Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  “Listen to your own heart. Forget everyone else for a moment. Forget me, your wife, even Kadlin. Free yourself of all the invisible shackles weighing you down. Give yourself the time you need to think about your life and its duresses, and then do what you think is right. That will also be Luth’s will.”

  Alfadas gathered his axe and went to Blood. Then he pushed the axe into his belt and picked Kadlin up. For a moment, he looked down at the large, ugly dog. “Come. We’ll go and have some breakfast.”

  THE REED

  He felt a pleasant warmth on his cheek. From close by came the soft crackling of a fire. Ollowain tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids were swollen and stuck together. Only with an effort was he finally able to open his left eye slightly, just enough to see the fire. It was not dangerous. A ring of fist-sized white stones encircled it. The wood was as bleached as bones. Some of it burned with greenish flames—driftwood! Ollowain tried to sit up, to see better where he was, but his limbs refused to obey. It was as if he consisted of nothing but his head. And . . . why did he not smell the fire? He concentrated entirely on trying to perceive any kind of smell at all, but nothing came. He could not even feel himself inhale. Not in his nose, not in his mouth. And yet his chest rose and fell. And there was a strange, gurgling noise . . . panic overcame him. Was he dead? He tried to turn his head to the side. Impossible!

  His throat was burning. And there was that gurgle again. He was breathing, so why did he not feel it? His body breathed, but no longer through his mouth or nose!

  His tongue lay in his mouth like a numb, bloated slab of meat. It was huge, he knew, and he could hardly move it at all. With its tip, he felt thin threads between his teeth. A bitter taste filled his mouth. Now he remembered: the bees! There were no threads; those were legs, bees’ legs. He had tried to crush with his teeth and tongue the bees that had forced their way into his mouth. He remembered a dagger. Lyndwyn! She had cut his throat. That was the explanation for everything—he was dead!

  “Easy,” a familiar voice warned him. Something soft stroked his forehead. “He’s come around.”

  From beyond the fire came an answer that he did not understand. All sound was muted.

  “You would do best to lie still, swordmaster.” A head framed by short blond hair leaned over him, and a face deformed by numerous red swellings smiled down at him. Ollowain was only able to recognize Yilvina from her voice and hair. Her eyes, too, were swollen closed. She looked down at him through slits so narrow it was impossible to tell the color of her eyes.

  “We are saved. Lyndwyn brought us here.”

  Ollowain wanted to ask where they were, but all that came from his throat was a stertorous gurgle. He tried again. Nothing. He tried to sit up. The gurgling grew louder. His body did not belong to him. He felt his heart racing . . . what was going on with him?

  Yilvina pressed him back down. “Easy. You almost died. Lyndwyn had to cut into your throat to stop you from suffocating.”

  Ollowain tried to raise his hands to his neck. Cut into his throat! What had happened to him? Again, he managed no more than a rattling gurgle. Had that accursed sorceress robbed him of his voice?

  Yilvina drew her short sword and held it so that he could see his throat in the reflective metal. A reed was attached there with a lace of thin leather straps. It seemed to stick deep into his flesh. Ollowain’s chest rose and fell, and again came that unfamiliar gurgle. He was breathing through the reed! How was that possible? What had Lyndwyn done to him?

  “Be calm.” Yilvina laid her hand on his arm. “She will heal you. It will just take a little while.” She lowered her voice. “She is incredibly powerful. Her abilities seem inexhaustible. She created smoke to drive the gardener bees away from the boat, then she drew the bees’ poison out of our blood. For most of us, though, her help came too late. Only Silwyna, Orimedes, and Gondoran are still alive. And the queen. The bees did not harm her at all. And yet she still lies there as if she is dead.” Yilvina shook her head dispiritedly. “Lyndwyn says we don’t need to worry. She has closed the wound in Emerelle’s chest.”

  Where is Lyndwyn now? Ollowain wanted to ask. And he wanted to see the queen. But his body was a prison to him. He closed his eyes and tried to get his thoughts in order. His helplessness was certainly convenient for Lyndwyn. She would take her time healing him. He listened to his rattling breath uneasily. The sound changed. It sounded . . . stickier. Or was he just imagining it? He ought to sleep. His wounds had always healed well, even without the intervention of magic.

