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  Lyndwyn bowed impeccably before the queen. “I am grateful to you, my queen. It honors me to be permitted to demonstrate my abilities before you.”

  “Thank me after your showpiece has succeeded, Lyndwyn. I have known the best sorcerers of an entire age, and I will not sully their memory by commending you if your talents do not convince me.”

  Ollowain’s hand still rested on the grip of his sword.

  Lyndwyn seemed unruffled by the queen’s cool reception. With a self-confidence that bordered on arrogance, she began her work. The sorceress breathed a word of power, and a floating spark appeared in front of her, hardly bigger or brighter than a firefly. She gestured briefly, and the spark began to dance. It drew the outline of a bird against the night sky. Faster and faster it went, hardening certain contours, shading others, making the image more and more solid. Soon, the bird’s feathers were complete; a long, curved beak followed. The bird expanded, becoming as big as a horse. It stretched its wings as if to measure their power. And still the spinning spark added more detail to the increasingly lifelike image, deepening the orange of the flame-colored plumage, then adding a point of light to each dark-red eye. Suddenly, a surge of heat radiated from the flame beast. A reverent murmur rose from the seated princes.

  With commanding gestures, Lyndwyn made the bird climb higher into the skies, protecting Emerelle’s guests from its heat.

  Ollowain turned his face upward. The magical form changed once again. It was no longer merely a depiction but seemed awakened to true life and to rear up, rebelling against the will of the young sorceress. The swordmaster had never before seen something living created from a single bright spark. He was entirely captivated by the young elf woman’s feat of magic and, for a moment, forgot even his concern for Emerelle.

  “Out to sea with you!” Lyndwyn commanded.

  The firebird let out a shriek. Then it flew away toward the harbor towers, which were also lit with a pale, blue-white light. To Ollowain, they looked like two lonely sentries at the edge of the darkness. Beyond the towers there were not even any stars to be seen. Clouds had swallowed their light.

  The bird had hardly passed the towers when it disappeared.

  Lyndwyn seemed confused. She made a hesitant gesture and looked out into the darkness as if spellbound. One of the princes began to clap, then a second and a third joined in, but most of them were looking toward the harbor entrance. They all seemed to be waiting for something. That could not be the end of Lyndwyn’s appearance.

  And then, in fact, small points of light began to gleam from across the waters. At first only here and there, but within a few moments, there were dozens. And then the first of the points of light rose skyward. Some broke apart as they rose and fell back into the sea, but most climbed higher and higher.

  It was an unusual spectacle. Whereas the firebird had amazed the audience with its perfection, now it was the sheer mass that impressed. As the first of the fiery lights began to descend toward the harbor, the swordmaster realized what he was looking at. Fireballs! In the darkness beyond the harbor towers lay a fleet of ships! And they had begun to fire on Vahan Calyd.

  With a hissing roar, a fireball burst among the masts of the Wavedancer, Hallandan of Reilimee’s flagship. The reefed sails caught fire immediately. One of the masts tipped to one side, destroying the rigging. A second fireball burst apart on one of the quays close by.

  “Sentries, to me!” Ollowain ordered, but the young warriors stood and stared at the inferno as if paralyzed. In a rage, he wheeled around. “My queen, you have to—” A fireball slammed into the quarterdeck, its scorching heat singeing Ollowain’s hair. Some of the flaming charges fell into the water, extinguishing with a loud hissing. Off to starboard, a large sailing ship burned brightly. Flying sparks, acrid smoke, and screams filled the air. As if numb, the swordmaster stared at the place where Emerelle had been sitting a moment before. The throne had disappeared, swept away by the fireball. Ollowain noticed vaguely that the sleeve of his shirt was smoldering. But he felt no pain. It was as if in a dream.

  “My queen?” Ollowain walked into the smoke. All over the deck lay chunks of compressed straw. What kinds of shots were these? He stepped on something soft. A hand, torn off. He went down on one knee and tried to drive the smoke away by waving his arms. In front of him lay Sansella. Her head was twisted to a grotesque angle and her face was no more than a bloody mass. He only recognized her from her smoldering dress. Even as he stared at her, the fabric burst into flames.

