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eyebrows.

“We are the Dvergar of the Grindstone,” he said with a weighty

intonation. “We have captured four trespassers—a woman, a wizard, a

scavenger, and what looks to be a warrior of some kind. This is highly

suspicious. Especially when we find you trying to creep around our

rear guard. There can be no reasonable excuse for your presence here.“

“We came here for peaceful purposes,” Leifr said. “Our common

enemy has made it impossible for us to stay in Solvorfirth, so we’re on

our way north to escape him.”

“Sorkvir is after you, then.” The white-bearded leader did

not relax his guard. “Having a common enemy does not make us

friends. The Dvergar are choosy about the strangers they meet

blundering around in the fells. In the past, we trusted when we should

have attacked.”

As he talked, another dwarf searched through the saddle

bags and possessions of the prisoners. With a grave sense of

foreboding, Leifr saw him pull out the sword, cautiously unwrapping it

and examining it for a long time before bringing it forward. Thurid

silenced his indignant huffing and threatening.

“If you’ll allow us to explain—” he began.

“No explanation is needed,” the white-bearded dwarf interrupted.

“We know who you are now. This is the Bjartur sword, taken from a

barrow in the ancient fortress of the Rhbus and brought to Solvorfirth to

cause unimaginable troubles. Fridmarr, you should have left this sword

buried, and we would not have been cursed with this alog. The first

time I saw it, I knew you’d only succeed in turning Sorkvir against us.

Now we’ve all paid for your foolishness. Bodmarr is dead, Sorkvir has

the grindstone, and this sword is ruined.”

“Perhaps,” Thurid said acidly, “the fault lies in you for not

sharpening it the first time he brought it to you, Hjaldr. Your

cautiousness led him to the desperate theft of the troll’s grindstone.”

Hjaldr snorted, “He was an ally of Sorkvir. Why should I

sharpen a sword for my enemy, especially on a stone with such power

as that grindstone had?”

“You knew he wanted to kill Sorkvir,” Thurid replied. “It

shouldn’t have mattered, as long as we were rid of Sorkvir. Fridmarr

was the lesser enemy, by far.”

“It matters little, now,” Hjaldr said. “AH our hopes are blasted.

Half my men were killed yesterday by Sorkvir’s Dokkalfar. All that is

left to me is the desire for revenge for Bodmarr and all the Ljosalfar and

Dvergar who once hoped that Fridmarr would be the bane of Sorkvir.

Many is the time I’ve wished for this very opportunity to slay the man

who was responsible for raising such hope and such despair.“

He reached for the short sword hanging at his belt, and the

two dwarfs holding Leifr from either side wrestled him to his knees

after a sharp struggle.

Hjaldr raised his sword with both hands. “With your head gracing

a pike before our doors, we’ll grieve a bit less for our companions

who have so recently died.”

“Wait!” Thurid gasped. “The least you can do is listen to our side

of this issue! How do you know you’re not making a fatal mistake,

Hjaldr?”

Hjaldr hesitated and cast one eye over his men to observe their

opinion. Most of the Dvergar were in favor of taking Leifr’s head off

then and there, but a few insisted upon hearing out the guilty ones

before killing them.

“Very well, Fridmarr, you’ve won a short reprieve,” Hjaldr

rumbled unwillingly, lowering his sword. “Go ahead and speak your

piece, and then we shall decide if you’re lying or not. Your head may

yet decorate our doors.”

Leifr got to his feet, glowering at his two captors, respecting the

amazing strength in their long, burly arms.

“I came back to Solvorfirth to right the wrongs I’ve committed,”

he began grimly, aware that he was bargaining for his life. “If we can

get through the Pentacle, the Rhbus will grant us the object of our

desires, which is to sharpen that sword and kill Sorkvir with it.”

The dwarfs shook their heads and hooted in derision.

“The Rhbus are all dead,” Hjaldr said. “They can’t help

you, and the Pentacle is all perverted. Sorkvir did his work of

destruction well, and you were the one who showed him how to do it.”

“I never suspected what the result would be,” Leifr protested.

“Sorkvir never confided in me about his intention of making an alog

that would protect him from that sword. I gave it to Bodmarr, didn’t I?

Doesn’t that show that I was against Sorkvir? If I had given it to him

and warned him that it possessed Rhbu magic and would destroy him

utterly, then you could say I was Sorkvir’s friend. But I gave it to

Bodmarr and I came to you to ask you to sharpen it on the troll’s

grindstone— and you refused.“

“Then you stole the grindstone, and went on with Sorkvir to

destroy the rest of the Pentacle,” Hjaldr replied. “We can never forget

that. Either you possess a strange sense of humor or a strong wish to

die, if you dare to return here and try to make fools of us a second

time.”

Leifr winced away from their sneers and glowers and found

himself looking at Ljosa, who stood erect, watching him with dark

anguish deepening the shadows of her eyes.

“I have no evil plot this time,” Leifr said, feeling the sweat

sliding down his spine. “I came back to right the wrongs I have

committed. I didn’t have to return, and a more sensible man might not

have done so, but I never was known for good judgment. I want to

break Sorkvir’s alog over Solvorfirth. I’m going to sharpen this sword

and kill him, if it takes me the rest of my life.”

“Which may not be long,” Hjaldr added grimly. “How do we

know all this is true? You were always an accomplished liar before. I

doubt if you have learned to be truthful in such a short time.” The

dwarfs muttered their agreement.

“It’s true.” Ljosa’s voice floated above the bass grumble of the

dwarfs. “I am Ljosa Hroaldsdottir, once Bodmarr’s betrothed. I will

speak for the truthfulness of what Fridmarr says. I believe him when he

says he has sworn enmity with Sorkvir. I believe him when he says he

has changed and mat he will make himself a better man. Already he is

not the same Fridmarr we knew.”

