Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  The courtiers rushed to get out of the king’s sight. Only Alfadas stayed. “You should think again, Horsa. Albenmark is no place for humans.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” the king grumbled. “Afraid you’ll no longer be the only man in the Fjordlands who’s been among the Albenfolk? My decision is made! And don’t start with the stories about cave bears and trolls. A brave warrior can beat any opponent.”

  “You cannot imagine—”

  “Oh, I can, Duke. I can imagine very well indeed. Those who return will come back as warriors that nothing and no one in this world can stand up to. With those men under me, I will occupy the entire north. And because they will be heroes, the elves will give them enchanted weapons. And because we stood by the elves in their hour of greatest need, they will be in our debt forever. I will discuss all of that with Emerelle.”

  “My king, I—”

  “No!” Horsa wiped his forehead nervously. “All this talk is making my head explode. Come down to the harbor. They’re already loading the boat. I fear I am not in a fit state to sit a saddle. We will be taking the ferry.”

  “Which ferry?”

  But Horsa only grunted something unintelligible and ambled away. Then he turned back one more time. “Bring that nag of yours with you. We’re in a hurry.”

  So that’s it, thought Alfadas angrily. The mask was off. Horsa wanted to found an empire, and he was determined to win the elves as his ally. All the mead had finally fogged his brain for good!

  Alfadas saddled his horse. Again, he took his time. He could not stop the old man, and Horsa was beloved among the soldiers. He had to give the king more time to destroy himself. He would not sit back and watch Horsa become a tyrant. And because the aging ruler knew that all too well, he—Alfadas—had to go. But if a handful of men survived the terrors awaiting them in Albenmark, Alfadas thought, then he would have a troop at his command that could topple the king. And maybe the assistance offered by the elves would look very different from what Horsa was expecting.

  With reins loose, Alfadas rode slowly down to the harbor. It had begun to rain again. The mountains on the far side of the fjord had disappeared behind banks of cloud, and the open waters of the fjord now looked as wide as the sea. If Horsa were to fall overboard . . . the heavy mail shirt he always wore would drag him down to share King Osaberg’s grave.

  There was turmoil at the ferry mooring. By the time Alfadas arrived, the king seemed to have just arrived himself. For a moment, Alfadas had to smile. Sigvald had wasted no time: the large wagon with its linen cover and four heavy red horses were already on board, the wagon tied securely in place. So that was how they were going to get it to Firnstayn. Who had the wainwright had to bribe to borrow the only ferry from Honnigsvald for a few days?

  “It was never my intention to stand in the way of the king, of course,” the jarl heard the voice of his trading partner from earlier in the day. Sigvald was surrounded by three soldiers, one of whom had placed a hand threateningly on his shoulder.

  “What’s going on here?” Alfadas called, urging his gray forward through the crowd.

  “This bastard is stealing the king’s ferry!” one of Horsa’s bodyguards shouted. “They ought to tie him to a millstone and toss him into the fjord.”

  “This bastard, as you call him, is acting on my orders. If you accuse him, then you are accusing me of collusion in the theft of this boat that allegedly belongs to the king.” Alfadas swung out of the saddle. He swept his cloak back from his left shoulder to show his sword. “Do you really think you want to call me a thief? You would force me to defend my honor with your blood. But it was probably just a misunderstanding. We both know, after all, that the king does not own the ferry of the city of Honnigsvald, which means that one cannot steal it from him.”

  The bodyguard took a step back. “You don’t scare me, Elvenjarl,” he said defiantly. He drew the heavy axe from his belt. He held on to it so tightly that his knuckles were white. “I won’t let you call me a liar.”

  A quick glance and Alfadas knew that neither of the other two bodyguards would interfere. One of them was Ragni, the king’s man who had heard the horn the other night and who had accompanied Alfadas on two of his annual campaigns—he had seen Alfadas fight.

  “Enough!” Horsa stepped through the crowd of spectators. “Ulf! Put your axe away and get on board. I appreciate your willingness to fight for your king. You’re a good man. But you’ve chosen the wrong opponent here. I still need my duke.” Then he went on quietly to Alfadas. “What’s all this nonsense about the wagon? Tell them to unload it.”

