Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  “Did you learn anything, whelp?” she asked abruptly with her soft, insistent voice. “Did you notice anything about that elf?”

  “Well . . .” The question took Orgrim by surprise. What was this now? Had the old witch decided to make him her pupil? The thought made him shudder. “He was arrogant. But he had courage.” Orgrim lowered his voice. “The way he was able to get to the king . . . I liked that.”

  “Branbeard is not the fool he seems to be. Be careful around him, Orgrim. If he is your enemy, you will not grow to be old.” Skanga rubbed her milky eyes and moved deeper into the shadows. “Did you notice that bastard of an elf never once spoke to the king by his royal title? He mocked him and insulted him with every sentence he spoke. That’s what they are like, the elves. Not a bad word crossed his lips, and yet he did his best to show Branbeard up. But you are right about one thing. He is truly brave. Brave and filled with hate. And he thinks we are stupid. He will be a useful ally.”

  “You trust an elf?” Orgrim asked, surprised.

  Skanga clucked her tongue. “Did you hear me say that? You have to learn to listen closely, whelp. You have what it takes to be a duke.” She smiled inscrutably. “I advise you to stay close to me. It’s likely that Branbeard has also seen what you are capable of. And if he has, he will try to have you killed. I am sure that he would have become a good ruler if not for that fiendish blow he took to his forehead. The stubborn idiot forbade me from using my powers to heal him back then. He was probably afraid that I would kill him. His nose has been running ever since, and that is why he has to spit all the time. It’s destroyed his self-confidence. He’s killed loyal warriors because he got it into his head that they looked at him with ridicule. His flow is slowly driving him insane. He fears me because he believes I will kill him one day to let his soul dress itself in a new body.” She rubbed her eyes again. “Only a madwoman would dare meddle with the delicate balance of death and rebirth. His hour will come without any assistance from me.”

  Orgrim, on his guard, said nothing. He had the feeling that whatever he might say could only be wrong. He had already come too close to the royal court. Better to sit with regular warriors at one of the large fires and to celebrate their victory with a feast.

  Skanga rose with a sigh. “I will be expecting you one hour before sundown in my tent at the harbor. Something is going to happen this night that you should see.” She seemed less fragile now than she had earlier. Perhaps because she was a creature of the shadows? Orgrim did not like the idea of visiting the shaman in her tent at all. And at the same time as the elves . . . What was she planning?

  “Incidentally, Orgrim.” Skanga had stopped but did not turn around to him. “You really ought to try the lamassu from the spit. Its meat tastes like beef, but there is also a touch of poultry in it . . . very unusual. You won’t soon have another chance to sample a delicacy like that. And they say he fought well. In the water garden close to the swamps, he beat a pack of our warriors singlehandedly. A second pack of hunters cornered him in the caves beneath the city and beat him to death. That is good meat, Orgrim. Very good meat.”

  THE ARROW IN THE THROAT

  The frenzied barking of dogs woke Ole with a start. His head buzzed like a beehive. He had fallen asleep beside his bowl of millet gruel, and the table was sticky with spilled mead. “Shut up, you miserable curs!” he bawled, and regretted it instantly. If the barking of the dogs was like a dagger in his skull, his own yelling hit him like an axe. That wretched mead! He had drunk too much too early in the day!

  Dazed, he rose to his feet. Little light made it through the tiny window covered with thinly shaved leather. Outside, the yapping grew more frenzied. He’d been through this before, just a few weeks earlier, when a fox had dared to go strutting between the kennels and his dogs had gone almost insane because they could not get at the bushy-tailed beast.

  Beside the door hung the broad bandolier equipped with all his whips—one for each dog, seven in all. He threw the belt over his shoulder and picked up a heavy wooden club leaning against the table. Those mongrels would soon learn who they were dealing with! He’d tan their miserable hides. That was the only way to teach a dog anything.

  When Ole opened his door, the dogs immediately fell silent. Cowards! They knew what was coming. He’d teach them not to let a mangy fox get to them!

