The Elven (62 page)

The child did not let go of Nuramon’s hand, but looked up at him anxiously.

“Go on. That is Emerelle, the one you’ve heard so much about.”

Yulivee slowly eased her grip and stepped cautiously before the queen. Everyone in the hall fell silent. The only sound was the swishing of the water falling from the walls. Emerelle looked at Yulivee for a long time, as if she wanted to remember every facet of the girl. Then she said, “Yulivee, I have waited a long time for the return of the Diliskar line and the other clans of Valemas, which makes today all the more important. A great future awaits you. How did you come to be with Nuramon and Farodin?”

In a quiet voice, Yulivee told the story of the first time she met Nuramon. She repeated their conversation from that time word for word. “And then he told me that you told him that he should choose his own kin. And then I knew that I was not alone.”

“It was wise of Nuramon to tell you that. So you chose each other as relatives?”

“Yes. Now he is my brother.”

Although Nuramon could see that some around him were listening to the little sorceress’s words with disdainful smiles, he felt no unease. He was proud of Yulivee and how open she was with the queen.

“Come and stand beside my throne. You will have to get used to standing here.”

Yulivee did as the queen asked. In the girl’s face, it was clear how impressed she was at having the eyes of all the assembled Albenkin on her. When the queen took her hand, the young sorceress’s eyes grew even wider. She must have felt as if she herself were in one of the Emerelle stories she knew so well.

The queen turned back to Nuramon. “You did well to take the child on. She is more powerful than you might think. Because you have chosen each other as siblings, I would like to ask you if I might be allowed to instruct her in the magical arts.”

“Who could turn down such an offer?” replied Nuramon. “But it is not up to me to accept or reject. Yulivee should make that decision for herself. I would be happy to have you instruct her, for there is little I can teach her.”

“Well, Yulivee? Would you like to be my pupil?”

“Yes, Emerelle. I would like that . . . but I would also like to stay with Nuramon.”

“I will give you some time to think. It is not an easy choice. But whichever way you decide, you will not disappoint me,” Emerelle said. Then she rose. “And now, my Albenkin, arm yourselves for battle. Alvias.” The master approached. The queen whispered something in his ear, then she took Yulivee by the hand and left the hall through a side door. The soldiers around her throne followed her, all but Obilee, who stood where she was and looked at Farodin and Nuramon as if they were a painting that reminded her of good days.

Farodin was immediately surrounded by his relatives, and Nuramon’s clan came to him, showering him with questions. Most of his relatives were strangers to him. The only familiar face he saw was Elemon’s, and the old man’s eyes still betrayed his suspicion. The young woman who had spoken to him earlier was his cousin Diama, he discovered. She asked him what had happened among the children of the Darkalben. Nuramon replied evasively and tried to catch Obilee’s eye at every opportunity. But Obilee did not move from her place. She seemed happy enough to see Nuramon in the midst of his own clan.

When Elemon approached him, Nuramon thought that all the joy of his return was over. His uncle had never had a friendly word to say to him. The other elves waited in silence for what the old elf would say. “Nuramon, we are all part of the Weldaron clan,” he began. “And you know that I and the others of my generation never had anything but scorn for you. In the time that you were here and were not allowed to leave Albenmark, we conceived children of our own. And after you left, they were born, and we were safe in the knowledge that they did not carry your soul. But these children, and their children, look at you through other eyes. They have heard the stories of Nuramon the minnesinger and warrior, of Nuramon the searcher, the eternal wanderer. During the troll wars, they discovered that you were once a companion to Alfadas.” He stopped speaking and stared at Nuramon as if waiting for some stirring of emotion from him. Then he went on. “You don’t need to forgive us who are now old. Many of us have not changed our views, but these elves around you now, they see you as one of the greats of our clan. Do not let them feel your contempt for us.”

Nuramon had never liked Elemon, but his uncle’s words were a concession that Nuramon had never in his life expected to hear. When he looked into the faces of the young elves surrounding him, he realized that his uncle was right. “If the queen did not want me with her, then I would go into this battle beside my clan. Thank you for what you have said, Elemon.”

“And I hope you can forgive me,” Elemon said, his eyes shining.

