Elven Winter Read online

  Branbeard stamped so hard that the wood beneath his foot creaked threateningly. “You call this a ship? It’s elven junk, no more! Don’t try to talk your way out of it, whelp. The other pack leaders who lost their ships this night were at least smart enough to stay out of my sight.” He turned to the old warrior. “How many ships did we lose, Mandrag?”

  “Four, my king.”

  “Four ships! Each with more than two hundred warriors on board—that’s an army! And all of them burned?”

  “Yes, my king.”

  “I never again want to see any of those thrice-cursed fireballs on board a troll ship. And you can toss those catapults overboard tomorrow. We’re trolls! No one can match our strength. From this day forth and for all time, I decree that stones will be thrown, and that fire has no business being on board a troll ship.” He sniffed violently and spat at Orgrim’s feet. “There is only one thing more stupid, and that is to lose your own ship to an elven tub. You were warned, weren’t you? Or did someone forget to mention the iron rams on their ships? You should have paid more attention to the Rumbler, whelp!”

  A bowed figure appeared at the top of the boarding ramp. With her gout-ridden fingers, she held tightly to the rail. All talk ceased. Orgrim had never seen Skanga, the great shaman of his race, in the flesh. She tottered carefully down the steep wooden bridge. The shaman wore a coarse dress so patched that it was no longer possible to guess its original color. Every step she took was accompanied by a soft rustling and clicking—around her wrinkled neck hung dozens of amulets and charms: small figures carved from bone, stone rings, feathers, the dried head of a bird, and something that looked like half a raven’s wing. The stories about her power were countless. It was said that she could kill with a look, and that she had been alive since the days when the Alben still moved among their children.

  “I hope you had a good reason to send for me.” She spoke softly, her voice slightly hoarse, but every word was very clear.

  “Pack Leader Orgrim believes he has stumbled onto the tyrant’s body.” Branbeard sniffed again, but this time he stepped briefly to the rail instead of spitting on the deck.

  Skanga turned to Orgrim. Her eyes were covered with a thin white mucus. She reached out and placed her hand in his. “Lead me to Emerelle, whelp.”

  It felt to Orgrim as if he were holding a dried branch. The shaman’s fingers were hard, and he had the impression they were numb. Her nails were as curved as a bear’s. Skanga looked up at him and blinked. “I know you, whelp. Come to me when the fights are done.” She giggled quietly. “So Orgrim is your name now.”

  Orgrim’s stomach clenched. He had heard that the shaman sometimes had young, strong warriors brought to her, and that she stole from their life force.

  He led her to where the queen lay. Despite her milky eyes, Skanga did not seem really blind at all. She took a long step over the dead body of the swordmaster without him having to warn her. Why had she wanted to hold his hand? To find out if he was the right victim for her blood magic?

  The shaman laid her knotty hand on the dead queen’s chest and picked at the torn dress. Then she let out a grunt of annoyance and felt Emerelle’s forehead, her long nails digging into the burned flesh. Skanga murmured softly to herself, and Orgrim understood not a single word of what she said. She commanded the elf woman to return, and her voice had taken on a dark, unnatural quality. The pack leader shuddered. Suddenly, the air around them had grown cooler. A gust of wind rushed in from the open sea and rattled the rigging. The lips of the dead queen trembled. Her mouth fell open. Light dripped in viscous threads, like honey, from the corners of her mouth and radiated through her closed eyelids. A heartbreaking whimper could be heard.

  “Don’t resist,” Skanga breathed. “I have called back your light, elf. I can hold it as long as I want. You are now reliving the torment of the moment of your death. Your burned flesh. The shattered bones in your body.”

  The whimpering grew more shrill. The eyelids of the dead woman fluttered. Orgrim took a step back, and in that moment, he was certain that everything he had ever heard about Skanga was true.

  “Everyone has always told me what I want to hear. It is useless to struggle; in the end you all talk. Submit. Tell me your name. Just your name, and I will release you.”

  The dead queen’s eyes opened. She had neither eyeballs nor pupils anymore. Only a brilliant light so bright that the pack leader had to avert his eyes.

  “Your name!”

  “Sa . . . San . . .”