  The sun was low over the houses in the west. The light hit him like two glowing arrows shot through his eyes. The goddamned mead! He felt as if his head would burst at any moment. The pain made him nauseous. He leaned against the door frame for support.

  Only now did he realize that the birds in the trees were not twittering; the outside world had grown eerily silent. He blinked. Someone was there, a figure! Standing in front of him as if from nowhere. Against the light, all he saw in the first moment was a dark outline. His eyes watered.

  “Which house is the one of Alfadas?” asked a woman’s voice, somehow strange. Whoever spoke was not from the Fjordlands. The voice was lilting and musical. Even the simple words sounded like a quiet song. “I am not a master of your language. Please excuse me.”

  Slowly, the silhouette began to take on color. Ole rubbed his teary eyes. A woman, a stranger, was standing in front of him. Her long hair was combed back and woven into a braid. Her clothes were stiff with dried mud. Unusual clothes—a very tight-fitting leather doublet and torn breeches that revealed an indecent amount of leg. Her white thighs looked very nice indeed . . . Ole felt himself becoming aroused. Was she perhaps a traveling whore? And she’d come knocking on his door! Luth was being good to him today. She even held a wanderer’s staff in her hand. Long, slender fingers . . . he imagined them closing around his staff. She was a little on the skinny side, perhaps, but he wasn’t about to haggle with fate.

  “Do you understand me? I have not speak your language for a long time.” She smiled apologetically.

  Unbelievable, thought Ole. She still had all her teeth, and they gleamed white as glacial ice. “I understand you well. Very well.” He reached for her arm. “I know what you need now. Come inside.” He blinked. Now he could see clearly. Her eyes! By the gods! They looked like the eyes of a wolf. And her ears! Ole released her arm. He had never seen such ears on a human. Long and pointed.

  “I need Alfadas,” said the stranger, still friendly. “Is he in there?”

  Ole had to hold the door frame to stay on his feet. He felt as if his legs might give way under him at any moment. The jarl had sent for the elves! If only he’d kept his mouth shut the night before and not let himself get carried away. If only he had not insulted Alfadas. “I . . . well . . . ,” he stammered. “Please don’t hurt me!” Now he saw that what the elf held in her hands was no walker’s staff. It was an unstrung bow.

  “You smell of fear, like your dogs. Why? What reason do you have to fear me?”

  Ole’s tongue felt nailed to his palate. He could not speak a word, and his whole body trembled.

  “Are you sick maybe, human? Come, I will take you to the huts there so your people can take care of you.” She slung her arm beneath his and pulled him along with her. She smelled strange. Like the forest. Very different from a human. The only familiar odor about her was a tinge of smoke. She was strong, too. She supported him easily and helped him walk.

  The dogs lay flat on the floors of their kennels and did not move. They knew who had come to get them.

  When they were halfway around the house, he saw the others. Several elves and a horse with a human torso growing from its chest! Ole felt his bladder desert him. By the gods, if only he’d held his tongue! If he survived this night, would never say a bad word about the jarl again!

  The manhorse was holding a girl with a burned face in his arms, and beside him trotted an ugly little fellow who looked slyly at Ole from his yellow eyes. A broken arrow stuck from the throat of one of the elves, but he was alive! The little party looked rather down-and-out in their grimy, torn clothes, and almost all of them were wounded. The manhorse and
two others had a strange skin affliction. Not scratches or a rash, but it did not look good. Fat, red swellings disfigured their faces.

  The elf woman supporting him showed no reaction when he pissed his trousers, but the little fellow with the yellow eyes gave him an evil leer when he saw the wet patch.

  Ole’s hut lay almost a mile from Firnstayn. It stood high above the shore of the fjord, and from there one had a good view toward the village. The elf woman pointed to the small settlement and repeated her question about the jarl’s house.

  Ole pointed to a long wooden structure on the edge of the village, and the elf with the arrow in his throat gurgled and pointed in a wide arc around the village. Apparently, they wanted to draw as little attention as possible. Ole hoped that the watchtower was occupied, but he knew very well that this particular duty was rarely taken seriously. There had been no threat from enemies for many years.

