Poul Anderson - The Broken Sword

She bent and kissed him. “Cold are your lips,” she said, and looked bewilderedly about her. “Thus were you not wont to kiss me. This is not you, dead in the ship—but where are you, Orm?”

They led her out of the hull, and the men worked long casting earth over it and the grave-chamber built on it. When they were done, the howe rose huge at the edge of the sea and waves came up the strand to sing a dirge at its foot.

The priest, who had not approved of this heathenish burial, would not consecrate the ground, but he did whatever he could and Asgerd paid him for many masses for the souls of the dead.

There was a young man, Erlend Thorkelsson, who was betrothed to Asgerd. “Hollow is this garth now that its men are gone,” said he.

“So it is,” replied the maiden. A cold sea-wind, blowing fine dry snowflakes, ruffled her heavy locks.

“Best I and a few friends should stay here a while and get things in order,” he said. “Then I would we wedded, Asgerd, and thereafter your mother and sister can come live with us.”

“I will not wed you until Valgard has been hanged and his men burned in their house,” she said angrily.

Erlend smiled without mirth. “That will not be long,” he said. “Already the war-arrow goes from hand to hand. Unless they flee sooner than I think they can pull themselves together to do, the land will shortly be rid of that pest.”

“It is well,” nodded Asgerd.

Now most of those who had come to the feast went home, but the folk of the garth sat behind, with Erlend and some half-dozen other men. As night fell, a strong wind came with snow on its wings, to howl around the hall. Hail followed, like night-gangers thumping their heels on the roof. The room lay long and dark and cheerless; folk huddled together at one end of it. They spoke little, and the horns passed often.

Once Ailfrida stirred from her silence. “I hear something out yonder,” she said. “Not I,” said Asgerd, “and naught would be abroad tonight.”

Freda, who misliked her mother’s dull stare, touched her and said timidly, “All alone are you not. Your daughters will never forget you.”

“Aye-aye.” Ailfrida smiled the least bit. “Orm’s seed shall live in you, and the dear nights we had are not in vain—” She gazed at Erlend. “Be good to your wife. She is of the blood of chieftains.”

“What else could I be but good to her?” he said.

There came of a sudden a beating on the door. Above the wind rose a shout: “Open! Open or we break in!”

Men clutched for their weapons as a thrall undid the bar—and was at once cut down by an axe. Tall and grim, guarded by two men’s shields held before him, snow mantling his shoulders, Valgard trod in from the foreroom.

He spoke: “Let the women and children come outside and they shall live. But the hall is ringed with my men and I am going to burn it.”

A cast spear clanged off one of the iron-bound shields. The smoke-reek grew stronger than it should be.

“Have you not done enough?” shrieked Freda. “Burn this house if you will, but I would rather stay within than take my life of you.”

“Forward!” shouted Valgard, and ere anyone could stop them he and a dozen of his vikings had come inside.

“Not while I live!” cried Erlend. He drew his sword and charged at Valgard. The axe Brodierslayer flashed to and fro, knocked the blade aside with a clatter and buried its beak under his ribs. He pitched to the floor. Valgard leaped over him and grabbed Freda’s wrist. Another of his men took Asgerd. The rest formed a shield-burg about these two. Helmeted and mailed, they had no trouble winning back to the door, killing three who fought them.

When the raiders had gone forth, the men inside rallied, armed themselves more fully, and tried to make a rush. But they were hewn down or forced back by warriors who stood at every way out. Ailfrida cried and ran to the door, and her the vikings let through. Valgard had just finished binding the wrists of Asgerd and Freda, with lead ropes to drag them along if they would not walk. The roof of the hall already burned brightly. Ailfrida dung to Valgard’s arm and wailed at him through the flame-roar.

“Worse than wolf, what new ill are you wreaking on the last of your kin? What turns you on your own sisters, who have done you naught but good, and how can you stamp on your mother’s heart? Let them go, let them go!”

Valgard watched her with pale cold eyes in an unmoving face. “You are not my mother,” he said at last, and struck her. She fell senseless in the snow and he turned away, signalling his men to force the two captive girls down to the bay where his ships were beached.

“Where.are we bound?” sobbed Freda, while Asgerd spat on him.

He smiled, a mere quirk of lips and said: “I will not harm you. Indeed, I do you a service, for you are to be given to a king.” He sighed. “I envy him. Meanwhile, knowing my men, I had best watch over you.”

Such of the women as did not wish to be burned alive shepherded the children outside. The raiders used them but afterwards set them free. Other women stayed inside with their men. Flames lit the garth for a great ways around, and erelong the other buildings had caught fire, though not before they had been plundered.

Valgard left as soon as he was sure those within were dead, for he knew that neighbours would see the burning and arrive in strength. The vikings launched their ships and stood out to sea, rowing against a wind which blew icy waves inboard.

“Never will we reach Finnmark like this,” grumbled Valgard’s steersman.

“I think otherwise,” he answered. At dawn, as the witch had told him, he untied the knots that closed her leather bag. At once the wind swung around until it came from astern, blowing straight north-east in a loud steady drone. Sails set, the ships fairly leaped ahead.

When folk reached Orm’s garth, they found only charred timbers and smouldering ash-heaps. A few women and children were about, sobbing in the dreary morning light. Ailfrida alone did not weep or speak. She sat on the howe with hair and dress blowing wild, sat unstirring, empty-eyed, staring out to sea.

Now for three days and nights Valgard’s ships ran before an unchanging gale. One foundered in the heavy waves, though most of her crew were saved; on the rest, bailing never could end; and uneasy mutters went from beard to beard. But Valgard overawed thoughts of mutiny.

He stood nearly the whole time in the prow of his craft, wrapped in a long leather cloak, salt and rime crusted on him, and brooded over the waters. Once a man dared gainsay him, and he slew the fellow on the spot and cast the body overboard. He himself spoke little, and that suited the crew, for they cared not to have that uncanny stare upon them.

He would not answer the pleas of Freda and Asgerd for word on where they were bound, but he gave them well of food and drink, let them shelter beneath the foredeck, and did not let the men bother them.

Freda would not eat at first. “Naught do I take from the murdering thief,” she said. The salt streaking her cheeks was not all from the sea.

“Eat to keep your strength,” counselled Asgerd. “You do not take it from him, since he has robbed it from others, and the chance may come to us to escape. If we pray God foe help—”

“That I forbid,” said Valgard, who had been listening “and if I hear any such word I will gag you.”

“As you will,” said Freda, “but a prayer is more in the heart than the mouth.”

“And not very useful in either place,” grinned Valgard. “Many a woman has squawked to her God when I clapped hands on her, and little did it avail. Nevertheless, I will have no more talk of gods on my ship.” For while he did not await help for them from Heaven-it was only that soulless Faerie folk were so deeply learned in magic that a Power they knew was greater yet, and knew they would never understand, sent them into blind panic by its mere names and signs—he did not wish to take needless risks, and still less did he wish to be reminded of what was forever denied to him.