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flash of inspiration from the carbuncle. “The staff is hawthorn, cut from

the sacred grove of Wotan.”

Thurid ran his hand along the staff reverently. “Only the Rhbus

were allowed to cut wood from those groves,” he murmured, darting

Leifr a troubled glance. “I can scarcely believe that even you would

have the nerve to desecrate the old Rhbu ruins. That’s worse than

barrow robbing.”

Leifr winced. He had not yet stooped to barrow robbing

but obviously Fridmarr had shared no such compunctions.

“I did what I had to do,” he growled resentfully.

Thurid hoisted one eyebrow skeptically. “It seems you had to do

more than your share of treacherous deeds, such as stealing Hjaldr’s

grindstone. And that sword you gave to Bodmarr was from Bjartur also,

I presume?”

Leifr felt himself nodding. The recollections from the carbuncle

were becoming painful and cloudy. “I never meant for Bodmarr to be

killed,” he said, dragging up the words from a great depth of Fridmarr’s

in utmost misery.

“I
hope
that wasn’t part of your plan,” Thurid answered. “Ljosa

believes it was, but I could never believe it. Now do you see what

comes from using a sword stolen from a barrow?”

Leifr avoided Thurid’s piercing, questioning stare. “I don’t wish

to discuss my past crimes,“ he snapped. ”It’s the present that matters

the most now.“

“Well, sit down and tell me what you want, then,” Thurid

retorted. “I hope it won’t hurt to listen.”

Leifr glanced around the cave for something to sit on and found a

chair half- full of a dismaying assortment of objects. He shoved them

aside. Bones, sticks, egg shells, bits of hair, rocks, ropes, sea shells,

dried flowers, feathers, teeth, and a host of objects Leifr could not

readily identify rained down onto the floor.

“Now you’ve done it!” Thurid exclaimed suddenly, his brow

puckering in horrified recognition. “You’ve disarranged my absolute

proof of a great drought in forty-two years. I had it all in that chair,

assembled in true natural form. Totally random objects thrown together

frequently surpass all other methods of divination, and now you’ve

destroyed the whole business!”

Leifr shifted uncomfortably, causing several more objects to fall.

“I’m sorry, Thurid.”

Thurid snorted and sat down, wedging his staff in a crack

between two rocks to shed its light over the room. “It doesn’t matter,”

he growled, darting a malignant glower at Gotiskolker. “The entire

cave is profaned. The only question in my mind is what outrage

you are plotting against me now by bringing this unsavory creature

into our midst.”

“You know from Fridmundr that things are about to start

happening in Solvorfirth,” Leifr said. “The reason Gotiskolker and I are

here is to make an earnest request for your services as a wizard.”

Thurid’s eyebrows hoisted themselves upward, and he swung

around to stare at Gotiskolker incredulously. “You’re involved in this

too?” he asked.

Dryly Gotiskolker replied, “You may recall my past unsuccessful

attempt to steal the sword. My failure did not cure me of my ambition to

see Sorkvir destroyed. Fridmarr and I long ago swore an oath that

we would see the Pentacle restored to its former powers. Why do

you think Fridmarr gave you that old satchel from Bjartur, unless he

intended to return one day when you had mastered its powers? Did you

think he returned because he missed your company? You’re not a third-

rate prophet anymore, Thurid.” He thrust at the clutter on the floor

contemptuously with one ragged boot. “You’ve got far better powers at

your command than this. What’s more, they will use you whether you

want to use them or not.”

Thurid darted Leifr an accusing glare. “I thought you were doing

me a kindness,” he muttered. “I’ve never done anything of this sort

before. My skills are untested and my powers are untried. I’ve

practiced, but with Sorkvir so near, I’ve had to use the utmost caution.

If he knew that I possessed the knowledge that I do, my life would be

worthless.”

Gotiskolker cut off his protest. “What we want you to do is

to steal Bodmarr’s sword from Gliru-hals. It won’t be your duty to

challenge Sorkvir; that’s up to Fridmarr, when he gets the sword

sharpened.”

“Steal Bodmarr’s sword from Gliru-hals?” Thurid gasped.

“You must be mad! How can I do that? Need I remind you that Sorkvir

is also a wizard, and much more experienced than I am? How easy

do you think it will be to fool him?”

“You’re the wizard; you answer the questions,” Leifr retorted.

“Can you do it, Thurid?”

Thurid tossed his head back and pretended to contemplate the

ceiling, as if the answer were written there in the dust and bat

guano. “It may take a little time.”

“Take as long as you wish, but once Fridmundr dies, the truce is

off,” Leifr said impatiently. “We’ll be too overrun with Dokkalfar to

think about stealing the sword. It will have to be done now or not at

all.”

Gotiskolker nodded broodingly, his eyes upon Thurid’s staff.

“When the ram goes down on his side, you’ll know it’s the proper time

to steal the sword,” he said.

Thurid frowned and tugged at his lower lip. “That doesn’t

leave me much time. I fear Fridmundr’s fetch will die within a few

days. It’s down on both knees now.”

“Have your plan ready, Thurid,” Gotiskolker said, rising to his

feet and pulling his hood over his head. “This will be your chance for

greatness. Don’t make an ass of yourself.”

Thurid lunged from his chair, his nostrils flaring indignantly, but

the door closed behind Gotiskolker softly. Snorting, Thurid strode up

and down the cave a few times to work off his temper, glancing

challengingly at Leifr. “I don’t know what ever induced you to pick him

as a friend. There’s something about him that gets under my skin like

an inflamed sliver. He irritates me as much as you do, if that’s at all

possible.“ Jabbing his finger at Leifr, he sizzled a spider that was

creeping along the arm of his chair, and peered around vigilantly for

more evidences of mischief. ”I’m not safe even in my own cave,“ he

muttered.

