The Elven (73 page)

“If you go, there will be no coming back,” Emerelle declared.

“You know how far we would go for Noroelle,” replied Farodin.

The queen looked at them for a long time. “There has probably never been another love like yours,” she said. “Very well. The Albenstones must lie for one night atop the stone needle in the Old Wood. Tomorrow, we will begin to cast the two spells. It will take many hours for us to complete our work. The separation of the land beyond the Shalyn Falah will then happen from one moment to the next. In that way, we can win the battle. The separation from the Other World will take place a day after the spell has been cast. In that time, the Albenstones will complete their task alone. I will open a gate for you to the Other World. It will take you straight to the gate that leads to your beloved.”

“We thank you, Queen,” said Farodin, bowing his head to Emerelle. Then he stepped in front of her and placed the Albenstone in her hands.

Emerelle raised the golden stone high in the air, displaying it to the soldiers. “This is the Albenstone of Rajeemil the Wise, who once went into the Other World to divine its secrets. He went into the moonlight there, but the Albenstone fell into the hands of the Devanthar. Now this stone will be entrusted to the hands of Valemas.” With that, she passed the stone to Yulivee.

The sorceress accepted the chrysoberyl but showed little interest in it. She said to the queen, “Emerelle, you know what I think about this. I don’t believe we will succeed. You have one stone.” She gestured fluidly toward the shaman standing behind Orgrim. “Skanga possesses one, too, and now I hold another in my hands. With three, we can cut off the land on the far side of the bridge, but three stones will never be enough for us to separate Albenmark from the human world. We need at least one more . . . and someone who can control it.”

“You are right,” said Emerelle with a smile. “But there will be another stone.” She pointed across the circle. “Once that place is occupied, then we will have a fourth Albenstone. The only question is whether we can convince its possessor to sit with us.”

“My queen, we are running out of time,” said Obilee, and she stood up.

Emerelle shook her head. “No. The wise know when the right hour has come. All that matters is the coming together.”

Suddenly, a horn sounded, accompanied by shouting. In the camp all around, shouts went up. “An enemy army approaching our rear!”

Alarm spread through the soldiers all around, but Nuramon looked into the queen’s eyes. She returned his gaze, not perturbed in the slightest. She smiled. There was no doubt; whoever was coming, it was no surprise to the queen.

Emerelle raised her hand. “Step back and let me see the hills,” she ordered.

The throng of soldiers pushed apart, and Nuramon and his two companions also moved aside to give the queen an unhindered view. A huge, gray-clad army was marching over the hills and meadows toward the palace. Banners fluttered high above their ranks; they were red and showed a silver dragon.

“The children of the Darkalben,” said Nuramon to himself.

His words were picked up and spread among the soldiers, who reacted with horror. “The old enemy has returned,” he heard someone shout. “The night has joined forces with the enemy,” said another. Mandred and Farodin, however, remained calm; Nuramon had told them about the children of the Darkalben.

Obilee shook her head. She seemed to know the secret of the dwarves. “How were they able to get this close unnoticed?” she asked.

The queen did not answer her. “Nuramon,” she commanded instead. “Here is a horse. You will ride to meet them and welcome them in the name of Albenmark.”

Xern came then, leading a stallion. Felbion. His loyal horse had waited all these years. Felbion whinnied happily. “Is there anything I should say to them on your behalf?” he asked, only able to take his eyes off Felbion with effort.

“Make sure the king comes and sits with us. How you do that is up to you,” the queen replied.

“We should send an escort with him,” Ollowain suggested.

“He won’t need it,” said Yulivee, and she looked to Nuramon with pride. During their journey together, he had told her about the children of the Darkalben and described the halls of the dwarves down to the smallest detail.

Nuramon climbed into the saddle. “Well, Felbion,” he whispered in the horse’s ear. “Let’s see if you’ve forgotten anything in all these years.”

The horse broke into a trot, and Nuramon could sense his steed’s unbridled power. But hardly had he left the camp behind when he was overcome by a feeling of humility. He was riding as one man toward a massive host. There had to be more than ten thousand soldiers coming toward him. They were marching in formation, as they did when they went into battle with a dragon. Shields protected them on all sides. In the center of the mass were spearmen, their weapons protruding from their ranks like trees. No doubt the king was there, his friend Wengalf with whom he had once shared so many adventures. He would never forget the battle against the dragon Balon, all the pain he had suffered, and the moment . . . of his death.

