Evening: One of the small ice gliders has not returned. The humans are on edge. They are all but willing a fight to happen. I have proposed to Alfadas that I go out at dawn with my falcon, Snowwing, to search for the missing boat.
Third day, morning: I have found the wreck of the ice glider. The boat seems to have sailed at high speed onto rough terrain. Inconceivable! There are traces of blood on the snow, but no bodies to be seen.
Afternoon: We have discovered one of the trolls’ scouts. After a chase of more than a mile over the ice, Lysilla, in command of the Willowwind, disembarks and kills the troll with obscene ease. I don’t know if I should admire her as a mistress of the sword or despise her as the murderer of a hopelessly deficient opponent. The fleet continues to hold its eastward course. Alfadas decides not to send out the small gliders again. Instead, he asks me to fly ahead with my falcon.
Evening: I have discovered two more of the trolls’ scouts, but we have managed to avoid them. The wind is blowing steadily from the northwest. We are making good headway.
Fourth day, morning: Alfadas asks me to fly east with Snowwing as far as Whale Bay. We are no longer very far from Rosecarn.
Late afternoon: The trolls have landed in Whale Bay. Their army is marching up the valley toward Rosecarn in a column that stretches from horizon to horizon. I am to fly out again to try to find out where their king is. I have a bad feeling.
As recorded by Fenryl, Count of Rosecarn
Windsinger aboard the Rosewrath
Year of the Return 786
COUNCIL OF WAR
Orgrim looked out at the endless column moving up the Swelm Valley. Pride filled his heart. They were like an avalanche, an unstoppable wave of flesh and blood. Nothing could stand in their way.
A shrill scream made him turn. Birga was pinning a strip of skin to a shield the size of a door that she had rammed into the snow in front of her victim. The human warrior she was interrogating was naked and tied to a second shield. The shaman had already peeled broad strips from the skin of his chest and both thighs. She was working quickly and approaching her task differently than she did with the elves. Breaking the will of a human required no great skill.
Branbeard and the troll dukes were gathered around the shaman. They watched her work, as if mesmerized. Skanga was also there, sitting close by on a bundle of old animal hides. Her eyes were closed, but Orgrim knew her well enough to know that she was not asleep.
“Well? What’s he saying?” Branbeard asked. “Where are they from?”
The shaman was talking insistently to the human warrior in a strange language that sounded like angry whispers. Sporadically, the warrior said something in reply. They were such pathetic creatures! So far, they had only been able to capture two humans alive, and the first of those had died under light questioning. They had saved the second to interrogate him in the presence of the king. Orgrim knew that Branbeard put a lot of store in such spectacles.
“The man says he comes from a large town called Honnigsvald. He says it’s surrounded by a strong earthen wall.”
“Honnigsvald?” The king spoke the word slowly, as if savoring the strange taste of it on his tongue as he would a good piece of meat. “Where is that?”
“In the Fjordlands. An old king reigns there.”
Branbeard waved one hand in annoyance. “I know the Fjordlands. In my youth, I went out hunting in the mountains north of that kingdom. The people there believe they can keep us away from the passes by setting up wooden statues with bits of iron stuck all over them.” He sniffed noisily and spat. “Idiots! We left them alone for decades, and this is how they repay us. Honnigsvald will burn, and you can skin that old king and send his hide back to me! They’ll be sorry they sent their miserable soldiers to join the elven swarm.” He stepped close to the tied man and looked at him face to face. “You hear me, you gutless little shitter? I’ll burn the town that gave birth to you. I’ll have every miserable hut put to the torch. The snow in your hometown will vanish under the ashes. You humans will suffer the same fate as all who help the Normirga!” He sucked in air, then spat a gob of mucus into the open wound above the human’s heart. “Tiresome little lice!” Branbeard placed one large gray hand over the human’s face, which disappeared completely beneath it.
“My king, it is not wise—” Orgrim objected.
“Shut up, you cocky washout! Don’t talk to me about wisdom!”
