Poul Anderson - The Broken Sword

The wind of her gallop screamed about her, nigh ripping her from the saddle, forcing her to shield her eyes with an upraised arm. She could hardly see through the night and snow, even with her witch-sight, but she heard the roar of hoofs behind her.

Faster and faster, north, ever north, while the air hooted and bit, the pursuers yelped and the hoofbeats rolled. When she glanced back, she saw the trolls as a deeper shadow racing through the night. Could she but halt and command them home in the name of Jesus! But their earshot was less than their arrowshot.

The snow whirled thicker. Presently the trolls fell behind, though she knew they would track unwearyingly. And as she fled north she came nearer the south-ward-marching army of Trollheim.

Time brawled past like the wind. She caught a far-off glimpse of fire on a hilltop-belike some burning elf garth. The troops must be close, and they would have scouts widely across the land.

As if to answer her thought, a howl rose out of the murk to her right. She heard hoofs clatter. If they cut her off—

Athwart her path loomed a monstrous shape, a giant shaggy horse blacker than night with eyes like glowing coals, and on it a rider in black ring-mail, huge of thew and hideous of face—a troll! The elf horse veered aside, not fast enough. He reached out and caught the bridle and pulled the steed to a halt.

Freda screamed. Before she could cry on holiness, he had yanked her from the saddle, clutched her to him with one arm and clapped the other hand over her mouth. It was cold and smelled like a pit of snakes.

“Ho, ho, ho!” shouted the troll.

Out of the night, called through the windy dark by her far-sensed need, still gasping with the long run and the fear of coming too late, Skafloc sprang. One foot he set in the troll’s stirrup, lifted himself up and drove dagger into throat.

And he caught Freda in his arms.

When the troll host reached Elfheugh, a horn sounded from the watchtowers and the great brazen gates swung wide. Valgard reined in, narrowing his eyes. “A trick,” he muttered.

“No, I think not,” said Grum. “Few save women are left in the castle, and they expect us to spare them.” He shook with laughter. “As we will! As we will!”

The hoofs of the huge-boned horses rang loud on the courtyard flagstones. Here it was warm and calm, in a cool half-light that rested blue on walls and sky-piercing turrets. Gardens breathed forth languorous odours; fountains splashed, and dear streamlets ran past little arbours meant for two alone.

The women of Elfheugh were gathered before the keep to meet the conquerors. Though he had seen elf-mays on the march south, and taken them, Valgard exclaimed under his breath at sight of these.

One stepped forth, thin robes clinging to every curve, and she outshone the rest as the moon the stars. She curtsied low before Grum, so that the cool mystery of her eyes was veiled by sweeping lashes. “Greeting, lord,” she sang rather than spoke. “Elfheugh makes submission.”

The earl purled himself out. “Long has this castle stood,” he said, “and no few assaults has it beaten off. Yet you were wisest, who chose to admit the might of Trollheim. Terrible are we to our foes, while our friends have good gifts of us.” He smirked. “Erelong I will make you a gift. What is your name?”

“I hight Leea, lord, sister to Imric Elf-Earl.”

“Call him not that, for now I, Grum, am earl in this island’s Faerie realm, and Imric the least of my thralls. Bring in the prisoners!”

Slowly, heads bent and feet shuffling, the nobles of Alfheim were led forward. Bitter were their begrimed faces, and their shoulders were bowed by a weight more heavy than chains. Imric, hair stiff with his own crusted blood and blood in the prints of his bare feet, led the line. Naught did the elves say, nor even look at their women, as they were led down towards the dungeons. The commoner captives followed, a mile of misery.

Illrede arrived from the ships. “Elfheugh is ours,” he said, “and we leave you, Grum, to hold it while we lay the rest of Alfheim under us. There are still English, Scottish, Welsh elfholds to be taken, and many elves skulking in the hills and woods, so you will have work enough.”

He led the way into the keep. “We have a thing to do ere leaving,” he said. “Imric took our daughter Gora, nine hundred years ago. Let her be brought forth to freedom.”

As the king’s men followed him, Leea plucked at Valgard’s sleeve to draw him aside. Her gaze was intent. “I took you for Skafloc at first, a mortal who dwelt among us,” she breathed. “Yet I can sense you are not human—”

“No.” His lips twisted upward. “I am Valgard Berserk of Trollheim. In a way, though, Skafloc and I are brothers. For I am a changeling, born of the troll-woman Gora by Imric, and left in place of the baby who became Skafloc.”

“Then—” Leea’s fingers tightened on his arm. Her words hissed. “So you are the Valgard of whom Freda spoke? Her brother?”

“That one.” His voice roughened. “Where is she?” He shook her. “And where is Skafloc?”

“I ... do not know ... Freda has fled the castle, she said she was going to seek him ... ”

“Then if she was not caught on the way, and I have heard nothing of such, she is with him. Ill is that!” Leea smiled, with closed lips and hooded eyes. “At last I see what Tyr of the Aisir meant,” she whispered to herself, “and why Imric kept the secret—” And to Valgard, boldly: “Why think you that is bad? You have slain all the seed of Orm but those two, and have been the means of bringing what is worse upon them. If you hated that house, as you must have done, what better revenge could you want?”

Valgard shook his head. “I had naught against Orm or his house,” he muttered. And looking about him in sudden bewilderment, as if waking from an uneasy dream: “Though I must have hated them to have worked so much harm-on my own siblings—” He passed a hand over his eyes. “No, they are not my blood, are they ... were they?”

He broke away from her and hastened after the king. Leea followed more slowly, still smiling.

Illrede sat in Imric’s high seat. His gaze was fixed on the inner door, and he chuckled softly when he heard the tramp of his guardsmen. “They are bringing Gora,” he murmured. “My little girl, who once laughed and played about my knees.” He put a heavy hand on the changeling’s shoulder. “Your mother, Valgard.”

She shambled into the hall, gaunt, wrinkled, bent over from the centuries of crouching in darkness. Out of her skull-face the eyes stared, empty save where ghosts swam deep within them.

“Gora—” Illrede half rose and sank back again.

She blinked around, almost blind. “Who calls for Gora?” she mumbled. “Who calls for Gora calls for the dead. Gora is dead, lord, she died nine hundred years ago. They buried her under a castle; her white bones uphold its towers against the stars. Can you not let the poor dead troll-woman rest?”

Valgard shrank from her, lifting a hand as if to ward off the thing that stumbled over the floor towards him. Illrede reached out both arms. “Gora!” he cried. “Gora, know you not me, your father? Know you not your son?”

Her voice came windy and remote through the hall. “How can the dead know anyone? How can the dead give birth? The brain which gave birth to dreams is become the womb of maggots. Ants crawl within the hollowness where aforetime a heart beat. Oh, give me back my chain! Give me back the lover who held me down in the dark!” She whimpered. “Raise not the poor frightened dead, lord, and wake not the mad, for life and reason are monsters which live by devouring that which gives them birth.”