The Elven (47 page)

The soldiers moved back, making way for Alwerich, who stepped forward wearing a fine mail tunic, a heavy cloak, and a large pack.

“This is the dwarf whose eyes first saw you in this life,” said Thorwis, and he waved the young dwarf to his side.

Alwerich bowed before the king, then lowered his head before Thorwis and Nuramon.

Wengalf laid one hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Alwerich, this will be the first time in many, many years that a dwarf has journeyed along a path beyond these mountains. The last one of us to finish a quest side by side with an elf was me. Do justice to our folk and swear that you will be to Nuramon the companion that I once was.”

“So I swear,” said Alwerich solemnly.

Thorwis moved beside Wengalf. “You know which question you must put to the oracle.”

“I know it, Master. And I will return with the oracle’s counsel.”

Alwerich turned once more and went over to an elegantly dressed dwarf woman, whom he embraced. Then he returned. “Here is my axe, my comrade in arms.” He drew his battle-axe and held it before Nuramon. The weapon had a short shaft ending with a small, beak-shaped spike opposite a broad blade.

“You have to cross weapons with him,” Wengalf whispered.

Nuramon slid Gaomee’s sword from its sheath. Until that moment, the sounds of whispering, the soft clattering of metal, and the dwarves’ excitement had filled the hall. Now, all of that instantly died away, and there was only the sound of the wind and the distant roar of water to be heard. Wengalf and Alwerich looked as if they had seen a ghost. Thorwis was the only one who did not seem surprised. He smiled when he saw the sword in Nuramon’s hand.

“Starshine,” said Wengalf quietly. And the whisper spread through the dwarves crowded there.

Slowly, Nuramon laid the blade against the shaft of Alwerich’s battle-axe and said, “Comrades in arms.”

Without taking his eyes off Gaomee’s sword, the young dwarf withdrew his axe.

Nuramon was slightly disconcerted. Everyone was looking at the sword in such stunned silence that he hesitated to return it to its sheath.

“Do you have any idea how valuable that sword is?” asked Wengalf.

“I obviously underestimated that,” Nuramon said. “Don’t you have starshine here?”

“No. It only exists in Albenmark. And back then, we only took a little of it with us. Starshine by itself turns the blade into something impressive. But more importantly, that sword comes from the early days. It is younger than your old sword, but it is the work of a dwarf, one of the few who has gone into the silverlight. He forged many weapons like that one. May I see it again?”

Nuramon drew the sword again and handed it to Wengalf, who took it from him and ran his fingers over the blade. “The great Teludem made this weapon for an elf.” Wengalf indicated Gaomee’s name, inscribed in twining letters. “This symbol here was added later by an elven hand.” He gave the sword back to Nuramon. “There are only four of these elven blades made by dwarven hands. According to legend, all were destroyed in the troll wars and in battle with the dragons. I cannot imagine anyone better than you, Nuramon, to carry this weapon. It will serve you well.”

Nuramon went down on one knee to bring himself eye to eye with the king. Then he said, “Thank you, Wengalf, and you, Thorwis, and everyone else. I entered these halls with this life, and I leave it now with all the earlier ones. Thank you for everything you have given me, and for everything I can’t yet remember. We will meet again, Wengalf. If not in this life, then in a later one.”

“If all the elves were like you, Nuramon, we would never have turned our backs on Albenmark,” Wengalf replied. “And now you both must leave, before I throw all good sense aside and come with you after all.”

Nuramon nodded. Then he stood tall again. “Farewell. Until we meet again.” He glanced at Alwerich. The dwarf stepped up beside him. Nuramon looked out over the gigantic hall one more time, then the two companions stepped out into the sunlight.

Untrue Ways

F
arodin woke with a start, sat up, and banged his head. All around was blackness, unbroken. Dazed, he felt around himself in the darkness. His hands hurt. He felt raw rock and debris.

Slowly, his memory returned. He had collapsed in an exhausted sleep. The trolls had filled part of the network of secret tunnels with rubble. In some places, they had gone to the trouble of setting up primitive traps: spiked pits and swinging stones to smash the unwary.

They must have sent kobolds or human slaves down here. Nothing that Farodin remembered was unchanged. Long tunnels had disappeared completely, secret doors were walled up, stairways cut.

The elf had dug through the debris with his bare hands. At times, the only way he had made any progress was by crawling on his belly. Twice he had scrabbled his way through a half-caved-in tunnel only to run up against a heavy stone block completely cutting off the way ahead.

