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where she still stood barring the way, with the light behind her.

“This is our last appeal,” Hakarl said. “Send out Fridmarr and the

wizard, or we’ll set fire to your house. Everyone inside will perish.”

Ljosa’s composure did not falter. “House-burning is a

cowardly way of getting at your enemies.”

“When one of them is a wizard, we don’t like to take chances

with our lives. Either they surrender, or we’ll start gathering wood.”

“There is no way they will surrender,” Ljosa said. “Perhaps

Dokkalfar surrender, but Ljosalfar would rather die with glory.”

“Is that your final word, Hroaldsdottir? You have no wish

to continue living?”

“Not if it means disgracing my family’s name even more than it

has already suffered.” She turned and went inside, closing the door and

barring it from the inside.

The Dokkalfar turned to their task with grim relish, tearing off

the gates and bars. Whatever wood they could find was heaped up

around the eaves of the low house. A spark was struck, and the first

tendrils of flame blackened the green moss growing on the sides of the

house.

Thurid leaped to his feet, a roar of outrage and challenge upon his

lips, but it died with a faint croak as Sorkvir’s fylgja stalked into the

dooryard. Swinging his head slowly around, the bear surveyed the

Dokkalfar and the wood heaped up around the house. The Dokkalfar

stood as rigid as posts, their eyes fixed upon the bear with helpless

fascination.

“Whose idea was this?” he rumbled.

Without hesitation, the Dokkalfar indicated Hakarl with shrugs

and nods. Hakarl edged away, and Sorkvir followed, raising one evil

paw.

Thurid sank slowly into the bushes, reaching for his satchel with

trembling hands. His fingers searched among the rune wands until he

found one fatter than the others, a spell he had been saving for such

a dire emergency as he now faced. He knew the words; to make them

more effective, he pierced his thumb with his knife and rubbed the

blood into the runes.

“Now we shall see who burns,” he whispered defiantly, drawing

deep breaths and beginning to recite the words of the spell.

A rush of power filled him with supreme confidence, opening his

eyes and all his senses to the awesome might of the reservoirs of earth

magic which he had tapped. As he rose to his feet and crossed the

interval to the dooryard, he felt as if his feet scarcely touched the

earth. Glancing down, he saw that his hands and wrists already had

taken on an eerie glow, and his beard and hair felt as if each hair

formed a perfect conduit for the unseen energy that he had summoned

into his body.

The Dokkalfar whirled around and stared, properly terrified at

the sight of him. Sorkvir froze with one paw in mid-air, then his

jaws parted in an ursine grin of welcome.

“So you’re not inside with the others,” he said. “Perhaps you

can see now that it would be a good time to change sides. I think I

could convince you.”

“I fear I’m not convinced. I won’t allow you to burn that house

with my friends inside. Command these wretched scum of yours to

put out that fire.” Thurid reached out with his staff to point, and all the

Dokkalfar dived for the ground, anticipating a raking swath of flames.

However, nothing issued from the staff except a small spurt of black

smoke that smelled very sooty.

Sorkvir’s lips rolled back in a malignant snarl. “What has

become of your magic, Thurid? It seems your fire spell has failed. In

my presence, your magic becomes weak and useless. Weak and

useless.”

Reeling slightly from astonishment and dismay, Thurid felt the

words sink in deeply to the core of his confidence. His amazing

strength of moments ago seemed gone. He couldn’t find the will to

battle Sorkvir’s bombardment of negative power. He stood locked in

the conflict of powers, unable to stir a finger.

Sorkvir’s laugh burbled out of the bear’s throat, and he said to

the grinning Dokkalfar, “There’s more tinder for your fire. Throw it on,

where it’s hottest.”

Hoisting Thurid to their shoulders, they charged toward the fire.

With a toss, they pitched Thurid headlong into the fire, still as rigid as a

gatepost. Overcome with their own wickedness, the Dokkalfar pranced

around the dooryard, yelling and howling at the tops of their lungs.

Raudbjorn slunk into the midst of the revelry, and Sorkvir swung

his heavy head around to fix him with a commanding stare.

“Raudbjorn,” he rumbled. “Hakarl has displeased me by

setting this fire. I want you to attend to Hakarl in the manner best

suited for traitors.”

Hakarl and Raudbjorn exchanged a long, speculative stare;

then Hakarl turned and dashed toward his horse. Shaking his head in

disgust, Raudbjorn followed at a more leisurely pace, leaving the rest of

the Dokkalfar eyeing Sorkvir nervously.

“You see what will happen to anyone who disobeys my orders,”

Sorkvir growled. “The lot of you had better hope that Fridmarr

does not die in that house and release his vengeful draug to seek me

out. If that happens, I will see to it that each of you suffers exquisitely

for it.”

Thurid listened to this exchange, watching through the

flames dancing merrily around him. He felt no real discomfort. He

felt the crackle and hiss of the flames, and the roar was rather

exhilarating. His powers no longer felt weak and useless. The Dokkalfar

scuttled back in alarm as he suddenly stretched out his arms and sat up.

Although the flames enveloped him, his clothing did not ignite and not

so much as a hair on the back of his hand was shriveled. Running his

hands over himself assured him that the powerful spell on the fat rune

wand had indeed worked; his body was engulfed by fire without

damage to it.

Almost mincingly, he picked his way out of the fire and walked

toward the Dokkalfar and Sorkvir as if nothing had happened to him.

“It’s just a trick,” Sorkvir growled. “Anyone can do it if they

know how. Seize him, and we’ll see if we can’t make him a little more

uncomfortable this time.”

