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our weapons and tools will be dull and blunted until a particular

circumstance occurs, which I know you will be interested in, because

that is the entire reason for which I have brought you here.”

Leifr folded his arms and leaned back in his chair until

it creaked protestingly. “This is the bad part, isn’t it? I knew it couldn’t

be anything as simple as killing a warlord who happens to be a

powerful wizard I wonder what I have ever done to deserve being

chosen for this.” He tore his good-luck amulet off his neck and threw it

into the fire in disgust.

Gotiskolker shrugged. “You were chosen because you happened

to cross my path at the right time, and you also happen to look a lot like

Fridmarr. I knew it for the work of the dexterous Rhbus, who see all the

earth’s events and struggle to preserve peace and virtue. For the first

time in my life, the Rhbus have condescended to notice me.”

“I don’t feel as honored as I should. How did Sorkvir make

an alog like this?” Leifr touched the blunted weapons in silent

wonderment.

“By corrupting the beneficial earth magic of the Solvorfirth

Pentacle into his own harmful magic.”

“Pentacle?” Leifr sketched a five pointed star on the

table’s finish of ingrained grease.

Gotiskolker nodded. “But this Pentacle is twenty miles on a side,

with a significant site at each point, where something important was

altered by Sorkvir. When all is as it was before, Bodmarr’s sword

must be sharpened by a Rhbu grindstone, and this is the weapon that

will end Sorkvir’s journeys back from Hel’s kingdom.”

Leifr glanced at his own sharp Scipling sword. “An ordinary

sword won’t kill him?”

Gotiskolker shook his head. “The Rhbu sword was taken from

Bjartur, one of the points on the Pentacle, but Sorkvir’s alog has dulled

it, as well as every other Ljosalfar weapon.”

“And an ordinary grindstone won’t sharpen the Rhbu sword?”

Leifr asked. “Nor any other blade within a hundred miles of

grindstone has been hidden by Sorkvir, and

Solvorfirth. The Rhbu

he took possession of the Rhbu sword when he killed Bodmarr.”

“It would appear that Sorkvir holds all the vital tokens in this

game,” Leifr mused. “What is it you expect me to do to help you?

I’m just a common Scipling, with no magical powers for restoring

your Pentacle, and my sword is an ordinary steel sword which won’t

kill Sorkvir. I don’t see how I could help you, even if I wanted to.”

“When you go to Dallir, you will meet a wizard, Thurid by

name. Although he is currently in reduced circumstances and earns

his keep at Dallir by directing the thralls and watching over

Fridmundr in his last illness, at one time he was schoolmaster for young

Bodmarr, Fridmarr, and Ljosa, the chieftain’s daughter. Foretelling the

future was his claim to renown, but unfortunately, he wasn’t much good

at it, despite some rather spectacular methods. For the past years, he has

been studying Rhbu magic from old rune sticks. He is the one whose

aid we’ve got to enlist.”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Leifr asked.

“He despises me. In fact, you’d better not mention that you’ve

had any dealings with me at all. My name is somewhat tainted in

Solvorfirth.” He smiled his ironic smile, scarcely more than a twitch of

his thin lips, and brought his crippled hand onto the surface of the table,

turning the grimy palm upward to reveal Sorkvir’s spiral mark burned

into the flesh.

Leifr stared at the scar. “What have you done to earn Sorkvir’s

mark of destruction? You’re nothing but a scavenger, no threat to

anyone.”

Gotiskolker put his hand out of sight again. “It was not always

so,” he said shortly. “There’s no time to talk about it now. Suffice it to

say that my name is better left unmentioned.”

He stood up and reached for a walking staff. “We’ve wasted

enough time here. It will be dark soon, and that’s no time to be

wandering around these fells. You’d better get yourself to Dallir and

make your presence known. You look completely suitable for the part

of the returning wanderer—ragged, wasted, and forlorn.”

Leifr got to his feet. “I never consented to pose as Fridmarr. I’ll

do it as my own self or not at all.”

Gotiskolker sighed impatiently. “A stranger will not be trusted

Particularly a Scipling. You would be viewed with utmost suspicion by

Sorkvir.”

“And he’ll be delighted to see Fridmarr, who once tried to kill

him?”

“Just believe me when I say Sorkvir has no advantage in killing

you on sight. You’ll have to ask for his pardon—a truce until Fridmundr

dies.”

Leifr snorted. “Beg for pardon? I’ve never done that before and I

won’t do it now I came here to fight, not to beg. And what if someone

finds out I’m not Fridmarr? What’s going to happen to me then?”

“No one will know you’re not. I’ve told you, the two of you look

very similar.”

“But Fridmundr will know his own son. I dislike deceiving a

dying man more than anything else about your plan. It will grieve

him more when he knows I’m not Fridmarr.”

Gotiskolker paused, leaning on his greasy walking staff. “He

will never betray your secret,” he said quietly. “He’s not long for

this life I’ve seen his fetch myself with my own eyes— an old gray

sheep standing outside his door, gasping for breath. When it dies,

Fridmundr will die also.”

Leifr shook his head slowly. “It still won’t work. Somebody will

know I’m not Fridmarr. I can’t fool anyone who has magical powers.“

“I’m not finished with you quite yet,” Gotiskolker replied

grimly. “Do you think my plan will be confounded by something so

ridiculously simple as that?” He limped to the hearthstone in the

center of the hut and knelt beside the small peat fire, scratching

among the ashes. Trying not to appear too curious, Leifr watched

suspiciously as Gotiskolker pried up a section of stone and extracted a

small leather pouch from its earthy concealment. With a hand that

trembled, Gotiskolker placed the bag on the table, and his ruined face

was twisted by an emotion which Leifr could not fathom, but there was

a glitter of muzzled anger in his secretive eyes.

