A high-pitched blast from a horn rang out, and a second wave surged through the snow. Horses and riders rose from their snowed-in hiding places. The elves swung into their saddles. In white armor of linen and leather and wearing silver helmets with light-colored horsehair crests, they looked like enchanted children born from winter itself. Mounted on white horses, snow-covered cloaks billowing, they charged down the hill. Their long lances shimmered in the morning light. Within moments, they formed an attacking wedge aimed straight at the heart of the enemy line.
Alfadas and his fighters had almost reached the trolls. Arrows buzzed overhead. Then the archers on the hills put down their bows, drew their longswords, and stormed down the slope.
Ollowain now rode closer to the side of his foster son. Lances splintered as they galloped into the enemy’s wavering battle line. Most of the trolls were still bent on victory. Horses whinnied. Ollowain leaned low in the saddle to duck a club. His spear struck a troll in the throat, but it was like stabbing a block of stone. The jolt knocked the spear from his grip. A troll snatched at his horse’s reins and threw the animal to the ground. Ollowain’s boots caught in the stirrups. Desperately, he tried to free himself. The snow broke his fall a little and saved his leg, which was trapped beneath the body of the stallion. Hooves flailing, the horse rolled clear, but the saddle horn jammed into Ollowain’s thigh, and a burning pain flashed through his leg.
The stallion got back to its feet and reared up, its forelegs lashing at the face of the troll that had thrown it down. Half stunned with pain, the swordmaster managed to get up again.
The snow steamed with freshly spilled blood in the melee of horses, humans, and trolls. The air was filled with furious cries, the ring of weapons, and the curses and wails of the dying.
Ollowain’s trousers were torn open. His thigh, crushed by the saddle horn, throbbed agonizingly.
A red-headed human fell beside him. An axe had split the man’s back, and his lungs pulsed from the horrible wound like red wings. The man turned his head to one side. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.
The swordmaster evaded a club, then swung his sword backhanded at the troll’s wrist. Club and hand whirled together through the air, but Ollowain fell to his knees. His injured leg would not carry him. The troll howled and tried to stomp Ollowain into the snow, but a stab to the monster’s crotch made the troll jump back, cursing. Ollowain followed it with a swing to the back of the troll’s knee. As his enemy sprawled, Ollowain slashed his throat and rolled aside.
Alfadas was surrounded by a ring of trolls. He lashed out with his sword on all sides like a berserker. An axe crashed through both forelegs of his gray, and the big horse let out a shrill whinny and crashed to the snow. Alfadas was pitched forward over the horse’s mane but was back on his feet in an instant, his sword flying in a glittering silver circle around him. The trolls kept their distance.
Now was the Maurawan’s moment. Horns sounded wildly behind their battle cries. They raged through the trolls like a storm wind through dry autumn leaves.
Ollowain pushed himself up again. Behind Alfadas, a fallen troll swung his club back, aiming to smash the duke’s legs. Ollowain’s stab to the wounded giant’s shoulder, however, ended the attempt. The troll turned with a snarl, his right arm hanging limp. Foul breath struck the swordmaster in the face, and the sword was jerked from his grip. Once again, his injured leg collapsed beneath him.
“I’ll take you with me to the darkness, little elf,” the troll hissed. He propped himself on his left hand—the fingers were reduced to stumps—and pushed himself around, trying to smother Ollowain beneath his massive body.
The swordmaster tried to crawl away backward, but a dead horse blocked his retreat. Laughing, the troll threw himself forward. Ollowain did his best to twist free, but his injured leg no longer obeyed him, and he was unable to escape his adversary. The troll pushed him down with his mutilated hand and bared his yellow teeth. “I’m not out of weapons yet,” he snarled.
Ollowain’s hand grasped at his belt. The gaping mouth came down. At the same moment, the dagger flew up. Teeth cracked and split as the silver steel sank into the troll’s mouth, but even as the blade disappeared deep into the giant’s gullet, he tried to bite Ollowain’s hand.
“Luth, don’t sword swallowers suffer some terrible accidents?” grumbled Lambi, spat out by the turbulence of the battle. He reached down to Ollowain with one hand and helped him to his feet.
