Poul Anderson - The Broken Sword

Sleet-mingled rain drove out of a sky that was black save when lightning split it open; then each last drop on the wind and grassblade on the earth stood forth starkly white. Thunder rolled and roared through the clamorous, battering air. The waves seethed white with foam and spindrift, booming out of the west and snarling far up onto every shore. Not even the elves dared raise sail; they rowed. Rain and sea dashed in their faces and drenched their garb. Blue fire crawled over the oars and the reeling dragon heads.

Out of the dark reared England. The elves pulled until it seemed their thews must snap. Surf bawled on beach’ and reef. The wind caught at the ships and sought to hurl them onto rocks or against each other. Skafloc grinned and said aloud:

From the bow of his rolling longship he saw the headland which was his goal; and for a moment longing overwhelmed him.

Quoth he:

When the fleet had done this, it found sheltered waters for landing and a small troop of elves waiting to help. The ships were grounded, dragged ashore, and made fast.

Thereafter the crews busked themselves swiftly for war. A captain said to Skafloc: “You have not told us who is to stay and guard the ships.”

“No one,” he answered. “We will need our men inland.”

“What? The trolls might come on the fleet and burn it! Then we would have no way of retreat.”

Skafloc looked about the lightning-lit strand. “For me,” he said, “there will be no retreat. I will not leave England again, alive or dead, till the trolls are driven out.”

The elves regarded him with more than a little awe. He hardly seemed a mortal, tall and iron-clad as he stood, the demon sword at his waist. Wolf-greenish lights flickered far back in the ice blue of his eyes. The elves thought he was fey. He swung into the saddle of his Jotun horse. His call struck through the wind: “Sound the lur horns. We ride after prey tonight!”

The army set off. About a third of them were mounted. The rest hoped soon to get steeds. Like French or Normans, rather than English or Danes, elves on land fought by choice as cavalry. Rain sluiced over them, fallen leaves scrunched soddenly under them, lightning cracked, the wind thrust cold with the first breath of a new winter.

After a while they heard the remote brassy bellow of troll battle-horns. The elves hefted their weapons and smiled in the flickering glare. Rain-streaming shields came onto arms and the lurs dunted again.

Skafloc rode at the head of the wedge. He felt no joy just then. The thought of more slaughter wearied and sickened him. Yet he knew it would be otherwise when he unsheathed his blade, and so he could hardly wait for battle.

The trolls appeared, a darkling mass on the great rolling down. They must have sensed the newcomers and gone out from a nearby castle, belike Alfarhoi. Their force was to be reckoned with, albeit smaller than the elves. A full half of it was mounted, and Skafloc heard someone behind him say merrily, “Here is where I get four legs under me.”

The chief on his right was less high-hearted. “We outnumber them,” he said, “but not by enough to roll over them. This would not be the first time brave warriors have beaten a bigger host.”

“I do not fear they will defeat us,” replied Skafloc; “still, it would be bad if they killed very many, for then the next fight might indeed be our last.” He scowled. “Curse it, where is the main body of England’s elves? They were to meet us erenow. Unless the messengers were caught on the way—”

The troll horns sounded to battle. Skafloc drew his sword and swung it above his head. Lightning made it flare blindingly, dripping blue fire.

“Forward!” He spurred his horse. And the glory of power surged upward in him.

Spears and arrows arced overhead, unseen and unheard in the storm. The ripping wind made it hard to aim, and so the clatter of weapons was quickly begun.

Skafloc leaned forward in his stirrups and hewed. A troll struck at him. His sword bit through both those arms. Another rode close, axe lifted. The blade screamed around into that one’s neck. A pikeman jabbed; the point glanced off Skafloc’s shield, he cut the shaft in twain, his horse trampled the troll into the mud.

Axe and sword! Clang and spark-flash! Cloven metal, rent flesh, warriors sinking to earth, devil-dance of lightning!

Through the clangour rode Skafloc, smiting, smiting. His blows shuddered in byrnie and bone, shocks that slammed back into his own shoulders. Weapons lashed at him, to be stopped by shield or shorn across by sword. The hawk-scream of his blade sounded through wind and thunder. None could stand before him, and he led his men through the troll lines and turned on the foe from the rear.

Nonetheless the trolls fought stubbornly. They re-formed into rings that held firm. From these, arrows flocked. Charging horses ran into braced spears. Elves toppled under axe and club. Where was help, where was help?

As if in answer, a horn blew—and another, and another—a war-cry, a hail of missiles, a sweep of ragged hundreds out of the night!

“Ha, Alfheim!” Firespear rode in the van. Blood streamed from his lance like the rain from his helmet. Glee shone from his face. By his side, battle-dinted axe dripping, came Flam of Orkney. And other elf chiefs were in the fight, rising as if out of the earth to cleanse it of its despoilers.

Now it became no great task to clear away the foe, and erelong only corpses kept the down. Skafloc held saddle-council with Firespear, Flam, and their fellow lords.

“We came as fast as we could,” said Firespear. “We had to stop at Runehill and secure it, since the gates stood open for us and few trolls were left. Well had the women done their work! I think they will have everything finished for us in Alfarhoi, seeing that most of its garrison is lying here.”

“Good,” nodded Skafloc. Battle past and sword sheathed, he felt a return of weariness. The storm was dying overhead in wink and grumble, the wind sank and rain washed heavily out of a lightening sky.

“The Sidhe of Erin go to war too,” Flam said. “Lugh has landed in Scotland, and Mananaan drives the trolls from the northern waters and isles.”

“Ah—he kept his word.” Skafloc showed a little cheer. “A true friend is Mananaan. He is the only god I would trust.”

“And that only because he is a half-god, stripped of most of his powers and brought down to Faerie,” muttered Firespear. “Unwise is it to have any dealings with gods ... or giants.”

“Well, we had best move, so we can be inside ere dawn,” said Flam. “Today we sleep in Alfarhoi. Oh, long since I slept in an elf burh beside an elf woman!”

Skafloc’s mouth writhed, but he did not speak.

Though fall that year had come in with such rage, it soon turned mild and stayed thus uncommonly long. It was as if the land were welcoming back her lovers of old. Some lay down with her for ever, and the maples remembered them in the colour of their leaves. Other trees rustled in a thousand hues of gold and bronze, wide across hazy hills under dreaming heaven. Squirrels bustled about, bringing in their little harvests; stags shook antlers and belled forth pride; the lonesome cry of southbound geese drifted downward with the leaves. At night the stars gleamed untellably many, so bright that it seemed one could reach up and pluck them from that crystalline blackness.