The Broken Sword

by Poul Anderson

  He stumbled up the long winding stair to his chambers. The troll guard sprawled in sottish sleep – ha, were they all drunks and murderers of their own kin? Where in all this brawling, fear-ridden horde was one to whom he could open his heart?

  He entered his chambers and stood huge and stoop-shouldered in the door. Leea sat up in the bed. She at least, he thought dully, she had not played wanton like the other elf women – and she comforted him in times like these when he trembled for fear of himself.

  Lightning blazed around the tower. The bawling thunder rattled its ancient floors and rafters. The wind screamed, dashing a solid gray sheet of rain against the walls. Tapestries blew wildly in the cold, gusts that whirled around the room. Tapers were snuffed out and only the incessant lightning gave a lurid vision.

  Valgard sat heavily down on the edge of the bed. His eyes stared emptily before him. Leea slid up by his side and laid white arms about his neck.

  Her slumbrous gaze rested on him, cool and remote and mysterious. Her smile was luring but somehow had no warmth. He heard her voice, sweet under the crashing thunder: ‘What have you been doing, my lord?’

  ‘That you know,’ he muttered. ‘And I wonder why you hate me not for it.’

  ‘Victory goes to the strong, in might or guile,’ she said. ‘That is the law of life, even in faerie.’

  ‘Aye.’ He clenched his teeth. ‘And now it seems they, the elves – are the strongest. Everywhere the trolls flee. It is sorcery – it must be! I have heard some story of a sword whose wielder ever has the victory—’

  He looked grimly at her. ‘But what I cannot understand is the fall of the great strongholds,’ he said. ‘Even an elf army victorious in the field should have dashed itself to bits against those walls. Many of them surrendered to us without a fight, the rest were starved – why, some few have never been out of elf hands in spite of all we could bring against them. But those we held, fully manned, well supplied – they were lost as soon as the Erlking’s men rode against them.’ He shook his unkempt head. ‘Why?’

  Then seizing her slim shoulders in rough hands: ‘But this castle shall not fall. It cannot! I will hold Elfheugh though the gods themselves take the field against me. Ha, I long for battle – naught else would so cheer me and my weary men. And we will smash them, you hear? We will fling them back and I will raise Skafloc’s head on a pike above the walls.’

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ she breathed, still smiling, still cool and secret.

  ‘I am strong,’ he growled, deep in his throat. ‘When I was a viking, I broke men with my bare hands. And I have no fear in battle, and I am cunning. Many victories have I won, and I will win many more.’

  His hands fell slackly to his lap and his eyes darkened with horror. ‘But what of that?’ he whispered. ‘What of that? Why am I so? Because Imric made me thus. He molded me into the image of Orm’s son. I am alive for no other reason, and all my strength and looks and brain are – Skafloc’s!’

  He stumbled to his feet. Blindly he stared before him, and his voice rose to a scream: ‘What am I but the shadow of Skafloc?’

  The thunder roared and raged. The wind ran wild, shouting its ancient power, hooting its ancient mockery. Lightning leaped and flamed, white, livid, hell-fire loose in the sky. The rain flung itself against the streaming walls.

  Valgard swayed and groped through the lightning-raddled gloom. ‘I will kill him,’ he muttered between his teeth. ‘I will bury him deep under the sea. I will kill Imric and Freda and you, Leea – all who know I am not really alive, that I am a ghost conjured into flesh molded after another man’s – cold flesh, my hands are cold—’

  The thunder crashed and boomed. ‘Aye, throw your hammer up there!’ howled Valgard. ‘Make your noise while you can! I will put my hands around the pillars of the sky and pull them down. I will tread the world under my feet. I will raise storm and darkness and glaciers grinding down from the north, and dust shall whirl in my footsteps. I am Death!’

  Someone beat on the door, a frantic tattoo scarce heard above the banging thunder and the shrieking wind. Valgard snarled and opened. His hands sought the throat of the troll who stood swaying with weariness before him.

  ‘I will begin with you,’ he mumbled. Foam flecked his lips. With all the monster troll strength, the struggling messenger could not break the hold.

