o 132c9f47d7a19d14 (22 page)

“We’re not going to roast an ox,” Gotiskolker snapped. “All we

want to do is brew some tea. Do you think you can stoop to such an

insignificant task, or are fire wizards too exalted for mundane affairs?”

“I should use you for tinder,” Thurid retorted. “All that grease on

your clothing would make an excellent flame. Halloa, Fridmarr, how

are you faring? There’s our objective today— Hjaldrsholl, just coming

out of the mist. The grindstone is gone, but we must stop and

apprise Hjaldr of our intentions, besides touching the site. It has been

a fortress since ancient times. A never-ending supply of water flows in

an underground river beneath it.”

He pointed to the mountain clearing its spiky crown of mist, but

what Leifr saw was Ljosa sitting on a rock with her cloak drawn around

her, gazing back toward Stormurbjarg, where the smoke was still

visible.

Leifr crossed to Ljosa. “I’m sorry about Stormurbjarg. It was

my fault, and now it’s my fault you’re outlawed. If there’s some way I

can help you—”

She arose and glided past him without raising her eyes, saying as

she passed, “I won’t burden you for long. I’ll travel north to Luster, then

up the coast to Fjarastrond. I have relatives there, so you needn’t think

about my future. You should be accustomed to blighting the lives of

everyone around you by now.“

Leifr winced, but knew it was true. He could not blame her for

wanting to put as much distance between herself and him as

possible. Mentally he upbraided Fridmarr for his unique dislikability.

He offered, “We’ll ride with you to Fjarastrond. You won’t be safe

alone.”

“It’s not necessary,” she replied. “I may be safer alone than with

the outlaw all the Dokkalfar in Solvorfirth are looking for. I’ve made

that journey many times with my father and I’m not afraid. Besides,

you have more important concerns.”

“More pressing, perhaps,” Leifr said, “but not more

important. Will you come back to Gliru-hals, when Sorkvir is gone?”

“I don’t expect to see Gliru-hals again. Your intentions are good,

Fridmarr, but I fear you are doomed to failure. You have made too many

mistakes in the past.”

“Ljosa, it’s not the same—I’m not the same,” he stammered.

“Look at me for what I’m trying to do now—not for all the evil things

I’ve done in the past. I’m not what you think I am.”

She looked at him then with a slight frown. “It’s easy to see what

you’re not, Fridmarr. You’re not as arrogant, not as foolish, not as

clever with your powers. In fact, you hardly seem at all what you

were. What I don’t see is what you really are; only what you aren’t.

There’s a blankness I can’t see into, as if you’re shutting me out. I can’t

feel what you are thinking. What are you hiding, Fridmarr? Something

worse than your alliance with Sorkvir?”

Leifr looked away from her too-intent scrutiny and saw

Gotiskolker watching him. In a low voice he said, “Ljosa, I want your

forgiveness—if that’s possible. Bodmarr knew the risks when he

took that sword. I know I can’t change what happened then, but I

can cleanse the Pentacle, and I can kill Sorkvir, once we find the

troll’s grindstone. If I succeed, I can make a new future for

Solvorfirth and for you as well, if you can come to believe in me

again.”

“I don’t know if I want to believe again,” she replied after a long

moment. “It’s too—painful. Not only would I have to accept what

you are doing as a good and selfless venture, but I would have to

believe that you had your reasons for what you did before, other than

your own glorification. Can you tell me now that what you did was

not completely for yourself?“

Leifr scowled and shook his head. “I honestly can’t say,” he

answered, but he suspected that Fridmarr’s intentions centered solely

upon grasping as much power for himself as possible. All the signs

pointed to his complete selfishness, until Bodmarr died, when he had

appeared to come to his senses and tried to make his escape from

Sorkvir. The eitur would do its work, though, if it hadn’t done it

already.

Ljosa was gazing at him, her eyes as clear and golden as amber.

“You’re still caught between the two forces, Fridmarr. Elbegast on the

one side and the Dokkur Lavardur on the other. One day, perhaps,

you’ll learn where you belong. Or perhaps you’ll lose your life before

you find peace.”

“I’d find peace if you’d forgive Fridmarr—the Fridmarr that used

to be—and let me hope that I might find you again at Fjarastrond when

all this is done with and Sorkvir is dead.”

Ljosa turned away to face Hjaldrsholl and remained silent a

long time. Leifr’s heart sank further with each moment. Finally, in a

guarded voice, she said, “I suppose you may, should you survive and

be successful. But don’t hold the Pentacle and your exploits up to me as

a trophy, Fridmarr, You must do this for yourself and everyone you’ve

grieved, to make reparation for your crimes. Don’t expect me to forget

so quickly—or to forgive so easily. Good luck, Fridmarr, and good-bye,

perhaps. We’ll part at Hjaldrsholl.” She gave him her hand for a

moment, then slipped away.

Near dusk they came into view of the lower halls of Hjaldrsholl,

where a new fortress was being built into the side of the mountain.

Tools, carts, and heaps of stone and dirt were scattered around the

massive, arched entry. The heavy doors stood slightly ajar, and Leifr

could see no sign of a guard. Pausing behind a black skarp of lava,

they watched awhile in uneasy silence.

Thurid got down from his horse and walked a few steps forward,

his cloak billowing at his heels and his staff spitting a trail of pale

smoke. “I don’t like the feeling here,” he said, reaching into the satchel

for his bundle of rune sticks. Reading one quickly, he muttered over the

words of a spell several times.

His stance became rigid, and his eyes glazed over as he gazed

toward the fortress.

