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would have blunted it. I hope you can keep it a secret from Sorkvir.”

Shuddering suddenly, he damped his brilliant light to a soft red glow

and his expression became brooding. “Fridmarr, Fridmarr,” he sighed

wearily. “Your past is no less troubled than your future will be.

Sometimes I fear you. Sometimes I fear for you.”

Leifr shivered also, feeling that Thurid had spoken prophecy.

Raudbjorn watched Dallir patiently, seeming oblivious to rain,

cold, fog, the odd snow flurry, and the malicious peltings of rocks by

the trolls at night. His aspect brightened whenever Leifr appeared on

some mundane occasion; but on the whole, his job was a boring one. He

prowled about, enlivening his existence only once a day when a closely

masked Dokkalfar brought him his food and drink from Gliru-hals.

On the surface, Dallir was the dullest of all the

downtrodden Ljosalfar settlements. A keener mind, however, might

have wondered at the increased need for tallow at Dallir and the

sudden spate of housecleaning, which entailed taking something nearly

every day to the scavenger’s hut in the barrows. Snagi and Thurid, or

one of the servants, did the traveling back and forth, while Leifr

remained where Raudbjorn could keep his eyes on him. Gotiskolker

received an almost-daily account of Fridmundr’s declining condition.

Stubbornly, the old Alfar’s fetch labored to release its hold

upon life and upon the life of Fridmundr. Leifr was not able to see it

every night, somewhat to his relief, since he still felt uneasy in the

presence of the mysteries of Ljosalfar magic. Thurid reported to him

what he saw, whether the ailing ram managed to rise to one knee or

whether he was down on both again. Fridmundr kept to his bed now, his

luminous eyes fixed upon the rafters in rapture. His entire body glowed

with alf-light, as if the threadbare curtain were thinner with each

passing day.

Leifr saw Ljosa twice, herding her sheep past Dallir to water

at the beck. With Raudbjorn watching, Leifr had no intention of

speaking to Ljosa, thereby casting suspicion upon her. Ljosa glanced

toward Dallir and let her sheep take their time drinking their fill, then

she went on her way. Later, Leifr heard that she had taken her sheep

north to Stormurbjarg, where Hroald’s farthest shieling was.

Remembering her lingering near Dallir, Leifr wondered if she had

wanted to speak to him. At least she was out of Sorkvir’s way now, he

told himself gloomily.

As a creature of habit, Thurid continued his evening practice of

telling Fridmundr all the happenings on the farm for the day, although

now he had to sit by the bedside for his recitation. Leifr sat beside

Fridmundr also, out of respect for a noble Alfar. In his youth,

Fridmundr had been a redoubtable warrior, unbroken in spirit until the

death of Bodmarr and the treachery of Fridmarr. After his fondest hopes

had been shattered and Sorkvir seemed entrenched in Gliru-hals,

Fridmundr turned the running of the farm over to Thurid and retreated

into himself in search of the voices of his ancestors. He had found them,

and slowly his body wasted away, until at last the nearness of the end

was signaled by the alf-light and the burning revelations of the

meanings of all things.

“All Ljosalfar don’t die this way,” Leifr observed, hoping to

pump Thurid for more information.

“No,” Thurid replied rather proudly. “Only philosophers, sages,

wizards, and others who are clever enough to die safely in bed, rather

than in a fight.”

Leifr murmured, “A straw death is held in contempt by the

Sciplings. Death in battle is the most honorable death to be bought with

one’s life.”

Thurid snorted. “I’m not at all surprised to hear it. Those

Sciplings won’t last as a species, with that kind of ideas.”

Leifr would have liked to argue that point further, but the

dusk was deepening to night; at the boundary of nightfall, Fridmundr’s

fetch was most apt to be seen. Unwillingly, yet helplessly fascinated,

Leifr watched the shadows beside the door. Thurid arose to blow out the

lamp, and Leifr heard him gasp. Leifr turned around slowly, his hair

prickling as a cold wave swept over him.

The fetch lay beside Fridmundr’s bed, between Thurid and the

lamp. It raised its heavy head to look at them with glazed eyes in mute

appeal, gasping for each breath, its lips drawn away from its teeth. With

a sigh, it laid its head down on the floor and wearily stretched out its

legs—too weary to struggle any longer. Still struggling to breathe, the

fetch faded and vanished.

Gingerly reaching over where it had lain, and taking care not to

step there, Thurid picked up the lamp and carried it out of the room,

with Leifr close at his heels.

“The fetch is down,” Thurid said when they had reached the

kitchen where Snagi was polishing boots with bear grease. “Somebody

must tell Gotiskolker.” “Tonight?” Snagi quavered. “The Dokkalfar are

hounds. If they found my trail, I’d be torn to

out hunting with their troll-

ribbons.”

Leifr went to the door and listened. The savage howling of the

hounds drifted down the fells, a sound that would turn the bravest

heart cold and send most trolls scuttling underground as far as they

could get.

“I’ll go,” Leifr said, reaching for his cloak. “Snagi wouldn’t have

a chance with that shaky knee of his. The hounds are hunting in the

high fells, so I’ve little to worry about.”

“Except Raudbjorn,” Thurid added.

“Even Raudbjorn has enough sense to take shelter

somewhere when the hounds are hunting,” Leifr replied. “He should ,

know that better than we do.”

“I forbid you to go,” Thurid declared. “It’s too dangerous. If

the hounds don’t find you, the trolls might. Snagi wouldn’t be that

much of a loss. We’ll send him.”

“We’ll send me,” Leifr said grimly, unsheathing his sword a short

way. “This will discourage the troll-hounds.”