  The small group turned to leave. “I am sure they will help you,” the elf still supporting him said.

  “I’m all right,” Ole insisted. “I can see to myself, thank you. You don’t have to go to any trouble.”

  The huntress looked at him doubtfully and said something to the man with the arrow in his throat, who stopped. The little creature answered in his stead, and it sounded disparaging. The manhorse laughed.

  “My companions believe that you are not seriously ill and that we can leave you here. I would like to apologize on behalf of all of us if we did frighten you.” She helped him to sit down on a rock by the wayside. Then she set off with the others.

  Soon they left the path to the village and sought cover in the undergrowth along the edge of the forest. They quickly disappeared from view.

  The dog breeder looked up at the Hartungscliff. The mountain looked as it always did. He had expected to see banners flying among the standing stones or even to see more elves. There was nothing.

  “Thank you, Luth,” Ole murmured. He would soon climb into the mountains and make an offering to the ironbeards. The weaver of fate had shown himself merciful.

  But before he set off on his pilgrimage, he urgently had to warn the Firnstayners. They needed to know what kind of mob had arrived to take refuge under the jarl’s roof. Manhorses, elves, and kobolds! He had always known that no good would come of accepting that half-blooded Alfadas into the village. Those friends of his meant trouble! He could smell it!

  But before he did any of that, he had to change his trousers.

  THE RITUAL

  The crimson sky of evening colored the harbor waters as red as freshly spilled blood. The burned-out hulks of the elven ships drifted on the incoming tide, and the harbor swarmed with sharks. Greedily, they fought over the carrion. It was oppressively humid, and an unbearable smell of decomposition hung over the water. Sweat ran down Orgrim’s naked torso in broad bands. He looked back to the city with mixed feelings. He had left his weapons and his few possessions behind. He hoped that Boltan would look after them. When Orgrim, not half an hour earlier, arrived at the harbor, Skanga had immediately ordered him aboard her ship, the Wraithwind. There had been no time to return to the city and collect his things.

  The water foamed to starboard. Huge jaws loomed from the water and sliced through one of the floating bodies with a single bite. A severed arm turned slowly in the red tide; it seemed to wave good-bye to Orgrim, and then it sank.

  The troll turned away, feeling uneasy. Skanga had not said what she wanted from him or to where they were sailing. The large ship glided between the two towers, lit pale white, at the harbor entrance. The sea lay before them, as smooth as a mirror. There was not the slightest breath of wind, and yet the Wraithwind’s sail creaked and filled. Orgrim had heard many stories about the shaman’s ship. If he had known that she did not want to meet him in her tent but would order him aboard this cursed ship, he would not have appeared at all.

  Skanga stood on the quarterdeck. She had placed one hand solemnly over her heart and gazed eastward.

  As if part of some kind of ceremonial procession, wedge-shaped shark fins skimmed toward the harbor. There must have been hundreds of them. For the moment, Orgrim’s anger at all the spoiled meat overcame his fear. He had heard rumors of a great feast supposed to take place in the Rose Tower the following day . . . the way things looked, he was not likely to be back in time to enjoy it.

  Shahondin and his son stood a little forward, beside the mainmast of the Wraithwind. How could Skanga trust those two imps? They were traitors to their own race! Why should they consider for a moment being loyal to the trolls?

  The large galleass made good headway. Its bows swung lazily toward the east, toward the Woodmer. Orgrim crouched by the bulwark and observed the crew. It was said that Skanga personally chose every member of her crew. Some of his own men had been ordered aboard the Wraithwind before the invasion. The shaman had wanted Boltan, too, and Orgrim had kept his artillery chief only because he had been badly injured in the fireball incident.

  Orgrim nervously considered the possibility that Skanga was attracted to him . . . she did have a certain reputation. Orgrim would prefer to never share his bed with a female again than share it with that old gorgon. She should have her fun with the two elves instead. He grinned to think what Skanga would do with the puffed-up bastards! Now it was the elves’ turn to learn what it meant to be at the mercy of the victors. His thoughts drifted, and he found himself brooding about his chances of ever again being chosen by a female. The night after he was appointed pack leader was also the first time he was chosen. It was always the women who decided whom they gave themselves to. And they took only the most renowned or the biggest warriors. Gran, despite his lowly rank, was highly regarded among them, thought Orgrim enviously. And he missed no opportunity to boast about his adventures.