All at once it became clear to Nuramon what was confusing him so much and what had happened to him. The spell he had cast in the halls of the Devanthar had not erased his memories. It had opened them up. That was it. But everything was so untidy. He seemed to remember battling the dragon on the way to the oracle Dareen. And although it was impossible, it seemed to him that he had spent several hundred years in the valley of the dwarves before he had left with Alwerich to go to visit the oracle. None of it fit together. None of it made any sense.

The dam that had held back all his knowledge of the past was broken, and the memories from his past lives were now flooding the ones he had gathered in this life.

What had it been like back then? When did he go away with the dwarves? When Nuramon asked himself these questions, he remembered the day he had met Alwerich. Alwerich had been a young dwarf then, and he had fallen into a ravine in the Iolid Mountains and broken his leg. Nuramon had found him and rescued him. They had been friends ever since and had been through a great deal together. Alwerich had led him to the dwarves, and he had met King Wengalf there. That was a long time ago, long before he left Albenmark with the dwarves.

Next came recollections of a view of Alaen Aikhwitan from the summits of the Iolids, of battles against beasts in the caves of old Aelburin, of the enormous forges of the smiths inside the dwarves’ mountain halls, of hunting in the valleys, and of much more besides. The memories threw him into a turmoil of emotions, but he was unable to even try to put them into any sort of order. Because before he knew it, Felbion slowed to a walk. The dwarven army had come to a standstill. A small group, surrounded by guards and soldiers holding banners, separated from the center of the front row and came toward him.

Nuramon dismounted and approached the dwarves on foot, walking in front of Felbion. He recognized Wengalf, Alwerich, and Thorwis immediately, though they had aged.

King Wengalf was magnificently attired. He wore a suit of golden mail and a gold helmet on which runes intertwined in the form of a crown. Alwerich wore a suit of polished iron armor and carried an axe over his shoulder that Nuramon remembered well. Thorwis presented a very different image, clothed in a black robe with symbols embroidered on it in dark-gray thread. His white hair and long beard were in stark contrast to the color of the robe. The three dwarves looked like figures from the great epics, and their guards were also excellently equipped. It was clear that they had spent a long time preparing for this day.

The king gave his escort a sign, and they stopped. Only Alwerich and Thorwis stepped forward with him.

“Nuramon. Seeing you at the end of the age does this old dwarf’s heart good,” said Wengalf.

“I am happy, too, to see you all again,” Nuramon replied.

“And? Have you rediscovered your memory?”

“I remember our battle with the dragon.”

Wengalf nodded proudly. “Emerelle did well to send you to us.”

“You are welcome among us, my friend,” said Nuramon.

“Welcome?” The king looked past Nuramon. “I must say, when I see the forces gathered down there, then it would seem we are not as welcome as you say.”

Nuramon looked back over his shoulder. The mounted troops had, in fact, assembled in front of the camp. “Don’t be concerned. It is just that they fear the children of the Darkalben. Only a few of us know your true story.”

“And apparently they think we’re afraid of horses,” Thorwis added. “They would be surprised to find out how things have changed.”

Nuramon’s mind returned to his visit to the dwarves. Alwerich and his companions had certainly showed Felbion a degree of respect. “They are not standing there to attack you, Wengalf.”

“If they want us as their allies, then they should give us unconditional passage to the enemy,” said Wengalf.

Thorwis spoke again. “We are here because of the words of Dareen. This is where the final battle of this age is to be fought, and no dwarf should remain behind in the Other World or the Shattered World.”

“We have not come here to subjugate ourselves to the queen,” Wengalf added.

“I don’t know anything about the end of an age,” Nuramon replied in a friendly tone, “but I do know that our only hope is as allies. The queen has gathered the holders of the Albenstones around her. Her wish is that you join us.”

Wengalf exchanged a long look with Thorwis. Then he said, “Nuramon, we are friends. And I want to ask you one thing. Can we trust the queen?”