The human let out a shrill scream. His skull creaked. The veins in Branbeard’s arm stood out, and his muscles bulged. The king trembled with the effort. Blood spurted. With a satisfied smile, he stepped back and wiped his bloody hand casually on his breeches while he regarded the now-headless cadaver.
“You can crush ’em like lice.” Dumgar, the Duke of Mordrock, grinned. “I’d wager a hundred of us could wipe out a human kingdom.”
“The lice I’ve had between my fingers put up a better fight,” murmured Branbeard, and his dukes laughed.
Orgrim thought of the human host with their long spears. These bootlickers had no idea, and their warriors would pay for their leaders’ stupidity and arrogance with blood!
“You’ve reminded me of something, Dumgar!” Branbeard turned to Orgrim. “My friend, the ship sinker, has once again brought shame on our worthy army. As I’ve heard it, the coward barricaded himself on a hill and made no move to pursue these thin-skulls and their elven friends when they fled.”
Orgrim could not believe his ears! He had done the reasonable thing, and he had inflicted a bloody defeat on their enemies when they had tried to storm the hill. They were the cowards forced to run from the field of battle! But, oh, how the old bastard could twist the truth.
“Orgrim! I relieve you of your command as pack leader!”
Orgrim’s hand moved to the heavy war hammer in his belt. Time to put an end to this foolishness.
“One could look at things very differently, you know,” came Skanga’s voice then, very low. “With the sole exception of Kingstor, the elves have abandoned all their fortresses. One might go so far as to say that Orgrim conquered the Snaiwamark with only two hundred and fifty warriors. No troll has ever wrung a more impressive victory over the Normirga.”
“Keep your nose out of the business of war, woman!” Branbeard flared. “I know why you’re protecting the whelp. You were seen, old woman. Try to tell me you didn’t spend a night alone with him in a cave after Vahan Calyd.” The king laughed salaciously. “Was he so good that you still need to stick up for him every chance you get?” Branbeard looked around for approval, but none of his dukes dared to laugh at Skanga.
“Great rulers use their head for thinking, Branbeard, not the little thing dangling between their legs. Ever since that blow to your head, it’s like every time you sniff, you spit out a little bit more of your brain. Throughout this campaign, Orgrim’s the one who’s clinched the greatest victories for you. Would anyone here disagree?” Skanga looked at the gathered dukes, one by one. None took it upon himself to contradict her. “Orgrim was the first one here. He occupied the Wolfpit, whether he had to fight for it or not. His mere presence was enough to frighten the elves so much that they abandoned all their fortresses but Kingstor. And what does he get for it? Your friend Dumgar of Mordrock will take over as ruler of the Wolfpit alongside his precious Mordrock because, by rebirth, he has the right to reclaim his old territory. And what reward goes to the troll who made all this possible? That you demote him from pack leader? Lummox! Send in your dukes, and you’ll turn Kingstor into another massacre, just like your vain and pointless campaign against Reilimee!” She pointed down to the marching troops. “You lost almost four thousand men there. And which of your warriors was the first to stand on the walls of Reilimee?” Again, she peered into the faces of those around Branbeard. “Did I see one of your dukes up there?”
Orgrim smiled. He removed his hand from his hammer. It may be that he would never win the coveted title of duke, but with Skanga as his ally, he felt stronger than the king’s ent
ire council of war.
“Women have never had any insight into the needs of a military campaign,” Branbeard objected weakly. “Nevertheless, because I honor you deeply, great shaman, I will continue to suffer your presence on my council. Orgrim, I rescind my order. Let’s move to how long it will take our warriors to march to Kingstor.”
Orgrim turned away and looked down on the broad valley again. He’d seen a number of enormous forms among the marching trolls. Mammoths! Such beasts were rare indeed in the world of humans, but in the old stories of the Snaiwamark, it was said that great herds of mammoths had once lived there, and wooly rhinoceroses, too.
Now the world of those stories was rising around them again. Orgrim was happy. As unjustly as Branbeard treated him, he was playing his part in something great, in taking back their old homeland. He and his warriors had been the first to set foot in this legendary land. For that reason alone, he himself would one day be a figure of legend, regardless of Branbeard’s intrigues. When they brought the females from their fortresses in the Other World, many of them would want to lie with him. He would father many whelps!
