Elizabeth Boyer - The Sword And The Satchel

The Sword and the Satchel

Elizabeth H. Boyer

LAIR OF THE DARK ELVES

As the door fell inward, Kilgore felt hands grasp him and yank him inside before he could shout a

warning. The door slammed shut with a crash. Kilgore leaped to his feet, drawing the humming sword. In

the semi-darkness, he saw a rude little room of beaten earth, not quite as nice as a troll hole. He also saw

five crouching figures lined up against the door, their eyes flinty with hatred.

Then all five attacked with a clashing of swords. With one stroke, the magic blade of Kildurin shattered

two swords. The figures backed away for a whispered consultation. Then a distant clamor came from the

back of the room, and Kilgore realized there was a tunnel behind him.

Whirling around, he saw a glow bobbing toward him and heard the racket of many feet approaching.

Dark Alfar! Now he was truly captured. Holding the sword, he waited.

ADel Rey Book

Published by Ballantine Books

States by Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc.,New York , and simultaneously inCanada

by Random House of Canada Limited,Toronto .

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 79-91716

ISBN 0-345-33601-1

Manufactured in theUnited States of America

First Edition: May 1980 Fourth Printing: December 1985

Map by Chris Barbieri

Cover art by Robert Florczak

For Kimo and Loke

Chapter 1

The Ramskell troll was generally blamed for the Year of the Blight, although Sciplings hadn't bothered to

believe in trolls for nearly a hundred years. Valsidur of Shieldbroad, chieftain of the rich Western

Quarter, secretly sent a delegation to bargain with the troll, certain that gold would soothe any grievance.

There was indeed a huge cave at Ramskell and a local legend about the troll that was seven hundred

years old, but there was no troll to be found. After a quick peek inside, Valsidur's retainers rode home

again as fast as their fat, sturdy ponies could carry them. It was unfortunate, but after all, it was none of

their business that all the fjords and creeks and lakes in the Northern Quarter had stayed frozen all

summer and the sun never warmed enough to bring the green to the land. In Shieldbroad the placid

Codfirth had broken up on schedule and the fields and flocks were more prosperous than ever, from the

least peasant farm to the numerous upland shielings of Valsidur.

In the midst of this plenty and contentment, the Midsummer Thing was held as usual at Valsidsness,

where the participants had tented their booths for seven centuries, dating from the landing of Valsid the

Kling-Bearer at Valsidsness. The doorposts that he had cast overboard to guide him to a homesite now

formed the doorposts of the Brandstok hall. The great tree that grew in the center of the hall, spreading

its limbs over the black thatch, was the same one that had sheltered Valsid seven centuries ago on his first

night on the shores of Skarpsey—or so it was said.

The Thing was the traditional meeting of the Sciplings to settle lawsuits and feuds and to arrange

weddings and divorces. Valsidur opened up the great hall and its cellars, and the kitchens were as hot as

forges with continuous roastings and stewings and seethings. When all the legal affairs were settled, the

feasting and contests began. The most popular contest was held in Brandstok hall. The entire hall was

jammed elbow to elbow with the combatants whose object was to destroy as much fish, mutton, and

fowl as possible. Up in the barrow hills a few rough fellows supervised thehorsefights, frowned upon by

the gentlefolk, but one of Skarpsey's most dearly-held traditions.

The year of the Blight promised the usual festivities. Valsidur and his nine retainers awaited the arrival of

the northern chieftains, and along with them waited the son of Valsidur, called Kilgore. He was at the age

Sciplings call standing tide—neither boy nor yet man.

Kilgore was in a surly mood. Lately his father and the fat old retainers had taken to pouncing on him and

drilling some valuable bits of advice into his head about governing Valsidur's quarter. Unfortunately,

Kilgore did not care two sticks about the mighty position he was supposed to inherit. He was more

interested in old legends than in ledgers, and would have traded all the honored traditions of the

Brandstok for a good sword any day. With no serious adult supervision for most of his life, Kilgore grew

up on a diet of peasants' stories about elves and magic. He drank in the stories of trolls and barrow

ghosts and treasure mounds and wizards until he imagined a troll under every cow byre and fancied he

heard elven pipes moaning of a windy night.