  “It’s a present for my wife.”

  Horsa peered at him intently; then he suddenly burst out in raucous laughter and began to cough. “You’re giving your wife a wagon?” he blurted. “You’re madder than I gave you credit for, my elvenjarl. Women love trinkets. Jewels and pretty cloth. Some like a good copper kettle or an iron pan. But I’ve never heard of a woman who would thank you for a hay cart and a four-horse team. Come, let them clear the ferry. Our departure’s been delayed long enough. We won’t all fit on the boat.”

  “Have you considered the practical side of this particular freight?” asked Alfadas calmly. “Beneath that tarpaulin, you can sit out of the rain for the entire journey, my king.” The jarl glanced up at the cloud-covered sky. “The way things look, we will get our share of rain, and we certainly won’t make it all the way to Firnstayn tonight, and there isn’t a single dry place to spend the night between here and there. Aren’t you a little beyond the age when one will happily sleep in the mud, Horsa?” To avoid offending the king, Alfadas spoke so quietly that those standing around could not overhear him. “And why travel with a large entourage anyway? You won’t need bodyguards on the fjord. A few servants, perhaps, and an adviser or two. You don’t even need horses. From the shore to my house is hardly three hundred paces. There’s enough room on the ferry if you can do without some of your followers for a few days.”

  Horsa stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I’ll need my cupbearer and Dalla.” He pointed to a pretty young woman standing some way away from the men and looking out over the fjord. “You know what the worst ailment of getting old is, Duke?” He scratched at his crotch. “Everything gets stiff, except this—but Dalla is an excellent healer. And no doubt, she will also serve the elven queen well.”

  Alfadas looked at the red-haired girl again. He doubted whether Emerelle needed the assistance of a healer who specialized in stiff body parts. But he decided against sharing his opinion with the king.

  “Let’s get on board the damned ferry,” Horsa ordered. “If I stand around in this cold drizzle any longer, I won’t even be able to lift a mead horn by myself tonight. Dalla, take your bags and get under the tarpaulin on that wagon. I’ll see to you soon. Bring a few hides to the ferry. At my age, you don’t sit on cold planks with a naked ass.” The king chose three soldiers to help the ferrymen with the rowing, and then the boat slid out onto the waters clear of the shore. Horsa joined the healer beneath the tarpaulin even before they were out of sight of Honnigsvald.

  Alfadas thought again about how no one would be surprised if a drunk old man who climbed out of his bed at night to relieve himself fell overboard. The gunwales of the ferry were not even knee-high. And the loose rope that served as a handrail would hardly save the old man if he lost his balance . . .

  IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT

  Alfadas sat up, instantly awake. Something on board the ferry had changed. The jarl lay wrapped in a blanket between the high wheels of the wagon. He listened to the noises of the night. The ferryboat had dropped anchor in a small bay. With the onset of dusk, the three brothers had refused to row on. Horsa had sworn at them and threatened to have them drowned, but finally even he had had to accept the dictates of reason. The ferrymen did not know this part of the fjord. They knew nothing about the currents or about any hidden reefs. Sailing on blindly would have been the height of stupidity.

  Veleif had done h
is best to dispel the irritable mood on board with his songs. The king’s followers had been reduced to the skald, Dalla the healer, and Horsa’s three bodyguards. After a short supper, they had bedded down for the night . . . at least, as well as they could. Alfadas and the others had sought shelter from the drizzling rain between the wheels of the wagon, while over them on the wagon bed Horsa had his pretty healer provide him with one of her special treatments for stiffness. The snorts and groans of the old king had been their lullaby, and Alfadas had managed to sleep only when the din overhead transformed into a throaty snore. The sounds of lovemaking directly above him had aroused him, which in turn made him angry because he despised the old lecher’s behavior.

