The Broken Sword

XXI

Within the next few days, that long cruel winter began to die. And one evening at sunset Gulban Glas Mac Grid stood atop a hill and on the south wind caught the first super-naturally faint breath of spring.

He leaned on his spear and gazed across the twilit snow that sloped down to the sea. An ember of sunset smouldered in the west. Darkness and stars rose out of the east, and thence too he saw a fisher boat coming. It was a plain mortal craft, bought or stolen from some Englishman, and he at the steering oar was flesh—and-blood human. Yet a strangeness brooded over him, and his sea-stained garments were of elven cut.

As he grounded his keel and sprang ashore, Gulban recognized him. The Irish Sidhe held mostly aloof from the rest of Faerie, but they had had traffic with Alfheim in past years and Gulban remembered the merry youth Skafloc who had been with Imric. But he had become lean and grim, more even than the fortunes of his people might warrant.

Skafloc walked up the hill toward the tall warrior-chief etched black against a sky of red and greenish-blue. Nearing, he saw it was Gulban Glas, one of the five guardians of Ulster, and hailed him.

The chief returned grave greetings, bending his golden-helmed head till the long black locks covered his cheekbones. He could not keep from shrinking a little away as he sensed the wickedness asleep in a wolfskin bundle on Skafloc’s back.

“I was told to await you,” he said.

Skafloc regarded him with weary surprise. “Have the Sidhe that many ears?” he asked.

“No,” said Gulban, “but they can tell when something of portent is nigh—and what could it concern this time save the war between elves and trolls? So we looked for an elf to come with strange-tidings, and I suppose you are that one.”

“Elf-yes!” Skafloc spat. The lines were deep in his face and his eyes were bloodshot; nor was his carelessness about the state of his garb usual in Alfheim, however desperate the times.

“Come,” said Gulban. “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 lords of other people of the Sidhe as well. But you are tired and hungry. First must you come to my house.”

“No,” said the man with a bluntness equally strange to elves. “This cannot wait, nor do I want more rest and food than I need to keep going. Take me to the council.”

The chieftain shrugged and turned away, his night-blue mantle swirling about him. He whistled, and two of the lovely light-footed horses of the Sidhe came galloping up. They snorted and shied from Skafloc.

“They like not your burden,” said Gulban.

“Nor do I,” answered Skafloc shortly. He caught a silky mane and swung into the saddle. “Now swiftly!”

Away they went, almost as fast as elf steeds, soaring over hills and dales, fields and forests, loughs and frozen rivers. In the dusk Skafloc saw some other of the Sidhe glimpse-wise: a flashing-mailed horseman with a spear of bright terror, a gnarly leprechaun at the door of his burrow, a strangely beak-like face on a gaunt cloak-wrapped man who had grey feathers for hair, a flitting shadow and a faint skirl of pipes in secret groves. The wintry air had a little mist in it, aglimmer above crusted snow. Night gathered softly. Stars blinked forth, bright as Freda’s eyes-No! Skafloc hauled his mind from such thoughts.

Erelong the riders were at the Cave of Cruachan. Four watchmen outside touched swords to brows in salutation. They took the curvetting horses, and Gulban led Skafloc inside.

Sea-green light filled the vast and rugged vaulting of the cave. Flashing stalactites hung from the roof, and shields on the walls gave back the clear glow of tapers. Though there was no fire, it was warm here, with a ghost of Ireland’s peatsmoke odour. Rushes had been spread. The soft rustle of them beneath his feet was all the sound Skafloc heard as he walked to the council table.

At its foot were the leaders 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 a mortal could feel at home.

But at the head of the table were the Tuatha De Danaan, the Children of the earth-mother Dana, come from Tir-nan-Og the Golden to hold council in the Cave of Cruachan. Silent and awesome they sat, beautiful and splendid to look upon, and the very air seemed full of the power that was in them. For they had been gods in Ireland ere Patrick brought the White Christ hither, and though they had had to flee the Cross, still they wielded great powers and lived in a splendour like that of old.

