The Elven (11 page)

Then Noroelle released Farodin and threw her arms around Nuramon. She kissed him as well. He took her face in his hands and looked at her for a long time, as if trying to engrave her image and every detail in his mind. Then he gave her a final smile and let her go.

The companions mounted their horses. Only Aigilaos was already looking ahead at the surging wall of mist. Mandred called out, “Follow me, my companions,” and the elfhunt stepped into the stone circle.

Farodin and Nuramon rode last of all, behind the wolves. They looked back at Noroelle one final time. Then they, too, vanished into the mist.

Xern turned from the stone circle and slowly walked away. Obilee took Noroelle’s hand. As the mist dissolved, Noroelle’s fear grew. She felt as if she had just seen Farodin and Nuramon for the very last time.

The Human World

A
s the fog surrounding them cleared, they were met by the icy breath of the human world. Nuramon uttered a few warming words to drive the cold out of his clothes. He looked around curiously. They were standing in a stone circle atop a high cliff. Far below them lay a village.

Mandred had walked his horse to the edge of the drop. It looked almost as if he wanted to ride the mare over the rim. The village across the fjord seemed to hold a strong attraction for him. It had to be the village he had spoken about at court.

“I’ve found the tracks,” called Brandan. “Very fresh, as if the manboar has just been here.”

The top of the cliff was exposed to the wind, and there was nothing to eat so high up. But what would have kept the beast here so long? Had it been waiting? Nuramon smiled. Nonsense.

“Mandred,” said Farodin, his voice sharp.

The human started at the elf’s voice. Then he pulled at the reins and steered his mare away from the edge of the cliff. “Sorry . . . I just had to see how things looked down there. It looks like the manboar hasn’t attacked Firnstayn yet.”

He took his place at the head of the band and led them down the cliff. The wolf pack ran ahead of them, fanning out. They had picked up the manboar’s scent as well.

Although the tracks obviously led away from the village, it seemed to Nuramon that the human was growing more and more uneasy with every step. “Something the matter, Mandred?” he asked.

“The horses,” said the warrior through clenched teeth. “They’re bewitched, aren’t they?”

Nuramon did not understand what he meant. “Why would anyone bewitch a horse?”

“They don’t sink into the snow. That’s impossible. The snow here’s at least knee-deep.”

Nuramon noticed Farodin and Brandan grinning. What did they know? “Why should horses sink into the snow?”

“Because that’s what they do,” Mandred said and reined in his mare. “If the horses aren’t bewitched, then the snow’s bewitched.” He swung out of the saddle and instantly sank to his knees.

Brandan laughed.

“I don’t find that funny,” said Aigilaos, speaking up. He trotted to Mandred’s side, gouging a deep track in the snow as he moved. “These long-ears think we’re a riot. I’ve never figured out how they manage to stay on top of the snow. But it’s no enchantment, and it makes no difference if the horses are shod or not.”

Nuramon expected the human to be insulted, but instead his eyes suddenly lit up. “Do you think the queen would give me this horse when we get back?”

“If you prove yourself, she might, mortal,” said Farodin.

“Do you think I could breed one of my stallions with this mare?”

Aigilaos let out a braying laugh.

The idea struck Nuramon as bizarre. What did the human have in mind?

“This is no place to stand around cracking jokes,” warned Vanna. “It’s going to snow soon. We have to keep moving, or we’ll lose the trail.”

Mandred mounted his horse once again. The band moved off in silence, following the tracks in the snow.

Nuramon gazed out over the land. He had imagined the human world differently. The snow here was packed and rough, and the lines of hills were formed so irregularly that he found it difficult to commit the landscape to memory. How were they supposed to find the manboar in this chaos? He saw a thousand things that were different in Albenmark.

All the new impressions made Nuramon tired. He rubbed his eyes. This world seemed vast and incomprehensible. When he saw a tree, he was so drawn into the details of it that he was barely able to see the tree as a whole. And it was difficult to gauge distances. Things looked closer than they really were. To him, this world felt constricted. Now Nuramon understood why the queen had named Mandred to lead them. His knowledge of this world would prove invaluable.

The companions followed the manboar’s trail the entire day. They rode fast when the tracks crossed open land, then more carefully when they passed through the woods or crossed rocky ground. They were prepared at any moment to catch up with their quarry. At least, that was Nuramon’s impression.