  But when he sprawled dead on the floor, the berserkergang left Valgard. Weak and trembling, he leaned against the door. ‘That was unwise,’ he muttered.

  ‘Perhaps there were others with him,’ said Leea. She stepped out onto the landing and called: ‘Hai, down there! The earl wishes to speak with any others who just arrived.’

  A troll, spent and reeling, with a bloody gash in one cheek, stumbled to the foot of the stairs. ‘Fifteen of us set out,’ he said, gasping. ‘Gru and I alone are left. The outlaws dogged us all the way.’

  ‘But what is the word?’ called Valgard. ‘What is your message?’

  ‘The elves have landed in England, lord. And we got word that the Irish Sidhe, led by Lugh of the Long Hand himself, are already in Scotland.’

  Valgard nodded his gaunt head.

  26

  Under cover of a wild autumn storm, Skafloc led the best of the elf warriors across the channel to England. He was chief of that host, for the Erlking stayed behind to drive the last remnants of the trolls from continental Alfheim. But to take England, he warned, would be no light matter – and if the trolls should be able to repulse the elves, they could use the island as a rallying point for new attacks.

  Skafloc shrugged. ‘Victory goes with my sword,’ he said.

  The Erlking studied him for some time ere saying: ‘Have a care about that weapon. Well has it worked for us up to now, but it is treacherous. Sooner or later it is fated to turn on its wielder, perhaps when he is most cruelly needed.’

  Skafloc paid no great heed to this, but gathered men, horses, and ships in hidden Breton bays. He also got word to the elf chiefs in England, that they should start hosting their scattered warriors. And on a night when gales cloaked all the northern world, he took his fleet across the channel.

  Dark and savage was that night, with sleet-mingled rain driving in solid sheets out of a black sky split open with lightning. Thunder rolled and roared between crazed heaven and groaning earth. The wind filled the sky with its lashing clamor. Black was the sea, whitened with foam and fury, mighty waters running out of the west and snarling far up the shore. Even the elves put no sail on their pitching ships, but rowed across the channel to southeast England. The rain and sea dashed in their faces and blue fire crawled over the reeling masts.

  Out of the galing dark, black against the livid lightning, reared the shores of England. The elves rowed until it seemed their muscles must burst. Surf roared on beach and skerry, and the wind caught at the ships and sought to hurl them onto darkly gleaming rocks or against each other. Fierce was the struggle to round the ness, and one ship was swamped and lost under the galloping white-maned waves. Skafloc laughed harshly and said aloud:

  Cold and lustful

  are the kisses

  which Ran’s daughters,

  white-armed, give us.

  Laughing, shouting,

  shake they tresses

  white and salt-sweet,

  high breasts heaving.

  He stood braced in the bow of his rolling longship, staring ahead into the storm, and when he saw the streaming rain-lashed land a mighty longing rose in his breast and nigh choked him. He quoth:

  Home again the howling,

  hail-streaked wind has borne me.

  Now I stand here, nearing

  ness of lovely England.

  She dwells on these shores, but

  shall I ever see her?

  Woe, the fair young woman

  will not leave my thinking.

  But when the fleet had gotten around the cape they found waters sheltered enough for landing. The elves ran their ships up to the shore and drew them onto the beach.


  Swiftly now they busked themselves for fighting. One of Skafloc’s captains asked him: ‘Who will remain to guard the ships?’

  ‘No one,’ he replied. ‘We will need all our men inland.’

  ‘But the trolls might come on the fleet and burn it – then we would have no way of retreat.’

  Skafloc looked about the lightning-lit countryside. ‘For me, at least,’ he said, ‘there will be no retreat. I will not leave England again, alive or dead, till the trolls are driven out.’

  The elves looked at him in more than a little awe. He hardly seemed a mortal, standing there tall and iron-clad, the demon sword clanking at his waist. He had grown gaunt and haggard, curt of speech and pitiless in war. Strange wolf-greenish lights flickered far back in his chill blue eyes, and he fought with berserker recklessness and cold calm at once. The elves thought he was fey.

  He swung into the saddle of his grim black horse. His voice came above the wind: ‘Sound the lur horns. We ride on troll hunt tonight!’

