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In another five strides, Leifr would have reached Ljosa, but two

armed Dokkalfar interposed with bared steel. Reluctantly he backed

away, still straining to understand what Ljosa was trying to convey to

him. When she gave it up in defeat and turned back to her work, he

permitted himself to be prodded along once more with the rest of the

prisoners, but he kept his eyes upon her until his view was blocked.

Feeling more chafed than ever by his dragging chain and the

endless, mindless hacking at the stone, he worked furiously all that day,

waiting only for another chance to see Ljosa, even if he couldn’t talk to

her.

However, at the end of the day, his troop was taken back to their

quarters by a different tunnel, and he didn’t get to see her. In a frenzy of

gloom, Leifr gave away his supper and sat with his back to the stone,

racking his brains for a way to escape.

When he finally fell asleep, long after the other prisoners, his

fine-tuned senses suddenly discerned a soft sound that did not

belong to the usual repertoire. A lumbering sledge, twelve snorting,

scrambling ponies, and half a dozen shouting Dokkalfar could go

grinding past without disturbing him, but the soft whisper of stealthy,

padding feet awakened him instantly. Thinking it was a troll, he reached

for a rock and waited. To his surprise, the soft glow of a candle shone

on the rough, oozing walls, and a slight, dark shadow crept warily

toward him. As the largest and most able of the thralls, Leifr was

picketed nearest the entrance of the chamber to deal with the trolls,

so he had a good view of anyone approaching.

The intruder paused, listening. After a long, taut silence, a voice

whispered, “Leifr! Is that you?”

Leifr dropped the rock, astonished at hearing his own name. A

few thralls stirred uneasily in their exhausted slumber, but Skrof

continued snoring away beside his small fire in the driest area of the

cave.

“Who’s there?” Leifr whispered, still incredulous.

“Gotiskolker, is that you?”

“Yes, who else? Finally, I’ve found you.” Heaving a long,

weary sigh, Gotiskolker sat down near Leifr, shading his candle with a

hand that seemed almost translucent, like a dry leaf trembling on a twig.

“I’ve been searching for you since the day you disappeared. I found

Ljosa, and now she found you for the first time today.”

“You’re not a prisoner? How do you manage to live?”

“I steal a little food now and then. Mostly I hide. If someone

comes along, I just bend down and scrabble along picking up rocks

and everyone thinks I belong here.”

“Where’s Thurid? And the sword?”

“Safe. Thurid is prowling the lower levels, looking at the dams

and planning some powerful magic.”

“The dams? It’s frightfully dangerous down there.”

“Indeed. It’s the weakest point of the entire mountain. If the dams

were all to break at once, nothing on earth could save the mines.”

“What about Skrymir? Is this mountain really alive?”

“Alive is not exactly the right word for something so motionless

and silent that trees grow on it and animals live there, but yes, the

mountain is more than rocks and dirt. It’s part of the Pentacle, and it has

been here longer than anyone knows.”

“If Sorkvir finds the heart of the mountain, what will happen?”

Gotiskolker shrugged. “He’ll take the ruby away and Dokholur

will become as any regular mountain. No difference that you would

notice—but it would be quite a difference for Skrymir and the

Pentacle. Our first concern is getting you out of here. Ljosa said they

unstrung your knee. How bad is it?”

“I can walk. They didn’t do a thorough enough job to leave me

completely useless. What slows me down the most is this.” He rattled

the chain resentfully.

Gotiskolker looked at the shackle and the stake by the light of his

candle, scowling. “That’s going to be a problem, but I’m sure Thurid

will think of something. There may be another way yet that I’m

working on. I’d better be going now, before the outside guard comes

back.”

“Wait. What about the rest of the prisoners? We’ve got to

get them out safely. Some of them have been kind to me, and none of

them deserve this kind of fate.”

Gotiskolker heaved another sigh. “We’ll get them out, Leifr. The

Dokkalfar are another matter, though. I’d like to destroy as many of

them as possible.”

“Gotiskolker! Wait!” Such a brief touch of the outside and the

freedom beyond Dokholur was almost too tantalizing to bear. “How

long will it take you to get me out of here?”

“Less than nine days, I assure you. I’ll be back, don’t worry.”

Daily Leifr expected him, but he did not return. For the next five

days Leifr worried in excruciating detail, wondering if Gotiskolker had

fallen down a crevice somewhere, if Thurid had drowned, or if he had

dreamed the whole episode.

At the end of the sixth day, while the dispirited thralls were

eating their meager supper, the mountain shook beneath their

feet; far below, deep grumbling sounds rumbled up through the

tunnels. Everyone froze, listening.

“Sounds like tremors on the lower levels,” one of the thralls near

Leifr muttered. “Skrymir will bring it all down on our heads one day.”

“Or drown us all, if he breaks the dams in the water tunnels,”

someone added grimly.

The tremors continued, and Skrof paced up and down nervously,

peering frequently out into the main corridor and listening for news.

“One of the dams is leaking badly,” he reported, mopping the

sweat from his unsavory yellow brow. “But something seems to be

happening to anyone who goes down into the lower level to patch the

dam.”

The thralls grunted and nodded uneasily. A sense of foreboding

and gloom descended over the prisoners as the tremors continued,

punctuated by sudden sharp cracking and booming sounds, like an ice

breakup in spring. The sledge and cart drivers began to have trouble

with their horses. The dead, stale air was moving, bringing with it the

smell of water and wet earth.

