Asla looked around at her neighbors. She could see in their faces that they were ready to brand her a madwoman. They would mock her to the end of her days if Isleif had really just imagined everything. And she could certainly believe that, as drunk as he was, he’d managed to accidentally set his own house on fire. But the dog . . . that wasn’t the kind of thing you made up.
“Some of you are old enough to have known my father-in-law, Mandred. You know the story of the manboar, and maybe you remember the night the elven queen came to take my husband away.” Asla pointed to the alcove where Emerelle lay. Yilvina stood in front of it, her arms crossed. So far, she had only listened in silence.
“You yourselves have been part of things that people in Honnigsvald stopped believing long ago,” Asla went on. “Do you think I’d drag my children out into a winter’s night for nothing? Kalf will go and see what’s happened. If we’re in danger, he’ll light the signal fire on the Hartungscliff. I can’t order you, but I can advise you, and I’ll accept being called a madwoman from this night forward. But I advise you to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. I’ll personally make sure that the big sled is harnessed. I’d rather spend one night nervous and be mocked for it later than see a fire on the cliff and not be ready.”
“I think she’s right,” said Kalf.
Asla could have hugged him. Now Svenja nodded, too. The mood was starting to shift.
“All right, then,” Iwein muttered. “We’ll get ready. Let’s throw some provisions together and grease our boots.”
“That’s not the end of it,” said Asla. “Your sons have been grown men for years, Iwein. It’s easy for you to talk. But I need a warm place for my Kadlin. I have to be able to change her diapers. Out on the frozen fjord, a wet diaper would mean her death.”
Iwein threw his hands over his head. “Have you lost your senses, woman? What do you have in mind? Putting your house on runners? How do you see this ‘warm place’ of yours?”
She rapped her knuckles on top of the trestle table. “Just like you said, Iwein. A hut on runners. A tarpaulin over the wagon bed will keep the wind off, but not the cold. It’s not enough. No, we knock together a cabin from tabletops, doors, and boards, and we put a brazier inside it. A warm place for the children, the old, and the worn out.”
Iwein shook his head. “I wouldn’t like to be in your skin when your husband sees what you’ve done to that pretty wagon of his. And all because of a drunkard. We’ll be up the whole night, and tomorrow we’ll find out the trolls were just the wanderings of a lonely old man’s mind. You’ll see, Asla.”
ALFADAS’S STAIRCASE
The signal fire blazed brightly! As the flames shot high into the sky, Kalf could see, in the distant village, the big wagon being hauled out onto the ice of the fjord. Behind it followed tiny figures. Hand-pulled wooden sleds and a herd of sheep pressed closed together all but disappeared against the white winter landscape.
Good that Asla sent me to Isleif’s farm, Kalf thought. After the meeting with Isleif and the others, she had quietly told Kalf that she might benefit from a warm cabin herself, then confided in him that before long she would have a third child to look after.
Kalf had come across the trolls in the forest. Harsh voices and a throaty laugh had given warning enough, and he’d found a hiding place in a tangle of blackberry. Through the snow-covered vines, he’d gotten a good look at them. They were truly huge, a good three paces from sole to scalp! Most of them, despite the cold, were all but naked, with furs wrapped around their loins and little more. One of them carried the remains of Isleif’s dog over his shoulder. Their weapons betrayed that they were no hunting party—they were armed with axes and stone daggers, and only one or two carried a bow or spear. They were raiders!
One of the trolls, bigger than the rest, his fat belly decorated with bloody handprints, came so close to Kalf’s hiding place that the fisherman could have reached out and touched him. Kalf said a silent prayer of thanks to Luth that the trolls had not brought dogs with them, or he would not have gone unnoticed.
The band of warriors was following Isleif’s footprints through the snow. The prints would lead the trolls straight to Firnstayn, and Kalf found himself wishing they’d surprised the old drunkard in bed. Perhaps then they would not have found the village.
