Elven Queen Page 3

  The young war jarl sighed. “It’s easier to catch the wind in your hands than to get a straight answer from you, Duke.”

  “Only if you ask me something to which you already carry the answer in your heart.” Alfadas had to smile. He could understand the young war jarl’s despair. He himself had suffered through dozens of conversations like this with his swordmaster and foster father, Ollowain. Back then, Alfadas had been the one despairing at the answers. Only with the passing of the years had he learned that Ollowain’s words were more than mere excuses to avoid uncomfortable questions. He had since learned to follow the voice of his own heart—most of the time, at least.

  Lysilla, the white-haired elf woman, appeared like a ghost from the driving snow. Leaning low over the mane of her white horse, she charged past the men.

  “They’re spooky,” said Mag. He spoke so softly that the storm almost swallowed his words. “Ever since we were on the golden path, my brother has been terribly afraid of dying. He fears it’s like the darkness we passed through, an endless horror.”

  Alfadas hesitated briefly, then decided on a lie. “All of us saw the path, the golden light, when we passed through the darkness. The same path is in all our lives. Generosity, courage, and our sense of justice are the signposts along it. If we never leave the path, it will lead us beyond life to the halls of the gods, just as the golden path led us through the darkness into the world of the Albenfolk.”

  Mag nodded earnestly. He seemed relieved.

  Alfadas felt miserable talking fervently about something when he was not really convinced. Mag, however, seemed to have forgotten completely that he had just charged Alfadas with not believing in the gods at all. But who could claim to know an honest answer? What came after death was a question of belief, no more.

  “Duke!” Ollowain came galloping along the line.

  “Here!” Alfadas stepped clear of the row of marchers.

  The swordmaster reined his horse to a halt and sprang from the saddle. “They’re here. Less than half a mile ahead. The trolls! It has begun.”

  Several men had stopped and were looking at them, but Alfadas was certain that they could not hear what was said over the howling wind. “How many?”

  “I don’t know. Lysilla discovered them. They’re attacking the elves from Rosecarn. We have to help.”

  Alfadas’s mind raced.

  “Stop the column,” he bellowed to the lines of men. “Call the war jarls together!”

  His plan had been to have the trolls attack a wall of pikemen through a hail of arrows, but everything had been turned on its head. Now they themselves would have to attack, and fast! Archers would be all but useless in the stinging, gusting snow, and the large formation of pikemen would fare little better because they were too cumbersome to attack an unseen enemy.

  As his officers gathered, he ordered the archers and pikemen to build a defensive line behind the rest of the troops. Alfadas formed those armed with poleaxes and swords into loose lines. They would lead the attack, and the elves were to distribute themselves along the battle line and give what support they could to their brothers-in-arms.

  Apparently calm, Count Fenryl stood with the war jarls and observed as Alfadas’s orders were carried out. An eternity seemed to pass before the battle lines had formed. One had to look very closely to see the count’s hand clench and relax on the grip of his sword. Somewhere out there were his wife and child, and he had no choice but to wait until the humans were ready.

  Alfadas strode along the entire row of men before he gave the order to attack. Their first engagement could not fail. The men’s morale would never recover. Lambi’s and Ragni’s fighters formed the first row. Behind them came the young men from Horsa’s bodyguard and only then the men with the poleaxes.

  The duke drew his sword. The storm limited his sight to ten paces. He had forbidden his men to use any horn signals. Their attack had to take the trolls by surprise. Alfadas swung his sword once in a shining arc over his head, then he pointed forward and took the lead. Lambi came up beside him. “I hope you don’t think we’re going to treat ’em like we did those steers.”

  Alfadas looked at Lambi with incomprehension. “What do you mean?”

  His comrade grinned. “Throw me in chains if you want, but I’m not about to eat a dead troll.”

  Some of the men around them heard the jarl’s words and smiled. Even Alfadas felt a little of his tension drain away.

  “I think I’ll do with them what my father did with some of his enemies: he’d cut out their liver and feed it to the dogs.”

