The Elven (66 page)

Ten Steps

M
andred had fought his way up the boarding ramp, and he and the Mandridians had advanced as far as the forecastle of the caravel. It rose above the prow of the enemy ship like a fortress. There were only two stairways leading from the main deck up to where he stood. The position was easy to hold, but the enemy had formed a shield wall on the main deck and had already repelled two attacks.

Enraged, Mandred charged a third time. His axe hammered into shields and sliced through the mail tunics. Whenever he swung the weapon, the Mandridians kept a respectful distance. But it made no difference how furiously Mandred charged; the rows of the enemy immediately closed again. Swords stabbed out through gaps and over the edges of the shields. They were as quick as vipers. The Tjured knights were experienced in this style of fighting, and they did not give up an inch. One stab caught Mandred above his hip. Warm blood ran down his leg. Covered by the shields of the Mandridians, he retreated to the forecastle.

He looked out dejectedly over the bulwark. Between the queen’s flagship and the large caravel drifted a small galley. It looked as if it had been trying to get past quickly to reinforce Emerelle’s crew. No one on board still lived. Elven fighters and oarsmen lay on the decks and thwarts, collapsed in death, victims of the damned Tjured priest.

Their position was desperate. The situation on the chained longships also looked dire. The Fjordlanders and the elves had thrown all but their last reserves into the battle. By contrast, the Tjured seemed to have an almost inexhaustible supply of reinforcements. However many fighters they lost, the gaps in their ranks immediately filled.

Liodred came to Mandred’s side. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a scratch,” Mandred growled. He was lying, though, for the wound burned as if a red-hot poker had hit him, not a sword. “There are too many of them. We have to limit ourselves to holding the forecastle.” He looked to a young Mandridian who was leaning exhausted against the bulwark and looking out past the queen’s ship to what was going on among the longships.

“Will they send us any reinforcements?” Mandred asked.

“No. They’re fighting defensive battles all along the line. The Tjured knights are attacking the entire front.”

“Damn!”

Mandred looked down to the main deck of the caravel. The enemy had re-formed and were now attacking the Mandridians. Fearlessly, they surged up the two stairways leading to the forecastle. On the left, they were led by a giant who slammed into the Mandridian blocking his path to the deck. His blade slit open the young warrior’s throat, and he used his shield like a ram to clear enough room to get onto the forecastle. He was followed immediately by more knights.

Mandred hurled himself forward. He hated this kind of fighting. In a tussle like this, there was no room to swing his axe. He could only use it effectively when he lifted it over his head, but he would not let himself be tempted. To do that would leave his chest and belly unprotected, and he had already found out painfully just how skillful the knights could be with their short swords. Grimly, he restricted himself to attacking with the spike on the end of his axe. He rammed it into the shield of the man in front of him. The knight screamed in pain. Mandred had hit his target: the arm bound by leather straps to the other side of the shield. The knight let his shield drop for a moment, just a moment, but it was long enough for Mandred to strike a second time. With a crunch, he drove the spike through the eye slit in the man’s helmet.

Exploiting the sudden gap, Mandred attacked the man on the left, who was no longer covered by his comrade’s shield. The knight raised his sword to parry, but it was not nearly enough to counter the blow, and Mandred’s axe sank into his chest.

The jarl had fought his way almost as far as the bulwark. On the main deck, between the rows of fighters, he spied the priest. He was ten steps away. The cleric’s dark-blue robes billowed in the wind. “Forward!” the priest cried in the language of Fargon. “Keep going, or the demon queen will escape!”

Again, the knights surged toward the two stairways leading to the forecastle. The giant at the left stairway was still there. Two dead Mandridians lay at his feet.

Mandred looked back down to the main deck. It was impossible to get to the damned priest. Ten steps. Ten steps and they could still win this. But to do that, he would have to climb onto the bulwark and leap into the midst of the enemy below.