How long had he slept? A gnawing hunger tortured him. His throat was dry, and his lips were cracked. Had he been down here for hours, days? The darkness had robbed him of any sense of time. Only his hunger and thirst could serve as a rough measure of the hours that had passed: a hundred, at least, since he and Mandred had parted ways. Farodin pushed his hands into the rubble and shifted the loose rocks beside and beneath him. Like a mole, he worked his way forward inch by inch. What could have happened to Mandred? He was only supposed to play the diplomat for a few hours. Four days was far too long.

With a crash, the rubble rolled down. He had broken through. Farodin slid a short distance over sharp-edged rocks, then found himself in a passage in which he could walk if he kept his head down. Carefully, he felt his way forward. Ten steps. Twenty steps. The passage climbed slightly.

Suddenly, he came to a wall. Quarry-stone blocks, mortared together. Farodin stretched his arms out frantically. Right and left of him were solid stone walls. He was surrounded by rock on three sides. He could have howled with rage. Again, he’d walked into a dead end.

Comrades in Arms

N
uramon and Alwerich had made their way out of the mountains and were now marching across the lowland meadows. Felbion followed behind. The dwarf looked around. The open country apparently seemed endless to him, and it was clear that the space here unsettled him. The young dwarf refused to ride with Nuramon on Felbion. For days, he had walked beside the horse, until his feet were red and raw. If he had not adamantly resisted Nuramon’s suggestion to use the gates the elf could conjure up at the Albenstars, they would have reached their goal long ago. The dwarf had a pigheadedness to compete with Mandred’s.

Alwerich looked down at his feet. “Your healing hands are very powerful.”

“But they have never before been used to heal dwarven feet,” said Nuramon, smiling. “At least, not in this life.”

“Your elf friends in Albenmark would turn up their noses if they knew about it, wouldn’t they?”

“You could at least wash them occasionally,” said Nuramon, thinking of the healing he had done. He had had to muster his courage a great deal to touch the dwarf’s feet.

“I will do better.”

“Don’t worry about it. Elves don’t get dirty hands. Dust falls off my skin, water pearls off, and I can get rid of splashes of mud with a quick shake.”

“Then you don’t have to wash at all?”

“No, but I still do.”

“When? I haven’t seen you.”

“Just because you don’t see it, Alwerich, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. It’s only when what you
can
see shouldn’t be happening that you have to start worrying. But tell me, Alwerich . . . before we set out, you went over to a woman and you embraced her. Was that your wife?”

“Yes. Her name is Solstane.”

“Does the love of a dwarf hold forever? Do you see each other again in your new life?”

“We see each other again, but it doesn’t mean we have to love each other again. Look at the king. He has not taken any wife in this life. The queen from his previous life was already quite old when Wengalf was born into his present life. When he was old enough, he took her as his wife again, but they didn’t get on anymore. Death separated her from Wengalf. He will take another wife one day, and they will have children.”

“So you don’t have anything like eternal love?”

“Oh, we do. Some promise to take their own life when the one they love dies. Then he follows her or she him. They can grow up together, and one day, they can love each other again. I did that with Solstane. In the chronicle of my life, it says that Solstane and I were already husband and wife in Albenmark. We loved each other, we grew very old, and we had many children.”

Nuramon admired Alwerich. A love that endured forever was something that he hardly dared to dream of. He did not even know if it would be possible to rescue Noroelle. He hoped so, and he believed in his search, but only Emerelle could know for certain. Even if he and Farodin managed to free Noroelle and her years in the Shattered World had not changed her, she still had to decide for one or the other of them. Perhaps the love he felt for Noroelle would become an eternal love.

Suddenly, he was struck by doubt. What would happen if he regained his memory of his earlier life and discovered that he had been undyingly in love with another woman? And what if she, too, had been reborn?

Lost in thought, they walked on toward the oracle Dareen.

The Banquet

E
at, hooman.”

Mandred bit into the oily leg joint. Every time Scandrag, the cook, came, the jarl thought of his meal with the prince. At first, he had refused to eat meat, but eventually his hunger won out. Besides, he had to be strong when Farodin came.

What had happened to Farodin? If he were still alive, he would have come long ago.
Easy now
, he warned himself in his thoughts.
Farodin will get through.
Something may have delayed him, but nothing could stop him from doing what he had set his mind to. Besides, he was damned hard to kill.

Mandred glanced surreptitiously at Scandrag. The troll had just cut a huge pile of onions. He took good care of the
guests
in the prince’s larder, at least by the standards of a troll. Every few hours, he lowered Mandred’s cage and made sure he ate. There was plenty of bread, vegetables, fresh eggs, and fish. Scandrag had been especially forthcoming that day. Twice already, he had fried up a large panful of eggs and ham. The jarl liked it when the yolks were still runny. He dipped fresh bread into the yolks, then stuffed the bread into his mouth in large chunks.

