The Elven (70 page)

The Devanthar hurled one of its swords at Farodin, but the blade missed by an arm’s length. Dark blood had begun to run from the priest’s remaining eye.

The light of the emerald grew brighter and brighter. “Can you feel the power of Noroelle, demon?” said Farodin. “This is what you get for your stolen night of love.”

The Devanthar writhed in pain. Its hand clutched at its face. “She loved my seed that night, elf,” it blurted, its voice agonized. “And I liked Guillaume, too, as I did all my children. Many of them are so wonderfully adept when it comes to following the paths of magic. Like Father Marcus, who came so close to killing Emerelle.”

Farodin stood up. On the wide armrest of the throne lay a stone, golden and shimmering. Was that it? The key to Noroelle? The Albenstone the Devanthar had used to create all the new paths?

The priest lowered its hands from its face. Both eyes had been transformed into yawning hollows. It bent down and felt for the sword that had fallen to the floor in front of it. When it found the sword, it took it hastily and pointed with it at the place on the floor where Farodin had just been crouching. “Do you think you’ve won, little elf?” Swaying, it rose to its feet again.

Without a sound, Farodin crept to the side of the throne and took the Albenstone. It was a translucent golden chrysoberyl, and five pale-brown veins ran through it. Everything would be as it should now. With the power of the stone, they could free Noroelle.

The Devanthar felt its way toward the throne. Cautious, Farodin took a step back. “You still covet the attentions of the elf woman I rutted, don’t you? How was it, knowing that she gave herself so willingly to me in Nuramon’s form?”

The Devanthar’s hand slid along the armrest of the throne. It hesitated, then ran its hand over it again.

“You move very quietly, Farodin. Did I already mention how loud the elf bitch was when she lay under me? I think she’d been waiting for someone to come and take her like that.” The Devanthar had stepped away from the throne a short way. It held the sword slightly angled, ready to parry even if it couldn’t see an attack coming.

Pathetic
, thought Farodin. Quietly, he circled his adversary. Then he took hold of the priest by the hair and jerked his head back. Cold-bloodedly, efficiently, he swung at the demon’s wrist, slicing through tendon and bone. With a clang, the Devanthar’s weapon fell to the floor. The fingers twitched for a moment, then the hand lay still.

Farodin pressed his sword to the Devanthar’s throat.

“Do you still remember what happened when I died in the ice cave, elf?”
The voice of the demon was inside Farodin’s head now.
“I might enjoy paying another visit to your lover if you kill this body.”
The deceiver’s other hand brushed Farodin’s leg. The elf recoiled. Something cold seemed to grasp deep inside him.

“What a pretty island,”
whispered the voice.
“Do you really want to send me there? Should I visit her in your form this time?”

Pale-blue light played along Farodin’s blade. “You are mistaken, deceiver. No one can get to her. Not even you.” The steel buried itself deep in the Devanthar’s skin. Then, with a jerk, the elf severed the bones of the demon’s neck and lifted its head in the air by its long blond hair. Filled with cold fury, Farodin stared into its hollowed eyes. Then he lay the head on top of the basin of embers.

Suddenly, his sword began to gleam along its entire length. Was that a shadow there, by the body of the false priest?

Farodin jumped forward. He saw nothing more. Had it just been an illusion, a trick of his senses? Farodin turned around, swirling his blade in the air. He jumped forward and stabbed the air as if he had gone mad. With every beat of his heart, his fear grew. Were the Devanthar’s last words more than just a desperate threat?

Suddenly, the light of the sword faded again. Thin, black veins crept along the steel. Icy cold penetrated the leather that wrapped the hilt and began to bite into Farodin’s fingers. Shocked, he dropped the weapon. The steel had turned as black as a raven. When it hit the stone floor, the sword shattered into countless tiny shards.

The Revenge of the Devanthar

E
very bone in Nuramon’s body hurt. Strangely, though, he took no satisfaction from the sight of the Devanthar’s corpse.

They had done what they came to do. The enemy was dead, their wounds at least a little healed. All that was left was for them to get out of that terrible place.

Wearily, he and his companions turned back to the hall with the Albenstar. Mandred and Farodin carried Liodred’s body, and the jarl could not hide his sadness. With care, the two of them laid the king’s body beside the golden star.

