Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  The Skyhall might have grown, but nothing of the main characteristics of Normirga society had changed. Ollowain was shocked at how fast he himself had reverted to the pompous tone of voice of his own race. Or had he never really shaken it off?

  Grapes, pears, apples, and nuts were arranged picturesquely on a silver platter on a narrow table. A crystal carafe of red wine and four sumptuous glasses completed the still life.

  Ollowain took a large grape and ate it. Ronardin stood at the pavilion entrance and avoided looking at either of them. He had clearly not yet gotten over the slanderous accusation that he had looked salaciously at Lyndwyn and now was scrupulous in keeping his back to her. The swordmaster smiled. Ronardin must still be very young or else he would have been aware that behaving as he was, he opened himself to a charge of not paying proper attention to a guest.

  There was something soothing about the view out into the enormous cavern, with its artificially terraced walls. Ollowain enjoyed the sweet grape and the wine, spiced as it was with honey, cinnamon, and cloves. It was easy to feel at home in Phylangan, if one only fell into line with the laws of the Normirga.

  Lyndwyn had taken a seat on a bench. She sat in a rather unladylike manner, legs apart, leaning back. She looked bored and tired and had plucked a grape for herself. Lost in thought, she rolled the fruit between her fingers.

  The pavilion was a good place to wait. Ollowain’s eyes wandered over the forested terraces. He would be able to sit there for hours without tiring of the sight. A view of nature can heal your soul, his mother had once told him centuries before. At that time, he had been too impatient to open himself to that truth, and he had also been too young to suffer an injured soul. Only time had convinced him of the wisdom in his mother’s words.

  “My boy! How lovely to see you!” Landoran had stepped into the pavilion without a sound. He had always loved appearing unexpectedly. And with his very first words, he made it clear to Ollowain that nothing at all had changed in their relationship. For the prince, Ollowain was still a boy. No amount of renown could remove the flaw that clung to him. As far as that was concerned, the laws of the Normirga were clear and unremitting. A man who was unable, with his own power and without effort, to protect himself from the intense cold of the land remained a boy. It made no difference how old he was or what he had achieved. He was prohibited from leaving the fortress unaccompanied, as the freezing cold out there could kill within hours. But what might at first glance look like thoughtfulness had been devised to strengthen the hand of those who could work magic. No other elven race was as proud of their magical prowess as the Normirga. And because those who were not blessed with that gift were essentially unable to find a way to leave the fortress, the rest of the Albenkin only ever met powerful sorcerers from that northern race. The most important of all those weavers of magic, Emerelle, came from the Normirga. That Ollowain had managed to break free of that tyranny had left a bad taste in the mouth of many of his race. Ollowain recalled that he, too, had inherited the gift. But on the day of his mother’s death, his magical powers were extinguished. Sometimes, the swordmaster believed that it was perhaps only the will to wield those powers that had died in him. He looked at his father, who embodied more than perhaps any other elf the image of the Normirga held by the Albenkin. He radiated coldness and power, and it was difficult to look him in the eye for long.

  “You have not changed,” Ollowain replied. He held one hand out to Landoran to keep him at arm’s length and avoid an embrace. Landoran’s handshake was firm. The prince had silver-gray hair and wore a long, flowing robe of dark-gray silk. His face looked emaciated. A thin silver circlet held his long hair back—his father had aged visibly since the last time they had met. Only in his eyes did the old power still burn. He emanated a scent of fresh greenery, as if he had just been interrupted in the middle of trimming a rosebush.

  “It is good to see that you are not among the dead, boy.” The prince smiled. “I would have been very disappointed if the news that reached us were true.”

  “I see that you are well-informed, Prince.”

  “Bad news travels fast.” Landoran pulled off a few grapes. “They say the queen is dead. The trolls put her on display in a public square and forced all the survivors to walk past her.”

  “I assume the body was not in particularly good condition.”

  The prince pushed a grape into his mouth. “She wore the swan crown.”

  “Is it that simple? A crown is enough to turn a dead girl into a queen?”

