The Elven

by Bernhard Hennen

  Liodred bowed. “We will not stay away long, and will rejoin the battle as soon as we can. The king must be close to his fighters, or they will lose their—” Liodred was interrupted by horrific screaming. A group of elves amidships collapsed onto the deck as if struck by invisible arrows. Some writhed in agony, screaming hideously, but most lay motionless.

  Mandred looked over to the enemy caravel and could not believe what he saw. Just moments before, he had seen the elves taking the upper hand, but now there were only enemy faces at the bulwark. All the fighting on board the large caravel had ceased.

  Without warning, three guards directly beside the queen fell to the deck as if a stiff gust of wind had come and torn the life from their bodies.

  Appalled, everyone still on their feet fell back to the starboard side.

  “By the gods, what is going on here?” Liodred roared. Pure dread was inscribed on his face. “What kind of treacherous murder is this?”

  Nuramon dragged Yulivee away with him. Only the queen seemed transfixed. She stiffened, gazed over at the caravel that had rammed them, and whispered, “So it’s true . . .”

  Mandred followed her gaze, and on the quarterdeck of the caravel, he saw a man wearing billowing dark-blue robes. He had his hands raised high and looked like the monks they had seen among the knights of the Tjured in Iskendria.

  “Emerelle!” shouted Nuramon.

  Master Alvias leaped in front of the queen and pushed her back. In that moment, something seemed to seize him. He staggered and clutched at his chest. Then he fell at the queen’s feet.

  “Alvias?” Emerelle said with disbelief as she kneeled beside the aging chamberlain.

  Alvias’s breathing was labored. He was trying desperately to say something. “Forgive my lack of decorum, my queen,” he gasped, his voice shaking. “It is my fate, to . . .” His eyes glassed over, and his breath stopped.

  At first, there was only bewilderment on the queen’s face, but then a smile came.

  Mandred was shaken to see her smile at such a moment. Did Emerelle feel no sympathy at all? Not even for the man closest to her? Her old chamberlain had given his life for her, and she smiled.

  Suddenly, around the queen, a pale light glowed. It came from the body of Alvias, flowing around him, enclosing him like a glittering silk shroud. Then Alvias’s form began to blur in the silvery shimmer. The queen still held his hand, but even as her own fine hand remained clearly visible, Alvias’s turned transparent. His armor and the sword he wore also paled. Finally, Alvias dissolved entirely into the silver glow around him. Then the light dissipated like smoke on the wind. Nothing remained but the smell of flowers, a smell Mandred knew. He had noticed it in Firnstayn, in the room in which Shalawyn had died.

  The gleam surrounding Alvias must have been the moonlight. Nuramon and Farodin had spoken about it so many times, but all their words had never been able to adequately describe to Mandred what it was really like. The jarl had the feeling he had just witnessed something divine, something miraculous.

  The others, too, were deeply stirred at the sight and, for a moment, forgot the battle around them. Yulivee stared openmouthed at the place where Alvias had vanished.

  The queen allowed Nuramon to help her back to her feet. “He saved me,” she said. “It was his destiny.”

  “What killed him?” Yulivee asked Nuramon. She seemed so terrified that she could only speak in a whisper.

  “I don’t know,” Nuramon answered.

  Mandred looked over at the man in the dark-blue monk’s robe. Alvias’s death and his passing into the moonlight had taken only moments. The Tjured priest looked completely exhausted. He stood at the railing and had to hold himself upright with both hands. Knights quickly surrounded the cleric, shielding him.

  Damned priest, thought Mandred. These bastards had nothing in common with the healer Guillaume, whom they had turned into a saint. Nothing could be further from what Guillaume believed in than . . . The jarl thought of what had befallen them in Aniscans. By Luth. It was not possible. He made the sign of the protective eye. “Remember Aniscans, Nuramon?” he asked, his voice half choked. “Remember what happened in the market square?”

  “By the Alben.” His eyes wide with terror, the elf looked up at the high-decked caravel. “They’ll kill us all. They don’t even need their swords.”

