Poul Anderson - The Broken Sword

“Eh?” He blinked dully at her.

“You are no son of Orm, Valgard Berserk. I have second sight, and I tell you that you are not even of human birth, but of such ancient and noble stock that you can scarce imagine your true heritage.”

His huge frame grew taut as an iron bar. He clasped her wrists hard enough to leave bruises, and his shout resounded in the cottage: “What do you say?”

“You are a changeling, left when Imric the elf-earl stole Orm’s first-born,” said the woman. “You are Imric’s own son by a slave who is daughter to Illrede Troll-King.”

Valgard flung her from him. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. “Lie!” he gasped. “Lie!”

“Truth,” answered the woman calmly. She walked towards him. He backed away from her, his breast heaving. Her voice came tow and relentless: “Why are you so unlike the children of Orm or any man? Why do you scorn gods and men, and walk in a loneliness only forgotten in the tumult of slaying? Why, of all the women whom you have bedded, has none become with child? Why do beasts and small children fear you?” She had him in a corner now, and her eyes would not release him. “Why indeed, save that you are not human?”

“But I grew up like other men, I can endure iron and holy things, I am no warlock—”

“There is the evil work of Imric, who robbed you of your heritage and cast you aside in favour of Orm’s son. He made you look like the stolen child. You were raised among the petty rounds of men, and have had naught to rouse the wizard power slumbering within you. That you might grow up, age, and die in the brief span of humankind, that the things holy and earthly which the elves fear might not trouble you, Imric traded your birthright of centuried life. But he could not put a human soul in you, Valgard. And like him, you will be as a candle blown out when you die, with no hope of Heaven or hell or the halls of the old gods-yet you will live no longer than a man!” At this Valgard croaked, thrust her aside, and rushed out the door. The woman smiled.

It grew loud and cold with storm, but not till after dark did Valgard creep back to the house. Bent and beaten he was, but his eyes smouldered upon his leman.

“Now I believe you,” he muttered, “nor is there aught else to believe. I saw ghosts and demons riding the gale, flying with the snow and mocking me as they swept by.” He stared off into a dark corner of the room. “Night closes on me, the sorry game of my life is played out-home and kin and my very soul have I lost, have I never had, and I see I was but a shadow cast by the great Powers who now blow out the candle. Good night, Valgard, good night—” And he sank sobbing on to the bed.

The woman smiled her secret smile and lay down beside him and kissed him with her mouth that was like wine and fire. And when his dazed eyes turned mutely to hers, she breathed: “This is no speech for Valgard Berserk, mightiest of warriors, whose name is terror from Ireland to Gardariki. I thought you would seize on my words with gladness, would hew fate into a better shape with that great axe of yours. You have taken gruesome revenges for lesser hurts than this—the robbery of your being and the chaining into the prison which is a mortal’s life.”

Valgard felt something of strength return, and as he caressed the woman it rose fiercer in him, together with hatred for everything save her. At last he said: “What can I do? Where can I avenge myself? I cannot even see elves and trolls unless they wish it.”

“I can teach you that much,” she answered. “It is not hard to give the witch-sight with which the beings of Faerie are born. Thereafter, if you like, you can destroy those who have wronged you, and can laugh at outlawry, you who will be more powerful than any king of men.”

Valgard narrowed his gaze on her. “How so?” he asked slowly.

“The trolls make ready for war with their olden foes the elves,” she said. “Erelong Illrede Troll-King leads a host against Alfheim, most likely striking first at Imric here in England, that his flank and rear be safe when later he moves southward. Among Imric’s best warriors, because iron and holy things trouble him not, as well as because of strength and warlock knowledge, will be his foster son Skafloc, Orm’s child who sits in your rightful seat. Now if you sailed quickly to Illrede, and offered him good gifts and the services of your humanlike powers as well as telling him your descent, you could find a high place in his army. At the sack of Elfheugh you could slay Imric and Skafloc, and Illrede would most likely make you earl of the British elf-lands. Thereafter, as you learned sorcery, you would wax ever greater-aye, you might learn how to undo Imric’s work and make yourself like a true elf or troll, ageless till the end of the world.”

Valgard laughed, the yelp of a hunting wolf. “Indeed that is well!” he cried. “Murderer, outlaw, and inhuman, I have naught to lose and much to gain. If so be I join the hosts of cold and darkness, then I will join them with a whole heart, and in battles such as men have never dreamed will drown my wretchedness. Oh, woman, woman, a mighty thing have you done to me, and it is evil, but I thank you fork!”

Fiercely he loved her; but when later he spoke above the gale it was in a chill and level tone.

“How shall I get to Trollheim?” he asked.

The woman opened a chest and took forth a leather sack tied at the mouth. “You must leave on a particular day that I will tell you,” she said. “When your ships are under weigh, untie this. It holds a wind which will blow you thither, and you will have witch-sight to see the troll garths.”

“But what of my men?”

“They will be part of your gift to Imric. The trolls find sport in hunting men across the mountains, and they will sense that yours are evildoers whom no god will bestir himself to help.”

Valgard shrugged. “Since I am to be troll, let me also be my blood true in treachery,” he said. “But what else can I give that will please him? He must have a glut of gold and jewels and costly stuffs.”

“Give him that which is more,” said the woman. “Orm has two fair daughters, and the trolls are lustful. If you bind and gag them, so they cannot draw cross or name Jesus—”

“Not those two,” said Valgard in horror. “I grew up with them. And I have done them enough harm already.”

“Those two indeed,” said the woman. “For if Illrede is to take you in service, he must be sure you have broken all human ties.”

Still Valgard refused. But she clung to him and kissed him and wove him a tale of the dark splendours he could await, until at last he agreed.

“But I wonder who you are, most evil and most beautiful of this whole world,” he said. She laughed softly, cuddled on his breast. “You will forget me when you have had a few elf women.”

“Nay-never can I forget you, beloved, who broke me as you would.”

Now the woman held Valgard in her house for as long as she deemed needful, making some pretence of brewing enchantments to restore his witch-sight, and spinning out her accounts of Faerie. However, this was hardly called for, since her loveliness and love-skill bound him more surely than chains.

Snow filled the dusk when at length she said, “You had best start out now.”

“We,” he answered. “You must come along, for I cannot live without you.” His big hands fondled her. “If you come not willingly, I shall carry you, but come you must.”

“Very well,” she sighed. “Though you may feel otherwise when I have given you sight.”

She rose to her feet, looked down at him seated, and stroked the lines and angles of his face. Her mouth curved in an almost wistful smile.

“Hate is a hard master,” she breathed. “I had not thought to have joy again, Valgard, but it is a wrench to bid you farewell. All good luck to you, my dearest. And now—” her fingertips brushed his eyes “-see!”