The jarl ducked beneath a swinging sword and rammed his axe under his adversary’s shield and into his knee. The man dropped to the deck with a cry and tried to stab Mandred in the groin. Mandred kicked at the shield, knocking the iron-clad edge into the knight’s helmet. His head jerked back and Mandred rammed the spike of his axe into the man’s throat.

Instantly, the jarl looked up again. If he jumped over the bulwark, he would be jumping to certain death. But perhaps, with his death, he could buy the queen’s escape and save Albenmark and the Fjordlands.

The priest had his arms raised. He was starting to cast a spell. Mandred looked back. The last time the priest had cast a spell, he’d been at least ten paces farther back. Emerelle was in mortal danger.

From the corner of his eye, Mandred saw a movement. The giant knight had fought his way through to him. Mandred fell back, and the giant’s sword scraped over his chain mail tunic. The strike went low and hit him below the knee, then a swung shield knocked Mandred back. Hands were reaching for him, pulling him into the safety of the Mandridians’ shield wall. Now the bulwark was too far away. He should have jumped.

Close to the Touch of Death

N
uramon and Nomja ran beneath the deck of the galley toward the stern. The sight of all the dead elves at their oars on the starboard side horrified him. The men and women simply lay there, some fallen forward over their oars, some on their backs on the benches. There were no visible wounds, and there was not the slightest look of fear on their faces. They seemed to have suffered no pain, nor to have seen their end coming.

What pained Nuramon the most was not knowing if the dead would be reborn. Meeting Nomja had assured him that elves who died in the human world could be reborn in Albenmark. And the dwarves were living proof of that. Even in the human world, Albenkin were born again. But the priest’s sorcery might prevent it. He had not thought of that when he told Emerelle and Obilee his plan. If there was no rebirth, then his search could be at an end with the merest touch of the priest’s death spell. Then he thought of Master Alvias. Had he not entered the moonlight before Nuramon’s eyes? Wasn’t that proof that the priests could not destroy the souls of the Albenkin? The only question that remained was: who was supposed to conceive and bear children if all was lost?

They reached the stern hatch and cautiously ascended the wide ladder. Nuramon put his head a short way out of the hatch to see what was happening at the forecastle. To his surprise, it was empty. The elves must have overcome the knights. Obilee and the queen were certain to be in safety on the longships. He climbed out of the hatch, keeping his head low. Over the railing, he could see that the Fjordlanders still held the forecastle of the caravel, preventing the Tjured knights from pursuing the queen.

When Nomja had climbed up through the hatch, they crept to the railing together. Keeping low, they peered over it, observing the battle between the Tjured knights and the Mandridians.

It did not look good for the Fjordlanders. They had been able to get onto the enemy ship, but that was as far as they could go.

There was Mandred. He was fighting in the front row. Why did he always have to be so far out in front? He and his men were facing at least fifty knights. It was only a question of time before the Mandridians were overwhelmed.

“I see the priest,” Nomja whispered. “Surrounded by bodyguards in full helmets.”

Nuramon saw the man. He was only a few paces away from Mandred, near the railing of the main deck, but there was no way for the jarl to get to him. The shield bearers were too numerous, too tightly packed. And in a close fight like that, their short swords were more useful than the axes and long blades of the Mandridians.

Nuramon took a deep breath and looked along the railing toward the bow. He saw a lot of elves lying there, victims of the priest’s magic. He and Nomja were now within its deadly range, too. Nuramon handed Nomja four of the dwarven arrows. “Here. Take them.”

Wide-eyed, she gazed at the glittering arrowheads. “Thank you, Nuramon,” she said softly, but she took only two.

She was right. They would not need any more than two. If the priest was still alive after two shots, then they were as good as dead.

Nuramon fixed an arrow on his bowstring and waited until Nomja had done the same. He breathed in deeply. “Now,” he whispered, and they both stood.

