Short Fiction, Poul Anderson [simple e reader .TXT] 📗

Ice everywhere, thick on the rails and benches, sheathing the dragon head and the carved sternpost, the ship rolling and staggering under the great march of waves, men bailing and bailing in the half-frozen bilge to keep her afloat, and too much wind for sail or oars. Yes⁠—a cold feast!

“But then, Svearek has been strange since the troll took his daughter, three years ago,” went on Torbek. He shivered in a way the winter had not caused. “Never does he smile, and his once open hand grasps tight about the silver and his men have poor reward and no thanks. Yes, strange⁠—” His small frost-blue eyes shifted to Cappen Varra, and the unspoken thought ran on beneath them: Strange, even, that he likes you, the wandering bard from the south. Strange, that he will have you in his hall when you cannot sing as his men would like.

Cappen did not care to defend himself. He had drifted up toward the northern barbarians with the idea that they would well reward a minstrel who could offer them something more than their own crude chants. It had been a mistake; they didn’t care for roundels or sestinas, they yawned at the thought of roses white and red under the moon of Caronne, a moon less fair than my lady’s eyes. Nor did a man of Croy have the size and strength to compel their respect; Cappen’s light blade flickered swiftly enough so that no one cared to fight him, but he lacked the power of sheer bulk. Svearek alone had enjoyed hearing him sing, but he was niggardly and his brawling thorp was an endless boredom to a man used to the courts of southern princes.

If he had but had the manhood to leave⁠—But he had delayed, because of a lusty peasant wench and a hope that Svearek’s coffers would open wider; and now he was dragged along over the Wolf’s Throat to a midwinter feast which would have to be celebrated on the sea.

“Had we but fire⁠—” Torbek thrust his hands inside his cloak, trying to warm them a little. The ship rolled till she was almost on her beam ends; Torbek braced himself with practiced feet, but Cappen went into the bilge again.

He sprawled there for a while, his bruised body refusing movement. A weary sailor with a bucket glared at him through dripping hair. His shout was dim under the hoot and skirl of wind: “If ye like it so well down here, then help us bail!”

“ ’Tis not yet my turn,” groaned Cappen, and got slowly up.

The wave which had nearly swamped them had put out the ship’s fire and drenched the wood beyond hope of lighting a new one. It was cold fish and sea-sodden hardtack till they saw land again⁠—if they ever did.

As Cappen raised himself on the leeward side, he thought he saw something gleam, far out across the wrathful night. A wavering red spark⁠—He brushed a stiffened hand across his eyes, wondering if the madness of wind and water had struck through into his own skull. A gust of sleet hid it again. But⁠—

He fumbled his way aft between the benches. Huddled figures cursed him wearily as he stepped on them. The ship shook herself, rolled along the edge of a boiling black trough, and slid down into it; for an instant, the white teeth of combers grinned above her rail, and Cappen waited for an end to all things. Then she mounted them again, somehow, and wallowed toward another valley.

King Svearek had the steering oar and was trying to hold the longboat into the wind. He had stood there since sundown, huge and untiring, legs braced and the bucking wood cradled in his arms. More than human he seemed, there under the icicle loom of the sternpost, his gray hair and beard rigid with ice. Beneath the horned helmet, the strong moody face turned right and left, peering into the darkness. Cappen felt smaller than usual when he approached the steersman.

He leaned close to the king, shouting against the blast of winter: “My lord, did I not see firelight?”

“Aye. I spied it an hour ago,” grunted the king. “Been trying to steer us a little closer to it.”

Cappen nodded, too sick and weary to feel reproved. “What is it?”

“Some island⁠—there are many in this stretch of water⁠—now shut up!”

Cappen crouched down under the rail and waited.

The lonely red gleam seemed nearer when he looked again. Svearek’s tones were lifting in a roar that hammered through the gale from end to end of the ship: “Hither! Come hither to me, all men not working!”

Slowly, they groped to him, great shadowy forms in wool and leather, bulking over Cappen like storm-gods. Svearek nodded toward the flickering glow. “One of the islands, somebody must be living there. I cannot bring the ship closer for fear of surf, but one of ye should be able to take the boat thither and fetch us fire and dry wood. Who will go?”

They peered overside, and the uneasy movement that ran among them came from more than the roll and pitch of the deck underfoot.

Beorna the Bold spoke at last, it was hardly to be heard in the noisy dark: “I never knew of men living hereabouts. It must be a lair of trolls.”

“Aye, so⁠ ⁠… aye, they’d but eat the man we sent⁠ ⁠… out oars, let’s away from here though it cost our lives⁠ ⁠…” The frightened mumble was low under the jeering wind.

Svearek’s face drew into a snarl. “Are ye men or puling babes? Hack yer way through them, if they be trolls, but bring me fire!”

“Even a she-troll is stronger than fifty men, my king,” cried Torbek. “Well ye know that, when the monster woman broke through our guards three years ago and bore off Hildigund.”

“Enough!” It was a scream in Svearek’s throat. “I’ll have yer craven heads for this, all of ye, if ye gang not to the isle!”

They looked at each other, the big men of Norren, and