“Yes, I can. In the name of Weldaron.” Nuramon recalled all the years he had had to put up with the ridicule of his own clan. If Elemon were not standing before him, and if he had not seen the old man close to tears, he would have believed that his relatives wanted him back among them now only for their own selfish reasons. But Elemon’s words were spoken in earnest. Nuramon doubted that no more than he doubted the intentions of the young men and women around him, many of whom wore short swords, as he did, as if consciously emulating him. His cousin Diama was one of them. She was even wearing armor that was similar in design to Gaomee’s armor, although fashioned from scales of metal and not from dragon leather. It was in that moment that Nuramon truly understood how long he had been gone. He had been a victim of time twice. And each time, more than two hundred years had passed. In that time, his clan’s scorn had transformed into respect, and even admiration.

Alvias came to him then, accompanied by Farodin. The master nodded to him politely. “Nuramon, the queen wishes to see you and Farodin in her side chamber. Please follow me.”

“Thank you for coming here,” said Nuramon uncertainly as he left his relatives. He would need time to get used to the change.

When they had left the circle of their relatives, Farodin whispered, “It seems your clan has grown quickly. Apparently, they see more in you than just someone who is constantly reborn.” It sounded as if Farodin, in his own way, was happy for him.

Nuramon was about to reply, but at that moment, they passed by Obilee. He stopped. Alvias seemed impatient. “I will go ahead and tell the queen that you are on your way.”

Neither of them replied. Nuramon thought of the last time he had seen Noroelle’s friend. It had been at the first gate he opened with his own magic. She had waved to him from the hill. Back then, she had seemed to him to be more a sorceress than a soldier, but now she was wearing a soldier’s robes made of soft gelgerok leather, with hardwood plates fixed on the torso, sleeves, and legs. The runes painted on the wood no doubt aided Obilee in battle. Around her neck, she wore a chain to which, like Nuramon, she had attached Noroelle’s precious stone. Hers was a diamond.

Finally, Nuramon broke the silence. “Xern told me that you were a heroine in the troll wars.”

“Yes,” Obilee replied as if she regretted the fact.

“Noroelle will be proud of you when she hears it,” said Farodin.

“I have never forgotten Noroelle. Not a day passes that I do not think about her, or you.” She looked into Nuramon’s eyes. “I wish I could go with you.” Her voice sounded as melancholy as her words. She smiled, but it was a pained smile. “Don’t let my mood deceive you. I am happy to see you back.” With those words she embraced Farodin and kissed him on the cheek. “I wish I could do something for you.” She took Nuramon in her arms then, but did not kiss him. “I am so happy for you. Noroelle was right. Your clan has seen your true nature.”

Before Nuramon could reply, Obilee said, “Come. We must not keep the queen waiting any longer. No doubt she wants to learn what you have both been through. And I am more than a little curious, too.”

They followed Obilee into the side room. Nuramon could not take his eyes off the warrior woman. There was so much pain and longing there.

As they entered the side room, Nuramon could hardly believe his ears. Little Yulivee was standing beside the queen, surrounded by soldiers, telling them the story of their journey through Fargon. “And just when I believed my life was over, Nuramon reached me and pulled me up onto the saddle. But listen to what happened then! Well, what would you have done if you were us?” She turned to Ollowain.

“I would have turned around as fast as I could to get you to safety,” he answered. “Then I would have ridden back and fought the riders in battle.”

Yulivee grinned cheekily. “A wise answer. But Nuramon did nothing like that because it would have meant the death of both of us. He did not turn his horse around at all, because the enemy was too close.” She could have told Ollowain that earlier, but the warrior from the Shalyn Falah laughed at her words. “Instead, he spurred us on, straight through the middle of them all, ducking their swords and lances and—” The little sorceress caught sight of Nuramon and stopped. But then she went on quickly. “And he saved little Yulivee from the evil men. And if little Yulivee watches out, she will still be alive tomorrow.”

The soldiers around her laughed, and even the queen had a smile on her face. “Come closer,” she said. And when Farodin and Nuramon were standing before her, she said, “I want to thank both of you once again for protecting Yulivee.” She took the little girl’s hand. “You don’t know how much you have helped me and all of Albenmark by doing so.”

