‘Can you not call on the Jötuns for help?’ asked Valgard. ‘They are akin to trolls, are they not?’
‘Speak not of such matters!’ rapped Illrede. ‘We dare no more call the ice giants to our aid than the elves the Aesir.’ He shivered. ‘We do not wish to be more their pawns than we are already – the mighty contending Powers beyond the world. Even if they would answer, not we nor the elves would dare call – because if Aesir or Jötuns should move into Midgard, the other side would move against them, and then the last battle might be joined.’
He moved ponderously about the great dark hall. ‘In like manner,’ he said, ‘no creature of faerie dares do much against men, particularly baptized men. A few sorceries, a stolen baby or woman, little else. For they fear us now, but if they came to fear us too much they would send to the gods, under whose protection they are, a call that would be heeded – they might even call on the new white god, and that would be the end of faerie.’
Valgard shuddered. And that night he went to Asgerd’s shallow grave and dug her up and took her aboard a troll-boat. West he sailed on such a witch-wind as Illrede had taught him to raise, until he came to a village on the eastern English coast.
There were snow-clouds and darkness as he bore Asgerd’s stiffened form through echoing, empty streets to the church. Into its graveyard he crept, and in a corner of the wall he scratched another hole, and laid her in it, and covered it up so that none could see he had been there.
‘Now you are sleeping in holy ground, sister, as you would have wished it,’ he whispered. ‘Evil have I done, but now mayhap you will pray for my soul—’ And then looking bewildered about him into the snowing darkness, with a cold fear gripping him who had never been afraid before: ‘But why am I here? What am I doing? She is not my sister, and I am a creature made by sorcery – I have no soul—’
He snarled his anger and loped back to his boat and sailed eastward as if devils were on his track.
Now came the time of the troll hosting. But Illrede was too shrewd to gather his forces in one spot where elf spies could see how great they were. Each part of his fleet sailed from its own place, with a wizard or other wise one aboard each flagship to see that all came to the agreed meeting place at the same time. This would be somewhat north of the English elflands, so that the trolls could land on empty beaches rather than against powerful forts. Illrede meant to break the elf sea power at that spot, and then move south by sea and land alike to overrun the enemy homeland. He would then leave part of his force in England to root out the elves, while his main fleet went on south across the channel to Alfheim’s other provinces. Part of his army would meanwhile have marched overland from Finnmark. Thus the trolls would attack the Erlking from west and east – and, as soon as England was wholly conquered, north – and smash him.
‘Swift are the elf warriors,’ said Illrede, ‘but I think the trolls will move swifter this time.’
‘Give me in charge of England,’ begged Valgard, ‘and I will see that no elf man remains alive there.’
‘I have promised the English earldom to Grum,’ said Illrede, ‘but you, Valgard, shall sail in my own flagship with me, and in England I will make you second to Grum only.’
Valgard said he was well content with this, but his cold eyes measured the lord Grum, and he thought to himself that the troll might easily have an accident in all the fighting there would be – and that would make him, Valgard, earl as the witch had said.
He boarded the flagship with Illrede and the mightiest warriors of the guard. A huge vessel it was, with high sides and a dwarf-made iron beak for ramming, and all dead black save for the white skull which was its figurehead. The trolls aboard had arms and armor of dwarf metals, alloys of great strength and hardness, but most also carried the stone-headed war-tools which had weight enough to suit them. Illrede wore a golden coronet on his black helmet, and rich furs over the somber dragon-skin byrnie on which even iron did not bite. The others were also richly clad, and were a rough, boisterous, arrogant crew. Valgard alone wore naught of ornament, and his face was set in bleak lines; but his great iron ax and the iron he wore made him an object of fear to the trolls.
There were many other ships in the royal fleet, all of uncommon size, and the night rang with the shouting voices and roaring war-horns and tramping feet. Troll vessels sailed more slowly than elf, being larger and heavier and made with less skill in sorcery, and morning found them still at sea. The trolls took shelter under black awnings which shut off the hated sunlight, and let the ships ride, invisible to mortal eyes.
