We have said that there are many and strange shadows, memories survivingfrom dim pasts, in this FANTASTIC UNIVERSE of ours. PoulAnderson turns to a legend from the Northern countries, countrieswhere even today the pagan past seems only like yesterday, and tellsthe story of Cappen Varra, who came to Norren a long, long time ago.
"Let little Cappen go," theyshouted. "Maybe he can singthe trolls to sleep—"
The wind came from thenorth with sleet on itsback. Raw shuddering gustswhipped the sea till the shiplurched and men felt drivenspindrift stinging theirfaces. Beyond the rail therewas winter night, a movingblackness where the wavesrushed and clamored; straininginto the great dark, mensensed only the bitter salt ofsea-scud, the nettle of sleetand the lash of wind.
Cappen lost his footing asthe ship heaved beneath him,his hands were yanked fromthe icy rail and he wentstumbling to the deck. Thebilge water was new coldnesson his drenched clothes.He struggled back to hisfeet, leaning on a rower'sbench and wishing miserablythat his quaking stomachhad more to lose. But he hadalready chucked his share ofstockfish and hardtack, tothe laughter of Svearek'smen, when the gale started.
Numb fingers groped anxiouslyfor the harp on hisback. It still seemed intactin its leather case. He didn'tcare about the sodden wadmalbreeks and tunic thathung around his skin. Thesooner they rotted off him,the better. The thought ofthe silks and linens of Croywas a sigh in him.
Why had he come to Norren?
A gigantic form, vague inthe whistling dark, loomedbeside him and gave him asteadying hand. He couldbarely hear the blond giant'sbull tones: "Ha, easy there,lad. Methinks the sea horseroad is too rough for yerfeet."
"Ulp," said Cappen. Hisslim body huddled on thebench, too miserable to care.The sleet pattered againsthis shoulders and the spraycongealed in his red hair.
Torbek of Norren squintedinto the night. It made hisleathery face a mesh of wrinkles."A bitter feast Yolnerwe hold," he said. "'Twas amadness of the king's, thathe would guest with hisbrother across the water.Now the other ships areblown from us and the fireis drenched out and we liealone in the Wolf's Throat."
Wind piped shrill in therigging. Cappen could justsee the longboat's singlemast reeling against the sky.The ice on the shrouds madeit a pale pyramid. Ice everywhere,thick on the rails andbenches, sheathing the dragonhead and the carved stern-post,the ship rolling andstaggering under the greatmarch of waves, men bailingand bailing in the half-frozenbilge to keep her afloat, andtoo much wind for sail oroars. Yes—a cold feast!
"But then, Svearek hasbeen strange since the trolltook his daughter, threeyears ago," went on Torbek.He shivered in a way thewinter had not caused."Never does he smile, and hisonce open hand grasps tightabout the silver and his menhave poor reward and nothanks. Yes, strange—" Hissmall frost-blue eyes shiftedto Cappen Varra, and the unspokenthought ran onbeneath them: Strange, even,that he likes you, the wanderingbard from the south.Strange, that he will haveyou in his hall when youcannot sing as his men wouldlike.
Cappen did not care todefend himself. He haddrifted up toward the northernbarbarians with the ideathat they would well rewarda minstrel who could offerthem something more thantheir own crude chants. Ithad been a mistake; theydidn't care for roundels orsestinas, they yawned at thethought of roses white