Free The Broken Sword by Poul Anderson Page A

hid her own countenance from those who stood watching.
    “The priest says it would be a sin, or I would slay myself now and go to my rest beside you,” she whispered. “Weary will life be. You were good boys, Ketil and Asmund, and your mother is lonely for your laughter. It seems but yesterday I sang you to sleep on my breast, you were so little then, and suddenly you were great long-legged youths, good to look on and a pride to Orm and me-and now you lie so still, with a few snowflakes drifting down on your empty faces. Strange-” She shook her head. “I cannot understand you are slain. It is not real to me.”
    She smiled at Orm. “Often did we quarrel,” she murmured, “but that meant naught, for you loved me and-and I you. You were good to me, Orm, and the world is cold, cold, now you are dead. This I ask all-merciful God: that He forgive what things you did against His law. For you were ignorant of much, however wise with a ship or with your hands to make me shelves and chests or carve toys for the children … And if so be God can never receive you in Heaven, then I pray Him I too may descend to hell to be with you-aye, though you go to your heathen gods, there I would follow you. Now farewell, Orm, whom I loved and love. Farewell.”
    She bent and kissed him. “Cold are your lips,” she said, and looked bewilderedly about her. “Thus were you not wont to kiss me. This is not you, dead in the ship-but where are you, Orm?”
    They led her out of the hull, and the men worked long casting earth over it and the grave-chamber built on it. When they were done, the howe rose huge at the edge of the sea and waves came up the strand to sing a dirge at its foot.
    The priest, who had not approved of this heathenish burial, would not consecrate the ground, but he did whatever he could and Asgerd paid him for many masses for the souls of the dead.
    There was a young man, Erlend Thorkelsson, who was betrothed to Asgerd. “Hollow is this garth now that its men are gone,” said he.
    “So it is,” replied the maiden. A cold sea-wind, blowing fine dry snowflakes, ruffled her heavy locks.
    “Best I and a few friends should stay here a while and get things in order,” he said. “Then I would we wedded, Asgerd, and thereafter your mother and sister can come live with us.”
    “I will not wed you until Valgard has been hanged and his men burned in their house,” she said angrily.
    Erlend smiled without mirth. “That will not be long,” he said. “Already the war-arrow goes from hand to hand. Unless they flee sooner than I think they can pull themselves together to do, the land will shortly be rid of that pest.”
    “It is well,” nodded Asgerd.
    ***
    Now most of those who had come to the feast went home, but the folk of the garth sat behind, with Erlend and some half-dozen other men. As night fell, a strong wind came with snow on its wings, to howl around the hall. Hail followed, like night-gangers thumping their heels on the roof. The room lay long and dark and cheerless; folk huddled together at one end of it. They spoke little, and the horns passed often.
    Once Ailfrida stirred from her silence. “I hear something out yonder,” she said.
    “Not I,” said Asgerd, “and naught would be abroad tonight.”
    Freda, who misliked her mother’s dull stare, touched her and said timidly, “All alone are you not. Your daughters will never forget you.”
    “Aye-aye.” Ailfrida smiled the least bit. “Orm’s seed shall live in you, and the dear nights we had are not in vain-” She gazed at Erlend. “Be good to your wife. She is of the blood of chieftains.”
    “What else could I be but good to her?” he said.
    There came of a sudden a beating on the door. Above the wind rose a shout: “Open! Open or we break in!”
    Men clutched for their weapons as a thrall undid the bar-and was at once cut down by an axe. Tall and grim, guarded by two men’s shields held before him, snow mantling his shoulders, Valgard trod