Aye, my lords—nine worlds. Nine realms that the
Aesir trod, some of them friendly, some brooding and
some that held death for them.

First, there was Asaheim, where Odin ruled from his
high seat in Asgard by the sea- This was where the Aesir
lived, honing their swords for conquest.

Next there was Alfheim—the elfworld, the ancient,
where trees grew tall and green and fair. There walked
the golden-haired lyos, proud lords of the forests and the
searoads.

1     Jotunheim was the blighted home of the hrimthursar,
the giants, where no man could endure the eternal cold.
Here were fortresses of stone, indistinguishable from the
windy crags and the storm-gutted hollows.

Vanaheim was a fair land with broad meadows, gently
rolling hills and laughing rivers. The Vanir held sway
here in their halls of white stone, reaping a generous
harvest.

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

Midgard you know—with its greed and its lust, its
bravery and its openhandedness, its cruelty and its devo-
tion. Here too the Aesir walked, in search of men willing
to fight their wars.

Niflheim was a place apart, all but unknown- Odin
named it a world of fog and misery, decay and corrup-
tion, where the lights in the sky had died long-ago.

Svartheim was where the dark elves lived, a honey-
comb of tunnels, where they mined for gold and for
silver. But it was iron they forged into weapons for the

Aesir.

Utgard, it is said, was set spinning in the void by Odin
himself. Here, he mixed mortal men and elves and giants
in a cauldron of war for his pleasure.

And finally there was Nidavellir—where nothing
might live, for the mountains here never stopped vomit-
ing lava over the black and tortured terrain. The sky was
a roiling fury of smoke and ash and fire.

The Aesir ranged far and wide across these nine
worlds, my lords, for Odin had built the gates—the
nether-paths from world to world—for conquest and for
adventure, for the gathering of wisdom and the spread-
ing of his empire.

But always the Aesir returned to their city by the
sea, for Asgard's splendor cannot bear description....

Sin Skolding
Hiesey, A.D. 439

II

The sun was on his face, drawing his skin tight over his
ageless skull. The wind lifted his hair and ruffled his beard.
He closed his eyes and, for a moment at least, he dreamed.

Once, men had burned pieces of sheep and wild boar on
his altar. They had labored to cut his name into the
runestones that they erected in their burial grounds. They
had collected the scraps of coarse leather left over when
they made their foot coverings, and kept them safe—for it
and was said that out of such bits and pieces his boots had
been made.

And without those boots, the legends said, he could not
have split the wolf Fenrir's jaw.

Men had held him high, as if he were a god. Him and his
kinsmen, the Aesir, who had plucked the sturdiest fighters
from men's midst—then bid them wage an eerie war
against hulking hrimthursar, in a land where the sun
brought no warmth, and there was no wind that did not

MICHAEL JAN PRIEDMAN

sear the skin. They fought gladly, men did, for they
thought that they were in Heaven.

But what did the Aesir hold high? Only Asgard,
He opened his eyes, slowly.

And it was Asgard that rose beneath him now like so
many fountains of stone, achingly graceful in their ascent,
glistening like molten silver in the soft light of the early
spring sun. The water that girded the city on two sides was
alive with whitecaps and deep blue, like the sky when the
air is clear and the day is nearly spent. Mountains stood
guard on her north side, shrugging off waterfalls, and only
in the west was she undefended—open to a wide plain
called Idavollr.

The wind that filled his nostrils was redolent with mem-
ories. It was the smell of freedom, of pride, of power. It
was the taste of his youth, spent among Asgard's towers
and in the shade of Asgard's woods.

He felt strangely at peace. Even though Odin stalked
below—perhaps had already gathered hidden forces and
lay in wait for his enemies. Even though there was a rising
wave of discontent among his own armies now. Even
though the dissonance of war still rang in his ears, and
there would be more wars to come before he could lay
down his sword—even with all this laid out before him like
a wild and unfinished tapestry, a feeling of calm still
washed over him when he looked down on Asgard,

Vidar felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Vidar?" It was Eric's voice, tentative.

"Aye," he said, and a moment passed in which there was
only silence. Then the one called Eric spoke again.

"Vidar, the Asgardians... they're saying that they
won't follow you...."

But Vidar was weary, so weary, and he did not hear the
rest. "Do you know," he asked, "how many hearthfires I've
gazed into and seen Asgard in the heat of the coals?" An
eagle glided up from its eyrie among the peaks and
wheeled on the upper airs. "As she was before the thursar

The Seekers and the Sword

tore down her towers and spilled blood in her streets—and
took torches to the ruins."

For a moment, a scene rose unbidden behind his open
eyes—charred spider-things that once were children, rub-
ble and dust and red flames that flickered like wolves'
tongues- A river dyed red, pools filled with blood, A ghost-
city, unpeopled and dead, empty but for the carrion birds
that sprouted on corpses like death's black blossoms. Then
he blinked it away, with some difficulty, and gazed again
on Asgard as she was.

Proud, sturdy towers reared up against the hard, crys-
talline heavens, connected one to the other by great, sky-
spanning bridges. The sun glinted on the green symmetry
of her gardens.

"And Vali has resurrected Asgard as I would not have
thought possible," he said, forgetting to whom he spoke.
Vidar stared at her black stone walls, as high as those Loki
had built before Loki tore them down again. "The bastard.
From here, she looks exactly as I remembered her."

"Vidar—listen to me," said Eric. "Please." There was
an undercurrent of urgency in hrs voice, though Vidar did
not hear it, "They're talking about deserting...."

"So familar," said Vidar. "I can even see the tower that
was built to resemble Vidi—my home, my hall—where I
would be lord today if I'd stayed to help rebuild her." He
shook his head slowly in the caress of the wind. "Damn. I
wonder who's living there now?"

Eric gripped his shoulder more tightly, shaking him, but
to no avail. He was mesmerized by Asgard, it seemed.

"But it does not matter now," Vidar whispered. "It's
someone else's hall. Aye," he breathed, "someone else's."
He licked his lips, watching the seas churn around Asgard,
and reflected as if through a haze on the circuitous path
that had brought him back to this place.

It had begun in Woodstock, where he sculpted metal and
wood and stone, and sold his work to bankers' wives. There

MICHAEL JAN PREEDMAN

was some peace in that, a peace he'd traveled long and
hard to find.

Sometimes, while he wrested form from stubborn form-
lessness, he could forget the bloody work his hands had
done. Sometimes, in those moments of creation, he could
forget all the destruction.                       •.

And as far as he'd known, Asgard had forgotten him as
well.

Then came the discontent, the numbness. He blamed it
on his breakup with Alissa, but knew that it was something
else—something that called to him out of the gray past,
reminding him that he had not always been a sculptor.

And on the heels of that numbness, the call from
Modi—Thor's son. The need that brought Vidar to
Utgard, a world Odin had created for his amusement. The
threat of Ygg, who was bent on tearing Utgard in two—
and who could say that Midgard-Earth was not next on his
agenda?

But when Vidar came face to face with Ygg, he discov-
ered that the destroyer was Odin himself. Odin, who had
been seen to perish in the last battle with the hrimthursar.
And he was mad, scarred horribly in both body and soul,
so that he only wanted to crush ail he had made.

Vali, lord of Asgard now and Vidar*s half brother, man-
aged to strangle Odin's uprising. But when Vali's armies
overran his father's stronghold—a city of thursar priests-
Odin was gone. He had passed through a hidden gate from
world to world.

They had followed—Vidar and Vali and Hoenir, their
uncle, along with the armies of Asaheim and Utgard—but
their forces had been divided. The gate had sent them to
two different worlds. Vali and Modi and half their troops
were missing when Vidar and Hoenir found themselves in
this cavern overlooking Asgard.

Which way had Odin gone? Hoenir had found the mask
that Odin wore as Ygg—here, in the cave. And if Odin had

The Seekers and the Sword

come this way, he must have had some cache of power
here, ready to be claimed by him alone.

Asgard looked peaceful from this perch in the moun-
tains. But who within its walls might have long ago sworn
allegiance to Odin—the Lord of the Ravens, who built
Asgard in the first, slow strokes of time?

Indeed, who lived down there now? The descendants of
those Vidar had known and abandoned to live in Midgard.
Descendants twenty times removed from his brothers and
their sons. Strange faces, for whom Vidar the Jawbreaker
must be a name tinged with cowardice. Vali would have
done little to make Asgard see him any other way.

"Vidar?" Again that voice. "Answer me, damn it!"
cried Eric, and Vidar smiled grimly as his eyes focused on
the boy's face, half in sunlight and half in gray cave-
shadow. Ah, yes, Eric. Even in this strange, pleasant haze,
Vidar saw how Eric had changed since they'd first met in
Skatalund, when Vidar was unaware that Eric was
Skatalund's prince. He'd been through war and magic,
captivity and wonder, and he'd grown older beneath the
crack of those whips. It was no wide-eyed stripling that
now commanded an army of men, in place of his father,
who'd been wounded in the taking of the priests' fortress-
Eric looked like a youth until one looked closely. Then
his eyes showed his true age.

What was the expression on his face? He looked
angry—but why? No matter. It was nothing.

The harsh scrape of boot-leather against stone made
Vidar turn then. He looked up at the face of Hoenir, his
uncle. Hoenir seemed to glare at him, too. "That's the
trouble with you healers," he said. "You're like drunkards.
Indulge too much and you get stupid—like sheep."
"What's the matter with him?" asked Eric.
"He's spent himself, that's all," said Hoenir, and spat,
"He has withdrawn. Inside his own head, he sees clearly.
But you won't be able talk to him for a while—unless I try
something I haven't done in a long time."

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"What's that?" asked Eric.

"Stand aside," said Hoenir. The boy stood and took a
step backward.

Hoenir grabbed Vidar by the front of his woolen tunic
and brought him to his feet. Vidar stood reluctantly, but
did not show any signs of understanding. His face was as
blank as that of a newborn.

"I hope you forgive me for this," said Hoenir. "After all,
you're bigger than I am." Then he brought his fist back
and drove it into Vidar's jaw. The blow sent Vidar sprawl-
ing into the shadowy recesses of the cavern.

For a moment, he lay there, moving his head experimen-
' tally. Then he propped himself up on his elbows and peered
at the pair that stood over him-

"Hi, guys," he said. "I guess I overdid it, huh?"

"Praise Vali that you've come to," said Eric, coming
over to extend his hand. With an effort, he pulled Vidar to
his feet. "There is grumbling among the Asgardians,
Vidar- They say that they're home—and until Vali comes
back to tell them otherwise, they're staying here."

"Aye," added Hoenir. "And neither one of us is in much
of a position to command their respect. You're a deserter
from way back, and my philandering is legend even in
Asgard."

Vidar felt his jaw. He was still more than a little weary
after doling out his vitality in so many small doses, to heal
those who had broken limbs or suffered worse injuries in
their fall through the gate. For it was a vertical passage
through which Odin had escaped, and it had been inevita-
ble that there would be some poor landings on the other
side. Fortunately, the only fatalities had been the horses
who had come up lame, and had to be put to death in the
deepest parts of the cavern.

But he had heard the complaints even as he had admin-
istered to the injured. The Asgardian troops wanted no
part of him, with Vali gone. And with Asgard in sight, it
would be difficult to keep them up here much longer.

The Seekers and the Sword

But if the Asgardians suddenly poured out of the hills,
they might find a ravening maw instead of their beloved
city, and its teeth the spears of Odin's followers. How deep
might Odin's influence extend, how high? How many in
Asgard might have been swayed by the tales of mighty
Odin, and inspired by his sudden reappearance among
them? How many dissatisfied enough with Vali's reign to
seek an alternative?

"Did you find the Aesirman you spoke of?" asked Hoe-
nir. "And explain the situation to him?"

"Yes," said Vidar. "He agreed to do as I asked, although
he thought I was jesting, at first, when I told him who Ygg
was. He said it would not be easy."
, Hoenir shrugged. "He doesn't know how convincing you
can be. Jawbreaker." He paused for a moment, smiling.
"I'm just sorry that I can't come with you. But there are a
few black marks on my name in Asgard, and this would be
an awkward time for an accounting."

Vidar found himself listening for hidden motives in his
uncle's words- There was always the game, the war oT
suspicions. Perhaps the strangest part of becoming reac-
quainted with his family's penchant for dissembling and
intrigue, Vidar mused, was the realization that he himself
could be mistrusted.

But in this case, there was more to it than that. Vidar
remembered what Odin had boasted of in the fortress of
the thursar priests—that Hoenir had begun to lean his way
in the struggle. He'd said the same of Magni, Modi's
brother. Were Odin's boasts rooted in truth? Or were they
deceptions intended to shed doubt on Hoenir's loyalty, and
Magni's—to drive a wedge between his enemies?

But in Hoenir's case, this much was certain—he was
Odin's brother. Odin's blood. His pedigree alone made him
someone not to be trusted. In the end, Hoenir was aligned
with no one but himself.

"Remember," said Vidar. "If I'm not back by morning,
something went wrong."

10 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"I'll remember,'* said Hoenir. "I hope that I can.keep
the natives quiet that long." Then he turned and merged
with the darkness inside the cavern.

"I don't trust him," said Eric, when Hoenir had gone,

"You're learning," said Vidar, "even as I am." He
brushed some dust from the black, woven breeches he'd
been given back in Skatalund, "But now I've got to find
Ullir again."

Eric nodded. "But we don't know which of the chieftains
may be in league with Odin, do we? What if Ullir's father
has thrown in with him?"

"I think that Ullir would have suspected as much, if it
were a possibility."

"And UHir?" asked Eric. "Can you trust Aim?"

Vidar turned toward Asgard and listened to the far-off
surf breaking on the rocks. He sighed. "Sometimes," he
said, "you've just got to take your chances."

HI

The descent from the mountains through the foothills
took the rest of the day. and they found the road to Asgard
in the thin light of early evening. Ullir had said little to
him, since they were concentrating on keeping themselves
hidden from the watchers on Asgard's wall, and not on
pleasantries. Even when they reached the narrow stone
highway, they had to conceal themselves in the woods
alongside it, until there was a gap in the string of travelers
and they could join them without suspicion. Then they
pulled their hoods up, lest Ullir be recognized.

There were wagons filled with grain and driven by old,
straw-haired farmers, who seemed to bear only the slight-
est resemblance to the Aesir of Vidar's youth. Mostly, they
looked like mortals, the descendants of those earthly war-
riors who had survived Ragnarok and taken to the lands
around Asgard. Such as these did not live in the city itself,
Ullir told him—that was only for those who still traced
their lineage to Odin's sons.

II

12 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

There were youths on horseback, led by a dark-eyed
master-at-arms. He glanced fiercely at any one of them
who diverged from their tight military formation. These,
Ullir explained, were the sons of the outlying lords, sent to
Asgard to learn the craft of war and the textures of
politics. Not all the highborn chose to live in the city, hut
they, too, swore their allegiance to Asgard.

There were straight-backed lyos, who traveled alone or
in pairs. Gentle traders with satchels full of precious stones
and silver or ionely figures who kept their secrets to them-
selves. The elves were not uncommon in Asaheim, accord-
ing to Ullir. As in Vidar's time, commerce and diplomacy
had tied the Aesir and the lyos together—and besides,
Vali's nephew Magni ruled the elfworld.

But those whom Vidar found the most interesting were
the slaves—otherworlders whose homes Va!i had invaded
in his need for conquests to match Odin's. These were the
prisoners he had brought back in fetters, or the tribute he
had exacted for suffering their world's surrender. This was
how he had kept Asgard strong—or so he'd told Vidar in
Skatalund. By finding new foes to beat down, by directing
Asaheim's energies toward victory after victory after glori-
ous victory.

Slaves were the side effects of those conquests. Most of
them belonged to a tall, lean-muscled race, with skin as
black as obsidian. They were hairless but for a strange
white plume that began at the crowns of their heads and
ran down to the napes of their necks. Their hides were
sleek in the dying light, their eyes as dark as the rest of
them. They wore only ragged loincloths, said Ullir,
because that was all Vali would permit them. No dagger
could be concealed if there were not a place in which to
conceal it—but the black ones shivered as if even the
slightest breeze were like ice against their skin.

"Muspellar," Ullir whispered, when there was no one
around them to overhear. "They have proven stronger than
Vali had thought. The raids and counterraids were still

The Seekers and the Sword 13

going on when Vali decided to direct the majority of our
troops into Utgard. The gate that leads into Muspelheim is
closely guarded now, or was when I left. In fact, all the
gates were guarded, by Vali's own order. Even the gate to
Alfheim, because some of our enemies might find a way to
Asaheim through the elfworld."

"And those?" asked Vidar, gesturing casually toward
the next-largest group of slaves. These were more powerful
looking than the muspellar, with short, stocky bodies, long,
muscular arms and skin that looked as if it had been boiled
in scalding water. Their hair and beards were thick and
dark, their eyes bloodred slits above broad cheekbones.

"Gag'ngrim'r," said Ullir. "They would not give up
their world to Vali, so he destroyed them. Utterly. Those
few who survived he brought back to work in the mines,
like the other slaves- Soon the mountains will be hollow,
and Vali will have to find other work for them."

Vidar looked at him. "These are all that are left?" '

"These," said Ullir, "and their brothers enslaved else-
where in Asaheim. But I am told that on their own world,
they were numerous once,"

Vidar bit his lip. Other, smaller clots of slaves went by
them, spurred forward by Aesir and Vanir guardsmen that
kept their hands on the pommels of their swords to show
their intent. One race looked almost human but for the
yellow-green scales that covered breasts, backs and shoul-
ders; another resembled the thursar, but they were
smaller, and they had four arms instead of two.

The slave march had almost passed them entirely when
one of the scaly beings faltered and fell. At once, a
Vanirman was upon him, his arm raised to strike. The
slave got to one knee, but no more.

"Get up, you scaly bastard," the guard said.

Vidar's hands balled into fists, but he restrained himself.
At his side, Ullir whispered, "Easy, my lord. There's too
much at stake."

14 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

The guard's arm fell, and his pommel thudded into the
slave's skull. He felt again, and this time he did not rise.

Another guard came over. "Is he dead now, Laerad?"

The first guard bent over him. "No, I think not. Let's get
a pole over here, and his brothers can bear him the rest of
the way to Asgard."

"Aye," said the second guard, and left to fetch a pole.

Vidar felt his molars grinding together, and he relaxed
his jaw only through concentration. He breathed deeply
once as they walked by the fallen salve, and exhaled
savagely when he saw the blood.

The guard glanced at them as they passed, but said
nothing. It must have been a commonplace occurrence in
Vali's Asgard, as it had been in Odin's.

But Vali's aggression had created a new web of worlds—
new gates, new enemies—which Odin could use to his
advantage. If he were to give the muspeilar a new direction
from which to attack Asgard—for no one was as adept at
making gates as Odin—how much more dangerous these
enemies might become.

In a way, it was better that Odin had returned to
Asgard, where his counterstroke, when it came, would be
bold and brazen. He was much more of a threat roaming
from world to world, setting off powder kegs as he'd done
in Utgard.

As dusk fell and the sun set the sea ablaze in the east,
Asgard's towers gleamed fiery red in a soft, violet sky. The
two-hundred-foot-tall iron gates stood open, giving Vidar a
glimpse of glory within.

As they had planned it, he and Ullir reached the city
after the day had yielded to night, and the moon risen over
the sea. In the dark, there would be less chance of their
being discovered. If Asgard were Odin's now, op the sur-
face or under it, their lives depended on their anonymity.

When they came near the gates and the armed sentinels,
both Ullir and Vidar pulled their hoods lower over their
faces. There was no one that could identify Vidar—only

The Seekers and the Sword

15

their long-ago forebears knew him. Yet he bore a family
resemblance to Vali, and anyone who had a good look at
his face might put two and two together.

They fell into line with others who had been on the road,
for the gates were not open so wide that more than two
could walk abreast through them. As they passed the
sentinel, he leaned toward them to get a better look at their
faces. But Vidar thought that they were home free until
the watchman grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Wait—you two," he said.

Vidar turned to look at him. "Aye?"

The sentinel—a red-bearded Vanirman—peered at
Vidar's shadowed countenance. "You're an Aesirman," he
said finally.

"Yes, my lord."

"Then don't go around all bundled up like an elf. The
way you wear your hood, I thought you were one of
them—although I should've known better when I saw the
size of you. Where are you from?"

"The north," said Vidar, "beyond the mountains. My
father owns a farm back therer"

"What are you doing in Asgard, lad?" The watchman
was just being friendly now—or so it seemed.

"Visiting a kinsman," said Vidar.

"Well," said the Vanirman, "be careful to stay away
from the elf-gate while you're here."

"Why's that?" Vidar asked.

"There's been some kind of rebellion in Alfheim. It
seems that they've overthrown Magni. And now this
murder."

"What murder?"

"Oh, that's right," said the watchman. "I forgot you just
got here." He shook his head. "One of the sentinels by the
elf-gate, murdered just last night. We had only a few
swords there—though we should have had more. But who
expected that they'd be attacked from Asaheim's side of
the gate? Taken by surprise, they were. All of them were

16 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

hurt pretty badly. One died. Just a lad, too. I knew his
father—one of those that went off with Vali. They'll be
lighting his pyre any moment now, with the moon up, poor
boy."

"Why would anyone in Asaheim attack them?" asked
Vidar.

"To get to Alfheim, of course," said the sentinel.
"Aye," said Vidar slowly, playing the country bumpkin.
"I've got some ideas, too," said the Vanirman. "Maybe a
pack of elves, sympathetic to the rebellion—or sent here as
spies before it broke out, to see if we would help Magni in a
pinch. Of course," he said, his voice lowering to a conspira-
torial whisper, "we've not got much to help with right now.
Vali took just about everybody that could bear a sword.
Outside of the sentinels, you understand."
"Aye," said Vidar, his mind racing.
"So we're sifting through the elves at the gate to the
city," said the watchman, "instead of guarding against the
muspellar and some of those demons."
"Maybe Magni will put the rebellion down."
"I doubt it," said the watchman. "They say he's dead."
"Pity," said Vidar. "Then Odin preserve us."
"Aye," said the watchman, if a bit uncomfortably. "But
I've never heard anyone use the old king's name so, lad. In
Asgard, it's Vali that preserves us. If you start calling on
Odin, people will know that you're from the hinterlands,
and they'll try to get the best of you."

"Aye, my lord," said Vidar. "Thank you." And he
moved to go.

"Hey," said the redbeard, "doesn't your friend talk?"
"He's my brother," said Vidar. "He was kicked in the
head by a horse when he was little and he hasn't been right
since."

The Vanirman nodded in sympathy. "That must be why
he wasn't called to war." Then the watchman's brow
furrowed and he sized Vidar up warily. "And why weren't
you called, tad? You look right enough to me."

The Seekers and the Sword 17

Another second and the sentinel might have attracted
some attention—but Vidar reached deep into the
Vanirman's mind and made one small adjustment. It was a
talent he'd inherited from Odin, though he had avoided
using it on Earth.

"Oh," said the guardsman. "Well, be careful, like I told
you."

"We'll be quite careful, thank you," said Vidar. Taking
Ullir's arm, he led him past the gates.

He sifted through what the redbeard had said. Rebel-
lions didn't just spring up—but it might seem that way if
Odin was behind it, pulling the strings. Back in Utgard,
Odin had told him that Magni was his ally—but the Lord
of the Ravens had lied to him before- Had Odin lit a fire of
war under Alfheim as he had under Utgard?

At any rate, he'd not made his move yet in Asgard. If he
was here, he'd gone underground—which meant that they
were not too late to stop him.

Vidar turned toward Ullir to share his thoughts with
him—but he found unexpected anguish in the Aesirman's
eyes. All the color had drained from Ullir's face. "Vidar,"
he said from beneath his hood. "I have a son who guards
the gates." A chill climbed the rungs of Vidar's spine.

"There are many gates," said Vidar, "and many youths
guarding them, Ullir."

"But that watchman—he knows me, Vidar. And he said
that the dead youth's father had gone with Vali." Ullir
grimaced suddenly. "Come," he said. "I want to see the
pyre."

They crossed the space between the first set of walls and
the second, and passed through the inner gates without
challenge. It was full night now, a black dome of sky full of
stars, and the flames had already begun to leap from a
wooden pyre in the center of the market square. Ullir
made a way for them through the crowd of onlookers, his
eyes never leaving the slim figure on the funeral platform.
The blaze was reflected in his pale blue eyes.

18 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"Ullir..." said Vidar as they drew nearer to the
platform.

"I can't tell," he said, suppressed agony in his voice.
They pushed even closer.

But the flames had climbed too high. The corpse was
surrounded by them, consumed by them. Beneath UlUr's
hood, Vidar saw the face of horror.

"By Vati, I cannot see ..." said Ullir. Then he whirled
suddenly and gripped someone in the crowd.

A woman's face turned toward him, awash with the
nickering light from the pyre.

"Tell me," said Ullir. "Who is it? Who is he?"

The woman just stared at him for a moment. Then, as
understanding crept into her face, she said, "Ingvi. Ha
name was Ingvi,"     ^

Ullir's eyes closed and he breathed one deep breath, a
faint smile on his lips. Then h& opened his eyes and
thanked the woman. "And pardon me," he said. "I thought
that it was someone 1 knew once."

The woman nodded and moved away.

"It's not your son?" asked Vidar.

"Not my son," echoed Ullir.

Vidar wondered what gods there were for an Aesirman
to thank. None. There was only Vali, their king. Then he
noticed that the woman Ullir had spoken to had turned to
look at him again.

"Let's go," said Vidar. "I think you've been
recognized."

Ullir pulled his hood down farther over his face. "This
way," he said, indicating a way out of the marketplace.
They freed themselves from the press of the crowd and
found a cobblestone road between two great towers. The
edifices that these towers replaced had been used long and
long ago to scan the plain that stretched east from the city.
The road took them over a small bridge, past the narrow
rush of the river Thund, where the warriors in Valhalla's
practice yards used to quench their thirst. It was not

The Seekers and the Sword 19

uncommon, Vidar remembered, for one of them to lean
over too far and find himself downstream suddenly, outside
the two-hundred-foot-high walls.

They wound their way deeper into the city, beneath
fierce, bright stars and bridges that leaped from tower to
tower. As they walked, the stones beneath their feet began
to glitter in the moonlight, for there was indeed gold in
Asgard's streets—small chunks of ore that had been
unearthed with the other stones and set just as they were.

Vidar found that Asgard was returning to him in a rush,
too quickly for his senses to put up any defense. He saw
stalwart Breidablik, Baldur's hall, and it threw back the
light from its pillars of ruddy gold, and from its roof of
beaten silver. It was built on a broad lawn, between rows of
yew trees. Vidar couid almost see Baldur standing at the
threshold, pondering a gnat's misfortune—for all things
were of concern to him.

They passed Breidablik, and the streets were all but
empty. Only a few dark shapes had business that could not
wait until morning. Perhaps some still rushed to see Ingvi
on his pyre—or his ashes, at least.

But for Vidar, Asgard was choked with ghosts—his
brothers, Hermod and Tyr, Thor and Heimdall, Bragi the
poet and Baldur. Vidar could hear their laughter, see their
faces. And yes, even Vali and Hod seemed to walk beside
him, for they had often walked together before Hod slew
Baldur and Vali set out to hunt him across the nine worlds.

The memories of his youth crowded the night-dark
streets—Frigga, the only mother he'd ever known, for his
own had died at childbirth. Freya, the beautiful, the dan-
gerous, and her brother Frey. Their father, Niord, for
whom Odin had built a hall in Asgard, a symbol of the
alliance between the Aesir and the Vanir.

Sif, the wife of Thor, with her tumble of hair that was
like pale, spun gold. Idunna, the gentle, who tended
Asgard's apple orchards by day and gladdened Bragi's
heart by night. Sad Nanna, who had watched her husband

20 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

Baldur's funeral ship vanish on the seas that spread from
Asgard to the horizon.

Vidar pulled his cloak about himself more tightly, for
now the stars were blotted out by Valaskjaiff—the high
tower from which Odin surveyed Idavolir and the moun-
tains and the waters about them, the dark place to which
he retreated when the court at Gladsheim mired him too
deep in government. Vidar recalled that it was the one
place where Odin would brook no disturbance, where even
his sons dared not enter, nor Frigga. It was the place where
he kept his ravens, Hugin and Munin, the birds he took
into battle to frighten his enemies. Even now, on the far
side of time's span, Vidar shuddered at the prospect of
Valaskjaiff.

Ullir led him deeper into the city, where the quiet was a
thing nearly tangible. The slap of their footfalls on the
stones and the occasional cries of swift swallows were the
only sounds—though the squares of light in windows high
above the streets told them that Asgard made other noises
within the thick walls of its dwellings.

But wait—there was another sound, after all. Vidar
heard its murmur, its whisper, and recognized it finally—
the waterfalls that came down out of the mountains to
create cool, frothy pools at Asgard's feet. A few of the falls
were so close to the city that they poured down inside the
walls, and oak trees grew thick about such places.

Here, memory flinched—for it was by such a cataract
that Baldur had been found with Hod's arrow in his breast.
AH, Baldur, Vidar sighed in his mind. If Baldur had
survived, who knew what the nine worlds would have been
like?

Then Ullir said, "Here, my lord. My father's hall."

Vidar knew it. Frey and Freya had lived here once—or
rather, had lived in a hall that stood on this spot. Yet the
noble Sessrumnir that Vali had erected from debris and
ashes was an exact duplicate, down to the oakwood gates

The Seekers and the Sword

21

and the white stone of its walls. It shone in the moonlit
eventide with a soft, milky light.

They trod the path of flagstones that led them over the
lawn to the white stone steps. Vidar looked about to see if
there were any witnesses, but he saw no one. They
ascended the steps and Ullir knocked softly on the door. A
moment later, one of the gates creaked open. A head
appeared, that of a wizened old man.

"It is late," said the man, squinting at them. "What help
can we be to you, travelers? If you're seeking the inn near
the marketplace, you've come much too far."

The Ullir flung back his hood, revealing his yellow-
bearded visage. The old man's eyes widened, as if it were
an otherworlder come to cut his heart out.

"My lord," he breathed.

"Let us in, Folvir, and quickly," said Ullir. "I must see
my father."

The old man hesitated for but a moment. Then he
shumed to one side and opened the door wider. Ullir
slipped in, with Vidar right behind him. They stood in the
darkened vestibule, whispering like thieves.

"Are there guests here tonight?" asked Ullir.

"N-No, my lord," said Folvir, stammering.

Ullir took off his cloak and handed it to the old man.
Vidar did likewise, but quickly turned away, so that Folvir
would not get a clear look at his face.

"This way," said Ullir, crossing the room to a sturdy oak
stairway. Vidar went with him.

"But, my lord," said Folvir, in great discomfort, it
seemed, "may I tell your father how you've come to ... ?
If you will wait but a minute ..."

Ullir said nothing, but continued up the stairs to the
next story, where a broad hall opened up. Here, the floors
and the walls alike were constructed of that rare white
stone, though covered with rugs and tapestries. On the
southern wall, large windows showed the stars, and bra-
ziers flamed and smoked between them. Doors were set

22 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

into arches in the wall opposite, and one of them stood
open now.

Ullir crossed the hallway and stood at the threshold of
the open archway. Vidar stood behind him, in the shadows.

Those inside the room sat around a long, heavy wooden
table. Behind them, a firepit blazed, and above it a spiyed,
half-carved boar- At the far end of the table, nearest the
firepit, sat a broad-shouldered man whose hair, like Ullir's,
was yellow—but it was streaked with white at the temples
and at the corners of his beard.

There were three others alongside him—a woman with
light brown hair bound in a braid, a young boy with hair
the same color and an older woman whose dark red hair
was gathered in a knot.

The older woman was the first to look up and see them
standing there in the doorway. She gasped and dropped
the knife she'd been using to cut meat for the boy. The rest
of them turned as one. The younger woman screamed,
while the man at the head of the table rose suddenly, his
chair clattering on the floor as it toppled.

The boy Just stared wide-eyed for a moment. Then he
pushed away from the table and ran into Ullir's arms. The
blondbeard picked him up, kissed his face and put him
down again gently. Then the younger woman rose and
came to him. He embraced her wordlessly, and she wept
into the hollow of his shoulder.

"Hush, Enda," he said finally. "It's no ghost you see
before you." He looked down the length of the table at the
older man. "I must speak with you, father. And quickly,
for we have not much time."

His father's brows met over the bridge of his nose.
"Where is the rest of the army—the army that rode with
Vali to Utgard?" There was both anger and uncertainty in
his voice.

Ullir put the younger woman from him, though gently.
"Take the boy and my mother, Enda. We must talk."

"I would stay," said the younger woman.

The Seekers and the Sword

23

He looked into her eyes. "Please," he said. "There is not
much time." The woman—Ullir's wife, it seemed—low-
ered her eyes, took the boy's hand and left the room. The
older woman followed, stopping first to press Ullir's hand,
and then to glance suspiciously at Vidar. She closed the
arch-doors behind her.

"My son," said Ullir's father, "I do not understand."

"1*11 answer your questions, father," said Ullir, putting a
hand on Vidar's shoulder. "But first I want you to meet
someone, so perhaps you will believe some of the other
things I have to tell you."

Vidar stepped out from behind Ullir. "Lord Heidrek of
Sessrumnir, heir to the Odinsons Heimdall and Bragi,"
said the blondbeard, "meet the lord Vidar, son of Odin."

Heidrek's face twisted in disbelief—then with some
other emotion. Vidar read it as contempt.

"Vidar?" the older man repeated. "Odin's son?" His
eyes narrowed as he surveyed the figure at Ullir's side.
"Aye," he said finally. "It would seem so."

"May we sit down?" Vidar asked.

Heidrek nodded, fixing Vidar with his stare. He reached
back and righted his own chair, then joined them as they
sat.

"The army?" Heidrek asked.

"Closer than you might think," said Ullir. "At least,
half of it. You see, father, Vali was victorious in Utgard.
But Ygg—the one we thought was Hod—escaped during
the battle through a gate only he knew of. Vali, Modi,
Hoenir—who had turned up to help—and Vidar here
gathered their forces, the Utgardians as well as our own
people, and led them through the gate in pursuit. It was
believed that wherever Ygg had fled, there might be
another army there waiting for him."

Heidrek nodded, folding his arms. "Of course," he said.

"But when we emerged from that gate, my lord, we
found ourselves in the hills that overlook Asgard."

24 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

The older man shook his head, eyes wide. "Then why all
the secrecy? Come down out of the hills."

Ullir shook his head. ^We cannot. When we arrived in
Asaheim, we found that we had gone through a split gate."
He leaned forward. "I never knew that such a thing existed
either, my lord—but it's true. Vali and Modi and half our
forces are somewhere else—where, I cannot say. But the
other half lies concealed now in the hills awaiting our
return...."

Ullir would have gone on, but Heidrek held up his hand.
His brow knotted and he rubbed one eye with the knuckle
of his forefinger. "All right," he said. "I understand now
why the Utgardians, at least, might wish to remain hidden.
Without Vali to vouch for them, who knows what kind of
welcome they would receive? After all, there are giants
and elves that dwell there—I understand all this. But why
should those who were born in Asaheim remain hidden
from their families and their friends?"

"There's a good reason," said Vidar. 'Their families
and friends may not have their well-being at heart right
now. We believe that Ygg might have a following here."

Heidrek's temples worked furiously, and he seemed not
to know whether to laugh or take offense. "Here?" he said.
"In Asgard? Never!"

"So you may say," Vidar continued. "But the fact
remains that this is the place to which Ygg fled."

Heidrek glared. "Unless it was that other place—where
you say Vali was transported."

Vidar nodded. "If it was the other place, then that's
Vali's problem now. But we can't assume that. Lord
Heidrek. We must act on the possibility that Ygg escaped
to Asgard—and that he had a motive for coming here."

"But who in Asgard would throw in with Hod?" asked
Heidrek. "Who would be mad enough to risk Vali's
wrath?"

Vidar looked at Ullir, and then again at Heidrek. "Ygg

The Seekers and the Sword

25

is not Hod," he said. "We discovered that back in Utgard.
In fact, if Vali were here, he would tell you so himself."

Heidrek laughed suddenly. "A moment ago," he said, "I
thought I knew which way the seawinds blew. Now I find
myself caught in a maelstrom. Before I get any dizzier, tell
me who Ygg is, if he's not Hod."

"Odin," said Vidar. "My father."

The color drained from Heidrek's face. He stared at
Vidar, then Ullir, and then turned to Vidar again—seek-
ing a smirk, perhaps, or a wink that would give away the
jest. But he searched in vain.

Heidrek cleared his throat. "I want to believe you. In
truth, t do. But I cannot. It's not possible."

"He survived Loki's flames by opening a gate to Nifl-
heim," said Vidar. "All this time, he's hidden there, gath-
ering his strength." He paused. "But we have no proof to
offer you—only your son's word—and mine."

Heidrek peered at Vidar strangely. "My son." he said,
"has never lied to me. I trust that he is not lying now."

Vidar said nothing.

The old man looked at Ullir. "If what you say is so—and
I still find it difficult to believe—then I see why you have
come home like a thief, by night." He took a deep breath.
"What is your plan?" he asked. The torchlight played
grotesquely on the deeper wrinkles in his face.

"First, we wanted to know if Odin had been detected
here," said Ullir. "It seems that he has not. Second, we
wanted to arrange a meeting with the council of chiefs.
Tonight, if possible. One of them may have seen or heard
something suspicious—something which may lead us to
Odin."

"And what about the chiefs themselves?" asked Vidar.
"Can we be sure that Odin has not already laid claim to
one of them?"

"You can be sure," said Heidrek, not bothering to dis-
guise the hostility in his voice, not for his son's sake nor for
that of his own safety before a full-blooded Aesirman. "I

26 MICHABL JAN FRIEDMAN

have known them all their lives," he added. "We have had
our differences—but it ends there. Not one of them would
betray Asgard or Vali—not if their youngest child's life
depended on it. Those who defend Asgard now are not
traitors, my lord."

Vidar read between the lines, supplying the rest of. the
sentence in his own mind: "... as you were."

Heidrek frowned and shook his head slowly. **As for a
meeting tonight—it can't be done. Gagni and Njal are off
to visit kin in the mountains, and neither will be back until
tomorrow. If you want me to call a council, you must wait
until then."

"We cannot," said Ullir. "We left word with Hoenir that
we would return by daybreak."

Heidrek wiped at the air with the back of his hand. "I'll
send a messenger, then, to tell him you're staying here this
night. Tell me where to find your army, and I'll pick
someone I can trust."

Vidar shook his head. "We must return. Otherwise, we
might have a mutiny on our hands. Hoenir can only hold
the reins so long by himself."

"Then you'll have to return without speaking to the
council," said Heidrek. "But don't expect me to speak for
you. They may believe that Odin is alive—and bent on
Asgard's destruction—if they hear it from the mouth of
his own son. And then, they may not. But they will not
believe me. They'll think that I've had too much to drink,
or become senile. Or both."

Vidar scowled. He didn't like the idea of leaving Hoenir
to fend for himself—but Heidrek was right. There was
little choice in the matter. Finally, he nodded. "1*11 give
you a message such that Hoenir will know it came from us.
But the messenger must be trustworthy."

"Well and good," said Heidrek, rising. "And I hope that
you have as much luck convincing the other lords of your
tale as you have had with me." He stared frankly at Vidar.
"Courtesy dictates that I offer you the hospitality of my

The Seekers and the Sword 27

hall. But do not think I offer it eagerly, Vidar Jaw-
breaker." Then he strode past them, out into the hall.

"Father ..." said Ullir, as Heidrek went by. He turned
to Vidar, as if to apologize.

"That's all right," said Vidar, smiling. "I didn't expect
to win any popularity contests here."

IV

Perhaps you have had your fill of skalds, my lord. But
be careful whom you thrust from your hall and the
warmth of your fire—without, I might add, so much as a
goblet of mead or a chicken leg to eat. For the Aesir have
been known to visit the halls of men in the guise of
mortals. Yes, my lord, the Aesir—for it is they who wrote
the laws of hospitality, in order that wayfarers should
not go cold and hungry.

In fact, there is a song of Odin and his brothers,
Hoenir and Lodur, who came to Midgard one day to see
how well men treated their guests. After wending their
way for hours through well-kept fields and green pas-
tures, they came to a rather large farmhouse. It was
plain that whoever lived here was a man who had grown
rich on Odin's bounty.

The All-father himself knocked on the door, and the
lord of the house answered it. He was a tall man, with a
flaming red beard. "Who are you?" he asked.

38

The Seekers and the Sword 29

"Only three wanderers who've grown tired and hungry
on the road," said Odin. "We thought perhaps that you
could spare some .bread and mead—if that's not too
much trouble."

The farmer looked none too eager to invite the trav-
elers into his house, but he did so anyway. They sat
down around his hearth, where the farmer's wife brought
them bread for their hunger and mead for their thirst.
But the bread was as hard as a hrimthursar's skull and
the mead as thin as an idle man's sweat.