  For every ten warriors, there was one female, and many trolls waited a lifetime without ever being chosen. That was the curse of his race. Their females were not infertile, as was said of the elves, among whom few children were born. Most of the troll women had new offspring regularly. But they were a race of warriors. The females were kept safely out of harm’s way and well guarded inside their rocky fortresses. Each one had three or four bodyguards to order around.

  Orgrim thought of the sway Skanga held over the king. Maybe, secretly, they were a race ruled by their womenfolk. He smiled at the thought. Outsiders never set eyes on a troll woman. There was a legend among the other Albenkin that trolls were born from solid rock in dark caves. Let them believe it! It would fan the flames of the troll fear so many of them shared.

  The gentle roll of the swell made him doze. It was very agreeable not to have responsibility for the ship one was traveling aboard. Half-asleep, he thought back to the few nights that he had spent with women. He recalled the sex-crazed bouts, the odor of their bodies dripping sweat, the magnificent tattoos on his lovers’ shaven heads, their voluptuous breasts and strong, willing hands.

  A shout roused Orgrim from his slumber. He sensed the slowing of the ship. Squinting, he looked around. The moon was high in the heavens, and he estimated that three or four hours had passed since they had left Vahan Calyd. Two anchors rattled into the water, and with a block and tackle roped to the mainmast, one of the Wraithwind’s large boats was lowered into the water. The sailors carried out their tasks flawlessly, but the mood on board was depressed. No one cursed. No one laughed. The men did their work in grim silence. An aura of fear lay over the Wraithwind.

  A troop of oarsmen gathered amidships, under the command of a young pack leader. Around them, Orgrim could see enormous mertrees looming from the sea. The Wraithwind must have sailed far out onto the Woodmer while he slept. About half a mile distant, an island jutted from the water like a huge fang. On the beach at its base burned several fires.

  Dragging footsteps made Orgrim turn. Skanga! She stepped to the bulwark and waved him over, then nodded sharply toward the island. “Our spies picked up the scent of the escapees there at midday, then lost it again,” the shaman
explained. “There is a large Albenstar there. I suspected that Emerelle and those faithful to her would come to a place like this. They were fast.”

  “Will we still be able to catch them?”

  Skanga looked at him and frowned. “Do you doubt my skill? The elves have bought themselves a little time, no more. In the labyrinth of the Albenpaths, there are thousands of ways they could have taken. I shall need to use some special sorcery tonight . . .” She looked to the two elves. “And our two honored elven princes will help me greatly with it. Come with me, Orgrim. I want you to understand all that happens tonight.”

  Skanga climbed into a seat made of woven leather strips and had the crew heave her overboard with the block and tackle and lower her to the ship’s boat. Supported by two warriors, she climbed out and sat in the smaller boat. Then, without warning, a large group of trolls fell on Shahondin and Vahelmin. The elves were bound and gagged, their protests ignored, then tossed unceremoniously over the side of the ship. They were fished from the sea with long poles by trolls already in the ship’s boat. Orgrim stood and watched with mixed feelings. The entire day, Skanga had been asserting how important the two elves were. And then they were thrown overboard just to save the toil of lowering them with the block and tackle.

  Orgrim climbed down the rope ladder and dropped into the bow of the boat. The oarsmen pushed the small vessel away from the hull of the Wraithwind and began to row with all their strength. They made sure they kept a respectable amount of water between them and the mertrees, with their rings of spiky roots. The moon glazed the sea with metallic light. Every wave and every cliff stood out with unusual clarity against the silvery water. Orgrim could see crabs climbing the deeply grooved trunks of the giant trees. What a strange part of the world they were in! With trees that abandoned the land and put down roots in the open ocean, and crabs that left the sea to climb trees. What did the little creatures do up there among the branches? Were they nesting?