  Tears of light trickled from her eyes. Her voice choked into an inarticulate howl, which grew louder and louder and became an agonized shriek. Orgrim had heard the screams of the dying often, but seeing the dead elf tortured beyond death upset him deeply. So there was no peace. Not even in the grave. Never.

  “Sansella!” the queen wailed. “My name is Sansella! Sansella!”

  Skanga withdrew her hand. The eerie light vanished instantly. The body lay completely still. Orgrim stared at the dead woman in shock. Could the dead tell a lie? Was this the tyrant queen’s final deception?

  “I can imagine what you are thinking right now.” Skanga fixed her milky eyes on him. “The answer is no.”

  Branbeard spat again at Orgrim’s feet. “That’s what you sacrificed your ship for, whelp. You are not worthy to be a pack leader. I am taking your pack away from you. From now on, you are a warrior. And I suspect that even that is too much!”

  Orgrim looked disbelievingly from the dead body to the king and then to Skanga. The elven bastards had taken everything from him! He was too surprised and shaken to be able get out a single word. For days, all his thoughts had been focused on how he might become a duke, and now he was no longer even a pack leader.

  The shaman held the swan crown in her hand and stroked the cold metal. “The bond between them is breaking,” she said quietly. “The queen wore this crown for so long that there is a connection between this piece of metal and her, but it is growing weaker and weaker. She seems to be close to death.” Skanga had closed her eyes and now pressed the crown firmly to her chest. “She is on the edge of the tree-swamps on the other side of the city.”

  “Bring her to me!” Branbeard called. “Whoever brings me Emerelle will be a duke! Send ships to stop her from escaping to the open sea. Surround her! Hunt her like wolves hunt a wounded deer. You heard it yourselves—she’s dying. Bring her to me! If Emerelle escapes, this victory is worthless!”

  BENEATH THE PRICKLY SHROUD

  A dead lamassu drifted past Ollowain, its wings spread wide. The strands of its oiled beard surrounded its dark face like dancing water snakes. The enormous pinions and the ox’s body had been smashed and broken by numerous heavy blows. Only its sun-browned countenance—with its classical nose, nobly curved brows, and full, sensual lips—remained untouched. The lamassu drifted beneath a broad beam of red light that fell through the gate beneath the cistern’s ceiling and onto the water. It was not the only corpse that had been thrown down there.

  Ollowain swam to the dock and held on to a gold ring that had been set into the wall, where boats could tie up. Everything was silent. Nothing moved—nothing in the water, nothing on the stairs, nothing on the path leading up to the red light.

  Without a sound, the swordmaster pulled himself out of the cistern basin. Ducking low, he ran to the stairs. The white marble floor was smeared with blood. Ollowain drew his sword and, with long paces, strode upward toward the light.

  There, too, a secret door led from the cisterns into a magnificent hall. A black frieze with mother-of-pearl trees was the only decoration on the marble walls. Most of the oil lamps on the stairs leading up to the city had been crushed underfoot. There was blood on the walls and floor, and the heavy gold gate had been bashed in. It looked as if an angry giant had hammered it down with his fists. Beyond the gate, the night sky glowed in flickering purple.

  The stairs led out into a water garden, where crystalline flowers sprang from golden fountains. In the swirlin
g waters of one of the pools lay two holdes, and blood trailed in fine pink streams toward the drain. Apart from the splashing of the water, there was no sound at all.

  Ollowain looked around suspiciously. Whatever had rampaged through here had moved on. From farther up a hill, he heard piercing screams. He had to go back! His duty was to rescue the queen! Vahan Calyd was lost . . . One sword could not turn the tide now, but it might be enough to open a path for Emerelle out of the inferno.

  Ollowain slid his sword back into its sheath, then quickly returned to the cistern below to signal his companions. From the water garden, it was only a few hundred steps down to the mangroves. They had almost made it! The centaurs hauled the boat out of the water and carried it out into the night.

  As if in greeting, a boulevard of silver columns shot from a pool in the water garden as they stepped out into the open air. A veil of fine mist enveloped them. Gondoran pointed the way they had to go.

