The Broken Sword Read online

  Leea was right. Like called to like.

  12

  A few days later, Skafloc went out alone to hunt. He traveled on wizard skis which bore him like the wind, up hill and down dale, over frozen rivers and through snow-choked forests, far up into the Scottish highlands by dusk. He was about to turn back, for he had a roe deer over his shoulders, when from afar he saw the glimmer of a campfire. Wondering who or what was camped in these desolate hills, he went whispering over the snow with his spear poised.

  Coming close through the chill gray twilight, he saw a figure of mighty stature squatted on the snow and roasting horseflesh over the blaze. Despite the freezing wind, he wore only a wolfskin kilt, and the ax beside him seemed to flash with unearthly brilliance.

  Skafloc sensed the grim power before him, and when he saw that the other had only one hand his spine felt cold. It was not thought good to meet Tyr of the Aesir alone at dusk.

  But it was too late to turn back. The god was already looking in his direction. Skafloc skied boldly into the circle of firelight and looked straight into Tyr’s brooding dark eyes.

  ‘Greeting, Skafloc,’ said the As. His voice was deep and vibrant, as of a storm-wind blowing through a sky of brass. He kept on turning the spit over the fire.

  ‘Greeting, lord.’ Skafloc felt a little more at ease. The elves, without souls, worshipped no gods, but neither was there any ill will between them and the Aesir – indeed, some elves served in Asgard itself.

  Tyr nodded his dark head curtly in sign for the man to be seated. There was silence for a long while, save for the low flames which sputtered and sang and cast weaving highlights over Tyr’s gaunt grim face.

  He spoke at last: ‘I smelled war. The trolls make ready to fare against Alfheim.’

  ‘So we have already discovered, lord,’ answered Skafloc. ‘The elves are prepared.’

  ‘It will be a harder struggle than you think. The trolls have many allies this time.’ Tyr looked somberly into the flames. ‘More is at stake than elves or trolls know. The Norns spin many a thread to its end these days.’

  There was silence again for a while, until Tyr said: ‘Aye, ravens hover low, and the gods stoop over the world, which trembles under the hoofbeats of Time. This I tell you, Skafloc: you will have sore need of the Aesir’s naming-gift to you. But the gods themselves are troubled. Therefore I, the war-wager, am on earth.’

  A wind shook his long black locks. His terrible eyes smoldered into the man’s. ‘I will give you a warning,’ he said, ‘though I fear it avails naught against the will of the Norns. Who is your father, Skafloc?’

  ‘I know not, lord, nor have I cared ere now. But I can ask Imric—’

  ‘Do not so. What you must ask Imric is that he say naught to anyone of what he knows, least of all yourself. For the day you learn who your father was will be a dark one, Skafloc, and what will come on you from that knowledge will also wreak ill on the world.’

  He jerked his head again, and Skafloc took a hasty departure, leaving the deer as a gift in return for the rede. But as he swept homeward with the wind of his passage roaring in his ears, he wondered how good Tyr’s warning had been – for now all at once the question of who he really was rose black in his mind, and the night seemed full of demons who shouted at him and howled derision of his ignorance.

  Faster he fled and faster, until he was raising a wind that screamed behind him over the hills, but he could not outrun the nightmare saddled on his back. Only Freda, he thought, sobbing for breath in the merciless cold, only Freda could banish the fear from him.

  Ere dawn the walk and towers of Elfheugh were before him, rising high against the heavens. He was spied from afar, and the elf guard blew a shrill blast of his war-horn to signal the gate-keepers. Through the opened gateway whizzed Skafloc, into the courtyard and up to the castle steps. Kicking off his skis, he ran into the halls.

  Imric, returned early that evening, was just giving audience to Leea. ‘What if Skafloc be taken with a mortal maid?’ he shrugged. ‘ ’Tis his affair, and a small matter indeed. You are but jealous, Leea.’

  ‘That I am,’ she answered frankly, ‘but ’tis more than that. See the girl for yourself, Imric, see if you cannot sense she is in some way meant as a weapon against us.’

  ‘Hm – so.’ The elf-earl scowled in thought. ‘Know you who she is?’