  Every time he came close to sleep, he abruptly woke again, and his breathing came harder, pitched higher into a whistle. He was afraid that if he gave himself over to his exhaustion, he might never wake again.

  Finally, though, he nodded off. It was a comfort to give in and simply allow things to follow whatever their natural course might be. No more obligations to fulfill. The warmth of the fire caressed his cheeks. He heard the murmur of a low conversation but was unable to understand what was said. Then he saw the troll in front of him again, that massive warrior who had compared him to a squirrel. With a broad grin, he moved toward Ollowain.

  “Got you where I want you now.” He placed his foot on the swordmaster’s chest. The troll stank of rancid fat. Ollowain could clearly see his toenails, how they curled forward slightly and were rimmed with grime. Very slowly, Urk increased the pressure.

  Ollowain knew it was only a dream. The trolls had been defeated, and he was in a safe place, yet he was unable to breathe. That could not be! Urk could not follow him into his dreams! He had to wake up!

  Blinking, the swordmaster looked around as best he could. He could still open only one eye. The fire had almost burned out. He tried to breathe, but an iron fist seemed to press his throat closed. He tried to scream . . . but no sound escaped his lips. He could hear his companions talking. Very clearly. They were just a few steps away; Lyndwyn was telling them about the Albenpaths.

  He tried again, desperately, to draw attention to himself, but he could not even gurgle. It felt as if someone was crushing his throat with the strength of a troll. Ollowain could neither inhale nor exhale. He wanted to jump to his feet and scream, but all he could manage was to flick one hand. This was Lyndwyn’s work! She had cast some spell to kill him in the night, and when they found him dead, she would tell the others that, sadly, he had succumbed to his injuries!

  “Do you hear that?” Gondoran asked. The conversation immediately ceased. “The gurgling has stopped . . . damn it!”

  Suddenly the holde was over him. He bent close to Ollowain’s throat.

  A smacking sound, and then the air came. So wonderfully cool, so fresh in his throat and lungs.

  Gondoran spat. “Damned mucus. I’ll sit with him.”

  The holde swept the hair from Ollowain’s forehead. Gondoran’s face looked like it always had. He seemed not to have suffered a single sting. With yellow eyes, he scrutinized the swordmaster. “You were lucky. At first I thought she wanted to kill you, although it looked to me as if death already had you in its claws. She cut your throat open. It was a small miracle. Lyndwyn says there is a tube that guides the air from the mouth to the lungs. Because your throat was swollen closed from the bee stings, she had to open it with a blade. To stop the wound from closing again by itself, she pushed the reed into it. A miracle.” He clucked his tongue. “Almost, at least. Alas, the reed occasionally fills up with mucus. We have to keep an eye on you, swordmaster, and listen to your breathing. Now and then, the muck has to be sucked out of the reed, or you might run out of puff after all.”

  Ollowain tried to thank the holde with his eyes. Did he understand? A child was never as helpless as he was now, the swordmaster thought with resignation. All he could do was resist the urge to sleep and hope that his companions did not take their eyes off him again.

  “A ship!” Orimedes called. “There’s a ship on the horizon. It’s heading our way. What should we do?”

  “The swordmaster will decide,”
said a woman’s voice calmly. “Carry him over there and lay him on the sand.”

  Ollowain was lifted up. He could see Silwyna’s back—she also seemed to have escaped the bees unscathed. Her clothes were stiff with grime, as if she had rolled in swamp mud, but she did not look to have been stung at all.

  “Well, Ollowain,” the sorceress said, kneeling beside him where he lay on the sand. “I can well imagine what is going on inside your head. You are one of those men who grabs on to an idea and then has a very hard time letting it go.” Lyndwyn had washed her face; her makeup was gone, and there was no sign of the wound left where the shingle hit her head. Beyond those external appearances, though, she seemed changed. She wore an air of satisfaction that was utterly not in keeping with the situation they were in.

  “I saw you move your hand. Write in the sand, swordmaster. You are giving the orders here. I am a traitor, after all.”

  You are not deceiving me, Ollowain wanted to say, but from his throat came only a long gurgle. He grasped a handful of sand and let it trickle through his fingers. He had no choice. Could it be that Hallandan had escaped with the grand liburna? He had to know what was approaching. To make the right decision, he needed to form some idea of their situation. His fingers moved through the sand. He hoped he was writing legibly, because he could not move his hand far. And he had to keep it brief, or the letters would run together.