  The army got under way. Rain beat in their faces and lightning blazed overhead. When they rode by woods the fallen leaves scrunched soddenly under hoofs and feet. The night was cold with the first breath of a new winter.

  Presently they heard the remote brassy bellow of horns, troll battle-horns. The elves hefted their gleaming weapons and smiled savagely in the flimmering lightning-glare. Rain-streaming shields flashed forth in the night and the lur horns brayed again.

  Skafloc rode at the head of the elf wedge. He felt no great joy at the thought of battle, he was sick and weary with the slaughter of the last months. When he drew the sword a wild murder lust ran like a flame from it into him, and he fought tirelessly, ruthlessly, few weapons biting on him. But – was he not becoming the mere vessel of the demon power in the sword?

  What did it matter? Freda had left him.

  Now the trolls came out of the night toward the elves. They must have come from a nearby castle, belike Alfarhöi, and their force was strong though not so great as that of the elves. About half of it was archers and pikemen and other foot soldiers. Many of the elves were mounted, but some got down on the ground ere battle.

  ‘We outnumber them, but not by much,’ said the chief on Skafloc’s right. ‘This would not be the first time brave warriors have overthrown stronger hosts.’

  ‘I do not fear they will defeat us,’ replied Skafloc, ‘but it would be ill if they killed any great number of us, for then the next fight might indeed be our last.’ He scowled into the rainy night. ‘Curse it, England’s elves knew we were to be here at this time. Where are they—? Unless the messengers were caught on the way, or the outlaws have been trapped and killed—’

  The troll horns sounded to battle. Skafloc drew his sword and swung it above his head. In the glare of lightning, the blade flamed blindly and seemed to be wreathed in blue fire.

  ‘Forward!’ Skafloc spurred his mighty horse. The icy rage of murder blazed through him, he cared not whether it rose from the sword or the darknesses of his own soul – forward, kill, hew, hew!

  Spears and arrows whistled overhead, unseen against the lightning-crawling heavens. But the ripping wind made it hard to aim, and so the clatter of swords was swiftly heard.

  Skafloc leaned forward in his stirrups and hewed with both hands. A troll struck at him, and his sword bit through those arms. Another rode close, ax raised, and the blade screamed around into that one’s neck. A foot soldier jabbed with his pike – it glanced off Skafloc’s helmet, and the man leaned over to smite the troll to earth.

  Ax and sword! Clang and spark-flash! Cloven metal, rent flesh, warriors sinking to the rain-running ground under the devil-dance of lightning!

  Through the mighty clangor rode Skafloc, hewing, hewing. His blows shuddered through metal and bone, the shock slamming back into his own shoulders. Weapons lashed at him, striking with suddenly deadened edges he hardly felt. The hawk-scream of his blade rose high, wailing death-songs. None could stand against him, and he led his men through the troll lines and turned on the foe from behind.

  But the trolls fought stubbornly. Elves sank under mighty blows. Arrows veiled the bunched archers. Charging horses ran into braced spears. Where was help, where was help?

  As if in answer, a horn blew under the rolling thunder. A horn, and another, and yet another – a wild war-cry, a storm of spears and arrows, a sweeping of ragged hell-raging figures out of the night!

  ‘Ha, Alfheim!’ Firespear rode forward with blood streaming from his lance like the rain from his helmet. His face blazed with joy of victory. By his side, grim and blood-smeared, battle-dinted ax dripping red, rode Flam of Orkney. And other great elf chiefs were in the fight, rising as if out of the gory earth to strike down the trolls.

  With such numbers, it was no great task to clear away the foe, and erelong only corpses held the field. Skafloc held saddle-council with Firespear, Flam, and the other elf lords.

  ‘We came as swiftly as we could,’ said Firespear, ‘but we had to stop at Runehill to take it since the gates stood open for us and few trolls inside it lived – well did the women do their work! Alfarhöi must await us too.’

  ‘It is well,’ nodded Skafloc. Now that the battle was past and the sword sheathed, he felt only a great weariness. The storm was dying overhead in wink of lightning and grumble of thunder, the wind sank and the rain washed heavily out of a lightening sky.

  ‘The Sidhe of Erin go to war too,’ said Flam. ‘Lugh has landed in Scotland, and Mananaan is driving the trolls from Orkney and Shetland.’

