Elven Winter Page 7

  “You don’t smell like you’ve been drinking.” Alfadas looked down at the dog. “I’m sure no one would be surprised to find that one of your own dogs had ripped your throat out. Do you think that’s how elves take revenge? To have a slave driver like you killed by his tormented victims?”

  “Yes!” Ole panted. He stared at Alfadas. Waited for a reaction. “I mean, no. I . . .”

  The jarl pushed the whip back into the breeder’s belt. “Remember this, Ole: I hate being slandered. If I hear one more time—or if I merely suspect—that you’ve been talking bad about me, then one day they’re going to find you among your dogs. The only way they will know it’s you lying there is from what’s left of your clothes. Until this evening, because you’re my wife’s only uncle, I have taken pains to overlook the way you’ve been behaving. But my patience is at an end. Be on your guard against me.”

  Ole placed one hand on the whip.

  Alfadas caught himself wishing that the breeder would try something stupid now.

  “I—” Ole began, but then the door of the longhouse opened. Asla’s silhouette was framed clearly against the red firelight from inside. The smoke from the fire billowed through the doorway around her.

  “So wonderful of you to visit,” she greeted her uncle warmly. Then she noticed the dog and hesitated. “Come in,” she finally said tonelessly.

  Ole glanced at Alfadas, but the jarl revealed no emotion. He waited for the dog breeder to decide for himself.

  Asla’s uncle wiped his hand nervously across his forehead before he stepped inside the longhouse. The dog stayed close beside him. “Would you have a marrowbone with a bit of meat still on it? Blood is happy as long as he’s got something to chew on.”

  “Blood?” Asla asked in surprise.

  Ole nodded down at the black dog. The beast stood almost up to his hip. “I’d used up all the other good names. Killer, Fang, Grinder. They sell much better when they have a dangerous name.” Ole raised his voice. “These black bear-hounds from Fargon make ideal watchdogs!”

  Alfadas sighed. Ole was a riddle. There were moments when he could have happily strangled him, and the next moment he had to stop himself from laughing out loud. The breeder was the most baffling human he had yet encountered. A heartbeat before, he’d been a downright son of a bitch, but now he managed to play the pitiful clown.

  The smoke-heavy air inside the house stung his eyes. The house had a fire pit in the center of its single, large room, but no chimney. The smoke exited only slowly through two small gaps just beneath the gables. It never took long for Alfadas to get used to the smoky air, the burning eyes, and the scratch in his throat. But every time he went inside from being out in the clear air, he found the first moments to be a kind of torture.

  His house was fifteen paces long. Half the village had spent five weeks working on it. It was a good house. For elves, it would have been no more impressive than a kobold’s cave scratched in the earth, but he was proud of his home. Together, they had built it as well as they possibly could.

  Beside the long fire pit were benches where most of the guests were seated. They drank, joked, or simply gazed into the coals in silence. Long wooden tables on heavy trestles groaned under the weight of all the food. Two fat pigs had been slaughtered and roasted on spits. There was cider from the year before, fresh butter, and delicious-smelling bread. Asla had toiled like a slave for three days to prepare for the feast, and even now she did not stand still for a moment. If the king called him back to the south the following year to command his army on its plundering raids, Alfadas swore, then he really would bring a slave woman back who would do the work for her.

  She wore her green dress and the amber jewelry that he had given her to mark Kadlin’s birth and was the most beautiful woman there. She did not notice how Alfadas sat mutely and observed her. He thought of their argument that afternoon and knew that he ought to tell her how much she meant to him more often. They had been talking together less, recently. There was no ill intent behind it; it was just that they had known each other so long that he understood her without the need for words. I should change that, he thought. Talk to her more often, or simply share a joke now and then, like they used to. She did so much for him. The apple festival had been her idea. He had brought the trees to the village, and when, after two years, they bore a few fruit for the first time, Asla had invited all of the important families to join them. Shortly after that, he was elected as jarl for the first time. He knew that he owed the decisive votes to the festival. Since then, there had been an apple festival every year, and now the entire village celebrated when the apple harvest was brought in.