Mandred was turning to take a second crust of bread from the oven when Scandrag hastily hid something behind his broad back.

“Don’ you worry, leedle man. Worry make meat tough. You get kaput quick,” the troll said, speaking to him as if he were a naughty child.

Mandred reached for the large pan. It was made of dark copper. No iron was used in the kitchen at all.

The cook furrowed his brow and rubbed his wide nose. He still hid his right hand behind his back. “Please. I woss always good to you, leedle man. Don’ cors trouble now.” Suddenly, he charged at Mandred. For his size, the troll was astonishingly nimble. He swung a huge club, aiming for Mandred’s head.

Mandred threw the pan at Scandrag, but the troll redirected his blow and easily knocked the pan aside. “Tha’s enough.”

Mandred snatched a stone knife and dropped to one knee as Scandrag swung the club again. The long days in the cage had made his joints stiff. Scandrag missed him by a hair.

Mandred jumped at the giant cook and stabbed the knife through his foot. The troll howled in rage. He lashed out with his uninjured foot, slamming Mandred against the large brick oven. Mandred felt as if he’d broken every bone in his body. Half unconscious, he saw Scandrag looming over him with the club in his hand.

“You is gonna be delicious in honey crust.”

Separate Ways

W
ith a soft creak, the door opened a fraction. Farodin stopped and stood for a moment. Relief flooded over him. He had begun to believe he would never do it, but finally, he was out of the labyrinth.

Carefully, he pushed the secret door open until the gap was large enough for him to slip through. The elf found himself in a narrow corridor doused in gray twilight. He carefully closed the secret door until it was again hidden in its recess in the wooden paneling. He took one of his throwing knives and cut a small notch in the wood so that he or others could find the place again. Then he made his way downward. He knew where he would find Mandred if his companion was still alive. Shalawyn had told him what the trolls did with their prisoners.

Farodin slid the dagger back into the leather sheath on his arm. The trolls would remember this night for a long time to come.

Soon, he found a spiral staircase that led down to the storerooms. Here in the tower, nothing had changed. Less furniture, dirtier, but otherwise, just as it was in Farodin’s memory. The fortress was so huge that, provided one used the less frequented corridors and stairways, one had little fear of running into a troll. Once, Farodin hid beneath a landing, and another time, he disappeared into the shadows of a deep alcove, both times to avoid trolls. They were not on the alert. Why would they be? Centuries had passed since the last time anyone dared to attack them in their own tower.

Farodin had almost reached his goal when he came to a corridor where several trolls were lying. Their grunting snores warned him well in advance. There were five of them. They lay sleeping across the passage floor or leaning on the walls. An empty barrel suggested they would not wake up again so easily.

For a moment, Farodin was tempted to slit their throats. But it would be stupid to leave tracks like that. The later the trolls noticed there was an enemy in their midst, the better it would be for him.

He crept between the sleeping behemoths with care. He was almost through when one of them slumped to one side. He had been lying in a pool of bloody vomit. Large white worms lay in it. No . . . not worms. Long, slim fingers, white as freshly fallen snow. A shudder of loathing ran through the elf. There was only one source of fingers like those, given their size and form. Again, the dying Shalawyn’s agonized whispers came back to him. “They keep us in cages like geese and stuff us full, then slaughter us for their feasts.”

Farodin drew a dagger and crouched beside the troll lolling in his own vomit. His hand stabbed forward. An inch above the troll’s left eye, he stopped the blade. It would have been so easy, so easy to press the steel through the eye and deep into the skull. The troll would not even realize its life had come to an end. Farodin held the grip so tightly that the leather wrapping creaked softly. But he couldn’t give in to his hatred. He could not allow himself to be discovered too soon. He would kill more trolls if they did not yet discover his presence. Most importantly, he would kill the one who mattered most only if he was not forewarned.

The elf exhaled slowly.
Don’t lose control
, he told himself silently.
Calm. First, rescue the ones who are still alive. Then the murdering can begin.

Quickly, he hurried down the passage. The smell of roast meat filled the air. The reek of it made Farodin queasy. He moved faster and came into a chamber with a domed ceiling. He did not remember this room from the last time. There were six ways in and out. The elf hesitated. The stench of roast was everywhere. And there was something else . . . the sweet smell of honey.

