“All of you now possess enchanted weapons,” said the queen. “You will carry them in my name and also in the name of the people of the Fjordlands. And for your own sakes, too, you will wield them. Step before me.” Mandred, Liodred, Farodin, and Nuramon did as the queen had commanded. Then she spoke again. “You will fight an enemy worthy of one of the Alben. You will have only one chance to defeat it.”
“But can we do it?” Nuramon asked.
“Yes, Nuramon. Each of you has your reasons to be part of this battle. And you will show how strong you are when you face the enemy. The only thing that will kill the Devanthar once and for all is an enchanted weapon.”
Emerelle stepped forward. She kissed Liodred on his forehead. “Do not fear for the fate of your kingdom. Before my race returns to Albenmark tomorrow, and with your permission, I will take it on myself to become your son’s patron. No one will dare to contest your blood right to the throne in your absence.”
She stepped in front of Mandred and kissed him as well. “Mandred Aikhjarto. Think of the manboar and all he took from you. Today is your day of vengeance.”
Next, she moved to Farodin and Nuramon and looked at them in turn. Then she kissed both of them on the forehead and said, “Think of Noroelle. There is nothing that will give you more strength.”
Now the others came and said their good-byes. Ollowain, as usual, was cool and distant. Nomja stroked Nuramon’s cheek and whispered, “It feels like we have known each other forever.” He thought of the dwarves and their cult of memory. Perhaps he should have told Nomja about that, but it was too late now. Obilee, like the queen before her, kissed him on the forehead. She said no words, but her face revealed her sadness and her pain. She would worry about him, that much was certain. But she would also be a good companion to the queen. And if he and his comrades failed, then perhaps she, at the queen’s side, could complete what they could not.
Finally, Nuramon took Yulivee in his arms. “Do what the queen told you,” she chided him. “Think of Noroelle when you fight the Devanthar.” He set her back on the ground and took a long look at her. “Go, Brother,” she said, and she sounded more serious than he had ever heard her sound before. Did she know something? Had the queen confided in her? Or had the little sorceress dared to steal a private glance into the queen’s mirror?
“Be ready,” said Emerelle.
The twelve volunteers joined Nuramon and his companions. They were armed with halberds and swords and were unusually heavily armored for elven warriors. Each of them wore a close helmet decorated in gold and a heavy cuirass. No one would be better able to protect them than the queen’s own bodyguard, that was certain. The Tjured knights would need to outnumber them massively to have any chance at all.
Emerelle retrieved the Albenstone from its plain leather pouch at her belt. Farodin’s eyes gleamed when he saw it, and Nuramon, too, was stirred deeply to see it again.
The queen closed her eyes and spoke inaudible words. Nuramon sensed powerful magic surrounding him. Albenpaths appeared out of thin air. They were simply there, making the queen’s magic look effortless. That was the way of most great magic, he knew. His mother had taught him that.
Beside Emerelle, five paths now crossed. Without warning, a brilliant light shot upward from the Albenstar. It was the gate they would pass through.
“Guards, secure the Albenpath,” the queen commanded. “Quickly. Every moment counts.”
The volunteers marched forward and disappeared into the light.
Nuramon glanced quickly at Mandred, Farodin, and Liodred. He saw nothing but determination in their expressions. His companions were prepared to face what might well be their last great adventure. And he was, too. For if they defeated the Devanthar, then everything they wanted could be theirs.
“Go now,” said the queen.
Nuramon, side by side with his companions, stepped into the light. One last time, he looked back. He saw Yulivee, Obilee, and Nomja slowly vanish behind him.
The queen turned to them and spoke in a fading voice, “We stand at the brink of a new age.”
Trophies
Secure every exit,” Farodin ordered the guards.
The chamber they were in was high, built from gray stone, and dimly lit by candles. Overhead curved an artfully constructed ribbed vault. A faint smell of frankincense hung in the air. Somewhere in the distance, they could hear chanting, slow and solemn. They were standing in the center of a golden star, surrounded by four silver plates.
