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“I’m not a thrall,” Leifr snapped. “I’m the son of a well-off

landholder in Landslag. No one is going to hold me thrall.” He

struggled to rise to one elbow by slow and calculated degrees,

inventorying his injuries and deciding with relief that no bones were

broken and nothing seemed too badly beaten to mend eventually.

Raudbjorn slowly shook his head. “Sorkvir sells enemies to

Dokholur as thralls. Dying too good for some people.”

Leifr sank back with a stifled groan. Sorkvir was perfectly

within his rights to sell a vanquished enemy into slavery. Death had a

certain nobility for the defeated, but nobody cared to remember the

degradation of being sold into thralldom. Such a fate made a man more

dead than a funeral pyre or a barrow mound, and escape did little to

improve the lot of the reluctant thrall.

“I’m not staying here.” Leifr felt the torque‘ around his throat.

“How long have I been out of my head?”

“Three days.” Raudbjorn looked at Leifr critically. “Escape, hah!

No thralls escape from Dokholur.”

“I’m not a thrall. I’m a warrior, with the freedom of the earth and

my fate in my own two hands, and I’m going to escape. You can tell

that to your master Sorkvir.”

Raudbjorn grunted dubiously and scowled. “Raudbjorn no thrall

either.”

“You are, as long as you grovel around Sorkvir’s feet and lick

his boots,” Leifr retorted, ignoring Raudbjorn’s dangerous expression.

“What about Thurid and Gotiskolker? Were they captured too?”

“No. Just Fridmarr. How you kill that great, ugly Ognun?

Raudbjorn tried to fight him and had to run like big chicken. What

weapon you kill him with?” He made the inquiry in a strictly

professional tone not untinged by admiration.

Leifr replied shortly, “Arrows and a whetstone.”

Raudbjorn’s brow puckered. “Whetstone. Rhbu magic. Bad

sign for Sorkvir.”

“Sorkvir is going to be killed, Raudbjorn. If I were you, I’d get

out now, before you get caught in the middle. All these Dokkalfar are

going to be driven underground. You’re a day-farer. You don’t belong

with them.“

“Raudbjorn likes fire and food and Sorkvir’s gold. Night-faring

not so bad. Better than thief-taking.”

Leifr snorted in disgust. “You’re willing to lose your good name

and your pride for nothing more than gold and a full belly?”

Raudbjorn winced. “Used to be proud, but poor. Now Raudbjorn

not so proud.”

“Well, give it up, then.”

“Too hard to give up good life, Fridmarr. Sorkvir a hard master,

but hungry belly worst master of all.” Resuming his expression of

benign vacuity, he posted himself against the wall to watch Leifr, with

his halberd held across his chest.

On the next day Leifr was awakened by the shuffling of the

wretched thralls on their way to their labors. They did not raise their

dull eyes to Raudbjorn, but they glanced at Leifr knowingly, offering

him no encouragement with their rueful expressions. When they were

gone, a group of Dokkalfar came striding down the tunnel into the

thralls’ quarters, stopping in a menacing circle around Leifr, who rose

to his feet, tottering like an old dog rising to his last battle, beaten

but not defeated.

Sorkvir shoved his way through the ring to confront Leifr,

suppressing his - gloating into a pleased smirk.

“Still alive, I see,” Sorkvir said, thrusting a torch almost into

Leifr’s face, but failing to make him flinch. “Perhaps old Skrof didn’t

make such a bad bargain after all. A thrall such as you should be good

for years in the tunnels of Dokholur.”

A gaunt and unwashed face crept out of the shadows

behind Sorkvir, nodding nervously. “Yes, I dare say he’ll last a long

time, my lord, although it is rather close to winter and nobody really

wants another thrall to feed this time of year. I’ll be lucky if half of

them don’t freeze or starve before next spring.” He looked at Leifr with

great gloom. “He still doesn’t look too good. Do you really think he’s

ready to go to work?”