But lately, to augment this obnoxious belief in magic, he had taken to carrying around a rusty old sword

and asking questions about the Great Wars in Gardar. Right gladly Valsidur told him everything he knew.

Valsidur took it as the bitterest of personal affronts that his father and five older brothers had ridden to

Gardar and died as heroes without him. It made no difference that the bones of his famous sire and

brothers had been picked by wolves and birds instead of being decently burned. Fate had dealt Valsidur

an unkind blow and he was determined to wage his own wars, so he became a general in the war of

prosperity.

But all Kilgore heard was the glory. He would gaze at the old relics, battered helmets, rusty swords and

shields, gently hefting the fearsome weapons which had cloven skulls and lopped off limbs. Valsidur and

the retainers were relieved, believing that he had given up magic for a more acceptable form of

entertainment. For a week Kilgore never entered the hall without giving a petrifying bellow, which he said

was his grandsire Wulther's battle cry. Even more annoying, he persistently pestered the old retainers to

consider contriving a glorious end, such as a sea voyage or an impossible quest, rather than retiring

peacefully in Shieldbroad.

Kilgore hated state occasions. As his father's heir he was forced to sit through all of them. He had

already wasted the better part of the week at the Thing watching lawsuits, when he would rather watch

the horsefighting, and now he had to be on hand to greet the northern officials. It was insufferable.

Covertly he gouged his knife into the bench and sighed. The smells from the kitchen were absolutely

marvelous. Sighing again, he caught a glare from Valsidur and scowled back.

At last the northern chieftains arrived outside. Their ponies were thin and few, with that anxious look that

bespoke a fear of the stewpot. Kilgore looked at the ponies and their riders narrowly, wondering. Eating

horseflesh was a horror to Sciplings. The mere accusation of it was grounds for a feud.

Valsidur greeted his old friends with a pleased roar and sat them down in the best seats, pretending not

to notice their poor clothing and lean looks.

"My dear friends and neighbors!" he thundered. "It's been too long since we last met. How—er, how are

your crops and flocks and fisheries?" He smiled uneasily, knowing he was among unfortunate and

desperate men.

Thlasi of Whaleness shook his head silently. Erin of Neck refused to even answer, and Therin of

Heroness spoke with false, heavy cheeriness: "Well, this will be the last Midsummer Thing we'll celebrate

together, Valsidur. All of us are leaving the north and going to the Southern Quarter."

All the retainers gasped and began exclaiming, "You won't like it. Nobody knows if there's habitable

land there, even.Too many strange beasts, and what about the weather? No one has ever gone to settle

beyond Willowdale."

Valsidur rapped for silence with his fishing spear. "This is a drastic decision, neighbors. Are you sure you

want to give up your comfortable homes and all that is familiar?"

Thlasi of Whaleness answered flatly, "Of course not. But what else can we do besides starve to death?

Last fall an early storm ruined our crops and killed at least half our sheep in the fells. We barely survived

the winter by eating all our cattle. And this year the winter never left. The boat stands are frozen fast, the

few lambs that were born were deformed or frozen, half the ewes died, and the other half was starving

without grass. Now we have started to eat our horses. Nothing is left in the Northern Quarter. We'll take

what little we have and our few ponies and go south."

Valsidur rubbed his chin. "Then it will be a bad year for trade," he murmured almost to himself. "But

friends, I have enough gold, wheat, firewood, livestock, and ponies to lend you. You don't need to leave.

What are neighbors for?"

"There are limits to hospitality," Erin of Neck said. "We might be a burden on you that would ruin you

too. And we have our pride. We would rather start over in the south. Perhaps when the Blight passes

some of us will return."