He watched with satisfaction as the game-summoners led the mammoths up the final steep section of the path. He had always admired those hunters and scouts born with the special talent of being able to link their minds to those of wild animals, to call them and force them to bow to their will. A pack that had a game-summoner among its numbers would never go hungry!
The Maurawan hated the game-summoners. As far as Orgrim knew, no elves had the summoners’ gift. They believed hunters had to chase their prey for hours or even days and could not accept that a hunt could be so much simpler. In former times, the Maurawan had come out of their forests for the sole reason of tracking down the game-summoners and killing them, apparently because they also summoned game from the Maurawan’s forests. They would not dare come near an army this size, however. They had nowhere to conceal themselves here as they did in the woods, no opportunity to put an arrow through your head from an ambush. If they did try it, they would never escape the rightful fury of hundreds of enraged trolls.
The first mammoths reached the high plain. They were laden with packs of food, weapons, firewood, and all kinds of equipment. Some also hauled massive sleds.
Orgrim noted that more of the elves’ weapons of war had been transported there. As soon as they reached Kingstor, the mammoths would be slaughtered. Once they had completed their task of bringing their heavy loads to the icy plain, their final duty would be to fill the bellies of thousands of hungry trolls.
On some of the packs crouched kobolds wrapped in thick furs and blankets. They were good for the work that required small, deft fingers. In the fortresses, too, they would make useful servants.
The past is returning to life, Orgrim thought cheerfully. Then he rubbed his arms, suddenly cold. Something had changed. There was an unnatural chill, one that cut to the bone, an iciness that had nothing to do with winter.
He turned in alarm. Branbeard had paused in the middle of an endless monologue about the attack on Kingstor. Even Birga seemed uneasy. Only Skanga had closed her eyes again, pretending to be asleep.
Without warning, from the ice by the feet of the king, the ghostly head of an animal appeared. Branbeard jumped back in fright, stumbling. Dumgar swung his club at the creature as it rose from the ice, but his fearsome weapon simply passed through the apparition without effect.
Now Orgrim recognized what was standing before them. While all the dukes—and even Birga—moved back in alarm, he remained calm, though his heart beat as wildly as a war drum at the sight of the supernatural beast.
“I welcome you, Prince Shahondin,” he heard Skanga’s soft voice say. “Have you brought me the news that will make you flesh and blood again?”
“I bring news that will save many trolls their flesh and blood,” the elven prince replied. Shahondin’s voice sounded inside Orgrim’s head. He pressed one hand to his forehead. How was that damned elf, or whatever he was now, inside his mind? The rest of the king’s council seemed similarly dismayed.
“It is the only way our friend can talk to us,” Skanga explained. “Speak, Shahondin.”
The elf described in great detail the defenses of Phylangan and the troops it housed. When he was finished, the room was deathly silent. Even Branbeard seemed to realize the losses an attack on Kingstor would mean.
With a shudder, Orgrim recalled the bloodbath atop the walls of Reilimee. Now they were planning to charge up a narrow valley covered by dozens of elven catapults and several hundred snipers armed with crossbows and would have to bash in a gate that had been built to withstand even mighty trolls.
“We need battering rams that mammoths can carry,” said Branbeard. “With those, we can get through even the gates of Kingstor.”
“But the only place for logs that big is the forests of the Slanga Mountains,” Dumgar pointed out. “The Maurawan will be on us like wild hornets.”
“Afraid of a few stings?” Branbeard asked disdainfully. “Maybe Skanga is right. Maybe I should reconsider giving you back your old fortresses.”
“Can’t you open the gates from inside?” said Mandrag, addressing Shahondin directly.
The elven prince moved across to the elder troll and stopped in front of him. Suddenly, his head darted forward, into Mandrag’s body, then back out again just as quickly. The old troll groaned and clutched at his heart. His lips had turned blue, and his legs trembled.
“I can touch nothing solid,” the eerie voice said in Orgrim’s head. “As long as I am trapped in this form, I will be no help at all in opening the gates. I pass through the chains and levers, that’s all. Were I, however, to have my body back, that would change.”