"Is there not a more edible loaf of bread around?"
asked Hoenir. "I'm not ready yet to lose my teeth."

"And perhaps you can find some stronger mead than
this," suggested Lodur. "It tastes like water that's been
stagnant too long."

"You've got gall for men who do nothing but mooch
from honest men's cupboards," said the farmer. "That's
the best I can do for the likes of you."

"What about Odin's law?" asked Odin himself. "That
guests should be seated higher than their host and
offered the choicest fare in his larder?"

"Fie on Odin," said the farmer. "He doesn't nave lazy
beggars at his door every other day."

"Fie, is it?" laughed Odin, and with his bare hands, he
extracted a burning log from the hearth. "No house will I
leave standing where guests are not welcome." And he
used the log to set the turf room ablaze. The lord of the
place made no move to stop him, for when he saw him
wield the naming piece of wood without hurting his
hands, he Jmew his guests were of the Aesir. He barely
had time to roust his wife and children before the house
burnt down.

The three brothers set forth again, in an ill humor this
time, for neither their hunger nor their thirst had abated.
If anything, they'd grown worse. In time, however, they
came to another farmhouse, surrounded by even richer
lands than the first.

30 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

Odin knocked, and the owner opened the door. He was
a broad man, with an iron-gray beard. "Who knocks?" he
asked.

"Only three travelers who've grown weary on the
road," said Odin. "We hoped that we might find a kind
host here, who would offer us bread for our bellies and
mead for our throats—since we have been traveling long,
and the road has not been kind to us."

The farmer was not overjoyed to see them, but he
asked them in anyway. They sat around his hearth and
his daughter saw that they had bread and mead, as
they'd asked.

But the bread was moldly, and the mead sour.

"Perhaps you can spare some younger bread," said
Hoenir. "This loaf may be older than Midgard itself—
and greener."

"And while you're about it," said Lodur, "there might
be some sweeter mead. This stuff is as sour as an old
maid's disposition."

"Who are you to refuse what I give you?" stormed the
farmer. "I don't see you offering to work for your board,"

"What about the law of hospitality?" asked Odin.
"The Aesir have told us to treat our guests as if they
were our own grandfathers."

"Easy for the damned Aesir to make laws," said the
lord of the house. "They don't have to abide by them."

"Damned Aesir, is it?" laughed Odin, taking the
centerpole of the house in his fists. "No home will I leave
standing where travelers may not find some kindness."
And with that, he heaved the pole right out of the
ground, so that the roof collapsed all about them. The
farmer knew then who his guests were, but it was too
late. He didn't even have time to save his family from
being crushed—only himself, and then by a whisker.

Again, the Aesir-in-mortal-guise took to the road. This
time, it was not long at all before they came to a dwell-

Tbe Seekers and the Sword 31

ing. But it was not much of a house—in fact, it was only
a shack, with some hard, half-tilled earth close by.

Nonetheless, Odin knocked on the door. A man
answered, but he was so painfully thin that it hurt Just
to look at him. "Who is it?" he asked, peering at the
travelers.

"Only men, like yourself, who've not eaten nor slaked
their thirsts all day," said Odin. "Can you spare some
bread and some mead?"

"Truth be told, I cannot," said the man. "But I'll share
with you what I planned to have for my own poor meal.
The land is not generous here, and I've not been well of
late—but come in. You're welcome to all I have."

The three sat around a cold, empty fireplace, and the
farmer's wife—as thin as he was—brought them bread
and mead.

It was not plentiful, but it was fresh and good. The
farmer and his wife sat and watched while their guests
ate, and did not partake themselves, though they looked
as if they would have liked to- When Odin and his
brothers had broken their fast and quenched their
thirsts, they thanked their hosts.

"But we are not what we seem," said Odin. "We are
Aesir, disguised so that we may test the generosity of
mortal men. And while your neighbors mistreated us and
felt our wrath, you were openhanded with all you had.
For that, you shall receive my blessing. This house will
stand forever—so says Odin."

And that is the reward for those who know how to
treat travelers, my lord. What's that? No, the couple did
not fare well under Odin's blessing. A flood took them
the very next spring.

But their house still stands, my lord, which is more
than can be said for those of their neighbors.

Sin Skolding
Rogaland, A.D. 339

v

When Vidar first saw the redbeard enter Heidrek's
meeting room, a shock of recogition sent shivers up his
spine. He had never met the chieftain called Njal before—
but he had seen the bearing and the visage in the forms of
his sons.

They had been charged by Vali to keep him imprisoned
in Skatalund, but Vidar had had other ideas. Before he
left, three of them had been slain—one by his own hand,
and one by Eric's. What's more, he had disgraced the
eldest of the nine brothers—disabled him and forced him
to swear he-'d not lift a sword again against Vidar—so that
he had watched helplessly while his kinsmen were cut
down.

The Vanirman leaned forward now over the oakwood
table, his murky blue eyes squinting on either side of his
broad, fiat nose. Was it the glare of the hearthfire or
suspicion that made him squint so? Perhaps more of the
latter than the former, Vidar mused.

32

The Seekers and the Sword 33

There were eight of them that sat around Heidrek's
longtable, warming by the widest hearth in Asgard. Vidar,
Heidrek and Ullir sat with their backs to the flames, while
the other five chieftains faced them.

Njal sat in the center. By custom, this meant that he was
the most powerful of the chiefs. On his right hand, the
place of next highest honor, sat Gagni—an Aesirman, by
the look of him, but dark-haired. Vidar marked his heri-
tage. Despite the hair that shone like polished wood in the
firelight, he bore enough of a resemblance to Tyr to show
that he had more of Odin's blood than Earth's.

The other three seemed to have traces of Heimdall and
Hermod and Bragi in their features, but their human
forebears had had the greater influence in their making.
None looked like Vali—for he had never sired an heir, not
to Vidar's knowledge.

The wind blew fiercely at the windows. It had grown
steadily colder all day, and though it was early spring,
winter still asserted its rule by night-

"So," said Njal. Vidar was close enough to see the fine
webbing in the skin around his eyes. "Why have you come
back, Lord Vidar—to claim the crown ofAsgard in Valfs
absence?" He was blunt, anyway.

Vidar shook his head. "That's not why Heidrek called
you here, if that's what you're thinking." Five sets of eyes
followed every movement of his face, no doubt fascinated
by this piece of living history which had suddenly appeared
on their doorstep.

"Then what is it you do want?" asked Gagni. He
appeared to be the youngest of the chiefs, and his speech
was curt and clipped.

"I need your help," said Vidar, "to seek out an enemy in
your midst."

"In Asgard?"

"Aye," said Vidar. Then he described to the council, as
Ullir had to Heidrek the night before, the circumstances
which had brought them to this pass.

34 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"And since when are you Vali's friend, my lord?" asked
Njal, "I don't remember you riding out from Asgard at his
side." He paused for a moment. "You say that Vali and
Modi were transported elsewhere when they went through
the gate. Convenient, is it not? Our liege lord's absence is
explained as neatly as you please, and his new ally turns up
to speak on his behalf. Perhaps to assume the throne Tor a
short time—in Vali's absence, of course, for the lord Vidar
is of Odin's blood, too. Only until Vali returns—no longer.
If he returns."

"We joined forces in Utgard," said Vidar. "And I have
no interest in his throne." The last was a lie, of course—for
Vidar had vowed to B'rannit the elfqueen that he would no
longer let Vali have his way with Asgard. Now, as then, it
seemed that Vali's overthrow was the only way to put an
end to the wars he had started. And if it meant that Vidar
must assume the throne to insure peace thereafter, then he
would do that, too.

Njal's eyes narrowed to slits. "Aye," he said. "So you
say. But I sent nine sons with Vali. Is there not one of them
among you, up in the hills, to vouch for the truth of what
you tell us?"

"None of your sons came through the gate to Asaheim,"
said Ullir. "In fact, not a single Vanirman came through
on this side. But you know me, don't you, Njal? Gagni?
Torvi? Have you ever known me to deceive you?"

"Nine sons," said Njal. "All of them gone with Vali.
Convenient and more convenient."

"Ullir does not lie," said Heidrek then, an edge of rough
anger on his voice. "Remember whose board you sit at,
Njal."

Njal met Heidrek's glare. "Forgive me," he said. **I
meant no insult to your house. Lord Heidrek. But we are
all familiar with our lord Vali's ability to shape a man's
mind, are we not? It's a talent all of Odin's sons had.
Perhaps Ullir's mind has been shaped so."

"It has not," said Ullir.

The Seekers and the Sword

35

"But how would you know if it had?" asked Gagni,
looking not at Ullir, but at Vidar. "Indeed, how would you
know?"

Vidar saw that even Heidrek's face was plagued by
doubt now. At this rate, he'd accomplish nothing. Frustra-
tion and anger began to rise in his throat.

"Aye," said Vidar. "1 could have done that. I have the
power. But I could just as easily have bent all your minds
to my will, if that had been my aim. Shall I show you how
easily?" He paused, but his speech was attended by
silence. "Good. Now, perhaps, you'll hear me out."

Vidar cleared his throat. He seemed to have gotten their
attention. Now for the hard part.

"We have reason to believe," he said, "that Ygg may be
in Asgard. It can't be coincidence that he appeared here.
This must have been his goal all along—to defeat Vali in
Utgard, then return to Asaheim to claim his prize. And to
do that, he must have a following here in the city."

"Here? In Asgard?" asked one of the chieftains, half-
smiling. "It's incredible."

"Aye," said Gagni. "Who would follow Hod? His name
has been poison here since before Asgard fell to the
hrimthursar."

"But Ygg is not Hod," said Vidar. "The one who fought
Vali in Utgard, and escaped—the one whose mask we
found in the hills above Asgard—is not Hod. He's Odin—
the one who ruled here before even I was born."

In the blank, empty space that followed, Vidar could
hear kindling snapping in the hearth. Then Njal began to
laugh, a harsh, dry laugh that went on for what seemed
like a long time. A thought surfaced in Vidar's mind—
could it be that Njal himself was in league with Odin?

"Have a care," said Vidar, hoping that he sounded dire
enough. He fixed his gaze on Njal. "Don't forget who sits
across this table, my lord. Not some lackey, but Odin's
son, who slew hrimthursar before your grandfather's
grandfather was even weaned. I see scrawny creatures

36

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

walking in chains here, and you call yourselves conquer-
ors—but I remember the days when Asgard was Asgard.
I'm not used to laughter when I warn Asgard's stewards of
danger in their own city." He paused for effect. "Or do you
yourself have a stake in Odin's success, Njal?"

The redbeard rose stiffly from his seat, no longer laugh-
ing. His face was fiery red above the burnished copper of
his beard. And his hand had come to rest on the hilt of his
sword.

"I do not fear you," he growled. "Once. you may have
been a prince here. But you are a prince in Asgard no
longer. You chose to turn your back on her when she
needed you most—to flee and hide in lowly Midgard.
Treachery, my lord—it's your creed, not mine. And now,"
he said, his voice growing low and ugly, "/ warn you—
remember to whom you speak. Do not accuse me of
betraying VaH. Tricks won't win you into Asgard, nor will
this joke you tell—that Hod is not Hod, but Odin. Odin is
dead, rest his name. Do not sully it, or you'll have all the
Vanirmen in Asgard to answer to."

"You knew Odin, then?" asked Vidar. "If he walked the
streets of Asgard, you'd know him in a crowd?" A couple
of the other lords chuckled.

"No, but..." Njal sputtered, his hands trembling with
anger. His face was the color of blood. "I'll teach you
to—"

"/ knew him," said Vidar, calmly. "And I know that he
is alive."

Vidar tensed as Njal's sword slithered out of its sheath.
He'd brought no blade to Asgard—for on whom would he
use it?

"No!" cried Gagni, gripping the redbeard's wrist. The
sword stopped, halfway out. "Put your blade away," said
the dark-haired chieftain.

"Not until I've had his heart out on a spit," said Njal.

"Be reasonable, Njal," said Gagni. "He's full-blooded
Aesir. He'll tear you apart if you give him half a chance."

The Seekers and the Sword 37

"But he blasphemes," said Njal, never taking his eyes
off Vidar.

"No," said Gagni. "I believe him."

NJal's brows knit as he looked at Gagni. "You what?"

"I believe him," said Gagni. "I did not become a chief
by not knowing the truth when I hear it. If the lord Vidar
had wanted us to smell danger where there was none, he
could have thought of a much simpler lie. Now, sit down,
Njal-"

The Vanirman looked to the other chieftains, but they
all seemed to agree with Gagni. Slowly, he shoved his
blade back down into its sheath. The fire drained from his
countenance, and he sat.

"We're letting the wolves into the sheep pasture," rasped
Njal. "But I shall listen to them pant and growl, along
with the rest of you."

Vidar relaxed a bit-

"What do you want of us, then, if this is all true?" asked
the one called Torvi, a tall, rangy man with a walrus
mustache the color of iron.

"To scour the city," said Vidar. "Use your spies—you
all must have them. Folvir, for instance—I don't know
whose he is, Heidrek, but he's a spy if I've ever seen one."

"Aye," said Heidrek, nodding, "but still a good
servant."

"Then use people like Folvir to search out the nooks and
crannies. If Odin has a following of any size, he won't be
impossible to find. And even if his allies are few, there's
still a chance you'll stumble over him. Then, should all
that fail, I'd conduct a search of the city—house by
house."

The lords all moved uncomfortably in their chairs.

"He must be found," said Vidar. "Your privacy is noth-
ing compared to what will happen if he's not discovered in
time."

"What if he's taken to the countryside?" asked Gagni.

38 MICHABL JAN FRIEDMAN

"Then it will be harder to flush him out," said Vidar. "It
will mean sending search parties abroad...."

"Wait," said Torvi, stroking his chin. "I wonder if..."
His voice trailed off. A log snapped in the hearth.

"What is it, Torvi?" asked Heidrek.

The chieftain shrugged. "Perhaps nothing. But those of
my men that watched the gate to Alfheim—where the
murder took place—say that the lyos who surprised them
there were uncommonly powerful. For elves, that is."

"Aye," said NJal. "They were surprised. When you
don't expect him, any enemy seems uncommonly
powerful."

"No," said Torvi. "I think not, Njal. I know these men
well—a couple of them are my sister's sons. They said that
the elves were quite large, too—and I thought this strange
when I heard it. Now, I wonder ..."

"Odin," said Ullir, turning to Vidar, His eyes were
alight. "It could have been him, Vidar—with some of the
thursar priests. If Odin could escape through the split gate,
so could they,"

Vidar flushed.

"Could be," he said. Of course. Why hadn't he thought
of it sooner? Odin could have used Asaheim as nothing
more than a bridge—by which to reach Alfheim.

But that did not mean that Asgard was safe. Not by a
long shot. The All-father might have paused here long
enough to light a fuse.

"Yes," said Vidar finally. "It makes sense."

"What are you saying?" asked Gagni. "That Odin
passed through Asaheim and is gone again?"

"That would explain the elves' sudden distaste for
Magni," said Heidrek. "Odin could have planted his seeds
of dissent there in preparation for his arrival."

"There's no way to know for sure," said Vidar slowly.
"He may have stayed here—or he may have gone on to
Alfheim. We can't ignore either possibility."

"But why," asked Gagni, "would he go past us to

The Seekers and the Sword

39

Alfheim, where the rebels have already woo, and where
the lyos care nothing for the All-father of old? Here, his
name might be a powerful force—there are those who
might listen if Odin appeared in our midst."

Gagni was no fool. It was a good point.

"Unless," said Torvi, "there were a powerful prize still
to be gotten in Alfheim."

"Such as?" asked one of the other chieftains.

"Frey's sword," said Heidrek, picking up on Torvi's
thought.

"Indeed," said Njal, who'd been silent until now. "Our
long-dead monarch seeking a long-lost sword. Phantoms
chasing phantoms."

"Has the sword turned up?" asked Vidar. He'd thought
Frey's blade lost at Ragnarok—but he'd also been away a
long time.

"No," said Torvi, shaking his head. "But it's been said
that the lyos preserved it somehow. Brought it back to
Alfheim, against some future need." His brow wrinkled.
"Vali has searched for it—even as recently as my grandfa-
ther's time, so there must be some truth to the rumor."

"And the Lord of the Ravens might succeed where even
Vali has failed." It was Gagni speaking again. He turned
toward Vidar. "He would have ways of finding the
sword—would he not?"

"Aye," said Vidar. "He might. No one knows the extent
of his abilities."

Njal laughed. "Good. Then take your army through the
gate," he said. "Take it to Alfheim. Begone after your-
Odin."

"And we," said Gagni, looking meaningfully at Njal,
"will do our part here. I give you my word. By tomorrow
night, the city will have been searched,"

"We'll march as soon as we can, then," said Vidar. "But
I have a favor to ask of you."

"Ask," said Heidrek.

"We have wounded among us—Asalanders as well as

40 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

human, dark elves and thursar. All fought under Vali's
banner in Utgard, and all followed him through that
treacherous gate—but not all dropped through the gate
safely."

"Thursar?" whispered one of the chieftains.

"Aye, thursar," said Vidar. "But city-dwellers like you,
that serve a human lord in Utgard. And Vali did nofturn
them down when they pledged him their swords."

"Is there no limit to this effrontery?" asked Njal, look-
ing to his peers. "Now he asks us to keep monsters under
our own roofs."

None of the other chiefs said a word. Then Heidrek
spoke.

"The Asalanders we'll take in, of course. And the
humans. The others I'll see to—though not here, in the
city. I have lands on the other side of the mountains, where
the wounded can heal and await your return."

"Thank you," said Vidar.

"Don't," said Heidrek. "I do not wish for your gratitude.
It is for Vali that I do this."

"If he were here," said Vidar, "I'm sure that he'd be
touched, Lord Heidrek." Then he rose from his chair and
looked from face to face, "Until we meet again,
gentlemen."

"Aye," said Njal, his eyes slitted like a cat's. "Until we
meet again, my lord."

VI

The trek back seemed much longer than the trek out,
but it may have seemed so because he gave Asgard up so
reluctantly. Perhaps it was only that it took longer to climb
the hills than to descend from them.

Vidar reached the cavern, with Ullir, by morning, but
the sun had already risen free of the water's grasp. No one
was still steeping—certainly not in the din they heard as
they approached.

"Then tell us why," a voice demanded, rising above the
others, "we should not throw you off a cliff and abandon
this wild-goose chase?"

"I told you why, you son of a slug," came the return.
Vidar recognized the second voice as Hoenir's. It was
followed by laughter, but there was an ugly nut of sup-
pressed violence at its center. "For one thing," Hoenir
said, "I could crush your skull like a robin's egg before you
came within a sword's length. And for another, Ygg is still
on the loose out there, perhaps in Asgard itself. You

41

42 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

pledged your blade to Vali's cause, right? This, my friend,
is still that—Vali's war—and I'll brook no deserters."

"If it's Vali's war, then where's Vali?" roared someone
else. "And my brothers? Where are they? If I knew that,
then I'd be headed there, not cooped up in this cave
counting the times my stomach growls!"          ^

"Forget your stomach, Ranni," came a hoarse reply. "I
pledged my sword, and here I stand.'*

"It's Asgard we're pledged to defend," cried another,
"so let's go down to Asgard! What are we waiting for?"

"Try it," said Hoenir, his voice low and dangerous, "and
I'll spit you like a pig. Personally."

As Vidar stood by the cave-mouth, it took a few
moments for his eyes to adjust to the semidarkness within.
The scattered light of torches glared off the low ceiling,
where slick, red-orange stalactites hung in clusters, like
chandeliers in a great hail. Below them, stalagmites rose
from the gray rock floor like hunkered-down demons, and
in some places the formations met, creating smooth, hour-
glass-shaped columns.

The spaces between and among the mineral accumula-
tions were crowded with warriors—Asalanders, humans,
dwarvin, thursar—and in a small, cleared space in the
center stood Hoenir and a handful of Aesirmen. A few
stood with him,-the majority against. As yet, there had
been no swords drawn, but it would only take one and the
cavern would be a bedlam.

"Enough," said Vidar, just loud enough for his voice to
carry above the murmurs of the assemblage. All eyes
turned toward him. "Let them go, Hoenir, if they've no
more stomach for war. Some dogs are born gutless. I don't
want warriors who are too homesick to fight." He spat. "If
they want to go running back to Asgard to tell brave
tales—let them."

There was a brief silence as Vidar's words rang through-
out the depths of the great cavern. Then one form sepa-

Tbc Seekers and the Sword 43

rated from the others that had stood against Hoenir. Vidar
had seen the face before—one of Vali's field captains.

"Gutless?" he bellowed, and the echoes broke like waves
on a stormy beach. "We want to return to Asgard," he
said, "not run away from her—as you did. Lord Jaw-
breaker. I, for one, will not listen to a coward call me a
coward."

Good, Vidar thought. That was the best he could have
hoped for—the distillation of all the Asalanders' venom
into one single drop. If he could survive that drop—that
champion—then he might stifle their dissent. At least, it
was worth a try.

"You know," said Vidar, "I'm getting a little tired of
being called a coward. Who dares to say it this time?
What's your name?" he asked, climbing into the flame-
shot gloom of the cavern.

"Thakrad," said the warrior, taking a step forward, his
hands balling into fists.

"Take off your swordbelt, Thakrad. Then we'll see who
is the coward."

"Let's not play at fighting," said the Asalander. "If
we're to stand against one another, let's do it with our
blades in our hands."

Vidar shook his head. Thakrad knew that Odin's son
had been Asgard's wrestling champion long ago, and he
was smart enough not to fall into that trap. But it also gave
Vidar a chance to make his victory more resounding—if he
could elude the edge of Thakrad's longsword.

"Then keep your blade," said Vidar. "You can see I
carried none into Asgard. I'll fight you without it."

The warrior's face twisted in the torchlight. 'The hell
you will," he said. Thakrad held his hand out to one side,
palm up, and after a moment one of his friends laid a hilt
in it. The Asalander tossed the weapon at Vidar's feet, and
it clattered noisily against the stone floor.

Vidar regarded the sword, then looked up. "I imagine

44 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

I'll be using one of these soon enough, in pursuit of Ygg. I
won't use it on an Aesirman, though."

Thakrad glared at him. "Suit yourself. Lord Vidar. I
offered, and you refused. Everyone here heard that. When
I bury my iron in your gut, you'll have nothing to complain
about."

Vidar shrugged off his cloak, letting it fall to the floor.
"AH I hear is talk, Thakrad. Put your money where your
mouth is."

Although it was plain that Thakrad had never heard the
expression, ^he meaning was clear enough. He dropped his
own cloak and slid the length of his blade from its sheath.

"Careful, Vidar," LHlir whispered behind him. "He's
one of our best swordsmen."

"Don't worry," said Vidar. "'I'll keep both eyes open."

Then the combatants closed to within a sword's length
of one another. Thakrad held his blade before him in both
fists. He circled slowly to his left, and Vidar circled like-
wise, descending into a crouch.

The first stroke caught Odin's son by surprise, however,
and he barely flung himself backward out of harm's way.
Thakrad was on him in a moment, much quicker than his
bulk would suggest. Vidar rolled to one side, and his
opponent's blade scattered sparks as it struck the base of a
stalagmite.

Finding his feet, Vidar braced himself for the next
onslaught- Thakrad advanced on him, feinted, advanced
again. This time, however, he telegraphed his attack—and
when he brought his blade up, Vidar darted in underneath.
Before Thakrad could deliver the blow, Vidar had driven
his shoulder into the warrior's midsection. Thakrad
grunted and reeled backward, Vidar's fingers closing
around the wrist of his sword-arm. They hit the stone floor
hard, Thakrad above, Vidar beneath him, and the weapon
flew out of the Asalander's grasp.

Unarmed, Thakrad groped for Vidar's windpipe. They
rolled once, then twice, legs splayed, arms knotted, each

The Seekers and the Sword 45

striving for leverage. Finally, Vidar broke Thakrad's hold,
and before his opponent could seek to do damage else-
where, he brought his fist down across the warrior's face.
Thakrad relaxed, seemingly stunned.

But Vidar was taking no more chances. The Asalander
had proven to be stronger than he looked. Getting his feet
under him, Vidar took Thakrad by his belt and the front of
his woven shirt and, standing, hefted the big man's body
over his head. Thakrad began to struggle weakly, but to no
avail. Then Vidar strode over to a stalagmite he'd noticed
before and straddled it. The corresponding stalactite hung
over them, a dangerous point that gleamed bloodred in the
ruddy torchlight.

Vidar lifted Thakrad until that point pressed against the
Asalander's throat. Thakrad ceased struggling. Vidar
could feel the sudden tautness in the man's body, as he felt
the stalactite against his Adam's apple.

Vidar glared at the multitude that had watched their
struggle. "Shall I take his life?" he cried. "Or have we had
enough strife among ourselves?"

For a time, the only sound was that of harsh breath-
ing—Vidar's, deep and free, and Thakrad's—hoarse and
confined, lest he drive the point of the rock formation
deeper into his throat. Then an Asalander stepped
forward.

"Let him down," he said. "We'll follow you—until we
find Vali again."

Vidar sighed with relief, though it must have sounded
like exasperation. He let Thakrad fall to his shoulder, then
eased him to the floor. Immediately, the Asalander raised
himself to one knee. He glared at Vidar, but said nothing.

What could he say? Words would be hollow now. But
Vidar could tell that Thakrad was not one to let bygones be
bygones. Finally, the warrior stood and turned away.

'Then let's prepare to leave this hole," cried Vidar. "We
march on Alfheim."

46 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

A murmur threaded its way through the crowd, doubled
and redoubled in a tapestry of echoes.

Hoenir came over and clapped Vidar on the shoulder.
"What a performance," he said. "Such verve, such real-
ism. But why Alfheim?"

"First of all," said Vidar, "Magni's been overthrown.
They say that he might be dead."

"That's bad news, Vidar." Hoenir appeared to be genu-
inely saddened. "Odin?" he asked.

"So it would seem," said Vidar. "Then, recently, the
guards at the elf-gate were attacked—from this side, not
from Alfheim. One died. The assailants were thought to be
spies for the rebels, trying to return from Asaheim. But
one of the chieftains said that the murderers were too big
and strong to be lyos"

Hoenir cocked an eyebrow. "I see. Odin and some thur-
sar, perhaps, gone to see to the revolution person-
ally."

"That's the conclusion we came to."

Hoenir paused for a moment, folding his arms across his
chest. "But why would he need to oversee an uprising that
had already succeeded? He couldn't attack Asgard
through the elf-gate—it's too easy to defend. No, nephew,
if I were Odin, I'd stay in Asgard, sowing my seeds, and
waiting for the harvest."

"So would I," said Vidar, "unless I thought I could lay
my hands on Frey's sword."

Hoenir could not conceal his surprise. "Frey's sword,
you say? Has it turned up, then?"

"No," said Vidar. "Not necessarily, anyway. But it's
rumored that the sword's hidden in Alfheim, and if anyone
can find it..."

"Odin can." Hoenir smiled. "The bastard."

"Aye," said Vidar.

"So it's Alfheim, then?" said Hoenir. "On the thinnest
thread of evidence."

The Seekers and the Sword 47

"It's either that or break out the beer and the poker
chips."

Hoenir's face puckered. "The what?"

"Never mind. I just meant that I'd rather do something
than nothing." He surveyed the turmoil of shifting
shadows deeper in the cavern, as the troops set to whatever
preparations they had to. "And I've made arrangements to
leave the wounded in Asaheim."

"Good," said Hoenir. "Even the thursar?"

"Aye. Even the thursar."

"Amazing," said Hoenir. "You're a born politician."

"Don't let Vali hear you say that," said Vidar. "He'll
think I have designs on his throne."

"Do you mean," said Hoenir, smiling, "that you don't?"

Vidar smiled too, then. He thought of Vidi, the hall he'd
once occupied, and wondered again who lived there now.
"No more than you, my lord," he said. "No more than
you."

In the west, the hills from which they'd come were
etched in black silhouette against the pure, molten gold of
the sunset. What clouds there had been were gone now,
leaving the high, blue-green heavens to their perfect glory.
The sun perished, but the loftiest towers of Asgard caught
the last of the light and shone like spouts of flame.

An army as large as any the hrimthursar had ever
brought to sack Asgard passed between the city and the
mountains that brooded over her. Watched from the walls,
it moved slowly, like a monstrous centipede. At its head
rode Hoenir, whom older Asgardians remembered, and
younger Asgardians only wondered at- The Asalanders
rode after him, waving to tiny figures on the walls, who
may have been friends or family. Behind them came the
humans, led by a youth, although he seemed to command
the respect of his troops—and among the humans, thursar,
their great size unmistakable. The people of Asgard peered

48 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

at the giants, the fears of their childhoods suddenly given
form before their eyes.

But they were not so enthralled by the sight of the
Utgard-thursar that they failed to notice the black-garbed
contingent that followed on foot—or the fair-haired figure
that led them. "Vidar Jawbreaker," they whispered, some
with contempt. "And his dwarvin—a fit match."

The army wound its way beneath waterfalls that fell
from the cliffs and pooled outside the massive black walls
of the city. The wind was gentler now, with the coming of
dusk, barely ruffling the hair of the watchers. Vidar
glanced at them from time to time, but the dwarvin behind
him had pulled up their black hoods to shield their eyes
against the rays of the dying sun, and they looked only
straight ahead.

The search for Odin had not borne fruit, Vidar mused,
or the chieftains would have sent word. Soon, they'd be
sending parties out into the countryside, if they kept their
part of the bargain. Vidar suspected that they 'would,
despite Njal's stand on the matter.

The wounded too would be cared for as promised. Those
who could not walk had been carried down from the hills
on makeshift litters, and left outside the western wall with
those who could.

A dark elf came up beside him—N'arri, who'd defied
Odin in Utgard and lost his tongue for it. His face was set
in stern lines, for Asgard fairly radiated mistrust—but his
eyes danced with an emerald fire, the birthright of his
people. With an inclination of his head and a widening of
his eyes, he indicated the lofty towers. They gleamed now
with a more sullen light.

"Aye," said Vidar. "It's a sight, all right."

The dwarvin searched Vidar's face silently. Then he
nodded and turned away.

In time, they came upon an apple grove among the
small, dark pools, and Vidar recognized it for the one that
Idunna had tended. Sunset turned the trees' fruit to gold

The Seekers and the Sword 49

and the leaves to bronze, though shadows had already
worked their way into the spaces among the lower
branches.

Idunna's gentle face came to mind. She had still lived
when Odin and his sons returned to find Asgard in smok-
ing ruins. She'd survived just long enough to see her
husband, Bragi—and then let out her last breath, and with
it her life.

Bragi refused to leave, to seek revenge with the others,
until he had found her limbs—for the hrimthursar had
scattered them along with the less precious debris in the
hall. He wept like a child, fussing as if he could make her
whole again—yet he was among the first to charge into
Jotunheim, for no one had a greater score to settle than
Bragi.

So, apple trees grew again near Asgard, and someone
tended them. Somehow, Vidar found that quite pleasing.

The army slithered into the foothills like a great, dark
and ancient snake, slow and ponderous but persistent.
Though they ascended, the light soon left them, and then
even the tops of Asgard's towers were abandoned to dark-
ness. The stars appeared, tentative at first, and then more
brazen, until they littered the entire sky.

Well up the trail, Vidar could see Hoenir as he reached
the gate to Alfheim. Much higher, the same trail came to a
stop at the gate to Jotunheim—but it was no longer used.
There was nothing in Jotunheim now—not even thursar.

For a time, there was a delay at the gate. Perhaps
Hoenir was ironing out a problem with those who stood
watch there—or the Asalanders that followed him were
exchanging news with the guardians. In time, however, the
army moved again, as its foremost portion—the head of
the snake—disappeared into the darkness that led to
Alfheim.

The path twisted, bringing Vidar and his dwarvin closer
in toward the sheer gray cliffs, and half the shimmering
stars were blotted out by the bulk of the mountains' bones.

so

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

The humans ahead of them had dismounted and were
leading their horses, since they were not used to heights
like these. The wind grew bolder, rustling the branches of
the few shrubs that had found purchase in the solid rock.
They worked their way around a shoulder of smooth black
stone—the kind of stone that Asgard's walls had been
fashioned of—and the humans were lost to their sight. But
in the east, the moon rose over the sea.

Finally, they passed between two huge boulders and
came in sight of the gate again. The last of Eric's men were
filing into it—but Vidar could see by the looks they
exchanged that they'd rather be risking their lives on the
battlefield.

Time enough for that, Vidar told himself.

The gate was much as he remembered it—a tall, narrow
crack in a sheer granite wall. Vines grew thick about the
aperture, and moss and small red and yellow flowers.

The handful of watchmen at the gate were stone-
silent—all but one, and that one just a youth with pale
yellow hair and his grandfather's wise eyes. "Ho, Lord
Vidar," he said. "My father bade me wish you luck."

"Thanks," said Vidar. "You, too," he added, remember-
ing the relief in Ullir's eyes when he saw that it was not
this young man on the funeral pyre.

As he stepped into the cave darkness, he drew his sword,
knowing that there might be an elvish ambush waiting for
them in Alfheim. He heard the Utgardian horses nicker
nervously, for they must have sensed the strangeness of the
road they traveled. Behind him, the elves murmured
among themselves.

Suddenly, the sounds of horse and hoof, the subdued
comments of the dwarvin, the shuffle of boots and the
clatter of arms—all died in whispers. Then came the
humming, filling Vidar's ears as though all the bees in
Asaheim had been roused. With one step, the ground was
solid underfoot. With the next, he walked on nothing.

Slowly, he put one foot before the other, ignoring the

The Seekers and the Sword

51

uncomfortable absence of anything beneath him. It was
just an illusion—wasn't it? Vidar walked, bereft of sight,
smell and touch, and eventually sound as well—for the
humming seemed to merge with his skull until he was no
longer aware of it.

The ground was restored to him first. Next, the hum-
ming died, replaced by thick, impenetrable silence. Then
that too gave way, and he could hear the welcome sound of
his own breathing. No matter how many times one trav-
eled the gates, there was no getting used to them.

A few more steps, and a few more. The sound of hooves
striking stone echoed softly in the darkness. He went
forward.

The merest sliver of light appeared before him. It wid-
ened until Vidar could make out a world in the light. Then
he reached the opening that framed that world, his fingers
tightening about the hilt of his sword—at once comforted
and repelled by its deadly solidity.

But there were no elves there to bar their path. None at
all.

Alfheim's pale, silverish sun hung on the lip of the high
ridge to their right, cloaked irr morning mist and fringed
with lush green foliage. An equally high ridge rose sharply
on their left. Once, perhaps, a river had run here, fed by a
cataract from the cliffs behind them. An ancient river,
which had deepened its channel year after year until this
canyon had been carved into the rock. But that had been
long before Odin found his way to the world of the lyos.

There was no river here now. Its source had dried up or
been diverted, having found an easier way through the
humpback hills. In its long absence, vines and moss and
hardy willows had found crevices into which to weave their
roots. Greengrowth sprouted in tufts all along the walls of
rock, haunted by mist as if by pale wraiths, and a carpet of
tough, short turf covered most of the canyon floor. Though
the sun of Alfheim could only wedge its light into the old

52 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

river's channel for a short time each day, life had found a
way to thrive here.

Ancient was Alfheim, old beyond even Odin's telling.
Older even than the lyos, for another race had walked this
world before the fair elves. The too-sweet smell of decay
cloyed at Vidar's nostrils. It clung to the rocks in this place
and the branches of trees, distracting the senses and mak-
ing the mind wont to wander. But he knew too well that
this canyon would be their grave if they tarried too long
inside it.

If the ground above them was not bristling with elvish
archers, it did not mean that they were safe. Odin might
have laid some less obvious trap.

Eric's men peered above them, even as he did, shading
their eyes with their free hands and holding their blades or
their bows ready in the other. Behind him, he heard the
shoosh of arrows being slipped from quivers—sounds
which told him that the dwarvin were even more cautious
than the Utgardians.

Then Vidar saw Hoenir making his way backward along
the length of their army. He was scowling beneath his fine
gray brows, his breath a small white mist on the air.

"Nobody here to greet us," said Hoenir, when he and
Vidar stood face to face. "I'm disappointed."

"Strange, isn't it?" said Vidar. "One would have
thought there'd at least be a few bowmen set to watch the
gate to Asaheim."

Hoenir shook his head. "Damned elves. They never did
know how to wage a war."

Vidar watched the faces of their warriors—all frowning,
all uneasy. But all they heard from above was the sough of
the wind and the cries of jaybirds.

"If I remember right," said Vidar, "it's only a couple of
days' ride from here to Prey's hall—now Magni's hall.
Odin will be waiting for us there, if he doesn't meet us
sooner. It's a place easily defended, and if he wants to
gather his forces, that's the place to do it."

The Seekers and the Sword

53

"Aye," said Hoenir, scanning the ridges on either side of
them with narrowed eyes. "And this canyon stretches most
of the way, until it turns toward the sea. Nor does it get
much shallower than this before it bends—so that if we
want to keep our horses, we must travel within it." He
laughed a hollow laugh. "Just perfect for an ambush. All
they have to do is drop a few boulders in our way, to block
our passage—if they haven't already—and they can rain
down arrows at their leisure."

Vidar chewed on his lower lip, assessing the walls of the
gorge. "Well, it's true that we can't get our horses up
there," he said finally. "But we can send up some troops on
foot, to guard our flanks and scout ahead." He turned
toward Hoenir. "Got any better ideas?"
fy      Hoenir shook his head. "Not a one, nephew."
I      "I'll take the right flank with my elves, then, if it's all
"I   the same to you. And I think that Eric's men should take
^   the left flank. Next to the dwarvin, they're the best archers
{    we've got."
I      "As you wish," said Hoenir-

|      "Are you sure that you'll feel secure down here with us
f   up there?" asked Vidar.

Hoenir met Vidar's eyes. "Why, nephew," he said, "are
^    you implying that I don't trust you?'' He smiled crookedly.

("Just because you've been gone for centuries, working who
knows what kind of mischief in Midgard? I trust you about
?    as far as you trust me—which is to say, I don't. But on this
little jaunt in the countryside, we need each other. So let's
put our family rivalries aside for the moment."
^      "Fine with me," said Vidar.
\y      Hoenifs smile widened. "Don't take it personally, Jaw-
^    breaker. After all, you were my third—or fourth—favorite
^   nephew."

- 1-    Vidar clasped Hoenir's shoulder. "I'd like to say that
I    you were one of my favorite uncles," he said. "But I didn't
j    have any." Then he turned and saw to his elves.

VII

The war between the Aesir and the hnmthursar went
on and on, until it seemed that there had been nothing
before it and it would endure until the end of time. But
the giants were not Odin's only foes.

Indeed, he once fought against the Vanir, who watched
as his spear clove the clouds above their armies, but
would not give an inch before his fury. At first, they had
been friends—Odin and Niord, the foremost lords of the
Aesir and the Vanir. Then they became enemies. The war
was bloody and it ravaged both realms.

Yet in the end, Odin won. He held the point of his
spear to Niord's throat, and since he knew that the
Vaninnan would rather die than yield, he offered him a
truce. Ten score of the best warriors in Vanaheim would
come to Valhalla, where they would await the call to
fight hnmthursar in Jotunheim.

But as proof of Odin's good intentions, he would send
his brother, Hoenir, to Vanaheim to serve as Niord's

54

The Seekers and the Sword

55

counselor. More, he would build two halls in Asgard, one
for the Vanir king himself and one for his valiant son
Frey, whose sword had taken its toll on the warriors of
Asaheim.

Niord thought that this was an eminently reasonable
bargain, especially since his only alternative was to
gorge himself on the tip of Odin's spear, and there were
still maidens whose charms he had not tasted. In fact, he
said, he thought so much of this arrangement that he
would send Frey to live in Asgard permanently—and his
lovely sister Freya as well.

It was agreed that both lords were Just and generous,
and each so trusted the other that he would place his kin
in the other's hands. But neither lord had such trust—
for not even mortal men rise to power when there is not a
five- or sixfold purpose in everything they do. Niord
knew that no Aesirman would ever think of attacking
Vanaheim again when pretty, young Freya might be
distressed by it. Such was her power over men.

For Odin's part, he knew that he would not have to
worry for long about his brother's welfare in Vanaheim.

From the start, Hoenir was a popular figure in Niord's
court at Gullvang. He was tall and good-looking, and he
always had a kind word for the Vanir chieftains. But it
was with the ladies that he shone the brightest. It
seemed that there were always three or four of
Vanaheim's red-tressed daughters trailing after the Aesir
prince, while he regaled them with tales of Asgard.

"And then I granted the hairy-pelted giant his life-
just so I could do battle with him all over again," he'd
say, flashing a roguish smile.

Or he'd shake his head, and bemoan the lack of truly
great adventures. "We've Just run out of dangerous
worlds to conquer," he'd say, watching sidewise to see
which of the ladies showed the most interest.