  ‘She hight Freda Ormsdaughter, of a now broken family south in the Danelaw—’

  ‘Freda – Ormsdaughter—’ Of a sudden Imric was aghast. ‘Why, that – that means—’

  Skafloc burst into the room, and the haggard face he wore made their eyes turn fearfully to him. But it was a little time ere he could speak, then his tale poured out of him in one flood.

  ‘What did Tyr mean?’ he cried at the end of it. ‘Who am I, Imric?’

  ‘I see what he meant,’ replied the elf-earl grimly, ‘and therefore your birth is my secret alone, Skafloc. I will but say that you come of good family, with naught shameful in its blood.’ And then he put on his most guileful manner and spoke fair words which sent Skafloc and Leea away soothed.

  But when alone, he paced the floor and muttered to himself. ‘Ill is this,’ he said between his teeth, ‘and I can see the workings of an enemy in it. Best to get rid of the girl – but Skafloc guards her with all his power. Failing that, the secret must be kept. Not that Skafloc has any more morals than an elf, but if he found out, the girl soon would – and ’tis one of the strongest laws laid on all humans which they have broken. She would be desperate enough to do – anything! And we need Skafloc.’

  He began turning over plans in his crafty brain. He thought of beguiling Skafloc with other women – but no, over love not he nor the gods had any power; and if Skafloc loved her not, the secret scarce mattered. Then he cast back in his memory, and as near as he recalled – it is not easy to keep thousands of years straight – there was only one besides himself who knew of this matter.

  He sent for Firespear, a trusty guardsman, still a youth of some two centuries but cunning and sorcerous. ‘There was a witch who dwelt in the forest south and west of here some two-and-twenty years ago,’ he said. ‘She may now be dead or moved away, but I want you to track her – and if she still lives, slay her.’

  ‘Aye, lord,’ nodded Firespear. ‘If I may take a few huntsmen and elf-hounds, we shall soon do that.’

  ‘Take what you will, and begone as swiftly as may be. The matter will scarce wait.’

  Freda welcomed Skafloc back with a glad cry. Despite all her wonder at the magnificence of Elfheugh, she was afraid when he left her alone there. The dwellers, tall lithe elves and their unearthly beautiful women, dwarfs and goblins and gnomes and other folk who did the work, the very horses and dogs with their proud grace and quicksilver movements, all were alien to her. Their flesh was cool, their features cast in a strange mold, their speech and dress and heathen ways and ageless centuries of life all sundered from her world. The great dim splendor of the castle which was also a barren crag, the sorceries drifting in the very air of its eternal twilight, the presences haunting hills and forest and sea – all these oppressed her with their strangeness and aloofness.

  But when Skafloc was by her side, Alfheim seemed to lie on the borders of Heaven. (God forgive her for thinking that, she whispered to herself, and for not fleeing this heathendom for the holy chill and darkness of a nunnery!) He was laughing and impudent and mischievous until she could not but laugh with him, his verses rushed out of him and all to her praise, his arms and his lips were fierce and sweet and mad with a young craziness she had not known could be. She had seen him fight, and knew there were few warriors in lands of men or faerie who could stand before him, and of that she was proud – after all, she stemmed from warriors herself. But with her he was always gentle. And he took the place of her dead kindred, in her eyes and in her heart.

  She knew he loved her – he must, or why would he lie with her when elf women beautiful as angels and skillful after many centuries looked af
ter him as he went down the corridors? What she did not know was how deeply her human warmth had entered his soul which had never before known the like. The elves were cooler of heart than humans, and Skafloc had not been aware of his own loneliness until he came on Freda. He knew that, unless he paid a certain price which he would not, he must sometime die, his life the briefest flicker in the long elf memories. It was good to have one of his own sort by his side.

  In their few sweet crazy days together they had done much, ridden the swift horses and sailed the slender boats and walked over many leagues of hill and forest. Freda was a good archer, and when she went through the woods with bow in hand and coppery-bronze hair shining, she seemed a young goddess of the hunt. They had watched the magicians and mummers whose shows amused the elves, but these were often too sly and subtle for human liking. They had been to see Skafloc’s friends, little gnomes dwelling under tree roots, slim white water-sprites, an old and sad-eyed faun, and many beasts of the rivers and forests. Freda could not converse, but she was wide-eyed and often a-laugh at sight of them.

