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days.”

“What can you expect on a farm where the spring flows with

blood?” Thurid demanded, fastening an accusing glare upon Leifr. “If

you weren’t completely reformed, Fridmarr, I’d think you an evil villain

for bringing poverty and affliction on this poor woman. What a nasty

thing to do, causing harm to a house of refuge.”

Gotiskolker sighed hollowly. “I’d heard Thurid had an eye

for the ladies when he was in his prosperous days. He never learns his

lesson, does he?”

Thurid gripped his staff. “One day I hope to have the satisfaction

of doing something very unpleasant to you, you venomous bit of

raven bait. At my present level of powers, however, I don’t have

anything sufficiently dreadful at my command.”

Gotiskolker snorted. “Everything has already been done to me

that can be done, buffoon. Besides, if you keep going as you are, you

won’t have any powers.”

“Pooh! What do you know about powers?” Thurid sneered. “All

about losing them,” Gotiskolker answered.

For a moment their eyes locked in a hostile stare. Then Thurid

turned away with an indignant shiver. “What absolute rubbish,” he

growled. “Take me to the spring, Fridmarr, and I’ll see what influences

are prevalent.”

Leifr had no idea where the spring lay. Recalling a hummocky

area behind one of the barns, he started away in that direction, hoping

the spring lay somewhere above it. As they passed the barn, Leifr heard

something sniffing under the crack of a closed door. Looking down, he

saw several ugly snouts pressed into opening between the stone

threshold and the bottom of the door. Hurriedly he led the way around

the corner of the barn and over a stone wall, whistling impatiently to his

hounds, who lingered beside the door, enraging the dogs inside by

snapping and barking under the door.

In moody silence, Leifr hiked up the side of the fell, hoping

to sight the spring from his high vantage point. Thurid gazed down at

the farm below, a speculative gleam in his eyes and his thoughts clearly

occupied with something other than finding the spring. Humming softly

to himself, he strode along with a sprightly step, letting his cloak billow

majestically at his heels. Several times he ran his fingers through his

thin hair and tweaked at his wispy beard, as if regretting their mutual

sparsity.

Suddenly he stopped in mid-step, completely arrested. Slowly he

raised one hand to point, swinging around gradually like a weather vane

a few degrees to the west.

“There it is,” he said in a voice choked with awe. “I can feel it

from here. It is a great evil influence.” He started forward, his hand

still extended, his eyes wide and glassy.

Gotiskolker observed to Leifr, “He reminds me of a bird dog I

once had. It was a pointer, too.”

Thurid’s nostrils twitched indignantly, but he did not look around.

“Spare us your sarcasm. The influence I feel is no laughing matter.” He

took his dowsing pendulum from his pocket and commenced

dowsing, although the spring was clearly in sight. “Stay behind

me,” he ordered, as Leifr attempted to move around him during one

of his pauses to consult the pendulum. Leifr sighed impatiently, but he

remained behind Thurid.

The spring did not boast an inviting appearance. A fence of

whale bones had been set up around it to prevent livestock from fouling

it, and five tall monoliths stood protectively in a ring, with the dark

water pooling around their bases. Long, afternoon shadows reached out

like dark, grasping fingers and the air was thick with an unpleasant

stench. The turf around the hedge of whale bones was beaten to dust,

as if many different paths all converged at that spot. Uneasily Leifr

gazed around at the surrounding rocks and thickets, wondering if the

prickling sensation in his scalp was caused by watching eyes or by the

unseen influence Thurid felt coming from the spring.

As Thurid drew closer to the fence of bones, his pendulum

became almost unmanageable. It twirled viciously in tight circles, or

swung in wild arcs. Suddenly Thurid’s hand dived earthward. Using

both hands, he pulled up the pendulum like a stubborn weed with a

long root. The sinew string continued to lash around wildly until he

forcibly thrust it into his satchel.

“It’s no matter,” Thurid said, his ghastly pale face beaded with

sweat. “There’s nothing to worry about. We’ve dealt with Sorkvir’s evil

curses before. We can deal with this one just as easily. What are

wizards for, eh?” Then he added a horrified shout, perceiving Leifr

climbing through the bone fence. “Fridmarr! No! It’s not safe!”

Leifr looked around him carefully, seeing nothing to alarm

him except Sorkvir’s black spirals emblazoned on the standing stones.

The earth underfoot seemed smelly and stained, and the smaller rocks

ringing the pool were smeared with something that Leifr didn’t like the

looks of—something suspiciously similar to blood. He moved closer to

investigate, ignoring Thurid’s cries of protest and dismay.

Thurid finally bent down and crawled through the fence, too

curious himself to stay outside while Leifr appeared so interested in his

discoveries.

“This place is like a enamel pit,” Leifr whispered, as

Gotiskolker slipped silently through the fence, his eyes blazing with a

peculiar intensity.

Thurid covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief,

peering into the dark spring water intently. “It
is
a channel pit,” he

answered in a strangled voice. “There must be dozens of skulls in

that water—and bones and bits of rags. Murders— Alof said that

it was dangerous to go out after dark. Someone— or something

—preys upon her guests.”

Filled with dark forebodings, Leifr looked into the murky

water. A pale shape rose toward the surface slowly, detached from the

jumble of bones on the bottom. It was a hand, reaching out toward

him as if to shake hands. With a gasp, he drew back from such

uncouth familiarity, and the hand floated to the overflow at the low end

of the pool and disappeared in the green slime of the slough below the

spring.

“There are houses,” he said to no one in particular, “where

the hosts welcome travelers inside and then murder them for their

possessions. This could be one of those places.”

