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

Fjordlands. Here they had more than they could ever need, but among his folk, in winter, there was always hardship. A tiny fraction of these treasures could banish that hunger forever. Whatever he asked as blood money for his dead companions would be a meaningless sum for the elves.
    He wanted something else. Not gold or gemstones. He wanted revenge. The beast, the manboar, he wanted to see it dead at his feet.
    Mandred observed Ollowain. A fighter of his caliber would be able to defeat the monster with ease. He was certain of that.
    He sighed. Everything seemed easier here.
    Together, the riders entered an open forest of beech. The lilt of flutes drifted on the air. From somewhere in the treetops rang a voice so clear that one’s spirit was uplifted just by the listening. Mandred understood nothing of the song, but his anger vanished. What remained was sadness for the friends he had lost.
    “Who is that singing?” he asked Ollowain.
    The white-robed warrior glanced up to the treetops. “A girl of the forest folk. Strange creatures. Their lives are closely tied to the trees. If they don’t want to be seen, then no one can find them—except perhaps others of their kind. They are renowned for their song and their skill with the bow. They move among the branches like shadows. Beware their forests if you ever find yourself in a feud with them, human.”
    Mandred looked up to the trees uneasily. Occasionally, he believed he could make out a shadow up there, and he was glad when they were out of the forest again. Still, the melody of the flutes followed them for some time.
    The sun was already grazing the distant mountains by the time they reached the broad valley above which the queen’s palace towered. An encampment of tents had been erected alongside a small stream. Silk banners fluttered in the wind, and the tents themselves seemed to vie with one another to be the most extravagant, the most magnificent. On the hills stood houses flanked on all sides by porticos. Some of these houses were connected to one another by long patios, overgrown with roses and ivy. The structures on the hills all around were so diverse that Mandred could scarcely look away. He was struck by the fact that there was no defensive wall encircling the elven settlement and that not a single watchtower could be seen on the surrounding hills. It was as if those who dwelled here were absolutely secure in the belief that this valley would never be attacked. Even the queen’s palace, as impressive as its sky-high towers were, was hardly built with defense in mind. It was meant more to please the eye of a peaceful observer than to deter a ravening army.
    Mandred and Ollowain followed a broad avenue, shaded by trees on both sides, that led to the gate. Oil lamps had been lit along the sides of the avenue, bathing it in a golden glow.
    The tunnel that served as a gate here was shorter than the one at the fortification in the pass behind the Shalyn Falah. Elven soldiers in ankle-length chain mail tunics stood leaning on their shields. Their eyes followed Mandred—alert, but discreet. In the expansive courtyard, various high officials were gathered, and they looked at him, unflinching, as he passed. Beneath their gaze, Mandred felt dirty and insignificant. They were all attired in expensively embroidered garments that caught the light from the oil lamps. Their clothes were adorned with beads and stones for which Mandred didn’t even have names. He, though, was dressed in rags. A pair of torn, bloody breeches. A worn-out fur jerkin. He must have looked like a beggar to them. He raised his chin defiantly. He would clothe himself in pride.
    Ollowain swung out of the saddle. Mandred noted a fine tear in the warrior’s cloak. Had he actually struck him during their duel after all? Ollowain would not needlessly or heedlessly put on something torn.
    Mandred, too, dismounted. A goat-legged servant hurried over and took the gray’s reins. Astonished, Mandred stared