“He won’t need it,” said Yulivee, and she looked to Nuramon with pride. During their journey together, he had told her about the children of the Darkalben and described the halls of the dwarves down to the smallest detail.
Nuramon climbed into the saddle. “Well, Felbion,” he whispered in the horse’s ear. “Let’s see if you’ve forgotten anything in all these years.”
The horse broke into a trot, and Nuramon could sense his steed’s unbridled power. But hardly had he left the camp behind when he was overcome by a feeling of humility. He was riding as one man toward a massive host. There had to be more than ten thousand soldiers coming toward him. They were marching in formation, as they did when they went into battle with a dragon. Shields protected them on all sides. In the center of the mass were spearmen, their weapons protruding from their ranks like trees. No doubt the king was there, his friend Wengalf with whom he had once shared so many adventures. He would never forget the battle against the dragon Balon, all the pain he had suffered, and the moment . . . of his death.
All at once it became clear to Nuramon what was confusing him so much and what had happened to him. The spell he had cast in the halls of the Devanthar had not erased his memories. It had opened them up. That was it. But everything was so untidy. He seemed to remember battling the dragon on the way to the oracle Dareen. And although it was impossible, it seemed to him that he had spent several hundred years in the valley of the dwarves before he had left with Alwerich to go to visit the oracle. None of it fit together. None of it made any sense.
The dam that had held back all his knowledge of the past was broken, and the memories from his past lives were now flooding the ones he had gathered in this life.
What had it been like back then? When did he go away with the dwarves? When Nuramon asked himself these questions, he remembered the day he had met Alwerich. Alwerich had been a young dwarf then, and he had fallen into a ravine in the Iolid Mountains and broken his leg. Nuramon had found him and rescued him. They had been friends ever since and had been through a great deal together. Alwerich had led him to the dwarves, and he had met King Wengalf there. That was a long time ago, long before he left Albenmark with the dwarves.
Next came recollections of a view of Alaen Aikhwitan from the summits of the Iolids, of battles against beasts in the caves of old Aelburin, of the enormous forges of the smiths inside the dwarves’ mountain halls, of hunting in the valleys, and of much more besides. The memories threw him into a turmoil of emotions, but he was unable to even try to put them into any sort of order. Because before he knew it, Felbion slowed to a walk. The dwarven army had come to a standstill. A small group, surrounded by guards and soldiers holding banners, separated from the center of the front row and came toward him.
Nuramon dismounted and approached the dwarves on foot, walking in front of Felbion. He recognized Wengalf, Alwerich, and Thorwis immediately, though they had aged.
King Wengalf was magnificently attired. He wore a suit of golden mail and a gold helmet on which runes intertwined in the form of a crown. Alwerich wore a suit of polished iron armor and carried an axe over his shoulder that Nuramon remembered well. Thorwis presented a very different image, clothed in a black robe with symbols embroidered on it in dark-gray thread. His white hair and long beard were in stark contrast to the color of the robe. The three dwarves looked like figures from the great epics, and their guards were also excellently equipped. It was clear that they had spent a long time preparing for this day.
The king gave his escort a sign, and they stopped. Only Alwerich and Thorwis stepped forward with him.
“Nuramon. Seeing you at the end of the age does this old dwarf’s heart good,” said Wengalf.
“I am happy, too, to see you all again,” Nuramon replied.
“And? Have you rediscovered your memory?”
“I remember our battle with the dragon.”
Wengalf nodded proudly. “Emerelle did well to send you to us.”
“You are welcome among us, my friend,” said Nuramon.
“Welcome?” The king looked past Nuramon. “I must say, when I see the forces gathered down there, then it would seem we are not as welcome as you say.”
Nuramon looked back over his shoulder. The mounted troops had, in fact, assembled in front of the camp. “Don’t be concerned. It is just that they fear the children of the Darkalben. Only a few of us know your true story.”
“And apparently they think we’re afraid of horses,” Thorwis added. “They would be surprised to find out how things have changed.”