  A boarding ramp crashed onto the elves’ flagship. A squad of knights was already forming up there, ready to storm the queen’s galley. The priest and his bodyguards left the quarterdeck and moved forward to join the fighters.

  Nuramon turned to Emerelle. “My queen, we have to get away from here, or all is lost.”

  Liodred pointed out to starboard. “The shield wall on the ships still holds, Majesty. We can make it across the longships to another elven galley.”

  The few surviving elves on the Elflight charged at the boarding ramp to hold back the Tjured knights before too many made it on board.

  “Mandridians, to me!” Liodred ordered and waved to the fighters on the closest longship. “The king demands your blood!”

  “My queen?” Nuramon asked.

  Emerelle simply nodded. She took Yulivee’s hand and looked at the child. Emerelle seemed lost in thought. Mandred saw a single tear pearl down her cheek, as if she were already weeping for the end of everything.

  Casting the Bones

  The bones clattered over the large table that the trolls had set up in the center of the deck of the Albenhammer, the troll king’s flagship. Farodin hooked his thumbs into his sword belt and tried to keep his composure. The way in which the trolls fought a war was, to say the least, alien to him. He narrowed his eyes and peered toward the columns of smoke rising beyond the cliffs. What was going on over there?

  The old shaman looked at the little bones on the table for a long time. “The shadow of death hangs over Emerelle,” she said, her voice flat. “It is a human. He is attacking her with his power. One man, and he has killed more than a hundred elves.”

  All eyes turned to Farodin. “That . . . is impossible,” he said. “No human can match an elf in battle. You must be mistaken.”

  “Do you say that because things that should not be possible cannot be possible?” Boldor asked. The king of the trolls was almost four paces tall. Ropy scars covered his bare torso. His long, pointed ears were torn and misshapen. Pale eyes peered from under a bulging brow and eyed Farodin critically. “Cast the bones again, Skanga.”

  The shaman complied, glaring sidelong at Farodin. The yellowing, worn bones clacked across the table. Skanga crossed her arms. “It is as I said. The shadow of death hangs over Emerelle. I can feel the human’s evil power clearly. It is the kind of magic he uses that makes him so deadly. It is different from the magic we use. It takes the power out of the world, and out of the elves’ hearts. That is what is killing them. It makes no difference what spell he casts. None can be close to him.”

  “Would his magic kill trolls?” asked Orgrim.

  “It will kill any of the Albenkin.”

  “Is there a spell that can shield against it?” the prince continued.

  “No. This magic is different,” replied the shaman. “There is no protection from it. But it cannot injure humans.”

  Farodin remembered what had happened in Aniscans. Was there a second man like Guillaume? Could a human ever be as powerful as a bastard son, half elf and half Devanthar?

  “What do you advise, Skanga?” asked the king soberly.

  “Anyone who dares to get close to that man is spitting in the face of Death. Right now, he is weak, but I sense his power returning with every heartbeat.”

  The king rubbed his fist on his forehead.

  “Give me a boat,” said Farodin. “I will fight at the side of my people.”

  Boldor ignored him. “What will happen if we join the battle?”

  Again, the shaman toss
ed her bones. She spent a long time looking at the confusing pattern. “If we fight, royal blood will flow,” she finally said.

  The king stroked a finger over his jutting bottom lip. “Emerelle and the king of the Fjordlands are also fighting there, aren’t they?”

  “Both confront the terrible sorcerer,” Skanga replied.

  Boldor slammed his fist onto the table. “Kobold shit!” he bellowed fiercely. “We will not wait here and watch Emerelle and the human king take all the glory for themselves. Sails down! Man the oars! We’re going into battle!” He pointed to the columns of smoke beyond the cliffs. “Douse the decks with water. I don’t want to see a single one of my ships burn.”

  “How do we attack?” asked Orgrim.

  “Like trolls. We send every ship in our way to the bottom of the sea.”

  The bones clacked a final time. “On the west is danger. Something . . .” The shaman pushed a few of the bones apart. “Something is hiding there.”

