The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  “Why do you do this?” he asked Wengalf. “Why keep the bodies laid out like this, on display? How am I supposed to believe in one great life when I see the body of another in front of me?”

  Wengalf looked up at him gravely. “Thorwis believed it was the right time for you to see this. And I agree. You have to learn that you are much more than your body.” He pointed to the crystal. “You cast off this one here like a suit of armor that had seen better days. And what days they were.” The Wengalf’s gaze drifted off into nothingness. “Death is painful, and the memory of it is seldom pleasant, but when I visit these halls to see my old body, it gives me strength. I look at my earlier face and see what I once was. My mind becomes clear. Faced with my old body, I feel myself transported back to the old times.”

  Wengalf was right. Why let the body decay if the sight of it can serve as a bridge to the past? Nuramon stepped closer to the stone. Only now did he notice that something was leaning against the crystal. He had overlooked it, so mesmerized was he by the figure itself. It was a sword with a belt and sheath and, next to it, a strung bow and a quiver full of arrows. “Why aren’t the weapons sealed inside with him?” he asked Wengalf.

  “An intelligent question. A question a dwarf would ask.” Wengalf stepped up beside him and looked up at Nuramon’s old body. “You and I spoke often about death. Thorwis told us that your soul would return to Albenmark when you died. And there was no one in Albenmark who could tell you about your own history. You should know that, back then, you had to put up with some derision there because you had been reborn.”

  Nuramon’s thoughts turned to his clan. No doubt they were still living in fear that something would happen to him and the next Nuramon would be born among them.

  Wengalf continued. “But you were certain that the road would lead you back here if you lost your life. You said, ‘If I die, look after my weapons. In my new life, I will come for them.’” Wengalf shook his head. “Back then, we laughed. We never realized that death would come for us so quickly. Those are your weapons. You were an outstanding archer and a master of the sword.”

  “I was a good archer? Hard to believe.” Nuramon could certainly handle a bow reasonably well, but he was a rank beginner compared with the master hunters of Albenmark.

  “You have to get used to the fact that you were once different than you are today. One day, you will break through the barriers separating you from your memories. When that happens, your skills will grow.”

  “As yours once did?”

  “That’s right. When we fought the dragon side by side, I knew my previous lives only from the texts that I had left for myself, as well as what I got from the Book of the King and from my family’s stories. On my deathbed, I told Thorwis the story of my battle against the dragon so that I could find out about it again in my new life. Then they crowned me, for I have never passed from this life without wearing the crown. And then I died. But I did not have to work hard to get the memory back again. I managed it in the next life.”

  “If you can remember, then you also know how it is . . . to die.”

  Wengalf laughed. “Death is no more than sleeping. You nod off, and later, you wake up. Some of us dream. They see the Alben, see the silverlight, the past, or the future. But the meanings of these dreams . . . only the wisest can tell you that.”

  “You mean Thorwis.”

  “I have often tried to get him to tell me something about these death dreams, but he says he has never dreamed in death and can’t talk about things he knows nothing about.”

  “Have you dreamed?”

  “Yes. But whatever it was I saw, I have to keep it to myself until the end comes.”

  Nuramon did not ask any further. He looked down at the weapons at his feet and picked up the bow. Maybe that would bring his memory back. He wanted to know about his life in Albenmark in the past. And perhaps, unlike Thorwis, he had dreamed in death.

  The bow was made of pale wood, the string of a material completely unknown to Nuramon. It glittered in the light. It had to be one of the enchanted bows he had heard of in the stories of his childhood.

  He stroked the bow’s smooth wood. It had not degraded with the years. An odor took him by surprise. He sniffed at his fingers, then at the wood. He knew this wood better than any other in Albenmark. It was the wood of Ceren, the wood his house was built from. His thoughts turned wistfully to home. He had left too thoughtlessly and had not said his farewells like one who would never return, not even to Alaen Aikhwitan. With this longbow, he would always carry something with him that reminded him of home. But where did the string come from? It looked like a thread of silver. He slid his finger along the string, testing it, then plucked at it. It rang with a clear note, like a lute.

  “You used to turn your nose up at our crossbows and say a bow was better.”

  “And was I right?”

  “A weapon is only ever as good as the man behind it. By that rule, the bow was superior to the crossbow. Take it. Maybe you will find your old talent with it again.” He picked up the quiver. “We made these arrows for you. They are a special gift, because bows were never meant for dwarves. Look at the tips.” He slid one arrow from the quiver. The arrow tip was polished iron. “Since the day of your death more than three thousand years ago, they have been lying here. They are not damaged in the slightest. That is the magic of dwarven metal.”

  Every time the dwarves spoke about the time he died here, he wondered how many lives there had been between that one and the one he was living through. Three thousand years were a very, very long time, even for an elf.

  Wengalf held out the quiver and belt to him. Nuramon leaned the bow against his leg, then he accepted the quiver. Wengalf grinned. “You haven’t forgotten everything. The way you lean the bow like that . . . just like then.”

  Nuramon was surprised. He had not done it consciously at all.

