Skafloc called out above the wind and sea and coldly leaping fire:
Waken, chieftains,
fallen warriors!
Skafloc calls ye,
sings ye wakeful.
I conjure ye,
come on hell-road.
Rune-bound dead men,
rise and answer!
The barrow groaned. Higher and ever higher raged the icy flame above it. Skafloc chanted:
Grave shall open.
Gang forth, deathlings!
Fallen heroes,
fare to earth now.
Stand forth, bearing
swords all rusty,
broken shields, and
bloody lances.
Then the howe opened with leaping fires, and Orm and his sons stood in the grave-mouth. The chieftain called:
Who dares sunder
howe, and bid me
rise from death, by
runes and song-spells?
Flee the dead man’s
fury, stranger!
Let the deathling
lie in darkness.
Orm stood leaning on his spear. Earth still clung to him, and he was bloodless and covered with rime. His eyes glared frightfully in the flames that roared and whirled around him. On his right hand stood Ketil, stiff and pale, with the gash in his skull black against his blood-clotted hair. On his left was Asmund, wrapped in shadow, arms folded over the spear wound in his breast. Dimly behind them, Skafloc could see the buried ship and the dead crew stirring awake within it.
He bit back the fear that came out of the grave-mouth and quoth:
Terror shall not
turn my purpose.
Runes shall bind thee.
Rise and answer!
In thy ribs may
rats build nests, if
thou will give not
that I call for!
Orm’s voice rolled out, far and windy and strange:
Deep is dreamless
death-sleep, warlock.
Wakened dead are
wild with anger.
Ghosts will take a
gruesome vengeance
when their bones are
hailed from barrow.
Now Freda stood forth. ‘Father!’ she cried. ‘Father, know you not your daughter?’
Orm’s terrible dead eyes flamed on her, and the cold wrath died in them. He bowed his head and stood in the whirling, hissing sleet of fire. Ketil quoth:
Gladly see we
gold-decked woman.
Sun-bright maiden,
sister, welcome!
Ashy, frozen,
are our hollow
breasts with grave cold.
But you warm us.
Aelfrida came slowly up to Orm. They looked at each other, standing there in the dreadful roar of heatless fire. She took his hands, they were cold as the frozen earth in which they had lain. He quoth:
Dreamless was not
death, but frightful!
Tears of thine, dear,
tore my heart out.
Vipers dripped their
venom on me,
when in death I
heard thee weeping.
This I ask of
thee, beloved:
live in gladness,
laughing, singing.
Death is then the
dearest slumber,
wrapped in peace, with
roses round me.
‘That I have not strength to do, Orm,’ she said. She touched his dead face. ‘There is frost in your hair. There is mold in your mouth. You are cold, Orm.’
‘I am dead. The grave lies between us.’
‘Then let it be so no longer. Take me with you, Orm. Take me with you!’
His lips were cold on hers.
Skafloc said to Ketil:
Speak forth, deathling.
Say me whither
Bölverk giant
bides, the swordsmith.
Tell me farther,
truly, warrior,
what will make him
hammer for me.
Ketil quoth:
Ill thy questing
is, thou warlock!
Worst of evil
will it bring thee.
Seek not Bölverk.
Sorrow brings he.
Leave us now, while
life is left thee.
Skafloc shook his head, wordless and grim. Then Ketil leaned on his sword and chanted:
North in Jötunheim,
nigh to Utgard,
dwells the giant,
deep in mountain.
Sidhe will give thee
ship to find him.
Tell him Loki
talks of sword-play.
Now Asmund spoke from where he stood with his face in shadow, and there was sorrow in his voice:
Bitter, cruel –
brother, sister –
fate the Norns let
fall upon ye.
Wakened dead men
wish ye had not
wrought the spell that
wrings the truth out.
Of a sudden terror came on Freda, the black knowledge that now – now! – was the end of a world for her. She could not speak, she crept close to Skafloc and they stood facing the sorrowful wise eyes of Asmund. He said slowly, while the fires flamed white around his dark form:
Law of men is
laid on deathlings.
Hard it is to
hold unto it.