Leifr answered grimly, “You needn’t worry yourself about my

welfare. You should look out for yourselves, considering what has

happened at the other places where I have stopped for a while.”

Skrof blanched and slunk back into the shadows.

Raudbjorn nodded approvingly. “Right, right. Ognun not feeling

too good now.”

Sorkvir whirled spitefully on Raudbjorn, giving him a shove with

the end of his staff. “Silence, you bullock. It’s not your privilege to

speak anything that comes into that bird-sized brain of yours, so hold

your speech. You might inadvertently convince me I don’t need your

presence, if you’re not more cautious.”

Raudbjorn retreated, scowling and muttering, and the Dokkalfar

seemed to enjoy his discomfiture and humiliation, winking at one

another and stifling nasty chuckles.

“And you,” he continued, turning back to Leifr, “are in no

condition to boast. You have interfered in matters more important than

you are. That’s what earned your friend Gotiskolker his reward. I don’t

know what gave you the audacity to interfere with the Pentacle. You

could not have done it without the knowledge I entrusted you with. No

ordinary fire wizard could have broken my influence.”

“But Rhbu magic might,” Leifr answered. “As long as Thurid

remains free, you’re in danger, Sorkvir.”

“In danger!” Sorkvir’s cloak surged as he raised his staff in a

threatening gesture. “You are the one in danger, my insolent friend.” He

nodded to the Dokkalfar, and they all drew their swords, gleaming in

the firelight and etched with blood-blackened runes.

Skrof edged forward and ventured to tug at Sorkvir’s sleeve,

protesting, “You can’t kill him unless you give my two marks back.

You’ve lost your rights to murder him. Begging your pardon for

speaking up, of course,” he added hastily, retreating into the shadows

when Sorkvir bent an angry eye upon him.

Leifr said, “Perhaps it would be well worth two marks for

you to kill me now, Sorkvir. This may be your best opportunity.”

Sorkvir’s hard eyes glittered as he stared at Leifr. “I dare not,

just yet,” he said with hatred in his tone. “You know far too much of

my own knowledge. You would return as a vengeful fylgjadraug,

made more powerful by your journey into Hel and back. I shall

keep you here, working like a mindless animal, until there’s little left

of your mind or body, like Gotiskolker.”

“It didn’t work with Gotiskolker,” Leifr replied. “He’s the one

who brought me back. I see little evidence that he’s under your power.“

Sorkvir’s eyes flickered with rage. “It was Gotiskolker, was it? I’ll

settle with him later. His time is near at hand, when he’ll

have to

want to seek me out for the eitur.”

“Not any longer, Sorkvir. He’s going to die free.”

“You should know that none of my enemies die free, Fridmarr.

Perhaps you have forgotten Kaldi and Barmur, or you might never have

ventured to dare my wrath. Or have you forgotten that I have Ljosa

Hroaldsdottir here as a prisoner? I have brought her to Dokholur to

convince you to return Bodmarr’s sword to me. She was much more

comfortable at Hjaldrsholl, I am ashamed to confess. Here she is forced

to work for her keep, the same as any other prisoner.”

Leifr restrained his fury, speaking with cold deliberation. “For

that alone, I shall be glad to kill you. She is a chieftain’s daughter

and not accustomed to such treatment. If she had any brothers left to

protect her, you wouldn’t dare to treat her this way.”

“She has no one left to defend her—except you. Unless you

return that sword, Hroaldsdottir is likely to die this winter when the

trolls get hungry and start stalking the tunnels, preying upon the weak

and unwary. She shall go free as soon as you summon that madman

Thurid and put Bodmarr’s sword into my hands. I’ll see to it that she is

taken to her relations in Fjarastrond.”

“How can I believe anything you say?” Leifr retorted. “You

wouldn’t let her go. Maybe she’s not even here now. For all I know, she

might be dead.” The thought was like iron struck to his soul.