The Dokkalfar hesitated, their eyes wary. Then a bold one

stepped forward and seized Thurid by the arm. Then he suddenly let go

with a wild yell, holding up his hands and staring at them in horror.

Small flames leaped up his forearms, then the rest of him exploded

into a torch. With a shriek, the Dokkalfar vanished, leaving nothing

but a collapsed set of clothing on the ground, surrounded by a

spreading, wet puddle.

Thurid felt an unamiable grin creasing his face as he surveyed the

remaining Dokkalfar. He raised one hand, and they all turned their

backs and bolted for the shadows. Galvanized by their desertion,

Sorkvir lunged forward with a maddened roar. Thurid blasted his face,

setting his fur on fire.

Before Sorkvir could retaliate, the shrill bray of a horn sounded

from the hill behind the house, followed by the thunder of hooves. Four

horses swept down the slope onto the roof of the house and off the

eaves into the confusion of fleeing Dokkalfar trying to mount their

frightened horses. The riders plowed to a halt around Thurid, and two

of them seized him by the arms and hoisted him onto the back of the

horse they led.

“Fridmarr!” a Dokkalfar yelled, and turned his horse to pursue.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw no one following. On the

contrary, the Dokkalfar remaining were spurring toward Gliru-hals at

top speed, heedless of those left afoot or injured.

Leifr had scant recollection of arriving at Ljosa’s house and he

knew nothing of the healing sleep that Thurid had put him under. When

he awakened, he lay still with his eyes closed, taking a tentative

inventory of his muscles and bones, gradually realizing not only that

was he still alive and not suffering from any disability, but that he felt a

peculiar calmness of spirit, a steady glow of renewed resolution to find

the grindstone and rid the realm of Sorkvir. As he lay there with his

eyes shut, it did not seem like an impossible task.

A voice rudely jarred his peaceful mood, saying in a harsh tone,

“If you’re through malingering, it may interest you to know that you’ll

be expected to ride for your life in just a short while. I hope you’ll be

awake for it. I’m not going to go back looking for you if you fall off in

a ditch somewhere, with twenty Dokkalfar howling at our heels. Or

Sorkvir’s fylgja may find you.”

“I’m awake, Gotiskolker.” Leifr sat up cautiously and tested his

arm, noting some ache and stiffness, which was to be expected in a

newly healed injury. Then he took note of his surroundings. He seemed

to be in a cave which was doing service as a barn. A narrow shaft of

light filtered in from a fissure in the roof, dimly illuminating a row of

stalls, a heap of meadow hay, which he was lying upon, and a small

spring hollowed out in the stone floor to trap a slow trickle of water.

A horse snuffled in its trough, drawing his attention to four saddled

horses waiting in their stalls. Beyond them in the darkness, a few

streaks of light betrayed the existence of a door.

“Never mind all that,” Gotiskolker said, anticipating a barrage of

questions. “You’ve had a lovely sleep while the rest of us have been at

our wits’ end trying to keep you hidden from Sorkvir.”

“I smell smoke,” Leifr said suddenly.

“It’s coming from the tunnel. I’d better go back to see if Ljosa is

getting out of there.” Gotiskolker bent down and vanished into a dark

opening in the earth.

Leifr got to his feet, moving around experimentally to discover

how steady he really was and keeping his eyes on the opening. Then he

started after Gotiskolker. The tunnel was so low he almost had to go on

his hands and knees.

After a short distance, he met Gotiskolker coming back, scuttling

along like a rat in the darkness.

“Come on, we’ve got only a moment to get out of here!”

Gotiskolker exploded, shoving Leifr ahead of him back to the cave.

“Where’s Ljosa?” Leifr demanded.

“Here,” her muffled voice replied. “Thurid has got himself

into trouble. I don’t know if we can save him.”

She brushed past him and began untying the horses. Gotiskolker

opened the doors, and the horses surged outward, not liking the smell of

the smoke. Leifr swung into his saddle, ducking low so he wouldn’t get

scraped against the doorposts. Outside, the night air was filled with

smoke and the noise of men, weapons, and flames.

“This way!” Ljosa called, leading the way up the slope of the hill

where the bam turves were stacked against it. The horses lunged

upward with difficulty, scrambling to the top of the hill, then plunging

down into the confusion below without hesitation. Leifr clung to his

saddle, aghast, as the horses plummeted down onto the roof of Ljosa’s

house, which was engulfed in leaping flames. A ring of startled faces,

dyed scarlet by the fire, gazed upward at the horses leaping

straight into their midst.

Gotiskolker reined his horse against Leifr’s, shoving him around

toward the fire, where a single figure stood waving a staff and blazing

like a human torch. Ljosa brought the led horse around. Without

bothering to confer, Leifr and Gotiskolker hoisted Thurid off his feet

and hauled him over the horse’s rump and into the saddle, scarcely

breaking stride. A few half-hearted arrows rained down around them,

and the shouts of the Dokkalfar turned to frightened yelps as

Thurid hurled a parting spell over his shoulder, showering the

Dokkalfar with darts of flame. Even the vast form of Sorkvir’s fylgja

took flight.

The Dokkalfar did not follow them. Thurid stopped several

times to dowse for influences and felt quite safe in calling a halt for

the remainder of the night at a peat-cutter’s hut. Outside of a few new

singes and holes, Thurid and his cloak were in far better condition than

Leifr had expected.

Leifr’s shoulder was also in much better condition than he had

expected. He could scarcely believe the amount of healing that had

taken place in so short a time.

At dawn when Leifr awoke, he went outside to find Gotiskolker

and Thurid quarreling over the fire Thurid had conjured.