The Elven (15 page)

Mandred charged forward and tried to plunge his boar spear between the beast’s ribs. One of the manboar’s hands knocked the blade aside, almost tearing it from Mandred’s grip, and Mandred lost his footing on the ice-covered floor.

The wolf had its teeth sunk into one of the beast’s legs, and Farodin attacked in a whirlwind of strokes. The manboar did not try to evade his attack and lunged at Farodin instead. One taloned hand swung down. Farodin threw himself back, but the Devanthar’s claws left four deep gouges in his left cheek. The wolf tore at the manboar’s leg. Mandred found himself wishing they hadn’t left the other wolf with the horses. It would have been far more useful here.

The beast spun around and brought one fist down on the wolf’s back. Mandred heard a loud crack. The animal yelped. Its hindquarters twisted to one side, twitching, but it kept its teeth sunk in the manboar’s leg. Pale blood streamed between the black bristles. A kicked hoof shattered the wolf’s fangs and jaw.

The manboar swung wildly. Nuramon had tried to attack it from behind. One clawed hand knocked the short sword from his grasp, and a second blow ripped through the dragon-skin breastplate.

“Don’t think,” Farodin shouted. “It can read every thought. Don’t think about what you’re doing. Just attack.”

Mandred’s boar spear cut into the beast, causing a deep wound beneath its ribcage. With a furious grunt, the creature whirled to face him.

Mandred raised the spear to ward off the blow aimed at his head. The shaft of the boar spear splintered under the force, and Mandred was thrown backward. But before the beast could go after him, Farodin was there. In a fierce display of swordsmanship, he drove the manboar back from Mandred, giving him the chance to get back on his feet.

The jarl looked at the destroyed weapon in his hands. The blade of the boar spear was as long as a short sword. He tossed the useless half aside. Blood ran down his arm. He had not even noticed that the beast had hit him.

Farodin and the manboar were circling each other in a deadly dance. They moved so fast that Mandred dared not lunge at the beast for fear of blocking Farodin.

The elf’s breath was coming in short gasps. The thin air. Mandred could see Farodin slowing down. A lunge from the manboar tore the chain mail tunic over Farodin’s left shoulder with a jingling sound. In the same moment, Brandan’s sword came up. Blood sprayed, and one of the manboar’s hands went spinning through the air. Farodin’s stroke had severed it at the wrist.

The manboar grunted and retreated. Was that fear in its blue eyes?

Farodin stalked after it. The beast lowered its head and charged at him. Its tusks sank into Farodin’s chest, and the two of them tumbled to the cave floor.

“Mandred . . .”

The point of Brandan’s sword had gone clean through the creature’s body and jutted from its back. And still the beast lived. In dismay, Mandred saw the monster pushing itself up.

“Nuramon . . .” Blood dripped from Farodin’s lips. “Tell her . . .” His eyes clouded.

“Farodin!” Nuramon cried. In an instant, he was on the beast. He raised his sword with both hands and brought it down on the manboar’s head. With a crunch, it glanced off the skull, but it left a deep, bloody furrow behind. The force of his own blow sent Nuramon tumbling backward, blank horror on his face.

Still half stooped, the beast turned on Nuramon. But then, without warning, it stopped.

My last chance
, thought Mandred. He stepped up behind the manboar. Without hesitating, he took hold of its tusk in his left hand and jerked the mighty head to one side. With his right hand, he drove the blade of the boar spear down through the monster’s eye. The elven steel dug deep into the Devanthar’s skull.

The manboar reared one last time. Mandred was hurled back against the stone where Luth once sat. Leaden pain thumped in his chest.

“The dogs will eat your liver,” he coughed.

A Dream

T
he dream came to Noroelle suddenly, untarnished and pure. In the beginning, her eyes gazed out over the springtime landscape around her house, and farther, out over the cliffs along the Alvemer coast. She saw an eerie winter landscape, craggy mountains, and dense forests filled with voices and cries. A centaur lay dead at the foot of an oak, more terribly mutilated than any creature she had ever seen. It was Aigilaos. Then she was looking at Lijema lying in the snow, not moving, her body torn open. Then Lijema transformed into Brandan, lying by a campfire, rigid in death as the howls of wolves in agony rang from the forest.

Her eye moved on and came to a cave of ice filled with the sounds of battle. She could not see who was fighting whom. She could only see the ones cut down. Vanna, the sorceress, and one of the wolves. The clamor of battle abruptly stopped, and Noroelle saw Farodin on the ground. A wound gaped in his chest, and his eyes were lifeless.

Noroelle screamed and screamed without drawing breath.

Without warning, she was once again standing beside the empty throne in the queen’s hall. She looked around, but she was alone. The water was silent. The walls were dry. Daylight came from above and lit the hall. Noroelle looked down over her body. She was wearing a white nightdress.

A door opened slowly. Loose-robed elven women, their faces invisible to her behind veils, entered the hall, carrying two biers between them. Noroelle knew who they were bringing to her. In her misery, she turned away. The sight would be too much to bear.

