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rage. “How like Fridmarr to create such a mess. He never

thought much about consequences— especially the consequences

of his own stupidity.”

Leifr shrugged. “It’s all right, Thurid. Nothing lasts long in

this life anyway. The only part that I really regret is Ljosa. But I

suppose I was a fool for ever thinking she might care about

anyone else, after Fridmarr.”

Thurid stood up to stalk around impatiently. “Sciplings

must be dense creatures to protect themselves from the truth

when it is smacking them in their faces,” he exclaimed. “Among

Alfar, there is no greater gesture than to expend one’s last powers

for another. You didn’t see her doing that for Fridmarr. She lived

for him, because he made her miserable. You, Scipling, freed her

by becoming her cause, her purpose for existence. You took

away all her pain and regret and the poison of long-embittered

pride. If she didn’t love you with a far better love than she loved

Fridmarr, then I have no idea what love must be.” He dabbed at

his smoke-reddened eyes with the tattered tail of his sleeve. “I

loved her too, you know—as well as Bodmarr and Fridmarr.

They were my pupils. I helped raise them from children. Now

they are all gone, and I have nothing left of my past.“

In gloomy silence, they sat watching the sun descend

closer to the horizon, seemingly moving faster the closer it got.

The dogs, lying around their feet, suddenly lifted their heads,

breaking the reverie with a chorus of growls and suspicious

woofs as a lone traveler appeared on the rugged path to

Hjaldrsholl. Leifr and Thurid eyed him a trifle resentfully as he

plodded toward them.

“Is this Hjaldrsholl?” he called out when he was near

enough. Little of him was to be seen beneath a long black cloak

and closely drawn hood.

“Hjaldrsholl it is, although Hjaldr is dead,” Thurid replied.

“I suppose it will be called Hegnasholl now. The hospitality is

somewhat rough, but you’re welcome, as long as you’re a day-

farer.”

“That I am, one of the things I know for certain.” The

traveler stopped beside them and leaned on his long staff. “No

doubt you know all about Sorkvir’s death,” he said, in the

manner of one who doesn’t and would like to hear more. “I’ve

just heard the news myself and I came as fast as I could to see if

it was really true.”

“It’s true enough,” Leifr replied guardedly. “You’ll hear

all about it down below, if you want to walk down the mountain.

I’d walk with you, but I’m waiting here and can’t leave just yet.”

“Waiting, eh? Then I don’t mind waiting with you. I’ve

taken a liking to your company.” The stranger sat down on a

rock and removed a pipe and pouch from an inner pocket. He

stuffed the pipe and blew gently into the bowl to ignite the

leaves, and Thurid’s eyes widened in recognition of a fellow

wizard. The stranger nodded and silently puffed at his pipe for a

few minutes.

“I’ve traveled far to get here,” he said in a satisfied tone,

casting one long, appraising stare at Leifr, blowing the fragrant

smoke in his direction. “It’s a momentous day when lost land is

regained by the Ljosalfar. I hope there’s room here for me and a

few traveling companions.”

Thurid nodded a trifle curtly. “Plenty of room down below

in the new hall. Hjaldrsholl is not a festive place, I fear. There are

too many unhappy memories up here. Down in the new hall,

they’ve got plenty to celebrate about.“

The stranger peered toward the outer gates of Hjaldrsholl.

“I think this suits us better up here. New halls are not as

homelike as fine old ones, even with their age and sorrows. It’s

not fine hospitality we’re looking for.”

He stood up and signaled with his hand, and some riders

and a sledge came out of a thicket on the side of the fell. A trio of

white horses pulled the sledge, tossing their heads with a jingling

of small bells. The last rays of the sun glinted on gold-inlaid

harness, and the helmets of the riders also gleamed with golden

light and the occasional flash of red jewels. As the horses

approached, Leifr could see the fine, fur-trimmed cloaks of the

riders, stitched with gold and silver thread. The horses ranged in

color from black to pale silver dapple and white, and all were

arrayed as splendidly as their riders.

Thurid hoisted one eyebrow and straightened his bent

shoulders into a more dignified posture.

“I see you are traveling with someone of

considerable importance,” he observed with grudging respect.

“Yes, indeed I am,” the stranger agreed, raising one

hand in salute as the sledge rumbled past, bearing its glittering

driver and a lone passenger.

Leifr stood up to see better as the sledge passed, and what

he saw convinced him that he was having a hallucination. The

lone rider in the sledge looked like the ragged little smith who

had sharpened his sword, and he sat cradling the grindstone in his

arms to steady it. He spared Leifr one sharp glance from beneath

his peaked hood and a glimpse of a crusty smile before the

sledge bounded through the outer gates and vanished into the

tunnel.

Leifr leaped to his feet, startling Thurid, who turned

pale and cried out furiously, “It’s not sundown yet! The alog

can’t start already!”

“No! Hush, you dolt! It’s him! The troll—or Rhbu.

He sharpened my sword!” Leifr started after the sledge. “He’s

brought the grindstone back to Hjaldrsholl!”

He shoved his way through the horses and riders gathered

in the courtyard until he got to the sledge, where he found a pair

of Alfar hoisting the grindstone to their shoulders and bearing it

into the hall, amid the cheers and battle cries of the jubilant

Dvergar. Of the ragged little smith there was no sign.

The torque remained as tight as ever around his throat.

Disgusted at himself for his foolish hope that the smith could

break Hjaldr’s alog, he hurried back to Thurid, meeting him

halfway as he strode along arm in arm with the stranger.