  He saw butterflies, writhing, all over the deck. Their wings burned or crushed, they struggled uselessly to escape the flames, which spread more and more. The shards of a crude clay pot lay around. They were covered in some kind of viscous, sticky mass.

  Ollowain beat absently at his shirt to extinguish the smoldering material. He did not feel the sparks burning into his flesh.

  “Emerelle?” He stepped over the corpse of one of the queen’s guard. And then he saw the queen. She was half-buried beneath smoldering straw. Small burn marks, like pox, covered her face.

  With his bare hands, Ollowain heaved the glowing straw aside.

  “Sentries!” he bellowed desperately.

  Finally, the young soldiers moved. They helped the swordmaster clear away the last of the straw. The queen’s undergown was half-burned away, her body gravely wounded, a gaping tear in her chest.

  “A shield wall!” Ollowain snarled at the soldiers. “Move! Protect your queen from prying eyes.”

  Yilvina stepped through the swirling smoke. The elf woman’s face was black with soot.

  “The princes are abandoning the ship!” she reported. “What should we do? Cast off?”

  Ollowain’s thoughts came too fast. The air was filled with fireballs. A hundred catapults, maybe more, were firing on the harbor and the city. Many of the ships in the harbor were alight. Was this Shahondin’s handiwork?

  “Bring me Lyndwyn! She gave the signal to attack the harbor. She knows what’s going on here.”

  Yilvina nodded and disappeared back into the smoke.

  Ollowain was certain that Shahondin’s granddaughter had guided one of the fireballs onto the quarterdeck. For the princes, it must have looked as if Emerelle were dead. Maybe he could exploit that? He looked down at the queen. One of the soldiers had covered her with a red robe, and only her face was visible. Beside her, on the deck, lay the swan crown, bent and battered. They had to get the queen away from there, but Ollowain did not dare move her. He needed a healer.

  “Let me see my daughter. Let me through!”

  “Prince, we have strict orders . . .”

  “Let him through,” Ollowain said. His voice was hoarse. All around him, the air seemed to glow. The guards suddenly ducked behind their shields as a flaming ball of straw hissed past barely an arm’s length overhead.

  The heat of the glowing ball hit Ollowain like a fist in the face, although the deadly charge had missed the ship.

  Hallandan had not even bothered to duck. The tall elf stood as if made of stone and stared down at the small figure at his feet.

  The swordmaster laid one hand gently on his arm. “I do not know what pain is tearing at your heart, but I believe your daughter has been destined to save the queen’s life, and she will fulfill her destiny. We have to try to get out of the harbor. Emerelle cannot stay in Vahan Calyd any longer. We have an enemy in our midst. Deceit and trickery are his most potent weapons. We can survive only if we turn these weapons against him.”

  There was a commotion at the steps up to the quarterdeck. “Traitor!” hissed a high male voice.

  Yilvina appeared, pushing the young sorceress in front of her. Lyndwyn’s artistically arranged hair was in disarray, her left cheek was an ugly blue red, and the eye above swelled almost closed. Her arms were tied behind her back, and a piece of cloth had been stuffed into her mouth as a gag. “We caught her on the quay,” Yilvina said. “She was trying to flee the city.” The warrior grasped Lyndwyn by the hair and forced her
to her kneel in front of Ollowain.

  The swordmaster looked at the dying queen, then at Lyndwyn. The traitor squirmed in Yilvina’s grip but could not free herself.

  “You gave them the signal with your firebird. Who is out there?” Ollowain jerked the gag from her mouth. “Speak!”

  The sorceress moistened her lips with her tongue. She held his gaze defiantly.

  “I don’t know who is attacking us.”

  Ollowain’s hand went to his sword. What did this fool take them for? Everyone on board had witnessed how she had given the signal to attack. And it could be no coincidence that one of the first of the fireballs hit the quarterdeck directly beside the queen. She only dared lie so brazenly because she knew how desperately he needed a healer. “I am not known for my leniency, Lyndwyn.” He looked to Emerelle, his queen. A thin line of blood trickled from her lips. Death had reached out his hand for her.

  A cold fury took hold of Ollowain. “Who is out there?” he snapped at the sorceress. He drew his sword.

