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lee of the barrow. The wall of flame faded the moment his

concentration was broken, and the Dokkalfar regrouped for another

rush.

Leifr abandoned his horse and plunged after Thurid, who was

making for the doorway of an open barrow. Midway, a barrage of ice

bolts from above sent them diving into the meager cover of some large

rocks. The storm giants swirled overhead, darting ice bolts and furious

gusts of snow and hail.

Looking back for Sorkvir, Leifr saw him climb to the top of the

barrow, calling the storm giants and brandishing his staff aloft, with the

wind whipping his red cloak out straight behind him. Heeding his

commands, the storm giants wheeled around and started another

barrage as they traveled the barrow field. The unfortunate thralls

scattered before them in confusion, many falling prey to ice bolts and

flying fragments of shattered rocks.

During the brief interval between attacks, Leifr noticed a nearby

hole and dived into it. Fervently he hoped that Raudbjorn had

managed to take Ljosa back to the barrow at the encampment where

they would be safe. No living thing stood a chance against the

shrieking green bolts that were shattering against the stones,

exploding into thousands of smaller missiles. Not far from Leifr’s

retreat, three dead thralls lay stiff and blue, mute testimony to the

deadly effects of the shattered ice bolts. He saw nothing of Thurid in

the murky brume that settled over the barrows.

Eventually the roaring winds and thunder ceased, and the silence

was almost harder to endure than the uproar of the storm giants. Twice

Leifr heard horses tramping past outside, but whether they were loose

horses or Dokkalfar horses he had no way of guessing, so he kept still

in his barrow, waiting until the dark mist had lifted and the sun winked

between the clouds before he dared to come out.

The hail, snow, and green ice were melting into the earth. Leifr

saw no sign of the Dokkalfar or Sorkvir, except more dead thralls. He

heard no sound except the crunch of his own boots. At the

encampment, he found the earth churned into mud by many hooves.

Raudbjorn and Ljosa were gone. Despairing, he traced his footsteps

back to the last place he had seen Thurid, when the storm giants made

their first attack.

Thurid’s satchel lay not far beyond, almost hidden by snow

and ice. He picked it up and scraped it off. Cautiously he opened the

satchel and looked inside for the sword, seeing nothing but Thurid’s all-

important chaos of seemingly unrelated objects. Gingerly he poked

through the mess until he located the hilt of the sword. When he

pulled it out, he discovered that Thurid had acquired a sheath for it

at some point in his travels, a lovely sheath embossed with silver

designs. With a sigh, Leifr buckled it around his waist, somewhat

comforted by its presence, even if it was dull and useless. Without

Thurid, it was his only defense.

The silence of Grittur-grof made his solitude even more

appalling. He searched around for signs of his friends, fearing the worst

each time he had to turn over another body, but he did not find Ljosa,

Raudbjorn, or Thurid. A goodly number of the thralls must have

escaped, a thought which cheered his spirits, and possibly his friends

were among them. If that were the case, they would come back for

him—or at least for Thurid’s satchel with the sword, even if they no

longer considered a Scipling worth saving.

Entertaining as such thoughts were, Leifr knew it was

senseless to sit and wait for something that might not happen,

particularly in view of the fact that tomorrow was the last day of

Hjaldr’s alog. As far as Leifr was able to see, the only recourse for

him was to get to Hjaldrsholl and humbly ask for more time, since he

now had an idea where to find the grindstone. Surely Hjaldr would be

sensible and allow him to continue his search.

Grimly resolved, he set off straight southward, hoping to arrive at

Hjaldrsholl by sundown, in spite of his recalcitrant knee. Walking

ten miles or so would have been nothing to him before his injury; but

to his disgust, he found himself stopping to rest repeatedly and he was

not even out of Grittur-grof yet. The low angle of the sun warned him

that he was more likely to spend the night in an open barrow, fighting

off the trolls, than he was likely to spend it at Hjaldrsholl.

His rests stops were getting longer, with less distance in between.

Dejectedly he sat down on a rock. The sun was almost touching the

horizon when he heard the familiar sound of paws pattering over the

stones behind him. Three hairy faces peered at him over a rock

momentarily, then three hairy bodies hurled themselves at him with

yelps of wild delight. Laughing, he exulted in the feel of their rough

coats and the wriggling, panting, bright-eyed life within them. For too

long, he had thought he was the only living thing left in Grittur-grof.

Now, at least, he wouldn’t have to worry about trolls. Maybe the dogs

would even hunt him something to eat.

With his thoughts on food and finding someplace to hide for the

night, Leifr followed the dogs into a dark avenue between two long

barrows. His leg was hurting, so he sat down and pulled his cloak up

around his ears and his hood down to his eyes against the piercing

wind, which the barrows seemed to channel especially for his

benefit. After a few moments he could no longer stand it and stood up

impatiently to hobble on to a less windy spot to do his resting.

Whistling to the dogs, he started around the end of one of the long

barrows. Suddenly, for the first time he was aware of a soft, steady

sound which had come to him intermittently since he had sat down, but

which he had been too weary to give much heed.

Stopping in his tracks, he stood still, listening until he discerned

which direction the sound was coming from. It was a singing,

grating sound that seemed as familiar to him as the memory of his

father’s old grindstone, standing in the moss beside the kitchen door,

where it had stood for seven generations. Leifr had grown from cradle-

size, hearing the song of that grindstone as it sharpened knives, farm

tools, and once his father’s sword when a neighboring earl revolted.

