The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  Finally, he reached the entrance to the black steps. That was the name he had given to the obsidian stairway the last time he had come here. The black steps were hidden inside one of the tower’s load-bearing walls and led to the very top. The secret stone entrance swung lightly on its hinges. It was perfectly balanced. The door lay behind a sculpture of a polar bear rearing in attack.

  Someone, sometime had gotten a little too vigorous with the statue and knocked off the bear’s front paws, which were reaching forward. Clearly, no troll had ever gone to the trouble of properly examining the recess behind the statue.

  The low glow of barinstones reflected in the polished steps. Farodin thought of his last day with Aileen. The prince of the trolls had killed her during the battle for the Shalyn Falah. Before she died, Farodin had sworn to her that there would never be another woman in his life. And he had also sworn to pursue Dolgrim, the prince of the trolls, from rebirth to rebirth. It was the most terrible oath any of the Albenkin could make.

  Farodin had tracked Dolgrim down and killed him even before Aileen’s funeral feast took place. Three more times, he had murdered the reborn prince. And each time, he stopped the troll from fulfilling his destiny and going into the moonlight. The trolls made it easy for him. Their leader was always chosen from among the reborn souls, and if the prince died, his position could not be filled until an important shaman was certain that the reborn prince had been discovered. Only when a troll prince entered the moonlight would his place as ruler truly become free. Thus, every time Farodin killed the prince of the Nightcrags, he could be certain he was killing the reborn Dolgrim.

  His heart beating hard, Farodin stopped at the end of the obsidian stairs. He had heard a distant sound, like a gong. Had the fire been discovered? He could not allow himself any hesitation now. He reached for the stone lever in the wall beside him. Silently, the ceiling over him slid aside. Farodin silently applauded the handiwork of the kobolds. It had been centuries since the secret door had been built, but the years had not affected its function in the slightest.

  Cautiously, the elf pushed up through the opening. The hatch in the floor closed behind him, leaving nothing to indicate that it even existed.

  Farodin had no idea how to open the secret door from this side. Maybe it had never been discovered precisely because it could not be opened from inside the room. As he had before, he would have to find another way out.

  The prince’s room had changed. It seemed smaller than before, perhaps something to do with the enormous bed. Was it bigger, and taking up more space?

  The elf heard the breathing of the sleeping prince. Silently, he darted to the bedside. For several moments, he stood in silence and looked at the sleeping form. He thought he could see some of Dolgrim’s face in Orgrim’s, the deep folds at the corners of the mouth and around the eyes. Even in sleep, it was a cruel face.

  With a flowing movement, Farodin drew a knife and stabbed it deep into the troll’s throat above the larynx.

  Orgrim reared up, his mouth clapped open, but no sound escaped. Only the soft gurgle of blood pouring into his windpipe and suffocating him. The stab had cut his vocal cords.

  The troll grabbed at his throat. He thrashed around in grotesque contortions. Then his arms deformed and grew thinner. At the same time, his head seemed to open out of itself.

  Shocked, Farodin stepped back. He had never seen anything like this before. The creature in the bed now had a head that looked like the head of a large black dog.

  Brilliant light filled the room.

  “What a loyal dog,” said a warm, low voice in the elven tongue. “To die for his master.”

  Farodin spun around. The rear wall of the chamber had disappeared. Or rather, the illusion of the rear wall. Now the prince’s bedroom looked just as big as Farodin remembered it to be. Orgrim was sitting on a dark oak chair. Beside him crouched an old troll woman on a footstool. In front of her, spread on the floor, lay little bones; she was assembling them with gout-twisted fingers into some sort of interwoven pattern. Four heavily armed trolls flanked the prince’s throne.

  “It looks like the curse weighing on my soul won’t survive the night. You’re a brave man, Farodin. Brave, but insane if you truly thought you’d be able to sneak into this chamber again. I’ll eat your heart out of respect for your courage, but I’m not touching your brain, elf. We’ve been waiting for you here every night for the last three days.”

