The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  “Long ago. We’ve just refused to face the fact until now.” Nuramon turned to face Mandred. “And you? What is your path?”

  The jarl hesitated.

  Nuramon thought back to the Cave of Luth, where he had sealed his friendship with Mandred. Back then, the two had been bound by many things.

  “I’m sorry, Nuramon. I know how deeply I am in your debt. Yet . . . I’m not very good at putting my thoughts and feelings into pretty words. But Farodin is right. I think it is better to follow the trail of the sand. It may be a long journey, but it will lead us to where we want to go. I’m sorry . . . I . . .” Mandred’s voice failed him.

  So he was alone again. “I don’t need your pity. You’re the ones I feel sorry for. Go your own miserable way and look for your grains of sand. I will follow my own path.”

  “Don’t be a fool, Nuramon,” said Mandred. He gestured placatingly. “We’re one boat. I’m the hull. Farodin is the helm. You’re the sail that catches the wind.”

  “You haven’t understood it yet, have you, mortal? I don’t need anyone anymore to decide which way I go. The storm has torn your sail away. Now see how far you can paddle with your hands.” With that, Nuramon turned and left the room.

  The Log of the Galley Purpurwind

  Thirty-fourth day of the voyage: We heaved to in the lee of the islands of Iskendria and waited for Sem-la’s barges. The oarsmen had some time to recuperate. As agreed, we took on board a crate of desert glass, a marble statue, and ten bales of fine cloth from Iskendria. But no one told us that we were to expect passengers: an elf from Albenmark named Farodin and a human, clearly from the Northlands, by the name of Mandred. Sem-la paid the cost of their passage. It is clear that neither possesses gold of his own, but they are otherwise well equipped. Their horses alone, beasts from Albenmark, are worth a king’s ransom.

  Thirty-fifth day of the voyage: Slow headway north-northwest. Windless and burning sun. The oarsmen tire quickly. The human we took on board is surprisingly well educated. He knows a lot about the sea, and he can row for three men. He has great strength in his arms. He would be a boon for the Purpurwind, the more so because he speaks Dailish and could be of use in trading with the centaurs of Gygnox. Perhaps we should try to put in at Gygnox this trip. The human talks constantly about old sagas he heard in Iskendria and about the Fjordlands in the North. If he knew the seas that we have sailed.

  Thirty-sixth to thirty-eighth days of the voyage: Calm seas. Crew content. Curiosity about the human.

  Thirty-ninth day of the voyage: The crew is confident. South wind, mild weather. We are making good headway, faster than expected, and the oarsmen can preserve their strength. Afternoon: A spectacle ahead of us. We crossed the heading of a ship of mortals, an Aegilien galley. An enormous sea serpent appeared. The humans did what all newlings do: they turned tail and fled. As expected, the sea serpent chased them and smashed their ship as if it were no more than a little fishing boat. We took the few survivors on board.

  An hour later, the sea serpent appeared again, breaching not twenty paces to starboard. The humans we had rescued fell into a panic, and many jumped overboard. The fools don’t know that one need only steer toward a sea serpent to unnerve it. The beasts attack only those who fear them. Mandred, alone among the humans, showed no fear. He took a harpoon and hurried to the bow. He actually shouted at us to attack the serpent. When the creature eventually dived and swam off, the human was disappointed. He cursed it as it went. We all laughed, for he cursed in Dailish. He sounded almost like a centaur . . .

  Forty-fifth day of the voyage: Entering shallow waters. Steered with caution through the sandbanks off the human city of Jilgas. We put the survivors of the sea serpent’s attack ashore here. Before sundown, we set anchor off Gygnox. Perhaps the human can still be persuaded . . .

  Fifty-first day of the voyage: Good business with the centaurs of Gygnox, thanks to Mandred. All the human lacks is the body of a centaur. He drank with them and sang crude songs. After that, they were ready to trade with us. Of note: although there is a gate to Albenmark close by Gygnox, Mandred and Farodin don’t want to use it. Are they perhaps exiles?

