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the conflagration, like an arrow into the darkness.

As Leifr groped for shelter among the heaps of rock, still dazzled

by the brilliance of the explosion, his fingers brushed cool metal with a

thrill of recognition. Snatching up the sword, he turned. Sorkvir was no

longer flaming, but the tattered mass confronting Leifr was scarcely

recognizable as either wizard or bear. Elements of both were melted

together; the bear’s face dangled in blackened shreds with Sorkvir’s

face underneath, seared and sooty and twisted with rage as he

struggled to tear the remains of the bear’s paws away from his hands.

The bear’s rippling hide now flapped in tatters from Sorkvir’s

shoulders, like a disreputable hairy cloak saved by mistake from a fire.

Thurid tottered forward with a triumphant crow. “It’s not his

fylgja! It’s only a bearskin spell! Except when he’s coming back

after he’s killed, he doesn’t have the power for a bear fylgja! Destroy

him, Leifr!”

Sorkvir whirled around to face Leifr, crouching like a cornered

beast, teeth bared in hatred. “No Scipling will kill Sorkvir!” he snarled,

lifting his hands for a spell.

Leifr raised his sword and spoke its name, guided by an

impulse born from the reactions of the other Dokkalfar. “
Endalaus

Daudi”
he said. “The Endless Death awaits you, Sorkvir.”

Sorkvir held his blustering pose for another moment, then his

hand dived for the sword hanging at his belt. As it cleared its sheath, the

main doors of the hall slowly grumbled open, revealing Hegna and

the dwarfs standing ready with their weapons, and the Ljosalfar

crowding close behind.

With a curse, Sorkvir struck the first blow at Leifr, muttering the

words of spells that would not work. He fought with skill and the

courage born of desperation, striking glittering sparks from his sword

each time it clashed with Leifr’s, until the edge was pocked with jagged

notches. The point of his sword snapped off and spun away onto the

marble floor, scoring the stone with a black, steaming mark.

Leifr fought grimly, knowing that a touch of Sorkvir’s sword

would inflict the same deadly ice magic as the bolts of the storm giants.

His cuts and thrusts slashed away more of the charred bear skin. To his

surprise, the wounds he dealt to the bear’s hide bled profusely.

“You’re weakening, Sorkvir,” he panted. “Your pelt is bleeding

now. Is your ice magic failing?”

Calmly Sorkvir replied, “Failing, yes, but the fight is not yet

finished. Remember that a bear is hard to kill.”

Leifr dealt the first telling blow of the battle by slashing

Sorkvir’s leg. Sorkvir fell back, grimacing.

“We’re even now on that score,” Leifr said grimly.

Sorkvir parried his next thrust and retorted with a twisted leer,

“But there’s the torque, or did you forget?”

“You won’t be here to watch,” Leifr answered.

Sorkvir made a desperate rush at Leifr, swinging his long sword

with both hands. Leifr ducked and thrust his sword through Sorkvir’s

body with a sense of disbelief. Sorkvir staggered, crumpling to his

knees on the marble pavement, shaking his head slowly as he, too, were

unable to believe.

“Dokkur Lavardur,” he gasped, “you’ve betrayed me. Djofull, my

lord!” He collapsed slowly to the pavement, sinking into a misty form

that flattened and dissipated until nothing remained but a dark

discoloration in the shape of a prone body and a heap of charred

bearskin and singed clothing.

Hegna and the others approached cautiously, surrounding Leifr

and the evidence of his vanquished foe. Leifr, scarcely aware of

anything but his own overwhelming exhaustion, sank down on a rock

with the sword still in his hand, glancing up only briefly when Thurid

gripped his shoulder with tremulous fingers.

“Where’s Ljosa?” Leifr asked.

Thurid sank down beside him, his face gray and ravaged as he

gazed intently at Leifr.

“She’s gone,” he said in a stricken whisper.

Leifr lifted his head a moment, then let it sink down again. “I see.

She didn’t want to stay. It was Fridmarr she loved from the beginning,

wasn’t it?”

“Not like that! It’s—worse than you think, Leifr.” Thurid

revealed a bundle hidden under his cloak which Leifr recognized as

Ljosa’s tattered blue cloak. Inside that was her long gown and the rest

of her habiliment. Leifr gazed at Thurid in blank incomprehension.

“She used the escape spell to rescue you from Sorkvir,” Thurid

said. “It’s a power all Alfar possess. With proper training, an Alfar

can escape and return unscathed. But she was untrained, and without

proper training, there may be no coming back from that void where all

power comes from.”

Leifr stood up unsteadily, still staring at Thurid.

“Then she’s gone—into that void? She disappeared?”

Thurid heaved a heavy sigh, his breath burbling inside his

chest. His eyes slid away from Leifr, haunted and weary.

“She isn’t lost. She has returned to the starting place for all

Alfar. Perhaps the Rhbus are there. All I know for certain is that she

used the last of her power to blast Sorkvir. With some help from

this.” He held out his hawthorn staff, badly charred in the two places

where Ljosa had gripped it with her hands. Leifr gazed at the mark of

each finger, choking back a hideous sense of his own unworthiness.

“She shouldn’t have done it,” he muttered. “This was wrong.

She did it because she couldn’t bear to live any longer without

Fridmarr.“ Thurid looked at the ground. “She wanted to help you— was

save you.”

willing to die to

Leifr winced. “Then she is dead.”

“What does dead mean? She used up her powers pulling you out

of Sorkvir’s grasp. Then he tried to kill her and she used the last of it to

blast him. After that, she went into the void. With magical powers, you

can’t take without giving something in return.”

Leifr shook his head. “I don’t understand it. I thought that good

deeds were rewarded. She gave her life to save me. Where’s the reward

in that for either of us?”

