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Sorkvir will give it to you—or will it be an early grave?”

Grunur shifted in his saddle with an impatient creak, but Leifr

had read correctly the gleam in his eyes.

“We didn’t come out here merely for the pleasure of your

conversation,” he replied, loosening the loop over his sword hilt. “If

you don’t wish to surrender, then you must want to fight.”

“Or to talk to Sorkvir,” Leifr added. “Send one of your men

back to deliver my message that I wish to speak to him.”

“Sorkvir is occupied with important affairs,” Grunur said, after a

moment’s hesitation. “You’ll have to come with us, and we’ll take you

to him.”

“In how many pieces? Somehow I distrust your offer.”

Grunur darted a glance over his shoulder at his five

companions, waiting with their hands on their weapons. At his signal,

they rode forward cautiously to join their leader, all studying Leifr

warily.

“Forget the offer, then,” Grunur said. “We’ll take you to him in

the way that suits us best.” He drew his sword and held it aloft. “I’m

sure Sorkvir would rather see you dead than alive, now that he has

nothing to fear from your draug, Scipling.”

Clapping his spurs to his horse, he charged straight at Leifr, with

his cohorts howling and cheering at his heels. Leifr kept the sword

hidden at his side until the last possible moment, when Grunur’s horse

slithered to a halt almost within arm’s length of him. Grunur’s sword

came whistling down at him, striking Bodmarr’s sword with a

resounding clang and a brilliant flash of light. Half of Grunur’s

sword spun away among the stones, smoking. For a split second

Grunur reeled back in astonishment, his eyes following the flight of the

broken piece of metal, but he recovered almost instantly, taking a

backhanded slice at Leifr with his broken weapon—a choice that cost

him his life. Had he waited or retreated to unsheath his axe, he might

have survived, but he was eager for any chance to enhance his

reputation and unwilling to let his subordinates take all the glory.

Leifr parried the blow with another flash of fire, and a

large shard of Grunur’s sword ricocheted away with a shrill whine.

The other five Dokkalfar were blocked by Grunur’s horse from joining

the attack, and the large rocks in back of Leifr’s position prevented

them from riding around behind him. For a few moments they wavered,

watching their leader fighting with increasing desperation as his sword

disintegrated, bit by bit. Then two of the Dokkalfar dismounted and

started to climb up to Leifr.

It was then that the battle ended for Grunur. Leifr drove the

sword through his body in one deadly thrust, just as the two Dokkalfar

came into striking distance.

Grunur sagged slowly backward, turning his face upward to the

ghastly sky and gasping, “The soul-destroyer! I’m done— Sorkvir is

finished!”

He dissolved like mist, his cloak and armor collapsing and

toppling to the earth, steaming slightly. The three Dokkalfar still on

horseback took to their heels, and not in the direction of Sorkvir’s

encampment. The other two started a desperate scramble down the

rocks toward their horses. At a nod from Leifr, the dogs tore after them

eagerly, worrying and menacing their prey to a standstill. Leifr

followed more slowly and mounted one of the horses, keeping his

attention upon his prisoners. He pointed his sword, and they made haste

to drop all their weapons, which amounted to a surprising number.

Leifr pointed the sword at one of them. “You get on the horse.

And you,” he said to the other one, “go after the others who ran away.

None of you had better come back. Be grateful I’m sparing your life.

You may not be so lucky the next time you cast your covetous eyes on

land that doesn’t belong to you Dokkalfar.”

With a last, apprehensive backward glance at the gleaming sword

in Leifr’s hand, the Dokkalfar turned and ran, leaving his companion as

Leifr’s prisoner apparently without a qualm. The prisoner stared at the

sword in helpless fascination, crouching miserably on the back of his

horse as if he expected to meet Grunur’s fate at Leifr’s casual whim.

“Now take me to Sorkvir,” Leifr commanded, motioning the

Dokkalfar ahead of him.

The prisoner jogged along with many a fearful glance over his

shoulder. He gasped out, “That’s a wretched way for a Dokkalfar to die.

Much worse than being made into a draug or fylgjadraug. I’m just a

new recruit, you know, scarcely worth your time to kill. If you’ll

let me go, I swear I’ll stay underground for the rest of my life.”

“First you’ll show me where Sorkvir is,” Leifr said, “and then

you can go. I’ve no objection to Dokkalfar as long as they stay out of

sight.”

Uneasily the Dokkalfar replied, “Sorkvir was getting ready to

leave for Hjaldrsholl when I saw him last. He’s taking the woman and

your two friends as hostages.”

“Then ride on,” Leifr advised grimly. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Whipping his horse into a gallop, the Dokkalfar leaned

forward along its neck to urge it along with greater speed, and Leifr

rode close at his heels. Presently the Dokkalfar drew rein atop a long

barrow, pointing wordlessly to a dark, moving object outlined against

the lowering sky. It was a sledge and three horses; not far behind, a

long line of horsemen followed.

“That’s Sorkvir’s sledge,” the Dokkalfar gasped over the panting

of the horses. “He heard the sound of that soul-eating sword being

sharpened, and he’s frightened. The oldest Dokkalfar have left him

already. Now that I’ve taken you this far, can I go?”

“There’s only one more thing I want from you,” Leifr said. “Your

helmet.” “Take the cloak too,” the Dokkalfar said, gladly handing

over his helmet.

Lifting a hand in salute, he backed his horse away cautiously,

not trusting Leifr for a moment; then he turned and rode away at a

gallop toward the east.

Leifr started toward Sorkvir’s train at a canter, measuring his

speed against that of the sledge so that they would meet at a level space

between two barrows, where the sickly sky had cast a long shadow. In

the darkness, no one would look twice at another Dokkalfar joining the

procession.

