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faster progress. But when he finally caught up with Thurid and

tentatively voiced his speculations, the wizard snorted

explosively.

“You’re suffering from hallucinations, Leifr. You’ve let

yourself be carried away by feeling guilty over Ljosa. 1 never

saw a cat dart away from Sorkvir; it was far too brilliant a flare

for anything to be seen in it. And it couldn’t have been Ljosa’s

fylgja. She couldn’t have had enough power for shape-

shifting after dragging you away from Sorkvir. Stop brooding

about things your Scipling mind cannot possibly understand.

Leave magic to the wizards.”

Thurid elevated his nose and rode ahead.

By midday they reached the long barrow of Grittur-grof

where Fridmarr was buried. Elbegast went forward alone, with

his head uncovered to the harsh wind, and stood a long time

before the barrow. The chieftains and elders stood quietly until

he returned.

“We judged him wrong,” Old Einarr admitted grudgingly,

and Young Einarr sighed glumly. “I don’t doubt his loyalty now,

but he was a wrongheaded youth and fiery proud sometimes.”

Elbegast nodded. “He was flawed in many ways, which

led him to his difficulties. He should never have come back as

Gotiskolker, but he couldn’t bear the shame of knowing how he

was remembered as a traitor. I grieved to see what Sorkvir had

done to him, but his spirit was never humbled. To the last, he

was looking for a way to clear his father’s name of shame.

Now, with Leifr’s help, he has finally succeeded. Fridmarr

spent his life trying to free Solvorfirth of Sorkvir. He must have

loved this land with all of his noble heart.“

The two Einarrs nodded their heads, drawing

themselves up with fierce pride. “Nobody will ever forget

Fridmarr—the hero of Solvorfirth. The first of many, I should

hope.”

Elbegast bade them farewell and rode away, disappearing

with the same abruptness with which he had arrived. A mist was

rising out of the low ground of Grittur-grof, shrouding the

barrows almost to their tops, leaving only their rocky spines

visible. Elbegast and his riders galloped along the crest of a long

barrow, waving a last salute with their weapons, and disappeared

into the rolling gray fog. In a few moments when the fog

cleared, there was not a trace of man or beast.

The chieftains and elders heaved a collective sigh and

began pulling up their hoods against the cold wind, resuming

their habitual expressions and manners.

Einarr the Elder beckoned to Leifr. “Well, come on. You’ll

be staying at my place until Gliru-hals is mucked out. No one

else has a house worthy of such an honor.“ He shoved his horse

into the foremost position and led the cavalcade away from

Grittur-grof.

As they filed past the barrow where Leifr had found the

Rhbu and the grindstone, he looked toward the spot, but it was

empty now.

Thurid eyed him narrowly. “You’re not seeing little cats or

Rhbus again, are you? If you are and continue to do so while I

see nothing, I might avail myself of this gift from Elbegast.” He

held up a rune wand. “The spell on this will send you packing

back to the Scipling realm and put an end to your superior

attitude about Rhbus. Why don’t they show themselves to me?

I’m the one trying to follow in their footsteps.”

Leifr reached out and plucked the rune stick from Thurid’s

fingers. He tossed it to Raudbjorn.

“Put that in your trophy pouch, Raudbjorn, and don’t let

Thurid have it. Not until he rescues Ljosa Hroaldsdottir and I’ve

grown tired of the Alfar realm.”

Raudbjorn smiled his gentle assassin’s smile and shoved

the stick into his pouch. “Safe now, Leifr. Raudbjorn keep stick

forever. Wizard lose arm if he tries to take it.”

Thurid favored him with a haughty twitch of his shoulders.

“I’ve nothing to fear from you, lard-bucket. I’m not afraid of

what lies ahead. I’ll find Ljosa one day, with the aid and

protection of the Rhbus. Your nasty weapons and bloodthirsty

tactics will only help you to an early grave.”

Raudbjorn snorted and shook his head, patting the

haft of his halberd. “Strong arm and good steel better than

powers. Always ready. Always sharp.”

Leifr rode on, letting their arguments fade from his

attention. For the moment, he was content.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Elizabeth Boyer began planning her writing career during

junior high school in her rural Idaho hometown. She read

almost anything the Bookmobile brought, and learned a great

love for Nature and wilderness. Science fiction in large quantities

led her to Tolkien’s writings, which developed a great curiosity

about Scandinavian folklore. Ms. Boyer is Scandinavian by

descent and hopes to visit the homeland of her ancestors. She

has a B. A. from Brigham Young University, at Provo, Utah, in

English Literature.

After spending several years in the Rocky Mountain

wilderness of central Utah, she and her ranger husband now live

in a rural Utah community. They met on a desert survival trip in

the canyonlands of southern Utah, which they love accordingly

and visit often. Sharing their home are two daughters, and an

assortment of animals. Ms. Boyer enjoys backpacking, cross-

country skiing, and classical music.