  Lambi shook his head disapprovingly. “These dogs aren’t the curs we have in the Fjordlands,” he said. “I can already picture ’em heaving up their guts and lying sick on the sleds, and then we’d end up in the harness, pulling ’em along. Better for all of us if some of your good father’s habits don’t become a tradition, even if he was the damned hero who slew the manboar.”

  Alfadas stepped over a small figure lying in the snow: a kobold with a knife clutched tightly in its fist, its dead eyes staring toward the sky. What courage did it take to face an enemy seven times taller with such a pitiful weapon?

  From somewhere ahead came the sounds of battle, but the enemy was still hidden from view. The snow kept the battlefield out of sight, revealing only individual scenes of the horror. Alfadas made his way around an upturned sled with a gray mare still harnessed to it. A blow to the horse’s back had broken its spine. Its hind legs lay grotesquely twisted on the ice. Whinnying quietly, the beast tried to push itself up with its front legs and had already rubbed itself raw on the shafts in its desperate attempts to stand. The duke stroked the mare’s mane and spoke to her soothingly. With a knife, he gently opened the swollen artery at her neck. She would not suffer much longer.

  Behind the sled lay an elf, trapped when it overturned. His chest had been smashed in, and snow had already gathered over his eyes and in his nostrils. Not much longer and winter’s shroud would cover him completely.

  “Can you do me a favor?” Lambi asked, his voice hoarse.

  The duke looked up. “What?”

  “If I’m wounded, don’t worry about me.” The warrior smiled wryly. “I don’t want to perish like that nag.”

  Alfadas nodded. “Are you scared?”

  From in front of them came a long, primitive cry, like the roar of a bear greeting spring after its winter sleep. The sound of weapons rang out.

  Lambi rubbed his mutilated nose. “Of course I’m scared. I’m all but shitting in my breeches. I wish we’d finally get to fight. The trolls can’t be as bad as I picture ’em. Having one of the bastards in front of me will be a relief.”

  “You’re sure I shouldn’t feed any troll’s liver to the dogs?”

  Lambi grimaced. “Could you keep your bloodthirsty stories about your father to yourself until we’re done with this? It might surprise you, Duke, but before a battle, my stomach is always very sensitive.”

  Alfadas looked at him in dismay. “Really?”

  Lambi nodded earnestly. “Yep. About as sensitive as the belly of a bloodhound when it’s gnawing on a deer’s guts.” The war jarl let out a ringing laugh. “Do I look like a man who pukes in the snow because of a bit of blood on his sword?”

  In front of them lay a smashed chest. The wind tore at a delicate dress that had caught on the splintered wood. Crates, barrels, and even items of furniture strewn across the ice bore witness to elves trying desperately to lighten their sleds to escape the trolls.

  Lambi lifted the delicate cloth to his ravaged nose and sniffed at it. “Mmm, delicious!” he called to Alfadas.

  An elf woman in a lime-green dress staggered toward them. Her red hair was tousled, her eyes wide with panic. A fine thread of blood ran down her neck from one of her long, pointed ears.

  “By the gods! Luth has listened to my most secret wish!” Lambi cried, hurrying toward the elf woman. Suddenly, a bellowing roar drowned out the howl of the wind. An enormous figure materialize
d from the white flurries of snow. It was more than half again as tall as a man. Its skin was rock gray, and like a rock, the deadly cold seemed not to bother the monster in the slightest. It wore no more than a loincloth of filthy matted fur. For a moment, the troll seemed surprised. Then it raised its club, let out a marrow-shaking cry, and charged straight at Lambi.

  The diminutive fighter saved himself from the first powerful swing by dropping flat on the ice. Alfadas stood as if petrified and stared at the troll. Nothing he had ever heard about these fearsome monsters came even close to the reality. The others around him were as frozen as he was, as if looking death itself in the eye.

  Lambi rolled desperately to one side. Just a few fingerwidths from his head, the great club hammered the ice. The war jarl had lost his sword. He rolled helplessly from side to side, doing his best to dodge the troll’s attacks.

  Alfadas finally overcame his initial shock. His friend was about to die.

  “Over here, you filthy freak!” he cried.

