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“No, it’s not. If I were wise, I’d be sitting in my own hall

surrounded by the warmth and brightness and friendship that power can

bring. Loyal friends to protect me, the fearful respect of my enemies,

the gratitude of my neighbors. Instead, I’m here with you.”

Leifr smiled a dark smile, nodding his head in commiseration.

“I’ve been as rich as an earl many times since I sailed with the viking

Hrafn Blood-Axe, but money gained by force goes through your fingers

like warm blood. I gambled it, gave it away, had it stolen, lost it—” He

shrugged his shoulders and shook his head ruefully. “It’s all gone. Like

my luck.”

“For now, perhaps. But no matter how badly beaten you might

be, you’d join with the next viking you meet and gladly do it all

again. Not so much for the gold as for the getting of it. For you, the

hunger is more exciting than the feast.”

Leifr grunted, considering his last morsel of coarse black bread.

“This feast certainly isn’t worth remembering. You speak like a

soothsayer. What else do you know about me, friend?”

The stranger clasped his useless wrist. “You’re young, for all

your viking mannerisms—very young to have fallen so low. I daresay,

with all the boldness born of indifference to punishment, that your

father would be glad to have you back home again.”

“Not for another five years, he wouldn’t. I was banished for ten

years. I shouldn’t have come back to Skarpsey if I valued my life.

My last ship was sunk, and a trader picked up the survivors and left us

off on Skarpsey. It was better than drowning or feeding the sharks. I

need to get off the island while I’m still alive, though.”

The scavenger shifted his position, leaning against his sack

with a grinding of metal on metal. “Perhaps I can help you out of your

difficulties.”

Leifr darted him an incredulous stare. “You? I have doubts

that an old barrow robber like you could do me much good. I

think you’ve sniffed too much poisonous barrow vapor and you’ve

lost your mind. I’ve seen a great lot of wanderers and beggars, and

they all have a marvelous scheme for instant and fabulous wealth. The

only trouble is, they need someone else to do the work. No thanks,

don’t tell me your plan. I’m not interested, and it probably won’t work

anyway. Real wealth and success are hard-fought and dearly bought.”

“How wise you are for your limited years. Do you see these scars

and poorly mended broken bones? Doesn’t it appear to, you that I have

done some hard fighting already and paid a few dear prices with my

own hide and blood?” The scavenger’s eye flashed hotly in its dark

depths, and his withered frame was wracked by a shiver of indignation.

“Yes, you appear to be raddled by something or other.”

Morosely Leifr poked at the fire for a few moments before returning

his gaze to his companion. “What’s your name? If I’m to listen to

your scheme, I ought to know what to call you.”

“I’m called Gotiskolker. A presumptuous name for a scavenger.”

Leifr extended his hand to shake. “I’m Leifr Thorljotsson. Since

we have nothing better to do except shake and shiver, you might as well

tell me your scheme. Surely one great scheme has to work sometime,

doesn’t it? What do you want me to do?“

“Since you are so blunt, I’ll be the same. I want you to pretend

to be the son of an old man who is dying—and the brother of a famous

warrior.”

“Is that all? Suppose I’m recognized and hanged?”

“That’s unlikely. Old Fridmundr is almost blind, and the brother

is dead. Fridmarr has been away a number of years, and people’s

memories are not that good when it comes to faces. You look very like

him anyway—tall, fair-haired, and inclined to bad temper.”

Leifr scowled. “There must be more to it than passing for

Fridmarr. Isn’t there any money in this plot of yours? If there’s not, I’m

not interested at all.”

“Certainly there’s money in it. Let me finish. It’s a matter of

overthrowing an unpopular warlord, Sorkvir by name. Fridmarr’s

brother Bodmarr was the first choice, but Sorkvir killed him.

Fridmarr, as his brother, will be the next best.”

“Why isn’t Fridmarr doing it himself, if he’s the next in line

for it? Is he going to come back unexpectedly?”

“No, he’s not coming back. You don’t need to worry about him.

The people will expect something of this nature from Fridmarr.”

“It sounds like a good way to get myself killed. Supposing I

could pass for Fridmarr, all I have to do is kill the warlord and help

myself to his coffers?” Gotiskolker demurred, “I am compelled to

simple. Sorkvir is clever. In fact, he

confess that it won’t be quite that

has led most people to believe that he’s a wizard.”

“Wizard!” Leifr repeated. “Gotiskolker, it would save us a lot

of time and trouble if we simply drew our knives and cut each other’s

throats now and died in relative peace. You expect me to kill a

wizard? With no more help than a one-armed barrow robber? I know

what wizards are. Most of them are the shiftiest, meanest, most evil

men walking the earth. No, thanks, Gotiskolker! You can keep

Sorkvir for yourself. I’ll take my chances with the thief-takers. At least

they have the decency to die when you kill them. Wizards are not so

obliging sometimes.”

Gotiskolker nodded. “You’ve seen a few wizards in your travels

through the world?”

“Enough to know better than to tamper with them.” Leifr pulled

up his cloak around his ears and turned his freezing back to the fire,

while his warmed knees instantly took on the clammy chill of the prying

wind.

“They aren’t all like Sorkvir,” Gotiskolker said. “I’ve known

some fire wizards, who are at war with the evil ones. Fire wizards use

Rhbu magic when they can get it, which is death to ice wizards, trolls,

jotuns, dark elves, and whatnot. I know one fire wizard who would be

willing to help us.”

“Not interested. I don’t like any kind of wizard.”

Gotiskolker tried another tack, shrugging his thin shoulders.

