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gives me great satisfaction. It’s my only form of revenge.”

She hazarded a glance at him then, feeling a stillborn pity for the

wretched creature. “What have I done that you want revenge upon

me?” she asked angrily. “I’ve never done anything to you. You’ve

always been a stranger to me until now, when you come to my house

expecting shelter, food, and protection from your enemies.”

Gotiskolker turned away, scowling and muttering. “Women

always ask too many questions. Now let’s get this useless fellow onto

his horse.”

Between them, with the aid of Leifr’s half-conscious efforts to

help, they hoisted him onto the horse and walked slowly back to the

mossy house built against the bank.

The door opened a small crack, and Thurid’s eye glared

out. Then he snatched the door open, reaching Leifr’s side in two quick

strides.

“Is he all right? Hurry up, let’s get him inside. Someone’s bound

to be watching, judging by the way our luck seems to be going. He’s

cold as a fish. Are you sure he’s still alive?”

In reply to all his flustering, Ljosa replied, “Yes.” She helped

carry Leifr inside the house. Gotiskolker took the horse to the little

stable, scarcely large enough for the three horses already hidden

inside. Sighing wearily, he went outside and found himself a place in

the sun on the hillside over the stable. Far away to the south, a thin

plume of smoke still showed against the sky above Dallir.

Inside the house, Thurid consulted his rune sticks for healing

spells, while Ljosa watched him in silent amazement.

“I could go for the healing woman,” she suggested. “Bergdis will

keep her mouth closed.”

“There’s no need for Bergdis, with her mumbling, herbs, and

weeds,” Thurid replied, trying not to tremble as he read over the spell

he had selected. “We have Rhbu magic to heal Fridmarr. Bergdis has

only glimpsed the healing powers of the earth with the corner of one

nearsighted eye.”

“Then the gossip about you is true,” Ljosa said. “You used a

spell to walk into Gliru-hals and steal the sword from Sorkvir.”

“There’s much more, my dear girl,” Thurid replied. “But now

isn’t the time to talk about it. Remain perfectly still and use your

powers of concentration to heal this wound. If all goes right, we shall

leave here tomorrow, with Fridmarr a whole man again.”

Thurid held his staff in one hand and shut his eyes as he intoned

the words of the incantation etched upon the rune wand. To be on the

safe side, he repeated them nine times and opened his eyes. Ljosa

glanced at him doubtfully and returned her attention to Leifr.

Leifr’s restless tossings and mutterings soon ceased, and the

fever went out of his brow as he descended into a deep and healing

sleep. Thurid lost his anxious frown and began to look pleased with

himself.

“By tomorrow the wound will have closed,” he said. “Tomorrow

we’ll be on our way, and nobody will be the wiser that we were here.”

Ljosa nodded. “That’s good. The eye of suspicion has been on me

since Fridmarr returned. Sorkvir believes that I will encourage Fridmarr

in his scheme against the Pentacle.”

“It wouldn’t hurt if you did encourage him a little,” Thurid said

gently. “I think Bodmarr would want you to forgive Fridmarr. If

Fridmarr felt no remorse, he wouldn’t be here.”

“Remorse is not enough.” Ljosa turned away and took up a piece

of sewing. “He betrayed the Pentacle to Sorkvir, betrayed Bodmarr, and

tried to betray Sorkvir. I can never trust him again.“

“But when he exonerates himself and becomes a hero to

Solvorfirth by restoring the powers of the Pentacle and killing

Sorkvir, can you forgive him then, Ljosa?”

“When all that happens,” she said quietly, “the wrongs will be

righted, but it does nothing to change the fact that Fridmarr should not

have been so weak and foolish as to betray his own people in the way

that he did. The Ljosalfar may forgive him, but they will never forget

what he did. I won’t forget—nor do I wish to forget.”

