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barrage of orders flung at Snagi in an irritable voice. Between times, he

glared at Leifr, who sat helplessly watching a series of petty

annoyances plaguing Thurid. His tea spilled for no reason, any metal

objects near him behaved bizarrely, and the bread shifted positions on

the table whenever he reached for it. Then he discovered a suspicious,

dark fragment floating in his cup.

“What’s this?” he demanded, trembling with fury.

Peering uninvited over his shoulder, Snagi volunteered

cheerfully, “Looks like a bit of midden to me.”

Thurid stood up suddenly, fixing a hostile glare upon Leifr. “If

there’s muck in the milk, I know who’s responsible,” he snapped.

“We’ve had a peaceful time of it while you’ve been gone, but the

moment you return, all manner of fiendish tricks start happening. It

doesn’t take a wizard to figure out where the trouble comes from.” He

whirled around and strode out the door, half-tripping over a piece of

firewood which had crept out of the box to trip him. Another kettle fell

off the shelf with a heavy crash.

Snagi kept one hand over his mouth to hide a toothless grin.

“You shouldn’t gall him like that, young master, be it ever so funny.

You’re not changed one bit, are you, lad? I remember how you used

to set fire to him.“

Leifr uncoiled somewhat from his aghast wincing and cringing.

The ungoverned magical effects seemed to have halted with Thurid’s

departure. He couldn’t help glancing around nervously, and the

evidence of magical powers tripping around the room had destroyed his

appetite for breakfast.

“He’s the wizard, not me,” he protested feebly. “He must be

doing all this himself.”

Snagi laughed aloud and discreetly turned it into a lengthy cough.

“Wizard! And my grandfather was a haddock,” he wheezed. “You’ll

never admit it, will you? Still got it in for him after all these years—I

declare!” Snickering under a muzzling hand, he turned his back to

hide his glee. “What will you be doing today, young master?”

“I’ll have to go see Sorkvir sometime,” Leifr said grimly. “I’d

best not put it off too long, although I never was a great one for

obligations.” He knew enough by now about Fridmarr to feel quite safe

in that statement.

Snagi’s mirth faded. “If you go to Gliru-hals, you might never

come back again,” he said worriedly. “I remember how it was before.

Sorkvir was the grandest thing you ever saw. You were lucky to have

escaped from him once. Are you sure he’ll let you go a second time?”

“I have a good sword, Snagi, made of Scipling steel,” Leifr

assured him, sensing his fond concern. “Sorkvir’s alog hasn’t touched

it. As long as I have it in my hand, I’ll have a fighting chance of getting

away from Sorkvir again.”

Snagi wagged his head in solemn agreement. “I’ll have the mare

saddled for you. This isn’t like before, when you didn’t want to be one

of us.”

Leifr stared after his patient brown backside, stumping across the

overgrown courtyard toward the stable, and wondered if he would ever

understand Fridmarr completely. An uneasy sense that he was

treading blithely over cavernous depths began to plague him,

especially when he considered what he was about to do. Over the past

three days he had at least learned in which direction Gliru-hals lay, but

everyone seemed to expect Fridmarr to know what awaited him within.

Snagi accompanied him as far as the first gate, which he

ceremoniously opened for Leifr. At that moment, a flock of sheep

pattered across their path and Leifr stopped to let them pass. As the

shepherd went by, Leifr caught a glimpse of a woman’s face beneath the

closely drawn, ragged hood. Twice she looked over her shoulder with a

frown and would have hurried on with her blattering sheep if Snagi had

not called out to her.

“Halloa! Ljosa! Stop a moment!” He hobbled after her, anxious

to impart his news of Fridmarr’s return.

“I’ve heard it already,” she said, with an unfriendly toss of

her head in Leifr’s direction. “Everyone is anxious for me to know that

Fridmarr is back, although I fail to see where the honor lies in returning

forty-odd years after he’s caused his brother to be killed.”

“No! Ljosa!” Leifr gasped, caught completely off balance by an

overwhelmingly poignant surge of recognition sparked by the

carbuncle. With a wave of revulsion, he wished he were posing as

almost anyone else but Fridmarr. The hatred in Ljosa’s eyes struck

deep. Her anger lent a soft blush to her pale and delicate cheek and

added brilliance to her large and alluring eyes. Tendrils of fair hair

escaped from her hood like wisps of mist, agitated by her deep, quick

breathing as she looked at him. The ragged cloak enveloping her

form failed to conceal her regal bearing, made even more haughty by

her indignation.

Ljosa gripped her shepherd’s staff resolutely. “I don’t know what

you’re thinking of to come back here,” she said in a low, forceful tone.

“You can’t possible do more harm than you’ve already done. Or are you

dissatisfied with your handiwork? Is there someone else besides

Bodmarr you’d like to sacrifice? At least my father is out of your

reach now. He died last spring in Sorkvir’s dungeon.” Angrily she

dabbed at a tear with a tatter from her cloak, turning away to hide

her emotion.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Leifr said unsteadily, flogging

his wits for something appropriate to say. “I know I’m guilty of many

things, but I want to make amends.”

“Amends! Do you think that’s the way to find peace of mind,

Fridmarr?” she retorted. “Can you ever ease your conscience after what

happened to Bodmarr? A lifetime of good deeds will not bring him

back. Amends are futile and vain when lives have been blasted and

shattered.“ She whistled to her dogs to gather the scattered sheep and

strode away.

Leifr gazed at her haughty back, but she did not favor him

with a second glance. He expelled a weary sigh, totally baffled by

Ljosa’s hatred of Fridmarr.