“Thank you,” murmured Ollowain, still dazed. Then he retrieved his sword from the dead troll’s shoulder.
“You’d best save your own hide now, comrade. I can’t watch over you all the time, and it looks to me like your leg’s seen better days.”
Ollowain gave him a sour smile. He was grateful to Lambi, but he knew he’d never be fond of the way the barbarian talked.
Lambi waved to a soldier who’d caught a riderless horse. “Bring that nag over here. The swordmaster needs some new shanks.”
“My thanks, Jarl,” Ollowain replied stiffly.
Lambi waved it off. “Forget it. If you really want to do me a good turn, tell me how you manage to keep those white robes of yours clean. See the nose I carry around? If I want to make an impression on the ladies, I need to be neat as an elf in every other respect.”
Ollowain pulled himself into the saddle. “It isn’t difficult,” he said through gritted teeth. “You just have to avoid the muck.”
The white stallion reared, almost throwing Ollowain, but he sank his fingers into the horse’s mane. From the saddle, he had a good overview of the battle. The trolls were retreating. They were under attack from all sides now, and although they were still putting up a fight, their defeat was beyond question. The actual battle was over—the carnage would follow.
At the heart of the tumult stood Alfadas. He, too, now sat astride a new horse. Is he looking for death? Ollowain wondered. Alfadas had long ago crossed the line that separated suicidal daring from courage. The elf spurred his stallion forward, into the thick of the battle.
The dead and dying lay shoulder to shoulder on the ice, and the air stank of blood and excrement. The sky seemed to be holding its breath: not the slightest breeze stirred.
Some of the trolls broke free of their enemies and made for the palisade. If they managed to entrench themselves in the narrow pass, then the elves and humans would have lost the benefit of their superior numbers.
Ollowain drove his stallion onward. The dull, throbbing pain in his leg was agony. He left it to others to cut down the fleeing trolls. His target was the stocky warrior standing in the breach in the palisade and holding on to a small pale figure. Ollowain muttered a curse. They had Emerelle. Then the palisade had fallen, and the refugees were defeated. They were too late!
“I demand impunity!” the troll cried, his voice breaking. “I am Dumgar, Duke of Mordrock. If you harm me, King Branbeard’s revenge for my death will be terrible.” The troll lifted his right hand, in which he held a long bone knife. “And I’ll cut the tyrant’s throat from—”
An arrow tore the blade from Dumgar’s hand, and the troll duke let out a cry. Emerelle let herself drop forward, attempting to escape.
Ollowain drew back on the reins and slid from the saddle. A hot wave of pain engulfed him as soon as he tried to put any weight on his injured leg. He hobbled toward the queen as quickly as he could. Dumgar tried to grab Emerelle again. He snatched at her long hair. In his left hand, he wielded a club.
Suddenly, a slim warrior was standing in front of him. Alfadas swept his sword across the troll’s belly. Then he turned aside, ducked low, and rammed a dagger into the back of Dumgar’s knee.
Ollowain reached Emerelle. The queen’s hands were tied behind her back. She had a gag across her mouth and a leather blindfold covering her eyes. He closed his arms around her. “You are safe now, my queen.”
Dumgar pressed his hands to his belly. Bloody entrails spilled from the gaping wound. Alfadas was standing very close to
Dumgar. He held a long, slim dagger in his hand, its tip pointed toward the troll. “Do you know this blade, murderer? It belonged to a child. I’m going to cut out your liver with it and feed it to my dog. And if you’re ever reborn, I swear I’ll find you and kill you again.”
“Ah, the elvenjarl, of course,” Dumgar said. “You’re too late!” A coughing fit racked his body. He dropped to his knees, still holding his belly with both hands. “You have a pretty, blond wife that you left with a fat belly, don’t you? My hunters found her in the woods last night. There’s not much of her pride left now.”
Alfadas lowered the dagger. All the color had vanished from his face.
The troll pulled his hands back. Blue ropes of intestines swelled from his fat belly onto the snow. “It was delightful to meet her.” Dumgar coughed again, causing more of his guts to spill out. “She’s lying in front of you,” he snarled, gasping. “She’s lying in front of you!”
