Poul Anderson - The Broken Sword

And the luck of the elves rode high. North and south, east and west, their enemies broke before them with small loss to themselves. For not only did they have dread allies, they were better supplied and got more reinforcements weekly as the Elfking cleared the mainland; and they took back their castles with ease. The trolls, on the other hand, were altogether cut off after Mananaan drew tight his blockade. Toward the end of that season, elves were heard to complain about how hard they must search to find any who could give them a fight.

There was no gladness in this for Skafloc. First, he knew what lay behind it. Once Valgard saw that his troops would be cut down piecemeal in the field, he began withdrawing them as fast as might be toward Elfheugh; knots of them stayed behind, making too much trouble for the elves to get at the larger bodies. While Skafloc had no doubt he could overrun their last stand, the cost might be high.

That did not really grieve him, but it did offend a certain sense of workmanship, and he weighed different schemes for ending the matter more handily. His thinking was slower than of yore, because of the second thing which gnawed at him.

And that thing sprang from the very peace he was bringing. Pitched battles dwindled to skirmishes, to chivvyings, to naught. For days, finally weeks on end, his sword slept. Then memory awoke. He had hoped the wound within him was somewhat healed. He found that it was not. He could not say whether his long lyings awake, hurt the more, or his dreams.

In such wise did his autumn fade toward a new winter. The end of it came one night in the Danelaw, when Fire-spear-to whom Skafloc had told no more than he told anyone else, leaving them to suppose he had either grown tired of his human girl or left her among men for safekeeping-sought him out and said: “You may like to know, I was riding at dusk by a garth not far hence and saw a young woman who might well be Freda Ormsdaughter. She was great with child, though to me she looked as if she also bore sorrow.”

Skafloc rode alone through evening. The black stallion went at a walk, no faster than a mortal steed. Strewn leaves crackled under his hoofs and danced before him on a cool wind. Such of them as were left on the boughs were still bright, as if to make a crown for his rider. Twilight closed hazily in as he went through woods that the man remembered.

Skafloc was unbowed by the weight of helmet, byrnie, or dragon-hilted sword. His hair blew long and light from under a cap coif. His face, strong blunt lines of it standing out beneath weather-darkened skin, was set unbending. Yet his heart knocked and knocked, blood beat in his ears, his hands were wet and his lips dry.

Dusk became a rustling dark. He splashed across a brook which purled icy clear, and by witch-sight spied dead leaves floating seaward like small brown boats. He heard an owl hoot and the trees creak—but underneath all was a singing silence wherein only his heart lived.

O Freda, Freda, are you really so near?

Many stars had twinkled forth when Skafloc rode into Thorkel Erlendsson’s yard. He hissed a word that made the dogs run off without barking; and the hoofs fell softly. The steading was dark save for a weak glow of firelight from under the front door of the house.

He dismounted. His knees shook. It took a surge of will for him to walk over to that door. The bolt was in place, and he stood for a moment readying the spell that would slide it back.

Thorkel was a yeoman of worth but no chieftain; so his main room was not big, and no one slept there when he did not have guests. Freda sat late by a low hearthfire as was her wont. Audun came in from the rear. His eyes were brighter than the flame-glow. “I could not sleep,” he said. “The others can-how they can!—so I put my clothes back on hoping we could talk without being stared at.”

He joined her on the bench. The light sheened ruddily from her hair. She did not go with it covered in the manner of a wife, but she had braided it. “I can hardly believe my luck,” he said. “Any day now, my father comes home and we shall be wed.”

Freda smiled. “First I must have my babe, and get well from that,” she said, “though it could likewise come any day.”

She grew grave. “And have you in truth naught against me—or him?” she asked slowly.

“How could I?” said Audun. “How often must I tell you? It is your child. That is enough for me. It will be like my own.”

He laid his arms about her.

The bolt slid free. The door opened and the night wind blew in. Freda saw the tall form limned athwart the dark. She could not speak. Rising, she crept backwards until she was stopped by the wall.

“Freda,” croaked Skafloc above the faint hiss and crackle of the fire.

It was as if an iron band tightened around her breast. She lifted her arms, but wide apart with the hands turned inward.

Like a sleepwalker, Skafloc came toward her. And she took a step toward him, and another.

“Hold!” Audun’s voice crashed across the silence. His shadow wavered huge before him. He snatched a spear that leaned in a corner, and pushed himself between those two.

“Hold ... I, I, I tell you hold!” he stammered. “Who are you? What will you?”

Skafloc traced a sign and spoke a stave. Those in the rear of the house would not awaken while he was inside. He did it without thinking, in the way that a man brushes off a fly. “Freda,” he said again.

“Who are you?” cried Audun. His tone cracked in the middle. “What will you?” He saw how those two looked at each other, and though he did not understand, he whimpered in pain.

Skafloc looked over the boy’s shoulder, hardly aware of him. “Freda,” he said. “My darling, my life. Come away with me.”

She shook her head, wrenchingly, yet still she reached for him. “I went to Jotunheim, I came back to war, thinking Time and swords might cut me loose from you,” Skafloc said raggedly. “They could not. This deathbringer I carry cannot do it, nor law nor gods nor aught that is in the Nine Worlds. Then what are they to us? Come with me, Freda.”

She bent her head. Her face was wrenched out of shape with what fought behind it. She sobbed, with hardly a noise though her ribs seemed about to be torn loose; and tears broke forth.

“You hurt her!” screamed Audun.

He stabbed unskillfully with the spear. It glanced off the broad, byrnied chest and furrowed Skafloc’s cheek. The elf lord spat like a lynx and reached for his sword.

Audun thrust again. Skafloc leaped aside, unhumanly swift. The sword went s-s-s-s-s as it rose from the scabbard. It clove the shaft over. “Get out of our way!” grasped Skafloc.

“Not while my bride lives!” Audun, beside himself with rage and terror-terror not of death but of what he had seen in Freda’s eyes-felt his own tears run. He snatched forth his dagger and lunged for Skafloc’s throat.

The sword flamed high, whistled down, and sang in bone and brain. Audun skidded across the floor and crashed into a wall, where he crumpled gruesomely limp.

Skafloc stared at the reddened blade in his hand. “I did not mean that,” he whispered. “I only wanted to beat him aside. I forgot this thing must drink each time it is drawn—”

His glance lifted to Freda. She gaped at him, shuddering, mouth stretched open as if for a scream.

“I meant it not!” he shouted. “And what does it matter? Come with me!”

She fought for a voice. It came at last, half strangled: “Go. At once. Never come back.”

“But—” He took a stiff step forward.

She stooped and picked up Audun’s dagger. It gleamed in her hand. “Get out,” she said. “Any nearer and I drive this into you.”

“I wish you would,” he answered. He stood swaying a little. The blood coursed down his gashed cheek and dripped on the floor. “Or I will slay myself if I must,” Freda told him. “Touch me, murderer, heathen, who would lie with your own sister like a beast or an elf, touch me and I will sheath the knife in my own heart. God will forgive me the lesser sin if I escape the greater.”