The Broken Sword

XII

Several days later, Skafloc went out alone to hunt. He travelled on wizard skis which bore him like the wind, up hill and down dale, over frozen rivers and through snow-choked woods, well into the Scottish highlands by sunset. He had turned homeward, a roe deer lashed over his shoulders, when he saw from afar the glimmer of a camp-fire. Wondering who or what was camped in these bleak ranges, he went whispering over the snow with his spear at the ready.

Coming close through twilight, he descried one of mighty stature who squatted on the snow and roasted horseflesh over the blaze. Despite a chill wind, he wore only a wolfskin kilt, and the axe beside him flashed with unearthly brightness.

Skafloc sensed a Power, and when he saw that the other had but a single hand, his spine crawled. It was not thought good to meet Tyr of the /Bsir alone at dusk.

But too late to flee. The god was already looking towards him. Skafloc skied boldly into the circle of firelight and met Tyr’s brooding dark eyes.

“Greeting, Skafloc,” said the As. His voice was as of a slow storm through a brazen sky. He kept on turning the spit over the fire.

“Greeting, lord.” Skafloc eased a little. The elves, without souls, worshipped no gods, but neither was there any ill will between them and the Rsii; indeed, some served in Asgard itself.

Tyr nodded curtly in sign for the man to unburden himself and hunker down. Stillness lasted for a long while, save for the low flames which sputtered and sang and wove highlights over Tyr’s gaunt grim face.

He spoke at last: “I smelled war. The trolls mean to fare against Alfheim.”

“So we have learned, lord,” answered Skafloc. “The elves are prepared.”

“The fight will be harder than you think. The trolls have allies this time,” Tyr gazed sombrely into the flames. “More is at stake than elves or trolls know. The Norns spin many a thread to its end these days.”

Again was silence, until Tyr said: “Aye, ravens hover , low, and the gods stoop over the world, which trembles to the hoofbeats of Time. This I tell you, Skafloc: you will have sore need of the Rsii’s naming-gift to you. The gods themselves are troubled. Therefore I, the war-wager, am on earth.”

A wind shook his black locks. His eyes smouldered into the man’s. “I will give you a warning,” he said, “though I fear it helps naught against the will of the Noras. Who was your father, Skafloc?”

“I know not, lord, nor have I cared. 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 conies 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 noise of his passage loud in his ears, he wondered how good Tyr’s warning had been-for the question of who he really was rose stark in his mind, and the night seemed full of demons.

Faster he fled and faster, heedless of how the wind cut at him, yet could not outrun the thing saddled on his back. Only Freda, he thought, clutching for breath, only Freda could banish the fear from him.

Ere dawn the walls and towers of Elfheugh were in sight, high athwart heaven. An elf guard blew on a horn to signal the gatekeepers. Through the opened way whizzed Skafloc, into the courtyard and on to the castle steps. Kicking off his skis, he ran into the keep.

Imric, returned early that evening, had been talking in private with Leea. “What if Skafloc be taken with a mortal maid?” He shrugged. “ ’Tis his own business, and a small matter indeed. Are you jealous?”

“Yes,” his sister answered frankly. “However, ’tis more than that. See the girl for yourself. Try if you cannot sense that in some way she is meant as a weapon against us.”

“Hm ... so.” The elf-earl tugged his chin and scowled. “Tell me what you know about her.”

“Well, she hight Freda Ormsdaughter, from a broken family south in the Danelaw—”

“Freda-Ormsdaughter—” Imric stood aghast. “Why, that-means—”

Skafloc burst into the room. His haggardness shocked them. It was a little time until he could speak; then his tale flooded out of him.

“What did Tyr mean?” he cried at the end. “Who am I, Imric?”

“I see what he meant,” answered the elf-earl harshly, “and therefore your birth is my secret alone, Skafloc. I will but say that you come of good stock, with naught shameful in its blood.” And he put on his smoothest manner and spoke fair words which at length sent Skafloc and Leea away soothed.

But when they were gone, he paced the floor and muttered to himself. “Someone somehow has lured us onto a road that is tricky and beset.” His teeth came together. “Best get rid of the girl—but no, Skafloc guards her with his whole might, and if I did contrive against her, he would soon know it and-The secret must be kept. Not that Skafloc would care; he thinks like an elf in that regard. But if he found out, the girl soon would; and ’tis one of the strongest laws laid on mankind that they have broken. She would be desperate enough to do anything. And we need Skafloc.”

