The Broken Sword by Poul Anderson

He himself spoke little, and that suited the crew, for they cared not to have that uncanny stare upon them.
    He would not answer the pleas of Freda and Asgerd for word on where they were bound, but he gave them well of food and drink, let them shelter beneath the foredeck, and did not let the men bother them.
    Freda would not eat at first. “Naught do I take from the murdering thief,” she said. The salt streaking her cheeks was not all from the sea.
    “Eat to keep your strength,” counselled Asgerd. “You do not take it from him, since he has robbed it from others, and the chance may come to us to escape. If we pray God for help-”
    “That I forbid,” said Valgard, who had been listening “and if I hear any such word I will gag you.”
    “As you will,” said Freda, “but a prayer is more in the heart than the mouth.”
    “And not very useful in either place,” grinned Valgard. “Many a woman has squawked to her God when I clapped hands on her, and little did it avail. Nevertheless, I will have no more talk of gods on my ship.” For while he did not await help for them from Heaven-it was only that soulless Faerie folk were so deeply learned in magic that a Power they knew was greater yet, and knew they would never understand, sent them into blind panic by its mere names and signs-he did not wish to take needless risks, and still less did he wish to be reminded of what was forever denied to him.
    He lapsed into his thoughts and the sisters into silence. Nor did the men say much, so that the only sounds were the whoot of wind in the rigging, the brawl of sea past the bows, the creak of straining timbers. Overhead flew grey clouds from which snow or hail often whirled, and the vessels rolled and pitched alone on the running waves.
    On the third day, near nightfall, beneath a sky so low and thick as almost to bring dusk by itself, they raised Finnmark. Bleak rose the cliffs from surf that shattered itself booming upon them. Their heights were bare save for snow and ice and a few wind-twisted trees.
    “That is an ugly land,” shivered Valgard’s steersman, “and I see naught of the garth whereof you spoke.”
    “Make for that fjord ahead,” commanded the chief.
    The wind blew them into it, until the sullen cliffs blocked it off. Then masts were lowered and oars came out, and the ships splashed through twilight towards a rock-strewn beach. Peering before him, Valgard saw the trolls.
    They were not quite as tall as him, but nigh twice as broad, with arms like tree boughs that hung to their knees, bowed short legs and clawed splay feet. Their skin was green and cold and slippery, moving on their stone-hard flesh. Few of them had hair, and their great round heads, with the flat noses, huge fanged mouths, pointed ears, and eyes set far into bone-ridged sockets, were like skulls. Those eyes lacked whites, were pits of blackness.
    They went for the most part unclad, or wore but a few skins, however freezing the wind. Their weapons were chiefly clubs, and axes, spears, arrows, and slings that used stone, all too heavy for men to swing. But some wore helms and byrnies and carried weapons of bronze or elven alloy.
    Valgard could not but shudder at the sight. “Has the cold gotten to you?” asked a man of his.
    “No-no-’tis naught,” he muttered. And to himself: “I hope the witch was right and the elf women are fairer than these. But they will make wondrous warriors.”
    The vikings grounded their ships and drew them ashore. Thereafter they stood unsurely in the dusk. And Valgard saw the trolls come down on onto the strand.
    The fight was short and horrible, for the men could not see their foes. Now and again a troll might happen to touch iron and be seared by it, but mostly they knew well how to dodge that metal. Their laughter coughed between the cliffs as they dashed out men’s brains, or ripped them limb from limb, or hunted them up through the mountains.
    Valgard’s steersman saw his fellows die while