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a place with such an atmosphere of untimely death, the travelers rode

on in silence.

“No one is left here,” Leifr said, after passing two more

battered houses. “The entire settlement is gone.”

Thurid rubbed his nose with the knob of his staff. “It must have

happened since you passed through here with Sorkvir. I was here

shortly before the alog. I shared some of my ideas with a bunch of

thralls sharing the same barn I slept in. We passed around a big stone

flagon, and the more times it went around, the better I sounded. It was

Ofrodur Blue-Nose’s barn, I recall, but which place is his, I couldn’t

say, after all this time. Fridmarr, do you know which one is old

Ofrodur’s place?”

Leifr shifted uncomfortably in his saddle and stole a glance at

Gotiskolker, who was hunched away in his cloak and scowling as if he

had no desire to be disturbed.

Annoyed by his unhelpful attitude, Leifr retorted, “We haven’t

got to it yet. This place looks all strange to me too, with no people or

livestock. I don’t like the feeling I get here. Did you notice how those

doors were pulled off their hinges by something? I don’t think trolls

could have done that sort of job. They wouldn’t smash the furniture,

either, until it was nothing but kindling wood. When we stop for the

night, I want to be in someplace safe.” He gazed up at the hill fort

crowning the summit of the mountain. Its ramparts had crumbled here

and there, pouring fans of scree down the hillside. A pair of round

towers peered with blank slits of eyes over the battlements, watching

the low ground in silent suspicion.

“Up there?” Gotiskolker questioned, nodding to the fortress.

“Yes, up there,” Leifr repeated, his curiosity suddenly piqued

as a flock of ravens surged into the air over the hill fort, cawing

raucously in alarm. “If there’s any life left in Bjartur, we’ll find it

there.”

The roadway up to the hill fort carved a zigzag path across the

face of the hill. Years of storms had eroded deep gullies across it, and

rockslides blocked it completely at two points, but something had made

a path either over the top or around the edge of the rockfall.

At the third rockslide, they halted to decide between a tortuous

climb over the rocks or a wretched goat trail overhanging a

breathtaking drop to the crags below. Leifr opted for the path over the

top, since it was shorter and the afternoon was almost spent. At the top

of the rockslide, they passed below the crumbling ramparts of the

fortress, where the ravens still cackled among the rocky crenellations.

With an echoing clatter, a rock suddenly bounced across their

path and careened into space beyond. Cautiously Leifr started

forward again, watching the walls above. Glimpsing a flash of

movement, he halted Jolfr quickly and backed him into the protection

of a jutting rock as another stone came bouncing down the high wall.

This time a considerable amount of rocks and gravel started moving,

threatening to bury the trail across the rockslide.

“Someone is up there,” Thurid said excitedly. “If he throws one

more rock, I’m going to blast him.”

“And bring down half the mountain?” Gotiskolker snorted,

his hood and beard whitened with dust. “I didn’t come this far to get

buried alive.”

“You’re not more than half-alive anyway,” Thurid retorted. “I

don’t know what your objections would be.”

When the rocks finally stopped falling, Thurid poked his head out

cautiously and looked up toward the top of the wall. “I see him, the

miserable rotter,” he growled. “Halloa! You up there! Who are you? Are

you trying to kill us? Stop dropping those rocks, or you’ll regret it.”

The answer was another rock, larger than the others, which

bounced across the path and vaulted into a thicket far down the slope. A

voice called out from above, “Stay away! You’ll be sorry if you come

up here. Bjartur is haunted.”

“Haunted! Well, that’s hardly surprising,” Thurid mused, his

hand straying into his satchel to shuffle through the rune sticks.

“I wonder if this fellow thinks he’s a draug.”

“Maybe he
is
a draug,” Leifr suggested. “Certainly a draug would

know if a place were haunted or not.” He was beginning to regret his

ill-conceived fascination with the ruined fortress, but he hated to think

that they had come a mile over a rough path only to turn back within a

stone’s throw of the top. He stepped out of his shelter and peered up the

face of the hill.

“You there!” he called in a threatening tone. “If one more pebble

falls down on us, this wizard is going to make you suffer for it. You’re a

day-farer and so are we, you fool, so stop trying to brain us with rocks.”

The scornful reply from above was unmistakable—half a

dozen rocks in quick succession clattered down the cliff, generating a

rumbling rockslide which fortunately angled behind the travelers,

instead of pouring over the top of them like a waterfall.

When the rocks stopped and the dust cleared somewhat,

Gotiskolker shook his cloak free of a load of dirt and sand and came

forward to Leifr’s position.

“I think we’ll have to negotiate,” he said, nodding toward the

edge of the rockslide.

Four men armed with fearsome stone axes stood blocking the

way. Rusty armor of several unusual designs was strapped onto their

limbs and torsos by makeshift methods and their helmets were clearly

ancient, eagle-winged, and much embellished with superfluous

devices and embossing. The axes were made of obsidian, mounted

on wooden handles with rawhide and honed to transparent sharpness.

Thurid stepped forward immediately, warning Leifr and

Gotiskolker to keep silent with a terse grimace and a scowl.

“What has become of my old friend Ofrodur Blue-Nose?” He

struck an indignant pose, rapping his staff on the ground with a shower

of sparks. “I’ve come all this way, and all the houses are in a shambles.

Are you the plundering vagabonds who have ravaged Bjartur?”

“Ofrodur Blue-Nose, did you say?” The strangers lowered their

axes cautiously, and their leader stepped forward, a rather thin

individual with a brown beard that reached to his waist.

