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the corridor toward the assembly hall. Dragging his injured leg, he

lumbered after them, snarling vengefully.

“Back to the well!” Thurid panted. “We’ve got to get out of

here while we can!”

“No!” Gotiskolker cried. “We’ve got to destroy him. He’s

weakened now.”

“Not as much as I’d like,” Leifr said worriedly, listening to

sounds of Ognun’s approach. “What will it take to kill

the ominous

him? Thurid, do you have one good spell that you’re sure of?”

“Yes, I have several, but I can’t figure out how to apply

them to the situation,” Thurid retorted. “One is for changing the

weather; there’s one for seeing the future in the way a horse trots,

there’s one for throwing a whetstone over a house, and the best one of

all is curing chickens of the scabs!”

“Well, do something to slow him down!” Leifr snapped.

Thurid quickly perused several rune sticks, then stepped out of

his hiding place to confront Ognun. Leifr nocked another arrow and

stepped out behind him, ready to cover their retreat if the spell failed.

“Fridmarr,” rumbled Ognun, pointing an accusing claw at

Leifr. “So you have returned after all. I never thought you would keep

that empty promise.”

“Then that was a mistake, Ognun,” Leifr replied. “It will cost you

your life, and Sorkvir the Pentacle.”

“Then it was true what they said about you,” Ognun said

ponderously. “You are one of Elbegast’s spies.”

“Perhaps,” Leifr answered.

“Fool,” Ognun grunted. “You can’t keep his kingdom alive.

Elbegast and all his kind are doomed. Look at Bjartur. Where are the

Rhbus now? The Ljosalfar are heading for the same kind of extinction.”

“Perhaps that is true,” Gotiskolker spoke up, “but you are the

one here who is doomed, Ognun.”

Ognun snorted and lashed impatiently at the arrows in

his back and shoulders. “Do you think this is enough to kill me? If

you do, then my job will be easy.” He took a step forward, and Leifr

drew back his bowstring warningly. The hounds surged forward, diving

in for sharp nips at the troll’s legs and tail. Slashing at them resentfully,

Ognun scarcely noticed his quarry slipping away from him again.

“This way,” Gotiskolker whispered urgently, when Thurid turned

toward the corridor that led to the well. He beckoned toward the center

of the assembly chamber, where the high roof formed a vast, echoing

cavern. Far above, the pale night sky gleamed faintly through an

opening. Below the opening stood a dais large enough for a hundred

people, with a gallery around it and the remains of benches now

crumbled to rubble. Five upright stones stood guarding a pool, where

the black water sparkled.

Thurid’s breath choked in his throat. “Rhbu magic,” he

whispered. “This must be the place where they summoned their

powers. We can’t go there. It’s too sacred.”

“It may also save us from Ognun,” Gotiskolker replied. “I’m not

going to die out of mere respect for the Rhbus’ abandoned property.”

Ognun came after them with a vengeance, roaring with fury,

only slightly impeded by the dogs’ skirmishing attacks. His eyes burned

like hot coals, and the bloody reek of him excited the hounds to more

daring manoeuvres in their attempts to get their teeth into his skin. He

slashed at them murderously, but they skipped lightly out of

harm’s way, snarling defiance.

Leifr took a position behind one of the standing stones with

Gotiskolker beside him, while Thurid hurried from stone to stone

examining the inscriptions and runes.

“It’s very similar to my old rune sticks. Rhbu magic!” Thurid

leaned against one of the stones with a watery feeling in his knees. “I’m

not worthy.”

“No, you’re not,” Gotiskolker agreed. “But you’ll have to do,

since we have no other wizard, and you’ll have to hurry. Save all your

unworthy feelings for later.”

Thurid walked once around the circle of stones, still somewhat

dazed, mumbling to himself and making gestures with his hands.

Ognun shook Kraftig off his leg, leaving the hound a mouthful of

skin and hair, and climbed up onto the dais. For a long moment his

gnarled head swung back and forth, as he considered Thurid and

Leifr, deciding which one he wanted to attack first. The hounds

leaped at his frayed ears and bit at his back until he lashed out at them

with his deadly claws. Then he shambled forward, teeth bared in a

snarl, his eyes intent upon Thurid, who had knelt beside the pool on one

knee, concentrating upon summoning whatever ancient powers still

lurked in that once-sacred site.

Leifr stepped warily between them, his bow drawn.

“Stop, Ognun,” he commanded.

Ognun slowed his pace, turning to regard Leifr while he

slunk toward Thurid. “Without magic, you don’t have the power to kill

me,” he growled. “I’ll kill this wizard, and then you’ll be fair game,

Fridmarr.”

Leifr let fly the arrow, a perfect shot. The arrow buried itself in

Ognun’s ribs, as far as the fletching. Ognun grimaced and clutched at

the new injury, but he did not die, as Leifr might have expected from a

mortal beast.

“I’m beginning to hate you in a new way,” Ognun said, spitting

some bloody spittle on the ground and swinging his fist at the dogs

without taking his eyes off Leifr. “It will be a pleasure to tear you to

pieces. I shall be sure to let Borgar and the others know what has

become of their hero.“

Leifr nocked another arrow. “I’ll tell them myself, when I throw

your head at their feet.”

“Shoot your arrows then. Pain is nothing to me, but you will soon

run out of arrows.” Ognun grinned horribly with his bloody teeth and

deliberately turned his back on Leifr, moving toward Thurid with slow,

dragging steps.

“Thurid!” Leifr called warningly. “Thurid, watch out! He’s

coming for you, and I can’t stop him!”

