Steven French

The Elven Sacrifice

 

Finnur tipped back his mug and drank the last of his beer. Wiping his mouth he stood up and told the innkeeper, “Let’s settle up my friend, as I need to go. I plan to be in Ostersund by evening.”

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“You’ll need to run to get there before the weather turns I reckon. My nose tells me snow is on the way”, the innkeeper replied.

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“Your nose,” laughed Finnur, standing by the door, “Look out there, it’s as bright a day as ever there has been, with not a cloud in sight.”

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And with that he stepped out and strode down the road, his pack on his back with his cloak wrapped on top of that.

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*

 

Finnur hadn’t gone more than a few miles when a wind sprang up and he stopped to unwrap his cloak and tie it around his shoulders. The blue sky had by now given way to gray clouds chased by even darker ones. “Perhaps that old innkeeper’s nose was right,” he muttered as the light dimmed. Before long the first snowflakes were falling and soon it was coming down thick and fast. Finnur decided he’d better find some shelter where he could spend the evening and spotting a farmhouse across a field, he broke away from the road and made his way there. As he came closer he could see lights behind the shuttered windows and heard voices singing or chanting. Knocking loudly on the door he cried out, “Hey there, I’m a traveller caught in the snow on my way to Ostersund.” Expecting the door to be opened, he waited. The chanting had stopped but no one came to let him in. By now the snow was being whipped up by the wind and was settling in great drifts. “By the law of hospitality” he shouted, “I demand to be given shelter”. When no response was forthcoming, he shouted, “Curse you all, may the trolls take you”.

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*

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Struggling back across the field to the road, there was no choice but to press on. The whirling snow made progress difficult and the cold was beginning to bite hard. He hadn’t gone more than another mile at most when he saw another farmhouse off to the side, just before the road plunged into thick forest. Again he hammered on the door, pleading to be let in but again, no one answered. “Please” he cried, “Give me shelter! I cannot survive much longer out here.” Finally, the door opened a crack and Finnur’s heart rose. The face of an old man appeared. “I cannot let you in,'' he said. 

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“Why not?!” Finnur begged, wiping the wetness from his eyes, “I could freeze to death out here.” 

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The old man’s eyes fell. “Still, I cannot,” he replied. “It is the time of the elven sacrifice and the Olvir are well advanced in their preparations.” At that, he slammed the door shut. Finnur all but fell upon it, hammering and shouting but it was no use.

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*

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Sobbing in frustration, he set off back down the road and before long the forest closed in on both sides. The trees at least offered a shield against the wind and the road was a little easier to travel down. But as the light faded completely and the darkness seemed to spread between the trees and across the road, he heard something, like a laugh, silvery but with an underpinning of steel, off to his right. 

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“Hello”, Finnur called, “Is someone there?” 

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In response, there was only laughter again, this time from the other side of the road.

Picking up the pace, Finnur thought he could see faint shapes between the trees, keeping track alongside.  Soon he was almost running, his breath ragged and then he gasped in relief as he spotted a small cottage set back in the trees. There was light in the one window and smoke coming from the chimney. Finnur half ran, half staggered to the door and all but screamed, “Let me in, by all the gods, please, let me in. There are things out here after me!” 

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A woman’s voice answered, “I cannot let you in. I cannot do anything to help you. It is the time of the elven sacrifice.” Finnur shook his head, bewildered and afraid and asked “What is that? What is the elven sacrifice?” 

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“Why, you are!” the woman replied. 

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And Finnur heard the silvery laughter right behind his back. 

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Steven French is semi-retired and lives in West Yorkshire. He’s had various pieces published in 365Tomorows, Bewildering Stories, Liquid Imagination, Idle Ink, Literally Stories among other venues. Bienvenue au Danse, Steven.

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