o 132c9f47d7a19d14 (56 page)

rendering tallow. I always felt something peculiar about that old

Gotiskolker. And him Fridmarr all along.”

The Elder Einarr beckoned imperiously to another group of

neighbors watching from a cluster of rocks. “Some of us wasn’t

fooled,” he growled darkly. “I knew Fridmarr wouldn’t give up easy. I

always wondered what plot he’d hatch out.”

“Odd he’d pick a Scipling to help him,” Young Einarr added

thoughtfully. “There were plenty of willing Ljosalfar just waiting for an

excuse to rise against Sorkvir.”

Leifr turned his horse and rode on, saying over his shoulder,

“Waiting? How long were they willing to wait? Forever wasn’t long

enough for most of you, in my opinion.”

The Ljosalfar uneasily avoided looking at each other. They

rode at Leifr’s heels in silence, until Einarr the Elder cleared his

throat and spoke. “It wasn’t for us to go into heroics. That’s the stuff

for young Ljosalfar and Sciplings and other fools. Like that Thurid.

Now there’s a man who was born‘ to be a wizard or a hero—or a fool.

He never was one to plod along like the rest of us, working our hearts

out on this ungrateful, hardhearted land. Thurid and Fridmarr both

fretted and chafed at the idea of being broken to harness. The

ordinary life wasn’t for them. You’re the same way, young Scipling.

But don’t get hot and impatient with us common folk. You need us; and

maybe the rest of us need the cross-grained ones like you and Thurid

and Fridmarr.”

Leifr stopped and gazed around at the work-worn faces of his

small band of allies, feeling himself properly chastened by Old Einarr’s

wise words. In their demeanor, he saw respect and admiration, but he

sensed that their complete acceptance was reserved for others like

themselves, whose largest worries in life concerned their land and their

prosperity, instead of the killing of dangerous wizards and breaking of

alogs. It was for the protection of these ordinary souls that the Rhbus in

their inscrutable wisdom had plotted the course that had brought Leifr

to the Alfar realm.

“We’re not out of danger yet,” he said gruffly. “There’s one

more job of work to be done.” He nodded toward Hjaldr’s hall.

“Sorkvir must be fought and destroyed. It looks as if we’ll have to

batter down the doors first to do it.”

Einarr the Elder took charge of the improvisation of a battering

ram, setting the younger men to work on it immediately. They

commandeered a sledge from the settlement of Laukur, extracted its

long, heavy keel, and appropriated men to help batter the doors of the

hall.

Exceptionally strong and thick, the doors withstood the battering

longer than three teams of batterers. The fourth team consisted of six

of the Dvergar who had escaped the carnage of Hjaldrsholl at far-flung

outposts. Relentlessly they smashed the doors they had lovingly carved

and hung, shattering the fine wood brought from afar and sending the

doors reeling off their finely crafted hinges. Dropping the battering ram

with a crash, they unsheathed their axes and stood waiting for Leifr’s

commands. Leifr rode his horse into the tunnel, with Farlig casting

ahead eagerly for Sorkvir’s scent.

The tunnel entered a high-domed underground courtyard,

dimly lit by fissures far overhead. With a triumphant howl, Farlig

discovered Sorkvir’s sledge and sniffed all over it with a chorus of

growls and excited yelps. Then he hurled himself off the sledge and

followed the scent to a dark corridor, where he stood with stiff legs and

bristling fur, sniffing into the darkness beyond with obvious unease.

The tunnel was too low for a man on a horse, so Leifr dismounted,

motioning to the Dvergar to wait where they were.

“What’s down there?” he asked their leader, a young dwarf with a

bushy red beard and a premature scowl etched into his broad brow. He

had changed his name to Hegna as part of his vow to punish Sorkvir for

his crimes.

Hegna stepped forward, shouldering his axe. “It’s the rearward

way to the great hall. A door opens onto the dais at the back. Other

doors and tunnels lead to the horse quarters, the smithy, springs, mine

shafts, and empty places. If Sorkvir has gone down there, he has chosen

a good place to hide himself.”

“Not so well that I won’t find him.” Leifr took a torch down

from the wall and fanned it into brighter flame. He hesitated for a

moment, wishing he had Thurid and his powers with him; but he

dared not wait any longer. “Bar the front doors to the hall from this

side, in case Sorkvir tries to escape that way. Wait for me here, and

don’t allow anyone to come into this tunnel, no matter what you think

may have happened.”

By their scowling and muttering, Leifr knew the dwarfs were not

fond of the idea, but they stayed where he had ordered them to,

watching as the red light of his torch diminished in the long dark tunnel.

Farlig’s faithful nose led him past several side tunnels with hardly

a glance in their direction. Suddenly Farlig halted, blocking the tunnel

rigidly as he sniffed at something on the ground. Leifr held the torch

down to investigate and discovered a splatter of fresh blood, still wet

and glistening. His throat constricted as he thought of Ljosa, wondering

if Sorkvir had decided he had nothing further to lose by killing her.

Farlig glided forward a few steps and froze again, sniffing loudly and

intently over more splatters of blood, enough to show that a major

injury had been suffered. It appeared as if Sorkvir had dragged his

victim along after him.

Leifr smoothed Farlig’s soft ears in an effort to control the

commotion of his rising fear and anger. “Come on, Farlig, enough of

this laziness,” he whispered. “Now, we’ve got to hurry.”

He forced his weak leg to endure the fast pace. The pain became

a fierce numbness, but the leg still held him, so he kept going until the

tunnel bent abruptly to the left. Halting, he grabbed Farlig and peered

around the corner, sensing a faint illumination on the sweating

stones. A massive double door stood open at the end of the corridor,

with pale sky light filtering through, very gray and distant. Farlig thrust

his long, pointed muzzle around the corner and sniffed eagerly,

shivering with excitement and panting, his lips drawn back in wolfish

anticipation.

Quietly Leifr drew the sword and stepped around the corner,

walking step by cautious step along the wall toward the doors, which

opened on a vast, silent chamber, lit by random streaks of sunlight

from fissures high above. The dwarfs had not finished their work before

Sorkvir and his Dokkalfar had driven them out, but Leifr could see that

the vast hall would have been a glorious monument to the craft of the

Dvergar. Portions of rough pillars had begun to take graceful shapes. At

either end of the massive hall reared a gigantic hearth, large enough for

roasting an entire ox with room to spare; and some skillful craftsman

had begun the work of carving a history into the stones surrounding the

hearths. A black trail of blood led across the dais before Leifr and onto

the marble floor. A heap of excavated stone blocked Leifr’s view of the

end of the blood trail.

Commanding Farlig to follow, Leifr started across the dais

with the dog at his heels. Warily he surveyed the rough interior of the

great hall. The jumble of stones and masonry afforded Sorkvir hundreds

of places to hide.

Guided by soft but audible crackling sounds, Leifr advanced to

the marble pavement and followed the blood spots with his eyes to a

dark mass lying near the far hearth. He stared at the heap without

comprehension, until it suddenly shifted, and two red eyes fixed an evil

stare upon him. A low rumbling growl echoed through the hall, and

strong white teeth glinted in the pale light.

Farlig answered the greeting with a shuddering growl of his own

as the massive form of a bear lurched to its feet to confront its attackers.

“Is this the way you prefer to fight for your life, Sorkvir?” Leifr

called, his voice echoing hollowly. “I had thought it was a cowardly

deed to retreat to fylgja form in the face of battle.”

Sorkvir’s voice rumbled from the bear’s throat in a guttural

growl. “What finer fighting form is there than this? A bear is harder to

kill than a cat. Only a direct thrust to the heart will keep him from

tearing his assailant to shreds with his teeth and claws, even as he dies

from a hundred lesser wounds. Your
Endalaus Daudi
will not save your

life if you don’t strike it true.”

Leifr stood rigid, not failing to notice that the bear’s muzzle and

claws were stained with fresh blood; beneath one set of scimitar claws,

the bear held a bloody leg bone, almost gnawed free of flesh.

“Where is Ljosa?” he asked, his voice thick with menace.

“There,” Sorkvir replied, pointing briefly with his muzzle over

his silvered shoulder toward the hearth. “She’s safe enough, for now. I

have saved her all along for this moment, when you must choose

between her and that sword.”

A shadowy figure stirred within the dark grotto of the huge

hearth, and Leifr saw a pale face lifted in his direction. In a low and

clear voice she said, “The choice is on your side, Sorkvir. You can

escape and live until the sword finds you, or you will die now.”

“Then you shall die first,” Sorkvir replied, lying down once

more, but keeping his eyes alertly upon Leifr.

“I can die gladly with that assurance,” Ljosa answered with cold

disdain. “I have the blood of warriors and fighting queens. Death is

nothing that I should fear.”

Leifr approached slowly until he stood near the center of the hall.

“This is the place where we will fight,” he said, drawing a line on the

floor. “Will you come to meet me, Sorkvir, or do I have to come for

you?”

The bear rose to his feet with a grunt and shambled slowly along

the marble pavement toward Leifr, swinging his massive head from side

to side. Farlig crouched before Leifr’s feet, growling and bristling

with all the menace he could muster.

The bear moved with astonishing speed. One moment he

was lumbering along at a ponderously slow gait; in the next instant he

lunged, swiping Farlig away with one swing of his huge, deadly paw

and slashing at Leifr with the other. Reeling backward a few steps,

Leifr raised the sword defensively to prevent another assault. He

was certain that he had felt the bear’s claws lay bare the bones of his

right shoulder and rip through the muscles of his chest. A quick

inspection indeed revealed that his cloak, tunic, and shirt were a mass of

fluttering ribbons and threads. At any moment, he could expect a gush

of blood that would quickly drain away his strength.

Slicing at the bear in a determined effort to make his last

moments count, he scored a smoking slash in the heavy fur of Sorkvir’s

neck. Black fluid welled up in the injury but did not spill over. Sorkvir

backed away a few steps, shaking his head with a roar of pain. Leifr

pressed his brief advantage, making a daring thrust at the bear’s ribs.

With lightning speed Sorkvir whirled around and struck at him with

his deadly claws, shredding the sleeve on his right arm in one

stroke. It was a glancing blow, miscalculated and poorly aimed, or Leifr

might have been sent spinning.

Farlig, who had lain in a twitching heap for a few moments after

Sorkvir’s breath-taking wallop, regained his consciousness and leaped

back into the battle, fastening his teeth in one of the bear’s ears and

swinging around to avoid being clawed away.

Leifr glanced ruefully at his arm, feeling no pain, although he

was certain the claws had scored his flesh. Yet he saw no ragged

wound, only perfectly healthy and intact skin. A quick inspection

revealed the same results for his shoulder and chest. Elated, he silently

thanked the Rhbus for the protection that must be part of their sword’s

magic.

Watching him with maddened red eyes, Sorkvir knocked Farlig

away with another heavy clout, scarcely sparing the dog a glance.

Farlig shook his head and wobbled to his feet, still game for another

assault on his master’s foe.

Sorkvir reared to his hind legs, towering over Leifr with a