The Broken Sword

by Poul Anderson

  It grew bitterly, unrelentingly cold, and the first snow whispered down. The winter would be long.

  After a week, Valgard thought it would be best if he returned home, lest others come looking for him or lest fighting break out among his crew. But the woman would not come with him. ‘This is my place and I cannot leave it,’ she said. ‘But come whenever you will, Valgard my darling, and I will always gladly greet you.’

  ‘I will be back soon,’ he promised. He did not think of carrying her off by force, though he had done that to many before her. Somehow he knew she was the stronger.

  He came bade to Orm’s hall and was joyously greeted by the chief, who had feared him lost too. No one else in the garth was overly happy at seeing him again.

  ‘I hunted far to the north,’ said Valgard, ‘and did not find Ketil.’

  ‘No,’ replied Orm sadly, ‘I fear me he is dead. We searched for days, and at last found his horse wandering riderless. I will ready the funeral feast.’

  Valgard was but a couple of days among men, then he slipped again into the woods with a promise to be back for drinking Ketil’s grave-ale. With a thoughtful eye, Asmund watched him leave.

  It seemed strange to the youngest brother how Valgard dodged talk of Ketil’s fate, and stranger yet that he should go hunting – as he said – now that winter was come. There would be no bears, and other game was getting so shy that men did not care to go after it in cold weather. Why had Valgard been so long in the forest, and why did he now go back?

  So Asmund wondered, and at last, two days after Valgard left, he followed. It had not snowed or blown since, and the tracks could still be seen in the crisp whiteness. Asmund went alone, skiing through silent reaches where no other life stirred, and the deepening cold ate and ate into his flesh.

  Three days later, Valgard came back. Folk had gathered at Orm’s garth from far around for the grave-ale, and the feast went apace. The berserker slipped grim and close-mouthed through the crowded yard.

  Aelfrida plucked at his cloak. ‘Have you seen Asmund?’ she asked timidly. ‘He went into the forest and has not returned yet.’

  ‘No,’ said Valgard shortly.

  ‘Ill would it be to lose two tall sons in the same month and have only the worst left,’ said Aelfrida bitterly and turned away from him.

  Now evening fell, and the guests met in the great hall for drinking. Orm sat in his high seat with Valgard on his right. Down the length of the long table sat the men, merry with ale, and the women went to and fro to keep their horns filled. Many a man’s eyes followed Orm’s two daughters through the smoky red firelight, especially Freda the Fair.

  Orm was cheerful over his sadness, but Aelfrida could not keep from weeping, quietly and hopelessly, and Valgard sat silent, draining horn after horn until his head buzzed but only deepened his gloom. Away from the woman and the alarums of war alike, he had naught to do but brood on his deed, and Ketil’s face swam in the fire-flickering dusk before him.

  The feast went apace until all were drunk and making the hall ring with their noise. And then all at once there came a knocking on the door, cutting loud and clear through the racket, and when someone opened it the firelight limned Asmund against the bitter dark.

  He stood white and swaying with weariness, bearing in his arms a long cloak-wrapped burden. His hollow eyes swept the hall, seeking one face, and a great silence fell as men grew aware of him.

  ‘Welcome, Asmund!’ cried Orm into the taut stillness. ‘We had begun to fear for you—’

  Still Asmund stared before him, and those who followed his gaze saw it fixed on Valgard’s face. He spoke at last, tonelessly: ‘I have brought a guest to the grave-ale.’

  Orm sat moveless, with his cheeks paling. Asmund set his burden on the floor. It was frozen stiff enough to stand, leaning against his arm.

  ‘It was cruel cold out there in the cairn where I found him,’ said Asmund. Tears and hate and mockery shivered across his countenance. ‘It was no good place to be, and I thought it shame that we should hold a feast in his honor and he be out there with naught but wind and the stars for company. So I brought Ketil home – Ketil, with Valgard’s ax in his skull!’

  He drew aside the cloak, and the leaping firelight was like newly running blood on that which was clotted around the ax. Rime was in Ketil’s hair, and his dead face grinned at Valgard and his staring eyes seemed to flame with unearthly lights. He stood leaning against Asmund, stiff and icy cold, and glared into Valgard’s eyes.

