“Don’t be scared, my child. Touch my spirit. Feel that it is me!”
The creature opened itself to her, and what Lyndwyn found inside it was familiar, even the darkness in Shahondin’s soul. That was the only part—his dark side—that he kept shielded from her, and though she knew it was there, it was not a part she ever wanted to look into.
“Summon me back. Remember the man I was. With the power of your thoughts, you can return to me everything the trolls stole. Think about the grandfather with whom you spent so many hours studying. Use the Albenstone! It has the power to bring me back.”
Lyndwyn focused her mind on those distant days in Arkadien, on the trips they took together, she and her strict but learned grandfather. She thought of the way he furrowed his brow when she had not been able to follow his reasoning, and of his laugh, as clear as a bell, when her spell casting proved too unskilled. His laughter had vanished over the years, and there came a time when she found secrets of her own that were forever hidden from him.
The magic weaver sensed the Albenstone warm against her breast. In her mind, she created a spark of bright light, and she made it dance just as she had when she created the bird of light in Vahan Calyd. At first, its contours were ill-defined. Then she wove thread on thread, tearing away at the essence of the ghost-dog. Lyndwyn finally stole away its life-light and wove it into the newly fashioned form of her grandfather.
When she had completed her work, the light paled. Shahondin stood before her, naked in the snow. He lifted his hands and ran them over his body disbelievingly. “A miracle!” His voice sounded strange, deeper, and the words were as slurred as if spoken by a drunkard. “It seems I’ll have to learn how to speak again.” He reached out toward her with one hand. “What power! Now give me the Albenstone. We’ll use it to drive out the trolls.”
She took a step backward. The deep, demanding voice sounded unearthly. Something had gone wrong with her spell, it seemed.
“You will not defy your own grandfather! The stone! We wanted it in Vahan Calyd, or have you forgotten? It belongs in the hands of a real magic weaver, not those of a girl. You—” Suddenly, he clutched at his chest. Something inside him had begun to move. His ribs pushed forward, curving outward. Beneath the skin of his belly appeared something like a face pressed against thin silk fabric.
Shahondin screamed. He pressed both hands to his stomach. There was blood on his lips. Something dark was pushing its way out of his body. His ribs made a creaking, tearing sound, bending apart, shredding muscle and skin. A dark dog’s head covered with gleaming black scales pushed its way out of his middle. Shahondin collapsed in the snow. Paws with long talons emerged, tearing apart the body Lyndwyn had created.
An icy chill emanated from the dog-thing, so cold it would make even winter shiver.
“Don’t be afraid, my child.”
Again she heard the voice inside her head. It sounded lecherous now, and false.
“An accident. A small mishap, no more. Your spell was imperfect, like it was with the first bird you created. Give me the stone. We can change that. We can change everything.”
Lyndwyn shouted a word of power. A flaming magic circle flared on the snow. She’d let herself be deceived. Whatever it was that had been born from her grandfather’s body, it was no longer Shahondin. This creature was not meant to be!
She thought of her dance above the fire. The dream. The choir of magic. She thought of the heat. She had woven her thoughts of the heat into the body she’d created.
The dog’s head lifted, leaning back.
“You can’t—”
She closed herself off from the voice inside her. She carried the Albenstone! I can master any spell, any magic, she thought angrily.
The black creature seemed to want to crawl back into Shahondin’s ruined body. It whined like a pup, then abruptly began to glow from the inside out, like a dark silk lantern with a candle burning inside it. Flames shot from its snout. The body that Lyndwyn had created disappeared in a blinding flash. All that remained were a few flakes of ash, carried down the mountainside on the wind.
Exhausted, she sank into the snow. Had that creature really been her grandfather? It had known so much about her, but it was not the Shahondin with which she had spent her childhood. She watched the flakes of ash drift away. Far down the mountain, something moved. Trolls. They must have seen the light.
Lyndwyn looked to where her beloved still lay. It would be hours yet before he awoke, and even then, he would be too weak. She did not have the strength to carry him, and there was nowhere to hide. Two hours, perhaps. Then the trolls would be there. Unless . . .
