Poul Anderson - The Broken Sword

She had given scant thought to the future. Someday, of course, she must bring Skafloc to the lands of men and get him christened, a worthy deed for which her present sins would no doubt be forgiven her. Not now, though, not yet. Elfheugh was timeless, she had lost track of days and nights, and there was so much else to do.

She sped into his arms. What trouble still clung to him vanished at seeing her: young, slinij lithe and long-legged, more girl than woman and nonetheless his woman. He laid hands on her waist, flung her into the air, and caught her again, while they both laughed aloud.

“Set me down,” she gasped. “Set me down so I can kiss you.”

“Soon.” Skafloc tossed her up again and made a sign. There she hung, weightless in midair, kicking out and choking between merriment and surprise. Skafloc pulled her to him and she hung above with her mouth on his.

“No sense craning my neck for this,” decided Skafloc. He made himself weightless too and conjured forth a cloud, not wet but like white feathers, for them to rest on. A tree grew from its middle, heavy with different kinds of fruit, and rainbows arched through its leaves.

“Someday, madman, you will forget some part of your tricks and fall and break in little pieces,” she said.

He held her close, looking into her grey eyes. Then he counted the freckles that dusted the bridge of her nose, and kissed her once for each of them. “I had best make you spotted like a leopard,” he said.

“Do you need such an excuse?” she answered softly. “I have longed for you, my dearest. How went your hunt?”

He frowned as memory returned. “Well enough.”

“You fret, darling. What’s wrong? This whole night have horns blown and feet pattered and hoofs tramped. I see more armed men in the castle every day. What is it, Skafloc?”

“You know we are at war with the trolls,” he said. “We are letting them come to us, for ’twould be hard to overrun their mountain fastnesses while they keep their full strength.”

She shuddered in his arms. “The trolls—”

“No fear.” Skafloc cast off his unease. “We will meet them at sea and break their power. Any who land we will let stay, in as much earth as they need to cover them. Then with its strength gone, it will be a romp to lay Trollheim under us. Oh, we will have lusty fighting, but Alfheim would have to work hard not to win.”

“I fear for you, Skafloc.”

Quoth he:

Fear of fairest fay for chieftain makes him merry-. means she loves him.

Girl, be gay now. Gladly take I gift you give me, gold-bright woman.

Meanwhile he began undoing her girdle. Freda blushed. “Shameless are you,” she told him, and fumbled with his garments.

Skafloc raised his brows. “Why,” he asked, “what is there to be ashamed about?”

Firespear rode out shortly after sunset of the next night. A few sullen embers lay yet in the west. He and his dozen followers wore the green tunics of the chase, with cowled black cloaks flung above. Their spears and arrows were tipped with alloy of silver. About their curvetting horses bayed the elf-hounds, great savage beasts with coats red or ebon, furnace eyes and dagger fangs from which ran slaver, blood of Garm and Fenris and the Wild Hunt’s dogs in them.

Forth they swept when Firespear’s horn shouted. Drurnroll of hoofs and belling of hounds rang between the hills. Like the wind they went, between ice-sheathed trees through a night that soon was pit-black. A glint of silver, jewelled hilts, bloody glare might be seen in a rush of shadows: no more; but the clamour of their passage rang from end to end of the woods. Hunters, charcoal burners, outlaws who heard that racket shuddered and signed themselves, whether with Cross or Hammer; and wild beasts slunk aside.

From afar the witch, squatting in the shelter she had built where her house formerly stood-for her greatest powers drew from things thereabouts and nowhere else-heard the troop coming. She crouched over her tiny fire and muttered, “The elves hunt tonight.”

“Aye,” squeaked her familiar. As the noise drew closer: “And I think they hunt us.”

“Us?” The witch started. “Why say you that?”

“They are bound straight this way, and you are no friend to Skafloc, thus none to •Imric.” The rat chattered with fear and crawled into her bosom. “Now quickly, mother, quickly, summon aid or we are done.”

The witch had no time for rites or offerings, but she howled the call which had been taught her, and a blackness deeper than the night arose beyond the fire.

She grovelled. Faint and cold, the little blue flames raced across him. “Help,” she whimpered. “Help, the elves come.”

The eyes watched her without anger or pity. The sound of the hunt grew louder. “Help!” she wailed.

He spoke, in a voice that blent with the wind but seemed to come from immeasurably far removed. “Why do you call on me?”

“They ... they seek ... my life.”

“What of that? I heard you say once you did not care for life.”

“My vengeance is not complete,” she sobbed. “I cannot die now, without knowing whether my work and the price I paid are for naught. Master, help your servant!”

Nearer came the hunters. She felt the ground shiver beneath the galloping hoofs.

“You are not my servant, you are my slave,” the voice rustled. “What is it to me whether your purpose is fulfilled? I am the lord of evil, which is futility.

“Did you think you ever summoned me and struck a bargain? No, you were led astray; that was another. Mortals never sell me their souls. They give them away.”

And the Dark Lord was gone.

The witch shrieked and ran forth. Behind her the hounds, put off by the smell of him who had lately been here, barked and cast about. The witch turned herself into a rat and crawled down a hole beneath the Druid oak. “She’s near,” called Firespear, “and-Ha! They have the scent!”

The pack closed in. Earth flew as they dug after then-prey, ripping roots and yelping. The witch darted forth, changed into a crow, and winged aloft. Firespear’s bow twanged. The crow sank to earth. It became a hag at whom the dogs rushed. The rat sprang from her bosom. A horse brought down its silver-shod foot to crush him.

The hounds tore the witch asunder. As they did she screamed at the elves: “All my curses! All woe do I wish on Alfheim! And tell Imric that Valgard the changeling lives and knows—”

There her words ended. “That was an easy hunt,” said Firespear. “I was afraid we would need sorcery to track her wanderings through a score of years, maybe into foreign lands.” He snuffed the wind. “As it is, we have the rest of the night for better game.”

Imric rewarded his hunters well, but when they told him, in some puzzlement, what their quarry had said, he scowled.

Valgard found a high place at the troll court, grandson of Illrede and strong warrior with the freedom of iron as he was. But the lords looked askance at him-for he had elf blood too, and came from the lands of men; also, they were envious of a stranger who, after a tongue-spell had given him command of their speech, stepped at once into their ranks. Thus Valgard found no friends in Trollheim. Nor did he seek any, the looks and smells and ways of these folk not being to his liking.

They were, however, fearless and of terrible strength. Their warlocks had powers he doubted any human could ever wield. Their nation was strongest in Faerie by far except-maybe-for Alfheim. This suited Valgard well, for here was the means to his revenge and the gaining of his heritage.

Illrede told him what was planned. “Throughout the peace we built for war,” said the king, “while the elves loafed and intrigued among themselves and took their pleasure. There are not quite so many of us as of them, but with those who march beside us this time we outnumber them by a good lot.”