But the words must
bitter leave me:
Skafloc, Freda
is your sister.
Welcome, brother,
valiant warrior.
All unwitting
are you, sister.
But your love has
broken kinship.
Farewell, children,
fey and luckless!
The howe closed with a shattering groan. The flames sank and the moon gleamed wanly forth, low on the dark horizon.
Freda shrank from Skafloc with horror in her eyes. Like a blind man, he stumbled toward her. A strange little dry sob rattled in her throat. She turned and fled from him.
‘Mother,’ she whispered, ‘Mother.’
But the howe was bare under the moon. Nor did men ever see Aelfrida again.
Dawn came, a bleak and cheerless gray light stealing over the snow. The sky was low and heavy, clouds frozen over the empty white land. A few snowflakes drifted down through the silent bitter air.
Freda sat on the barrow, staring empty-eyed before her. She was not weeping. It seemed to her that she had wept out all her tears and could never cry again. Her breast felt cold and hollow.
She did not look at Skafloc when he sat down beside her. His face was white and haggard in the dull dawn. His voice came low and hopeless: ‘I love you, Freda.’
She said no word. After a while he went on: ‘I can never do other than love you. What matters the chance which made us of the same blood? It means naught. Come – Freda, come, forget the damned law—’
‘It is God’s law,’ she said tonelessly. ‘I cannot disobey it, my sins are too heavy already.’
‘I say that a god who would come between two that love is an evil creature, a demon – I would smite such a god with my sword if he should come near. Surely I would not follow him.’
‘Aye – a heathen you are!’ she flared. ‘Fosterling of soulless elves, for whom you would even raise the dead from their great sleep.’ A faint color tinged her pale cheeks as her eyes flamed at him. ‘Then go back to your elves! Go back to Leea!’
He stood up as she did. He tried to take her hands, but she wrenched away. His wide shoulders sagged then.
‘There is no hope?’ he whispered.
‘No.’ She half turned. ‘I will go to a neighbor garth now. It may be I can still atone for my sins.’ Suddenly she swung around to face him. ‘Come with me, Skafloc! Come, forget your heathen life, become Christian and make your peace with God.’
He shook his head, and his eyes were angry. ‘Not with that god.’
‘But – I love you, Skafloc, I love you too much to wish your soul anywhere than in Heaven.’
‘If you love me,’ he said softly, ‘come with me. I will lay no hand on you, save as – as a brother. But come.’
‘No,’ she breathed, shudderingly. ‘Goodbye.’
And she turned about and ran.
He ran after her. The snow crunched under their feet. When he caught her, his face was twisted as if a knife were being turned within him.
‘Will you not even kiss me goodbye, Freda?’ he asked.
‘No.’ He could barely hear her voice, and she looked away from him. ‘No. I dare not.’
And again she fled.
He stood watching her lovely young form. His own body seemed frozen. The light struck coppery sparks from her hair, the only color in the gray and white dawn. He watched her until she rounded a clump of trees and was lost to sight. Then he walked slowly the other way, out of the empty garth.
21
Within the next few days, that long and cruel winter began to die. And one evening at sunset Gulban Glas Mac Grici stood atop a snowy hill and on the south wind caught the first supernaturally faint breath of spring.
He leaned on his spear and stood looking over the twilit whiteness that sloped down to the sea. A sullen ember of sunset still smoldered in the west. Darkness and stars rose out of the east, and he saw a little fishing boat coming thence. It was a plain mortal craft, bought or stolen from some English seaman, and the tall warrior at the steering oar was flesh-and-blood human. But a strangeness brooded over him, and his sea-stained garments were of elf cut.
As he landed and sprang ashore, Gulban recognized him. The Irish Sidhe held aloof from the rest of faerie, but they had had some traffic with Alfheim in past years and Gulban remembered the merry youth Skafloc who had been with Imric. But he had become gaunt and grim, more even than the fortunes of his people seemed to warrant.
Skafloc walked up the hill toward the tall warrior-chief etched black against a sky of red and cold greenish-blue. As he approached, he recognized Gulban Glas, one of the five guardians of Ulster, and hailed him.