Nuramon’s mind returned to his visit to the dwarves. Alwerich and his companions had certainly showed Felbion a degree of respect. “They are not standing there to attack you, Wengalf.”
“If they want us as their allies, then they should give us unconditional passage to the enemy,” said Wengalf.
Thorwis spoke again. “We are here because of the words of Dareen. This is where the final battle of this age is to be fought, and no dwarf should remain behind in the Other World or the Shattered World.”
“We have not come here to subjugate ourselves to the queen,” Wengalf added.
“I don’t know anything about the end of an age,” Nuramon replied in a friendly tone, “but I do know that our only hope is as allies. The queen has gathered the holders of the Albenstones around her. Her wish is that you join us.”
Wengalf exchanged a long look with Thorwis. Then he said, “Nuramon, we are friends. And I want to ask you one thing. Can we trust the queen?”
That was a difficult question. “I cannot answer that for you. But I can tell you that my companions and I possessed an Albenstone. We could have used it to free my beloved, and still we entrusted it to the queen.”
Wengalf waved Thorwis to one side. “Excuse us,” he said, and he left Nuramon standing with Alwerich. He would have liked to know what they were saying, but now he turned to Alwerich.
“How have you been, my friend?” he asked. “Did you find your way back to your old memories?”
The dwarf smiled. “Yes. And what I found was much more than I could ever have found out in my books. And now that you have your own memory back, I would like to thank you for all the times you saved my life.”
Nuramon crouched and laid his hand on Alwerich’s shoulder. “Forgive me. I am still very mixed up, but I can see the day clearly when I found you in the ravine. I healed you. And I remember Solstane and how happy she was to see you again uninjured. Where is Solstane?”
“She and the others are waiting in our old halls in the Iolid Mountains for us to return . . . one way or another.”
“No doubt she would prefer you to come back alive.”
“You know what we’re like. Death means less to us than to the elves. Especially once you’ve found your way back to your memories.”
Wengalf and Thorwis returned. “If you and your companions are so selfless as to sacrifice the Albenstone for a greater cause,” Wengalf said, “then we dwarves will not stand back. This battle will not be lost because we were not part of it. Lead us to Emerelle. Be a good friend to us, and a loyal servant to your queen.”
“Then follow me,” said Nuramon, and he turned around. But he whispered to Felbion, “Go ahead,” and the horse immediately trotted off.
Wengalf gave the order that his army should wait, and his own bodyguard as well. The leader of the guard balked, but Wengalf insisted. “No guards. Only Thorwis and Alwerich should go with me. Three dwarves, led by an elf.” He signaled to Alwerich to come to him. “Take the banner.”
One of Wengalf’s banner bearers handed Alwerich his standard.
“They should see who they are dealing with,” Wengalf declared.
They set off, side by side. Nuramon was again struck by a strange feeling. This time he was on foot, walking toward the mounted elven troops. And although he had no expectation of being attacked,
approaching such a force left a deep impression. His companions seemed to know no fear. As if they were on a stroll through the woods, Wengalf asked him, “And how have you been, old friend?”
Nuramon told him very briefly about all that had happened since he had last seen Alwerich. He talked of his years in Firnstayn, of the search for the Albenstone, of Iskendria, and, finally, of the sea battle and the fight against the Devanthar.
“By all the halls of the Alben,” Wengalf cried. “What an adventure. I wish I’d been there.” He clapped Nuramon on his arm. “But in the battle ahead of us, no doubt I will have enough opportunities to fight by your side.”
“As long as it doesn’t end like the fight with the dragon.” Nuramon smiled.
They were close to the riders now, and Nuramon could see on their faces just how much in awe of the dwarves they were. When they stopped a few paces from the horses, the riders grew uneasy.
