The Broken Sword

by Poul Anderson

  Thralls of elf, dwarf, or goblin race scurried about with trenchers of meat and bowls of drink. It was a high feast, for which many human and faerie babies had been stolen, along with cattle, horses, and wines of the south. There was music of the snarling sort the trolls liked, rattling out of the air.

  About the walls stood guards, moveless as graven images, the ruddy smoky light glinting on their spears. Down the length of the tables, the trolls were gobbling and guzzling, quarreling with each other in a din of voices. But the great lords of Trollheim sat quiet in their high seats.

  Valgard’s eyes went to Illrede. The troll king was huge of girth and stature, with a wrinkled massive face and a long beard of green tendrils. There was darkness and horror in the eyes that stared at the newcomer, and a fear he sought to hide ran coldly along the changeling’s backbone.

  ‘Greeting, great king,’ he said. ‘I am Valgard Berserk, come from England to seek a place in your company. I am told you are father to my mother, and fain would I claim my heritage.’

  Illrede slowly nodded his gold-crowned head. ‘That I know,’ he said. ‘And welcome, Valgard, to Trollheim, your home.’ His dreadful eyes swung to the maidens, stirring to wakefulness on the floor. ‘But who are these?’

  ‘A small gift,’ said Valgard firmly, ‘children of my foster-father. I hope they will please you.’

  ‘Ho – ho, ho – ho, ho, ho!’ Suddenly Illrede’s laughter was echoing through the great chill hall. ‘Ho, a goodly gift! Long is it since I held a human man in my arms – aye, welcome, welcome, Valgard!’

  He sprang to the floor, which trembled under his mighty weight, and went over to stand above the girls. Freda and Asgerd looked about them in bewilderment.

  ‘Where are we?’ cried Freda. ‘A dark cave, with echoes that have no voice—’

  ‘You should see your new home,’ grinned Illrede, and touched the sisters’ eyes. And at once they had the witch-sight, and saw the hall and him stooping over them, and then their courage broke and their screams were like those of mad beasts.

  Illrede laughed again.

  10

  The elf raid on Trollheim was to be a strong one. Fifty longships were manned with the best warriors of Britain’s elves, and veiled and warded by the sorceries of Imric and his wisest warlocks. It was thought they could under these spells sail unseen into the very fjords of Finnmark’s troll lands, but how deeply inland they could thrust thereafter would depend on the strength of the guard. Skafloc thought they could get even into Illrede’s own halls and bring back the king’s head, and he was wild to go.

  ‘Be not too reckless,’ cautioned Imric. ‘Kill and burn, but lose no men in foolish adventures. ’Twill be worth more if you spy out their strength than if you kill a hundred of them.’

  ‘We will do both,’ grinned Skafloc. He stood tall and restless as a young stallion, eyes alight in his lean face, the long tawny hair tumbling from under his gleaming helmet.

  ‘I know not – I know not.’ The elf-earl shook his head. ‘I feel, somehow, that no good will come of this trip, and am fain to halt it.’

  ‘If you do that, we will go anyway,’ said Skafloc.

  ‘Aye, so you will. And I may be wrong. Go, then, and luck be with you.’

  On a night just after sunset, the warriors embarked. A moon newly risen cast silver and shadow on the crags and scaurs of the elf-hills, on the beach from which they rose, on the clouds racing eastward on a great gale which seemed to fill the sky with its clamor. The moonlight ran in shards and ripples over the waves, which tumbled and roared, white-maned and angry, on the rocks. The light flashed off the weapons and armor of the elf warriors, eerie silver in the shouting night. The black-and-white longships drawn up on the beach seemed but fleeting shadows and light-ripples.

  Skafloc stood wrapped in his great cape, the wind streaming his hair, and watched his men embark. To him, a white loveliness in the moonlight with her hair like silver and her eyes cloudy with cold mystery, came Leea.

  ‘Now bid me farewell, foster-mother, and sing a song for my luck,’ cried Skafloc.

  ‘I cannot bid you goodbye properly, for I can come no closer to that iron byrnie of yours,’ quoth Leea in her voice that was like wind and rippling water and silver bells heard from afar. ‘And I have a black feeling my spells will avail naught against the ill luck wafting for you.’ Her eyes sought his in the fleeting moonlight. ‘I know, with a sureness beyond proof, that you sail into a trap, and I beg you, by the milk I gave you as a child and the kisses as a man, to stay home this one time.’