Sadly, she leaned down to Ollowain and kissed him lightly on the lips. “You came to save me from the fire, my white knight. Now I will save you.” She pressed the Albenstone into his right hand. She had created a body for her grandfather and destroyed it again, and now her powers were at their lowest ebb. But there was another way to save the man she loved.
She stood up. A final, melancholy look to Ollowain and then she turned away, toward the trolls.
MY NAME IS BIRGA
Lyndwyn was tied to a large shield that had been half buried in the snow. A leather sling was wrapped tightly around her neck, and her arms and legs were spread wide and bound with straps. The shield stank of blood and excrement. One of her eyes was swollen closed, and yet, so far, she had gotten off lightly. So far.
Spread out on the snow close to the shield lay a light-colored hide, and strewn across it were small knives of all kinds, primitive blades of bone and flint. Dark stains betrayed their purpose.
A second shield was rammed into the snow opposite Lyndwyn. The masked shaman stood beside it, talking in adamant tones to a bent old woman who supported herself on a stick.
“I am telling you, Skanga, she’s different from the others they’ve brought me. I sense her power when I touch her. If she were not exhausted, three simple scouts would never have been able to bring her in.” The troll woman in the repulsive mask looked across at Lyndwyn, who was certain that the shaman intended her to hear every word.
The ancient hag was not letting herself be swayed by the shaman’s words, however. Lyndwyn realized that it was the old woman who had the final say.
“You go today, Birga. At dusk. Soon, Orgrim will reach a village close to a large Albenstar, so you can join him easily. He needs you at his side. He can’t be allowed to do anything stupid when he meets with that overbearing bastard from Mordrock. You will watch him for me!”
The troll woman with the mask snorted. “Orgrim has looked after himself well enough so far.”
“Don’t misunderstand me, Birga. I am not asking you to go. I expect you to.”
“But this elf”—the shaman pointed at Lyndwyn—“she matters, I’m sure of it. It would be wise not to rush things with her. She can—”
“Then see to it that you get your answers before sunset. With Kingstor lost forever and the pass to Carandamon blocked, there isn’t much your little elf could tell us that matters. Perhaps . . .” The older troll shrugged. “Do what you want with her, but do it quickly.” With that, she left.
The shaman muttered something to herself that Lyndwyn did not understand. Then she went to the hide on which the knives lay. Bending down, she chose a dark stone blade with a slight curve.
“Are you thirsty?” the troll asked abruptly.
“No.” Lyndwyn had no interest in finding out what she might be offered to drink.
“I’m sorry that everything has to happen so quickly. I apologize for that.” The giant woman straightened up. She stroked Lyndwyn’s face with her bandaged hands. The stained rags reeked of decay. “Pretty skin. You elves have the most perfect skin of all. So very soft . . .”
The shaman was standing close enough for Lyndwyn to feel her breath on her face. She stank of sour milk.
“I know that you are a powerful magic weaver. For now, somehow, you’re spent, but you will soon recover. Maybe I should tear your tongue out and
blind you to protect myself.” The troll woman leaned forward and sniffed at her. Lyndwyn wished she could see behind the mask to read her face.
“Very good, little elf. You’re starting to smell like fear. Tell me, how did you get out on that mountainside?”
“Magic.”
“I don’t believe you. You don’t look foolish enough to conjure yourself onto the wrong side of a mountain. Your kind always tries to lie to me at the start, but I’ll make it easier for you to choose the path of truth.” She reached for Lyndwyn’s right hand and spread her little finger apart from the others.
Lyndwyn bucked and tried to pull free, but she could not fight the troll’s strength.
“My name is Birga. Conversation tends to improve when those who talk know each other’s name. Will you tell me yours?”
“Lyndwyn.”
“That’s pretty.” The shaman raised the knife. “I’m going to hurt you a little now. It’s not a big thing. I would just like you to be better able to imagine everything else I could do to you.” Carefully, she sliced the skin of Lyndwyn’s little finger with the knife. As she did so, she took care that Lyndwyn could see clearly everything she was doing. The blade moved from the pad of the finger all the way to where the finger sprouted from the palm, where the shaman made a second cut that encircled the base of the finger like a thin, bloody ring.
