The Elven (80 page)

“A fighter like him comes along once in a thousand years,” said Orgrim, and he laid a heavy hand on Farodin’s shoulder. “Let us go before their reinforcements come.”

Giliath stopped at the burned towers and, with a few more archers, covered their retreat. They had reached the highest part of the cliff. Farodin looked out over the path that snaked down to the bridge. There were fires already burning down there. No more than three hundred of the defenders were still alive, and most of them were wounded. Black with soot, exhausted, they were retreating to the fortress on the other side of the gorge.

Farodin turned around. A gust of wind dissipated the smoke covering the slope on that side. Thousands of soldiers were on the advance. Back near the stone circle, he saw men with long scaling ladders. They had lost the battle.

Battle’s End

N
uramon charged forward at Wengalf’s side. The Tjured knights’ courage failed them the moment they saw the banners of Firnstayn flying over their command post on the hill. They fell into confusion, more and more of them retreating. Then Nuramon caught sight of Mandred. It took some moments to recognize him. He wore the enemy’s armor and had shaved off his beard. Surrounded by Firnstayners in captured armor, he sat atop a black stallion and carried the head of a human by its hair. Blood still dripped from the scraps of flesh dangling from the neck. “Look into the face of your general!” he shouted.

The dwarves advanced relentlessly and formed a wall of shields around Mandred and his men. The last of the enemy’s resistance broke, and their attack turned into a frantic retreat.

“Mandred!” Nuramon shouted.

“My friend! See this day!” the jarl rejoiced.

Nuramon looked around warily. A lone gunman might still destroy Mandred’s triumph, but the enemy were no longer trying to defend themselves. They were on the run, some cursing as they fled, swearing to come back with another army within a day. But none who heard such words were worried.

“Come anytime you like!” Mandred shouted after them. “Let us kick your asses again!”

Nuramon reached out his hand to Mandred. Sitting high on the stallion’s back, he looked truly like a ruler. He grasped Nuramon’s hand in his, and Nuramon looked his companion up and down for injuries. He could not tell where the blood on Mandred came from, whether it was mostly his own or that of his enemies. Mandred’s armor looked undamaged. A long scrape covered his left cheek, but the jarl of the Fjordlanders seemed not to feel any pain and was beaming from one ear to the other.

“Are you injured, Mandred?” Nuramon asked, to be on the safe side.

“A scratch or two, no more.”

The dwarves opened their circle to let a troop of elves through. Among them was Nomja and with her Daryll, the elf woman who led the elves of Alvemer, who had withstood the charge of the enemy cavalry in the center of the battle lines. She was leading Felbion by the reins.

Nuramon was relieved. Mandred and Nomja still lived, and his horse had survived the battle as well.

Daryll handed him Felbion’s reins. “Your horse,” she said. “He saved my life.” The Alvemer commander told how Felbion had knocked down three enemy soldiers with his hooves and how they would otherwise have killed her.

Nuramon ran his hand over his loyal horse’s mane. “You’re a true hero.” Felbion looked off to one side, apparently bored.

Nuramon looked at those around him. “I want to thank all of you.” He turned to Nomja. “Your archers are the best in all Albenmark.” And to Daryll he said, “For we elves, you were the rock that stood against the waves.” Then he kneeled in front of Wengalf. “And we owe you everything. Without you, we would not have won the day.”

Wengalf dismissed his words with a wave. “No, no. The greatest honor belongs to Mandred.”

Nuramon looked up to Mandred and smiled. “Today, my mighty jarl, you have made yourself immortal. The Albenkin will praise your name forevermore.”

“But the battle is not yet over. Who knows what’s happening at the Shalyn Falah. Let us ride there.” The jarl threw the enemy commander’s head to one of his Mandridians. The blood sprayed wide.

A man in officer’s armor came by with Mandred’s mare. The jarl swung down out of the saddle and greeted his horse. But when he tried to mount, his strength failed him. The officer quickly helped him onto the saddle.

Nuramon looked around. The men and women around him were exhausted. None of them would manage the march to the Shalyn Falah today. And it would not be smart to pull all their troops away as long as the enemy was not entirely wiped out. “Well, Mandred, it looks like we will have to ride alone. The soldiers should hold their positions here.”

“So be it. I’m sure Farodin can use our help. When they hear that we not only fought the enemy but sent them packing, it might be the boost they need.”