Thurid shook his head regretfully, drawing a chair into the

small alcove where Leifr lay sleeping. “Yes, I dare say a person can

live and thrive on a diet of past bitterness. Fridmarr could have done

the same, but he chose to come back to do battle with his dark

past. You can escape from your memories, though they may leave

scars. What one among us has no scars? Your place is in the present,

my dear Ljosa, helping the Rhbus in the forwarding of their plans to rid

us of the Dokkalfar and the trolls and all the evil that plagues us.

Don’t be left behind.”

Ljosa dropped her sewing and stood up, her back and shoulders

held stiff, her eyes sparkling with scorn. “If the Rhbus have a plan, it

moves too slowly for me to see it,” she said bitterly. “If there are any

Rhbus.”

As she reached for the door latch, something outside scratched

softly on the panels. Thurid hastened to the door and opened it a small

crack to peer out.

Gotiskolker stood on the step and gave the door an impatient

shove to open it wider. “Someone’s coming,” he whispered. “You’d

better come outside.” His eye traveled across the room from Ljosa to

Leifr, lying in the alcove. “It looks like Raudbjorn. He’s not going to

rest until he takes Fridmarr back to Sorkvir.”

“Fridmarr must not be disturbed,” Thurid replied. “If

Raudbjorn tries to come into this house, we’ll have to kill him.

Somehow. He’s larger than the trolls I’ve been blasting.”

“Don’t worry about Raudbjorn,” Ljosa said, pushing a small

dagger into the waistband of her skirt. “This is my house and he won’t

be expecting a mere woman to slit his weasand, which I will do if

necessary. Perhaps he won’t come in. If he does, I’ll pull the curtain

across the alcove; as long as Fridmarr makes no sound, we’ll all be

safe.“

Gotiskolker shook his head. “Too dangerous,” he muttered.

“We’ll have to get rid of Raudbjorn before he gets here. Perhaps I

could lead him away.”

Ljosa shook her head. “He’ll still be suspicious of Stormurbjarg.

It would be better if he saw the inside of the house with his own eyes

and convinced himself that Fridmarr was not here. If we have trouble

with him, then you can kill him or blast him. You’re not afraid that I’ll

turn Fridmarr over to Sorkvir, are you?”

Thurid looked away from her challenging stare. “If you are

Hroald’s daughter, you won’t,” he said tightly. “I know what he would

think of such a nithling’s deed.”

“Then go hide yourselves,” Ljosa commanded. “I’ll do whatever

must be done.”

When they were gone, she made sure there was nothing left in

the room to betray the presence of her guests; then she sat down with

her sewing.

The loud, solid knock on the door startled her when it came. Most

visitors hallooed from the meadow or tapped politely on the

window instead of assaulting the door panels so rudely. With her heart

knocking fearfully, Ljosa looked first at Leifr, sleeping soundly in the

little alcove behind the curtain, then pulled the curtain shut and pushed

a chest in front of it, as if concealing an unsightly wall. She went to the

door and unfastened it as if she had nothing to conceal. Her courage

almost failed her at the sight of the apparition on her doorstep.

Raudbjorn smiled his innocent smile at her and took a

clumping step forward, stooping slightly to look through the low

doorway, which made his body armor creak menacingly.

“Hallo, Hroaldsdottir,” he greeted her amiably. “Raudbjorn

bring greetings from Gliru-hals. Sorkvir too busy to think about you.

Raudbjorn looking for Fridmarr. Maybe catch you later.” He chuckled

ponderously.

“What do you want here?” Ljosa held the door open just wide

enough not to seem inhospitable. “Do you want something to eat and a

place to rest?”

“Eat, yes. Rest, no. Fridmarr here someplace.” His eyes ranged

suspiciously around the small house.

“Is he then? I suppose I can’t stop you from searching. Will you

eat first?” Raudbjorn sniffed. “Blood smell. Fridmarr wounded. Lady

maybe?”

find Fridmarr,

Ljosa pointed to a pair of freshly killed rabbits on her table.

“That’s what you smell.”

