Elven Winter

by Bernhard Hennen

  “Do you have any more suggestions? Or perhaps objections?” Landoran asked innocently.

  “No!” Ollowain wanted nothing but to get out of the pavilion as fast as possible.

  The council brought its meeting to an end. Saying nothing, the council members departed from the pavilion. Unusually few, Ollowain thought. Where were the others? And what had happened to Lyndwyn?

  The swordmaster went out to the bridge, but even outside the pavilion, it felt humid. He swept his eyes across the valley. The trees were suffering as much as he was, their leaves drooping on the branches. About half a mile away, a white cloud of water vapor rose from one of the pillars.

  Ollowain wiped his forehead with his sleeve. When he returned from the human world, he would find out what was going on here!

  POLEAXES AND PIKES

  Alfadas pulled the shield brace over his shoulder and nodded to Lambi. The mutilated warrior lifted his club high. “Are you ready, you goddamned whoresons?”

  Instead of answering, the warriors beat their shields with their clubs. Their numbers had now swelled to more than fifty. Veteran campaigners who had been through many battles joined their ranks, though most of them were not there voluntarily! Alfadas had had their chains removed so that they could acquit themselves better during the long training hours, but they still wore the iron shackles around their ankles. Every night, they were chained inside their billets.

  “Put the fear of Luth into ’em,” Lambi shouted. The war jarl had taken his defeat by Silwyna in their sword fight surprisingly easily. But Alfadas was even more surprised that Lambi had not yet tried to escape. As long as Alfadas could keep him under control, the other warriors would fall into line. At least, those who were not there as volunteers.

  “More noise!” Lambi bawled, and thrashed at his shield. “And don’t stand so close together. Remember, we’re huge beasties with nothing better to do than smash in a few farm boys’ heads. We’re not here to rub our asses together. You can do that tonight when they chain us up in the stables!”

  The warriors liked Lambi’s coarse humor. They laughed and followed his orders, fanning out wider. All of them were clad in leather armor or chain-mail shirts and armed with shields and helmets as they would be in battle. In place of axes and swords, all they carried were heavy cudgels. They moved across the stony shore toward the formation of farmers, where Silwyna, Mag, and a half-dozen others were in command. Cursing, they did their best to keep the farmers in position. The first four rows were armed with pikes five paces long, almost five hundred men altogether. Behind them stood two rows of men holding poleaxes. Isleif, a smith from a local village that Alfadas had never heard of, had devised the new weapon—an axe head attached to a two-pace-long pole, the tip of which was outfitted with an iron spike. The weapon allowed the wielder to strike before they came in range of the trolls’ clubs. All of the smiths in Honnigsvald were at that moment busy producing more such poleaxes.

  The third block in the farmers’ formation consisted of archers who were supposed to shoot from behind over the heads of their comrades in arms.

  “Fire!” came Silwyna’s voice. A hum filled the air. Alfadas reflexively raised his shield over his head, but he could have saved himself the trouble. The arrows, their tips wrapped in rags, fell among the gravel on the shore, far short of their targets.

  Only twenty steps to the pikemen in the first row.

  “Charge!” Lambi bellowed.

  At the same moment, the long pikes descended. Although Mag and his men had been practicing the maneuver for days, their formation quickly fell into disarray.

  A second salvo of arrows missed the attackers. This time, the archers had fired too far. With an earsplitting crash, the warriors slammed into the pikemen’s formation. The defenders were actually supposed to aim several spearheads at each individual attacker, but their general disarray turned into complete confusion in an instant.

  Alfadas pushed two pikes aside with his shield, but with the farmers standing four rows deep, many iron pike tips still threatened. He thrashed furiously at one pike. Several warriors to his left and right fell to the ground. The farmers in the fourth row had attached long hooks to the spearheads and were angling for the attackers’ heels.

  Lambi had worked his way forward to the first row of farmers. In the best of moods, he jabbed his club at their chests. “You’re dead!” he shouted. “And you’re dead, too! And one more dead farm boy for my banquet!”