Thurid, lost in his trance, did not move. Ognun glanced over his

shoulder at Leifr and chuckled, splattering blood from his mouth as he

said, “Nothing you can do will stop me. I am protected by powers that

you are helpless against. The powers of the Rhbus are dead. The

powers of the Ljosalfar are puny when compared to the force that

spawns such as the Dokkalfar, Sorkvir, and the true trolls, such as I.

The Dokkur Lavardur will not be defeated.”

“Thurid!” Leifr began to skirt around Ognun, who turned

warily to cut him off from Thurid, who still knelt beside the pool,

oblivious to his peril as he stared upward at the sky visible through

the opening above. Gotiskolker began creeping toward him, but he had

the pool between him and Thurid, and Ognun was too alert to be fooled

in that way. He moved nearer to Thurid, baring his teeth and raising his

claws until Gotiskolker stopped and stood still.

“You hasten his death,” rumbled Ognun, glaring toward

Gotiskolker and taking another step, which brought him almost within

reach of Thurid.

Preoccupied with Gotiskolker, Ognun missed the moment when

Thurid rose to his feet, reaching into his satchel. He held something

aloft in his hand which glowed with a faint, fiery light.

“You hasten your own death,” he said.

Ognun froze, and Leifr sensed that he was about to make a last,

desperate lunge. Dropping his bow, he leaped onto the troll’s back with

his knife in his hand, just as Thurid intoned some words and threw the

glowing object into the air over Ognun’s head. Leifr felt it fly past his

ear as Ognun uttered a terrible bellow and began flailing and clawing at

him, trying to shake him off. Leifr released his grip on Ognun’s neck

and jumped as far as he could. Rolling quickly to his feet, he dodged

Ognun’s slashing claws as the creature turned on him. As he backed

away, the hounds swirled around Ognun in Leifr’s defense. Ognun

staggered forward, still snarling, and Leifr found himself with nowhere

to go, unless he chose to jump into the pool. Taking the half-troll’s

battle mace from his belt, he took his stance and swung the mace

overhead.

“Where is your great magic, Ognun?” he taunted. “I think your

wounds are troubling you worse now.”

Ognun seemed to be dying. Sinking to his knees, he struggled for

breath, choking on his own blood, his staring eyes incredulous, Leifr

called back the hounds, lowering his mace to the ground as Ognun

slowly slumped forward. In a few moments his useless, gasping breaths

stilled, and the gleaming eyes turned dull and unresponsive. Leifr

ventured near enough to prod his carcass with the mace, noticing that

Ognun’s skin seemed to be hardening and swiftly changing color. It was

stone, and the metamorphosis progressed with great speed as Leifr

watched, until nothing remained of the troll except a long heap of

odd-shaped rocks.

“Are you all right?” Thurid asked.

Leifr nodded and brushed off a little dirt. “He would have had

you in another moment. What was that you threw over his head just

then?”

Gotiskolker answered for Thurid, holding up a small stone object.

“A whetstone. A time-honored method of breaking a spell among

Alfar—so old that hardly anyone remembers it. The Rhbus would have

known it, of course.”

Thurid nodded his head, holding his flaring alf-light aloft to

illuminate the ascending rows of galleries above.

“How did you think of it?” Leifr pursued, not liking

Thurid’s distracted manner.

“This place is full of voices,” Thurid replied, still gazing around

at the vast, empty chamber. “I felt one of them jog my memory about

the rune stick for throwing a whetstone over a house, and all of a

sudden it made sense to me. I knew if I tossed it over Ognun’s

head, Sorkvir’s spell over him would be broken, and he would

surely perish from the wounds Fridmarr had dealt him. There was no

doubt in my mind that it would work. It is a Rhbu spell.”

Gotiskolker handed him the whetstone, and he put it back into

his satchel. Then he held his staff over the dark surface of the pool,

casting a murky light to the stone bottom. Five large fish swam slowly

through the light, hesitated a moment with their fins and gills pulsing,

then darted away once more into the darkness.

“The salmon!” Gotiskolker gasped, “Follow them, Thurid.

Perhaps we can catch one—although I want nothing to do with Rhbu

voices, at this point, and Fridmarr—” He turned and frowned warningly

at Leifr.

“Rhbu magic and voices and spells are for wizards, not

ordinary people,” Leifr answered quickly.

Thurid damped down his light, shaking his head. “Almost, but

not yet,” he said, as if repeating something he had heard. “I’m far too

inexperienced. Come, let’s leave this place at once. You’ve no idea of

the influences swirling around in here.”

“Wait a moment,” Gotiskolker said, turning back to the heap that

had been Ognun. “Get his bone necklace, Fridmarr. You’ll want it to

prove to Borgar that Ognun is truly dead.”

Leifr pulled the bone necklace from the stones and thrust it

into his pocket after a cursory inspection. The bones were knuckle

bones spaced by human teeth.

“There’s a closer way out,” Gotiskolker said, when Thurid turned

toward the tunnel to the well. “Follow me, it’s this way.” He limped

toward the far end of the assembly chamber, where another set of heavy

wooden doors lay broken from their binges.

Thurid played his light over the doors, murmuring, “They put up

a brave struggle, even though they knew the torch had already passed.”

“How do you know this?” Leifr questioned, trying in vain to see

if there were runes on the doors which Thurid was reading. He glanced

over his shoulder uneasily when Thurid looked up and seemed to be

gazing past him.

“Knowing is easy, in a place like this.” Thurid motioned to

Gotiskolker to lead on, and said no more to explain himself.

Gotiskolker led them down a long, straight passage, which

climbed several flights of stairs at intervals. The last flight of stairs

ended abruptly at a pair of doors, still standing intact and securely

barred from outside.

“It might be a tight squeeze,” Gotiskolker said to Leifr as he

opened a small door built into the fortress door, through which no one

could pass except by crawling on hands and knees. Ognun might have