Lugh of the Long Hand sat in the 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, Gas Corrach, Coll the Sun, Cecht the Plow, Mac Greina the Hazel, and many more, high in fame; and with the lords were their wives and children, and harpers and warriors who followed them. Glorious it was to see that assemblage, albeit a terrible glory.

Save to Skafloc, who no longer cared about majesty or wonder or danger. He strode towards them, head held stiff, and his eyes met squarely the dark brilliance of Lugh’s while he gave greeting.

The deep voice of him of the Long Hand rolled from the stern countenance: “Be welcome, Skafloc of Alfheim, and drink with chiefs of the Sidhe.”

He signed that the man should sit in an empty seat near his own left, with none save Mananaan and his wife Fand in between. The cupbearers brought golden bowls of wine from Tir-nan-Og, and the harps of the bards rippled a luring melody as they drank.

Strong and sweet was that wine; it entered Skafloc like a flame to burn out the weariness in him. But that made the bleakness stand forth the sharper.

Angus Og, the fair-locked warrior, asked: “How goes it in Alfheim?”

“You know how badly it goes,” snapped Skafloc. “The elves fight alone and fall-even as one by one all the divided people of Faerie will fall and be swallowed by Trollheim.”

Lugh’s words came steady and implacable: “The Children of Dana have no fear of trolls. We who overcame the Fomorians, and who even when defeated by the Miletians became their gods, what have we to dread? Glad would we have been to fare in aid of Alfheim—”

“Glad indeed!” Dove Berg smote the table with his fist. His hair was torch-red in the green twilight of the cave, and his shout woke echoes between its walls. “There has not been so grand a fight, so much glory to be won, in over 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 in it and in his hair and deep within his eyes. When he spread his hands, a little shower of such glints was strewn to dance on the air. “This is more than a simple hosting in Faerie. This is a game in the long strife between the gods of the North and their foes from the Undying Ice; and hard it is to know which side is the more to be wary of. We will not risk our freedom to become pieces on the chessboard of the world.”

Skafloc gripped the arms of his chair till his knuckles stood white. His voice wavered a bit: “I come not for help in war, however sorely ’tis needed. I want the loan of a ship.”

“And may we ask why?” Coll spoke. Bright was his face, and flames wavered over his gleaming hauberk and the sun-rayed golden brooch at his throat.

Skafloc told quickly of the Aisir’s gift to him, and finished: “I made shift to steal the sword from Elfheugh, and by magic found out that I could get a vessel from the Sidhe which would bear me to Jotunheim. So I came hither to ask for it.” He bent his neck. “Aye, as a beggar I come. But if we win, you shall not find the elves are niggardly.”

“I would fain see this glaive,” said Mananaan Mac Lir. Tall and strong and lithe he was, white of skin and silvery-gold of hair, the faintest greenish tinge in both. His eyes were slumbrous, a shifting green and grey and blue, his voice soft though it could rise to a roar. Richly clad he was; and his knife bore gold, silver, crusted jewels on hilt and sheath; but over his shoulders he wore a great leather cloak that had seen use in many weathers.

Skafloc unwrapped the broken sword, and the Sidhe, who could handle iron as well as endure daylight, crowded around it. They recoiled at once, feeling what venom was locked in that blade. A murmuring rose among them.

Lugh lifted his crowned head and looked hard at Skafloc. “You deal in evil things,” he said. “A demon sleeps in this sword.”

“What would you await?” shrugged Skafloc. “It carries victory.”

“Aye, but it also carries death. It will be your bane if you wield it.”

“And what of that?” Skafloc gathered his bundle together. The steel rang, loud in the silence that had fallen, as the two pieces clashed together; and something in that harsh belling sent chills through those who heard. “I ask for a ship,” went on Skafloc. “I ask in the name of what friendship there has been between Sidhe and elves, in the name of your honour as warriors, and in the name of your mercy as children of the earth-mother Dana. Will you lend it to me?”

