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Borgar’s frown deepened. “Fridmarr was regarded as a hero here.

He deceived Sorkvir utterly and had gotten into Sorkvir’s trust,

although it was Elbegast’s cause he was always loyal to. He told my

father Ofrodur that he was a spy for Elbegast and that one day he

would return to undo the evil that Sorkvir put the people of Bjartur into.

My father believed absolutely that Fridmarr would return one day,

and he raised me to believe it too. Everyone here believes it, more or

less, depending upon how discouraged we feel at the time.“

Leifr felt as if all the breath had been squeezed out of him, so

great was his shock. Suddenly Leifr felt himself so thoroughly in the

grip of Fridmarr’s fate that he wanted nothing more than to escape from

the situations which Fridmarr had created so many years ago and which

reached out now to enmesh him in the unforgiving bonds of cause and

effect.

Leaping to his feet, he took a few steps, only to realize the

futility of trying to escape. The towering walls of Bjartur were all

around him, solid and dark behind their screens of morning mists. There

was no escape, and there was no one who could help him. Only

Gotiskolker knew that Leifr was not Fridmarr, and Gotiskolker was

driven by his own inner demons toward his own inscrutable

devisings.

Knowing he was trapped, Leifr turned back to Borgar, who

was watching him suspiciously.

“And the people of Bjartur still believe that he is almost a

hero, even though he helped ruin the Pentacle?”

“A hero, yes,” Borgar replied.

“But look at the terrible evil that he caused you,” Leifr protested.

“Fridmarr was a traitor to his own kind. He told Sorkvir how to destroy

the well. A lot of your people lost their lives.”

“We are at war, and during wars, people die,” Borgar answered.

“If Fridmarr chose to appear as a traitor, it was for reasons that will be

explained sometime in the future. Fridmarr gave his word of honor to

my father and asked Ofrodur to trust him that one day Sorkvir would be

destroyed forever. He promised the people of Bjartur that he would

return as their deliverer.”

Leifr gazed around at the ruined fortress, which was coming to

life with the rise of the sun. Sheep, cattle, and ponies foraged among the

fallen stones, under the watchful eyes of young herdsmen, and three

men with bows and lances were starting out for a day’s hunting. The

smoke and busy noises of a striving settlement rose from the depths of

the shadowy old ruin.

For such a diligent and stubborn group of survivors, Leifr

reflected, they had certainly been taken in by one of Fridmarr’s most

blatant ploys. For a moment, Leifr considered the possibility that

Fridmarr had intended to come back, but he doubted Fridmarr’s word.

He had seen very little in Fridmarr’s nature to offer him any

encouragement.

“How did such a young man as you become chieftain?”

Leifr asked suddenly. “I saw plenty of older, grayer heads than yours

around your table last night.”

Borgar’s tension relaxed somewhat. “By the same means

that you have earned your status. By fighting—and fighting well. With

so few good men and only stone for weapons against the Dokkalfar

steel, I must plan our defenses carefully. Less than half of us here are

fighting men of full stature and warrior age. Plenty of times, the

women, children, and elders have had to put on the appearance of

warriors to frighten away marauding Dokkalfar.”

“Why do you stay here? There are plenty of better places, either

north or south.”

“Bjartur must not die. This has been our land since the time of the

Rhbus. People will come back when the alog is lifted and Ognun is

dead.”

“But only if the illustrious Fridmarr returns.”

“He is coming. Someone broke Sorkvir’s influence over

Kerling-tjorn and Luster. Perhaps it was Fridmarr. Perhaps you have

seen him.”

Leifr turned away from Borgar’s too-intent scrutiny. “I think fate

is another word for Fridmarr. Haven’t we wasted enough time arguing

over someone who might not exist?”

“He exists,” Borgar said, rising to his feet and starting away.

“You shall see. Come along if you truly want to pay Ognun a visit in

the daytime.”

The path leading into the north court was littered with bones and

skulls of animals and a few bones that looked to be human. Leifr gazed

in uneasy wonder at the corner of the gatepost where Ognun obviously

liked to rub his back when it itched. What concerned Leifr the most was

the fact that the greasy mark was head and shoulders above him, as high

as a man’s head on horseback. Leifr measured with the stone mace how

high he would have to swing to land a blow in a vital area.

“He’s bigger than he looked by moonlight,” Leifr observed

ruefully. “I can’t reach his skull unless he falls down, or I climb a wall.”

“He’ll swat you with that big club he carries as if you were a

fly,” Borgar answered.

Warily they approached the curb of the well. Four of the five

stones still stood, and the area around them had been paved with

flagstones at one time, although by now the stones and the moss had

compromised with a checkerboard effect. A well-beaten path

disappeared at the edge of the well, and the steps descending into the

darkness were blackened with Ognun’s grimy footsteps. A skull thrust

onto a sharpened stake stood as a warning in a crevice of the

curbing, and bones and molting skins were scattered within convenient

tossing distance around the mouth of the well. A few broken weapons

were among the litter. The worst part of it was the nauseating stench

hanging over the court.

Leifr approached the well, ignoring Borgar’s sharp warnings:

“Don’t go near the edge, where he might see you. He hates it when

anybody trespasses on his private domain.”

“He’ll have to get used to it,” Leifr answered, his voice echoing

inside the well. “His private domain never was his to call his own,

so we may trespass here with more right than he has.”