Mandred looked at Liodred. The king was as pale as a corpse. The few steps they had taken along the Albenpath through the emptiness had been terrifying for his descendant. Mandred gave him a hearty jab in the ribs with his elbow. “Still in one piece?”
Liodred swallowed hard and tried to pull himself together. “Never better.”
A bad liar, thought Mandred. And a brave man. That same evening, Mandred had tried to talk him out of following them into the battle with the Devanthar, but Liodred was not to be deterred.
“Do you want to take over command of the guards?” Mandred asked, but quietly. “I’d feel better knowing you were covering our backs.”
Liodred smiled crookedly. “Ancestor, I don’t believe the elves would enjoy taking orders from a man who couldn’t hold a candle to one of them in a fair fight. Stop trying to lead me astray.”
Mandred thought of Liodred’s little boy, then of Alfadas. Mandred was a father who only got to know his son as a grown man. That could not be allowed to happen twice in his family. Liodred had earned a more merciful fate. “Maybe you should—”
“No, out of the question,” Liodred interrupted him. “Did you hesitate on that winter night? When you heard that a monster was on the loose in the forests of Firnstayn? Didn’t you feel it was your duty as jarl to protect your village? And would it ever have crossed your mind to give up that duty to another man?”
“I was a jarl. No more. You are the king. Your people need you.”
“King or jarl, the obligations weigh as heavily. As you protected your village, I am protecting my kingdom. If the Devanthar survives, it will attack us again. I am here to keep such a disaster from befalling even one more Fjordlander. I cannot shirk that duty. Your descendants have always fought in the front line, Mandred. I will not be the first to break that tradition.”
A gate of golden light opened. Mandred gave up trying to dissuade Liodred. Deep inside, he knew that, in Liodred’s place, he would not have acted any differently. In the fight, he would stay close to him and protect him as best he could.
Together, they stepped through the gate and came out in . . . a vaulted chamber of gray stone. Perplexed, Mandred looked around. They were in the same chamber. Candles burned in the large iron holders, and shadows flickered on the walls. They were standing in the center of a golden star surrounded by four silver plates.
“Did the spell fail?” Mandred asked, bewildered.
Nuramon seemed uneasy. “No, impossible. I felt us pass through the emptiness into the Shattered World.”
“Our guards have disappeared,” said Farodin. His voice was calm, but he had one hand on the hilt of his sword. He peered warily into the shadows.
“You call this creature the deceiver,” said Liodred. His voice was hoarse, and in every gesture, Mandred could see how hard he was trying to conceal his fear. “Is this perhaps some trick to confuse its enemies?”
“That would be just like it,” Mandred murmured. “Bastard that it is.” He stroked the blade of his axe. “I hope it’s here and that we can finish it this time once and for all.”
The gate faded. In a few moments, it was gone completely. Farodin indicated to the others to follow him. They left the chamber and moved down a corridor flanked by deep alcoves. Inside them were regimental standards, magnificent weapons, and richly decorated shields. Suits of armor marked clearly by battle hung on stands. Mandred discovered a
statue similar to the gallabaal of Iskendria but fashioned from a darker stone. The statue had been bound with heavy chains, their ends attached to iron rings set into the wall. Mandred lifted a section of the chain. He hoped the gallabaal had smashed the skulls of many Tjured knights.
“Leave it alone,” Farodin hissed, pulling Mandred back a step. “The magic in it has not been extinguished completely.”
One of the chains clinked. In the silence down there, the noise seemed unnaturally loud.
“What is that?” Liodred whispered.
Mandred explained the stone guard to the king but was interrupted by a cry. As if an arrow had hit him, Nuramon dropped to his knees in front of one of the recesses in the wall. “It’s here,” he cried rapturously. “It’s here!”
With his axe raised, Mandred rushed to his companion’s side, ready to take on whatever might be hiding in the alcove.
Therdavan the Chosen
Farodin could have wrung Nuramon’s neck. If that place had any guards, then Nuramon’s thoughtless cry had certainly alerted them.