A loud clattering noise made Farodin turn. It came from the passage opposite. Without giving a second thought to staying in cover, he raced ahead. He was still holding on to the heavy throwing knife, its blade the shape of an elongated diamond.

He came into a spacious kitchen. Several open fires were burning. The air was thick enough to cut. It stank of smoke, rancid fat, fresh bread, roast meat. Next to a brick oven stood an enormous troll. The elf eater swung his club back, about to beat something that Farodin could not see.

“You is gonna be delicious in honey crust.”

Farodin’s arm flashed. The dagger hit the troll in the back of the neck where the spine joined the skull. Even back at the door, Farodin heard the crunch of steel slicing through bone. The troll let the heavy wooden club fall. Then his knees gave way, and he collapsed without another sound.

Farodin crossed the room to the oven to retrieve the dagger from the dead troll’s neck and saw Mandred lying on the floor. The jarl had been beaten badly. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead and hardly had the strength to sit up.

“You’re late,” Mandred grumbled and spat blood. “Damned good to see you, though.” He reached out a hand. “Help me up. I feel like I’ve been trampled by a herd of wild horses.”

Farodin smiled. “This time, I think you tried a little too hard to be the guest of honor at the banquet table.”

Mandred sighed. “With your sense of humor, you and Luth must be related. On days like this, I wonder if the god of fate hates me or if this is his way of showing how much he likes his favorite.”

“Are any of the other prisoners still alive?”

The mortal pointed to a door half hidden behind sacks of flour. “There,” Mandred said as he pulled himself up on the oven. “Can I go in first? I’ve got a score to settle.”

Mandred did not have the strength to stand on his own legs. His breeches were sticky with blood. Limping and with Farodin supporting him, he made it to the door and jerked it open. “Your liar’s here to tell you you’re free. If you don’t believe me, rot in your cages.”

Mandred had spoken in Dailish and with such a heavy accent that he was almost impossible to understand. Perplexed, Farodin looked at his companion.

“I had to do it,” the jarl said with a smile of satisfaction. “Those in there know what I mean.” He pointed to a number of long poles with evil-looking hooks on the end. “You can get the cages down with those.” Mandred released himself from Farodin and almost immediately collapsed. Cursing, he fell against the flour sacks and wrapped his hands around his left thigh. A bloody point of bone was protruding through Mandred’s torn breeches.

“Goddamned bastard of a troll,” he swore. His face was covered with sweat.

Farodin looked at Mandred’s wound. Both the bones in his lower leg were broken and jutting through the skin. His friend must have been in terrible pain. He was holding out extremely well for such a serious injury, but he would not be able to take a single step without someone to help him, and an escape through the secret passages would be sheer agony for him.

“I’ll make splints from the poles,” said Mandred through gritted teeth. “That will do the job.”

“Of course.” Farodin nodded. Then he took one of the hooked poles and entered the dark room. The stench of putrefaction inside gagged him. It took several heartbeats before his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The room was larger than he’d expected, at least twenty paces across. Drop-shaped cages hung from the ceiling. There must have been a hundred or more, but most were empty.

Farodin was able to free seven elves. They were the last survivors. Their long imprisonment had left its mark on them. Their skin had not seen daylight in two hundred years and was the color of snow. Their eyes were red and inflamed and could not tolerate light. But worst of all had been the narrow cages themselves. Their bones had become bent, and it caused them pain just to stand upright. They showed no joy when Farodin freed them. In silence, they crouched on the floor. A man with long white hair spoke for them. Elodrin. At one time, he had been a prince of the seas in distant Alvemer. Farodin could still remember seeing him at Emerelle’s court.

“It wasn’t the queen who sent you, was it?” said the old man in a tired voice. “I know the stories about you, Farodin. You’re here for your own feud.”

“That won’t stop me from taking you home again.”

Elodrin snorted scornfully. “Look at us. Look at what they’ve turned us into.” He pointed to a woman who was cowering on the floor, sobbing quietly. “Nardinel was once so beautiful that there were no words to describe her. Now she’s a crooked old woman with a tortured soul who can no longer stand the sight of the sun. All of us have longed for death for many, many years. We do not fear it. For us, death means the freedom to be born again.”

“Does it really not matter to you if you end up as meat on the troll prince’s table? Have you given up on yourself so much?” Farodin replied sharply.

Elodrin looked at him for a long time and said nothing. Then he gave an almost imperceptible nod. “Forgive me if I can’t thank you. Try to understand us. You have saved only our flesh. Orgrim took our lives long ago.”

