Piecing Together Poul Anderson’s The Broken Sword by Brian Murphy What in Ymir’s name was in the well water in 1954? Three terrific works, one each of high fantasy, historical fiction, and sword-and-sorcery/heroic fantasy, all appeared that same fateful and wonderful year.* These included the first volume of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings, Franz Bengtsson’s The Long Ships, and Poul Anderson’s The Broken Sword, respectively. All very Northern, each inspired by Old Norse myth, saga, and history. All awesome. Some would say, each the best of their kind. I might. But I’m not here to talk about that odd and extraordinary circumstance, but rather, Anderson’s novel specifically. What makes The Broken Sword such a great book? And why does it deserve to be better known and more widely read? Genuine Norse mythology is stepped in the Wyrd, a word that is a rough approximation of “destiny” or “fate.” A life is a string in a tapestry spun by the three Fates, or Norns; at some point the Norns also shear it off. No man can change his destiny. But that doesn’t negate free will, and in between there is life to be lived, important decisions to be made that shape one’s Wyrd. Such as, for example, whether to reforge an ancient, cursed, and powerful broken sword, and wreak vengeance on your enemies. That happens in the novel, and it’s a sight to see. The broad outlines of the novel are as follows. Imric, an elf chieftain, steals the infant Skafloc from his parents, Orm and Aelfrida. Imric replaces the child with a changeling, Valgard, identical in appearance to Skafloc but born from the unholy union of Imric and a she-troll. Skafloc grows up among the elves as a child of the light, while Valgard, unable to shake the feeling he’s an outcast, turns to the dark. Skafloc and Valgard are in essence two halves of one person (in fact you might call them two pieces of one broken sword), approximating the opposing but also symbiotic forces of order and chaos that vie within us. Valgard struggles against his heritage; Skafloc against the pull of a powerful, evil weapon that he needs to battle the darkness that threatens to overwhelm the land. Their tale can be viewed as a metaphor for childhood. Do we really ever overcome our experiences, our biology? Can we? Maybe, and maybe not. We have both free will and circumstances of history that influence who we are and what we do. What ceilings we reach, and the depths to which we may fall. But our actions still have consequences. Choice in this book is complicated. But so is Wyrd, which also means uncanny or unexpected, and the supernatural. Likewise the sword, Tyrfing, can be viewed metaphorically. You can’t unmake it; you can’t put (insert any powerful weapon, nuclear or biological) back in the genie’s bottle. You can hide them away, swear never to use them… but all men are born fey. Ultimately they will lead us to Ragnarok and our destruction. At one point Imric decides to cast Tyrfing into the sea, but realizes that even this measure cannot stay fate: “I do not think that will do much good though. The will of the Norns stands not to be altered, and the sword has not wreaked its last harm.” It all seems very prescient today. As circumstances draw the two half-siblings together, conflict ensures—great, gory, unforgiving conflict, worthy of Greek Tragedy. Or more accurately, of the old Norse Sagas, treating us moderns to the power inherent in these ancient stories. I maintain that the Sagas can still be read and enjoyed, but they...