  SHOW SHIP

  “Orimedes, take him outside!” the sorceress ordered.

  “But isn’t he still too weak? You said we should move him as little as possible,” the centaur objected.

  “He knows what’s good for him. I will not argue with him about his orders. Do you want to, manhorse?”

  Orimedes leaned down to Ollowain. Like Yilvina, the centaur had also been badly stung. His face and upper body were scabbed and raw where he had scratched open the itchy swellings.

  The prince picked him up in his arms with care and carried him out of the cave. A light breeze touched Ollowain’s face. White rocks jutted from the sand like old bones, rising to form towering cliffs on which mats of green clung and proliferated. In front of them lay a narrow curve of a sandy bay that was surrounded by needles of rock. Ollowain looked out to sea. Individual trees rose from the azure-blue waters, their trunks as thick as towers and crusted with salt. Thirty paces overhead, perhaps higher, where the wildest waves could not reach them, the crowns of the trees spread wide, home to an abundance of fiddler crabs, seagulls, and cormorants. These were the enormous, ancient mertrees that gave the shallow Woodmer its name. Stronger than cliffs, the massive, furrowed trunks defied even the hurricanes of spring. To approach them too closely was dangerous. Spreading rings of spiky aerial roots rose from the sea around them like crowns of thorns, natural ramparts that kept small boats at a respectful distance.

  “Over there,” said Orimedes, nodding westward. Although a great distance separated any two trees, they confused the eye when one looked to the horizon. It was like looking out through gigantic iron bars. Finally, Ollowain made out something dark, a hull, above which black sails spread. The ship was too far away to make out any details, but it looked unsettlingly foreign and far bulkier than any elven ship. It was definitely not the queen’s liburna.

  “Do you see it?” the centaur asked.

  The swordmaster gurgled and cursed inwardly.

  Orimedes carried him back into the cave, holding him close to his chest. A thin, sticky film of perspiration coated the centaur’s skin, and for that moment, at least, Ollowain was glad he could not smell anything.

  The prince laid him back on the ground with care. The swordmaster tried to sit up, but it was no use.

  “Are you also thinking that we ought to leave this island?” Lyndwyn asked.

  YES, he wrote in the sand.

  “There is a large Albenstar here in the cave. Seven paths come together. I have already scouted it. Something strange is going on with the Albenpaths.” The sorceress gestured vaguely in the direction of Vahan Calyd. “Someone is there in the network of paths and is cutting off all of those that lead back to the heartland. We cannot return to Emerelle’s castle. Whoever is up to no good in there must command great power if he is able to destroy the work of the Alben. Is it smart to risk entering the Albenpaths? And where would we go?”

  Ollowain’s finger glided through the sand. There was a place the trolls would not search.

  Lyndwyn looked at him in shock. “Are you sure?”

  “Where does he want to go?” Silwyna asked sharply.

  Ollowain wiped the name away. He thought of the arrows he had seen in the Maurawan’s quiver. She could not be allowed to find out where they were going! They had to leave quickly. No one there should have any opportunity to leave a sign for their pursuers. Ollowain was deeply troubled that their enemies were upon them again so quickly. Was there a traitor among them? Or was it, as Silwyna said, simply because they were such good hunters? He would not take any risks. He had to keep all of them busy, and most importantly of all, they had to leave quickly.

  NOW, he wrote in the sand.

  His fingers erased the word.

  ORIMEDES CARRY QUEEN

  He hoped he was making the right decision. But what choice did they have? They could not surrender to the trolls now. They had to flee, and only Lyndwyn could open this final path for them. Again he was forced to trust her. They needed time now to treat their wounds and to help the queen. When Emerelle was better, she would know what course they had to take.

  “Then let’s go,” said the sorceress sullenly. Orimedes picked up the queen. Silwyna and Yilvina bore Ollowain. Gondoran walked beside them; he seemed downcast.

  The sea had washed out the rocks and cut a deep tunnel back beneath the mountain. Broken shells crunched underfoot, and although the entrance was already far behind them, it was still light. The white rock around them seemed to shine with its own light, like the walls in Emerelle’s palace. It looked transparent, shot through with pale, bluish light. Golden veins traced lines through the rock; they were woven into complex patterns. Spirals and knots seemed to be trying to convey a secret message. The swordmaster felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. He was not at all skilled in sorcery, but even he could feel the power of the ancient magic that suffused the place.