  Fifty-third day of the voyage: Weighed anchor. Calm sea, oarsmen drunk. Human on the drum. The elf from Albenmark seems unwell. He finds us somewhat too rough and ready for elves, most likely. What a little time in the human world will do to an elf. Evening: Farodin surprised I keep a log, not understanding that anyone who trades in Iskendria quickly learns the value of writing. The elf from Albenmark has asked us to change course. He speaks of something he has to collect from the bottom of the sea. It is no great detour for us, and I am curious besides, and so agree.

  Fifty-fifth day of the voyage: We reach Farodin’s destination after a stretch of hard rowing. Crew tired and restless, don’t understand change of course. As for Farodin, the water is too deep. He is courageous, but he can’t make it to the sea floor. I offer to go instead, for I have a spell of water and air, but Farodin tells me I would not be able to find what he seeks. So we dive together, and from time to time, I give him air. On the sea floor, a strange thing: he digs into the sand and gestures to me to return to the surface. On board again, he opens his hand: just sand. He searches in it for something: a single grain. Admittedly, some magic seems to cling to it . . .

  Fifty-seventh day of the voyage: A storm, out of nowhere. We have to battle to get through. Finally, though, no injuries, only minor repairs, no cargo lost. A good storm . . .

  Sixty-seventh day of the voyage: Coast of the city of Tilgis, in the east of Angnos. Time to bid farewell. The human and the elf from Albenmark were good reinforcements for us. I tried again to persuade them to stay, but they were not to be swayed. What a loss. I would have liked to present Farodin especially to my prince. My only consolation is the good trade I made with him. Four barinstones for four hundred Angnosian dinars . . .

  Seventy-eighth day of the voyage: We reach the straits of Quilas and sail through the gate. Evening: Arrival in Reilimee. Cargo unloaded. End of the voyage. Seventy-eight days, that is a good time.

  RECORDED BY THE ELF ARANAE, CAPTAIN OF THE PURPURWIND, IN HER LOG, IN THE YEAR 1287 AFTER THE FOUNDING OF REILIMEE

  The Lost Homeland

  Mandred was as excited as a young man heading to the midsummer feast to dance with his girl, and then some. He let his mare feel his heels, urging her up the gently sloping hillside. It must have been three years or so since the last time he had been in Firnstayn. All his traveling had upset his sense of time, and he could not say exactly how long ago he had said good-bye to Alfadas. Had his son been elected jarl?

  It was a golden fall, as it had been when Mandred left Firnstayn. The best season for fly-fishing.

  With a snort, the mare reached the crest of the ridge. From here, one had a broad view over the fjord. It was still more than a mile to Firnstayn. Mandred shaded his eyes with his hand and squinted into the low sun. Below him lay a large town encircled by a solid stone wall with stout towers. Landing stages reached out into the fjord, and some twenty sizable ships were tied up there. The shore was lined with storehouses, and on the hill where Erek’s longhouse had once stood was a stone castle fit for a prince.

  Had he taken a wrong turn in the mountains?

  Confused, Mandred turned and looked toward the cliff where the stone circle stood. That was the Hartungscliff, and below it, his village had to lie. It was no use deceiving himself.

  Mandred felt as if an invisible hand were pressing on his throat. He swallowed hard. Now Farodin had reached the top of the hill as well. The elf reined in his chestnut and gazed down at the fjord in silence.

  “We . . . we must have been gone quite a while,” said Mandred, his voice faltering. He closed his eyes and thought of the time with Alfadas, the few years he had with his son. As if it were yesterday, he remembered them rowing out onto the fjord in Erek’s boat and how Alfadas, in high spirits, had shoved
him overboard, into the water. He thought of the twenty-pound salmon he had caught, bigger than any fish his son ever hooked. They had gotten drunk together, sat on the shore, baked the salmon over a fire, and eaten it with stale bread.

  How old would Alfadas be now? How long did it take to turn a small village into a large town? Twenty years? Forty?

  They had come here from the west, riding through the wilderness of mountains, and had not seen another human being for weeks. No one to sit with at a fire and to tell them the latest news or old stories. With that, he might have been prepared. Mandred chewed at his bottom lip and tried desperately to master the emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. The elves had told him about the danger of traveling through the gates. After his experience in the ice cave, he should have known.

  But back then, they had been sent through time by the Devanthar’s evil spell. Farodin and Nuramon had learned how to control the gates. How could this have happened?

