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fashion.

Sorkvir tapped one long finger on the chair arm, his eyes

darkening. “So you choose to remind me of that. I have often wondered

what you did with the knowledge you gained from me. You have me to

thank for teaching you not to fear death, and I have myself to thank for

being such a fool as to trust you. Let me warn you that I can devise

torments far worse than death. I have died and returned many times, and

I find far more torments on this end of Hel’s journey than I have seen

on the other.” He gazed at Leifr with narrowed eyes through the

winding miasma of smoke rising from the lamps.

“I consider myself sufficiently warned,” Leifr replied warily,

wondering desperately what it all meant.

Sorkvir leaned forward, his eyes glittering. “Don’t think I haven’t

heard all this talk about the Pentacle. You can’t restore the earth

magic to it, Fridmarr. You may know what I did to change the Pentacle,

but you don’t have enough power to destroy my influence. If you try, I

shall teach you the meaning of true wretched misery. I’ll make you wish

that I had killed you. You’ll regret that you ever begged to learn my

secrets of immunity from death. Death will be haven which forever

escapes you. Ask your friend Gotiskolker what it is like.” His lips

twisted ironically. “I was disappointed in you, Fridmarr, when you

sent your ally here to fight your battle with me, like a great coward.”

Warily Leifr replied, “I did not send him to fight my battle. What

he did was his own choice.”

“And a poor one. I knew at once that the two of you had hatched

a scheme to trick me out of Bodmarr’s sword. He confessed, after some

encouragement, that he had removed his own carbuncle to disguise

himself. Then there was a reverse glamour spell to disguise him further

that he clung to until 1 turned him over to my guards to do with as they

wished. They tramped on him and broke him down into the crippled and

bent old beggar that he came disguised as. The first I knew of his

survival was when he hobbled into Gliru-hals, after crawling off the

dung heap where they had thrown him to die, to ask for eitur to ease the

aches and pains of the bones my men had broken, as if I could be held

responsible. So now he’s addicted to the poison, and I fear it’s

consuming his flesh at an alarming rate. He comes to beg for it as often

as every fortnight. It continues to amuse me to keep him alive—a living

relic to remind me of my triumph over you and the Pentacle.” His

yellowed skin creased in an unpleasant smile, reminding Leifr of a

snake parting its jaws.

“You’re poisoning him by slow degrees,” Leifr said with a

shudder of sudden hatred. “Surely that’s too beastly even for you.”

“Not in the least. It’s better than he deserves, after trying to kill

me and steal Bodmarr’s sword. The eitur is all that keeps him alive.

Without it, he would die a painful and lingering death. Thus it is he

remains here, docile and obedient, lest I withhold the drug that

relieves his pain. Is it a pleasant prospect, Fridmarr? The eitur is in

your veins, also. Its gnawing agony will eventually destroy you.

The only remedy for the pain is more eitur—but there is no remedy

for the destruction it has done to your Ljosalfar powers. Gotiskolker is

nothing but a hollow carrion shell, and so you shall become, one day.“

Leifr stared into Sorkvir’s sunken eyes, fighting a wave of fear,

reminding himself it was Fridmarr that Sorkvir was speaking to.

Then the carbuncle yielded another memory of Fridmarr’s. “It was

only a small taste of eitur that I took,” he said. “Scarcely enough to

make me a slave to it.”

“So you may have thought at the time, but we both know by now

that there’s no such thing as too little eitur. Surely you’ve felt some of

its ravaging in the years since we parted?”

Warily Leifr considered the gem’s spiraling messages. Almost

instantly he struck the memory of a paralyzing, bitter agony so acute

that even the mere thought of it made him wince despite himself. But

Fridmarr would not have revealed the extent of his sufferings to

Sorkvir, so Leifr replied, “Only somewhat.”

“I confess I am disappointed,” Sorkvir answered ironically, with

a knowing sneer. Reaching inside his cloak, he produced a small flask

with a gold stopper and held it up for Leifr’s inspection. “Come now,

Fridmarr, admit that you came back for this. You have endured the

random attacks of the eitur long enough—a good, long time, but it will

only get worse as the body degenerates. Your friend Gotiskolker would

have died long ago, if not for the eitur. He comes and begs for it when

he feels the effects coming on. All you must do is ask for it. With the

eitur, you can live a long and frequently painless life—as long as you

preserve my equanimity by causing me no trouble.”

Leifr shook his head slowly, unable to find Gotiskolker anywhere

in the mass of Fridmarr’s memories teasing at the edge of his mind.

Most likely Fridmarr had done his best to forget Gotiskolker, after

sending him off on such a fool’s errand. “I have no need of your

poison,” he said coldly. “I came here to strike a bargain.”

“Go ahead, I’m listening—although I have just offered you the

only bargain you will get from me.“ Sorkvir opened the flask and

inhaled the smell of the contents, keeping his eyes upon Leifr.

Leifr caught a whiff of a cloying scent. With a wrench of fear, the

carbuncle reminded him that such stuff was death to it, and for that

reason Fridmarr had removed it from his flesh. Once removed, it

could garner no memories. Uneasily wondering at what point in his

relationship with Sorkvir Fridmarr had parted company with his

carbuncle, Leifr drew a deep breath to gather his resolution.

“My father Fridmundr is dying. I wish to stay here in peace until

he is gone.” “And after he is dead? What then, Fridmarr?” Sorkvir

inquired mockingly. “I feel almost certain that you don’t intend simply

to disappear again, as you did last time.”

“No,” Leifr answered, his eyes shifting to the wall behind

Sorkvir’s chair, where weapons from vanquished enemies hung as

adornments to Sorkvir’s fame. “I’m going to visit the Pentacle and do

what I can to restore its original powers, which you destroyed.”