Asla’s big sled was now almost half a mile out on the fjord. The last stragglers were still leaving the village. Had anyone refused to leave their hut on that icy night just because of a story and a fire? Kalf hoped not. After he’d seen the trolls, any doubt he may once have harbored about the terrible tales told of them vanished. So that was what man-eaters looked like!
One last time, he stretched his bare hands toward the flames. Then he pulled his heavy, fur-lined mittens back on. He avoided crossing the stone circle that crowned the steep cliff. Instead, following the goat track that led alongside it, he hurried back toward the gentle slope that led downward behind the Hartungscliff. And there they were! Three giant figures stamping through the deep snow, following his own tracks.
Kalf swallowed. He should not have stayed by the fire so long. Its bright glow must have been visible far into the forest. He’d all but called out to the man-eaters to come and get him, and they’d certainly welcome having a fire already burning to roast him on!
Kalf looked to the stone circle where Mandred had saved himself all those years before. A miracle had happened, and he’d passed through to Albenmark. But Kalf did not want to go there. Asla could not lose him, too. It was bad enough that Alfadas was off in the distant elven realms instead of there in the Fjordlands, standing by those who mattered most.
The trolls were approaching fast. They could see there was no other trail that led down from the cliff. Kalf retreated.
The cliff fell sharply toward the fjord. Alfadas had gone up there often in his first summer. Back then, he’d spoken every second day about how his life might have been different if his father had had another way out: a second path down from the cliff. And at some point, he’d begun to build it. Although “path” was too generous. As far as Kalf knew, no one but Alfadas had ever used the route, and even the jarl had only ever tried it when the weather was good. Never in midwinter or at night.
The fisherman looked around at the edge of the cliff. The trolls were now so close that he could hear them grunting to each other. Where was the damned descent?
Finally, hidden beneath the snow, he found a rusty hook. A rope black with grime and mold hung from it.
The first troll reached the edge of the stone circle. With a guttural bellow, he pointed at Kalf.
Kalf pulled off the mittens, gripped the rope, and lowered himself over the edge of the cliff—better to die in a fall than be eaten by trolls!
The rope was frozen. The frost sliced into Kalf’s naked fingers. The lower he went, the more alarmingly the rope creaked. And then it ran out, in the middle of the cliff! He looked around desperately. Snow lay on the rock ledges, and in places, the stone was covered by a layer of clear ice.
Some distance to one side, Kalf spied a bent iron hook. There was a narrow rock ledge there, above which a rope had been attached to act as a handrail. Kalf stretched out and was just able to grab hold of the hook.
A crash made him look up. The trolls were hurling rocks down the cliff. With the strength of desperation, Kalf pulled himself onto the rock ledge, where an overhang protected him from the treacherous attack. He worked his way along, both hands clenching the rope. The ledge grew a little wider.
Beneath the overhang, he found a natural niche in the rock. Charcoal and blackened sticks lay on the alcove floor—apparently, Alfadas had camped there one time. Twining patterns were drawn in charcoal on the rock. The jarl was a strange man. It would never have occurred to Kalf to camp in the middle of an inaccessible rock wall.
He looked out toward the fjord. The train of refugees had left the village a good distance behind them. They would make it. Good that Asla was so prudent, he thought.
No more rocks had been thrown from the cliff above, and Kalf looked up cautiously from his hiding place. The trolls were nowhere in sight. He crept carefully out along the rock ledge a short distance. Nothing happened. The man-eaters seemed to have given up the hunt—he would live!
His fears eased, he sought out the rest of Alfadas’s staircase. Using the ice hooks, narrow ladders, and ropes, he worked his way down the cliff until he finally reached a field of boulders and scree that gave way to coniferous forest farther down.
One careful step at a time, he made his way down the scree, which was covered by a layer of snow. He was halfway down when the loose stones underfoot began to slip. Arms flailing for something to hold, he stumbled, fell backward, and slid down the steep slope on his back. He hit a concealed stone and tumbled over; then one ankle collided hard with a rock. He was sliding fast toward the fir trees. In the cold starlight, he could clearly see the dead branches jutting from the trunks like daggers.