It was after it had become apparent that he'd captured
the hearts of the Vanir women—wives and daughters

56

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

alike—that the warriors of Vanaheim began to tire of
Hoenir's boasts. Nor was it long before jealousy turned
to suspicion, and suspicion to outrage. For though Hoe-
nir had never been caught at any of his indiscretions, it
was plain that he was cuckolding the Vanir at every
opportunity.

Finally, a warrior by the name of Byggvir, a cousin of
Niord himself, volunteered to lay a trap for the
Aesirman, with the help of his good wife, Beyla. Like all
the ladies of Gullvang, Beyla had received meaningful
glances from Hoenir. But unlike some of the others, she
had not returned them—not, at least, until her husband
asked her to do so. The plan was for her to allow Hoenir
into her bedroom, if that was his wish, and then to sound
the alarm—so that Byggvir and his men could rush in
and work their revenge.

Beyla was no Freya, you understand, but Hoenir
prized variety, and she was one fruit he had not yet
tasted. So when her interest in him suddenly perked up,
he did not question it. Rather, he charmed her as a
fisherman charms a fish—reeling her in an inch at a
time, until he had drawn her out of her element and into
his own. He regaled her with tales of his bravery- He told
her how beautiful she was in the moonlight, and he
looked deeply into her eyes with an intimacy that few
women could resist.

"And how is Byggvir, your husband?" he asked.
"Alas. he's away. He's gone hunting," she said, as she
had been instructed.

"In that case, may I see you home?" asked Hoenir.
"Why, that would be kind of you," said Beyla—again,
following Byggvir's plan to the letter.

At the door, Hoenir said, "It's so cold out here. Per-
haps I might come in to warm my hands by your fire?"
"Please," said Beyla: "My house is yours."
The two went inside—and Byggvir led his men around
to the front door- They drew their swords and waited.

The Seekers and the Sword

57

Indeed, it was cold out. Before long, snow began to
fall. Byggvir and his kinsmen huddled in their cloaks,
and the minutes passed slowly. After nearly an hour had
gone by, Byggvir's younger brother, Eldir, suggested
that they break in and catch the rascal.

"No." said Byggvir. "Beyla has not yet sounded the
alarm, and that can only mean that Hoenir has not yet
pressed his purpose. Perhaps he's not as randy tonight
as usual."

The snow caked on their hair and their brows, and
Eldir's teeth began to chatter. He sneezed, and his
breath froze in a great white cloud before him.

"Surely, he's had enough time by now," said Eldir.

"No," said Byggvir. "What use is it if we catch him
having tea? We've waited this long—let's do the job
right."

The snow grew thick and fleecy on their heads and
their shoulders, but still there came no sound from
within. Shivering now, Eldir said that he'd had enough-
either he'd storm the door now or go home and warm his
bones.

"Indeed," said Byggvir, "he's had enough time to raise
a family with her. All right, then—and don't let him
slither away."

They broke in the door and tumbled over one another
in their eagerness to catch Hoenir red-handed. But when
they burst into the bedroom, Hoenir was nowhere to be
seen.

Only Beyla, who slept with the sweetest smile on her
face—until she started at the clamor of their weapons,
and sat up, clutching the bedclothes to her rosy breast.
She flushed deeply when she saw the look in her hus-
band's eye, and seemed to melt into the bed itself.

The window hung ajar—as if someone had opened it
and forgotten to shut it behind him.

In the end, however, Byggvir and his kinsmen got
their wish—much to the relief of the Vanir, and the

58 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

disappointment of their wives and daughters. For Hoenir
had vanished suddenly from the court of Niord, and it
was a long, long time before he was ever seen again in
Vanaheim.

Sin Skolding
Algron, A.D. 362

VIH

Once up on higher ground, Vidar found that Alfheim
was colder than it had looked- He guessed that it was late
fall or early spring, but for the life of him he couldn't
remember how Alfheim's seasons corresponded to
Asaheim's. The winds swirled about him in a frenzy,
coming to rest now and again in the lush, high grass
through which they stalked.

But it wasn't the weather that bothered him most—it
was the nearness of the forest, from the depths of which
elvish archers might pick them off at any time.

The dwarvin did not need any warning from Vidar to
remain alert. They moved like cats, emerald eyes glinting
beneath their dark cowls. Although their garments and
their cloaks were too thin to do more than take the bite out
of the wind—for they were made for the heart of under-
G'walin, where they molded swords in the blaze of their
forges—the dark elves paid no attention to the cold. If they

59

60 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

were shivering, they gave no sign of it. Not even when the
sun dropped out of the mist and hid behind the trees.

The day darkened and Vidar's eyes began to play tricks
on him. Now and again, a branch would move, or the mists
would billow just so, and he'd think that be saw a fair-
haired bowman stalking them along the fringe of t^e
woods. But as dusk approached, nothing had happened.

The dwarvin went warily, sometimes stopping alto-
gether to peer into a darkness in the forest. When they
were satisfied that there were no lyos at its heart, they
went on.

So it was that when the attack came, finally, they were
ready for it. N'arri was the first to fall to one knee and
make the sign of danger. Vidar had seen nothing nor beard
a sound, and bis Aesir senses should have been sharper
than N'arri's—but seconds after the dark elf had given the
warning, a flight of arrows whispered from out of the
forest-

"Down!" cried Vidar, although he might have been the
last to dive for cover in the high grass. A shaft slithered by
within inches of his outstretched fingers and he pulled back
his hand out of reflex. A second arrow missed his head by a
sword's-breadth.

Nearby, a dark elf moaned and cursed, then fell still-
But Vidar dared not lift his head to see if he could help.
The lyos' shafts cut the air all about him, and every time
he thought that the barrage might stop, another arrow
slashed through the grass.

If it had not been for the height of that grass, they*d all
have been killed already. Vidar had no doubt about that.
But the lyos' shafts would find them eventually—unless
they did something, and quickly.

Suddenly, a figure staggered out of the woods, an arrow
protruding from his breast. With a sigh, he fell forward.
Vidar raised his head just enough to see the dwarvin
archer who had gotten up to fire into the forest. Instantly,

The Seekers and the Sword 61

the black-clad figure sprouted a coat of feathered shafts—
a reward for his marksmanship.

But in the same instant, two more 'dwarvin sprang up to
fire at the same time. They dove for cover and three more
rose to loose their shafts. In moments, the tall grass was
alive with shadowy bowmen that rose and fell like a dark
tide.

Some of the dwarvin were cut down, but the cries of the
lyos in the misty fringe of woods outnumbered those of the
under-elves. Vidar felt helpless, for he had no bow, nor a
throwing weapon—until an elf who had taken an arrow in
the throat collapsed not far from him. When Vidar
reached him, he was dead, his eyes frozen like green gems
in the graceful, pale contours of his face, and blood
streaming from the corner of his mouth. But his bow had
fallen only a few feet away.

Odin's son edged his way closer, snaking along the cold,
wet ground on elbows and knees, until his fingers closed
about the warm, supple wood.

He crawled a little bit farther and found the elfs quiver.
Plucking a shaft from it, he turned over on his back and
fitted it to the string. Then, in one motion, he turned, rose
to one knee and fired. There was nothing to aim at any-
way—only a wall of distant trees.

He hugged the ground again and reached for another
arrow. He rose and fired. This time, a short, ugly scream
rewarded bis effort.

By the time Vidar had nocked his third arrow, the lyos'
barrage had thinned out a bit. This time, when he took an
additional moment to try to pick out a target, he saw the
flash of pale yellow hair and cut the elf down.

Then Hoenir was in his brain, the heat of his concern
dulling the battle around him. "Vidar! What's going on up
there?"

"We're under attack," said Vidar. "Archers in the
woods."

62 MICHAEL JAN FtUEDMAN

"Aye," said Hoenir. "Eric's got the same problem on the
other side. Can you hold them?"

"I don't know," said Vidar. "So far, so good. But I don't
know what kind of numbers they've got back there."

Hoenir was silent for a moment. "Vidar," he said then,
"which way is the wind blowing?"

The wind? Suddenly, Vidar saw Hoenir's plan.
"Torches?"

"Exactly."

In time-honored fashion, Vidar licked his finger and
held it up to the wind. Perfect—the skin facing the gorge
behind him was cold, where the saliva had dried.

"Send them up," said Vidar. "But hurry—if the breeze
shifts, we're sunk. Or smoked, to be more precise."

"I hear and obey," said Hoenir. "Torches, coming right
up."

But it seemed like forever before Vidar saw the
Aesirmen that carried the torch-bundles. They slithered
through the grass, past the dwarvin. The dark elves contin-
ued to draw the lyos' fire while the Asalanders crawled
closer and closer to the trees. Finally, when they'd gotten
close enough, they used their flints to set the sticks ablaze,
and flung them one by one into the lush, green spaces
where the lyos hid.

The woods did not catch fire. The trees were too slick
with mist for that, and too full of the sap of life. But in
moments, a dozen slim pillars of smoke had appeared
among the trees—and soon, they'd thickened like trees
themselves do over the years, until their branches had
spread in ghostly billows, and mingled with the leaves of
the true trees.

Vidar could hear the racking coughs of the lyos as they
found themselves suddenly surrounded by the smoke. He
raised his head cautiously, just high enough for his eyes to
see above the tops of the grasses, and what he saw was
confusion. Even through the mist and the smoke, he could
make out elvish bodies lurching this way and that

The Seekers and the Sword 63

They would have been easy marks for the dwarvin. if the
dwarvin had chosen to fire on them. But as Vidar looked
around, he saw that the dark elves only watched—as he
did. Bows at the ready, they knelt in the high grass, but not
a single arrow was loosed at the helpless lyos.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you guys," Vidar
muttered to himself.

The ambushers fled. One by one, they vanished into the
woods, and the wall of smoke—for it was a wall now—
ascended beyond the tops of the trees into the silver-gray
heavens.

"They're gone," Vidar said to Hoenir.

"Aye," said Hoenir. "I accept your gratitude."

"What about Eric?"

'The lyos seem to be withdrawing there, too," said
Hoenir, "though for no apparent reason."

Vidar pondered that for a moment. "Unless this was just
a delaying lactic—to slow us down, while the main body of
Odin's forces gathers to meet us elsewhere."

"Mmm," said Hoenir. "Perhaps."

"Then let's keep moving,",said Vidar. "I don't think
they'll be taking potshots at us for a while on this side."

"We're moving down here already," said Hoenir. "We
never stopped."

"Good," said Vidar, feeling a little foolish, and broke
contact. He watched as one of the dwarvin strode to the
edge of the forest and hacked down a sapling. His first
thought was that if a lyos had managed to endure the
smoke somehow, the dwarvin's life wouldn't be worth
much now. But he was not attacked, not even when he laid
the sapling on the ground and cut off its branches, then
whittled away until he'd fashioned a point. He had made a
spear, Vidar noted—one with which he could consecrate
the fallen.

But it was not to Vali that the dwarvin entrusted the
dead. The dark elves did not pray to Asgard's lord as the
humans and city-thursar did. Perhaps long ago, when

64 MICHAEL JAN FRCEDMAN

Utgard was still young, the dwarvin had adopted the
custom without the meaning.

The elf finished his preparations, sheathed his knife and
uttered a few words while the other elves listened. Then he
took a short step and hurled the spear over the river of tall
grass. It traced a graceful arc and stuck, quivering, where
it fell to earth. The mist gathered about it, as if out of
curiosity.

But that was all the time for ceremony they could
afford. The moon came up behind them, vast and fish
belly-white, as they set out again for Magni's stronghold.
It nested in the silvery mists like a pale, bloated bird, now
cloaked in luminous clouds, now stark against a blue-black
patch of night. By its haunted, shifting light, they waded
through the hip-deep grass and munched on dry grain-
cakes, which they washed down with water. There would
be no time for a real meal.

Even while they ate, they strained to see past the ever-
present mist and tried to listen for the sudden sound—the
snap of twig, the thrum of a bowstring. Yet all they heard
was the occasional hoot of an owl, voicing its displeasure at
their passage, for it would find no prey tonight in this
turbulence of two-legged creatures.

Finally, when the moon sat high in the sky, Vidar found
what he had been looking for—a place where the river of
grass widened and the forest withdrew. Here, they might
rest without fear that the lyos would pick them off in their
sleep. No one could hope to hit anything at this distance—
and there would be guards posted to watch for arrows that
strayed out of the sky.

Vidar called to Hoenir, and it was agreed that they
would make camp. N'arri silently volunteered to take the
first watch, and a few others said that they would Join him.
No one had a tent or a fire, but there was a cloak for each
weary body, and that would have to be enough against the
cold, wet ground and the chill of the elvish night One by
one, the elves gave themselves up to the high, green grass.

The Seekers and the Sword

65

Vidar, too, hugged his cloak to him and stretched out.
He was weary, for he had not yet recovered completely
from his healing marathon in the cave, but he found that
he wasn't particularly sleepy. The moon hung directly
overhead, but as he stared at it, he saw Odin's scarred
visage instead.

"Only Magni has had the wisdom to see it all. Nothing
matters, nothing...." The All-father had said as much
while he held Vidar prisoner in Indilthrar, the city of the
thursar priests.

But if Magni had allied himself with Odin, would there
have been any need for a rebellion in Alfheim? The
elfworld would already have been his pawn.

Then Odin must have been lying about Magni—either
to Vidar or to himself. The flames with which Loki had
attacked Odin at Ragnarok had consumed half his face. It
had driven him mad. Perhaps Magni's allegiance was a
fantasy,

Or—there was a third possibility. Magni could have
pretended to join Odin in order to buy time for a counter-
stroke. If such had been the case, and Odin had discovered
Magni's ruse, the All-father could have turned to an alter-
nate plan—a rebellion he'd prepared long ago. An ace in
the hole if Magni had refused his philosophy outright.

In any event, it seemed that Magni had tried to oppose
Odin's mad desires. To tear down all he had created, to
destroy until his destruction was complete....

And if Odin had lied about Magni, perhaps he had lied
about Hoenir's allegiance, too.

Finally, Vidar's eyes began to close. He felt Alfheim
close about him, smelted its ancient breath... blossoms
and decay....

Soon, they'd reach Hargard, Magni's hall, and Prey's
before him. More than likely, he would meet Odin there-

Vidar's fingers wandered to the hilt of his sword. The
muscles in his jaw clenched.

Yes. If he had the chance, he'd kill him.

IX

It was growing late, my lady, and the light was fading
when Frey realized that he was lost. He'd started out
hunting early in the day, for the hunting was good in
Alfheim, and best in the mountains—but now the day
was running down into dusk and he'd had no luck. The
mists of the forest rose thick about him, as if to engulf

him.

Nor was he unconcerned about his plight, for he'd held
sway in Alfheim long enough to know what dangers
lurked in the mountain glades. Soon he heard the howl-
ing of the gray wolves. Darkness tightened about him
like a fist, and he stumbled through the woods, first
thinking he saw a path this way, and then seeing none.
All he succeeded in doing, however, was getting himself
more and more confused—more and more lost.

Niord's son drew his sword, the fell blade called
Angrum, and settled against a tree trunk. There, he
resolved, he would await the dawn, and defend against

66

The Seekers and the Sword

67

whatever wild creatures came to test him. But as the
night wore on, and the wolves did not appear, he began
to doze. In time, his eyes closed completely and his head
fell back against the rough bark of the tree.

Suddenly, he started awake, trembling. But it was not
the snarl of the wolves he heard close by. It was a lovely
melody coming from somewhere in the deep woods.
Someone was playing a harp and playing it well.

Frey stood up and followed the music as if it were a
well-cleared trail, followed it as gratefully as a hungry
man follows the scent of food. And at its source he found
a small stone dwelling. Here the music was more vibrant.
more compelling, and Frey was charmed by it.

He trust his sword into his belt, his eyes dazzled by
the stars that had appeared in the mists, and a childlike
smile opened in his handsome face. His cloak fell from
his shoulders, and he let it lay where it had fallen.

Frey knocked on the door, for it alone was made of
wood, and it opened. But there was no one standing in
the doorway to greet him. Only the vast, sweet melody
and the shadows within. Frey wandered into the low
stone house, but there was no one inside. Yet the music
came from this place-
Then did Prey's eyelids grow heavy. His smile faded,
and he sat down to rest—for a sudden weariness had
come upon him. It was as if the music itself had wrapped
his limbs in its own, and sucked the strength from his
bones.

He dreamed, my lady, and in his dream an elvish
maiden came to him, and made him a gift of her passion.
All night long, he dreamed of her embrace, of her long,
pale-golden hair, and of her eyes that glowed like emer-
alds. In the morning, when he woke, the music and the
maiden were both gone—but he could almost hear her
hushed voice, and smell the fragrance of her hair.

It was a cruel fate that had befallen the son of Niord,
for he had been fettered as surely as if with iron chains.

68 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

The elvish maid had bound him to her, and he vowed
that he would not rest until he held her flesh in his arms,
and not a wisp of a dream. Dazed by fatigue—for he felt
as if he had not slept at all—and by hunger—for he had
not eaten since breaking his fast the morning before—he
headed westward. That way stood Skir'nir's hall, on the
fringe of the forest. No one knew him better than
Skir'nir, the elflord. No one would be quicker to help him
in his time of need.

JBut the journey was much longer than he'd reckoned,
and the day yielded to night, and again to day. Yet he
dared not stop, nor could he rest until he'd satisfied his
heart's desire.

When Frey finally appeared at Skir'nir's door, mad-
eyed and bedraggled, it was dusk again. A servant
brought him to the lord of that proud house, and Skir'nir
got to his feet in distress when he saw the Vanir prince in
such sorry condition.

"What ails you, my lord?" he asked. "Trust me with
your sorrow, my friend."

"I love an elf," cried Frey bitterly. "What would Odin
say about that? And not just an elf—for she came to me
in a dream. In the morning, she was gone—how do I
know she even exists?"

Skir'nir heard his liege-lord's anguish, and he took him
by the shoulders. "I know a way to relieve your tor-
ment," he said.

"Do not lie to me," said Frey. "Is there truly a way?"

"This time two nights hence." said Skir'nir, his green
eyes glittering like ice-chips, "you will have what you
desire."

"Then I'll give you great rewards," said the son of
Niord. "A sword the dark elves made for me." He took it
from its sheath, and it gleamed as he turned it in the
sunset light that glowed at the window. "There's no
sword like it in the nine worlds. This," he aaid, "and a
pair of black ponies that run swifter than the wind...."

The Seekers and the Sword

69

And he would have offered more, but Skir'nir stopped
him.

"I want no gifts," said the elf. "Especially that sword
of yours. I have no need of such fell weapons. Lifting
your sorrow will be gift enough."

And in the morning, when the sun squatted on the
horizon and the woods came alive with birdsongs, the
two set out into the forest to search for the low stone
house. The day came and went, night ran its ebon course
and the sun rose again through the trees. They did not
stop for food or drink, nor for sleep, but made their way
higher and higher into the folds of the mountains.

Then, as if Skir'nir had known exactly where to find it.
they came upon the music as the SJH fell behind the
peaks on the second day. First, the faintest strains, then
the same enchanting song that had snared Frey nights
earlier. As though it were a thread, they followed it
through the thick, misty woods, and Frey's heart grew
bigger in his chest as the melody grew stronger and
stronger. He could almost taste the elvish maiden's lips
beneath his own, feel her soft hair between his fingers
and smell the nearness of her.

Finally, they found her dwelling—and here the music
was almost more than Frey could bear. He would have
entered the house again, to lie down and wait for her to
appear, but for Skir'nir. The elf held him back.

"Wait," he said. "Stay here, my lord, or you'll be no
better off than when we started." So though his every
muscle wanted to move toward the entrance, Frey held
his ground fiercely.

And then, wonderment of wonderments, his elvish
lover appeared inside the stone house. She was just as
Frey remembered her. Nor was he dreaming, but wide
awake.

He turned to Skir'nir. "Thank you, my friend. You've
made me happier than any Vanirman alive."

70 MICHAEL JAN PRIEDMAN

"Nay," said Skir'nir, still holding on to Frey'a arm.
"Not yet."

The elvish maid smiled, her gaze inviting Frey to
paradise. She moved passionately, holding out her arms
to him.

"Hear me, G'errda." said the elflord. "It is Skir'nir, the
son of S'ookva, who spared your life long ago. Let my
, lord loose of your spell, and I'll give you anything you
want. Golden rings and armbands, necklaces of silver for
your throat, jewels for your hair."

"Gifts do not move me," said G'errda coldly, "but
your friend does."

"Let him go," said Skir'nir, "for he is Frey of the
Vanir, and he rules this land now. He's built his hall at
the mouth of a gorge, and he's called it Hargard. He
speaks for the elves in Asgard, where the Aesir chieftains
meet."

<<! care nothing for his crown," said the enchantress,
"only his loins."

"Then hear me. G'errda." said the elf, his voice turn-
ing harsh. "For I've a sword that will part your head
from your shoulders, and what good will your lover do
you then?"

The maiden's eyes narrowed and she spat. As Frey
watched, entranced, her looks faded. Her hair turned
gray and shrank close to her skull. Her face grew square
and soft, receding into a space between her shoulders, for
she had no neck. Her eyes became mere slits beneath her
pulpy brow, and her lovely body seemed to cave in on
itself, until he saw her for what she was—a misshapen
monster.

"Once, her kind ruled Alfheim," said Skir'nir, "but the
lyos wrested it from them."

"Mokkurkalfi," murmured Frey.

"Aye," said Skir'nir, "mokkurkalfl." He turned to
Frey. "And so I keep my vow. You're free of her."

But Frey was the lord of Alfheim—all Alfheim, and all

The Seekers and the Sword

71

its denizens. Nor had Niord failed to teach him some
kindness. He sat down cross-legged at the threshold to
the stone house, seeing G'errda as she was—a gray.
fleshy creature bereft of company. On her lap, she held a
harp.

"Play," said Prey.

Sin Skolding
Samsey, A.D. 414

x

Vidar woke, and for a moment, he did not know where
he was. Then the call of a dwarvin voice jolted him to
alertness. Other voices piled on top of that one, shattering

the stillness.

"Here—careful! Surround them now! There's nowhere
they can go!" Swords clattered—there was no mistaking
the sound. "Aieee!" The cry of pain brought Vidar to his
feet, sword in hand.

It took him only a moment to join the circle of dark elves
that had formed at the edge of the clearing. The dwarvin
had gathered around a trio of intruders. Two of the dark
elves lay within the circle—both dead. One of the lyos
sprawled on the ground beside them, his neck half severed
from his shoulders. But the three that still stood with their
backs to one another, swords drawn, did not look eager to
give their lives up cheaply. Beneath hoods nearly as dark
as those of the dwarvin^ their lips were drawn back wolflike
over their teeth.

73

The Seekers and the Sword 73

"Come on then," spat one of the lyos, who stood with his
back to Vidar. "Show me how brave you are when the rest
of your army is not around."

"Hold," said Vidar to the dark elves. As prisoners, these
lyos might be able to tell him something about Odin's
preparations. And if he could save some few lives, all the
better. "Put down your swords," he told the intruders,
"and we'll spare you."

"Aye," said the tallest of the lyos, who did not dare turn
toward Vidar to see who spoke. "So you can spit us and
bring us back to Skir'nir."

Skir'nir? "I know of no Skir'nir," said Vidar. "Now lay
down your swords. It's the last time I'll ask."

"Tricks," said the elf who stood with his back to him. "If
you want our carcasses, you'll have to pay for them."

"Wait," said the third intruder, peering at Vidar from
beneath his hood. He indicated the Aesirman with his
sword. "This one is no elf."

"What?" said his companion, who glanced quickly at
Vidar.

"He's no elf, I say- No elf, tmt an Aesirman."

"Aye," said Vidar. "With Asaheim's armies behind me.
Your rebellion is doomed," he said, in the most ruthless
tone he could muster. "So put down your weapons and
save yourselves."

The third lyos eyed him warily. **These are Asaheim's
armies? These are elves, though strange ones."

**They are dwarvin^" said Vidar. "And they've sworn
their swords to Vali. Now, my patience wears thin...."

The intruder held up his free hand. "Say no more then. I
think that we have all made a mistake." With that, he
stuck his sword into a sheath at his hip. "I do not lay down
my sword these days," he explained, his voice like music.
"But I gladly put it away if Asgard has come to rescue us."

Rescue? Were these elves still loyal to Magni, then?

The other lyos eyed Vidar, and finally let their own

74 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

points drop. "I don't like this," snarled the taller one.
"Could not an Aesinnan have joined Skir'nir*s rebellion?"

"No," said the one who had dropped his sword first.
"Skir'nir would have no friends among the Asalanders
once it was known what had happened to Magni. He's
Vali's nephew, after all."

"As if," said the one who'd had his back to Vidar, "the
Aesir were not known for their treachery." He glanced at
the other lyos. "My apologies. I did not mean Magni. too."

"And to whom do we surrender?" asked the one who'd
recognized Vidar as an Aesinnan. "A friend, I hope?"

"My name is Vidar. Yours?"

"Sif, Magni's daughter, named after my grandmother."

Her companions winced.

"Enough," she told them. "Someone must trust some-
one, Var'kald, or we'll stand here playing guessing games
all night, and why would the Aesir place their trust in a
common elf-girl.?"

Vidar nearly dropped his sword. He looked more closely
at the hooded figure then, and saw by the bulges beneath
her tunic and the swell of her hips that this warrior was
indeed a female. He felt himself flush.

But Magni's daughter? Neither Vali nor Modi nor any-
one else had ever said anything about Magni having a
daughter.

Vidar stepped forward, and the dark elves stood aside to
let him go by. He stopped in front of the elf-girl and gently
removed her hood—gently, so that the other lyos would
not mistake his intentions. Her hair spilled out like ruddy
gold in the spectral moonlight. And she was beautiful, in a
way that neither elf nor Aesir could be beautiful, for she
was obviously a mixture of both. Vidar observed the con-
tours of her face, the slightly slanted green eyes, the proud
tilt of her head, and saw the influence of her elvish mother.
But the rose color in her cheeks and the copper in her hair
spoke eloquently of Magni.

Beyond that, Vidar saw how young she was—or seemed

The Seekers and the Sword 75

to be. If this were an elf that stood before him, he'd have
said that she had no more than forty or fifty years to her.
But with Magni's blood in her, she might be much longer-
lived than that. Only one thing was certain—this Sif was
somewhere between girlhood and womanhood, for if she
had been a bit more mature, Vidar told himself, he'd have
seen sooner that she was a female.

"Well?" she asked, for patience was obviously not one of
her virtues. "Have you come to save us from Skir'nir or
not?" Despite the flippancy of her words, there was tension
in her face as she spoke.

"We've come to Magni's aid," said Vidar. "If you're his
daughter, then we should be allies. But that does not
explain why you've slain two of my watchmen."

"We were on our way to meet others loyal to Magni,"
said the one Sif had called Var'kald. "When we saw
archers standing in the tall grass outside the forest, we
thought that we would see what kind of force Skir'nir had
amassed in that place. We wandered too close, and your
watchmen found us. After that, we were protecting our
own necks—nothing more."

It sounded reasonable. Vidar laid his hand on N'arri's
shoulder. "See to it that these dead are buried. The lyos^
too. I don't want to leave our enemies any clues as to what
happened here tonight."

"No," said Sif. "We do not bury our dead. Leave Dey'in
in the gorge, where the wild animals can claim him."

Vidar winced at the thought of what Hoenir might think
if they did that. "That's not such a good idea," he said.
"We have men down there." He neglected to give her any
more details, for even if she was truly Magni's child—and
it seemed she was—then how had she escaped the rebellion
that had claimed him?

"Then we shall leave poor Dey'in in the brush," said Sif.
"Either way, there will be little left of him for our enemies
to guess at. They'll think he was only a hunter that the
beasts took down."

76

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"As you say," said Vidar. N'arri nodded—it would be

done.

Sif knelt then, touching the brow of the fallen lyos. She
was silent for a moment. Finally, she rose. "All right." she
said. "You can take him now."

Vidar met her gaze. Her eyes were soft and shining, but
she did not weep. "Come with me now, Magni's daugh-
ter," he said. "I'd like a word alone with you. I think
there's much you can tell me."

"Aye." said Sif. "But my companions will come with
me. I'd hate to leave them in strange company, no matter
how friendly."

She was used to having her way, it seemed. But a
daughter of Magni would be accustomed to such things.

Nor could Vidar see a reason to refuse her her compan-
ions' company. "Fair enough," he said, and led them into
the center of the dwarvin camp. By now. no one was still
sleeping, and those that stood in the vicinity moved away
to give them some privacy. But Vidar noticed that the dark
elves glanced his way now and then, perhaps not trusting
the intruders entirely.

"Sit down," he said, and they sat. "Now tell me—what
has happened here in Alfheim?"

Sif expelled a long breath, and her fingers wandered to
an intricate silver necklace she wore at her throat in elvish
fashion. "Where to begin? With Skir'nir, of course...."

"I heard you mention that name," said Vidar. "It
sounds like one I heard long ago."

"Aye," said Sif, "it might. There was a Skir'nir ages
ago, who companioned Frey in Alfheim. He was a power-
ful lord here then, second only to Frey himself, and a
powerful name to conjure by. This Skir'nir I speak of is his
descendant and his namesake. Like his ancestor, he was
popular among the people, well loved from Ilior to
Dindamoron." Sif bowed her head. "Even I loved him."
She looked up. "He was my brother. Not by birth, for both
his parents were elves, but because we were rased under

The Seekers and the Sword

77

one roof. My mother took him in when both his own
parents were killed in an avalanche, and he had no other
kin to shelter him. Skir'nir was very little then. I remember
when he came to sit at our board and share our wealth. We
loved him—even my father, who does not give love easily.
And I believed that he loved us."

"The treacherous whelp," spat Var'kald.

Sif was silent for a moment.

"What happened?" Vidar prodded. "What did he do?"

"About a year ago," Sif said, "my mother died. She had
been our strength for so many years, we failed to notice
that she'd been growing old. Skir'nir had been very close to
her, and when she passed from us, he began to act
strangely. He'd spend weeks at a time away from Hargard,
hunting—he said—and roaming over the mountains. Each
time he returned, he seemed more and more distant—more
hostile, especially toward Magni. As if a poison were
eating away at him from within."

"He was sowing the seeds of rebellion," said the taller
lyos. "Subtly, of course, so that Magni would not know.
But where he found a spark of dissatisfaction, of resent-
ment that an Aesirman should rule in Alfheim, he fanned
it into a flame. In time, he had enlisted conspirators from
the mountains to the sea."

"Aye." said Sif. "One day, Skir'nir was gone. The next,
he'd returned with sword in hand, and half of Alfheim
behind him. He took Hargard in a day and a night."

"No one escaped," said Var'kald.

"I fear," said Sif, "that my father may be dead, for he
would never have stopped fighting as long as breath
remained in him."

That sounded like the Magni that Vidar knew. A .reck-
less fighter on the field of battle, a strange and silent lord
off it. As a youth, apart and aloof, Magni had fled from
Asaheim after the slaughter of Ragnarok—even as Vidar
had. But here in Alfheim, he'd claimed the realm that
Frey had relinquished with his death.

78

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

It was hard for Vidar to picture Magni as a ruler—but
time works its changes, and more than a thousand years
had passed since he'd last seen Thor's son.

"G'lann and I were staying with Var'kald," Sif went on,
"so we were safe from Skir'nir—at least for the moment.
But we knew that he would search for us at Var'kald's hall,
so we fled. We hid in the woods and in the hills, hoping'that
Asaheim might have gotten wind of our trouble, and that
Vali would send help."

She smiled halfheartedly, for her bravado seemed to
have melted with the telling of her tale. Still, it was a brave
smile, and a beautiful one. "I see," she said, "that our
hopes were rewarded. Here you sit, an Aesirman—and
named after Odin's son, so you must be a great captain.
And these dark ones about us—recruited from some other
world, I trust, to save us from Skir'nir?"

Vidar did not elaborate—either on his own identity or
on how they'd come to be in Alfheim. "Who," he asked, "is

G'lann?"

Sif smiled. "Forgive me," she said. "Of course, you
would not know that I have a brother."

A brother? The plot thickened.

"Only our uncle Modi knew of us," said Sif, perhaps
noticing Vidar's surprise. "Our father said that there were
those in Asgard who might wish us harm if they knew
about us. That's why we lived with Var'kald."

She frowned. "Now, of course, there's no reason for
secrecy—Vali is our only hope. If we must be known in
Asaheim now, then that's a chance we must take." She
glanced at Vidar as if he were one of those in Asaheim who
might have wished to do away with her.

Magni had been wise to keep them hidden. Vali might
have been uncomfortable with the existence of too many
relatives in Alfheim, where he could not keep an eye on
them. Modi's loyalty was unshakable; Magnfs question-
able, but he seemed satisfied with his elvish domain; Hoe-
nir too much of a wanderer to bid for power; and all Vidar

The Seekers and the Sword

79

had wanted was to be left alone on Earth. But two young
elves, fired by Odin's blood and enticed by the glory of
Asgard... that might be more of a threat someday than
Vali could allow.

**A brother," said Vidar. **And what happened to him?
Where is he now?"
"My lady..." said Var*kald.

**We must trust" she answered, turning to the elf.
Turning back toward Vidar, she added, "We have no
choice. G'lann is in the hills. He's raising an army there,
calling on all those we believe are still loyal to Magni's
house." She hesitated, searching Vidar's eyes, then went
on. "We were to meet tomorrow night, after I had scouted
the forestlands to see where Skir'nir*s forces were posi-
tioned—for it seemed that a great many of his troops were
here in the woods. Now,'* she said, "I know why. To stop
you from reaching Hargard."

"Aye," said Vidar. "We've met some of those troops
already."

"Tell me," said Sif, her eyes lighting up suddenly, "is
Modi on bis way here, too?"

Vidar shook his bead, and the light in her green eyes
faded. "Nor is Vali. They had other wars to fight, as urgent
as this one."

The taller lyos seemed to be weighing his words, sifting
through them for a hint of treachery. These companions of
Sif would do well in Asgard, Vidar mused.

"Then who leads this army?" asked Sif.

**I do," said Vidar. "And Hoenir, Odin's brother."
Sifs brow wrinkled. "Hoenir," she repeated. "He's one
of the reasons my father kept us hidden." She paused,
sizing Vidar up anew. "But Modi never mentioned a chief-
tain by the name of Vidar, not one important enough to
lead an entire army. Unless..."
Vidar nodded. "Unless I'm the genuine article."
A smile spread itself over the elf-girl's face. "Good," she

80 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

said. "My father spoke well of you, though not often. He
told us of your prowess as a warrior."

Vidar shrugged. That was a long time ago, and a reputa-
tion he was no longer proud of.

"You say that you're to meet your brother one night
hence. But there must be more of you about, seeking out
Skir'nir's troop strengths."

Sif nodded, though Var'kald shook his head in frustra-
tion- "But we're scattered throughout the woodlands, and
not meant to see each other until we all meet with G'lann."

*'Then stay with us," said Vidar. "Tomorrow, you can
guide us to your meeting, and we can make a plan to
coordinate the efforts of your lyos and our armies.
Together, we*ll be stronger—and we'll free Hargard more
quickly.'*

Sif met his gaze frankly. "Aye," she said, "but I would
rather only you came, and perhaps a few others. It is not
that I do not trust you—only that Skir*nir's helpers will
spy the passage of an army as big as yours, and follow it to
the gathering. Better not to attract attention to ourselves
any sooner than we have to."

Vidar nodded. "Yes," he said. "You're right. I'm afraid
that I'm a little rusty when it comes to troop movements
and martial strategies."

Sifs eyes narrowed in thought for a moment. "Midgard,
wasn't it? That's where you went off to rule by yourself?'*

Vidar smiled. 'That's where I went, but not to rule. Just
to protect."

Sif smiled, too. "As Magni protected Alfheim."

"More or less," said Vidar. He shrugged. "We'll decide
in the morning who is to accompany you. In the meantime,
just find an empty spot and catch some sleep. Here,** he
said, and removing his cloak, he offered it to Sif. "You'll be
more comfortable with this."

"No,** she said. "I cannot. Besides, I have a cloak.*'

"Take it." said Vidar. "That thing is made for skulking

The Seekers and the Sword

81

about in the forest, not for warmth. It's my turn to stand
watch, anyway."

Sif shook her head from side to side.

"Listen," said Vidar, standing, "how will I ever explain
to Magni that I let his daughter freeze to death?"

Sif considered for a moment, then accepted the cloak.
"You are kind, my lord—even to mention my father as if
he were alive."

"We've no proof that he is not," said Var'kald.

"Aye," said Vidar. "Until we know otherwise, we can
hope."

"There's always that." said the tall elf sarcastically.
"Now come away, my lady. Perhaps we can salvage some
sleep, if Var'kald and / do not freeze to death.'*

"In a moment, H'limif," said Sif. Then, unexpectedly,
she stood and kissed Vidar on the cheek. "It's good to find
that you have kin in times of need," she said.

Vidar felt himself blushing. He didn't know what to say,
so he said nothing.

Then Sif and her companions stalked off in search of an
empty patch of ground. Vidar watched the mists swirl
about them.

Nice to have kin? Funny, he'd not looked at it that way.
Not recently, anyway.

XI

Thor and his son Magni rode at the head of a long line
of Aesirmen, making their way through the gray, frost-
rimed mountain passages of the hrimthursar's domain.
The place they sought was called Grotunagardar, a four-
comered stone citadel set into a barren mountain hollow
by the river Vang. A chieftain among the giants,
Hrungnir by name, lived there—and in his complacence,
he had boasted that he'd break Odin in half one day
soon, then feed him to his own ravens. Beyond that, he
said, he'd push Asgard into the sea and carry off its
women.

It was true that Hrungnir was the largest and strong-
est of the giants of Jotunheim, but it was also true that
he had the biggest mouth.

Odin's sons could brook no such boasts. Besides,
Hrungnir had a herd of wild white horses that the Aesir
coveted. So they crossed over into the bleak world of the

82

The Seekers and the Sword 83

hrimthursar, the always-whiter home, to teach Hrungnir
a lesson. '

It was Magni's first adventure, for he'd been too young
to fight giants until now, and he fingered his swordhilt
nervously. Or at least, it seemed so to Thor.

When they arrived at Grotunagardar, Hrungnir and
all his warriors were waiting for them. The giant was as
brazen and boastful as he'd been reputed to be.

"What have we here?" he cried, as if amused, "Little
Aesirmen, come to lose their lives? Well, we'll oblige you,
if that's really what you want."

"It's you who will lose his life today," said Magni, who
could not forget that his mother, Sif, was one of the
beauties that Hrungnir had vowed to carry off.

"Who are you?" returned Hrungnir. "Why, you're the
littlest pipsqueak of all."

"I'm Thor's son," said Magni, for it was too late to
take back his words. "And a match for anyone in
Jotunheim."

"Really?" said Hrungnir. "Then perhaps you'd like to
try your luck against Judnir. We make fun of him here
for his inability to fight—but he should be a pleasant
diversion for so great a warrior as yourself. At least, until
we can find some greater fighter to test your mettle."

Thor sat his horse, tight-lipped. He could not inter-
vene, for his son's honor was at stake.

"Very well, then," said Magni, dismounting. "Bring
forth this Judnir."

At once, a burly, hulking hrimthursar separated him-
self from the others. He seemed grim even for a giant,
and his muscles looked as hard as rock. His chest was as
broad as Magni's leg was long. Only Hrungnir himself
was bigger and broader.

Magni crouched, sword in hand, and the giant fell
upon him, brandishing a huge spear. Judnir's first pass
came within inches of the Aesir youth's cheek. When he
tried again, he missed Magni's ribs by only a hairs-

84 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

breadth. But the third time, Magni hacked off the head
of Judnir's spear and buried his blade in the giant's belly.

Judnir stood there for a moment, looking quizzically at
the sword that protruded from his stomach. Then he
toppled forward, and the ground shook.

A cheer went up from the Aesir. Then Thor raised Jus
hammer and said, "Don't grieve for Judnir, Hrungnir—
you'll join him soon enough in death."

"I think that I have something to say about that,"
roared the giant. "I'm not afraid of your hammer, Thor.
You're known far and wide for your empty boasts."

That was all the Thunderer needed to hear. With a cry
of rage, he vaulted from his horse's back and charged at
Hrungnir. When they clashed, it sounded like a moun-
tain splitting in half. But Hrungnir gave way, little by
little, until he stood on the threshold of his stone citadel.

Then Thor drew his hammer back and struck the
hrimthursar square in the middle of his forehead.
Hrungnir's skull shattered like an overripe fruit, and
blood flew all over. But Thor was blinded by the giant's
gore, so that he did not know Hrungnir was done for.
Flailing wildly, he struck the doorpost of the stone for-
tress. Lightning flashed, and with a terrible tremor, the
stone walls crumbled in on themselves. The noise was
deafening.

The other Aesirmen, meanwhile, had slain or driven off
Hrungnir's comrades. But when they looked around for
Thor, to congratulate him on his victory, the Thunderer
was nowhere to be found.