  Orm turned slowly, slowly about to face Valgard, who was looking into the corpse’s blind stare with horror riding his back. But on an instant rage came, he leaped up and roared at Asmund: ‘You lie!’

  ‘All men know your ax,’ said Asmund heavily. ‘Now seize the brother-slayer, men, and bind him for hanging.’

  At this Valgard snatched a spear from the wall and hurled it. Through Asmund’s breast it went, pinning him against the wall so that he still stood there with Ketil leaning against him, the two dead brothers side by side glaring at their murderer.

  Valgard howled as the berserkergang swept him, his eyes flamed wolf-green and froth was on his snarling lips. Orm roared and sprang at him, drawing a sword. Valgard whipped forth a knife, dodged under Orm’s blade, and buried it in the chief’s throat.

  Blood gushed over him as Orm fell. Valgard snatched the sword and leaped onto the table and then down to the floor. A man rose to stop him, and Valgard hewed him down. His crazy howling rang between the rafters.

  Now the hall boiled with men as some sought to flee and some to seize the bloody demon. Valgard’s blade sang, and three warriors sank before him. A fourth barred the door, holding an iron shield, and as Valgard smote at this the sword snapped.

  ‘Too weak is your blade, Orm,’ cried Valgard. As the man rushed at him, he wrenched the ax from Ketil’s head and struck out. The man’s sword-arm sprang from his shoulder and Valgard went out the door.

  Spears and arrows hissed after him. He fled into the forest, gasping, streaming blood. Even after he lost the pursuit he kept running, wolf-gaited, wolf-swift, lest he freeze in the pitiless night. Shuddering and sobbing, he fled westward.

  8

  The witch sat waiting, alone in the bitter darkness. Presently something slipped through a rat-hole and into her dwelling. Looking down to the shadowed floor, she saw her familiar.

  Thin and weary, the rat did not speak ere he had crawled up to her breast and drunk deep of her blood. Then he lay on her lap, watching her with hard little glittering eyes.

  ‘Well,’ she asked, ‘how went the journey?’

  ‘Long and hard and cold,’ he said. ‘In bat shape, blown on a freezing wind, I fared to Elfheugh. Often as I crept about Imric’s Halls I came near death – they are beastly quick, the elves, and they knew I was no ordinary rat. But even so I managed to spy on their councils.’

  ‘And is their plan as I thought?’

  ‘Aye. Skafloc will fare to Trollheim to make a raid in force on Illrede’s garth, hoping to slay the king or at least upset his readying for war. Imric will remain in Elfheugh to prepare defenses.’

  ‘Good. The old elf-earl is too crafty, but Skafloc alone can scarce avoid the trap. When does he leave?’

  ‘Nine days hence. He will take some fifty ships.’

  ‘Elves sail swiftly, so he should be at Trollheim the same night. With the wind I will teach him how to raise, Valgard can reach the place in three days, and I’d best allow him another three to busk himself for the journey. So if he is to reach Illrede only a short time before Skafloc, I must keep him here three days – which will not be hard, since he is now an outlaw fleeing hither in despair.’

  ‘It seems to me you treat Valgard roughly.’

  ‘I have naught against him, he not being of Orm’s seed, but he is my tool in a hard and perilous game. It will not be near as easy to ruin Skafloc as it was to kill Orm and the two brothers, or will be to hurt the sisters. My magic and my force alike he would laugh at.’ Th
e witch grinned in the half-light. ‘Aye, but Valgard is a tool I shall use to make a weapon that will pierce Skafloc’s heart. As for Valgard himself, I give him a chance to become great among the trolls, the more so if they conquer the elves. It is my hope to make Skafloc’s downfall all the more bitter by causing the ruin of Alfheim through him.’

  And the witch sat back and waited, an art many years had taught her.

  It was near dawn, with a gray and hopeless light creeping over the snows and the ice-leaved trees, when Valgard knocked on the woman’s door. She opened it at once and he fell into her arms. Nearly dead of weariness and cold he was, with great gouts of blood frozen on him and wildness in his eyes and ravaged face.

  She gave him meat and ale and curious herbs, and erelong he felt well enough to hold her close to him. ‘Now you are all that remains to me,’ he muttered. ‘Woman of night and mystery, whose beauty wrought all this ill, I should slay you and then fall on my own weapon.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ she smiled. ‘What is so bad?’