  Asla skillfully sliced the bone out of a large ham and gave it to the dog. The huge beast slunk away to a corner by the sleeping compartments, which were hidden from view by heavy woolen drapes beneath the slope of the roof.

  Alfadas could hear the bone splintering between Blood’s fangs, and he believed in that moment that the creature really could take on a bear. Asla’s uncle, meanwhile, had forced himself onto a group of farmers who had come in from the wilderness, gesturing wildly as he talked to them.

  The jarl poured himself a cup of cider and crouched beside the fire pit. He listened to the murmur of voices and the quiet melody of the coals. He thought back to his first summer with Asla. She was so different from elven women, so overflowing with life—wild as a summer storm. It was easy to live with her. She carried every thought, every dream on her tongue. And even before the first snows fell, they had danced together around the stone . . . the great snow-white block of stone down below, by the fjord, from which the village took its name—Firnstayn.

  “A word, Jarl?” Gundar, the old Luth priest of the village, lowered himself onto the bench beside him without waiting for a reply. The previous year, Alfadas had persuaded him to leave the king’s city and move to Firnstayn. He would, in fact, have preferred a Firn priest, but he could not persuade them with either gold or good words to send one of their own to such an insignificant village. Instead, he had to make do with a priest devoted to Luth, the weaver of fate.

  When Gundar first arrived, Alfadas feared that the priest was only looking for a place where they would feed him through his declining years. After his first winter in Firnstayn, the priest’s appetite had become notorious within a three-days’ march of the village. If one visited him in his hut, he always had something bubbling away over the fire. Alfadas had never regretted bringing him to the village. Gundar knew herbs, and he knew souls. Alfadas did not know what strange magic the old man radiated, but since he had been living there, things had become more peaceful. Fewer disputes were brought to court, and many an old grievance was finally settled.

  Gundar held a bowl containing hunks of bread and pork on his lap. His white beard gleamed with fat. “Luth is warning us about the winter ahead.” The priest had mastered the art of speaking clearly even while chewing. “Early this morning, he sent me the third unfavorable sign in just four days. It was just after breakfast. A portentous time of day! I slit open the pike I planned to fry for lunch, and I found a large black stone inside its body.”

  “Well, something like that can really spoil an appetite.”

  “Don’t mock the signs sent by the gods, Jarl!” Gundar spat a chunk of gristle into the coals. “A stone like that has no business being in a pike’s belly. I am certain that something will be coming here this winter. Something dark, something evil . . . something that does not belong in this land.”

  Alfadas was surprised at how much the old man could read into a stone that a dumb fish had swallowed, but he refrained from sharing that thought with Gundar. If the priest started voicing his dark presentiments openly there in his house, it would cause unrest. The simple people of the village listened to him. Alfadas hoped he could talk Gundar out of his nonsense the following morning if he went to visit him in his hut with a ham and a basket of fresh cheese.

  “You mentioned three signs . . .”

  “Oh, yes. Yes.”
Gundar wiped the juices out of the bowl with a piece of bread. “I don’t know if you saw it yourself, but last night there was blood on the moon’s crescent. Even as a young priest, I learned that this is a warning from Luth of a coming war.”

  “Autumn has begun. Soon the first snows will fall. No one wages war at this time of year. Snow and ice would kill more men than any foe.”

  “And yet Luth is warning us.” The old man looked at him searchingly. “Or do you doubt his omens?”

  “And what should we do, in your opinion?”

  Gundar spread his arms wide, a gesture of helplessness. “I am no more than the vessel of my god. I see his omens. You’re the jarl. You have to decide what happens.”

  “What else have you seen?”

  “There is a new stream at the foot of the Hartungscliff. No more than a trickle, but still a sign of impending change. Don’t think I’m just some fearful old man, Alfadas. What bothers me is that I’ve received three very clear harbingers in such a short space of time. For that same reason, I have not said a word to anyone else. The gods are trying to warn us, Alfadas. You have to protect the village, as your father once did when he lured the beast into the mountains and he and his elven friends managed to kill it in Luth’s cave. The weaver of fate smiles on your clan, Alfadas. He is sending us these signs so that you can prepare.”