A Wall of Wood

A
fresh breeze tousled Mandred’s thin braids. With Liodred and a bodyguard of Mandridians, he stood atop the western cliff overlooking the entrance to the fjord. From there, they could look far out over the sea. It was a beautiful late-summer morning. Small, fair-weather clouds scudded before the wind. The sun glittered on the water, and the outlines of distant ships stood out clearly against the sky. There must have been more than two hundred of them. And all of them bore the sign of the burned oak on their sails.

“Another half an hour, and the first will reach the entrance to the fjord,” said Liodred calmly.

Mandred looked down at the little fleet that would stand against the knights of Tjured. All told, they had gathered fewer than sixty ships. Fifteen were small, carrying a maximum of twenty men. They had run chains through the rudder hatches of the thirty strongest ships, binding them inseparably together. Like that, they formed a barrier, blocking the deep water in the middle of the fjord. This is where the battle would rage, and this is where the fight against the priests would be decided. The smaller vessels bobbed some distance behind the barrier. Their job was to deliver reinforcements if the line of chained ships threatened to break.

Mandred looked at the wide gaps to the right and left of the wall of ships. “Are you really certain they can’t get through there, Liodred?”

“Definitely, Forefather. Our enemy’s fleet is made up mainly of caravels with a deep draft. Frankly, I want to lead them to the sides, to make them attack from the flanks. There are treacherous rocks that lurk just below the water there. At high water, a skillful captain might manage to guide a caravel through those rocks, but when the water ebbs, they are doomed. With luck on our side, they’ll lose a dozen ships or more on the flanks. The moment their fleet fans out inside the fjord, we will attack them with fire.” Liodred pointed to a number of smaller fishing boats, loaded high with brushwood. “If the wind holds, the fire will do serious damage.” He gestured widely, taking in the cliffs on both sides of the fjord. “Up here are the old men and the lads too young to fight in battle. We have brought in ten cartloads of arrows from all ends of the kingdom. The men and boys up here will send arrows raining down, should their ships wander too close to the coast.” Liodred spoke in such a loud voice that the bodyguards surrounding them could hear every word clearly. “When it comes down to it, the priests are doing us a favor by attacking Firnstayn. Here in the fjord, we fight the battle on our own terms. The narrowness of the fjord makes it impossible for them to use their numbers properly. Once they board the ships of the blockade, it’s man against man.”

Liodred waved to Mandred to follow him back to the horses. When Liodred swung onto his saddle, he said quietly, “I hope the elves will make it here in time. The enemy outnumbers us five to one, maybe more.”

“If there is a way for them to get here, they will be here,” replied Mandred resolutely. But he knew only too well how many unforeseeable things could prevent that from happening. Would Emerelle even grant his two companions an audience? And how long would it take to equip a fleet and sail it out through an Albenstar?

They rode back down the path from the cliff. About halfway down, a group of elderly warriors came toward them carrying wicker baskets full of arrows on their backs. Liodred reined in his black horse and waved to a man wearing an eye patch. “Hey-o, Gombart, what drags you away from your pretty wife?”

“I heard you’d invited every old dog around town to shoot a few knights.” He regarded the king with a toothless grin and patted the black cloth patch bound over his left eye. “Besides, they say they’ll be so packed together that not even I could miss. And for every one we cut down, there’s a horn full of mead waiting for us in your golden hall.”

Liodred roared with laughter. “That’s hardly a story my cupbearer would be spreading, but I’ll take you at your word, my men. A horn full to the brim for every Tjured knight.” He grinned broadly. “But don’t think I don’t know you for a pack of crooks. I’ll be aboard the
Albenstar
down there and counting every one.”

The men laughed and joshed among themselves awhile. Liodred waved one last time, then he spurred his big black horse on down the cliff track.

“Sometimes I think it is better for a man to die young and in full possession of his powers,” said Liodred when they were out of earshot.

“No,” Mandred contradicted him. “The greatest gift is to be able to see your children grow up. Believe me, I know.” He thought bitterly of how little time he had had with Alfadas.