The chief returned grave greetings, inclining his gold-helmed head till the long black locks hid his fine strong features. But he could not keep from shrinking a little away as he sensed the incalculable power of the evil sleeping in a wolfskin bundle on Skafloc’s back.
‘I was told to await you,’ he said.
Skafloc looked at him out of weary eyes. ‘Have the Sidhe that many ears?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Gulban, ‘but they know when something of great portent nears – and what could it concern this time save the war of the elves and the trolls? So we looked for an elf to come bearing strange tidings, and I suppose you are that one.’
‘Elf – yes!’ said Skafloc with searing bitterness. There were deep lines drawn in his lean face, and dark hollows of sleeplessness about his eyes. Sea-salt streaked his war-gear – which was odd, thought Gulban, since the elves were careful of their appearance even in the most desperate times.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Lugh of the Long Hand must think this a great matter, for he has called all the Tuatha De Danaan to council in the Cave of Cruachan, and the chiefs of all other people of the Sidhe as well. But you are tired and hungry, Skafloc. First must you come to my abode.’
‘No,’ said the man with a rude bluntness equally strange to elves. ‘It cannot wait, nor do I care for more rest and food than I need to keep going. Take me to the council.’
The chieftain shrugged and turned away, with his great night-blue cloak swirling about him. He whistled, and two of the lovely light-footed horses of the Sidhe came galloping up. But they snorted and shied away from Skafloc.
‘They like not your burden,’ said Gulban.
‘Nor I,’ answered Skafloc shortly. He caught a long silky mane and sprang onto the horse. ‘Now swiftly!’
Away they went, nigh as quickly as elf steeds, soaring over hills and dales, fields and forests, tarns and frozen rivers. In the dusk Skafloc saw some of the Sidhe glimpse-wise: a tall flashing-mailed horseman with a spear of bright terror, a gnarly little leprechaun at the door of his tree house, a strangely beak-like face on a gaunt cloak-wrapped man with gray feathers for hair, a flitting shadow and a faint skirl of pipes in secret forests. The keen wintry air held a faint mist in it, the shifting mysterious Irish fog glimmering above the crusted snow.
Now they neared the Cave of Cruachan, and their hoofbeats rang between the wooded hills in the softly gathering night. Stars blinked forth overhead, bright and clear as Freda’s eyes – No! Skafloc wrenched his mind from such thoughts.
Four tall warriors stood outside the cave, and they lifted their spears in grave salutation. They took the curvetting horses, and Gulban Glas led Skafloc inside.
It was vast and dim within, an eerie sea-green light filling the rugged vaulting of the cave. Flashing stalactites hung from the groined roof, and the shields hung on the walls gave back the clear glow of tapers. Rushes had been spread on the floor, and the soft rustle of them beneath his feet was all the sound Skafloc heard as he neared the great council table.
At its foot were the chiefs of the people of Lupra, small and strong and roughly clad: Udan Mac Audain, king of the leprechauns, and Beg Mac Beg his tanist; Glomhar O’Glomrach, mighty of girth and muscled arm; the chiefs Conan Mac Rihid, Gaerku Mac Gaird, Mether Mac Mintan, and Esirt Mac Beg, clad in hides and raw gold. With such folk even a mortal could feel at home.
But up at the head of the table were the Tuatha De Danaan, the Children of the earth-mother Dana, come from Tir-nam-Og, the Golden, to hold council in the Cave of Cruachan. Silent and awesome they sat, beautiful and splendid to look on, and the very air seemed to crackle with the power that was in them. For they had been gods in Ireland ere Patrick brought the White Christ thither, and though they had had to flee the cross, still they wielded great powers and lived in a splendor like that of old.
Lugh of the Long Hand sat in the great throne at the very head, and on his right he had the warrior Angus Og and on his left the sea king Mananaan Mac Lir. Others of the Tuatha De Danaan were there, Eochy Mac Elathan the Dagda Mor, Dove Berg the Fiery, Credh Mac Aedh, Cas Corrach, Coll the Sun, Cecht the Plow, Mac Greina the Hazel, and many other names great of fame; and with the chiefs were their wives and children, and harpers and warriors who followed in their train. Wondrous it was to see that assemblage, and the sight was one to strike awe in any heart.
