Swords & Steam Short Stories

by S. T. Joshi

  With no breath to scream, the monster instead crumpled, right on the edge of the rock face. With a deft hop down the tröllkóna’s back, Mihr Nûsh used her own weight to topple her over the edge, and with a grim smile, she went down with her. Sölveig heard the deep rumble and thump of the bodies hitting the snow on the slope below. If the townspeople were ready, the tröllkóna would be finished off quickly.

  Sölveig did not spare a thought as to the identity of the monster she had helped dispatch.

  You won’t forget what you’ve seen? that same tröllkóna had said to her, when she was just a girl chasing Peer and Elise up and down the slopes.

  No. Unable to tear her eyes from Elise’s bloody body in the tröllkóna’s long, encircling fingers, nor from the memory of Peer’s terrified eyes as the other troll-sister had carried him off up the mountain, still alive.

  Good! with a snaggle-toothed grin. For someone has to tell the tale.

  And as the tröllkóna had bounded away, Elise’s arms flailing red and lifeless like a doll’s, Sölveig had been unable to stop her.

  Now the story would have a different ending.

  Sölveig turned and crept into the twilight murk of the entrance, slowing her breath and listening. In the dead quiet following the tröllkona’s tumble off the ledge, she’d be able to hear the soft noises of her sister moving, she hoped.

  She knelt and laid the grip of her sword over her right knee as she carefully retrieved her flint from a belt pouch and a torch from a pocket in her cloak. A few strikes and she had light, flickering and fragile in the stench of the troll-sisters’ cave. Replacing the flint, she held the torch in her left hand and rose with her sword in her right, and stepped carefully forward.

  She expected to find bones strewn about the rough floor but it looked as though it had been swept clean. Her nostrils flared, straining to catch any movement of air or troll-sweat stink before a monster could loom out of the blackness at her. The yellow, wavering light she held glinted off her sword and made even the shadows of immutable stone wiggle and quiver.

  Then, a glint of metal, against the wall to the left. She froze; when she saw no movement, eased forward. Piled neatly, as if on display, were pieces of Lutz’s armour. The leather straps and other bindings had been ripped or cut; blood darkened the edges. His sword was nowhere to be seen.

  Then she caught a familiar scent, mingled with the odours that permeated the cave. She knew it even as she had after sharing a bed with him, when his musk rubbed off on her. Lutz.

  She held the torch higher, not daring to hope he was still alive.

  There, in a clump of sheepskins, a glimpse of a pale arm.

  She scanned all she could see in the wavering light, but there was no sign of anyone else. She took another step and tapped at the skins with her sword. Nothing. But now that she was closer, she could see a slight, regular movement. He was still breathing. She crept closer still. “Lutz!” she said, in the softest whisper she could. “It’s me! Sölveig. Get up!”

  A heartbeat, and then he stirred. His great blonde head rolled up and he squinted through the light at her. He gaped. He was naked but for the sheepskins, and when he sat up, his jaw moving soundlessly, she saw savage bruises all along his left arm.

  His right arm, however, now ended at the elbow. The stump was already beginning to heal, but the cut looked ragged. She pulled the rest of his coverings off, and he curled up, shaking his head. Why didn’t he speak? His left leg ended at the knee, and bruises in the shape of huge fingers striped his torso. The rest of him seemed undamaged.

  She thought of the bishop’s words, and of Peer’s horror at being carried away by a tröllkóna. They will have used him horribly.

  She threw a yellowed sheepskin over him and pulled under the armpit of his partly-severed arm. “Get up, you big idiot,” she whispered. “Mihr Nûsh and I are here to get you out of this.”

  His eyes flashed and he shook his head, his mouth working soundlessly. She could see he still had his tongue. Her gut felt cold, beyond the mountain chill. She’d seen this sometimes, in terrorized peasants, survivors of the Great Plague, or even hardened soldiers after a siege. The horror that would not loose its hold. She remembered the faces of Peer and Elise’s parents, mirroring the mute despair she’d felt as she told them what had happened. If – when – I get out of here, I will go to them and show them the head of the monster. First, though, this idiot.