“Open the bag,” Gotiskolker directed harshly, moving away as if

fearing irresistible temptation. “Go on, it’s yours to take. I’ve got no use

for it. I can’t even touch the thing again, or it may cost me my life.”

Doubtfully Leifr hefted the bag. It weighed nothing at all in his

hand, for all its dread significance to Gotiskolker. He upended the bag.

A brilliant red gem rolled onto the table, almost the size of a wren’s

egg, glittering from a thousand inner facets, although its surface was

perfectly smooth. Leifr’s acquisitive viking instincts awakened

instantly. He cradled the gem reverently in his palm as he calculated

its immense worth.

“What is this stone? You say it’s mine?” he demanded.

Gotiskolker smiled his thin, dark smile. “You can have it, but I

fear it will never be truly yours. This is not a mere bauble to be sold

somewhere for gold. It is an Alfar carbuncle— anciently known as

anthrax—something which you Sciplings have never known before.”

Leifr’s breath frosted the stone’s glossy surface as he peered at it,

and it felt warm in his hand. For a moment the room blurred around

him, and he had a peculiar sensation, similar to being lifted off his feet

by a powerful, swelling wave. A series of images flashed through his

mind, like memories fluttering in the shadows of his consciousness,

half-remembered. They were all unfamiliar to him—strange faces,

unknown places, but all somehow infused with an insistent familiarity.

The carbuncle felt almost hot in his hand. With an elaborate air of

negligence, Leifr put the stone on the table. “I don’t believe I want

this,” he said as casually as he could.

Gotiskolker snorted. “Don’t be afraid of it. In fact, everything

depends upon your wearing this jewel next to your skin for the next

several days. Without it, you may as well stand up and shout that

you’re not an Alfar, with no powers and no family memories to guide

you. Sorkvir in particular would be impossible to deceive without this

carbuncle. It was Fridmarr’s, and if you wear it, other Alfar will

perceive you as Fridmarr. Mere physical appearance is easily altered

among Alfar, but the signals from this little stone will be forever

Fridmarr.”

Leifr touched the stone tentatively with one finger, and was

rewarded instantly with a glimpse of a girl’s face and tendrils of

mist-colored hair. He drew back and scowled at Gotiskolker. “I’ve

heard of things like this and I want nothing to do with it. I don’t want to

be taken over by Fridmarr’s memories and ideas. This would be like

giving myself up to be possessed by a fylgjadraug.”

Gotiskolker sighed impatiently. “Leifr, I promise that you’ll be

able to get rid of this stone whenever you want—but you’d be wiser to

think of it as merely an identifying badge among Alfar. If you wear it,

the others will have the sense that you belong, instead of regarding you

as a stray goose among swans.”

Leifr grunted, considering the comparison and not liking it much.

“What is a rotten slinker like you doing with a stone like this? If what

you say is true, then this stone is the most precious thing in the world to

Fridmarr.”

Gotiskolker returned his suspicious glower. “Calm yourself, and

I’ll tell you exactly how I came by it. Before this bodily destruction of

mine occurred, Fridmarr and I were friends— practically brothers. He

didn’t get away from Sorkvir and his guards unscathed. He was ill for

a long time, too ill to return if he had dared, not for a good long while,

at least. He also left behind a very sorry state of affairs in Solvorfirth,

which tormented him unmercifully. I told him I would go back and do

what good I could—or harm, in regard to Sorkvir. Since he could not

be there to advise me, he gave me his carbuncle, much as I’m

giving it to you now.”

Leifr folded his arms obdurately, his eyes resting upon the

carbuncle. “I’m not taking it,” he said.

“It’s harmless, I tell you,” Gotiskolker insisted. “Every Alfar is

born with a tiny grain of this substance. It has to do with powers

and recall of past ancestors’ words—nothing more than basic instincts

for survival. What’s so frightening about that?”

“The more I hear, the less I like it. I think Fridmarr is dead, and

you scavenged this gem from his corpse.”

“Not quite. He still lives, as far as I can tell. The carbuncle

shows life yet, does it not?”

Leifr eyed the sparkling ruby interior and was forced to admit

it appeared almost alive. “It will die when he dies?”

“Unless it finds a place with another host. Haven’t you noticed

the wartiness of old wizards and witches? Those warts are carbuncles,

their own and others they have bought—or stolen. The larger the stone,

the more valuable it is.” He rubbed his scarred left eyebrow absently as

he talked, his gaze fastened upon the glittering stone. “This stone is

actually rather a small one, or you might well fear being taken over by

it. Should you one day choose to become more an Alfar and less a

Scipling, all you would need to do is carve a small slit in your skin

and sew this stone inside with gut; in a very short while, you would

never wish to be a benighted Scipling any longer.”

“You must be mad!” Leifr stood up, his hand on the hilt of

his sword. “I would never do such a thing!”

Gotiskolker favored him with a bitter sneer. “Not even when

you consider how short-lived you Sciplings are? Fifty years is

considered a lifetime for you, but to an Alfar, fifty years is a reasonable

length of time to spend visiting relatives you’re not particularly well

acquainted with. With this stone, you could seek knowledge beyond the

ken of the most enlightened Scipling sorcerer and attain power beyond

your wildest imaginings.”

Leifr unfolded his arms and again leaned forward to contemplate

the carbuncle. It seemed to wink at him invitingly. Cunningly, he

inquired of Gotiskolker, “If all this is true, why have you ended up

so miserably? Surely you possess a carbuncle of your own, if you are