“Lyndwyn directs this choir. She leads every voice to its place. I have never before met an elf who has attained such mastery of the arts of sorcery so young. And the Albenstone multiplies her power. Everyone, even the most powerful magic weavers, submits to her because we sense that it is right to do so. Even I have submitted completely to her wisdom, and I sing her song when I take my place in the Hall of Fire. Together, we cool boiling stone and channel away the pressure that has built up. But the power we are confronting cannot be measured against anything you already know.”
Ollowain thought of Taenor, the elf who had burned to death. What his father had just described sounded so harmonious and peaceful, but he had seen with his own eyes that the reality was something else. Landoran, once again, was not telling him the full truth. “What can kill you if all you are doing is singing a song?” he asked cynically.
“It’s the fear. You leave your body, and while you may have left your flesh and blood behind, you can still tire. It is a spiritual exhaustion. And then there’s the fire. You take it inside yourself to understand it better. You have to merge with it to be able to suppress it. But if fear seizes you and you return to your body suddenly, then you will burn from the inside out because you carry part of the fire back with you. When we return to our bodies consciously, the process is very slow. We have to unshackle ourselves from the great song, which makes us very sad. And then we have to find the spark of memory again, the tiny flare that makes us who we are as individual beings. When we become conscious of the brightness in which our own light burns, we can once again become one with our body. But if we rush the return, and if the flame in which our souls burn is still too hot, then it will destroy our bodies. That is what happened to Taenor. It must be said, though, that this happens less frequently since Lyndwyn began directing the great song.”
“What does ‘less frequently’ mean? How many fatalities have there been?”
“When I sang the great song, we had two or three . . . losses every day. With Lyndwyn, it’s usually only one, sometimes none at all. She looks after the magic weavers’ choir very well indeed.”
Ollowain peered intently at his father. Was he telling the truth? His face was an emotionless mask. The only thing he could read there was his father’s endless weariness. “And one of the singers happens to die at precisely the moment I appear? What a strange coincidence.”
Anger flashed in Landoran’s eyes, although he otherwise remained calm. “It was no coincidence. There is a very strong connection between you and Lyndwyn. I told you that we share our emotions when the magic weavers join in the great song. I have sensed what she feels for you, how deeply she longs to be loved by you, and how she fears your scorn. Lyndwyn is exceptionally sensitive. She noticed that you entered the Hall of Fire. That was one reason I did not want you to come down here. Your presence distracts her.”
“You’re as much the master wordsmith as ever,” said Ollowain. “Now you assume that I am to blame for Taenor’s death. How the truth can be twisted.”
“I am not assuming anything. If one of us is making assumptions, then it is you, to keep your peace of mind. I call things what they are, and it is noteworthy that a singer died in the brief space of time in which you were standing on the terrace. It may have been because of you. It may also have been a coincidence. I have learned to live with the sacrifices our great task demands. Only you can find your own peace. Hate me for what I say—that seems to be a feeling with which you are well acquainted. I don’t care anymore.”
“You never cared, Father. Don’t start fooling yourself now. You’re like this land, a block of ice. And your cold will kill or drive out anyone who can’t protect themselves from it with magic.”
Landoran had leaned back again and closed his eyes. “Don’t think that you can understand what goes on inside me. I know the name of every magic-singer, man and woman, who has ever died in the Hall of Fire. I can tell you the name of everyone who lost their lives the last two times we battled the fire. In a fertile year, three children are born here in Phylangan. Our victories over the fire are wiping out my people. Don’t think for a moment that leaves me unmoved.”
“Then why not simply give Phylangan up?”
“If we do that, all those who lost their lives fighting the fire will have done so in vain. We will win this time, too. With Lyndwyn and the Albenstone, we are stronger than ever.” The prince had closed his eyes again and did not open them now. His voice was flat, as if he were reciting a litany he’d been through so many times that its words were worn out and meaningless.
