The Elven (78 page)

Dents and Tobacco

A
shield the size of a door darkened the sky overhead and deflected the blade of the halberd. “Cut the bastard apart,” bawled a familiar voice. A strong arm took hold of Farodin and helped him to his feet. “Looks like you’re still in one piece.” Orgrim grinned broadly. “That was for saving me and my ship in the fjord.”

The elf blinked, rather dazed. “How . . . did you recognize me?”

“Ollowain did me a favor. He painted a white cross on the back of your helmet so I was able to stay behind you when you broke through the pikes.”

A dull pain throbbed in Farodin’s left shoulder. One of the plates of his armor had been dented and was pressing into his skin. He could barely raise his left arm. “You can do me another favor, Orgrim. Unbuckle my left shoulder piece and take it off.”

The king held up his huge, meaty hands in Farodin’s face. “You don’t really think these fingers can open the pretty buckles on elven armor, do you?”

Farodin stretched and swore. He could not take off the armor alone. He looked around. On every side lay dozens of the dead.

“Can you walk under your own steam?”

“At least I don’t need a troll to carry me,” Farodin replied in annoyance. The pain in his shoulder was getting worse.

The trolls’ attack had repelled the pikemen some distance. Their broad backs blocked Farodin’s view of the progress of the battle. The infernal clamor of the fighting continued.

“How do we stand?”

Orgrim spat on the ground. “There are a hell of a lot of humans who won’t be boasting about their heroic deeds at home anymore. We’ve pushed them back.” He waved to a troll from his staff, and a moment later, a long-drawn-out note sounded from a signal horn. “Their cavalry is regrouping at the base of the hill. We should pull back before they start their counterattack.” Without another word, King Orgrim stomped away to his men and helped cover the retreat of the troops.

Only six of the twenty who had led the attack returned to the redoubts of the archers. Ollowain was among the survivors. His armor was gouged and red with blood. The elf had removed his helmet, and his long blond hair stuck to his head in strands. “What a victory!” He pointed down the slope. In places, the dead lay so thickly that they hid the grass under them. When the trolls advanced into the breaches the elves had made in the rows of pikemen, the battle had turned into a massacre.

Ollowain unbuckled Farodin’s dented shoulder plate. He pushed the padded gambeson aside and felt Farodin’s shoulder. “Nothing broken. You were lucky. How does it feel?”

Farodin swung his arm in a wide circle. Now that the pressure was off his shoulder, the pain was much less. “It will pass muster, at least for fighting humans.”

Ollowain pointed to one of the burned towers at the top of the steep path. “Over there is one of the gnome armorers. He’ll knock the dent out of your shoulder plate, and you can put it on again. Don’t take too long. When it comes to a defeat, the knights don’t have long memories. They will attack again soon.” With that, the keeper of the Shalyn Falah moved on, and Farodin watched him go. Ollowain joked with a few of the archers and shouted something to a troll that made the giant leer. The elven commander radiated a confidence that completely belied any possibility that they might not hold on to their positions until nightfall. And it was not yet midday.

Farodin found the armorer without difficulty. The gnome was a talkative old man with a white beard heavily flecked with chewing tobacco. He took his time knocking the dent out of the armor. He talked about anything and everything, but not the war. It seemed the old man was doing his best to lose himself in his work and preserve at least a little bit of everyday life. Finally, he spat on the shoulder plate and polished it on his sleeve. As he buckled it back onto Farodin’s armor, he looked at the elf, and there was deep concern in his milky brown eyes. “Will we hold the bridge?”

Farodin had no desire to lie to the old man. “I don’t know.” He looked back down the slope. The humans had re-formed in new lines.

“Hmm” was all the old gnome said. Then he ducked and produced a crossbow from beneath his workbench. “The queen was always loyal to my people.” The armorer could not hide his fear. He blinked nervously and stroked the stock of the weapon repeatedly. “One good thing about the humans. There’s always so many of ’em that not even an old, half-blind armorer can miss.”

“May I accompany you to the battle line?” Farodin asked him in a serious tone.

The gnome looked up at him in surprise. “But you’re a famous elf hero. What do you want with me?”

“No one has told me where I am supposed to fight in the next battle. I have never fought at the side of a hero of the gnomes. If you don’t mind, it would be an honor to fight at your left hand. What is your name?”