Her testimony threw the dwarfs into another debate.

“No matter what he does, he can’t bring Bodmarr back,”

someone said, “nor all our friends and kinsmen who died last night.”

“Revenge is the same as cutting off your foot to match the one

you’ve lost,” another Dvergar grunted.

“But he was a traitor once. We can’t forgive that.”

“If he gets rid of Sorkvir and the alog, I’ll forgive him. Let

his brother’s death be on his conscience.”

“I don’t care about his conscience, as long as the grindstone

is brought back.”

“We’ll never see it again. He was Sorkvir’s once, and no one

ever escapes from Sorkvir. He’s tainted meat, if ever I smelled it.“

Hjaldr raised one hand to silence the mounting uproar before

the dwarfs started going for each other’s throats.

“Be still,” he commanded. “His past misdeeds don’t matter much

now. The question is, where is the grindstone now? If what you say

about it being a Rhbu sword taken from a Rhbu grave in Bjartur is true,

until it is sharpened upon a proper Rhbu grindstone, the sword won’t

work in the hand of Elbegast himself. This is what I told you when you

brought it to me before, Fridmarr. How do you know what will happen

when that metal touches that stone?”

The dwarfs looked grimly at Leifr, and some shook their heads

and spat upon the ground, as if his fate were sealed. Leifr glanced at

Thurid, hoping for a cue, but Thurid only stared at him, hanging upon

his words with great fascination. The powers of the carbuncle were of

no assistance.

Ljosa took a step forward. “Fridmarr won’t speak for himself,

but I’m not afraid to speak for him. He knows that the sword and the

grindstone are both Rhbu because he has seen the Rhbu who turns your

grindstone—not that you Dvergar can truthfully call it yours, since it

belonged to your halls long before you named them Hjaldrsholl. Your

unbelief does not alter the fact that the magic of the Rhbus lives on.

There are still three Rhbus battling the Dokkur Lavardur and they enlist

the aid of ordinary Ljosalfar when they find worthy individuals. The

Pentacle is one of their tests, as you should know from ample

experience, having seen its magic work many times for its travelers.”

Hjaldr scowled. “I’ve also seen plenty of travelers who didn’t

find what they sought when they started the Pentacle. Plenty of them

have died, for one reason or another. If any Rhbus were left to tell

us how it should work, perhaps it would be a less dangerous journey.

As it is today, only a madman would attempt to use its magic. When did

you see the troll who turns the stone—or Rhbu, if that’s what you care

to believe?”

Leifr glanced at Ljosa, wondering desperately what she must

know about Bodmarr and Fridmarr’s secret plans.

“This is not something I care to discuss,” he growled, glowering

around the circle of suspicious Dvergar faces.

“He saw the Rhbu,” Ljosa insisted. “I know it from his

brother Bodmarr.

Call it a troll or whatever you will, but we know it was one of the

Rhbus.” “Who’s to say the troll or Rhbu was pleased to have the

grindstone stolen?”

Hjaldr rejoined with a triumphant hoisting of one bristling

brow. “I can’t be beaten in that way, my lady. The grindstone is lost

now, difficult if not impossible to retrieve. And we have captured

Fridmarr Fridmundrsson, the one who is responsible for most of the

disasters that have befallen Solvorfirth.”

Gotiskolker spoke for the first time. “If you were wise, Hjaldr,

you’d provision us and send us on our way again with your blessings.

The stone will sharpen the sword wherever it lies, but the Pentacle will

not shake off the alog until the grindstone is returned to this fortress

and placed in its rightful spot in the old forge.”

Hjaldr pursed up his lips in a wry expression. “Perhaps we

can come to a more suitable arrangement than my whacking your head

off and placing it on a pike before Hjaldrsholl. Let’s see if we can settle

upon a satisfactory alternative over some food and drink. Our

hospitality isn’t what it once was, now that the best of what rough

circumstances we’ve got.”

The Dvergar nodded and grumbled in agreement, not without

displays of reluctance on the part of the more truculent ones.

“Are we still prisoners, or will our weapons be returned to us and

Thurid allowed the use of his hands?” Leifr pointedly ignored their

bluff overtures of peace, until Hjaldr issued a sharp command to one of

his followers, and Thurid was quickly released.

Hjaldr’s rough circumstances were a spacious cave in the cliffs

not far above. They rode in the wide opening, and the heavy metal-

studded doors were closed behind them with a sound like echoing

thunder. The visitors rode down a long corridor, dimly lit by whale oil

lamps on long spikes thrust into the earth at infrequent intervals.

To Leifr Hjaldr said, “These halls used to belong to the trolls.

When the Dokkalfar came, we had to clean them out. The trolls are

gone, but some of the stink remains. It takes a long time to get rid of

such vermin. I hate to think what the Dokkalfar are doing to our

beautiful new hall. A thousand years went into the stone carving

alone. I can remember when the pillars were nothing but rough

columns.”

Leifr said nothing, stealing a covert glance at his companion.

Hjaldr was as tough and gnarled as any individual Leifr had seen, as

well he should be after a thousand years of battling trolls and Dokkalfar.

“This looks like fine work for trolls,” he observed, nodding to

some carvings on the walls where the moonlight filtered in through a

distant hole far above. “The trolls at Dallir were depraved creatures.”

Thurid snorted. “So they all are. Dvergar made these halls long

ago, before the Alfar split into Ljosa and Dokk.”

Hjaldr grunted. “It was our halls the Dokkalfar took over when

they decided to go underground. It’s always the Dvergar you Alfar