But at the head of the table were the Tuatha De Danaan, the Children of the earth-mother Dana, come from Tir-nan-Og the Golden to hold council in the Cave of Cruachan. Silent and awesome they sat, beautiful and splendid to look upon, and the very air seemed full of the power that was in them. For they had been gods in Ireland ere Patrick brought the White Christ hither, and though they had had to flee the Cross, still they wielded great powers and lived in a splendour like that of old.
Lugh of the Long Hand sat in the throne at the very head, and on his right he had the warrior Angus Og and on his left the sea king Mananaan Mac Lir. Others of the Tuatha De Danaan were there, Eochy Mac Elathan the Dagda Mor, Dove Berg the Fiery, Gas Corrach, Coll the Sun, Cecht the Plow, Mac Greina the Hazel, and many more, high in fame; and with the lords were their wives and children, and harpers and warriors who followed them. Glorious it was to see that assemblage, albeit a terrible glory.
Save to Skafloc, who no longer cared about majesty or wonder or danger. He strode towards them, head held stiff, and his eyes met squarely the dark brilliance of Lugh’s while he gave greeting.
The deep voice of him of the Long Hand rolled from the stern countenance: “Be welcome, Skafloc of Alfheim, and drink with chiefs of the Sidhe.”
He signed that the man should sit in an empty seat near his own left, with none save Mananaan and his wife Fand in between. The cupbearers brought golden bowls of wine from Tir-nan-Og, and the harps of the bards rippled a luring melody as they drank.
Strong and sweet was that wine; it entered Skafloc like a flame to burn out the weariness in him. But that made the bleakness stand forth the sharper.
Angus Og, the fair-locked warrior, asked: “How goes it in Alfheim?”
“You know how badly it goes,” snapped Skafloc. “The elves fight alone and fall-even as one by one all the divided people of Faerie will fall and be swallowed by Trollheim.”
Lugh’s words came steady and implacable: “The Children of Dana have no fear of trolls. We who overcame the Fomorians, and who even when defeated by the Miletians became their gods, what have we to dread? Glad would we have been to fare in aid of Alfheim—”
“Glad indeed!” Dove Berg smote the table with his fist. His hair was torch-red in the green twilight of the cave, and his shout woke echoes between its walls. “There has not been so grand a fight, so much glory to be won, in over a hundred years! Why could we not go?”
“Well you know the answer,” said Eochy Mac Elathan, the Father of Stars. He sat wrapped in a cloak like blue dusk, and bright points of light winked and glittered in it and in his hair and deep within his eyes. When he spread his hands, a little shower of such glints was strewn to dance on the air. “This is more than a simple hosting in Faerie. This is a game in the long strife between the gods of the North and their foes from the Undying Ice; and hard it is to know which side is the more to be wary of. We will not risk our freedom to become pieces on the chessboard of the world.”
Skafloc gripped the arms of his chair till his knuckles stood white. His voice wavered a bit: “I come not for help in war, however sorely ’tis needed. I want the loan of a ship.”
“And may we ask why?” Coll spoke. Bright was his face, and flames wavered over his gleaming hauberk and the sun-rayed golden brooch at his throat.
Skafloc told quickly of the Aisir’s gift to him, and finished: “I made shift to steal the sword from Elfheugh, and by magic found out that I could get a vessel from the Sidhe which would bear me to Jotunheim. So I came hither to ask for it.” He bent his neck. “Aye, as a beggar I come. But if we win, you shall not find the elves are niggardly.”
“I would fain see this glaive,” said Mananaan Mac Lir. Tall and strong and lithe he was, white of skin and silvery-gold of hair, the faintest greenish tinge in both. His eyes were slumbrous, a shifting green and grey and blue, his voice soft though it could rise to a roar. Richly clad he was; and his knife bore gold, silver, crusted jewels on hilt and sheath; but over his shoulders he wore a great leather cloak that had seen use in many weathers.
Skafloc unwrapped the broken sword, and the Sidhe, who could handle iron as well as endure daylight, crowded around it. They recoiled at once, feeling what venom was locked in that blade. A murmuring rose among them.
Lugh lifted his crowned head and looked hard at Skafloc. “You deal in evil things,” he said. “A demon sleeps in this sword.”
“What would you await?” shrugged Skafloc. “It carries victory.”
“Aye, but it also carries death. It will be your bane if you wield it.”
“And what of that?” Skafloc gathered his bundle together. The steel rang, loud in the silence that had fallen, as the two pieces clashed together; and something in that harsh belling sent chills through those who heard. “I ask for a ship,” went on Skafloc. “I ask in the name of what friendship there has been between Sidhe and elves, in the name of your honour as warriors, and in the name of your mercy as children of the earth-mother Dana. Will you lend it to me?”
More silence followed. At last Lugh said: “It goes hard not to help you—”
“And why not help?” cried Dove Berg. His knife gleamed forth, he tossed it on high and let it twirl back, rippling with light, to his hand. “Why not raise the hosts of the Sidhe and fare against barbarous Trollheim? How drab and poor will Faerie be if the elves are crushed!”
“And how soon would the trolls fall on us?” added Conan.
“Be still, my lords,” commanded Lugh. “What we as a whole do must be thought on.” He straightened to his full towering height. “However,” he said, “you are our guest, Skafloc Elven-Fosterling. You have sat at our board and drunk our wine; and we remember how we were erstwhile guested in Alfheim. At the very least, we cannot refuse so small a boon as the loan of a ship. Also, I am Lugh of the Long Hand, and the Tuatha De Danaan do what they will without asking Aisir Jotuns.”
At this a shout lifted, weapons blazed forth, swords dinned on shields, and the bards swept out war-chants on their wild strings. Cool and quiet in the tumult, Mananaan Mac Lir said to Skafloc:
“I will offer you a craft. She is only a boat in size, but nonetheless the foremost of my fleet. And since she is tricky to handle, and the journey will be of interest, I will come along myself.”
At this, Skafloc was glad. A large crew would be no better than - a small one-worse, maybe, because of the heed it might draw—and the sea king ought to make the best of shipmates. “I could thank you in words,” he said, “but would liefer do it in oaths of brotherhood. Tomorrow—”
“Not so swiftly, hot-head,” smiled Mananaan. His sleepy-seeming eyes dwelt on Skafloc with more care than showed. “We will rest and hold feast for a while. I see you need some mirth, and besides, a voyage to Giant Land is not to be undertaken without a good deal of making ready.”
Skafloc could say naught against that. Inwardly he raged. He would have no joy of those days. Wine merely brought forth memory—
He felt a light touch on his arm, and faced about to Fand, the wife of Mananaan. Stately and beautiful were the women of the Tuatha De Danaan, for they were goddesses born. There were no words to tell of their radiance. And in that company Fand stood out.
Her silken hair, golden as sunlight at summer evening, fell in waves from her coronet to her feet. Her robe shimmered with rainbow hues, her round white arms flashed with jewelled rings, yet she herself outshone any attire.
Her wise violet eyes looked through Skafloc’s, into him. Her low voice was music. “Would you have trekked to Jotunheim alone?”
“Of course, my lady,” said Skafloc.
“No living human has gone there and returned, save Thjalfi and Roskva, and they went in company with Thor. You are either very brave or very reckless.”