Nuramon grinned. “Send a prayer to your Luth, Mandred. He was truly on our side today.” He climbed onto Felbion’s back and cast a final glance at the fleeing Tjured soldiers. They would still be a formidable fighting force, but without their leaders they were no more than a disorderly mob.

As Nuramon and Mandred set off for the Shalyn Falah, an oppressive feeling overcame the elf. He was sure the bridge could not have been taken yet, and Farodin had more experience than the two of them put together. But still . . .

Groups of soldiers cheered them as they rode across the battlefield. Nuramon saw the members of his clan, who waved and shouted his name excitedly. The Mandridians raised their axes and swords high in the air and called out, “Long live Mandred, jarl of Firnstayn!”

Mandred turned to him as they left the battlefield behind and said, “Now to help out Farodin, then to spend the night with two pretty girls.”

“Two?” Nuramon asked.

“Yes. That was something yesterday. First I took them both and—”

“Please, Mandred. Spare me the amorous details. You can’t find words that would please elven ears.”

“You’re just jealous because I—”

Nuramon laughed. “Enough, Mandred. Don’t say what I can already imagine so clearly. It’s already spoiling any other decent thought I might have. Please.”

Mandred laughed. “What do you know of the poetry of two women in one night?”

“Let’s just ride,” Nuramon suggested. He had missed this kind of banter. He wished more than anything that Mandred could go with him and Farodin, but he knew it would be hard to drag the jarl out of a bed shared with two women.

They galloped across the grasslands. It would take them several hours to reach the Shalyn Falah. They had covered perhaps half the distance there when Mandred began to fall behind a little. When his mare started to nicker restlessly, Nuramon turned around. His friend was slumped in the saddle.

Felbion dashed back to the anxious mare and stopped next to her. With shaking hands, Nuramon took hold of his companion and tried to get him to straighten up. “Mandred!” he shouted.

The jarl woke with a start and looked around as if baffled. Then he pitched sideways and fell.

Nuramon jumped down from Felbion and turned Mandred gently onto his back.

His friend looked up at him with fear-filled eyes and pressed one hand to his belly. “I think it’s more than a scratch,” he whispered and let his hand fall from his body. His breastplate looked undamaged, but when Nuramon touched the wide belt around his middle, his hands came away red with blood. He tore the belt aside and discovered a round hole in the armor beneath. His fingers trembling, the elf released the buckles holding the breastplate in place. The padded linen tunic beneath was soaked with blood. Nuramon cut through the tough cloth with his dagger. The wound in Mandred’s belly was full of fibrous scraps of linen. It must have come from one of those strange fire rods. Carefully, Nuramon slid one hand under Mandred’s back. The shot had not left his body. “Don’t you feel any pain?” Nuramon asked.

“No,” said Mandred in surprise. “I’m just so . . . dizzy.”

Mandred had lost a lot of blood, and Nuramon knew he would die if nothing happened. He laid one hand on the wound and began his healing spell. He expected the pain, and it came, but far less strongly than he thought it would. Then he realized that although Mandred’s wound closed beneath his fingers, his magic did not reach very far inside Mandred’s body. Fear rose in him. The pain disappeared, but Mandred was not healed. Just closing the wound on the surface would not help. With no way to come out, the blood was collecting inside his friend’s belly. Death would be a little longer in coming, but that was all. Nuramon summoned up all his power a second time. Again, he failed.

“What is it?” he wondered aloud. Something was blocking his spell, something inside Mandred. It could only be the ball inside him. Was that the Devanthar’s final evil gift to his acolytes? Perhaps such wounds could not be healed with elven magic.

“I think this is the end, Nuramon,” Mandred whispered. “And what an end it is for a human.”

“No, Mandred.”

“You were always . . .” His eyes closed, and he exhaled, too exhausted to finish.

Nuramon shook his head. Mandred’s life could not end like this. He felt for his friend’s pulse. It was still there. He was just not breathing as strongly. With a huge effort, Nuramon lifted the jarl of the Fjordlands onto Felbion’s back then climbed up behind him on the saddle. Then he turned and rode for the army camp in front of the queen’s palace. It was closer than the Shalyn Falah.

He reproached himself as he rode. It was his fault if Mandred died now. In the battle, he had selfishly healed his own wounds and wasted too much of his power. Power he missed so sorely now that he needed it to save a friend. He would never forgive himself if Mandred had to die because of what he could not do.

