The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  “My king? How can I be of service to you?” asked Nuramon. He had once trained the young ruler in the name of his father, and the young man still looked at him as a kind of mentor. In his looks, he did not take after his father, who had borne a strong resemblance to Mandred. Neltor was closer to Alfadas. “Is it another feud?”

  “No. Imagine it.” His eyes shone. “As we speak, my ancestor is sailing up the fjord. How should I receive him?”

  “Mandred? Mandred Torgridson?”

  “The same.”

  “By the Alben,” said Nuramon, and he sighed with relief. It almost felt as if the air he exhaled was the breath of the past forty-seven years. Finally, his companions had returned. Although he had found plenty to keep him occupied in Firnstayn, he had often found himself worrying about his companions—and often enough, he had been tempted to take up his search for Noroelle alone. “Is there an elf with him?”

  “Yes.”

  Nuramon smiled at the king. “You asked me how you should receive Mandred. As your trusted adviser, I say to you, you are already wearing the right armor.” It was the armor of Alfadas. “If you now arm yourself with your best axe and stand by the lion statues on the steps of your hall, then you will sufficiently impress Mandred.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  “Neltor, call me your friend, call me your confidant, but please don’t call me Master anymore.”

  The young man grinned and left.

  Nuramon had to hurry. He stepped out into the street and headed toward the city gate. How would Mandred look now? He might well be an old man.

  Suddenly, Voagad, another of his students, was at Nuramon’s side. Wide-eyed, he said, “Mandred Torgridson. This will be a celebration.”

  “As usual, all you think about is drinking . . . which is good. Mandred will appreciate it. Go and round up the Mandridians. They should assemble at the Temple of Luth. Under no circumstances are they to come to the square before I give them a sign.”

  Voagad was gone again. Nuramon watched as he ran off. Over the years, Mandred had become more than the ancestor of Firnstayn’s kings. He had become the forefather of Firnstayn itself, and Nuramon had done more than a little to bring about the transformation. He had painted Mandred in a light that now shone far beyond Firnstayn, spreading across the entire Fjordlands.

  Nuramon had not told the people of Firnstayn the whole story, just as he had not mentioned that the Devanthar was still alive. Nuramon had thought of the demon often during his years in Firnstayn. Had it found fresh fields in which to sow its misfortune? Or was it lurking somewhere, waiting for the moment to face him and his companions again? He did not know. He often wondered why fate had been so hard on them, and whether the Devanthar hadn’t sometimes had a hand in things.

  Jubilation rolled through the city. So Mandred was already here. A crush of people was pushing slowly along the street. Fifty years earlier, there would have been far fewer. Firnstayn’s growth seemed unstoppable. In another fifty years, Mandred wouldn’t even be able to move, so many people would be thronging the streets.

  Nuramon waited it out. Somewhere there ahead of him, among the Firnstayners, were his companions. A gap opened up through the crowd.

  There they were. Mandred and Farodin. They looked exactly as they did in his memory. He was happy that Mandred had not aged. His companions caught sight of him. The people all around held their breath. It seemed everyone wanted to see how Nuramon the elf finally reunited with his companion in arms Mandred.

  “Nuramon, you old blowhard,” Mandred shouted as he stormed up the road toward him.

  Farodin said nothing, but his face showed his relief.

  Mandred threw his arms around the elf and squeezed so hard that Nuramon could hardly breathe. In the years with Njauldred, he had learned to accept such well-meant indelicacies.

  Nuramon looked down at the jarl. “I was starting to think I’d never see you again.”

  Mandred grinned broadly. “We had to boot a few trolls in the ass.”

  “And it seems we rather lost track of time,” Farodin added, causing astonished looks on the faces of many around them. Nuramon understood that they had become victims of time when they passed through an Albenstar.

  While Mandred luxuriated in the crowd of well-wishers, Farodin and Nuramon went ahead. Farodin told him about the trolls, about Yilvina’s death, and how they freed the other elves who were being held prisoner.