  “Come on,” she said, supporting him with her shoulder. Almighty God, he was heavy, even half-starved! He went with her like a child. She was forced to sheath her sword and turn her back on the depths of the cave in order to keep hold of Lutz and her torch. Which is why she neither saw nor heard the second tröllkóna come at them from behind.

  Lutz was suddenly ripped from her. He screamed. Sölveig spun, holding her torch out while she drew her sword. The trölkóna flung Lutz behind her, snaggled teeth bared in a snarl.

  The monster’s voice was a screech. “You don’t dare!” she said. “This one is ours.”

  The potato-like nose and wild, dark hair were the same. “I know you,” said Sölveig.

  “Eh?” said the tröllkóna.

  Sölveig spoke clearly and raised her chin. “I remember. You and your sister took my friends, a boy and a girl, years ago. You let me live.”

  The tröllkóna chewed her lip, hesitating, squinting past the torchlight at Sölveig. Then she broke into a smile. “Yes …I do recall!” She licked her lips. “Well, when my sister returns with a few new lambs, we shall have a fine feast.”

  “Your sister is dead,” said Sölveig. “Or did you think I came alone?”

  The tröllkona grimaced. “Lies!”

  Sölveig smiled grimly. “I’ll be telling a different tale in Bjørgvin tomorrow morning.”

  The tröllkóna spat at her, a great gob of phlegm that hit the cave floor with a splat. The monster turned to reach above and behind her, drawing something out of a hole in the rock. Lutz’s sword. “First, we shall have some sport.”

  Towering over Sölveig, the monster came at her holding the two-handed sword like a long dagger. Sölveig thrust her sword at the tröllkóna’s face and turned so her profile was as narrow as possible. The monster swatted at her sword. Sölveig was used to dodging the long arms of a troll, but she misjudged the added reach of Lutz’s sword. The tröllkóna clipped the tip of her bastard sword and it flew from her hand; the impact threw her off-balance. The tröllkóna swiped again as Sölveig stumbled, still clinging to the torch; this time the monster raked her torso and right arm with her vicious nails. Sölveig’s mail prevented them from tearing her to shreds, but the blow felled her. She sprawled out of the cave mouth, her only weapon a dagger. Perhaps she could take the creature’s eyes out before it dislocated her limbs and crushed her to death.

  The tröllkóna stepped closer, nostrils twitching. “So, you did bring others …no matter. When they see what I will do to you, I think no more ‘heroes’ will come calling.”

  She raised the two-handed sword as if to pin Sölveig to the mountain. Then Sölveig had an idea. She and her comrades had tried something similar once, in Brouxelles, but she’d have to improvise.

  As the troll-sister brought the sword-point down, Sölveig rolled, reaching for her flask of oil. She pulled the stopper out with her teeth and flung as much of its contents as she could at the tröllkóna, who was already leaning in to pluck her up. The oil spattered on the creature’s dress, and for a split-second it left dark blotches on the wool in the moonlight. Then Sölveig plunged her torch into them.

  “Now, Lutz!” she yelled, rolling again as close to the edge of the rockface as she dared.

  The double distraction worked. The tröllkóna froze momentarily, looking over her shoulder and raising a long-fingered hand against an attack from behind, while her other hand dropped the sword and tried to douse the flames.

 
Sölveig didn’t care whether Lutz was able or willing to help. She jumped up with the torch and set the tröllkóna’s hair on fire. The monster swiped blindly at her and connected, knocking her against the side of the mountain. Sölveig’s breath deserted her. She clawed for Lutz’s huge sword as the tröllkona shrieked and tried to smother the flames on her head. They were near the precipice now. Sölveig realized the monster meant to climb down and roll in the snow. She grabbed the sword by grip and blade, cutting her glove and hand in the process. Stars swam in the darkness before her. Relax, draw breath, she told herself. Just as the tröllkona turned to scramble down, Sölveig grunted and drove the tip of Lutz’s sword into her eye, pushing as though holding a battering ram. The tröllkóna howled and toppled over, the sword still embedded in her skull.

