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knoll overlooking the hall when the time comes.”

Leifr nodded dumbly, and Thurid patted his shoulder

commiseratingly. To Gotiskolker he said, “You’ve done a splendid job.

Fridmarr could not have done it better himself. You even got those

carvings of the deer he was fond of and the antler handled knife. I think

we should leave him with his son for the last moments.”

Gotiskolker bowed his head in silent assent, but Leifr motioned

them to stay. “He should have his friends around him,” he said in a low

voice, “since he has lost almost all his family. Snagi, you too. No one

has proved more faithful than you.”

Snagi sank down gratefully on a chair. “Doesn’t he look grand? I

can’t count the times when I saw him dressed up, going off to the

Althing or to visit some high-and-mighty earl or other.”

“He was a generous man,” Gotiskolker added. “He kept me alive

and let me stay in his barrows, although he got nothing in return but

tallow. The Rhbus will profit from his kindness.”

Thurid cleared his throat. “Fridmundr was the only true friend I

ever had. When my ship of fame and fortune was sailing high seas, I

left him for more glorious ports of call and the exalted realms of the

wealthy and powerful. When the wine turned to vinegar in my mouth,

and all my rich friends proved themselves cold and uncaring, Fridmundr

welcomed me back again and made Dallir my home. Thank goodness

for Fridmundr’s amazing patience and forbearance, or I would have

died a homeless wanderer long ago.” He sighed deeply and clasped his

hands over his wrists, shaking his head in direful self- abnegation.

Leifr sensed that it was his turn to speak, and the horror of his

false position caused his tongue to stick in his mouth and his throat to

lie paralyzed in protest. In shame he stared down at his clenched fists,

searching for something he could say honestly and not discredit

himself or the dying Alfar. At last the words forced themselves out.

“I never knew him,” he said with a painful effort.

Thurid and Snagi exchanged a sorrowing glance. Snagi rose up to

come and pat him comfortingly on the back, which only made him feel

like a bigger fraud than ever.

“Don’t fret, young master,” the faithful old servant said.

“You’re his son. You have his blood. He understood you, for all of

your bad ways, and he forgave you. Don’t grieve at your badness.

All that is past. Soon he’ll be past too, and one day we’ll be dust

ourselves. I really don’t see as how our griefs are very important,

when you consider how many griefs there must be in this world.”

They sat silently and watched. Each breath that stirred

Fridmundr’s frail chest seemed more faint, with longer intervals

between. Exactly when he ceased to breathe none of them could say.

The wan light faded slowly, leaving behind only a gray shadow of the

brilliant image Leifr had first seen.

Gotiskolker stirred first, breaking the silence by crossing the

room to a small window. For the first time, Leifr wondered how

much time had passed. He ought to have been exhausted, but he felt

curiously enlivened, as if all his senses were more keenly aware than

usual, and sleep was an unnecessary nuisance.

“It’s almost sundown,” Gotiskolker announced, in a matter-

of-fact tone. Snagi paled visibly. “The Dokkalfar will be back, looking

for the sword. We’ve got to start the fire now, before they come for the

rest of us.”

“The trolls,” Snagi quavered, knotting his hands in his anxiety.

“They’ll be back tonight in full force. The word will have spread that

Sorkvir has marked us for doom. They’ll carry off anything they can get

their filthy paws on and smash the rest. I don’t think I can bear it. I

lived and worked here all my life. I was born in that old hut we use

for a granary now. Dallir can’t be destroyed this way. It’s the end of

everything, isn’t it?”

Thurid gripped his thin shoulder comfortingly, saying in a gruff

tone, “It’s all right, old fellow. One day we’ll take this place back from

the trolls and the Dokkalfar. Their day is almost finished.”

“Sorkvir’s got no right,” Snagi growled. “He should be

destroyed.” He raised his eyes to Leifr in a smoldering gaze, red-

rimmed and hate-laden. “You’ll do it, won’t you, Fridmarr? When you

destroy that beast, give him one mighty whack for Dallir and old

Snagi.”

Leifr gripped his wiry hand. “I’ll do that, Snagi.”

Snagi nodded his head in satisfaction, gazing around at the

familiar room and all its associated memories.

“This will be the last night that people spend at Dallir,” Snagi

said in a wondering voice, looking solemnly at his companions.

“There’s one last flagon of Dallir ale. I think we should drink it, as a

farewell—to the master as well as the farm.”

It was a doleful tribute. They sat in the kitchen with the door

blockaded, listening to the sounds of the trolls outside. As soon as the

sun was sunk from sight, the grunts and screeches began, frequently

punctuated by the squalling brawls of quarreling trolls. Overcome by

curiosity, Leifr peered through the cracks in the door and shuttered

windows and watched knots of trolls scuttling from the long barn,

prowling the farm in search of something to eat. One party came back

dragging a dead sheep, snarling and defending their catch from packs of

ravenous marauders. Other trolls ransacked the thralls’ huts. A few

trolls thoughtfully donned a pair of trousers, boots, or a long cloak and

strutted up and down on two legs as if they were impersonating people.

“I hate to see them do that,” Leifr said. “They’re little more

than animals, aren’t they?”

“Aye, naught but savage beasts that would as soon tear your

throat out for fun as not,” Snagi agreed.

“More than beasts,” Gotiskolker said. “But less than men.”

Thurid sniffed. “Trolls are a decadent race. Once they were much

more than they are now. They have intelligence, when they care to use

it. When they do, they are formidable enemies. The greater gray trolls

of the north are far more cunning than these scrawny off-scourings and

far more civilized, as far as trolls go.”