Racing on at full gallop, he saw, in the distance, a glittering light rise skyward and spread like branching lightning. Was that the start of the spell they had been waiting for? Nuramon wished he could capture just a shade of that power to help him heal Mandred. In their moment of triumph, fate had come down on him and his companions with all its force. He could only hope that Farodin had not fared as poorly at the Shalyn Falah.

The Last Reserve

T
hey had had to retreat beyond the middle of the bridge. Slowly, the flames of Balbar’s fire died. Along the path up the cliff stood hundreds of Tjured soldiers, waiting for the final assault. The moment the fire was out, the advance would begin.

At Farodin’s side stood only Orgrim and Giliath. All the rest of the fighters, the combined remnants of the Shalyn Falah defenders, had retreated to the fortress wall beyond the bridge.

Farodin looked up hopelessly at the sky. It would be at least two hours until sunset. They could not hold the bridge that long. A light breeze was blowing, and his face was covered with spray. There was something calming about the thundering of the waterfall. The rocks descended like white veins, and the spray made the bridge as slippery as warm butter. The Shalyn Falah was just two paces wide and had no railing. On this particular day, Farodin was thankful to the long-forgotten builders for the strange bridge they had left behind. It was impossible for more than three men to stand side by side here. And anyone setting foot on the bridge would need to have a good head for heights to resist the lure of the abyss.

“Isn’t it said that no blood may be spilt on the Shalyn Falah?” Orgrim shouted. The troll had to yell to make himself heard over the booming of the waterfall.

Farodin glanced down at the pale pink flecks that the spray was slowly washing away. “I asked Ollowain the same question last night. It was his opinion that the stone of the bridge would get so slick if it was covered with blood that no one would be able to cross it. But I’ve also heard of a prophecy that said that the day the stone of the Shalyn Falah was sullied with blood, eternal darkness would fall upon it.”

“I think I prefer Ollowain’s story,” the troll grumbled. Blood dripped from a bandage on his arm. He still held high the heavy shield he had taken from a dying comrade.

The flames at the entrance to the bridge rose no more than a single pace now. The troops on the cliff path were starting to move.

A shot rang out. A few paces in front of them, a lead ball bounced harmlessly off the white stone.

“The idiots can’t accept that we’re out of range,” Giliath muttered. She quietly counted the arrows she had left.

Farodin knew by heart how many it was. Thirteen. She was counting them for at least the tenth time.

At the far end of the bridge, an officer threw a heavy gray mantle over the flames, smothering them. Soldiers armed with firearms began to move onto the bridge.

Giliath aimed her bow. Suddenly, though, she laughed out loud. The soldiers had stopped. They were waving their arms and trying to send back those coming from behind.

“Their fuses and powder are wet. Their fire rods are of no use anymore.”

In the confusion at the other side of the bridge, one of the soldiers lost his footing. With a piercing scream, he plunged into the gorge. Finally, the men with the fire rods pulled back. Swordsmen took their place.

Farodin swung both his swords, loosening the tension in his arms. Stepping carefully, the elf tested the slippery surface. The stone of the bridge was polished. One false step, one rash move, and he would follow the soldier who had just fallen.

A glittering ray of light sliced across the blue of the sky, then split into hundreds of streaks of lightning, but no thunder rolled across the heavens. Farodin felt every hair on his body stand on end. As the streaks of lightning faded, they left behind fine black lines, as if the sky itself were breaking apart.

The Tjured soldiers were suddenly anxious. Some fell to their knees and began to pray aloud. A single, clear voice rose above all the others. It was singing a hymn to the grandeur of Tjured, healer of all ills. Other voices joined in, until finally hundreds were singing in praise of their god.

Black fog bled through the fissures in the sky.

Farodin retreated a short distance. The queen’s magic had begun. Less than ten steps in front of them, one of the fissures came down upon the bridge. The black fog was tumbling from the sky in churning cascades. As far as Farodin could see, the cracks stretched across the firmament.

The fog smothered any view of the cliff path. The soldiers’ singing abruptly stopped. A wall of surging darkness cut through the middle of the gorge. The white bridge stretched away in its wide arc and ended now in emptiness.

“It is done,” said Orgrim, awed.

Farodin slid his sword back into its sheath. The war was over, but he did not feel like a victor.