Lyndwyn felt ill. “I did not get onto the mountainside with magic.” She could reveal that much. It was no secret.
“Oh, I know that.” The shaman’s voice was friendly. “We’ll talk more about that soon. Give me just a moment.” She pushed the narrow stone blade carefully beneath Lyndwyn’s skin and began to loosen the skin from the flesh of the finger beneath.
Lyndwyn writhed, but it was impossible to break free of the troll woman’s iron grip.
“Don’t squirm so, little one.” With a tug, she pulled off the skin covering Lyndwyn’s little finger. “Look at your tendons and muscles. You can see them so clearly, and it’s hardly bleeding at all. It takes a lot of practice to do such neat work.” The shaman picked up a bone knife and impaled the small strip of skin to the shield standing in the snow opposite, so that Lyndwyn had a good view of it.
Nausea washed over Lyndwyn. Her finger burned as if it were being held in a flame. She could not bring herself to look at it. You can get through this, she berated herself mentally. You can save Ollowain if you do!
Birga caressed Lyndwyn’s face with one bandaged hand. A little fresh blood shimmered on the ragged cloth. “You have no idea what a boon your skin is. Just to look at you elves . . . one can never tell if you count your age in decades or in centuries.” She sighed. “You wanted to tell me something about the mountainside?”
Lyndwyn said now that she had escaped the mountain through a tunnel. How else could Ollowain have gotten out onto the mountainside with her?
The shaman nodded, satisfied. “Let’s move on, shall we? Tell me what kind of magic weaver you are. There’s something different about you.”
Lyndwyn wondered if she had the courage to bite off her own tongue. She could not breathe a word about the Albenstone, whatever Birga did to her.
“I can already see that things are getting more difficult.” Birga looked to the wooden shield to which the skin of Lyndwyn’s finger was pinned. Then she reached up to her mask. “Do you know that this was made from the face of a whore who tried to deceive my king? She was a very pretty woman. Pretty and stupid!” Again, she stroked Lyndwyn’s face. “You are pretty, too. Are you also stupid?”
“I helped the magic weavers of the Normirga keep the fire beneath the mountain in check,” Lyndwyn blurted.
The troll woman laughed. “Well, that wasn’t so hard to admit, was it? Now you shall know a secret about me.” She lifted the mask so that Lyndwyn could see her face. The merciless winter light revealed a mass of shapeless flesh that reminded her of molten wax—no, more of a dripping candle. Were they warts? Fleshy growths, rows of lumps and bulges covered in gray skin. They rose from Birga’s eyelids, turning her nose into a formless clump, and even her lips were lumpy and uneven. In places, the growths grew on other swellings, making parts of her face look unnaturally swollen and thick. Some of the lumps seemed to have tied themselves off and now held on only by the thinnest threads of skin. Birga stroked Lyndwyn’s cheek. “You have been beautiful your entire life. You will never appreciate what it means to look like this.” She stretched the mask back over her face. “Now, let’s discuss your queen. Do you know where she’s run off to?”
“I am not Normirga,” Lyndwyn replied evasively.
“Ah. I can see we’re starting to touch on hidden truths.” Birga took her knife and sliced Lyndwyn’s dress open from neckline to waist. She pushed the fabric back almost tenderly. “There’s something fragile about you, my pretty thing. It may be that you have not lain with men very often. We have that in common.” She probed the soft flesh of Lyndwyn’s breasts with her fingers, and ran her hands over the arching ribs and down to her navel.
“One finger is easy enough to hide, Lyndwyn. It may even increase your fascination—the elf who always wears one glove. What other parts do you think you’ll be able to hide from the gaze of men? Or would you perhaps like to tell me something about the queen?”
Cold sweat prickled Lyndwyn’s face. “I am not Normirga,” she repeated.
“Well, yes. You said that already.”
Birga raised the knife.
LIKE A TALE FROM CHILDHOOD DAYS
Asla peered into Isleif’s frost-reddened face. He was feverish, and his breath stank of liquor. He’d been found at the gate of the palisade that protected Firnstayn.