  Sölveig dared a look over the edge. Mihr Nûsh was already darting forward, shadow dark on the silver snow. She drove her sword through the thrashing creature’s heart. The townspeople swarmed the second troll-sister with a bloodthirsty, ragged cry. In the space of a few heartbeats, the second tröllkóna was dead. Mihr Nûsh signalled up to Sölveig, who gave the “all clear” sign. “We’ll need ropes, and a litter!” she panted. Mihr Nûsh dispatched Max to get them.

  Sölveig rolled over and caught her breath. Her ribs hurt. She didn’t want to think how many had cracked, and the bruises she’d wear for weeks afterwards.

  Why had Lutz gone alone?

  She’d ask him that, when they were safe in Bjørgvin. Maybe by then he would be able to tell her. Before she cursed him out for being a fool, getting himself wounded and destroying any hope of a profitable year. Lutz had been the public face of their group, but now she doubted he’d be able to continue.

  They’d collect their fee from the bishop, and make plans to depart. And these sisters, their bodies oozing dark, steaming blood on the bone-white snow …their heads would bring silver, if not peace. Before leaving, perhaps, she could bear to visit her family, and that of Elise and Peer, and say, it was too late, but I did what had to be done.

  Undine

  Friedrich de la Motte Fouqué

  To Undine

  Undine! Thou fair and lovely sprite,

  Since first from out an ancient lay

  I saw gleam forth thy fitful light,

  How hast thou sung my cares away!

  How hast thou nestled next my heart,

  And gently offered to impart

  Thy sorrows to my listening ear,

  Like a half-shy, half-trusting child,

  The while my lute, in wood-notes wild,

  Thine accents echoed far and near!

  Then many a youth I won to muse

  With love on thy mysterious ways,

  With many a fair one to peruse

  The legend of thy wondrous days.

  And now both dame and youth would fain

  List to my tale yet once again;

  Nay, sweet Undine, be not afraid!

  Enter their halls with footsteps light,

  Greet courteously each noble knight,

  But fondly every German maid.

  And should they ask concerning me,

  Oh, say, “He is a cavalier,

  Who truly serves and valiantly,

  In tourney and festivity,

  With lute and sword, each lady fair!”

  Chapter I

  On a beautiful evening, many hundred years ago, a worthy old fisherman sat mending his nets. The spot where he dwelt was exceedingly picturesque. The green turf on which he had built his cottage ran far out into a great lake; and this slip of verdure appeared to stretch into it as much through love of its clear waters as the lake, moved by a like impulse, strove to fold the meadow, with its waving grass and flowers, and the cooling shade of the trees, in its embrace of love. They seemed to be drawn toward each other, and the one to be visiting the other as a guest.

  With respect to human beings, indeed, in this pleasant spot, excepting the fisherman and his family, there were few, or rather none, to be met with. For as in the background of the scene, toward the west and north-west, lay a forest of extraordinary wildness, which, owing to its sunless gloom and almost impassable recesses, as well as to fear of the strange creatures and visionary illusions to be encountered in it, most people avoided entering, unless in cases of extreme necessity. The pious old fisherman, however, many times passed through it without harm, when he carried the fine fish which he caught by his beautiful strip of land to a great city lying only a short distance beyond the forest.

  Now the reason he was able to go through this wood with so much ease may have been chiefly this, because he entertained scarcely any thoughts but such as were of a religious nature; and besides, every time he crossed the evil-reported shades, he used to sing some holy song with a clear voice and from a sincere heart.

  Well, while he sat by his nets this evening, neither fearing nor devising evil, a sudden terror seized him, as he heard a rushing in the darkness of the wood, that resembled the tramping of a mounted steed, and the noise continued every instant drawing nearer and nearer to his little territory.

