The Broken Sword by Poul Anderson Page A

his chief leaned unmoving on his axe. The viking roared and rushed on the berserker. “This is your doing!” he shouted.
    “Indeed it is,” replied Valgard, and met him in a clamour of steel. Erelong he had slain the steersman, and by that time the rest of the battle was over.
    The troll captain approached Valgard. Rocks scrunched beneath his tread. “We had word of your coming, from a bat that was also a rat,” he rumbled in the Danish tongue, “and give you many thanks for good sport. Now the king awaits you.”
    “I come at once,” said Valgard.
    He had already gagged the sisters and bound their arms behind them. Stunned with what they had witnessed, they stumbled blindly along a deep gorge and a barren mountainside, past unseen guards into a cave and thence into the hall of Illrede.
    It was huge, hewn out of rock but furnished with magnificence raided from elves, dwarfs, goblins, and other folk, men among them. Great gems gleamed on the walls amid subtle tapestries, costly goblets and cloth bedecked tables of ebony and ivory, and the fires burning down the length of the hall lit rich garments on the troll lords and their ladies.
    Thralls of elf, dwarf, or goblin race moved about with trenchers of meat and cups of drink. This was a high feast, for which human and Faerie babies had been stolen as well as cattle, horses, pigs, and wines of the south. Music of the snarling sort that the trolls liked came rattling out of the smoky air.
    Along the walls stood guards, moveless as heathen idols, the ruddy light aglint on their spearheads. The trolls at table gobbled and guzzled, quarrelling with each other in a thunderous din. But the lords of Trollheim sat quiet in their carven seats.
    Valgard’s gaze went to Illrede. The king was vast of girth, with a wrinkled massive face and a long beard of green tendrils. When his-inkpool eyes fell on the newcomers, a fear that he sought to hide prickled over the changeling’s backbone.
    “Greeting, great king,” he said. “I am Valgard Berserk, come from England to seek a place in your host. I am told you are father to my mother, and fain would I claim my heritage.”
    Illrede nodded his gold-crowned head. “That I know,” he said. “Welcome, Valgard, to Trollheim, your home.” His glance swung to the maidens, who had sat down for want of further strength, forlornly side by side. “But who are these?”
    “A small gift,” said Valgard firmly, “children of my foster father. I hope they will please you.”
    “Ho-ho, ho-ho, ho, ho!” Illrede’s laughter shocked through the stillness that had fallen. “A goodly gift! Long is it since I held a human may in my arms-Aye, welcome, welcome, Valgard!”
    He sprang to the floor, which thudded under his weight, and went over to stand above the girls. Freda and Asgerd looked wildly about them. One could well-nigh read their thoughts: “Where are we? A lightless cave, and Valgard talks to no one, but the echoes are not of his words-”
    “You should see your new home,” leered Illrede, and touched their eyes. And at once they had the witch-sight, and saw him stooping over them, and their courage broke and even through the gags their screams went on and on.
    Illrede laughed again.

X
    The elf raid on Trollheim was to be a strong one. Fifty longships were manned with the best warriors of Britain’s  elves, and veiled and warded by the sorceries of Imric and his wisest warlocks. It was thought that under these spells they could sail unseen into the very fjords of Finnmark’s troll realm; how deeply inland they could thrust thereafter would hang on what resistance they met. Skafloc hoped they could get into Illrede’s own halls and bring back the king’s head. He was wild to go.
    “Be not too reckless,” cautioned Imric. “Kill and burn, but lose no men in mere adventures. ‘Twill be worth more if you get a measure of their strength than if you wipe out a thousand of them.”
    “We will do both,” grinned Skafloc. He