of weariness and cold he was, with gouts of blood caked upon him and wildness in his eyes and ravaged face.
She gave him meat and ale and curious herbs, and erelong he could hold her close to him. “Now you are all that is left to me,” he mumbled. “Woman whose beauty and wantonness wrought this ill, I should slay you and then fall on my own weapon.”
“Why do you say that?” she smiled. “What is there bad?”
He buried his face in the fragrance of her hair. “I have slain my father and my brothers,” he said, “and am outlaw beyond atonement.”
“As for the slayings,” said the woman, “they do but prove you stronger than those who threatened you. What does it matter who they were?” Her green eyes burned into his. “But if the thought of doing away with your kin troubles you, I will tell you that you are guiltless.”
“Eh?” He blinked dully at her.
“You are no son of Orm, Valgard Berserk. I have second sight, and I tell you that you are not even of human birth, but of such ancient and noble stock that you can scarce imagine your true heritage.”
His huge frame grew taut as an iron bar. He clasped her wrists hard enough to leave bruises, and his shout resounded in the cottage: “What do you say?”
“You are a changeling, left when Imric the elf-earl stole Orm’s firstborn,” said the woman. “You are Imric’s own son by a slave who is daughter to Illrede Troll-King.”
Valgard flung her from him. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. “Lie!” he gasped. “Lie!”
“Truth,” answered the woman calmly. She walked towards him. He backed away from her, his breast heaving. Her voice came tow and relentless: “Why are you so unlike the children of Orm or any man? Why do you scorn gods and men, and walk in a loneliness only forgotten in the tumult of slaying? Why, of all the women whom you have bedded, has none become with child? Why do beasts and small children fear you?” She had him in a corner now, and her eyes would not release him. “Why indeed, save that you are not human?”
“But I grew up like other men, I can endure iron and holy things, I am no warlock-”
“There is the evil work of Imric, who robbed you of your heritage and cast you aside in favour of Onn’s son. He made you look like the stolen child. You were raised among the petty rounds of men, and have had naught to rouse the wizard power slumbering within you. That you might grow up, age, and die in the brief span of humankind, that the things holy and earthly which the elves fear might not trouble you, Imric traded your birthright of centuried life. But he could not put a human soul in you, Valgard. And like him, you will be as a candle blown out when you die, with no hope of Heaven or hell or the halls of the old gods-yet you will live no longer than a man!”
At this Valgard croaked, thrust her aside, and rushed out the door. The woman smiled.
It grew loud and cold with storm, but not till after dark did Valgard creep back to the house. Bent and beaten he was, but his eyes smouldered upon his leman.
“Now I believe you,” he muttered, “nor is there aught else to believe. I saw ghosts and demons riding the gale, flying with the snow and mocking me as they swept by.” He stared off into a dark corner of the room. “Night closes on me, the sorry game of my life is played out-home and kin and my very soul have I lost, have I never had, and I see I was but a shadow cast by the great Powers who now blow out the candle. Good night, Valgard, good night-” And he sank sobbing on to the bed.
The woman smiled her secret smile and lay down beside him and kissed him with her mouth that was like wine and fire. And when his dazed eyes turned mutely to hers, she breathed: “This is no speech for Valgard Berserk, mightiest of warriors, whose name is terror from Ireland to Gardariki. I thought you would seize on my words with gladness, would hew fate into a better shape with that great axe of yours. You have taken
She gave him meat and ale and curious herbs, and erelong he could hold her close to him. “Now you are all that is left to me,” he mumbled. “Woman whose beauty and wantonness wrought this ill, I should slay you and then fall on my own weapon.”
“Why do you say that?” she smiled. “What is there bad?”
He buried his face in the fragrance of her hair. “I have slain my father and my brothers,” he said, “and am outlaw beyond atonement.”
“As for the slayings,” said the woman, “they do but prove you stronger than those who threatened you. What does it matter who they were?” Her green eyes burned into his. “But if the thought of doing away with your kin troubles you, I will tell you that you are guiltless.”
“Eh?” He blinked dully at her.
“You are no son of Orm, Valgard Berserk. I have second sight, and I tell you that you are not even of human birth, but of such ancient and noble stock that you can scarce imagine your true heritage.”
His huge frame grew taut as an iron bar. He clasped her wrists hard enough to leave bruises, and his shout resounded in the cottage: “What do you say?”
“You are a changeling, left when Imric the elf-earl stole Orm’s firstborn,” said the woman. “You are Imric’s own son by a slave who is daughter to Illrede Troll-King.”
Valgard flung her from him. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. “Lie!” he gasped. “Lie!”
“Truth,” answered the woman calmly. She walked towards him. He backed away from her, his breast heaving. Her voice came tow and relentless: “Why are you so unlike the children of Orm or any man? Why do you scorn gods and men, and walk in a loneliness only forgotten in the tumult of slaying? Why, of all the women whom you have bedded, has none become with child? Why do beasts and small children fear you?” She had him in a corner now, and her eyes would not release him. “Why indeed, save that you are not human?”
“But I grew up like other men, I can endure iron and holy things, I am no warlock-”
“There is the evil work of Imric, who robbed you of your heritage and cast you aside in favour of Onn’s son. He made you look like the stolen child. You were raised among the petty rounds of men, and have had naught to rouse the wizard power slumbering within you. That you might grow up, age, and die in the brief span of humankind, that the things holy and earthly which the elves fear might not trouble you, Imric traded your birthright of centuried life. But he could not put a human soul in you, Valgard. And like him, you will be as a candle blown out when you die, with no hope of Heaven or hell or the halls of the old gods-yet you will live no longer than a man!”
At this Valgard croaked, thrust her aside, and rushed out the door. The woman smiled.
It grew loud and cold with storm, but not till after dark did Valgard creep back to the house. Bent and beaten he was, but his eyes smouldered upon his leman.
“Now I believe you,” he muttered, “nor is there aught else to believe. I saw ghosts and demons riding the gale, flying with the snow and mocking me as they swept by.” He stared off into a dark corner of the room. “Night closes on me, the sorry game of my life is played out-home and kin and my very soul have I lost, have I never had, and I see I was but a shadow cast by the great Powers who now blow out the candle. Good night, Valgard, good night-” And he sank sobbing on to the bed.
The woman smiled her secret smile and lay down beside him and kissed him with her mouth that was like wine and fire. And when his dazed eyes turned mutely to hers, she breathed: “This is no speech for Valgard Berserk, mightiest of warriors, whose name is terror from Ireland to Gardariki. I thought you would seize on my words with gladness, would hew fate into a better shape with that great axe of yours. You have taken
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