And now they were reining in.
Slowly on their panting, shaking horses, not saying a word but riding hand in hand, they came into what had been the garth of Orm. They saw great snowdrifts, white in the moonlight, out of which stuck charred ends of timbers. And high at the head of the bay bulked the howe.
A fire wavered over it, roaring and blazing in blue-tinged white-heatless, cheerless, leaping far aloft into the dark. Freda crossed herself, shuddering. Thus had the grave-fires of the old heathen heroes burned after sunset. Belike her unholy errand had kindled this one; it could not be Christian ground wherein Orm lay. But however far into the nameless lands of death he had wandered, he was still her father.
She could not fear the man who had ridden her on his knee and sung songs for her till the hall rang. Nonetheless she was racked with trembling.
Skafloc dismounted. He felt his own clothes drenched with sweat. Never before had he used the spells he must make tonight.
He went forward—and stopped, breath hissing between his teeth as he snatched for his sword. Black in the light of moon and fire, a shape sat moveless as if graven atop the barrow, under the howling flames. If he must fight a drow—
Freda whimpered, the voice of a lost child: “Mother.”
Skafloc took her hand. Together they climbed the barrow.
The woman who sat there, heedless of the fire, might almost have been Freda, thought Skafloc bewilderedly. She had the same pert features, the same wide-set grey eyes, the same red-sparked brown hair. But no, no ... she was older, she was hollowed out by sorrow, her cheeks were sunken, her eyes stared emptily out to sea, her hair streamed unkempt in the pie. She wore a thick fur cloak, with rags beneath, over her gaunt frame.
When Skafloc and Freda came into the light, she slowly turned her head. Her glance sought him.
“Welcome back, Valgard,” she said dully. “Here I am. You can do me no more harm. You can only give me death, which is my fondest wish.”
“Mother.” Freda sank to her knees before the woman.
Ailfrida stared at her. “I do not understand,” she said after a time. “It seems to be my little Freda—but you are dead. Valgard took you away, and you cannot have lived long.” She shook her head, smiled, and held out her arms. “It was good of you to leave your quiet grave and come to me. I have been so lonely. Come, my little dead girl, come lie on my breast and I will sing you to sleep as I did when you were but a baby.”
“I live, Mother, I live—and you live—” Freda strangled on her tears and must cough. “See, feel, I am warm, I am alive. And this is not Valgard, it is Skafloc who saved me from him. It is Skafloc, my lord, a new son for you—” Ailfrida climbed to her feet. Heavily she leaned on her daughter’s arm. “I have waited,” she said. “I have waited here, and they thought I was mad. They bring me food and other needs, but do not linger, because they fear the madwoman who will not leave her dead.” She laughed, softly, softly. “Why, what is crazy about that? The mad are those who leave their beloved ones.”
She scanned the man’s face. “You are like to Valgard,” she said in the same quiet way. “You have the height of Orm, and your looks are half his and half mine. But your eyes are kinder than Valgard’s.” Again she uttered her tender laugh. “Why, now let them say I am mad! I waited, that is all, I waited, and now out of night and death two of my children have returned to me.”
“We may bring home more ere dawn,” said Skafloc. He and Freda led her down the mound.
“Mother lived,” whispered the girl. “I thought her dead too, but she lived, and sat forsaken in the winter-What have I done?”
She wept, and Ailfrida comforted her.
Skafloc dared not wait. He staked out the howe with his rune wands, one at each corner. He put on his left thumb the bronze ring whose stone was flint. He stood on the west side of the grave with his arms raised. On the east side roiled the sea, and the moon fled through ragged clouds. Sleet blew in on the wind.
Skafloc spoke the spell. It wrenched his body and seared his throat. Shaken with the might that surged up in him, he made the signs with his lifted hands.
The fire roared taller. The wind shrieked like a lynx and clouds swallowed the moon. Skafloc cried out:
The barrow groaned. Higher and ever higher raged the icy flame above it. Skafloc chanted:
Then the howe opened with leaping fires, and Orm and his sons stood in its mouth. The chieftain called:
Orm stood leaning on his spear. Earth still clung to him, and he was bloodless and covered with rime. His eyes glared unblinking in the flames that roared and whirled around him. On his right stood Ketil, stiff and pale, the gash in his skull black against his hair. On his left was Asmund, wrapped in shadow, arms folded over the spear wound in his breast. Dimly behind them, Skafloc could see the buried ship and the crew stirring awake within it.
He bit back the fear that came out of the grave-mouth and said:
Orm’s voice rolled far and windy and strange:
Freda stood forth. “Father!” she cried. “Father, know you not your daughter?”
Orm’s dry eyes flamed on her, and the wrath faded in them. He bowed his head and stood in the whirling, hissing fire. Quoth Keticlass="underline"
Ailfrida came slowly up to Orm. They looked at each other, there in the restless heatless firelight. She took his hands; they were cold as the earth in which they had lain. Quoth he:
“That I have not strength to do, Orm,” she said. She touched his face. “There is frost in your hair. There is mould in your mouth. You are cold, Orm.”
“I am dead. The grave lies between us.”
“Then let it be so no longer. Take me with you, Orm!”
His lips touched hers.
Skafloc said to Keticlass="underline"
Quoth Keticlass="underline"
Skafloc shook his head. Then Ketil leaned on his sword and chanted: