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Gotiskolker did

morning with a guilty start, realizing he had slept most of the night.

Gotiskolker did not appear much the worse for wear and curtly cut off

any attempts on Leifr’s part to reprimand him. As for Thurid, there was

no change.

Late in the afternoon, the sky darkened prematurely and a cold

wind moaned in the rugged tops of the fells. The troll-hounds prowled

restlessly between the door and the fire, flopping down with fretful

groans, listening with pricked ears, and growling softly. The remnants

of sky uncovered by scudding black clouds glowed with a sickly yellow

light, lending the landscape an unnatural, eerie cast.

Gotiskolker suddenly raised his head, listening.

“Horses are coming,” he whispered.

Leifr sprang to the door and peered through the crack as the

riders came thundering up the lane. Looming large among them was

the unmistakable hulk of Raudbjorn, with Dokkalfar banners and

trophies fluttering around him. He held his halberd in one hand,

dwarfing the Dokkalfar weapons with its size. All the riders were

masked, including their leader, but Leifr had no difficulty in

recognizing Sorkvir by his spiral insignia. They raced past the hall and

came to a plunging halt around the dead tree. Several Dokkalfar

examined Leifr’s sword and shield with interest, but Sorkvir angrily

ordered them away. With a motion of his arm, he banished the nine

Dokkalfar to a distant comer of the courtyard, near the cow stable,

where the Dokkalfar waited unwillingly. Leifr recognized the four

Dokkalfar who had noted his arrival at Luster the day before, knowing

them by the spiky devices on their helmets.

Raudbjorn alone remained beside Sorkvir, listening and nodding

ponderously as Sorkvir gave him his orders. Then he rode slowly

toward the hall, leaning down to peer under the porch.

“Halloa, Fridmarr!” he boomed. “Come out. Speak with

Sorkvir. Time to talk about surrender now.”

Leifr opened the door wider. “Tell him I may talk, but it’s not

going to be about surrender.”

Together with Gotiskolker, Leifr warily approached the dead

tree, where Sorkvir waited in the lurid glow of the sky.

“This is a house of peace,” Leifr said. “I’ve left my weapons

hanging on the tree. I suggest you do the same, if you want to talk.”

“Far be it from me to violate the spirit of a house of refuge,”

Sorkvir said, hanging his sword on a branch. Glancing at Thurid’s

satchel and staff dangling there, he hesitated, while Raudbjorn filled

several limbs with the assortment of long and short swords and extra

axes which he carried.

Raudbjorn scowled, as Sorkvir hesitated over his own staff and

satchel. “House of safe haven is almost sacred place,” he rumbled

disapprovingly. “No need for wizardry. Bad luck to break rules,

wizard.”

“Silence, you great fool,” Sorkvir snapped, and hung up his staff

and satchel. Then he focused his attention upon Leifr and Gotiskolker,

who had approached and halted at a cautious distance.

Leifr called, “What do you have to say, after Kerling-tjorn,

Sorkvir? You were fairly beaten there. One-fifth of the Pentacle

belongs to us now.”

Sorkvir removed his mask and headdress and handed them to

Raudbjorn to hold.

“And four-fifths of the Pentacle still belong to me,” Sorkvir

answered. “Do you really believe that you can destroy my influence

over the Pentacle? Kerling- tjorn was only a fluke, a mistake. Why isn’t

Thurid here to speak for himself, by the way? Has something happened

to him?”

“He’s having a nap,” Gotiskolker interposed. “He’s refreshing his

powers for his purging of Luster. You’ll be able to watch, if you choose

to stay.”

Sorkvir laughed harshly. “Keep squeaking, you wretched rat. It

keeps my temper hot. How have you been faring without your eitur, you

scum?”

“Better than ever before,” Gotiskolker replied. “You should know

that from Kerling-tjorn and our escapes from you at Stormurbjarg,

Dallir, and Gliru-hals. My stars have been rising steadily since

Fridmarr’s return.”