  The troll whipped its head around. Its narrow, lipless mouth twisted into a smile. The duke lunged forward and ducked beneath the giant’s club. His blade sank deep into the troll’s thigh, but his adversary only grunted. Then the back of its hand hit Alfadas in the face. It was no more than a slap, yet it was the slap of a giant. Alfadas was jerked off his feet and flung a short distance through the air. His sword still protruded from the troll’s thigh.

  The monster now charged the other fighters. A swing of its club smashed the skull of one of the poleaxemen. Groaning, Alfadas rose to his feet.

  “Attack it together!” he screamed. “Or it’ll kill you one by one!”

  “Take this!” Lambi was back on his feet, too. He pulled an axe out of his belt and threw it to Alfadas, who caught it adroitly in the air and hurled himself back into the battle. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lambi follow, armed now with just a knife.

  The men’s poleaxes stabbed forward, jerked back. The tips of the weapons were equipped with long, four-sided iron spikes. They dug into the troll’s arms and chest but were not able to injure it seriously. The giant was swinging its club in an arc, smashing the shafts of the men’s weapons if they did not jump back fast enough. It bellowed something in a deep, throaty language. Was it afraid? Alfadas wondered.

  Lambi crept up on the troll from behind and stabbed his dagger into the back of its knee. With a shrill scream, the monster collapsed to one side. Poleaxes rained down on it. The broad blades opened gaping wounds in its shoulders and back. Even in its death throes, the monster was still able to grab one of the weapons. It yanked the blond fighter wielding it forward and smashed his chest with a butt of its head.

  A poleaxe blade came down on the back of the troll’s neck. Alfadas heard the splintering of bone. Its arms spread wide, the giant sank forward, burying the dying warrior beneath its body.

  Alfadas stepped forward and pulled his sword out of the troll’s thigh. The duke looked around. Two of his men were dead and two more so seriously injured that they would not be able to fight again for a long time.

  “Victory!” Lambi bawled. “Victory! They’re flesh and blood like us, just too damned much of both.”

  “Silence!” Alfadas cried. The raging storm had abated somewhat. A throaty shout rang out. Right and left of them, they heard the sounds of battle, the screams of someone dying.

  “This way!” He stormed off in the direction of the screams. They found two more trolls battling the men of the Fjordlands. The snow was red with blood.

  Ronardin, the keeper of the Mahdan Falah, was trying to distract the two trolls from an injured man crawling over the ice.

  Without hesitating, Alfadas moved in. His sword slashed in a glinting half circle and left a bloody line across the back of one of the trolls. In the same moment, he heard the crash of metal. Ronardin fell to his knees, struck by a war hammer. His breastplate caved inward deeply. Blood brimmed at the elf’s lips, even as he swung his sword powerlessly at his adversary’s knee. A second hammer blow knocked the sword from his hand.

  “Hey, rockhead,” Lambi shouted. “Your sister spreads her legs for everyone!”

  “It can’t understand you,” Alfadas cried, just managing to dodge a low swipe by the troll he’d injured. “Enough nonsense!”

  The troll with the war hammer ignored Ronardin now and turned around. Its chest and legs were covered with bloody handprints. A broad strip of flesh hung from a meat hook on its belt.

  “If you get the tone right, they don’t need to understand the words,” Lambi shouted back. He flailed his sword manically. “Here, you overgrown toad. Let me tell you what it’s like to screw your sister.”

  Alfadas ducked beneath an abandoned sled to dodge the other troll’s stone axe. The monster wore breeches made from pale leather, and at its belt hung a bow cover and a quiver. Its stone axe shattered the sled’s bench seat.

  The duke rolled through between the runners. For a moment, the light vehicle was in front of him. Then the troll, with an angry cry, hoisted the sled into the air and held it high over its head.

  Alfadas began to run. When he heard a second cry, he threw himself to the left, colliding hard with a wooden chest reinforced with bronze. The sled just missed him. Bits of the wreckage flew through the air, and a twisted runner clanged against the wooden chest. Alfadas’s leap had saved his life.

  A shadow reared above the duke. No, his leap had only extended his life by a few moments. The troll stood over him, its legs apart. Alfadas tried to stab upward, aiming for the troll’s crotch, but a savage backhand swing knocked the sword from his hand.

