The Elven by Bernhard Hennen, James A. Sullivan Read Free Book Online

once.
    Mandred’s sword swung in a sweeping arc. Then with a jolt, the sword was ripped out of his hand. A puff of air brushed his right cheek. The fight was over.
    Ollowain had stepped back a few paces. His sword was back in its sheath as if nothing had happened. Slowly, Mandred began to see more clearly. It had been a long time since anyone had beaten him so soundly. The tricky elf had avoided hitting him in the face. No one at court would notice what had happened.
    “You must have been very scared, elf,” Mandred gasped, “to turn to magic to beat me.”
    “Is it magic if your eyes are too slow to follow my hand?”
    “No human can move that fast without magic,” Mandred persisted.
    The specter of a smile played across Ollowain’s lips. “Very true, Mandred. No human.” He pointed to the gateway that opened into the tower, which now stood wide open. Two horses were waiting there, already saddled. “Would you do me the honor of following me?”
    Every bone in Mandred’s body hurt. He moved stiffly toward the gate. The elf stayed close to his side. “I don’t need anybody to hold me up,” Mandred grumbled.
    “If you did, you’d cut a miserable figure at court,” said the elf with a friendly glance that took the edge off his barb.
    The horses waited patiently beneath the arch of the gate. No stable hands were to be seen, no one who had brought the horses here for them. A vaulted gateway ran like a tunnel through the stonework of the mighty tower. The gateway was empty, as were the merlons that topped the wall. Again, Mandred sensed that he was being watched.
    Did the elves want to hide the strength of the garrison guarding the gate to the heartland? Was he considered an enemy? A spy perhaps? But if that were the case, would the oak have healed him?
    A white horse and a gray were waiting for them. Ollowain stepped up to the white stallion and playfully patted its nostrils. Mandred had the impression that the gray was looking at him expectantly. Though he didn’t know much about horses, he could see that these beasts were lightly built. They had slim fetlocks and didn’t look very strong at all. Then he remembered that he’d been fooled by Ollowain’s appearance, too. The horses probably had more endurance and were stronger than any other horse he’d ever ridden, Aigilaos excepted. Mandred smiled at his recollection of the blowhard manhorse.
    Groaning, he pulled himself into the saddle. When he was halfway upright, Ollowain signaled to him to follow. The unshod hooves of the horses resounded dully from the walls of the tunnel.
    Ollowain struck out along a path that took them over gently rising green hills. It was a long ride to the palace of the elven queen, past dark woods and over countless small bridges. Now and then, off in the distance, Mandred saw houses with boldly sweeping domed rooftops. Carefully set into the landscape, they looked to Mandred like gemstones mounted in an uncommonly precious setting.
    What he rode through with Ollowain was a land of spring, and he remembered the faery stories that told of an elven world of perpetual spring. Again, Mandred wondered how long he might have slept beneath the oak tree. It could not have been more than two or three days since he had passed through the stone circle. Perhaps no more than a single day.
    Mandred focused on organizing his thoughts; he did not want to find himself standing before the queen like a fool. He had managed to convince himself that the manboar had come from here, from the elven world. He thought of Xern and Aigilaos. Here, it seemed quite normal for humans and animals to be merged into one being—just like the manboar.
    When the princes of the Fjordlands met to determine justice, it was Mandred’s job to represent Firnstayn. He knew what had to be done to stifle a blood feud before it started. If a man from one clan was killed by a man from another, then the murderer’s family had to pay the victim’s family blood money. If this