  She had given only the most fleeting thoughts to the future. Some day, of course, she must bring Skafloc to the lands of men and get him christened, a worthy act for which her present sins would no doubt be forgiven her. But not now, not yet. Elfheugh was timeless, she lost all track of days and nights, and there was so much else to do—

  Now she flew into his arms. His troubled mien vanished at sight of her – young, slim, lithe and long-legged, still more girl than woman. He laid his hands on her waist and flung her up into the air and caught her again, both of them laughing aloud.

  ‘Set me down,’ she gasped. ‘Set me down so I can kiss you.’

  ‘In a moment.’ Skafloc tossed her up again, making a sign with his hand. There she hung, weightless in mid-air, kicking out and choking between merriment and surprise. Skafloc pulled her to him and she hung above him with her lips on his.

  ‘No sense craning my neck to kiss you,’ decided Skafloc. He made himself weightless and conjured up a cloud on which they could rest. A tree grew on it, heavy with grapes, and rainbows arched through the misty leaves.

  ‘Some day, madman, you will forget some part of your wizardry and fall and break your neck,’ she said.

  He held her close, looking into her gray eyes. Then he counted the freckles dusting the bridge of her nose, and kissed her once for each of them. ‘I had best make you spotted like a leopard,’ he said.

  ‘You know you need no such excuse,’ she answered softly. ‘I have longed for you, Skafloc. How went the hunt?’

  He scowled as memory returned. ‘Well enough,’ he evaded.

  ‘You are troubled, dearest. What is it? All night there have been horns blowing and feet marching and hoofs tramping. I see armed men in the castle, more every day. What is it, Skafloc?’

  ‘You know there is war with the trolls,’ he said. ‘We are letting them come to us, for ’twould be hard to invade their mountain fastnesses while they still have their full strength.’

  She shuddered in his arms. ‘The trolls—’

  ‘No fear.’ Skafloc laughed. ‘We will meet them at sea and break their power. Any who land we will wipe out. Then with its righting strength gone, Trollheim will be easy to subdue. ’Twill be a lusty fight, but Alfheim cannot help winning it.’

  ‘I fear for you, Skafloc.’

  He quoth:

  Fear of fairest

  fay for chieftain

  makes him merry –

  means she loves him.

  Girl, be gay now.

  Gladly take I

  gift you give me,

  gold-bright woman.

  Freda blushed. ‘Shameless are you,’ she said, though not able to keep from smiling.

  ‘Why,’ asked Skafloc in surprise, ‘what is there to be ashamed of?’

  Firespear rode out shortly after sunset of the next night, while a few sullen embers still glowed red in the west. He and his dozen huntsmen wore the green tunics of the chase, but with cowled black cloaks flung over. Their spears and arrows were tipped with silver. About their curvetting horses bayed the pack of savage elf-hounds, great black beasts with eyes like hot coals and slavering fangs, with blood of Garm and Fenris and the Wild Hunt’s dogs in them.

  Forth they swept as Firespear’s horn shouted, with thunder of hoofs and bellow of hounds ringing between the hills. Like the wind they went, through a stormy pit-black night, racing between the ice-sheathed forest trees. A fleeting glint of silver and jeweled hilts and angrily burning red eyes was to be seen, a rush of shadows, and no more, but the clamor of their passage rang from end to end of the great forest. Lonely hunters and outlaws and charcoal burners who heard that racket shuddered and crossed themselves, and wild beasts slunk aside.

  From afar the witch, squatting in the shelter she had built by the ashes of her house, heard. She crouched over her tiny fire in the numbing lightless cold while a storm-wind roared in the trees above her, and muttered, ‘The elves hunt tonight.’

  ‘Aye,’ squeaked her familiar, and as the noise came nearer: ‘And I think they hunt – us.’

  ‘Us?’ screamed the witch. ‘But why—’

  ‘You are no friend to Skafloc or Imric.’ The rat chattered with fear and cold against her bosom. ‘Now quickly, mother, quickly, summon aid or we are done.’

  The witch had no time for ceremonial or sacrifice, but she howled the call for help and a monstrous blackness deeper than the night rose up before her.