  “I don’t know,” Lyndwyn persisted. She tilted her head slightly to one side, offering him her unprotected throat. “Kill me, Ollowain, and our queen dies within the hour. I am highly skilled in the healing arts.” She pointed with her chin toward the city. An indescribable chaos had descended on the quays and the city. Everything with legs was trying to save itself, trying to escape the bedlam by the water. Only Orimedes and his centaurs did not move from their place. They were standing around the queen’s sedan, close by the shore. Emerelle had ordered them to wait for her return. And though the world might be coming to an end around them, they waited.

  “Where are you going to find a healer, swordmaster?” Lyndwyn asked. “She has maybe a hundred heartbeats left. You can see the life draining from her body! Do you want to go running up and down the quays looking for a healer? The price for your mistrust of me will be the queen’s life. Untie me and I will help you! I will do my best, though I fear I will die in the moment my efforts fail. Decide! Your hesitation is killing Emerelle!”

  “She’s right,” said Yilvina, her voice raw.

  Ollowain’s hand tightened on the grip of his sword. The leather bindings creaked slightly. Lyndwyn was a traitor! And yet he had no choice. “How will you help her?”

  “I will cast a cooling spell.” Lyndwyn looked down at the queen with disdain. Ollowain did not like the look in her eye at all. There was no mercy in it. Whatever Lyndwyn did she did to get her head out of the noose it was in, and not out of love for her queen.

  “My magic will slowly cool Emerelle’s body,” Lyndwyn continued matter-of-factly. “The blood will then pass through her veins less quickly. I hope, like that, to buy a few hours from death . . . the time I will need, I hope, to close the wound in her chest.”

  The ship shuddered. A fireball had hit the foredeck. Sparks and thick smoke climbed. Soldiers rushed forward, trying to push the burning straw overboard with their long spears.

  Ollowain surrendered to fate. If he wanted to save Emerelle, he had to trust Lyndwyn.

  “Untie her,” he said to Yilvina. “And stay at her side.” He looked down at the sorceress “You’re right. If Emerelle dies, you die.”

  Lyndwyn stretched and massaged the crook of her arm. “I need water,” she said.

  The swordmaster turned to Hallandan. “Do we have any chance of getting out of the harbor?”

  The prince of Reilimee was on his knees beside his daughter. He stroked her blood-caked hair.

  “Prince,” said Ollowain more insistently. “Can we flee?”

  Hallandan was like a man waking from deep sleep. He stared off into the darkness, where flaming balls were still being hurled skyward. “How can I answer you when I don’t even know who we are fighting? If we make an attempt with several ships . . . maybe we will make it.”

  “Listen to me carefully, Hallandan.” Ollowain outlined his plan briefly. They needed at least three ships. When he was finished, the prince’s expression was stone. Finally, he nodded.

  “I will do it, swordmaster. On one condition: that you give me command of the queen’s flagship.”

  “So be it!”

  The sea prince hurried away. The swordmaster swept one hand tiredly through his singed hair. Never in his dreams had he imagined he might one day give orders to a prince of Albenmark. And certainly not such orders.

  Ollowain went to the steps that led to the quarterdeck and laid one hand on the shoulder of the soldier who had stood back to let Hallandan onto the deck. “Follow me below!”

  The young elf seemed surprised. Ollowain avoided meeting the man’s eye. He did not want to remember him, did not want to recognize him when he was born into a new life.

  Hunting for the Early Lost

  We were as wolves, exiled to foreign lands,

  Born like whelps. Beneath an unknown moon,

  We hunted, restive pack, home far away,

  Close the ache for the early lost.

  Women it was who showed the way.

  On gilded, glorious trails through fogs of night,

  Galleasses sweeping silent through surging seas,

  Hunting for the early lost.

  In wrathful rage, resolute returned the murdered,

  To the Festival of Light, driven by desire, to find

  One alone: Emerelle. In feverish fire

  To ease the hurt for the early lost.

  Flames fell from the firmament where Albenkin caroused.

  Ruination rained by fire, kindling infernos,

  And the pride of the butchers of Shalyn Falah died in ashes,

  Seared by the longing for the early lost.