Only Magni spied his father's foot sticking out of the
rubble of Grotunagardar. Frantically, he hauled a great
chunk of stone away, and uncovered red-bearded Thor,
gray with dust.

The Aesirmen breathed a sigh of relief when Odin's
son stood up, even if his legs were a little wobbly. And
the first thing he did was crush Magni in his arms-
Holding the youth away from him, he laughed.

The Seekers and the Sword

85

"You've earned something today, my son. I promised
Odin the pick of Hrungnir's horses, but Odin will have
the second pick. You will have the first."

Magni cast a glance at the wild white beasts that
roamed in the barren valley. Then he showed his father
that he had sense as well as skill with the sword.

"No," said Magni. "Let Odin have his choice of the
horses. No beast is worth the jealousy of the Lord of the
Ravens."

Sin Skolding
Radsey, A.D. 480

XII

The sun writhed in and out of the leaves overhead, so
that they walked alternately in bright light and morning's
gray shadows. Here in the forest, the mists were not so
thick—but the trees and the bracken underfoot still glis-
tened with wetness.

"I don't know how my father does it," said Eric, frown-
ing. "I hear a thousand and one opinions on how to light a
fire, when to break camp, what to eat and where to
sleep... and that's only the beginning."

He swiped at a spiderweb.

"One man urgently reports the theft of his cloak. He
says he knows who took it. When I confront the man, he
denies it. 'I did not/ he said. *He's lost his damned cloak.'
•Then where is it?' asks the first man. *How should I
know?' says the second. 'I'll spit you like a pig,* says the
first. *Come try it,' says the second."

Eric sighed- "On and on—it's enough to make me wish I
were back in Skatalund, guarding the damned gates. This

86

The Seekers and the Sword 87

business of leading armies into war is not all it's made out
to be."

Vidar smiled a conspiratorial smile. "Aye," he said,
under his breath. "I wonder if I'm still cut out for this
myself. The dwarvin are a loyal and lighthearted lot, but I
get little tired of having to call a halt every time I want to
relieve myself."

There was more to it than that. There was the dread of
having their blood on his hands—but Vidar did not speak
of such things.

"I'd always thought," said Eric, "that a man obeyed the
whims of his lord- It seems it's the other way around—
unless I'm doing something very wrong." He laughed. "I
can't tell you how good it feels to walk freely, even here,
where we may be turned into pincushions at any moment. I
never prized my liberty so much as I do now."

Perhaps by the time Eric would have to take the reins in
Skatalund, he would have hardened himself to the exigen-
cies of command. After all, it was what he'd been bred for,
Vidar mused.

But what of Vidar himself? He, too, had been born to
vie for power, and he'd thrown that away to find a life in
Midgard. Yet he'd promised B'rannit that he'd no longer
be a distant spectator in the affairs of Asaheim, that he'd
tear Vali off his throne to stop his bloody empire-building.

And now that he'd taken the pulse of Asgard's politics,
he wondered just how difficult that might be. With such as
Njal about, Vidar would be hard-pressed to even find a
dwelling within the black stone walls—much less a loyal
following. But Gagni seemed reasonable, and so did Torvi.
Perhaps in time, Vidar could win them over....

Of course, there was another possibility. Invading
Asaheim with a host from somewhere else—perhaps one of
the worlds Vali had enslaved—but the prospect of spilling
Aesir blood, even for the best of reasons, made Vidar's
stomach turn-
Then what makes the iron so strong?" At the sound of

88

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

that question, Vidar turned to see who had posed it. He
saw that it was Ullir, his brow furrowed, and deeply
engrossed in conversation with N'arri. The elf spoke with
his hands as best he could, but Ullir still looked puzzled.

Only a dozen of the troops Vidar had led had been
chosen to follow Sif into the hills. There were, four
Aesirmen, including Ullir; Eric and another human, plus a
couple of his Utgard-thursar; and four of the dwarvin who
followed Vidar. Together with H'limif and Var'kald and
Sif herself, the group was a bit larger than Magni's daugh-
ter would have liked—for it would be difficult to travel
through the woods unnoticed. But Vidar wanted to be able
to put up a fight if they were discovered—and besides,
politics dictated that each group be represented in such a
mission. In the end, Sif agreed that it would be good to
have a few good bowmen around, despite the risk.

Hoenir had grumbled, of course. He was no more com-
fortable than Vidar at the head of an army, but he under-
stood the situation. He knew that as a gaut—a. creator, like   [
Odin—he was the most qualified to fend off an attack if it

came.

Hoenir's reaction to meeting Sif had been a little more
complicated. Perhaps he had only been surprised to see
that Magni had a daughter. But the way he'd stared at

her...

Then again, it might have been his basic lechery show-   -
ing through. Sif was their kinswoman—but she was not
unattractive.

They'd left about an hour after first light and headed
due north. The going was slow, for the forest was thick
with vines and brush, and there was always the fear of a
sudden barrage.

Once, something had come pounding through the trees,
churning the dark earth and fallen leaves—and Vidar's
hand had closed around his hilt before he saw that it was
only a wild boar. The beast snorted and was gone in an
instant, probably more startled than they were.

The Seekers and the Sword

89

In time, the ground rose and the forest thinned out a
little. The mists fell away to gather in the hollows, so that
the way before them was mostly clear. There was a scent
of pine and the sharp fragrance of cedar, and the air grew
colder in their lungs.

Vidar felt at home here, for the woods of Alfheim were
not all that different from those around his house back in
Woodstock. Without warning, images of Earth flooded his
mind like a river overflowing its banks.

Alissa. whose brave, accusing smile still cut at him when
he thought of her. The little gallery where Frank Cerucci
sold Vidar's sculptures—if he hadn't yanked them out by
now for a more profitable exhibition. Phil—whose warm
family life was Vidar's greatest joy. These images were at
once the core of his longing and his fear—his reasons for
keeping Midgard inviolate from Odin. And from Vali as
well.

But there were other images, too. Lurking beneath
pleasant thoughts of Phil and his prosaic life were the
bloated faces of suffering and death. In nearly two thou-
sand years on Earth, Vidar bad seen more pain than
anyone—even an immortal—could live with. So he thrust
it all into the darkness again, the dreamy afternoons along
with the madhouse shadows—lest they eat wormholes in
bis sanity.

The slope grew steeper, the trees leaned farther apart,
and by midday they had emerged from the deep woods into
a land of long green meadows and blunt brown hills.
Stands of birch and pine cut broad swaths across the
countryside, but mostly the ground was open and honest.
That meant trouble, of course—for their party would be
easy to spot if there were any of Skir'nir's lyos about.

They paused for a few minutes in an island of pine trees,
clustered close in the cool shade and the pine needles, to
eat cheese and graincakes that they'd brought with them
from Utgard. Both were getting a bit hard, but they were
still edible. They passed from one to another a bladder full

90

MICHAEL JAN FKIEDMAN

of water that one of the thursar had carried, and though
the lyos darted curious glances at the giants and at the
dwarvin, they all seemed to get along well enough.

Ullir, who appeared to have an interest in smithing, still
pressed N'arri and the other dark elves for their forge
secrets. One of the Aesirmen, Gilling, traced his lineage
back to one-armed Tyr for the benefit of the expressionless

thursar.

Sif and Eric huddled by themselves, their frozen breath
mingling in the air. They sat so close together that it was
difficult to hear what they were saying—but both were
smiling as if war had never come to Alfheim. Vidar envied

them.
Suddenly, there was a cry just loud enough for them to

hear. They pressed themselves into the carpet of pine
needles. Vidar looked up and saw Var'kald pointing north.
Then he saw the one who had cried out through the trees.

It was a lyos on a white horse, and some fifty or so
archers trailing behind him. They streamed through a
depression between two hills, and their leader called back

orders to them.

"F'orri," said H'limif, and there was no mistaking the

venom in his tone.

"Aye," said Siff, her voice little more than a whisper.
"And he rides one of my father's horses." Absentmind-
ediy, she twisted her silver necklace around her fingers.
"At least the beasts survived."

"Perhaps we can surprise them," said Eric. "They
haven't seen us yet."

"No." said Vidar. "There are too many of them—and
we've got too much to lose. If we don't reach G'lann, he'll
never know he has help."

"Then what do we do?" asked Gilling.

"Nothing," said Vidar. "We wait—and we keep our
mouths shut." H'limif muttered something, but it was
difficult to argue with Vidar's reasoning—especially when
Eric, Sif and Ullir voiced their assent.

The Seekers and the Sword 91

In a few minutes, the lyos had passed by them, but not
close enough to spy them through the trees. Yet Vidar did
not breathe easily until the last buckskin-clad bowman had
disappeared around the slope of a hillock.

Slowly, they rose, still careful not to make any loud
noises. "I would that Forri and I had met alone here," said
Sif. "He'd not be riding my father's horse for very long.'*

"It's the breed that Magni got in Jotunheim, isn't it?"
asked Vidar.

"Aye," Sif sighed. "Long ago. My father's gift from
Thor."

"I know," said Vidar, getting to his feet. "I was there.**

Sif glanced at him. ^*Were you?" She smiled. "I forgot
how long you have lived."

"When you put it that way," said Vidar, "it seems like a
lot longer.**

"Forgive me, then," said Sif, in earnest.

"Forgiven," said Vidar.

So they went on, and the hills grew higher and more
humpbacked, while the spaces between them broadened.
As the day dwindled, the isolated patches, of woodland
grew sparser and, finally, grew not at all. They climbed the
green slopes and the mists returned, coiling about their
feet and their knees. The air began to smell of grains and
growing things, and once or twice, in the distance, they
could see the fields of some elvish fanner basking in circles
of golden sunlight.

Then the sun succumbed to the horizon, lending the
clouds an edge of fire. The wind picked up a little, and it
hinted of mountain frost and ice-locked lakes. The sun
spread its wings of red-gold and burned like a phoenix,
leaving the sky desolate and sullen in the end.

Darkness fell, and the stars appeared, wavering in the
mist. The moon rose. no longer full, but diminished on one
side.

"My lady.** said H'limif, after they had traveled for
hours in silence and night. They had come to a ridge that

92 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

rose between two wide valleys. "The gathering was to have
been just beyond that next rise—but I hear nothing."

Sits brows knit. "Aye," she said. Then, "Perhaps they
were prevented from meeting. Perhaps Skir'nir got wind of
the gathering and they met elsewhere—or not at all."

But Var'kald cast a look at H'limif that did not inspire
hope.

Sif hastened down the side of the ridge, the rest of them
trying to keep pace with her, and halfway to the rise ahead
of them, she broke into a run. The others ran, too, and
Vidar felt an icy premonition trickle down his back.

Sif was the first to reach the hilltop, and her hands flew
to her face. When Vidar came up alongside her, he saw
why, for all that had gathered to meet them on that sudden
stretch of rocky gray slope were the carrion'eaters and the
dead.

H'limif reached back into his quiver and drew out an
arrow. He nocked it and let fly, and a thick black cloud of
the corpse-eaters rose into the air like smoke.

The bodies were strewn all over, abandoned as they had
fallen. Vidar's gorge began to rise, and he swallowed hard.
Sif just stood there, expressionless, her hands covering her
mouth as if she would scream otherwise. But tears stood
out in her green elvish eyes, and her jaw worked as if she
were chewing hard, bitter fruit.

"We must search," she said finally, the slightest tremor
in her voice. "To see if G'lann is among them." Then she
descended the slope before them and approached the field
of corpses.

"Wait," cried Gilling. "There's someone moving there,"
he said, gesturing toward the far side of the carnage. As he
spoke, a slim silhouette rose from among the dead.

"Who are you?" cried Sif, and her voice echoed
despairingly.

The spectral figure was silent for a moment. Then he
called back. "Ar'on, my lady, son of Ar'vid." And in that
voice, too, there was desolation and grief.

The Seekers and the Sword 93

"Ar'vid." said Var'kald. "It was by his farm that we
were to meet."

The one who named himself Ar'on threaded his way
among the corpses to reach them, and Sif waited patiently,
though he walked slowly and once or twice staggered.

It was only when Ar'on stood before them in the ghostly
mists and the moonlight that Vidar could see how young
he was, and how the sword he bore was made for a bigger
warrior than he. Even Sif looked old next to Ar'on, whose
pale cheeks were wet with tears of grief.

"My lady," he said, and fell to one knee.

"Stand," said Sif, "and tell me what happened here."

The youth looked at her, his eyes as green as hers, and as
wide with horror. "It was Skir'nir," he said. "He knew,
and he came with a great army, such as the tales tell of.
We had no chance, but we made a stand anyway." He
paused and blinked, as if he were seeing the battle again
before his eyes. "We fought—but there were, too many.
I... I must have gotten hit on the head. Only I woke—I,
out of all these." His outstretched arm swept over the field
of death. "While my father anA my two brothers spilled
their blood into the earth." At last, his voice cracked with
anguish.

Suddenly, Sif embraced him. Then, gently, she put him
away from her.

"I grieve with you," she said, "Ar'on Ar'vid-son. But
one of my kinsmen fought here this night, too. Tell me—
did you see G'lann?"

Ar'on shrugged and shook his head. "I saw him at the
start of the battle, my lady, when we lined up against
Skir*nir*s charge. But not since."

"Then you don't know if he fell or not?" asked Var'kald.

"No, my lord."

SiFs shoulders quivered, as a pang of dread took hold of
her. "Rest now," she told Ar'on. "I must go to search for
my brother as you searched for yours."

With that, she walked by him, down toward the sea of

94 MICHAEL JAN FREEDMAN

corpses. "My lady," said Ar'on, turning, and he began to
follow her. Sif stopped to look at him. "I can help you look.
I would know him if I saw him—and there are many
corpses to search through."

"It's all right, lad," said Var'kald. "We'll help her,
H'Hmif and I."

"No," said Sif. "Ar'on will help, too, if he wishes."

So the four of them went down to walk among the fallen.
Eric followed them, but only as far as the place where the
grass ended and the stone emerged. He knew that he could
be of no help to her, but something drew him after her all
the same. As she made her way from one fair-haired
corpse to the next, Eric's eyes never left her.

The place reminded Vidar of a thousand battlefields. It
reeked of blood, and there was something in the attitudes
of the slain—the ways in which they had sprawled—that
bespoke an inexorable fate, a beast-thing they could not
avoid. It always seemed that something other than their
enemies had slaughtered them—something ravening,
never sated.

From atop the rise, Vidar could see that it would not be
easy to find even a brother's face amid all the others—not
after the crows had torn them apart. But more than once,
Sif paused to kneel next to an elf's body, where he'd fallen
facedown. Var'kald or H'Hmif would roll it over so that
they could see who it was. Each time, Sif turned away and
went on, her face a mingling of disappointment and relief.

Vidar found himself searching also—for signs that the
enemy might be returning. But from his vantage point, he
could see the mist-laden terrain only so far. If Skir'nir did
come back, they would not have much warning.

Perhaps two hundred lyos had fallen here. Sif had seen
every one, it seemed, before she started her trek back
across the battlefield. In those few moments, her regal
bearing faltered, and she looked like what she was, after
all—a child forced to bear the heavy weight of war.
Var'kald and H'limif supported her at the last, for it

The Seekers and the Sword 95

looked as though her knees might crumple and stretch her
out on the hard, cold stone beside the fallen. Ar'on walked
behind them, his head bowed.

When she reached Eric, she slumped into his arms. He
held her for a moment while she regained her strength.
Then she left him too, and made her way back up the rise.
Her eyes were red-rimmed and her skin was like candle
wax,

She looked up into Vidar's face, stopping before him.
"He is not among them," she said. Then she looked down
and shook her head, perplexed. The wind dragged at her
hair and it bannered out in a glory of copper threads.

"Did anyone escape?" H'limif asked of Ar'on.

Ar'on shrugged. "I do not know. When I awoke, every-
one was dead."

"G'lann must have escaped," said Var'kald. "Or we
would have found him here."

"Unless," said Sif, raising her head, "unless Skir'nir
claimed my brother's body."

There was silence for a moment,

"We should have been here," said Sif. "To help. If we
had not tarried overnight.. -"

Var'kald snorted. "What help could we have been? It is
fortunate that we were not here when the attack came, my
lady. At least we still live to continue the fight."

"Aye," said Sif. "The fight."

"Only a portion of those loyal to you lie here," said
H'limif. "We'll gather somewhere else, where Skir'nir
won't find us so easily."

But Sif would not be encouraged. "I think not," she
said. "How many will dare to defy Skir'nir now? How
many will answer our call—after this?" Even as she
stretched out her arm over the battlefield, the carrion birds
were descending again on the corpses, squawking and
fluttering as they divided up their claims.

Suddenly, there was the sound of hooves clattering on
native stone, and a handful of riders crested the far side of

96

MICHAEL JAN FR1EDMAN

the slope. When they saw Vidar's band, they reined in
their mounts and regarded it, heads turning to talk to one
another. Then one rider struck out from the rest, his
piebald stallion spurred to a gallop. He rode along the
fringe of the slaughterfield, just outside the area where the
bodies lay.

N'arri fitted a shaft to his bowstring, and the other
dwarvin were only a moment behind him. He brought the
notching to his cheek and sighted.

"No!" cried Sif, grabbing N'arri's wrist. And a moment
later, "It's him! It's G'lann!"

The rider was upon them in seconds, slipping off his
horse's back before the beast could stop itself, and running
toward them like a wolf in pursuit of prey. Sif held out her
arms and he hugged her around, lifting her into the air and
swinging her about him until she was dizzy. Finally, he put
her down on the ground and released her. "I knew," he
said, "that you'd make it."

Vidar saw that G'lann had more of the Aesirman in him
than the elf. He was bigger and broader than any lyos
alive, and he had neither Sits grace nor her fineness of
feature. His visage was blunt, harsh, as if it had been
carved out of stone, and masked now with the grime of
battle. His hands were dark, too, still black with dried
blood. Only the green depths of his eyes, the paleness of his
skin and the strawlike color of his hair bespoke his
mother's elvish heritage.

After Sif, G'lann embraced Var'kald, and then H'limif.
A necklace of silver, like his sister's, jangled as he moved.
When he was finished with greeting those he knew, he
surveyed the rest of the company with cool detachment.

"Strange friends you have," he said to Sif, and his voice
was deep but melodic. His eyes wandered over the dwarvin
and the thursar. "I've never seen such friends." As he
spoke, the rest of his companions rode up behind them.
They dismounted, though warily at the sight of the
offworiders, and Sif embraced each of them in turn.

The Seekers and the Sword 97

Vidar stepped forward and held out his hand. "You must
be G*lann," he said. The elf's eyes narrowed grimly in his
dark, soiled face, but he took Vidar's hand. If Vidar had
had any doubts as to G'lann's parentage, the strength of
his handclasp dispelled them.

**Aye," said the elf. "I'm G'lann. Magni's son. And
you?"

"My name is Vidar."

Sif came up beside Vidar then and took his arm. "He's
the one that they called Jawbreaker before Magni left
Asgard," she explained. *0ur grandfather's brother."

G'lann's eyes widened. "Odin's son? That Vidar?"

"Aye," she said. "And these with him are humans,
thursar and dwarvin from Utgard, allies of these
Aesinnen." She indicated each group in its turn. "But
there's a whole army of them on the other side of the
forest, G'lann—big enough to stop Skir'nir, perhaps, even
without the lyos who are still loyal to us."

G'lann smiled bitterly at his sister's hope. "No," he said,
"no army can help us now."

Sifs fire died. "Why not?" she asked.

"Aye," said Var'kald, "why not?"

G'lann held their gazes. "Because he's gone after the
sword."

"What are you talking about?" asked H'limif.

"Angrum," said Vidar. "Prey's blade, right?"

G'lann turned toward him with more than a little sur-
prise and suspicion in his eyes.

"Aye," he said grimly. "But how did you know that?"

"Because we believe that Skir'nir may have an ally—
someone called Ygg. He started just such a rebellion as
Skir'nir's in Utgard, and we've tracked him to Alfheim.
Ygg would not have come this way unless a great prize
were at stake here. And we believe that he may know
where to find the sword."

G'lann nodded tiredly. "He does," said Magni's son, "if
he travels with Skir'nir."

98 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"Skir'nir?" asked Var'kald. "Hpw would he know where
the Vaninnan's blade is—or even if it exists?"

Sif and G'lann exchanged glances. Then Sif turned to
Var'kald- "Forgive us," she said. "It was a secret. Not even
Magni knew of the sword. Skir'nir found out its where-
abouts from his father, for the knowledge had been passed
on from the first Skir'nir through the generations. Our
brother shared the secret with us-—because if he had died
without an heir, the sword would have been lost to Alfheim
forever."

"That," said G'lann, "was long before he went insane."
He looked back at the corpses and the black, moving skin
of the carrion birds that covered them. He wiped at his
face with the back of his hand. "He told us that Skir'nir,
Frey's companion, had sworn to pick up the blade if Frey
ever fell, and carry it in Alfheim's defense. When Frey was
slain at Ragnarok, the elf did as he had swom. But the
battle had made all weapons seem like poison to him, and
after he had smuggled it back to Alfheim, he found that he
could not bear its company."

"Aye," said Sif, picking up the tale when her brother's
voice dropped off. "He had never wanted to wield such
power. But he had vowed that the sword would guard the
elfworld. nor could he let Angrum fall into the hands of
Alfheim's enemies. So Skir'nir broke part of his promise to
the Vanirman, but kept the rest. He brought the sword
back to Alfheim under his cloak, but he hid it high in the
mountains. None could find it but his kin, to whom he
entrusted its whereabouts."

"And if Skir'nir knew where the sword was," said
Var'kald, "he may have gone after it. For the measure of
legitimacy it would have given his rebellion—and to be
able to meet our rescuers from Asaheim with a weapon
great enough to turn them back."

"He has gone after the sword," said G'lann. "After
this... horror, we who escaped—fled when all was lost—
saw which way Skir'nir's army went. And it was headed

The Seekers and the Sword 99

for Lofni Pass—the way into the mountains that would
bring him to the sword." He looked at the faces around
him, the familiar ones and the strange ones, and his green
eyes glittered like ice in the moonlight. "But there is a way
to find the blade first—if we move fast enough."

"I'm listening," said Vidar.

"We all are," said Ullir.

"Good," said G'lann, and his mouth twisted into a grim
smile. "We can't overtake him in the mountains. He's too
far ahead." He met the eyes of Vidar, Var'kald and then
Sif. "But if we pass through the gate on Munarvag, we can
journey through Nidavellir instead of the mountains, and
reach the place where the sword is hidden well before
Skir'nir."

"Nidavellir?" asked Eric, a bit uneasily. "Is that the
same Nidavellir we name to scare children in Utgard?"

"Yes," said Vidar, as G'lann's plan unfolded before him.
"Not a nice place, not even to visit."

"A dangerous place," said Sif. "Very dangerous." She
stared at her brother and sighed.

"What does he intend?" asked-Gilling of Vidar. "You
seem to have an idea."

"Munarvag is an island," said Vidar. "West of here and
west of the coast- There's a gate there that leads to
Nidavellir. And if I recall correctly, there's another gate,
elsewhere in Nidavellir, that leads back to the vicinity of
the highest peaks in Alfheim."

"Aye," said G'lann, his fists clenching. "It's danger-
ous—but it can be done. One gate is not so far away from
the other, and it's the only way to keep Skir'nir from
beating us to the sword."

"The gates are not that far apart," Vidar agreed. "But if
the lava's flowing in an inconvenient direction, the way will
be impassable. If we take that route, it will be all or
nothing—we beat Skir'nir to the sword, or we give up
every chance of stopping him. If we follow him through the
mountains..."

100 MICHAEL JAN FRIBDMAN

*'Then we'll never catch him," said G'lann. "This is the
only way.'* He looked at Sif. "It's the way I'm going—with
or without anyone's help."

Vidar frowned. Try as he might, be could see no other
possibilities with a real chance of success. "You'll not go
alone," he said finally. G'lann turned to him, wolfljke.

"Good," he said simply. But Vidar felt his gratitude.

"And how can I allow someone else to share my
brother's peril before me?" asked Sif- G'lann smiled a sad
smile.

"Then count me in, too," said Eric.

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment, as
each looked to everyone else, assenting without words.
"Well," said Var'kald, "is there anyone who does not wish
to visit Nidavellir with us?"

No one spoke.

"Then we must find horses and ride—now," said G'lann.
"For the coast. We can't wait for Agard's army—and it
would not help us much where we're going. Speed is more
precious to us than strength now, and fewer can travel
faster." He stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing, and
then turned to Ar'on. "Did your father have horses, lad?"

"Aye," said Ar'vid's son. "Enough for all of us, my lord.
if Skir'nir hasn't driven them off. Or stolen them. Or
worse."

"Lead us to them," said G'lann. But before he left to
follow Ar'on, he wheeled to survey the field of death once
more. Vidar saw the elf's shoulders rise once and fall, and
he thought he heard him mutter something.

So they left the carrion to the carrion birds and followed
Ar'on to his father's steading, a stone house with a layer of
turf for a roof. The horses had not been touched by the
marauders, to Ar'on's relief- As he had said, there were
more than enough beasts to go around. But after Vidar had
swung up on top of a dark brown gelding, he saw the youth
disappear into Ar'vid's house.

The Seekers and the Sword

101

Nor did he emerge until a couple of minutes later, a
leather sack slung over his shoulder.

"What's that?" asked G'lann.

Ar'on peered up at him in great earnest, a country lad
confronting the lord of the land. "It's my harp, my lord."

G'lann shook his head from side to side. "There's no
place for a harp on such a journey," he said. "You can't
carry a harp in Nidavellir—it will slow you down."

"No," said Sif. All eyes turned to her. "What better
place for a harp, G'lann, than in Nidavellir? We'll need
something to lighten our hearts there."

G'lann's blunt features softened. "Bring it then—as my
sister wishes."

But Vidar had seen Nidavellir before. Even an orchestra
couldn't lighten hearts in that place.

XIII

It was two days' ride to Ilior, on the western sea, where
G'lann believed they would have the best chance of steal-
ing a boat and sailing it to Munarvag. The terrain in
between was mostly long, graceful meadows, farmlands
and low, round hills. They cut across them at a gallop,
resting only when they came to a stream from which the
horses might drink. But the air was cool, and Ar'vid had
bred his horses well—they did not falter or shorten their
strides, but consumed great distances with the churning
hunger of their hooves.

Their company numbered twenty-three after they'd sent
a lyos—who knew the countryside—and an Aesirman—
whom Hoenir would sooner trust—to deliver their plan to
Hoenir. Vidar knew that his uncle would balk at Vidar's
prolonged absence, which left him sole leader of the army.
But if he followed Vidar's directions and pursued Skir'nir
through Lofni Pass—as insurance—he'd be too busy to get
mad.

102

The Seekers and the Sword

103

If Nidavellir proved uncooperative, and Skir'nir got to
the sword first, Hoenir might not be able to stand against
him. If G'lann's plan worked, and he reached the sword
first, there might be no need for Hoenir. But there was
always the chance that his forces might come in handy up
there in the mountains—and on this vast chessboard that
Odin had created, one moved one's pieces as best one
could. Only if Odin got his hands on Prey's blade would it
be checkmate, for that was the move to be feared most.

Did Skir'nir believe that Odin would allow him to keep
the sword after he found it? Perhaps at first he would. But
in time the blade would find its way into Odin's hands. The
All-father would never let an underling have such power
when it could be his for the taking—that had been his way
even before he'd gone mad.

The dew was thick and plentiful in the morning, and the
slopes often slippery, but G'lann led the way with skill and
patience. Gentleness was not a trait Vidar would have
associated with the elf, but with the horse that bore him,
he was gentle indeed.

Vidar rode up alongside him. "You handle horses welt,"
he said, and not entirely out of tribute to G'lann's horse-
manship. He was more than a little curious about this son
whom Magni had kept hidden for so long.

"It's my father's talent I've inherited," said the elf.
"He's the one who taught me to treat them as I would treat
myself—with fairness and with patience. Once you've
mastered that trick, you've mastered horses."

He paused, frowning. "We had two dozen horses in
Hargard, of the kind that my father had stolen from
Jotunheim."

"I remember their forebears," said Vidar.

"Then you know how beautiful they were," said G'lann,
an undertone of ferocity building in his voice. "And they're
probably dead now, or driven into the wild if they had
enough luck to escape Skir'nir's madness." His mouth

104

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

twisted, and he turned to Vidar. "For that alone, I could
flay Skir'nir alive. Perhaps I'll yet get the chance."

"Well," said Vidar, "if it's any consolation, at least one
of those horses still lives. We saw someone called F*orri
riding it on the way to the gathering."

"F'orri?" asked G'lann. He smiled thinly. "Aye. His
was one of the families that Skir'nir enlisted first—and
that animal was his reward." He snorted in disgust.

"What made him turn on you like that?" asked Vidar.

G'lann shrugged. "I do not know. Does it matter? There
is no excuse for what he's done—what he did back there,
at Ar'vid's farm. I will make him pay dearly for that—and
for Magni's death as well."

Vidar let a moment fall before he asked the next ques-
tion. "You think that Magni's dead, then?"

G'lann nodded. "Var'kald and H'limif say that there is
hope—but I think not." His brow writhed over his elf-
green eyes. Then he turned toward Vidar and said,
"Enough of me. What about you, Vidar Jawbreaker? Sif
tells me that what my father said about you—that you
exiled yourself to Midgard—is true." He searched Vidar's
face for a moment. "Why?"

"Because," said Vidar, "I'd grown to dislike the smell of
blood and iron. I'd had enough of that. Asgard had crum-
bled. All my brothers—or almost all—were dead. There
were just more reasons to go than to stay."

G'lann grunted. "Have you ever had second thoughts?"
he asked.

"As a matter of fact," said Vidar, "I have. Why?"

The elf smiled grimly, rising and falling with the rhythm
of his horse's gait. His necklace of silver plates jangled like
wind-chimes, "Not long ago, I asked to come to Asgard,"
he said. "Not to stay—just to see what it would be like to
walk the streets that Magni walked as a youth. The streets
that Odin walked even before that. Some of the lyos go
back and forth through the gate to Asgard all the time—or
did until Skir'nir turned this land into a battleground."

The Seekers and the Sword

105

G'lann paused, gathering his words. "My uncle Modi
agreed that it would be a good idea for me to see Asgard.
He said that I would be ill-advised to go there openly, as
Magni's heir—but I would only be another lyos unless one
looked closely, and then there are elves living in Asaheim
whose fathers were Aesir. I told Magni of this, but he still
forbade my going. I reminded him that we are no longer
defenseless children, Sif and I. We need no protection—
not from anyone, in Asaheim or elsewhere. Magni
laughed. He said that I would not boast so if I knew Vali as
he did."

Vidar shrugged. "Vali is a tough customer."

"But the world has changed," said G'lann. "Magni is
dead now. You know of us. Even Hoenir, whom Magni
singled out as one we should look out for—even he knows
of us. When this is all over," said the elf, "I shall see
Asgard. And not concealed under a cloak, but as the son of
Odin's grandson."

Yet G'lann looked haggard as he said this, the pain of
his father's loss rending him more than he cared to show.
How different he was from Sif.-who let her emotions flow
freely. She concealed almost nothing—he, almost
everything.

Late in the afternoon, they found a river that ran across
their path beneath steep, grassy banks. It was not easy to
find a way down one bank and up the other, but G'lann did
it, and the others followed. On the other side, they decided
to rest the horses and take something to eat. Some, includ-
ing Vidar, ate standing up, for he was not used to long
rides on horseback, and his hindquarters reminded him of
that fact.

But Eric and Sif ate together, off to one side, beneath a
tree that overhung the riverbank. By the way she laughed
when Eric jested with her—and the way she regarded him
when he turned away—Vidar knew that there was more
growing between them than road companionship. Perhaps
it was their youth that had forged a bond. for Sif was

106

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

young as her race counted the years. Perhaps it had noth-
ing to do with youth.

But Vidar noticed, and he was not the only one. G'lann,
too, glanced at his sister and Eric from time to time, and
'he did not smile when Sif did.

Before long, they had mounted again, following the pale
sun into the western sky. They did not see any of Skir'nir's
lyos, and Var'kald surmised that most of the rebels were
either in the mountains with Skir'nir or holed up at
Hargard.

But the hills did part to reveal the stone walls of elvish
farmhouses, distanced by mist, which was growing thicker
every hour. They gave these places a wide berth, for no one
could be sure where allegiances lay these days in Alfheim.
Especially, thought Vidar, in the wake of the slaughter
hear Ar'vid's farm.

The afternoon grew old and chill. The sun ignited the
edge of the hills as it settled amid the mists, finally yielding
to nightfall. Vidar and one of the thursar—a behemoth by
the name of Jam—kept the first watch.

At first, the giant said nothing, looking out over the still,
silent meadows and rubbing his huge, hairy hands together
for warmth. His small black eyes glistened in the moon-
light, as inscrutable as the stars. Finally, Vidar spoke.

"Long way from home, isn't it?"

The thursar nodded, turning toward him and regarding
him in that stone-faced way that characterized his race.
He looked as if he would answer, but only his lips drew
back. exposing his beastlike fangs. His eyes were dark
pebbles beneath the surface of a shallow stream.

"Have you a family back in Skatalund?" asked Vidar.

"Aye," said the giant, nodding his shaggy head. Vidar
stilt found it strange to stand and chat with a thursar,
when his youth had been spent sizing them up across the
length of his blade. The thursar of Utgard, after all, looked
no different from the hrimthursar that had torn down
Asgard. They only acted differently.

The Seekers and the Sword

107

"Two sons and a small daughter, my lord," said the
giant. His voice was like rocks grinding together. "My
mate died in childbirth with the youngest."

"Sorry to hear that," said Vidar. He knew that the
thursar could feel grief—his sojourn in Utgard had taught
him that. The giants had emotions—they just could not
show them. In a way, they were like G'lann.

Jam breathed deeply, his great chest expanding, his
flared nostrils expelling twin clouds of steam. He stared at
the moon. "My sister will see to the young ones white I am
away," he said, as if that were all that was important.

"You know," said Vidar, "my own mother died in child-
birth.'* The giant's head tilted, as if that were of some
interest. He turned toward Vidar again. "Her name was
Gridh. One of Odin's concubines."

"I thought," said Jam, "that the Aesir were deathless,
my lord."

Vidar smiled. "We are—until we die. In childbirth, of
poison or at the point of a sword. There are as many ways
for Aesir to perish as there are for thursar—or for humans.
You've been listening to your Utgardian priests too long,
Jam."

The thursar grunted. His savage, skull-like face didn't
move at all, but Vidar could see the flicker of turmoil in
Jam's brain all the same. It had been the same way with
Stim, Vidar's giant companion in Utgard. He, too, had had
some difficulty looking his deity square in the eye and
accepting him for a thing of flesh and blood. In Utgard, the
Aesir were still worshiped as gods.

"We were taught to fear the Aesir," said Jam. "To hold
VaU in our hearts, and to fear him."

Fear, Vidar mused, was a different matter altogether.
Considering his family's track record—starting with Odin
and proceeding right through Vali's reign—a little fear
wasn't a bad idea-

"The elf," said Jam. "G'lann. He is Aesir, too?"

At first, Vidar wasn't sure whether it was a question or

108 MICHAEL JAN FRIBDMAN

not, the giant's voice was so devoid of inflection. But he
said, "Yes."
Jam nodded, but he did not say anything more.

When morning came, it was cold and wet, for the mists
had gathered about them more closely. The sun was only a
vague brightness in the gray sky.                  •*

Their breakfast consisted of—what else?—barleycakes
and water. Vidar's mouth watered at the memories of veal
sorrentino and Peking duck, but he settled for the dry wads
of grain, promising himself a dinner even a king would
envy when he got back to Earth.

They rode, and the day passed slowly. A light rain fell to
meet the mist that came up from the ground. It felt as if
they moved in the silent grip of a dream, their faces numb
with the wet and the cold, their bodies rising and falling
with the hypnotic regularity of their horses' gaits.

In time, however, brief conversations punctuated the
stillness, lifting the blanket of gray sameness a bit. Thanks
to Sif, Ullir and Eric, the newcomers among them—the
lyos that had escaped with G'lann—were beginning to fit
in with the others.

Only G'lann himself remained aloof. He counseled with
Var'kald and with Sif. and with no one else. On occasion,
when it was necessary, he said a few words to Vidar, for
most of the company followed him. But that was all. The
thursar, the dwarvin, the humans and the Aesirmen might
just as well not have been there.

The elvish sun was starting its descent along the wheel
of the sky when Vidar heard harsh words behind him. He
turned and saw G'lann glaring at Eric, with Sif trying to
wedge her steed in between them.

"No," she said. "I go where I please, G'lann—and I do
what I wish. Neither you nor anyone else can tell me whose
company I may keep."

G'lann's surprise was genuine. "But... he's a human,'*

The Seekers and the Sword

109

he stammered, as if that were a complete argument in
itself. "Not even an Aesirman, but a human."

"And what of it?" asked Eric. "Is that a crime in
Alfheim?"

"Hold your tongue, boy," said G'lann. "You're on my

world. A crime is what I say it is."
"Then punish me for it," said Eric. "If you can."
"No!" cried Sif, "1*11 not have you fighting over this."
Vidar reined his steed around and urged it up to a spot

in the circle that had formed about the argument.
"Aye," said G'lann. "There's no need to fight. No need

at all, as long as this whelp agrees to stay away from you."
"Forget it," said Eric, his eyes flashing. "I don't need

your permission to be with Sif."

*That's where you're wrong," said G'lann. "You've got
a lot to learn about Alfheim—human."

Now Eric smiled. "You can't keep us apart, G'lann. In
my world, my family rules—but people do as they like."

G'lann shrugged. "Then I'll teach you to stay away from
her."

"G'lann!" cried Sif again, and she grabbed his wrist for
emphasis. He turned toward her.
"Do not stop me," he said, "I do this for you, Sif."
"But I don't..."

G'lann shook off her restraining hand and faced Eric.
"It does not matter what you want," G'lann said to her.
"Something has begun here and it must be finished."

**Vidar," said a low voice at his shoulder. It was Ullir's.

•*G'lann will kill him. He's half-Aesir."

Vidar's impulse had been to intercede for Eric from the
beginning—but he held himself back. "No," he said.

*There's more to Eric than you might think. And if we
stopped it now, it would only erupt again later. Better now
than in Nidavellit,"

Ullir whistled. "It's a good thing we healers are about."
Eric swung his legs over his horse's flank and vaulted to
the ground. "What are you waiting for, then?" he asked,

110

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

looking up at G'lann. "I'm as eager to see this to its end as
you are. Be my teacher, G'lann—if you're man enough."

G'lann smiled. "Gladly," he said, and slipped from his
horse's back. "Where's your blade, whelp?"

Vidar tensed.

Eric hesitated for a moment. Then he drew his sword
and tossed it away. "I need no blade," he said, "to deal
with you."

Good! thought Vidar. Eric was only doing what he'd
seen Vidar do in the cave with Thakrad.

G'lann's smile faded. "As you wish." He too drew his
blade, handing it up to Ar'on. "No need to dirty good iron,

anyway."

Sif rode between them. "Stop it!" she said. "I forbid it."
But neither G'lann nor Eric seemed to hear her. They
sidestepped her mount and approached one another,
crouching. The circle about them widened, to give them
room. Finally, Sif said nothing, but brought her horse
about and forced her way out through the circle.

G'lann made the first move, dropping down to kick
Eric's legs out from under him. Eric fell, but rolled to one
side in the same motion and found his feet again before
G*lann could press his advantage. Vidar noted their tac-
tics. Once, he'd been Odin's wrestling champion.

The elFs silver necklace sang as he shifted his weight,
feinting, looking for an opening. His eyes were alive, fierce
with anger and with hate.

Then Eric struck. Quickly closing the distance between
them, he delivered a roundhouse blow to G'lann's jaw. The
elf staggered backward and Eric went after him. Before
G'lann could recover, he hit him again. And again. But it
was Odin's blood he faced, and he could have rained blows
on him all day. It was past the strength of any human to
bring G'lann to his knees.

Though off balance, the elf lashed out and caught Eric's
wrist in one hand. Then, pivoting, he pulled him off his feet
and flung him to the ground.

The Seekers and the Sword

111

Again, Eric got to his feet. But this time, G'lann did not
let him get away. As Eric stumbled backward, he brought
his fist down against the human's temple. It was only a
glancing blow, but Eric hit the ground hard. Once, he tried
to rise, but slumped again.

"Get up," G'lann rasped, wiping away a thin trickle of
blood that had gathered at the corner of his mouth.

Eric just lay there.

"Get up!" said G'lann. "I'm not done with you yet."

"Enough," said Vidar. "You've had your fun."

G'lann whirled on him, as if he would challenge Vidar,
too. Their eyes met, and G'lann's were wild. He half
opened his mouth, but thought better of it. A slow smile
spread across his face. "Aye," he said. "For now."

