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earnestly upon the cow stable.

“Come on now, Thurid, it would take just one small spell. You

can do it. You’ve had better than forty years to work on those spells. Or

are you all threats and bluster and no real magic?” Leifr eyed him

challengingly and plunged onward recklessly, seeing the fire in

Thurid’s eye flickering toward doubt. “Maybe forty years aren’t enough

for a blathering old blowhard. Did it take you forty years to learn to kill

spiders?”

Thurid gripped his staff, his eyes still fixed upon Raudbjorn,

while small curls of black smoke feathered off its glowing knob.

Inside the barn, buckets rattled on pegs, unnoticed. “Saddle your

horse,” he commanded. “Be ready to ride away when I give you the

signal.”

He opened the satchel, releasing an ancient, musty smell, and

drew out a handful of rune wands, all carved with indecipherable

scratchings and stained with some dark substance that Leifr suspected

was blood. Selecting one, Thurid read it from end to end several times

and replaced it in his satchel. Seeing Leifr watching him dubiously, he

pointed peremptorily toward the horse stable.

“Ready yourself for escape,” he intoned. “Stay in the barn, out of

sight.”

Leifr saddled his horse quickly and hastened to apply his eye to a

crack so he could watch Thurid.

Thrusting back his sleeves, Thurid strode up and down a

few times, muttering to himself. Then he stopped and faced the

house. After a long moment, a dark image appeared in the doorway,

stepped down off the porch, and walked across the courtyard toward

the road that led up to the high pastures in the fells.

Leifr scuttled to another crack, ramming his eye against it

and scarcely feeling the pain, overwhelmed as he was by total

amazement. A perfect likeness of himself was walking casually out

the upper gate, as if intending to help search for the strayed cows.

The cloak and hood were the same design and color, even down to

the tassel on the tail of the hood and the embroidery around the hem of

the cloak.

Raudbjorn watched with great interest a moment, then

climbed onto his horse and rode slowly after the image, following

along the outside of the wall until he gained the same road, letting his

horse take leisurely mouthfuls of grass along the way. When his bulky

form vanished into a ravine, Leifr slipped out of the barn to find Thurid.

Thurid stood facing the road, his arms extended rigidly and

quivering slightly. His face was contorted into a painful grimace, his

eyes screwed shut, and he muttered something under his breath

repeatedly. As Leifr watched, Thurid began to sway on his feet and

would have toppled over on his face if Leifr hadn’t stepped forward

hastily and caught him. Spluttering indignantly, Thurid disengaged

himself immediately and composed his clothing, still trembling and a

little dazed.

“What are you doing here?” he snapped. “Get going! I kept the

image as long as I could sustain it. The old high gate this side of the

ford was the last thing I saw. Raudbjorn will be back here when he

realizes I’ve tricked him. Stop staring, Fridmarr, and be off to your

reunion with Gotiskolker. You can tell him, by the way, that we’re out

of tallow, and he’d better not try to cheat us as he cheats everyone else.“

Leifr still lingered, not liking the gray color of Thurid’s face, nor

the glassy look of his eyes. “You look like a dead fish,” he observed.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Now leave!” Thurid steadied himself against the

turf wall and glared at Leifr fiercely.

Inspired with a sudden new respect for Thurid and his powers,

Leifr turned and hurried into the barn after his horse. In a few moments,

he was galloping over the fell toward the barrows, still marveling at

what he had seen.

Leifr found Gotiskolker rendering a pot of unsavory grease. He

scarcely glanced up from his stirring.

“You’ve kept yourself away a long time,” he greeted Leifr. “I

hope the time has passed agreeably for you.”

Leifr tethered his horse and tried to get upwind of the kettle.

“Agreeably! Nothing has gone right since I got here. There’s a great

deal you failed to warn me about, you slinking thief. I had to learn

almost everything from Sorkvir.”

Gotiskolker raised his head warily. “You’ve been to see him

already?”

“Yes. I went to bargain for a truce until Fridmundr dies. In the

meantime, he’s set Raudbjorn to watch me and make sure I don’t come

anywhere near this place. You never once mentioned that Fridmarr had

taken Sorkvir’s eitur at one time. I met Ljosa, too. It seems that

Fridmarr is universally hated by everyone. And Sorkvir told me about

your addiction to eitur, which puts you practically in his power, so

what sort of an ally are you going to be? As if that weren’t

enough, he says that the Rhbus do not exist and that the grindstone

and the sword were stolen from the trolls, so they aren’t going to

break the alog, anyway. Maybe you’d better just send me back to the

Scipling realm while I’m still alive. The longer I’m here, the less likely

it seems that anything can be done about Sorkvir.”

Gotiskolker listened, his black brows knitted closer and closer

until his entire face was twisted up in an incredulous scowl.

“I should have known better than to trust a Scipling!” he finally,

burst out. “Why did you take matters into your own hands so hastily?

Now Sorkvir’s suspicions are aroused, and no amount of discretion will

allay them. We’re doomed before we’ve even started!“

“You’ve been doomed for years, since you took that eitur,”

Leifr retorted.

“You’d better send me back before you die. You’ve led me into a

trap.” Gotiskolker wiped his hands on his thighs and spat into the

not going anywhere until I’ve finished with you,

tallow. “You’re

Scipling. I’m not going to be thwarted by anyone’s stupidity, unless

it’s my own. Now be quiet and let me think. We’ll have to move

quickly, before Fridmundr dies. This truce of Sorkvir’s is no guarantee

that he won’t suddenly decide to chain you to a wall in his dungeon or

let five or six Dokkalfar dance on your face with hobnail boots.”

