Poul Anderson - The Broken Sword

He bore a cheerful mien, as befitted a warrior with scorn for death; none could tell what lay beneath it. Ailfrida could not keep from weeping now and then, quietly and hopelessly. Valgard sat wordless, draining horn after horn until his head buzzed. He only deepened his gloom. Away from the woman and the alarums of war alike, he had naught to do but brood on his deed, and Ketil’s face swam in the dusk before him.

Ale flowed until all were drunk and the hall rang with their noise. And then a knocking on the main door cut loud and clear through the racket. The latch was up, but the sound drew men’s heed. Through the foreroom, into the big chamber, trod Asmund.

The firelight limned him against blackness. He stood white and swaying. In his arms he bore a long cloak-wrapped burden. His hollow gaze swept the hall, seeking one man; and bit by bit, a great silence fell.

“Welcome, Asmund!” cried Orm into that quiet. “We had begun to fear for you—”

Still Asmund stared before him, and those who followed his look saw it fixed on Valgard. He spoke at last, tonelessly: “I have brought a guest to the grave-ale.”

Orm sat moveless, though he paled beneath his beard. Asmund set his burden on the floor. It was frozen stiff enough to stand, leaned against his arm.

“Cruel cold was the cairn where I found him,” said Asmund. Tears ran from his eyes. “It was no good place to be, and I thought it shame that we should hold a feast in his honour and he be out there with naught but wind and the stars for company. So I brought Ketil home—Ketil, with Valgard’s axe in his skull I”

He drew aside the cloak, and the fire-glow fell like new-spilled blood on that which was clotted around the axe. Rime was in Ketil’s hair. His dead face grinned at Valgard. His staring eyes were filled with flamelight. Stiffly he leaned on Asmund and stared at Valgard.

Orm turned slowly about to confront the berserker, who was meeting that blind stare with his own jaw fallen like the corpse’s. But on an instant rage came. Valgard leaped up and roared at Asmund: “You lie!”

“All men know your axe,” said Asmund heavily. “Now seize the brotherslayer, good folk, and bind him for hanging.”

“Give me my right,” Valgard shouted. “Let me see that weapon.”

None moved. They were too shocked. Valgard walked down the hall to the foreroom doorway through a breathlessness where naught but the flames had voice.

Weapons were stacked nearby. Passing, he snatched a spear and broke into a run. “You’ll not get free!” Asmund cried, and moved to draw sword and bar the way. Valgard lunged. Through Asmund’s unarmoured breast the spear went, pinning him against the wall so that he stood there with Ketil still leaned against him, the two dead brothers side by side gaping at their murderer. Valgard howled as the berserkergang swept over him. His eyes blazed lynx-green and froth was on his lips. Orm, who had followed him, bellowed, grabbed up a sword, and attacked. Valgard whipped forth his eating knife, knocked Orm’s blade aside by striking the flat of it with his left arm, and buried his in the chiefs throat.

Blood spurted over him. Orm fell. Valgard took the sword. Others were coming. They blocked his escape. Valgard hewed down the nearest. His howling rang between the rafters.

The hall boiled with men. Some sought to get into a safe corner, but others to capture the crazy one. Valgard’s blade sang. Three more yeomen toppled. Then several bore a plank from the trestle table before them. With this, by their weight they pushed Valgard well away from the stack of weapons. Folk armed themselves.

But in that crowded space, it did not go fast. Valgard slashed at those between him and the door who bore nothing. They fell aside, several wounded, and he won through. A warrior who had gotten an iron-rimmed shield as well as a sword stood in the foreroom. Valgard smote. His steel hit the shield rim and broke across.

“Too weak is your blade, Orm,” he cried. As the man rushed at him, he reached back and wrenched the axe from Ketil’s head. In his haste, the other man was careless. Valgard’s first blow battered the shield aside. His second took the man’s right arm off at the shoulder. Valgard went out the door.

Spears hissed after him. He fled into the woods. The blood of his father dripped from him for a while, until it froze and gave no further help to the hounds set on to his trail. Even when he had lost them, he kept running lest he too freeze. Shuddering and sobbing, he fled westward.

The witch sat waiting, alone in darkness. Presently something slipped through a rat-hole. Looking down to the shadowed floor, she saw her familiar.

Thin and weary, he did not speak ere he had crawled up to her breast and drunk deep. Then he lay on her lap and watched her with hard little glittering eyes.

“Well,” she asked, “how went the journey?”

“Long and cold,” he said. “In bat shape, blown on the wind, I fared to Elfheugh. Often as I crept about Imric’s halls I came near death. They are beastly quick, the elves, and they knew I was no ordinary rat. But nonetheless I contrived to spy on their councils.”

“And is their plan as I thought?”

“Aye. Skafloc will fare to Trollheim for a raid in force on Illrede’s garth, hoping to slay the king or at least upset his readying for war—now that he has openly called an end to the truce. Imric will remain in Elfheugh to prepare defences.”

“Good. The old elf-earl is too crafty, but Skafloc alone can scarce avoid the trap. When does he leave?”

“Nine days hence. He will take some fifty ships.”

“Elves sail swiftly, so he should be at Trollheim the same night. With the wind I will teach him how to raise, Valgard can reach thither in three days, and I’d best allow him another three to busk himself. So if he is to greet Illrede only a short time before Skafloc, I must keep him here—hm, he will need time to get to his own men—well, controlling him will be no great task, since he is now an outlaw fleeing hither in despair.”

“You treat Valgard roughly.”

“I have naught against him, he not being of Orm’s seed, but he is my tool in a stiff and perilous game. It will not be near as easy to ruin Skafloc as it was to kill Orm and the two brothers, or will be to get at the sisters. My magic and my force alike he would laugh at.” The witch grinned in the half-light. “Aye, but Valgard is a tool I shall use to make a weapon that will pierce Skafloc’s heart. As for Valgard himself, I give him a chance to rise high among the trolls, the more so if they conquer the elves. It is my hope to make Skafloc’s downfall doubly bitter by causing the wreck of Alfheim through him.”

And the witch sat back and waited, an art that many years had taught her.

Near dawn, when a grey and hopeless light crept over the snows and the ice-leaved trees, Valgard knocked on the woman’s door. She opened it at once and he fell into her arms. Nigh dead of weariness and cold he was, with gouts of blood caked upon him and wildness in his eyes and ravaged face.

She gave him meat and ale and curious herbs, and erelong he could hold her close to him. “Now you are all that is left to me,” he mumbled. “Woman whose beauty and wantonness wrought this ill, I should slay you and then fall on my own weapon.”

“Why do you say that?” she smiled. “What is there bad?”

He buried his face in the fragrance of her hair. “I have slain my father and my brothers,” he said, “and am outlaw beyond atonement.”

“As for the slayings,” said the woman, “they do but prove you stronger than those who threatened you. What does it matter who they were?” Her green eyes burned into his. “But if the thought of doing away with your kin troubles you, I will tell you that you are guiltless.”