  Driven by his own disquiet, he spurred his mare down the hill. He had to get to Alfadas. What would his son look like now? Did he have children of his own? Maybe even grandchildren?

  They passed through the heavily fortified city gate, and the guards did not stop them. It must have been market day. The streets were full of people, and all around, stalls had been set up against the buildings. A wonderful smell of apples hung in the air. Mandred dismounted and led his mare by the reins. He peered at the faces of all who came toward him, looking for familiar lines.

  Even the clothes the people wore had changed in the time he’d been away. Almost everyone he saw was dressed in fine cloth. A holiday mood prevailed. Firnstayn had grown rich, but Mandred could not orient himself. No house he knew still stood.

  Finally, he could no longer take the uncertainty. He stopped a gray-haired man who wore a white shirt colorfully embroidered at the shoulders. A heavy neckband with silver horseheads at the ends showed him to be a man of some importance.

  “Where do I find Jarl Alfadas?” asked Mandred excitedly. “What’s happened to this place?”

  The old man’s brow creased. He narrowed his blue eyes a little, obviously trying to work out what kind of rogue was firing questions at him. “Jarl Alfadas? I know no jarl by that name.”

  “Who’s in charge of this town?”

  “You’re not from these parts, are you, warrior? Have you never heard of King Njauldred Bladebreaker?”

  “King?” Mandred nearly choked. “A king rules in Firnstayn?”

  “Now you’re poking fun,” the old man grumbled angrily. He turned to walk on, but Mandred held him back by the sleeve.

  “Look at me. Have you seen me before?” Mandred waggled his head, causing his thin braids to whip his face. “I am Mandred Torgridson, and I am here to find my son, Alfadas.”

  Around them, people had come to a stop. Several men rested their hands on their swords, ready to intervene if the foreigner continued harassing the old man, who had suddenly turned deathly pale. He could not have looked more frightened if he’d been face-to-face with a ghost. “Mandred Torgridson,” he repeated, his voice flat.

  The name was taken up by the crowd standing around and, like a wildfire, was passed though the press of people. Soon, the name was on everyone’s lips.

  “Then you must be here for the wounded elf woman,” the old man finally forced himself to say. “She lies in the king’s longhouse. He brought in healers and witches from near and far . . .”

  “I’m here for Alfadas, my—”

  Farodin laid a calming hand on his shoulder. “Which elf do you mean?”

  “Hunters found her in the Larn Pass. She was more dead than alive. They brought her here to the royal halls because no one knew how to help her.” The old man closed his eyes. Suddenly, he reached out with one hand and touched Farodin’s cheek. “You are . . . I mean, my lord, you . . . you are also . . .”

  “Where can we find the king’s hall?” Farodin asked politely but firmly.

  The old man led them personally through the town. Somewhere in the crowd, someone shouted, “Jarl Mandred has returned!” At that, the crowd grew, and the jostling on all sides increased. Some just stood and stared as they passed. Others tried to touch Mandred, as if to convince themselves that he was no ghost.

  Eventually, they reached the hill on top of which stood the royal hall. A broad flight of steps flanked by statues of lions climbed to the seat of power. Only when the two newcomers began to climb the steps did the crowd stop behind them.

  Mandred felt himself torn. It annoyed him that the old man had told him nothing about Alfadas. On the other hand, he was proud. He was famous. Everybody in the town seemed to know his name. No doubt there was a heroic song about his battle with the manboar.

  They had climbed almost as high as the banquet hall when Mandred turned and looked back out over the square. Every face below seemed turned up to him. All commerce on the street had come to a standstill.

  The jarl drew his axe from his belt and raised his arm to the sky. “Hail the people of Firnstayn! Here speaks Mandred Torgridson, come home to visit his heir!”

  Jubilant cries rose in response. Mandred reveled in the shouting and rejoicing. When he finally turned away again, a stout figure was waiting for him at the top of the steps, a warrior with a wild red beard streaked with bands of gray. An escort of well-armed young men surrounded him.

  “So you claim to be Mandred,” said the old warrior in challenge. “Why should we believe you?”

  The jarl still had his axe in his hand. He felt inclined to drum a little respect into the man, but then he smiled. The old man’s mulishness, that had to be in his blood. No doubt.

