The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  Then the pain became truly immense. He could still feel Farodin’s hand in his, but his companion could give him no more power. Nothing more flowed between them, and that knowledge struck at Nuramon’s spirit like a bolt of lightning. He fought desperately against failure. His power went out like a candle, and he was thrown out of the spell.

  Nuramon opened his eyes. Carefully, he released Farodin’s hand. His companion was staring at him with glassy eyes and breathing heavily. The bottle holding the sand slipped from his fingers. Nuramon had never seen Farodin look as vulnerable as he did in that moment.

  “Forgive me,” Farodin finally said. “I was at the end of my strength. The pain . . . is that what you felt yesterday?”

  “Yes,” said Nuramon. “The pain comes with every attempt I make.”

  “I had no idea . . . Where did you learn to endure that?”

  “In the Cave of Luth.”

  Farodin’s eyes widened in astonishment.

  Nuramon went on. “Our spell did not fail because of the pain. We are simply not strong enough to take on the queen like this. We are like riverbank sprites trying to trip a centaur. I am drained. I am empty. And you are, too, aren’t you?”

  Farodin nodded and sighed deeply.

  Nuramon looked to Mandred. The jarl and the Mandridians were watching them with concern, but as they had promised, they had not moved from where they were.

  “Everything all right?” Mandred called to them.

  “It is over,” Nuramon answered sourly.

  The disappointment on Mandred’s face hurt Nuramon. The human had always believed in his magical talents and thought of him as a great sorcerer.

  Mandred and the Firnstayners retreated to the woods that covered almost the entire island. When they were gone, Nuramon turned back to Farodin. “We have to talk about how to proceed.”

  Side by side, they returned to the island, climbing over the stone and making their way into the forest. For a long time, neither said a word. Nuramon thought of what the djinn in Valemas had said: “Great power is needed to defeat great power.” They were not yet ready to break the barrier. “We have to give up for now and find another way,” said Nuramon.

  “Let us try again tomorrow,” said Farodin.

  “Listen to me. It is impossible.”

  “We are so close. We can’t just—”

  “It is impossible,” Nuramon repeated. “How many times have you heard me say those words?”

  Farodin pulled up. “Never.”

  “Then believe me. We are not strong enough to take on the power of this barrier. There is only one hope left. An Albenstone.”

  Farodin lifted up the silver bottle. “We have found a lot of the sand, and it will be easier now for me to find more. Then we can try again.”

  “I can’t believe you still think that will work, Farodin. The power of the sand is too weak, too diffuse. If we had at least the hourglass itself . . .”

  “I have been keeping a lookout for it, but there is no trace of it here. There’s simply nothing.”

  “The sand has played its part. It led us here, and it may serve us again . . . Imagine Noroelle, right now, in the Shattered World, wandering among the trees just as we are, thinking about us and perhaps Obilee. I wish this thought alone would give me the strength we need. I know we can push ourselves harder and farther, but everything has its limits, and I sense that we still lack far too much power.”

  “But how are we supposed to find an Albenstone? Apart from the queen, I know of none among the Albenkin who possesses a stone like that. And Emerelle will never give us hers.” He hesitated. “But perhaps it could be stolen?”

  Nuramon leaned his back against a tree. “We will not demean ourselves. There must be other stones.”

  “Even if they exist, we can’t find them. No one will ever show you the way to an Albenstone. Anyone who has one would keep it hidden. And assuming we found one, would you know how to use it?”

  “No. But there is one place where we can learn that. And maybe we’ll even discover some clue to finding an Albenstone there.”

  “Iskendria.”

  Nuramon nodded. “Yes. Iskendria.”

  They reached the other side of the island, where they had set up their camp. When they appeared from the trees, Mandred came toward them expectantly. “What now?” he asked.

  “We failed. And we will keep failing no matter how many times we try it,” said Farodin. “We will return when we are stronger.”

  “We are going to search for an Albenstone and collect every grain of sand we can find,” Nuramon added. “Then we are coming back.”