The next night found the grand fleet assembling, and Valgard was awed by its size. It seemed to carpet the sea out to the horizon, and every vessel swarmed with men and the huge shaggy troll-horses. But so well drilled were all in Illrede’s plans that each craft went at once to its proper place.
Many and strange were the ships and crews which sailed against Alfheim. The long, high, black troll craft formed the center, at the head of a blunt wedge with Illrede’s own ship at the very point. To starboard and port were the goblins, some manning troll-built vessels and some in their own slim red snake-prowed ships; merrier than the trolls were they, clad in fantastical garments over their silvery armor, and wielding for the most part light swords and spears and bows. Then the wings of the fleet spread out into weird creatures: great scimitar-swinging Shen, in painted junks; lithe imps in slave-rowed galleys, with engines of war mounted on the decks; black barges of the winged demons from Baikal; iron-plated dwarfs; savage monsters from lonely hills and swamps and forests. All these were officered by trolls, and only the most reliable were in the first line. There was a second wedge behind the first, and beyond this were still more vessels which would go wherever they were needed.
Horns screamed their commands from troll ships, and were answered by goblin pipes and Shen gongs and imp drums. Dark clouds hung low over the forest of masts, and the sea ran white from many oars under the fitful light of the gibbous moon. Blue will-o’-the-wisps crawled over the ships, casting the faces of trolls and goblins and demons into ghastly highlights, and wavered between them. Strange winds sighed in the rig, and harrying presences rode through the moon-flecked, snow-sullen clouds.
‘Erelong now we join battle,’ said Illrede to Valgard. ‘Then you may find the revenge you seek.’
The berserker said naught, but looked fixedly ahead into the darkness.
14
It was something over a month since the elf raid on Trollheim, and in that time Imric had worked hard. He could not find out much about the enemy, since Illrede and his warlocks had screened their land heavily with magic, but he knew that a mighty force of many nations was being gathered and would most like strike first at England. Thus he strove to assemble all ships and men of his realm, and he sent abroad for all help there was.
Few came from outside, for each province of Alfheim was readying itself alone against the trolls – the elves were too proud to work well in concert. Also, it seemed that all mercenaries in faerie had already been hired by Illrede years before. Imric sent to the Sidhe of Ireland, promising rich booty in the conquest of Trollheim, and got back only the cold word that enough of wealth already glittered in the streets of Tir-nam-Og and the caves of the Leprechauns. Thus the elf-earl found himself standing alone.
But even so his strength was great, and as it swelled day by day in the hosting of the elves the fierce joy of his people grew apace. Never, it seemed to them, had so mighty a force been gathered in faerie, and some of the younger warriors held that not only could England’s elves beat off the whole troll fleet, but they could alone carry the war to Trollheim and break the whole enemy kingdom.
From Orkney and Shetland came Flam, son of that Flam who had fallen in Skafloc’s raid and wild to avenge his father. He and his tall brothers were among the greatest sailors in faerie, and their dragon fleet darkened the water as it swept southward. Shields blinked on the sides and wind hummed in the rig and the roar of cloven sea at the bows seeme
d to be the angry snarl of the carven serpent heads.
From the gray hills and moors of Pictland marched the savage chieftains with their flint-headed weapons and their leather breastplates. Shorter and heavier than true elves were they, dark of skin and with long black locks and beards blowing wild about their tattooed faces, for there was also blood of troll and goblin and still more ancient races in them, as well as some strains from Pictish women stolen in long-gone days. With them came certain of the lesser Sidhe who had entered with the Scots centuries ago, strong gnarly leprechauns leaping goat-like, tall beautiful warriors striding in shimmery mail with their spears ahigh or riding in huge rumbling war-chariots with sword-blades on the hubs for mowing of men.