“I don’t know what we could do alone,” Leifr growled. “Even if I

decide to stay. Why don’t we get some of these Ljosalfar together to

stand up against Sorkvir? Ljosalfar have magical powers they can fight

back with, don’t they?”

Gotiskolker snorted emphatically. “That shows what little you

know about Ljosalfar. For one thing, their magical powers have

deteriorated since loss of contact with Snowfell, where King Elbegast

is. Secondly, Ljosalfar are too independent-minded to cooperate much.

Thirdly, they’re all too frightened of Sorkvir and the Dokkalfar anyway.

And fourthly, they don’t trust either you or me because of past

associations with Sorkvir. That’s four excellent reasons for not

attempting to raise a rebellion; are you satisfied?”

“No, I’m certainly not satisfied. I’d feel much safer with twenty

or thirty men waiting in the fells, whether they had sharp swords and

axes or not.”

Gotiskolker was shaking his head adamantly before Leifr had

finished speaking. “No, no, no. There’s no one that we can trust. You

don’t know them as I do. Your way won’t work.”

Leifr glowered, resenting his high-handed arrogance. “Either we

get some allies, or I’ll leave you to your own devices and do this job

the way we would do it in the Scipling realm. If there’s one thing I

know how to do, it’s fight. A scrawny imp like you isn’t going to be

much use anyway.”

“And your stupidity isn’t going to be much use either. I say no

allies and no fighting, and that’s my final word.”

Leifr and Gotiskolker glowered at one another across the

foul-smelling kettle.

“Do you have a better plan?” Leifr demanded.

“There is only one plan which will work. The Pentacle will

help us. In the old days, seekers after special powers and hidden

knowledge visited the five points of the Pentacle to gain favor with the

Rhbus. When the supplicants had passed each site, the Rhbus granted

their wishes—if they survived the natural hazards of the journey. If you

destroy Sorkvir’s evil influence that perverts each site, the Rhbus will

show you where the grindstone is hidden.”

“Sorkvir says the Rhbus are nothing but superstition. You could

be following a foolish delusion. For all I know, you could be lying.

Sorkvir’s eitur is in your veins and his mark is in your hand. How do I

know you won’t betray me for some purposes of your own?”

Gotiskolker spat into the kettle with a sputtering hiss. “Then

go your own way and start a rebellion. A lot of Ljosalfar will be killed

—if you can persuade them to trust an old ally of Sorkvir’s. You

won’t find the grindstone. Sorkvir will eventually run you to earth, and

you’ll spend the rest of your life in torment—like me. How very like the

real Fridmarr you’ve become already.”

Leifr scowled. “Don’t insult me. I see nothing in Fridmarr that

anyone could admire.”

“Good. Then you won’t be surprised if Fridmarr decides to break

Sorkvir’s truce by stealing Bodmarr’s sword from Gliru-hals. It’s

exactly the sort of thing everyone expects from Fridmarr.”

“You must be mad. Outside of breaking an honorable truce,

there’s a trifling matter of thirty or forty Dokkalfar lurking around

Gliru-hals, from the number of shields on the walls, and all of them as

mean as wild sows.”

“True, of course. We need someone who can slip into the hall and

steal the sword right from under their filthy snouts. The only one who

can do that is Thurid.”

“Thurid! He sets fires in his own pockets!”

“But he has that old satchel and staff Fridmarr gave him. They

were stolen from a wizard’s barrow in Bjartur, the old Rhbu hill fort on

the Pentacle. There are special powers in that bag, and we need him to

exercise them for us.“

Leifr thought of the image of himself Thurid had conjured and he

shrugged with an uneasy smile. “The powers in the satchel may be good

enough, and Thurid might master them one day, but right now I wonder

if Thurid is ready for a challenge of this magnitude. Thurid’s been

causing all sorts of accidents and spiteful little tricks wherever he

goes. He blames me for it, but I couldn’t conjure these things—

hundreds of spiders and toads creeping all over the house, buckets

jumping off their pegs, strange breezes, strange sounds. Old Gunhildr

fell down and broke her ankle, this morning the cows went mad and

nearly trampled me, and last night the pigsty fell down. I’d fixed it

myself just yesterday. I think I’d rather live in this stinking place

than at Dallir. Thurid’s bad enough by himself, without these

mysterious powers.”

Gotiskolker nodded, his brow puckering in thought. “Be patient.

He’s still learning. When he masters the magic in that satchel, he’ll be a

fit opponent for Sorkvir. Surely you’ve seen some promising signs,

haven’t you?”

“Well—a few. I’m no judge of wizards, though.” Leifr heaved a

discouraged sigh. “I suppose Thurid’s the only wizard to be found.

What am I to tell him? He already suspects that I’ve come back to

make another attempt upon Sorkvir and he doesn’t much like the idea.

If I tell him that the three of us are going to attack Sorkvir, he’s going to

think I’ve lost my wits.”

“Wits? He’s never thought you had any. As if he were one to

judge. Just tell him that you want to talk to him at his cave in the upper

pasture. Fridmarr used to like going there. I’ll be watching for you after

dusk, when your chores are done and he’s finished his nightly spiel to

Fridmundr. He may resist the idea, but when he stops shouting long

enough, he’ll come around. Don’t mention to him anything about me. If

he knew I was behind this, wild horses couldn’t drag him into it.”

He stirred the tallow desultorily, his gaze drifting

northward toward Stormurbjarg, where a steep dark fell towered over

the headland.

“So you saw Ljosa,” he said in a cautiously neutral tone. “She

used to be the beauty of all Solvorfirth. How does she look now?”