  ‘Ah – he held his word.’ Skafloc’s eyes brightened. ‘A good friend is Mananaan. He is the only god I would ever trust.’

  ‘And that only because he is a half-god stripped of his old powers and reduced to faerie,’ muttered Firespear. ‘Ill is it to have any dealings with gods – or giants.’

  ‘Well, we had best get inside ere dawn,’ said Flam. ‘Today we sleep in Alfarhöi – oh, it has been long since I slept in an elf burh or beside an elf woman!’

  Skafloc’s face twisted, but he said naught.

  Through the autumn the elves fought, and their blood flowing was no redder than the leaves which flamed bronze and gold under a hazy blue sky and were whirled whispering away by a cool vagrant wind. Squirrels scuttled about, hiding nuts against the winter, and the far lonely cry of southward-winging geese rang over the dreamy misty hills. At night the stars were frosty-cold, twinkling by their thousands in the deep crystal black of the sky.

  Skafloc rode alone through the evening. The trolls had been cleared from the lands about, north and south their broken armies were streaming to Elfheugh for a last stand, so he had naught to fear. But his heart beat and beat, blood thundered in his ears, his hands were cold and his lips dry.

  The huge black stallion went at a walk, no faster than a mortal steed. The thickly strewn leaves crackled under his great hoofs and danced before him on a breath of cool rustling wind. The forest blazed around him, seeming to crown his rider with an aureole of gold and bronze and copper. The hazy twilight closed softly in as they went through remembered woods.

  Skafloc sat tall and straight in the saddle. His broad shoulders were unbowed by the weight of his battle-worn byrnie or the huge dragon-hilted sword. His hair blew long and light and fair under his winged helm. His face, strong straight lines of it standing out in bone and muscle under the weather-darkened skin, was set in unbending mold. But his eyes, huge and deep blue in the gaunt worn countenance, were bright with suffering. God-like he might look – or demon-like – but the dreadful wounded longing burned from his eyes.

  He was afraid. Death he could laugh at, but the resistless yearning which drew him forth shook his being with fear of opening old wounds.

  An elf had spoken of seeing a woman who looked like Freda Ormsdaughter in the garth of Thorkel Erlendsson – a woman young and fair, with sorrow in her gray eyes, and great with child.

  Skafloc rode into the rustling dark. He splashed over a murmurous b
rook, clear and icy cold, on which dead leaves floated seaward like little brown boats. He heard an owl hooting in the frosty twilight, and the dry voices of the trees whispered to him – but under it all was a great singing silence in which only his heart lived, fluttering in his ribbed breast like a caged bird.

  O Freda, Freda, are you really so near?

  The first stars began to twinkle out as Skafloc rode into Thorkel’s yard. It was dark save for the house, where firelight glowed from under the door.

  He dismounted. His knees wavered, and it took a surge of will for him to walk over to the house. He tried the door, and it was not latched.

  Audun’s eyes were warmer than the merry leaping flames as he came into the room where Freda sat alone. ‘All others are asleep,’ he said. ‘We can be together.’

  He sat down on the bench beside her. ‘Scarce can I believe it,’ he breathed. ‘Any day now, my father comes home and we can be wed.’

  Freda smiled. The light sheened ruddily from her long braided hair. ‘First I must have my child,’ she said, ‘but that time is also nigh.’

  Her eyes were grave on his. ‘And have you in truth naught against me for that – or against him?’ she asked, slowly and softly.

  ‘How could I?’ replied Audun. ‘It is your child, dearest of all, that is enough. It will be like my own.’

  He drew her into his arms.

  The door opened and the night wind blew in. Freda saw the tall form standing redly limned against the dark. She could not speak, but she shrank against the wall with something like horror whitening her face.

  ‘Freda,’ croaked Skafloc above the hiss and crackle of the fire. ‘Freda.’

  She stood slowly up, leaning against the wall behind her. There seemed to be an iron band around her throat, choking off her breath.

  Like a sleepwalker, Skafloc came toward her. And she took a slow step toward him, and another. The old hunger filled their eyes – he lived, she lived, they were together again.