That was a difficult question. “I cannot answer that for you. But I can tell you that my companions and I possessed an Albenstone. We could have used it to free my beloved, and still we entrusted it to the queen.”

Wengalf waved Thorwis to one side. “Excuse us,” he said, and he left Nuramon standing with Alwerich. He would have liked to know what they were saying, but now he turned to Alwerich.

“How have you been, my friend?” he asked. “Did you find your way back to your old memories?”

The dwarf smiled. “Yes. And what I found was much more than I could ever have found out in my books. And now that you have your own memory back, I would like to thank you for all the times you saved my life.”

Nuramon crouched and laid his hand on Alwerich’s shoulder. “Forgive me. I am still very mixed up, but I can see the day clearly when I found you in the ravine. I healed you. And I remember Solstane and how happy she was to see you again uninjured. Where is Solstane?”

“She and the others are waiting in our old halls in the Iolid Mountains for us to return . . . one way or another.”

“No doubt she would prefer you to come back alive.”

“You know what we’re like. Death means less to us than to the elves. Especially once you’ve found your way back to your memories.”

Wengalf and Thorwis returned. “If you and your companions are so selfless as to sacrifice the Albenstone for a greater cause,” Wengalf said, “then we dwarves will not stand back. This battle will not be lost because we were not part of it. Lead us to Emerelle. Be a good friend to us, and a loyal servant to your queen.”

“Then follow me,” said Nuramon, and he turned around. But he whispered to Felbion, “Go ahead,” and the horse immediately trotted off.

Wengalf gave the order that his army should wait, and his own bodyguard as well. The leader of the guard balked, but Wengalf insisted. “No guards. Only Thorwis and Alwerich should go with me. Three dwarves, led by an elf.” He signaled to Alwerich to come to him. “Take the banner.”

One of Wengalf’s banner bearers handed Alwerich his standard.

“They should see who they are dealing with,” Wengalf declared.

They set off, side by side. Nuramon was again struck by a strange feeling. This time he was on foot, walking toward the mounted elven troops. And although he had no expectation of being attacked, approaching such a force left a deep impression. His companions seemed to know no fear. As if they were on a stroll through the woods, Wengalf asked him, “And how have you been, old friend?”

Nuramon told him very briefly about all that had happened since he had last seen Alwerich. He talked of his years in Firnstayn, of the search for the Albenstone, of Iskendria, and, finally, of the sea battle and the fight against the Devanthar.

“By all the halls of the Alben,” Wengalf cried. “What an adventure. I wish I’d been there.” He clapped Nuramon on his arm. “But in the battle ahead of us, no doubt I will have enough opportunities to fight by your side.”

“As long as it doesn’t end like the fight with the dragon.” Nuramon smiled.

They were close to the riders now, and Nuramon could see on their faces just how much in awe of the dwarves they were. When they stopped a few paces from the horses, the riders grew uneasy.

Nuramon called out, “Here stands Wengalf of Aelburin, king of the dwarves and founder of their new kingdom of Aelburin in the Other World, returning today to old Aelburin. Beside him stands Alwerich, slayer of the cave wyrm. And this is Thorwis, eldest of the children of the Darkalben.” Nuramon marveled at his own words. It was true. Alwerich had once defeated the cave wyrm. Nuramon had been there himself. And it was also true that Thorwis was the oldest of the dwarves and that most of his contemporaries had long since gone into the moonlight.

The ranks of horsemen parted, opening a way back to the soldiers, who, in turn, moved back to form a wide passage to the queen’s tent. Nuramon made sure that the dwarves walked ahead of him and was pleased at the looks of admiration bestowed on his friends.

Finally, they came to a halt ten paces in front of the queen. Nuramon stepped forward and bowed. “My queen, I bring you a guest, and perhaps an ally.”

“I thank you,” Emerelle said in a low voice.

Nuramon stepped aside for the dwarves. Wengalf came forward, followed by his two companions.

The queen looked up at the banner Alwerich carried. “Wengalf of Aelburin. It has been a long time since we last met.”

“And we did not part on good terms,” said the dwarf, without showing the queen even the slightest sign of deference. He was making sure that everyone present knew he was a king and, therefore, Emerelle’s equal.