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hoped they were, although he knew almost nothing about them.

With Thurid and Gotiskolker gone, he needed desperately to believe

that somewhere he had some allies.

Sorkvir raised his hands slowly, his gaze intent, and Leifr felt

coldness gathering around him. The sword in his hands began to

glow with a faint, frosty gleam. In a moment he heard shrill, humming

notes and faint squeaks coming from the metal. The coldness of his

hand was a burning, searing pain. He knew he could not endure it an

instant longer. He dropped the sword, and the metal shattered like ice,

causing the nearest of the Dokkalfar to leap back in alarm.

“That was only a small trick,” Sorkvir said with thinly veiled

satisfaction. “Now you are without your friends, your sword is

smashed, and your dogs are in Alof’s safekeeping. Surely now you

must see you are helpless in my power.”

Leifr allowed his shoulders to sag and he lowered his head,

darting sidelong glances at the two Dokkalfar who had brought him

from his cell. The one with the sword hanging down his back turned

to nudge one of his cohorts. In that moment, Leifr pounced on the

Dokkalfar sword and yanked it from its sheath.

The hall erupted into pandemonium as he dealt two Dokkalfar

slashing blows and leaped over them to get his back against a wall. The

remaining Dokkalfar armed themselves and charged at him with

ferocious yells, yearning for revenge. Leifr parried their blows,

greatly assisted by a nearby pillar, which garnered several savage blows

from axes and maces that would have ended the battle instantly if they

had met their mark. On the outskirts of the melee, Sorkvir recovered the

staff from Raudbjorn and raised his arms for a powerful incantation.

Suddenly a brilliant explosion rocked the room, and the

Dokkalfar recoiled suspiciously, looking around for the source of the

spell. In close succession, six more reports and flashes filled the gloomy

hall with blinding light and clouds of smoke.

Sorkvir uttered a maddened, choking cry and flung the staff away

from him. “Hawthorn!” he gasped, staggering toward his chair and

collapsing after a few steps. “It’s not my staff. I’m poisoned by Rhbu

sorcery!”

The Dokkalfar stood as if frozen, staring at their leader as he

groped desperately for his satchel. From his position against the

wall, Leifr saw that most of Sorkvir’s hands had been blown away by

the magic in the hawthorn staff, and his clothing also hung in shreds, as

if he had been struck by lightning. His body seemed to be

disintegrating, piece by piece, sifting dust onto the floor, slumping by

degrees out of control, like a sack with the grain pouring out. The

Dokkalfar jumped back in alarm when Sorkvir jerked upright in a last

spasm, gasping and glaring, trying to speak.

Leifr seized the opportunity to dash nimbly for the door.

Raudbjorn rose up from a squat to stop him, but Leifr planted his

foot on Raudbjorn’s chest and sent him sprawling. In an instant, he

unbarred the door and dived into the darkness, bowling over a couple of

small trolls who had been lurking on the doorstep. Pausing to take a

couple of cursory swings at them with the Dokkalfar sword, he dodged

across the porch and leaped into the unknown darkness beyond.

Startled snorts and squeals greeted his precipitate arrival into the

midst of a group of horses, who immediately exploded in all

directions. Somehow he managed to throw his arms around the neck

of one and swing himself onto its back as it raced down the lane in a

wild gallop.

As Leifr reached the bottom of the lane, he stopped to look back

a moment. The Dokkalfar and Raudbjorn poured out of the house,

bathed in an eerie blue light. A windy whistling came from the interior

of the hall, which gathered into a mighty roar that sent the Dokkalfar

scurrying for cover. While Leifr watched, limbs were torn from the

dead tree and driven into the ground fifty feet away like giant

hayforks. Sorkvir’s wrathful spirit tore the doors off the barns and

ripped the gates from their hinges.

Not daring to stay any longer, Leifr clapped his heels to his horse

and galloped for the nearest dark ravine, hoping he wouldn’t ride right

into the teeth of a hundred hungry trolls.

The ravine had a small, swift stream rattling down its dark depths

and a narrow sheep path twisting along both sides of the water.

Once Leifr saw a group of trolls on the other side and froze, returning

their hostile green stares for a long chilly moment. They lifted their lips

in dreadful snarls and edged down to the verge of the water, but they

wouldn’t come across, although it was barely fetlock deep. Leifr moved

on cautiously, and the trolls followed for a short distance, growling and

making menacing gestures. Then the more businesslike trolls stopped

and thrashed several of the aggressive ones and led them away at a

shambling trot in another direction.

Leifr encountered several solitary trolls, who refused to cross the

water in spite of lengthy demonstrations of their ferocity and

general depravity. One troll gave him a considering stare, then turned

his back and hurried away as if he really couldn’t be bothered.

Wondering what all their important business could be, Leifr rode his

horse up to the rim of the ravine for a look across. He saw that he was

near the spring, which seemed to be the destination of the trolls he had

met. A fire burned at the base of each of the five standing stones,

casting a lurid glare on the black spirals burned on the surfaces. Several

dark figures moved around inside the circle of the bone fence, and a

dark, seething mass of trolls waited on the outside.

Near the edge of the dark water lay an inert form, which Leifr

knew must be Thurid. He thought about the small owl that had flown

in through the smoke hole last night, wondering if it were a ridiculous

coincidence, or if the owl had been Thurid’s fylgja. In any case, what

was he to do against such a mass of trolls?

