Elven Queen

by Bernhard Hennen

  The stairway wound downward in an endless spiral, and Ollowain’s thoughts were turning in spirals, too, circling around how the trolls were able to break through as quickly as they had and how he might save at least part of Phylangan. As things stood, they could no longer hold the eastern part of Phylangan. But a new defensive line could be established beyond the Skyhall. First things first, though. They had to try to stop as many troops as possible from being cut off and surrounded by the trolls.

  Battling the giants in the narrow tunnels would be suicidal. They had every advantage. As big as they were, a single troll would be enough to block one of the smaller tunnels, and in such a small space, an elf would have little chance of evading the powerful blows of their clubs.

  On the landing to the third casemate, he was joined by Silwyna. Several archers accompanied the Maurawan.

  “How does it look?” Ollowain asked.

  She laughed bitterly. “How is the weather outside? Is it a good day to die?”

  “Where are the trolls?”

  “They’ve taken the second casemate. We just managed to escape them, then they went back down. I think they’re focusing their attack on the Snow Harbor now.”

  Ollowain looked up the stairs and saw Lysilla. He waved to her. “You come with me.”

  He had a plan now. At first, only the two of them would attack. There was not enough room on the stairway for more fighters. He wished he had Yilvina with him now. He knew he could rely on her swords.

  Alfadas looked at him expectantly. Taking the human with them would mean throwing his life away. But he had to have a task. Ollowain could not risk offending their allies now.

  “Alfadas, you and your men cover our backs. Make sure all doors are closed behind us!”

  Alfadas nodded.

  Ollowain drew his sword. It had served him truly in countless battles, and no battle had been more desperate than the one they now faced.

  Lysilla stepped up beside him. Her white hair accentuated the scornful gleam in her blood-red eyes. “Would it be untoward of me to invite you for a glass of good apple wine this evening?”

  Ollowain smiled. “Only if you are speculating on my not coming and your drinking it alone to my memory.”

  The swordmaster trotted deftly down the stairs. They encountered only one troll, taking him utterly by surprise. Ollowain leaped at him feetfirst. His blade slashed forward and sliced through the warrior’s throat. Then he somersaulted over the falling troll and landed a little uncertainly on the stairs.

  “The next one is mine!” said Lysilla with a cold laugh, overtaking him.

  Ollowain let her go ahead. He gathered himself, forcing himself to breathe deeply and evenly. This time, he was prepared for the clash—things were different than in Vahan Calyd, when he’d fought the trolls at the fountains in the park.

  They found both lower casemates abandoned by the trolls. Deeper down, they heard screams and sounds of battle. Ollowain led them through a short passage that curved to the north. Then, abruptly, they were standing in the entrance to the winch room.

  The winch room could only be called a room, however, when compared to the vast expanse of the Skyhall itself, for it was enormous in its own right, with a high vaulted ceiling. The wall opposite them was occupied entirely by heavy golden chain-blocks threaded through with chain links as thick as Ollowain’s arm. A row of large barinstones in the ceiling bathed the hall in a pale-blue light. There, too, huge gold chains hung in wide curves.

  Dead bodies sprawled everywhere. The defenders seemed to have been taken completely by surprise—not a single troll lay among the corpses.

  Nearly two dozen of the gray-skinned monsters were positioned in a semicircle in front of a portal at the eastern end of the hall—the portal, Ollowain knew, that led to the outer defenses. Grunting, growling, joking, the trolls were playing a deadly game, toying with the few elven fighters still alive who were desperately trying to break through.

  Ollowain took everything in at a glance. He could hardly believe his luck: the chamber seemed built for his style of fighting. But there were two more doors to consider. Behind one was a passage that led down to the Snow Harbor, and from the other ran a tunnel deep into the heart of the mountain. If the trolls got reinforcements from there, then their battle against the giants would be hopeless.

  Lysilla was waiting for Ollowain at the entrance to the winch room.

  “Do you still insist on leading the next attack?” he asked her. More than twenty trolls stood between them and the portal.