Leifr stood up and more stuff shuffled off the chair. “It must be

nearly dark by now,” he said. “The trolls might be coming back for

another chance at the livestock—us included.”

Thurid took up his staff, seized the nearest random object,

and threw it against the wall, the opening shot in a furious volley

that lasted until Thurid mysteriously reached a point of satisfaction

with his efforts. With the inquisitive attitude of a hen pecking over

some grain, Thurid looked over the mess he had made. “Yes, it rather

looks as if there might be trouble,” he said at last.

“Wouldn’t it be easier just to guess?” Leifr asked.

“That would be neither scientific nor accurate,” Thurid

replied. “Look at these juxtapositions and tell me you see nothing

significant there.”

“I see nothing significant,” Leifr said agreeably.

“Fridmarr, where most Ljosalfar minds are clear and liquid,

yours is a lump of black granite,” Thurid declared. “I hope there aren’t

many more like you, or it bodes ill for the future of all Ljosalfar. My

own clarity of thought causes my sensibilities much suffering when

they are subjected to the obtusities of common minds.”

He flung the epithet at Leifr as if it were a brickbat and strode

toward the door with his nose in the air.

As they approached the ruined walls and paddocks of Dallir,

Thurid began to glance around warily. “This is where trolls like to lie in

wait sometimes,” he whispered. “Plenty of rocks to throw.”

They crossed several walls. Then a rock thudded to the ground

beside Leifr, followed by several others that missed by an even wider

margin.

“Head for the cow stable,” Thurid said. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Looking over his shoulder, Leifr saw several dark shapes

skulking along the tops of the walls. As he approached the barn, he

noticed that the door stood open a foot or so, but he had no time to

think about such an irregularity. A barrage of rocks pelted them from

the direction of the sheep paddock, dealing Leifr several breath-taking

blows before he dived into the warm darkness of the stable.

Outside, Thurid lit his staff with a spout of brilliant light and

raked the surrounding shadows. A sharp explosion suddenly shattered

the evening quiet, and Thurid chortled, “I got you, scumbag! Try

throwing rocks at me again, will you!”

Leifr rolled to his feet on the straw-littered floor and went to

soothe the cows, who were bawling and kicking at their stalls in a

panic. As he passed one of the empty stalls, half a dozen dark forms

catapulted out at him, claws and long, sharp teeth reaching for him.

Leifr’s sword cleared its sheath to meet their savage charge. His first

stroke felled their leader in midair as the troll leaped for Leifr’s throat

like a wolf. The others hastily backed off, blinking and squinting in

the indirect light, their wizened faces a curious combination of

animal and human, with short, snouty noses and tufts of matted fur

around their faces like scraggly beards. Their eyes gleamed with a

cunning knowing expression that Leifr found repulsive and evil.

Brandishing his sword and wishing Thurid would stop his useless

flaring outside, Leifr took a step forward. The trolls shrank back with a

ferocious hissing, spitting and growling.

“You’d better run, you filthy little cowards,” Leifr snarled, “or

I’ll make you into rat bait for our traps.”

The trolls laid back their ears and growled louder, cringing

together in a knot of utter defiance.

“Thurid!” Leifr called hopefully. His only reply was another

blast from outside and a triumphant chuckle.

The trolls crouched, their ratty tails twitching.

“Thurid!” Leifr called insistently, taking a step backward,

which seemed to encourage the trolls greatly.

Grinning, they sidled closer with a scuttling of long claws which

turned into a rush. Eyes glaring with malevolence, they sprang at

him with roars and gibbers.

Leifr shouted, “Thurid!” and flung himself backward.

Suddenly a white wash of light swept into the barn, showing him

the wave of trolls rising around him, almost frozen in midair by the

glare. Their expressions changed from wicked glee to wild terror. Then

the stable shook with thunderous explosions. An unseen force knocked

Leifr off his feet and propelled him into the midst of a tangle of kicking,

threshing trolls, who seemed to be pelting him with a hail of rocks.

“It’s all right now, they’re done for,” Thurid said, playing his

light around the barn. The light blazed from the end of his staff in a

radiant beam almost too brilliant to look at. With his toe, he

disdainfully nudged a heap of rocks aside into the barn gutter. Barely

able to keep his expression neutral, he turned to glance at Leifr.

Too stunned to be properly appreciative of Thurid’s technique,

Leifr goggled at the heaps of rocks that had been trolls only moments

before.

Thurid’s voice trembled with excitement or rapture. “Did you

ever see such a burst of alf-light? I don’t quite believe it myself. It was

nothing like anything I’d ever imagined doing . before. Confound it,

Fridmarr, perhaps you’re right. I could learn to enjoy using powers like

this.“

Leifr took some deep breaths to steady himself. “Thurid, you

amaze me. You saved my life with your magic. I’ll always be grateful to

you.” He extended his hand, and, after an astonished moment, Thurid

clasped it warmly.

“Fridmarr, there are moments when
you
amaze
me
,” he said

solemnly. “I never thought you’d learn the meaning of gratitude. I feel

as if you’re almost a stranger.”

Leifr replied uncomfortably, “How right you are, Thurid. Let’s

not get maudlin about it, though.”

Thurid’s gaze suddenly sharpened. “That sword,” he breathed,

“It’s sharp. Where did you get it?”

Leifr sheathed it quickly. “It’s one I acquired in my

travels— under circumstances I don’t care to divulge.”

“That sounds typical. It can’t be from the Alfar realm or the alog