In the meantime. Jam had dismounted and bent over
Eric. The boy moaned, and a couple of G'lann's lyos
laughed softly. With incredible gentleness for so hulking a
creature, the giant turned his lord's son over onto his back.
A cut had opened over Eric's eye, and the grass was
stained a deep red where his head had rested against it.

The thursar glared at G'lann. Then be lifted Eric to his
feet, and held him up patiently until the boy could get his
legs to support him on their own. The other thursar,
Hymir, regained Eric's sword.

"I'm all right. Jam," said Eric, trying to shrug the giant
off. Eric turned toward G'lann and stared at him. Then he
looked away and clambered back onto his horse.

One of the lyos nudged his steed out of the circle. It was
Var'kald. He rode up to Eric, with all eyes upon him, and
held out his hand. For a moment, Eric looked at it, dazed
as he was. Finally, he reached out and clasped it.

^Well fought." said Var'kald. "A valiant effort." He
looked at G'lann over his shoulder. "Your opponent won—
but he did not win much."

G'lann spat. "Could I have done anything else,
Var'kald?" he cried. "I had to defend my sister's honor."

112

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

**I thought you were the one,'* said Var'kald, "who told
Magni she needed no protecting."

G'lann frowned. He was about to retrieve his sword
from Ar'on when he heard his name called. The word
sounded different when shaped by a thursar tongue, but
not so different that he did not recognize it.

"You said you were not done," said Jam. "Neither am
I." The giant plucked his blade from its sheath and
plunged it into the ground.

G'lann raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he was a bit less
eager to grapple with the thursar, especially after the
pommeling Eric had given him. But he turned to face the

giant anyway.

"Good," said the elflord, the breeze lifting his straw-
colored hair. "Let's not waste any time. then."

They closed a moment later—the lithe, lean-muscled
son of Magni and the grisly, god-fearing giant. The elf
tried to kick Jam's legs out from under him, the same trick
he'd used on Eric. But the thursar was quicker than G'lann
imagined, and he leaped at just the right moment. G'lann
recovered and went into a crouch, circling to his left. The
giant circled as well—not as gracefully, but his reach more
than made up for that. It was plain that G'lann had never
fought anyone nine feet tall before. He seemed at a loss as
to how to attack.

The elflord feinted, but almost lost his head for it. As
soon as he'd darted into reach. Jam lashed out. G'lann was
slippery enough to roll with the impact, but still he stag-
gered sideways. Jam swung at him again, but G'lann's
staggering turned out to be more bluff than anything else.
He ducked the blow and came in under the giant's arms-
Then he planted his fist solidly in the thursar's ribs, and
with the fingers of both hands interlocked, he hammered at
Jarn*s belly.

The giant doubled over. G'lann reached back and Vidar
saw the final blow on its way.
He couldn't let that happen again.

The Seekers and the Sword

113

Reaching out for G'lann's mind, he flooded it with a
random thought—-the sight of F'orri on top of the white
horse. It was all Vidar could conjure up on a moment's
notice, but it worked. G'lann's mouth twisted involuntarily
and be stopped, with his weight on his back foot, his fist
half-raised. By the time he thought again to hit Jam, the
giant had recovered a little and straightened to his full
length.

G'lann struck, but Jam moved backward, out of reach.
The elf cursed and rushed the giant like a linebacker going
after a runner in the backfield. He buried his head in
Jam's midsection and they fell, rolling in the wet grass,
each grappling for leverage.

That was a tactical mistake, thought Vidar, if he'd ever
seen one. For in a contest of weight, G'lann was no match
for the thursar. Jam came out on top. one long, heavily
muscled arm pinning the elf, while the other rose with
savage intent. Jam roared with the exertion, for it was not
easy to keep Magni's son down. Then he brought his fist
down across G'lann's face once. and again. His fangs
dripped saliva like a wolfs. A third time, he raised his
hand—but he never delivered that third blow.

G'lann had lost consciousness.

Jam's breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. As if a
mountain rested on his back, he rose to one knee, and then
straightened his mammoth body. Standing over the elfiord,
he looked down for a moment.

Jam grunted-—all the victory cry he had in him.

He plucked his sword from the ground and restored it to
his sheath. Looking back, he saw that G'lann was begin-
ning to stir. The giant spat. Then he clambered back onto
his elvish pony, which had all it could do to bear his
weight.

No one moved to help G'lann—not even Sif, who sat her
horse outside the circle of onlookers. It would only have
stung his pride to be helped now to his feet. He rose slowly
and glared at Jam, and for a moment, Vidar saw Vali's

114

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

look in the elfs eyes—the gaze of the avenger, patient but
powerful. Then the anger seemed to dissipate, and a
calmer mien took hold.

In a curiously ceremonial manner, G'lann inclined his
head toward the giant. "I hope you'll fight like that against
our enemies," he said. His voice was toneless, controlled,
but embers still burned in his eyes.

Then G'lann found his horse and took back his weapon,
and mounted again. He said nothing more, only urged his
steed with his heels, and guided it toward the west, where
the light was slowly dying.

XIV

If Skir'nir had suspected that they'd try for Munarvag
and Nidavellir. he'd have fortified Ilior. But when Ar'on
returned from the coastal town and rejoined them in the
hills that overlooked it, he had good news—a light force
had been left to guard the port. They would have a good
chance of stealing a ship by night, if they were careful
about it. Nor was there any shortage of ships from which
to choose, because there was a storm pushing northward
up the coast, and no one wanted to try his luck against it.

"That's good news?" asked Var'kald. "A storm?" His
brow wrinkled as he surveyed the southern skies, where an
edge of gray cloud had only just appeared on the seaward
horizon.

H'limif looked to G'lann. then to Sif, and finally to
Vidar. "Perhaps we should wait until it blows over."

Vidar shook his head. "We can't delay. It'll just give
Skir'nir that much more of a lead on us."

115

116 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"Though his words are strange," said Sif, "my kinsman
speaks the truth. We'll take our chances."

G'lann nodded, watching the gray rim of the sky. His
hair whipped across his face in a sudden wind, and the air
was momentarily chill against their skin.

Ilior lay spread out below them, a haphazard tangle of
narrow stone buildings with stout wooden doors. Vidar
could smell the salt in the sea and the fish that the last,
daring crew had brought in. It was the middle of the day,
but the sunlight that penetrated the haze in the sky was
thin and cheerless. Skir'nir's men were easy to spot. Aside
from a few seafarers trading tales, they were the only ones
out in the cold of the wharf.

The company waited with a certain uneasiness—an
expectancy—until the light gave way to dusk. Meanwhile,
the rim of gray cloud became a curtain, and when the sun
set, finally, it was only a hint of gold behind the overcast.

"Soon," said G'lann, half to himself, but the word was
heard by the rest of the company. Vidar came up beside
him, anxious and tired of waiting.

"Look," said G'lann. He pointed to a sturdy ship with a
gracefully curved prow in the shape of a dragon's head. Its
sail was lashed to a cross-piece two-thirds of the way up
the mast, but when it was unfurled, it would display its
owner's blazon. It must have been designed for long jour-
neys, Vidar mused, for it bore eight oar-ports on either
side. The oars had been pulled in, of course—but they
would be needed to fight a storm, in which the sail would
be more hindrance than help.

*'She's a beauty," said Vidar.

"Aye," said G'lann. "And you've already met its owner.
I don't need to see the sail to know that's F'orri's vessel.
You can tell by the carving of the prow."

The darkness deepened, relieved only by a few guttering
torches down by the wharf. Finally, G'lann said, "Now,"
and they came down from the hills like a plague of strange
insects, keeping to the shadows until they were on a level

The Seekers end the Sword 117

with the town. The lyos led the way—it was their world,
and most of them had been to Ilior before.

Once in the maze of winding streets, they walked
through the small spaces between the stone buildings.
Vidar noticed the bright pigments that the elves had used
to paint decorations on their doors—a fleet of yellow-
sheeted dragonships on one; a netful of red and blue fish on
another; the sun and moon and stars on a third, coloring
the sea that was painted below them with trails of light.

Yet they met no one. Perhaps Skir'nir had imposed a
curfew—but Vidar began to feel uncomfortable. It was
almost too good to be true.

When they came in sight of the wharf, they were able to
count the number of elves that stood between them and
F'onfs ship. It seemed that Skir'nir's guardians were
slightly more numerous—but the thieves would have the
advantage of surprise. G'lann whispered orders to his lyos.
They began to fan out, slipping between the stone build-
ings, and as they moved, they drew arrows from their
quivers. Sif and the dwarvin went with them, for they too
were good shots.

Of all the elves, only Ar'on stayed by Vidar's side, for he
had no bow. He had only that sword that was too heavy for
him, and the harp he'd brought, which he had strapped to
his back in its leather sack. Vidar tried not to look at the
youth—not to wonder if he would survive this battle. For if
he looked and saw Ar'on's face, it would only bring to
mind the faces of all the other youths he'd led into war. He
wanted no more memories, no more ghosts.

The other swordsmen gathered behind him—Ullir, Gil-
ling and an Aesirman whom they called Tyrfingur—Eric,
another human named Gunnar—and the two thursar. Jam
and Hymir. They had been left to launch the frontal
attack.

Skir*nir*s troops didn't smell a thing. They lounged
about on boxes and against the pilings to which the ships
were lashed. All the fishermen were gone now. Only the

118 . MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

warriors were left, to trade tales and laugh at their own
adventures.

Until an arrow caught one in the throat. A second fell,
clutching at the shaft that had suddenly sprouted from his
belly, and then another was pinned to the piling behind
him. The victims cried out in their surprise and their fiear.
Feathered death seemed to whistle at them from all direc-
tions. Perhaps a dozen of them fell in the first few seconds.

Then Vidar and the others darted out from hiding,
taking advantage of the confusion as they'd planned. Out
of the corner of his eye, Vidar saw G'lann rush out along
with them, first to put away his bow and take out his
sword.

G'lann fell upon Skir'nir's followers as a hawk stoops to
snatch at a field mouse. He cut one of the lyos down with a
single stroke, then battered aside the blade of another to
sweep his head off his shoulders.

Vidar was right beside him, though he had no desire to
kill if he could avoid it. There were less final ways to
dispose of an enemy. When an elf thrust at him, he cut at
the warrior's shoulder—and the iron bit deep enough to
bring him to his knees, defenseless. A second lyos made
the mistake of coming too close and Vidar smashed him
with his hilt. He'd wake with a broken jaw, but he'd be
alive to tell of it.

Then the cries of the elves brought reinforcements.
More of Skir'mr's rebels poured out of the alleyways,
blades drawn, shock on their faces. Some of them were met
by the archers that still knelt between the buildings, but
some got through. The battle spilled out, congealing into
clots of individual combat.

Vidar saw Gunnar fall, pierced by an elvish blade, and
as he caught an enemy's sword on his own, he nearly
tripped over the outstretched form of Tyrfingur. But the
archers had taken their toll, and none of Skir'nir's troops
could stand against G'lann or Vidar, or the thursar. The
wharf grew slippery with blood, and the numbers of those

The Seekers and the Sword

119

who stood between them and the ship dwindled. Some even
leaped into the sea rather than confront G'lann, who
fought with the fury of a berserker.

When Sif buried her blade in an elfs breast, the last
obstacle was gone, and they were able to swarm onto
Forri's ship. Vidar was the last to climb aboard. First, he
cut the hawsers that held the vessel fast—and then, with a
great heave that churned the sea to froth all around it, he
got the ship moving away from the wharf. Finally, he
leaped, but he was a moment too late, catching only the
gunwale in his outstretched fingers. He clung there like a
salmon left out to dry until Jam reached over and hauled
him onto the deck.

In the old days, Vidar knew, he'd have been able to clear
the deck by himself. He was more than a little rusty after
his long stay on Earth-
Getting to his feet, he saw that the others had already
taken places by the carports and thrust the oars out for
rowing. Var'kald stood by the mast and called out a
cadence. Ar'on sat across the ship from Glann, wrestling
with the sea to little avail, so Vidar sat down beside him-

"Let me give you a hand," said Odin's son. The youth
nodded, relieved to have the help. Vidar took the oar in
hand and pulled against the water, in time with Var'kald's
call. The ship lurched forward, as if it drove over the waves
and not through them. With oarsmen like Vidar and
G'lann, the thursar, and even the Aesirman, there was
more strength at the benches than the vessel was designed
for.

Within a few strokes, however, they were moving at a
steadier clip. Vidar looked about, taking a quick account-
ing—and was grateful to find that they'd lost only a few of
their comrades in their theft of the ship. Besides Gunnar
and Tyrfingur, only two of G'lann's friends were missing.
Many of the others had sustained wounds here and there,
-Imt it seemed that none were grievous enough to keep them
from rowing.

120 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

So far, luck was with them.

"Aiiir' cried one of the lyos. It was a shout of victory.
Some of the other elves joined him, but not G'lann. He
rowed with a vengeance, silent and sullen, as if there were
still more killing left in him. Nor did Sif cry out, for sorrow
was etched too deeply into her face, and Vidar thought he
could guess why. Were the lyos she'd slain less kin to her
than the comrades who'd helped her slay them? Sif knew
that these were elves they fought—and therein lay her
sorrow.

They were fast approaching the mouth of the harbor,
where two narrow headlands seemed to come together like
black pincers. H'limif steered the boat, and he had all he
could do to work the tiller with such strength pulling at the
oars. Besides that, he bled from a head wound. But he
managed to guide them toward the opening between the
strips of land.

Then one of the dwarvin cried out, standing at his
bench. "Two sails off to the left! And another one off to the
right!" A murmur washed over the benches, and some
stood to peer over the gunwale, Vidar among them.

He saw the ships. One was yellow-sheeted, the other two
bright green. They were not all that hard to spot, even with
the moon and stars mostly blotted out by the blossoming
underbelly of the storm. But had they seen the stolen vessel
yet? With its sail furled, it might have gone unnoticed
until now.

The stolen ship swept forward toward the narrow space
between the headlands, and as far as Vidar could tell, the
other vessels had made no move to stop them. He sat again
and strained against his oar, which he'd left Ar'on to
manage all on his own.

Then something bright caught the edge of his vision, and
he turned back toward Ilior in time to see a flaming arrow
reach its zenith and fall into the sea. A second arrow
followed quickly on the trail of the first, dropping snakes of
fire as it climbed toward the heavens.

The Seekers and the Sword

121

A signal from Skir'nir's forces in Ilior—     remained
of them. A warning to the ships that guara^ che harbor
mouth.

Vidar looked back to the ships. Sure enough, the bright,
elvish sails were beginning to move against them.

It would be a race, too close to call.

Vidar heard Var'kald's call over the rush of the wind.
"Pull! Pull!" He dug his heels into the base of the bench
ahead of him, where Eric sat, and grunted as he tugged at
the oar.

The wind grew bolder, blowing his hair and beard this
way and that, as they left the lee of the mainland. It took
on a hooting, hollow sound, like giants blowing through the
bones of their victims.

The sea became feistier, too. It surged beneath them like
a team of wild horses pulling a wagon. For a time, it
seemed that they fought the sea itself, toe to toe, strength
against strength, as the storm roared landward. They
heard the drone of distant thunder, but the lightning was
still hidden from them. Then with a release like passion
itself, the ship broke free of 4he headlands and fled
westward.

The bright sails were waiting for them, close enough
now for Vidar to make out the insignia on them. The
yellow sheet displayed a red boar; the green ones were
identical, each bearing a design of three golden swords and
three silver stars. The ships themselves were harder to
make out. All Vidar could discern of them were low,
slithering edges of darkness near the molten surface of the
sea.

Lightning leaped in the cauldron that was the sky, and
for a moment, the entire scene was illuminated in stark
relief. Then the curtain of night fell again and a chaos of
thunder trundled over their beads.

When Vidar's eyes recovered from the lightning flash,
he found a fiery arrow protruding from the deck not more
than a few feet from his bench. Leaving his oar, he reached

122

MICHAEL JAN FMEDMAN

over and plucked it out, ignoring the flames. There was a
thud, and when he looked up, another torch had taken hold
in the deck.

A third caught in the sail, and though it was wrapped
tightly, it began to smolder. One of the dwarvin' started to
shinny up the mast, and Ullir smothered the other arrow in
his cloak.

But soon the slate of the sky was streaked with trails of
gold, and many of the shafts found their marks. In
moments, the deck was studded with them, their brilliance
turning the ship's night to day. Here and there. Vidar's
companions dragged in their oars and tried to stamp out
the fires. The vessel lost speed and, despite the urgency of
Var'kald's call, the enemy began to surround them.
"No!" cried Vidar. "Back to the benches!"
"We're burning!" returned one of the lyos.
"Aye," said Vidar, joining Ar'on at his labor again, "but
with any luck, we'll leave this ship behind us." He turned
to H'limif at the helm. "Steer us straight for the yellow
sail—then fall off alongside it."
"The yellow sail," shouted H'limif, "and soon enough."
"Now put your backs into it," Vidar cried. "And have
your swords handy!"
"Pull!" roared Var'kald. "Pull!"
The ship gathered speed again. It started to bear down
on the yellow sail before the enemy could do anything
about it. As the vessel loomed before them, Vidar could see
the startled elvish faces on either side of their dragon prow.
The stolen ship was like a fireworks display now, and the
enemy looked none too comfortable so near to his own
handiwork. The wind was savage, and it threatened to
spread the flames from one ship to the other.

Then, at the last moment, when Vidar believed that
H'Umif had miscalculated and they would broadside the
other ship, the elf swung the rudder wide. With a shudder-
ing and a groaning of the timbers, the vessel turned and
found a heading that would bring it alongside the yellow

The Seekers and the Sword

123

sail. Vidar's heart pumped to Var'kald's beat, his head
swimming with his efforts.

"Quickly now," cried Vidar. "release the oars—and get
ready to board her. And all those on the port side, head for
the center, or your oars will snap your heads offi"

The rowers responded. Bows were useless at such close
quarters, so they all unsheathed their blades. Above them,
the sail burned furiously, and the deck around them was
littered with tiny infernos. It was a garden of fire, a
springtime of names.

All went as Vidar had hoped. As they edged up along-
side the enemy's ship, their oars began to break against its
prow. Splinters flew, and with each oar that snapped, they
lost a little more of their momentum. Finally, the churning
seas threw the ships against one another, timbers shrieking
with the friction. But they had slowed down enough for a
warrior to leap from one vessel to the other.

Vidar leaped to the gunwale, and the faces of the enemy
seemed maniacal in the light of the flaming ship, su&-
pended like masks above their thick, gold-studded shields.
Their silver helms glinted and their silver byrnies shone
like stars, but their iron swords seemed instead to absorb
the light.

Vidar jumped across the space between the ships, and a
cry erupted from his throat that he had not intended. It
was the cry of another Vidar, in another time and place,
and it frightened him more than the elvish swords that
ringed him about.

At first, the lyos gave way before this fool berserker, so
that he landed in their midst like a beast at bay. Then they
closed in on him, and Vidar whirled this way and that,
hacking and thrusting with his back against the gunwale.
For a paralyzing moment, his blade lodged between the
ribs of an elvish attacker—but he wrenched it free in time
to deflect a brand that whistled for his head. He'd never
been harder pressed, not even in Jotunheim. The lyos

124 MICHAEL JAN FR1EDMAN

swarmed about him, and the only thing that saved his hide
was the way they crowded one another to get at him.

Then Vidar sensed other battles around him, for some of
the elves were drawn off in different directions. Out of the
corner of his eye, he saw a black-garbed dwarvin spring
onto the deck like a cat of misfortune. On the other side, a
drumbeat of thunder that could only mean a thursar nad
joined the fray. There was a clang of metal upon metal, the
sharp crack of -blade cleaving bone.

Waves dashed against the hull—a geyser erupted in the
space between the ships, spraying saltwater on the combat-
ants. The deck grew slick with blood and foam. Lightning
flared and thunder bawled. Sky and sea roiled together,
one gray, churning mass, the ship heaving in the capricious
grasp of the storm. Blades flashed and met in a burst of
sparks, rose and fell, cut through elf and outworlder.

Vidar caught the wrist that guided a swooping sword
and flung its owner over the side. He struck at another and
sent him reeling, but the impact of iron against iron tore a
piece out of his blade. Then he turned and battered at a
bright elvish shield and clove it in two—but in turning, he
paved the way for another attacker, and had it not been for
Gilling, who stepped into the breach, he might have left his
head in Alfheim.

Finally, the tapestry of the battle wore thin. Corpses
cluttered the ship as if some grim kindergarten teacher
had called for a sudden nap time. Vidar found, with giddy
surprise, that there was no one left to fight. He clung to the
gunwale as his battle-fever ebbed and the deck pitched
violently. The ship they'd abandoned had drifted away—
downwind, mercifully—and by now it was a conflagration.
It looked like a funeral ship searching for its burden of
dead flesh.

Then Vidar looked about his feet, and had to look away
again. There were enough corpses here to satisfy a dozen
funeral ships.

Lightning seared the dark confusion of sky and the

The Seekers and the Sword

125

thunder followed closely on its heels, droning loudly in
Vidar's ears—a long roll from heights unknown to the
shrugging seas.

One by one, Vidar found the faces he was looking for—
G'lann and Sif, Ullir and Gilling, N'arri and Ar'on. Jam
and H*timif and Var'kald. Some of the elves, both light and
dark, had fallen—and there was no sign of Hymir, no sign
at all, leading Vidar to guess that he might not have made
it onto this ship in the first place.

But where was Eric? Vidar's heart stormed against his
rib cage like a savage bird when he realized that the boy
was not among those still standing.

Eric—dead?

Then he thought of the other ships, and turned from the
carnage to find the bright green sails. Finally, he spotted
them against the backdrop of the purple-bellied clouds.
They were far downwind, and it looked as if they were
striving not to run aground on the rocks that jutted out
from the coastland.

^     But they, too, were being swept in that direction, at the
mercy of the gale. Perhaps the added drag of the stolen
vessel had slowed them down for a while, but now they
were being pushed north as surely as the others.

"To the oars!" cried G'lann, as though reading Vidar's
thoughts. The wind snatched his words away, and the
tumult of the storm buried them beneath its weight.

'The oars, damn it!" cried Vidar, adding his voice to
G'lann's. He waved his arms. "Now!" Looking around, he
found N'arri standing nearby—breathing hard, but whole.
Vidar pointed to the sail. "Let it down!" he shouted above
the din of the elements. "Or we'll be pushed back into the
rocks!"

N'arri signed that he had heard. Sheathing his blade, he
enlisted the aid of another dwarvin. Each of them grappled
with one of the lines that held the yellow sail taut against
die wind. In moments, they'd mastered the knots, and the
sail began to sag.

126 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

The other battle-weary specters heard Vidar*s words,
too, or at least his urgency, and dropped onto the benches.
Var'kald took his place at one of the oars this time, but still
he called out the cadence. Vidar found an empty seat
opposite Jam. H'limif corralled the wildly swinging tiller,
and suddenly there was a semblance of order—though it
was painfully obvious that there were now fewer rowers
than oars.

"Pull!" Var'kald's voice was barely audible as thunder
dragged across the sky-road. It sounded like an avalanche.
"Pull!"

At first, the ship did not seem to respond, caught inexo-
rably, it seemed, in the grip of the storm. Then Vidar could
feel them move against the grain of the tide. The timbers
creaked. Again, they seemed to slip crosswise against the
wind. The sail abruptly collapsed in on itself, and a faint
cheer went up from the ragged, weary throats about him.
N'arri and his companion had done their job.

Now their progress was more sure, more steady. Rain
sheeted down on them, sudden and chill, but it was invigo-
rating after the first cold shock. Then the downpour came,
drenching them to the skin, and the wind seared their faces
like fire born of ice.

Vidar tugged at his oar, intent on the sound of
Var'kald's voice. His world narrowed to that one effort, the
thrust of his legs and the pull of his arms. If he had
suffered any wounds, he did not feel them, for he kept the
predator-pain at a distance with the heat of his striving.
And if the faces of the elves he'd slaughtered would rise up
in his nightmares to clutch at his heart—that, too, would
wait. For now, there was only the hardness of the bench
before him against his feet, and the feel of the time-worn
wood in his bands.

The storm passed more quickly than he'd feared—or did
it only seem so? Vidar had lost "his grip on time, as he'd
submerged the other elements of his consciousness.

When next he looked about him, he saw only the limp,

"TitC Seekers and the Sword 127

sodden figures that strove with the oars, a far cry from the
eager warriors that had descended into Ilior with him.
They were on the last of their strength. Var'kald's voice
was almost gone—a whisper. Everything seemed to move
in slow motion.

Then Vidar saw one pale-haired form that did not pull
at the oars, but knelt on the deck, as if to pray. Sudden
anger rose in Vidar's throat, and he lurched free of his oar,
not caring if it fell into the sea or not. Which of the lyos
dared to rest while the others fought the sea for him?

It was G'lann. Vidar's mouth twisted into a curse, but
before he could utter it, he saw the body over which G'lann
huddled. It was Eric, covered with blood like a baby
freshly sprung from the womb—and Magni's son was
trying to heal him. Vidar struggled to keep his feet against
the roll of the sea, and watched. The elf could not have had
any training as a lifting, a healer, for his father was
stromrad—an elemental. There had been no one to teach
him.

Yet the need in him was so great, the urge to heal so
mighty, that he'd knelt beside a. human in the midst of
death, and shared his Aesir-born vitality with him.

Once, Odin had said that a lifting could be no more kept
from healing than a salmon from swimming upstream.
Perhaps he'd been right.

Nor had G'lann's efforts gone for nothing. Eric grim-
maced and groaned, his eyes shut tight against the agony
of his wounds—wherever they were. He was so spattered
with blood that Vidar could not see where he'd been cut.
But for alt his pain, be still clung to life, and he had G'lann
to thank for that.

Vidar stood so, watching G'lann's ministrations, for a
moment—many moments. Then he too knelt beside the
youth, and wiped some of the blood off Eric's face with the
knuckles of his swordhand. G'lann's expression was
intense, his face like a fist. Sweat had traced trails of
purity through the gory mask he'd acquired.

128 MICHAEL JAM FRIEDMAN

There was a gasp behind him, and Vidar turned to see
Sifs anguish. She must have known he had fallen, but only
found him this instant. Sif, like her brother, was elbow-
deep in blood—some of it her own. But her fear was all for
Eric,

G'lann moaned involuntarily, caught up in the deadly
grip of Eric's struggle. He shuddered as Vidar himself lad
done, before he'd mastered the lifting's art.

"Easy, G'lann," said Vidar, his voice a harsh whisper.
"Don't try to do too much too quickly."

The elf seemed to heed him. His eyes narrowed, but he
stopped shaking. A sureness asserted itself in the set of his
Jaw and the firmness of his touch. The battle went on in the
tortured ruins of Eric's flesh, but G'lann fought with
greater skill now, growing in confidence, in power—until a
smile spread itself over his haggard visage and a cry
erupted from his throat. The heavens seemed to resound
with his triumph, though it was thunder, in truth. But the
effect was about the same.

Eric's eyes stood open for a moment, then closed—but
not in death. He slept. His chest rose and fell peacefully,
like the swells of the waves beneath them, for the fury of
the storm was past. G'lann got slowly to his feet, still
grinning with satisfaction. He took a deep breath, his
nostrils flaring.

"Oh, G'lann," said Sif, dropping her sword and reaching
around his middle to hug him. She could not have seen
healing before, but it was plain that G'lann had brought
Eric back from death's precipice.

Suddenly, Sif staggered beneath her brother's limp
weight. His first attempt at being a lifting had drained him
of his strength. But even as he slumped against poor,
startled Sif, he grinned like a wolf in a sheep pasture.
When Vidar finally wrested G'lann from his sister, and
lowered him gently onto a rower's bench, the smile still
had not faded. It seemed that he might go on grinning like
that forever.

the Seekers and the Sword 129

Vidar knelt again beside Eric and tore away the youth's
tunic. His wounds were ghastly—a savage cut that had
laid open his chest, and a deep hole in his abdomen where
an elf had buried his blade. But thanks to G'lann's minis-
trations, the wounds had already closed, and the initial
danger was over. The rest would be mostly up to Eric—for
death had not relinquished its claim on him. It had only
been beaten back for the moment.

Vidar pulled a cloak off a dead lyos and covered Eric
with it. It would be all too easy to fall prey to pneumonia
out here, despite the energy that G'lann had imparted.
Thoughtfully, Vidar laid his fingers against Eric's temples
and added his own flagging strength to that which G'lann
had given him. Vidar gave as much of his vitality as he
could spare—and more.

There. That would keep him safe, Vidar mused—for the
time being, at least.

When Vidar stood, Sif was by his side, and Jam and
N'arri, who'd shared a torture chamber with Eric not so
long ago. N'arri could not ask the question, for he'd lost his
tongue in that torture chamber. Jam would have, perhaps,
in his own ponderous way. But Sif could not wait for the
giant to speak.

"Will he live?" she asked, her eyes bright with fear for
Eric.

Vidar shrugged. "He's got a chance now, but only a
chance. G'lann gave him all he had to give, but those
wounds were awful. Without the healing, he'd be dead
now, for certain."

Sits brow wrinkled. "What did my brother do? I've...
I've never seen anything like that."

"He healed," said Vidar, smiling slightly at the intensity
of Sifs wonder. "It's the power of liftings—to share the
pain of those afflicted either by disease or by the sword. A
talent those of Odin's blood have—some of them." He
paused. "Like your father's power to command the storm.

130 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

It means that he's stromrad—and that Odin's magic took
a different turn in him."

Sif nodded, but did not look satisfied. Her eyes narrowed
as she pondered what Vidar had told her. Then she
dropped to her haunches and touched her fingers lightly to
Eric's brow. "He's hot," she said. "Very hot."

"It's all right," said Vidar. "The fever means that he's
fighting—though mostly with G'lann's strength and mine,
right now. Before long, he'll have to muster some of his
own." Vidar did not have the heart to mention the
alternative.

Sif nodded. "I do not feel anything," she said. "No flow
of life from me to Eric." She frowned and looked up at
Vidar, "Am I doing something wrong?"

Vidar shook his head. He was about to say, "Not every-
one is lifting." But just then, Eric raised a wavering hand
and laid it on one of hers. Sif smiled and used her other
hand to caress his cheek. A tear filled the corner of each
emerald eye and her lips quivered.

Vidar turned away. There were liftings and there were
liftings, but was there anyone in the nine worlds that did
not have the power to heal someone?

Away, off in the distance, there was thunder. 'Neither
the coast nor the green sails were anywhere to be seen. The
sky had gone from a cavernous black to indigo, and now
ragged patches of stars showed through.

Vidar slumped against a bench and yielded to his
fatigue.

XV

In the morning, the sun rose on a ship out of nightmare.
Though the bodies of friend and foe had been tossed
overboard—some with more ceremony than others,
according to the survivors' individual customs—the deck
was still thick with gore.

Sometime before Vidar woke. someone had hoisted the
sail aloft again. A stiff, clean wind reached over their stem
and blew them due westward. Ilior was behind them—
ahead, Munarvag.

A tent of cloaks had been constructed for Eric. Vidar
clambered to his feet and joined the small knot of compan-
ions that had gathered alongside it. G'lann, he noticed, was
fiot part of that group. He stood at the tiller and looked out
to sea.

Perhaps G'lann was embarrassed. A full-grown warrior,
unaccustomed to the experience of healing, might not
know how to handle the totality of giving. After all, one's

13S

132 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

life-force was very personal thing, and G'lann had shared
it with one of the humans he looked down upon.

Ullir sat beside the youth. He too was a healer, though
not of Vidar's caliber, for Odin's influence was not so
strong in him.

"How is he doing?" Vidar asked.

UUir shrugged. "Perhaps not as well as^we might hope."

"He'll make it," said Vidar, but he wished he was as
confident as he sounded. Eric's breathing was uneven, his
face ruddy with fever.

Ullir looked up at him, knowing the gravity of Eric's
plight. "Aye,** he said, perhaps remembering the sight of
the youth on the pyre in Asgard. "He'll be fine."

"You know who healed him?" asked Vidar, sitting at
Eric's feet

Ullir nodded. "So G'lann is lifting;9

**So it would appear," said Vidar. "He sprang to Eric's
aid as if he'd been doing it all his life."

"And not out of love," said Ullir. 'There's no bond
between those two."

Jam, who towered above them, grunted in agreement.

The sail snapped and boomed, bright yellow against the
soft blue sky. The wind was fierce—but Vidar looked out
past G'lann and wondered how long it would l?e before
Skir'nir's forces in Ilior could launch a pursuit. They
would not have to guess where this ship was going, for
Munarvag was the only sizable island in the vicinity. For a
moment, Vidar let the wind wash his face in its cool, salty
embrace. Then he turned back to Ullir.

"The wind's strong, but we ought to help it with some
rowing," said Vidar. "Our friends in Ilior won't give up on
us that easily."

Ullir smiled tiredly. "You're a cruel taskmaster, my
lord—but you're right, of course." Sighing, he stood.

"Then let's row in shifts," said Vidar. He'd gotten
everyone's attention by now, and what a haggard bunch
they were. "You and I," he said to Ullir, "will take the first

The Seekers and the Sword 133

shift, along with the dworvin. In the meantime," he added,
glancing at the others, "someone should see to cleansing
this deck. Otherwise, the stench will drown us before the
sea has another chance."

H'limif grumbled at that, but Sif brought him up short.
"^ must all do what is asked of us," she said. She looked
at the gore-blackened deck and grimaced. "I'll look for
some buckets in the hold."

Vidar left Jam to tend to Eric and took his place on the
bench- He wrapped his fingers around the wood. Although
his hands were already raw and cracked from rowing the
night before, sleep had restored some of his Aesir strength,
and it actually felt good to bend his back against the
ponderous weight of the sea. This time, Ar'on called out
the cadence, seeing that Var'kald was in need of a rest.

As he rowed, he looked about the ship. They'd lost some
friends the night before. Of the lyos, only seven had
survived—G'lann, Sif, Var'kald, H'limif, Ar'on and two
others. Ullir and Gilling still lived, although Gilling was
limping with a half-healed gash in his thigh. N'arri had
performed a funeral ceremony for two of his companions,
shooting an arrow over their bodies as they sank into the
sea, for he had no spear with which to consecrate their
deaths. That left only M'norr, his third companion.
Finally, there was Jam, and Eric—if he pulled through.

The day passed quickly. Vidar saw to Eric in between
his turns at the oars, and if the boy got no better, at least
he got no worse. In the gloaming, they broke out their
dwindling supplies of graincakes and water, and huddled
about Eric's tent. It had become the gathering place for all
who were resting.

When night fell, Vidar slept. But it was not a peaceful
sleep. He dreamed of a farm he once knew, a green, old
farm by a sweet-sounding brook, where he'd tended the
sheep for the farmer's widow. The ages fell away from
him, and he was that shepherd once more. The land was

134 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

fine and broad, the days blue and restful, and it suited him
to stay there awhile.

Some wiser part of Vidar tried to thrust the memory
from him, but it could not. The dream flooded him like a
tide, undeniable.

For two years he tended the flock, and under his han4, it
prospered. He grew to love the sound of the sheep's bleat-
ing and the smell of their wool, and the color of the sky in
the evening, when he returned with them from their pas-
tures in the hills.

For her part, the widow was kind to him. Once, she'd
been a handsome woman, just a girl when her husband had
taken her to his bed. He had been middle-aged even then,
and only a few years later he'd died and left her the richest
farm in the valley. When Vidar met her, a wayfarer
begging for bread, she'd looked as beautiful as any woman
he'd ever met. Even after the haze of the whiskey had
lifted, she'd struck him as fair.

At night, he'd strummed a harp and sang, for in another
life he'd been a minstrel named Sin Skolding. The breadth
of his repertoire made up for what his voice lacked. When
he'd done with his songs, she'd asked him to stay, for the
flock needed a shepherd after the last one had run off.

But never had she given him reason to believe she
wanted him for anything other than tending sheep—and
he was content with that. He needed peace more than he
needed another lover.

One day, a neighbor woman came to share her woes.
Her son had returned from lands south, where he'd worked
in a port hauling cargoes on and off the ships. But he'd not
been well. Only a week after he'd come home, having
earned enough to marry, the skin around his armpits had
turned black with carbuncles. Perhaps Vidar could help
him, the woman suggested, for he'd known what to do
when her husband fell off the roof and cracked his skull.

Vidar agreed, of course, but when he saw the lad—a boy
of no more than twenty—he was half-gone, beset by fever

Tfae Seekers and the Sword                                135

and terribly red in the face. The boy moaned as if a demon
were eating him from the inside out. His eyes stared,
glassy, as if he saw Death's own visage. Vidar pulled back
the blanket and saw that what the woman had said was
true—abscesses festered in the skin about his armpits and
his groin, and the rest of his flesh had gone dark, as if his
blood had turned to coal dust. His breath came in ragged
gasps. He shuddered and shook even after Vidar replaced
the blanket.

Vidar wiped the beads of sweat off the boy's forehead
and placed his fingers alongside the lad's temples. Mean-
while, he kept the woman busy making poultices and such,
as he had before when he'd healed her husband. For if she
suspected how his healing worked, she might brand him a
witch—and that was trouble he'd as soon avoid.

After a time, the fever calmed. But despite Vidar's
strivings, it would not break. The disease that had taken
,;;.  hold was too fierce to be denied.
f     For ten days, Vidar pitted himself against the Death—
for it came to be known as the Death after others in the
countryside contracted it. Ten days—it was twice as long
as the other victims lived. But in the end, it consumed the
boy, too. He lost his battle at that eerie hour when the sun
has not yet yielded up the last of its light. Vidar pulled the
sodden blanket over his face. It was rank with sweat.

On the way home. he recalled, the sun had turned the
slopes to gold, and then dropped beneath them. The world
had seldom been so dark.

When the widow, his employer, saw the look on his face.
her head fell. Vidar saw the tears drop silently on her
breast. They turned her dress dark where they fell.

Without thinking, he moved to comfort her. Her eyes
glistened, not only with sadness, but with fear. Vidar
recalled how she had pulled his mouth to hers, whimpering
like an animal caught in a trap. He held her, and stayed
that night in the bedroom where the farmer had made her
^- a woman.

136 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

The next morning, she made him his meal as always,
and as always he took the sheep to pasture. They'd grown
lean munching on the shorter grass near the farm. But in
the evening, when he returned—wondering whether it
would be as last night or as before with them—he found
she'd taken sick. Her face was ruddy with the fire that
burned from within. She was weak, and found it hard to
stand.

He put her to bed.

In the next couple of days, terrible wounds opened by
her armpits and by her pelvis. She clutched at him until
she had no more strength to do so, and then she only
groaned.

Like the boy, she lasted ten days. Such was Vidar's
power in the face of this plague—he could give its victims
but a few more days of life. Before she died, she reminded
him of Baldur—trapped in a limbo that was neither life
nor death, neither glee nor sorrow, but an emptiness that
beat like a drum when Vidar listened. Hod had released
Baldur from his hell—now the Death released the farmer's
widow from hers.

He buried her and burned her house. Then he slaugh-
tered the sheep, one by one, for they, too were tainted. He
left, went north....

He woke, murmuring. Sits face was above him. Her
hand lay cool and gentle on his own, and her face was a
welcome sight, even as pale as it was with fatigue. The sky
above her was still dark.

"My lord." she said, "it is your turn to row."

Vidar shook the cobwebs loose in his head.

"Aye," he said. *Thanks for waking me." He got to his
feet.

**I wish I did not have to," she said.

"That's all right," said Vidar, stretching. He glimpsed
the lonely form of G'lann at the tiller, silhouetted against
the gradual lightening of the sky where it met the sea.
"Has he steered us all night?" he asked Sif.

the Scekera and the Sword 137

"Aye,'* she said.

*Then perhaps you can find a replacement for him."

Sif shook her head from side to side. "He will not sleep.'*

Vidar shrugged. "Probably can't wait to mow down a
few more of Skir*nir*s warriors."

Suddenly there was a small, strong grip on his arm.
"You cannot speak of him that way," said Sif, her eyes
green and fierce. Then, in a calmer voice, "You are not fair
to him, kinsman. You do not know him."

The image of G'lann hovering over Eric's bloody flesh
came to mind. "Perhaps I do not," said Vidar. Sif let her
fingers relax and she let go of his arm.

"He's not the bloodthirsty berserker you think he is,"
said Sif, a sadness coming on her. She turned to look at her
brother, but he looked out to sea. "It pains him to slay
lyos—as much as it pains me. Perhaps more, I think."

"Well," said Vidar, "I must say he doesn't show it. In
fact. I haven't seen anyone so eager to leap into battle since
Thor fell at Ragnarok."

Sif turned back toward Vidar. "Don't you know why he
fights so fiercely?" she asked.

Vidar shook his head. "No."