Nuramon took aim at the priest in the dark-blue robes, then released the string and sent the arrow on its flight. Nomja’s shot followed a heartbeat after his.

Nuramon’s arrow hit one of the bodyguards in the shoulder when the man happened to step in the way. Nomja missed the priest by a hair. They quickly set new arrows. Nuramon saw the fighters raise their shields around the priest, covering him. They had to act fast, or the Tjured priest would work his magic.

Nomja shot first, but her arrow was deflected by a shield boss. Nuramon’s hit a shield and penetrated it. The fighter holding it cried out and fell forward, giving them a clear view of the priest. He stood bending forward slightly, but his hands were raised over his head. He was casting a spell. As soon as the gap left by the fallen knight closed up, the chance would be gone. One more shot.
One shot!

Nuramon rapidly took aim with a new arrow, and Nomja also took another from his quiver. Nuramon aimed and fired. The arrow flew just past the priest’s head. The knights edged closer together, closing the gap in their rank. One of them pointed an outstretched arm in their direction and shouted something.

There. Nomja’s arrow. It was the matter of a moment, only the smallest of gaps was still open in the wall of shields. Nuramon was expecting the arrow to bury itself in a shield, but then the inconceivable happened. The arrow disappeared between the two shields. Nuramon saw the priest throw up his arms. Then he fell among the knights.

Breakthrough

P
anic suddenly spread among the Tjured knights. Mandred could not see why, but they fell back to the main deck. Even the huge knight who had attacked him so fiercely gave up the assault and covered his comrades’ retreat.

“Mandridians! Forward!” Mandred bellowed, and he lashed out with his foot at the giant’s shield. The big man stumbled on the blood-smeared steps and fell, taking many of his comrades down with him. Mandred leaped after them, landing on his adversary’s shield. This was the breakthrough.

The jarl set the spike of his axe at the huge knight’s throat. He could see the terror in the man’s eyes.

All around, the fighting had come to a standstill. They faced almost no resistance anymore. Most of the enemy now cowered behind their shields.

“I do not ask for your mercy,” the giant coughed.

“And I don’t grant it.” Mandred’s axe came down, but he struck with the flat of the blade, knocking the man out. The knight had fought well. To finish him like that would have been dishonorable.

The retreating knights tried to form a shield wall. Mandred flew at it without hesitating. They could not be allowed to establish another battle line. He batted shields aside, held his axe in front of him in both hands, and lunged forward as hard and fast as he could, driving a wedge through their lines. Liodred and the Mandridians would take care of the rest.

The last defender fell aside, and Mandred was suddenly face-to-face with the priest’s bodyguard. The sight of them rekindled his fury. He threw himself at them like an frenzied bear, ducking under swinging swords and swinging his axe into the ribs of one of the guards. In his wrath, Mandred did not feel one of the blades penetrate the mail protecting his neck. The steel rings took most of the force of the blow, and the blade left him with no more than a shallow cut. He stabbed one of the enemy fighters in the groin with the spike of his axe, pulled it free, and parried a backhanded swing aimed at his throat. The elven steel of the axe sang its song of death, but the priest’s bodyguards fought to the last man.

When Mandred, exhausted, finally lowered his axe, he was startled to find that the rest of the Tjured fighters had laid down their weapons.

Breathing heavily, the jarl looked around and finally found the one enemy he was looking for. The sorcerer priest lay among the dead. The blue-garbed priest was young, which took Mandred by surprise. An arrow had ended his life.

Liodred came to Mandred’s side. “They’re surrendering,” he declared, though his voice was weary. “They’ve given up the fight on the lower decks, too.”

Mandred heard what Liodred said, but he only had eyes for the priest. He tore the arrow from the young man’s body. Mandred had seen these silver-white feathers once before. And as he wiped the blood from the tip with his thumb and saw the glittering iron, he knew to whom this arrow belonged. Mandred looked around and saw Nuramon and Nomja standing at the stern of the elven galley. They raised their arms and waved.

