Over the wall he went and soared across the courtyard, braking himself with the air awhistle in his pinions. He landed by the keep, in the shadow of a thickly ivied tower, and again he shuddered with change. There, otter, he waited a while.
He could not smell in this shape quite so well as a wolf, though better than a man, but his eye saw further and his ears were as good. Also, his body had a wiry alertness wherein every hair and whisker tip tingled with sensations indescribable to man; and his swiftness and suppleness, the luster of his pelt, were a joy to the vain, cocky, frolicsome otter brain.
Tense and still he lay, straining every sense. He heard startled halloos from the battlements. Someone must have had a glimpse of the eagle and he had best not dawdle here.
He slipped lithe along the wall, keeping to the shadows. An otter was too big to be safe-better had he been weasel or rat—but was the best he could do. Glad he was that Freda had brought those three magic skins. A tenderness welled up in him, but he could not stop to think about her, not yet.
A door stood ajar, and through this he sneaked. It was in the back of the building. However, he knew each corner and cranny of that labyrinth. His whiskers twitched as he snuffed the air. Though the place stank of troll, it was also heavy with the smell of sleep. In that much he was lucky. He could make out some few who moved around, but they would be easy to avoid.
He padded by the feasting hall. Trolls sprawled throughout, snoring drunkenly. The tapestries hung in rags, the furnishings were scarred and stained, and the ornaments of gold and silver and gems, the work of centuries, had been stolen. It would have been better, thought Skafloc, to be overrun by goblins. They were at least a mannered people. These filthy swine-Up the stairs towards Imric’s chambers he wound. Whoever was now earl would most likely sleep there ... and have Leea beside him.
The otter flattened against the wall. His soundless snarl showed needle teeth. His yellow eyes blazed. Around the curve he smelled troll. The earl had posted a guard and—
Like a grey thunderbolt the wolf was on the troll. Drowsy, the warrior could not know what struck until fangs closed in his throat. He fell in a clatter of mail, clawing at the beast on his breast, and thus he died.
Skanoc crouched. Blood dripped from his jaws. It had a sour taste. That had been quite a racket ... no, no sound of alarm or awareness ... the castle was so big, after all-He would have to risk the body being found ere he was away. Indeed, it almost surely would be come upon-no, wait—
Quickly, as a man, Skafloc used the dead troll’s sword to hack that throat until it could not be seen that teeth rather than blade had torn out life. They might think the guard had been slain in some drunken quarrel. They had better! The thought was grim in him while he wiped and spat the blood from his mouth.
Otter again, he raced onward. At the head of the stairs, the door to Imric’s rooms stood closed, but he knew the secret hiss and whistle that would compel the lock. Softly he gave them, nosed the door open a crack, and entered.
Two slept in Imric’s bed. If the earl awoke, that would be the end of Skafloc’s quest. He crawled on his lissome otter stomach towards the bed, and every movement seemed doomsday loud.
Reaching there, he braced himself on his hind legs. Leea’s goddess face lay on one pillow in a cloud of silvery-gold hair. Beyond her was a tawny-maned head with a countenance harsh even in slumber—but in every blunt, sinewy line it was his own.
So Valgard the evil-worker was the new earl. Barely could Skafloc hold himself from sinking wolf teeth in that throat, tearing with eagle beak at the eyes, nuzzling with otter tongue among the ripped-out guts.
But those were beast wishes. Fulfilling them would too likely make a noise and thus cost him the sword.
He touched the smoothness of Leea’s cheek with his nose. Her long lashes fluttered, and recognition flared in her eyes. Very slowly she sat up. Valgard stirred and moaned in his sleep. She froze. The berserker mumbled to himself. Skafloc caught fragments: “-changeling—the arie—O Mother, Mother!—”
Leea slid one leg to the floor. Poised on that small foot, she eased her whole body out. Its whiteness gleamed through the swirling veil of her hair. Like a shadow she slipped out of the room, through another, and into a third. Skafloc padded after. Soundlessly, she had closed every door between. “Now we can talk,” she breathed.
He stood up, man once more, and she fell into his arms with a half laugh, half sob. She kissed him until, no matter Freda, he was hotly aware of how lovely a woman he held.
She saw it, and tried to draw him towards a couch. “Skafloc,” she whispered. “My darling.”
He mastered himself. “I have no time,” he said roughly. “I am come for the broken sword which was the Aisir’s naming-gift to me.”
“You are tired.” Her hands traced the haggardness of his face. “You have been cold and hungry arid in peril of life. Let me rest you, comfort you. I have a secret room—”
“No time, no time,” he growled. “Freda waits for me in the very heart of the troll holdings. Lead me to the sword.”
“Freda.” Leea went a shade more pale. “So the mortal girl is still with you.”
“Aye, and a doughty warrior for Alfheim has she been.”
“I have not done too badly myself,” Leea said with an odd pairing of her old malicious humor and a new wistful-ness. “Already Valgard has slain Grum Troll-Earl for my sake. He is strong, but I am bending him.” She swayed closer. “He is better than a troll, he is almost you—but he is not you, Skafloc, and I weary of pretending.”
“Oh, hurry!” He shook her. “If I am caught it could be the end of Alfheim, and every minute strengthens the chance.”
She stood quiet for a space. Finally she looked away, out the broad glass window, to a world where clouds had engulfed the moon, a land silent and frozen in the dark before dawn. “Indeed,” she said. “You are right, of course. And what is better or more natural than that you should hasten back to your love-to Freda?”
She swung on him, shaken with noiseless mirth. “Do you want to know who your father was, Skafloc? Shall I tell you who you really are?”
He clamped a hand over her mouth. The old fear choked him. “No! You have heard what Tyr warned!”
“Seal my lips,” she said, “with a kiss.”
“I cannot wait—” He obeyed her. “Now can we go?”
“Cold was that kiss,” she murmured desolately. “Cold as duty ever was. Well, let us be on our way. But you are naked and unarmed. Since you cannot carry the iron sword away as a were-beast, you had best have some clothes.” She opened a chest. “Here are tunic, breeches, shoon, mantle, whatever else you like.”
He tumbled into the garments with feverish haste. Richly fur-trimmed, they must have been made over for Valgard from Imric’s, since they fitted him well. At his belt he hung a sax. Leea threw a flame-red cloak over her own nakedness. Then she led the way out, to another stair.
Down they wound and down. The well was chill and silent, but this silence was stretched near the breaking point. Once they passed a troll on watch. Skafloc’s hackles rose, and he reached for the sax at his belt. But the guard only bowed his head, taking the man for the changeling. In his outlaw life, Skafloc had let grow a full though close-cropped beard like Valgard’s.
Presently the dungeons were reached, where only widely spaced torches lit the dank gloom. Skafloc’s steps made slithery sounds down corridors whose shadows looked well-nigh solid. Leea flitted ahead, wordless.
They came at last to a place where the stone showed a lighter splash of cement in which were scratched runes. Nearby was a closed door. Leea pointed to it. “In yonder cell Imric kept the changeling-mother,” she said. “Now he is in there himself, hung by his thumbs over an undying fire. It is often Valgard’s pleasure when drunk to lash him senseless.”