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a thief, and a murderer. He is a wrongful usurper of Gliru-hals and the

killer of many innocent Ljosalfar. I have challenged him, and he has

set his allies against me and has run away in the craven manner of a

coward.”

“These are strong accusations,” Digur replied. “You can’t make

accusations like this without expecting to make an accounting for

them. Your speech has offended Sorkvir’s honor. He must defend

himself against your charges, and you must either fight him or

withdraw your accusations and suffer the loss of your own reputation

for it.”

“Fighting him is what I want to do,” Leifr replied. “Are you

going to try to stop me? Are you afraid for Sorkvir to meet me with

this sword?”

He raised the sword so they could all see it glowing in the pale

darkness. Endless Death—the name suited it perfectly, and Leifr smiled

with grim pleasure.

Digur unsheathed his axe. “I have my orders not to let

you go to Hjaldrsholl,” he said.

The Dokkalfar beside him rode forward and leaned over to

speak to Digur, but Leifr could hear plainly what was said. “Orders to

die, you mean. I say let him challenge Sorkvir to the holmgang. What

do we want with a leader who is afraid to defend his name against

accusations of this kind? All the Dokkalfar in Skarpsey will know that

Sorkvir was afraid to fight and that we helped him in his cowardice.”

“You’re speaking treason,” Digur snarled. “I should bury this axe

in your brain rather than listen!”

“Listen you will, because you know in your heart it’s the truth.”

“We can kill one Scipling, no matter what weapon he has in his

hand. There are twenty of us against one of him.”

“Do you want to be the first to taste the Endless Death? I don’t.

Who of your friends will you send to die?”

“It will be an honorable death,” Digur answered after a short

pause.

“We’ve had enough honorable deaths for Sorkvir’s cause. I say

let the Scipling go. Sorkvir is doomed. Let’s not go to our own

senseless doom by backing a loser with our lives.”

“How many of the others think as you think?” Digur turned in his

saddle to look up and down the line beside him. The Dokkalfar returned

his look uneasily, gripping their weapons.

“All,” the other Dokkalfar said firmly.

“So the lot of you are treasonous cowards,” Digur said. “You

seem to have set yourself up as their leader, haven’t you, Ragur? What

will you do if I order them to attack the Scipling?”

Ragur replied calmly, “We won’t do it. We’ll kill you if you

force us to it, but we’d rather you joined us.”

“Then I’ll give you my answer.” Digur dove for his sword,

making a wicked thrust at Ragur, but Ragur defended himself skillfully.

Leifr watched them fight a few moments, then turned and rode

away slowly in the direction of Hjaldrsholl. When he heard no more

clashing of steel on steel, he paused and looked back. Nineteen

mounted Dokkalfar rode away in the opposite direction, with Digur’s

riderless horse following in the rear. Sorkvir had lost the major part of

his allies, except for whatever number he had left to hold Hjaldrsholl.

Leifr whistled for the dogs and started after Sorkvir at a brisk

pace. In a few minutes, the dogs caught up and fell to smelling out

Sorkvir’s trail with the utmost dedication to their task.

After passing the last of the barrows of Grittur-grof, Leifr came

into view of Sorkvir and the sledge. Halting, Sorkvir stood up to look

back for a long, silent moment as Leifr rode slowly out of the shadow of

the barrow.

“Your Dokkalfar have killed their leader and abandoned you,”

Leifr called. “They’re carrying word of our holmgang to the rest of the

Dokkalfar.”

With a curse, Sorkvir raised his arms and sent a bolt of green

flame hurtling toward Leifr like a lance. Stepping aside, Leifr

slashed at the bolt with the sword and was rewarded with a jolt that

nearly tore him off his horse. The bolt arced upward, returning toward

Sorkvir in a cartwheel of ice shards. The sledge horses plunged away in

alarm, nearly jerking Sorkvir off his feet and thus preventing him from

returning another bolt at Leifr.

