Read Online The Elven by Bernhard Hennen, James A. Sullivan - Free Book Online
Authors: Bernhard Hennen, James A. Sullivan
Ads: Link
wolves as big as ponies, and liquid fire flowed in the veins of their mounts. They rode across the night sky and concealed themselves in the faerylight before swooping on their quarry like eagles. Only the most noble and brave could ride with the elfhunt. All who set out were both warrior and wizard, so powerful that dragons feared them and trolls hid away in their castles. This is the fate to befall the manboar , thought Mandred, rejoicing inwardly. They would slaughter the beast in bloody revenge for his dead friends.
The queen named others, but those she named seemed to be absent from the throne room. Finally, she pointed to one figure, clad in brown, who seemed startled at the mention of his name. “Nuramon of the Weldaron clan, your day has come.”
A murmur ran through the gathered elves.
A woman stepped forward from a group. She seemed particularly distressed. “Queen, you do not seriously want to put him in such danger. You know his destiny.”
“That is the reason I have called on him,” she answered evenly.
Mandred stole a glance at the brown-haired elf. He seemed anxious and looked like anything but an experienced hunter.
“The elfhunt will ride out early on the morrow to kill the monster that we have heard about. And you, Mandred the Mortal, will lead it. You know the beast, and you know the land it is ravaging,” the queen said, leveling her gaze on Mandred.
The murmuring in the room fell silent in a heartbeat. Again, Mandred felt all eyes on him. At first, he could not believe what Emerelle had just said. He—in the eyes of those present, the lowest of them all— he had been chosen to lead the elfhunt. He wished at that moment that Freya were at his side.
An Evening at Court
N uramon stood in the center of his chamber. The room’s walls and ceiling were richly adorned with frescoes. Seven. The queen had named seven to the elfhunt, and there were seven chambers. The rooms had been built for the companions of the elfhunt to equip themselves and rest. Here their relatives could come to honor them. And here Nuramon stood, utterly alone.
Honey-colored barinstones were set into the ceiling and walls, emitting a warm light. A long recess was cut deep into the wall all along one side. Inside lay various weapons and items of kit, jewelry and treasures each possessing a magic Nuramon could sense. All of it, at one time or another, had been worn by his predecessors. It was tradition for those returning from the elfhunt to leave something for the next to ride out.
As one of the chosen, Nuramon had the right to claim these items for himself. At least, that’s how Farodin had explained it. But Nuramon had no desire to own any of them—he did not want to take away their shine. For equipment, then, he was left with what he himself possessed, and that was not much. Custom required that his relatives visit him here to lend their support and provide him with whatever he might need. But Nuramon knew that would not happen. No relative sat on the stone bench opposite the recess, and no gift lay there.
Hadn’t the queen bestowed upon him a great honor, naming him to the elfhunt? Had he not earned the right to have his clan come to him, as was customary, to show their joy at his being chosen? Instead, everyone had reacted with surprise. They mocked him openly and did not even afford him the courtesy of keeping their voices down while they did. He was an outcast, and he knew that not even the queen could change that.
What was there in the world apart from Noroelle? What else kept him here? His parents had gone into the moonlight long ago. He had no brothers or sisters, and just as many friends. There was only Noroelle. She was the only one who seemed unconcerned by his birthright. And if she had heard of the queen’s choice, she would have shared her happiness with him. She would have come to visit him in this chamber.
Nuramon had heard stories of the last elfhunt. The companions had kept a troll prince away
The queen named others, but those she named seemed to be absent from the throne room. Finally, she pointed to one figure, clad in brown, who seemed startled at the mention of his name. “Nuramon of the Weldaron clan, your day has come.”
A murmur ran through the gathered elves.
A woman stepped forward from a group. She seemed particularly distressed. “Queen, you do not seriously want to put him in such danger. You know his destiny.”
“That is the reason I have called on him,” she answered evenly.
Mandred stole a glance at the brown-haired elf. He seemed anxious and looked like anything but an experienced hunter.
“The elfhunt will ride out early on the morrow to kill the monster that we have heard about. And you, Mandred the Mortal, will lead it. You know the beast, and you know the land it is ravaging,” the queen said, leveling her gaze on Mandred.
The murmuring in the room fell silent in a heartbeat. Again, Mandred felt all eyes on him. At first, he could not believe what Emerelle had just said. He—in the eyes of those present, the lowest of them all— he had been chosen to lead the elfhunt. He wished at that moment that Freya were at his side.
An Evening at Court
N uramon stood in the center of his chamber. The room’s walls and ceiling were richly adorned with frescoes. Seven. The queen had named seven to the elfhunt, and there were seven chambers. The rooms had been built for the companions of the elfhunt to equip themselves and rest. Here their relatives could come to honor them. And here Nuramon stood, utterly alone.
Honey-colored barinstones were set into the ceiling and walls, emitting a warm light. A long recess was cut deep into the wall all along one side. Inside lay various weapons and items of kit, jewelry and treasures each possessing a magic Nuramon could sense. All of it, at one time or another, had been worn by his predecessors. It was tradition for those returning from the elfhunt to leave something for the next to ride out.
As one of the chosen, Nuramon had the right to claim these items for himself. At least, that’s how Farodin had explained it. But Nuramon had no desire to own any of them—he did not want to take away their shine. For equipment, then, he was left with what he himself possessed, and that was not much. Custom required that his relatives visit him here to lend their support and provide him with whatever he might need. But Nuramon knew that would not happen. No relative sat on the stone bench opposite the recess, and no gift lay there.
Hadn’t the queen bestowed upon him a great honor, naming him to the elfhunt? Had he not earned the right to have his clan come to him, as was customary, to show their joy at his being chosen? Instead, everyone had reacted with surprise. They mocked him openly and did not even afford him the courtesy of keeping their voices down while they did. He was an outcast, and he knew that not even the queen could change that.
What was there in the world apart from Noroelle? What else kept him here? His parents had gone into the moonlight long ago. He had no brothers or sisters, and just as many friends. There was only Noroelle. She was the only one who seemed unconcerned by his birthright. And if she had heard of the queen’s choice, she would have shared her happiness with him. She would have come to visit him in this chamber.
Nuramon had heard stories of the last elfhunt. The companions had kept a troll prince away
Similar Books