“Gone,” Leifr said tersely. “He must have slipped away in

the confusion.” “I saw nobody in that sledge except the driver,”

Thurid said testily.

“And the troll’s grindstone,” the stranger added. “Or so

it is called by the Dvergar. It may not be a troll at all who turns

it.”

“I saw no one.” Thurid made a slight effort to extract

himself from the stranger’s companionship, politely saying,

“Through there you’ll find Hegna. He’ll make all of you quite

comfortable. Right now I fear I must go and attend to

something. Leifr, come along. There’s not much time left.”

“No, no, you must both come with me,” the stranger said

warmly. “1 know who you are. I wish to hear the story from your

own lips, since poor Fridmarr is not here to tell me himself. I

wish he had lived to see this day. He devoted his life to the

destruction of Sorkvir. Now, after many wrong turns, he has

finally accomplished his objective.”

The stranger strode into the hall, with Thurid and

Leifr following in his wake. At once, a hush fell over the

Ljosalfar and Dvergar, and they looked up expectantly while the

stranger seated himself in Hjaldr’s chair.

“Who is this arrogant trespasser?” Thurid muttered

between his teeth to Hegna.

“He knew Fridmarr,” Leifr said. “We can expect the worst

— or, at best, the totally unexpected.” He shook his head in silent

wonder and covertly tested the tightness of the torque for any

signs of its imminent shrinkage.

The stranger must have heard; he turned to Leifr with an

amused gleam in his eye as he removed his hood and unfastened

the brooches of his cloak.

“Yes, expect the unexpected,” he said. “I have things to

say that no one will expect to hear. To begin with, I wish to

thank Thurid for sending for me. It was a message which I

have waited long to receive.“

Thurid’s jaw gaped as all eyes turned toward him. He

spluttered, “I don’t recall sending for anyone, if you’ll forgive

me for saying so. I think I’d know if I had.”

“You did send, Thurid, and I have come, just as I promised

young Fridmarr.” The stranger’s beard was wiry and golden,

and his long fair hair was bound at his forehead with a plain

band, allowing the rest to fall to his shoulders. His eyes were

the color of amber, sparkling with amusement and vitality.

Leifr knew a natural leader when he saw one. If not for the

torque, he would gladly have followed this man wherever he

commanded, in perfect faith.

“Who are you?” Leifr asked, forgetting the etiquette that

forbade such impertinent questions. “You know us, but we’ve

never seen you, and you knew our comrade Fridmarr. A friend of

his who sought for the destruction of Sorkvir is a friend of ours,

so tell us what your name is.”

The dwarfs nudged each other and leaned forward to

listen. The stranger placed his staff across his knees and did

not appear annoyed by Leifr’s blunt manners.

“The night-farers have a variety of names for me,

which I don’t care to claim, since they are invariably

derogatory. I have been known as Schmelpfinning, and the Lord

of Snowfell, but most will agree in calling me Elbegast or the

Ganger or the Wandering King.”

Thurid gasped and clutched Leifr’s arm, shoving him

forward. “The torque!” he cried. “Remove Hjaldr’s torque!

There’s very little time left! He cleared the Pentacle of Sorkvir’s

evil, and the grindstone has been returned, but Hjaldr’s alog will

not be stopped. Elbegast, Lord of Ljosalfar, use your powers to

save Leifr, and I’ll be your servant for the rest of my life. Or you

can take my powers and do with them what you will— such as

they are.”

Elbegast rose to his feet and regarded Leifr gravely for a

moment. “Where is the grindstone? Is it restored to its usual

place?”

“Aye, it’s in the forge,” Hegna replied uneasily. “King of

the Ljosalfar you may be, but it’s a dangerous thing for anyone

to go alog-breaking. I wish you wouldn’t be doing it here.“

“Here and now is the best place and the only time,”

Elbegast said, raising his hands with a shimmering glow, as if

seen through a curtain of flame. “The grindstone is in its place.

The Pentacle is purified of evil. What more remains to prevent

the earth powers from flowing again? What influence

interferes? What is missing to complete the circle of power?”

White light glowed around his form, and the Dvergar

squinted and shaded their eyes from the unwonted glare. In the

brittle silence, as Elbegast stood entranced, with his arms

outstretched, a faint but familiar sound threaded its way into

the shadowy hall. Leifr recognized it instantly as the grating

whine of a grindstone being turned somewhere down the echoing

tunnel of Hjaldrsholl. He pushed past Thurid, who was staring at

Elbegast, half-entranced with reverence. Jolted from his reverie

by Leifr’s abrupt departure from the hall, Thurid seized his staff

and rushed after him, seething with outrage.

“Fridmarr! Dradgast it, Leifr,”
he spluttered. ”Your

Sciplings’ manners are abysmal, do you realize that?“

Leifr found the forge, following the red glow of the fires

as well as the whine of the grindstone. As he passed under the

wide arch of the doorway, with the three hounds at his heels, he

saw the ragged old smith bent over the grindstone in a circle of

light, sharpening a tool with loving concentration. The sparks

danced on the bright blade of the knife, showering over the

smith’s wrinkled hands and bouncing playfully over his sleeves

and the patched knees of his trousers.

“Are you glad to be home again?” Leifr inquired softly,

during a pause in the grinding, and the smith answered with a

slight nod.

“I know who you are now,” Leifr went on. “You’re one of

the Rhbus, the last of the living ones. My fate has been in your

hands from the beginning. Now I am ready for your final

decision. Are you finished with me, or is there yet more that I

will be able to do for your cause?”

The Rhbu put down the knife and took up a large pair of