The Broken Sword

XIV

For more than a month after the elf raid on Trollheim, Imric worked hard. He could find out little about the enemy, for Illrede and his warlocks had screened their lands heavily with magic, but he knew that a force was being gathered from many nations and likeliest would strike first at England. Hence he strove to assemble the ships and men of his realm, and sent abroad for what help there might be.

Few came from outside. Each province of Alfheim was readying itself alone; the elves were too haughty to work well in concert. Moreover, it seemed that well-nigh all the mercenaries in Faerie had been hired years before by Illrede. Imric sent to the Sidhe of Ireland, promising rich booty in the conquest of Trollheim, and got back the cold word that enough wealth already gleamed in the streets of Tir-nan-Og and the caves of the leprechauns. Thus the elf-earl found himself standing nearly alone.

Nonetheless his strength was great, and as it swelled night by night in the hosting of the elves the stern joy among them grew likewise. Never, they thought, had so mighty a force come together in Alfheim. Though doubtless outnumbered, it must be immeasurably better man for man and ship for ship; and it would be fighting near home, in waters and on beaches that its people knew. Some of the younger warriors held that not only could England’s elves beat off the troll fleet, they could unaided carry the war to Trollheim and break its will to theirs.

From Orkney and Shetland came Flam, son of that Flam who had fallen in Skafloc’s foray and wild to avenge his father. He and his brothers were among the foremost skippers in Faerie, and their dragon fleet darkened the water as it swept southward. Shields blinked along the wales and wind hummed in the lines and the hiss of cloven sea at the bows might well have come from those serpent heads.

Out of the grey hills and moors of Picdand marched the wild chieftains with their flint-headed weapons and their leather breastplates. Shorter and heavier than true elves were they, dark of skin, with long black locks and beards blowing around their tattooed faces, for there was likewise blood of troll and goblin and still older folk in them, as well as Pictish women stolen in long-gone days. With them came certain of the lesser Sidhe who had entered with the Scots centuries ago, strong gnarly leprechauns leaping goat-like, tall beautiful warriors striding in shimmery mail with spears held high or riding in rumbling war-chariots that had sword blades on the hubs for mowing of men.

From the south, the hills and cave-riddled shores of Cornwall and Wales, came some of the most ancient elves in the island: mail-clad horsemen and charioteers whose banners told of forgotten glories; green-haired, white-skinned sea folk, who kept a grey veil of salt-smelling fog about them for the sake of dampness on land; a few rustic half-gods whom the Romans had brought and afterwards abandoned; shy, flitting forest elves, clan by clan.

The lands of Angle and Saxon did not hold so many since most of the beings who once dwelt there had fled or been exorcised; but such as still remained heeded the call. Nor were these elves, poor and backward though they often were, to be scorned in war, for no few among them could trace descent to Wayland or to Odin himself. They were the master smiths of the earldom, having some dwarf blood, and many chose to fight with their great hammers.

But the mightiest and proudest were those who dwelt around Elfheugh. Not alone in ancestry, but in beauty and wisdom and wealth, the lords whom Imric had gathered about him outshone all others. Fiery they were, going to battle as gaily clad as to a wedding and kissing their spears like brides; skilled they were, casting terrible spells for the undoing of their foes and the warding of their friends. The newcome elves stood in awe of them, though not thereby hindered in enjoying the food and drink they sent out to the camps or the women who followed in search of sport.

Freda was much taken with watching that host gather. The sight of those unhuman warriors gliding noiselessly through dusk and night, their visages half hidden to her eyes and thus made the more eerie, sent waves of shock and delight, fear and pride, through her. By holding high rank among them, Skafloc, her man, wielded more power than any mortal king.

But his lordship was over the soulless. And she remembered the bear strength of the trolls. What if he should fall before them?

The same thought came to him. “Maybe I ought to take you to what friends you have in the lands of men,” he said slowly. “It may be, though I do not believe it, that the elves will lose. True it is that every omen we took was not good. And if that should happen, this would be no place for you.”

“No-no—” She regarded him briefly with frightened grey eyes, then hid her face on his breast. “I will not leave you. I cannot.”

He ruffled her shining hair. “I would come back for you later,” he said. “No ... It might happen that someone there, somehow, talked me over or forced me to stay-I know not who that could be, save perhaps a priest, but I have heard of such things—” She recalled the lovely elf women and their way of looking at Skafloc. He felt her stiffen in his arms. Her voice came firm: “Anyhow, I will not leave you. I stay.” He hugged her in gladness.

Now word came that the trolls were putting out to sea. On the last night before their own sailing, the elves held feast in Elfheugh.

Vast was Imric’s drinking hall. Freda, sitting by Skafloc near the earl’s high seat, could not make out the further walls or get more than a glimpse of the vine-carved rafters. The cool blue twilight loved of the elves seemed to drift like smoke through the hall, though the air itself was pure and smelled of flowers. Light came from countless tapers in heavy bronze sconces, whose flames burned silvery and unwavering. It flashed back off shields hung on the walls and panels of intricately etched gold. All of precious metals and studded with gems were the trenchers and bowls and cups on the snowy tablecloths. And though she had grown used to delicate eating in Elfheugh, Freda’s head swam at the many kinds of meat, fowl, fish, fruits, spices, confections, the ales and meads and wines, that came forth this evening.