Sorkvir took another sniff of the eitur. “You must know that

you’ll have to destroy me in order to restore the Pentacle. You know

you can’t touch Ljosalfar magic without great harm and pain to yourself

because of the eitur you once drank. You will fail, Fridmarr, as you

have always failed at everything you have undertaken in the past. I

don’t believe you have the fortitude to purify the Pentacle. Even if you

should manage to steal that sword—”

He leaned back in his chair to gaze upward at a much-pitted, dull-

hued sword hanging in a central position among the trophies. Its

elaborate hilt formed a guard for the haft, which was made from a

walrus tusk, finely engraved. Sorkvir considered the sword a moment,

then shifted his gaze back to Leifr. “You won’t be able to find the

troll’s grindstone to sharpen it. Did you think I would be so incautious

as to leave it lying around for some fool to find?”

“It’s the Rhbus’ grindstone, not the troll’s,” Leifr countered,

“and the Rhbus are sympathetic to the Ljosalfar cause. They will help

us find the grindstone.” “You Ljosalfar are superstitious fools if you

think there are any Rhbus left, and doubly foolish if you think they

guide your miserable fates in any way,“ Sorkvir retorted with a quick

flare of temper. ”The Rhbus did not exist, as you know them. They were

giants who degenerated into trolls through their own folly, as the

Ljosalfar are degenerating into weak and powerless beings who will

soon be extinct. Don’t talk to me about the help of the Rhbus,

Fridmarr. Do what you may to the Pentacle, but know that I shall never

allow its powers to be disturbed. You must believe you have

someone with the power to help you, since a nithling like you could not

touch my spells. I sense that all your powers are buried and almost

extinct. I have the eitur to thank for that.“ He smiled again, or rather

snarled, showing teeth that reminded Leifr of a corpse’s teeth after the

body had been exhumed from a peat bog.

Shuddering, Leifr looked away, not knowing whether it was the

hypnotic glitter of Sorkvir’s eyes that filled him with such a strong

feeling of incipient failure or his own common sense trying to tell him

the Pentacle was a hopeless cause.

“I will do nothing about the Pentacle as long as my father lives,”

he said steadily, with the sensation of having his back to the wall and

facing impossible odds. “Let’s give our conflict that much of a respite.”

“Yes. That will allow you time to realize how futile a task lies

before you, should you choose it.” Sorkvir turned his head away

contemptuously, treating Leifr to a view of a hideous, black scar that

ran from the top of his head and down the side of his neck, like a rather

crudely mended split in old and rotten leather. Leifr stared in horror,

certain that a small gap revealed the bare bone underneath. For the

first time Leifr began to ponder what it meant to die and return

repeatedly from the dead.

Belatedly, Leifr realized he was being dismissed and started to

edge away cautiously, not wanting to turn his back upon Sorkvir.

“About your friend Gotiskolker,” Sorkvir said suddenly,

returning his attention to Leifr. “Stay away from him. He’s my

meat now. I can easily imagine the two of you using this truce period

to try dreaming up schemes against me. I shall have you watched.” He

beckoned to the Dokkalfar still lingering in the hall. “Fetch Raudbjorn.”

Leifr heard the tramping of heavy footsteps advancing slowly

down the passage, accompanied by the unmistakable music made by

armor and weapons. A towering hulk entered the hall, stooping his head

slightly to clear the door frame. He shambled the length of the hall and

presented himself to Sorkvir with a slight, creaking bow. Beneath his

much-battered helmet, the face of Raudbjorn was rotund and placid,

and his almond-shaped eyes held no more expression than a pair of

black, shiny buttons. His leather body armor gleamed with old

bloodstains and grease. Around his massive neck, he wore various

souvenirs taken from his enemies and hung on chains or filthy

strings—hilts of swords and knives, gold amulets, locks of hair or

beards, teeth, and more than a few dried ears. At his belt hung several

small pouches, a sword as high as Leifr’s shoulder, two knives, a grimy

bag, and a coil of rope. Over his shoulder, he carried a huge, double-

bitted halberd with a long, vicious blade at the top, capable of

skewering through a man of ordinary size. Like the weapons of the

Dokkalfar, it was untouched by Sorkvir’s alog.

“This is Raudbjorn,” Sorkvir announced. “Raudbjorn was the

best thief-taker in the realm before I hired him as my bodyguard. His

presence helps encourage the more hotheaded Ljosalfar to keep the

peace in Solvorfirth. Raudbjorn, this is Fridmarr Frimundrsson. I want

you to watch him carefully. He has a treasonous disposition, and I don’t

want him conniving with that rubbish scavenger Gotiskolker.”

A ponderous scowl spread itself over Raudbjorn’s brow. He

grunted. “This outlaw Fridmarr? Outlaw heads go in sack.” He slapped

the grisly bag hanging from his belt, and his eyes lit up with pleasure at

the recognition of Leifr as an opponent.

“No, I don’t want you to kill him just yet,” Sorkvir snapped.

Raudbjorn’s anticipatory look faded, and he lowered his

halberd to the ground with a thud. He darted a resentful glance from

Leifr to Sorkvir.

“Raudbjorn follow and watch,” he growled.

“You’d better not forget this time,” Sorkvir snarled, pointing

a clawlike finger at Raudbjorn. “Your mind is too much on killing to

suit me, Raudbjorn. If you want a warm fire for your backside this

winter and food and ale for your gullet, you’d better start following my

directions.” He waved his hand in curt dismissal, and Leifr turned away

to leave the hall, with Raudbjorn clumping heavily almost at his heels.

The Dokkalfar elders glanced up suspiciously from their