Poul Anderson - The Broken Sword

He gave the man a scabbard bedight with gold leaf. “Best you sheathe it now,” he said, “and draw it not hereafter unless you wish to kill.” He grinned. “But the sword has a way of getting drawn at the wrong time—and in the end, never fear, it will turn on you.”

“Let it strike down my enemies first,” Skafloc answered, “and I care not overly much what it does later.”

“You may ... then,” said Mananaan under his breath. Aloud: “Let us be off. Here is no place to bide.”

They left. Bolverk’s eyeless face stared after them.

When they had won out—the hound on the chain shrank whimpering aside-they set swiftly down the glacier. As they neared the bottom they heard a loud rumble and looked back. ,

Black against the stars, higher than the mountain, loomed three who strode down upon them. Mananaan said, scrambling for the boat: “I think Utgard-Loki has somehow learned of your trick and wishes not that you should fulfill whatever plans the Aisir have. Hard will it be to get quit of this land.”

The war which Mananaan Mac Lir and Skafloc Elven-Fosterling waged on Jotunheim would be well worth the telling. One should speak too of the struggle with berserk gale and windless mist, with surf and skerry and ice floe, with a weariness which grew so deep that only the image of Fand, bright against the undying night, gave cheer. That best of boats should have been honoured with golden trim and a song.

Many were the enchantments whereby the Jotuns sought to do away with their visitors, and hard luck did these two suffer on that account. But they worked out spells they could use here and wrought mightily in return, not alone warding off the worst of the giant magic but also turning storms loose to scourge the land and singing mountainsides down on Jotun garths.

They never sought to stand in open fight against the giants, though twice when one alone fell on them they killed him; but they coped with monsters of land and sea raised against them. Often their escapes from pursuit were narrow, especially when they went foraging inland during the long times of foul winds, and each would make a story in itself.

It should be told of their raid on a great steading to steal horses. In the end they left it ablaze and made off with a booty of which the steeds were not all. The beasts they took were the smallest of ponies in that land, but in the outer world would be reckoned the hugest and heaviest among stallions, shaggy black hulks with fiery eyes and devil hearts. Yet they took well to their new masters and stood quietly in the boat, which barely had room for them. And they feared neither daylight nor iron, even Skafloc’s sword, nor did they ever grow tired.

Not every Jotun was a giant, or hideous or hateful. After all, some of this blood had become gods in Asgard. A lonely crofter might welcome guests who bore new faces, and not ask too closely what they were about. No few women were of human size, well favoured and well disposed. Mananaan of the glib tongue found the outlaw life not wholly bad. Skafloc did not look twice at any woman.

There is much else to tell, of the dragon and his golden hoard, of the burning mountain and the bottomless chasm and the quern of the giantesses. It should be told of the wayfarer’s fishing in a river that ran from hell, and of what they caught there. The tales of the everlasting battle and of the witch in Iron Wood and of the song they heard the aurora hissing to itself in the secret night-each is worth telling, and would make a saga in itself. But since they are not in the main thread of the story, they must be left among the annals of Faerie.

Suffice it to say that Skafloc and Mananaan got out of Jotunheim and sailed south on the waters of Midgard.

“How long have we been gone?” wondered the man. “I know not. Longer there than here.” The sea king smelled the fresh breeze and looked up into a clear blue sky. “And it is spring.”

Presently he went on: “Now that you have the sword—and have already blooded it well-what will you do?”

“I will seek to join the Elfking, if he still lives.” Skafloc looked grimly ahead, over the racing waves to the dim line of horizon. “Put me ashore south of the channel and I will find him. And let the trolls dare try to stop me! When we have cleared mainland Alfheim of them, we will land in England and regain that. Finally we will go to their home grounds and lay their cursed race beneath our heel.”

“If you can.” Mananaan scowled. “Well, you must try, of course.”

“Will the Sidhe lend no help?”

“That is a matter for the high council. Surely we cannot until the elves are in England, lest our country be ravaged while its warriors are elsewhere. But it may be we will strike then, for the battle and glory as well as to clear a menace from our flank.” The sea king’s proud head lifted. “However that goes-for the sake of blood shed together, toil and hardship and peril in common, and lives owed each to the other, Mananaan Mac Lir and his host will be with you when you enter England!”

They clasped hands, wordlessly. And soon Mananaan set Skafloc and his Jotun horse off, and sailed for Ireland and Fand.

Skafloc rode his black stallion toward the distant Elfking. The horse was gaunt, still stepping high but with hunger in his belly. Skafloc did not look rich himself, his clothes were ragged and faded, his armour battered and rusty, the cloak he wrapped around his shoulders was worn thin. He had lost weight in his farings, the great muscles lay just under the skin and the skin was drawn tightly over the big bones. But he kept haughtily straight. Lines were graven deeply in his face, which had lost all youth and become like the face of an outlaw god-its softest showing a faint mockery, and most times a harsh aloofness. Only the fair wind-tossed hair was young. So might Loki look, riding to Vigrid plain on the last evening of the world.

He went over hills, the reborn year around him. It had rained in the morning and the ground was muddy, pools and rivulets glittering in the sunbeams. The grass grew strongly, a cool light green to the edge of sight; and the trees were budding forth, a frail tint of new life across their boughs, the vanguard of summer. It remained chilly; a strong wind gusted across the hills and whipped Skafloc’s cloak about him. But this was a wind of spring, frolicking and shouting, lashing the sluggishness out of winter blood. The sky stood high and altogether blue, the sun struck through white and grey clouds, lances of light smote the wet grass in gleams and sparkles. Thunder rolled from the darkened southeast, but against that smoky cloud-mass shone a rainbow.

The honking of geese came from overhead, the wander-birds were homeward bound. A thrush tried out his song in a dancing grove, and two squirrels played in a tree like little red fires.

Soon would come warm days and light nights, green woods and nodding flowers. Something stirred within Skafloc as he rode, the unfolding of a buried and almost forgotten gentleness.

O Freda, if you were with me—

Day slanted towards the west. Skafloc rode straight forward on his tireless horse, taking no pains to stay unseen. He went at an easy pace for the Jotun breed, so that the black stallion could snatch food on the way; but earth quivered beneath those hoofs. They were entering Faerie lands, the middle province of Alfheim, bound for the mountain fastnesses where the Elfking must be if he yet held out. They passed signs of war-burnt garths, broken weapons, clean-picked bones, all crumbling away with the speed of Faerie things. Now and again a fresh troll spoor showed, and Skafloc licked his lips.

Night rose, strangely warm and well lit after the realms whence he had come. He rode on, at times dozing in the saddle but never ceasing to listen. Well before the enemy horsemen crossed his path he heard them and buckled on his helmet.