Coughing, he sank facedown onto the snow.
TO THE LIGHT
Ulric rubbed his bare arms. He was miserably cold. Gundar had been wrong. Their clothes had not gotten dry, and the fire had gone out. They had already been sitting in the dark forever. The cold woke him—he should not have fallen asleep! But he’d been so tired. He’d fallen asleep and hadn’t put any new wood on the fire. He was so angry at himself that he wanted to scream. But it didn’t help. He’d dug in the ashes, hoping to find even a tiny spark, but there was nothing. He should not have fallen asleep!
Halgard did not blame him. She had not spoken for quite a while. Her teeth chattered. Her hands felt icy.
If only Blood would return! Was he even still alive? Ulric listened into the darkness. He prayed that he would hear the soft splashing of water, but the cave was deathly still.
Deathly still! Ulric recalled Halgard’s words, that they were sitting in a grave. Yilvina was not breathing. The troll. Sometimes Ulric thought he could hear the monster moving very quietly. Treacherous beast! Maybe he’d only played dead? Or he’d only been unconscious for a while and was just waiting for the moment to attack them.
Trolls were double-dealing, deceitful, unfathomable! He recalled how the troll with the burn scars on his belly had grabbed him in Honnigsvald and taken away his dagger. The bastard hadn’t even condescended to actually fight him. He’d simply tossed the dagger away, then taken him to the place where everyone was screaming. Ulric knew what was being done there. He’d seen it for himself.
He, too, should have been killed there.
But then that other troll had come, the one with the stone hammer in his belt. The two trolls had talked. The troll with the stone hammer had looked at Ulric for a long time before saying something to him in their grunting tongue. Ulric, naturally, had not understood the words at all, but realized that he was free to go. He’d quickly found Halgard again—he was good at finding Halgard.
She had been extremely relieved to know that he’d come back, as relieved as she’d been in Honnigsvald when he’d jumped down from Grandfather’s sled. He had told Erek that he was going back to Kalf and his mother. He’d lied. He hoped his grandfather would forgive him.
Halgard had gotten lost when the sleds were driven away, just as he had feared she would. But he had found her quickly enough, and they would have caught up with the last of the sleds if the guards had not been so quick to close the town gate. When the trolls had come to Honnigsvald, they had taken him and Halgard down to the shore with everyone else. Then they’d started picking out individual men and women. Ulric remembered the screaming. That had been bad. He’d better not think about that. Even now, it frightened him.
He stared into the darkness.
If he could only see just a little bit! Ulric raised his hands and moved them slowly toward his face. Even when the palms of his hands reached the tip of his nose, he could not make them out. It had never been so dark at home. Even when the heavy woolen blanket was pulled across the alcove where he slept, a faint shimmer of light found its way inside. It was as if he no longer had eyes in his head. He started at the thought. Was that possible? Maybe the troll had magicked his eyes away somehow?
Ulric touched his face. No. They were still there.
“Are you scared, too?” Halgard asked.
The boy could hardly understand her words, her voice was so weak.
“No!” he said resolutely. He was her hero, after all! He wasn’t allowed to be scared. He protected her from the troll. And he went back to Honnigsvald for her. If only it wasn’t so dark. It was easier not to be scared when you could see.
“Is it day outside, do you think?”
“I don’t know.” Ulric felt so useless. “I’m going to check on Yilvina,” he said, and he stood and moved away from Halgard. In fact, he did not actually have to stand up to reach the elf. But men did things! They didn’t just sit around.
When he touched Yilvina’s body, he was shocked to find her as cold as ice. In all the hours of their escape, she had always had warm hands. The cold had never been able to touch her, and Ulric had accepted that it was always like that with elves. They simply didn’t freeze. He wished that he could be an elf. But if she was cold now . . . Ulric swallowed. Then she was probably dead, too. Fear gripped him again. People died in this cave—it was no place for the living.
“How is she?” Halgard asked.
