The Elven (The Saga of the Elven, #1)

by Bernhard Hennen

the south and that King Horsa Starkshield had put a price on his head. This did not concern Mandred. Asmund was a good hunter who brought his share of meat to the village. That counted for more than any rumors. Mandred had known Gudleif and Ragnar since before they could walk. Both were fishermen. Gudleif was stocky and strong as a bear. Perpetually in a good mood, he had many friends, although most who knew him found him rather simple. Ragnar was short and dark haired, in contrast to the mainly tall, blond inhabitants of the Fjordlands. Sometimes he was mocked for it, and in whispers, he was called a kobold child. Foolish nonsense, of course. Ragnar was a man with his heart in the right place, a man to be relied on unreservedly. Mandred’s thoughts turned wistfully to Freya, his wife. No doubt she was sitting at the fireplace, listening into the night. He had taken a signal horn with him. One blast meant danger, but if he sounded the horn twice, those in the village knew there was nothing out there to fear and that the hunters were on their way home. Asmund had lowered his bow and placed one finger to his lips in warning. He raised his head like a hound sniffing out a scent. Now Mandred could smell it, too. A strange odor drifted over the clearing, a stink that reminded the men of rotten eggs. “Maybe a troll after all,” Gudleif whispered. “They say they come down from the mountains when the winter’s hard. A troll could kill an elk with its fist.” Asmund looked darkly at Gu...

Asmund swung his bow up. The arrow flew from the string. It struck the beast on the side of its head, leaving a thin, red graze. Mandred’s grip on his spear tightened. Gudleif’s legs gave way. He swayed for a heartbeat, then tipped to one side. His hands, which had been clamped to his neck, let go. Blood still poured from his throat, and his stocky legs twitched helplessly. A blind fury took hold of Mandred. He charged forward and rammed his spear into the manboar’s breast. Like spearing a rock, the blade glanced off and left no visible mark. One clawed hand shot out and splintered the shaft of the spear. Ragnar attacked the monster from the side to distract it from Mandred, but his spear, too, did nothing. Mandred dropped onto the snow and drew an axe from his belt. It was a good weapon with a narrow, sharp blade, and the jarl swung it at the manboar’s fetlock with all the power he could summon. The monster grunted at the strike, then it lowered its immense head and rammed the warrior. One tusk caught Mandred on the inside of

monster that had come down from the mountains far to the north to spread death and decay among the villages of the Fjordlands. A man-eater. If the old man had talked

flesh, as the man himself would be soon enough. In anger, he kicked at the rock outcrop. Nothing. As if his feet were not even there. But he could still walk. It was just a matter of will, and of being very careful where he stepped. He looked back fearfully. The manboar had moved out onto the snowfield. It seemed to be in no hurry. Did it know this was the only way to the cliff top? There was no way for Mandred to escape, but he had never intended to get away with his life anyway. If he could just light the fire, then nothing else would matter. A noise caused him to start. The beast emitted a deep growl. Mandred had the feeling that the manboar was looking him straight in the eye. At this distance, of course, that was impossible, but still . . . something brushed his heart like a chilly draft. The jarl hurried. He had to hold on to his lead. To light the fire, he would need time. His breath was whistling. When he exhaled, there was a light, tinkling noise, like icicles jangling against

now, something to pull himself

not something you could beat with weapons. He had seen for himself how

bounced

summer day when the moon and

handsomeness in private. Nuramon had pale-brown eyes and somewhat darker hair that tumbled in waves to his shoulders. In his sand-colored attire, he did not fit with the traditional image of a minnesinger, but he was no less handsome for that. In place of the silk of the faeries, he had chosen cloth woven from wool, far less precious, but so strong and soft that Noroelle, seeing his tunic and his forest-hued cloak, would have first chosen Nuramon’s breast as the place to lay her head. Even his low-heeled boots, made from earth-colored and unusually supple gelgerok leather, awoke in Noroelle an urge to simply touch them. Nuramon’s face was as mutable as his voice, which had mastered all forms of song and gave to every emotion a fitting sound. But while his voice embraced every shade of sentiment, his brown eyes only spoke of longing and melancholy. Farodin and Nuramon were different, but each in his own way was

before. But which words were truly his, and which belonged to the old poets? Was this tune his, or was it something he’d heard somewhere else? It made Noroelle smile, because this seeming flaw in Farodin, she knew, reflected more on her. Wasn’t this beautiful place exactly the way the old singers had painted it? The sun, the linden trees, the shade, the spring, the magic? And didn’t those same singers of old compose their songs in harmony with this beautiful place? Could she then think worse of Farodin for doing exactly what was called for here, now? No, she could not. Farodin was perfect in every way, and any woman in the faery realm would be happy to have him woo her. But still she wondered who Farodin really was. He evaded her, as the Spring of Lyn evaded the eyes of the elves with its radiant light. She wished that he would lower his own mask, even just briefly, to let her see the wellspring underneath. She had often tried to get him to do just that, but he had not understood her overtures in that direction, and until now, she had not managed to see into his deepest self. Sometimes she feared that something

laugh.

on to. “Truly

was his? The elf, no doubt, was open to a compliment.

about

He closed his hands into fists. “I know what I have seen.” “Observe the rights of hospitality.” The queen had barely raised her voice, but all present obeyed her. “I invited the human to this hall. Anyone who raises his hand against him raises it against my honor. And you, Mandred, rein in your tongue. I say to you, such a being, as you have described it, does not exist in Albenmark. Let us hear your account of what this manboar did. I know very well that you humans avoid the standing stones. What was it that brought you here?” Mandred told her about the futile hunt and the power of the manboar. When he had finished, the crease between Emerelle’s brows had only deepened. “I am sorry for the death of your companions, Mandred. May they be received with joy in the halls of your gods.” Mandred

caked the ridges of the roofs. The

to the

anymore.

Return to Albenmark It was winter in Albenmark, but despite the beauty of the snowy landscape, the winter chill was as hard on him here as in his own world. Here, too, Mandred had

watchman challenged them at the Shalyn