The jarl shook his head and grinned at Liodred. “That damned elf saved my hide again. And his witless family thinks he’s no good.”

The Gift of a God

T
he
Grinder
was no more than a few hundred paces from the longships of the Fjordlanders. Eight ships followed the prince’s galleass. The rest followed the king’s flagship, bearing toward the western end of the barrier where the Tjured forces had taken the upper hand. If they were not stopped, they would overrun the Fjordlanders’ defenses from the western flank.

The smoke they had seen rising from this side of the fjord had dissipated. Farodin could see the wrecks of three burned-out ships drifting close to the cliffs. The fires had been extinguished.

It seemed strange to Farodin that Boldor would choose to sail into exactly the part of the battlefield that Skanga had warned him about.

“It is the king’s right to fight where winning will bring the most glory,” said the shaman without Farodin saying a word.

Farodin turned angrily to her.

“No, I am not going to stop reading what’s going on in your elven mind,” she said, her eyes burning. “Not as long as you wish to see him dead.”

The prince ignored them both. He waved to his fighters amidships. “New deck breakers!”

Farodin leaned out over the bulwark to see why Orgrim had issued his order. Three small caravels had split from the Tjured ships and were sailing toward them with the courage of the desperate.
They’re insane
, he thought.
Hopelessly insane. They might as well cut their own throats now
. The crew and the knights on the three ships could hardly have missed seeing the fate of the first ships to stand against the trolls. Still they dared to attack.

New stones were hauled up from below the deck of the
Grinder
and piled along the railing. Farodin could hear the trolls joking with each other, betting which of them would manage to smash the mainmast.

Alongside the stones lay the bodies of a number of the seamen. The trolls had fished them out of the sea after the fight with the three-master. Farodin already suspected why the trolls had hauled that
meat
on board. His allies’ customs sickened him.

“To be recognized as a warrior among my folk, you must have eaten the heart of an enemy,” said the shaman, her voice raw and hoarse. “Many young trolls will be welcomed by their princes into the league of warriors tonight. This is how we honor our enemy. No troll would ever consider eating the meat of a coward.”

“I do not want to hear that.” Farodin’s hands tightened around the railing. He leaned forward a little more, wanting to get a closer look at the three caravels sailing toward the
Grinder
.

“There’s only one way for you to live, isn’t there, elf? And anything that deviates so much as an inch from that is wrong,” she said.

Farodin closed himself to the old hag’s words. Nothing could justify the trolls’ revolting customs.

Panic seemed to have broken out aboard the little caravel. Seamen slashed with axes at barrels that were lashed to the deck. An oily fluid lapped ankle deep across the deck and ran from the scuppers in gleaming streams.

Only a few paces separated the two ships.

“Oars up!” Orgrim called. The kettledrum instantly fell silent.

The caravel disappeared below the hull of the galleass. Farodin saw some of the men on board jump into the sea to save themselves. There was a tremendous crash, and the impact of the caravel ramming the trolls’ ship threw the elf hard against the railing.

From the quarterdecks of the Tjured ships massed against the barricade, dark streamers of smoke rose steeply into the sky. Flaming arrows.

The helmless caravel grated along the side of the trolls’ galleass. Some distance away, the priests’ flaming arrows fizzed into the sea. They had fired too short.

“Bring barrels of water on deck!” the prince shouted.

The pointless attack surprised Farodin. Hundreds of flaming arrows left curves of smoke against the blue sky. The troll ships were almost out of range of the archers. Most of the arrows fell short.

He looked at the abandoned ship. The caravel was trailing a glittering wake. Streaks of the stuff smeared the side of the galleass. Some of the trolls were trying to push the smaller ship away with poles.

Farodin tried to see what plan lay behind the attack. Nothing made sense. Two more of the trolls’ ships had collided with the small caravels, but as far as he could see, the galleasses had taken no damage at all.