He turned away angrily. A few weeks earlier, he would have risked his life for the treasure in the alcove, but now he barely deigned to look at it. Warily, he peered along the corridor. The flickering candlelight made shadows dance on the walls. The Devanthar could be hiding, waiting, in any of the many alcoves in front of them. Perhaps he was lurking behind the high bronze door at the end of the passage. Or behind them.
A cold sweat trickled down Farodin’s spine. He risked a second glance into the alcove before which Nuramon still kneeled. The crown on display inside was the most magnificent artifact he had ever seen. It was vaguely reminiscent of a golden fortress, its oriels and windows fashioned from large precious stones. And the door of the fortress was a fire opal the size of an apple.
“Is that the djinns’ crown?” Mandred asked reverently. “You could buy yourself a kingdom in the Northlands with all those rocks.”
Nuramon was on his feet again and stepped inside, close to the crown. He ran his fingers over the fire opal.
“Get out of there,” Farodin hissed. “This whole place smells like a trap.”
Nuramon turned around. “The Albenstone is worthless. Now I know why the djinn could not find it. The fire opal is fractured. It has lost all of its power.” He smiled crookedly. “There is one good thing, though. The Devanthar never found his way into the library of the djinns. He does not know the secrets of the future.”
A sudden burst of laughter made Farodin flinch. The stink of brimstone filled the air. His hand on his sword, he wheeled around. The high, bronze door had opened without a sound. A man in the dark-blue robes of a Tjured priest was standing in the doorway. He was middle-aged and had an open, friendly face and blond hair to his shoulders. His eyes glowed a brilliant pale blue, like the sky on a summer morning.
“I don’t need a djinn library to know your future. I really ought to be offended. I’d been expecting Emerelle or at least Skanga. On the other hand, meeting all of you again lends our history a certain harmony. Like epic poetry, don’t you think?” The robed man pointed to Liodred. “I would suggest we leave the human here out of this matter. Then at least there will be one left to go back and report on your fate. He was not in the ice cave. He upsets the balance of our little reunion.”
Farodin swept his hair back and slung a thin leather band around it to prevent it from falling in his face. Ignore its words, he warned himself. Before the battle with the blades comes the battle for the heart. Let it destroy our hope of victory and the duel will be decided before it has even begun.
“Who’s this pompous priest?” Liodred asked, his voice harsh. His face was flushed with anger. “Let me shut him up.”
Mandred held him back and whispered something in his ear.
“Ah. Please excuse me,” the Devanthar said, with just a hint of a bow. “Among the humans, I am known as Therdavan Scallopius, the chosen one. Chief among the Tjured priests. But the elves fear me as the last of my race. I am a Devanthar, Liodred. They like to call me the deceiver, and no doubt they have a hundred other libelous names for me. You see that this is not your fight we are fighting here, human. Stand aside and live.”
Farodin stretched, loosened his shoulder muscles.
Liodred seemed confused. His hand rested on the axe at his belt.
“I see.” The Devanthar nodded fleetingly. “You’ve heard about me, haven’t you? And you were expecting some kind of monster. Something half human, half boar. Didn’t they tell you that I can change my form as I please?” It fell silent for a moment, as if it actually expected an answer, then said, “So they didn’t mention that part? It really is too embarrassing.” He pointed to Nuramon. “Once, I looked so much like that one that even his lover could not tell the difference. She was more than happy to share her bed with me.” He smiled. “The story is even tastier if you think that she never bestowed the same favors on the real Nuramon. It seems he lacks something that I am blessed with. I can’t think of any other reason for the woman to spread her legs so willingly for me. She was the first of many to give me a useful bastard.”
Nuramon drew his long sword. “Enough words.”
“Do you really want to risk your life for a cuckolded lover, Liodred?” the Devanthar mocked. “Is his wounded vanity really worth your blood?”
“They call you deceiver . . . ,” Liodred began.
The Devanthar roared with laughter, and small creases ringed its eyes. “Look at them. Would these elves wear such grim faces if my story were not true?”
