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“Nothing is what it seems, especially legends,” Gotiskolker

replied.

“Legend or not, I’m going to find out why the lady Alof is still

here, letting trolls into the house. If I don’t come back by the time you

count to five hundred, you’d better get out of the house and leave

Thurid to fend for himself.” Leifr took a lamp in one hand and his

sword in the other and slowly moved down the long, dark corridor.

The sounds of mauling and snarling suddenly ceased; then the

voices of the hounds blared outside in the midst of fresh fighting. The

uproar diminished gradually as the hounds pursued their quarry into the

fells. When Leifr reached the kitchen, he found the door shut and

locked from inside. After staring at it distrustfully for a moment, he

went on to explore the dingy, foul-smelling kitchen and the warren of

rooms and passages beyond. More than once, he had the feeling that

something was flitting ahead of him, just barely beyond the reach of

his feeble lamp.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, certain he had seen a movement.

For a long time he listened, holding his breath, feeling the hairs lifting

on his arms under the unseen influence of someone hiding nearby,

perhaps in the same room with him. He took a step and heard the soft

rustle of cloth in the darkness ahead. Striding forward swiftly, he

glimpsed a dark figure darting around behind him and a flash of pale

hair.

“Alof, is that you?” he called sharply.

His answer was a low, vulgar chuckle and the thunderous

slamming of a door. A bar fell into place on the far side with a crash.

“Alof! I know you’re out there! What are you doing?” Leifr

threw his shoulder against the door in a mighty effort and was rewarded

with only a small creak of protest. “Alof! Open this door!”

“I’m the mistress of this house,” she answered, “and I’ve decided

you’ll be safer if you’re locked up.”

“On whose orders, Alof? Sorkvir’s? I thought this house was

supposed to be a safe haven for both sides. You’re violating the spirit of

Luster with such treachery.”

“All that is different now,” she answered. “Luster belongs to

Sorkvir and he has given it over to the trolls. Whoever stops at this

house is fair game.”

“I hope this is your idea of a joke,” Leifr said in a threatening

tone. “You’ve had your fun now trying to frighten me with your tricks.

Open this door and let me out, and I’ll forgive you for your unfortunate

sense of humor.”

She laughed; for a moment, Leifr thought it didn’t sound much

like Alof. “You won’t think it’s a joke much longer,” she said in a

grating voice. “Sorkvir doesn’t have a sense of humor. Pain is all that

amuses him—as you will soon find out.”

“Then you planned to lure the dogs away,” Leifr said, “and you

led me down here into a trap. This isn’t a house of refuge, at all; it’s a

house of trickery and murder, and you’re in the middle of it.” He gave

the door a heavy kick to vent his fury, raising a cloud of musty dust.

“I must confess to a certain taste for blood,” Alof replied, with

a smack of her lips. “Unfortunately, we shall have to content ourselves

with a cold wizard. Sorkvir forbade us to lay one tooth on you; the other

two are fair game, but what poor pickings! Not enough blood in either

of them to slake my thirst. I wish it were you we were taking up to the

spring tomorrow night.”

Leifr listened with mounting horror. “Who are you? What

are you?” he demanded.

She laughed her coarse laugh. “Don’t worry, you’re safe enough

from us in there—as long as you’re locked up. I don’t advise you to

come out until dawn, my dear guest. I believe I warned you about that

before.”

With a chuckle, she moved away down the corridor, but Leifr

could tell she did not go far. Listening through a crack in the door, he

heard the patter of several pairs of feet and some hoarse, growling

voices. Once an ugly nose poked under his door, sniffing curiously

until he trod on it with his foot, occasioning a furious snarling on the far

side.

Leifr dismally scouted the narrow room. From its general musty

atmosphere, flavored with quantities of mouse droppings, he guessed

that it had been a granary at one time. An infrequent breath of fresh air

led him to a small, high grate near the roof. Subsequent investigation

showed him that the opening was too small to crawl through, and the

wall was mortared stone, so he could not hope to dig through it. As

long as his lamp lasted, he prowled up and down the room, looking for

any weakness in his prison. When the wick at last failed, he searched

with his hands. He battered at the door until he was exhausted, but it

was a thick, strong door, tightly bound with iron and swollen tight and

solid by the dampness of the atmosphere.

Toward dawn, when a bit of light showed in the small grate, the

trolls tramping up and down in the corridor ceased their restless

prowling and weird chuckling, and the house seemed quiet. Leifr called

out to Gotiskolker until he was hoarse, and his head ached from

straining to hear an answer. Not a sound came in reply, although he

could hear the hounds whining somewhere, unable to get at him. Too

exhausted and despondent to think of any more ways to pass the time,

Leifr curled up in his cloak and went to sleep. Not surprisingly, his

dreams were all unpleasant possibilities of what lay in store

for him and his companions.

When he awakened, the slant of the sun told him it was

afternoon, and his stomach told him he was hungry. Encouraged by the

slender beam of sunlight and a few hours’ rest, he investigated his cell

another time. When he was finished, he understood his former

discouragement. There was no way out, except the way he had come

in—through the door. Furiously, he attacked it again, certain that

something must give if he kept battering at it; but at last he was forced

to concede that his flesh and bones would give out before the door ever

suffered much damage.

Gloomily he watched the light fade from his small window,

thinking of Alof and her troll companions gathering at the spring to do

their evil work, murdering and feasting upon their helpless victims.

If Alof opened his door again, he would show her no more mercy

than she planned to show Gotiskolker and Thurid. Gripping his sword,

he waited for the sound of footsteps.