“I’m not about to let you haggle with me,” Skanga countered sharply. “You know what you owe me. You have no other way!”
“Give me five hundred warriors, and I will open the gates of Kingstor from inside for you, Branbeard,” Orgrim said. He had listened closely to the elf’s descriptions and was surprised at the weaknesses the fortress obviously had.
“You want to go in through the Albenstar?” Shahondin asked. “It lies atop a bridge that ends over an abyss. The other end is protected by a heavily fortified tower. There is no way through there.”
“Five hundred fighters, my king,” Orgrim requested. “If you’re lucky, you’ll be rid of me forever. And if I open the doors, you make me a duke.”
Branbeard kneaded his chin thoughtfully. A smile suddenly appeared on his face.
“Good. I’ll accept your offer! Open the gates of Kingstor for me, and you’ll get what you so desire.”
“You are sending your men to a certain death.” The ghostly prince stepped close to Orgrim, and an icy draft wafted over him. “The smell of death is already on you.”
“That’s the stink of the enemies I’ve killed.” Orgrim turned to Skanga. “I need you to lead me and my men safely along the Albenpaths. And you, elf, will answer all my questions. I need to know the fortress inside and out. I will choose my men tonight.” He looked up to the sky. The dusk had stained the horizon a bloody red. High above their heads, a solitary snow-white falcon circled.
BREATH OF ICE
Asla stood in the entrance of the longhouse, her hands on her hips. When Ulric came home, he’d get a hiding he would not forget as long as he lived! And Kalf, too—the fisherman had better not show his face at the house, at least for the next few days.
“Be merciful with him, Firn,” she whispered. Snow had begun to fall again at sundown. Ulric and Gundar were three days overdue. Kalf was certain they had found refuge from the weather at Wehrberghof. The snowstorm had raged for two days; anyone caught in it unprepared in the mountains would have died a miserable death.
Asla’s fingers clawed into the fabric of her dress. She’d give Alfadas a good thrashing, too, as soon as he returned. He was the one who’d put ideas into the boy’s head in the first place.
Five days before, Asla ha
d asked Kalf to go in search of her son. The fisherman had tracked the boy in the direction of the pass in the mountains and had seen him reach Wehrberghof, where Gundar’s tracks also led. But instead of bringing Ulric back, Kalf had returned alone, explaining that it was important for the boy to go through this adventure by himself.
Asla sighed deeply. Men! They were all mad! Ulric was seven years old. He had no business traipsing around alone in the mountains, and he knew it perfectly well.
Yilvina came to her side and peered into the dusk.
“Do you see him?” Asla asked.
“No. But the priest will look after your son. He is a sensible man.”
There are no sensible men, Asla thought angrily, and she turned back into the longhouse. After a few breaths of the fresh air outside, she found the atmosphere inside the longhouse oppressive. The smoke from the fire stung her eyes and made her teary. A heavy curtain separated the boot room from the main parlor; she pulled it closed behind her.
Ole stank. Not even the smoke could cover the smell of rotting flesh anymore. He had a high fever and seldom woke, and in the brief moments when he returned to his senses, all he did was whimper in pain and curse an elk that had betrayed him. Nothing could save him now.
Asla checked on Kadlin. The little girl lay in her bed in the alcove, the straw doll that Yilvina had made for her pressed to her chest. Asla observed the elf woman from the corner of her eye. Yilvina was completely motionless, as if carved from wood rather than of flesh and blood. There was something unearthly about her. Being around her made Asla feel plump and ungainly. And ugly. If only Emerelle would wake! The queen would be sure to insist that they return to Albenmark as quickly as they could.
Blood raised his heavy head and snuffled softly. She had let the dog back into the house again when the storm had gathered three days earlier. Now he was tethered to one of the upright beams near the entrance with a heavy leash. The dog had not tried to chew through the thick hemp rope—Asla believed he was too grateful to her for being allowed back into the warm parlor to do that. Still, the dog looked often to the bed where Ole lay. He seemed to be waiting for his tormenter to die.
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