Mandred smiled weakly. He would gladly have given something to them. Something to remember him by, but all he had of value was his axe.
“It was good to ride with the two of you,” he whispered. “You made my life rich.”
Again, the impenetrable darkness engulfed him. Mandred thought of the Golden Hall of the gods. Had he earned his place beside the great heroes? He would meet Alfadas there . . . it would be good to go fly-fishing with him. He had never found the time to teach the lad properly. Was there a land beyond the halls? A land like the Fjordlands, with rugged mountains and fjords full of fish?
He had to have a quiet word with Luth. No more horns of mead . . . surely that would not apply in the Hall of Heroes.
Suddenly, the cold vanished. He was standing up to his knees in clear water. Silvery salmon were gliding slowly over the stony riverbed, swimming upstream against the current.
“So you finally came, old man.”
Mandred looked up. Beneath an oak tree on the shore stood Alfadas with a fishing rod in his hand. With an easy flick of his wrist, he cast into the stream.
Not bad for a beginner, thought Mandred. Not bad.
The Holy Scriptures of Tjured:
Book Ninety-Eight: Of the End of Albenmark
One night, in a dream, the wise warrior Erilgar heard the words of Tjured. And these told him to lead a great attack. So he gathered to him great numbers of warriors and led them against the enemy. But behold! There they waited, the demon armies of Albenmark, and the followers of Tjured were outnumbered. But because their faith was strong, they fought bravely. The Albenfolk, though, have been treacherous since the beginning of time. They cast a spell and caused stones to fall from the sky. They cursed the horses of the faithful to make them afraid of the enemy, and they brought their dead back to life so that they might never be defeated again. But in spite of all, the followers of Tjured remained strong under the leadership of Erilgar.
Now it happened that Erilgar found himself in difficulties, and Tjured’s countenance appeared before him, and the commander was able to read what was to be done from Tjured’s holy lips. Erilgar offered up a prayer, called his messengers to him, and ordered a retreat. Many resisted the order. But Erilgar spoke up, saying, “Was it not Tjured Himself who gave me the power? Did He not set me over you in the scheme of the world?” But there were many who believed they were closer to Tjured than was Erilgar. So it came to pass what must.
The truly faithful retreated, while the unbelievers stayed and fought the Albenfolk and the traitors from the Fjordlands. And on that day, Tjured Himself came down from the heavens and cast eternal darkness over the Albenfolk. Their land vanished inside an impenetrable fog. Only the land on which the faithful stood remained. And never again was one of the Albenfolk ever seen, for the Alben, the old demons, were waiting for them inside the eternal darkness. And they torment their children to this day.
FROM THE SCHOFFENBURG EDITION
VOLUME FORTY-FIVE, FOLIO 123 R.
The Last Gate
It was morning. At the edge of the forest, Fjordlanders and Albenkin had gathered and were watching them in the clearing. Farodin and Nuramon stood beside the open grave of their friend. They were surrounded by the greatest among the Albenkin: Emerelle, Wengalf, Thorwis, Yulivee, and Obilee. Nomja and Giliath were also there. Even Orgrim and Skanga had insisted on paying their final respects to the human jarl. Of the Firnstayners, Beorn and the pale queen were there; they had carried her to the edge of the grave in her chair.
Farodin and Nuramon gazed into the narrow pit where the body of their friend lay. He wore Alfadas’s armor, and the braids they had cut off were pressed into the dark earth beside his head. After the custom of the Fjordlanders, gifts had been laid in the grave with the body. From the Firnstayners, he had received bread, dried meat, and a jug of mead covered with a wooden plate. They said that Mandred needed provisions for the journey, for the Golden Hall of the gods was far away. The centaurs had laid the best wine of Dailos beside him. From the dwarves he had received a telescope, and from the trolls a red barinstone. Emerelle gave him a crown of gold and silver, which sat now upon his head and bestowed on him a splendor in death that had certainly never graced any other human leader. Around his neck, Mandred wore two chains with elven amulets of friendship, engraved with elven runes: “Liuvar Alveredar. Peace for the Friend.” Gifts from Farodin and Nuramon. A sapphire was set in Nuramon’s amulet, and in Farodin’s a diamond. The kobolds had fashioned the amulets in a single night.