A cold breeze exuded from the well as Leifr peered down into it

from the top steps. It was deeper than he had imagined, spiraling down

into the earth until he could see nothing but blackness. The stone walls

oozed with clammy sweat, which encrusted them with frost and ice. Far

below, he heard something stirring restlessly, moving, then falling silent

to listen. Behind Leifr’s legs, the troll- hounds licked their lips and

rumbled with growls.

Closing his eyes a moment against the dank breath of the well,

Leifr allowed the carbuncle to tell him what it could, by way of warning

or advice. He felt a strong anticipatory thrill at the prospect of exploring

unimagined mysteries. Distinctly he glimpsed a vast galleried chamber

veiled in musty dimness—a hollow, echoing place filled with the

countless whispers of the long- departed Rhbus.

Startled and uneasy, Leifr stepped back from the well, conscious

of Borgar’s keen scrutiny.

“Let’s see if Ognun’s at home,” he said abruptly. “The dogs

would like to meet their opponent without a door between them to spoil

all their fun. Ready, Kraftig?”

At the signal from Leifr, they eagerly scampered down the

winding stairs and vanished into the gloom.

“You’ve just wasted the lives of your dogs,” Borgar said grimly.

“They may be death on ordinary trolls, but Ognun is not ordinary. He

eats dogs.” “He won’t eat these dogs,” Leifr answered.

In a few minutes, there came a ferocious outburst of barking and

snarling from far below.

“Ognun is at home, I’d say,” Leifr observed, and whistled to the

dogs. “Now they’ve had their look at him.”

Borgar regarded the dogs narrowly when they emerged from

the well, panting with satisfaction and wagging their plumy tails.

Kraftig pawed Leifr’s shoulders, looking straight into his eyes as if he

wanted to speak but found Leifr a rather dense subject for

communication. Leifr thumped them all affectionately and let them go

exploring.

“Let’s be going,” Borgar suggested uneasily. “I expect we’ve

stirred up enough trouble for one day. Ognun will tell us about it

tonight. I’d better double the guard.”

“Put everyone up on the walls if you wish,” Leifr said. “They’ll

have a good view of Ognun’s last battle.”

When they returned to the main gate of the inner keep, they

found Thurid holding court with the elders of the settlement. Seeing

Leifr, he excused himself and came to meet him. “There you are,” he

said accusingly. “When I awakened this morning, you and Gotiskolker

were nowhere to be found. What have you been doing off on your own,

without me to protect you?”

“I went to the well,” Leifr replied. “The dogs went down for a

look at Ognun’s living quarters. I heard him moving around down there.

The well is deeper than I had thought it would be, and Ognun is bigger

than a mounted rider.”

“That’s to be expected. What are your plans?”

“I have some ideas, but I thought it was your job to come up with

the plans. I don’t do anything except the fighting and dying.“

“Don’t be facetious. I’m in no mood for levity. This

throwback troll is nothing to joke about, Fridmarr. He’s far more

dangerous and cunning than a hundred regular trolls combined. You’d

better have some good ideas for killing him.”

“Have you talked to Gotiskolker yet?” Leifr asked.

“That scumbag?” Thurid snorted profoundly. “I should say not. I

haven’t fallen so low as to ask him for advice yet. What makes you

think he might know anything about killing giant trolls in wells?”

“Well, it’s possible—”

“The trouble with you, Fridmarr, is that you have no respect for

your elders and their years of wisdom.”

Leifr glanced around uneasily to see if anyone were near enough

to overhear. “You’d better stop using my name when you talk, Thurid. I

don’t want them to know who I am. They think that I’m some sort of

hero, but I’m not, so I don’t want to be treated like one.”

Thurid’s eyes bulged wrathfully. “Perverse, that’s what you are.

The return of their hero is exactly what these people need to stir them

up against this giant. If enough men attacked him, they might kill him.”

“And how many do you suppose Ognun would kill before he

died? I don’t want to do it that way, and I don’t want to pose as a

hero. When they find out the truth about my past, they’re liable to be

furious that I managed to trick them for so long. Gullible people

usually get very angry.”

During the day, the word spread that the strangers intended to

challenge Ognun. By nightfall, most of the settlement had taken up

positions on the walls overlooking the north court. A bonfire burned

on the highest rampart in the ruins of a fallen tower, and smaller fires

dotted the walls where people watched and hoped. When the sun had

vanished, Borgar opened the gate to let Thurid and Leifr out, evincing

much reluctance to see them go alone; but Leifr firmly resisted all

offers of help. The person he most wanted to see was Gotiskolker,

but the scavenger had stayed out of sight the entire day.

The troll-hounds ran ahead, racing straight toward the north

court. Ognun had not yet emerged, the watchers on the walls reported,

but more mist than usual seemed to be coming from the well, in

billowing white clouds.

Leifr glanced frequently at Thurid, wondering at his resolute

silence and the grim set of his jaw. It was unlike Thurid to be quiet so

long.

“Why do you keep staring at me?” Thurid snapped at last,

hesitating at the arched gateway into the north court. “Are you afraid

I’m not competent for the task at hand? I spent most of the day making

new rune sticks from memory and finding a new satchel. Are you

beginning to doubt my ability?”

“You seem to doubt more,” Leifr replied. “I don’t think you need

those rune sticks.”

“Indeed! And what makes you a qualified judge, if I may be so

bold as to inquire?”

Leifr paused, knowing he had spoken from Fridmarr’s knowledge

coming to him from the carbuncle. He rubbed his chest, feeling the

slight bump of the little stone against his breastbone. “You are far too

willing to walk with a crutch, when you could be flying without it,”

he said.

Thurid sniffed disdainfully. “Crutch, my eye! I’m only trying to