  ‘That would be a fine deed for an elf chief, given command of a great raid that may bring back his foeman’s head,’ cried Skafloc in anger. ‘Not for you nor anyone else would I do so shameful a thing.’

  ‘Aye – aye.’ Sudden tears glimmered in Leea’s eyes. ‘Men, whose span of years is so bitterly short, rush to death in their youth as to a maiden’s arms. A few years ago I rocked you in your cradle, Skafloc, a few months ago I lay out with you in the light summer nights, and to me, undying, the times are almost the same. And no different, in the same blink of years, is the day your bloody corpse will lie stiff awaiting the ravens. I will not ever forget you, Skafloc, but I fear I have kissed you for the last time.’

  And she sang in her lovely voice:

  Seaward blows the wind tonight,

  and the seamen, never resting,

  rise from house to take their flight

  with the gulls’ and spindrift’s questing.

  Woman’s arms, and firelit hearth,

  kith and kin, can never hold them

  when the wind beyond their garth

  of the running tides has told them.

  Spume and seaweed shall enfold them.

  Wind, ah wind, old wanderer,

  gray and swift-foot, ever crying,

  woman curses, who, from her,

  calls forth man to doom and dying.

  Seamen, kissed by laughing waves,

  cold and salt-sweet, hearts deceiving,

  shall be borne to restless graves

  when the sea their life is reaving.

  And their women will be grieving.

  Skafloc liked not this song, which seemed one of ill luck rather than good, but as soon as he was aboard his ship he forgot it in the joy of departure.

  ‘This gale has blown for three days now,’ said Goltan, a comrade of his. ‘And it has the smell of a wizard breeze. Mayhap some warlock sails eastward.’

  ‘If he has been three days at sea, his ship is but mortal,’ laughed Skafloc. ‘We travel faster.’

  Now the sails were raised and the slim black-and-silver dragon craft leaped ahead. Like the wind itself they went, like flying snow and freezing spindrift white under the moon, waves hissing in their wake, a long bounding over the clamorous waters. Swiftest of all in faerie, afoot or on horse or aboard ship, were the elves, and ere midnight Finnmark’s cliffs loomed ahead.

  ‘Now comes a goodly fight,’ said Skafloc, his teeth gleaming forth. And he quoth:

  Elves come early

  east to Trollheim,

  spears and singing

  swords their presents.

  Good are gifts they

  give, for troll-men:

  sundered skulls and

  splitted bellies.

  Trolls shall tumble

  (tumult rages),

  fear of firebrands

  freeing bowels.

  Kin, be kind to

  clamoring troll-men:

  have they headaches,

  hew the heads off.

  The elves grinned, along the length of the plunging ship, and readied their weapons. Into the fjord the fleet steered, busked for battle, but no sign of troll guards met their questing eyes. Instead they saw ships drawn up on the beach – eight mortal longships, whose crews were bloodily strewn over the rocks.

  Skafloc leaped ashore with sword drawn and cloak flying winglike behind him. ‘Strange is this,’ he said, and his hackles rose.

>   ‘Belike the ships landed here and were set on by trolls,’ quoth Goltan. ‘ ’Twas but a short time ago – see, the blood is still wet – and so the troll guards may still be at Illrede’s garth reporting the matter.’

  ‘Why, then, that is wondrous luck!’ cried Skafloc, and winded his great lur horn. Not he nor the elves gave further thought to the dead men, who were only humans.

  At the bray of the horn, the elves sprang into the shallows and dragged their ships ashore. Some few stood by to guard the vessels, while Skafloc led the main troop along the inland trail.

  Through a grim black gorge they went, and came out onto a mountainside where the snow glittered dazzling under the moon and bare peaks snarled at the frosty, galing sky. The wind shrieked and tore at them, cuffing with hands of icy cold, and the ragged clouds still blew across the moon’s face. Lithe as cats, the elves made their way over cliff and crag, up the mountain toward the great cave gaping in its front.