He jammed his feet into the snow, jumped, and went flying through the air. There was a hard jolt. Kalf pressed his eyes closed. He was lying in a snowdrift. Dazed, he looked around. He was no more than five steps from the edge of the forest. He tested his limbs one by one. His right ankle felt sprained, and every bone hurt, but at least nothing was broken.
Groaning, he got to his feet and limped into the forest. If he didn’t stop, he’d reach the refugees on the ice in two hours.
DARK OMENS AND A HERO’S DEATH
After his son abandoned him, the king was haunted by bad dreams. He was found on many occasions in his banquet hall in the dead of night, dressed only in a tunic. The ruler, who possessed a bear’s strength even in his latter days, had wilted in a matter of weeks.
It was a time of dark omens. The market hall in Gonthabu, which had taken three years to build and was the first large stone building in the royal city, collapsed when the first snows piled on its roof. One afternoon, a shadow appeared on the surface of the sun. It was just a tiny speck, but it was to remain four days.
In the night that followed the first bad winter storm, Horsa sent for his scribe to take down his testament. He summoned the oldest priest from the Luth temple as well. To all in his royal court, Horsa seemed that day to have regained his strength. He drank strong wine until midday. In the evening, word of the trolls reached him. They had appeared on the coast and burned down a fishing village and were now moving along the fjord toward the royal seat in Gonthabu.
Immediately, Horsa dispatched messengers to the four winds and gathered his army before the city gates. In three days, seven hundred men answered the call to arms. By horse and by sled, they came through the deep snow, while those who had already lost hope left the royal city in droves.
They assembled beneath the banner of the red eagle, the king at their heart. The thunder of their hooves on the ice was heard far inland as the old king rode into his final battle. But what can human might do to quell the dark wrath of trolls? Even the bravest of the kingdom’s brave warriors perished. The battle was too one-sided, lost before the first sword was drawn. Horsa Starkshield fell as he saved the life of his young banner bearer, Jarl Oswin. With his dying breath, he ordered the young man to gather those still alive and withdraw from the ice, to battle to victory another day.
“We need the jarl of Firnstayn” were the last words spoken by Horsa of the strong shield.
The Life of Horsa Starkshield (33–35)
As recorded by Eginhard von Daluf
THE SHED SKIN
Ollowain found the camp on the mountainside deserted. Lyndwyn’s tracks stopped abruptly at a trampled patch of snow.
He did not know how long he had slept on the mountain. The Arkadien must have used magic on him: his wounds had healed, but he still felt weak. When he found the Albenstone in his hand, he had been shocked beyond words. He had called out for Lyndwyn, then had followed her tracks, which led him straight to the trolls. He had understood what must have happened and had quickly hidden the Albenstone to prevent any risk of its being found on him. Then he had gone in search of Lyndwyn.
It had taken him almost a day to reach the trolls’ camp, and all that was left was a broad, flattened snowfield. Here and there, he found piles of rags and rubbish in the snow, and loot from Phylangan that the looter had decided was no longer important enough to lug any farther. The army had turned to the east, toward the old mountain fortresses. Kingstor, Phylangan, for which both sides had fought so remorselessly, had been won and lost in the same hour. A red glow pulsed over the far summit, and a pall of smoke still lingered.
For a while, Ollowain wandered aimlessly through the camp, then made up his mind to follow the trolls eastward. He would find Lyndwyn, although the many bones that lay where the trolls had made their fires told him how senseless his search would be. But Lyndwyn would live until he found proof of her death, and even then, there was hope. One day, she would be reborn. He only had to wait.
His way led him past frozen kobolds, the tusks of a mammoth, and shields that tired warriors had simply abandoned in the snow.
“Ollowain.” The voice was a mere whisper, lost on the wind. The swordmaster stopped in his tracks. It was impossible to say from where the low cry had come. Then he saw the movement. A torn cape fluttered in the wind. From beneath it stretched a hand. The four fingers closed and opened—a wave!