  Many of the pikemen dropped their weapons, which were of little use once the attackers had got past the sharp tip. They ran into the men with the poleaxes, who were supposed to advance as soon as the pike formations threatened to break.

  Mag yelled furiously at his men to hold their positions. Lambi’s warriors roared with laughter as they bashed a path through the helpless confusion of farmers. At least Silwyna still had her archers under control as they beat an orderly retreat.

  Alfadas shoved two men aside and reached for the horn at his belt. A long blast signaled the end of the battle. Those still fighting separated. Several of the men were bleeding—in the thrill of the skirmish, some had been unable to restrain themselves. Alfadas considered a few minor injuries acceptable. A man who had suffered a blow to the head from a cudgel might hold his position better next time. Or at least would run away faster.

  Groaning, the fighters on both sides settled onto the stones along the shore. It was a sunny day, and the fjord was dotted with boats. Closer to Honnigsvald, too, the salmon catch was in full swing. The entire town breathed the spicy aroma that emanated from the smokehouses, and hardly anyone had time to stop and watch Alfadas and his men training.

  Alfadas went to the rocks from where Ulric had watched the battle. His son ran to meet him, wearing a proud smile.

  “You won again, Father! No one can stop you and your fighters.”

  “So it seems.” The duke set down his shield and released the chin strap of his helmet. He reached wearily for the water bottle that Ulric had been looking after. With each “victory” he wrung, his hopes of returning alive from Albenmark faded.

  “Is something wrong, Father?” Ulric asked, suddenly concerned.

  How was he supposed to answer a question like that for the boy? Everything was wrong! “We will have to practice much more before I can say that my army fights well.”

  Ulric nodded. “Best if you stay close to Lambi and the other soldiers. They fight better.”

  “I thank you for the advice, my son,” he said seriously. He had spent far too little time with Ulric. It would have been smarter not to have brought him along at all. But the boy enjoyed being among the warriors. For him, all of this was a great adventure. “Who do you think is the best sword fighter?”

  Ulric pointed to the archers. “Silwyna. No one will watch out for you like she will!”

  His words caused Alfadas to flinch inwardly. Did his son suspect something? “Is she really so good?”

  Ulric nodded. “I watched her. And you were also there when she beat Lambi. First, she pretended that it was hard for her to parry his sword. He wore himself out. And then, without warning, she . . . she disarmed him faster than I could see! It was like she peeled off a false skin and turned into a completely different person. Like a cat playing with a mouse before she suddenly kills it. I think she has spooky eyes. And I’m glad she’s your friend, or else I’d be afraid of her.”

  Alfadas was relieved to hear his son’s argument and was proud at the same time. The comparison with a cat pleased him. That’s how Silwyna really was. Elegant, unpredictable, lethal. Something wild lived inside her, something he had never managed to get close to. And many times, he had thought that it was this raw power, this animalistic part of her that had called her back to the forest. She could not have done so otherwise.

  He looked up in sudden alarm—a silence had fallen. The murmurings of the exhausted men had ceased. Three figures on horseback were riding toward them along the shore of the fjord. And although Alfadas had gro
wn up in Emerelle’s court, even he caught his breath. It was as if three characters from the ancient sagas had stepped without warning into the human world. Two of the riders were dressed in flawless white. They sat astride white horses that were at once slender and strong and faster than the wind. The third rode a gray, the colors of his robes gray and wine red.

  All three wore breastplates that sparkled as if fashioned from silver and gold. The light gleamed off their helmets. Sweeping cloaks billowed behind them, and horsehair crests fluttered from their helmets in the wind. Every movement they made was majestic. No human would ever sit so perfectly in a saddle, would ever be so completely one with the movements of the horse they rode.

  The army of men watched breathlessly as the mysterious riders drew nearer, holding course for Alfadas. He recognized his old mentor, although the helmet with its nose protection and cheek guards that extended well below the chin almost completely concealed Ollowain’s face.