  Now as they neared the cave they saw a company of trolls come out, belike the sea watchers returning to their posts. Skafloc’s cry rose over the wind: ‘Swiftly, swiftly, and we can cut them off!’

  Like a panther he sprang, the elves beside and behind him, and ere the trolls had their wits, metal was howling about their ears. They fell back, and Skafloc’s band pushed into the cave itself.

  Din of weapons seemed even more clamorous in the narrow descending tunnel. The wild war-shouts of the elves and the booming cries of the trolls rolled in broken echoes down the corridor. Skafloc and Goltan led the way, their swords a blur before them, and troll after troll sank under their feet.

  A great warrior thrust at Skafloc with a spear like a young tree. The man smote with his sword, striking the shaft aside, and the iron blade seared into the troll’s breast. A mighty club thundered for his head, but he caught the blow on his shield. It rang like a great gong, and the shock sent him staggering back. He fell to one knee, but stabbed upward into the troll’s belly. Rising, he swept his glaive in a yelling arc and another troll’s head leaped from its shoulders.

  Now the retreating trolls came into a great room. The elves cried their delight at having a space big enough for their kind of fighting. Longbows were strung, and the gray-feathered arrows flew in a storm that smote many a troll. Other elves fought hand to hand, leaping, dodging, thrusting in a blur of speed.

  Some elves died, with shattered skulls or ripped hides, but the troll corpses were heaped high. At the door warding the way to the king’s feasting hall, the royal guards stood in a grim close line, shields before them, and the shock of the elf charge rebounded.

  ‘Let me show you how to get in!’ shouted Skafloc. Streaming green troll blood and some of his own red, with dented helm and shield and nicked sword, he laughed in glee as he seized a spear, ran forward, and vaulted over the foemen’s heads into the hall beyond.

  He struck down three trolls from behind in as many blows of his dreaded iron blade. The guards turned to face him, and the elves rallied and rushed on them – bore them in a living tide into the troll-king’s hall!

  Skafloc yelled as he saw Illrede himself, sitting rock-like in the high seat but clutching a mighty spear. His sword screamed, mowing trolls like ripe wheat, as he rushed forward. Then a man rose in his path to dispute the way.

  For a moment Skafloc stood in utter astonishment, seeing his own face glare at him behind the descending ax. Then with elf swiftness he skipped aside, but the stranger’s weapon sundered his battered shield and laid open his left arm.

  Skafloc swung, and iron met iron in a clamor of sparking fury. For a short space they traded blows, and deeply did they gash each other. Then a troll attacked Skafloc from the side. He thrust at him, and had a hard fight ere the troll was slain. Meantime the tide of battle had borne the stranger away, but he was doing great slaughter among the elves. He fought his way over to Illrede, and the remaining trolls rallied about the two. In a quick, strong push they cut through their foes to a great door in the rear of the hall. Through this they went.

  ‘After them!’ roared Skafloc, mad with battle fury.

  Goltan and the other elf captains held him back. ‘ ’Twould be foolhardy,’ they said. ‘See, the door leads to lightless descending caverns whence we could scarce hope to return alive. Best we bar it on this side instead, that Illrede call not the monsters of the inner earth up against us.’

  ‘Aye – you are right,’ said Skafloc grudgingly.

  His eyes swept the hall, and then all at once came to rest in a surprise scarce less than when he had seen his own shape among the trolls. Two mortal women lay bound near the high seat.

  Skafloc strode over, and his knife gleamed briefly to unfasten them. They shrank back in horror, and one, a tall fair-haired may with flashing blue eyes, snarled at him: ‘Traitor and murderer, what new evil do you wreak?’

  ‘Why—’ Skafloc was taken aback. Like most folk of faerie, he had learned the speech of men, but had had little use of it. His accent held the strange singing note of the elf-tongue. ‘Why, what have I done—?’ He smiled. ‘Unless you like being bound.’

  ‘Mock us not, Valgard, on top of all your other evil deeds,’ said the golden-haired maiden wearily.

  ‘I am not Valgard, nor do I know him unless he is that man with the trolls whom I fought just now – but you could not see that from here. I am Skafloc of Alfheim, and no friend to trolls.’