“Gorax.” The old man pulled out a dark-brown bar of chewing tobacco from behind his belt. “An elf asking a gnome if he can fight at his side. Wondrous times we live in. Can I offer you some of this? Keeps the head clear.” He offered Farodin the tobacco.

The elf took the bar and bit a small chunk off the tough mass. The tobacco burned his tongue and spittle quickly collected in his mouth. He felt like spitting the little nub straight out again, but he pushed it into his cheek with his tongue and handed the bar back to Gorax. “A clear head is something we can certainly use.”

At the foot of the hill, the drums started beating and the pipes piping again. The soldiers of Tjured were on the advance.

Death and Rebirth

N
uramon looked down at the body of the young warrior as if mesmerized. Lumnuon had fought better than he, but there he lay on the ground at Nuramon’s feet, staring up from empty eyes. Nuramon had not even seen him die. Lumnuon had suffered many cuts on his arms and legs, and his face was torn. But it was another wound that had killed him. Someone had cut his throat.

Nuramon was overcome with fury at the sight of the dead young man. He looked around, caught sight of an enemy soldier viciously attacking an elf who was only able to parry the man’s blows with difficulty. Nuramon came up behind the soldier and ran him through with his long sword. Then he tore off the man’s mask and pushed him to the ground. The elf he had helped thanked him. Before Nuramon could reply, a Tjured knight attacked from the right. Nuramon jerked Gaomee’s sword up and parried the man’s blow. He buried his long sword in the enemy’s chest. The man froze in surprise, then his arms went slack, and Nuramon slid his blade free.

More and more soldiers threw themselves at the elves. With every enemy Nuramon cut down, he seemed to attract the attention of more. Or were the fighters of his clan, fighting around him, weakening?

“Behind you!” shouted an elf’s voice from one side.

Nuramon glanced over his shoulder and, from the corner of his eye, saw a soldier reaching back to strike. Before Nuramon could move, he knew that the enemy blade would find its mark. As he swung around, he was already bracing for the pain. But it did not come. His own sword slammed into the human’s helmet, penetrating the steel. At the same time, Nuramon realized why his foe’s blade had not injured him. In front of him, a dwarven fighter in shining silver armor doubled over and fell to the ground. Nuramon recognized the armor. He turned the dwarf onto his back and looked down into Alwerich’s face. His friend gazed up at him with an agonized smile.

“Alwerich!” a familiar voice shouted, and Wengalf came to them with his soldiers. “Form a wall of shields.” The dwarves followed their king’s order.

Alwerich was very pale. The sword had gone into him below his chest. Blood swelled from the fresh wound. “You can’t die yet,” said the dwarven warrior, his voice weak. “You have to get to Noroelle. I will be reborn.”

Nuramon shook his head in disbelief. “Why didn’t you think of Solstane?”

“She will understand. Take this gift from me, and never forget your old . . . your old . . .” His head sank onto his chest. It looked as if he had fallen into an exhausted sleep. But he had stopped breathing, and his heart no longer beat. Alwerich was dead.

Nuramon kissed his dead ally’s forehead. “I will never forget you, old friend.” It was a painful parting, even though the dwarf would be reborn. First Lumnuon, now Alwerich.

Nuramon wondered if he should still try to heal him as he had healed Farodin so long ago in the ice cave.

But Wengalf laid a hand on Nuramon’s shoulder. “Leave him. He will be reborn a hero, and he will remember this day with pride. Now we have to turn this battle in our favor. We’re doing well. Maybe we can really stop them.”

One of Wengalf’s soldiers pushed between the shield bearers. “My king, our fighters have beaten the enemy on this side. Their strange fire rods have been silenced forever. Should we advance? We hear from the right flank that Mandred wants to take a small squad of humans and try to break through to the heart of the enemy’s army.”

A fear came over Nuramon. He did not want to lose Mandred, too. There would be no rebirth for the jarl of the Fjordlanders.

Wengalf turned to the messenger. “Give the order to attack the flank on this side, but our men should fall back a short way when they reach the middle of the battlefield. We’ll draw some of the enemy that way and get them out of Mandred’s way.”

Nuramon looked into the king’s eyes. “Thank you, Wengalf.”