“Lyndwyn?”
He hurried to the hunched figure. She was huddled in the lee of a troll shield to which strips of silk and a pale mask had been pinned with knives of bone.
She had drawn the cape close around her body. As he approached, she lifted her hands to cover her face, but he recognized her long, dark hair immediately.
“Lyndwyn!” He fell to his knees with relief. She’d survived. He could hardly believe his luck—everything would be good again!
“I did not . . . betray her. The queen.” She spoke so softly and hesitantly that her voice was barely intelligible.
“I know,” Ollowain said. “Forgive me for not believing you from the start.”
Lyndwyn’s body trembled; he could not say whether it came from sobbing or from despairing laughter. He tried to take her gently in his arms, but she recoiled at the slightest touch.
“Forgive me. I can’t. I have to leave you now. My power is fading . . . the mesh of my last spell is unraveling. I knew you would come. I wanted to see into your eyes one last time, my wondrous white knight. Now go and save our queen. You have already saved me.”
A silver light engulfed the trembling figure.
“No, please! Don’t go . . . I . . .”
“I will wait for you.” Her voice sounded as if it came from far away. Then she was gone. Lyndwyn had found her way into the moonlight. She had fulfilled her destiny in Albenmark.
The tattered cape lay in the snow. Ollowain picked it up and held it to him. In the final moment, he had seen Lyndwyn’s face. He turned to the shield. What he had taken to be a mask had vanished. He remembered what he had said to the Arkadien so long ago: You would have to shed your skin to make me trust you.
The swordmaster buried his face in the ragged cape.
THE RAMPARTS OF HONNIGSVALD
The wood’s so rotten, I could poke my thumb into it if it wasn’t frozen. You can’t stay here!” the ferryman said beseechingly. “No one is safe behind these walls.”
Asla sighed. For two terrible days on the ice, the thought of the town with its earthen ramparts topped by palisades had given her the strength she needed to keep going. Now they had been in Honnigsvald not even half a day, and all hope had vanished again. Kodran, the ferryman, had come to Asla late in the afternoon. He said he was a friend of her husband and had not let himself be dissuaded until she finally agreed to climb the defensive walls with him.
Asla looked at Kalf, his face a mosaic of scabs from his fall. She had thanked the gods a thousand times that the fisherman had made it down the Hartungscliff as unscathed as he had. It was a miracle.
Kalf took his fish
erman’s knife from his boot and scratched at the wood. He swore softly. “Kodran’s right. I reckon the trolls, as big as they are, must be as strong as bears. This rotten palisade won’t stop them. We have to keep going.”
Asla kicked angrily at one of the tree trunks that formed the palisade. She’d felt so safe there in the big town. To add injury to this insult of a palisade, now her foot hurt—she was no troll, after all.
“We can’t move on as we are,” she said dispiritedly. “We need more sleds.” She looked to the tall ferryman. “Take me to the man who talked my husband into buying the wagon.”
“I don’t think he’ll help us,” Kodran said hesitantly. “We’d do better to just get out of town than get caught up with Sigvald. He’s a crafty profiteer.”
“Then let him make his profit! We have no choice. There are too many old people and children with us, and there’s—” Asla stopped herself and cleared her throat. She had almost mentioned the queen. Emerelle lay on the big wagon, but no one in Honnigsvald needed to know that. “Take me to this Sigvald. Right now!”
Kodran acceded and led her through the overflowing streets to the shore of the fjord. The town was filled with refugees. The column of smoke that rose above Firnstayn had been seen for many miles around. Fishermen and farmers had fled to the deceptive safety of the town with their families and their livestock. Asla cursed silently. She had to warn these people! But first, she had to talk to Sigvald.
The wagon maker was at work in his factory as if all the turmoil in the town meant nothing to him. He had ice-gray hair combed back from his face and greased smooth. Asla noted how he eyed her red mantle as he decided that she was probably a wealthy woman. “What can I do for you?”
“How many sleds do you have?”
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