"You ought to come too," said Vigfus of Goatnef gloomily. "You'll get the Blight too, perhaps this fall. It's

creeping further south each year."

"It's just a freak of the weather," Valsidur said. "Surely you won't pull out just because of one year's

crop failure. Why, the crops failed every year for five years not long ago and no one packed up and

moved. Stay just one more year."

The men of the north looked at one another a moment. With reluctance Therin said, "Well, this may

sound strange, but we believe it's something to do with magic. You know something peculiar happened in

Gardar after we lost the Wars. No one could get in, no one got out. I've heard the place is under a

blighting cloud the same as we are and the trolls and wizards run about in broad daylight. It isn't a natural

cloud, you know, that deforms animals and kills all green things it touches. I'm afraid to go out at night

because I'm sure there are trolls or sendings under my barn. We've all had enough; we're leaving."

Kilgore was acutely interested. "I've always wanted to see some trolls and sendings. It's about time

Skarpsey saw a little excitement, since the Wars are over."

"Tush! We don't believe in magic here in Shieldbroad," Valsidur snapped with a withering scowl at his

son.

"No?" inquired Erin of Neck. "Then we must've heard a lie when we heard you sent someone to find the

Ramskell troll."

Valsidur looked ruffled, like a disturbed barn owl. "Well, it did no harm, since we found no troll."

"But one always wonders about the old legends, if there's not a grain of truth somewhere," said the old

retainer Onnund, glancing uneasily at some old amulets hanging on the wall.

"If there are wizards in the Northern Quarter," Kilgore declared, slapping his old sword, "I say let's raise

an army and drive them out instead of running away. We're not cowards. Our noble ancestors—"

But nobody listened, and nobody listened in the days to come when the migration started. Trains of

ponies and carts and a few sad-looking sheep and cows passed Valsidursknoll, making a dusty new road

southward. It was an exciting but saddening time. Kilgore watched the travelers with envy and irritation.

He tried to corner a few of them and demand information about the Blight, but all were unwilling to talk.

They only said, "You wouldn't believe it if we tried to tell you."

Kilgore lost patience and began demanding, "Why don't you stay and fight for the land you love?"

"You can't fight wizardry," was the answer, and on they went.

Privately Kilgore believed the so-called Blight was indeed the magic of wizards from Gardar to frighten

the people away. They had already won the entire north of Skarpsey and now they were working their

way southward, driving the sciplings before them. He was haunted by the thoughts of what would happen

when all the refugees were crammed into the Southern Quarter with no place left to flee except maybe

into the ships that had carried the sea traders' merchandise—leaving Skarpsey to the powers that had

possessed it centuries before the first Sciplings landed on its shores. Try as he might, Kilgore could not

arouse even the faintest interest in raising an army. The comfortable Shieldbroadsmen propounded that

the cold weather and clouds could be nothing but a mere fluke of nature's unkind side, and the fleeing

northerners were too frightened to think of anything but escape.

Finally one evening in the Brandstok hall, Bork the Fat and Onnund of Wolfskill managed to loosen the

tongue of one of the travelers.

"I'll tell you, then, and swear that it's true upon the barrows of my forefathers," declared the traveler,

looking around the crowded hall. "As my name is Grimulf of Grimsness, son of Grafar, I have

encountered wizards in the Northern Quarter. I used to raise horses there, but the grass and the horses

are gone. I was caught in a blizzard this spring, searching for three mares, and I came upon a house on

the fell that I know never existed before. I was freezing so I stopped there. Three bearded men in fine

cloaks made me welcome and gave me a bed for the night. My dogs wouldn't come near the place,

which should have been warning enough for me. I became suspicious when the food and drink I had

began making me sleepy, so I refused to eat it. And when I lay down in the bed, I saw a sending sitting in

the rafters grinning at me. It looked like an old corpse in rags and it vanished when I held up Thor's lucky

amulet. I made my escape and never saw that house again, even though I spent days searching for it."