  “You have no more to eat, Priest.” Asla was standing behind them. She had approached without a sound and now set down a bowl of meat on the bench. One had to know her very well to pick up the trace of friendly teasing in her voice. Alfadas was not sure how much of their quiet conversation she might have overheard. He placed one arm around her hips and pulled her over the bench onto his lap. “Am I going to have to tie you down to make sure you get at least a little rest during our festival?”

  “It would be more than enough if you were to give me a helping hand.”

  “Asla, please. You can see that I am talking with Gundar. I’m attending to our guests in my own way.”

  “I will leave you two alone, I think,” said the priest with a knowing look, and he reached for the new bowl of meat.

  “Stay seated, Gundar. You are a wise old man. Don’t try to tell me that the squabbles of old married couples are anything new to you.” Asla smiled gaily. “I know I’ve made a good match with my hero. Oh, he’s as lazy as the rest of you, but at least he doesn’t get drunk and beat me and my children. Sometimes I can even believe that he thinks seriously about how he might be able to help me. It’s just a pity that he doesn’t turn those thoughts into actions.”

  Alfadas jabbed her in her side. “If your tongue was a blade, you’d be the swordmistress of the kingdom.”

  “And if you men had something else in your head besides swords and kingdoms, the world would be far more peaceful than it is. I would love to know what would change if I were jarl.”

  “With all due respect, Asla,” the priest said, chewing mightily. “That has never happened. Women are not made for that.” He winked slyly. “And do you really think the world would be a better place if Alfadas had prepared all this food today? I fear that in a world like that, men like me would die of hunger.”

  “How can you know that women would not do a better job if not one has ever led a village as jarl?”

  Alfadas felt a sense of satisfaction that the otherwise so eloquent priest was in as much danger of defeat as he himself always was when they argued about this topic.

  “There are kingdoms in the south where women reign,” Gundar objected. “And you can see what happens to them. Old Horsa Starkshield sends his soldiers every summer to lay waste to their borders and extort protection money from them.”

  “Oh, yes. I know. And my husband leads Horsa’s soldiers from victory to victory, but does that mean the queens there rule badly? Is it their fault that they have a belligerent neighbor who sends his plundering hordes out every spring?”

  Alfadas quietly cleared his throat. “Be careful what you say about the king. We are not alone.”

  “Am I no longer queen in my own house? We ought to—” She broke off in midsentence. Alfadas felt all her limbs stiffen. He instinctively followed her gaze.

  Kadlin had crawled out of her sleeping niche and was reaching for Blood’s marrowbone.

  “Not a sound!” Alfadas hissed. “We cannot afford to alarm that beast in any way.” Blood seemed to be asleep. He held the bone between his forepaws.

  Kadlin tugged at the fibrous meat and stuffed it into her mouth.

  The jarl felt for the knife at his belt. “Talk to Asla as if nothing is the matter at all,” he asked the priest. “None of the guests has noticed.” He forced himself to stay calm. His heart raced, but he could not let it show. He must not startle Blood. The huge dog could kill Kadlin with a single snap of its jaws. No one in the longhouse would be fast enough to prevent it.

  “Please do something,” Asla whispered. “We can’t just watch.”

  “Pray for her.” Gundar was as pale as death. “Your daughter’s life is in Luth’s hands.”

  “I will not . . .”

  Alfadas pressed one hand to Asla’s lips and forced her to stay seated.

  The dog opened its eyes. They were the color of amber. It eyed the small child coldly. Kadlin was half-standing and tore at the large bone. She babbled away in annoyance, because she could not pull it out from under the heavy paws.

  Alfadas weighed the knife in his hand. His daughter would survive only if Blood died in a heartbeat. The knife was too light to penetrate the dog’s hard skull. Unless he hit its eye. There, where the bone was thinnest. But Kadlin was in the way. If she moved at the wrong moment, the blade would hit her. Alfadas cursed himself for not sending Ole and his dog away.

  Blood stretched and lifted one of his paws. With a jerk, Kadlin pulled the bone free and plopped onto her bottom.

  “By the gods, the child!” a woman suddenly shrieked. All talk stopped at a stroke. Blood looked up. He bared his teeth and growled.