“The dwarfs are dead,” he whispered. “Sorkvir’s Dokkalfar have

been here before us. They believed the dwarfs were hiding us.”

“They might still be lurking inside, waiting,” Gotiskolker said.

“We’d better go higher, toward the old hall. There’s bound to be some

survivors. We won’t be able to touch the troll’s grindstone for luck

before we start out on the Pentacle journey, but Hjaldrsholl is the

place we must start.”

“We’d better not take the road,” Thurid replied. “It’s liable to be

watched.”

“We won’t get there before dark unless we take the road,”

Gotiskolker said. “Nonsense. I’ll dowse the way,” Thurid snorted.

have us there in better time than the road

“Just follow me, and I’ll

would have taken. What are wizards for, after all?”

In a very short time, they were lost and quarreling about the right

direction to Hjaldrsholl’s upper entrance. The dusk was deepening to

the silvery, long- lasting twilight dear to the hearts of night-farers.

There was no other solution to their plight except to make camp, which

they did on the side of a high fell, looking down onto the rubbly spine

of Hjaldrsfell. The horses had very little to graze upon, and the ground

sloped enough that sleeping would be difficult. However, the site was

relatively safe, with the shoulders of the ravine to screen them from

view, along with some stands of scrubby birch to offer further

concealment. The place was also fairly defensible against trolls,

although most of the troll trails they had seen earlier tended toward the

lower settlements.

Gotiskolker broke the gloomy silence with a mirthless chuckle.

“We’re making great progress, Fridmarr. We’ve lost Hjaldrsholl to

Sorkvir, the last remaining point of the Pentacle still untouched by evil

hands.”

“The Dvergar resisted all these years,” Thurid said regretfully.

“And now they fall.”

Leifr felt all their eyes resting upon him in what he interpreted as

accusing silence. Fridmarr’s past guilt pressed upon him in an onerous

burden, especially with Ljosa’s eyes upon him.

He stood up, smothering his resentment. “I’ll go see to the

horses. They sound restless.” The horses, at least, were not critical

of him, he thought gloomily as he picked his way across the rocky

ground in the twilight.

Suspecting that a tether rope was caught on a rock, he climbed

over a nest of boulders, feeling for the ropes. The horses stood alertly,

snorting and stamping, or pacing in uneasy circles around their picket

pegs. As he was trying to soothe them, the sudden clatter of a small

stone falling from above alerted his warning instincts. Reaching for his

sword, he crept warily around the edge of a skarp, peering around at the

bleak fellside and seeing nothing but rocks and the wiry vegetation that

grew there. He took another step around the skarp, into black shadow.

He heard a body being launched off the crag above him, and,

in an instant, his attacker landed on his back, sending him sprawling.

His sword clattered on the stones, almost out of reach. As he groped

for it, a heavy boot trod upon his arm, pinning it to the ground, and the

sharp point of a sword nudged him behind his ear.

“Don’t make a sound, or you’ll choke on your own blood,” a

voice growled warningly. Then his captor signaled to companions with

the fluting whistle of a cricket.

Leifr leaned his forehead against a rock, his arm and shoulder

turning numb under his captor’s foot, listening to more whistles and

covert movements in the crags above. In a moment their camp was

taken with no sounds of struggle except a muffled exclamation from

Thurid. At Leifr’s slightest involuntary movement, the sword poked his

neck warningly.

At last his captor received some signal, and he moved his foot

from Leifr’s arm. “All right, let’s see who we’ve got here,” a gruff

voice said. “On your feet, my friend.”

Leifr stood up warily, surveying his captors. Two others had

joined the original, and the three of them looked very similar—short,

barrel-chested, with dense mats of beards covering their chests, except

for one whose beard hung in three braids. They wore conical helmets

much adorned with devices and embossing, and the metal of their

brooches, buckles, and fasteners was worked with fine detail evident

even by twilight.

Scrutinizing him with much the same curiosity, the three

strangers kept their swords pointing at Leifr purposefully while

they discussed their catch among themselves.

“He looks like a rather long specimen for a Ljosalfar,” the one

with the braided beard observed.

“And too broad for a Dokkalfar,” the second added.

“And certainly not a Dvergar,” the third chimed in. “He might be

a short jotun.”

“No, I don’t think so,” the first said. “An outsize Ljosalfar,

perhaps. It happens more frequently now that they’ve started trafficking

with the Scipling realm.”

“You might ask me, instead of talking as if I couldn’t understand

you,” Leifr said. “You might also explain the reason for this

unprovoked attack. We’re nothing but travelers and we stopped here for

the night, hoping we were safe. We’ve done nothing to deserve this sort

of treatment.”

“We’ll decide what sort of treatment you deserve,” the one

with the braids said. “Move along back to your friends and don’t try to

escape. There are too many of us for you.”

When Leifr returned to the camp he was inclined to agree. Nine

more short fellows with axes and clubs stood around his companions,

eyeing him as vigilantly as he eyed them. Thurid sat on a stone, chafing

at the cord binding his hands behind his back.

“Fridmarr, tell them who I am,” he burst out indignantly.

“Tell them who you are and why we’re here. They don’t seem to listen

to me and they’ve taken my staff and my satchel. You know I’m

helpless without them.”

“I suspect that’s why they took them away from you,” Leifr

replied. “Just be silent, Thurid, and perhaps they’ll explain themselves.”

Looking at the strangers, all bristling and glowering, he feared

that the only explanation he would get would be from the edge of a

sword or axe.

A white-bearded individual stepped forward after a long,

critical survey of the captives from under a hedge of thick white