“We should not have brought you with us,” said Mandred, and he stroked Liodred’s face gently and closed the king’s eyes.

Farodin looked worried, and Nuramon felt it, too. His companion had told him about the Devanthar’s final words. Was Noroelle in danger? Or was the threat just a final, desperate attempt to intimidate them? No. They had beaten the demon. There could be no doubt. The fact that Farodin held the Albenstone in his hand was proof that they had prevailed. But they would only be able to enjoy their triumph when they were out of this monastery and back in the human world. In the worst case, they would have to fight their way out, and then they would have to make it clear to Mandred that he could not take the king’s body with him.

Nuramon positioned himself on the gold plate. He would open the gate and prepare himself to instantly open another, one that would take them from the Tjured monastery to Firnstayn. He focused on the magic. Around him, the Albenpaths appeared, but something was wrong. The paths had changed. They seemed to be surrounded by tongues of flame. He tried to weave the magic, but even as he began, his spirit was attacked by pain. It felt as if burning hands were clutching at his head, trying to melt their fingers into his skull.

Exhausted, he broke off the spell and fell to his knees. When he could see clearly again, he looked up into the horrified faces of his companions.

“What happened?” asked Mandred.

“No. Anything, but not that,” Farodin cried. He seemed to be staring at nothing, but Nuramon knew only too well what his companion could see. The flames surrounding the Albenpaths could not be hidden from him. “This is the Devanthar’s revenge.”

They were locked in. As the queen’s barrier blocked the way to Noroelle, the Devanthar’s barrier stopped them from leaving the Shattered World. Nuramon looked at the Albenstone in Farodin’s hands. It was their only hope, but they knew nothing about the stone and first had to learn to use its power. It could take years for them to puzzle out the secrets of the golden stone . . . years they did not have, for there was neither food nor water in that place. They would die of thirst before they had even begun to fathom the stone’s complexities.

“There!” Mandred suddenly shouted and pointed to one of the large silver plates that surrounded the Albenstar. The jarl crouched in front of it.

Nuramon and Farodin looked over his shoulder. On the surface of the silver plate, an image appeared, like an image in the queen’s water mirror. It showed the fjord at Firnstayn. They were looking to the west, past the stone circle, and down over the town. It was already morning, and the fires of victory seemed to have died away. The elves’ galleys and the trolls’ floating fortresses had disappeared. All there was to see on the shore were the gray piles of ashes from the funeral pyres of the dead elves. There could be no doubt; the silver plate was showing them Firnstayn after the battle with the Tjured.

Suddenly, something moved. It was the waves. They were moving as if a strong wind was blowing along the fjord, but something about the image wasn’t right. The waves were much too small for a strong wind. Clouds appeared, scudding and gathering across the blue sky. When the sun appeared and quickly rose, it was clear that it was not wind driving the waves and the clouds. The sun moved rapidly across the sky and down toward the horizon, and night was already there with its stars, only to give way moments later to a new dawn.

Time was passing before their eyes. Nuramon remembered the Cave of Luth. Beyond the wall of ice that had blocked the mouth of the cave, they had seen a similar play of light and dark. And back then, they walked out of the cave thirty years after they had walked in.

Mandred gave voice to Nuramon’s thoughts. “By Luth. This damned Devanthar lured us into the same trap we fell into back then.” The jarl shook his head unhappily and gazed at his town.

“The only difference is now there is no one outside to set us free,” said Farodin quietly. “Idiots.”

“Perhaps the queen will be able to help us,” said Nuramon.

“Remember what the queen said?” Farodin asked him. “The Devanthar was counting on either her or the troll shaman to come after it.”

Nuramon remembered. The queen had also mentioned other powerful sorcerers, but that meant nothing now. “Do you mean we have walked into a trap intended for the queen?”

“Yes. And she will never dare set foot in a monastery where a priest with demon blood in his veins could kill her in a heartbeat.”

Nuramon nodded. Farodin was right. They were on their own. “Then we have to try to overcome the Devanthar’s power by ourselves. We have no other choice. Our only hope is that we can learn to use the Albenstone somehow.”

“How can that be?” Mandred suddenly asked, drawing their attention back to the silver plate.