“Fridmarr wasn’t really as bad as everyone believes. To be sure, he had

a quick temper and he leaped into things headlong before he thought

about them properly, but I doubt if he did half the things everyone said

he did. It would let his father rest easy in his barrow if Fridmarr’s name

were cleared and his honor restored.”

Leifr looked around at Gotiskolker for a moment, knowing what

it felt like to be falsely accused. “What do they say he did?” he asked,

interested in spite of himself.

“Fridmarr stole a few things and he kept bad company.”

“Is that all?” Leifr eyed Gotiskolker skeptically.

“Well, perhaps he was too friendly with Sorkvir. Together

they profaned some landmarks held precious to the local people. He

robbed some barrows and stole a sword, which caused Sorkvir to lay an

alog against all sharp metal within a hundred miles of Solvorfirth—

except for the weapons held by Sorkvir’s followers, of course.”

Leifr passed Gotiskolker the last of the strong dark ale he had

cherished so frugally. A few long pulls from the bottle soon loosened

the scavenger’s tongue. “I’ve heard of no such affliction,” Leifr

said, watching more of the ale disappear. “Of course, I’ve been gone

from Skarpsey for several years.”

Gotiskolker smiled slyly. “You wouldn’t have heard of this alog,

any more than you’d have heard about Solvorfirth.”

Leifr frowned. “A small, out-of-the-way settlement, I don’t

doubt. But tell me more about this alog that made all the sharp metal

dull. How could such a thing happen? Couldn’t the metals be

sharpened again?“

“Nay, not without some powerful magic. All the swords became

pitted and dull after Sorkvir’s curse. Nothing could sharpen them.

Except—” He paused for another greedy swallow and wiped his mouth

on the back of his hand. “Except for a certain grindstone at Hjaldrsholl.

Legend has it that an odd little troll guards this grindstone; and when

a battle is coming, he turns that grindstone at dark hours of the

night as a warning. A few of the luckiest warriors have had their

swords sharpened by the troll of Hjaldrsholl, which guarantees them

success in their enterprises, whatever they might be.”

“I wish I could find a grindstone like that.” Leifr took a small

sip of the ale and passed it back.

Gotiskolker darted him a shrewd glance. “So you may, my

friend, but you will have to look for it. Fridmarr could not convince the

people of Hjaldrsholl to let him sharpen his sword at the troll’s

grindstone, so he stole the grindstone. But his plan came to pieces

when Sorkvir heard of it. He lost the sword and the grindstone, as well

as the life of his brother Bodmarr. He tried to kill Sorkvir and was

outlawed for life. Sorkvir now has the sword hanging among his

trophies, the grindstone is hidden, nobody knows where, and Fridmarr

has not been seen for more than forty years. But he swore he would

return and avenge the death of Bodmarr someday.”

Leifr smiled. “A good story. For a moment I almost believed it

was real.”

“It is real, you dolt!” The scavenger’s eyes burned with a flare of

rage. “I’m offering you the opportunity for fame and wealth and honor!

As surely as the stars travel their courses in the heavens, our paths have

crossed this night to change the fate of many people, as well as

our own. Are you unable to recognize fate when it comes knocking

at your door?”

Leifr shivered in sudden unease, peering around at the dark

barrows. “This is no place to speak lightly of fate,” he growled. “If

dying is what I’m after, I’ll turn myself over to those thief-takers now

and be done with it quickly and relatively cleanly.”

“Fridmarr’s father is dying. What could be more natural than

asking for a truce until Fridmundr is dead?”

Leifr snorted. “No. I’m sorry. I don’t take such impossible risks

with my life. It’s the only one I’ve got, you know, and I want to save it

as long as possible.“

Gotiskolker nodded his head. “Well, I hadn’t pegged

you for the overcautious sort. I must have made a mistake. By all

means, avoid taking chances and your life will be a long and a dull one

—not to say impoverished. When Sorkvir took over Solvorfirth and

killed our chieftain Hroald, he took all the gold he could squeeze from

all the landholders. It amounts to quite a little, I’d say, but getting it is

a chancy thing. You don’t like to take risks, as you said, so I suppose

there’s nothing more to be said about all that gold. Chests of it, so I’ve

heard.”

Leifr turned around and bent an evil glare upon Gotiskolker. “It’s

lucky for you that I’ve learned to tolerate the meaningless jibes of

individuals whose worth is negligible. I’m tired of talking. I’m going

to try to sleep. But I warn you, scavenger, I sleep with both ears and

one eye open and my hand on my sword. If you have any thoughts

about scavenging my head for a reward, you’re far more likely to get

scavenged yourself by the foxes and ravens that pick your bones.”

Gotiskolker wrapped his ragged cloak more closely around

himself and huddled nearer the fire. “Go ahead and sleep. You’ve

nothing to fear from a one-armed barrow robber. I’ll watch for thief-

takers and keep the fire going. If anyone approaches, I’ll warn you.”

Leifr arranged his sword, shield, and axe beside him where he

could grab them at an instant’s notice. He grunted. “Now all I have to

worry about is watching you. I don’t see what I’ve gained by this

bargain.”

As was his habit, he dozed lightly, like a cat, awakening

frequently to check his surroundings. Each time he awoke,

Gotiskolker was sitting vigilantly nearby, his hood drawn down,

with the firelight occasionally catching the sparkle of an eye or the

harsh angle of his cheekbones and broken nose.

Near dawn, Gotiskolker uttered a sudden warning hiss. Leifr

awakened, crouching over his weapons, all vestiges of sleep instantly

dissolved.

Gotiskolker muttered, “Three men are coming down the

ravine from the settlement above. Thief-takers, I wouldn’t wonder.”

Leifr took one swift look at the three riders proceeding cautiously

toward the barrow field. “I know those three. They’ve been following