Xern stepped closer and, with an almost imperceptible gesture, signaled to four soldiers from the queen’s bodyguard. With their spears, they lowered a white cloth of faery silk and stretched it over the body of the dead jarl. Then two more of the guards joined them and began to fill the grave. Dark soil fell onto the pale silk cloth, and with every spade of earth, less and less of the faery silk was visible, until the cloth was completely covered. The barinstone of the trolls lit up, the last light to shine out through the earth. But soon, that, too, was covered.
For Farodin, Mandred was now truly gone. In his lifetime, he had suffered only one loss that had caused him more pain. All the Albenkin who had fallen in battle the day before would be reborn, as they were after every great battle. A time of love would give all of the souls new bodies, but Mandred and the other humans had sacrificed the only lives they had to win the battle. Typical Mandred. He would walk into the lair of the trolls for a friend.
A tear tumbled over his cheek as he thought of all the adventures he had been through with Mandred. First the elfhunt, then the search for Guillaume, their terrible ordeal in the desert, the liberation of the elves in the Nightcrags, and, finally, the battle for Albenmark. From jarl of an insignificant village, he had risen to become the legendary ancestor of the royal family of the Fjordlands and had shown his people the way to Albenmark. For the Fjordlanders, Mandred was what Yulivee had been to the elves of Valemas, what Wengalf had been for the dwarves, and Emerelle for the Albenkin. He had returned to Firnstayn many times as the centuries rolled past. He had lived the life of one of the Albenkin and had died a hero. Farodin’s tears flowed, but he knew in his heart that Mandred had led a full life.
Nuramon could not come to terms with Mandred’s death. As long as he had been able to see his friend’s body, it had been clear to him that his companion was gone. Now all he wanted to do was throw himself into the half-filled grave and dig his friend out again. He could not imagine going into the Other World without him. He had been a good companion, and his best friend. Nuramon simply could not accept that, for humans, death meant the end of everything. They lived in a condition of uncertainty, and maybe that was what made their lives so valuable. No human knew what would happen to his soul after death, so they had to make the best of things in life. And Mandred had achieved more than any other human ever had. Even among the Albenkin, there were few who could look back on anything like such an existence.
In the half a century he had spent in Firnstayn, Nuramon had seen for himself the respect the Fjordlanders held for Mandred. They saw in him both the glorious ancestor and the down-to-earth warrior, a man who did not put on airs and was not above joining in some bawdy drinking song with his descendants. Nuramon thought of the stories he’d heard from the women at the Firnstayn court back then. Mandred the lover. That made him smile. He still remembered the night he had first seen Mandred. He had heard that the stranger, the human, had looked indecently at the women of Emerelle’s court. And because of that, he had been prejudiced against Mandred from the start, because he feared he might look at Noroelle the same way. But when he actually saw him and heard him talk, he could not help but like the man. As Nuramon became lost in these thoughts, he watched his friend’s grave slowly fill with dirt.
When the queen’s guards had done their work, they moved away again. Xern now stepped up to the grave and opened his hand. He was holding an acorn, and Nuramon recalled what
Yulivee had said the night before the final battle.
The chamberlain said, “This is the seed of Atta Aikhjarto. In the new Albenmark, too, he will be the oldest of the souled oaks, as Mandred was the oldest human in Albenmark.” Xern kneeled at the grave then and bowed his sweeping antlers. With his hands, he scooped a hollow in the earth, and in it, he placed Atta Aikhjarto’s acorn. Then he filled the hollow again. When he stood up, he said solemnly, “In this place the soul of the old oak father will join with the remains of the great mortal son. In his wisdom, Atta Aikhjarto gave Mandred part of his power. He foresaw this distant day and knew then the mortal’s fate. And he knew that a fresh life for his soul would begin above Mandred’s body. Aikhjarto’s roots will embrace Mandred and will take his mortal remains into himself. A new being will arise. This clearing will belong to him. From now on, the Albenstar here is the star of Mandred Aikhjarto.” Xern stepped back from the grave and looked at Farodin and Nuramon reassuringly.