  He buried his face in her long black fragrant hair. ‘I have slain my father and my brothers,’ he said, ‘and am outlaw beyond hope of atonement.’

  ‘As for the slayings,’ said the woman, ‘they but prove you stronger than those who threatened you. What does it matter to you who they were?’ Her wondrous green eyes burned into his. ‘But if the thought of murdering your own kin troubles you, I will tell you that you are guiltless.’

  ‘Eh?’ He blinked dully at her.

  ‘You are no son of Orm at all, Valgard Berserk. I have second sight, and I tell you that you are not even of human birth, but of such ancient and mighty stock that you can scarce imagine your true heritage.’

  His huge frame grew taut as an iron bar. He clasped her wrists hard enough to leave bruises, and his shout shook the walls of the cottage: ‘What do you say?’

  ‘You are a changeling, left when Imric the elf-earl stole Orm’s eldest son,’ said the woman. ‘You are Imric’s own son by a slave who is daughter to Illrede Troll-King.’

  Valgard flung her from him. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. ‘Lie!’ he gasped. ‘Lie!’

  ‘Truth,’ answered the woman calmly. She walked toward him. He backed away from her, his breast heaving. Her voice came low and relentless: ‘Why are you in all your nature so unlike the other children of Orm or any other man? Why do you scorn gods and men alike, and walk in a black loneliness only forgotten in a tumult of slaying? Why, of all the women with whom you have slept, has none become with child? Why do all beasts and children hate and fear you?’ She had him backed into a corner now, and her eyes blazed at him. ‘Why indeed, save that you are – not human?’

  ‘But I grew up like other men, I can endure iron and silver and holy things, I am no warlock—’

  ‘There is the evil work of Imric, who robbed you of your heritage and cast you aside in favor of Orm’s son. He made you look like the stolen child. You were raised among the petty rounds of men, and have had naught to rouse the wizard power slumbering within you. That you might grow up, age, and die in the brief span of human life, that the things holy and earthly which the elves fear might not trouble you, Imric traded your birthright of undying life. But he could not put a human soul in you, Valgard. And like him, you will be as a candle blown out when you die, without hope of Heaven or Hell or the halls of the old gods – yet you will live no longer than a man!’

  At this Valgard snarled like a wild beast, thrust her aside, and rushed out the door. The woman smiled.

  It grew loud and cold with storm outside, but it was not till after dark that Valgard crept back to the cottage. Bent and beaten he was, but his hollow eyes glared at his leman.

  ‘Now I believe you,’ he muttered hoarsely, ‘nor is there aught else to believe. There were ghosts and demons riding the storm wind, flying with the snow and howling their mockery as they swept by me.’ He looked haggardly into the darkened corners of the room. ‘Night closes on me, the sorry game of my life is played out – home and kin and my very soul have I lost, I see I was but a shadow cast by the mighty Powers who now blow out the candle. Goodnight, Valgard, goodnight—’ And he sank sobbing onto the bed.

  But the woman smiled her secret smile and lay down beside him and kissed him with her mouth that was like sweet red fire. And when his dazed eyes turned mutely to hers, she breathed: ‘This is not like Valgard Berserk, mightiest of warriors, whose name is terror from Ireland to Gardariki. I would have thought you would seize on my words with gladness, would hew fate into a better shape with that great ax of yours. You have taken terrible revenges for lesser hurts than this – the robbery of your being and the chaining into the prison which is a mortal’s life.’

  Valgard felt something of strength return, and as he caressed the woman it rose fiercer in his breast. Hate and a steely will flared in his wolf-eyes. But he said at last: ‘What can I do? Where can I avenge myself? I cannot even see elves and trolls unless they wish it.’

  ‘I can teach you that much,’ she answered. ‘It is not hard to give the witch-sight with which the beings of faerie are born. Thereafter, if you like, you can take a frightful revenge on those who have wronged you, and can laugh at outlawry, you who will be more powerful than any king of men.’

  Valgard studied her with narrowed eyes. ‘How so?’ he asked at last, slowly.