He turned plans over in his crafty brain. He thought of luring Skafloc with other women. But no, his fosterling would recognize any potion for what it was; and over unforced love, the gods themselves had no might. If that love died of itself, the secret would no longer make any difference. But Imric dared not lay trust in so flimsy a chance. It followed that the truth about Skafloc’s parentage must be buried, and soon.

The elf-earl cast back in his memory. As nearly as he could tell-it is not easy to keep thousands of years straight-only one besides himself knew the whole story.

He sent for Firespear, a trusty guardsman, still a youth of two centuries but cunning and sorcerous. “There was a witch who dwelt in a woodland south west of here, twenty-odd years ago,” he said. “She may have died or moved away, but I want you to track her—and if she yet lives, slay her out of hand.”

“Aye, lord,” nodded Firespear. “If I may take a few huntsmen and hounds, we will start off at eventide.” Imric gave him directions. “Take what you will, and begone as swiftly as may be. Ask not for my reasons, nor talk about the matter afterwards.”

Freda welcomed Skafloc back to their rooms with jubilations. Despite her wonder at the magnificence of Elfheugh, she had quailed, beneath an undaunted mien, when restlessness drove him outdoors from her. The castle dwellers, tall lithe elves and their women of immortal beauty, dwarfs and goblins and even more eldritch folk who toiled for them, the wyverns wherewith they went hawking, the lions and panthers they kept for pets, the proud quicksilver grace of the very horses and dogs, were alien to her. The elven touch was cool, the elven faces like statue faces yet at the same time inhumanly fluid, speech and garb and ways of a life that spanned centuries sundered them from her. The dim splendour of the castle which was also a barren tor, the sorceries adrift through its eternal warm twilight, the presences that haunted hills and woods and waters-oppressed her with strangeness.

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 lively and merry and mischievous until she could not but laugh with him, his staves rushed out of him and every one to her praise, his arms and his lips awoke a craziness that did not stop before joy had for a moment dissolved the flesh itself and made them into One Who sings for ever. She had seen him fight, and knew there were few warriors in lands of men or Faerie who could stand before him, and of this she was proud; after all, she stemmed from warriors herself. (And she was not an unnatural daughter and sister, was she, because a spell she was helpless to withstand had so swiftly drawn the grief out of her and instead made her overflow with happiness? She had had no choice, Skafloc would not have waited for a year of mourning, and what better father could be gotten for the grandchildren of Orm and Mlfrida?) But with her he was always gentle.

She knew he loved her. He must, or why would he lie with her, spend well-nigh his whole time with her, who could have elf women? She did not know why-did not know how deeply her warmth had entered his soul which had never before felt the like. Skafloc had not been aware of his 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 barest flicker in the long elf memories. It was good to have one of his own sort by his side.

In their few days together they had done much, ridden the swift horses and sailed the slender boats and walked over many leagues of hill and woods. Freda was a skilled archer; Orm had wanted his womenfolk able to defend themselves. When she went among the trees with bow in hand and bronze hair shining, she seemed a young goddess of the hunt. They had watched the magicians and mummers, listened to the musicians and skalds, who beguiled the elves, though these were often too sly and subtle for human liking. They had guested Skafloc’s friends, gnomes who dwelt under tree roots, slim white water-sprites, an old and sad-eyed faun, beasts of the wilderness. Though Freda could not converse, she was wide-eyed and a-smile at sight of them.

She had given scant thought to the future. Someday, of course, she must bring Skafloc to the lands of men and get him christened, a worthy deed for which her present sins would no doubt be forgiven her. Not now, though, not yet. Elfheugh was timeless, she had lost track of days and nights, and there was so much else to do.

She sped into his arms. What trouble still clung to him vanished at seeing her: young, slinij lithe and long-legged, more girl than woman and nonetheless his woman. He laid hands on her waist, flung her into the air, and caught her again, while they both laughed aloud.

“Set me down,” she gasped. “Set me down so I can kiss you.”

“Soon.” Skafloc tossed her up again and made a sign. There she hung, weightless in midair, kicking out and choking between merriment and surprise. Skafloc pulled her to him and she hung above with her mouth on his.

“No sense craning my neck for this,” decided Skafloc. He made himself weightless too and conjured forth a cloud, not wet but like white feathers, for them to rest on. A tree grew from its middle, heavy with different kinds of fruit, and rainbows arched through its leaves.