  Nuramon took the news about Yilvina hard. She had been a good companion during the search for Guillaume. And it was only because of her that they had made it out of Albenmark in the first place. If she hadn’t let them knock her unconscious, then it was possible that they never would have found a way to leave and start their search for Noroelle.

  “How long have you been waiting?” Farodin asked, dragging him back from his memories.

  “Forty-seven years,” Nuramon replied.

  Mandred’s laughter reached them from behind. “Then you’ve lived here longer than I ever did. So are you a real Firnstayner now?”

  Nuramon turned around. “Maybe. But it might also be that the Firnstayners have turned into real elves.”

  Mandred laughed even louder, and the people with him. “What’s the name of the king these days?”

  “His name is Neltor Tegrodson. You met his grandfather, Njauldred.”

  Mandred pushed through to Nuramon and asked quietly, “Is he any good?”

  “He’s a wise leader and—”

  “I mean, is he a good fighter, a true—”

  “I know what you mean . . . yes, he’s a good fighter. He’s an outstanding archer.” He saw Mandred frown. “Impressive with the long sword, but even more so with the short sword.” Displeasure deepened in the human’s expression. “But unrivaled with the axe.”

  Mandred’s face transformed instantly. He practically lit up. “Then the best weapon won through after all,” he said with pride.

  “Come on. I’ll introduce you to your descendant,” said Nuramon, pointing ahead. “And later I’ll show you your mare and her descendants.”

  “Mare? Descendants? Did you . . .”

  “Just as you are the forefather of the kings, your mare is the foremother of the Firnstayner horses.”

  Mandred grinned proudly. “Nuramon, I’m in your debt.”

  When they reached the main square, it was clear how much had changed in the city. All of the roads were paved, the houses made of hewed stone, but the Temple of Luth was what really caught the eye. People from across the entire kingdom had spent thirty years building it. The square was practically empty of people, although the residents of the city jostled shoulder to shoulder in the side streets and at the windows of the buildings. Neltor did a good job with that, thought Nuramon. This way, Mandred could meet the king and his retinue freely.

  “Is that him?” asked Mandred, looking over to where Neltor stood.

  “Yes. Come and meet him.” The three crossed the square side by side and stood before Neltor.

  “Welcome, Mandred Torgridson. I am Neltor Tegrodson, your descendant.” He bowed. “Stay with us, and be safe in the knowledge that for us, you will always be Jarl Mandred.” The insecurity that Neltor felt now that he was faced with his famous forebear was clear to see. He had trouble holding Mandred’s eye, and his hands shook a little.

  It seemed to make no difference to Mandred. He was moved by the reception, and spoke little while Neltor searched for the friendliest words he could find to express his esteem for Mandred and what he meant to him and to their city.

  When Neltor spoke of Nuramon’s service to himself, his father, and his grandfather, the elf gave a signal, and from the side street beside the Temple of Luth, the Mandridians marched into the square.

  “Mandred, there are some Firnstayners I think you ought to meet.” Nuramon pointed to the two dozen assembled soldiers. T
hey wore light leather armor, and each was armed with a short sword and an axe. Some also carried a bow and a quiver, while still others had strapped a round shield to their backs. “These are the men I have trained,” he said. “The Mandridians.”

  Mandred looked at the troop in astonishment. “By Norgrimm, I’ve never seen such determined faces. I’d campaign with these men tomorrow.”

  “I’ve taught them everything I know,” Nuramon said, proud that he had trained all of them to handle the axe well. He remembered everything that Mandred had taught his son, Alfadas, spicing it a little with what Alwerich had shown him. “They’ve proved themselves in battle many times over the years.”

  “With these men at our side, we would have brought back the troll prince’s liver for the city dogs,” Mandred muttered grimly.

  Nuramon exchanged a look with Farodin. Barely perceptibly, Farodin shook his head.

  “Mandred, you would honor me to join me in my hall for beer and mead,” said Neltor then.