  The only door to the room opened. Out there, too, heavily armed trolls were waiting for him.

  Farodin drew a knife and flung it at the prince. Orgrim ducked to one side, and the blade missed his throat by less than a finger and buried itself in the dark wood of the throne. Farodin swore. For a troll, Orgrim was exceptionally quick.

  The bodyguards surged forward. Farodin dropped, crouched, and drew the next knife. Rolling forward, he sliced through the tendon behind one of the troll’s ankles. The giant collapsed to the floor.

  A swing from an axe missed the elf by a hair. With a spring, Farodin was back on his feet. He hammered a dagger into the body of a troll. He was now in close combat with the bodyguards, and with their long-handled weapons and large shields, they were getting in each other’s way.

  Farodin dodged a swung shield, went down into a crouch again, and rammed a knife into the back of his attacker’s knee. The troll let out a high-pitched scream and, with a clumsy leap, moved out of Farodin’s reach.

  The elf jumped to his feet, drawing another dagger as he moved, and reached for the top edge of the guard’s shield. With all his strength, he pulled himself up like a carnival acrobat and somersaulted over the top of the shield. In midflight, he stabbed the guard through the eye.

  With his arms stretched high, perfectly balanced, Farodin landed behind the troll. He could not win an open battle against such numbers, but perhaps he could take Orgrim with him to the grave.

  Farodin drew two knives. More guards came charging through the door and into the bedroom, but in that moment, there was only one between him and the prince.

  Orgrim was on his feet and lifted the massive throne high in the air. The elf dodged a swing from the last bodyguard and thrust one of his knives through the troll’s wrist, making him drop the heavy club.

  With a roar, Orgrim launched the throne at Farodin. The elf let himself fall to one side, hitting the floor hard with his shoulder. The heavy chair flew over him and smashed against the opposite wall.

  In the space of a heartbeat, the air in the room grew cold. The old woman let out a guttural scream and raised her skinny arms. Bolts of bright light played around her hands. Farodin hurled his dagger. The shaman stumbled over her footstool. Her hands flew to her throat, and dark blood oozed between her fingers.

  Orgrim had exploited the moment of Farodin’s distraction to pick up a club.

  Farodin drew his sword and the last of his throwing knives. From the corner of his eye, he saw the trolls coming through the door. One swung his axe back to throw it. Like a flash of lightning, the knife flew from the elf’s hand and hit the axe man in the forehead.

  But Orgrim was on him, swinging the club. Farodin tried to dive out of its path, but at the last moment, the prince changed the direction of his swing. Farodin just managed to bring up his sword, but the force of the blow spun the weapon from his hand. It skidded across the floor to the door.

  Orgrim let out a ringing laugh. “That was it, little elf. Unarmed, you’re as good as dead.”

  Farodin jumped high and hammered both feet under the ogre’s chin. He heard the prince’s teeth shatter in his jaw, and the force of the kick sent Orgrim staggering.

  Farodin rolled away to the side. In the middle of all the groaning and screams, a sound like a high-pitched chime rang out. The remaining guards kept their distance from him. The shaman was back on her feet. In front of her lay the dagger that had sliced her throat. Very slowly, she put one foot on t
he dagger.

  The elf looked up. The wound in the old woman’s throat had closed. Her eyes smoldered feverishly.

  Farodin looked down. But he was too late. Against his own will, he took a step back. She had taken possession of him.

  With a crash, the shutter swung wide. Icy wind streamed into the tower-top room.

  “Did you really imagine you could go on killing the prince forever? And did you imagine that I would put up with it until the end of days?” She shook her head. “I’ve known for centuries that you would return. It’s your arrogance that will cost your life, elf, your confidence that you could defeat us time and time again. Not even Emerelle is as overweening as you.”

  The shaman’s will forced Farodin to raise his head and look her in the face. He took another step back, and another.

  Farodin tried desperately to struggle against the spell that was dictating the movements of his body, but he was as helpless as a little child defiantly battling an adult’s grip. And he sensed her presence in his mind. She was absorbing his memories.