From the south, from Cornwall’s wild hills and cave-riddled sea coast, came some of the oldest elves in the island: tall mail-clad horsemen and charioteers whose flying banners told of forgotten glories; green-haired, white-skinned sea-folk, who had always a gray mystery of salt-smelling fog about them for the sake of dampness on land; a few rustic half-gods whom the Romans had brought and afterward abandoned; shy, flitting forest elves, clan by clan.
Saxon lands did not hold so many since most of the beings once dwelling there had been exorcised, but such as still lived came. Nor were these elves, poor and backward though they often were, to be despised in war, for many could trace descent to Wayland or even to Odin. They were the greatest smiths among the elves, since they had some dwarf blood, and many chose to fight with their great stone hammers.
But the mightiest and proudest were those who dwelt in the hills about Elfheugh. Not alone in ancestry, but in beauty and wisdom and wealth, the lords whom Imric had gathered about him outshone all others. Fierce and haughty they were, going to battle as gaily clad as to a wedding, and kissing their spears like brides, and they had hewed many a bloody pathway ere this. They cast mighty spells for the undoing of their enemies and the protection of their own men. All the elves who assembled around Imric’s castle stood in awe of them, but were not thereby hindered in enjoying the huge feast they set forth.
Freda was much taken with watching that eerie host gather. The sight of those unhuman warriors gliding noiselessly through dusk and moonlight, their alien visages half hidden to her eyes and all the stranger for that, sent waves of shock and delight, fear and pride, through her. It was a kingly power over which Skafloc had the lordship – but not one of man’s world.
And she remembered the brutal strength of the trolls. What if he should fall before them? What then?
The same thought came to Skafloc. ‘Mayhap it were best I took you to what friends you have in the lands of men,’ he said slowly, ‘It may be, though I do not believe it, that the elves will lose – true it is that all omens we took were not good. And if that should happen, this would be no place for you.’
‘No – no—’ She looked briefly at him with frightened gray eyes, then hid her face on his breast. ‘No, I will not leave you. I cannot.’
He ruffled her shining hair. ‘I would come back for you if we won,’ he said.
‘No – it might happen that someone there, somehow, persuaded or forced me to remain – I know not who it should be, save perhaps a priest, but I have heard of such things—’ She remembered the lovely elf women and their eyes on Skafloc. He felt her slim body stiffen in his arms, and her voice came firm: ‘Anyway, I will not leave you. I stay.’
He said naught, but his eyes shone with gladness.
Now word came that the trolls were putting out to sea. On the last night ere their own sailing, the elves held feast in Elfheugh.
Mighty was Imric’s drinking-hall. Freda, sitting close by Skafloc up near the earl’s high seat, could not see the other walls or get aught but a glimpse of the great rafters. The cool blue twilight loved of the elves seemed to drift like smoke through the hall. Light came from clear silvery-burning tapers in heavy bronze sconces, and it flashed back off the shields hanging on the walls and the great panels of cunningly etched gold. All of gold and silver, and studded with flaming gems, were the trenchers and bowls and horns on the snowy tablecloths. And though she had grown almost used to rare and delicate viands in Elfheugh, Freda felt her head swim at the wondrous food, meat and fowl and fish and fruit, at the sweet fieriness of mead and wine, at this feast.
Richly clad were the elves. Skafloc wore a tunic of white linen over silken breeches, a gold-worked belt with a jeweled dagger in it, a doublet whose colorfully broidered pattern seemed to lead the eye in a trackless maze, and over it all an ermine-trimmed scarlet cloak that was like a rush of blood from his wide shoulders. Freda had on a filmy dress of the thinnest spider-silk, over which rippled all colors in a restless play of molten rainbows and through which shone the sweet curves of her young body; a heavy golden girdle was locked about her slim waist, and golden rings weighted her bare arms. Both of them wore diamond-glittering coronets, as fitting a lord of Alfheim and his lady. The other great elves were no less gay of apparel, and even the poorer chieftains from other districts shone with raw gold.