  “Do not move!” Alfadas commanded. “Nobody goes near the dog.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Ole push past the farmers and pull the whip from his belt. “Stand still,” the jarl hissed furiously. “You are the last person I want near that dog.”

  Kadlin, too, had noticed the sudden silence. She looked around. Then she reached out her hand, grasped Blood by the nose, and pushed herself back up to her feet. Alfadas held his breath. Kadlin’s small fingers stroked the bloody weal on the dog’s snout. Blood blinked. He moved his head forward. Then he licked the little girl’s face with his great pink tongue.

  A sigh went through the room, but the danger had not yet passed. Alfadas reached out with one hand in the direction of his daughter. “Come here, Kadlin. Come to me.”

  The little girl pressed a kiss to Blood’s nose. Then she ran to Alfadas and announced proudly, “Wowow!”

  The jarl let go of Asla. She pulled Kadlin to her. “What were you doing, my girl? Never do that again. Please . . .” Her voice choked off in tears. The other women gathered around her.

  Ole laid his dog whip on the bench beside Alfadas. “You can keep the mongrel. No one will ever believe he’s a bloodthirsty, wolf-killing brute now.”

  Alfadas had no answer to that. He felt utterly exhausted, and now that the tension had been released, he began to shake all over.

  “A bloodhound yields to a child’s hand. The fourth omen in as many days,” said the priest quietly.

  FIRE AND WATER

  Is that you, Ollowain?” Orimedes leaned forward to see his face better. “Why are you dressed up? Do you think a helmet like that will help if a fireball falls on your head?”

  “Silence!” Ollowain looked to the rest of the centaurs, who stood farther back on the quay, beside the sedan boat. The swordmaster lowered his head so that the helmet he was now wearing better concealed his face. “Tell your men to bring the skiff to the landing stage. We have wounded who would not survive at sea. We have to get them back to the palace. Are the hol
des still on board?”

  “Most of the little pests ran off when the barrage started. Only Gondoran and two or three others are still on the boat.”

  “Either get rid of them now or make sure they can’t leave the boat once we get the wounded aboard.”

  Orimedes looked questioningly at him.

  “Go! You have my instructions.” Without waiting to see how the centaur prince reacted to his harsh tone, Ollowain turned and hurried along the landing stage. The fewer Albenkin who knew what happened here, the better. They had to make it back to the palace. Even heavily outnumbered, they could defend themselves easily from there.

  The swordmaster ducked as a fireball hissed past overhead. Most of the ships in the harbor now stood in flames. A wind had sprung up and blew like hot breath over his face. Fine flakes of ash danced across the quay like black snow.

  Emerelle had been carried down to the landing stage. She had been laid on one of the long shields of a soldier, and a silk blanket covered her burned dress. Her face was swollen and so disfigured by her wounds that she was barely recognizable. Deeply worried, Ollowain looked at the patch of blood still spreading on the blanket.

  Lyndwyn was kneeling beside the queen. Her eyes were closed, and she held the monarch’s hand. Was she helping Emerelle? Or was she fanatical enough to simply sit there and wait for the queen to die, in the knowledge that it would mean her own death as well? Now she, too, wore the plain green tabard of the queen’s guard.

  The swordmaster looked back toward the city desolately. The quays were emptying, and the streams of fleeing Albenkin choked the streets of the city. There was no other healer; he had no choice but to trust the woman he considered to be a traitor.

  Two more wounded lay on their shields on either side of the queen. Young warriors with pale faces . . . Ollowain knew them both. One had been a very promising student of the sword.

  He gazed out toward the two towers at the harbor entrance, the border beyond which the Moonshadow had disappeared in the darkness. He thought of Sanhardin, the soldier with whom he had exchanged clothes belowdecks. Sanhardin had smeared soot onto his face. There was not much similarity between them, but the soldier was an outstanding sword fighter, and when it came down to it, that would count more than anything else. Sanhardin’s sister had donned Lyndwyn’s dress. Both knew that Hallandan had been ordered not to escape. The prince would ensure that the queen’s liburna was captured and that her enemies would draw the wrong conclusions. Had the Moonshadow’s deadly dance already begun?