  “An offer that Mandred could never refuse. But the men there,” he said, pointing to the Mandridians, “they are coming, too.” He turned to Farodin and Nuramon. “What about you?”

  “I’d say that’s a matter for the jarl to take up with his descendants,” Farodin replied.

  Mandred said nothing, but let himself be led away by his family. They seemed to be talking to him from all sides at once. The people at the edge of the square and in the side streets followed the royal train.

  “He’s enjoying this almost too much,” said Farodin.

  “He’ll be able to feed off it for a while on our way to Noroelle’s gate.”

  Farodin looked at him in disbelief. “Have you found it?”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “What does it look like?” Nuramon had never seen Farodin so curious.

  “Come with me to Mandred’s house.”

  Farodin followed him. He seemed on edge, as if he had run out of patience, for which Nuramon could hardly blame him. Still, he himself had waited nearly fifty years here for Farodin and Mandred, although he would much rather have gone in search of the place he had seen in Dareen’s star grotto.

  When they reached Mandred’s house, Farodin looked around in surprise. Nuramon had changed a few things over the years. He had become something of a headache to the craftsmen of Firnstayn. Cupboards, tables, and chairs had to be made not only to accord with Mandred’s tastes but also with those of an elf. At the same time, the weapons, the chests, and the shields on the walls had to remind a visitor that this was the house of a warrior. Nuramon was particularly proud of the large battle-axe. The smith had forged it to his specifications and had done the same with another axe modeled after Alwerich’s.

  “Mandred will like this. It’s plain, as a warrior’s house should be. And this painting . . .” He stepped before a portrait of Alfadas. “Did you paint it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “Then you should see this one,” said Nuramon. He stepped over to a covered painting standing on an easel. Then he removed the cloth covering the painting, one he had been working on for thirty years. It showed the landscape he had seen in the oracle’s cave.

  Farodin took a step back to look at the painting better. His eyes traversed the large picture: the water, the island, the mainland behind it with its forests, and, behind them, the range of peaks.

  “When I left Iskendria, it took me some time to find the gate to the oracle,” Nuramon said. While Farodin scrutinized the painting down to the finest detail, Nuramon told him about the puzzling entrance, about the children of the Darkalben, and the image he had seen in the star cave. “Dareen told me I should reunite with you and Mandred. I was supposed to wait here for your return. You have no idea how many times I was tempted to go out and find this place, but Dareen’s words and your inscription on the statue held me back.”

  Farodin touched the painting. “Is this yalpaint?”

  “Yes. I made it myself. The people here know nothing about the pigments from Yaldemee.”

  Farodin looked at him with respect. “It’s a masterpiece.”

  “The days can be very long. And you should see my early attempts. But this, now, is what I saw. Dareen said something else . . .” He fell silent and thought of the oracle and her appearance.

  “What was it?”

  “She said that there are two ways to break the enchantment that seals Noroelle’s gate. With the help of the hourglass or of an Albenstone. I’ve thought about it a lot and wonder whether we need the actual hourglass and not just the sand.”

  “Let’s find this landscape first. The depiction is wonderful. Which part of the world does it show?”

  “On my way here, I tried to find it. And I’ve asked seafarers if they know it. All without success. You don’t know how happy I am that you are here.”

  “This picture will help us. With the grains of sand, we should be able to find this island.” Farodin stepped up very close to the picture. “I can’t tell if this is a lake or the sea.”

  Nuramon had spent years pondering the coastal landscape in the image. “It is the sea. I’ve spent a long time looking at the waves. They are ocean waves.” He ran one finger over the painting. “This mountain range could be useful. It is certainly a big range, but not so high that there is snow on the peaks.”

  “It could be a fjord. Is it close to here, perhaps?”

  “No. Mountains as bright as these don’t exist here. I’ve asked every seafarer, every wayfarer, everyone who knows this part of the world. And on my way here, I kept a lookout for these mountains. They are not in the Fjordlands.”