Sif regarded him, puzzlement arching her brows. "In
truth,'* she said, "you do not. Then let me tell you. My
brother ran from the field near Ar'vid's farm. Did you not
hear him say it himself? He fled while others fell and died
for him. *When all was lost,' he said, but it gnaws at him
all the same. And now he tries to make up for that flight.
He's slaying all those he might have slain back there—
when it could have made a difference."

Vidar pondered that for a moment, and he understood.
ft was a bitter mixture of shame and hatred that spurred
G*lann—and love, too, perhaps, for it seemed that Magni's
true children had loved their rebellious elf-brother once.

Not too different from someone else 1 know, he mused.
Someone who fled when he was needed most, who had

138

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

resolved to slay his own kin to save his world. Only in me,
thought Vidar. there is no hatred.

Isn't there? another voice inside him asked. No hatred?
Not for Stints death and N'arri's maiming, not for the
hundreds that died in the siege of Indilthrar?

Well, perhaps a little.

"I see." said Vidar.

**Nor will he rest until he slays Skir'nir, too."

"You know.** said Vidar, "it's possible that Skir'nir is
not even to blame for all this,"

"What?" asked Sif. "I wish it were so, my lord. but
after what happened near Ar'vid's farm..."

"Do you remember my mentioning the one called

Ygg?"

Sif nodded, smiling grimly. "Aye. The one whom you
followed into Alfheim, when I thought you had come here

to help us."  .

"Actually," said Vidar. "the result is the same. We
came to Alfheim to protect everyone from Ygg. He has the
power, Sif, to mold someone's will into whatever form he
needs. It's the same skill that the Aesir have, only it's
stronger in Ygg than in any of the Aesir—even Vali."

^Then he could have made Skir'nir his... his puppet?"

"Aye," said Vidar. "Or it may be that they are allies,
after all, and Skir'nir*s deeds are his own doing.**

"How can we know?" asked the elf-girl. She looked
perplexed, and her fingers toyed with the hilt other sword.
"He was gone so often into the mountains...." Her voice

trailed off.

"Yes," said Vidar. "He could have met Ygg there and
fallen under his influence—or merely found an ally willing
to help him overthrow Magni. But I won't know whether
Skir'nir was a willing accomplice or an unwilling one until

we find him."

"And you'll know then?" asked Sif. "How?"
Vidar smiled. "I'll know. If Ygg used his power to gain

control of Skir*nir's mind, I'll find evidence of it there."

The Seekers and the Sword

139

Sif peered at him from beneath troubled brows. "You
can see that?"

Vidar nodded.

"And if he is under this Ygg's influence? Can you then
free him, my lord?"

Vidar wanted very much to oner Sif hope, for she
clutched at it so desperately. But all he could do was shrug.

"Perhaps," said Vidar. "But Ygg's spell will be a strong
one. and difficult to break. All I can do is try."

Sif sighed, "Then I'll be grateful for whatever you can
do." She paused, thinking. "Who is this Ygg, my lord? Is
he Aesir, that he could lay such a powerful spell on
Skir'nir?"

**I don't know," Vidar lied. "He only turned up in
Utgard recently, but he could be Aesir—or Vanir or
human or elf. We only know that he's not big enough to be
a thursar."

**I believe," said Sif, with some finality, "that Skir*nir
must be his pawn. How else could it be? What could Ygg
have offered him that he needed in order to overthrow
Magni? He had plenty of swords "behind him. Why take on
an ally?"

"It may be," said Vidar, "that he offered him Magni
- himself. Ygg could have disabled your father, while
Skir'nir did the rest."

Sifs brow furrowed. "Aye," she said. "There's no way
of knowing, is there?"

"Not until we meet Skir'nir face-to-face."

Sif did not speak for a moment, as she considered what
Vidar had said. In the uncertain light of early morning, she
looked as though all her strength had been spent. Her
cheeks were hollow, her eyes dull.

Then a cry shattered the quiet.

"Vidar! Sifl He's awake!"

They turned to see Ullir as he emerged from the tent of
cloaks they'd made for Eric. His face was full of joy
beneath his pale yellow beard as she stood and stretched

140

MICHAEL JAN FRBEDMAN

out his arms. "The fever is broken," he called. "He wants
to speak with you—the two of you."

Vidar hesitated.

"Come on," said Sif, and there was an emerald flame in
her eyes again. "He wants us!"

Sif took him by the arm and led him to the tent. Vidar
realized only then that he hadn't thought Eric would make
it. He could scarcely believe it now- As he found his joy, he
clapped Ullir on the shoulder. Kneeling along with Sif, he
stuck his head underneath the tent of cloaks—and in the
warm, close darkness, he saw Eric's face. It was not the
face of someone who'd been wounded and near death only
a couple of days ago. The boy was sitting up, resting on his
elbows. His cheeks were ruddy, his eyes clear. He looked
as if he'd just had a long night's sleep.

"I don't know exactly what happened," said Eric, his
voice the onlv thing that betrayed his weakness. "But I
gather that I was hurt pretty badly." He smiled at Sif.

She smiled back-

"You were a mess, all right," said Vidar. "I don't think
the fish would have bothered with you if we'd thrown you

overboard."

The boy's smile faded. "And the others?"

"We lost a few,'* said Vidar. "Hymir was one. And
Gunnar fell back at Ilior, before we took the ship."

Eric nodded. "Yes. I remember Gunnar's death. What
about N'arri?"

"He's fine," said Vidar.

Eric looked to Sif. "And G'lann?"

"He lives," said Sif. "Var'kald, H'limif, Ar'on—they're

all well."

Eric looked back to Vidar. "I guess I owe you thanks,
my lord."

Vidar scowled. "I told you to cut out the *my lord* crap
back in Utgard. Besides, I only helped out a little. It wasn't
;ne who healed you when you were slipping away."

"Ullir, then," said Eric.

The Seekers and the Sword

141

Vidar shook his head. "No. G'lann. He found you on the
deck when there was only a spark of life left in you, and he
kept it going. He's a healer, though he never knew it until
now."

Eric's brow knotted. "I owe—him—my life?" He sank
back into his bed of cloaks. "Pardon me, Sif, but I did not
expect—that such a..."

"Forgive him his shortcomings," said Sif. "Perhaps
G'lann has much to learn—but he is learning. You can
help him now as much as he helped you."

Slowly, Eric's brow smoothed over. He laughed. It was a
good sound. "All right, then."

"Good," said Vidar. "And now 1*11 leave you two alone."

*Thanks, Vidar," said Eric. He reached out and
squeezed the hand of Odin's son.

"Damn," said Vidar. "I know when I'm a third wheel."
He withdrew from the tent and stood up. ..

Jam was standing there, along with Ullir and Var'kald
and Ar'on. "How is he?" asked the elder elf.

"Who's doing the rowing?" asked Vidar.

"Curse the rowing," said Var'kald. "What of your
friend?"

"He's all right." said Vidar. "By the time we get to
Munarvag, be should be able to look after himself."

"Good," said the elf. "He's too brave to die so young."

Jam just grunted. It was as close as he could come to
expressing jubilation.

N'arri was taking his turn at the oars, but he was
looking hopefully in the direction of the makeshift tent.
Vidar walked over and put his hand on the dwarvin's
shoulder. "Hell be fine," he said. N'arri had no tongue
with which to voice his joy, but his eyes shone even in the
predawn light. "Me, too," said Vidar.

The bench opposite N'arri was empty, so Vidar sat down
there and took up the oar. He pulled in time with the
others—by now, they needed no one to call out the
cadence—and somehow he seemed not to be rowing at all.

142 MICHAEL JAN PRIEDMAN

All be did was grasp the oar and lean back, and he could
feel the ship surging forward. It was as if the oar drew
strength from the sea, and his arms, in turn, drew strength
from the oar.

Of course, it was Eric's return to the land of the living
that lightened his heart, but it was more than that. It was
their first good fortune since they'd left Ilior, and the crew
was awash with the intangible aura of Eric's luck. Each
face was bright with it, each back girded by it. The ship
itself seemed to skip over the sea with a new eagerness, like
a young deer with spring quivering in its nostrils.

Before Vidar knew it, Ar'on had brought out his harp.
At first, the melody he'played was nearly indistinguishable
from the sound of wind and water. Then it grew apart from
it, crested and broke with an abandon and a courage that
made Vidar's heart leap. It was a defiant tune—and it
defied Death to quell its spirit.

There were words to it, and when the melody began
again, Var'kald and H'limif and the other lyos were sing-
ing—their voices as pure as individual flames. The dwarvin
M'norr Joined his voice to the others, for the elves* lan-
guages were not so different from world to world. N'arri
sang with silent lips, but he sang, too.

Then Vidar found his own voice, though the words felt
strange in his mouth, and their meaning took time to come
across. It was a war-song, a song of triumph—but nonethe-
less a glad song, for it was neither the victor nor the
vanquished that the song was about, but the joy at the end
of the conflict. Therein lay the victory—that the bloodshed
had ended. It put the songs that Vidar had sung as Sin
Skoldtng to shame, for the things made by men and even
Aesir must pale by comparison to the beauty of things
elvish.

Ullir sang, and Gilling. Only Jam and G'lann did not
take part. Thursar had never been known to love music—
but Jam listened intently enough, and perhaps his black

The Seekess and the Sword

143

eyes gleamed with some emotion. G'lann had his own
reasons for his silence, whatever they were.

Death fled that sound, leaving the vessel to the living. It
fled, Vidar imagined, with its tail between its legs like a
jackal driven from the doorstep.

Sif emerged from the tent of cloaks and wondered at the
singing. She looked about at the singers, both those at the
benches and the others, and found the one she sought
leaning against the tiller. She beckoned, and G'lann stared
at her for a moment, uncomprehending. Then H'limif took
over the tiller and G*lann came to her.

She said something to him. For a moment, he looked at
his sister and said nothing. Then they both crouched so
that they could crawl into the tent.

The song leaped and faded. As the voices grew quiet, the
pale golden rim of the sun edged over the limits of the sea.
A memory gripped Vidar—a good one—as Ar'on worked
the last of the melody out of his harp. He'd been sitting in
front of his fireplace in Woodstock with Frank and Alissa
and the others—perhaps only a few months ago—and
someone had been strumming a guitar all night. It seemed
that there was always someone strumming a guitar in
Woodstock. They had watched the sun come up over the
tops of the trees on the eastern slope, and a stillness caught
them unawares. In that moment, they'd been as happy as
children.

When the dawn came full, that same kind of stillness
held them—lyos, dwarvin, thursar and Aesirmen. The
oars drove them westward like dragonfly wings.

XVI

Thor fancied himself a fisherman, and perhaps with
good reason. Whether he dragged the river for salmon or
dropped his hook into the sea, it always seemed that he
came away with the biggest catch and the best. Nor did
Odin's son keep it a secret, for there was only one thing
he liked better than fishing, and that was telling the tale
of it.

Once, in Gladsheim, an elf spoke over his ale of a fish
that no one had ever succeeded in catching. Thor was
more than a little interested. He leaned closer to the lyos
and his eyes narrowed as he listened, for he was also
more than a little drunk, and he seemed to think he
could hear better when he squinted.

"And what is it called?" asked the Thunderer.

"Militor." said the elf, a pale-haired youth called
Thi'alfi. "A huge, slimy fish, and one whose sheer mon-
strous size would set your teeth to chattering."

"My teeth?" roared Thor. "Hah! This I must see—a

144

The Seekers and the Sword 145

fish that could strike terror into Odin's son! Even a
horde of hrimthursar cannot do that."

"A horde of hrimthursar wouldn't make a dainty meal
for Militor," said the elf.

'*But Militor will make a meal for us in Asgard," said
Thor, pushing bravado to its limits- He got to his feet,
though he staggered a little, and lifted his ivory drinking
hom. "fr swear," he told all those assembled in Glad-
sheim, "that we'll feast on this elvish fish as soon as I
can find him!" The Aesir and Vanir about him cheered—
for they were as tipsy as he was- But the few elves in the
hall said nothing, only glancing slyly at one another.

"And what if you don't?" asked Thi'alfi, the only /yos
there with enough nerve to call Thor on his boast.

Thor's brows raised and he laughed long and loud at
the elfs audacity. "If I don't?" he bellowed. "Then I'll
leave in Alfheim the thing that's claimed more lives than
anything else in the nine worlds."

By this, of course, Thi'alfi guessed that Thor meant
his mighty hammer Mjollnir—for the Aesir had lost
count of the giants that had fallen beneath its weight. A
murmur made its way through the crowd in Glad-
sheim—for that was a wager that Thor would never have
made sober.

"It takes the bravest of heroes to risk such a weapon,"
said the elf, lest Thor come to his senses and back out of
the boast. "But if I bring you out to sea and you fail to
catch the fish, you'll yield your life-claimer for good?"

"Aye," said Thor, and drained his drinking horn. Wip-
ing the ale from his mouth and the beard around it, he
glared at Thi'alfi. "And what will you give me when I
land this Mili... Militoon?"

"Miliror, my lord," said the elf, stalling for time. All
. he owned was what he wore—his clothing, his sword and
4iis silver bracelets. Hardly enough to wager against the
Kkes of Mjollnir.

Yet it was his father's-wealth which he traded in

146 MICHAEL JAN FROEDMAN

Asgard, and that wealth was not his to give away. If by
some slim thread of a chance Thor prevailed, he could
lose all his family's fortune.

"The noble Thor has no need of jewels and precious
ores," said the Jyos carefully. "I will not insult him by
offering mere baubles against the value of his 'Ufe-
claimer. Instead, I'll pledge my services to you for a
year—for a year, I'll be your thrall, your servant-
should you catch Militor."

All present agreed that Thi'alfi, too, had had too much
to drink.

But neither Thor nor the elf forgot their boasts when
they woke up the next morning, and they set off together
for the gate that led into Alfheim. Thor was not in the
best of spirits, however. His hangover only accentuated
the headache he'd created for himself. To catch a fish
that was uncatchable—huge and slimy.... Never mind
the price if he lost the wager—what about his reputation
as a fisherman? There was much at stake.

Once in Alfheim, Thi'alfi procured horses for them,
and they made their way to the coast. When they
reached the slate-gray sea, however, under a low, dark
gathering of clouds, Thi'alfi showed Thor the boat he
was to fish from—a small skiff, with room enough for
only one.

"What?" roared the Thunderer. "No warship? No
crew for such an adventure?"

"That," said Thi'alfi. "was not part of the deal."

"Perhaps not." Thor growled. "But I'll not row out
there alone—for when I pull in this Militor, the ship
won't be large enough to hold it."

Thi'alfi considered for a moment. It was a fine point,
but he didn't want to give Thor a chance to slip off the
hook. "All right," said the /yos. "Take my father's war-
ship. But I don't know how you'll row it."
' "I won't have to," said Thor. "You said that you would

Ae Seekers and the Sword 147

bring me out to sea—or did you just let your tongue flap
in Gladsheim?"

Thi'alfi cursed himself for his choice of words—but
Thor was right. Begrudgingly, he assembled a crew, and
brought it to the wharf. Finally, they set out after the
much-vaunted fish, but Thor felt more comfortable with
a warship beneath him.

It seemed that the fish was accustomed to a particular
part of the sea, southwest of the place where they'd
hoisted their sail—so that's the direction in which
Thi'alfi had his helmsman steer. The sky grew darker
and the sea grew darker, too, but hours after they had
started out, there was still no sign of Militor.

Thor was ready to lose patience with the elf, and then
one of the rowers sighted a strange, scaled bulk far off
the starboard bow. Thor's eyes narrowed as he tried to
focus on it, for he was still a little bleary-eyed.

*That*s funny," he said, after the fish had brought its
huge head up out of the water in a very unfishlike
manner. "This Militor looks a lot like a dragon." And it
was only then that he realized how he'd been duped.
Turning to Thi'alfi, he grabbed the elf by the front of his
tunic and half lifted him off his feet. "Is it a dragon that
Tm fishing for?" he asked, barely able to suppress his
rage.

"Of course." said the tyos, unruffled. "Did you expect
this would be so easy?"

- Thor muttered and swore, but there was little he could
do about the situation. He had pledged to bring back the
creature called Militor for Asgard's cooking pots, and the
fact that the fish was not a fish—but a dragon, and a big
one at that—didn't alter the nature of his vow.

The helmsman steered them toward the dragon, which
raised its head higher and higher out of the gray, sliding
waters as the boatful of elves approached. Its neck must
have been twenty feet long, its snout as long as a man
Was tall, and the size of its bronze-scaled shoulders only

148 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

hinted at the monstrous body that still lay concealed
beneath the waves. Its eyes followed them, and they
gleamed like firepits beneath the homed ridges of its
brow. The terrible head stooped to sea level; the dripping
jaws opened and closed in anticipation of a tasty meal.

Thor unwrapped his hook from the oiled clothes in
which he'd wrapped it. The dwarvsn had made this hook
for him in their caverns in Svartheim, promising him
he'd never need bait to lure a fish to it. But a dragon
might be a different matter, so Thor slid a mighty
salmon onto it and tied the hook to a long, slim line.
This, too, the dwarvin had made for him, assuring him
that there was no strength that could pull the rope
asunder—but it could be cut as easily as butter, should
Thor ever want to break it-
When they came close enough to the dragon to reach it
with a long cast, Thor whirled the hook around his head
as he'd done so many times in the past, and flung it out
as far as he could. The baited hook flew straight for the
beast, and Militor plucked it right out of the air with a
snap of its jaws—as if it were some seabird that had
come too close.

The hook caught somewhere within that cavern of a
mouth. As soon as it felt the discomfort, Militor whipped
its head from side to side—but it couldn't dislodge the
hook.

Thor pulled the line taut and quickly wrapped it about
the mast. The next time the dragon snapped its bead
back, the ship half leaped out of the water. The line did
not break, however. Again, the creature struggled
against the line, and again the ship was tossed about.
The elves cried out and dove from their benches, to lock
their arms about anything that would not move.

Enraged, Militor spun around and tried to flee—but
the elvish vessel dragged after it, skipping over the
waves like a flat stone on a still lake. Thor clung to the
mast and laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes.

The Seekers and the Sword

149

'"Unleash the dragon!" cried Thi'alfi, drenched by the
water that rushed at them over the prow. He feared it
would drown his crew and sink his father's ship. "Cut
him loose!" he sputtered.

"What?" roared Thor. "And take a chance of losing
my wager?"

"Forget the wager!" cried the elf.

tt! cannot," Thor bellowed back. "It's a matter of
honor."

Thi'alfi saw what the Thunderer was getting at. "All
right," he shouted, but it turned to a gurgle as his mouth
filled with water. When he'd finished coughing, he
croaked, "You win! I'll concede and be your thrall."

Thor grinned. "Perhaps you're right," he said. "This is
getting rather tedious." So saying, he borrowed a sword
and cut the line. The ship bounced to a stop, flinging
them all forward, and the remnants of the line disap-
peared after the dragon. Once he knew he was free of his
burden, Militor dove—so that Thor's favorite hook was
never seen again.

"Pity," said the Thunderer, gla'ring at his new servant,
Thi'alfi. "We'll both miss that hook."

"Why should I miss it?" asked Thi'alfi.

**You must have wanted it," said Thor, "or you
wouldn't have wagered your freedom against it. That's
the life-claimer you would have gotten if you'd won the
bet."

Sin Skolding
Sacverstod, A.D. 520

XVII

Ar'on was the one who first spied their pursuers. Just
before evening, three distant sails emerged from the indis-
tinct line of the horizon, oars lifting and falling in a steady
rhythm. With Vidar's company pared down to less than a
single complement of rowers, the hunter ships would over-
take them by morning—and according to Var'kald, they
were still almost a day away from Munarvag.

Vidar wished he were a stromrad then, like Magni, so
that he could plague their pursuers with a devil of a sky-
serpent. But neither he nor UUir knew enough stromrad
lore to conjure up a nasty breeze, and Gilling did not have
enough Aesir blood in him to have received any training at

all.

That night, there were a dozen oars going at once. Eric
called out the cadence—since he was not yet fit for more
punishing tasks—and M'norr worked the tiller.

Vidar's bands were no longer sore. The rowing he'd done
already had raised a crop of thick calluses, thicker than

150

The Seekers and the Sword

151

those he'd had when he'd twisted raw iron into sculptures.
His muscles, too, had become hardened to the task. so that
each day's exertion seemed less tiring than that of the day
before.

Halfway through the night, Eric's voice faltered and he
fell asleep in his cloak. But the beat was imprinted in their
blood by then, for they still rowed with the same rhythm.

When morning suffused the edge of the sky with a pale
silver light, the sails were not much closer than they'd been
before dusk. But the rowers around Vidar were all tiring
quickly—except perhaps G'lann, who showed no signs of
slowing down.

Jam sat a couple of benches forward of Vidar. He
watched the giant's huge muscles bunch up and flatten out
as he tugged at the oar—but even Jam was getting tired.

There was no way that they would elude their pursuers
this way. They would waste the last of their strength at the
benches and have nothing left with which to defend
themselves.

From nearby and behind, Vidar heard H'limifs voice.
"I hope your sword-arms still have some fight in them," he
said, echoing Vidar's own thoughts. His guts tightened
again at the thought of more killing. Back home, he'd
carved wood and stone into fierce sculptures that subur-
banites could show off in their living rooms—here, he
carved elvish flesh.

He felt the smoothness of the oar in his hands—and
inspiration struck. Perhaps with the kind of carving he
preferred, be might avoid the other kind of carving
today....

Suddenly, Vidar stood and dragged his oar in through
the lock. Propping it up on the bench he'd occupied, he
drew his sword and hacked at it.

"What are you doing?" cried Var'kald. "Are you mad?
Ws're nearly in sight of Munarvag and you play at whit-
tling! Rest yourself for the fight we may face."

Vidar stood in the chill morning wind, watching the

152

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

distant sails of the elvish ships. "With any luck," he
answered, "this whittling will keep us from that fight."

Rolling the oar so as to get at the other side. Vidar
hacked away again. Splinters flew about the deck. He
chopped at the oar until he'd fashioned a point where the
handle had been. Satisfied with his handiwork, he lugged
another unused oar out of its lock.

When he propped it up against the bench like the first
one, he found Eric beside him. The boy laid a hand on his

shoulder.

"Don't worry," said Vidar. "I'm not crazy."
*That's what you say," said Eric. "But if you're not,

then what are you doing?"
"You'll see." said Vidar. "Hold this steady for me, will

you?"

Eric held the oar steady and Vidar took a swipe at it. He
told Eric to turn it. He did, and Vidar took another swipe
at it. In a few moments, he'd carved a point even sharper

than the first one.

All eyes were upon him as he straightened up. "Well,"
he said, "you can all take a break now. It's too fine a day to

work so hard."

G'lann glared at him. "If you won't row, at least leave us
alone. Or will you hack up the other oars now?"

"Perhaps," said Vidar. "But if you don't slow down, our
friends will never come close enough for me to wreck their

sails."

G'lann's eyes narrowed as he glanced at the sharpened
oars, and then at Vidar again. H'limif laughed, and Gilling
murmured a curse.

"Are you saying," asked G'lann, "that you will heave
those oars through their sails?"

"That's the plan," said Vidar, "exactly."

G'lann shipped his oar and stood up. He turned back
toward their pursuers for a moment, then faced the son of
Odin again. "By the time they get that close," said the elf.

The Seekers and the Sword

153

"we'll be bristling with their arrows. Better to row and
take our chances."

"You underestimate me," said Vidar. He strode over to
another empty bench and drew a third oar out of its lock.
Leaning it up against the bench, he cut at it with a short.
chopping stroke. Then he looked up. "It's our best chance,
G'lann."

"Perhaps it is," said Sif. "I saw him launch us at Ilior,
G*lann—even Magni could not have done that."

"But if he fails," said Var'kald. "it will be too late to
save ourselves."

"He won't fail," said Eric. Even G'lann did not chal-
lenge that. though he scowled and looked to the hunter
ships again.

"All right," said the elflord finally. "We'll take that
chance."

"Good," said Vidar. hacking at the third oar. "Now
slow your rowing, as if you're too tired to keep up the pace.
Don't stop altogether, or they'll suspect something."

The oars slowed, and Vidar heard fewer grunts from his
companions. For a little while, the sails seemed to remain
at the same distance. Then they approached with frighten-
ing quickness—smelling the end of their long, arduous
hunt, perhaps.

Vidar put the finishing touches on his three spears and
drove his sword back into its sheath. Then be picked up the
three oars in a bundle and carried them to the stern.

The ships* emblems were plain now, despite the mists
that clung to the sea like phantom flocks. The foremost sail
displayed a dark blue serpent on a field of white. It writhed
as the sail bulged, its belly full of wind. It was flanked by
the other ships—one that showed a red hawk on a field of
pale blue, and another with a black boar's head against a
yellow sheet.

A few moments later, he could make out figures at the
serpent ship's prow. They were helmeted and armed with
k«g elvish bows. Smoke began to rise in front of the sail—

154 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

and Vidar knew by that sign that they were going to try
the fire-arrow trick again.

Sure enough, one of the archers lifted a ball of fire
toward the heavens and let it fly. It fell just short of their
stern.

Vidar netted one of the huge spears he'd fashioned for
himself and measured the distance. Still too far away.

The rowers pulled at the oars, but with only a fraction of
the strength they had left. It grew unnaturally quiet. Even
the wind faltered, as if the sea were holding its breath.
Vidar felt the wetness of his palms, and watched another
fire-arrow fly. This one was wide to the starboard side.

A third arrow found the deck, and Ar'on stamped on it.
The hunter ship was near enough now for them to hear tht;

jeering of the elves gathered at the prow, Vidar felt that he
could wreck the sail with a well-placed toss—but the other
ships were still out of his range. He wanted a shot at them,
too, before they could see what he was doing and hold
back.

"Damn it!" cried H'limif. "What are you waiting for?"

"Quiet," said Sif. *'He knows what he's doing." But she
didn't sound that certain of it herself.

Vidar forced himself to count to ten. Two more arrows
thudded into the deck. N'arri put one out and Ullir flung
the other into the sea.

... four, five...

The blue serpent loomed, huge and terrible. A naming
shaft found the sail, but continued on through it. falling
harmlessly on the foredeck. Another arrow imbedded itself
in a bench near Gilling's hand. He plucked it out, both
rage and surprise etched in his face, then returned to the
sham of rowing.
... seven, eight...

The elvish sails crowded the sky. The foremost ship was
near enough to set their sail ablaze if it had wanted to—
but the naming arrows bad stopped. It seemed that
Skir'nir's friends wanted to have their revenge for the slain

The Seekers and the Sword

155

at Ilior- They'd put their bows aside and brought out their
clean, bright swords.

... ten.

Vidar raised the oar, drew it back like a javelin and let it
fly. His heart leaped as its course became plain to him.
Like a bolt of lightning, it drove into the heart of the sail,
rending it down the middle when the wide part of the oar
stuck and the fragile fabric couldn't sustain the weight.
There was a great commotion. The warriors at the prow
fled toward the gunwales and the rowers slipped off their
benches, seeking shelter. The oars dragged in the sea—and
with a crack that even Vidar could hear, a couple of them
snapped under the pressure of the ship's momentum.

Flames leaped amidship—the flame pot having tipped
over in the confusion—and they spread quickly along the
deck. Vidar could not have hoped for a better reaction—
especially when the hole in the sail was not big enough to
slow them down very much.

Meanwhile, the other two vessels were doing their best
to steer wide of their harried leader. Vidar lifted a second
oar and hurled it at the red hawk. It pierced the sail
entirely, splintering the deck beyond it where it struck.
Lyos scattered and ran for cover. Again, oars were left to
dangle in the water and shatter.

Vidar raised the last spear and sighted his target. He
drew it back. But just as he was about to release it, his own
ship lurched on an unexpected swell and bis aim was
thrown off. The mammoth spear embedded itself in the
third ship's mast, short of doing any damage.

^Damn!" he muttered, for the black-boar's-head sail
was bearing down on them. But the sudden growth of a
giant spear in the mast caused that crew to scurry for
cover, too—much to Vidar's relief. When bolts fall from
the sky. he mused, one can never be sure where the next
one will land. Oars dragged in the sea and cracked like
whips.

Vidar whirled and saw a tired lot of grinning faces. Even

156 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

G'lann was laughing. "Now, row!" he cried. "Before they
figure out what hit them!"

He turned back toward their pursuers and saw the
flames trace a red path along the lower edge of the dragon
sail. As he watched his handiwork with more than a little
pride, the red-hawk vessel wheeled helplessly and collided
with the lead ship. Only the crew under the boar's-head
emblem seemed to have recovered any semblance of order
on the deck.

Vidar dropped onto the nearest bench and dipped his oar
into the water. Spray wet his face as their ship picked up
speed. Within moments, he'd fallen in with the rhythm of
the others.

"Pull!" cried Eric. "Pull!" But when Vidar looked for
the source of the voice, he found Eric hauling at an oar
three benches up. His first impulse was to drag him off the
bench—but they needed all the help they could get.

They rowed. Little by little, their speed increased—
aided by a wind that filled the sail to bursting—and they
broadened the stretch of glittering sea between themselves
and Skir'nir's forces. The colorful elvish sails fell farther
and farther behind, dwindling in size. But Vidar could tell
by the red blaze and the dark plume in the sky that at least
one of the vessels had caught fire-
When he judged that they'd opened up a safe enough
lead, Vidar called to Eric to slow the pace. He could
almost hear backs creaking as they rowed. But on Ac
bench opposite him, N'arri grinned, his eyes dancing with
delight at Vidar's trick.

Vidar grinned back. "I've got a million of *em," he said.
The sun came up in the hazy east and climbed rungs of
white cloud toward the zenith. After little more than an
hour had passed, the yellow sail bloomed again, growing
larger by the minute. But it was alone.

The morning grew old and Skir*nir's lyos narrowed the
gap. By midday, Vidar left off his rowing to make another
spear out of an unused oar.

The Seekers and the Sword

157

But he never got a chance to use it. Just when it looked
as if the black boar's head would come within range of his
cast, it slowed down—until it was only keeping pace with
its prey. Obviously, their pursuers had developed a certain
respect for his prowess with the javelin.

Vidar could see the array of pale, grim faces on either
side of the curved dragon-prow, and he wondered what it
was they they wondered. By now, they knew that they were
headed for Munarvag—they could never have tracked
them if they hadn't figured that out. But they must have
some doubts as to just whom they hunted. Perhaps that
was another reason they were content to tag along—they
feared an equal battle.

Vidar surveyed his crew—a motley lot of bedraggled
warriors now, sore with their exertions at the benches and
hollow-eyed with lack of sleep. If Skir'nir's friends knew
how tired this bunch was, they'd have borne down on them
in a minute, giant spears or no giant spears. Looking at
them reminded Vidar of his own fatigue.

Still watching the faces under the black boar's head,
Vidar laid down the oar he'd been working on. Then an
unwelcome thought invaded his consciousness, like a
blackbird coming to roost. Could Skir'nir have left a force
on Munarvag, just in case G'lann were to try something
like this? Was that why their pursuers were suddenly so
patient?

No, Vidar told himself. They would have met with more
resistance in Ilior if the renegade had anticipated their
plan. Vidar knuckled his eye-sockets. His mind felt a little
fuzzy.

G'lann came up beside him at the stern. The elflord's
face was streaked with sweat. His eyes reflected the rising
light like the water around them. His pale elvish hair was
matted against his forehead and his neck.

"We're going to have to fight them eventually," said
G'lann. He inclined his head toward the yellow sail. "I
know the one who guides that ship—Vett'r. He's not one to

158

MICHAEL JAN FRDEDMAN

give up easily." He looked at Vidar meaningfully. "Let's
strike at them now, when they least expect us to. If we wait
until we reach Munarvag, tired and outnumbered—we'll
be at a disadvantage. In the narrow space of a deck—who
knows?"

"Perhaps," said Vidar. He considered G'lann for a
moment—watched the green, slitted eyes, the shift of
blunt, hard features. The kid was shrewd—he had to give
him that. "You know," he said, "you think like Odin."

G'lann's expression softened. "I'm not sure." he said,
"how to take that."

Vidar laughed a dry laugh. "It's a compliment—this
time."

"Then thank you," said G'lann. "This time."

Vidar nodded. "But I don't think we'll do it."

G'lann's brow furrowed. "Why not?"

"Because," said Vidar, "I think they're wary of attack-
ing us. Look at their faces—I've been in enough battles to
recognize those who are eager to fight, and those who are
not. Maybe this Vett'r doesn't want to lose face with his
warriors, so he's going through the motions. Maybe he's
just biding his time, waiting for the right moment. But if
we keep this distance between us, wfe can make it to
Nidavellir before they set foot on dry land. And I'm willing
to gamble that he won't follow us through the gate."

G'lann regarded him. His eyes narrowed again. "Per-
haps," he said.

And Vidar wondered if he believed that argument him-
self. Did he really think Vett'r would stop at the gate? Or
was he just too sick of killing to turn and fight when there
was a chance it could be avoided?

As his eyes met G'lann's, he felt that Magni's son knew
what he was thinking. But the elf voiced no protest. Per-
haps he even had faith in Vidar's observations.

As the day wore on, the yellow sail kept its distance.
Vidar had the rowers ship their oars. Why waste energy
rowing when Vett'r would only match them stroke for

The Seekers and the Sword

159

stroke? Better to conserve their strength—and let Vett'r
wonder what they were up to.

After a while, Vidar smiled. The hunter vessel had
shipped its oars, too. It came no closer than before.

Finally freed of their tasks, Vidar's crew stalked about
the deck and fidgeted. Only the dwarvin slept. Jam leaned
against one of the benches and looked as if he were dozing,
except that his eyes were open. H'limif drew his sword and
felt for nicks with his thumb. Sif and Eric talked quietly by
the prow, and even now, it seemed, he could get a smile out
of her. Ullir, normally the gregarious sort, just watched
the black boar's head in silence, his hand resting on his
hilt.

Var'kald had said that they would reach the island
^   before dusk, but when the sun spread into a bright puddle
on the horizon to the west, there was still no sign of it.
Vidar began to wonder if his elvish companions had set
^   them a true course.

^     "The wind has been less than fierce," said Var'kald, a
i   little miffed at Vidar's questioning of his seamanship.
"Nor have we rowed much today. We'll find Munarvag
before long, though—rest assured of it."

But as darkness fell and the moon rose like a mottled
piece of pale flesh, even Var'kald's face began to show the
strain of doubt. He measured the stars and sighed a lot.
Everything hinged on their finding Munarvag—more, in
fact, than the elf realized—and if the island had managed
to elude them...

"Vidar! G'lann!" It was Sits voice, shrill with excite-
ment. All eyes fell on her. She pointed to something off the
port bow.

Vidar followed her gesture and saw what they might
have otherwise missed—a long, low silhouette, dark and
vague, barely distinguishable from the gray surface of the
sea.

He'd seen it before—long and long ago, when he'd come
^   to visit Alfheim with his brothers. Frey had brought them

160 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

here to show them Nidavellir—for it could only be reached
through the gates of Alfheim. Vidar recalled how he'd led
them into that place of fire and molten rock, and how their
faces—Frey's, Baldur's, Hennod's, Bragi's and Tyr's—
had seemed to glow with a ruddy light, as if they were but
candles blazing from within. The memory was Ufce a
strong brew in Vidar's blood. Those were simpler days,
innocent days in a way.

But it was more than the memory that made Vidar
smile. For the sight of Munarvag meant that their voyage
was almost over, and they had so far eluded failure.
Another silhouette, the hills that rose just beyond the
rocky beach, took definition as the first silhouette wrinkled
with detail.

Then the second shadow also solidified, became a run of
barren slopes, broken only by the long, white veils of water
that fell from the heights, and an occasional bush that had
found purchase in the rock. Finally, a third silhouette
appeared behind that, stealing form from the chaos, and
this was where the highest peaks rose, blotting out the
stars. They were lofty crags for so small an island, treeless
slabs of gray stone.

Vidar glanced behind him and saw that Vetfr had his
lyos rowing furiously all of a sudden. He, too, must have
spotted Munarvag, and wanted to close the gap as much as
he could before the ones he hunted found land. It didn't
matter now if Vidar wrecked their sail or not.

Vidar fell onto a bench and began rowing again. The
others found oars as well, and within moments, they were
flying toward the island with all the speed they could
muster.

Vidar's teeth grated as he pulled for all he was worth. It
would be a race to the gate—and he was determined to win
it.

XVIII

The gate to Nidavellir was not far from the beach where
they grounded their ship—hidden among the foothills of
the island, alongside a narrow waterfall that emptied into
the sea. That was how G'lann described it—and how Vidar
remembered it.

Magnis son led them up among scattered boulders and
over the loose rubble of a long, dark slope, until they could
hear the cataract that they sought. When they reached the
top of the slope, they saw it—a cascade that fell from the
cliffs to their right. The crevice that would let them into
another world was somewhere up there, concealed by fore-
boding crags—perhaps only a ridge or two away.

Vidar granted himself the luxury of looking back and
saw that their pursuers had also found land. The silver
armor of Vett'r's elves glinted in the moonlight as they
leaped from the vessel. Somehow, it seemed that there
were more of them than the ship could possibly have held.

Two of G'lann's lyos took the lead now—presumably,

m

162 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

two who knew this island better than the others. They
picked out a twisting trail, but it was also the quickest.
Jam brought up the rear, but Vidar was not worried about
the giant's climbing abilities—ha ancestors had dwelled in
Jotunheim, where the gentlest slope made Munarvag look
like an English lawn.

They came to a wall of solid rock that jutted out from
the rest of the escarpment. The first elf leaped up and
caught the rim of it with his hands, then pulled himself
over the edge. His companion did the same, hooking a leg
over the rock before he could gain the other side.

Then all hell broke loose. Vidar heard a shout of terror,
obliterated by what sounded like a roller coaster coming
around a steep turn. Small stones and pebbles pelted him
as they rained over the brink, and he pressed his body into
the coarse surface of the slope lest he be dislodged from his
perch. Vidar heard a scream above the roller-coaster roar.
Something was. catapulted into the air—an elf. The lyos
flailed at the sky in desperation, still screaming, until he
fell onto an outcrop below them. Then he lay still like a red
bag of bones.

"Help!" cried the other elf, from somewhere above
them.

Vidar leaped and took hold of the top of the wall. He
dragged himself up just high enough to peer over the lip of
the rock. What he saw might have been the biggest lizard
that Alfheim had ever spawned, its scaly bulk glittering
like a mountain of pennies in the moonlight, its tiny eyes
burning like coals.

It was huge. Its tail alone was a good twenty feet long,
and its long-snouted head bobbed on a neck three times a
tall man's height. It must have been that tail that had
swept the elf off the plateau, for it snapped at the stone
floor now as if restless.

Vidar had seen dragons before, in Alfheim and in
Vanaheim, but never so close—and never out of the water.
He remembered Thor's description of his sea battle with

The Seekers and the Sword 163

one of these monsters, and he marveled anew at the
redbeard's strength.

"What is it? cried G'lann, and the others shouted their
own questions. Magni's son sprang onto the wall next to
Vidar. His eyes opened wide.

As luck would have it, the lizard sat right in their path.

G'lann cursed under his breath. "It's a dragon," he
called back to the others. "The biggest one I've ever seen—
there must be some eggs underneath her."

"They lay their eggs on land?" asked Vidar.

"Aye," said G'lann.

Then they both dropped down from the edge of the wall,
for the mammoth tail had come sweeping toward them.
The tip of it could be seen amid a cascade of falling rocks
as it snapped at the place where they'd been.

"The lyos," shouted Gillmg from below. "We've got to
get going or they'll be right on our tails!"

As if to punctuate his words, a shaft skittered off the
rocks not far from Jam.

"Help, damn it!" cried the elf who was trapped above
them. "It'll find me soon!"

Vidar pulled himself up over the verge again and eyed
the dragon, wondering how in hell he could move it. Let-
ting himself down, he slipped his sword free. He'd have to
use it soon enough, either on the dragon or Vett'r's men.

Meanwhile, the elves below him—lyos and dwarvin
alike—had wriggled their bows off their shoulders and
were fitting arrows to the strings. The first of Vett'r's
warriors had gained the top of the lowest slope—but
Vidar's archers had the advantage of gravity. Just as Vidar
made that observation, N'arri placed a shaft in the midst
of their pursuers, scattering them.

Vidar turned to G'lann. "Any ideas?" he asked.

G'lann scowled, his strange, blunt features becoming
even less pleasant to gaze upon. "A pity," he &?-id. "There
are so few left, and the beasts are as old as Alfheim itself.
Still," he added, his voice dropping, "it killed E'lig, and

164 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

Usk'ur is still up there somewhere." His jaw set. "If you
can distract it," he told Vidar, "I can slay it." He paused a
moment. "But don't harm the eggs."

Vidar envisioned the lizard's swaying head with its maw
full of jagged teeth. He could hear the monster's tail
slapping at the rock above, as if in anticipation.     ,

"All right," said Vidar. "Ready?"

"Aye." said G'lann.