More silence followed. At last Lugh said: “It goes hard not to help you—”

“And why not help?” cried Dove Berg. His knife gleamed forth, he tossed it on high and let it twirl back, rippling with light, to his hand. “Why not raise the hosts of the Sidhe and fare against barbarous Trollheim? How drab and poor will Faerie be if the elves are crushed!”

“And how soon would the trolls fall on us?” added Conan.

“Be still, my lords,” commanded Lugh. “What we as a whole do must be thought on.” He straightened to his full towering height. “However,” he said, “you are our guest, Skafloc Elven-Fosterling. You have sat at our board and drunk our wine; and we remember how we were erstwhile guested in Alfheim. At the very least, we cannot refuse so small a boon as the loan of a ship. Also, I am Lugh of the Long Hand, and the Tuatha De Danaan do what they will without asking Aisir Jotuns.”

At this a shout lifted, weapons blazed forth, swords dinned on shields, and the bards swept out war-chants on their wild strings. Cool and quiet in the tumult, Mananaan Mac Lir said to Skafloc:

“I will offer you a craft. She is only a boat in size, but nonetheless the foremost of my fleet. And since she is tricky to handle, and the journey will be of interest, I will come along myself.”

At this, Skafloc was glad. A large crew would be no better than - a small one-worse, maybe, because of the heed it might draw—and the sea king ought to make the best of shipmates. “I could thank you in words,” he said, “but would liefer do it in oaths of brotherhood. Tomorrow—”

“Not so swiftly, hot-head,” smiled Mananaan. His sleepy-seeming eyes dwelt on Skafloc with more care than showed. “We will rest and hold feast for a while. I see you need some mirth, and besides, a voyage to Giant Land is not to be undertaken without a good deal of making ready.”

Skafloc could say naught against that. Inwardly he raged. He would have no joy of those days. Wine merely brought forth memory—

He felt a light touch on his arm, and faced about to Fand, the wife of Mananaan. Stately and beautiful were the women of the Tuatha De Danaan, for they were goddesses born. There were no words to tell of their radiance. And in that company Fand stood out.

Her silken hair, golden as sunlight at summer evening, fell in waves from her coronet to her feet. Her robe shimmered with rainbow hues, her round white arms flashed with jewelled rings, yet she herself outshone any attire.

Her wise violet eyes looked through Skafloc’s, into him. Her low voice was music. “Would you have trekked to Jotunheim alone?”

“Of course, my lady,” said Skafloc.

“No living human has gone there and returned, save Thjalfi and Roskva, and they went in company with Thor. You are either very brave or very reckless.”

“What difference? If I die in Jotunheim, it is the same as anywhere else.”

“And if you live—” She seemed more in pain than afraid.

“If you live, will you indeed bring back the sword and unleash it ... knowing that in the end it must turn on you?”

He nodded indifferently.

“I think you look on death as your friend,” she murmured. “That is a strange friend for a young man to have.”

“The only faithful friend in this world,” he said. “Death is always sure to be at your side.”

“I think you are fey, Skafloc Elven-Fosterling, and that is a sorrow to me. Not since Cu Chulain—” for a moment her eyes blurred “-not since him has such a man as you might become lived among mortals. Also, it grieves me to see the merry mad boy I remember grown so dark and inward. A worm gnaws in your breast, and the hurt drives you to seek death.”

He answered naught, folded his arms and looked beyond her.

“Yet grief dies too,” she said. “You can outlive it. And I will seek by my arts to shield you, Skafloc.”

“That is fine!” he growled, unable to stand more. “You magicking for my body and she praying for my soul!”

He swung away towards the winecups. Fand sighed.

“You sail with sorrow, Mananaan,” she told her husband.

The sea king shrugged. “Let him mope as he wishes. I will enjoy the trip anyway.”