At last he heard a door open far down the corridor, but the

footsteps were heavy and measured and jarred a large amount of

metal hanging upon the persons approaching. When the bolt shot back

and the door grumbled open, he found himself confronting a pair of

burly Dokkalfar, cradling broadaxes on their arms. The expression in

their small, glittering eyes assured Leifr that he was looking at a pair of

Sorkvir’s favorite killers.

One of them grunted. “Come with us. You may walk, or we’ll

carry what remains of you after trying to change your mind.”

“I’m sure your methods are very persuasive,” Leifr answered,

sheathing his sword. “I’ll walk.”

One of the Dokkalfar led the way, treating Leifr to a view of the

long sword he wore in a sheath hanging down his back. The handle was

a walrus tusk, much carved with intricate, looping designs, the

interstices deeply dyed with blood. The sheath was ornamented with

battle trophies, such as long locks of hair or beard, gold-filled teeth,

amulets, and quite a few shriveled-up objects that Leifr identified as

ears. The rings through the lobes made the job of suspending them from

the scabbard much easier.

In the main hall, Sorkvir had taken possession of the best seat on

the dais. Raudbjorn stood on one side with his arms folded across his

chest, scowling fearsomely, and an armed Dokkalfar stood on the other

side. The rest turned and stared at Leifr coldly, their hands uneasy upon

their weapons.

“I hope you have passed the time pleasantly,” Sorkvir greeted

Leifr. “My servant tells me you had the best accommodations the

house has to offer.”

Leifr glanced around and spied Alof trying to stay out of

sight behind a pillar. “My accommodations gave me no cause for

complaint, but I’d like to know what has become of Thurid and

Gotiskolker. The quarters she had in mind for them were not nearly so

commodious.”

“Well, Alof,” Sorkvir asked, “have you taken care of Thurid and

Gotiskolker as I commanded?”

“Yes, my lord,” she replied nervously and seemed about to add

something more, but she shut her mouth instead and smiled rather

vacuously.

“Your friends are taken care of,” Sorkvir continued to Leifr.

“Now what is your answer? Do you wish to capitulate or do you wish

to resist further?”

“I see no alternative,” Leifr replied. “I will never surrender.

It would be better to die.”

Raudbjorn rumbled disapprovingly and shook his head.

“Death in a house of refuge,” he growled. “Great, sad evil.

Raudbjorn refuse.”

Sorkvir curled his lip in scorn. “You’re a superstitious fool,

Raudbjorn. Nothing is going to happen to us. A great number of killings

have taken place here, and you can see the earth hasn’t swallowed the

house yet.”

Leifr kept his hand on his sword. “So one more murder will make

no difference—is that what you’re saying, Sorkvir? Why don’t you

get it started then? Send your best men against me. Let’s see how

many of them it takes to kill me.”

“Don’t be so hasty, Fridmarr. Why are you so willing to die?”

Sorkvir bared his teeth in a thin, crafty smile. “Has Thurid taught

you the secrets of death? You think you will be more powerful than I

am, once you come back from the dead. He has taught you powers, has

he not?”

“I won’t answer that,” Leifr replied. “You have made up your

own mind, so why should you question me and expect to hear what

you want to hear? I may be defeated, but I refuse to surrender without

defending my position as long as I am able to lift a sword. I’m ready; do

your worst. You’ll never break my spirit.”

Raudbjorn’s sullen features suddenly beamed with an admiring

grin. “Good speech, Fridmarr,” he boomed. “A good warrior’s speech.”

“Since you liked it so much,” Sorkvir responded, tapping his

fingers on the arm of his chair, “you will get to see

long, yellow

what reward it earns him. Where is my staff, Raudbjorn?”

Raudbjorn shook his head. “Hanging on tree, not in house of

safety. Raudbjorn no fool.”

Sorkvir transferred his baleful gaze from Leifr to Raudbjorn. “I

didn’t order you to leave my weapons on the tree. Now go and

fetch them, and we shall allow Fridmarr all the resistance he needs

before he surrenders his sword and his desire to fight. The mines of

Dokholur will be your next stop, Fridmarr, as long as you have strength

enough to wield a pick or spade.”

Raudbjorn heaved a lugubrious sigh and shook his head with

genuine regret. “Someplace else, Sorkvir. Not here. No honor for

Sorkvir in killing Fridmarr in house of refuge. Sorkvir’s name would

stink.”

“Then Raudbjorn’s head will roll, if you think you’d prefer

it,” Sorkvir replied acidly.

Raudbjorn clasped his huge arms and glowered around him at the

Dokkalfar. “Let them try,” he rumbled. “Raudbjorn make mouse meat

out of them. With bare hands.”

The Dokkalfar themselves seemed inclined to agree, evincing no

great eagerness to attack Raudbjorn. They stood uneasily with their

weapons in hand, viewing Raudbjorn, Leifr, Sorkvir, and even each

other with the utmost distrust. Their fear and mutual hatred was

Sorkvir’s method of controlling them.

Realizing he had reached a stalemate, Sorkvir angrily

motioned Raudbjorn aside. “Go fetch my staff now, if you wish to live.

Let me show you how your job is supposed to be done, thief-taker. I

had thought I could use a day-faring thief-taker, but I find he is worse

than the least talented Dokkalfar.” He stood up and faced Leifr, who

immediately drew his sword and held it ready in both hands. “So you

think to confound me with your cold Scipling steel. There are far

colder forces, Fridmarr.”

“Then use them,” Leifr said. “The Rhbus are on my side.” He