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great heroes have finally died by stubbing their toes or drowning in their

own bathtubs.“

“She has a great amount of power,” Leifr said, feeling certain

he was going to be covered with bruises after his struggle with Finna.

“She’s not as soft and helpless as she likes to appear. She’s as

strong as the Midgard snake.” He looked back at the pool, which

already showed no trace of the deadly struggles that had gone on

there. He shivered, wanting nothing more than to leave Kerling-

tjorn many miles behind him.

The day promised to be mildly sunny, so he didn’t even bother to

change out of his wet clothing. Chafing impatiently while the others

saddled their horses, he searched the opposite bank until he spied a

tatter of white cloth fluttering from a clump of bulrushes.

“There it is!” he called and urged his horse into the water. As

the water rose to Jolfr’s belly and as high as his chest, Leifr’s doubts

of Eydis’ fidelity also rose, but the going underfoot seemed solid.

Presently the water became shallower, and Jolfr scrambled out on dry

earth and shook himself from nose to tail, like a dog.

“Say goodbye to your dear nisses,” Gotiskolker said to Thurid as

they rode away from the island in a westerly direction. “You were very

nearly a victim of your own magic. Maybe you should have left them

as we found them. Finna will captivate a great many more idiots

besides you.”

“Don’t talk to me of that creature,” Thurid huffed, his eyes

glaring with a fanatical gleam. “Did you ever see such rank ingratitude

as that? I wish I could have left her with a monstrous wart on her nose. I

brought back their precious lake for them, and all to what purpose? So

she can go on murdering innocent travelers? I’ve half a mind to go back

and do something about her.”

“Forget it,” Gotiskolker advised. “Part of the Rhbus’ great plan is

opposition. You’ve just had your little taste of opposition and you’ve

survived it, so you’d better shut your mouth and count yourself lucky.

Next time you may not get off so easily.”

Their travel was slow and arduous in spite of the markers.

Often they had to dismount and lead the horses, not trusting them

with the treacherous footing. Often the next white marker was nowhere

in evidence, and they had to explore for it cautiously, which frequently

got one of them into trouble with quicksand, mud, or very thin turf.

By late afternoon they were near the edge of the marsh; they

could see darker green trees and a few gnarled pines on the hillsides

ahead, but the worst part of the swamp lay before them. It looked

deceptively grassy and safe, but one misstep sucked the unwary traveler

into quicksand and black mud with such a powerful grip that Leifr was

certain for a while that they would have to leave Thurid’s horse behind

when it became mired. They also encountered the remains of nearly

a dozen Dokkalfar, although nothing was left after a day of sunshine

except clothing, armor, and weapons. Several of the troll-hounds also

had fallen prey to the swamp, along with four horses who had perished.

The travelers’ spirits were at low ebb when they received the first

evidence that they were not the only sojourners in the marsh. A dismal

moaning sounded suddenly not far away, as if a cow had been mired.

Nevertheless, Leifr unsheathed his sword before he approached any

closer. Parting a clump of cattails, he saw a man’s head and arms on the

surface level of the bog. The man brandished a stick at them, then

uttered a despairing, “Hallooo! Help, help!” like the cry of some vast

sea creature in distress.

Leifr could scarcely restrain a laugh. “It’s Raudbjorn,” he

whispered delightedly. “Sorkvir has left him to die. That ought to be a

good lesson to him to trust a wizard.”

Thurid coughed indignantly. “You seemed anxious enough to risk

your life rescuing a wizard. I’m astonished that you’d take the trouble,

considering how you feel about wizards.”

“You’re not Sorkvir,” Leifr reminded him, then stepped out into

the clear where Raudbjorn could see him. “Halloa, Raudbjorn! Are the

fish biting?”

Raudbjorn’s huge, round face cracked with a welcoming grin.

“Halloa, Fridmarr. Happy to see you. One day we meet on equal ground

for final battle. Only one of us walk away.”

“There won’t be any battle if you drown in that bog,” Leifr

answered. “Will Sorkvir come back to get you out?”

Raudbjorn managed to shrug. “Sorkvir knows, but not

Raudbjorn. Looks like mud getting deeper. Maybe too long till dark.”

He heaved a loud sigh and blinked disconsolately at a swarm of ravens

perching not far overhead. “Raudbjorn never had so many friends.”

Leifr went back to the horses, where Gotiskolker and Thurid

waited impatiently. He began assembling all the lengths of tether cords

into one long rope.

“Whatever do you think you’re doing?” Thurid demanded, his

eyes almost popping with indignation. “You’re not going to rescue

that assassin, are you? Fridmarr, fair play only extends to the nearer

edge of insanity, not all the way across and over the far end!”

Leifr ignored him, deeming his objections unworthy of rebuttal,

and proceeded to toss the rope out to Raudbjorn.

“I can’t bear the thought of never knowing which one of us is the

best,” he called out in reply to Raudbjorn’s stunned silence. “Once

you’re out, we’ll go our separate ways until we meet again under

better circumstances. Suffocating in a bog hole is no way for a warrior

to die.”

Leifr fastened the rope to his saddle and led Jolfr forward,

leaning into a makeshift collar. The ropes stretched tautly, vibrating

under the strain as Jolfr lunged against Raudbjorn’s weight and the

suction of the bog. Finally, with a loud, muddy exhalation, the

swamp released its hold, and Leifr hauled Raudbjorn ashore. The

thief-taker wiped the slop off his face, revealing a cheerful grin, and he

extended one massive paw for Leifr to shake.

“Raudbjorn is grateful,” he rumbled earnestly. “Fridmarr a noble

warrior. Raudbjorn always remember Fridmarr as the best.”