Vidar needed no other signal. Before he could think
twice about it, he sprang up over the lip of the rock onto
the small plaleau. Instantly, the lizard's eyes blazed and a
trumpeting roar like an elephant's escaped its throat. Then
the massive tail lashed at him, sweeping across the rocky
table like a noisy bulldozer.

Just before it would have reached Vidar, it seemed to
accelerate, and his only chance was to leap high in the air.
The thick, coppery whip passed beneath him. Out of the
corner of his eye, he saw a figure dart out from conceal-
ment and circle around to the creature's right.

Again, the tail lashed at him, and the ground trembled
with sudden thunder. It was as if the earth were moving
beneath him. This time, Vidar barely cleared the mon-
strosity, and one foot brushed against it.

But G'lann had made use of the time to clamber up onto
the dragon's haunches, and the creature seemed not to
notice.

Vidar waited for the tail to come at him again, but it
only slithered impatiently, coiling and uncoiling, in a mes-
merizing dance of golden-bronze scales. He was so hypno-
tized by the snakelike tail that he saw the shadow of its
deadly jaws too late.

But it was not toward him that the dragon's maw
descended. Something like a groan erupted from the lizard
and it threw its head back, Usk'ur writhed in its mouth for
a few moments, then fell still. Only then did the dragon
open its jaws and let the elfs corpse drop to the ground.

By then, however, G'lann had reached the ridge of its

The Seekers and the Sword

165

back. He clung there now, spread-eagled, while the mighty
lizard shifted its weight. Its head stopped moving when it
caught sight of Vidar again, and the red-coal eyes seemed
to transfix him. Suddenly, its open maw fell toward him.

Vidar flung his sword up. He saw its tongue, long and
pink. He could smell its breath, like a mountain of three-
day-old fish left in the sun. Just as the dragon's jaws were
about to close on him, he hacked at them with all his
strength.

The mighty jaws snapped and bowled Vidar over. For a
single, terrifying moment, all he could see were stars in a
deep, black pit. Then his vision cleared and he realized
that the monster's head had retreated, leaving him whole.
In fact, the dragon had grown a new appendage. Vidar's
sword had stuck in the creature's chin, jutting out like a
mandarin's beard, and a reddish-brown slime dripped from

it.

By then, G'lann had reached the dragon's massive
shoulder, and he was making his way across the rippling
landscape of its scales like a surfer riding the waves at
Malibu. The ruby-dark eyes had not seen him, so eager
were they to make a meal of Vidar. Its breath rasped in its
throat and the tail started to swing toward him once more.

But the dragon soon had other things to worry about.
G'lann had grabbed the knobby growth at the base of its
neck, and even as that bludgeoning tail reached for Vidar,
the elflord thrust his blade into the soft, white flesh of the
lizard's throat.

It was as if he'd wounded a mountain. The creature's
entire body convulsed, snaking in agony. Blood gouted
from its wound. The dragon writhed uncontrollably, its tail
pounding the stone of the plateau as if it could stave off its
doom that way, and its head swung from side to side,
trumpeting its dismay.

Then, with one furious lunge at an unseen enemy, the
creature's neck collapsed and its head crashed at its short,
webbed feet.

166 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

For a long moment, there was only silence. Slowly, it
was filled with distant cries—and other cries, not so dis-
tant. Vidar approached the wreckage of the dragon, saw its
eyes, their ruby glow dimmed, and the burnished brilliance
of its armor. Its fish-smell was strong in his nostrils. But
there was no movement amid the hills and valleys of,its
scaly hide.

Finally, something moved. It was G'lann. He stood up
from behind the sweep of the monster's haunch.

"Come on,'* he said. "Signal the others." Blood dripped
from his temple down the side of his face, but he looked to
be all right otherwise.

Vidar plucked his sword free of the lizard's chin,
sheathed it without cleaning it and started back toward the
brink. But his companions had already begun to thrust
themselves up onto the ledge. Eric whistled when he saw
the dragon. The others were no less awed—not even Sif.
N'arri and M'norr were the last to climb up—but when
the others began to scale the slope just beyond the crea-
ture's splendid carcass, the dwarvin remained by the edge
of the plateau.

"Let's go," Vidar called to them.

The dwarvin looked back at him. N'arri shook his head
from side to side. Then he turned and sent an arrow
whistling down the slope.

"Come on," Vidar shouted. But he'd seen the expression
in their catlike eyes. They were going to sacrifice them-
selves so that the rest of them could make it to the gate.

Vidar hesitated for a moment. Then he descended on
Usk'ur's corpse and took the elfs bow, along with a hand-
ful of arrows from his quiver. Darting over to where the
dwarvin had made their stand, he knelt next to N'arri.

The elf glanced at him, his expression troubled, as he
nocked another arrow. Pulling back, he let it fly. Down-
slope, a lyos cried out and fell. M'norr picked off a second
one.

Vidar drew back on his own bowstring, aimed and fired.

"Hie Seekers and the Sword                                 167

His shaft came close to one of the elves* pale-haired heads,
but he hit nothing.

N'arri glanced at him again and frowned. He tried to
push Vidar away with one hand, pleading with him in
wordless desperation.

"Go, my lord," said M'norr. "We'll catch up."

"Don't give me that," said Vidar, fitting another arrow
to his string. "I know that you two will sit here until either
the enemy is dead or you are. And my money's on the
enemy—there are a lot more of them, and they keep
getting closer."

As Vidar spoke, a shaft glanced off the face of the rock
right by his knee. Again, N'arri urged him to follow the
others.

"Nothing doing," said Vidar. "Either we all go or we all
stay. I'm as expendable as you are—except that I can't
shoot as straight."

The dwarvin's eyes grew wild with exasperation. He
,    whirled, releasing one last shot at the lyos below them.
^   Then he tapped M'norr on the shoulder and took off after
their companions.

M'norr and Vidar were right on his heels.

They vaulted over the dragon's tail and followed the last
of the company up a crevice in the hillside. G'lann and a
{  couple of the others had already disappeared into the hole
at the top of the crevice before Vidar recognized it for the
gate to Nidavellir. His skin seemed to tighten in anticipa-
tion of that place—he thought he could feel its intense heat
already, though the waterfall beside them flung a cool
spray in their faces.

Vidar was the last to crawl through the narrow space
between the rocks. It was dark very quickly—much too
quickly for his eyes to adjust to it. There was no torch to
light the way, so he had to feel for turns in the tunnel with
his fingers, and he stumbled into M'norr ahead of him
more than once in his haste. The way widened suddenly.
and the place echoed furiously with the scrabbling of their

168 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

boots against the stone floor. The curses that they mut-
tered were hurled back at them over and over again, in
diminishing whispers.

Then sound slid away. The air became thick and close
about them, and the barely audible buzzing that sur-
rounded the world-bridge infested their brains. ,The
ground they trod sloped downward for a time. Finally, it
seemed to vanish altogether, so that they felt nothing
below their feet but Ginnungagap—the abyss. The dark-
ness was absolute, impenetrable.

Vidafs head filled with the buzzing. He felt light-
headed, disembodied, deaf and blind.

But in time, the buzzing ceased, and the ground began
to grow solid again underfoot. A spark of brightness
appeared at what seemed like a great distance. Slowly, as
they went forward, it widened into a deep red name. Soon
after, Vidar's hearing was restored, but all he could hear
was a savage .hissing.

They came to the end of their tunnel. A wave of sudden
heat smote them like a giant hand and Nidavellir opened
before them—a vision of hell that would have given Dante
nightmares. The lavascape flowed and shifted like a sea of
frothy blood around the dark upthrusts of higher ground.
In the distance, ebon peaks spewed out red geysers. The
angry crimson clouds roiled overhead, blotting out
whatever stars might have shone on them, and the acid
stench of molten metal singed their nostrils. The incessant
hissing was punctuated with sharp whip-cracks—boulders
that had fallen into the lava rivers being split open by the
heat.

Eric looked back toward Vidar, caught between fear and
wonder. "How will we ever make our way through thatV
be asked.

"There are ways," said Vidar, feeling his skin crawl
under the touch of that all-consuming inferno. "I just wish
that I could remember one."

The company had emerged on one of the dark, jagged

The Seekers and the Sword 169

peaks that rose above the molten sea. G'lann led them
down to the edge of the peak, where it nearly touched the
side of a much smaller hunk of rock. He stopped at the
brink, looking around, squinting at the tableau-
He looked perplexed and angry. "It has changed since I
saw it last," he said. "The tide of lava was not as high."

"Well, we can't wait for it to subside," said Var'kald.
"We'll have company soon."

Vidar surveyed the place—the dark tablelands and
crags that receded into the red haze of distance. Sweat ran
into his eyes. "I hope you can find the way," he said to
G'lann. "I don't remember this at all." The soles of his
boots were starting to heat up.

G'lann spat and his saliva hissed where it struck the
rock, turning to steam. "Aye," he said. "I think I do."

He raised his arm and pointed to an island perhaps a
couple of hundred feet away. Vidar peered at it, the sweat
now streaming down his temples to his jaw, where it
tickled the skin beneath his beard.

"That's it?" he asked G'lann.

"Aye," said the elflord, "Be thankful it's not drowned in
this molten sea."

"I'm thankful," said Vidar.

It was a good thing, too, that the rocky upthrusts were
clustered here—for by going from one to the next, it
appeared that they could work their way to the gate. That
is, if G'lann's memory served, and the island he'd picked
out was the right one.

Something like thunder rumbled beneath the churning
clouds, and a great gout of flame shot out of a black crater.
Lava bubbled over its lip, pouring out in a torrent of red.
steaming magma. The sweat in Vidar's eyes began to
sting, and he wiped it away- Standing here was like stand-
ing in a furnace.

' Without another word, G'lann backed up a few steps
and leaped onto the hunk of rock before them. Landing

170 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

like a cat on all fours—perhaps a bit more cautious than
he'd needed to be—he gestured the others to follow.

They followed.

When Vidar's turn came, he could not help but glance at
the roiling flood that flowed between the two rocks. He,
too, leaped just a touch farther than he had to. Just in case.

Jam came last. He hesitated for a moment, for even a
short jump was not an easy task for someone of his bulk.
His graven-stone face was caught in the sullen strobe
effect of Nidavellir, so that it reflected crimson flares one
second and fell shadow-dark the next. When he jumped,
however, he spanned the flood without a hitch.

They crossed the island, careful not to step into a ,tiny
crevice or stumble on a sudden rise. The surface of the
rock was jagged in places, treacherous, and they could not
afford for one of them to go lame now. A volcano boomed
behind them, and the acrid wind carried sparks past. Vidar
pushed his hair back where it had stuck to his cheek, and
tried to blink away some sudden smoke. He coughed,
choking on cinders.

Then they reached the far end of the isle, and this time
the gap they faced was a good dead wider. The far cliff was
lower than the one on which they stood, however, and the
difference in height gave them some needed assistance.

G'lann went first again. This time, he measured off at
least a dozen paces before he took off and sailed through
the air. He landed on the other side with a few feet to
spare.

"Come on," he shouted back,

Eric went next. He eyed the gulf, took a deep breath and
ran down the edge. At the last moment, he leaped, his legs
bicycling in the air as he fought for balance. But he landed
right next to G'lann, and the elf helped him stay upright
when it looked as if he might stumble backward. Some-
where l)elow, a rock shattered-

The rest of them followed, H'limif and Var'kald, N'arri
and M'norr. Gilling and Ullir and Sif and Ar'on. Before

Tfae Seekers and the Sword 171

Vidar took his shot at the gap, however, he reached up and
gripped Jam's shoulder. He didn't have to read the thur-
sar's expression to know the fear he felt.

"You can do it," said Vidar. "You wouldn't want those
sons of yours to miss you, or that daughter."

The giant spat. "Aye," he rumbled.

Vidar turned toward the task at hand. He picked out a
relatively clear path on which to build up his momentum.
Again, he wiped the sweat from his eyes. He ran. He
leaped.

And he came down on the other side, as more helping
hands grabbed at him than he bad things to grab.

"Okay," he said. "I made it."

Then everyone's attention focused on Jam. The lava sea
hissed and bubbled, as if eager for the giant's body. Jam
seemed to glare at them with his deep-set, black-pebble
eyes. He didn't move a muscle. All at once the thursar
lurched into motion. He took a long, running jump—but
even before he left the ground, Vidar knew it would be
close. The giant was silhouetted for a moment against the
red fury of the sky. Vidar's heart clenched like a fist in his
chest, for the giant was losing momentum too quickly.

Jam stretched out his huge arms in desperation and
gripped the edge of the cliff, his body crashing into the
smooth wall below it. His fingers slipped—but Vidar got
hold of one wrist and G'lann the other. For a long moment,
it was uncertain as to whether they would drag him up to
safety or he would drag them into the soup. Vidar felt
someone grab his waist, someone else his ankle. Finally,
they hauled the thursar up, falling backward in a tangle of
arms and legs.

Slowly, Jam got to his feet, brushing black rock-powder
off his hands. He peered back across the chasm. Sweat
poured from his face and his bare arms, and his tunic was
dark with sweat. Jam's breath came in gasps, for he was a
thursar. Like his forebears in Jotunheim, he was made for
. extreme cold—not extreme heat.

172 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

He turned back and caught Vidafs eye. The giant
grunted. *They*ll have no reason to miss me now, my
lord."

Despite the searing heat and the burden of fatigue it
brought with it, Vidar smiled. "I guess not," he said.

G'lann was already climbing, looking for the safest, path
to the other side of this rock mass. The rest of them
plodded after him, wavering before Vidar's eyes like a
desert mirage.

They clambered over a sharp ridge and came down a
sudden, steep escarpment. But carefully—for if they
slipped on the loose rocks underfoot, the slope ended as a
black beach in-the molten sea. Their first slip would be
their last.

Vidar went slowly, crouching, trying to keep his weight
distributed evenly. He could hear Jam's tortured breath-
ing in front of him and it reminded him of the irritation in
his own throat. The air was almost too hot to breathe.
Cinders stuck to their eyelids like a dark paste.

They made their way down the escarpment at an angle,
for the place where this rock came closest to the next one
was off to their right—a place where the slope dropped off
suddenly, as if a mammoth meat cleaver had split this
from another piece of rock. It was not as difficult a leap as
the test one, though they were closer to the level of the
bubbling, spitting sea now, and that made it much hotter
here. The real problem would be getting any kind of
running jump on this slippery incline.

G'lann pointed to a rocky peak two islands away.
"That's where the gate is," he said. His pale elvish hair
was dark with smoke and cinders. His face was dark as
well, but sweat had carved out fissures in the darkness,
tracing a mysterious pattern. Vidar looked around at the
others. Each one wore his own sweat-struck mask, so that
they looked like some primitive tribe of painted warriors.
Vidar wondered briefly what he looked like himself.

As before, G'lann was the first to brave the gap. He

The Seekers and the Sword 173

crept upslope a few yards and then pelted down, crossing
the span at an angle. It made the distance between the
rocks greater, but it also allowed him to gather some
momentum. He landed on the far side.

Sif went next, following her brother's lead. She hurtled
through the air for one heart-stopping moment, and then
she stood safely beside G'lann. In the distance, a volcano
boomed, and a red flare bloodied the sky.

The rest came afterward. Some had more trouble than
others. Ar'on, being the lightest, made it with the least
effort—although it might have been even less trouble for
him if he'd left his harp behind. But he insisted on carrying
it with him, slung over his back in its leather sack. Gilling,
whose wounded leg had begun to give him some pain
again, despite Ullir's ministrations, cursed and sweated
and bounded across in the end.

Only Jam and Vidar were left. The thursafs face
gleamed with his exertions. His breath came harsh and
ragged, and he looked fearsome in that ruddy light.

"Come on," said Vidar. "One more leap like the last
one."

"Aye," said the giant. He turned toward the abyss,
facing it like a two-legged enemy. Slowly, he made his way
backward and up the slope, still facing the span. Then,
without another word, he charged the brink and took off
like some ponderous bird of prey. His legs churned might-
ily and a cry tore from his throat.

Miraculously, he landed with both feet on the edge of
the far rock. He fought for balance, trying to throw his
considerable weight forward, away from peril. Vidar mar-
veled at Jam's strength, and at his courage.

But before anyone could get a grip on him. Jam
straightened suddenly to his full nine-foot height. He was
as rigid as an oak tree, and Vidar saw why. A shaft
protruded from Jam's back—an elvish shaft.

Slowly, hypnotically, the giant began to pivot, as if
mocking the chasm. Vidar saw his face, as expressionless

174 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

as ever. Then he plummeted with sickening quickness into
the molten flood.

Vidar flattened, looking back over his shoulder, and an
arrow whizzed by his ear. More clattered about him on the
coarse black rock. He peered into the volcanic distance and
saw that Sidr'nir's lyos—a few of them, anyway—had
gained the ridge at the top of the escarpment.

Rising suddenly—for there was no time to make a
running approach—Vidar took two steps and jumped as
far as he could. The white-hot flood yawned beneath him,
hissing and gurgling, splitting boulders open in its fury. As
the other side loomed before him and he caught a glimpse
of his companions, he felt himself falling. His heart sank as
he realized that he wouldn't make it. He missed Eric's
outstretched hand by inches, slammed into the solid rock
face and fell-
No! His teeth grated as his fingers and feet sought
purchase on the sheer wall of stone. No!

Something happened. It took a few moments for Vidar
to realize that he had stopped falling. He tasted blood in
his mouth, and he spat it out. He tried to stand. He stood,
and saw that he'd landed on a ledge that jutted out from
the rock mass. If he'd had any gods, he would have
thanked them.

When he looked up, he could have burst into laughter—
despite the elvish shafts that broke on the rock face all
around him. His companions leaned over the edge just a
couple of yards above. And the elves hadn't come far
enough down the escarpment to see the sitting duck that
Vidar had become.

"Hey!" he yelled. "How about a little help?"
There was a brief council up above, and before it was
over, some of his companions were returning the lyos'' fire.
Then Vidar saw a pair of feet stick out, followed by legs
and a torso, and realized that H'limif—the tallest of them,
except for Vidar and G'lann—was being lowered like a
living ladder.

The Seekers and the Sword 175

When the elfs ankles came within a couple of feet of
Vidar's grasp, he leaped up and took hold of them. He
winced as an arrow shattered against the rock just a few
inches from his left hand.

The others pulled them up with dizzying speed. H'limif
complained that he was being made to bend in ways his
body did not condone, but he was at least hauled up before
he could be perforated by Vett'r's archers.

Vidar felt himself seized—by his tunic, his hair, his
armpits, his wrists, anything that offered a handhold. He
sprawled on the surface and lay there a moment, wonder-
ing at his incredible good fortune. Then he got up and took
off after G'lann, who had already picked out a way for
them across this island.

It was the most treacherous going they'd yet encoun-
tered in Nidavellir. The black rock thrust in every direc-
tion, as if there had been an upheaval on this isle, and
nothing had settled in its original place. Every shadow
seemed to hide a crevice, every protrusion a razor-sharp
edge. But the jumbled terrain had its advantages, too,
because they could use it for cover against Vett'r's bow-
men. They bugged the rock and elvish arrows sang in their
ears.

Only G'lann could not hide himself. He darted between
two dark pillars up ahead, turned to make sure that the
others could see the path he'd chosen and plunged on.

Vett'r and his elves had begun to clear the gulf behind
them. More and more arrows fell about Vidar and his
companions, splintering when they struck Nidavellir's
black bones.

Then Var*kald cried out, and Vidar knew he'd been hit.
Ullir was nearest to him, and then Sif. The Aesirman
tended to the elf while Magni's daughter guarded them
with a couple of well-placed arrows.

Vidar hesitated. Finally, after what seemed a long time
but could only have been a few moments, Var'kald rose
again with Ullir's arm about him. Seeing that, Vidar

176 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

continued to climb. The small of his back suddenly felt
very vulnerable. He climbed faster.

For all its confusion, this island was not a big one. When
Vidar turned inside a spiny ridge of rock, he found G'lann
resting in the unexpected safety that it offered, and Ar'on
beside him. Perhaps ten feet away, across a thankfully Qat
piece of rock, the last gulf awaited them. The others found
this place, one by one, sinking against the rock when they
realized G'lann would not leave until his sister and
Var'kald had caught up.

Finally, Ullir and Sif appeared, half-carrying Var'kald
between them. The elf had taken the arrow in his shoulder.
Klin distorted his face, but it was not a crippling wound.
What's more, the shaft had gone right through him, leav-
ing no fragments which would have to be removed. Sif had
torn a strip from her bundled cloak to stop the flow of
blood, but it had already been soaked through.

"Var'kald," said G'lann. "There's one more chasm to
leap across."

"I know," said the elf. "It's my arm that hurts, not my
eyes."

"Can you do it?" asked Eric.

Var'kald groaned. "Have I a choice?"

G'lann nearly smiled. "Good," he said. He looked up
and found Vidar. "You go first. You've got no bow." In
fact, Vidar had left Usk'ur's bow somewhere, considering
Jt excess baggage.

G'lann turned to Eric next. "After Vidar, you."

Meanwhile, the dwarvin, Sif and H'limif had already
positioned themselves around the ridge and were making
life difficult for their pursuers. Vidar heard one of Vett'r's
elves scream as a shaft found its mark.

"Come on," said Var'kald. "Before we're all wearing
feathers."

Vidar turned and looked across the short stretch of
plateau. It wasn't the toughest jump he'd been asked to
make that day.

The Seekers and the Sword 177

He pelted down his chosen runway and sprang. He
landed on all fours—and the gate was right there in front
of him, a narrow fissure in the black rock.

Eric came next. Showing no signs of how close he'd
come to death so recently, he negotiated the chasm with a
small measure of grace. Ar'on came after, then G'lann.

"Get ready," said the elflord, after he'd steadied him-
self. "Here comes Var'kald."

Var'kald leaped and Var'kald cleared the abyss—if
barely. Despite his loss of blood, he was stronger than he
looked. The others followed in quick succession. N'arri
came last, spending his final arrow before he turned and
hurtled across the gap.

A volcano roared. Far below, the sea of lava hissed and
spat. Bloodred clouds blossomed in never-ceasing turmoil.
Cinders fell into their eyes.

The gate was just large enough for Vidar to fit through.
Jam might never have made it, even if he'd survived.

Odin's son slithered down into darkness, the glare of
NidaveHir still carved into his vision like a blood-eagle.
Once again, he forsook reality and walked the path
between worlds. After NidaveHir, it almost felt pleasant to
be deprived of one's senses.

XIX

Vidar selected another boulder. With a great effort, he
lifted it off the ground, took two steps toward the gate and
heaved it at the opening. As he'd hoped, it bounded down
the slope and lodged in the gate.

G'lann and H'limif worked another boulder free from its
ages-old berth and sent it crashing after the first one. Then
a third one followed, while Sif and M'norr and Eric
watched the results of their handiwork appreciatively.

"There." said Vidar. "I don't think we'll have to worry
about Vett'r anymore. There's only room for one at a time
to come out of there, and he won't able to budge those
stones by himself."

"I wish him a good trip back," said G'lann.

They stood on a long, white, snow-soft slope that the sun
had already abandoned. It still shone, however, on the
peaks above them with a glorious, pink and pleasant light.
Vidar unrolled his cloak and wound it about him. The air
was sharp enough here to freeze their breath, yet it felt fine

178

The Seekers and the Sword 179

to breathe it after the brimstone atmosphere of the place
they'd left behind.

Sif took a handful of snow and washed Eric's face with
it. When the snow came away. the mask he'd acquired in
Nidavellir was gone. He laughed and did the same for her.

They decided to trek up the slope while the light still
held. G'lann said that there would be some shelter from
the wind at the top of it, and they could make their camp
there for the night. The snow was up to their knees in some
places, but the incline was not all that steep. By the time
dusk fell on the peaks, they found the shelter of which
G*lann had spoken—a copse of birch and alder nestled in
the lee of a few mammoth stones.

It was only after he sat down that Vidar realized how
hungry and thirsty he was. The snow quenched his thirst,
but he had to settle for a half-ration of graincakes. The
food was running out. Even after Vidar had eaten, his belly
rumbled hollowly,

Vidar began the healing process in Var'kald and then let
Ullir take over when it was his turn to stand watch. The
arrow had not done that much damage after all. Var'kald
would heal quickly.

Ar*on was already standing guard with his sword and his
harp-sack when Vidar emerged from the trees to join him.
The youth seemed to relax a bit, as if standing watch alone
made him nervous.

"We can sit down," said Vidar. "It's going to be a long
night." Ar'on nodded, and they each chose a cold, moss-
green boulder. After a few moments, the elf leaned his
sword against the rock, point down so that his hand could
leap to the hilt if necessary. Then he brought his harp out
from its leather bag and allowed his fingers to roam softly
over the strings.

"Why don't you play?" asked Vidar. "It'll help pass the
time."

Ar'on shrugged. **I guess I don't feel like playing."

"No?" said Vidar. "Then give it to me."

180 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"You?" asked Ar'on-

"Aye, me," said Vidar. "I've played a harp or two in my
day."

Tentatively, Ar'on extended the harp. Vidar took it and'
plucked at a string. The note was off a bit in this cold, but
it would do. He didn't want to think about Jam, or the .two
lyos that had died fighting the dragon on Munarvag- He
didn't want to think about all the elves that had died
pursuing them. All he wanted to do was lose himself in the
music, as he'd done time and again as Sin Skolding. While
there was music, he need not think about death.

With the music came words, and soon Vidar found
himself singing softly, so as not to wake the others. He
spun a tale of his brothers, Baldur and Vali and Hod, and
how a maiden in Midgard had made them all love her—
then escaped their anger by finding shelter in the arms of
Odin himself. Only Baldur would have let her go without
punishment—for he was gentle with women, even in his
youth—but both Vali and Hod would have quartered her
and fed her to swine had it not been for Odin.

When the tale was done, Vidar heard his voice trail off,
as it had so many times in feasting halls from Radsey to
Algron. Then there was only silence.

"Do you still miss them?" asked Ar'on, green fire burn-
ing deep within his eyes.

"Who?" asked Vidar, lost in old, old thoughts. His eyes
hardened when he realized Ar'on was still waiting for a
response. "My brothers, you mean?" He paused, watching
his breath freeze. "Aye," he said. M! miss them all. Heim-
dall for his certainty, I think. You never had to worry
about what was right and wrong—all you had to do was
watch him.'*

Vidar smiled, though the cold stretched the skin of his
face tight over his bones. "And I miss Bragi, for he was
clever in his poetry, and I always admired that. Sort of a
pain in the ass at other times—but a hell of a poet. And
Baldur. What can I tell you about Baldur? He was our

The Seekers and the Sword

181

touchstone, our sun and our stars. Our luck. We looked at
Baldur, our brother, and we knew that we ourselves
couldn't be all that bad if he was our kinsman."

Ar'on nodded, entranced.

"What about your brothers?" asked Vidar.

The light in Ar'on's eyes faltered for a moment, then
flared again. "Ei'tri was the oldest," he said. "He would
have inherited the farm. That would have been best, for he
would have made the land bulge with mighty harvests.
That was his pleasure, his talent."

Ar'on sighed. "Svip'dag was born second, but he was
our best warrior. As long as I can remember, he practiced
at swordplay, as if the world were still at war. Who could
have know that in the end, war could return—and
Svip'dag would find that he was too brave?" The elf
paused, his eyes fixed on nothingness. "If he'd been less
proud of his swordsmanship, he might have been alive
today."

"Why is that?" asked Vidar.

"He challenged Skir'nir himself," said Ar'on. "Wbuld
that he'd found someone else to trade blows with." The
elfs head dropped a bit. "But he found Skir'nir, and
Skir'nir proved too much."

Vidar nodded in silence, watching the wind rustle the
snow-laden branches where their friends slept. The sky
was blue-black, clear with a crystalline quality.

"Did you have your revenge?" asked Ar'on.

"Revenge?" asked Vidar. "There was no one left to seek
revenge upon. Those who slew my brothers died the same
day—and some of them by my brothers' hands. Only
Baldur's murderer was never found—and only Vali still
seeks revenge for that death."

"Why?" asked the elf. "Who killed him?"

Vidar snorted. "Another brother. Hod." The wind whis-
tled, a shrill, hollow sound that was nonetheless soothing,
for it beat back the silence.

182

MICHAEL JAN FRZEDMAN

"One of your brothers killed the other?" asked Ar'on,
his voice rife with disgust. "That's fratricide."

"Aye," said Vidar. And what did he contemplate when
he found Odin? Patricide? "We Aesir are a strange bunch,
Ar'on."

The elf considered that last remark for a time.

"What will you do," asked Vidar, "when we return?
Tend the farm?"

"I suppose I will," said Ar'on. "And you?"

"I think I'd like to tend the farm," said Vidar, "but
there's someone tending it already."

"I don't understand," said the elf.

The only sound that alerted Vidar to the possibility of
danger was a soft crunching of snow. Then the wolf was
upon them, snarling and snapping, a powerful gray fury
that was at Ar'on's throat before the elf could even cry out.
Vidar grabbed without seeing clearly what it was he
grabbed at, but he managed to get his fingers around a
foreleg and fling it away.

The wolf landed in a flurry of snow, twisted and was on
Vidar in a second. Hot saliva dripped from its maw as it
sprang for his throat. This time, he got his fingers in
between its fangs, one hand on its snout, the other on its
chin. It gathered its legs beneath it and slashed at him with
its hindclaws, trying to disembowel him. Vidar twisted to
avoid the razor-sharp claws, but he did not let go.

Slowly, against increasing resistance, he strained to
force the jaws apart. A whine began in the creature's
throat and it grew into a sound like the creaking of an
unoiled hinge. Finally, with a spray of blood, Vidar broke
the wolfs jaw.

Crawling out from beneath it, he surveyed his handi-
work. The wolf coughed out its life into the snow, a pitiful
thing now, just a dying animal. But it could just as easily
have been Ar'on lying there, turning the snow crimson, if
he'd been alone when the wolf attacked.

The elf had dropped his harp and grabbed his sword. He

The Seekers and the Sword 183

crouched nearby, ready to help if need be. He was trem-
bling slightly, but unhurt. With great caution and more
than a little awe, Ar*on approached the bloody carcass.

Vidar touched his fingertips to his belly and they came
away smeared with blood. His tunic had been slashed to
ribbons, but he'd not been cut too deeply. Mostly, it just
smarted like the devil. He bent over and picked up a
handful of snow, then rubbed it against his middle.

At first, he had to wince at the sharp, stinging pain.
Then the snow did its job and numbed it a little.

"Are you all right?" asked Ar'on, staring at Vidar's
wounds.

Vidar nodded. "No maladjusted wolf is going to do me
in. Fve had too much experience with them."

By this time, the others had begun to gather around
them, wrapped in their cloaks. H'limif knelt beside the
wolf, saw how it had died, then looked up at Vidar and saw
the blood on his hands. He smirked and nodded
appreciatively.

"What happened?" asked Sif. When she saw Vidar's
wound, her eyes widened. "Ullir," she said, "my kinsman
is hurt."

Vidar held up a hand. "Don't bother," he told the
Aesirman. "It looks a lot worse than it is. Save your
strength for Var'kald."

"This," said G'lann, nudging the carcass with his foot,
"is why the lyos no longer live in the mountains as our
ancestors did. The wolves thrived too well for us to thrive
at all."

Vidar looked at the slopes around them, blue-white and
majestic in the light of the sickle moon. "Wolves hunt in
packs," he said to no one in particular. "This one could
have been a loner—but there may be more of them about.
Let's be careful,"

"Aye," said Sif.

"You know," said H'limif, "our food is running low." He
looked meaningfully at the wolf.

184 MICHAEL JAN FRffiDMAN

"Wolf-meat?" said M'norr, his face clenching in
disgust.

"Aye," said G'lann. "It's not as bad as you might
think."

Vidar had never tasted wolf-meat either, but his initial
reaction was the same as M'norr's. Nonetheless, the
sounds his stomach was making were likely to cause an
avalanche if he didn't get something more to eat than half-
rations of graincakes.

They built a fire with some deadwood they found
beneath the trees, and G'lann butchered the animal. It did
not have much meat on it, but there was enough to go
around. Even the dwarvin had some.

G'lann had been wrong. It tasted worse than Vidar had
expected. But none of them seemed eager to end their little
feast. They wanted to satisfy themselves, perhaps, that
there were not more of the wolves nearby, waiting to feast
on them.

In the silence that descended afterward, Vidar rolled up
in his cloak and tried to get some sleep. First, he sent out a
mental call to Hoenir, on the chance that he'd made it
farther into the mountains than expected. But there was no
response, so Vidar let his fatigue catch up to him.

When morning came, there was again not much to eat.
They started off in silence that was like a complaint, and
G'tann led them up another long slope. But this one was
blinding white in the early morning sunlight, and the wind
that hollowed out the sky with its fury blew down on them
with a vengeance. It numbed their flesh through their
clothing and made their bones brittle. The going was slow,
for the snow was deep here, and it sprayed into their faces
every time they looked up. Only the sun's reflected
warmth, meager as it was, kept them from freezing.

But by the time the sun stood high, they'd found a level
area on which to rest. The wind blew here, too, but not as
strongly. Vidar looked at the faces of his companions.
They were ruddy with the cold and drawn thin. for they

The Seekers and the Sword 185

were not as well-equipped to ignore their hunger as Vidar
was. Once again, half-portions of graincakes were passed
around.

In time, they resumed their climb, and at the top of the
slope they found a belt of forestland. They entered among
the towering pine trees gladly, for here the wind would not
have a chance to whittle at them. But there was no food to
be found in the form of pine nuts. Squirrels or something
like them had already gnawed out all the meat. Above the
treetops, the sky stood blue and empty, mocking them.

Vidar walked alongside G'lann on the carpet of pine
needles mixed with snow. "How much farther, then?" he
asked him.

G'lann shrugged. "Another couple of days, perhaps. I've
only seen these mountains in summer, and then I've never
come this far up. Who would want to?" He paused. "I'm
only following the instructions that Skir'nir gave me.
Before he turned traitor."

"Let's hope," said Vidar, "that he knew what he was
talking about."

G'lann said nothing. It was not-something he wanted to
think about.

The day passed and night fell softly in the pine forest.
Vidar saw to Var'kald, to make sure that his wound was
healing right, but his concern was unnecessary. The elf
had only the same complaints as the rest of them—too
much cold and not enough food. Still, he would not be able
to use his sword-arm for a time.

There were no wolves seen that night. But when Vidar's
turn came to stand watch, he could not shake the feeling
that they were being stalked. Perhaps Skir'nir was closer
than they thought.

In the morning, they emerged from the forest. The land
here was steep and treacherous, the mountainside marred
by crevices and faults. In some places, the rock had been
stripped bare of snow and ice by the wind; in other places,
the snow was soft and deep, or piled high in great drifts.

186 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

Once, H'limif stepped on what looked like solid ground
with a shallow blanket of snow over it—the next moment,
he found himself waist deep in a fissure. After that, they
scaled the side of the mountain a bit more carefully,

"Do you get snow like this in Midgard?" asked Ullir,
climbing alongside Vidar.                        -,

"Of course," said Vidar. "Mostly in the mountains.
People travel for miles to find it, too. Hundreds of miles,
sometimes, for a slope like the ones behind us."

"You're spinning a tale now," said Ullir.

"No," said Vidar. "I swear it. And when they find such
a slope, they bind things to their feet—and they ski,"

"Ski?" asked the Aesirman. "What's that?"

"They stand on long, narrow boards and glide down the
slopes."

Ullir pondered that information for a moment. "Why?"
he asked.

"Because," «aid Vidar, "it's fun."

Ullir laughed. "Oh- Because it's fun, eh?"

"Yes," said Vidar. "But don't laugh. Some of your
human ancestors may have skied before they were brought
to Valhalla—where Odin had all the fun."

Ullir nodded. "I think I'd like to see Midgard some-
time," he said. "With your permission, of course."

Vidar shrugged, turning his face out of the wind as it
lifted a spray of snow toward them. "You're welcome
there, Ullir, But you have to come alone. I don't want
Midgard suddenly flooded with Asgardian ski-bums."

Ullir laughed again, and some of the snow that had
crusted in his yellow beard shook loose. "Fair enough," he
said.

As they ascended, the wind increased in velocity, ham-
mering at them as if to sweep them off the mountain. They
buried their faces in the folds of their cloaks, but it made
the going even slower. Despite his heavy boots, Vidar's feet
became numb, and his forehead felt as if someone had
taken a cheese grater to it.

The Seekers and the Sword 187

"Vidar!" cried Sif suddenly.

He was right behind her. "What is it?" he bellowed,
trying to be heard over the howl of the wind.

"Look up," she cried. "That way." She pointed to some-
thing dark, well up the mountainside.

**A wolf?" wondered Vidar, unable to see clearly
through the wind-stung tears in his eyes and the blinding
glare of the snowsheet.

"Don't know," said Sif.

"What is it?" shouted Gilling from just below.

"We're not sure," said Vidar, pointing to the dark spot
on the mountain, where—yes—something seemed to
crouch. Then, suddenly, it moved and was gone. As if it
had never been there in the first place.

Sif looked down at him and Vidar shook his head. She
patted her hilt meaningfully, then turned back into the
wind and went on.

The sun set early, for they were on the eastern slope of
the mountain. But the sky stayed clear and painfully blue,
with hardly a wisp of cloud, for a couple of hours after-
ward. Then it became dark, hinung at indigo, and the cold
became more intimate with their bones.

Before nightfall, however, they found a fairly hospitable
fissure that seemed deep enough and long enough to shel-
ter all of them. It sat between two tall drifts that might
have been wind-hewn snow or piles of boulders covered by
'a thin, icy veneer. It made no difference, as long as they
kept the wind off them.

The word of Sifs sighting spread like flames throughout
the company. "Could it have been an eagle?" asked
G'lann.

"No," said Sif. "It was on all fours. That much I could
see.**

Her brother nodded grimly. "Let's keep our weapons
dose to hand, then- And keep awake when we stand
guard."

"If it was only a wolf," said Var'kald, "its feedings must

188 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

be few and far between. Else it would not have dared the
daylight."

"They can't be fewer than ours," said H'limif.

But Vidar had a feeling that it was neither wolf nor
eagle. He had never seen an elvish wolf appear in sun-
light—unlike its cousins on some other worlds. And there
was something in the way the thing had vanished that
made him wonder.

With twigs and kindling that they'd gathered back in
the pine forest, they were able to start a brave yellow fire.
It didn't throw off much heat, but it was enough to warm
their hands by. They took turns sitting closest to it.

That night,-they all slept with their swords half-drawn.

XX

"Make me a sword,'* said Frey, "that will be invincible
in battle."

The dwarvin sat back among his furs and regarded
the prince of the Vanir with something like amusement.
"You've come to the right place," he said, and his melodi-
ous voice echoed throughout the wet, darkly shining
cavem. Torchlight cast a monstrous shadow behind
Frey. "No magic is greater than mine. But what need
have you of such a sword?"

Frey shrugged. "To fight hrimthursar, of course. What
else would I do with it, Ivai'di?"

The dwarvin regarded him slyly. His eyes were green
and slanted, like a cat's. "You've done enough damage in
Jotunheim without such a weapon," he told the
Vaniraaan. "The daring of your exploits has become
known to us even here in Svartheim."

Frey scowled. "Then perhaps I shall use the sword
elsewhere," he admitted grudgingly.

189

190 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

Ivai'di grinned. "Against the Aesir, perhaps?"

"Perhaps," said Frey.

"Then it is true?" asked Ivai'di. "Enmity grows
between the Aesir and the Vanir?"

But Frey would say no more. "Will you make me a
sword," he demanded, "or won't you?"            •*

"Aye," said the dwarvin. "A sword such as Asaheim
has never seen. But what will I get in return?"

Frey drew a pouch out of his tunic. He filing it at
Ivai'di's feet and it opened, spilling part of its contents
onto the stone floor- Gold glittered in the torchlight-
"And there's more," said the Vanirman, "when the
weapon is finished."

"Fair enough," said the dwarvin. "Come back in three
days, and bring the rest of the gold—enough to cover me
head to toe."

Frey eyed him. "A steep price," he said.

"There's no one else who can do what you want done,"
said Ivai'di. "Come back in three days and it will be
finished."

Frey finally agreed. He left and Ivai'di set to work.

It was not easy for the Vanirman to contain his eager-
ness for three days, but he did so. At the end of the
allotted time, he returned to behold the fruits of Ivai'di's
labor. He did not ask what smoking blood, what terrible
runes had gone into its making, for he did not want to
know. But as soon as he took the sword in his hand, he
knew it was a thing of immense power.

"Its name is Angrum," said Ivai'di, "and there has
never been a sword like it—nor will there ever be again.
And now," said the dwarvin, his green eyes glittering,
"the gold."

Frey shoved the sword into his belt and dropped a
sack that he had borne on his shoulder. He emptied it on
the floor. Ivai'di stretched out full-length, like a languor-
ous cat, and piece by piece Frey covered his body with

The Seekers and the Sword 191

the yellow metal. But when all the gold was used up, the
tip of Ivai'di's finger still protruded from the mound.