“You’ll never make it to Hjaldrsholl in time,” Sorkvir

shouted over the rumble of the sledge, finally bringing it to a halt on

the slope of the fell. He shoved something from the rear of the sledge,

then cracked his whip over the horses with a defiant yell.

“Here’s one of your dear friends, Scipling! Take care of him well

and keep him warm, or he will die! You can’t leave him until the sun

comes up to break my spell!”

Leifr followed the dogs, who raced toward the inert mass Sorkvir

had pushed from the sledge. Shoving them aside, Liefr knelt beside the

huge hulk of Raudbjorn, who was snoring heavily and as cold and stiff

as a slab of dead mutton. No amount of shaking would awaken him.

Hastily Leifr scratched together enough wood for a small fire. The dogs

licked Raudbjorn’s face and prodded him with their sharp noses, finally

eliciting a rumbling grunt as the warmth of the fire gradually penetrated

Sorkvir’s spell. Anxiously Leifr scanned the eastern sky, already

discerning the first traces of early dawn. Raudbjorn had a long way to

go yet before he was unthawed enough to travel, and Leifr had no idea

how long the sun would take to unravel Sorkvir’s spell.

Dismayed, he sat down and stared glumly at the dogs clustered

contentedly around Raudbjorn. Kraftig came to sit beside Leifr, perhaps

sensing his master’s low spirits, and sought to cheer him up by trying to

sit on his lap like a puppy. Battling against the hairy, friendly beast,

Leifr was struck by a sudden idea.

“Kraftig! Come here!” He managed to escape from the huge

paws braced against his shoulders and led the dog over to Raudbjorn,

commanding, “Lie down, Kraftig. Stay here. Watch Raudbjorn.”

Kraftig understood the idea immediately, curling up next to

Raudbjorn and stretching out over his chest like a furry, living blanket.

When Leifr rode away, Kraftig was licking Raudbjorn’s ear, perhaps

relishing the unwashed taste and glorious smell that always

accompanied Raudbjorn and his sordid trophies.

By the time Leifr caught up with Sorkvir again, it was nearly

dawn, light enough for him to plot his course to get in front of the

sledge. Sorkvir drew up immediately the moment Leifr’s dim form took

shape in the mist, riding slowly toward him.

“So you abandoned Raudbjorn to die, faithless Scipling?” Sorkvir

chuckled. “It will haunt you, if you live that long.”

“Raudbjorn is provided for,” Leifr answered. “I have no doubt

you’ll see him at the holmgang.”

“He may be there, but he’ll see no holmgang,” Sorkvir replied.

“This time when I lighten my load, you’ll have no chance of

catching me again. Here’s your friend Thurid, stiff as hardfish. I had

plans for him; but if you revive him, I can always find him later, after

I’ve taken care of my business at Hjaldrsholl.”

“Leave Ljosa also and you can make your journey all the faster,”

Leifr said.

Sorkvir rolled Thurid out of the sledge with one foot. “No, she

weighs hardly more than a feather. I’ll keep her as additional insurance.

Then I shall return her to Gliru-hals where she belongs. I need more

winter shepherds, since I lost so many to the trolls last year.” Cracking

his whip and laughing harshly, Sorvir sent the sledge bounding down

the slope.

Thurid was stiffer and bluer even than Raudbjorn, to the extent

that Leifr wondered how he could be alive at all. Frozen with his staff in

his hands, Thurid glared at him, frosty and unblinking, as Farlig and

Frimodig nosed around him, whimpering and tasting the frost ridged

along his beaky nose and eyebrows.

Again Leifr built a fire and commanded Frimodig to lie on

Thurid and keep him warm. He tucked the satchel under one of

Thurid’s stiff arms and said a silent farewell, hoping Thurid would not

be too annoyed when he awakened to find one of the hated hounds

slobbering in his face and smearing its huge, muddy paws on his

clothing.