“Come on. Take your swords. Let’s put this battle behind us. I’m weary as a dog.”

Nuramon nodded. Reluctantly, he let go of Alwerich’s body and picked up his swords. He wanted this battle to be over, too. He turned to the few elves still on their feet. “Regroup! It’s time for the final assault!”

Behind Enemy Lines

M
andred stared at the red braids lying all around him on the grass. “I’ll remember all of you, my dead,” he murmured and ran his hand over his smooth cheeks and scalp.

Beorn stuffed his knife back into his belt, from which a bronze signal horn also hung, and nodded with satisfaction. “You look just like one of their commanders now, Ancestor, but let me do the talking if we get stopped.” A few captured Tjured fighters had worked as farmhands on Beorn’s parents’ farm. The bodyguard had learned the language of Fargon from them. He knew about the structure of the monastic army and even knew the horn and drum signals the enemy used.

Mandred pulled on a horseman’s helmet with deep cheek plates and tugged at the broad, red belt wrapped around his waist. He had taken off Alfadas’s armor with a heavy heart, but they would never fool the enemy if he wore that.

He looked across at the audacious band of Mandridians, each of them a volunteer. They had repulsed the mounted charge of the Tjured knights, but against the sheer numbers of the enemy’s foot soldiers, they would not be able to win.

“I’m betting your friends advised you never to ride with me,” Mandred shouted to his men. “If they did that, then you have good friends. They were right. One hour from now, anyone who rides with me will either be a hero or sit in the Golden Hall of the gods. If you live, then for the rest of your days, they’ll be calling you crazy behind your back.”

The men grinned, and even a few of the centaurs laughed. The centaurs from Dailos had promised him their help. Nearly a hundred of them waited for his orders. Mandred eyed his volunteers with pride. Each had donned the armor of a fallen enemy rider, and each had shaved off his beard so that the enemy would not recognize them as Northmen. Mandred wished that he could deliver a speech as inspiring as Liodred had in his royal hall. The day before, when he had spoken at the king’s grave, he had repeated the best parts that he could still remember. Once again, Liodred’s words had kindled the Fjordlanders’ fighting spirit. The jarl looked along the rows of men willing to follow him on this suicidal ride. Most of them were terribly young.

“Appanasios?” He turned to the leader of the centaurs, a wild black-haired centaur with a broad leather sash angled across his chest. From the sash dangled six short fire rods. He also wore a quiver full of arrows buckled to his back and carried a long sword in one hand. “You and your band of cutthroats will gallop like mad behind us. Make a big show of it. Shout and shoot and act like we really are a troop of armored riders trying as hard as we can to escape.” Mandred raised his right hand, which was enclosed in a beautifully worked armored gauntlet. He closed the hand into a fist, making the iron-clad fingers creak softly. “And if one of your footpads actually hits so much as a single one of my men, Appanasios, then I’ll come back and ram this up your fat horse’s ass.”

“If you really come back, you can gladly put your gauntlet somewhere else, and I’ll sing a hymn to your heroism the whole time.” The centaur smiled, but there was sadness in his eyes. “I’m proud to have met you, Mandred Aikhjarto.”

“Let’s wait and see if you’re still proud when I drink you and your troop of thugs here under the table at the victory banquet tonight.”

“A human that can get a centaur drunk? You dream.” Appanasios laughed out loud. “Even you won’t manage that, ancestor of Firnstayn.”

“I’ve already got a drunken oak tree on my conscience,” Mandred replied, and he pulled himself into his saddle. One of the new, slim swords clinked at his hip. Two leather bags hung in front of the saddle. The jarl turned around to the centaur and pointed to the sash across his chest. “How do you use those things?”

Appanasios took one of the weapons and spun it around playfully. “These, Ancestor, are wheel-lock pistols, enemy booty. You pull on this hook down here, and it shoots. It works best if you tilt it a bit. They’re loaded with a little lead ball.”

“Lead?” asked Mandred in surprise.

“Don’t be deceived. At close range, one of these balls will go through any armor.” The centaur pushed the pistol back into his leather sash.

Mandred stroked the shaft of his axe where it hung from the saddle horn. He would put his trust in more traditional weapons.