An uncomfortable silence filled the hall. Against the walls the old banners and shields stirred and rang

softly in a stray breath of wind.

"Stuff!"Onnund of Wolfskill squeaked, sputtering on the dregs in his cup.

Valsidur pulled his beard and grunted. "Fellows like this ought to be fined for spreading rumors. That

would solve the problem in a week. I can't believe rational and civilized people would stir themselves into

sucha frenzy over a pile of myth and superstition."

"Magic is not myth or superstition," Kilgore said, eager to show off his knowledge. "It's a force as real as

the fire and ice of Skarpsey, and people used to practice it as a fine and ancient art to—"

Valsidur clutched the arms of his chair and bellowed, "Let the trolls take all the fine and ancient arts!

What I want to see is a reasonable explanation for this miserable cloud of cold weather creeping down

on us fjord by fjord, and magic is not a reasonable explanation."

"It's as reasonable as anything else you might think of," said Kilgore. "Some things don't have to be

reasonable. We know there are volcanoes and geysers inland, but does anybody have a reasonable

explanation for the way they work? What we ought to do is raise an army and get ready to fight for

Skarpsey."

"No armies," Valsidur declared. "If something is causing this trouble it must be men, and we know that

gold is a better way of dealing with men than swords." With that, he rose and stumped away to bed.

Since all the wine had been consumed, the neighbors all left, leaving the hall to Kilgore and a score of

travelers. The fire died down to coals and most of the homeless ones were preparing for sleep on the

tables, benches, and floor. Kilgore discovered a toothless old scop who mumbled himself to sleep right in

the middle of the story and no amount of shaking and punching would rouse him. The hall became silent.

In the amber light, the old weapons and banners did not look so faded and eaten by time and decay.

Kilgore .sat looking at them for a long time, wishing those warriors from better times were still around to

defend Skarpsey from this mysterious attack.

Finally he yawned noisily, stretched, and curled up in someone else's cloak to sleep. He was almost

asleep when the great front door which sported the beak of Valsid's ship ponderouslycreaked open with

a gust of wind. He thought about rising to shut it, but that would entail threading his way among bodies,

benches, dogs, tables, and scattered cups and plates. Besides, it was a warm night. Let the ones closest

to the door shut it if they got cold.

Suddenly the coals on the hearth leaped into crackling flame, casting a bright glow in the mahogany

darkness. He heard light footsteps and he felt the hem of a long cloak brush past him. He fell asleep

before he could investigate.

In what seemed like only half an hour or so, someone woke him by unrolling him from his borrowed

cloak, and sunshine streamed in on him brightly. Feet were trampling the boards in great activity for such

an early hour. All the retainers were there and more local people and travelers. Kilgore groped around

for his old sword, grumbling, "What's all the excitement Leave off stepping on me or—"

"Get out of the way, Kilgore," puffed old Snorri. "Must you always be underfoot?"

Kilgore rubbed his wooly head, relinquished his borrowed cloak to its indignant owner, and plowed his

way through the crowd around the Brandstok oak with the intention of getting outside as soon as

possible. Everyone was wide awake and cackling all at once like a bunch of chickens. His father was in

the midst of them, trying to make himself heard and almost smothered by wagging beards and hands

plucking at his cloak.

"What's all the uproar about?" Kilgore demanded. "Did we have thieves in the night?"

"Worse than that!" said Bork the Fat. "We've had some sort of wizardry right here in the Brandstok

hall."

With a quivering hand he pointed to the Brandstok oak. When the crowd cleared for a moment Kilgore

shoved closer. There was the hilt of an old-style sword stuck into the tree with not even an inch of blade

showing. It was made of gleaming gold, curiously wrought with all manner of runes and designs. The

guard was shaped like an eagle's talons curving over the wielder's hand. Impaled to the tree under the

sword's hilt was a scrap of parchment. Kilgore snatched the paper and read the faint spiky writing:

"Whoso pulls Kildurin from the tree shall rule over all the minions of Surt, to the confusion of the wicked

and the confounding of their Power."