The women came closer and closer until, finally, they came to a stop before the steps that led up to the throne. Noroelle, from the corner of her eye, watched the bearers, who did not move but stood there as still and silent as statues. She did not want to accept—and could not endure—the sight of the dead bodies of her two beloved. But her eyes disobeyed her will and turned to the corpses of Farodin and Nuramon. Their bodies looked unmarked, but all the life was gone.

Trembling, Noroelle looked around, as if there had to be someone close by, someone to stand by her in her hour of need. There was no one. Then she saw blood running down the walls and gushing from the fountains.

She ran. Out through the side door that was reserved for the queen, she ran from the hall. She ran as fast as she could and did not look where her feet carried her.

Then she was back beside her lake. She returned to the spring and was relieved to find not blood but water coming from it. Weary, she leaned against one of the linden trees and began to cry. Still inside her dream, she realized it was only a fantasy. She knew, too, how many times she had seen the truth in her visions, and because of that, she was afraid to wake.

After a while, she kneeled by the lake and looked at her image mirrored on the surface. Nothing remained of what Farodin and Nuramon had seen in her. Her tears dropped into the water, making her reflection blur.

“Noroelle,” came a voice she knew and trusted.

She stood and turned around. Nuramon. “Is it really you?” He was dressed in trousers and a tunic made of simple linen. His feet were bare.

“It is really me,” he said, and laughed.

Noroelle sat on the stone by the water and made a sign that he should come and sit with her.

He sat next to her and took her hand. “You’ve been crying.”

“I had a terrible dream. But it’s over now. You’re here.” She looked around. “It’s strange. Everything is so clear, as if it weren’t a dream at all.”

“You have power over this dream world. I sense that. Anything you want to happen will happen. The pain has bestowed this power on you. It has awakened desires in you.”

“This is not the first time I have seen you in my dreams, Nuramon. Do you remember the last time we met in my sleep?”

“No. And that’s because I am not the Nuramon from your dreams. I am not an image that you have fashioned for yourself. I have come into your dream from outside.”

“But why?”

“To apologize to you. I have not kept my promise. We will not return.” He said it in such a quiet voice that she remained quite calm.

“Then what I saw before . . . it was the truth?”

He nodded. “The elfhunt failed. All of us are dead.”

“But you are here.”

“Yes. But I cannot stay long. I am no more than a ghost, and Death will take me away again soon enough. One day, I will be born again. Now you know what happened. And you have not had to hear it from someone else’s lips.” He stood. “I’m so sorry, Noroelle.” Nuramon looked longingly at her.

She rose to her feet. “You said I have power over this dream.”

He nodded.

“Then take my hand, Nuramon.”

He did what she bade.

“Close your eyes.”

Nuramon closed his eyes.

She thought of her chamber. She had often pictured the day she would lead Farodin or Nuramon to her bedroom. And because, in the waking world, it would never again be possible, she decided to make it happen in this one. She led him out onto the meadow, not far, and wished she were in her room.

Suddenly, her walls were around them. The plants transformed into ivy and crept up the walls, quickly covering the entire ceiling. The lake and the linden trees vanished. The ground underfoot turned to a stone floor, and furniture made of living wickerwork rose out of it. She had rarely sensed such power in her dreams. “Open your eyes, my love,” she softly said.

Nuramon did so and looked around with a smile. “I had pictured it differently.”

“It is only this big in my dream. And it should not surprise you that plants flourish here.”

He laid his hands on her shoulders. “I wanted so much to be able to keep my promise.”

“And I wish that fate had allowed me to decide for myself. Now all we have left is this dream.” She waited for him to say or do something, but Nuramon hesitated. She would have responded to his slightest caress long ago, but he had avoided touching her all these years. It was up to him to decide. She would not take that away from him.

When he unfastened the straps of her nightdress between her shoulders, Noroelle sighed with relief. Finally, he had dared to take this step. He looked unwaveringly into her eyes. The terrors of the human world had changed him. They had made him more serious.

Her nightdress slid from her body and onto the floor.

Nuramon lowered his eyes.

She had not expected that. He was, of course, bound to be curious about the body he had so often praised in song, curious about how she really looked undressed. But hadn’t he been too quick to look? Then she thought about what he had just said. He could not stay very long. They did not have much time. And nothing would be worse than being separated at the wrong moment.

He took her in his arms and whispered in her ear. “Forgive me. I am no longer the man you used to know. It is difficult for me to be here. I am no more than a shadow of who I once was.”

Noroelle said nothing, as there was nothing she wanted to say. Neither could she bring herself to consider the price that Nuramon may have to pay for wresting these few precious moments away from Death. She moved a few steps back from him and waited.

Nuramon undressed. Something wasn’t right . . . she looked him up and down. It wasn’t his body . . . his body was perfect. She recalled what the women at court had said. Some of them had openly expressed their wish for a night of love with him. And now that Nuramon stood naked before her, she could understand more than ever what made those women forget about the curse on his soul. She had never thought that Nuramon might truly be like one of the legendary minnesingers, whose amorous adventures women gushed about. How could he have kept that body hidden?