Sorkvir scowled at Leifr. “You can go no further, with only this

maimed barrow scavenger for a companion. Kerling-tjorn was merely a

fluke of luck. You’d never have escaped if those nisses hadn’t helped

you. You’ll never get past Luster, and no man or wizard would dare

face what waits at Bjartur. Your knowledge of my spells won’t help

you any longer, with Thurid dead. You’ve lost the protection of his

pernicious powers, and I can do what I wish with you.”

“Not at a house of refuge, you can’t,” Leifr said, and the dogs

crouching at his feet growled in agreement.

Raudbjorn nodded emphatically. “Sacred ground,” he rumbled.

“Can’t fight here, or Rhbus get very angry.”

Sorkvir darted him an envenomed glare, silencing him

effectively, but Raudbjorn continued to scowl uneasily.

Sorkvir looked at the dogs, and they wrinkled back their lips to

show their teeth. “Ingrates, all of you. You seem to forget that I have

seized this house, the spring, and the land around it,“ Sorkvir continued.

”If this house is a house of haven, then it is my haven and my

influence that protects anyone here—not the power of the Rhbus. I have

destroyed their influence in Luster.“

“Not entirely,” Gotiskolker said. “Your Dokkalfar hung their

weapons on the tree in honor of the old tradition, did they not? Perhaps

they have more faith in the old Pentacle than in the Pentacle you have

created.”

“Impossible,” Sorkvir sneered. “They are Dokkalfar, and they are

my servants. They know who has the most power. They know that

Thurid is destroyed. There simply isn’t any way for you to continue

without your wizard, such as he was.”

“Such as he was, you feared him,” Leifr retorted. “You wouldn’t

be here so bold and brassy if you thought Thurid was anywhere near.

You fear his knowledge and power.”

“Thurid is destroyed, and I shall give you until tomorrow

evening to surrender yourselves peacefully. If you decide to fight, there

are nine of us and one of you—unless you want to call this feeble bag

of bones a warrior.” He nodded contemptuously toward Gotiskolker.

Raudbjorn scowled blackly. “You call a battle at house of safe

haven? Nine against two? Very unlucky, Sorkvir. Dokkalfar won’t like

it. Raudbjorn won’t like it.”

Sorkvir’s sunken eyes blazed. “And Sorkvir won’t like it if you

disobey his orders,” he snarled. “Would you like to learn the meaning

of agony, you great lout? A fine thief-taker you are, Raudbjorn. You

seem to have far too many scruples for one in your profession.”

Raudbjorn reined his horse around to retreat, muttering over

his shoulder resentfully, “Scruples, hah! Lice maybe, but no scruples,

wizard.”

“Remember what I said,” Sorkvir commanded. “Tomorrow at

dusk you’ll either surrender or prepare to fight.”

Leifr approached the tree and took down his weapons and shield.

“This is my answer, Sorkvir,” he said coldly. “When you return, expect

to fight for your lives.”

He backed away, holding his sword before him, watching Sorkvir

and the Dokkalfar until he had reached the safety of the porch. As

soon as he was inside, Sorkvir motioned with an impatient gesture to

the Dokkalfar. They rode by slowly, each eyeing the hall with grim

speculation. Raudbjorn shook his head dubiously and clasped an amulet

hanging from his neck in one huge paw for whatever consolation it

had to offer him.

Inside the hall, Alof greeted them stiffly, clasping and unclasping

her hands. “So there’s going to be a battle,” she said. “The honor of my

house is to be violated once again. Is there no end to injustice?”

Leifr sat down beside Thurid and tried again to detect a faint

breath from his nostrils. “There will be an end to injustice when

we rid Skarpsey of evil creatures like Sorkvir.” He felt no sign of life

in Thurid and stifled a deep sigh.

Indignantly, Alof paced toward the kitchen annex and back again.