  The king looked up and pointed to the rising smoke. “I don’t need your bones, Skanga, to see that danger. The west is where most of the ships are burning. We will be wary and see which way the sparks are flying.”

  Emerelle in Danger

  It was a desperate struggle.

  Mandred, Liodred, and the Mandridians were all that prevented the elves from being surrounded by their enemies. The Firnstayners were trying to force a passage across the deck to give the queen a chance to escape over the forecastle and down to the longships. A small squad of the white knights had broken through and taken possession of the battle platform at the bow, but the Mandridians had succeeded in cutting them off from the rest of their battalion. Obilee, with a handful of elven fighters, was attempting to retake the bow stronghold. At the same time, the Mandridians were fighting desperately to prevent the enemy from breaking through a second time and to drive the knights back to their caravel.

  Emerelle was ringed by bodyguards. She stayed by the railing and held Yulivee close to her. She still seemed to be somewhere else in her thoughts.

  The numbers of the injured rose, and it seemed only a matter of time before the superior numbers of their adversaries broke their ranks.

  Nuramon kept one eye on the caravel, but the priest was no longer to be seen. He feared that the man, protected by the shield bearers, was slowly making his way forward. The queen was now so close to the caravel that the sorcerer could wipe out her and her bodyguards with a single spell.

  One of the knights had gotten past Mandred and was moving closer. Nuramon quickly drew an arrow and shot the man, but even as he fell, two more took his place. Nuramon realized that the Mandridians were no longer able to drive the enemy back onto the caravel and were now doing all they could just to let as few as possible get past. The attack on the forecastle also seemed to be making little progress. The knights were holding their position and blocking the route to the longships.

  Nuramon shot arrow after arrow. One of the enemy soldiers managed to dodge his arrows and raise his sword against him, and Nuramon realized he would never get another arrow on the string in time, so he lifted the bow to swing at the man with it. At the same time, one of the queen’s guards came to his aid, brandishing a spear. The enemy fighter’s lunge ended on the spear point. He jerked the shaft from the guard’s hand, staggered back, and fell to the deck, lifeless.

  Suddenly, the archers from Alvemer were there to reinforce them. Nomja came to Nuramon’s side. “What happened just now?” she asked.

  Nuramon would rather have said nothing. He didn’t understand how it worked himself. He thought of what Mandred had said. The jarl had asked him if he remembered Aniscans. Of course Nuramon had not forgotten how Gelvuun had died because of Guillaume’s healing magic. “There’s a Tjured priest!” was all he could say to Nomja.

  He looked around for Yulivee. She was clutching Emerelle’s arm. The girl flinched at each clash of weapons and scream of the wounded. She buried her face in Emerelle’s dress.

  Obilee was close now, and she and her troop were backing up the Mandridians. “Don’t advance too far,” she shouted. She swung her sword with great power, and small blue sparks of lightning flashed along the length of the blade. Whenever her sword came down on an enemy, the man jerked and screamed as if the lightning were worse than the steel cutting his body. Behind Obilee and her troop stood unarmed elves. The oarsmen.

  Mandred, Liodred, and the Firnstayners, like Obilee and her fighters, also fell back, giving the Alvemer archers a clear firing line to the enemy. They shot arrow after arrow, holding the Tjured men at bay. The few knights who dared advance were cut down by the Mandridians on either side of the archers. Most of them, though, retreated until they were close to the railing and formed a shield wall there.

  Nuramon had soon exhausted his arrow supply and gave up his place in the line to one of the spearmen. He turned to the queen. “Emerelle,” he called.

  She looked at him, but said nothing.

  “We will do it,” he said, though he knew how badly things looked for them all and for Albenmark. He looked over the railing into the water and saw dozens of elves swimming down below. Were they the oarsmen? Or had elven fighters dared to flee from the battle?

  Obilee, with Mandred and Liodred, came to the queen, and the guardsmen protecting Emerelle opened their ranks. “We are taking you to Ollowain. He is fighting on one of the longships not far from here. One more assault and we will take back our forecastle. That will give us free passage.” She was breathing heavily.