  The three reined in their horses a pace and a half in front of him. Ulric pressed close at Alfadas’s side.

  The lead rider dismounted and, to Alfadas’s surprise, kneeled before him. “Greetings, Alfadas Mandredson. My people have sent me to be of service to you. We have come to help train your soldiers and to lead them to Albenmark when the time comes.”

  It made Alfadas uncomfortable to see his swordmaster and guardian like that. He took Ollowain by the shoulders. “You should not kneel before me,” he said softly. “A master does not kneel before his pupils.”

  The elf did not reply but rose to his feet. It was clear to Alfadas that the gesture was intended to strengthen his position among his men. Everyone was supposed to see that even the fearsome elven warriors respected Commander Alfadas Mandredson.

  “It is good to see you, Alfadas,” said Ollowain quietly, and squeezed his arm. Then he turned to the two elves accompanying him. “Allow me to introduce Lysilla and Ronardin.”

  The two elves had, by now, also dismounted and removed their helmets. The elf woman reached out her hand to Alfadas. When he looked into her eyes, he recoiled a little automatically. She smiled with amusement—clearly it was not only humans who reacted to her like that. There was something guarded and mysterious about Lysilla. The pressure of her hand was firm and cool. Ronardin was very different, radiating warmth and curiosity. His eyes darted restlessly back and forth hungrily, not wanting to miss anything of the world of humans.

  Alfadas reported the present state of the men’s training. Lysilla and Ronardin remained unmoved when he told them that the majority of his fighters were not soldiers at all and that their value in a battle was doubtful, to say the least. But Ollowain’s dismay was clear.

  In the days that followed, it was the swordmaster especially who put all his ability and ingenuity into training the humans as well as he possibly could. He had hollow models as big as trolls woven from wicker but light enough for one man to carry easily. Then the experienced soldiers slipped inside these willow-wood costumes and charged the formations of pikemen. His goal was to prevent the mere sight of the trolls from completely demoralizing the men. He did not tire of explaining to each and every man where their huge enemies were most vulnerable.

  Ronardin and Lysilla were kept busy training the experienced soldiers. They managed to convince almost all of them to put aside their armor and shields, because the best protection against the trolls was agility.

  Alfadas dedicated himself to the pikemen, drumming into them how important it was not to think of themselves as an unyielding wall of long spears. They had to direct their pikes with care and target individual attackers so that they could injure them with as many spears as possible. And they had to plant their pikes against the ground and hold them in place with one foot, because no man in the world had the strength to withstand the force of a charging troll.

  Evenings, when the volunteers could recover from the day’s strains, the field commanders were called together in the banquet hall in Honnigsvald and given extra briefings. Silwyna reported on the various races of Albenmark and on which of them they would soon meet. Lysilla and Ronardin tried to prepare them for the hard winter in the Snaiwamark and how, miraculously, they would soon be able to protect themselves from the cold. They explained the ice gliders and the perils of the crevasses in the glaciers, and on large wooden boards, they drew maps of the Snaiwamark and the regions that bordered it. They also sketched plans of the fortress of Phylangan, marking the quarters intended for the humans and the positions that the men of the Fjordlands were supposed to defend.

  Alfadas was glad when he could snatch four or five hours of sleep. Ulric, although he had got his pony, was almost always at his side. Every evening, he listened eagerly to what he heard about Albenmark, and sometimes went as far as to interrupt the war council with questions.

  And every day, new volunteers kept arriving. Alfadas could hardly believe it: despite all the frightening rumors he had started, the stream of desperate men willing to risk everything did not abate. Because they could no longer be properly trained, the newcomers were assigned to the ranks of the archers and poleax wielders. Alfadas did not want anyone among the pikemen who had not proved his courage in the exhausting hours of training of the last two weeks. A single man in the front row who dropped his weapon and ran could open up a gap that would mean the downfall of all of them.