Raudbjorn beamed. “Fix Raudbjorn food. Raudbjorn tired of

searching. Fridmarr flew away like genie.”

Ljosa opened her door and beckoned him to come in and sit

down. The chair groaned protestingly under his weight, and the table

creaked as he rested his hamlike forearms upon it, watching Ljosa’s

every movement as she skillfully skinned the rabbits and cut up the

carcasses for stew.

“Raudbjorn looking for Fridmarr,” he rumbled with an amiable

grimace that passed for a smile. “Much glory for Raudbjorn.”

Ljosa nodded politely and set out a flagon of ale and a horn cup.

Raudbjorn beamed at the sight of it and proceeded to empty an amazing

quantity of it down his throat before he was forced to stop and take a

breath. Wiping his knuckles across his mouth, he nodded approvingly.

“Better than Dokkalfar ale,” he said. “Ljosa not seen Fridmarr?

Up by little lake by cliff, maybe?”

“I heard a great uproar of Dokkalfar and troll-hounds last night

on the cliff,” she answered. “Fridmarr would not dare come back to

Stormurbjarg now. He knows that I am no friend of his. Will you stay

and eat? I was about to make some bread to go with the stew.”

“Raudbjorn stay.” He hoisted more ale while the bread was

baking, his spirits growing more congenial and his countenance rosier

until he finally fell asleep, resting on the table, with each snoring breath

threatening to shear its legs off.

Ljosa was grateful. She looked at the curtained alcove several

times, thankful for the silence behind it.

As for Thurid and Gotiskolker, she trusted them to keep

themselves out of harm’s way. Raudbjorn had left his huge beast

tethered to the wall outside, ample warning to stay out of sight.

However, she felt she could not draw a deep breath until this great lout

had been fed and sent upon his way.

While Raudbjorn slept, one of Ljosa’s sheep dogs ventured out

from her hiding place under the bench along the wall to sniff at the

unwanted guest, with her hackles bristling and a low growl. The

sound awakened Raudbjorn instantly, and he instinctively reached for

his weapon. The dog scuttled away with a tremendous uproar of

barking, as if she had discovered a houseful of burglars and murderers.

Dog and thief-taker glared at each other in mutual dislike a moment;

then the dog made a dive for Raudbjorn’s leg. Ljosa dived for the

dog, who got in a good, satisfying bite just below Raudbjorn’s knee,

where most good sheep dogs would nip a sheep. Then she wriggled out

of Ljosa’s grasp, ignoring her scolding, and scuttled under the curtain

into the alcove.

“Bad dog!” Ljosa gasped. “Come here!”

Raudbjorn stopped rubbing his wounded leg and eyed the curtain

speculatively, as if he were seeing it for the first time. Then he looked

at Ljosa, reaching out one monstrous finger to brush her pale cheek.

“Why so frightened?” he rumbled with a crafty glint in his eye.

“Something behind curtain?”

“Don’t kill my dog,” she quavered.

Raudbjorn drew his sword from its sheath. With his other hand,

he seized the curtain and yanked it from its hooks, revealing the

alcove, with a loom along one wall, bundles of clean wool on another,

and a bed cluttered with skeins of wool, where the little dog stood at

bay, with every tooth gleaming in defiance and mighty growls

shuddering in her small chest.

Ljosa implored, “She only bit you because you’re different—not

a Ljosalfar. She hates Dokkalfar.”

Raudbjorn’s jaw dropped incredulously. “No Fridmarr!

Raudbjorn a great fool, Maybe Fridmarr really dead. Or gone.

Raudbjorn thought Fridmarr hiding here.”

Ljosa opened the door, and the dog bolted to safety with a last,

fierce bark over one shoulder. Raudbjorn sat down again, and Ljosa

served the rabbit stew with steady hands, although she remained pale.

When Raudbjorn had finished off the entire kettle and most of the

bread, he went outside to mount his horse. The sun was low in the