At last, the uneasy waiting ended decisively when boots came

tramping into the chamber and a torch flared in the dark, revealing the

monstrous bulk of Raudbjorn. Skrof leaped up immediately and

scampered toward him, babbling anxiously about his orders. Raudbjorn

shook his head, like a bear annoyed by a buzzing bee, and declared,

“Water coming up main shaft! Time to get out! Mine is flooding! Get

outside, thralls!”

The thralls leaped up immediately and made a rush for the

doorway, ignoring Skrof’s shouts and threats.

“I take orders from no one but Sorkvir!” he shrilled, almost

losing his footing as several thralls shoved him out of the way. “I

can’t go outside. It’s daylight! All these thralls are going to escape!”

Raudbjorn thrust Skrof out of the way and approached

Leifr. “Take off chain, scumbag. Let Fridmarr go.”

Skrof shook his head frantically. “I daren’t, without special

orders from Sorkvir himself. He said to keep the chain on him, and

that’s where it’s going to stay, no matter—”

Raudbjorn seized Skrof and held him aloft by his skinny legs

as he shook him to dislodge the contents of his pockets, which rained

around Raudbjorn’s boots.

“No key,” grunted Raudbjorn in dissatisfaction. “Where is

key, scumbag Skrof? Tell Raudbjorn, if neck doesn’t want breaking.”

Skrof shivered and shook his head, croaking in wordless terror as

Raudbjorn shook him again. “No key,” he finally gasped. “Sorkvir had

me throw it down a shaft.”

Raudbjorn lost interest in Skrof immediately and deposited him

in a heap, with a kick in the direction of the door. “Raudbjorn doesn’t

need key anyway. Halloa, Fridmarr. You ready to escape? Friends

waiting.“

Leifr glowered at him suspiciously. “You’re going to help me

escape? I’ll believe that when the moon turns to milk and witches

don’t sit out at crossroads.”

Raudbjorn shook his head emphatically and drew his sword to

kiss its hilt. “Raudbjorn swears fealty to Fridmarr forever. Sick of

Sorkvir. Sick of shame. Raudbjorn wants to be free and proud again.

Sorkvir and evil must die.” His cherubic expression turned into a

murderous grimace as he bared his teeth in a berserk grin.

Skrof stopped his astonished gaping and began to scramble

toward the tunnel outside, mostly on his hands and knees, as if he didn’t

trust his legs to hold him up.

“This is treason,” he panted, pausing a moment when he felt

safe. “Sorkvir will hear about this, Raudbjorn!” Raudbjorn flourished

his sword, and Skrof scurried away, still shaking with fear and outrage.

“It’s a bargain, then,” Leifr said, and whacked palms with

Raudbjorn to seal their agreement. “I don’t know why you want to

swear fealty to me, when I suspect I’m going to drown before much

longer.”

Raudbjorn shook his head. “Not drown. Raudbjorn pull out

stake.” He ambled forward to take the chain in his hands. “Heavy

chains. Hard metal. Stake driven in almost to top. Maybe a little pull get

it out.”

Wrapping the chain around both big fists, he braced his feet

against the wall and pulled until the veins stood out on his massive

arms, neck, and forehead. With a final mighty heave, he gave it up

and sat down, wiping the sweat from his face and trying to catch his

breath.

“It won’t come out,” Leifr said. “You’d better leave while you

still can.”

“It will come out. Plenty of time for Raudbjorn.” Again he

wrapped the chain around his bleeding knuckles and planted his feet.

Fixing his eyes upon the stake he began to pull, with the muscles

in his arms knotting like straining ropes.

Fearing Raudbjorn would pull until his heart burst, Leifr seized

the thrumming chain below Raudbjorn’s hands and pulled with all

his strength. With a jolt, the stake came out halfway.

Raudbjorn collapsed with a wheeze, beaming in triumph and

rubbing his skinned hands.

“You see?” he rumbled. “It comes out for two brother warriors.”

“Once more,” Leifr said, his deliverance suddenly shining bright

before his eyes. “Three is a lucky number.”

They gripped the chain again, and this time, after a mighty heave,

the chain snapped off at the stake.

“Where are the others? Is Ljosa safe?” Leifr asked.

“All safe. Gotiskolker, help her while Raudbjorn helps you.

Crazy wizard Thurid climbing big shaft, hunting Dokkalfar. We go up

to highest level to get out.” He beckoned Leifr toward a vertical

shaft, with the sound of water churning away far below.

Leifr risked a quick look down into the blackness of the shaft,

then swung onto the ladder, climbing straight up into the blackness

above. Raudbjorn followed, with the rungs creaking in protest at each

step. Holding up his torch, he illuminated the way above, where

timbers jutted at crazy angles from slipped supports and pieces of

broken ladders showed what had happened to other climbers before.

Portals opened onto nothing in the shaft or to the remnants of broken

walkways, waiting to take someone to his death.

Leifr’s weak leg tired soon, and he was forced to halt several

times for a few minutes to stop its aggravating trembling. During

one of these rests, Leifr noticed that the ladder was quivering, as if

someone were up above. His suspicions were confirmed by bits of mud

and pebbles that pelted down occasionally.

“Drop the torch, Raudbjorn,” he whispered. “Someone’s above

us.” The torch plummeted downward and vanished.

The voices from above neared the spot where Leifr had stopped.

A few timbers offered a slightly larger foothold and an additional

support for grabbing. Raudbjorn watched intently as the dim red light

from above descended swiftly. Drawing his sword, he gripped it

between his teeth and started climbing up to meet them.

“Who’s that down below?” someone called warily, and several

other voices muttered together. “You can’t get out this way. That

wizard has blocked all the portals from outside. He’s on the top level,

blasting anyone who comes up the shaft. You’ll have to back down.“