Poul Anderson - The Broken Sword

“I live, Mother, I live—and you live—” Freda strangled on her tears and must cough. “See, feel, I am warm, I am alive. And this is not Valgard, it is Skafloc who saved me from him. It is Skafloc, my lord, a new son for you—” Ailfrida climbed to her feet. Heavily she leaned on her daughter’s arm. “I have waited,” she said. “I have waited here, and they thought I was mad. They bring me food and other needs, but do not linger, because they fear the madwoman who will not leave her dead.” She laughed, softly, softly. “Why, what is crazy about that? The mad are those who leave their beloved ones.”

She scanned the man’s face. “You are like to Valgard,” she said in the same quiet way. “You have the height of Orm, and your looks are half his and half mine. But your eyes are kinder than Valgard’s.” Again she uttered her tender laugh. “Why, now let them say I am mad! I waited, that is all, I waited, and now out of night and death two of my children have returned to me.”

“We may bring home more ere dawn,” said Skafloc. He and Freda led her down the mound.

“Mother lived,” whispered the girl. “I thought her dead too, but she lived, and sat forsaken in the winter-What have I done?”

She wept, and Ailfrida comforted her.

Skafloc dared not wait. He staked out the howe with his rune wands, one at each corner. He put on his left thumb the bronze ring whose stone was flint. He stood on the west side of the grave with his arms raised. On the east side roiled the sea, and the moon fled through ragged clouds. Sleet blew in on the wind.

Skafloc spoke the spell. It wrenched his body and seared his throat. Shaken with the might that surged up in him, he made the signs with his lifted hands.

The fire roared taller. The wind shrieked like a lynx and clouds swallowed the moon. Skafloc cried out:

The barrow groaned. Higher and ever higher raged the icy flame above it. Skafloc chanted:

Then the howe opened with leaping fires, and Orm and his sons stood in its mouth. The chieftain called:

Orm stood leaning on his spear. Earth still clung to him, and he was bloodless and covered with rime. His eyes glared unblinking in the flames that roared and whirled around him. On his right stood Ketil, stiff and pale, the gash in his skull black against his hair. On his left was Asmund, wrapped in shadow, arms folded over the spear wound in his breast. Dimly behind them, Skafloc could see the buried ship and the crew stirring awake within it.

He bit back the fear that came out of the grave-mouth and said:

Orm’s voice rolled far and windy and strange:

Freda stood forth. “Father!” she cried. “Father, know you not your daughter?”

Orm’s dry eyes flamed on her, and the wrath faded in them. He bowed his head and stood in the whirling, hissing fire. Quoth Ketil:

Ailfrida came slowly up to Orm. They looked at each other, there in the restless heatless firelight. She took his hands; they were cold as the earth in which they had lain. Quoth he:

“That I have not strength to do, Orm,” she said. She touched his face. “There is frost in your hair. There is mould in your mouth. You are cold, Orm.”

“I am dead. The grave lies between us.”

“Then let it be so no longer. Take me with you, Orm!”

His lips touched hers.

Skafloc said to Ketil:

Quoth Ketil:

Skafloc shook his head. Then Ketil leaned on his sword and chanted:

Now Asmund spoke from where he stood with his face in shadow, and sorrow was in his voice:

Horror came on Freda. She could not speak, she crept close to Skafloc and they stood facing the sad wise eyes of , Asmund. He said slowly while the fires flamed white around his dark shape:

The howe closed with a shattering groan. The flames sank and the moon gleamed wanly forth.

Freda moved away as if Skafloc were become a troll. Like a blind man, he stumbled towards her. A dry little sob rattled in her throat. She turned and fled from him.

“Mother,” she whispered. “Mother.”

But the howe was bare under the moon. Nor did men ever see Ailfrida again.

Daybreak stole over the sea. The sky was low and heavy, clouds hanging as if frozen above an empty white land. A few snowflakes drifted down.

Freda sat on the barrow and stared before her. She was not weeping. She wondered if she could.

Skafloc returned from sheltering the horses in a thicket. He lowered himself down beside her. His face and voice were dull as the dawn: “I love you, Freda.”

She said no word. After a while he went on: “I cannot do other than love you. What matters the chance which made us of the same blood? It means naught. I know of folk, human folk, who commonly made such marriages. Freda, come with me, forget the cursed law—”

“It is God’s law,” she said with no more tone than he. “I cannot knowingly break it. My sins are too thick already.”

“I say that a god who would come between two who have been to each other what we have been, is not one I would heed. If he dared come near me, I would send him home howling.”

“Aye—a heathen you are!” she flared. “Fosterling of soulless elves, for whom you would rouse the very dead to new anguish.” A faint colour tinged her. “Well, go back to your elves! Go back to Leea!”