Brandan, in the last few hours, had emphasized several times that the tracks of the manboar seemed strange. They were simply too fresh. It was almost as if the snow refused to fall into the boar’s tracks. This made Nuramon uneasy, and Lijema also looked worried. The others gave the impression that they heeded Brandan’s warning, but not one seemed to doubt that they would finish the task they’d been given. The elfhunt was under way, and the wolves in particular, so happy to race ahead, gave Nuramon the feeling that nothing and nobody could stop them, not even in this strange world.

In the afternoon, it stopped snowing. They followed the trail into a dense forest. The manboar could have been lurking anywhere in there. Finally, Mandred decreed that they should make camp before it grew too late. Brandan memorized the location of the tracks, then they followed Mandred. Farodin’s expression grew unusually ill-tempered, and Nuramon did not know why.

They moved out to the edge of the forest and pitched their camp. Aigilaos was hungry and wanted to go hunting. He had seen other tracks in the snow, and he and Brandan went off together.

Nuramon and Farodin unsaddled the horses. Vanna, the sorceress, kindled a small fire in the center of camp, but she seemed distracted. There was something playing on her mind. Lijema and Mandred saw to the wolves. The wolfmother answered all of Mandred’s questions. The big animals were calm, which Nuramon took as a good sign.

Farodin set down one of the saddles, then paused and turned to Nuramon. “Is this how you imagined the elfhunt would be?”

“Honestly? No.”

“Everything looks brighter from the outside. But we track down our prey, kill it, and return to our queen. That’s what it comes down to.”

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you? In the human world?”

“Yes, many times,” said Farodin. “I remember the last time. Our task was to find a traitor and take him back to the queen. It was like now. Almost the moment we came through the gate, we picked up the trail. A few hours later, we were already on our way back, but that was not a real elfhunt.”

“And does the Other World seem as strange to you as it does to me?”

“You mean this . . . tightness?”

“Yes, exactly that.”

“It is the air. The queen explained it to me once. The air is different here, not as clear as in Albenmark.”

Nuramon thought about that.

“Everything is different here,” Farodin went on. “If you search for the beauty and clarity of Albenmark, you’ll search in vain. Things don’t fit together in this world.” He pointed to an oak tree. “That tree does not match this one.” He slapped the trunk of the oak beside him. “In our realm, the things around you might be different, but everything exists in harmony with everything else. It is no wonder that humans find our lands so beautiful.”

Nuramon said nothing. He felt an attraction to the Other World. There was so much to discover here, and if one only knew the secrets of this place, then maybe one could find harmony here as well. “Nothing here seems incongruous to Mandred,” he said softly, looking briefly across at the human.

“His senses are not as finely tuned as ours.”

Nuramon nodded. Farodin was right. Nevertheless, perhaps there was an order to everything here, but it took senses even sharper than an elf’s to see it.

When the work was done, Nuramon sat at the edge of the forest and let his eyes roam out across the countryside. Farodin joined him and held out his little bag of mulberries to him.

Nuramon was surprised. “Are you sure?”

His companion nodded.

He accepted Farodin’s offer, and they ate a few mulberries in silence.

As dusk settled, Lijema wondered aloud what was keeping Brandan and Aigilaos.

Nuramon stood. “I’ll find them.”

“Should I come along?” asked Farodin.

“No,” Nuramon said and looked to where the sorceress crouched. “Better ask Vanna if everything is all right,” he said in a whisper. “She’s been quiet the whole time. There is something on her mind.”

Farodin smiled and stood up to go and join Vanna, and Nuramon left the camp, following the tracks left by Aigilaos and Brandan.

The tracks were easy to follow. The prints from Brandan’s boots were certainly hard to make out, but Aigilaos had plowed a deep furrow through the snow. Nuramon looked down at his feet a number of times, thinking about how Mandred had sunk in the snow. Perhaps it was an enchantment after all that let him walk on top of the snow. He tried to leave clear tracks. And he
could
, but it took a lot of concentration, and he had to put his feet down as clumsily as he was able. If he didn’t, they refused to sink in the snow.

After a while, the tracks changed. Nuramon saw that his companions had picked up the trail of a deer. Then they had split up, Aigilaos moving to the left, Brandan to the right. The deer’s tracks led straight ahead. Nuramon followed Aigilaos’s tracks because they were easier to see.