Briefly, he inspected his small troop of riders. Besides the swords and the wheel-lock pistols, some were also armed with lances. Five carried rolled banners. For Mandred, their coat of arms was new, but it was doubtless a familiar sight to the Tjured knights; the Northmen had been unfurling it for centuries in the war against their enemies.

The jarl raised his hand. “Forward, men!”

Their hooves made a dull rumble on the churned earth as the riders galloped off. The same hollow from which they had begun their first attack had served to hide them from enemy eyes a second time. Now they drove their horses up the embankment. Behind them rang the shrill war cries of the centaurs.

To their left, the battle was in full swing. Most of the enemy riders had been repelled, but the foot soldiers were putting up a hard fight against the elves and dwarves.

An arrow just missed Mandred. He leaned low over his mare’s neck. At full gallop, they were making straight for the enemy’s right flank. An enemy officer signaled to Mandred with his sword, pointing to a gap between two troops with fire rods. Mandred’s small squad passed through the enemy’s battle line while the centaurs, cursing loudly, fell back, letting loose a volley of arrows at the enemy foot soldiers as they did.

Mandred reined in his horse. Beorn, who had not left his side, raised his right arm and turned in the saddle. “Halt!” He spoke the word in a strange singsong tone, stretching the Fargon word out endlessly.

Mandred looked around suspiciously. None of the soldiers around them seemed to find Beorn’s behavior at all strange. A mounted messenger dashed along the battle line and disappeared behind a small stand of trees. On his way to the Shalyn Falah? How was the battle going for Farodin?

“Two rows abreast!” Beorn commanded, and the riders formed a marching column.

Mandred pointed to a hill about half a mile behind the center of the battle line. Banners with the burned oak symbol fluttered there, and he could see a group of officers observing the course of the battle. To one side waited a group of messengers on horseback and a small detachment of halberdiers. The large sword-fighting unit that had been kept in reserve had probably just been given orders to march. The dwarves in the center of the battle were falling back. Mandred’s heart nearly stopped. Perhaps his little trick had come too late. It looked as if the battle lines were collapsing. But the dwarves were just giving ground, they were not fleeing. The elves on the left flank held their position. Was that part of the dwarves’ strategy, to lure the last of the enemy’s reserves into the battle? Then there was at least a slight chance that they would survive his battle plan.

“March!” Beorn ordered, and the column of riders began to move. The bodyguard smiled. “I never thought we’d make it through their lines so easily.”

Mandred returned his smile. “That was the easy part. The real trick will be to get out again alive.”

“Was that ever really part of our plan?” asked Beorn, so quietly that the riders behind him could not hear.

Mandred did not reply. What could he say? Both of them knew very well how unlikely it was that they would survive.

They rode beside a long row of horses harnessed to carts. Some distance away, the remains of the defeated enemy cavalry had gathered in the shelter of a small patch of woods.

After a short distance, Mandred’s troop left the muddy path behind them and rode in a wide curve toward the command post on the hill. At the back of the hill, out of sight of the soldiers, a banquet table had been set up. Several cooks were at work over large fires, roasting two pigs on iron spits and preparing all kinds of poultry. Mandred’s mouth began to water. “Nice of them to prepare a victory feast for us.”

Beorn did not smile. He pointed to an officer with a white crest on his helmet, riding down the hill toward them. “Let me speak with him, Ancestor.” He waved to the riders and they fanned out from the column, forming a long line at the foot of the hill.

“What are you doing here?” the officer barked excitedly and pointed to the woods. “All mounted troops were ordered to regroup back there. When our infantry breaks through the enemy lines, you might get a chance to make up for that shambles of an attack.”

“I have an urgent message for General Tarquinon,” Beorn replied calmly.

“Then tell me what you have to report.”

“With all due respect, I believe the general, in this case, would like to hear the news firsthand. I attacked the enemy from the rear with my riders. We discovered a huge army of trolls concealed in a hollow, ready to attack our troops on the flank if we advance any farther.”

The young officer stared at him in shock. “They said we’d wiped out all but a few of the trolls. Follow me.” He turned his horse and trotted up the hill.

The general and his staff were standing at a heavy oak table. On the table lay a map of the battlefield. Colorful wooden blocks seemed to be marking the positions of different divisions of their army.

