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household, explaining that of the original settlement only three families

now remained, and everyone drank in tribute to family members who

had perished or disappeared since the advent of Sorkvir’s alog. Leifr

trembled lest they ask him to introduce himself. Fortunately,

Borgar seemed to be politely waiting for him to mention his name

without being asked, so Leifr gladly allowed the matter to slip

beneath his notice as the evening wore on. Eventually only Borgar,

a few of Borgar’s people, and his guests were left to themselves

beside the fire, where the troll- hounds stretched out with weary sighs.

“Now must be the time to speak of Ognun,” Leifr said to

Borgar, who nodded slowly. Without his winged helmet, he seemed

about the same age as Leifr, although Leifr knew that, among Alfar,

appearances could be deceiving. He was spare and lean, and the

firelight played up the bony contours of his angular features.

“Yes, now is the time for Ognun. Sorkvir put him in the Rhbus’

well to guard it, in a courtyard on the north side of the fortress. He is a

night-farer, so we are able to travel in and out with our livestock or go

fishing by day, while he sleeps. At night, he tries to break through our

fortifications, unless he knows of any trolls nearby. He often comes

home with a brace of them slung over his shoulder, as if they were

rabbits.”

“What sort of creature is he, a giant?” Thurid removed his pipe

from his mouth and dropped it unnoticed into his satchel as he eagerly

dove into his rune wands to find the instructions for a giant-fighting

spell.

“No, he is what our elders called a troll,” Borgar replied. “You

seldom see his kind anymore.”

“A troll, eh?” Thurid slapped shut his satchel and felt around

for his pipe with mounting irritation. “Trolls are my specialty. Has

anyone seen my pipe around here? It was in my hand a moment ago.

Trolls, as I was saying, don’t give me the slightest qualm. I’d be glad

to destroy this Ognun for you. I wonder that you haven’t done it

yourselves, if there’s only a solitary troll giving you trouble. Drat that

pipe, I hope I haven’t lost it.”

“Men have tried to destroy Ognun before,” Borgar replied.

“They ended up as Ognun’s next meal. He’s not an ordinary troll. He

has powers. He lives in an old well which is always frozen and fearfully

cold.”

“Sorkvir’s work,” Gotiskolker spoke up with flat certainty.

“That well used to be a stop for Pentacle travelers.”

Borgar and his three lieutenants exchanged a glance, alert and

cautious. “Not many people speak of the Pentacle anymore,” Borgar

said. “Sorkvir has made it a thing of dread. No traveler dares to drink at

that well now. In the old days, drinking its water gave a man clearer

sight and stronger powers; and for certain ones, there was even more.

When a person of extraordinary powers came to the well, five salmon

would appear in its water. By catching one and eating it, the chosen one

became capable of hearing the voices of the Rhbus—all the Rhbus, not

just the ones still in existence now. At one time the Rhbus were a large

race of people, like Ljosalfar, only far more gifted in powers. Although

they are extinct except for the last three, a person with the gift can hear

their voices, thousands of them. This fortress was built by the Rhbus,

long before Elbegast, and they put the salmon in the well to insure the

preservation of their wisdom.“

Thurid’s eyes glittered in the red firelight. ‘Then one who eats the

sacred salmon has the prospect of one day becoming one of the Rhbus,

if he is gifted enough.“

“It is possible—although the selection of a Rhbu is a very rare

event indeed. The Rhbus were so far ahead of even the best

Ljosalfar wizard that only hundreds of years of training and practice

will prepare a candidate.” Borgar prodded another piece of wood into

the fire. “But with the Rhbus’ well frozen solid by a spell of Sorkvir’s,

no one will ever again partake of that knowledge. When the present

Rhbus are gone, all their powers and intelligence will be lost.”

Thurid gazed into the fire, absorbed in thoughts so engrossing

that he did not notice the smoke oozing from his satchel.

“The knowledge of the Rhbus must not be lost,” he declared, his

nostrils quivering with fine emotion. “We’re going to kill that troll

and purify the well of Sorkvir’s influence. Nothing must threaten the

perpetuity of the revered Rhbus.”

At that solemn moment, he noticed the smoke and hastily jerked

open his satchel with a fierce oath that rattled the moldering weapons

on the walls. Plunging his arm in to the elbow, he fished out his pipe

and a feather-covered headdress which was smoldering and smoking.

Quickly he extinguished the fire and peered into his satchel, sniffing

suspiciously for signs of further trouble. Satisfied, he shut it up again

with a brisk snap and continued, “As I was going to say, we’ve dealt

with trolls before. I daresay you know about Kerling-tjorn and Luster

by now.” He leaned back confidently in his chair and relit his pipe by

blowing into the bowl gently.

Borgar and his men seemed to have forgotten the ale in their

cups, so intense was their scrutiny of Thurid, Leifr, and the enigmatic,

shadowy figure of Gotiskolker sitting with his head turned, watching

the fire.

“We get very little news,” Borgar said. “My cousin Lesandi

here makes a few journeys each year with a pack train, to fetch needful

supplies and to fill his ears with news, but he’s between trips now.”

“Then you haven’t heard that Kerling-tjorn and Luster have been

delivered from Sorkvir’s power,” Thurid said with great relish. “The

lake is restored and the safe haven at Luster is no longer a place of

terror and death.”

“This is news indeed!” Borgar leaped to his feet. “Lesandi, go

spread the word. This means there’s hope for Bjartur. Do you know who

is responsible for breaking Sorkvir’s power over two points of the

Pentacle?”