  “I was only waiting for you to catch up. Just watch me, old man.” With catlike grace, she dashed across the hall. Ollowain thought she was going to simply cut down the first enemy without warning when she suddenly shouted a surprisingly vulgar insult in the trolls’ own language.

  The swordmaster hurried to her side. After their easy victory, the trolls clearly did not see the two elves as much of a threat. Only three of their number broke from the group at the portal.

  The first died with a slashed throat before he had a chance to raise his war hammer. Lysilla tried to crush the second’s knee, but her strike missed its target and left only a bloody gouge on the troll’s shin that did not slow him down. She ducked beneath a swing, then Ollowain was with her. His blade pierced the lunging attacker through the gut.

  With a light turn, the swordmaster freed his blade and leaped among the trolls blocking the portal. Too close together to use their weapons properly, they were all but at the mercy of Ollowain’s attacks.

  The fighters beyond the portal found new courage then and charged forward in a fierce counterattack. The trolls’ line broke.

  As if electrified, Ollowain gave himself over to completely to the dance of his blade. He sprang, thrust, and somersaulted to safety, only to attack again the next moment. Once, he leaped up to the ceiling and, ducked low, ran across the heavy chain links suspended there to cut off a fleeing troll trying to make it to the Snow Harbor for reinforcements.

  When the defenders from the casemate came charging into the winch room, the trolls’ fate was sealed. Ollowain ordered the entrance to the Snow Harbor sealed and all troops to abandon the northern outworks, and he checked personally to make sure that all the outposts were empty.

  Looking down through the embrasure at a catapult position, he saw that half of the harbor gate stood open. The large battering rams were still burning but had been dragged partway down the pass to stop them from blocking the massive entrance.

  Thousands of trolls were swarming into the mountain, and there was no longer any hope of breaking through to the second winch room.

  Enervated, Ollowain ordered a retreat beyond the Skyhall. The trolls, on the first day, had managed to overthrow the fortress’s most powerful bulwarks, and more than half of the defenders were dead or cut off. Phylangan seemed lost, and the fight had hardly begun.

  THE PRINCE OF THE NIGHTCRAGS

  Skanga stepped over a kobold that even in death still grasped a comically tiny sword. The air in the immense cavern beyond the golden entrance smelled agreeably of roasting meat. She looked over the ice ships tied up inside and shuddered when she recognized the two that had reaped such a bloody harvest among the trolls. Angry, she peered back beyond the gates, where hundreds of charred bodies lay on the ice. She saw death far more clearly now than she ever had before losing her sight many centuries earlier. Now, she watched the life-lights of the dying slowly fade. Sometimes, the glimmer of life did not leave the dead immediately, but none ever burned beyond the following dusk.

  The cavern she was in and the pass outside were crowded with the fading lights. Her race had paid a terrible price for their assault on the golden gate. Now Skanga understood why the elves had not attacked a second time with their ice ships. Emerelle’s brood had put their trust in the impregnability of their fortress, believing they could defend it with practically no losses of their own.

  The shaman smiled with pride. Many had fought that day, but the battle had ultimately
been decided by a single troll. And she knew he had survived.

  Behind her, she heard Branbeard’s voice. He was lavishing praise on his warriors. The king sat atop a barrel, and when he saw Skanga, he called her over. He was in the middle of his usual crowd of fools and lickspittles. If Branbeard one day decides to add a few warriors to his retinue who are not dumber than he is, she thought, then he might become a great king.

  Beside the barrel that Branbeard had turned into a throne lay a growing pile of elven heads, with warriors bringing in new ones all the time. Some had tied several heads together by their long hair. Branbeard found praise for each of his fighters.

  “What foolishness is this?” Skanga asked.

  “We’re counting our victory,” replied Dumgar in the king’s place. “They say the Normirga number three to four thousand. Well, we have more than two hundred of them right here and more to come. Some elves die before you can cut off their heads. Emerelle’s race will die out! This pile of heads is like an hourglass.” Dumgar grinned with self-satisfaction at the comparison, but Skanga doubted that the Duke of Mordrock had thought of it himself. She turned to the king.