“You almost wouldn’t know her now in those ordinary

observed. “A far cry from what she once was, when

clothes,” Snagi

Hroald was chieftain. Still as haughty as ever she was when Hroald was

seeking a grand match for her. In a few years of sheep-tending, her fine

looks will be all gone, and she’ll be glad for some of the offers she’s

turned down already. If she’d taken Bodmarr—” Seeing Leifr’s quick,

interested glance and misreading it, he hastily finished, “Well, I should

be ashamed for gossiping. I’ll shut my mouth and go back to the house.

Good luck, young master. I hope the Rhbus smile upon your endeavor.”

“So do I, Snagi,” Leifr agreed earnestly, turning his horse toward

Gliru-hals with extreme reluctance. His only source of comfort was his

sword; but that would have no lasting effect upon Sorkvir, according

to Gotiskolker. Perhaps these unknown Rhbus were as good a defense

as any.

When he came within view of Gliru-hals, he stopped and studied

the massive turf-and-timber hall and its outlying buildings, all in good

repair and evidently prosperous, as befitted a chieftain’s hall. Except for

a peculiar lack of the usual clutter of noisy geese, thrall children,

dogs, and orphan lambs, Gliru-hals seemed ordinary enough at first

glance. Then his practiced eye discerned the large number of shields

hanging on the side of the hall and the lances standing in clusters by

the doorways, ready to hand at the first hint of opposition. In addition to

the traditional beaks of enemy ships captured in battle, the doorways of

the hall were ornamented with more grisly trophies; the cloven skulls of

enemies were nailed up as a silent warning to anyone who thought to

cross Sorkvir’s might.

Two guards posted along the road leading to the hall

returned Leifr’s scrutiny in sinister silence, their faces masked in black

to protect them from the sunlight. Long black cloaks trimmed with

embroidery, weasel tails, and dangling bits of tinkling metal

covered them almost to their feet, and they carried shields

embossed with the insignia of their rank—spiders, in the case of these

two. Leifr urged his horse toward them at a cautious pace. Suddenly

they spurred their horses forward, rushing at him with shrill yells and a

clashing of weapons and shields.

Leifr stood his ground, recognizing scare tactics when he saw

them. The two Dokkalfar charged past on either side of him, making his

placid mare dance around nervously. Plowing to a halt, the Dokkalfar

circled, making menacing gestures with their lances, and came

alongside Leifr to look him over carefully.

“What do you want?” The ranking Dokkalfar was marked by a

red spiral painted on his helmet. He peered through his eye slits

suspiciously, with nothing of his face to be seen behind the black mask

stitched to resemble a spider in a web.

“I’m Fridmarr Fridmundrsson, and I’ve come home,” Leifr said

curtly. “I’ve come to beg Sorkvir’s pardon so I can remain with my

father until he dies.”

“Fridmarr, of course.” The guards exchanged a glance. “We’ve

been expecting to hear from you again. If you hadn’t come back to

your old friends on your own, we were prepared to come and find you.

Lucky for you that you came willingly.”

Leifr scowled. “I came here to talk to Sorkvir, not his underlings.

Either lead me to him or get out of my way so I can find him.”

The Dokkalfar made a show of reaching for their weapons,

glaring balefully, then motioned Leifr to follow them. One Dokkalfar

dropped behind, as if to make certain no one mistook the procession for

a friendly association.

Once within the walls of the court, Leifr left his horse reluctantly

to the care of a thrall and let himself be escorted through the tall,

creaking doors into the hall. Leifr glanced sideways at his guards,

strengthening his original supposition that the Dokkalfar felt no

yearning to express themselves in any other medium than blood and

oppression.

The doors were closed against the yellow sunlight and green

fells, and Leifr found himself enveloped in the amber gloom of the

ancient hall. It was long and high enough to store a full-size longship,

and Leifr mentally counted off the paces as he walked the length of the

hall toward the dais at the far end. A half-smothered fire smoked on

the great hearth and several lamps burned dully, as if something in the

atmosphere prevented proper combustion. A knot of dark-clad

Dokkalfar stood around a man seated in a heavy, carven chair, talking

and darting suspicious glances at Leifr. He tried to determine some

essential difference between Dokkalfar and Ljosalfar—Dark Elves and

Light Elves—noting among this group an almost deathly pallor and a

sharpening of the features. A few of them were hideously marred by

vile-looking blotches on their hands or faces, which Leifr attributed to

accidental exposure to daylight. These were high-ranking Dokkalfar,

ornamented with costly gold chains and emblems of owls, wolves, and

foxes. When they turned their narrow backs and moved away like a

remnant of a storm cloud, Leifr breathed much easier.

He gave his attention to the man seated in the chair, and Sorkvir

looked back at him with the same still, deadly stare that the

carbuncle indicated had transfixed him before, filling him with the

proper awe for a wizard who held the powers of death and life at his

command. Sorkvir’s clothing was of the excessively plain and

expensive quality usually reserved for burial garments, and his only

ornaments were the two brooches that held his black cloak, gleaming

gold embossed with his spiral mark. His beard was fine and silken,

carefully combed and trimmed around his narrow face.

Returning Leifr’s scrutiny with displeasure, Sorkvir spoke in a

dry, grim voice. “Well, Fridmarr, you’re much changed. Outlawry had

done you good. I can scarcely believe more than forty years have

passed since I saw you last. Yet I seem to recall banishing you for

life, at the threat of death if you ever returned.”

“Death is a hollow threat,” Leifr replied, in true stoic viking