Chapter 2

In the days that followed, hopefuls from all the Quarters came to try their luck at the sword. Valsidur

issued an official proclamation that everyone must try it, however humble or obscure, lest the sword king

spend the rest of his life cleaning fish or herding sheep. A fishing boat, a new house at Willowdale, and a

hundredweight of salt cod annually were promised to the man who brought the sword king to the hall.

Everyone from the wealthy to the vagabond wanderers was instructed to try the sword, and almost every

night a revelrous gathering tested another batch of prospective kings, always ending in a consolation

feast.

To Kilgore the whole enterprise was painfully embarrassing. He felt torn two ways. In spite of his belief

in magic, it was still disquieting to witness a genuine magical manifestation in such a staid and stodgy spot

as the Brandstok hall. Or worse, the sword was a farce to make Shieldbroad look ridiculous—a

dangerous hoax, perhaps, that would oust the family of Valsid from the chieftaincy of Shieldbroad. As the

self-appointed guardian of the sword in the Brandstok, he sat glowering worriedly with his old sword

across his knees during the foolish attempts to withdraw the weapon from the tree. He disdained the idea

of making himself look ridiculous by sweating and straining at the sword with that greedy glint in his eye

that all the candidates wore. He was certain that an object so holy and mysterious would never be

withdrawn in such a carnival atmosphere.

Almost overnight authorities on elven magic sprang up and hastened to the Brandstok hall to advise

everyone else. A galloping trade in amulets, lucky tokens, and petty spells flourished among the people of

Shieldbroad and the southbound travelers. It seemed that everyone had always believed in wizardry and

elves and had just been waiting to expound his knowledge of the topic. They alternated between fearless

bragging and terror lest wizards carry them off, which was relieved only by a new amulet or dead lizard,

or when a new hero came swaggering up to try the sword. Their spirits then rose to a feverish pitch as

they swept inside the hall like the sea. Their disappointment afterward never failed to delight Kilgore.

Disappointment hit old Valsidur the hardest of all. He would glare at the innocent sword,muttering,

"Now why shouldn't it be me? The Valsids have always been kings and warriors. If anybody in Skarpsey

deserves it, it is I!" Then he would pounce from his chair and try to wrest the sword from the tree by

main force. It never budged in the least. Yearningly, gloating, the retainers all tried it several times, pulling

till their eyes popped, to no avail.

"What are we to do with this troublesome king when he does appear?" Valsidur grumbled. "He's worse

than the Blight. He'll take the best of everything for himself, unless we enlist him somehow."

"Or buy the sword from him," old Snorri suggested slyly. "A stranger with no friends about him, perhaps

a poor man, he would have his price. Every man has a price, even if it is his life."

"Oho,"chuckled Valsidur. "I see your meaning. It's worth a try, to preserve such an honorable institution

as the Brandstok."

All the old men grinned and winked. But a week passed and still the sword stubbornly refused to be

withdrawn.

Another week passed and the novelty seemed to be wearing thin. No new heroes had come to try the

sword for several days. The old retainers came to the hall to drink wine and tell lies. People began

remembering the Blight to the north and the old unease about wizards returned. Kilgore hoped the sword

craze was over and people were returning to their senses. Any day now they would see the wisdom of

raising an army and marching north. His father was certainly gloomier and grouchier, a sure sign that

everything was returning to normal. Valsidur sat morosely where he couldn't see the sword and refused

to be amused.

The loud knock at the door one evening was sudden and welcome. The guests and travelers brightened

hopefully. A servant opened the door with a flourish and escorted in the traveler. Pompously the servant

announced, "Helgi Thinbeard of Bank.Desires a word, sir."