  “You know how things are with Emerelle, boy. She has as many enemies as friends.” He glanced fleetingly at Lyndwyn. “For some of the princely clans, it is, in fact, that simple.”

  “Is that how things stand for your own clan?”

  Landoran raised one eyebrow. “What exactly do you want? Why have you come here, Ollowain? I am sure it was not easy for you to get here.”

  “I came to warn you about the trolls. You know that they will come here. And there will certainly be a few thousand of them.”

  “Imagine a few thousand more and then double it.” Landoran pushed another grape into his mouth. “The word is that there are twenty thousand of them.”

  Ollowain looked at him in surprise. “Impossible! So many . . .”

  “Just believe me. I have it from a refugee. There are almost a hundred troll ships anchored outside the harbor at Vahan Calyd. And every one has more than two hundred of those bloodthirsty monsters on board. Their years in the human world have been good to them, it seems. They’ve been breeding like kobolds.”

  “Twenty thousand?” Ollowain repeated in disbelief. He tried to imagine such an immense number of troll warriors. That would not be an army anymore. That would be a force of nature! “They will come here,” said Ollowain, to drive home his point. “How will you stop them, Landoran?”

  “No one has ever conquered the walls of Phylangan. They will be smashed against the ramparts of this fortress like even the mightiest wave shatters against a coastal cliff. The stone garden will never fall!”

  “Are you so sure of that? We have never heard of trolls traveling by ship before and likewise never heard of such an overwhelming army of trolls. The word never seems to have lost all meaning for the trolls.”

  “Don’t you think you might be panicking just a little, boy?”

  “I could never have imagined that I would one day watch Vahan Calyd burn!” the swordmaster replied harshly. “And yet it happened. Don’t make the mistake of closing your eyes in blind optimism to what is coming this way.”

  “I was, in fact, rather seriously disquieted before the two of you appeared here,” Landoran admitted. “But you have been kind enough to bring the solution to all our problems with you.” He turned to Lyndwyn with a smile. “This young and, dare I say, somewhat unsuitably attired woman, who has clearly not enjoyed the benefits of a courtly upbringing, will be of immeasurable assistance to us. In particular with what she is carrying—so well hidden from a curious glance—around her neck. When Ronardin asked you for proof that you really are emissaries of the queen, you could easily have admitted that Emerelle had sent you here with her Albenstone. Did you perhaps think that I would not sense the aura of its power? With its might, we will succeed in overcoming all threats.”

  If not for Landoran’s presence, Ollowain could happily have slapped Lyndwyn—she had stolen the most precious artifact of the elven race from the unconscious queen. The stone that had once been given to them by the Alben themselves before the mysterious ancients had disappeared forever. It was said that each of their races had received such a stone, each of which contained almost immeasurable power. Used wisely, one could change the world with such a stone.

  Landoran could not be allowed to know that Lyndwyn had stolen the stone. If he did, he would very likely not hesitate to take the valuable relic for himself. “Do you realize the importance of our mission now?” asked Ollowain defiantly. “Emerelle has permitted Lyndwyn to use the Albenstone to defend Ph
ylangan. At all costs, the queen wants to prevent a second massacre like the one at Vahan Calyd.”

  “Where is Emerelle now?” Landoran asked casually.

  “In a place from where she is preparing the defense of Albenmark.”

  “Would not our fortress here be the best place for that?”

  Was that a trace of uncertainty he detected in the prince’s voice? His face betrayed no emotion at all, yet he seemed tense. He pressed the last grape between his thumb and forefinger to the point where it might burst at any moment. When Landoran realized what Ollowain was looking at, he popped the grape into his mouth.

  “Emerelle is not a warrior,” the swordmaster replied with conviction. He did not know where the prince’s disquiet came from, but he clearly sensed that he could, this once, win the upper hand. He—the boy who had left Carandamon behind centuries earlier in humiliation after failing to learn the spell that would protect him from the cold—had returned. And now he would impose his will on the prince, his father! “The queen’s place is not inside the walls of a fortress soon to be stormed by twenty thousand trolls. She will attempt to unite the peoples of Albenmark in battle against the old foes. She will be able to achieve more elsewhere than she could here. She has sent me here in her place. Her sword! First among her warriors. In Emerelle’s name, I hereby request command of Phylangan and all of the troops that can be brought here from the stone palaces of Carandamon before the trolls lay siege.”