On the final stretch of the path down to the bay, where a rowboat was waiting for them, each man of the party was silent, deep in his own thoughts. Where were the elves? Mandred wondered. Would they leave Firnstayn to fend for itself?

On the beach stood Valgerd, Liodred’s wife. She was tall and blond and wore a dress the color of sunflowers, held together at the shoulders by two golden clasps. On her arm she carried a child, no more than five moons old. His name was Aslak, Liodred’s son.

The king went to them and kissed the boy tenderly on his forehead. Then he untied a knife in a gold-clad sheath from his belt and handed it to Valgerd. She nodded.

Liodred passed his hand gently through her hair, then he moved down to the boat where Mandred was already waiting for him. The jarl felt ill. Was the king afraid of dying? Was that a parting gift for a son who might never know his father? Liodred was so close to all the people here. He was loved by each and every one of them.
Nothing will happen to him
, Mandred swore.

The two men climbed into the little rowboat. The oarsmen greeted their king, who tousled the hair of the youngest in passing. Then they pushed off from the beach and rowed hard for the flagship.

“An heirloom?” asked Mandred.

Liodred was jolted from his musings. “What?”

“The knife.”

“Yes . . . that, too.”

“What else?”

Liodred lowered his voice. “I know what these priests are like. It is . . . Should they win this battle, Valgerd will try to escape. But in case . . .”

“She should kill the boy?”

“And herself,” said Liodred. “It will be for the best.” He looked out over the dark water of the fjord. “Will they come? The elves?” he asked, his voice still low.

“Of course,” said Mandred, but he could not look Liodred in the eye as he said it.

On board the
Albenstar
, Liodred was like a new man. He joked with the soldiers and gave instructions for who should be in the front line. This
Albenstar
had little in common with the ship that had once carried Mandred and the elves to Noroelle’s island. It was much larger, with space for a hundred oarsmen.

On all thirty ships in the blockade, the masts had been unstepped and laid in the longships to prevent them becoming a hindrance in the impending battle. The rudders, too, had been pulled on board and stowed. In the stern of the longship, a pole had been placed, and on it fluttered the old banner from the original
Albenstar
: a blue star on a silver ground.

Two soldiers helped Liodred don his armor, the beautifully worked elven armor that had once been worn by Alfadas and, here, was without equal. All of the other soldiers on board wore chain mail tunics and round helmets with long nasals.

Mandred allowed himself to be helped into a knee-length mail tunic. As he was putting on his helmet, Liodred came to him. “I always wanted to ask you if it was true that each one of the braids in your hair stood for a man that you slayed in battle. That is what our skalds tell us.”

“It’s true,” the jarl said.

“You’re a dangerous man.”

“You’ll need dangerous men today.”

Horns sounded from the cliff tops. The first of the knights’ ships was sailing into the fjord. It was a stately three-master with a high stern. Moments later, four more swung into the fjord entrance.

Mandred looked apprehensively at the high forecastles of the ships. The attackers would be several paces higher than the Firnstayners’ defenses. The crow’s nests on the Tjured vessels looked huge. Each carried five crossbowmen. From up there, they could pick their targets across a wide field.

A salvo of arrows flew from the western cliff, but the ship was holding to the center of the channel and the arrows fell short by a good fifty paces.

Liodred handed Mandred a large, round shield painted red. “You’ll be needing that, Forefather.”

The jarl pushed his left arm through the broad leather loops and pulled them tight. The shield felt solid on his forearm.

“Let’s welcome these lily-white priests!” Liodred roared and raised his shield in front of his chest. Then he slammed the flat of his axe against the curved boss in the center of the shield. Soldiers along the entire battle line followed his lead, and an earsplitting din echoed from the cliffs along the fjord.

The clanging and the cries of the soldiers got the blood pumping in Mandred’s veins. Let the damned Tjured priests come. In the men of the Fjordlands, they would find their betters.

More and more ships appeared in the entrance of the fjord. They fanned out into an extended line, still four hundred paces distant. Mandred could see the helmets of the Tjured knights glinting behind the bulwarks shielding the forecastle.

“Watch over us, Norgrimm,” Liodred bellowed. “Make our wall of wood strong, and may the courage of our enemies founder on it.”