Lest the dogs reveal his identity by their presence, he

stopped and commanded them to stay behind on a small barrow.

Their ears flattened in disappointment and they crouched on their

bellies, ashamed of their unknown disgrace, gazing at Leifr with

appealing golden eyes as he rode away.

As Sorkvir’s sledge drove into the shadow, Leifr rode forward to

meet it. “Who’s that?” Sorkvir’s voice demanded. He halted the

hauling on the horses’ jaws without mercy. In vain,

sledge abruptly,

Leifr tried to recognize the silent cargo of the sledge as his three

companions.

“Halt the column,” Leifr commanded in a low voice, unsheathing

the sword. “Your Grunur was unsuccessful, except at getting himself

killed.”

Sorkvir drew in a hissing breath. “The Scipling!” He stood up

and motioned with his staff toward the Dokkalfar following, its

glowing knob making blue arcs in the darkness.

“Now what do you want?” Sorkvir inquired coldly. “Do you wish

to see your friends die before your eyes? Is that the reason for this

senseless attack?”

“Let them go,” Leifr said, “and I will meet you at the

Grindstone Hall to settle all our differences.”

“Give me that sword and you shall have your friends,” Sorkvir

countered.

“And you would then proceed to kill us all,” Leifr

inevitable, Sorkvir. Let them go. They have nothing

retorted. “This is

to do with this.”

“Will it prolong my chances for survival, as long as you possess

that sword? I think not,” Sorkvir said. “Time is my best ally. Perhaps

we might talk about my captives in a fortnight’s time.”

Leifr brandished the sword. “I don’t want to wait that long. Now

is the time to talk.”

“Why now, and not tomorrow?” Sorkvir inquired silkily. “Is

there some reason for your impatience?”

“I can see you enjoy flirting with death,” Leifr said. “Once

you come to know it intimately this time, there will be no coming back

for you again.”

“Kill me now and you’ll never know what I’ve done with your

friends,” Sorkvir replied. “What corner of my mind is their prison,

Scipling? Which of my powers are required to bring them back?

Destroy me and you destroy them also. Perhaps it’s a cheap price to a

barbaric Scipling.“

“But one you’d be glad to make me pay,” Leifr replied. “Think

again which one of us is barbaric, Sorkvir. I’ve never been known

for any remarkable quantities of patience. I want to see that my

friends are alive, here and now, or I’ll assume there’s nothing to be lost

by killing you on the instant.”

Leifr started his horse forward, but Sorkvir raised his staff

warningly. “Come no closer, Scipling. They are with me and quite safe

enough—at least until tomorrow. With any luck, after tomorrow you

will cease to be a thorn in my flesh, and that Rhbu sword will be safe

in my possession.”

Leifr thought of the torque with a burst of silent fury and

desperation. Unless he got to Hjaldrsholl before sundown, the torque,

the sword, Sorkvir, and his associates would all cease to be thorns in

Leifr’s flesh. Leifr’s flesh would be irretrievably dead.

“I’ll meet you at the new Hjaldrsholl at dawn,” Leifr stated,

gathering up his horse’s reins. “If you don’t meet me there to fight for

your life and your honor, you’ll be known as a coward forever among

the Dokkalfar.”

“I’ll set the terms of our holmgang,” Sorkvir said. “And I say it

won’t be tomorrow at dawn.”

“I say it will,” Leifr retorted.

Sorkvir stood up in the sledge and beckoned furiously to the

Dokkalfar watching silently from a distance. “We’ll see what your

arrogance costs you!”

“We’ll more likely see what it costs your Dokkalfar followers,”

Leifr replied, swinging the sword in a glowing arc. “You’re rather

generous with their lives. No wonder so many have deserted you. Or do

they know your cause is lost?”

Leifr backed away toward better cover as the Dokkalfar

approached the sledge. Sorkvir pointed toward Leifr. “It’s the Scipling.

He’s killed Grunur’s patrol. I want you to capture him and bring him

to the hall in Hjaldrsfell. Kill him if you must, but that sword

belongs to me. Digur, I shall hold you personally responsible for

bringing it to me.”

Digur rode forward a few paces, halting as Leifr flourished the

sword menacingly.

“
Endalaus Daudi
,” Digur muttered. “The Endless Death is

nothing I want to touch.” His followers rumbled in agreement,

gathering around Digur in a truculent mass of bristling swords, lances,

and horned helmets.

Sorkvir pointed threateningly with his staff. “Do you dare

disregard my commands, Digur? There are worse things than your

dreaded
Endalaus Daudi
, and I know how to make you realize the

worst of them if you dare disobey. No one dies as hard as a traitor dies.”

Digur hesitated, scowling bleakly in Leifr’s direction, then he

slowly raised one hand and beckoned his men to follow.

“Remember what I said about that sword,” Sorkvir

called after the Dokkalfar. “Bring it to my hand, Digur, or you and all

your kin for generations are going to be cursed with unimaginable

curses. Whatever you do, the Scipling must not reach Hjaldrsholl except

as your prisoner—or dead.”

Cracking his whip over the horses’ heads, he sent the sledge

lurching away over the stony ground, leaving the Dokkalfar and Leifr

facing each other in grim determination. Holding the sword aloft, Leifr

nudged his horse forward a few paces. The Dokkalfar halted, fanning

out in a long line to face Leifr. Digur rode forward a few steps and

stopped.

“Sorkvir is afraid to meet me in battle,” Leifr said. “I have

challenged him to a holmgang tomorrow at dawn. I say he is a coward,

besides an evil and treacherous wizard. I also accuse him of being a liar,