The gate was locked at sundown every day. But early that evening, smoke had been spotted rising far to the north, and a sentry had therefore been stationed at the gate.
Isleif was half frozen and as weak as a child when they brought him in. Delirious, he’d been speaking brokenly about monsters from the mountains. Now, wrapped in blankets, he crouched by Asla’s fire. Her house was the biggest in the village, so it seemed the reasonable place to go. Almost all the village’s inhabitants were crowded around him.
“Giants, they are . . . bigger than cave bears . . . ,” the farmer stammered. “They burned my farmhouse down.” He looked at Asla. “Have you any more to drink? You know . . . to warm the soul.”
“He’s already drunk,” someone murmured behind Asla. “Everyone knows he drinks like a leaky bucket. He probably knocked a candle over and burned his house down by himself, and now he’s telling stories.”
“I seen what I seen!” Isleif rose unsteadily to his feet. “They’re as big as cave bears!”
“Maybe a cave bear really has come down from the mountains?” said Kalf. “Sometimes they wake up in midwinter.”
“There were lots of ’em . . . a whole herd . . . ,” the farmer persisted, then hiccupped. “Asla, where’s the grog?”
“You’ve had enough!” she said sharply. “Did the giants follow you?”
The farmer shrugged. “Don’t know . . . just a little sip, Asla. A teeny, tiny . . . for the soul!”
Erek crouched beside his friend and stretched one arm across Isleif’s shoulders. “You have to sleep now, old fellow. We’ll go up to your farm tomorrow and see what’s what.”
“No! Not back to the giants!” Isleif protested vehemently. “Not to the giants. I seen what they did to Fang. One wallop with a club . . . he was a big dog, you know. I seen him tear a wolf apart more than once. One of Ole’s best bloodhounds. But one wallop, then they ripped his legs off. He was still alive.” Isleif began to sob. “Such a good dog, he was. I’m not going back!”
“That’s enough! I’m not listening to this old drunk anymore,” Asla’s aunt Svenja said as she reached for her cloak and went to the door. “We all know he spends half his time drunk.”
“But what if he’s right?” Asla asked.
“With this rubbish? Giants appear out of nowhere and burn down his farmhouse.
Asla, really. They’re stories for children. There are no giants. Not unless you’re blind drunk.”
Murmurs of assent rumbled through the crowd.
Asla could understand her neighbors’ skepticism. Isleif’s words, in fact, reminded her of a tale she knew from her own childhood, one that she had heard more often than anyone else from her father, because he’d been part of it. The story of Mandred and the manboar—the monster that came down from the mountains. Then, too, a man had come to the village and warned them about the monster. And no one had believed him.
“We should send someone to Isleif’s farm to see what’s happened, someone we all trust.” She looked at Kalf.
The big fisherman nodded. “Yes. It would be sensible. Maybe I can round up his animals, too, if the stable hasn’t burned.”
“Don’t go, boy!” Isleif cried. “They’ll slaughter you like they did my dog. My good boy . . .”
Silence fell over the big room. The farmer sat by the fire and buried his face in his hands.
“We have to send messengers out to the other farms,” Asla said. “And we have to be ready to leave the village. We could be in Honnigsvald in two days if there’s no storm. We need sleds!”
Iwein, who owned more livestock in the village than anyone else, stepped forward. He was a corpulent, red-haired man and notorious for his volatile temper.
“Your husband’s not here, Asla, and you’ve got the elves in your house. I can understand that you’re afraid. But you’re going too far. There’s no reason to get so worked up. Let’s suppose the worst case: a few wandering bandits have attacked Isleif’s farm and burned it down. They’d never dare to come here to the village. There are too many of us for them to be any danger.”
“And if it’s really giants? Or trolls?” Asla persisted.
Iwein’s face flushed red. “That’s just stupid prattle. Giants don’t exist, and the trolls have never come this far south.” Suddenly, his tone brightened, and he smiled broadly. “Besides, all the trolls are in Albenmark, at war with the elves.”
Elven Queen Page 21