  ‘Aye – aye, Asgerd!’ cried the younger girl of a sudden. ‘He is not Valgard, in truth he is not. See – he wears a different garment and speaks strangely—’

  ‘I know not,’ mumbled Asgerd. ‘Was all the clamor and death about us but some new trick? Is this not an evil enchantment to beguile us—? Oh, I know naught save that Erlend is dead—’ She began to sob, dry racking coughs that had no tears.

  ‘No, no—’ The younger maiden clung to Skafloc’s shoulders, searching his face, smiling through a mist of tears like springtime sunshine through rain. ‘No, stranger, you are not Valgard though you look much like him. Your eyes are warm and bright, your mouth is kind and glad – Oh, I know, I know!’

  Skafloc looked long at her. She was only of middle height, but it was all a vision of supple slender youthful beauty gleaming through the rags of her dress. Her tresses were long and lustrous bronze-brown, sparkled with red, her face a sweet molding of broad forehead and pertly tilted nose and wide soft mouth. Under dark brows, her long-lashed eyes were huge and brilliant, a haunting gray waking some dim half-memory which he could not place in Skafloc’s mind.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked wonderingly.

  ‘I am Freda Ormsdaughter, and this is my sister Asgerd,’ she said. ‘But who are you, warrior—?’

  ‘Skafloc Imric’s-Foster, of Alfheim’s English lands,’ he replied. She shrank back, crossing herself, and somehow he was pained she should fear him.

  Now the elves went to work with plundering. They took what they could of the treasures in Illrede’s hall, and released his slaves of their own race. Then they set the hall ablaze and went outside in quest of other places. Soon they had found the houses and barns about the cave, great buildings of stone and timber that burned brightly against the star-frosted sky. What trolls they found they put to the sword, but there were not many of these.

  ‘It seems to me Trollheim’s strength is naught to fear,’ said Skafloc.

  ‘Be not so sure,’ replied Valka the Wise. ‘Indeed, I would we had seen something of his levies ere this. I like not the silence and emptiness.’

  ‘Not all empty,’ laughed Skafloc. ‘We have won a rich booty. Now I think if we go back to the ships we can be at home ere dawn.’

  Asgerd and Freda stood numbly in the bitter cold, watching from their witch-sighted eyes the elves at work. Strange were these tall warriors, moving like rippling water with never a sound of footfall, but byrnies chiming silvery through the night. White and ageless, of thin-carved, high-boned features, with beast ears and eyes of blind mystery, they were a sight of terror to mortal gaze
.

  Among them moved Skafloc, soft-footed and graceful as they, seeing like a cat, speaking their own eldritch tongue. Yet he was a man to the eye, and Freda, thinking of the warm touch of him, unlike the cool silky-skinned firmness of elf flesh, felt sure he was human even to his soul.

  ‘He is a heathen, to dwell among these creatures,’ said Asgerd once.

  ‘Aye – perhaps – but he is kind, and he saved us from – from—’ Freda shuddered, and wrapped the cloak Skafloc had given her more tightly about her slim form.

  Now the elf chief blew his horn for withdrawal, and the long, silent file began wending its way down the mountain. Skafloc walked beside Freda, saying naught but letting his eyes dwell on her.

  She was young, younger even than he, the awkward grace of a colt still in her long legs and slim-waisted body. She bore her head high, the bronze sheen of her hair seeming to crackle in the frosty moonlight – but he thought it would be soft to the touch. As they came down the rugged slope he often had to steady her, and her little hand was engulfed in his calloused paw.

  But of a sudden there rang between the mountains the bull-bellow of a troll horn, and another answered it and another, with echoes snarling back from the cliffs and blowing raggedly on the wind. The elves stopped dead a moment, ears cocked, eyes flashing, nostrils quivering as they searched the night for sign of their foemen.

  ‘I think they are ahead of us, cutting off our retreat,’ said Goltan.

  ‘Ill is that,’ quoth Skafloc, ‘but it would be worse to go blundering down the black gorge and have rocks hurled at us from above. We will make our way beside it instead of through it.’

  He blew a battle call on the lur horn carried for him, and said to Freda and Asgerd: ‘I fear we must fight through a troll guard. But my men will ward you if you speak not those names which hurt them.’