When Noroelle again looked into his face, she realized what it was about her lover that wasn’t right. Inscribed on his face was a mute pain. He had suffered a great deal.

Slowly, tenderly, he came to her. He reached out his hand and touched her, as if to reassure himself that she truly stood in front of him. Softly, he stroked her shoulder.

Noroelle ran her hands through Nuramon’s wild hair, then moved her fingers down his neck to his chest. His skin was smooth and soft. She took him in her arms and kissed him, closing her eyes. She felt his warm fingertips slide down her back, leaving a cool shiver behind them.

Together, they sank onto the bed. It seemed different than in the waking world, the wooden meshwork slightly finer, the soft foliage denser. Nuramon ran his hand over the leaves. Had he never seen a bed like this? Or did its softness surprise him?

They stopped and looked at one other for a long moment. So this was the end of the long path they had followed. She had dreamed of this moment so many times. And even though this was only a dream, everything felt more urgent, more vivid than it ever had before.

Nuramon touched her hair, rubbed it gently between his fingers, kissed it. He stroked her cheeks with the palms of his hands, then moved them lower, to her throat, her breasts. He paused there, and Noroelle looked at him affectionately. He should see in her eyes that he could do with her whatever he dared.

Then she felt his hand slide quickly down between her breasts to her navel. A quiver ran through her. It was more than just trembling at his touch. There was a trace of magic in it, too, but she could not tell if it came from Nuramon’s healing hands or her magical sense. Perhaps it was a little bit of both.

He slid his hands over her hips to her back, then he lifted them from her body, but kept them so close that Noroelle could still feel the warmth of his fingers.

She closed her eyes and let herself sink back on the bed. She felt him slowly moving over her, his hands caressing her breasts, her face. She could hardly believe how warm his body felt. It had to be some kind of spell to cause such heat.

When she felt his manhood graze her thigh, she wrapped her legs around him. A shudder, then another and another ran through her body.

When he pushed into her, her breath faltered. She had dreamed so often of nights of love with Farodin or Nuramon. She had felt desire and found fulfillment, but no dream had ever overflowed with sensual pleasure like this one. This time, all her magical senses were on fire. It must be like this in the waking world. And it would have been if . . . 

Nuramon hesitated in his movements. She wondered what he was waiting for. She opened her eyes and saw his face above her. He seemed almost shy as he returned her gaze. Had she frightened him with the way her breathing stopped for a moment? Noroelle ran her fingers through his hair, then over his lips. Her smile should tell him everything.

Carefully, he began to move inside her.

And in the same moment, everything around her blurred. She could not tell if it was because of the dream or if her magic or his was heightening her sensitivities and disorienting her senses.

With every movement he made, new worlds seemed to open up to her. Lights and colors swirled around her. Then she saw his face. It came and went and seemed more lovely than ever before. And the smell of him, too. There were so many fragrances that connected them, and she seemed to sense them all: the linden flowers, the mulberries, the old oak where Nuramon had his house. It was as if some enchantment had sought out all of these scents in her memory and pulled them into the dream.

Nuramon’s supple skin was equally arousing. He seemed to envelop her like a soft blanket and had warmed her own cool body deliciously. She felt him breathing evenly and deeply, and she took in his breath and savored its pleasant taste.

Then she heard herself. She heard herself whispering Nuramon’s name. She said it louder and louder, so loud that she surprised herself, until she screamed, all her senses merging in ecstasy.

In the space of a heartbeat, Noroelle was awake. Everything she had felt a moment earlier paled, flying from her body with a final tremble. She dared not open her eyes to see what she could already feel. Nuramon was gone. She wanted to reach out and feel him there, but it was impossible. She wanted to say his name, but her lips didn’t move. And now, when she tried to open her eyes after all, she discovered that her eyelids would not obey. She was trapped in her body, uncertain whether she had truly woken or was still dreaming.

Abruptly, she sensed the presence of another in her room. Was it Nuramon? Had he come back to her in the waking world?

Whoever it was in there with her, he came to her bed. She heard his cautious steps clearly. He stopped when he reached her and did not move until she could no longer tell if he was still there. After some time, she was certain she was alone again.

Then she heard footsteps outside her room. The door opened, and she heard Obilee’s voice calling her name. Her confidante came closer, sat beside her on the bed, and touched her. “Noroelle.”

Desperately, Noroelle tried to regain control over her body.

Obilee stood and closed the shutters. Then she returned to Noroelle and covered her with her blanket.

Noroelle’s breath caught. She tossed and turned and, a moment later, was back in charge of her body. She opened her eyes and sat bolt upright.

Obilee jumped in fright.

“Nuramon!”

The young elf smiled.

“I had a dream, Obilee.” Noroelle saw her nightdress lying beside her. And she knew that the window had been open. “Or more than a dream. He was here . . . he was here body and soul.” She hesitated. “But if he was here, then . . .” Then the elfhunt had failed. Then everything was as Nuramon had told her in her dream. It was over. The men who loved her, the men she loved, were dead.