Thurid beamed, and Leifr cringed inwardly, uncertain of

Fridmarr’s reception in a place that had suffered such harm because of

his duplicity. As Thurid opened his mouth to proclaim the news, his

satchel suddenly exploded with a murderous report and swatches of

soot sailed through the air in all directions. With an agonized howl,

Thurid pawed through the blackened remains for any survivors, and

came up with a scant handful of intact rune wands.

“I’m ruined,” he said in a voice of despair.

Borgar and his companions withdrew to share the news with the

rest of the household, darting a few questioning glances over their

shoulders at Thurid and Leifr.

“Can’t you remember any of those spells?” Leifr asked.

Thurid heaved a wretched sigh. “I don’t know. If you make one

mistake, you get something completely different from what you

intended. It even gets dangerous.”

Gotiskolker coughed and fanned at the smoke. “You’ve still

got your staff magic. Alf-light does an excellent job of killing trolls.”

“But what about Sorkvir’s power over that well?” Thurid

plucked at his sparse beard with his sooty fingers. “1 don’t know what

I’m going to do. I wish this had happened before I’d told them we were

going to kill their troll.”

“You can do it, can’t you?” Leifr asked uneasily, testing the

tightness of the neck torque with one finger.

“Yes, yes, of course,” Thurid snapped. “When the day comes that

I can’t blast a solitary troll into smithereens, you can put old Thurid

out to pasture with the rest of the winter stewing meat. I don’t care this

much for Ognun, or whatever they call him.“ He snapped his

fingers contemptuously. ”But those rune wands and all that old

magical paraphernalia was priceless and irreplaceable.“

“You’ll have to come up with the same powers on your own,

then,” Gotiskolker said. “If you’re any kind of wizard at all.”

Thurid glared, but the dogs interrupted him by suddenly

scrambling to their feet, with their fur standing on end from ears to tail.

With loud, shuddering growls, they slowly stalked toward the far end

door, which stood barred and battened. Suddenly Kraftig lunged,

shoving his nose under the door and then baying at the top of his lungs

in his eagerness to get at whatever lurked on the far side. The other

dogs took up the same defiant note and pawed at the door, standing on

their hind legs to sniff intently between all the boards.

Thurid hurried to the locked door with his staff in hand. “It

must be the troll,” he whispered. “Open the peep hole. I want a look

at the troll who has devastated an entire settlement singlehandedly

and keeps thirty-four survivors living in terror. I don’t believe that the

troll has been made yet that can do all that by himself.”

For a long moment he gazed out the small window which Leifr

had unbarred. Then he hurled himself over backward as an enormous,

hairy hand shot through the window, narrowly missing Thurid with a

set of sharp, black claws as the owner of the huge paw groped around

for something to snag, growling fearsomely.

The only reason that Thurid wasn’t hooked like a mackerel on a

gaff was the fact that the creature’s forearm was too thick to reach

through the narrow window any further. The dogs instantly seized the

hand with their teeth and shook it furiously, resulting in a deafening,

furious bellow from the other side of the door and a series of

thunderous blows on the planks. Behind Leifr, Borgar and Lesandi led a

rush of men into the hall, all armed with their stone weapons.

Leifr called off the dogs, fearing that the door could not endure

much more abuse. Then Ognun put as much of his face against the

opening as he could and peered malevolently into the hall with one

gleaming green eye. Leifr stared back, hefting the stone mace

belligerently, with the dogs snarling around his knees to complete the

picture of grim defiance.

Ognun’s eye opened wider, perhaps in astonishment, and he

peered in with his other eye to make sure the first eye was not deceived.

Then he jerked back in alarm as Leifr gave the command and the

dogs hurled themselves at the window. Ognun swiped at them with

his murderously sharp black claws, rumbling like thunder, until Leifr

called the dogs back again, fearing the destruction of the door.

Again Ognun peered into the hall, breathing heavily in hoarse,

panting breaths. In a deep, grumbling voice, he called, “Borgar, I’m

going to eat those dogs the way a cat eats rats. Who is this

stranger with a cockleburr for a weapon? I don’t like the smell of

him, nor that smoky one in the long cloak. You’re plotting treachery,

Borgar. I’ll suck the marrow from your bones and pick my teeth with

your ribs if you brought them here to kill me.”

“We brought ourselves,” Leifr replied. “Your quarrel is with us,

not Borgar.” Ognun sniffed through the window, with a huge, wrinkled

nose seamed with scars and misshapen from many battles. “What is

your name, stranger?” he rumbled.

Leifr drew a deep breath. “My name is my own business, and I

don’t care to reveal it to any troll who demands it.”

Thurid flourished his staff, scattering sparks as he strode forward,

almost within Ognun’s reach. He had to stoop slightly to peer into the

window, where Ognun’s eye and part of his warty nose showed

through. “You can’t be a troll,” he declared scornfully. “Trolls don’t

get that large. Trolls are nasty little vermin with the appetites of sea

gulls and the intelligence of weasels. Whatever you are, you aren’t a

troll.”

“Not a troll? Did you ever see teeth like this in anyone else’s

mouth but a troll’s?” Ognun gnawed at the edge of the peep hole,

showing an enormous set of yellowed fangs. “What about these claws?

Don’t these look like troll claws to you?” Curving black claws

reached inside, biting deep into the wood and pulling off slivers.

“I suppose I’m forced to concede that you are indeed a

troll,” Thurid admitted grudgingly. “Take your claws out of that

window, won’t you? I find it discomfiting to talk with a seemingly

rational being with claws like those. Are you a greater gray troll, or a