  Mandred nodded. His initial disappointment seemed to have softened. “Only an idiot fights a fight he can’t win. The victor in a war is the one who wins the final battle, and our final battle is far from being fought.” He turned to their crew. “We’re breaking camp.”

  While the men set to work, the three companions returned to the ship. It was Mandred who broke the silence. “There are Albenpaths here. Could we use one of them to get back to Firnstayn?”

  “And risk another jump in time?” replied Farodin. “We’ve learned to accept it, but what about the crew? They would only hate us if they got home to find their children were old men. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “Never. I just wanted to know if it would work.”

  “The faun oak told us that we will be able to travel between the Albenstars of one world someday. But I don’t think we’re ready for that yet.”

  Then Nuramon said, “No, we are ready for it. I tried the spell when I was searching for the oracle, as I traveled through Angnos. At some point, I just took the risk, and it worked. It isn’t difficult. You just have to know the path you’re following very well. I used the spell the faun oak taught us. Instead of following a path to another world, you simply choose one that doesn’t leave the world you’re in.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me that before?” Farodin asked.

  Nuramon smiled. He was close to reminding his comrade how many times he had kept what he knew to himself. “Compared with everything else that happened, it didn’t seem that important. But Mandred has once again asked the right question.” Nuramon saw pride spread across the jarl’s face. “The voyage behind us was a voyage of distance. The one ahead of us is a journey of a different sort.” He pointed along the Albenpath. “We came across this path very early. If I’m not mistaken, it crosses the southern Fjordlands. For our return journey now, that doesn’t help us, because we don’t know which Albenstar it leads to. But it may well help us get back here. The queen’s barrier only blocks Noroelle’s path, not the others.”

  “So you think we should jump from Albenstar to Albenstar from now on?”

  “If we do, we can reach Iskendria quickly, and avoid both humans and long days of travel through difficult regions.” He was thinking of the desert.

  Farodin smiled. “In other words, you want to travel like the Alben.”

  “That is exactly what the faun oak was suggesting,” said Nuramon.

  “What do you say to that, Mandred?”

  The jarl grinned broadly. “You’re asking me if I want to travel for moments instead of months? How else could I possibly answer? By Luth, yes!”

  Farodin nodded. “Then let us return to Firnstayn, and from there, we travel in the footsteps of the Alben.”

  The Chronicle of Firnstayn

  On the fifth day of the fourth moon in the third year of the reign of King Neltor, the Albenstar returned to Firnstayn. Mandred, Nuramon, Farodin, and the Mandridians, all of them came back safe and sound. It was a day of rejoicing, and the people celebrated their homecoming with a great feast. Tharhild brought her son and presented him to Mandred, and the jarl acknowledged the child as his. King Neltor even offered to hand over his crown to Mandred if his ancestor so wished. But the jarl declined
the king’s offer, saying that the kingdom needed a steadier ruler than he would be, one who could be there to take care of things. Mandred’s fate, though, was to wander restlessly and to spend time in Firnstayn only rarely. As he held the child in his arms, there was a sadness in his eyes, as if he knew he would never see his boy again. After that, he avoided the child.

  Mandred and his companions stayed ten days more, preparing themselves for another important journey. But the Mandridians who had accompanied the three companions told of the land far to the east and spoke about the magic of the two elves, and Mandred’s wisdom. It had not been a voyage into battle, but one of magic.

  When Mandred, Nuramon, and Farodin set sail, we thought it likely that we would never again see the return of the jarl in our lifetime. In the days that followed, a gloom settled over Firnstayn. The king assured us that Mandred would always be there if we were faced with grave danger. Ever since that day, we have been waiting for the return of the mighty jarl of Firnstayn. There are some who fear the day, for when he returns, a time of adversity will be upon us.

  AS RECORDED BY LURETHOR HJEMISON

  VOLUME SEVENTEEN OF THE TEMPLE LIBRARY OF LUTH IN FIRNSTAYN, PAGE 89

  New Paths

  Farodin stroked his stallion’s neck soothingly. The animal was as unsettled as he was. He peered into the darkness suspiciously. Nuramon had told Mandred and him exactly what to expect, but Farodin had not counted on it tearing at his nerves like this.