  The last training day finally arrived, and War Jarl Mag had actually managed to muster ten steers, but even he did not know what Alfadas had in store for them.

  It was cold that morning. Fog rose from the fjord and hung like white beards in the forests on the nearby hillsides. The troops had marched out at first light. Alfadas once again stood on his rocky outcrop, holding Ulric at his side. The others all took up their positions along the fjord. The different units acquitted themselves surprisingly well in their maneuvers that morning. Then the pikemen, poleaxers, and archers arranged themselves with their backs to the fjord. On each flank, Alfadas positioned a guard of fifty experienced warriors, with Ragni and Lambi commanding; their job was to shield the men from attacks from the side.

  Everybody along the shore knew that Alfadas had planned some kind of final test for them that morning. After that, there would be a feast, and the next day the small army would march off to Firnstayn. Alfadas had banned curious onlookers from the shore; anyone who wanted to watch would have to do so from a boat. For the first time, the men were issued sharp weapons.

  It was good to have a block of nine hundred men between the units under Lambi’s and Ragni’s command. In recent days, a deadly rivalry had developed between the two fighters. Ragni had gathered those loyal to the crown around him, and Lambi all those who had been brought to Honnigsvald in chains. So far, Alfadas had been able to exploit that rivalry to spur the two groups of warriors on and get the best out of them. But the alliance between the two bands had become so bad that Alfadas now feared they would be at each others’ throats the moment they had the chance.

  “Men!” Alfadas cried. His breath puffed from his mouth in white clouds. “This morning we will see what you have learned. Behind you are the days of fighting wicker men and amiably inclined club swingers. Here, now, you will meet an enemy of flesh and blood. An adversary as fierce and merciless as the trolls. It lurks in the forest, waiting to spill your blood. Now is your final opportunity to leave the troop.” Alfadas untied a signal horn fitted with silver from his belt and held it high over his head. Then he pointed with it toward the dark strip of forest behind the shore.

  “When I sound this horn three times, our enemies will come from those dark woods. And just as you will not be facing human enemies in Albenmark, today you will need to stand against an enemy that is not of your kind. And you will need to win.”

  As if to underscore his words, a long howl rose from the forest, almost like the howling of wolves, yet somehow different. Alfadas had to stop himself from smiling. Silwyna was playing her part very well indeed!

  Ulric had his hands clenched in his fa
ther’s tunic. “Nothing can happen to us up here,” Alfadas told him quietly.

  A deathly silence had fallen over the men along the shore. Apart from the elves, no one knew what would take place in this final test. The long banks of fog along the shore had thickened.

  From the side where Lambi’s fighters stood came defiant laughter. The rebel had his men well under control. Their laughter spread through the remaining ranks, and the tension eased a little.

  “So there are none who would like to leave?” asked Alfadas again. “This is your last opportunity. After this morning, I will personally track down anyone leaving my army, and I will not be merciful. Everyone here should be able to rely on the man beside him. Cowardice and betrayal can have no place among us; if they do, Albenmark will spell our doom. Those whose hearts are too weak should leave now! Not everyone is made to be a warrior. And leaving now demands hardly less courage than looking the enemy in the eye. So do not mock those who want to leave us.”

  “Can I go, too?” came the unmistakable voice of Lambi. “I’m brave enough to call myself a coward, though I would not advise anyone else to talk about me like that.”

  “You gave up your chance to leave when you were defeated by a woman in a sword fight, Lambi, about whose nose one does not speak.”

  Alfadas’s words were met with laughter.

  “An elven woman, I’d like to remind you!” Lambi shouted, offended. “A woman who had to train for a thousand years to be able to beat the great Lambi!”

  Alfadas ignored his war jarl’s words. “Is there anyone who would like to go?” The laughter faded. And in fact, around thirty men laid down their weapons and returned to the town. Alfadas was surprised to see Kodran, the oldest of the three brothers from the ferryboat, among them.