Poul Anderson - The Broken Sword

“So we have learned, lord,” answered Skafloc. “The elves are prepared.”

“The fight will be harder than you think. The trolls have allies this time,” Tyr gazed sombrely into the flames. “More is at stake than elves or trolls know. The Norns spin many a thread to its end these days.”

Again was silence, until Tyr said: “Aye, ravens hover , low, and the gods stoop over the world, which trembles to the hoofbeats of Time. This I tell you, Skafloc: you will have sore need of the Rsii’s naming-gift to you. The gods themselves are troubled. Therefore I, the war-wager, am on earth.”

A wind shook his black locks. His eyes smouldered into the man’s. “I will give you a warning,” he said, “though I fear it helps naught against the will of the Noras. Who was your father, Skafloc?”

“I know not, lord, nor have I cared. But I can ask Imric—”

“Do not so. What you must ask Imric is that he say naught to anyone of what he knows, least of all yourself. For the day you learn who your father was will be a dark one, Skafloc, and what conies on you from that knowledge will also wreak ill on the world.”

He jerked his head again, and Skafloc took a hasty departure, leaving the deer as a gift in return for the rede. But as he swept homeward with the noise of his passage loud in his ears, he wondered how good Tyr’s warning had been-for the question of who he really was rose stark in his mind, and the night seemed full of demons.

Faster he fled and faster, heedless of how the wind cut at him, yet could not outrun the thing saddled on his back. Only Freda, he thought, clutching for breath, only Freda could banish the fear from him.

Ere dawn the walls and towers of Elfheugh were in sight, high athwart heaven. An elf guard blew on a horn to signal the gatekeepers. Through the opened way whizzed Skafloc, into the courtyard and on to the castle steps. Kicking off his skis, he ran into the keep.

Imric, returned early that evening, had been talking in private with Leea. “What if Skafloc be taken with a mortal maid?” He shrugged. “ ’Tis his own business, and a small matter indeed. Are you jealous?”

“Yes,” his sister answered frankly. “However, ’tis more than that. See the girl for yourself. Try if you cannot sense that in some way she is meant as a weapon against us.”

“Hm ... so.” The elf-earl tugged his chin and scowled. “Tell me what you know about her.”

“Well, she hight Freda Ormsdaughter, from a broken family south in the Danelaw—”

“Freda-Ormsdaughter—” Imric stood aghast. “Why, that-means—”

Skafloc burst into the room. His haggardness shocked them. It was a little time until he could speak; then his tale flooded out of him.

“What did Tyr mean?” he cried at the end. “Who am I, Imric?”

“I see what he meant,” answered the elf-earl harshly, “and therefore your birth is my secret alone, Skafloc. I will but say that you come of good stock, with naught shameful in its blood.” And he put on his smoothest manner and spoke fair words which at length sent Skafloc and Leea away soothed.

But when they were gone, he paced the floor and muttered to himself. “Someone somehow has lured us onto a road that is tricky and beset.” His teeth came together. “Best get rid of the girl—but no, Skafloc guards her with his whole might, and if I did contrive against her, he would soon know it and-The secret must be kept. Not that Skafloc would care; he thinks like an elf in that regard. But if he found out, the girl soon would; and ’tis one of the strongest laws laid on mankind that they have broken. She would be desperate enough to do anything. And we need Skafloc.”

He turned plans over in his crafty brain. He thought of luring Skafloc with other women. But no, his fosterling would recognize any potion for what it was; and over unforced love, the gods themselves had no might. If that love died of itself, the secret would no longer make any difference. But Imric dared not lay trust in so flimsy a chance. It followed that the truth about Skafloc’s parentage must be buried, and soon.

The elf-earl cast back in his memory. As nearly as he could tell-it is not easy to keep thousands of years straight-only one besides himself knew the whole story.

He sent for Firespear, a trusty guardsman, still a youth of two centuries but cunning and sorcerous. “There was a witch who dwelt in a woodland south west of here, twenty-odd years ago,” he said. “She may have died or moved away, but I want you to track her—and if she yet lives, slay her out of hand.”

“Aye, lord,” nodded Firespear. “If I may take a few huntsmen and hounds, we will start off at eventide.” Imric gave him directions. “Take what you will, and begone as swiftly as may be. Ask not for my reasons, nor talk about the matter afterwards.”

Freda welcomed Skafloc back to their rooms with jubilations. Despite her wonder at the magnificence of Elfheugh, she had quailed, beneath an undaunted mien, when restlessness drove him outdoors from her. The castle dwellers, tall lithe elves and their women of immortal beauty, dwarfs and goblins and even more eldritch folk who toiled for them, the wyverns wherewith they went hawking, the lions and panthers they kept for pets, the proud quicksilver grace of the very horses and dogs, were alien to her. The elven touch was cool, the elven faces like statue faces yet at the same time inhumanly fluid, speech and garb and ways of a life that spanned centuries sundered them from her. The dim splendour of the castle which was also a barren tor, the sorceries adrift through its eternal warm twilight, the presences that haunted hills and woods and waters-oppressed her with strangeness.

But when Skafloc was by her side, Alfheim seemed to lie on the borders of Heaven. (God forgive her for thinking that, she whispered to herself, and for not fleeing this heathendom for the holy chill and darkness of a nunnery!) He was lively and merry and mischievous until she could not but laugh with him, his staves rushed out of him and every one to her praise, his arms and his lips awoke a craziness that did not stop before joy had for a moment dissolved the flesh itself and made them into One Who sings for ever. She had seen him fight, and knew there were few warriors in lands of men or Faerie who could stand before him, and of this she was proud; after all, she stemmed from warriors herself. (And she was not an unnatural daughter and sister, was she, because a spell she was helpless to withstand had so swiftly drawn the grief out of her and instead made her overflow with happiness? She had had no choice, Skafloc would not have waited for a year of mourning, and what better father could be gotten for the grandchildren of Orm and Mlfrida?) But with her he was always gentle.

She knew he loved her. He must, or why would he lie with her, spend well-nigh his whole time with her, who could have elf women? She did not know why-did not know how deeply her warmth had entered his soul which had never before felt the like. Skafloc had not been aware of his loneliness until he came on Freda. He knew that, unless he paid a certain price which he would not, he must sometime die, his life the barest flicker in the long elf memories. It was good to have one of his own sort by his side.

In their few days together they had done much, ridden the swift horses and sailed the slender boats and walked over many leagues of hill and woods. Freda was a skilled archer; Orm had wanted his womenfolk able to defend themselves. When she went among the trees with bow in hand and bronze hair shining, she seemed a young goddess of the hunt. They had watched the magicians and mummers, listened to the musicians and skalds, who beguiled the elves, though these were often too sly and subtle for human liking. They had guested Skafloc’s friends, gnomes who dwelt under tree roots, slim white water-sprites, an old and sad-eyed faun, beasts of the wilderness. Though Freda could not converse, she was wide-eyed and a-smile at sight of them.