WHEN THE BLACK ELVES COME CALLING
After Ginalli and his group left The Grasping Grond to head back to their ship, they heard an eerie, otherworldly wailing the like of which none of them had heard before. It grew louder by the moment. Something was headed in their direction. Something strange. Something unnatural. Something dangerous.
“Weapons ready,” said Ezerhauten. As one, the soldiers pulled their swords. “Eyes sharp, and stay together.””
While they were still in the square outside The Grond, from down a side street came the thing that wailed.
“Douse the lights,” whispered Ezerhauten as he and then the others crouched down. “Be still, be silent.””
The wailer was a floating, disembodied skull that glowed an eerie white. It was large; nearly twice the size of a man’s skull, with teeth long and pointy. Its lower jaw moved up and down as it screamed a sound so horrid as to still the blood of a brave man. But a glance told the men that this was no living being. It could be naught but a thing of magic, conjured by a dark wizard for some fell purpose, or an undead creature that somehow crept up from the nether realms in search of blood and souls.
It had almost passed them by when it stopped. It turned its head in their direction. Red light shone in the empty sockets where its eyes should have been. Then it wailed again. Louder that time. So loud that it pained the men’s ears. It began to move toward them.
“A skull demon of Ratismar!” cried Keld. “See how it taunts us?”
“To the ship,” said Ginalli. “Let's fly.”
They stood, and moved with speed away from the glowing skull. The wizards reignited the lights atop their staffs to brighten their way. They stopped when they passed the edge of the square and turned onto the street that led to the docks.
“It’s not following,” said Putnam. “It turned back to its course. In no mood for a chase, I guess.”
“Frem, I want you to follow it,” said Ezerhauten. “Take Putnam and Sevare. Learn what you can, but don’’t get dead.”
“Is that wise?” said Keld. “The demon's power is far beyond them.”
“Then perhaps you should go after it?” said Ezerhauten.
“My place is at Father Ginalli's side, safeguarding him,” said Keld without missing a beat. “How dare you try to divert me from my duty. You overstep your bounds, mercenary.”
Ezerhauten shook his head. “Frem, get moving.”
Two more blocks did the skull travel, yowling all the while, before finally it went quiet. Then it floated for another block, but this time, in silence, before halting near a three story building. The skull flew unsteadily over a low wall and into the building's small rear yard. Frem and his men moved after it as quietly as they could, which was quiet indeed, despite their armor. Long years in the skulking business had taught them how. Nevertheless, they stayed well back from the skull, for they had no wish for it to turn its gaze on them again.
When the Pointmen reached the wall, they looked over it and through the tall hedge beyond as they best they could. The skull was at the rear of the building, right up against the wall, some ten yards from their position. Suddenly, it dropped to the ground, its glow extinguished.
Just enough starlight shown through the clouds at that moment to reveal the truth. The skull creature was no monster at all, no demon from Keld's imagination, and no thing that crept from the grave. It was a fraud. Hogwash and horsefeathers. It was a costume. Three small beings clad in black operated the skull, which they held aloft via a black pole. The creatures doffed their black robes, which they wore over tight fitting gray and black shirts and breeches. Their heads were bald and large for their bodies. Their skin, dark. Their size, small as that of a young child. Their oddest features though, were their large eyes, and overlong, spindly limbs.
“Black elves out of Svartleheim,” whispered Frem, surprise on his face. “I never thought I’’d see them with my own eyes. Look at them — right out of the faerie stories, big eyes and all.”
Putnam mouthed a quick prayer and made a religious gesture with his hand, imploring the Aesir’s blessing and protection.
The svarts studied the building’s back wall for some moments. They found handholds in the stone (handholds far too small for a man to use) and began to scale the wall. Up and up they went, seemingly with little strain or struggle, though one of them carried a sizeable bundle strapped to its back.
They reached a third floor window of what was clearly a grand manor house of a wealthy family, and two together raised the sash, quiet as could be. Those two slunk in. The one with the bundle followed behind them.
“What are they about?” said Putnam. “Burglars, are they? Or cutthroats?”
“Worse, I fear,” said Frem, “if the stories my grandmother told me hold any truth. But let’’s wait and see.”
After a few moments, a flash of light shone in the third floor room. Sevare jerked back and fell on his rump. Putnam and Frem grabbed at him.
“What happened?” said Frem. “Did something hit you?”