The elves had to be blindfolded to be able to cross through the kitchen with its bright fires. Mandred had not been in the darkness long enough to become as sensitive to light as the elves.
The mortal would have to lead them
, thought Farodin. For he himself would not be returning with them to the boat.

Scandrag had stored the treasures of his victims in chests: jewels and weapons. In one chest, they found Mandred’s axe. The elves wanted nothing to do with any of it, but Farodin was unshakable, insisting that they each have at least one weapon. Even if only to take their own lives before they were captured again by the trolls.

They were about to leave the kitchen when Elodrin said they would do well to set fire to it.

“This tower is nothing but stone,” scoffed Mandred, who clearly detested the old elf. “Stones don’t burn. Setting fire to the place is useless.”

“That’s not what it’s about, mortal. The tower is like a huge chimney. The smoke will rise. It will distract from our escape and maybe even suffocate a few dozen trolls. Scandrag stores a lot of barrels of whale oil here. Once they start to burn, there’ll be no way to put them out again.”

It didn’t take them long to find the barrels. They smashed a few staves, letting the oil flood the floor in thick streams. Farodin needed several torches to set it alight. With Scandrag’s kitchen, a large part of the Nightcrags’ stores would be destroyed, and in the middle of winter.
It won’t be long before these elf eaters are suffering hunger pains
, thought Farodin, and the thought pleased him. Setting fire to the kitchen was a good plan. If the trolls had had any idea what it meant to have an elf like Elodrin for an enemy, they would have slaughtered him long ago.

Farodin led the fugitives along a detour to avoid the sleeping trolls. Even the pale light cast by the barinstones in the corridors was too bright for the prisoners, who had grown accustomed to total darkness. Blindfolded, they moved in single file. Each had their right hand on the shoulder of the elf in front. Dark-haired Nardinel supported Mandred. The jarl tried not to let anything show, but the pain had made him almost as pale as the elves.

If Luth—whose name the mortal uttered at every opportunity—if Luth really existed, then the god was sympathetic to their escape. No troll crossed their path, and they made it to the hidden door without being discovered. Farodin explained to the elves how they could find their way back to the white grotto through the kobolds’ labyrinth. In the darkness of the passages, they would certainly find their way, and he hoped that the midwinter night was dark enough to hide them from the eyes of the trolls when they made their way along the beach to the cave.

Farodin took Elodrin aside. “You must know that the mortal will not survive if you swim through the bay. He cannot protect himself from the cold of the water.” Farodin wished that Elodrin would finally remove his blindfold so that he could look him in the eye when he spoke to him. “Mandred came here without knowing you, and he has risked his life for you.”

“I did not ask him to do that,” the old man replied indifferently.

“The cold water will kill him, Elodrin. You have to cross the landing stage and then go along the beach to the cave.”

“If we go that way, we might as well just surrender to the trolls. If the moon is in the sky, only a blind man could miss us on the beach.”

“There is no other way for Mandred.”

“Then it was not a smart decision he made to come here.”

Farodin had the absurd feeling that Elodrin could see him through the blindfold, that the old man was studying him, every gesture he made, every variation in his tone of voice.

“You were in the human world too long, Farodin. Something of them is in you. I can feel it clearly. If Mandred’s life means so much to you, then come with us.”

Farodin looked along the narrow corridor, doubtful. He was certain that he could get to the troll prince. Mandred and the other elves had long since disappeared into the labyrinth of the kobolds.

“Before the next tide comes, you have to get out of the cave. If I am not there by then, don’t wait for me. If I don’t return, then sail in my stead to Firnstayn. Leave a message for Nuramon that from now on, he has to search for Noroelle alone.” Farodin took the small silver bottle with the grains of sand from his belt. Three hundred forty-seven of them. “Make sure that this reaches Nuramon.” He pressed the bottle into Elodrin’s hand. “He will know what he has to do with it.”

The old elf accepted the bottle. “I will make sure that
Mandred
delivers your message, and this.” He took hold of Farodin’s wrist in a warrior’s grip. “Make Orgrim die slowly, if you can.” With that, he stepped through the hidden door.

Farodin pushed the wooden paneling back into place. Finally, he was alone. He smoothed his torn cloak and pulled the hood over his head. Then he melted into the shadows of the Nightcrags.

No fire alarm had been raised yet, but it certainly wouldn’t be much longer. Farodin hurried up stairs and along passages. His route led him higher and higher into the tower. He leaped over sleeping trolls and twice evaded patrolling guards. The second time, he had to hide atop a privy set into the outer wall of the tower. An icy, vertical wind tore at his clothes. Between his feet, he could see all the way down to the harbor. It was more than a hundred paces, straight down.