  “One would truly have to be a horse’s ass to think of going for a nighttime stroll carrying a boat,” boomed a voice. Shadows surged through the silver veil. A blow from a club shattered Antafes’s forelegs. The centaur collapsed to his knees, and Ollowain could only watch as the wet hull of the small boat slipped from the grasp of the remaining centaurs. Orimedes ducked beneath a club and lashed out with his hooves, smashing a troll in the chest.

  The skiff skidded across the smooth marble paving. Suddenly, it tipped forward. Gondoran, who had managed to stay upright at the long tiller, let out a shrill cry as the boat accelerated down a stairway as wide as a hillside. The holde tried desperately to steer the boat clear of the statues that rose from the steps on massive pedestals. The rapid slide was taking the boat straight toward the dark waters of the mangroves.

  “Guards, spread out!” Ollowain shouted, drawing his sword. Now that the invisible foe finally had a face, the swordmaster felt unbridled rage rise inside him. “Orimedes, make sure the boat gets to safety.” He avoided any mention of the queen. “Yilvina, take care of the wounded.”

  With a leap, Ollowain was on the troll that had knocked Antafes down. A sweep of his sword separated the giant’s leg below the knee. Too surprised to cry out, the troll tumbled sideways. Ollowain sidestepped a powerful club swing and ran his sword through his adversary’s throat. Orimedes picked up the dying troll’s club and positioned himself at the swordmaster’s side.

  Apparently intimidated by Ollowain’s quick kill, the other trolls fell back. One of them raised a horn to his lips and let out a long, wailing signal. The queen’s two remaining guards had positioned themselves to Ollowain’s left and right. With lowered swords, they waited for the trolls’ next assault. While Yilvina obeyed Ollowain’s order, Orimedes still stood at the swordmaster’s side.

  “Prince, I must ask you to go!” Ollowain glanced over his shoulder. The skiff had disappeared in the darkness. “Protect the wounded. Let me do what I’ve trained to do for centuries.”

  “I am no coward who will simply run away!” the centaur protested.

  Ollowain kept his voice low. “To flee now so that you might one day return and avenge what has happened tonight takes more courage than to stay here and die.” The swordmaster looked around nervously. He did not understand why the trolls had retreated. Between the columns of water pumping from the pool, he could make out the forms of seven of the huge fighters. A signal horn answered from higher up in the city. Reinforcements would arrive soon. He looked down at the dead troll—had he been the leader of the squad?

  “There are few escape routes from Vahan Calyd, and our enemies seem to be everywhere. Most of the princes of Albenmark will die tonight, or be taken prisoner, Orimedes. Albenmark needs men like you. Save yourself, you damned mule. And save our injured queen. She is our hope for the future!” From the corner of his eye, Ollowain saw the muscles in Orimedes’s cheek tense.

  Finally, the manhorse bowed his head. “It was an honor to have known you, swordmaster. For an elf . . .” His voice caught. “If you could drink and curse as well as you fight, you’d have made a very good friend indeed.” With that, the centaur turned away and trotted down the steps to Emerelle. If they made it out of the mangrove swamps, Ollowain knew they would certainly be able to find a way back to the safety of the heartland.

  He looked to the guards on either side of him. None of them had mastered even one of the arts of killing. It would be a short battle. The swordmaster smiled to give them courage. “Battles are won by those who dare the unexpected. So we’ll do what these dumb mountains of meat are counting on the least. We attack!”

  Without waiting for an answer from his companions, Ollowain sprinted forward beneath the fountains. In that moment of desperation, he felt utterly free. All his burdens had been lifted from him. All he had to do was what he did best of all. He would not have changed places with the centaur for anything.

  Taking the trolls completely by surprise, Ollowain leaped feetfirst at one of them. With his left hand, he grabbed hold of his adversary’s tangled beard, and with his right he rammed his sword into the troll’s chest. Adroitly, he turned beneath the enemy’s flailing hands, pushed himself clear with all his strength, and somersaulted backward, landing lightly in the pool.

  “May the rats . . . eat you . . . bastard elf!” the dying troll snarled, both hands pressed to his breast. Dark blood streamed from between his fingers.

  The elves had taken the fight to the trolls, but now the trolls charged forward with a howl. Ollowain ducked beneath a mighty swing, and the massive club struck one of the statues and shattered a marble leg. The swordmaster ducked again, rolled between his adversary’s legs, and slashed the back of the troll’s knee as he returned to his feet.