As he watched, he noticed that the crowds of trolls outside the

bone fence kept a respectful distance between themselves and the fires.

When they pressed too close, the figures inside the fence brandished

burning sticks at them and they quickly backed away. The common

trolls, it appeared, were allowed only to watch while Alof and a few

chosen followers conducted their ritual.

Leifr dismounted and groped around in the thickets nearby until

he found some dead limbs with leaves and branches intact. With his

knife he sawed off the hem of his shirt and twisted it among the

branches, hoping the flax and nettle fibers would encourage the rest of

the torch to burn. He still had his tinderbox; in a few moments, his

makeshift torch had burst into flame. Quickly he got onto his horse and

kicked it into a gallop, straight for the spring.

The trolls saw him instantly. A hooded, fire-bearing figure

galloping toward them with threatening shouts was an awful

spectacle in their superstitious minds, and they scrambled to get out of

the way of this emissary of doom. Leifr urged his horse straight toward

the fence. The horse hazarded a leap, but it was going too fast,

crashing through the fence and plowing into the dark pool beyond.

Leifr jumped off, still carrying his torch, and took up a defensive

position over Thurid, sword in hand. Alof and four of her servants

picked themselves up from the ground and stared at him with

astonishment.

“Fridmarr!” Alof cried incredulously. “No one escapes from

Sorkvir!”

“Sorkvir is dead again,” Leifr answered, “but he’ll come back.

not be so lucky when you die.”

You might

She tossed her head and chuckled. “You are in a strange position

to threaten me. Hundreds of trolls surround you. At a word from me,

they will tear you to pieces.”

She nodded toward the gibbering masses of trolls scuttling

restlessly just beyond the whale bones, their green eyes glowing in the

firelight.

“How is it that you’re one of them?” Leifr asked. “You wear

our clothing and speak our language, and no one would suspect you—

until it was too late. What makes you different from those vile beasts

out there in the dark?”

Alof smiled coldly and twisted a strand of her hair.

“What makes you think there is any difference?” she asked.

Suddenly Leifr saw her concealing spell melt away, revealing the

features of a scarred old troll, baring its hideous yellow teeth at him,

and the voice became a guttural snarl.

“Some of us are half-trolls, captured young and taught to be

civilized by the Dokkalfar. Sorkvir put me here after the real Alof was

killed. In many ways, I am like any Dokkalfar—except for a healthy

appetite for fresh, raw meat.” She laughed her coarse laugh. “Fridmarr,

what a fool you’ve been. We shall relish drinking your blood, still

strong and hot from battle.”

Drawing her knife, she motioned to the half-trolls inside the

circle, and they all drew their weapons and started edging closer to

Leifr, baring their teeth in anticipation.

Leifr waved his Dokkalfar sword. “I’ll make rugs and boots

out of all of you,” he growled.

“We shall see what happens,” she said. “You don’t look much

like a prophet to me.”

Imperiously, Alof beckoned to her four assistants. They came

forward, brandishing their knives and clubs, wearing white gowns

embroidered with cryptic symbols and much blackened with dried

blood where they had wiped their hands. Leifr stood his ground

between them and Thurid.

Just as he raised his sword, a harsh screech rang out. With a noisy

flapping of wings, a small owl alighted on the top of one of the stones.

With a wary grumbling and spitting, the common trolls drew back, and

even Alof stared for a moment.

“Go on,” she said harshly. “It’s nothing but an owl. All they’re

interested in is mice. Are you mice, or are you warriors?”

The four servants took their eyes off the owl with difficulty

and resumed their warlike stances around Leifr.

“Some of you are going to die,” Leifr said. “Maybe all of

you. Are you certain it’s worth it?”

The four dull fellows glowered at Leifr a moment, then

made a tentative charge, careful to stay out of reach of Leifr’s sword.

“Cowards!” Alof spat. “I could do better!”

They circled warily, seeming more like trolls to Leifr every

moment in their slouching stances and scuttling attacks. One of them

carried a club made of a root with a heavy rock lashed to its end, with

the stubs of roots sharpened and hardened in the fire—a nasty, primitive

weapon, but drastically effective, once it connected. Several times it

whistled past his head, dangerously near.

Their skirmishes intensified with each attempt, and Leifr

managed to pick off one of the half-trolls with a stroke that sent him

rolling to Alof’s feet. Snatching his weapon from his dying hand, she

plunged into the front of the battle with enough ferocity to match the

remaining three trolls combined. The common trolls outside the fence

applauded their champion with . roars and bellows.

In spite of their uproar, Leifr heard the clear voices of baying

hounds coming from the direction of the fells. He whistled to them, and

they yelped an excited response.

The trolls ceased their cavorting to listen, and Alof backed away

to reconnoiter, her pale hair falling down around her thick shoulders.

“That wretched Vitleysa,” she spat. “He ought to have killed

those hounds. Wait until I see him again.”

“My dogs have killed him to spare you the trouble,” Leifr replied

grimly. “They’ll make short work of you, Alof.”

Furiously she threw away her club and seized the stone mace

from the hands of its owner. “Get yourself another weapon,” she

snarled. “If you knew how to use it right, he would have been dead long

ago. We haven’t much time left.”

Driven by Alof’s frenzy, the three half-trolls rushed at Leifr like

berserkers, unmindful of their own hazard. Two of them went down

under Leifr’s sword, and the third staggered away with a fatal injury, all