  Then Wengalf handed him the sword. “This is your sword. A narrow blade from earlier days, when dwarves and elves stood at the forge together.”

  Nuramon took the sword in his hand. It was light for a long sword. The pommel was disk-shaped, and the cross guard was thin and did not offer the hand much protection. The grip looked short, but it fit snugly into his hand, as if made especially for him. Nuramon drew the weapon from its sheath and inspected the blade. It was longer than the blade of Gaomee’s sword. It had no fullers, but the weapon was still light. That could have been explained only in part by the thinness of the blade, but thinness alone was not enough. The metal looked like regular steel. It must have been enchanted, Nuramon thought, but he could sense nothing of that sort, although he had grown deeply sensitive to the presence of magic ever since the search for Guillaume.

  “A plain sword, yet still enchanted,” Wengalf declared. “You once told me the sword was an old family heirloom.”

  So this was his sword. Who knew in how many lives he had carried it? Now he owned two swords that had been used to fight dragons. One was bound to this life, the other to an earlier one. Nuramon looked again at the body he had once filled. He would carry Gaomee’s sword until the day came when he remembered his previous life and the deeds of the dead warrior before him became deeds from his own past.

  Departing from his old body and the hall it was in was not easy. He had the feeling he was leaving something behind in there.

  Reluctantly, he followed the king to his hall, where the guards were waiting for them. Even though Nuramon had become familiar with the passages since his arrival, he could have spent centuries in this kingdom without uncovering all of the secrets the mountain world held. If any elf in Albenmark were to discover how much he liked this place, the mockery he already had to bear would only increase. The elves knew nothing of the dwarves these days. But how could this race sink so far into oblivion that no one even knew that they were the children of the Darkalben? King Wengalf traced the reason back to the disput
e that had finally divided the elves and the dwarves. The dwarves had never recognized any elven queen as ruling alongside Wengalf and had waged a war over the matter, finally turning their backs on Albenmark forever. And afterward, in Albenmark, the dwarves were relegated to the status of characters in faery stories, and the children of the Darkalben to myth.

  Nuramon wished he could stay there and learn from the dwarves, to one day return to Albenmark as one who had achieved complete recall of his earlier life. But one thought of Noroelle, and his longing and his fear for her was already driving him away again. What would his beloved make of this place? He did not know the answer to that.

  They went together to the massive door, where Thorwis waited. The old sorcerer was wearing a radiant white robe and held a staff of petrified wood in his hands. “Heed my words, Nuramon Dwarffriend.”

  It was a name he had heard often in recent days. And this time, too, it sent a shiver down his spine.

  Thorwis continued. “The deeds you have done at the side of our king will never be forgotten. I and those loyal to me had our work cut out for us in convincing King Wengalf that his place is here and that another must go with you to find the oracle Dareen. It fell to me to choose your companion.”

  “Have you made your choice?” asked Wengalf.

  “Yes, my king. It was not easy, because from all sides came voices urging me to select this or that dwarf. I had a difficult time deciding, not wanting to favor one over another. But then I noticed that fate had already made my decision for me.” He pointed to a row of well-armed soldiers. “Here comes your companion.”

  The soldiers moved back, making way for Alwerich, who stepped forward wearing a fine mail tunic, a heavy cloak, and a large pack.

  “This is the dwarf whose eyes first saw you in this life,” said Thorwis, and he waved the young dwarf to his side.

  Alwerich bowed before the king, then lowered his head before Thorwis and Nuramon.

  Wengalf laid one hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Alwerich, this will be the first time in many, many years that a dwarf has journeyed along a path beyond these mountains. The last one of us to finish a quest side by side with an elf was me. Do justice to our folk and swear that you will be to Nuramon the companion that I once was.”

  “So I swear,” said Alwerich solemnly.

  Thorwis moved beside Wengalf. “You know which question you must put to the oracle.”

  “I know it, Master. And I will return with the oracle’s counsel.”

  Alwerich turned once more and went over to an elegantly dressed dwarf woman, whom he embraced. Then he returned. “Here is my axe, my comrade in arms.” He drew his battle-axe and held it before Nuramon. The weapon had a short shaft ending with a small, beak-shaped spike opposite a broad blade.

  “You have to cross weapons with him,” Wengalf whispered.

  Nuramon slid Gaomee’s sword from its sheath. Until that moment, the sounds of whispering, the soft clattering of metal, and the dwarves’ excitement had filled the hall. Now, all of that instantly died away, and there was only the sound of the wind and the distant roar of water to be heard. Wengalf and Alwerich looked as if they had seen a ghost. Thorwis was the only one who did not seem surprised. He smiled when he saw the sword in Nuramon’s hand.

  “Starshine,” said Wengalf quietly. And the whisper spread through the dwarves crowded there.

  Slowly, Nuramon laid the blade against the shaft of Alwerich’s battle-axe and said, “Comrades in arms.”

  Without taking his eyes off Gaomee’s sword, the young dwarf withdrew his axe.

  Nuramon was slightly disconcerted. Everyone was looking at the sword in such stunned silence that he hesitated to return it to its sheath.