“I will not sacrifice our people to your limitless ambition,” Ollowain said. “From this moment on, I will be watching very closely what goes on in the Hall of Fire. I will abandon Phylangan and take all its defenders to the high plains of Carandamon the moment I see that Lyndwyn is losing the battle with the fire. And I’ll save her and the Albenstone from you, too.”
Landoran opened his eyes. “It has been clear to me all along that you would betray the Normirga. You’ve been away from your race too long to still be able to understand us. I’ll be ready for your treason, Ollowain. Fear the day!”
DANCE OF THE BLADES
The faerylight was starting to fade from the night sky as the three large ice gliders slowly picked up speed. Alfadas had impressed his plan on Ragni and Lysilla one more time, and they had only just returned to their ships. Alfadas did not want to start an open battle—they were on a raid, no more. For the next few days, he did not want the trolls to feel safe for a single moment as they marched across the ice.
The duke’s thoughts turned to his quarrel with Landoran, and his mood darkened. Hiding behind the walls of Phylangan was a mistake. Until the hour of their departure, he had tried to convince the closed-minded prince that they should hazard a broader attack with the ice gliders. There were so many ships just standing around inside the Snow Harbor. If they were refitted as he had done with the Rosewrath, the Willowwind, and the Grampus, then the elves and their allies would not have to sit in the fortress and wait to see what the trolls did. He hated waiting!
Alfadas smiled. His soldiers thought of him as a man of patience and composure. How little they really knew him.
The duke grasped one of the handgrips on the railing, and the wind cut into his face. With every heartbeat, their speed increased. The gods were well-disposed toward them that morning. Firn in particular, the god of winter. He had given them a clear sky and a steady west wind. That was all they needed to fight an enemy a hundred times their size.
Ice sprayed beneath the sharp runners. An occasional jolt went through the heavy ship as it crushed a larger clump of ice. Close behind it followed the Willowwind and the Grampus, all three under full sail. The masts creaked softly with the pressure of the wind, and ice cracked off and fell from the oiled ropes as they pulled tight.
The deck trembled lightly over the slightly uneven surface of the ice. Alfadas loved the speed. The fear he had felt on his first brief journey was long forgotten now. Flying as fast as a falcon over the ice intoxicated him.
Everyone on board was at their post, ready for the fray. Ten heavy windlass crossbows were mounted on the railings on both sides, and a rotating catapult stood in the bow, already loaded. The men along the rails had slung broad leather belts slung around their waists to save them from being knocked off their feet in the heat of battle. Kobolds, humans, and elves were spoiling for the fight. There was not a fighter aboard who did not have faith in Alfadas’s idea or that they would return victorious.
Fenryl stood beside Alfadas at the helm. The elven count peered at the shimmering ice ahead, his eyes narrowed to slits. It was time to put on the snow masks. In the east, the sun was no more than a narrow strip of silver on the horizon, but soon it would blind them.
Alfadas turned his face out of the rush of air and looked to Lambi and Veleif, who were standing with him on the quarterdeck. The war jarl understood what Alfadas wanted without him having to utter a word. He unwoun
d the leather strip with its eye slits from his belt and fitted it over his eyes. Then, in a thunderous voice, he bawled, “Snow masks on, you dozy shits, or I’ll come and rip open your asses and make you eat whatever I find inside for breakfast.”
“He can’t be serious!” exclaimed Fenryl, who had come to learn a few words of their language. “I must say, it is hardly the time for breakfast.”
Alfadas knotted the straps of his snow mask behind his head. “He was speaking metaphorically,” he replied in the count’s language. “The jarl likes to paint somewhat colorful pictures.”
“He doesn’t really strike one as—”
“Enemy in sight!” shouted Mag from the foretop.
Now Alfadas also saw the thin black line along the horizon. “All stations ready!” he called calmly.
The shooters set bolts atop their crossbows. Two elves manned a heavy lever in the front, ready to release their secret weapon when the moment came. Alfadas suddenly felt uneasy. Had he really thought everything through? Or was he leading three ships to certain destruction?
The line along the horizon took shape with surprising rapidity. Alfadas could now make out a marching formation and a camp area. Fenryl corrected their course slightly, steering for the camp.