  The shaman forced him to climb onto one of the windowsills. Bitterly cold, the wind battered at him. Heavy, driving snow was closing in. That was good. No. He must not . . . he tried to think of Noroelle.

  The old troll woman grinned. “The elves we caught have escaped. They’ve taken the mortal with them.” She looked searchingly at Farodin. The elf tried to empty his mind. He thought of a broad white field of snow. It made no difference. The shaman seemed able to seize his memories with ease. “They’re trying to get to a boat hidden in the cave on the other side of the fjord.”

  “Send a troop to the beach,” Orgrim ordered a guard at the door. “And have two ships ready to sail.”

  “You’re in good company, prince.” By some marvel, the old woman’s voice rang over the tumult of the storm. “He’s murdered princes of his own race as well. On the orders of the queen. Afraid of dying, executioner?” she asked with curiosity.

  Without warning, two deep creases appeared on her forehead. Her eyes widened in horror. “The Devanthar . . .”

  Farodin sensed her power over him suddenly wane, felt her withdraw from his mind in fright.

  His body obeyed him again. Farodin laid both hands on the icy windowsill. Did she expect him to jump forward out of fear? He was perfectly balanced. He was safe. He bowed his head like a courtier. “Please allow me to keep my thoughts to myself,” he said, and he pushed himself backward from the sill. He could not have done anything else to hurt the prince. It was better to die like this than to be at the mercy of the trolls with no will of his own.

  Farodin plunged out into the darkness. He came down hard on his back on one of the sloping buttresses that supported the tower, slid down it and off the end, and kept on falling. Half numbed, he tried to control his fall, to tense his body for any chance to grab hold of a ledge. But as he fell, his cloak flapped around him, enclosing him like a shroud and hindering his movements. A few more moments and it would truly be his shroud.

  Suddenly, there was a sharp jerk. Something pulled at Farodin’s neck as if trying to separate his head from his shoulders. He bounced upward. His fall had come to an abrupt end, but his hands and feet felt nothing. For some moments, he lost all sense of orientation. Then the elf realized that he was hanging from something, as helpless as a kitten whose mother had it by the scruff of its neck.

  Farodin reached out overhead. His fingers scrabbled at ice-encrusted stone. A gargoyle. His cloak had caught on the jutting head of the stone monster. Shaking, Farodin pulled himself up and made it to the relative safety of the stone ledge from which the gargoyle projected. He released the pin of the cloak that had saved his life. The skin of his neck was chafed raw from the material. His neck muscles burned, torn. He could barely move his head, but it occurred to him how lucky he had been. A sudden stop like that should have broken his neck.

  Farodin tried to gauge how high up the tower he was, but in the driving snow, he could not see very far. He clearly had not fallen a great distance, or the jarring end to his fall would have killed him. Uncertain what to do, he blinked the snow out of his eyes. Very close to him, one of the tower’s buttresses disappeared down into the blackness. From the ledge he was on, there was no way back into the tower. He would have to climb to get back to safety. If he stayed here, the trolls would find him sooner or later.

  The gusting wind tore at the cloak that Farodin now held in his hands. He let it flutter away into the dark. It would only get in the way of a climb.

  Carefully, the elf stretched out and let himself slide down the buttress, bit by bit. Soon, the curve of the buttress met a wide column that plunged vertically into the depths.

  As cautiously as he could, Farodin felt around with his feet. The column was surrounded with grimacing, stone faces. The snow and ice that had collected on them made any grip difficult. Infinitely slowly, the elf climbed downward. The raw stone cut his fingers open. Soon, the cold deadened all sensation in his hands. His grip became increasingly uncertain.

  When he reached the next buttress that adjoined the column, he paused for a moment on a ledge. He concentrated on forming a warm buffer beneath his clothes. It took a long time before the magic bent to his will. Sorcery was never easy for him, and especially not when he was exhausted. As he warmed, sleep threatened to overtake him. Farodin leaned back against the stone wall and looked down through the snow flurries at his feet.

