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his masked gaze upon the new arrivals, taking in their owl insignia in

silence.

“More traitors to the Owl Society,” he said, after the scrutiny

had become insulting. “The Dokkur Lavardur is not pleased. You are

causing a division in his power.”

“I am merely increasing his power,” Sorkvir said, without much

deference in his tone, but his manner was tense. “Our lord has

nothing to fear from my efforts in Solvorfirth. My loyalty is not to be

doubted by any of these Dokkalfar surrounding me. I make certain that

any new recruits understand we are all loyal to Djofull and the Dokkur

Lavardur first and foremost.”

“That truly sounds well,” Thurid replied dubiously. “But we’ve

heard alarming reports about your alog. We’ve heard that Fridmarr

Fridmundrsson has returned and has enlisted the assistance of a

powerful Rhbu wizard, who is going to make dogs’ meat out of the

Dokkalfar in Solvorfirth. We’ve heard that they are going to reverse

your spell upon the Rhbu Pentacle for the express purpose of destroying

you and all your lives.”

Sorkvir combed his fine-haired beard with his fingers. “Gossip

certainly travels fast to have reached Djofullholl so soon. But like most

gossip, it is completely false, and greatly exaggerated. You may assure

our lord that the Pentacle is in no more danger of destruction than I am

myself. As for this Rhbu wizard, that is the greatest joke of all. He’s

merely a local antiquarian who dabbles a bit in foretelling and

prophecy. He has a habit of boasting to thralls and other simple

minds about his supposedly great powers. I have no fear of him; if

he has any powers at all, they are maladroit and stunted. Most

certainly he is not a Rhbu, since he was born in Solvorfirth, and there is

a record of it in the book. The Rhbus are extinct, if they are not a myth

concocted by the Ljosalfar to comfort them in their final decline into

extinction.”

Thurid nodded slowly, unfolding his arms which were clasped in

an unfriendly posture, and reached out to take up his cup of ale, sipping

at it warily. “Your words are a convincing explanation,” he said,

managing to convey the opposite impression. “Yet the matter of

Fridmarr is still of concern to the Owl Society. You betrayed highly

select knowledge to Fridmarr. Only the Owls are permitted the

information that leads us back and forth from Hel’s cold embrace, yet

you entrusted it to a Ljosalfar. It raises questions, Sorkvir—questions

about your competence and integrity as an Owl Society member.”

Sorkvir’s eyes flicked restlessly around the small chamber, as if

he felt confined by its walls. “Fridmarr has taken eitur, and it is slowly

killing him. I taught him no secrets—merely useless lies. When he dies,

I will capture his fylgjadraug and burn his body to ash.”

The two Dokkalfar nodded in silent agreement at this

prescription, and Thurid pressed his fingertips together and pretended

to consider it. Finally he shook his head regretfully. “This won’t do,

I’m afraid. My brother Owls would never agree to it. The only way to

destroy someone possessing the death secrets of the Owl Society is to

deal him death with that Rhbu sword you stole from Fridmarr. I fear the

situation warrants the intervention of the Owl Society, so I am going to

remove this matter from your hands, and we shall take it up ourselves. I

daresay there will be an inquiry into the whole situation from the

beginning, and I shall have to request the surrender of Hjaldr’s sword,

which I saw hanging on your wall in the main hall.“

Sorkvir stared at Thurid coldly. At last he said, “This requires

some thought. Perhaps tomorrow I could give you my answer.”

“Tomorrow is not soon enough,” Thurid replied. “And if you

refuse to surrender the sword, the Owl Society will interpret your action

as blatant rebellion and will take steps against you. Loyalty to the

Society is absolute. You must remember the oaths you swore, and the

penalties you agreed to. All these others here with you will suffer the

same reprisal if you choose to be wrongheaded and turn your back upon

your Society.”