“Nonsense,” Thurid said. “Luster has been a house of safe haven

for many, many years. All my life I’ve heard of Alof and her golden

hair. I’ve never heard of any murders until lately, since Sorkvir’s curse.

A great evil has overtaken Luster, and it is because of this polluted

spring. We shall purge it of these fell murderers and make Luster a safe

refuge once more, instead of a place of horrors.“

“The murderers are trolls, I’d say.” Gotiskolker rose from a close

scrutiny of the soft earth. “Dozens of them, and some are quite large.”

“Trolls! Then it will be as simple as this—” Thurid snapped his

fingers confidently and reached out to pat one of the stones. “Tomorrow

I shall have these stones once more—” He had no time to finish; the

moment he touched the stone, a heavy jolt ran through his body,

spinning him half-around and throwing him to the ground. His open,

unblinking eyes stared sightlessly skyward.

Leifr and Gotiskolker rushed to him and knelt down, listening for

a heartbeat and trying to feel any breath coming out of his pinched and

pale nostrils. They could detect no sign of life after several minutes, and

his flesh was beginning to feel cool.

“He’s dead!” Leifr gasped. “What happened? I thought wizards

never died!” “He shouldn’t have touched that stone,” Gotiskolker

until he’d cured it of Sorkvir’s influence. He

replied gloomily. “Not

should have known, the buffoon.”

They knelt beside him silently. Leifr touched the silver torque

with a flutter of panic in his stomach. It seemed a notch tighter already.

“We can’t alter the Pentacle without a wizard,” he began, but

Gotiskolker raised one hand warningly, his gaze fixed upon something

outside the bone fence.

“He’s gone to his fylgja form,” Gotiskolker whispered, as a small

owl landed on a rib, staring at them and composing its feathers in a

familiar, exasperated manner.

“How will he get back?” Leifr demanded, looking from Thurid to

the owl. “How long will it take?”

Gotiskolker shook his head. “With the escape spell, no one ever

knows for certain if he will get back. We’ll have to keep him safe until

he returns, if he knows how to reverse the escape spell.” He stood up

and looked back toward Luster. “Let her believe we think he’s dead. If

she believes it, that’s all to the good.“

He refused to explain himself. Under his direction, Leifr

hauled Thurid’s body out of the circle by the heels, then hoisted him

onto his shoulders and carried him down the hill to the house.

Gotiskolker trailed behind abjectly with such a weary, despondent

manner that Leifr began to be gnawed by fears that he was going to be

left to fend for himself in the Alfar realm much sooner than he had ever

imagined in his wildest nightmares.

By the time he reached the courtyard, the sun was below the

horizon and his strength was almost exhausted. Alof came hurriedly

to meet him, and he told her what had happened.

“How very unlucky! How dreadful!” she gasped. “Bring him into

the hall by the fire and we’ll see if any life lingers yet.”

“He’s dead,” Gotiskolker said glumly, but Leifr followed Alof’s

directions and placed Thurid’s body on the platform nearest the fire.

Alof brought several lamps nearer to cast their light on Thurid,

but she could not detect any signs of life, either.

“We won’t give up,” she said with a gloomy sigh. “We’ll sit up

with him and watch through the night. We might see the life return to

him. Wizards are strange, though. I hope we don’t have any trouble.”

She shuddered significantly. “Although he was your friend in life, I

doubt if you’d care for him as a draug.”

“Not at all,” Gotiskolker replied darkly.

As soon as it was sufficiently dark, the four Dokkalfar sent for

their horses and rode away in a state of muffled excitement. Leifr

watched them through a crack in the door as they charged at the tree

and reclaimed their weapons. Brandishing their axes and bristling

maces, they galloped past the hall, cloaks flying like banners and all

their barbarous trophies fluttering from saddles, bridles, helmets, and

weapons. From their insignia, he knew them to be from the Order of the

Owl and therefore high in status and power with Sorkvir.

Grimly Leifr eyed his sword hanging on the tree, wishing it were

at his side where it belonged. Unless he misjudged the intent of the four

Dokkalfar, he expected that word of his presence at Luster would soon

reach Sorkvir.

Gotiskolker also seemed to be brooding upon that dire possibility

as he sat beside Thurid’s inert form. “We can’t wait forever,” he said at

last. “Even if this is a house of refuge.” He spoke the last words with

bitter emphasis, glancing sidelong at Alof.

“Even Sorkvir won’t dare harm you here,” she said earnestly. “It

would be bad luck to break such a long tradition. He won’t risk it. You

mustn’t think of leaving until you know whether Thurid will live or

die.”

“The tradition of safety was broken long ago,” Gotiskolker said

harshly. “It would make no difference to Sorkvir anyway. We have no

choice, however. We wouldn’t leave our friend behind in a place like

this.”

“You don’t care for my hospitality?” Alof inquired with a

brittle smile, eyeing Gotiskolker closely.

“Not much,” Gotiskolker replied coolly. “I don’t know whether

I’ll be murdered in my bed or up there by the spring.”

Leifr scowled at him, secretly sharing the same fears. ‘Thurid’s

misfortune isn’t her fault,“ he said. ”She’s as opposed to Sorkvir as we

are. He’s been no friend to her. We can’t afford to make any more

enemies, Gotiskolker.“

“Enemies are cheaply acquired,” Gotiskolker growled. “Friends,

on the other hand, are very expensive. Ever notice how your friends

disappear when your money and luck are gone?”

Leifr decided to ignore him, but Alof gazed at him with particular

dislike. They agreed to take turns watching though the night, but

more watching than Leifr, who awakened in the