“Which isn’t far,” Gotiskolker grunted. “I’d like to see them

exterminated as a species.”

“They feel the same way about us,” Snagi said. “I don’t like to

think about staying in this house much longer. They’re digging a hole in

the roof. As soon as the master is well away on his smoke journey, I’m

going to my daughter’s at Sturmhafn.“ Then he looked apologetically at

Leifr. ”That is, unless you wish me to stay with you, since you’re the

master now, although the trolls have taken the farm from us. If

there’s no land to be farmed, I won’t be of much use to you, considering

the life you’ll be leading.“

Leifr smiled grimly. “Go to your daughter’s, Snagi. You’ve

earned your freedom, and there’s no one left to say otherwise. You

wouldn’t care for the outlaw’s life. I can’t say that I like it much myself.

Fortunately, I’m accustomed to it.” He put Bodmarr’s sword on the

table and looked at it ruefully. “And it was all for this. It’s going to

take a real magic grindstone to make it into a good sword again.”

Gotiskolker helped himself to more of the ale, despite the fact

that he had already taken more than his share.

“
Troll’s
grindstone!” he muttered thickly. “That shows what

Dvergar know about real powers. It’s not a troll that turns it. Any fool

knows trolls aren’t any good with metal. It was a Rhbu that turned that

stone—even if it was in Hjaldrsholl. A plague of boils on Hjaldr!” He

swallowed the last of his ale, sagging in his chair as if he might slither

to the floor at any moment.

“He’s talking nonsense,” Thurid said disgustedly. “Take the rest

of that ale away from him, Snagi, before his temper gets any more sour.

We’ve wasted enough time with our tribute to Fridmundr and Dallir.

Let’s start the fire before it gets much darker.”

Without speaking, the three of them lifted Fridmundr’s bed and

carried it out to the knoll where the wood was piled against the red

glower of the setting sun. Much of the wood had been torn from the

house, the barns, and the fences. The rest was the winter’s wood,

imported in rafts from wooded islands, or salvaged along the shoreline

and thriftily hoarded up, piece by piece.

“There’ll be a moon tonight,” Snagi observed. “This fire

will be like a beacon to all Solvorfirth.”

“As well as to the Dokkalfar,” Thurid added. “Let them come,

after we’ve paid our respects to Fridmundr, and they’ll see what their

troubles get them.“ He raised his staff and sent a spurt of flame

into the tinder.

The trolls still lurked in the shadows, hissing and jeering. As the

fire climbed higher and glowed more brightly, they slunk farther away,

whining and grumbling. The other three watchers backed away also,

shading their faces from the heat with their hands.

Leifr scanned the surrounding fields for signs of approaching

Dokkalfar. Clearly visible for miles, the black smoke ought to have

been a beacon to almost everyone in the settlements. Presently he

discerned three horsemen riding up the road from the lowlands. By the

time they were close enough to be identified as Einarr and his two

sons from Gellirgard, two more riders appeared, coming from the

south from Bekanskog. Gradually a ring of old friends formed around

the pyre, signifying their regards to Fridmundr’s son by curt

nods, a few handshakes, and some gruff words of condolence, most

of which expressed the thought that at least Fridmundr was free of

Sorkvir at last.

The gloom of the twilight did not lessen with the ascent of the

moon. The landscape darkened as a mist rose from the sea and slowly

filled all the low valleys. The smoke from the pyre drifted seaward,

toward a distant opening in the clouds out across the water.

Solemnly, a few old men began to sing the skalds that told the

tales of past heroic deeds. The thin chorus swelled with the low

grumble of younger voices, and some of those who had arrived on

horseback rode slowly around the fire.

At midnight, when the sky was the blackest, the Dokkalfar

appeared in a long line across the top of the fell, each bearing a red

torch. They stood still, as if awaiting a signal. Old Einarr and

Young Einarr turned their backs in contempt.

“Let them come,” Einarr the Elder growled, hitching up his cloak

around his shoulders. “We’ll hold them off so you can make your

escape. Take my gray horse, and they’ll never get close enough to smell

your dust.”

His boast at once triggered an argument among the neighbors

over whose horses were the best for the travelers to take. After settling

on three of the strongest and fastest, Leifr felt obliged to choose one

more as a spare, rather than offend the feelings of one of Fridmundr’s

closest friends. It was an old, black horse, graying around the eyes, but

its owner assured Leifr that Jolfr could trot all day and half the night

and still outrun many a younger horse, a fact to which the Ljosalfar all

attested, some rather ruefully.

Quietly, with no fuss or speeches, the guests all tied contributions

to the adventurers’ saddles—cloaks, shirts, a small pouch of gold bits

salvaged from barrows, lucky amulets, or anything that might be of use

on a journey.

“Good luck go with you, young Fridmarr,” Einarr the Younger

called out, while the other Ljosalfar watched with less than hopeful

head shakings and muffled sighs. Fridmarr had never done anything

to win their confidence, but their lack of enthusiasm seemed such a

chronic condition that Leifr refused to let it depress his spirits.

Tomorrow he hoped to see the first station of the Pentacle, the dwarfs’

fortress Hjaldrsholl.

Gotiskolker halted his horse in the lane approaching the

decayed barns. “If we should become separated,” he said, with a nod

toward the Dokkalfar, who were descending the fell now, “we need to

agree upon a place to meet. Hroald’s upper and a lower path that lead

to it.”

“Stormurbjarg it is,” Thurid replied, starting his horse away at a

trot.

Leifr had seen the little house from a distance. He also