Fanfares sounded from the caravels, and there was movement in the ships’ bows.

“Shields high!” Mandred cried, even as arrows rained down onto the longships.

The large, round shields quickly formed a protective roof. Arrows thudded into the wood. Here and there, a man went to the deck, screaming, but the battle line across the longships did not waver.

Salvo followed salvo. From beneath the shields, it was impossible to see how close the caravels were coming. Mandred had the feeling of an eternity passing. Hot sweat ran down the back of his neck. The point of an arrow pierced his shield and missed his arm by a hair. In places, the sand strewn across the decks of the longships was red with blood. Again and again, arrows found a gap in the wall of shields.

Suddenly, the blockade of ships heaved. Several men near Mandred were knocked off their feet, and gaps appeared in the shield wall. The caravels had rammed the longships. The ships of the Northmen and the Tjured knights were hull to hull, like rival stags whose antlers have become wedged in a duel.

“On your feet!” Liodred roared. “Archers ten paces back! Bring down the crossbows in the crow’s nests!”

The lightly armed archers had sought shelter beneath the roof of shields during the hail of arrows. Now they ran back, and it was their turn to attack the enemy.

A spear thwacked into the deck close to Mandred and stayed there, vibrating in the blood-smeared planking. Now that the rows of shields had broken, the jarl could once again see their foes. Wide planks with iron spikes on their ends slid down from the caravels. The spikes dug into the deck like fangs.

All along the barricade, boarding ramps were sliding down. Above Mandred, soldiers in white tabards appeared, ducked low behind long, drop-shaped shields. Every shield bore the crest of the burned oak.

“For Tjured!” came the cry from a thousand throats. Then the knights of Tjured stormed down the boarding ramps.

Shield to shield, they charged the battle lines of the defenders in a wild rampage. Mandred’s axe swung down in a glittering arc, carving through the shield and the helmet of the first of the attackers. The jarl jerked his axe free and swung it backhand over the edge of the next knight’s shield. With a crunch, the elven steel sliced through the nasal of his adversary’s helmet.

Beside him, Liodred fought like an enraged bear. Soon, the deck was covered with the dead and the dying.

A blow from a sword split Mandred’s shield, but the blade wedged in the wood, and Mandred tore it away from his attacker. Mandred’s axe swung into the knight’s uncovered flank, striking him beneath the ribs.

Mandred jumped onto one of the boarding ramps. He threw the destroyed shield aside and took hold of his axe in both hands. He raged up the bridge like a berserker, fighting every step of the way to the enemy’s forecastle. Close behind him followed three of the Mandridians, using their shields as best they could to cover him from enemy arrows.

When he reached the end of the ramp, the Tjured soldiers were massed so thickly in the forecastle that it was almost impossible for them to even raise their shields to protect themselves. In a blind rage, Mandred hewed into them. Swords and spears shattered under the impact of elven steel. Then he leaped into the midst of the enemy. He rammed the spike at the top of the axe shaft under the edge of the helmet of a tall knight, through his jaw, and into his brain. As the giant fell, he took down two more Tjured fighters with him. Panic broke out on the forecastle. Screaming, the knights tried to flee to safety. Some even jumped over the bulwarks into the water, though under the weight of their mail tunics, it was a leap to certain death.

Moments later, the entire forecastle was under the control of the Northmen. Gasping for breath, Mandred looked down over the main deck. The surviving knights had retreated, and now they were looking up at him, their eyes wide with fear. From the rear of the fleet, more caravels were pushing into the mass of wedged ships, bringing fresh troops.

“We have to pull back,” came a raw voice at his side. Liodred, too, had fought his way aboard the caravel. The king pointed to the east. “They’ve managed to get over the reef. The ebb tide won’t come. They’ve lost only a single ship there so far.”

From the forecastle, Mandred had a good view of the fighting. The battle line of the Northmen had held, but Death had taken a rich harvest among them.

On both sides of the blockade, individual caravels had managed to get through the rocks. One of the priests’ ships was on fire, ignited by the burning brands. A black column of smoke rose into the bright summer sky. Three of the little fire boats were engaged in a fearless attack, but the knights were fending them off with long poles while the crossbowmen aloft shot at the crews below.