Nuramon called out, “Here stands Wengalf of Aelburin, king of the dwarves and founder of their new kingdom of Aelburin in the Other World, returning today to old Aelburin. Beside him stands Alwerich, slayer of the cave wyrm. And this is Thorwis, eldest of the children of the Darkalben.” Nuramon marveled at his own words. It was true. Alwerich had once defeated the cave wyrm. Nuramon had been there himself. And it was also true that Thorwis was the oldest of the dwarves and that most of his contemporaries had long since gone into the moonlight.
The ranks of horsemen parted, opening a way back to the soldiers, who, in turn, moved back to form a wide passage to the queen’s tent. Nuramon made sure that the dwarves walked ahead of him and was pleased at the looks of admiration bestowed on his friends.
Finally, they came to a halt ten paces in front of the queen. Nuramon stepped forward and bowed. “My queen, I bring you a guest, and perhaps an ally.”
“I thank you,” Emerelle said in a low voice.
Nuramon stepped aside for the dwarves. Wengalf came forward, followed by his two companions.
The queen looked up at the banner Alwerich carried. “Wengalf of Aelburin. It has been a long time since we last met.”
“And we did not part on good terms,” said the dwarf, without showing the queen even the slightest sign of deference. He was making sure that everyone present knew he was a king and, therefore, Emerelle’s equal.
The queen was sitting on her stone, which put her almost at eye level with Wengalf. “Then we have to try to find the right words to reconcile our differences,” she replied.
“There is only one path that leads in that direction.”
“I know. And I can only tell you the same as I told King Orgrim. A new Albenmark will exist once this final danger has been banished for all time. In the new Albenmark, there will be enough room for troll kings and elven queens and also for the king of the dwarves.”
“If that is the future, then count us as your allies,” Wengalf said and looked to Thorwis. The wizard stepped up beside him. “We will help you with your magic.”
Thorwis produced a stone from the folds of his robe. It was a quartz crystal through which five black threads were drawn. The Albenstone of the dwarves. “Thank you for keeping your vow,” the wizard said.
“I did not tell anyone that you had a stone, though I admit that I made some insinuations when I knew that you would come.”
“What is your plan, Emerelle?” Wengalf asked then.
The queen repeated what she had said before, that they would use one spell to cut off the land on the far side of the Shalyn Falah and a second to separate Albenmark from the Other World permanently. Thorwis and Wengalf listened closely to the queen’s words. “So shall it be,” Wengalf said when she was finished. “My army will stand on the right flank between the end of the gorge and the forest, unless the land has changed in the meantime.”
“It is still as you remember it to be. The humans are coming in vast numbers, though you will not have to fight alone.” The queen looked past the dwarves. “Mandred,” she called.
The jarl stepped forward, and the dwarves looked at him with curiosity. Nuramon had told them about Mandred.
“We need the Mandridians in this fight. You must go and rouse them for tomorrow’s battle.”
Mandred nodded gravely. “I will do it, Emerelle.”
“Farodin,” said the queen now, and Nuramon’s companion stepped forward and bowed. “You will defend the Shalyn Falah at the side of Ollowain and Giliath. You will lead my bodyguard. From now, they will take their orders from you.” She looked across to Orgrim. “And the trolls will support you. They know what it means to carry out an assault on the bridge. When defenders and former attackers stand together, the Shalyn Falah will not fall.”
“I thank you, Queen,” said Farodin flatly.
Emerelle turned and looked at Nuramon. “And now to you. I want you to lead the elves who will fight side by side with the dwarves.”
“Lead?” asked Nuramon.
“Sword fighters and riders from Alvemer as well as Nomja’s archers will be under your command, and the fighters of your own clan, too.”
“I thank you, Emerelle,” Nuramon heard himself say, though he did not see himself as a leader. Farodin was cut from that cloth, perhaps. Or Obilee, Ollowain, Giliath. He was not the right one to carry such responsibility.
The queen returned her attention to Wengalf. “If it pleases you, Wengalf . . . king of Aelburin. Take the place reserved for you in this gathering. Then the circle of fate will be closed, and we will be ready to face the storm that will end this age.”