  She groveled before the Dark One. Faint and cold, the little blue flames of Hell raced across him. ‘Help,’ she whimpered. ‘Help, the elves come—’

  The wise inscrutable eyes watched her without rancor or pity. The clamor of the hunt swept nearer. ‘Help!’ she cried.

  He spoke, in a voice that blent with the roaring wind but seemed to come from vast and hollow depths unthinkably far removed. ‘What do you call on me for?’

  ‘I am being hunted by those who wish my death,’ she quavered.

  ‘What of that? You said once that you do not care for life.’

  ‘My vengeance is not complete,’ she sobbed. ‘I cannot die now, without knowing whether my work and the price I paid are for naught. Master, help thy servant!’

  Nearer came the hunters. She could hear the drumming of hoofs now.

  ‘You are not my servant, you are my slave.’ The far voice rushed through the groaning trees. ‘What is it to me whether your purpose is fulfilled? I am the master of evil, which is futility. You have sold me your soul, and wrought enough ill to seal the bargain forever. What more concern have I with this shadow-play? It is time I reaped my harvest.’

  And the Dark One was gone.

  Now the witch screamed and ran. Behind her the hounds, confused by the smell of her visitor, barked in the clearing. The witch turned herself into a rat and crawled into a hole under a great tree.

  ‘She is near at hand,’ said Firespear, ‘and – Ha! They have the scent!’

  The pack snarled around an ancient tree. Earth flew as they dug after their prey, ripping the deep roots in their monster eagerness. The witch darted past them, changed to the form of a crow, and flew up. Firespear’s bow twanged, and the crow sank to earth, becoming a hag at whom the hounds rushed. The rat leaped from her bosom, and a rearing horse brought its silver-shod foot down to crush him.

  The hounds tore the witch apart, but as they did she screamed at the elves: ‘All my curses! All woe do I wish on Alfheim! And tell Imric that Valgard the changeling lives and knows—’

  There her words ended. ‘That was an easy hunt,’ said Firespear. ‘I had feared we would have to use sorcery to track her wanderings of perhaps a score of years, even into foreign lands.’ He snuffed the gale eagerly. ‘As it is, we will have the rest of the night for better game.’

  Imric rewarded his hunters well, but when they told him, in some puzzlement, what their quarry had said, he scowled blackly.

  13

  Valgard found a plac
e of honor at the court of the trolls, grandson of Illrede and mighty warrior as he was. But the lords looked askance at him – after all, he had elf blood too, and came from lands of men; also, they were jealous of a poor and lonely stranger who rose at once so high. Thus Valgard found no friends in Troll-heim. But he did not seek any, the aspect and the cold-blooded, barbarous natures of the trolls not being to his liking.

  They were, however, fearless warriors of terrible strength, and their great warlocks were masters of tremendous powers. The whole troll nation was stronger than any other in faerie save – perhaps – Alfheim. All this suited Valgard well, for here was the means to his vengeance and the gaining of his heritage.

  Illrede told him of the troll power. ‘We have built our lands for war all during the peace,’ said the king, ‘while the elves loafed and intrigued among themselves and took their pleasure. There are not quite so many trolls as elves, but with those who march beside us we outnumber them by a good many.’

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Valgard.

  ‘Most of the goblin tribes we have either conquered or made alliance with,’ said Illrede. ‘They have old grudges against both trolls and elves, who have long harried them, but I have promised them loot, and freedom for such slaves of their race as we have, and a place just below the trolls when we rule all faerie. They are doughty warriors, and there are many of them.

  ‘Then we have companies from distant lands, demons of Baikal, Shen of Cathay, imps of Moorish deserts, adding up to a good number. They have come for the looting and are not all to be relied on, but I will dispose them in battle according to what they can do. There are also stragglers who came alone or in little bands – werewolves, vampires, ghouls, that sort. And we have plenty of dwarf slaves, some of whom will fight in exchange for freedom – and they can handle iron.

  ‘Against this host the elves stand alone. They may be able to scrape together a few odd goblins and dwarfs and whatnot else, but those scarcely count. The very best they can hope for is aid from the Sidhe, but I doubt that those – save one or two, perhaps – wish to join in this struggle. True, the elf leaders are crafty and learned in magic – but so am I and my lords.’ Illrede’s laughter bellowed forth. ‘Oh, we will break Alfheim – break it like a dry twig across the knee!’