“I’m Borgar Ofrodursson. My father is dead. Did you know

him?”

“Know him? I shared his hospitality, his food, his shelter, his

company—and you say he’s dead. It grieves me to hear it.” Thurid

rubbed his chin meditatively. “Borgar, you say? I remember you as a

small lad.”

“I don’t remember any wizards at Ofrodursknoll,” Borgar replied

warily. “What are you doing here now? It’s dangerous to wander around

Bjartur after dusk.” His three companions nodded grimly and muttered

in agreement.

“We were looking for some people,” Thurid said.

“They’re gone,” Borgar replied. “Moved away, sailed away, or

carried away, it’s all the same. Gone, except for a few of us, who stayed

to fight.”

Leifr stepped forward. “Who are you fighting? Sorkvir?”

Borgar shook his head. “Sorkvir wastes little time on us, and we

keep out of his way. We fight and we wait. Now tell us something

about yourself. You look like a warrior and you carry a stone weapon,

instead of Alfar steel, and I see you aren’t afraid to bare your head to

the sun, so you must be a day-farer. Were you also a friend to my

father?”

“I fear not,” Leifr answered, and Thurid darted him a

warning frown. “I came here once, before your misfortune. I am a

warrior, but thanks to Sorkvir’s alog, I have no steel weapons to fight

with. I have come here with these companions to offer restitution for an

old wrong.”

Borgar and his men exchanged glances, suddenly uneasy.

“We can’t stay here to talk,” Borgar said. “Let’s get within doors

before the day wanes. We have matters of consequence to discuss, and

this is no place for it. Follow me. Let my men bring your horses.” He

signaled to the man on the fortress wall, then led the way up the narrow

path. “I hope you’ll forgive us for our caution. It’s hard to know whom

to trust, so we trust no one.”

“If you’re trusting us, however,“ Gotiskolker said. ”Isn’t that

setting a dangerous precedent?“

Borgar turned to look at Gotiskolker curiously. “Who said we

were trusting you? Until we are satisfied you’ll do us no harm, you’ll be

our prisoners.”

Thurid halted with a deep and regretful sigh. “I don’t wish to be

disagreeable, Borgar, since I have such fond memories of your father,

but we haven’t the time to be prisoners. We’re on a journey of utmost

importance, and you stand to benefit a great deal from what we do—if

we are allowed to do it, that is.“

Borgar inclined his head in an understanding nod. “In a very

short time the sun will be beneath the horizon and we will all be

prisoners of these walls until dawn. If you are roaming around out here,

sometime before sunrise you’ll wish most desperately that you were a

prisoner in anyone’s dungeon anywhere in the Realm. The thing that

walks the outer fortress by night keeps a far harsher prison than we

do.”

“But when dawn comes, will we be free to leave, if we wish?”

Leifr asked suspiciously.

“Certainly, if you wish,” Borgar replied. “But for the hours

between dusk and dawn, you must be safe behind bars and bolts and

thick doors with the rest of us.”

Leifr motioned impatiently to Thurid and strode ahead beside

Borgar. “Wizards are useful when it comes to fighting supernatural

forces and powerful enemies. What is it that walks these ruins?”

Borgar darted him a quick glance. “It’s Ognun,” he said quietly.

“I’ll tell you about him when we are safe inside. No one likes to talk

about Ognun when the sun is about to go down, and there’s quite a ways

to safety yet.”

They reached the main entrance to the hill fort, where the gates

lay shattered, with grass and moss growing in velvety tuffets in the

cracks. The massive pillars that had held the gate were also skewed

and shattered, held together by clumps of grass and trailing vines.

Leifr nodded toward the fallen gates. “Did your enemy Ognun

do this?” he asked.

Borgar shook his head. “This was long before Ognun, when the

fortress fell for the last time to the Dokkalfar and their wizards.”

Inside the wall lay a ditch and another wall, also crumbling and

overgrown with the grasses of decades of neglect. An arched gateway

led into a courtyard, overshadowed by the walls and the two round

towers. By this time, several other strangers had joined the

procession. All their weapons were stone, and their clothing was

mainly roughly tanned troll skins, with a worsted wool shirt or cloak

seen only rarely.

Entry into the towers was gained through a small door barely

large enough to accommodate a horse with a pack on its back. Once

everyone was inside, a quick tally was taken of the occupants. When

everyone seemed to be accounted for, most of the men clumped away to

the small courtyard beyond the towers, where dogs barked, horses

nickered, and children’s voices mingled in a pleasing, home-like

babble of sounds. Borgar plucked up a sconce light from where it stood

beside the doorway and led his guests across the courtyard to an ancient

firehall with a thatched roof, hung with rotting shields. Inside, it was

like many a Scipling firehall—much blackened by smoke and age,

sparse as to decorations and carvings, with a great hearth at either

end and benches and tables in between. Along the sides were

platforms for sleeping for guests, travelers, or a dozen or so extra

fighting men.

Servants were carrying in the supper, threading their way

patiently through small children and dogs to serve the meal. Borgar

pointed to the places nearest the end of the table for honored guests,

then sat down in the chieftain’s chair. The hubbub of voices was

hushed, and all eyes turned to Borgar and his guests.

“We have visitors tonight, and I bid you all to make them

welcome among us,” Borgar said gravely. “They were here before we

took refuge in the old fortress.”

Leifr sensed a sudden heightening of interest throughout the

household of thirty-four, from the oldest grandfather to the two solemn

babies seated on their mothers’ laps. Borgar went on to name all the