.

  Mandred chided himself, Don’t show any sign of weakness. How could the elves put up with the heat? Nuramon did seem a little tired, and he wasn’t half as tough as Farodin, but he was still holding up well. Mandred thought back to the days when they were hunting the manboar. Nuramon had worked some sort of magic that had wafted warm air under his clothes. In the middle of the coldest winter ever, the elf had not frozen. Could they also cool the air under their clothes? Was that their secret? It had to be something like that.

  He’d stopped sweating himself, too, Mandred thought tiredly. Not because he had grown accustomed to the heat, but because he was as dried out as an old chunk of cheese. He dabbed at his lips with his tongue again and realized it was swollen.

  Mandred grasped the saddle horn. Even his horse seemed not particularly affected by the heat. He had shared the last of his water with her that morning, and she had looked at him with her large dark eyes as if she felt sympathy for him. Horses that felt sympathy for humans . . . this heat was driving him crazy.

  It was so eerily quiet in the desert that you could hear the wind rolling the grains of sand.

  Step by step. Ever onward. The horse was pulling him along. It felt good to rest, to let the mare support him a little. The two elves led their horses by the reins, but he let his horse lead him. He was too weak to do anything else.

  The breeze freshened. Mandred let out a rough, husky noise. Two days earlier, it would have been a laugh. A fresh breeze? Just wind. Wind as hot as the blast of air that would hit you when a baker opened his oven. What an ignoble way for a warrior to die. He could have cried, but he was too dry for tears. He was as arid as an old apple. What a godforsaken way to go.

  He raised his head. The sun stabbed at his face, its rays like daggers. Mandred turned slightly to the side. His eyes scanned the horizon. Nothing. No end to the desert. Just bleached stones and yellow sand.

  It started again. The air congealed. It became thicker and somehow streaky, almost like something set in aspic. Then it shuddered and melted away. Would he also melt away in the end? Or would he get so dried out that he suddenly burst into flames? Maybe he would simply keel over and stop living.

  Mandred snatched the leather canteen from his belt, pulled off the cap, and lifted the rim to his lips. Nothing. He knew he’d drained the last drop from it long before, but a single drop would do. Just a reminder of water. In desperation, he twisted the leather, but all he wrung out of it was hot air. He coughed and let it fall again.

  He looked ahead distrustfully at Farodin, walking ahead of him. His canteen was bigger. He still had water and just didn’t want to share it.

  I will not beg, Mandred rebuked himself. Whatever an elf could stand, he could, too. He was much bigger and stronger than those two bastards. It wasn’t possible that they could bear up to these agonies better than he could. Their canteens had to be bigger. Or maybe they had enchanted canteens that never ran dry. Or . . . yes, that was it. It wasn’t magic, no. They had stolen his water, at night, while he slept. It was the only explanation, the only way they could keep on going, step by step across this accursed sand. But they would not cheat him, not Mandred Torgridson. He touched the axe at his belt. He would keep his eye on them. When they were least expecting it, he would strike. Stealing his water. Scum, the pair of them. And after all they’d been through together.

  His right hand slipped from the saddle horn. He staggered a few steps, then his knees gave out. Nuramon was at his side instantly. His skin looked reddish, and he had dark rings around his eyes . . . but his lips were not cracked. He had enough to drink. His water. Mandred’s left hand cramped around the shaft of the axe, but he couldn’t pull it from his belt. Nuramon leaned closer. His hands were pleasantly cool. When he stroked Mandred’s face, the burning in his skin stopped.

  Close above him, Mandred saw the elf’s throat. A throat full of deliciously wet blood. All he had to do was bite. He still had the strength to tear open a throat with his teeth, didn’t he? He let out a rapturous sigh at the vision of all that blood soaking his marred face.

  “Nuramon?” For the first time ever, Mandred heard fear in Farodin’s voice. “What is that?”

  Farodin had stopped walking and was pointing to the southern horizon. A thin brown line had appeared between the sky and the desert beneath. It grew with every heartbeat.

  For Mandred, the air felt like it had curdled into a tough, suffocating mass. His throat burned with every breath he took.

  “A storm?” asked Nuramon, uncertain. “Could it be a storm?”

  A gust whipped sand into Mandred’s face. He blinked to clear his eyes.
Nuramon and Farodin grabbed him under the arms and dragged him behind a knee-high shelf of rock. Nuramon’s stallion nickered anxiously; his ears were back as he stared at the brown mass rolling down on them.

  The elves managed to get the horses onto their knees behind the rock shelf. Mandred groaned aloud when he saw Farodin douse a cloth with the last of his water and wrap it around his horse’s nostrils. In her fear, Mandred’s mare was making strange growling noises. Suddenly, the sky disappeared. Flurries of swirling sand instantly reduced the world to something just a few steps across.

  Nuramon pressed a damp cloth to Mandred’s nose and mouth. He sucked greedily at the moist material. He had narrowed his eyes to slits, but the sand still found a way in.

  Farodin had chosen their refuge well. In the lee of the flat rock, left and right of them, they could see the fine sand like an endless veil flying past. Earth and sky seemed to have merged into one. From above, sand and dust peppered them, but the wind drove most of it over them and away.

  Despite the cloth covering his mouth, Mandred felt sand seeping between his teeth and into his nose. The stuff was in his clothes, and it scoured his weather-beaten skin. The cloth was soon completely clogged, and Mandred again felt as if he were suffocating. Every breath was an agony, even though the storm at least protected him from the worst of the heat.

  He squeezed his burning eyes closed. All sense of time passing was lost to him. The storm was burying them alive. His legs were already half engulfed in sand, and he had no strength left to fight free.

  Mandred felt utterly desiccated. He thought he could feel his thickening blood slowing in his veins. So this was what it was like to die.

  Elven Paths

  Look at this.” Farodin waved his companion over. Nuramon hesitated. He was leading Felbion by the reins, and they had tied Mandred across the horse’s saddle. The human was in a deep coma. His heart still beat, but slowly, and his body was far too warm. A day at most, Nuramon had said in the morning. Since then, eight hours had passed. They had to find water, or Mandred would die. The elves could not survive the heat too much longer either. Nuramon’s cheeks were sunken, and fine creases had formed in rings around his inflamed eyes. It was clear that his struggle to save Mandred’s life had driven him to the limits of his own endurance.