One of the attendant Dokkalfar stood up to address Sorkvir, his

wrinkled features drawn up in consternation. “Turn over the sword,

Sorkvir,” he said. “None of the rest of us want to get involved in a

quarrel with the Owl Society. We don’t want to find our throats cut in

our beds one night. Rebellion against the Society is suicide.”

“What use is a dull sword?” the other Dokkalfar added. “I’d turn

it over and be glad to be rid of it.”

Sorkvir leaned back in his chair a little less stiffly and crossed

one ankle over his knee. “I’d turn over the sword without question,” he

said smoothly, “but there’s a serious defect about it that I fear will

render it useless to the Owl Society. The grindstone meant to sharpen it

is a Rhbu grindstone. I had one which Fridmarr stole from the

Hjaldrsholl Dvergar—he was a clever thief, I’m compelled to admit

—but that grindstone was lost again, I fear, in the commotion

of Fridmarr’s treachery. The Society may not be interested in a

sword which it cannot sharpen.”

“More evidence of your incompetence, Sorkvir.” Thurid stared at

Sorkvir rigidly. “We must take the sword before it is also lost.

However, I might put in a gracious word on your behalf to Djofull, if I

am assured of your compliance.”

Sorkvir rose to his feet, and Thurid cautiously followed suit.

“I’ll give you the sword, but you can spare your gracious words on

my behalf. I shall speak for myself, should this matter ever come

before the council. Follow me.”

He led the way to the doors to the main hall and threw them

open. Thurid followed, with the two Dokkalfar behind him. They went

directly to the dais and stood before the wall where the sword hung.

Leifr shadowed them, finding plenty of places to conceal himself. He

saw Sorkvir remove the sword and place it in Thurid’s hands. Sorkvir

stood with his back to Leifr, with one hand behind his back in a casual

stance, and Leifr could see his fingers closing around the black hilt of a

dagger. Leifr quietly drew his sword and poised himself for a swift

and noisy charge.

At that moment, a tremendous thundering shook the door,

accompanied by a violent, roaring bawl and the shouts and shrieks of

Dokkalfar under attack. In a moment, the door burst open, and

Raudbjorn strode inside, swinging his halberd menacingly and peering

watchfully from side to side.

“Raudbjorn!” The two elder Dokkalfar sprang forward to

repulse this outrage, but scuttled back again when Raudbjorn

brandished his halberd at them.

“I hope you have a good explanation for this intrusion,”

Sorkvir said in a deadly tone as Raudbjorn trod heavily up to the dais,

his hackles still bristling.

“Huh! Fridmarr!” Raudbjorn waved his weapon around to

encompass the hall.

Sorkvir’s eyes glittered. “What of Fridmarr, you nithling? Why

aren’t you watching him, as I ordered you? Can’t I give you the

simplest charge and expect it to be fulfilled?”

Raudbjorn ceased his restless prowling about the hall and peering

into shadows—just before he reached the doorway where Leifr

crouched with his drawn sword.

“Fridmarr in Gliru-hals,” Raudbjorn growled, his eyes still

darting. “Dressed like ragged thrall. Went in back door. Raudbjorn find

him.”

The two elderly Dokkalfar exchanged a startled glance, then

Sorkvir snorted, “I don’t believe it. Bolviss, go to the kitchen and ask

Faedi if she saw anyone come in that didn’t belong.”

“He looks dangerous,” Thurid remarked, edging toward the

door. “Should I summon your men to subdue him?”

“No, no, he’s quite harmless, except for his stupidity,” Sorkvir

explained. “Come and sit down. As soon as I’ve disposed of him,

I’ll show you some Gliru-hals hospitality, now that we’ve settled our

differences so amicably.”

Leifr backed further into the small chamber as Bolviss

approached. It would be a nithling’s deed to kill such a withered little

Dokkalfar, so Leifr knocked him unconscious with the butt of his

sword and dragged his body into the shadow of a sleeping platform

where he wouldn’t readily attract notice. Then he crept back to the

doorway to make sure Thurid escaped with the sword.