Ignoring Thurid’s spluttering and threatening, Leifr let himself

out into the windy night, creeping along the walls and hurrying from

thicket to thicket, in case Raudbjorn was lurking nearby. By the time he

was halfway up the side of the fell, he had detected nobody following,

although the baying of the hounds was considerably closer.

Keeping near the running water, Leifr took a rather circuitous

path to get to Gotiskolker’s barrow field. Twice he was followed by

trolls along the opposite side of the water, which they were prohibited

by earth powers from crossing. Aside from snarling and throwing a few

stones, they did not bother him, uneasy as they were about the hounds

hunting.

When he neared the barrow field where Gotiskolker’s hut stood,

Leifr advanced cautiously until he had reached the large pile of bones

and skulls near the door. A faint flicker of light gleamed through the

cracks in the makeshift door, but the fire had died beneath the huge,

blackened kettle and its foul-smelling brew. Hearing no sounds of

human occupation, Leifr crept toward the door and found it unlocked.

Inside, he found Gotiskolker sprawled across the table, still

wearing his traveling cloak, with his stick propped against him.

It seemed unlike Gotiskolker not to awaken at the slightest noise.

Leifr announced himself with a loud “
Hem
!” but the scavenger slept on,

his face drawn up in a weary, anxious scowl.

Leifr gave his shoulder a shake, and the motion dislodged a small

vial from Gotiskolker’s hand. A single red drop oozed from the empty

vial onto the table. Leifr touched his finger to it and smelled it. Eitur—

Sorkvir’s addictive poison! Hastily, he wiped it off his finger and

looked hopelessly at Gotiskolker, who was lolling in his chair like a

limp doll. His breathing rattled stertorously, and his meager muscles

were completely relaxed.

“Gotiskolker! You wretched rat!” Leifr propped him upright and

shook his wasted form none too gently. “What have you done? We’ve

got to talk tonight! Fridmundr’s fetch is down on its side, dying. Can

you talk? Wake up, you fool!”

Gotiskolker’s eyes opened reluctantly, looking flatly at Leifr with

scant recognition.

“Who is it?” he muttered thickly. “Go away and leave me

alone. Haven’t I furnished you all sport enough?”

“It’s Leifr, you sot—the Scipling you brought here to be

Fridmarr. Now pay attention. The time has come to get the sword from

Sorkvir. Tell me what to do, Gotiskolker.”

Gotiskolker’s head sagged. “Sorry. Can’t tell you anything. We’ll

talk later. Too sleepy now. The pain—I had to have the eitur. Didn’t

know the fetch was sinking so fast.”

“Gotiskolker! You fool! If you’d endured it for one more day—

don’t you know that stuff is killing you?”

Gotiskolker tried to nod. “No more eitur. This is the last time.

Time to let go and die.”

“There’ll be no talk of dying until you get me safely back to my

own realm, my friend. Why did you have to make everything so

difficult? How long is this going to last? I’d better take you to Dallir,

in case you wake up and decide to make yourself useful.“

Leifr bent to free Gotiskolker and the stick, then lifted the limp

form to his shoulders and closed the door behind him. Fortunately his

burden was not as heavy as a well-fleshed man, but, by the time Leifr

reached Dallir, he was staggering with weariness and too exhausted to

care if Raudbjorn saw him or not.

Snagi opened the door in response to Leifr’s imperious kick,

scuttling out of the way as Leifr reeled across the kitchen and deposited

Gotiskolker on the old sleeping platform.

“What’s this? You’ve brought contagion into our midst!” Thurid

sputtered indignantly. “Fridmarr! Do you know what sort of bugs

he must have from those troll hides?”

“I don’t care,” Leifr panted, collapsing in a chair and accepting

the horn of ale Snagi put into his hands. “The fool has taken eitur.

Maybe it will wear off tomorrow. If it doesn’t, we’ll have to plan the

theft without him.”

Thurid’s brow puckered in consternation. “Without him? This

scruffy rat knows a great deal about Sorkvir and Gliru-hals. We can’t

do it without him.

We’ll have to wait until he wakes up.” He rubbed his hands

nervously and avoided looking at Leifr.

“The time is now,” Leifr replied. “Fridmundr’s fetch is dying.

If we wait until Fridmundr is dead, Sorkvir is going to strike the first

blow the moment the truce is off. From what I’ve seen of his

Dokkalfar, I don’t think we could survive. Thurid, you must have

a plan in mind. We’ll put it into action tomorrow, whether or not

Gotiskolker is awake. We must have that sword in our possession when

Fridmundr breathes his last. You’ve done amazing things already. There

must be a spell on one of those rune sticks that will help you.”

Thurid paced across the room several times, plucking at his

sparse beard. “I suppose this is what it means to be a wizard. One

must do the most difficult things alone.”

“I’ll be with you,” Leifr said. “I can put my old clothes back on

and slink around like a scavenger and no one at Gliru-hals will look

twice at me. You could do the same, Thurid.”

Thurid paid scant heed. He opened his satchel and selected a rune

stick. By the firelight, he studied it carefully, his lips moving silently

as he read.

“This one is the spell 1 shall use tomorrow night,” he finally

announced with an air of finality. “Now I must go to my cave and ready

myself by seeking the intervention of the dextrous Rhbus. I fear the

clarity of my mind isn’t what it used to be, before certain disturbances

entered into my carefully ordered life.” With a swirl of his cloak, he

turned and went out the door, letting in a gust of cold wind as he

departed.

Leifr slept fitfully. Snagi insisted upon staying awake to

sit beside Fridmundr. “I’ll sleep later,” he assured Leifr. “Between

chores, or during chores, or instead of chores. You know how lazy this

old thrall is. I’m the last of your father’s thralls.” He spoke in a tone of

mild surprise, as if he had only just thought of it.

“You’re a thrall no longer,” Leifr said. “My father would want