  Emerelle said nothing.

  “Your Majesty?” asked Obilee.

  “I am in your hands, Obilee,” Emerelle finally replied. She seemed to look right through Obilee.

  Nuramon looked out over the Fjordlanders’ battlefield. More of the enemies’ ships had added their weight to the battle. They would have to fight every step of the way from the queen’s galley to Ollowain’s ship. “We won’t make it in time,” Nuramon shouted. He pointed back to the caravel. “The priest is somewhere there. Every second we stand here, he is recovering his strength to cast the next spell. We can’t wait for the forecastle to be clear. Every moment could be the end for us.”

  “Maybe we’ll have to swim, too,” Yulivee suggested.

  Emerelle stroked the girl’s hair. “No, the queen will not swim away. I will cross the ships.” Finally, she seemed to have her mind back on their present predicament. “Obilee, I want you to conjure a passage for us.”

  Obilee nodded. “Yes,” she said quietly. “But it won’t be enough. Even if I rescue you, the priest can still decide the outcome of the battle.”

  Mandred spoke up then. “Then it’s the humans who have to kill the priest. I will take my Mandridians and fight a way through to him.”

  Nuramon shook his head. “Mandred, it’s far too dangerous.”

  “Whether you elves die or flee, either way, we are lost. This pack of priests will wipe Firnstayn from the map. Let me do what has to be done. And wish me luck.”

  Nuramon exchanged a look with Obilee and the queen. Both nodded. “Mandred,” he said. “I know none braver, human or elf.”

  Mandred embraced Nuramon briefly, then he turned to Liodred. “We will cut through their ranks like a sword and smash them back onto their ship.” The jarl looked back one last time, and Nuramon feared he would never see his friend again.

  The Firnstayners regrouped among the archers. Mandred said a few words to Nomja. “For Firnstayn!” he yelled at the top of his voice, and he and his men charged under cover of a hail of arrows from left and right. With weapons ringing and wild cries, they charged the knights’ shield wall.

  “We have to go,” declared Obilee.

  The hatch to the lower deck caught Nuramon’s eye. Then he looked back to the quarterdeck. He turned to Yulivee. “Do you still have my arrows?”

  The little girl held up the quiver with shaking hand
s.

  He took them and thanked her. Then he took out the dwarven arrows and put them in the quiver he already carried. “Obilee! Emerelle! I have a plan!” he shouted, pointing to the hatch that led down to the oar deck.

  Stones and Trolls

  From beneath the deck of the Grinder came the muffled thump of the kettledrum. The oars dipped rhythmically into the water, churning the sea to foam. Farodin was surprised at the discipline of the trolls in keeping the rhythm and at how fast the ungraceful ship moved when rowed.

  Less than a quarter of a mile separated them from a large caravel that was sailing right at them. Only a few of the ships in the priests’ fleet had managed to turn and set a course for this new enemy that had appeared at their rear. The main mass of the Tjured ships were crushed together in the narrow fjord, supporting the battle at the Firnstayners’ barrier of longships. It was impossible for them to free themselves from the battle quickly and face the trolls.

  Farodin pulled the chin strap of his helmet tight and checked that his weapon belt sat properly. He left the heavy shield standing against the railing. He would pick it up again as soon as the fighting started.

  Prince Orgrim leaned on his massive war hammer. He seemed relaxed. “We’ll only need to fight when we hit the mass of the Tjured ships,” he said calmly. “Those boats coming won’t stop us.”

  Farodin looked ahead at the approaching enemy three-master. The ship was much smaller than the galleasses of the trolls. For a moment, the elf felt some respect for the Tjured knights, fearlessly attacking an enemy so obviously superior to them. The mainsail with the symbol of the burned oak hid any view of the ship’s quarterdeck. Farodin wondered how the humans on board were preparing for the unequal fight. So far, the caravel had steered a course directly toward them, as if they were planning to ram the troll ship.

  “They’ll turn at the last moment and try to destroy the oars on one side of our ship,” said Farodin.