“Someday, madman, you will forget some part of your tricks and fall and break in little pieces,” she said.

He held her close, looking into her grey eyes. Then he counted the freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose, and kissed her once for each of them. “I had best make you spotted like a leopard,” he said.

“Do you need such an excuse?” she answered softly. “I have longed for you, my dearest. How went your hunt?”

He frowned as memory returned. “Well enough.”

“You fret, darling. What’s wrong? This whole night have horns blown and feet pattered and hoofs tramped. I see more armed men in the castle every day. What is it, Skafloc?”

“You know we are at war with the trolls,” he said. “We are letting them come to us, for ’twould be hard to overrun their mountain fastnesses while they keep their full strength.”

She shuddered in his arms. “The trolls—”

“No fear.” Skafloc cast off his unease. “We will meet them at sea and break their power. Any who land we will let stay, in as much earth as they need to cover them. Then with its strength gone, it will be a romp to lay Trollheim under us. Oh, we will have lusty fighting, but Alfheim would have to work hard not to win.”

“I fear for you, Skafloc.”

Quoth he:

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.

Meanwhile he began undoing her girdle. Freda blushed. “Shameless are you,” she told him, and fumbled with his garments.

Skafloc raised his brows. “Why,” he asked, “what is there to be ashamed about?”

Firespear rode out shortly after sunset of the next night. A few sullen embers lay yet in the west. He and his dozen followers wore the green tunics of the chase, with cowled black cloaks flung above. Their spears and arrows were tipped with alloy of silver. About their curvetting horses bayed the elf-hounds, great savage beasts with coats red or ebon, furnace eyes and dagger fangs from which ran slaver, blood of Garm and Fenris and the Wild Hunt’s dogs in them.

Forth they swept when Firespear’s horn shouted. Drurnroll of hoofs and belling of hounds rang between the hills. Like the wind they went, between ice-sheathed trees through a night that soon was pit-black. A glint of silver, jewelled hilts, bloody glare might be seen in a rush of shadows: no more; but the clamour of their passage rang from end to end of the woods. Hunters, charcoal burners, outlaws who heard that racket shuddered and signed themselves, whether with Cross or Hammer; and wild beasts slunk aside.

From afar the witch, squatting in the shelter she had built where her house formerly stood-for her greatest powers drew from things thereabouts and nowhere else-heard the troop coming. She crouched over her tiny fire and muttered, “The elves hunt tonight.”

“Aye,” squeaked her familiar. As the noise drew closer: “And I think they hunt us.”

“Us?” The witch started. “Why say you that?”

“They are bound straight this way, and you are no friend to Skafloc, thus none to •Imric.” The rat chattered with fear and crawled into her bosom. “Now quickly, mother, quickly, summon aid or we are done.”

The witch had no time for rites or offerings, but she howled the call which had been taught her, and a blackness deeper than the night arose beyond the fire.

She grovelled. Faint and cold, the little blue flames raced across him. “Help,” she whimpered. “Help, the elves come.”

The eyes watched her without anger or pity. The sound of the hunt grew louder. “Help!” she wailed.

He spoke, in a voice that blent with the wind but seemed to come from immeasurably far removed. “Why do you call on me?”

“They ... they seek ... my life.”

“What of that? I heard you say once you did 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 your servant!”

Nearer came the hunters. She felt the ground shiver beneath the galloping hoofs.

“You are not my servant, you are my slave,” the voice rustled. “What is it to me whether your purpose is fulfilled? I am the lord of evil, which is futility.

“Did you think you ever summoned me and struck a bargain? No, you were led astray; that was another. Mortals never sell me their souls. They give them away.”

And the Dark Lord was gone.

The witch shrieked and ran forth. Behind her the hounds, put off by the smell of him who had lately been here, barked and cast about. The witch turned herself into a rat and crawled down a hole beneath the Druid oak. “She’s near,” called Firespear, “and-Ha! They have the scent!”

The pack closed in. Earth flew as they dug after then-prey, ripping roots and yelping. The witch darted forth, changed into a crow, and winged aloft. Firespear’s bow twanged. The crow sank to earth. It became a hag at whom the dogs rushed. The rat sprang from her bosom. A horse brought down its silver-shod foot to crush him.

The hounds tore the witch asunder. 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 was afraid we would need sorcery to track her wanderings through a score of years, maybe into foreign lands.” He snuffed the wind. “As it is, we 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.