Alfadas glanced back over his shoulder. The Willowwind and the Grampus followed their maneuver.
Three hundred paces to the camp. Alfadas stepped to the railing and secured himself with a strap attached there.
“Right, boys,” Lambi bawled over the whistling wind, “prick up your ears, clamp your balls, and never give up!”
A hundred paces! Most of the trolls simply stood and stared in astonishment at the approaching gliders. They had no idea of the danger they were in.
Alfadas gave the signal with his right hand. The elves on the foredeck turned the heavy lever over. With a sharp clacking sound, long steel runners shot out on both sides of the hull, but these runners were never intended to touch the ice. Jutting out at right angles, they stood like huge scythes ready to reap a bloody harvest.
The crossbows began to fire, and the windlasses clattered, drawing back the steel laths for reloading. Several trolls reacted now, hurling clubs and stone axes at the approaching ship.
A light jolt ran through the ship, and blood sprayed along the side. Alfadas looked back at the mutilated bodies behind them on the ice. Slightly offset and mounted in three rows, the blades had taken their victims at the level of the knees, the midriff, and just below the head. The various sections of the trolls were now spread across the ice over a distance of ten paces.
The ship jumped again. Alfadas watched as Lysilla turned the Willowwind onto a particularly murderous course. With the port blades, she rammed the front of a marching column. Severed body parts went flying on both sides, but she had to swerve clear after just a few paces because the glider was in danger of losing too much momentum. The Willowwind’s hull dripped blood, and it had sprayed into the faces of the crossbowmen along the railing. Only Lysilla stood in flawless white on the quarterdeck, calling out her orders in a clear voice.
The Rosewrath leaped forward. Its runners shrieked as it flew across a dip in the ice. For a long heartbeat, the glider soared into the air. Alfadas clenched his teeth and held tightly to the railing. Then came the landing, and the duke was flung against the ship’s side. His legs gave way, and only the leather belt prevented him from falling to the deck.
“Keep your eyes open, you sleepy bastards!” Lambi snarled. He rubbed his bruised ribs and muttered a quiet curse. One of the crossbows had been torn from its mount. A kobold hung halfway over the railing, held by the leather belt.
“There!” Fenryl cried. “That’s it.” He pointed to a place close to the edge of the cliff where two huge wooden shields had been rammed into the snow. From one of them hung something like pale strips of cloth. “That’s where their leaders were gathered yesterday.”
Alfadas cursed. He could see no one there now who looked as if they might be of importance. Fenryl had described the commanders of the trolls in great detail the day before. They were gone.
With a frustrated sigh, Alfadas looked out over the enormous camp that stretched for several miles from the top of the path that led down into the valley. He had hoped to decapitate the troll army—literally—by killing their leader in the very heart of their camp. It would have taken the enemy weeks, maybe months, to recover from such a strike, and they would have won the time they needed to forge a wider alliance among the remaining races of Albenmark. They might even have ended the war at a stroke.
“Can you see the pack sleds?” Alfadas shouted, trying to be heard over the loud noise.
Fenryl took the time he needed to survey the confused battlefield. All around were piles of supplies, war loot, and various plunder that the army had brought with it. The count guided the heavy glider between the lethal obstructions with a sure hand. If a piece of wood or something else jammed in the ice glider’s runners and slowed it down, the trolls might take it into their heads to board the Rosewrath. Speed was their best protection.
Alfadas looked out apprehensively at the trolls swarming on every side. There were thousands of them. Despite the stiff breeze, the glider was losing speed—too many carcasses were caught in its scythe-like blades. It was time to go. They had not achieved what they wanted to, but the trolls would remember their visit for a long time to come.
“Over there,” Fenryl said, and he pointed to a low hill, on the brow of which stood a number of sleds. A group of trolls was in the process of throwing back the tarpaulins covering the loads the sleds carried. “That’s where they are. The catapults!”
“Will we make it up the slope?” Alfadas asked, although he already knew the answer.
“We’d lose too much momentum. Don’t even consider it! We’d stop directly in front of the catapults.”