He could not tell her the truth. It would scare her more than it did him, he was sure. She was a girl, after all. “She’s sound asleep. She’s going to get well again.”
“She felt really bad.”
“Yilvina is an elf. Something like that can’t kill her. She—” Suddenly, he could hold back the tears no longer. It was all so terrible. No one would find them there, in that cave.
Halgard crept across to him. Her hand stroked his hair softly. “Is it completely dark here?”
“Yes,” he sobbed in a half-choked voice.
“Maybe we should go into the water? You said there were lots of broken-down trees knocked over by a storm outside, where I caught my hair. We’re sure to find dry wood there, and a cave in the ground where we can crawl inside and light a fire. Yilvina has a flint somewhere. I heard her strike sparks from it. We’ll take that with us, and her knife.”
“I think they’re in her hunting bag.” Ulric felt around excitedly for the small satchel. That was a good idea! There in the dark, they would never be able to light another fire—you have to be able to see what you’re doing for that. But outside he was sure he could do it.
He found the bag. Hastily, he rummaged through it and found a small dagger, some small leather pouches, and some sort of herbs that crackled between his fingers. Finally, he felt the flint. “I’ve got what we need,” he announced proudly.
“Then let’s go down to the water. But you have to hold my hand. I’m scared I’ll get lost if you don’t.”
“I’ll find the belt,” Ulric said eagerly. “I’ll buckle it around me. I’ll need my hands for swimming and to pull us out of the hole in the ice. It’ll work with the belt!” The idea of getting out to the light almost made him forget the cold. It was just dumb, though, that Halgard had come up with the idea. He could have thought of it, too. And he would have—he was certain of it!—if he’d just thought a little bit longer.
Ulric felt around on the cave floor until he found his belt. His fingers were so stiff with cold that he had difficulty getting the prong of the buckle through one of the holes.
Suddenly, Halgard was beside him. “You wouldn’t go without me, would you?”
What did she think he was? He was her knight! He’d rescued her from a monster, just like in the games they’d always played. “No,” he said firmly. “And if you say anything like that again, then I’m not going to talk to you anymore. It’s mean to think of me like that.”
“I didn’t mean to upset you.” She began to cry. “It’s just . . . I suddenly couldn’t hear you anymore. It was as if you’d already gone.”
Ulric felt a pang of conscience.
He couldn’t stand it when she cried. He stroked her back. “I would never go anywhere without you. Never!” He took her hand and led it to the belt. “Hold on tight now. Don’t let go of me, whatever happens.”
He felt his way forward through the darkness, placing one foot in front of the other very slowly until he reached the water, then stood there with it just covering his toes. “We take a deep breath, then we run in together, all right?”
“Yes!” Halgard replied. “I’ll count to three, then we’ll do it. One. Two.”
Everything in Ulric recoiled so much at the thought of re-entering the water that he felt as if he actually grew smaller.
“Three!”
He took a deep breath. Halgard pulled at him. She began to run sooner; he wasn’t ready yet. He screamed! The water felt as if it were trying to cut through his skin. It gripped him. He slipped on the smooth rock and fell headlong, dragging Halgard down with him. He almost screamed again underwater. He pushed off with his feet. His hands probed at the smooth rock until, finally, he found the entrance. Gray light greeted him and renewed his strength. He swam toward the light and banged against the ice. Disoriented, he felt his way along under it. Where was the place they’d broken through? The hole was gone, frozen over!
Ulric took the small knife and stabbed at the ice. Halgard, beside him, beat her naked fists at their undoing. She began to bleed, and pale-pink streaks drifted beneath the crusts of ice.
Ulric’s movements became slower and slower. The current caught them and pulled them along beneath the ice sheet. He could see the sun clearly in the sky. There was some solace, at least, to that: to not being in the dark.
The knife slipped from his numb fingers. He felt tired. He pressed his face to the ice once more. Something reached for him. Dark arms wrapped around his feet. Branches, he thought tiredly. He looked up. He did not feel the cold anymore. It was pleasant, there, being carried along by the water. The sun was so beautiful. So far away. So far . . .
THE PALE HAND OF A CHILD
Elven Queen Page 33