“You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s the only reward she wanted.

You should feel grateful, instead of cheated. You’re a hero, and

you’re still alive. That’s quite an accomplishment.”

“Aren’t you forgetting this?” Leifr showed him the torque, and

Thurid turned white with shock.

“Why haven’t you removed it yet?” he gasped. “It’s only a matter

of hours before it starts—”

“Hjaldr is dead,” Leifr said. “Sorkvir’s last evil trick.”

Thurid clasped his temples with his hands. “This is hideous!” he

whispered. “There must be a way to get rid of it!”

“You’re not messing with it,” Leifr snapped. “If I’ve got only

a few hours left, I want every moment of them. You’ll rob me of even

those if you try tampering with it.”

Thurid shriveled, defeated. “My powers are depleted. I doubt if 1

could do you much good, even if I knew how.”

When the news of Sorkvir’s death spread, more

Ljosalfar poured into the hall to examine the murky outline on

the marble floor and the charred remains of Sorkvir’s garb,

assuring themselves that he was truly destroyed. Next their

attention turned to Leifr with much the same mixture of awe and

disbelief. To spare them the embarrassing necessity of gratitude,

Leifr seized the first opportunity to disappear, hobbling out a

low rear entrance in the company of Thurid and some of the

Dvergar who bore Raudbjorn on a litter, in spite of his protests

that he would rather hobble along like a hero than be carried out

like a loser. Leaving the new hall to the celebrants, Leifr and his

companions sought out the somber refuge of Hjaldrsholl.

His leg was still aching, and he stopped twice on the way

to sit down and rest it. The second of these times, he thought

he detected movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning

quickly, he caught a glimpse of a small gray cat. Remembering

the image of the cat he had thought he saw shooting away when

Sorkvir bit Thurid’s staff, Leifr struggled to his feet. But when he

looked again, there was nothing there.

In Hjaldrsholl, the dead had been cleared away and

buried, along with the helmets that had hung on the wall. Now

that Sorkvir was dead, the dwarfs had no need to cherish their

desire for vengeance. Their morose and silent natures were not

particularly uplifted by Sorkvir’s destruction; their losses had

been too grievous to be easily forgotten in revelry and song, a

compunction not shared by the Ljosalfar.

Leifr eased himself into Hjaldr’s chair with a weary

groan and rested his head on his hands. Thurid sat across the

table and spread out all his rune wands for an exhaustive

scrutiny. Then he scowled over them and finally pushed them

aside impatiently. Standing up, he upended his satchel on the

table and shook out all the contents, which amounted to an

astonishing pile of random objects.

“I’ll return to my original, primitive methods of

divination,” he explained. He gathered the rune wands and

put them back in the satchel, then began pawing through the

other objects, looking for anything else he wanted to keep.

Suddenly Thurid paused, examining a small, wax-covered

packet which he had discovered in the jumble of odd objects. He

stood still, staring fixedly at it.

Leifr’s curiosity was piqued. “What’s that, Thurid?” he

asked. “Your face looks as if you’d just seen a ghost.”

Thurid nodded slowly and tossed the little packet on the

table. “I feel as if I have. Fridmarr gave me this just before the

last time he left. He said, if ever I was in trouble, I should burn

it, and it would summon help. But only if I were in the direst of

need. Somehow I never used it, although I ought to have when

that Irskur Jarl wanted to cut my throat, or that time when I was

thrown in prison for bad debts. Ah, Fridmarr.” He shook his

head with a rueful little smile. “It was the only time he ever

tried to show that he was looking out for me. He did sort of like

me, in his own, peculiar way.”

“He thought of you as his only friend,” Leifr replied.

Thurid sighed and picked up the package again. “I

only wish this would work for us now. It was probably only a

joke at the time. I remember how he threw it at me and

laughed when it landed in my ale horn.” His eyes were

opaque with memories and old regrets. Then he slowly turned

toward the hearth, where a small fire was burning, and dropped

the little packet into the coals. “Well, Fridmarr, this is the end of

your joke.”

In a few moments a plume of black smoke filled the

hearth, swarming up to the smoke hole in a choking, inky cloud.

Hegna and the other dwarves stifled their coughs, swabbed their

stinging eyes, and went to open some doors to let the pungent

smell out. Thurid sat glowering, and Leifr had the urge to laugh.

“He fooled you again, Thurid,” he said with a wry smile.

“Come now, there’s no sense being angry at him.”

“It’s myself I’m angry at,” Thurid snapped. “I should not

have forgotten so soon, in my silly sentimentality, that

Fridmarr loved nothing better than to embarrass me. I’m

frightfully sorry for all this.“ He nodded brusquely toward

Hegna.

“It’s a minor inconvenience and nothing more,” Hegna

replied graciously. “We’ve had worse guests, I’m sure.”

As he spoke, he darted a glance toward Raudbjorn,

propped upright on his sleeping platform and combating the pain

of his wounds with large quantities of Dvergar ale, clutching his

fearsome halberd in one fist.

Rather than persistently inquire how much longer before

sundown, Leifr limped to the outer gates several times to mark

the descent of the sun in the sky. Between Raudbjorn’s ravings

and Thurid’s smoke, the dwarfs’ hall was well nigh

uninhabitable anyway. The dogs followed Leifr, with their tails

drooping and their golden eyes overflowing with tender concern

for their troubled lord. Leifr sat on a rock with his cloak drawn

around him, almost tasting the expectancy he felt closing in on

him as the time grew shorter.

When little more than an hour remained, Thurid joined

him outside in silent disgruntlement.

“I’m sorry for all this,” he finally burst out in helpless