  The silence was eerie. He had the unrelenting feeling that there was something lurking out there. But what could survive in nothingness?

  With great care, he followed the narrow path of pulsing light that stretched through the endless darkness, making sure he did not stray from it. It was impossible to say what was waiting for him outside the path. Was it like a narrow bridge that spanned an abyss?

  After a few steps, they reached a point where four paths of light intersected. An Albenstar. Nuramon, who led the way, stopped for a moment. Then he changed to a reddish light path and waved to them to follow him.

  Farodin and Mandred looked at each other uneasily. There was no way at all to orient oneself here. You had to know the latticework of glowing paths, or you were hopelessly lost.

  Again, they took no more than a few steps. In the human world, it might have been hundreds of miles. At the next Albenstar, six paths crossed. A seventh sliced vertically through the hub of the others. Suddenly, Nuramon seemed to tense.

  Farodin looked around. Thin wisps of fog curled in the darkness. Was that a sound? A scraping noise, as of claws? Nonsense.

  Just then, an arch of light rose in front of them. Nuramon led his horse through it. Farodin nodded to Mandred to go ahead. After the jarl disappeared, the elven warrior also left the sinister paths that connected the worlds.

  They found themselves in a wide vaulted cellar. The floor was a colorful mosaic depicting a rising sun, with seven cranes flying away from the sun in different directions. On the walls around them were pictures of a banquet, with centaurs, fauns, elves, dwarves, and other Albenkin. But the faces in the pictures were scratched out or smeared with soot. On each wall, a black tree had been painted. Magical symbols in dark colors were smeared on the mosaic floor. Burned-out candles had left flat puddles of wax.

  Farodin’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword. He knew this place. The vault lay beneath the villa of Sem-la, the elf woman disguised as a trader’s widow, who watched over the one major Albenstar that led from Iskendria to the library of the Albenkin.

  “What’s going on?” asked Farodin. “Why didn’t you take us directly to the library? We could have stabled the horses in the centaurs’ quarters.”

  Nuramon seemed unsettled. “The gate. It was different. There’s a—” He hesitated for a moment. “There’s a barrier.”

  Farodin let out a flat sigh. “A barrier? Tell me that’s not true. You have to be making a joke.”

  “No. But the defensive magic here is not like what we found on Noroelle’s island. It . . .” He shrugged helplessly. “It’s different.”

  Mandred grunted. “A few things have changed here.” He pointed to the symbols on the floor. “Looks like some foul kind of witchery. What’s happened?”

  “None of our business,” replied Farodin harshly. “Can you open the gate, Nuramon?”

  “I think—”

  A ringing noise came from outside.

  Before Farodin could stop him, Mandred had drawn his axe and, in three long strides, was on his way up the ramp that led out of the vault.

  “Damned hothead,” Farodin cursed and turned to Nuramon. “Stay here. Open the gate. I’ll bring him back.”

  Farodin ran up the ramp after Mandred, passed through several small basement rooms, and heard a piercing scream.

  He found Mandred in the larder. He’d hauled a man out of a corner, a cringing, gaunt man with dark stubble of a beard. On the floor stood a flickering oil lamp. All around lay thick shards of broken amphorae. Beside the oil lamp stood a small bowl that held a few lentils. The man whimpered and tried to twist free of Mandred’s grasp, but he was helpless in the Northman’s grip.

  “A looter,” Mandred declared, his voice thick with disdain. “He was stealing from Sem-la. I nabbed him as he was about to smash one of the amphorae.”

  “Please, don’t kill me,” Mandred’s prisoner pleaded in Valethish, the language spoken along the coast from Iskendria as far as Terakis. “My children are starving to death. I don’t want any of it for myself.”

  “Sniveling for mercy, is he?” asked Mandred, who obviously did not understand a word.

  “Look at him,” Farodin shot back. “Look how hollow his cheeks are. His legs are as thin as spindles. He’s talking about his starving children.”