There was music, not alone the eldritch melodies borne on the dusky air, but the wild harp-lays of the Scottish Sidhe and the pipes of Cornwall’s warriors. There was discourse, the quick brilliant cruel discourse of the elves, delicately poisonous mockery and subtle fencing with words, and the silver laughter went up and down the long tables.
But when the feasting was done and the jesters should have skipped forth, the cry went up for a sword dance instead. Imric scowled, not liking to make omens plain to all, but since most others wanted it, he could not but agree.
The elves moved out onto the cleared floor, the men stripping off cloaks and women all their clothes, and each man took a sword. ‘What is it they do?’ asked Freda.
‘ ’Tis the old war-dance,’ replied Skafloc. ‘I must be skald to it, I suppose, since no human could dance it unscathed even if he knew all the measures. But they dance to ninety and nine verses which the skald must make up as he goes along, and if no one is hurt ’tis a great omen for victory; but if someone be slain it means defeat, and even a slash is a bad omen. I like this not.’
Now the elf men stood in a wide double row, facing each other and crossing swords on high; and behind each man stood a woman, poised and taut. The rows reached far into the dimness of the hall, a long aisle of gleaming blades.
‘Hai, go!’ shouted Imric so that it rang through the hall.
Skafloc chanted:
Swiftly goes the sword-play,
sweeping foemen backward
to the beach where tumult
talks with voice of metal:
belling of the brazen
beaks of cleaving axes,
smoking blood, where sea kings
sing the mass of lances.
As he called it out, the men danced forward, and a mighty din of clashing swords arose in time to the verse. The women likewise danced lithely ahead, and each man’s right hand seized a woman’s left and whirled her into the narrowing aisle where the fencing swords flashed and clanged.
Skafloc called:
Swiftly goes the sword-play,
storm-like in its madness:
shields are bloody shimmers,
shining moons of redness;
winds of arrows wailing,
wicked spearhead-lightning
lads will smite who lately
lay by lovely sweethearts.
Through and between the whirring, flickering blades wove the elf women in a measure swift and supple and intricate as the foam-play on a whirlpool. The men danced to each other, beyond, and wheeled about, and each threw his sword in a glittering arc at his opposite number, just missing a lithe lovely body, and caught the weapon thrown at him.
Skafloc quoth:
Swiftly goes the sword-play!
Swinging bloodied weapons,
shields and helms to shatter,
shout the men their war-cry.
While the angry, whining,
whirring blades are spark
ing,
howl the wolves their hunger,
hawks stoop low for feasting.
Round and about, swifter than mortal eye could follow, whirled the measures of the dance, and leaping and shrieking between the twisting bodies were the swords. Now blades hummed low, and as two clashed points just above the floor, an elf woman sprang over them – the keen edges came up just behind her. Now the dancing men each seized a partner and wove a glitter of metal about her spinning body. Now they fenced again in the dance, and the women danced between the fencers in the bare instants when the blades were not meeting.
Skafloc’s verses spilled out unbroken:
Swiftly goes the sword-play!
Song of metal raises
din of blades for dancing
(death for eager partner).
Lur horns bray their laughter,
lads, and call to hosting.
Sweeter game was sleeping
softly with your leman.
Leaping and weaving between the clamorous blades, a flying white frenzy, Leea called out with malice on her lovely face: ‘Oho, Skafloc, why is not that girl of yours who makes such a pretense of loving you dancing with us for luck?’
Skafloc did not break the flow of his voice:
Swiftly goes the sword-play.
Skald who lately chanted
gangs unto the game where
grim are stakes we play for.
Mock not at the mortal
may who is not dancing.
Better luck she brings me
by a kiss than magic.
But now a shudder of dismay went up among the weaving elves, for Leea, harking more to the words of Skafloc than to their beat, had danced into one of the yelling blades. Red was the slash across her silken shoulders. But she went on in the measures, her blood sprinkling the elves about her. Skafloc forced cheer into his voice:
The Broken Sword Page 10