Mandred and Beorn dismounted and marched toward the gathered officers. A tall, gaunt man turned to face them. His breastplate shone as if it were made of polished silver. A white cloak hung from his shoulders. The arrogance of power was reflected in the ascetic lines of his face. He had long, white hair that fell to his shoulders. “I don’t think much of officers who flee at the head of their troops, Captain . . .”

“Balbion, Eminence. Captain Balbion.”

The general frowned. “That name is not familiar to me.”

“I was promoted just four days ago, after the battle at the white bridge, Eminence.”

Mandred hated pompous blowhards like this Tarquinon. Beorn should get to the point and not waste so much time with useless babbling.

As if the general had read his mind, Tarquinon half turned and looked at Mandred. “What’s that your adjutant has there? The regulations concerning cavalry armaments say nothing about axes. He must have taken it from one of those barbarians. What is his name?”

“His name is Mandred Torgridson,” Mandred calmly replied, and he took a step toward the general. “
He
is the commander of the Fjordlanders, the jarl of Firnstayn. And he is here to negotiate a ceasefire with you for the day.”

A smile played across the general’s thin lips. The other officers at the table gazed at Mandred in surprise. Several of them reached for their swords. Tarquinon lowered his head. “I bow to your daring, Jarl.” He reached for a pistol on the map table. “That said, I despise extraordinary stupidity.”

Beorn jumped forward and struck at the general’s arm. Acrid white smoke poured from the pistol, and something hit Mandred in the hip, though he felt no pain. The jarl momentarily looked down at himself. His breastplate seemed undamaged. All around, the officers drew their swords.

Mandred jumped forward. His axe swung in a wide semicircle, and fine drops of blood splattered across the battlefield map. Then the general’s head tumbled onto the table, throwing all the little wooden blocks into disarray.

Beorn parried a sword stroke aimed at Mandred’s head. Back to back, the two Northmen faced the attacking officers. Mandred’s axe smashed a thin sword, and he stabbed the point of his axe through the attacker’s armor. Another officer swung, and his blade grated off the jarl’s shoulder plate. Mandred half turned and smashed another officer’s legs.

Suddenly, he heard the loud reports of wheel-lock pistols. Bitter white smoke blew over the hill and enveloped the fighting men. It stank of brimstone, exactly as if the Devanthar were back among them.

Mandred’s axe sliced deeply into the shoulder of the young officer who had led them up the hill. The man stared at him wide-eyed, then his knees gave way.

Riders appeared through the smoke. With their long swords, they cut down the remaining staff officers and tore down the banner with the burned oak. Beorn had taken the horn from his belt and was blowing it for all he was worth. Above the heads of the horsemen, the banners of Firnstayn now unfurled. They showed a green oak on a white background. The living tree had defeated the dead. The entire army of Tjured soldiers would see the smoke rising from the command post on the hill and their enemy’s flags flying. Beorn was sounding the retreat. He could already see one unit breaking from the battle line and fighting its way back.

From the side of the hill came the clash of weapons. “The halberdiers are attacking!” screamed a young Firnstayner.

Mandred pulled himself onto a riderless horse. “Drive them back,” he ordered sharply. The hill could not fall back into their enemies’ hands, or it would all have been in vain.

Mandred wheeled the black stallion around and rode toward the enemy. He took the reins between his teeth and pulled one of the two wheel-lock pistols from the saddle holster. Ahead of him was the formation of halberdiers. They had already cut down several of his riders. Mandred turned the weapon in his hand and hurled it into the enemy pack. One of the halberdiers cried out in surprise. Mandred would never fire a weapon that spewed the Devanthar’s breath into the world, but they made good throwing clubs.

Mandred held the second pistol and drew back, ready to throw. He could still hear Beorn sounding the retreat behind him. More riders joined him, and together they formed a battle line. All of them drew their saddle pistols. As if at some silent command, the Mandridians fired simultaneously. White smoke enveloped them, and many of the halberdiers fell. The line of attackers began to disintegrate.

“Swords!” Mandred bawled over the noise. Slim swords clattered from metal sheaths.

“Charge!” The jarl spurred his stallion ahead. They were only a few paces from the Tjured soldiers. He threw the second pistol and reached for his axe.

“For Firnstayn!”