  What he had fancied, when abroad in many a stormy night, respecting the mysteries of the forest, now flashed through his mind in a moment, especially the figure of a man of gigantic stature and snow-white appearance, who kept nodding his head in a portentous manner. And when he raised his eyes towards the wood, the form came before him in perfect distinctness, as he saw the nodding man burst forth from the mazy web-work of leaves and branches. But he immediately felt emboldened, when he reflected that nothing to give him alarm had ever befallen him even in the forest; and moreover, that on this open neck of land the evil spirit, it was likely, would be still less daring in the exercise of his power. At the same time he prayed aloud with the most earnest sincerity of devotion, repeating a passage of the Bible. This inspired him with fresh courage, and soon perceiving the illusion, and the strange mistake into which his imagination had betrayed him, he could with difficulty refrain from laughing. The white nodding figure he had seen became transformed, in the twinkling of an eye, to what in reality it was, a small brook, long and familiarly known to him, which ran foaming from the forest, and discharged itself into the lake.

  But what had caused the startling sound was a knight arrayed in sumptuous apparel, who from under the shadows of the trees came riding toward the cottage. His doublet was violet embroidered with gold, and his scarlet cloak hung gracefully over it; on his cap of burnished gold waved red and violet-coloured plumes; and in his golden shoulder-belt flashed a sword, richly ornamented, and extremely beautiful. The white barb that bore the knight was more slenderly built than war-horses usually are, and he touched the turf with a step so light and elastic that the green and flowery carpet seemed hardly to receive the slightest injury from his tread. The old fisherman, notwithstanding, did not feel perfectly secure in his mind, although he was forced to believe that no evil could be feared from an appearance so pleasing, and therefore, as good manners dictated, he took off his hat on the knight’s coming near, and quietly remained by the side of his nets.

  When the stranger stopped, and asked whether he, with his horse, could have shelter and entertainment there for the night, the fisherman returned answer: “As to your horse, fair sir, I have no better stable for him than this shady meadow, and no better provender than the grass that is growing here. But with respect to yourself, you shall be welcome to our humble cottage, and to the best supper and lodging we are able to give you.”

  The knight was well contented with this reception; and alighting from his horse, which his host assisted him to relieve from saddle and bridle, he let him hasten away to the fresh pasture, and thus spoke: “Even had I found you less hospitable and kindly disposed, my worthy old friend, you would still, I suspect, hardly have got rid of me today; for here, I perceive, a broad lake lies before us, and as to riding back int
o that wood of wonders, with the shades of evening deepening around me, may Heaven in its grace preserve me from the thought.”

  “Pray, not a word of the wood, or of returning into it!” said the fisherman, and took his guest into the cottage.

  There beside the hearth, from which a frugal fire was diffusing its light through the clean twilight room, sat the fisherman’s aged wife in a great chair. At the entrance of their noble guest, she rose and gave him a courteous welcome, but sat down again in her seat of honour, not making the slightest offer of it to the stranger. Upon this the fisherman said with a smile:

  “You must not be offended with her, young gentleman, because she has not given up to you the best chair in the house; it is a custom among poor people to look upon this as the privilege of the aged.”

  “Why, husband!” cried the old lady, with a quiet smile, “where can your wits be wandering? Our guest, to say the least of him, must belong to a Christian country; and how is it possible, then, that so well-bred a young man as he appears to be could dream of driving old people from their chairs? Take a seat, my young master,” continued she, turning to the knight; “there is still quite a snug little chair on the other side of the room there, only be careful not to shove it about too roughly, for one of its legs, I fear, is none of the firmest.”

  The knight brought up the seat as carefully as she could desire, sat down upon it good-humouredly, and it seemed to him almost as if he must be somehow related to this little household, and have just returned home from abroad.

  These three worthy people now began to converse in the most friendly and familiar manner. In relation to the forest, indeed, concerning which the knight occasionally made some inquiries, the old man chose to know and say but little; he was of opinion that slightly touching upon it at this hour of twilight was most suitable and safe; but of the cares and comforts of their home, and their business abroad, the aged couple spoke more freely, and listened also with eager curiosity as the knight recounted to them his travels, and how he had a castle near one of the sources of the Danube, and that his name was Sir Huldbrand of Ringstetten.