Emerelle stepped forward next. She took the hand of young Queen Gishild and said, “Mandred lived like one of the Albenkin and died like one of our heroes. Like him, from this day on, to see a human will mean to see one of the Albenkin. Even the wisest among us do not know your secret. We don’t know where you came from, or where you will go, but it would lift my heart to discover that what you Fjordlanders call the Golden Hall of the gods is none other than the moonlight. And if this is true, then Mandred’s soul will be waiting there for all of us one day, though he had to leave his body here.”
Tears came to Nuramon again. He was moved to think he might see Mandred again in the moonlight. He was convinced that it was so. A soul did not simply disappear. Nearly all of the Albenkin disappeared into the moonlight with their bodies and even with what they wore and carried on them. But of all the beings of Albenmark, the souled trees left their bodies behind to go into the moonlight. Nuramon believed that it would be the same for Mandred.
Farodin looked at the place where Xern had buried the acorn. He and Nuramon had often wondered how Atta Aikhjarto’s magic had changed Mandred. Now, at the end of the road, they had their answer. Since the day he had come to Albenmark, Mandred had been connected to the old tree. Now his body would merge with Aikhjarto’s soul.
The queen placed her hands on Nuramon’s and Farodin’s shoulders. “My two true friends, it is time to say good-bye. The magic is advancing, and the Albenpaths to the Other World are growing weaker. You still have time to say your farewells. Come.” Emerelle took them by the hand and led them through the mourners to the center of the clearing, where their horses stood.
Farodin and Nuramon had spoken to Felbion and Farodin’s chestnut during the night and decided to leave them behind. The two horses had been true companions to them and deserved to stay in Albenmark. They packed the things they wanted to take with them into large linen bags that they could carry easily over their shoulders. Now they spoke to the horses again, coaxing them to stay, and to their surprise, their mounts did not resist, turning their heads to Yulivee instead.
“They will be looked after well if they continue with you,” Nuramon said to the sorceress. He led Felbion to her while Farodin went to where his relatives stood. Yulivee wore red mourning robes, as was customary in Valemas; they were cut wide and woven from the finest cloth. “We have to say good-bye now. You’ve been a good sister to me, though the time we spent together was short. Everything that belonged to me is now yours. You carry my legacy, Sister.”
“I will carry it with honor,” Yulivee replied and smiled her crooked smile. “I’m going to write a saga. The Saga of Nuramon the Elf. It will be very flattering and also very long, from your birth all the way to this moment. When I’m finished, I will present it at the queen’s court. Then the things that you and your companions have done will be celebrated forever.”
“You were a good storyteller even when you were a child,” Nuramon replied.
She smiled. “I take after my brother.”
Nuramon thought back to the day he had first met Yulivee. “I’ve often wondered what became of the djinn and the keepers of knowledge.”
“The humans destroyed the library,” his sister replied.
Nuramon lowered his eyes.
Yulivee placed one hand under his chin and lifted his head again. “Did I ever tell you the story of brave Yulivee, who went out into Albenmark to find the souls of the djinns and the keepers of knowledge? Did I? No?” She grinned. “I found them all and took them to Valemas. We have established a library there. The old knowledge isn’t lost. One day, they will remember their previous lives.”
Nuramon threw his arms around her. “Yulivee, you are one of a kind. Farewell, Sister.”
She kissed his forehead. “Say hello to Noroelle for me.” She raised her finger in mock threat. “And keep away from those horrible Tjured knights.”
“I promise,” Nuramon said.
Nomja stepped closer then. She wore pale-blue clothes made of heavy cloth, as all the elves of Alvemer were wearing on that day of grieving. She held his old bow in her hands. “You should take it with you. It will serve you well.”