  Mandred quietly cleared his throat and avoided the elf’s chastening gaze. Then he let go of the man.

  “What’s going on in the city?” asked Farodin.

  The man looked at them in surprise but dared not ask why they were so uninformed. “The white priests want to destroy Balbar. They’ve had the city under siege for more than three years. They came from across the sea to kill our god. The west gate fell three months ago, and they’ve been advancing street by street ever since. But the temple guards keep driving back the disciples of Tjured with Balbar’s holy fire.”

  “Tjured?” Farodin asked in surprise.

  “A miserable bastard,” the gaunt man replied. “His priests say there is only one god. And they claim that we do business with demons. They’re raving mad. They’re so mad they refuse to accept that there’s no way for them to win.”

  “You said they’ve already taken over parts of the city,” Farodin replied soberly.

  “Parts,” the gaunt man said, waving his hand dismissively. “No one can conquer Iskendria completely. Balbar’s fire has already burned their fleet to the waterline twice. They’re dying by the thousands.” Without warning, the man began to sob. “Since they took the harbor, no supplies have been getting through at all. There aren’t even any rats left that you could eat. If only these damned knight clerics would see that they can’t win Iskendria. Balbar is too strong. We sacrifice to him ten times a day now. He will make our enemies drown in their own blood.”

  Farodin thought of the girl they had seen burn on the palms of the god statue’s hands. Ten children every day? What kind of city was this? He personally would waste no pity on Iskendria if it fell.

  “Are you friends of Mistress Al-beles?” The human looked over at the amphorae that were used for storage. “I did it for my children. There’s always a few lentils or beans left in the big amphorae. You never empty them completely.” He lowered his eyes. “Unless you smash them open.”

  Farodin had heard that several times in the past, Sem-la had slipped into another role, claiming to be her own niece to keep her trading house going. As an elf woman who never aged, she
was forced into such deceptions every twenty years or so. Farodin did not doubt that Al-beles was the same woman he had come to know as Sem-la.

  “What happened down there, in the vaulted cellar?” Farodin asked.

  “When they occupied this quarter, monks came here. I think they went down to the cellar as well. It was said that they were searching for demons.” The man lowered his voice. “They search for demons everywhere. They’re mad.”

  “Let’s go, Mandred,” said Farodin in Fjordlandish. “We have to know if there is any danger of being disturbed or if Nuramon can work his magic in peace.”

  “I’m sorry about his children,” Mandred said sheepishly. He pulled off one of his wide silver armbands and gave it to the man. “I was too hasty.”

  Farodin felt no sympathy for the looter. Today, he was doing what he did for the sake of his children, but he suspected the man would feel honored tomorrow if the priesthood came and demanded one of his daughters to be publicly burned.

  The elf moved quickly up the stairs and stepped out into the villa’s wide courtyard. Overhead stretched a night sky as red as blood. The air was filled with choking smoke. Mandred joined him, and they crossed through the main hall and raced to the terrace at the rear of the building. The villa had been built atop a low hill, affording them a good view over the city.

  “By the gods,” Mandred cried. “What a fire.”

  The entire harbor stood in flames. The water itself seemed to be on fire. All around it, the warehouses had collapsed, and the massive wooden cranes had vanished. Farther west, glowing white balls of fire plummeted from the heavens onto one of the city’s inner quarters. Farodin saw white-robed warriors, masses of them, surging through the narrow streets, all trying desperately to escape the rain of fire.

  “Rotten flesh has to be burned out,” said a voice from behind them. It was the looter. The lank figure stepped out onto the terrace. His eyes shone frenetically. “The temple guards are burning the quarters of the city that have been lost.” He laughed. “Iskendria cannot be conquered. The white priests will die to the last man.” He pointed down to the harbor below. “Their fleet’s been frying for two days already. The temple guards fed Balbar’s fire into the harbor through the canals, then set it alight. All these priests will burn, just like their precious . . .” He broke off and pointed to the lane that led up the hill. “They’re coming back.” A group of soldiers in white tabards were escorting a number of monks in night-blue robes. Singing solemnly, they were heading directly for the villa.