Leifr cantered his weary horse into Hjaldrsholl just before

sunrise, finding the great outer gates standing open. The

horse’s hooves rang on the cobblestones of the tunnel leading to

the hall. When he reached the hall, he found the doors there standing

open also, blocked by the bodies of two dead dwarfs, blasted and

whitened by Sorkvir’s ice magic. Leaping from his horse, almost falling

when his weak knee buckled under him, Leifr staggered past the bodies

and into the hall, dreading what he would find.

Sorkvir could not have been an hour before him. Ice bolts lay

melting in dark pools among the scattered corpses of more dwarfs. At

last he discovered Hjaldr, still sitting in his chair, pinioned by the sword

thrust through his chest. Knowing after the first glance that Hjaldr was

dead, Leifr turned away and sank down in one of the few upright chairs,

fingering the torque around his throat. In a matter of hours it would

strangle him, although he had found the grindstone and sharpened the

sword, thus ending the alog over Solvorfirth. Somehow Sorkvir had

learned of Hjaldr’s alog; hence his haste to reach Hjaldrsholl before

Leifr did.

Leifr did not waste much time brooding over the unfairness of the

trick fate had played upon him. His temper began to boil, infusing him

with the needful wrath to finish his quarrel with Sorkvir. Standing up

and facing the wall where the helmets of the fallen Dvergar hung, he

drew his sword and raised it to his forehead in salute. Filled with grim

resolve, he strode out of the hall to retrieve his horse.

When he rode out of the outer gates, the first rays of the sun

pierced the misty horizon, touching the high peaks and leaving the

valleys in shadow. Without hesitation, Leifr guided his horse down the

rugged path to the hall in the mountainside. Once a Dokkalfar guard

barred his path with a long, deadly lance.

“Who’s there?” the Dokkalfar demanded, seeing nothing of

Leifr but a dark Dokkalfar cloak and a Dokkalfar helmet.

Drawing the gleaming sword, Leifr answered, “
Endalaus

Daudi
. Either die or let me pass. I have no particular preference.”

“Pass!” the Dokkalfar gasped, falling back into the shadows.

Leifr urged his horse a few steps nearer. “Did Sorkvir pass this

way in a sledge not long ago?”

“He did, not a half hour before.”

“And he’s in the new hall Hjaldr built?”

“Aye, with the doors barred.”

“A piece of advice I’ll give you before I go on. Take yourself

back underground where you’ll be safe. The alog is broken now, and

the Ljosalfar will be looking for any Dokkalfar to take revenge

upon; their swords will be sharp.”

“I’ll do it, even though it means abandoning my post.

They’ve been gathering all night around the new hall, ugly as can

be. I wouldn’t be caught here for anything.” He vanished into the

shadows.

As Leifr approached the gates to the new Hjaldrsholl, he passed

covert knobs of Ljosalfar, all armed with newly sharpened swords, axes,

and lances. They stared with blatant curiosity at Leifr, busily nudging

their neighbors with their elbows. “Look, it’s the Scipling.”

They all regarded him with a mixture of suspicion and awe,

even the Ljosalfar who were neighbors to Dallir, as if they had never

seen Leifr before in all their lives. The first to make a move of

recognition was Young Einarr, who cautiously raised one hand in salute

as Leifr rode past.

“Be you needing any help?” Old Einarr rasped, leaning on a

villainous old halberd with a gleaming half moon of sharp edge

showing through the rust. “If it was Fridmarr, we might not offer—

unlucky fellow, you must surely know. I wouldn’t mind following a

Scipling into a fight. I’m not the sort to be overproud.”

Leifr looked into his earnest, weathered features and nodded

slowly. “I could use some good Ljosalfar at my back. I wish

Fridmarr were here to see it, though.”

Both Einarrs shouldered their weapons, shaking their gray heads

ruefully. Young Einarr passed the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Fridmarr was always high and mighty with pride, even when he was