  A deep crease appeared between the prince’s brows, just for a moment. Then his face relaxed again, and he burst out laughing.

  “You! By the laws of our people, you are still a child, and you demand command of this fortress? Don’t be absurd! My soldiers will not follow you, boy. And you dare call yourself the queen’s sword? I know that you had led her private guard, and I never understood that. In my eyes, there is not a fighter in Albenmark who deserves that title less than you. I was there to witness how you betrayed the queen when a sharp blade was called for!” He pointed out to the bridge that came to an abrupt end above the deep valley. “Do you know where the Albenstar lies? Exactly there, where the king and the princes of the trolls were pushed to their deaths in the abyss. There, at the site of your disgrace! The place where you refused the queen’s direct order. Do you remember the night when you opposed all the elvenfolk? Anyone who spares the life of a troll robs us of our peace!”

  “For me, it is the place of my honor, Landoran. I could not prevent the injustice that took place that night, but at least I took no part in it!”

  “Injustice? What injustice? The trolls started this war. Have you forgotten how they drove your own people from the high plateau of Carandamon? When there was no other place for us in Albenmark except the stale, fever-plagued mangroves beside the Woodmer? For me, that night on the Shalyn Falah represented the triumph of justice after centuries.”

  “You are blind, Landoran. Our people could return to Carandamon, that was the law. But this fortress never belonged to us, just as the Snaiwamark was never ours. It was given to the trolls by the Alben. We stole this land when we had the power to do so. We murdered their princes. That night on the Shalyn Falah, we sowed the wind. And now the time has come for us to reap the storm!”

  Landoran had recovered his composure, and the more Ollowain worked himself into a rage, the more relaxed the prince became. He went back to the fruit platter and, with infuriating calm, tugged several grapes from their stem. Then he gestured out into the Skyhall.

  “Do you know what this was when we came here, Ollowain? A filthy hole in the ground. A few caves, no more, and no better than the dens of animals. It stank of shit and mangy hides. There was no clean water. And now look. Look what we have turned it into! Oh yes, there were once a few caves here where trolls lived, but Phylangan, as you see it now, the stone garden, is a flower that your own people planted and nurtured, Ollowain.”

  “What I see when I look out there is the victory of aesthetics over ethics. I see an executioner’s block used to decorate a landscape. I see a bridge that leads to nothing. You’ve created quite a symbol for the road on which you have led our people, Landoran!”

  A mocking smile crossed the prince’s face. “Prettily formulated for a man of the sword, Ollowain. One can see, still, which of the elven clans you outgrew. Of course, your argumentation is marred by a taint of childish indignation, but what else can one expect from a boy who never became a man? Everything you say about the bridge only shows how blinded by wrath and shame you have become. That is no road to nowhere. At its end is an Albenstar. And anyone adept enough can slip from there into the web of Albenpaths. That road leads everywhere, if one has the courage to follow it.”

  “And it is a wide-open doorway for the trolls,” Lyndwyn suddenly said. “I see no defenses here. What will happen if the trolls decide to risk an attack through the Albenstar?”

  “That is unthinkable!” Landoran shot back.

  “Unthinkable? How do you think they returned to Albenmark? There is only one way to get here from the human world: the Albenpaths. They have already done it once. Why should they waste weeks attacking Phylangan’s outer defenses when there is such an easy way to storm the stone garden?”

  “Trolls don’t think like that!” the prince insisted.

  “You are an aesthete. A man who personifies complete freedom of art and self-invention above all moral or spiritual constraints. You are the creator of the wonder of Vahan Calyd and the Skyhall. Do you really believe you know how trolls think?” said Lyndwyn.