Suddenly, he heard a sound. He stopped and listened, but there was nothing more than the wind drifting through the forest. Then he heard a low hiss. It may have been just a little crusted snow, blown from a tree close by. But the hissing sound came again, and then again. Sometimes longer, sometimes shorter.
Some animal that lives in this forest?
Nuramon wondered, knowing that it could just as easily be the manboar.

Nuramon cautiously moved his hand to the grip of his sword. He considered calling out for Aigilaos and Brandan, then decided not to. The moody centaur would fire an arrow at
him
if he spooked their prey with a thoughtless shout.

The sound seemed very close now, but Nuramon did not put too much trust in his senses. This world was confusing. His eyes had deceived him often enough today. It could just as easily happen with his ears.

Warily, he moved off Aigilaos’s trail to follow the hissing sound. Soon, between the trees, he saw a clearing. The sound seemed to be coming from there.

From the edge of the glade, Nuramon peered ahead, trying to make out anything recognizable. Close to the center stood three oaks. An unpleasant smell reached him on the wind, making him pause for a moment. Something about the smell wasn’t right. But what
was
right in this world for elven senses?

He stepped carefully into the glade and looked around. There was no one to be seen. But with every step, the hissing sound grew louder. Whatever it was, it had to be coming from behind the three oaks. Nuramon’s hand tightened around the cool grip of his sword.

When Nuramon had almost reached the three oaks, he saw to his left a broad spoor leading from the forest. Aigilaos’s tracks.

He hurried toward the three trees. The hissing came horribly loud and long now. He saw a broken band of gold lying in the snow. Quickly, he rounded the oaks and stopped dead in disbelief.

In front of him in the snow lay Aigilaos. The centaur’s head was tipped far back, and he was making the hissing noise through his open mouth. His curled beard was matted with blood. At his throat, Nuramon saw four thin wounds. If not for those, he realized, the centaur’s bellowing would have rung from one end of the forest to the other. Like this, he was barely able to make a sound. Something had literally cut out his voice. His screaming was no more than a deep breath blasted from his throat.

There was more pain in Aigilaos’s face than Nuramon had ever seen in any other creature. His eyes stood wide open. Over and over, he tensed and tried to bellow, but all he could get out was that pitiful hiss.

All four of the centaur’s legs were broken, one with the bone protruding through the skin. His long belly had been slit open. A pool of blood had formed in the snow and frozen, and a portion of his innards spilled out. One arm lay crushed beneath his body. The other was dislocated and, like his legs, broken. His sides were marked with long slashes, as if some marauding predator had set upon him.

Nuramon did not want to imagine the pain that Aigilaos must have felt. He had never seen a living thing as mutilated as the centaur.

“Farodin! Mandred!” shouted Nuramon, uncertain whether to fetch help or stay and try to do something for Aigilaos. He looked down at his own hands and saw them trembling. He had to do something. His companions at the camp were certain to have heard him.

“I’ll help you, Aigilaos.”

The centaur ceased his voiceless screaming. His face convulsed, and he looked up at Nuramon.

It was hopeless. The belly wound alone would kill the centaur. The slashes to his throat had also done severe damage. Was he supposed to lie to the centaur? “I will ease your pain.” Nuramon laid his hands on Aigilaos’s forehead and looked into his tearing eyes. That the centaur was still conscious was a miracle. “Just a moment longer,” said Nuramon, then he focused on the magic he would need.

It began with a tingle in the tips of his fingers. Nuramon concentrated on his heartbeat and felt a cool tremor run down through his arms to his hands. Under his fingers, he felt Aigilaos’s forehead grow warm. He could feel the centaur’s racing pulse and how his own heartbeat grew faster to match his companion’s. Then both heartbeats slowed again, and Aigilaos became calmer. So far, so good, even if the centaur was beyond rescue.

As Nuramon let go of Aigilaos’s forehead, he saw the lines of the centaur’s face slowly relax. And again, with all the blood staining the snow, it amazed him that Aigilaos was even conscious. He resolved to fight against his companion’s death, as hopeless as the attempt might seem. He had no experience with centaurs. Maybe they could survive such wounds. Carefully, he laid his hands on Aigilaos’s slashed throat.

Aigilaos felt no more pain and gazed steadily into Nuramon’s eyes. Then he shook his head and glanced down at the elf’s sword.

Nuramon was horrified. Aigilaos knew that the end had come. And now it was up to Nuramon to draw Gaomee’s sword and make his death as swift as possible. The sword that Gaomee had once wielded so heroically to defeat Duanoc was now to be stained with the blood of a companion.