“Who taught these filthballs to use artillery?” Lambi growled.
Alfadas could see the trolls on the hilltop preparing the catapults for battle—at least some of this horde was terrifyingly disciplined. “Turn off! Hoist the red pennant!” he called down to the main deck.
A kobold opened the chest lashed securely to the mainmast. He rummaged among the various flags until he finally found the red pennant.
The first shot left a round hole in the mainsail. Alfadas swore and turned back to the hill. Would the troll in charge of those catapults confound him at every turn?
“We can’t afford too many of those,” Fenryl called from the helm. “Every hole in the sails slows us down.”
“I’m aware of that,” Alfadas snapped back. The last thing he needed now was a lecture. He glanced back at the hill. So near, and yet unattainable. “Course west-southwest. We’re breaking off the attack.”
The runners scraped on the ice. Fine crystals sprayed over the deck as the ship tipped worryingly to one side. Alfadas clenched the railing. For a moment, the glider was sailing on only one runner. The kobold at the flag chest rolled across the deck and slammed into the bulwark. Swearing, he got to his feet. He shook his head, dazed—and suddenly disappeared. A jagged hole now gaped where he’d been standing at the bulwark.
“I fear that Norgrimm is wiping his ass with our signal pennant!” Lambi shouted angrily. “I can’t stand the gods’ jokes!”
“Hold our course!” Alfadas ordered Fenryl. “The others will follow us even without a signal.”
Balls of stone whirred around the Rosewrath. “Looks to me like they struggle to hit anything faster than a company of spearmen,” Lambi mocked.
Alfadas saw several trolls die beneath the murderous projectiles. They’ll stop shooting soon, he thought with grim satisfaction. Lysilla was following them, but Ragni was taking a different course. His glider was losing speed, and now he made a risky turn. The jarl was waving to his crew with both arms. Then he went to the helm.
All was chaos aboard the Grampus. The men in the masts slid down ropes to the main deck. Everyone seemed to be trying to get to t
he quarterdeck. And then they started to jump. Alfadas could not believe what he was seeing. Elves, kobolds, and humans were abandoning the safety of the ship in the middle of the enemy camp, leaping from the stern to avoid the lethal sickles along the hull.
“Bring us around!” the duke shouted angrily.
Fenryl had seen what was happening aboard the Grampus. He swung the helm around, but the ice glider could not turn quickly. The sails luffed and flapped in the wind, and the Rosewrath lost speed dangerously.
Lambi jammed his sword into the throat of a troll that tried to climb over the railing. “Give our boys on the ice some cover!” he bellowed at the crossbowmen. “And show me you can reload faster than your gouty grandmothers!”
Alfadas’s mind raced. Going back to rescue the stranded was tantamount to suicide, but he could not simply leave them to these man-eaters. “Pull the sickles back to the hull!” he ordered. Then: “Ropes at the ready to pull our comrades aboard!”
Several soldiers immediately manned the big capstan at the bow. Slowly, the deadly blades were hauled back into place along the sides of the hull. They were connected to tension winches and could be redeployed in a heartbeat, but resetting them took great strength.
Victory cries sounded among the trolls as they swarmed toward the men exposed on the ice, while Ragni steered the Grampus toward the cliff. His ship had picked up speed again. The trolls he was racing toward threw themselves onto the ice to avoid the deadly blades.
The situation of the men on the ice, however, was growing more and more desperate. They were surrounded by trolls and defending themselves doggedly.
“Slow us down!” Alfadas shouted at Fenryl.
The elf looked at him doubtfully but followed the order. If they were too fast, it would be all but impossible to grab hold of a rescue line. But if they were too slow, the swarming trolls would try to board the Rosewrath.
Alfadas reached for one of the rescue lines. He wrapped it around his waist and made sure it was securely tied to the railing. If he balanced on one of the curved struts that supported the runners, then at least he was not damned to being only a spectator to the massacre of his men. Besides, it was easier to grab hold of an outstretched hand than it was to snatch a rope twisting like a snake on the ice.
Elven Queen Page 14