Save perhaps that of Skafloc, who was beyond caring for power or magnificence or danger of death. He walked up to the council with his gold-maned head held high, and his eyes met the dark brilliance of Lugh’s as he gave greeting.
The deep voice of he of the Long Hand rolled out of the stern god-like face: ‘Be welcome, Skafloc of Alfheim, and drink with the chiefs of the Sidhe.’
He signed that the man should sit in an empty seat near his own left, with Mananaan and his wife Fand all there were between. The cup bearers brought great golden bowls of the wondrous wine from Tir-nam-Og, and the harps of the bards rippled a luring melody as they drank.
Strong and fiery sweet was that wine, it seemed to Skafloc to be a flame burning out the weariness that dragged at him. But it left the grimness and desolation all the plainer.
Angus Og, the fair-locked warrior, spoke: ‘How goes the fight in Alfheim?’
‘Ill goes it, as you know,’ said Skafloc bitterly. ‘The elves fight alone, and fall – even as one by one all the divided people of faerie will be swallowed by Trollheim.’
Lugh’s voice was steady and implacable: ‘The Children of Dana have no fear of trolls. We who won over the dark Fomorians, and who even defeated by the Miletians, became their gods, what have we to fear? Glad would we have been to battle beside Alfheim—’
‘Glad indeed!’ Dove Berg rattled his sword in its sheath. His hair was like a red flame in the cool g
reen twilight of the cave, and his shout woke echoes rolling between its hollow walls. ‘Why, there has not been so glorious a fight for a hundred years! Why, could we not go?’
‘Well you know the answer,’ said Eochy Mac Elathan, the Father of Stars. He sat wrapped in a cloak like blue dusk, and bright points of light winked and glittered on it and in his hair and deep within his eyes. When he spread his hands, a little shower of star-sparks spread out and danced on the hushed air. ‘This is more than a simple hosting in faerie. This is a chess game played by Aesir and Jötuns and we will not risk our freedom to become pieces on the board of the world. Ill have such chessmen fared.’
Skafloc’s hands gripped the chair arms till the knuckles stood whitely forth, and his voice wavered a little: ‘I come not for help in war, however sorely ’tis needed. I want only the loan of a ship.’
‘And may we ask why?’ It was Coll who spoke. Bright was his face, and little flames wavered over his gleaming hauberk and the sun-rayed golden brooch at his muscled throat.
Skafloc told briefly of the Aesir’s gift, and finished: ‘I made shift to steal the sword from Elfheugh, and by magic found out that I could get a ship from the Sidhe which would bear me to Jötunheim. So I came hither to ask for it.’ He bent his head a little. ‘Aye, as a beggar I come. To this has Alfheim fallen. But if we win, you shall have goodly gifts of us.’
‘I were fain to see this glaive,’ quoth Mananaan Mac Lir. Tall and strong and lithe he was, white of skin and silvery-gold of hair, the faintest greenish tinge in them. His eyes were slumbrous, a shifting green and gray and blue, his voice soft though it could rise to a roar. Richly clad he was, with gold and silver and jewels on the hilt and scabbard of his sword, but he wore a great leather cloak over his shoulders.
Skafloc unwrapped the broken sword, and the Sidhe, who could handle iron, crowded around it – and shrank back as they felt the cold sorcerous powers locked in its ancient rusty blade. A low ominous murmuring rose among them.
Lugh lifted his crowned head and looked darkly at Skafloc. ‘You deal in evil things,’ he said. ‘There is a demon sleeping in this sword.’
‘What would you expect?’ shrugged Skafloc. ‘A Jötun forged it. But its powers are great.’
‘Great for ill. This glaive carries victory, aye, but it also carries death. It will be your bane if you use it.’
‘And what of that?’ Skafloc gathered his bundle together. The iron rang, loud in the taut silence, as the two pieces clashed together, and something in that harsh belling note sent chills along the nerves of those who heard.
The Broken Sword Page 16