  The prince lowered his head as if distracted. The sorceress’s objections seemed to have shaken him deeply.

  Lyndwyn exploited his moment of weakness. “I can understand that you feel so bound by the laws of your people that you challenge the queen’s order and cannot hand over command to Ollowain. I would therefore suggest a compromise. According to the laws of the Normirga, I am deemed an adult because I can easily protect myself from the cold with my own powers. More crucially, Emerelle has vouchsafed me the greatest treasure of the elven race.”

  From beneath her tattered robe, she withdrew a rough stone deeply cut by five furrows. It looked rather nondescript, like a piece of quarried rock. And yet the five furrows transformed it into a jewel, a masterpiece of plain harmony. In its own way, it was perfect.

  “Do you think you could entrust me with the fate of Phylangan, given that Emerelle believed me worthy to be the guardian of the Albenstone?”

  The audacity of her words left Ollowain speechless. Did this thief and traitor know no shame at all? He had to stop her!

  Lyndwyn looked at the prince. “I will trust the advice given me by the swordmaster in all military matters. Emerelle wanted him to lead the defense of this fortress. I will merely be the voice that carries his orders, so that none of your men must submit to the word of a warrior who, in the eyes of your people, never reached manhood. We would be respecting the laws of the Normirga and also the will of Emerelle. We—”

  With a deafening hiss, a fountain of steam shot from one of the columnar springs that rose close to the pavilion. A dense white cloud climbed toward the false sky overhead.

  The prince had stepped to one of the pillars supporting the pavilion. His expression was concerned; it seemed almost as if he were more interested in the release of steam than in their altercation.

  “Your suggestion shows great wisdom, Lyndwyn. I lay the fate of Phylangan in your hands, sorceress.”

  Ollowain could barely comprehend what had just happened. Within moments, the pretty schemer had managed to wrest command of an enormous fortress city with a lie. And he had been unable to stop her!

  If he spoke up and said that Lyndwyn had stolen the Albenstone, Landoran would probably just take it from her and declare that it was for the greater good of all if the mighty artifact was in his care.

  Powerless in his fury, the swordmaster looked up to the cloud of steam as it spread wider and wider. Phylangan had hoisted the white flag and put the fate of the cit
y in the hands of the same elf who had rung in the downfall of Vahan Calyd. And he? He was as helpless as he had been when she sent the firebird into the night sky and signaled the start of the bombardment of the harbor.

  No, not entirely. This time he knew where the most dangerous enemy of his people stood!

  THE TROLLS’ PLIGHT

  Fables weave, or twist and turn, and torture words into a form

  Of fearless fighters’ frays, of cunning and acclaim,

  Of joyous, jaunty feasting of melancholy keening,

  But hear ye now the witness not the minstrel singing.

  Atop the scarred escarpment, the elven city glistered,

  Where stabbing sunlight seared, where treasure brightly boasted,

  Where wild white horses heaved, there lay the city Reilimee,

  Named with deliberation proud and radiant Reilimee.

  Bravely bore courageous trolls the war before its very walls.

  Clubs and cudgels bludgeoned, there was no remorse.

  Where black ships surged and fell the reaper swung his scythe,

  There before that sturdy town, Reilimee of song and myth,

  A thousand dead piled high beneath its ramparts proud

  And neither toil nor daring escaped the shroud.

  Where a king’s lament sounded, there the cunning stood as first

  Upon the walls surrounding Reilimee, proud and cursed.

  From the “Nightcrags Codex”

  Translated by Brother Gundaher

  Volume Six of the Temple Library of Luth in Firnstayn, page 139

  BOARDING RAMPS AND BATTERING RAMS

  Pull starboard oars!” Orgrim bawled with all his might to overcome the noise of the battle.

  “Pull starboard oars!” he heard from below, like an echo from the hull of the Wraithwind. Skanga had entrusted him, the ship sinker, with her galleass. She was, indeed, not on board—which could be understood as an expression of a certain mistrust—but she considered him capable of carrying off this daring attack and had given her blessing to all of the necessary rebuilding.