A ring of fire, the burning camp, walled in the battlefield. The trolls saw and were dismayed. Also, they knew a Jotun steed and a haunted sword when they met them. What manner of being fought against Trollheim?
Skafloc rode his rearing stallion back and forth before the gate. His mail gleamed wet with blood in the light of moon and fire. His eyes flung back a blue like that of his blade. And he taunted his foes and called on the elves to sally.
The frightened whisper ran among the milling trolls: “-It is Odin, come to make war-no, he has two eyes, it is Thor-it is Loki, risen from his chains, the end of the world is nigh-it is a mortal possessed by a demon-it is Death—”
Lur horns blew, the gates swung wide, and the elves rode forth. Fewer by far than the trolls were they, but a new hope lit their haggard faces and gleamed from their eyes. At their head, on a milk-white charger, his crown aglitter in the moonlight and his hair and beard flowing hoar over byrnie and dusk-blue cloak, came the Elfking.
“We had not looked to see you alive again, Skafloc,” he called.
“Nonetheless you have,” replied the man, with no trace of his old awe-for nothing, he thought, could frighten him who had spoken with the dead and sailed beyond the world and had naught left to lose anyhow.
The Elfking’s weird eyes rested on the rune sword. “I know what weapon that is,” he murmured. “I do not know if it is good for Alfheim to have it on our side. Well—” He raised his voice. “Forward, elves!”
His men charged the trolls, and bloody was that battle. Swords and axes rose and fell and rose afresh dripping, metal cried out and shattered, spears and arrows clouded the sky, horses trampled the dead underfoot or screamed with wounds, warriors fought and gasped and sank to earth.
“Hola, Trollheim! To me, to me!” Illrede rallied his folk and got some of them into a wedge that he led to split the elves. His ebon stallion snorted thunder, his axe never rested and never missed, and elves began to shy away from him. Above the dragonskin coat, his face was icy green in the moonlight, a maelstrom of rage; the tendrils of his beard writhed, the lamps of his eyes burned black.
Skafloc saw him and uttered a wolf-howl. He brought his Jotun horse about and pressed toward the troll-king. His sword screamed and crashed, hewing enemies as a woodman hews saplings, a blur of blue flame in the night.
“Ha!” roared Illrede. “Make way! He is mine!” They rode at each other down a suddenly cleared path. Bur when the troll-king saw the rune sword, he choked and reined in.
Skafloc’s laughter barked at him. “Aye, your weird is upon you. Darkness comes for you and your whole evil race.”
“The evil done in the world was never all troll work,” said Illrede quietly. “It seems to me that you have done a deed more wicked than any of mine in bringing that blade to earth again. Whatever his nature, which the Norns and not himself gave, no troll would do such a thing.”
“No troll would dare!” sneered Skafloc, and rode in upon him.
Illrede chopped valiantly out. The axe caught the Jotun horse in the shoulder. It did not go deep, but the stallion screamed and reared. While Skafloc fought to stay in the saddle, Illrede cut at him.
The man got his shield in between, but it split, though it kept the edge from him; and Skafloc rocked in his seat from that blow. Illrede pressed closer, to smash at the man’s head. The helmet was dented, and only the uncanny strength lent by the sword kept Skafloc from swooning.
Illrede raised his axe anew. Dizzily, Skafloc smote at him. That was a weak blow. Yet sword and axe met in a shower of sparks, and with a loud noise the axe burst asunder. Skafloc shook his head to clear it. He laughed and cut off Illrede’s left arm.
The troll-king sagged. Skafloc’s blade whined down and took off his right arm.
“It does not become a warrior to play with a helpless foe,” gasped Illrede. “The sword is doing this, not you.”
Skafloc killed him.
Now fear came upon every troll, and they backed up in disorder. The elves pushed furiously against them. Din of battle rang between the mountains. In the van of the elves, the Elfking fought even while he egged them on. But it was Skafloc, riding everywhere, harvesting men with a blade that seemed to drip blue fire as well as blood, who struck the deepest terror.
At last the trolls broke and fled. Hotly did the elves give chase, cutting them down, driving them into the burning camp. Not many escaped.
The Elfking sat his horse in the first thin dawnlight and looked over the death heaped about the castle walls. A cold breeze ruffled his unhelmeted hair and the mane and tail of his horse. Skafloc rode to him, gaunt and weary, painted with blood and brains, though with no look of lessened revengefulness.
“That was a great victory,” said the Elfking. “Still, we were almost the last elf stronghold. The trolls have riddled Alfheim through and through.”
“Not for long,” answered Skafloc. “We will go forth against them. They are spread thinly, and every free elf now skulking as outlaw will join us. We can outfit from the trolls we kill, if naught else. Hard will the war be; but my sword bears victory.
“Also,” he added slowly, “I have a new standard to raise in the forefront of our main army. It ought to shake the foe.” And he lifted a spearshaft whereon was impaled the head of Illrede. The dead eyes seemed to watch and the mouth to grin with menace.
The Elfking winced. “Grim is your heart, Skafloc,” he said. “You have changed since last I met you. Well, let it be as you wish.”
XXIV
At winter’s dawn, Freda stumbled into Thorkel Erlendsson’s garth.
The landholder was just arisen and had come out to look at the weather. For an eyeblink he did not believe he saw aright—a shield maiden, with arms and armour of an unknown coppery metal and clothes of altogether outlandish cut, groping ahead like one gone blind-it could not be.
He reached for a spear he kept behind the door. His hand dropped as he looked more closely on the girl and knew her: worn out, emptily staring, but Freda Ormsdaughter come back.
Thorkel led her inside. Aasa his wife hastened to them.
“You have been long gone, Freda,” she said. “Welcome home!”
The girl sought to reply. No words would come out. “Poor child,” murmured Aasa. “Poor lost child. Come, I will help you to bed.”
Audun, Thorkel’s next oldest son after the slain Erlend, came into the house. “ ’Tis colder outside than a well-born maiden’s heart,” said he, and then: “Who is this?”
“Freda Ormsdaughter,” answered Thorkel, “returned somehow.”
Audun stepped over to her. “Why, this is wonderful!” he said gladly. He clasped her waist, but ere he could kiss her cheek the mute woe of her fell on his heart. He stood aside. “What is the matter?” he asked.
“Matter?” Aasa snapped. “Ask what is not the matter with the poor sorrow-laden lass. Now go, you heavy-footed goggle-eyed men, get out and let me put her to bed.”
Freda lay awake for a long time, gazing at the wall.
When at last Aasa brought her food and made her eat, and murmured to her and stroked her hair like a mother with a babe, she began to weep. Long was that flow of tears, albeit oddly noiseless. Aasa held her and let her cry them out. Thereafter Freda fell asleep.
Later, at Thorkel’s bidding, she agreed to make her home there for the time being. Though she soon recovered herself, she was not the glad girl folk remembered. Thorkel asked her what had happened. She lowered a whitening face. He added quickly: “No, no, you need not speak it if you do not want to.”
“No reason for hiding the truth,” she said, so low he could scarce hear. “Valgard bore Asgerd and myself eastward over the sea, meaning to give us to a heathen king whose good will he would have. Hardly had he landed when ... another viking fell on him and put his men to flight. Valgard escaped, and Asgerd was killed in the strife. This other chief took me with him. At last, though, having ... business whereon I could not go ... he left me at my father’s garth.”