  “Do you have any idea how valuable that sword is?” asked Wengalf.

  “I obviously underestimated that,” Nuramon said. “Don’t you have starshine here?”

  “No. It only exists in Albenmark. And back then, we only took a little of it with us. Starshine by itself turns the blade into something impressive. But more importantly, that sword comes from the early days. It is younger than your old sword, but it is the work of a dwarf, one of the few who has gone into the silverlight. He forged many weapons like that one. May I see it again?”

  Nuramon drew the sword again and handed it to Wengalf, who took it from him and ran his fingers over the blade. “The great Teludem made this weapon for an elf.” Wengalf indicated Gaomee’s name, inscribed in twining letters. “This symbol here was added later by an elven hand.” He gave the sword back to Nuramon. “There are only four of these elven blades made by dwarven hands. According to legend, all were destroyed in the troll wars and in battle with the dragons. I cannot imagine anyone better than you, Nuramon, to carry this weapon. It will serve you well.”

  Nuramon went down on one knee to bring himself eye to eye with the king. Then he said, “Thank you, Wengalf, and you, Thorwis, and everyone else. I entered these halls with this life, and I leave it now with all the earlier ones. Thank you for everything you have given me, and for everything I can’t yet remember. We will meet again, Wengalf. If not in this life, then in a later one.”

  “If all the elves were like you, Nuramon, we would never have turned our backs on Albenmark,” Wengalf replied. “And now you both must leave, before I throw all good sense aside and come with you after all.”

  Nuramon nodded. Then he stood tall again. “Farewell. Until we meet again.” He glanced at Alwerich. The dwarf stepped up beside him. Nuramon looked out over the gigantic hall one more time, then the two companions stepped out into the sunlight.

  Untrue Ways

  Farodin woke with a start, sat up, and banged his head. All around was blackness, unbroken. Dazed, he felt around himself in the darkness. His hands hurt. He felt raw rock and debris.

  Slowly, his memory returned. He had collapsed in an exhausted sleep. The trolls had filled part of the network of secret tunnels with rubble. In some places, they had gone to the trouble of setting up primitive traps: spiked pits and swinging stones to smash the unwary.

  They must have sent kobolds or human slaves down here. Nothing that Farodin remembered was unchanged. Long tunnels had disappeared completely, secret doors were walled up, stairways cut.

  The elf had dug through the debris with his bare hands. At times, the only way he had made any progress was by crawling on his belly. Twice he had scrabbled his way through a half-caved-in tunnel only to run up against a heavy stone block completely cutting off the way ahead.

  How long had he slept? A gnawing hunger tortured him. His throat was dry, and his lips were cracked. Had he been down here for hours, days? The darkness had robbed him of any sense of time. Only his hunger and thirst could serve as a rough measure of the hours that had passed: a hundred, at least, since he and Mandred had parted ways. Farodin pushed his hands into the rubble and shifted the loose rocks beside and beneath him. Like a mole, he worked his way forward inch by inch. What could have happened to Mandred? He was only supposed to play the diplomat for a few hours. Four days was far too long.

  With a crash, the rubble rolled down. He had broken through. Farodin slid a short distance over sharp-edged rocks, then found himself in a passage in which he could walk if he kept his head down. Carefully, he felt his way forward. Ten steps. Twenty steps. The passage climbed slightly.

  Suddenly, he came to a wall. Quarry-stone blocks, mortared together. Farodin stretched his arms out frantically. Right and left of him were solid stone walls. He was surrounded by rock on three sides. He could have howled with rage. Again, he’d walked into a dead end.

  Comrades in Arms

  Nuramon and Alwerich had made their way out of the mountains and were now marching across the lowland meadows. Felbion followed behind. The dwarf looked around. The open country apparently seemed endless to him, and it was clear that the space here unsettled him. The young dwarf refused to ride
with Nuramon on Felbion. For days, he had walked beside the horse, until his feet were red and raw. If he had not adamantly resisted Nuramon’s suggestion to use the gates the elf could conjure up at the Albenstars, they would have reached their goal long ago. The dwarf had a pigheadedness to compete with Mandred’s.

  Alwerich looked down at his feet. “Your healing hands are very powerful.”

  “But they have never before been used to heal dwarven feet,” said Nuramon, smiling. “At least, not in this life.”

  “Your elf friends in Albenmark would turn up their noses if they knew about it, wouldn’t they?”

  “You could at least wash them occasionally,” said Nuramon, thinking of the healing he had done. He had had to muster his courage a great deal to touch the dwarf’s feet.

  “I will do better.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Elves don’t get dirty hands. Dust falls off my skin, water pearls off, and I can get rid of splashes of mud with a quick shake.”

  “Then you don’t have to wash at all?”

  “No, but I still do.”

  “When? I haven’t seen you.”

  “Just because you don’t see it, Alwerich, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. It’s only when what you can see shouldn’t be happening that you have to start worrying. But tell me, Alwerich . . . before we set out, you went over to a woman and you embraced her. Was that your wife?”