  “Mandred Torgridson is easy to recognize, because he travels in the company of an elf,” said Farodin now. He swept his long blond hair back, giving the men above a better view of his pointed ears.

  The king creased his brow. He suddenly grew serious—alarmed, even—as though he had just received some terrible news.

  Mandred stood as if made of stone. If the old man up there was his grandson, then Alfadas had to be long dead.

  “Are you Faredred or Nuredred?” asked the king respectfully.

  “Farodin,” replied the elf.

  Mandred felt his knees begin to shake. He stiffened, trying to hold himself still, but he had lost his self-control. “Alfadas,” he said softly. “Alfadas.”

  The king came down the steps and threw his arms around Mandred. And again, jubilant cries rose from the square.

  “Are you all right?” asked Njauldred quietly.

  Mandred nodded. “What about Alfadas?”

  The king pushed one arm under Mandred’s armpit and around his back, supporting him. To everyone else, it probably looked like a gesture of friendship. “We’ll talk in my hall. Not here.”

  Slowly, they ascended the final few steps. The doors of the royal hall stood wide open. Inside, flaming torches cast a bright light that reflected from the gold-clad columns. Captured banners hung from the high ceiling. At the opposite end of the hall, a throne of dark wood stood on a pedestal.

  Mandred was amazed at the splendor of the place. Not even Horsa Starkshield’s golden hall was as impressive as this. One of the walls was decorated with shields the size of doors and with stone axes that looked far too heavy to have been made for human hands.

  From behind one of the columns stepped a young, red-haired woman. She wore a long dress of deerskin decorated all over with small bones, feathers, and stone amulets. “Sire, she will not live beyond sundown. There is nothing we can do.”

  “Then bring a stretcher. We will carry her up to the stone circle. Mandred and his companion Faredred have come for her,” replied the king.

  “She is not strong enough even for that. On a stretcher, wrapped in warm blankets, she would not survive the journey to the top of the cliff. It is a miracle she has lived this long.” />
  “Take me to her,” Farodin ordered. “Immediately.”

  The king nodded to the woman in the deerskin dress. She took Farodin by the hand and led him away.

  Mandred leaned against one of the columns. The sight of the hall had managed to make him forget his weakness for a moment. “Alfadas?” he pleaded, staring at the gray strands in the king’s beard.

  Njauldred clapped his hands and opened his arms in a sweeping gesture that took in his entire retinue. “Bring mead and two horns. Then leave me alone with my ancestor.”

  Ancestor. Something in Mandred recoiled.

  The young warriors withdrew. A maid brought the drinking horns and left a large jug of mead for them. The horns were beautiful, bound with wide hoops of gold.

  “How long has Alfadas been dead?” Mandred asked in a toneless voice.

  “Drink” was all Njauldred said. “Drink, and I will answer all your questions.”

  Mandred raised the horn to his lips. The mead was sweet and spicy. Delicious. When Mandred filled a second horn, Njauldred told him, without hesitation, that he was the eleventh king of the Fjordlands in Alfadas’s line. He laid one hand consolingly on Mandred’s shoulder and began to talk. “Not long after you left Firnstayn, Alfadas was elected jarl, and in a few years, he rose to become a prince. He was the king’s confidant and led his troops in times of war. After some years, an elf came to Firnstayn just after the midsummer feast to ask Alfadas for help. An army of trolls had invaded Albenmark, and things looked very bad for the elves. Alfadas consulted with the king and the princes of the Fjordlands and assembled the greatest army the North had ever seen. They traveled through gates that the elves opened for them and fought side by side with centaurs, kobolds, and elves. The war dragged on for many years, and when the trolls were finally driven out of Albenmark, they began to attack towns and villages in the Fjordlands. They captured Gonthabu and murdered the king and his entire family. A short time later, Alfadas caught up with the raiders at the Göndir Fjord and made them pay dearly. Still on the battlefield, the other princes named Alfadas to be their new king. With their elven allies, they drove the trolls far back to the north. Alfadas named Firnstayn as the new capital because it stands close to a gate to Albenmark and is already so far in the north that it is not far from the trolls’ border. Since those times, there has been an alliance between the elves of Albenmark and the humans of the Fjordlands.”