  Eventually, the tunnel opened into a large, round chamber, where black veins mixed with the seams of gold inside the walls. Lyndwyn stepped into the center of the rock chamber and kneeled on the floor. She pressed her left hand flat to the stone and laid her right against her breast. She closed her eyes. Her lips moved.

  Ollowain was well aware of the degree to which he was at the mercy of the sorceress. He had to follow her when she led the group along the paths of light. But they would only find out where Lyndwyn took them when they emerged from the second door.

  An arch of light rose from the chamber floor, and the black and gold veins rose with it; they danced inside the stone like living beings. The blue light grew brighter and brighter. The stone was like glass—one could see through it out to the sea. A large flock of cormorants rose from the mertree at the entrance to the bay and flew seaward. A sign? It was time to go!

  Ollowain moved his head in the direction of the arch of light. It was not the first time that Yilvina stepped through an Albenstar. He had been with her in Aniscans, and they had spent years traveling in the human world. And yet, she seemed tense. Her lips were pressed to a thin line. Together with Silwyna, they stepped through the portal. Darkness wrapped itself around them like an all-smothering cloak. Only a narrow, golden pathway at their feet led away into the darkness.

  “Do not stray from the path!” they heard the sorceress’s voice behind them. “Anyone who loses the way is lost forever.”

  THE GIFT OF FREEDOM

  The body of the false queen was tied to Branbeard’s shield, her head hanging slightly to one side. To stop the crown from falling off, they had pinned it to her skull with thin nails. The shield leaned against the s
oot-blackened column that rose in the middle of the mussel-fishers’ market square. Anyone passing would be able to see the swan crown clearly. And if one were to believe Skanga, the crown by itself would be enough to blind every eye. The burned dead girl looked similar enough to Emerelle, even when seen close up. At her feet lay the false Ollowain and others—the real princes of Albenmark.

  Orgrim felt such deception to be unworthy of a troll, and he suspected that the old shaman had devised it, but the idea to have him among the guards standing watch must certainly have come from Branbeard. From where he stood, he could see all the dukes and pack leaders swarming around the king at their victory feast. His fall from grace could not have been made any more clear to him. Gran and Boltan were also among the guards set to watch over the corpse. Sweet-smelling odors of decay emanated from the girl’s body—as the heat and the countless flies had already taken their toll on it.

  A fearful silence hung over the broad square. All of the Albenkin who had survived the conquest of Vahan Calyd had been herded together there, with only their surviving princes held elsewhere. Many were wounded and at the end of their strength. The trolls had started shunting the survivors to the square before daybreak, and some had been waiting in the heat for hours.

  At Branbeard’s behest, they had brought water barrels and bread. But the king had not managed to quell the fear with that friendly gesture. Hardly any of the survivors dared meet the eye of a troll. How could these creatures truly once have been capable of vanquishing them? Orgrim wondered.

  The sound of horns broke the silence. Branbeard stepped forward from his gathered commanders and took up position beside the dead body that wore the swan crown. He inhaled noisily through his nose and spat on the ground.

  “Albenkin!” he called in a loud voice. “I have come to give you your freedom. The tyrant is dead!” He turned halfway around to Emerelle and, without warning, rammed his fist into the chest of the dead girl. Her thin ribs shattered. Stinking brown fluid oozed from the wound. Branbeard’s fingers rummaged inside the chest cavity; then he jerked his arm free and held a putrid hunk of flesh out toward the prisoners. “A rotting heart has poisoned Albenmark!” he screamed, his voice breaking. “I have now torn it out, to let this land return to health once again. The Alben never wanted one of the races of their children to stand above all others. They never wanted one of us to decide what was just and unjust for all the rest. Or that one alone would say how we all should live, and that those who did not obey were hounded out or even murdered. Last night, we trolls avenged an old injustice. But we are not waging war against Albenmark. We fight only against Emerelle and against all who are true to the tyrant. Which is why you are free to go. Come here, look the dead queen in the face, and carry the tidings to every corner of the land. The races of Albenmark are free! I am the king of my people, but the swan crown will never sit atop my head. And no one will ever bow before it again.”