Richly clad were the elves. Skafloc wore a tunic of white silk over linen breeches, a doublet whose colourfully embroidered pattern led the eye in a trackless maze, a gold-worked belt with a jewelled dagger in an electrum sheath, shoes of unicorn leather, and a short ermine-trimmed cape whose scarlet was like a rush of blood from his shoulders. Freda had on a filmy dress of spider silk, across which played colours in a rainbow ripple; a necklace of diamonds fell over her firm small breasts, a heavy golden girdle was locked about her waist, golden rings weighted her bare arms, and she was shod in velvet. Both of them wore gemmed coronets, as befitting a lord of Alfheim and his lady of the hour. The great elves were no less splendid, and even the poorer chieftains from elsewhere shone with raw gold.

There was music, not alone the eldritch melodies that Imric favoured, but the harping of the Sidhe and the piping of the west country folk. There was talk, the quick cruel brilliant discourse of the elves, subtle mockery and thrust and parry with words, and sweet laughter went up and down the tables.

But when these had been cleared away and the jesters should have skipped forth, the cry went for a sword dance instead. Imric scowled, not liking to make omens plain to all, but since most of his guests wanted it, he could not well refuse.

The elves moved out on to the floor, men stripping off their more cumbersome garments and women everything; and thralls fetched for each man a sword. “What are they doing?” asked Freda.

“ ’Tis the old war-dance,” Skafloc told her. “I must be skald to it, I suppose, because no human could tread it unscathed even if he knew in full the measures. They dance to ninety and nine verses which the skald must make up as he goes alone, and if no one is hurt ’tis a great omen for victory; but if someone be slain it means defeat and ruin, and even a slash bodes ill. I like this not.”

Soon the elf men stood in a wide double row, facing each other and crossing swords on high; and behind every man stood a woman, crouched and taut. The rows reached far into the dimness of the hall, an aisle with a roof of gleaming blades. Skafloc stood before the earl’s seat.

“Hai, go!” shouted Imric so that it rang.

Skafloc chanted:

Swiftly goes the sword-play, sweeping foemen backward to the beach where tumult talks with voice of metal: belling of the brazen beaks of cleaving axes, smoking blood, where sea kings sing the mass of lances.

As he called it out, the men danced forward, and a din of clashing swords lifted in time to the stave. The women likewise danced lithely ahead, and each man’s left hand seized a woman’s right and whirled her into the narrowing aisle where the words flashed and clanged.

Skafloc called:

Swiftly goes the sword-play, stormlike in its madness: shields are bloody shimmers, shining moons of redness; winds of arrows wailing, wicked spearhead-lightning lads will smite who lately lay by lovely sweethearts.

Through and between the whirring, flickering blades wove the elf women in a measure swift and supple and tangled as the foamstreaks on a wave. The men danced to each other, beyond, and wheeled about, and everyone threw his sword in a glittering arc to the one across from him, just missing a lithe white body, and caught the weapon thrown at him. Quoth Skafloc:

Swiftly goes the sword-play! Swinging bloodied weapons, shields and helms to shatter, shout the men their war-cry. While the angry, whining, whirring blades are sparking, howl the wolves their hunger, hawks stoop low for feasting.

Round and about, swifter than mortal eye could follow, whirled the dance; and leaping and shrieking between the women went the swords. Now blades hummed low, and as two clashed points above the floor, an elf lady sprang over them; the keen edges came up just behind her. Now the dancing men each seized a partner and wove a glitter of metal about her spinning body. Now they fenced again in the dance, and the women sprang and capered between the fencers in those bare instants when the weapons were drawn back. Skafloc’s verses spilled out unbroken:

Swiftly goes the sword-play! Song of metal raises din of blades for dancing (death for eager partner). Lur horns bray their laughter, lads, and call to hosting. Sweeter game was sleeping softly with your leman.

Bounding and dodging between the clamorous glaives, a flying white frenzy, Leea called out: “Oho, Skafloc, why does not that girl of yours who makes such a thing of caring for you come dance with us for luck?”

Skafloc did not break the flow:

Swiftly goes the sword-play. Skald who lately chanted gangs unto the gameboard. Grim are stakes we play for. Mock not at the mortal may who is not dancing. Better luck she brings me by a kiss than magic.

But then a shudder went through the elves; for Leea, harking more to the words of Skafloc than to their beat, had danced into one of the blades. Red was the slash across her silken shoulders. She went on in the measures, her blood sprinkling the folk about her. Skafloc forced cheer into his tones :

Swiftly goes the sword-play. Some must lost the gamble. Norns alone are knowing now who throws the dice best. Winner of the wicked weapon-game we know not, but our foes will bitter battle find in Alfheim.

However, other women, shaken by Leea’s misfortune, were missing the hairsplitting rhythm and being slashed. Imric called a halt ere someone should be slain and bring the very worst luck, and the feast broke up in ill-contented silence or furtive whisperings.

Skafloc went troubled with Freda to their rooms. There he left her for a while. He came back with a broad silver-chased girdle. On its inside was fastened a flat vial, also of silver.

He gave it to Freda. “Let this be my parting gift to you,” he said quietly. “I got it of Imric, but I would that you wore it. For though I still think we shall win, I am not so sure after that cursed sword dance.”

She took it, wordlessly. Skafloc said: “In the vial is a rare and potent drug. Should bad luck befall you and foes come nigh, drink it. You will be as one dead for several days, and belike any who see you will not think to do more than leave you or cast you outside; such is the way of trolls with a stranger’s corpse. When you awaken you may have a chance to slip free.”

“What use escaping, if you are dead?” asked Freda sorrowfully. “Better I should die too.”

“Maybe. But the trolls would not kill you at once, and you Christians are forbidden self-slaughter, are you not?” Skafloc smiled wearily. ” Tis not the most cheerful of farewell gifts, dearest one, but ’tis the best I have.”

“No,” she breathed. “I will take it, and thank you. But we have a better gift, one we can give to each other.”

“Aye, so,” he cried, and before long, both of them were again, for a while, merry.