  From the “Nightcrags Codex”

  Translated by Brother Gundaher

  Volume Six of the Temple Library of Luth in Firnstayn, page 112

  THE PACK LEADER

  Take more time to reload!” The troll had to bawl the order to make himself heard over the din on deck. Orgrim wanted the Rumbler to send the last charges flying at the accursed elves. At least in that, he might catch the eye of the king.

  The artillery chief below repeated the order, and the arms of the two massive war machines came to a standstill.

  “When can we go in and start killing?” came a voice from the deck below. “We shouldn’t be burning the elves. I’m here to bash their skulls in personally.”

  “You’ll get plenty of chances for that, Gran,” Orgrim replied. “I’m sure you will be happy to get off the sea so you can stop feeding your food to the fishes. I’m starting to worry that you’ll be as weak as a fawn when we meet the elves.”

  Droning laughter sounded from the artillery deck. A hulking figure stepped out of the shadows and looked up at Orgrim. Even among the trolls, Gran was a giant. He towered at least a head taller than every other warrior aboard. “You can talk. But a fighter’s worth is not measured in words, but from the number of slain enemies at his feet.”

  “Then ask Boltan for an abacus, Gran, because your fingers won’t do to count the number of elves whose necks I break.”

  Orgrim had the laughter back on his side. His adversary retreated, muttering into the darkness.

  Orgrim had come far. Few trolls made warrior with only thirty summers. Many never made it at all and spent their entire lives in thrall. But Orgrim was already pack leader and commander of his own ship. And there were enough who envied him for it, especially Gran. Orgrim had been hoping that his rival would resort to an insult that would allow him to challenge him to a duel. The long sea journey had weakened Gran. Like most trolls, he could not stand being stuck aboard a ship. The constant swaying and the smell of the sea made them sick, and Orgrim knew that Gran had not eaten anything for days. If there ever were to be a fight, this would be an opportune moment to have it. Orgrim had seen Gran fight—at full strength, he could break the neck of a cave bear with his bare hands.

  Basically, he liked the heavily built behemoth, but ever since Orgrim had been pack leader, envy had been eating away at Gran to the poin
t where he could no longer be trusted. He would have to find a way to get rid of Gran, but he knew that single combat with a weakened opponent would not be honorable. Perhaps there would be an opportunity to send him to another pack?

  Orgrim leaned against the bulwark of the roughly made aftercastle and looked out over the dark sea. Even out there, there was barely a breath of wind. Over the harbor city, pillars of smoke rose vertically, lit by the red glow of the flames.

  With a muffled crack, the arm of a catapult slammed into the thick leather padding of the crossbeam. The force of the impact made the huge ship shudder. A fireball climbed steeply into the night sky. Dozens of the charges were still raining down on the city and harbor, as if the stars themselves were falling from heaven.

  Orgrim cursed quietly. As pack leader and commander of a galleass, he had hoped to win renown in this war. He had put so much into mastering his ship in the last two years, to make the sluggish mass of wood do what he wanted it to. Sailing in storms through the floating islands, swallowed by fog in nameless fjords, through winter tempests and the long calms of summer—he went out in every weather, although he feared the sea. He wanted his ship to be the best in the fleet. And now all his efforts had been betrayed. Fame would go to other pack leaders, those who had disembarked in the cypress swamps far to the south of Vahan Calyd. They would attack the city from the rear and break whatever final resistance the elves put up. And they would be the ones to pursue the tyrant queen, the soulless elf woman who was more to blame for the misfortune of the trolls than any other. Emerelle, who had banished them from the world for which the Alben had long ago created them. Sent into exile by the feeble last-created race. But through the centuries of exile in an alien world, the trolls had nurtured their wrath. Now it was their turn. Now they were fighting against the elven rabble and all the worms who squirmed at their feet. The pack leader who first set foot in that dreadful queen’s palace would be named as duke of one of the rock fortresses in the Snaiwamark. King Branbeard had promised to establish a new duchy to mark the glory of that act. In all of the other duchies, only a reborn ruler could reign. That was the law among his race. A soul ruled a duchy until that soul was irrevocably destroyed. This night would be the only opportunity for hundreds of years to win the title of duke by the power of his own deeds. Yet there he stood aboard the Rumbler, watching while another pack leader won renown with his fighters while he had to supervise catapults! Orgrim smashed his fist against the bulwark in anger.