Silence settled as the king of the dwarves, with Thorwis and Alwerich, walked back to the stone opposite the queen. There he stopped and looked around at the company. He gave Alwerich a sign, and as the king sat upon the stone, Alwerich drove the end of the pole with the banner into the ground with all his might.
A wave of jubilation swept through the camp, something Nuramon had seldom heard among the Albenkin. The elves cheered, the centaurs brayed, the trolls roared, and Mandred . . . Mandred roared, too.
The Living Ancestor
Liodred’s body was laid out atop a carriage hung with white cloths. Fifty centaurs formed a guard of honor for the fallen king of Firnstayn. Mandred felt good to be at the side of the rough-and-ready centaurs, although the news about his people filled him with profound sadness. Few had voluntarily renounced the old gods to take up allegiance to Tjured. In retaliation, the knights had butchered entire villages. Emerelle had promised all of the people of the Fjordlands a safe haven in Albenmark. Mounted elves and trolls were dispatched to escort the refugees, but thousands had died in snowstorms and avalanches in the high passes. Those who survived the flight from the Fjordlands were led into the Lamiyal Valley, some ten miles from Emerelle’s palace. The queen and Ollowain had warned Mandred; the morale of the people was in tatters. They were starved and emaciated, and all the miseries of the past had left their mark. No more than two hundred were in any shape to take part in the forthcoming battle.
When the jarl reached the top of the rise above the valley, his heart grew heavy. Down below, a vast number of refugees was camped. They still had no more than a few tents, and the people had to sleep on the ground in the open air. The smoke from hundreds of campfires hung over the meadows like a dark bell.
The people stared at Mandred as he made his way down the hill toward them. They did not know him. How could they? No one in the elven camp could or would tell him how many centuries they had lost in the Devanthar’s trap. It made no difference anyway. The only thing that mattered was that they repel the attack the following day. But when Mandred looked at this desperate multitude, he could not say if it would do any good for them to take part in the fight. The sight of the children hurt him the most. Hollow-cheeked and with sunken eyes, haggard from their flight, they stood at the edge of the road and watched as the centaurs and the magnificent white carriage drew closer. Some laughed and e
ven waved, although they were so weak they could barely stand up. What kind of monsters were the Tjured priests to drive even children to their deaths?
In the middle of the refugee camp stood a tent made of threadbare green canvas. At its entrance stood a giant of a warrior. He wore blackened armor and supported himself on a huge axe. His face was sullen, and he eyed Mandred with cold blue eyes. “So you’re the one the elves sent to pretend he’s our ancestor.”
The jarl swung from the saddle and checked an urge to punch the guard in the mouth. “Where do I find the king? I am bringing him his armor.”
“Your friends have instructed you poorly. The king lies dead up on the Hawk Pass. He took a stand there with a hundred men against the priests to buy our women and children a few more hours to escape.”
Mandred’s anger at the warrior evaporated. “Who has the command in his place?”
“Queen Gishild.”
“May I meet with her? Queen Emerelle has sent me. I . . . I’ve just come from Firnstayn. I saw everything.”
The guard stroked his moustache and creased his forehead. “No one has made it through the Tjured lines for days. How did you do it?”
“One of my companions opened an Albenpath,” Mandred replied.
A deep furrow cut across the warrior’s brow. He looked at the white carriage. “Why have you brought this wagon with you?”
“King Liodred lies upon it. He died at my side.”
The guard’s eyes widened suddenly in surprise, and he dropped to one knee. “Forgive me, Ancestor. I . . . no one believed anymore that the old prophecy would still be fulfilled. We . . .”
Mandred grasped the warrior by the arm and pulled him to his feet again. “I don’t like it when men kneel in front of me. You were right to be suspicious. I am proud that there are still men like you from the Fjordlands. What is your name?”
“I am Beorn Torbaldson, Ancestor.”
“I would be glad to have you at my side in tomorrow’s battle, Beorn.” Mandred noticed how the soldier’s mouth tightened, as if to hold down a sudden pain. “The king sent you down from the Hawk Pass, didn’t he?”
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