  ‘The trolls make ready for war with their ancient foes the elves,’ she answered. ‘Erelong Illrede Troll-King leads a mighty host against Alfheim, most likely striking first at Imric here in England. Among Imric’s mightiest warriors, because iron and holy things trouble him not, as well as because of great strength and warlock knowledge, will be his foster-son Skafloc, Orm’s child who sits in your rightful seat. Now if you sailed quickly to Illrede, and offered him good gifts and the services of your human-like powers as well as telling him your descent, you could find a high place in his army. At the sack of Elfheugh you could slay Imric and Skafloc, and Illrede would most likely make you earl of the British elflands. Thereafter, as you learned sorcery, you would wax ever greater – aye, you might learn how to change Imric’s work and make yourself like a true elf or troll, ageless till the end of the world.’

  Valgard laughed, harshly and mirthlessly, like the yelp of a hunting wolf. ‘Indeed that is well!’ he cried. ‘Murderer and outlaw, not even human, I have naught to lose and much to gain. If so be I join the hosts of cold and darkness, then I will join them with all my heart, and in battles such as men have never dreamed drown my misery and loneliness. Oh, woman, woman, a mighty thing have you done to me, and it is evil, but I thank you for it!’

  Fiercely he loved her, but when later he spoke above the whistling gale it was in a cold and level tone.

  ‘How will I get to Trollheim?’ he asked.

  The woman opened a great chest and took forth a leather sack tied at the mouth. ‘When your longship is bound, untie this,’ she said. ‘It holds a wind which will blow you thither, and you will have witch-sight to see the troll garths.’

  ‘But what of my men?’

  ‘They will be part of your gift to Illrede. The trolls have great sport in hunting men across the mountains.’

  Valgard shrugged, ‘Since I am to be troll, let me also be my blood true in such treachery,’ he said wearily. ‘But what else shall I give which will please him? He must have enough gold and jewels and costly stuffs.’

  ‘Give him that which is more,’ said the woman. ‘Orm has two fair daughters, and the trolls are lustful.’

  ‘Not those two,’ said Valgard in honor. ‘I grew up with them. And I have done them enough ill already.’

  ‘Those two indeed,’ said the woman. ‘For if Illrede is to take you in service, he must be sure you have broken all human ties.’

  Still Valgard refused. But she clung to him and kissed him and wove him a tale of the dark splendors he could await, until at last he agreed.

  ‘But I wonder who you are, most evil and most beautiful of all the world,’ he
said.

  She laughed softly, cuddled on his breast. ‘You will forget me when you have had a few captured elf women.’

  ‘Nay – nay, never can I forget you, beloved, who broke me as you would.’

  Now the woman held Valgard in her house for as long as she deemed needful, making some pretense of brewing enchantments to restore the witch-sight to him. Even this was hardly of use, since her beauty could hold him more surely than iron chains.

  Snow was falling endlessly through the dusk when she said at last, ‘You had best start out now.’

  ‘We,’ he answered. ‘You must come along, for I cannot live without you.’ His great hands fondled her. ‘If you come not willingly, I will carry you, but come you must.’

  ‘As you will,’ she sighed. ‘Though you may feel otherwise when I have given you sight.’

  She stood up, looking down at his huge seated form, and her slender hand touched the strong lines and angles of his face. Her red mouth curved in a strangely wistful smile.

  ‘Hate is a hard master,’ she breathed. ‘I had not thought to have joy again, Valgard, but now it is a cruel wrench to bid you farewell. All good luck to you, my dearest. And now—’ her fingertips brushed his eyes ‘—see!’

  And Valgard saw.

  Like smoke in the wind, the well-kept little house and the tall white woman wavered to his vision. With a sudden ghastly fear, he willed to see them not with magic-tricked mortal eyes, but as they really were—

  He sat in a smoky hovel of mud and wattles, where one tiny dung fire cast a feeble glow on the disordered heaps of bones and rags, rusted metal tools and evilly twisted implements of sorcery. He looked up into the dim eyes of a hideous ancient hag, whose bald toothless head was a fleshless mask of wrinkled skin drawn over a lolling skull, to whose shriveled breast clung a great rat.

  Wild with horror, he stumbled to his feet. The witch leered at him, her cackle rising over the screeching storm: ‘Beloved, beloved, shall we away to your ship? You swore you would not part from me.’

  Rage leaped up in Valgard’s heart and contorted his face until it was scarce human. ‘For you I am outlaw!’ he howled, and he grabbed his ax and struck at her. Even as he smote, her body shrank. Two rats sprang across the floor. The ax thudded into the ground just as they went down a hole.