Nuramon shook his head. “No. It may serve as a symbol to you, but only if you want it. I have regained my memories of my previous lives. You can, too. Then you will remember the time we spent together in the human world. The death you suffered there will fade, and I am sure you will see it as heroic.”
“And the bow symbolizes that?”
“You never have to restring it. Bow and string are always one, like soul and life.”
Nomja nodded slowly. “I understand . . . The path to remembering is long. But I will follow it, Nuramon.”
“Farewell, Nomja.” He embraced her. “You were a good sister in arms. And a friend.”
“Nuramon,” called a familiar voice, and Wengalf and Thorwis joined him. The king wore a suit of golden plate armor, the dwarven sorcerer a black robe.
Nuramon crouched and laid one hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “Thank you for everything, Wengalf.”
The king’s eyes sparkled. “I will tell Alwerich about this day when he is born again. He would have liked to be here.”
“Tell him that I will never forget his last heroic act. And tell Solstane I am sorry.”
“I will.”
“Do you know the secret of your sword now?” asked Thorwis.
“Yes. Emerelle told me everything. And my memories are gradually falling into place. I owe what I am today to the dwarves. Live well in your old halls, and don’t forget me.”
While Nuramon said his good-byes to his clan, Farodin approached Giliath. The warrior from Valemas smiled at him. They had met at dawn in front of Emerelle’s palace, and Giliath had won their duel. She had struck him on the cheek, which decided the fight. “It is the custom in Valemas to fulfill the request of a friend before one goes away,” she said.
“What is it?” he asked, smiling in return. “Another duel?”
She shook her head. “No, our feud is over. If one of my children is a boy, may I give him your name?”
“How many children are you planning to have?”
“A long war is over, Farodin. The dying has come to an end. A time of living has just begun. Countless souls are waiting to be reborn.”
They laughed then, and their laughter reached Nuramon. He turned and had to smile. There they were, the heroes of the Shalyn Falah. What an epic story the final battle at the bridge would become. Perhaps Yulivee would tell that story, too.
When Nuramon turned back again, he saw Obilee standing away to one side, as if wanting to watch from a safe distance. She, too, wore the blue mourning clothes of Alvemer. He went to her. “You look like you want to say good-bye to me from far away,” he said.
“It’s just . . . ,” she began. “I’m sorry for what I said two nights ago. I should have kept it to myself. I should not have accepted the moment yo
u gave me.”
“Don’t say that, Obilee. That moment was yours, and there is nothing bad in that.” He took her hand. “Keep it in your memory as something good. One day, we will be strong enough to set Noroelle free. Don’t worry about us. Just keep in mind, all the time, that we live in the Other World, far from all harm, and that we are thinking of you and everyone else. We will imagine you meeting a wonderful elf and falling in love. And we will wonder how many children you have and if they take after their mother. One day, we will meet again in the moonlight, and then we will find out the truth.” He embraced her warmly.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Together with Farodin, Nuramon now approached the queen, who had gathered with the others around the Albenstar. A flat, round stone lay on the ground at the base of the star, and the Albenpaths merged into it.
That day, Emerelle wore a green dress embroidered in red. She said, “My two loyal soldiers, I see that you have said your farewells. Here is your gate, the last one ever to the Other World.” A thread of light rose on the broad stone beside the queen and widened to form a bright wall that reached from one side of the stone to the other. “You will be the last two to go from Albenmark to the Other World. Farewell, my faithful friends.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed them both on the forehead.
“Good-bye, Emerelle,” said Farodin. “You were a good queen to us. We do not regret sacrificing the Albenstone for all this.” He pointed up to the trees. “It comforts me to leave Albenmark knowing it will bloom forever.”
Nuramon sank onto one knee in front of Emerelle, took her hand, and kissed it. “Thank you, my queen, for always doing what fate demanded.” He stood up again. “But I want to thank my old comrade in arms for the time in Ischemon.”
Farodin was surprised at his companion’s words. He knew that the queen had once been in Ischemon, but that was so long ago that it was now no more than the stuff of faery tales.
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