“And you think that the two of you can destroy Sorkvir? I admire your

courage, but I deplore your lack of wisdom. You have no hope. Sorkvir

is the lord of all he covets, and it’s pointless to resist.”

“So you haven’t resisted,” Gotiskolker answered. “I didn’t

expect any help from your quarter.”

“A good thing you didn’t, because I won’t offer it,” she snapped.

“You are marked for doom, and I don’t want your bad luck to rub off on

me.”

“So you’re telling us to leave?” Leifr asked.

Alof shook her heavy blond tresses. “I cannot do that, but

I will do everything I can to get out of the way of the coming

destruction, and you surely can’t blame me for that. I’m going to get out

while I can and leave you to your fruitless battle.”

“Good riddance,” Gotiskolker said.

With a glower, Alof turned her back and vanished into the

passageway. Gotiskolker gazed after her with a considering frown. “In

the old days, the hosts of a house of refuge wouldn’t hesitate to defend

their guests from their enemies, if they made bold enough to attack.

Affairs have come to a sorry state, have they not?”

“I’d say so,” Leifr agreed gloomily. “You didn’t waste any time

trying to placate Alof, did you? Usually, if you’d like the help of

someone, you don’t deliberately insult them.”

“I didn’t want her help,” Gotiskolker said. He looked at Thurid

with a despondent sigh. “Just when I was starting to have some faith

in him, this had to happen. I think I’m unlucky.”

Although Leifr could not agree more heartily, he said nothing.

Throughout the rest of the night, they alternately dozed and listened to

the trolls outside. Several times the troll-hounds leaped up in full cry

and clawed at the door in a frenzy to be let out at their quarry, and

Leifr quieted them with difficulty. He had just managed to fall into a

restless doze when another sound awakened him with a start.

Something seemed to be scuttling around the smoke hole in the

roof, a troll, perhaps, trying to find a way to get inside. Drawing his

sword, Leifr crept toward the center of the room, peering upward into

the gloom. Suddenly a raucous shriek rang out. He dived behind a pillar

for cover, and Gotiskolker flattened himself on the floor, swearing

under his breath. With a flapping sound, something plummeted through

the smoke hole onto the smoky rafters, winging silently from perch to

perch in the gloom.

“It’s the owl!” Leifr exclaimed incredulously. “Thurid! Come

back, this way, you fool! You aren’t any good to us as an owl. Thurid!”

The owl, however, swooped through the rafters with the utmost

wariness, perching to stare down at Leifr, bobbing its head up and

down to get a better look at him. After a few more passes through

the hall, the owl flew out the smoke hole and disappeared into the

night. Devastated, Leifr sank down in a chair and stared at Gotiskolker,

who looked more pale and ghastly than usual.

“It must have been just an ordinary owl,” Gotiskolker croaked.

He avoided meeting Leifr’s gaze, and Leifr likewise looked away,

thinking he had made a fool of himself over a wretched owl.

The dogs whined, stretched, and came over to console him by

pawing at his chest and gnawing at his ankles in a playful manner. In

the silence, the distant grating of an opening door sounded echoingly

down a long passageway. The troll-hounds pricked up their ears

attentively. A soft whimpering drifted down the corridor, then the

clicking of long toenails on the stone flags. The hounds moved as one

fluid body in a silent, deadly rush toward the passage, and disappeared

into the darkness. In a moment a terrible squalling and growling filled

the silence as a tremendous battle got under way in the vicinity of the

kitchen. Leifr grabbed his sword and started to follow, but

warning hand. “Let the dogs fight the trolls.

Gotiskolker raised a

They’re better equipped for it than we are.”

“How did trolls get into the house?” Leifr peered uneasily into

the corridor. “Someone had to open that door.”

“Someone did,” Gotiskolker answered.

“Alof ?” Leifr queried incredulously. “I thought she never

favored one side over the other, according to legend.”