"Well, come in, come in," commanded Valsidur. "Who sent you and what is your business?"

Kilgore observed with a grimace that the fellow smelled of fish and smoke and was not well clad, though

he seemed properly respectful. He was dressed in rough-woven russet, coarse sailcloth breeches, a hairy

leather hauberk, and a barbarously ornate belt. On his feet he wore thick rough boots that a

Shieldbroader would have worn to work in the fields. He looked fairly youthful of countenance,

sun-browned and keen-eyed, but his beard was silver-streaked and he had a knowledgeable look about

him. Leaning on a tall black staff, he looked around at the occupants of the hall.

In a placating tone he began, "I bear you greetings from Bank, and a peculiar message."

"Well, go on with it," Valsidur said impatiently. "Who's it from?"

Helgi Thinbeard bowed slightly and looked around the attentive hall with a faint smile. "I myself bring my

own message to you. In regard to this—" He waved his hand toward the sword.

"And who are you to bring your own advice to us?" grunted Onnund of Wolfskill critically.

Helgi smiled and combed his sparse beard with his fingers. "If it pleases you, I and all my fathers before

me were called soothsayers."

"A soothsayer!" everyone in the hall cried, echoing and re-echoing.

Valsidur sat up and clutched the arms of his chair. Kilgore braced himself for the explosion that was sure

to follow.

"Soothsayer, eh?"Valsidur studied the fellow with narrowed eyes. "Well, make yourself comfortable,

soothsayer," he continued gruffly, and imperiously invited Helgi Thinbeard to dine and refresh himself.

After ordering that fat and livers and curds be brought, he commanded the harpist to begin a song. "You

must try our famous Brandstok ale," he said."The best in all Skarpsey.Your health, soothsayer."

Kilgore observed his father's altered mood and crowded closer to the soothsayer. The fellow still looked

and smelled like a mere chapman off the boats. Helgi Thinbeard stared back at him, as if he had read

Kilgore's thoughts. Then Kilgore noticed a knife with a well-polished horn handle thrust into the

soothsayer's belt. Surprised, he felt inclined to be more respectful after that.

The soothsayer at last finished his meal and leaned back and began stuffing a black pipe with a strange

fragrant herb. Then he ignited it with a coal and began puffing clouds of greenish smoke. Politely he

asked how the summer was advancing in Shieldbroad. Valsidur returned the proper answer and inquired

after the state of affairs in Bank, a settlement in the Southern Quarter. Theybantered the usual questions

back and forth until Kilgore was fuming with curiosity.

At last all the preliminary requirements were satisfied. Valsidur offered a deep "Hem!" and looked

serious.

Taking the hint, Helgi Thinbeard began, "You remember that I said I had a message for you?"

Valsidur grunted and tried not to look too eager, having never spoken with a soothsayer. "Yes, I recall

something of the sort. My sire and his sire back to Valsid always listened to soothsayers."

"And died by violent means," Snorri couldn't help murmuring in the safety of the darkness, since the fire

was dying.

"Let the soothsayer speak," Valsidur ordered. "I'm sure he speaks for the benefit of Shieldbroad." He

meant profit. Kilgore could see his crafty old face in the red fireglow.

The listeners drew closer and the soothsayer puffed solemnly on his pipe before speaking. "You shall

gain, and you shall lose. Somethingmore dear to your heart than your gold and this hall." Kilgore

wondered what on earth that could be. The soothsayer continued. "See these moths?" He pointed to the

little flitting shadows flashing around the burning whale oil lamp. "Before these die, you shall see the

sword drawn out of the tree by the only hand that has not tried. Before the dark of the moon, wizards

will come into this hall as in the old days, and one will do you good and the other ill. There are many

things in and under Skarpsey which you do not know and which you blind yourselves to. Remember that

Elizabeth Boyer - The Sword And The Satchel

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