A shower of arrows fell into the sea in front of them. Hissing, the flames died. But one left a small flame floating on the water.

Fire, burning on the water. Farodin thought of the priests’ fleet in the harbor at Iskendria. The horrific images were still fresh in his memory. Many generations might have passed in the human world since Iskendria was taken, but for Farodin, only a few moons had passed.

The elf wheeled around. Everything was suddenly clear. The humans were trying to set the sea on fire as far as possible from their own fleet. It was part of their plan for the caravels to carry out their ramming maneuver almost out of range of the archers. But why didn’t one of the fanatics simply set the ship on fire himself? Were they afraid they would burn too soon?

“Away from the ship!” Farodin shouted and dashed to the helm. He pointed to the glittering streaks fanning across the water. “We can’t go into that! Get the oars out! We have to get under way!”

“What’s gotten into you, elf?” asked the prince in surprise. “Are we still taking too long to get into the fight?”

“We won’t get into the fight at all if we don’t move fast.”

Orgrim’s brow creased, which opened up the cut on his scalp again. A drop of blood ran down the side of his wide nose. “The oars will go out again once we’re past the caravel. We can’t afford to lose any more,” the prince declared and turned away.

“By the Alben, Orgrim. They’ve stolen Balbar’s fire, the wonder weapon that made Iskendria’s ships the rulers of the Aegilien Sea for centuries. We are dead if we don’t get away from this floating oil. Nothing can put those flames out once they’re alight.”

“I’m not about to—” the prince began when, to starboard, a flame shot up from the sea. As it did, one of the two caravels that had attacked farther west caught fire, and flames raced rapidly up the sides of the
Bone Shredder
. All around the ship, the sea was suddenly aflame. The
Bone Shredder
was more than thirty mast-lengths away, but Farodin felt the heat of the fire on his face. Hulking figures engulfed in flame leaped overboard. Screams rang across the water that could not save them.

A dull thud came from starboard. The mast of the caravel that had rammed them had caught on the protruding superstructure atop the quarterdeck of the
Grinder
. The hulls of the ships chafed against each other, creaking, and the heavy galleass, which was still making headway, pulled the smaller ship along with it.

“Carpenter!” Orgrim bellowed. “To the quarterdeck! Cut the yards! Oars out!” Below deck, the droning boom of the drum began again. “Reverse oars! Back! Back!” Orgrim took hold of his war hammer and strode to the bulwark. He beat at the yards and rigging that had become tangled.

Farodin had overcome his first fear and ran to the prince’s side. He slashed desperately at the ropes of the rigging. Orgrim slung a heavy rope around his body and lowered himself over the side to be better able to get at the caravel’s yards. The reefed sail was still holding the splintered wood together. Sailcloth and ropes were caught on a strut beneath the quarterdeck of the
Grinder
.

Orgrim threw his heavy war hammer back on deck and tried to tear away the heavy rigging with his bare hands. His face was covered in sweat. He looked up to Farodin. “Wishing I don’t die? There’s a first time for everything.”

The elf slid his sword back into its sheath and climbed onto the bulwark. “I wish you’d stop talking like an idiot and do your job.” Farodin jumped out as far as he could and came down onto the yard. His hands snatched at the ropes, then he swung one leg up and found a secure seat. He drew a dagger and began to cut at the sailcloth in dogged silence.

Orgrim suddenly slid to the side, swung on the rope, and collided with the side of the
Grinder
. The trolls on the quarterdeck yelled in triumph. The galleass was free. Farodin still sat on the undamaged half of the yard, but with every heartbeat, the distance between him and the troll ship increased.

Orgrim pushed himself away from the side of the ship and swung back out toward the caravel. But the rope was too short. “Jump, you damned elf!” the troll bellowed, reaching out a huge hand.

From the mass of ships behind Farodin, the dark streaks rose into the sky again. Now all of the Tjured archers seemed to be aiming for the
Grinder
.