  Farodin stepped back again and looked at the picture in its entirety. “By the Alben. I did you an injustice in Iskendria. This painting. I feel myself drawn to search for this place.”

  “We did each other an injustice. But we had to go our separate ways so that we could both move ahead . . . along our path to Noroelle. I think the faun oak sent us through that gate and into the desert on purpose. Perhaps it had some inkling of what lay in the future. I’ve thought about it often, and not a day has passed when I haven’t wondered why the queen did not simply send out a troop to take me back.”

  “So none from Albenmark have been here?”

  “No one. Occasionally, I met with Xern. The queen does not talk about us, nor does she tolerate so much as the mention of a word about us in her presence.”

  The corner of Farodin’s mouth twitched. “Either she’s beside herself with anger and is just waiting for us to return so that she can cast her judgment on us. Or there’s something more,” he finally said.

  “The gates are open again and unguarded. They have been ever since the end of the troll war. It seems that whatever threat Emerelle feared has been averted.”

  “She said that Guillaume’s death could lead to the rise of something and that she could still sense the power of the Devanthar. How could something like that simply fade away?”

  “The Devanthar has not been sighted again. No one mentions it anymore. At least, that’s what Xern says. Many times, I’ve wondered what the Devanthar is planning and whom it’s after. And if it’s really done with us.”

  “Don’t lose any sleep over it. We avoid Albenmark as much as possible, and for the moment, we forget the Devanthar. With this picture, you may have shown me a way. At least, I feel inside as if you have.”

  “There’s something else. With the dwarves, I—”

  The door flew open, and Mandred came in, singing loudly. “‘Out stepped Torgrid’s sturdy son, the boar’s liver in his hand!’ Ah, there you are. And? Have you seen her?”

  “Seen whom?” Farodin asked.

  “Her! That wonderful woman. Neltor’s sister.”

  “The women here all look the same to me,” Farodin said.

  Nuramon smiled. “He means Th
arhild.”

  “Exactly! What a name. Tharhild.” The human grinned suggestively.

  “Who would have thought,” said Farodin. “Mandred Torgridson’s in love.”

  The jarl seemed not to have heard Farodin’s words. “How closely am I related to her?” he asked Nuramon.

  “Let me think. You’re the father of Alfadas, and he’s the father of . . .” He fell silent and thought it over. But then it occurred to Nuramon to wonder why his friend wanted to know. With Ragna, he seemed not to have such misgivings at all. Or did he perhaps fear that Tharhild might be his own daughter? “There are eleven generations between you and Tharhild. You don’t need to worry at all. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?” Mandred asked.

  “Remember the name Ragna?”

  Pure terror spread across Mandred’s face. “Is Tharhild the . . .”

  Nuramon let his friend stew a moment longer.

  “Come on, tell me. What does Ragna have to do with Tharhild?”

  “Well, she is Tharhild’s . . . aunt.”

  Mandred sighed with relief. “What became of her? Did she grieve for me?”

  “Mandred Torgridson, the great womanizer. Skirt chaser of Firnstayn. Just has to share his bed with a woman once, and she spends the rest of her life crying for him and waiting for him to come home. No, Mandred. She found a good man, had children with him, and had a happy life before she passed away. But then again . . .”

  “Then again what . . . come on, out with it!”

  “I’ve been eavesdropping on the women at court. They tell stories about you, Mandred. Not about the warrior, but about Mandred the lover, coming back after years away just to seduce the women.”

  Mandred grinned.

  “What do you think of your house?” Farodin asked the jarl. He obviously wanted to change the subject.

  Mandred looked around. “By Norgrimm. This . . . this is the hall of a warrior.” He stood in front of the great battle-axe. “I like that . . .” Then something seemed to come to him. “Mandred the lover,” he muttered to himself. “I have to go. Nuramon, my friend, let’s sit down together later. I want to hear how things were for you.” Then Mandred was gone again as quickly as he had come. In his hurry, he had not even noticed the portrait of his son.