Day and night could no longer be differentiated. There was only the gloomy light of dusk. Snow replaced grass, which, in turn, replaced snow, showing how quickly the years were passing, but that was not what troubled Mandred. He pointed to the stone circle. He could see a gate there, but it was not the gate veiled in mist that they knew. There was nothing shrouding this gate, and they could see through it directly into Albenmark and down the hill to the ruins of the tower. Even Atta Aikhjarto’s spreading crown was visible. “Why is the gate open like that?”

Nuramon was shocked at what he saw. If time was passing so quickly before their eyes, then the only things visible were those that were permanent. The mountains, the town, the blurred surface of the water, the stone circle, and the view of Albenmark. They would only see an elf or a human if he stood in one place for an entire season. The gate to Albenmark stood open while the seasons changed faster and faster. The town grew larger, too. The harbor expanded, and like the rings of a tree, the rows of houses grew beyond the walls of the city until a second, even stronger city wall was built, with high defensive towers.

Then something happened that they could never have foreseen. The gate to Albenmark widened, like a crack through the world. It ran down the cliffs to the fjord and crossed the water to the beach where Emerelle had opened the door to the monastery. What was going on? Was this the end of Albenmark, and they could do nothing but look on helplessly? Fury grew in Nuramon’s heart.

“That can’t be true,” said Farodin. “It’s an illusion, another one of the Devanthar’s tricks. We are not seeing reality.”

Nuramon shook his head. He did not believe his companion. “Give me the Albenstone, Farodin.” He did not wait for Farodin to hand it over, but simply took it.

Farodin glowered at him, but when he saw the determination on Nuramon’s face, he simply said, “You can do it.”

Mandred, though, seemed to be somewhere else entirely, able only to stare at the image on the floor.

Nuramon stepped back onto the golden plate and prepared for the spell. Whatever happened, he would not give up before he had broken through the barrier.

The instant he began the spell, the flames flared up against him all along the Albenpath. Tongues of fire lashed at him. He did not give in. He fought the pain. But he quickly discovered that his own powers were far inferior to those of the Devanthar. He looked desperately for a way to take control of the magic of the Albenstone for himself. He imagined himself filled with its power, but that did nothing. He gripped the stone more tightly, wrapping his hands around it as if he could squeeze the power out of it. He even tried casting a healing spell on the precious stone, but it did nothing. He could sense the concealed power of the Albenstone, but he could not harness it, and the heat from the flames felt as if it were burning him to death. All the stone could give him was its coolness; the only part of him that did not feel the heat was his hands.

That was it! This was not the time to try to force a way through the fire. What he needed to do now was simply withstand the flames. The cold of the Albenstone against the heat of the fire. He gently stroked the surface of the chrysoberyl, looking for a way to get to the coolness inside it. He felt a chill flow up his arms and spread slowly through his body, like the blood that flowed in his veins. The stone was a wellspring. He thought of Noroelle’s spring beneath the pair of linden trees and of the magical stones that lay in the water. The flames kept reaching out for Nuramon, but he could see them recoiling, too, at the slightest touch. Now all he had to do was turn the power of the stone toward forcing a breach in the barrier, and they would be through. But as he moved the stone closer to the fire, the backs of his hands burned even as his palms felt frozen.

“You have to hurry,” Mandred shouted in a resounding voice. “Do you hear? You have to hurry, or all is lost!”

He almost broke off the magic to see what the jarl was talking about, but he stopped himself in time and clenched his teeth.

His hands were caught between hot coals and frost. He could not stop, not then, and he moved the Albenstone closer to the star.

“Good!” Mandred called. “It’s slowing! That’s good!”

When Nuramon heard his words, he knew he was fighting not only against a barrier, but also against the magic that had created the image of Firnstayn. The flames surrounding the path to the silver plate burned brighter than those of the other paths.

Nuramon began to tremble when he held the Albenstone directly over the flames. He lost control over the magic.

“By the Alben!” he heard Farodin shout. “Quickly! Nuramon, quickly!”

Nuramon felt himself getting colder and colder. His hands seemed to freeze solid. The cold was like hoarfrost creeping through his veins. The stone was no longer a spring of cold; it was a frigid ocean, and Nuramon was close to drowning in it. The power of the stone was threatening to overwhelm him completely.

“You have to do it, Nuramon!” Farodin cried. “Do it now, or never!”

The pain of a thousand needles drove into him. He heard himself scream. Then he lost his balance, and something hot took hold of him and swept him away.