“They threw a powerful spell up there,” said Sevare. “Never felt anything like it. It caused a disturbance in the magical weave, and a wave of energy flew out in all directions. It felt like a horse ran into me. You didn’t feel it? Not anything?”
“No,” said Frem and Putnam.
A moment later, the black elves crawled out the window and carefully closed it behind them. They climbed down the wall together, much more slowly than they had gone up; the one with the bundle was in the middle, the others aiding it. The bundle seemed larger, and the svarts struggled with it.
“Loot?” said Sevare.
“No, the bundle is moving,” said Putnam. “Like it’s trying to wriggle free. What the heck?”
“Dead gods,” said Frem. “It's just like in grandma’s old stories. They’ve stolen a baby; pulled it right from its crib.” He turned toward Putnam, a look of horror on his face, his eyes wide. “They left behind an imp,” he muttered.
“There could be a cat in that bundle,” said Sevare. “Or anything.”
“It’s no cat,” said Frem. “It’’s a baby. Few men have seen this. Perhaps no others yet living.”
“What do we do?” said Putnam, as he and Sevare looked to Frem.
“We stop them,” said Frem.
“But they’re black elves,” said Putnam. “They’ve got dark powers. Magic and such. They can probably roast us alive or turn us into something…unnatural.”
“We shouldn’t get involved,” said Sevare. “It’s none of our business, and our orders were to follow them, not to fight them.”
“I’ll not let those things take a child,” said Frem. “We jump them when they come over the hedge. We’ll take them alive, if we can, in case I’m wrong about this and they’re just burglars. Keep down and keep quiet.”
The bushes rustled as the svarts crawled through them. Frem popped up from where he crouched behind the wall. He swatted the nearest svart about the head with an open hand. The slap was hard and loud and sent the svart tumbling to the ground. It rolled over the wall and fell, landing at Putnam’s feet. The other svarts cried out in alarm. Then one spoke. To the end of his days, Frem never forgot the sound of its voice; that strange, inhuman quality; the menace in its defiant tone. “The night is ours, volsung!” it spat. “Begone with you.”
The one with the bundle stumbled back into the bushes. His companion (the one who spoke) raised his tiny hand and pointed it at Sevare, who stood closest to him, even as Sevare pointed his own hand at the elf. A sizzling sound erupted from near the elf, and the sound of a lightning bolt came from near Sevare. Magic flew from unerringly each hand. The svart and Sevare were both blasted backward and crumbled to the ground. Frem didn’t wait to see the outcome of that. He stepped onto the wall and crashed through the bushes, charging after the svart with the bundle.
A woman’s cry rang out from above. A glance informed Frem that lantern light shone from the manor’s third floor room. Frem knew that the mother had sensed her child’s danger via whatever strange intuition mothers have about their children. She’d gone to check on it. And Frem felt certain that in its crib, she found not her beloved babe, but an imp, a creature born of darkness and bathed in malice and human blood.
Frem ran as hard as he could. The black elf was fast. Faster than Frem by a goodly ways, but it was burdened by the bundle. Weighed down by an infant that no doubt weighed near as much as the svart itself. As he ran, Frem thought of his own little girl, his beloved Coriana, and he ran the faster. He’d die before he let the svart steal that child. Over the manor’’s far wall and into the street beyond they ran. Frem was certain he heard the baby crying. Crying in terror. He was convinced of it.
As he drew close, Frem bent low and reached forward as far as he could. At first, his fingers clutched only air, but then, he grabbed ahold of the svart about its upper arm. He clamped down on it with a grip that he would not loose so long as life remained in him. He wrenched the svart around. It spun and twirled in the air as Frem ground to a halt. Frem straddled the elf the moment that it thumped to the ground. He punched it in the face —— the kind of punch only a huge man like Frem could throw. He felt a thud and looked down to see the creature’s black dagger and the dent it had made in his breastplate. Had he not been wearing his armor, the blade would have sunk into his left lung, maybe even into his heart. He punched the thing again (that time, harder still), though it still reeled from the first blow. The svart went still. Knocked out or dead. He knocked the elfin blade away, and kept a knee pressed on the creature’s thigh as he pulled the fallen bundle from its shoulder. He unwrapped it; his heart pounding in his chest. And he saw: a human baby. Frem had been right. The moment the baby’’s eyes locked on Frem’s, the child began to cry. And Frem smiled.