They left him to follow their tracks and the white markers,

although Thurid was far from happy about it.

“You’ve gone soft in the head, Fridmarr,” he growled. “You

never exhibited any symptoms of compassion all the time you were

growing up. This is a most unpropitious time for you to start exhibiting

such behavior.”

“Raudbjorn isn’t evil, like Sorkvir and the Dokkalfar,”

Leifr replied. “Besides, I feel a sort of kinship with him. We’re both

strangers here.” Thurid eyed him askance, and Gotiskolker darted him

a warning scowl, but Leifr had recognized his mistake the moment it

had left his lips. “Strangers to this miserable swamp, I mean,” he added.

Thurid sighed and shook his head in silent wonderment.

“Fridmarr, Fridmarr, if you were anybody else, I would worry about

you, but being Fridmarr, you’ll always be a stranger wherever you go.”

They were close to the edge of the swamp when Leifr called

another halt. Almost beside the safe path, one of the troll-hounds

was mired in black mud almost to its shoulders. The beast yelped at

them gladly and tried to wriggle free, using all its ability to appeal

for help by wagging its tail frantically and showing all its teeth in an

ingratiating canine grin.

Thurid groaned. “Don’t tell me you feel kinship with dogs,

too. That’s far too preposterous, Fridmarr. This is one of Sorkvir’s

hounds. Last night it was hunting you and would have torn you to bits if

it had found you.”

“Last night he was in bad company,” Gotiskolker said. ‘Today

he’s nothing but a hound. It all depends upon which cause he’s

following at the time, whether he’s only a dog or a demon.“ He pulled

out his pipe and made himself comfortable, watching Leifr inching on

his belly across the mud toward the hound.

All Leifr’s doubts about the hound’s disposition vanished when

he came within licking distance; the dog ecstatically slathered its red

tongue all over his face as he tied the rope around its chest and ordered

Thurid to pull. Still muttering curses, the wizard bent his back against

the rope.

Once the suction of the mud was broken, the hound bounded

freely out of the mire, the gladdest creature under the sun, and

placed both paws on Thurid’s chest to lick his face. The paws were

huge and muddy, but Thurid submitted rigidly to this form of

salutation.

“He’s harmless,” Leifr assured the wizard. As he crawled wearily

out of the mire, he promptly fell victim to the hound’s next outburst of

gratitude. When he managed to climb into his saddle, the hound

stationed himself at Jolfr’s heels and trotted along with the watchful

pride of a dog who has recently adopted a human being, an object to

be defended and prompted to provide shelter and food.

They had not gone far when the hound suddenly pricked up his

great, hairy ears and dashed ahead, whining worriedly.

“Ah, good, he’s leaving,” Thurid said. “For a while I feared he

would follow us.”

Leifr listened to the excited yelps ahead. “He’s found something.

Not Sorkvir’s bear fylgja, I hope.” He unsheathed his sword and nudged

Jolfr ahead cautiously.

The hound was capering up and down the safe track, his eyes

fixed upon something in the bog. It was another hound, with

nothing of him showing except his head. When he saw the

horsemen, he uttered a despairing howl of anguish.

Leifr dismounted, taking his rope with him, and Thurid added a

howl of anguish of his own, which Leifr ignored. When the second dog

was freed from the mire, he demonstrated his joy with delighted

wriggling and fawning around their feet, showing his teeth and lying on

his back, paddling the air with his feet, all for the privilege of trotting

behind Leifr’s horse at the opposite heel from the first hound.

When they found the third hound, Thurid was ominously silent,

even when the grateful animal almost knocked him down with its

delighted groveling. Each time Thurid took a step, the hound slithered

under his feet, gazing up at him rapturously with golden eyes, asking

only to be allowed to worship at the shrine of a generous master’s boots.

“Fridmarr,” Thurid rumbled menacingly. “I won’t tolerate these

puffing, slobbering, stinking brutes. Either you get rid of them, or I’ll

leave. What monsters they are, and imagine what a lot of fodder they’ll

eat. Maybe they’ll even forget their gratitude and turn on us one day.“

“They’re trained to hunt, aren’t they?” Leifr asked, wrestling

away from one of the beasts so he could mount his horse again.

“They’ll provide for themselves and us, too. They would also

discourage any trolls from attacking us, if we wander into troll

territory.”

“Most likely they’ll bring us nothing but troll meat for supper,”

Thurid grumbled in a much-softened tone. “Perhaps they might be

induced to bring down a deer, though.”

When they stopped for the night, the hounds stretched out beside

the fire, panting amiably, pausing to listen alertly to the night sounds.

Once they all sprang to their feet, growling deep in their chests, and

tore away without a sound, with all their back fur bristling up like

hedges. After a long interval, Leifr heard the distant yammering of trolls

and the savage baying of the hounds. When the hounds finally returned,

their jaws and chests were soaked with fresh blood.

In the morning, while Thurid was taking bearings with an

assortment of devices, the hounds brought down a brace of hares, which

Gotiskolker skinned and cooked. The dogs gnawed the bones without

any great hunger; their bellies still bulged with troll meat from their

night’s hunting.

“We’re slightly off track,” Thurid at last reported, tapping his

long finger on the map with disapprobation. “We must mend our course

slightly northward to find Luster. I expect we could be there by evening,

if we have no more delays.” He darted a significant glance toward Leifr,

and a resentful one toward the dogs. “We might have made it last night,

if not for certain unnecessary stops.”

Gotiskolker wiped his fingers on his tunic. “A pity it wasn’t you

stuck in the mire, Thurid. We wouldn’t have wasted our time