  Alfadas pushed those thoughts aside and tried to concentrate on the night sounds. What had changed? The rain had stopped long before. Little waves rippled around the ferryboat. The hawsers holding the anchors grated against the sides of the boat. Alfadas listened to the breathing of the men beside him. Then he heard the timbers of the wagon creak. The king! The snoring had stopped. Horsa was rising. Now the tarpaulin was thrown back. For an old man, he could move surprisingly quietly. Alfadas could make Horsa out at all. There had been a time when he had openly admired the old man, but now he had to get him to see the folly of his plan! Cautiously, he pushed back his blanket. His hands grasped the wheel beside his head, and he pulled himself out from beneath the wagon. The other men continued to breathe slowly and regularly. Everyone else slept.

  Horsa had moved forward to the bow. He was looking eastward. He wore a heavy fur thrown across his shoulders that made his form look more solid, but the thin legs beneath stood in grotesque contrast.

  The deck was still wet from the rain. A chill ate into Alfadas’s naked feet. This was the opportunity he had thought of when they left Honnigsvald. Except that Horsa was not wearing any mail. Could he swim? Even if he could not, he would stay above water long enough to wake everyone with his shouting.

  “You’ve never been wounded in battle, have you, Alfadas?” asked Horsa quietly.

  The jarl was surprised that the old man had heard him. He stepped to the king’s side.

  “You don’t know how it is to lie among the wounded,” Horsa continued. “It is never as wonderfully silent as it is here, now. They groan. Some cry or pray to the gods or lie there and curse their fate. They fight through the night because they are afraid of the darkness. They wait for dawn to come before they die. Strange, don’t you think?”

  “Yes. Strange,” Alfadas replied. Did Horsa suspect something?

  “I’ve been injured in battle seventeen times, eight times severely enough that I lay among them. The healer wanted to move me away because I was the king, but I felt more alive when I was surrounded by men who were worse off than me. I imagined that, among them, death would overlook me. It’s the same when I lie there with a young woman in my arms. Then it is like things used to be . . . for a while. Every night, I have to get up once or twice to pass water. The only time I sleep through the night is when I have drunk very much. And I wake in a wet bed.” He laughed bitterly. “Even you will lose this battle, Alfadas. Age cannot be defeated. Unless you die young.”

  So that’s what this is about, Alfadas thought. “Is that why you are sending me to Albenmark? To save me from old age?”

  The king did not answer. He stared out over the water in silence. From somewhere out in the darkness came the sound of a splash. A jumping fish?

  “If I did not have Veleif in my court, there would already be songs in circulation about Horsa the bed wetter,” the king abruptly said. “My skald appreciates hot food every day and a good coat in winter. And his songs are better than those of the other skalds. He is a good man to listen to . . . it is important to keep hold of such things. I guess I should be glad about your foolishness with that wagon, Alfadas. It is better if only a few have seen the elves. And I have listened to you, Duke. Every word. I will visit the queen alone so that no one will be witness to our conversation. No one but you. I need an interpreter, after all.”

  “She won’t be able . . .”

  “I know. I said, I listened. She is bedridden and insensible. But Veleif will sing of how her beauty is so blinding that the mere sight of her drives men mad and that this is the reason she has hidden herself away inside your house since she arrived. That is a much better story than the reality. One expects even an elven queen on the run to be unapproachable and intimidating. You will be my witness to how she asked us for help.”

  “And if I don’t lie?”

  “Then I have a skald who will tell my story. By the time we are back in Honnigsvald, he will have composed a few pretty verses about Horsa, Alfadas, and the elven queen. I am certain that they will be most moving.”

  The jarl stepped closer to Horsa’s side. He laid one arm across his shoulders. Alfadas wondered if he was strong enough to strangle Horsa. The king would have to be dead already when he entered the water. He must have no chance to scream!

  “I wish I had a son like you, Alfadas. By the gods, I’ve spread my seed far and wide, and Luth alone knows how many women I’ve humped! And yet I have only one son. You know Egil, of course. He is not the son that one, as a father, would wish to have. Last summer, he stabbed a girl to death because she did not want to let him have his way with her. He talks big and considers himself a gifted swordsman, but it is his so-called friends who constantly let him win. He is a piece of shit. And still, he is my son. You know, of course, how it is to have a son, Alfadas. Whatever he does, you as his father keep one hand over him protectively.”