  The giant grinned and raised its stone axe. Without warning, an arrow shaft suddenly jutted from its right eye. The troll trembled. Dark blood ran down its cheek and gathered at the corner of its mouth. Its grin remained.

  Slender hands reached for Alfadas and dragged him aside. The duke could not take his eyes off the troll. The hand holding the stone axe opened, and the heavy weapon fell to the ice.

  “It’s over,” said a familiar voice. Ollowain.

  “Thank you,” Alfadas managed to croak. The troll began to sway. Its uninjured eye stared rigidly at him. Suddenly, the giant collapsed forward. For a moment, it lay without moving. Then its right hand reached for the axe. Its fingertips touched the shaft before the huge body emitted a deep sigh and did not move again.

  “Don’t thank me,” said Ollowain gently. “She saved you.” He pointed to a white-robed slim figure holding a long hunting bow. Silwyna. The elf woman was standing beside Lambi, who was breathing heavily and supporting himself against the wreckage of the sled. The second troll had vanished.

  Ollowain kneeled beside Ronardin and grasped his hand. The face of the guard of the Mahdan Falah was as white as the snow all around, but his lips were red with blood.

  “They did not make it across the bridge, did they?” His brown eyes peered intently at the swordmaster.

  “The bridge has not fallen,” said Ollowain in a steady voice. “You did your job well.”

  Foamy blood pearled on the elf’s lips.

  “Please . . . the queen sent the lady to rescue Phylangan. Ask her for forgiveness. I did not mean to offend her with my gaze.” Ronardin tried to sit up, but Ollowain pressed him back gently.

  “She was never angry with you, my friend. Rest now. We will take you back to the stone garden so that you can continue to guard the bridge.”

  “She can’t . . .” Ronardin’s eyes widened. “You must . . .”

  Ollowain held him a moment longer, then folded the dead man’s hands over his chest.

  “What did he mean?” Alfadas asked.

  “He seemed to think he’d been fighting on the Mahdan Falah. He was the keeper there for many years.”

  The storm had now receded completely. Only a little snow still fell, and the wind had died. Before them, graceful figures began to appear from the whiteness. Carriages and sleds moved toward them: the Rosecarn refugees.

  The human figh
ters burst into jubilant cheers. They had won! Lambi came and clapped Alfadas on the shoulder. “We gave their asses a damn good kicking, didn’t we?”

  Alfadas nodded tiredly. “The alliance has passed its first test. That’s a good sign. We were able to save the elves, at least these.”

  Lambi laughed. “What do you mean, at least these? This is just the start! We’ll follow the trolls into the hills and finish ’em all off. I’ve got a score to settle with that one with all the handprints on him. No one gets away with pushing me around.”

  The duke felt the ice tremble beneath his feet. Had the enemy returned with reinforcements? The battle was not yet won!

  THE BATTLE ON THE ICE

  They came on us by surprise, Pack Leader,” said Brud remorsefully. “We were caught off guard.”

  The chief scout was on his knees in front of Orgrim and obviously expected to be punished. But Orgrim said, “On your feet. No one could have known. It was smarter to bring our warriors back here than to sacrifice them in a senseless battle, as honorable as it might have been.” The pack leader looked out over the plain. Far off, an extended black line was forming on the ice. It looked as if they were readying for an attack. “You’re sure it was humans?”

  The scout nodded. “Yes. And it seemed as if they were prepared for the fight.”

  “Centaur shit!” Gran swore. “They surprised us, and they were lucky.” The giant warrior snatched a strip of bloody meat from the hook on his belt and bit off a large chunk. “We ought to go down there and smash in their skulls,” he said, both cheeks full. “You have more than two hundred battle-hardened warriors, Pack Leader. We’ll bash them to a pulp if we attack. They’re just humans. They can’t stand up to us!”

  “What makes you think they were prepared to fight us, Brud?” Orgrim looked searchingly at the leader of the scouts. Was he trying to make excuses for his defeat?

  “They didn’t seem surprised when they saw us. And some of them carried strange weapons, axes on long poles. They could use them to attack us without getting near our clubs.”