“She is here and alive.” Sorkvir nodded toward one of the

Dokkalfar. “Go and fetch her from the cauldron area. Be quick about

it.”

The Dokkalfar favored Leifr with a malevolent grin, and Leifr

recognized him by the dried ear trophies hanging from his sword sheath

as the same Dokkalfar who had brought Leifr out of Alof’s musty

storeroom as Sorkvir’s prisoner. He had also garnered a chin-to-temple

slash from Leifr’s sword, now partially healed into a fulsome puckered

scar. Seeing Leifr’s present battered condition seemed to afford

him a great amount of satisfaction.

“That’s Greifli,” Sorkvir observed. “He holds a particular

grudge against you. It was all we could do to restrain him from leaving

a similar beauty mark upon your face. He thinks you’ve quite spoiled

his looks.”

Leifr was about to retort, when the mountain suddenly began to

tremble slightly around them. Hollow, groaning, grinding sounds

echoed through the network of tunnels.

Sorkvir cocked his head to listen intently, and the Dokkalfar

guards exchanged uneasy glances while the tremors continued.“

“Skrymir the mountain giant crush us all one day, digging in his

body like worms,” Raudbjorn said.

“Not before we find his heart or whatever keeps him alive,”

Sorkvir replied, speaking to Leifr. “I’ve heard that his heart is a

single large ruby, big enough that one man can’t reach all the way

around it. One day we’ll find it, and Skrymir will be dead, as

mountains are intended to be. He has weakened a great deal since you

saw Dokholur last, Fridmarr. I suspect you never thought that you

would one day be one of the wretches carving out Skrymir’s vitals.”

Leifr scarcely noticed the jibe. His thoughts were too busy with

the idea of a mountain that lived. Another rumbling groan ran through

the mountain, as if some huge creature were in pain.

Greifli came back, pushing Ljosa along before him, a slight, very

ragged figure with a regal composure about her that filled Leifr’s

heart with fierce pride. Greifli shoved her into the circle of

torchlight, and Sorkvir reached out one withered hand to draw back

the hood that hid her face. She flinched away, tossing back her hood to

gaze around the ring of her captors. Her glance settled on Leifr with

rock-steady calm. Leifr could not speak, only gaze with furious resolve

to rescue her from the loathly condition he had brought her to in his

clumsy and unwilling parody of Fridmarr.

“You see, she is here,” Sorkvir said. “Enjoy looking at her; she

won’t keep her looks long in this place. Unless, of course, you do the

noble thing and set her free by giving me Bodmarr’s sword. What is

your answer, Fridmarr?”

“Let her go, Sorkvir,” Leifr said in a deadly tone.

“Then will you give me the sword? At least then you could

spend the last of your days thinking of her freedom, which you bought

for her.”

Ljosa turned her angry stare upon Leifr. “Don’t do it for my sake,

Fridmarr. I refuse to be used as a pawn in Sorkvir’s vile games. I can

suffer and endure as well as you can. If you help Sorkvir get Bodmarr’s

sword, even if I do go free, your name will be an anathema to me

forever, Fridmarr.”

“Quiet, spitfire!” Sorkvir rasped. “Greifli, take her out of here. I

might have known she’d have a streak of self-immolation in her.”

Greifli seized her arm roughly and started to lead her away. She

called back, “Remember, Fridmarr! Anathema!”

Raudbjorn grinned and nodded approvingly. “Brave girl. Spirit

like tiger. Anathema something poisonous?”

“Silence, fool!” Sorkvir spat, shifting his brittle stare to Leifr.

“Well? What is your answer?”

Leifr shook his head slowly. “As long as I live, you’ll never get

the Sword by any means of mine.”

“Are you mad? That girl can’t survive here. She’ll have a

lingering and wasting death before her—supposing that a troll doesn’t

kill her and carry her off.” Sorkvir smiled his thin and sinister smile. “I

had thought that you cared for her, somewhat.”

Leifr’s response was a cold and menacing stare. “Have you