It was the sound of a grindstone he was hearing. Slowly he

turned around. It stood on the top of the long mound, a larger

grindstone than the old one at home, and a small, bent figure

pumped the treadle with one foot, all his attention upon the blade

he was sharpening. A shower of sparks flew away into the wind with

the shrill singing of metal and stone. Leifr could see little more than the

silhouette of the ragged little man against the soft pink glow of the

setting sun.

Scarcely breathing, Leifr climbed up the side of the barrow,

stopping at a respectful distance, with the dogs clinging around his

knees, silent and alert.

The little, bent man held up the knife he was working on

and felt its sharpness with one thumb, seeming to take no notice of

Leifr. Satisfied with his work, the stranger put down the knife on a

sheep fleece nearby, along with several other knives he had evidently

sharpened previously. He moved with the stiff deliberation of the aged,

every movement judged to perfection, with none of the extravagance of

youthful energy. Straightening, he looked up at Leifr, gave him a single,

thrifty nod of welcome, and extended his hands for Leifr’s sword

without speaking a word. For a long moment, Leifr was too stricken

with awe to move. Then he reached for Bodmarr’s sword and drew it

slowly, placing it gently in the hands of the little man, who bent over it

with a scowl, turning it over several times. Leifr knew with a

certainty that he was going to give it back and say he could not sharpen

a sword cursed by Sorkvir. He expelled his pent-up breath with a long

sigh of bone-weary despair.

The stranger darted one quick glance at him, his wizened features

still hidden in shadows. Pumping the treadle vigorously, the stranger

put the sword to the grindstone with a ringing shriek of metal. The

dogs shook their heads and pawed at their ears. Leifr listened, totally

rapt, certain that he would never again hear a more thrilling sound.

When the sword was finally sharpened, the wizened smith held

it up for a last, critical examination before surrendering it to Leifr,

almost with reluctance, perhaps regretting that his fine handiwork

would soon be undone after the inevitable clashing with other

swords, hacking shields in twain, cleaving helmets, and other acts of

war.

Leifr accepted the sword. From tip to hilt, it gleamed golden with

a radiant light somehow trapped within the metal. Leifr swung it

cautiously, unable to take his eyes off it.

“It’s perfect,” he said with reverent awe, letting the last, red ray

of sun touch the gleaming metal. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I’m

not the one it was intended for, although I’ll make the attempt as if

I were. Tell me—do you believe it will work its magic for a lowly

Scipling?”

He turned around to look at the smith when there was no

immediate answer. To his amazement, the smith had quietly vanished,

taking his knives and sheep fleece with him without making a sound or

saying word. Leifr stared at the grindstone, still turning slowly, and

hastily peered all around for the small, bent figure in the rusty black

cloak. He could not have traveled far and must still be visible in such a

barren landscape.

“I meant to thank you,” Leifr called, although he saw no sign of

the little smith. He waited a moment and heard no reply except the hiss

of the wind through the dry, wiry grasses. The dogs crept forward

humbly and crouched at his feet, trembling with suppressed excitement

and gazing up into his face expectantly.

“It’s a hunt you want, isn’t it?” he said softly, rubbing Kraftig’s

silky ears. “Then a hunt you shall have, only it’s Sorkvir we’re

stalking, not trolls.”

With a yell of challenge, he swung the sword around over his

head, facing the western edge of Grittur-grof where a few red fires

twinkled. Presently two horsemen appeared atop a barrow about a half

mile away, staring in Leifr’s direction. He yelled again in obvious

defiance, and the two Dokkalfar returned his challenge in a similar

fashion before turning back toward the fires.

Leifr positioned himself in an advantageous spot and waited,

dividing his attention between watching for the Dokkalfar and

admiration of the sword. Its first trial was not long in forthcoming; the

Dokkalfar rode out at a brisk gallop to find him, their banners

snapping and grisly trophies rattling jauntily on bridles, shields, and

armor. The sky, always slow to lose its light, bathed the Dokkalfar

warriors in an ominous green afterglow as they plowed to a halt

about a bowshot from Leifr and surveyed him suspiciously.

“What, only six of you?” Leifr called. “Either Sorkvir is running

out of loyal Dokkalfar, or he doesn’t count me for much as an enemy.

Which one of you is the spokesman?”

One Dokkalfar rode forward slowly, a thickset, dark-bearded

fellow wearing the insignia of the Fox society.

“I am Grunur,” he said. “Do you wish to surrender? Is that

the reason for calling this attention to yourself?”

“Not at all,” Leifr replied, keeping the sword out of sight; but it

was harder by far to keep the triumphant edge out of his voice. “I see

you are from the Fox Society. That’s getting rather low in the hierarchy

for you to be a leader, isn’t it? What has become of the Owls and the

Wolves and Eagles? Surely they can’t all be dead.”

The Dokkalfar eyed him coldly. They were all younger members,

as evidenced by their insignia of Bats and Skulls. Grunur urged his

horse a few steps forward.

“It makes no difference which class we’re in,” he growled.

“You’ll find that we can kill you just as dead as the older

Dokkalfar—who may be more renowned for their discretion than for

their valor.”

“Thirsty for a little fame, are you?” Leifr taunted. “Do you think