But it was not the gripping hand that Randvar was struggling against, though the fingers had sunk into his flesh like iron hooks. It was against that awful dizzy madness that had come again upon him at the touch of Starkad’s son. In the same flash of time he knew two things—that his “gift” was making him aware of a terrible presence, and that he resented that gift with every fibre of his forest-bred body. Doubly racked, he battled for the space of a heart-beat, then reached instinctively for the sharp medicine of his blade.
Even as his flesh tasted it and his disorder passed, the fire leaped redly, revealing the blazing eyes of rage above him, disclosing his horror-twisted mouth to the Jarl. With a stifled cry, Starkad’s son quitted his hold.
“Why do you look at me like that? Oh God, do the marks show on me? I thought I should escape—escape—”
His voice lost the semblance of a voice, became an inarticulate wail; and to it was added the sound of rending cloth as he started up in his lair. In frantic haste he strove to disentangle his cloak and draw it up over his breast and around him in a hood; but he only tangled it harder and pulled the folds awry and lost the end from between his numb fingers. Giving up the attempt, finally, he cast it over his head and flung himself down upon the earth, moaning a single word over and over like a wounded bird of one note.
More like was it to a sound of bird or beast than to human speech. Every nerve strained in the endeavor to comprehend, every sense baffled, the song-maker stood staring down at him. At last he bent, speaking desperately:
“Either you are dumb or I am deaf! Make me a sign.”
Plunging and reeling, the black shape reared itself from the ground; though even in the shadow it would not uncover its face. From the cloak-folds came forth a shaking hand, which fell on the Songsmith’s arm and groped its way to his shoulder. Brushing his cheek, it left the skin wet, though its touch was the touch of fire. From his shoulder, it passed over to the harp at his back and put all its force into smiting the strings into one discordant cry, before it fell back into the cloak-folds, and the cloaked form fell prone upon the earth.
Randvar understood then that he was to sing; and before he was erect, the harp was off his back. Like the voice of a night-bird pouring out its soul to the listening forest, his voice rang from the shadow.
Down on the firelit slope, the merry groups ceased their sports and gave him joyous hearing; and the echoes in the hills across the splashing river awoke and answered him sleepily; but of what he sang he had no consciousness, nor ever afterwards could recall it. Like a dead thing lay the mound at his feet; and as flies around the dead, his thoughts buzzed around its secret.
Slowly understanding came.... The troll-temper of the father had descended upon the son.... Denied the vent of battle-fury, it had taken some uglier shape, some monstrous shape that galled the Jarl’s pride to own!... It had possessed him that day at the Pool, and he believed that the forester had seen its degrading marks.... Its marks! Shrinking, Randvar’s memory groped among the myriad tales he had heard of men accursed ... yelping teeth-gnashing Berserkers with frothing distorted mouths ... souls doomed to raven in brutes’ bodies ... wits to sleep in the bestial forms of swinish cinder-biters....