  “We need to talk. Alone!”

  Branbeard sniffed and spat green phlegm on the pile of heads. Then he dismissed his ring of sycophants with a cursory wave.

  “What do you want, Skanga?” His good mood had clearly flown.

  “You know who he is?”

  “I knew it in Reilimee when he put forward his strange proposal for storming the harbor walls. Trolls don’t fight like that. Boarding ramps in the mastheads, walls of wood hung between the yards . . . in the past, we beat the elves with the power in our arms.”

  Skanga sighed. Branbeard ought to know better. One before him had also gone down such untrodden paths. “Who he is, after today, can no longer be kept a secret. That should be clear to you. Others will remember. Earlier victories, battles that are now legend—”

  “I know!” Branbeard slapped one hand against his disfigured forehead. “My head might look like a chunk of meat, but I can still think. I’ll give him his damned dukedom!”

  “Why are you so afraid of him?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? You’re usually so insightful, Skanga. I’m thinking ahead. What will become of Orgrim once he’s the prince? There’s nothing else to achieve—except to become the king.”

  The shaman sighed. What a fool Branbeard was. Perhaps it would be better if he died in battle. “You know our laws. As Orgrim is born to be prince of the Nightcrags, you will always be reborn our king. Even if Orgrim murders you, his rule will not last, and he may never use the title of king for himself. He can’t raise a finger against you, and he knows it.”

  Branbeard suddenly seemed weary. “Look at how he wins battles. He is so different. Maybe one day he will find a way to send me into the darkness. He’s the only troll I would not put that past.” Branbeard looked at Skanga intently. “The only one apart from you, perhaps. Lately, I’ve been getting the impression that your interest in Orgrim weighs heavier than your interest in me, your king.”

  “Why do you think that might be?” Skanga asked sharply. “You needed Orgrim to win this battle. I had to protect him from your folly because his death would have meant your failure today, here at the very gates of Kingstor. Now you don’t need him anymore. Make him prince and send him to the Nightcrags. Give him some trifling task. For a long time, he’ll be satisfied. He’ll waste his strength on the females he can now have.” Skanga knew well that she would never be able to anticipate Orgrim’s behavior. He was too unpredictable even to say what would be on his mind a single moon from now. She had to observe him much more than she had. But Branbeard had to believe that he himself was not under threat.

  “How long have you known him to be the reborn duke?” the king abruptly asked.

  “Since the first time I touched him. You know that when an old soul returns as flesh and blood, it cannot stay hidden from me.” Skanga kept her answer deliberately vague. Branbeard should not suspect that she only knew with certainty in Vahan Calyd.

  “Any reason I shouldn’t get our great commander off my back now?”

  Skanga turned her milky eyes on the king. She saw the burning ambition inside him. He would give anything to be like Orgrim but at the same time knew he would never be Orgrim’s equal. After today’s victory, he could no longer risk just killing him. “What do you have in mind?”

  “The men love a big speech after a bloody battle.” Branbeard pushed himself off his barrel and moved out into the massive cavern.

  Skanga followed. Branbeard was not the brightest, but he had a nose for power. She was curious how he would act toward Orgrim.

  They found the pack leader at the golden gate. His arms folded over his chest, he gazed out over the corpse-strewn pass. He seemed tense, angry.

  “Step before your king, Orgrim!” Branbeard bellowed. All around him turned and looked. The trolls picking through the dead for valuables paused in their work. Warriors carrying the wounded into the safety of the cavern stopped where they stood. Even a troop of captured kobolds glanced around nervously.

  “Did you think you could hide what you carry within you from your king?”

  Skanga saw Orgrim tense. After this victory, he was not about to swallow another rebuke from Branbeard.

  “Come and kneel before Skanga. She will reach for your soul. All should hear what she finds in you!” Branbeard sniffed and spat.