  A mournful cry sounded across the water. In the east, a thin gray-silver line marked the outline of the mountains.

  “A kingfisher greeting the dawn.” Horsa rubbed his hands on his arms. “Not something I will hear many more times.”

  Beneath the wagon, someone stretched. Alfadas saw Mag, the ferryman with the brand on his cheek, sit up. The moment had passed! “I will swear my allegiance to your son,” Alfadas said.

  “Of course you will. And you will mean it. But you are a good man. It is only a matter of time before you rise against him. We both know it. And you are not the only good man in the Fjordlands. I will indeed send my best men to the elves . . . every man who I believe would make a better king than Egil.”

  “That makes no sense, Horsa. What will happen when our neighbors discover our weakness and attack?”

  The king sniffed contemptuously. “Our neighbors . . . countries ruled by women. You have put all of them in their place. Your victories, Alfadas, have bought time for Egil. And who knows, maybe he will grow into his kingdom if he only has a few years to do so.”

  “And if I return with the warriors?” Alfadas asked, more in defiance than because he actually believed it.

  “I have thought about your comparison to the cave bears, Duke. It is certainly possible for men to kill a single one of those beasts. But if dozens were to attack, under the command of a half-competent leader and were armed to boot . . . how can humans possibly withstand such a force, even with the best duke in the world leading them? The trolls were able to beat the elves. How can you possibly succeed?”

  Again, the call of the kingfisher sounded over the water, a plaintive rise and fall. More sounds came from the wagon as the men woke, one after another. Mag was on his feet and checking the hawsers. The first red glimmer of morning shone beyond the distant peaks, their snow-covered summits mirrored in the crystal waters of the fjord.

  “I fear you have missed your chance, Alfadas,” said Horsa suddenly.

  “What do you mean?”

  The king turned to face him. There was sadness in his eye. “We both know what I mean. I tried to make it easy for you. It would not have been a bad end for me. To disappear, just like that . . . Veleif would surely have turned it into a good saga. One can be too honorable, Alfadas.”

  THE SAGA OF HORSA STARKSHIELD

  So beautiful was the visage of Emelda, queen of all the elves, that she hid her face away
from human eyes, for every man who looked upon her fell instantly and eternally in love. And so she commanded that a tent be erected on a boat in the middle of the fjord, and only Horsa should attend her, as he was the sturdiest and strongest willed of all men. And the queen, who ruled over treasures beyond counting and the powers of magic, kneeled before Horsa and bade him send his most courageous soldiers to help them, and Alfadas as well, his duke.

  Horsa lifted her up, for to see her kneel like that pained his heart. And her breath like the breath of flowers brushed his face. But when Emelda sensed the strength of the king’s arms and read the virtue in his own face, she was seized by a deep affection for Horsa.

  And thus they stayed a day and a night in the tent on the fjord, and not a sound was heard from either. Her armed warriors grew restless, for their queen had never spent so long with one man. When a second night passed and the call of the kingfisher carried across the waters, they determined to go out from their encampment to their queen. But Emelda emerged from her tent before them, hurrying on the fog across the waters as if the vapors beneath her feet were solid ground. And within a heartbeat, she and all who had come with her were gone.

  When Alfadas rowed out to the tent to see that his monarch was not harmed, he found Horsa in a deep sleep. His hair had turned as white as snow, his skin was withered, and his face was deeply furrowed. He had paid the price for his encounter with an immortal. His power was depleted, bound in an alliance with the elves, now and forever more.

  Excerpted from the Saga of Horsa Starkshield,

  by Veleif Silberhand, Song 72

  THE SKYHALL

  Ollowain looked down from the stone circle at the small village that had been his safe harbor for the last week. He had a bad conscience about leaving Emerelle behind, but he could not risk taking her back to Albenmark before he knew what was going on.