  Four or five paces lower, there was a leadlight window, behind which he could see the glimmer of a barinstone. Farodin thought about how he could make it down there. Near where he was standing, a large number of stone braces extended outward from the tower wall. They had probably been built at some stage to support balconies that were never completed. Two hands across, they protruded more than a pace straight out from the wall. And one of the braces was directly above the window.

  Farodin put together a desperate plan. Five braces lay next to each other, spaced somewhat more than two paces apart. A little below them, another five braces projected from the wall. They were arranged so that the upper braces were aligned perfectly with those below. If the first attempt failed, there was still some hope that he would be able to hold on. No. The first attempt had to work. Farodin eyed the snow-covered stones doubtfully. Just to reach them, he had to get from the hulking stone column back to the tower wall.

  Farodin climbed up onto one of the flyers that led at a steep angle to the wall. Inch by inch, he crept forward until he reached the wall. He crouched there. A good distance below, one of the horizontal braces jutted from the wall. It must have been four, perhaps five paces down. Farodin swore. He would have to jump. And the odds of finding a foothold on the icy stone were not good.

  For a long time, he stared down. He felt the cold creeping into his limbs. The second he had stopped concentrating on his warming spell, it had vanished. His fingers were growing numb. He could not put it off any longer.

  Farodin landed on the brace, but his soles found no grip. He half fell, half pushed, somersaulted, and landed with his legs straddling the lower brace. The blow to his crotch brought tears to his eyes.

  Groaning, he removed his belt and slung it once around the stone. Then he pulled off his shirt and knotted one sleeve to the belt. The chill wind cut at his back as if with knives. The leadlight window was now below him and to one side.

  Farodin formed a large knot in the end of the second sleeve and prayed that the stitching in the shirt was strong. Then he launched himself from the brace. With a jerk, the shirt pulled tight under his weight. The leather belt crunched on the raw stone. Like a pendulum, the elf built up momentum, but the gusting wind repeatedly destroyed his rhythm. He and the window were now almost on the same level. His stiff fingers were gradually losing their grip. One more swing . . . then he let go.

  The window shattered against his boots. Glass cut his arms. He slammed hard onto the floor and rolled cle
ar of the glass. Warm blood seeped from a cut on his forehead.

  Breathing hard, he just lay there. He’d made it. At first, he wanted to do no more than simply stare at the ceiling overhead. He was alive. And it seemed no one had heard the window break over the howling storm outside.

  It took some time before Farodin became aware of the deep drone resounding through the tower. A gong rang. The fire.

  Wisps of smoke drifted past the barinstone on the ceiling. The smoke quickly thickened. Dazed, Farodin sat up. His eyes watered.

  He tore a strip of cloth from his breeches and pressed it to his mouth and nose. The smoke would make his escape easier. If it didn’t kill him.

  Elodrin’s Song

  We can’t wait much longer. The tide will soon be so high that we won’t make it out of the cave. We’ll be trapped for hours.”

  Mandred, trembling, pulled a blanket closer around his shoulders. The bluster of the rising tide echoed from the walls of the grotto. The jarl felt wretched. He was at the mercy of the elves. They had swum right through the fjord with him. Landal, a gaunt, blond elf, had taken hold of Mandred’s beard and pulled him along as he swam. It was Landal’s magic that had protected Mandred from dying in the icy water, but he still felt more dead than alive. The cold had penetrated deep into his bones. He lay wrapped in several blankets in the bottom of the boat and could barely move.

  “Get the boat out of the grotto,” Elodrin commanded. He moved to the stern and took hold of the tiller. “We’ll wait out in the fjord. At least we’re not sitting in a trap out there.”

  The rest of the elves hauled at the oars. Pulling against the strong current at the cave mouth took all of their combined strength. The water was so high that the curved stempost of the boat repeatedly hit the roof of the cave. It already looked like they were too late to escape when the little sailboat suddenly surged forward. They were free.