  Screaming, the troll buckled and fell. A strike to his throat turned his cry into a bloody gurgle. Water shot high beside Ollowain. A marble head rumbled across the marble floor of the shallow pool, and a deformed stone knee came flying at him—the swordmaster danced clear of it. One of the trolls had smashed a statue with his war hammer and was now hurling the chunks of stone at Ollowain. “Stand still and fight like a man!” the shaven-headed troll snapped. His deep-set eyes glowed amber. He was more than half as tall again as Ollowain, and at least four times as heavy.

  “You surprise me,” the swordmaster mocked. “They say the trolls are indomitable fighters, and yet you stand there and throw stones at me like an angry child who’s cornered a squirrel.”

  A piercing scream made Ollowain turn. One of his men had been hit. His adversary leaned down to the dying elf and tore his sword arm off at the shoulder. A fountain of blood sprayed from the horrible wound. The troll licked his own face with a long, wormlike tongue and grunted with satisfaction.

  “Well, squirrel, where do we stand now?” the stone thrower called. “Come here and fight me.”

  “If I count right, I’ve already cut the throats of two of you already. Do you really think you can beat me?”

  The troll picked up its enormous war hammer, which was lying in the pool. “Stand still for a moment and I’ll show you.”

  Ollowain had to smile. A troll with a sense of humor—he had never stumbled across a beast like that before.

  “Enough babbling, Urk!”

  From the corner of his eye, Ollowain saw the giant that had killed his companion now charge at him. He was swinging the arm of the fallen elf like a club.

  The swordmaster dropped to one knee and leaned back. Drops of blood spattered his face as the arm missed him by inches. Ollowain tensed, rose quickly, and kicked the troll hard in the crotch.

  Ollowain’s blade flew up like a silver bolt of lightning. The troll warrior raised his victim’s arm high. The cold steel separated flesh and bone, and with a turn of his wrist, Ollowain transformed the swing into a stab. The sword found its way between the troll’s ribs. Ollowain leaned into it, ramming the weapon into the troll’s body to the hilt. Blood gushed from the wound, spraying him across his chest and face. The troll tried to raise his club, but the weapon
slipped from his powerless fingers—Ollowain’s sword had pierced his heart.

  Thick strands of muscle twitched beneath the troll’s dark-gray skin; with its sprinkle of paler spots, it looked like living granite. The colossus fell backward, and Ollowain used the weight of the falling body to twist his blade free.

  A blow struck the elf on the shoulder, spinning him halfway around. Bright points of light danced before his eyes, and the sword fell from his suddenly numb fingers. Ollowain tried to banish the burning pain, but a second blow knocked him off his feet. A marble foot had struck him in the belly.

  Urk took a long step over the swordmaster’s fallen body and kicked his sword out of reach. “Well, little squirrel. Got you where I want you now, haven’t I? And all you had to do was stand still for one second.”

  Ollowain rolled to one side but was not fast enough to avoid a kick. He skidded through the shallow water and stopped against the pedestal of a statue. Before he could pull himself together, Urk was over him, pressing one massive foot onto his chest.

  “I’m going to fry you myself and eat you, elfling.” The troll’s pale tongue flickered across his dark lips. Slobber ran from the corners of his mouth. “You are truly a great warrior. I—”

  The pressure on Ollowain’s chest increased, pushing the air out of his body. Urk stared down at him with bulging eyes. A second tongue—this one of steel—jutted from the side of his mouth. An arrow!

  A slender foot hit the back of the troll’s knee, and he collapsed backward.

  Ollowain saw everything in a blur. His entire body seemed to be made of pain. A face leaned close to his, and Ollowain spoke to it in a toneless voice, “We are too late.”

  “No, we are not.” The face smiled.

  Ollowain blinked. Silwyna was bending over him.

  “Can you walk? We’re in a bit of a hurry.” The Maurawan helped him to his feet.

  Ollowain felt as if he were standing on stilts. His legs had lost all feeling, as if they were no longer part of him. Every breath he took hurt. His ribs seemed to encircle his lungs like bands of iron. “I can stand by myself,” he said, panting.