Poul Anderson - The Broken Sword

“Glad indeed!” Dove Berg smote the table with his fist. His hair was torch-red in the green twilight of the cave, and his shout woke echoes between its walls. “There has not been so grand a fight, so much glory to be won, in over a hundred years! Why could we not go?”

“Well you know the answer,” said Eochy Mac Elathan, the Father of Stars. He sat wrapped in a cloak like blue dusk, and bright points of light winked and glittered in it and in his hair and deep within his eyes. When he spread his hands, a little shower of such glints was strewn to dance on the air. “This is more than a simple hosting in Faerie. This is a game in the long strife between the gods of the North and their foes from the Undying Ice; and hard it is to know which side is the more to be wary of. We will not risk our freedom to become pieces on the chessboard of the world.”

Skafloc gripped the arms of his chair till his knuckles stood white. His voice wavered a bit: “I come not for help in war, however sorely ’tis needed. I want the loan of a ship.”

“And may we ask why?” Coll spoke. Bright was his face, and flames wavered over his gleaming hauberk and the sun-rayed golden brooch at his throat.

Skafloc told quickly of the Aisir’s gift to him, and finished: “I made shift to steal the sword from Elfheugh, and by magic found out that I could get a vessel from the Sidhe which would bear me to Jotunheim. So I came hither to ask for it.” He bent his neck. “Aye, as a beggar I come. But if we win, you shall not find the elves are niggardly.”

“I would fain see this glaive,” said Mananaan Mac Lir. Tall and strong and lithe he was, white of skin and silvery-gold of hair, the faintest greenish tinge in both. His eyes were slumbrous, a shifting green and grey and blue, his voice soft though it could rise to a roar. Richly clad he was; and his knife bore gold, silver, crusted jewels on hilt and sheath; but over his shoulders he wore a great leather cloak that had seen use in many weathers.

Skafloc unwrapped the broken sword, and the Sidhe, who could handle iron as well as endure daylight, crowded around it. They recoiled at once, feeling what venom was locked in that blade. A murmuring rose among them.

Lugh lifted his crowned head and looked hard at Skafloc. “You deal in evil things,” he said. “A demon sleeps in this sword.”

“What would you await?” shrugged Skafloc. “It carries victory.”

“Aye, but it also carries death. It will be your bane if you wield it.”

“And what of that?” Skafloc gathered his bundle together. The steel rang, loud in the silence that had fallen, as the two pieces clashed together; and something in that harsh belling sent chills through those who heard. “I ask for a ship,” went on Skafloc. “I ask in the name of what friendship there has been between Sidhe and elves, in the name of your honour as warriors, and in the name of your mercy as children of the earth-mother Dana. Will you lend it to me?”

More silence followed. At last Lugh said: “It goes hard not to help you—”

“And why not help?” cried Dove Berg. His knife gleamed forth, he tossed it on high and let it twirl back, rippling with light, to his hand. “Why not raise the hosts of the Sidhe and fare against barbarous Trollheim? How drab and poor will Faerie be if the elves are crushed!”

“And how soon would the trolls fall on us?” added Conan.

“Be still, my lords,” commanded Lugh. “What we as a whole do must be thought on.” He straightened to his full towering height. “However,” he said, “you are our guest, Skafloc Elven-Fosterling. You have sat at our board and drunk our wine; and we remember how we were erstwhile guested in Alfheim. At the very least, we cannot refuse so small a boon as the loan of a ship. Also, I am Lugh of the Long Hand, and the Tuatha De Danaan do what they will without asking Aisir Jotuns.”

At this a shout lifted, weapons blazed forth, swords dinned on shields, and the bards swept out war-chants on their wild strings. Cool and quiet in the tumult, Mananaan Mac Lir said to Skafloc:

“I will offer you a craft. She is only a boat in size, but nonetheless the foremost of my fleet. And since she is tricky to handle, and the journey will be of interest, I will come along myself.”

At this, Skafloc was glad. A large crew would be no better than - a small one-worse, maybe, because of the heed it might draw—and the sea king ought to make the best of shipmates. “I could thank you in words,” he said, “but would liefer do it in oaths of brotherhood. Tomorrow—”

“Not so swiftly, hot-head,” smiled Mananaan. His sleepy-seeming eyes dwelt on Skafloc with more care than showed. “We will rest and hold feast for a while. I see you need some mirth, and besides, a voyage to Giant Land is not to be undertaken without a good deal of making ready.”

Skafloc could say naught against that. Inwardly he raged. He would have no joy of those days. Wine merely brought forth memory—

He felt a light touch on his arm, and faced about to Fand, the wife of Mananaan. Stately and beautiful were the women of the Tuatha De Danaan, for they were goddesses born. There were no words to tell of their radiance. And in that company Fand stood out.

Her silken hair, golden as sunlight at summer evening, fell in waves from her coronet to her feet. Her robe shimmered with rainbow hues, her round white arms flashed with jewelled rings, yet she herself outshone any attire.

Her wise violet eyes looked through Skafloc’s, into him. Her low voice was music. “Would you have trekked to Jotunheim alone?”

“Of course, my lady,” said Skafloc.

“No living human has gone there and returned, save Thjalfi and Roskva, and they went in company with Thor. You are either very brave or very reckless.”

“What difference? If I die in Jotunheim, it is the same as anywhere else.”

“And if you live—” She seemed more in pain than afraid.

“If you live, will you indeed bring back the sword and unleash it ... knowing that in the end it must turn on you?”

He nodded indifferently.

“I think you look on death as your friend,” she murmured. “That is a strange friend for a young man to have.”

“The only faithful friend in this world,” he said. “Death is always sure to be at your side.”

“I think you are fey, Skafloc Elven-Fosterling, and that is a sorrow to me. Not since Cu Chulain—” for a moment her eyes blurred “-not since him has such a man as you might become lived among mortals. Also, it grieves me to see the merry mad boy I remember grown so dark and inward. A worm gnaws in your breast, and the hurt drives you to seek death.”

He answered naught, folded his arms and looked beyond her.

“Yet grief dies too,” she said. “You can outlive it. And I will seek by my arts to shield you, Skafloc.”

“That is fine!” he growled, unable to stand more. “You magicking for my body and she praying for my soul!”

He swung away towards the winecups. Fand sighed.

“You sail with sorrow, Mananaan,” she told her husband.

The sea king shrugged. “Let him mope as he wishes. I will enjoy the trip anyway.”

Three days later, Skafloc stood on a shore and watched Mananaan’s boat sculled forth by a leprechaun from the grotto where she was berthed. She was a small slender craft, her silvery hull seeming too frail for deep water. The mast was inlaid with ivory, the sail and tackle interwoven with dyed silk. A gallant golden image of Fand as a dancer stood on prow for figurehead.

The lady herself saw them off. Otherwise the Tuatha had said their farewells and no one was about in the cool grey mists of morning. The fog glittered like dewdrops in her braided hair, and her eyes were a brighter and deeper violet than before, as she bade Mananaan goodspeed.