Raudbjorn tramped up and down, looking into the shadows like a

restless bear, with the other Dokkalfar watching warily from the main

door. Thurid had reached the door and was pressing his way through the

curious Dokkalfar. Sorkvir divided his attention between Thurid and

Raudbjorn with increasing impatience. Then he roared out a command

to his men.

“Stop that stranger! He’s not going to leave with my sword!”

Thurid froze. The Dokkalfar shifted their weapons to menacing

angles. Leifr stepped out of his hiding place; but as luck would have it,

no one saw him but Raudbjorn, who uttered a great roar of triumph.

“Fridmarr! You see!”

Leifr dodged into the shelter of the doorway, peering out

cautiously. Everyone in the hall was gazing at him.

Then the elder Dokkalfar snorted and said, “That’s just a

house thrall. We saw him on our way in.”

The watching Dokkalfar laughed in derision at Raudbjorn, whose

head and neck began to turn an ugly red.

“You great dolt,” Sorkvir spat. “Get out of my way! Don’t

let that Owl escape with my sword!”

Thurid halted in his dignified escape and turned to face

Sorkvir. With a twitch at his sleeve he produced his staff, inquiring

mildly, “Are you calling me a thief?”

The Dokkalfar melted away from him. For a long, taut

moment he and Sorkvir stared at each other. Leifr stepped out of his

hiding place again to torment Raudbjorn and made an offensive gesture

at him.

Raudbjorn plunged forward with a berserk yell, plowing a table

and two benches ahead of him. Sorkvir broke off his chilling stare and

seized a lance, which he thrust at Raudbjorn as the thief-taker climbed

onto the dais, his small eyes fixed intently upon the doorway into the

small hall.

“He’s gone mad!” the elder Dokkalfar exclaimed, scuttling away

to safety.

“Stop, you animal!” Sorkvir snarled, prodding at Raudbjorn. “If

you’ve lost your mind, we’ll have to keep you in a kennel with the troll-

hounds.”

The Dokkalfar laughed appreciatively and elbowed each other,

glad to see Raudbjorn disgraced. Raudbjorn glowered at them, halting

his advance. Sorkvir sneered and sat down in his chair, darting a wary

look in Thurid’s direction. “We are not finished bargaining yet, my

friend. As soon as I’ve disposed of this idiot, we shall resume our

discussion about that sword.”

Raudbjorn shook his head violently. “Raudbjorn not idiot!” he

rumbled. “Fridmarr there in room!”

“Silence! Clear out of here, Raudbjorn, and stay out of my sight

until I send for you. You’re relieved of all your duties.”

Raudbjorn slowly turned his head to regard Sorkvir with an

incredulous stare. “You throw out Raudbjorn, best thief-taker and

warrior in Alfar realm? You shame Raudbjorn?”

Sorkvir smiled coldly, holding the lance carelessly across his lap.

“Yes, I shame Raudbjorn. I’m going to let it be known far and wide you

failed in my service. Every chieftain of both Ljosalfar and Dokkalfar

will hear you’ve made an absolute ass of yourself. You’re no thief-

taker. You’re an ox in warrior’s armor. I should put you to work at

exterminating trolls or catching rats.”

The Dokkalfar guffawed nastily. A mottled rash gradually

suffused Raudbjorn’s round countenance, beginning with his bottom

chin and spreading to the top of his bristling pate. His breathing

deepened to quick, menacing huffs, and his small eyes almost

disappeared in a deadly squint. Baring his teeth in a ferocious grimace,

he took a step forward.

“Raudbjorn angry now,” he rumbled in a voice that froze

the Dokkalfar where they stood. Leifr felt his blood chill, recognizing

the symptoms of a berserk fury that knew no reason.

Sorkvir stared impassively, betraying no emotion. “Take yourself

out of my hall, you monstrous freak. It would not even amuse me to