  Skanga smiled inwardly. The king was playing his part well. Breathless anticipation hung in the air on all sides. Orgrim seemed suddenly unsettled but obeyed the king’s order and kneeled in front of Skanga. She laid her hands on his head. Yes, it was clear which soul inhabited his body.

  “Is it as I suspect?” the king asked.

  Everyone in the cavern held their breath. Skanga decided to play the king’s game. After the carnage before the gate, Branbeard could well use this moment of melodrama to restore his standing in the eyes of his army. “It is, sire. His soul rebels against being your warrior.”

  Orgrim looked up at her, shocked. She knew precisely that she had laid bare his most private thoughts with her words.

  “Your deeds have betrayed you, Orgrim!” the king thundered.

  Skanga sensed that the young pack leader would not resign himself to his fate without a fight. Branbeard had better not push too far!

  “Rise, Orgrim. You have been recognized.” The king strode toward the perplexed pack leader with outstretched arms. “I welcome you at my side, prince of the Nightcrags. It is good to have found you again after so long.”

  Jubilant cries rang throughout the hall. The prince of the Nightcrags was the most renowned of their past commanders, hero of numerous legends, although a shadow hung over him. It was said that an elven warrior pursued him with unrelenting hatred. In his last incarnation, the prince was murdered in his own rooms inside his fortress. But perhaps that had been no more than royal intrigue, said some.

  “At our feast this evening, you shall sit at my side,” Branbeard declared jovially. He had one arm slung across Orgrim’s shoulders, as if they had always been the best of friends.

  “I have big plans for you, Commander.” Branbeard had raised his voice again so that those around them could hear him well. “Now that Kingstor is all but ours, we will avenge ourselves against all who helped our enemy! Your task will be to go to the humans, Orgrim. Skanga will lead you to the Nightcrags tomorrow, and from there you will travel to the Fjordlands and raze every human hut you see. They will learn what it means to challenge the trolls!”

  Branbeard’s announcement of a new field campaign was met with widespread exultation. Orgrim seemed at once relieved and a little stunned.

  “Can I still assemble my troops tonight?”

  “Of course, Prince, of course!” Branbeard clapped him on the shoulder. “Time enough for that after the feast. You’re to take twenty of your best men with you. Pick your warriors from the bodyguards protecting the women in th
e Nightcrags. You’re to cross the mountains and descend on the Fjordlands from the north. I’m sending my good friend Dumgar with five hundred warriors from the south. He’ll burn the king’s city and march up the fjord to meet your troops. Be a good adviser to him. He’s sometimes a little . . . at a loss.”

  Orgrim looked at Branbeard in disbelief. “Twenty warriors? That’s all? And I’m not in command but there to advise Dumgar?”

  The king smiled and nodded. “Yes. That’s how it will be. Without a head as capable as yours beside him, Dumgar would be doomed to fail. You’re my best field commander. I have faith that your victories together will be as glorious as our victory here today.”

  Skanga withdrew. Branbeard had taken her by surprise. He had accepted the inevitable. Orgrim had achieved his goal. Finally, he was a duke. And at the same time, he could hardly have been punished worse. If Dumgar were successful, all the acclaim would be his. But if he were to fail, Branbeard would point the finger of blame at Orgrim.

  She moved away, toward the ice ships. She would seek out a quiet place among them and sleep awhile. She supported herself heavily on her walking stick. After any victory, she felt the burden of her centuries with a special clarity. It had been a long time since she had been able to celebrate a victory feast; she preferred to retire instead.

  Let the whelps have their celebration, these youngsters who knew nothing about enduring the breath of time, and who never would.

  The shaman started. Beneath her feet, she felt the ice shudder very slightly. There was something down below, deep in the mountain.

  Shahondin had been unable to find a way down. The Normirga are renowned for their skill with magic, but not a single sorcerer fought in the battle, Skanga thought uneasily. Where were they? What was going on inside the mountain? She chided herself. This battle was not yet won. Maybe the elves had wanted them to enter the mountain?