With a sweeping gesture, the Devanthar threw off its priestly robes. Underneath, it wore tight-fitting dark-blue breeches and a silver-studded baldric. The flowing robes had concealed two short swords. Its upper body was naked, and its muscles shimmered in the candlelight. The Devanthar drew the two slim swords, crossed the blades in front of its chest, and gave a crisp bow. “You have just decided never to see your son again, King.”
“Enough babbling,” Mandred growled, and he stormed at the Devanthar like a raging bull.
The demon danced sideways, sidestepping Mandred’s charge. One of its swords shot down and glanced off the mail of Mandred’s shirt with a ring.
“Circle it,” Farodin called to his companions. However skillful the Devanthar might be, no fighter can see everything.
Farodin drew his sword and parrying dagger. At the same moment, he and Nuramon attacked. Their swords flew faster than a human eye could follow. The Devanthar blocked, then ducked under the swing of Liodred’s axe. Blue light flickered around the enchanted weapon. Farodin’s dagger found a way through the Devanthar’s defenses while his sword kept one of the demon’s short swords busy. A dark cut sliced across the false priest’s chest, above its heart. The wound was not deep and, astonishingly, hardly bled at all.
Farodin jumped clear, managing to escape a riposte. The Devanthar did not go after him, but sidestepped instead toward Liodred. It feigned a swing at Liodred’s head, then changed the direction of the strike at the last second and slipped in under Liodred’s axe. With a squeal, its sword grated across the breastplate of the armor that Alfadas himself had once worn.
“Excellent workmanship,” the Devanthar praised, jumping back and out of range of the axe. “My blade would have penetrated human steel.” Almost playfully, it blocked the axe Mandred swung at its back, and its second sword knocked Liodred’s weapon aside.
The king of the Fjordlands screamed, “Perish, demon! I—”
The swords of the Devanthar cut him off. The monster stabbed Liodred in the mouth. Then, with a jab, it thrust deeper.
“No!” Mandred bawled, throwing himself at the Devanthar with the courage of desperation. One of the demon’s blades grazed his forehead, leaving a gaping wound, but the fury of Mandred’s attack knocked the false priest off balance. Together, they tumbled to the ground. Nuramon was at Mandred’s side instant
ly and fended off a slash aimed at Mandred’s throat.
The Devanthar rolled to the side and was back on its feet like a cat. It looked at Liodred with contempt. The king was dying. Dark blood poured from his mouth. “What use is the best armor if you don’t wear your helmet?”
Mandred was standing again and made another charge. The jarl swung his axe like a sickle, forcing the Devanthar to retreat. Farodin rushed to help him, and Nuramon joined the assault as well. Their adversary was forced onto the back foot. Farodin found a gap in its defenses. He ducked very low, sidestepped, and drove his sword up into the false priest’s armpit. The blade scraped the demon’s shoulder blade as it passed through and came out his back. With a sharp wrench, Farodin pulled the blade back out.
A shudder passed through the Devanthar, but it made no sound that betrayed any pain. Despite the horrific injury, it parried a swing from Mandred, turned past the axe, and hammered the pommel of its sword against the jarl’s forehead. Mandred went down as if struck by lightning.
Nuramon swept in low, aiming an attack at the false priest’s groin, but the Devanthar blocked his sword. With a flick of its wrist, it knocked the elf’s weapon aside. A fast counterstrike slit Nuramon’s leather armor just below the throat.
The Devanthar’s right arm hung uselessly, but it had not let go of its second sword. Farodin was amazed to see that the wound under the Devanthar’s arm was barely bleeding. “Do you really think I was not prepared?” the Devanthar laughed derisively. “I had counted on Emerelle coming here with her best warriors.” Its expression grew indignant. “Well, if she won’t come to me, then I shall have to take my knights and pay her a visit in Albenmark.” With the tip of its sword, it inscribed a rune in the air and made a guttural sound. Then it pointed back toward the vaulted chamber with the Albenstar. “However this fight ends, you’re already trapped in my sorcery, fools.” Then the Devanthar raised its right hand and wiped its brow in an exaggerated gesture.
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