"Not enough," said the dwarvin. "And since you have
reneged on the price, you must return the blade."

"I fear I cannot do that," said Frey. "For it's
Vanaheim's best hope against Odin's armies, and I must
take it with me." Drawing the sword, he hacked off the
dwarvxn's fingertip. "Now the price has been paid."

Ivai'di cried out in pain, but he was so weighed down
by the gold that he could not get up. His cry brought his
nine sons rushing from their places by Ivai'di's
smithies—and when they saw Frey standing there with
his sword drawn, they unleashed their own blades, in the
hope of making him pay for bis deed.

But with Angrum in his hand, Frey was not easily
held to account. The blade flashed, and every time it did
so, another of Ivai'di's sons fell dead.

When he'd finished his bloody work, Frey fled the
caverns of Svartheim and made his way back to his
father's world with his prize- But Ivai'di surveyed the
Vanirman's handiwork and his wailing filled the torchlit
cavern. Eight of his sons lay dead. Only B'rokk, the
youngest, had survived.

The dwarvin mourned his sons for eight days, and at
the end of that time, he had fashioned a plan by which
he might get even with Frey.

So it happened that a dwarvin appeared at the door to
Thrudheim, Thor's hall in Asgard, and asked the Thun-
derer himself to come down with him into Svartheim.
Thor was leery of the invitation, for the motives of the
dark elves were never pure. But his curiosity got the
better of him and he came nevertheless.

The messenger—none other than Ivai'di's son
B'rokk—led him through a maze of twisting tunnels.
Finally, they came to the cavern in which Ivai'di sat,
waiting. His green eyes glittered with a vengeful light.

192 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"Greetings, Odin-son," said the dwarvin, leaning
forward.

"Aye, greetings," said Thor, never one to mince words.
"Why have you brought me here? I don't like close, dark
places like this cavern of yours, so be quick with your
answer."                                       .,

"But my lord," said Ivai'di, "I brought you here only
to give you a gift."

Thor raised an eyebrow. "A gift?" he echoed.

"Aye," said Ivai'di.

"Since when do the dark elves give gifts—and expect
nothing in return?"

"It is a new fashion among us," said the dwarvin,
smiling.

"And what kind of gift would you give me?" asked
red-bearded Thor.

"Come back in three days and you shall see."

No sooner had the prince of the Aesir left than Ivai'di
set to work at his forge, in a great cavern set deep within
the earth of Svartheim. B'rokk worked the bellows while
his father battered a hunk of common iron into a shape
he desired. The sullen walls grew bright with molten
light. Ivai'di strained the limits of this lore to invest this
object with even more power than Prey's sword. Sweat
broke out on his brow and he struggled to keep his hand
steady—for he drew upon sources of mystery that only
he could master. For three days, he worked at his chore.

Finally, when he had shaped the object to the desired
form, he left the cavern, for he was weary beyond telling.
But he said to B'rokk, "Keep pumping the bellows while
I am gone. If you stop, all will be ruined. And even I have
not the strength to forge another weapon like this one."

Ivai'di left and B'rokk pumped. But a short time after
his father had gone, a gnat alighted on B'rokk's hand. It
stung him mightily, but he did not stop his bellows-work
for a moment.

Then it found his neck, and again it stung him—this

The Seekers and the Sword                                193

time more sharply than before. The dwarvin winced, but
he did not dare stop pumping.

The gnat buzzed around B'rokk's head, still not satis-
fied. Finally, it landed between the dark elf's eyes. This
time, when it stung him, it drew blood—and the blood
blinded him. He cried out. And for a moment—only a
moment—he paused in his bellows-pumping to wipe the
blood out of his eyes. Then he quickly resumed his work.

When Ivai'di heard his cry, he returned and withdrew
the magical object from the forge. His eyes narrowed.
"Almost, my boy," he said. "Almost ruined—but as it is,
we were lucky. Only a trifle short in the handle."

For it was Thor's mallet that Ivai'di had fashioned—
to give Asgard a weapon with which it might stand
against Frey's sword. In time, Ivai'di would have his
^ revenge. If it were not for the hammer, the Vanirmen
\ might have overrun Asaheim, and not the other way
around. Because Thor wielded Mjollnir, the hammer, the
Aesir triumphed instead.

That would teach Frey to cheat the dwarvin.
And so what if the hammer was a little short in the
S handle? It never stopped Thor from smashing skulls

with it.

Sin Skolding
Algron, A.D. 360

XXI

The weather changed quickly in these mountains. Morn-
ing was gray, bloated with dark, purplish clouds that
climbed on top of one another all the way to the roof of the
world. Soon it began to snow.

"Wonderful," said H'limif. "If we go any slower, the
sword will be dust before we find it."

The wind whipped the falling snow into a frenzy. The
company stayed in a closely tied knot, lest anyone become
lost in the storm. Their progress was hard-won, torturous.
A couple of times, they had to stop while G'lann got his
bearings. Vidar found himself longing for the volcanic heat
of Nidavellir after a while.

Finally, they took shelter in the lee of a naked rock,
worn smooth by the winds of countless winters. They
leaned against the rock or just slumped down, exhausted.

"Damn!" said G*lann. "I can't see three feet ahead of
me in this stuff."

"You're not lost, are you?" asked Vidar.

194

The Seekera and the Sword 195

G'lann's elvish eyes flashed. "No," he snapped. Then his
blunt angry features relaxed. "But there's no point in
trying to make any headway while the storm keeps up."
He shook his head in frustration and spat into the snow.
"Our only consolation is that Skir'nir must contend with
the same storm farther down the mountain."

There was a miserable silence.

"Anyone know any good songs?" asked Vidar. He
looked around at the dour faces of his companions. No one
seemed to be volunteering. "Oh, well," he said. "I tried."

"You find this humorous?" asked H'limif. "I'm half-
frozen, my stomach's forgotten what food might be and my
legs don't have the strength to carry me. I don't find that
funny. But then," he said, "I'm no Aesirman."

"And if you were," said Ullir, "you'd feel about the
same."

H'limif scowled.

The storm did not let up until late afternoon. G'lann led
them out from behind the rock and up the snow-clogged
mountainside. It was strangely quiet all of a sudden, for
the wind was off howling somewhere in the distance. The
sounds of their boots scraping on rock and crunching
crusts of frozen snow seemed unnaturally loud.

G'lann stopped abruptly. His lips were pressed together
in a thin white line of concentration.

"What is it?" asked Sif.

Her brother shook his head. "It does not look familiar.
Where is the cut that Skifnir described?"

NTnorr hissed, and when Vidar turned to see what that
was about, he saw the elf point to something. It was a dark
figure, silhouetted where the mountain bulked against the
sky. Vaguely man-shaped, but sitting low against the
ground like a beast. It was strange that Vidar could not see
it better at this distance, but he could not seem to define it
as it crouched there. Yet it may have wanted to be seen, for
it did not run away. Finally, after G'lann and Sif began to
approach the thing, it disappeared over a rise.

196 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

G'lann stopped, unsure of whether it would be wise to
follow it. Sif, too, paused.

But Vidar strode past them. "Come on," he said. "I
think it wants us to follow. And since memory seems to
have failed you, G'lann. I suggest we do that."

The elfiord frowned. "Aye," he said. "We'll follow.;'

So they made their way over the rise, and it brought
them to a place where the mountain seemed to have split at
the seams. It was like the fissure in which they'd spent the
night, but it was deeper, and it ran as far up the slope as
the eye could see.

"There's your cut," said Var'kald, Unless I'm
mistaken,"

A smile slid across G'lann's face. "Then I wasn't too far
off, after all," he said. With new vigor, he tramped over
the frozen ground and lowered himself into the ravine. The
others followed.

But the strange being that had found their way for them
was nowhere to be seen. Again he'd vanished—if it was a
"he," Vidar mused.

In less than an hour, they lost the light, and had to stop
for the night. But they found that this vast crevice was not
a bad place to sleep. It was mostly dry and free of snow at
its deepest point, and with a small fire they'd made with
the last of their kindling wood, they came as close to
comfort as they could have hoped.

"Who could that have been?" wondered Eric out loud.
He sat huddled in his cloak next to Vidar.

"I don't know," said Odin's son, peering into the dark,
cloud-strewn heavens. "But he may be on our side. It's as if
he knew we were lost and led us to this cut."

"Then he must know where we're going," said Var*kald.
who sat opposite Vidar.

"Aye," said Eric. "At least he's not trying to stop us."

A few minutes later, they heard the howling of a wolf.

"Wonderful." said Var'kald. "Just what we-ni

"Damn them." said Eric. "I'm hungry, too."

The Seekers and the Sword

197

Vidar stared into the flames of their little fire and pulled
his cloak closer to him. Where were the others now? Vali
and Modi? How had they fared in whatever world they'd
entered? What had they found there—one of Odin's
armies, waiting to ambush them? And would they be
resting any better tonight if they knew that Odin was on
this mountain, racing with Vidar and Magni's heirs for the
sword of Frey?

Were they even alive?

Vidar's thoughts turned then to Hoenir, and Odin's
boast that his brother would become his ally soon. Not a
pleasant thought now, with Hoenir somewhere below them
in the mountains. Vidar scowled involuntarily. What if
Hoenir had swallowed Odin's argument? What if the
boast in Utgard had been true, and the Lord of the Ravens
had won his brother over?

Then they might win the sword, but they'd not hold it
for long. Odin and Skir'nir would find them and there'd be
no Hoenir to save their skins. Not even Vidar could unlock
the sword's power instantly. It would take days, at the very
least. Without their army, they'd be easy pickings, and
Odin would get the sword after all.

It would be so easy. All Hoenir would have to do was
take his time, and everything else would take care of
itself....

Wearily, Vidar put the thought from him. He had
remembered how to mistrust too well. Even now, Hoenir
was probably cursing him as he pressed his army up the
mountain in pursuit of Skir*nir. Perhaps he'd already
caught up to him. Perhaps he and his brother, the All-
father, had already met in battle.

But that was not a particularly encouraging thought,
either. One never counted Odin out. He always had a
dagger or two up his sleeve.

In time. Vidar drifted off to sleep, vaguely unsettled by
the mournful call of the wolf.

198 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

But his turn to stand watch came in the hours before
dawn. Eric woke him as gently as he could.

Var'kald stood guard with him. The elfs eyes were'dim
and lusterless in the predawn darkness.

"If I don't eat something soon, I'm not going to make it
much farther," said Var'kald. "I mean that." He rubbed
his shoulder where the arrow had pierced it, and worked
his arm around in its socket.

Vidar shrugged. They were down to quarter-rations
now, but there was no point in complaining about it.
"Maybe our luck will change and we'll find a herd of goats
today." He sighed. "Maybe."

"Of course," said Var'kald. "They're just waiting for us
around the next outcropping." They had not seen a goat
yet.

When the sky had turned a crystalline blue, they set off
again. At least there was not much snow in the crevice to
slow them down. But the path was steep sometimes, and
narrow at others, and there were rocks underfoot that had
slid into the cut during avalanches.

Sometime around midmorning, they found a carcass
lying in their path. It was a goat—with a shaft protruding
from the side of its neck. The blood that trickled from its
wound seemed not quite dry. Wordless, Vidar laid his hand
on its hide. The body was still warm.

"Aha!" cried H'limif. "Our friend has served us well,
whoever he is."

"But we have no wood left," said Var'kald.

"Your pardon," said Ar'on, "but what's this?" For a bit
farther up the defile, a stack of kindling and a couple of
stouter branches awaited their pleasure.

G'lann plucked the arrow from the creature's neck and
inspected it, turning it over in his hands. He looked at Sif.
"I've never seen these markings before," he said. "Nor this
kind of notching."

Sif took it from him and scrutinized it. Shrugging, she
gave it back. "Not Skir'nir's arrow, at least.'*

The Seekers and the Sword

199

"Come on," said Eric. "If our benefactor has been good
enough to provide, the least we can do is eat."

Sif smiled at him. "Aye," she said. "We can do that."

After they'd skinned, roasted and divided up the beast,
however, Vidar wasn't sure that he didn't feel worse than
before. The meat had been enough to start his digestive
juices flowing, but not enough to satisfy even his shrunken
stomach.

They started off again around noon. By the time the
afternoon's brilliance had begun to fade, they had emerged
from the cut onto a broad, gentle slope. Vidar looked
around them and saw the vast bulks of the other mountains
in the range. The air was frigid here, and the wind was
starting to pick up again. There were no forests up this
high, only rock and glacier that sprawled about them like
gray-and-white tigers.

"We'll reach the sword sometime tomorrow," said
G'lann, gazing at the peaks beside Vidar.

Odin's son looked up the mountainside. "Looks like
rough going," he said. "Wouldn't it be better to stay in the
cut another night?"

G'lann shook his head, resolute. "We don*t know how
close Skir'nir may be—and we've still got to go back down
the mountain. Lower down, there are other ways home.
But if he catches us up here, there's only one path." He
paused, eyes narrowing. "A little haste will stand us in
good stead later."

It made sense. Vidar nodded. "Okay," he said. "Lead
on, Macduff."

G'lann looked at him strangely, but he led. There was
only one direction in which they could travel, and that led
them on a course around the shoulder of the mountain.
Little by little, their path narrowed until it became nothing
more than a ledge. Then the ledge itself narrowed, and
they had to walk sideways, hugging the stone wall of the
mountain to keep from slipping off.

The farther they went. the more tenacious grew the

200 MICHAEL JAN PRIEDMAN

wind. Vidar looked over his shoulder into an abyss so deep
that the failing light could not find its bottom. Fierce blasts
of frozen air threatened to sweep them off their 'feet,
polishing the ice underfoot until it shone up at them like a
flawless mirror.

Vidar pressed his face and shoulders into the side of t^ie
mountain, cursing, though the wind swept his invectives
away before even he could hear them. Beyond G'lann, the
elvish sun settled into a glorious miasma of green-gold and
fiery red light.

But he could not pause to enjoy it. The wind stabbed
him all over, disregarding the garb he wore. The ledge
narrowed perilously to just a couple of feet and he held his
breath before each sidling step.

Someone called out. Vidar looked back and saw a dark
object plummet from the ledge into the chasm. He dreaded
to find out who the victim had been.

"It's all right," came Sits voice, strangely loud in a
sudden lull. "It was just a stone." Vidar breathed a sigh of
relief-
He took another step—and a section of ledge broke off
beneath him. He felt himself falling. He might have cried
out. Wildly, he groped for something to hang on to, but his
fingers found no purchase in the stone.

Something rushed up to smash against him. He still held
on to the tatters of consciousness, staving off horror with
little luck. He was falling, the world rising around him in a
blur of white—and he was too dazed to try to stop himself.
Death was moments away. Somewhere deep within him-
self, he accepted that. But somewhere else, he refused to
believe it—fought it tooth and nail.

Suddenly, there was a bone-shattering impact. His skull
seemed to rattle for a long time with the force of it. His
lungs were a vacuum, the air gone from them,- and with
whatever life he had left, he sucked desperately to fill them
again. But it hurt too much.

Darkness took him,

XXII

At first, he didn't know where he was or how he had
gotten there. But he wasn't dead. There was enough sense
left in his head for him to know that, at least. It was
enough. More than enough. But he was hurt—bones bro-
ken, maybe, for the pain was excruciating and everywhere.
He heard himself whimper. There was a taste of blood in
his mouth and he spat it out. but it went no further than
his beard.

How long had he lain here?

He was still, unmoving, trying to remember why he
should want to move—until the first needlelike tendrils of
cold seeped into his flesh. Then—gingerly, for the pain was
terrible—lie tried to roll over onto his side. He groaned. He
rolled, felt the snow sting his cheek.

For a while he lay there like that. gathering his wits. He
told himself that if he did not move, he would die. His body
didn't seem to care. It was too battered to make the effort.

In time. the pain grew even worse—but it also became

301

202 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

more isolated. His legs were damaged, both of them—
though how badly, he could not tell. There were no bones
protruding—something to be thankful for. One of his arms
was broken. The other one was only bruised, more than
likely. And he had suffered a concussion—he knew the
symptoms well enough from healing others.         ,

But his spine was intact. Perhaps the snow had cush-
ioned his fall. Perhaps he'd struck a few other things on the
way down—he seemed to remember something like that.

Then it came back to him. The others. The ledge. In his
mind's eye, he saw it give way beneath his feet again, felt
himself casting around for something to hang on to. So
that's how it had happened.

He wondered again—how long had he lain here? A few
minutes? Hours?

How far had he dropped? Would the others be able to
fish him up as they had in Nidavellir?

He knew the answer even before his mind asked the
question. He had fallen too far. No one would turn back
from the sword-quest to look for him. It was only luck that
had enabled him to survive the fall, luck beyond telling.
Even Eric and N'arri would have given him up for dead.
And if not—if they clung to the slim chance that he*d
survived—how would they find him in this vastness of
snow and rock?

There was only one hope for him, and it lay twisted into
his Aesir blood, as runes are twisted into the iron of a
sword. In each of Odin's kin, there was a vitality—a
wellspring of strength and power, the source of their
immortality. He could tap that source, heal himself. Slow
his blood down to a crawl in his veins.

But still, it would take time... and there was more than
the cold to worry about. There were the wolves.

It was his only hope. He took it. He tapped the spring,
and the world slowed down. But his mind remained alert, a
kernel of now in a field of forever.

Time passed, flowing evenly like a river. A long river.

The Seekers and the Sword

203

Suddenly he heard a sound.

A voice? There—again. It was a voice. Or was he
imagining it in his blue-black depths?

No. There was someone there. But who? Slowly, like a
great, lazy serpent, he pulled himself forth from the muck
of his self-induced hibernation. Who was it? His compan-
ions, come to get him after all? He regained normal time.
The pain came back in a wave, forcing a cry from his
throat. He fought it, tried to prop himself up on an elbow.
Did it, though agony shot up his arm.

"Stay where you are," said someone close to him. He
opened his eyes and saw the face that hovered over him. It
was a narrow face, but fair. An elvish face beneath its pale
mane. Then he saw the length of sword that ended beneath
his chin, and he knew the face was not a friendly one.

It took only a moment before he guessed who it might
be. His voice was only a harsh whisper. "Skir'nir," he
croaked.

"He's hurt, my lord," said another voice.

The elf's eyes searched his own, then considered the rest
of his body. "Aye," he said. "You're right." He looked
skyward. "He must have fallen—but how? Magni's Aesir
friends were days behind us when we went through Lofni
Pass."

He looked back to Vidar and withdrew his sword,
sheathing it. "I thought you asleep," he said. "But I see
that I was wrong." He fell silent for a moment, considering
his enemy. "How?" he asked then. "How did you reach
the peaks ahead of me?"

Vidar said nothing—not because he thought Skir'nir
could use the information- It was too late for that. But he
sensed that the elf might allow him to live if his curiosity
was left unsatisfied.

Skir'nir stood. "N'orrat," he said, looming against the
sky, "we'll take him with us."

"But my lord," said the other lyos, "it's hard enough to
drag our own carcasses through these mountains."

204 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

"Aye," said Skir'nir. "I know. But I want him taken
along."

The other elf stifled a protest. There were other voices,
then hands—careful hands—that lifted him off the ground
and placed him on a litter of some sort. He felt a weight on
top of him. Something soft. Cloaks? Were they piUng
cloaks on top of him? It was a pleasant thought. A warm
thought,

An urgent need for sleep came over him, and he yielded
to it. Some time later, he woke and saw a fiurry of slim,
pale figures around him. Vidar raised his head—and
clenched his jaw as he paid the price for that exertion—to
see if Skir'nir was among them. He was not. He must have
been farther ahead.

And where was Odin? Why did he not come to gloat
over his son's broken body? Perhaps he had gone ahead of
the lyos, to pick out the quickest way for them. Did he
know what kind of prize his friend Skir'nir had found?

The cloaks that the elves had laid upon him had melted
the cold in his bones, while his body drew upon its blood-
magic to heal itself. Bones had begun to knit, flesh to scab
and re-form- But he still had a long way to go.

Again, he gave way to sleep. He dreamed of snowfields
turned red with blood, though he did not know whose.

When he opened his eyes, shivering despite the cloaks, a
shard of azure sky had lodged among the ice-white peaks.
He was no longer being borne by the elves, but had been
placed on the ground. Instinctively, he tried to sit up, but
the pain caught him halfway and brought him down again.
He lay there grinding his teeth together as the agony
subsided. Then, carefully, he rolled over onto his side and
watched the elves make camp.

He felt as if he'd been hit by a subway train. His head
throbbed, his neck was stiff and his body ached. But the
pain was not as terrible as when he'd first woken up to find
himself alive. Tentatively, he moved his broken arm. It
hurt, but it was tolerable. He tried his legs. They too

The Seekers and the Sword

205

moved, one at a time—but the shoots of fire that climbed
the length of them made him stop.

Be thankful for smalt favors, he told himself.

A voice called, cold and clear in the mountain air. Then
another, as a small fire was built against the coming of
dusk. Vidar could see less than a score of the lyos gather-
ing kindling and bringing out provisions from their belts.
But where were the rest of them? According to G'lann,
Skir'nir had started out with hundreds. Had he sent some
of his troops back toward Hargard once he'd gained the
pass—or perhaps left them at Lofni, to guard his return?
There was another possibility, Vidar mused. But he
couldn't believe that the elf had lost so many of his troops
in the mountains.

As he watched, two fur-cloaked figures approached him.
His heart thudded when it came to him that one of them
might be Odin—but no, both were too slim. As they came
close, he could see that one of them was Skir'nir, and the
other N'orrat, who'd protested bringing Vidar along.
N'orrat hung back while the rebel lord sat beside the
Aesirman.

This time, Vidar could discern the hardship and depri-
vation in Skir'nir's hollowed cheeks, the worry that
weighed on his brow. The elvish eyes glittered like ice-
chips.

"You feel better," said Skir'nir. It was a statement.

"Somewhat," said Vidar. But his voice was still thin, a
harsh whisper. It was shocking to hear himself.

The lyos paused for a moment. "Munarvag, wasn't it?
You came through Nidavellir."

The jig was up. "Aye," said Vidar.

Skir'nir nodded. "I should have guessed that G'iann
would try that. Why didn't I think of it?" He considered
Vidar for what seemed like a long time. "Was Sifwith you
as well?"

"Aye," said Vidar again.

"And Hargard? Have you taken it back with your

206 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

armies from Asaheim?" Skir'nir's voice was full of
bitterness,

"Don't know," said Vidar. "Not yet—when we left."

The lyos smiled a thin smile. His pale hair caught the
last light of the sun, reflected off the walls of snow. "You
know who I am, I see."                          .,

"Aye," said Vidar.

Silence.

"Tell me ofSif," said the elf. "OfG'lann. Do they live?"

"They live," Vidar whispered.

"And they hate me?" asked Skir'nir.

Vidar wet his lips with his tongue.

"N'orrat," called the elf. "Some water here."

The other lyos brought over a bladder half-full of water
and handed it to Skir'nir. He let the liquid fall on Vidar's
lower lip, a few drops at a time, but half of it ran down the
side of his face. Suddenly, with a great effort, Vidar raised
himself on an elbow.

"More," he wheezed. "If you don't mind."

Skir'nir put the skin to Vidar's lips and let the water
spill out slowly. The Aesirman drank. When he was fin-
ished, he took a deep breath.

"Aye," he said. "They hate you."

"They would," said the elf. "Especially after the battle
at Ar'vid's farm. G'lann was there, wasn't he?"

Vidar nodded.

"But you say he survived," said Skir'nir. "Good. In all
the confusion, I could not be sure." His eyes narrowed.
"And how many days from the Nidavellir gate when you
fell?"

Vidar said nothing. That was information that he could
perhaps use to trap G'lann and the others on their way
down.

Skir'nir smiled again. "Keep it to yourself, then." He
started to get up.

"Wait," said Vidar. It was a sound like wind in a hollow
tree.

The Seekers and the Sword 207

The elf sat again.

"Ygg," said Vidar. "Where is he?"

Skir'nir laughed, a short, ugly sound. "Where indeed?
Why don't you ask Magni?"

With that, he rose and walked off. "See that he gets
something to eat," he told N'orrat, handing him the water
bag. Then he went to help with the cooking preparations.

Ask Magni? How would Magni know where Ygg was?
Unless...

N'orrat left and came back a short time later with the
food. First, he lowered the leather water sack from his
shoulder and put the opening to Vidar's mouth. The water
was ice-cold and it burned his throat, but it felt like life
itself as it coursed through his flesh. Vidar drank hungrily,
like a babe at his mother's breast.

"All right, that's enough—take a breath, damn you,
before you finish the whole thing." N'orrat finally tugged
the water bag out of Vidar's mouth. He eyed the Aesirman
with unconcealed hatred. "It's a mystery to me why
Skir'nir wants you alive at all—but you'll get what you
need. Just be patient.'*

Vidar gulped down the last mouthful of water, took a
breath and coughed. The ribs on his right side, where he
lay, felt as if someone were driving nails into them.

N'orrat reached into a pouch and took out a graincake.
"Eat it slowly," said the elf. "Or you'll choke on it."

It was only then that Vidar realized how hungry he was,
Even a graincake looked good to him. He nibbled at it and
chewed carefully, knowing what kind of agony awaited if
he began to cough again. More than likely, he'd cracked a
couple of ribs, too.

When he'd taken the edge off his hunger, Vidar put his
hand up, "Okay," he said. "For now."

"Okay?" echoed N'orrat. "You Aesirmen speak strangely.
That's a word I've never heard even in Asgard." He paused
when he saw Vidar react to that. "Aye, I've been in your
fabled city. But I'd rather be here in Alfheim. I'd sooner

208 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

risk my life here in the mountains and take my chances
with the wolves than live a day in Asaheim—wondering
when I'll find a dirk in my back."

Vidar started to shrug, then stopped. It hurt too much.

N'orrat glared at him, his eyes filled with an angry
green sea. "Aren't there enough worlds to feast on without
having to turn toward this one? And Magni, our king—
hah! When Asgard wanted to make us its slaves, did he
stand in the way? No. He lent his sword to the slave-
makers. If there was any doubt as to where his allegiances
lay, there's none now, is there?"

Vidar did not answer. He didn't know what to say—out
he listened, for the questions were most interesting.

"We knew your plans," said N'orrat. "That's why we
were able to take Hargard in time—and to harass you at
the gorge, until we had enough time to reach into the
mountains for the sword." He spat. "For all the good it did
us. G'lann was more clever than I gave him credit for.'*

N'orrat stood. For a moment, Vidar feared the thoughts
behind those elvish eyes. If N'orrat had wanted to harm
him, there was little he could do to prevent it. But after a
moment, the elf just walked away.

He left Vidar much to ponder. He was still pondering
when the heavens became a trembling wash of bright stars.
Finally, he slept, but his dreams were troubled. He saw
himself at the foot of Valaskjaiff, Odin's dark tower in
Asgard. He climbed the nine hundred steps, sword drawn,
and it seemed to take an eternity. But in time he reached
the topmost floor, where it was said that Odin kept his
ravens, his pitch-black warbirds, in great cages of yellow
gold. Yet when Vidar gained his father's study, there were
no ravens and no cages. He heard a scream and he whirled,
and there was Odin—but only for a moment. For even as
Vidar slashed at him with his blade, his father disap-
peared. A black flutter at the single wide window caught
his eye, and he turned back in time to see a raven dart into
the brooding sky.

The Seekers and the Sword

209

Then the tower crumbled. Vidar cried out...

... and found himself ranting at the elvish morning.
There was the padding of footsteps and Skir'nir knelt over
him suddenly, concern etched into his face.

When he saw Vidar's eyes open, he asked, "What ails
you?"

Vidar shook his head. "It's nothing."

The elf started to rise.

"Wait," Vidar said. His voice was a little stronger than
the night before and some of his smaller pains had left
him. "Take a moment to talk to me, my lord."

"Your lord?" asked Skir'nir. "That's the first time an
Aesirman ever hailed me that way."

"There's a first time for everything," said Vidar. "I
think I'm beginning to see the truth of this war for the first
time."

Skir'nir's brows curled. "What do you mean? You
Aesirmen should know this war better than anyone—you
planned it."

Vidar shook his head. "No. No matter what you may
think, Asgard had no hand in this."

"Indeed," said Skir'nir, his voice tinged with mockery,
"And that's why we found you and your allies in the
gorge—because you have no designs on Alfheim."

"That was no invasion," Vidar insisted. "We came to
stop Ygg. You know him?"

"Aye," said Skir'nir, his lips drawing back like a wolfs.
"I know him. I caught him plotting with Magni—over-
heard their plans, their Aesir intrigue. And when I con-
fronted Magni—my ... my father—with the knowledge,
he had me seized for treason. It was only with the help of
friends that I escaped Hargard. Otherwise, Alfheim would
have been in chains by now. And you," he said, loathing
rising in his voice, "have the gall to tell me there was to be
no invasion."

Vidar sighed. This would not be easy. "To begin with,"
he said, "Ygg is my enemy. He's Asaheim's enemy. He's

210 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

your enemy and G'lann's enemy. If he arranged an inva-
sion, neither 1 nor the forces I led into Alfheim are part of
it."

Skir'nir's eyes narrowed. "K»u led?" He regarded Vidar
for a long moment. "Then you are not some common
soldier, eh? Who are you?"                       -.

Vidar decided to tell the truth. It might not hurt his
credibility to have some credentials right now.

"My name is Vidar. Odin's son, late of Midgard."

"Ahh," said Skir'nir, his eyes dancing. "Then that
explains how you lived through that fall—and why ypur
strength is returning so quickly. You're Odin's kin, like my
accursed father."

"Listen," said Vidar. "If Magni has thrown in with
Ygg, I'll stand in line behind you to curse him- But you
must believe that Asaheim had no part in this plot."

The elf scowled. "All right," he said. "I'm listening."

"When we heard that there was a rebellion in Alfheim,"
said Vidar, "we believed that Ygg was behind it, and that
Magni was a victim of it. We brought an army into
Alfheim to save this world—not to conquer it."

Skir'nir said nothing, so Vidar went on. "Sif told me
that you had overthrown Magni, so I thought that you had
become Ygg's ally. It was only when I asked you where
Ygg was, and you told me to ask Magni, that I started to
have my doubts. I put the pieces together, and now I know
why you launched the rebellion. We should be friends,
Skir'nir—allies, not enemies."

The elf took a moment to digest that. "But why should I
believe you?" he asked. "You're an Aesirman."

"There's no reason you should," said Vidar. "Other than
the fact that I'm telling the truth. In your place, I'd be
wary, too."

Vidar felt his strength starting to ebb, but he went on.
He could sense that Skir'nir's defenses were crumbling.

"Let me tell you something about Ygg," said Vidar.
"All he wants is destruction, and he doesn't care what its

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211

trappings are. He's insane, but he's clever. If he enlisted
Magni's aid to enslave the lyos, he had one of two things in
mind. Either he wanted Magni to start a war and win—or
he wanted him to start a war and lose."

The elf's face changed as he listened. His brow furrowed
and his nostrils flared. Behind the green eyes of which Frey
had loved to sing, there was realization. Also anger—and a
little shame.

"I see what you're saying," said Skir'nir. "That by
launching the rebellion. I've been his tool as much as if I
had stood by and done nothing."

"Yes," said Vidar. "Exactly."

"But why would this Ygg want destruction for destruc-
tion's sake? Surely there's more in this for him?"

"No," said Vidar. "As I said—he's insane."

"Perhaps Magni is insane, too, in his way," said the
lyos. "After my foster mother's death, he became unfit to
rule in Alfheim. When it came down to it, I think, he was
no elf—and bereft of his elvish wife, he cared nothing for
Alfheim's welfare. There were petty cruelties against those
he liked least, and injustices against those who opposed
him in council."

Skir'nir's eyes flashed. "But I tell you, Aesirman—I
would never have raised my sword against him until I saw
him whispering with Ygg. I would have found some other
way to rouse the lyos against him—but not by the sword."

"Sif said that you had spent a lot of time in the hills—
that you acted strangely after your foster mother's death."

"Aye," said Skir'nir. "I was measuring the force of
sentiment against the king. It was no secret that I'd spoken
ill of Magni in the halls of the hill lords. But it was not war
I was stirring—only an alliance that could make him earn
his throne or yield it up. That was all."

The elf paused. "When I learned the truth—caught
Magni conspiring with the stranger that he called Ygg—I
went straight to the hill lords. One called F'orri summoned
the others and we decided to move quickly against Har-

212 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

gard. Nor could I have trusted G'tann and Sif with our
plan. Their blood-tie would have kept them from seeing
the truth. They would have given me away to Magni, then
tried to shield me from his wrath."

"And what about Magni? Does he live?"

The elf looked at him strangely- "Of course he lives.
How could I have put him to the sword—no matter what
he'd done? He was wounded in defense of Hargard, but I
gave strict orders not to slay him. He sits in a dungeon,
contemplating his mistakes."

"And we," said Vidar, "have mistakes to contemplate,
too. I brought an army here after Ygg—fought through
Nidavellir to come after you, thinking you were m this
together with him—and now I don't even know if he's in
Alfheim."

It was a hollow feeling, to have come so far along on this
trail, and at such great expense, only to find that Odin had
played him for a fool. Vidar thought of Jam and, Hymir,
Gunnar and Tyrfingur, E'lig and Usk'ur and the others
whose names he had never learned. Dead—and for what?
Because Vidar had been deceived by a mask left in the
cavern above Asgard, and the news that giants had stolen
through the gate to Alfheim.

Anger rose in Vidar like bitter gall. He'd add those
names, then, to Stim's, and feed the slow fire of his ven-
geance. Odin would not escape him forever.

And where was Odin? If not in Atfheim, what other
world? With what purpose?

"I am glad I let you live," said Skir'nir. "My first
inclination was to kill you where I found you, after what I
thought your kind had done to us. And because of the
anger I felt when I realized G'lann had beaten me to the
sword." He paused thoughtfully. "But then, my struggle
was over then, wasn't it? I'd lost. And besides, I was more
than a little curious about how G'lann and Sif had over-
taken me."

"I wondered about that," said Vidar. "Your letting me

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213

live, I mean. After what I'd seen near Ar'vid's farm, I
wasn't sure what to expect."

Skir'nir's jaw clenched and his temples worked. "Aye,"
he said finally. "Ar'vid's farm."

"Was it necessary to kill so many?" asked Vidar.
"Couldn't you have just scattered them?"

Skir'nir's nostrils flared. "I would not have killed any—-
if it could have been avoided. I had no idea that there was
to have been such a gathering, Aesirman—I swear it."

He paused, "I was on my way to Lofni Pass and the
mountains, thinking that all resistance against me would
be centered around Hargard. By the time I saw the crowd
that had come together near Ar'vid's land, it was too late
to go another way. G'lann's archers fired on my riders, and
they responded by riding down into the gathering, swords
drawn. They were hard-pressed, for it was only a small
portion of my troops I'd taken with me. I could not let
them fight without me."

The muscles in Skir'nir's jaw rippled. "With every
farmer I slew, 1 told myself that it was the price of finding
the sword. Afterward, Aesirman; I had time for regrets, as
after the battle for Hargard. But that was afterward."

Vidar nodded. Fatigue was climbing all over him, but he
staved it off, "We knew you'd gone after the sword," he
said. "G'lann saw you head in that direction, and he
guessed your intention."

The elf frowned. "Prey's sword was only to have been
used in the direst need—that was the warning that the first
Skir'nir gave to his son, when he told him where it was
hidden. An invasion of Alfheim—an Aesir invasion—
seemed to me to be such a need."

How blind they'd all been, Vidar mused. Even him.

"And now," said Odin's son, "G'lann will find the
sword, and he'll be ready to use it against your armies. If
we don't stop him, he'll carry out Ygg's plan as surely as
you would have, without knowing it."

"Then we must stop him," said Skir'nir, "After I found

214

MICHAEL JAN FRIEbMAN

you, I continued my quest for the sword with only the
slimmest hope that G'lann would lose his way—or never
reach it. It was a painful hope, believe me. Now I have
another reason for pursuing him."

"Aye," said Vidar. "Perhaps between the two of us, we
can convince him of the truth—before he takes your head

off."
"That," said the elf, "would be my preference."

XXIII

Skir'nir's lyos bore Vidar through narrow corridors in
the frozen rock, tilting him this way and that as the
passages turned and twisted. After a time, the terrain
began to look familiar. When he saw the jumble of boul-
ders at the foot of a long slope, he knew why. They were
passing the place where he'd emerged from Nidavellir.

Skir'nir came up beside him. "This is the gate to
Nidavellir, is it not?"

"Aye," said Vidar. "We blocked it to cut off pursuit.
Perhaps you can roll some of the rocks away."

Skir'nir shook his head. "They would have turned back
by now." He smiled. "They followed you all the way to this
gate, eh?"

"Yes," said Vidar. "A brave bunch."

"And how many days did you put between you and the
gate before you fell? You can tell me now, can't you?"

Vidar strove to remember. "Between four and five. And

215

216

MICHAEL JAN FRDEDMAN

I recall that G'lann said we had another day to go from
there."

Skir'nir surveyed the long slope, blinding white beneath
the elvish sun. The sky was a dark blue, filled with tattered
banners of cloud. "Then G'lann may bear the sword
already," he said. "We may meet him anywhere from-Ahis
point on up."

They climbed the slope, shielding their eyes from its
splendor. In time, they passed the copse of birch and alder
where Vidar and his companions had slept in the shelter of
huge, egg-shaped boulders—and where the wolf had
attacked Ar'on. Though the light was starting to fade,
Skir'nir pressed them to go on.

The next time Skir'nir chose to walk beside his litter,
Vidar mentioned the incident with the wolf. The elfs
slanted, oval eyes went cold at the warning.

"We have had our own trouble with the wolves," said
Skir'nir. "Hardly a night has gone by when one' of the
beasts has not found a throat to rip out. That's why there
are so few of us now—the wolves, and the avalanche that
buried half my company just a few days before we found
you."

"How many did you start out with?" asked Vidar.

"After I'd sent most of my elves back toward Hargard?
I came through the pass at Lofni with nearly fifty. And
these," said Skir'nir, "are all I have left"

Just before the sky went dark, the wind became wild. It
drove the loose powder off the mountainside, stinging their
faces, blinding them. Vidar dug deeper into his covering of
fur cloaks and cursed himself for slowing Skir'nir down.
They'd have climbed the slope a lot faster if they hadn't
had to bear the litter.

Without the sun to warm them, it became colder and
colder, and the wind did not let up. If anything, it became
worse. Vidar began to shiver, even beneath all the cloaks.
He could only imagine what the others were enduring.

Finally, the slope leveled off and they stopped for a

The Seekers and the Sword

217

moment to rest. But only for a moment—long enough for
the litter to change hands. This time, Skir'nir himself was
one of those who lifted him. As they resumed their trek, he
shouted something to the Aesirman, but the wind stole his
words.

"What?" cried Vidar.

The elf leaned closer. "... reach the pine forest?" was
all Vidar could hear.

"A couple of hours," he answered, as loudly as he could.

The elf cursed. Vidar couldn't make out the words, but
he got the gist of it.

They labored against the fierce, slashing winds, beneath
stars that seemed to quiver with the cold. Vidar felt his
fingers and toes go numb. He saw the faces of the elves as
they turned toward him, and they were nearly scarlet. It
was scarcely believable that they still found the strength to
carry him.

The pine forest appeared an eternity later, first a vague
line of darkness behind the driving veil of snow, then a
thick, inviting margin of greenery. The elves collapsed as
soon as they were free of the wind. Vidar felt himself
lowered gently to the ground. Then he heard the groans of
his bearers as they straightened their backs.

In time, the lyos gathered enough small branches to get
a fire going, and one of them found a stout bough that had
fallen to the ground, Vidar was set down by the flames so
that he might benefit from them, and the others took turns
warming frozen hands and feet.

Skir'nir sat next to him and took out a couple of grain-
cakes. He gave Vidar one and munched on the other,
staring at something that he could not yet see.

"Listen," said Vidar, "you can leave me here. Just give
me some food and water, and the forest will keep me warm
enough until you get back."

.Skir'nir looked at him and frowned. "Aye," he said. "By
then the wolves will have picked your bones clean."

Vidar shook his head. "I slow you down too much. It

218

MICHABL JAN FREEDMAN

doesn't get any easier from here on. Just leave me—1*11 be
fine. You know how many tricks we Aesirmen have up our

sleeves."

Skir'nir grunted. "For a silver-tongued son of Odin,
you're not very convincing. Besides—I need you to vouch
for the truth of my story. How will I convince G,'iann

otherwise?"

There was some sense in that, Vidar admitted. But he
could not allow himself to be such a burden,

They all slept soundly, glad for the chance to let their
bones thaw. But Vidar slept more soundly than the rest,
drawing again on the magics in his blood. And if a wolf
had come upon them, he could have taken his pick.

XXIV

The sun rose too soon. They woke with the first light that
filtered through the trees and ate a hasty breakfast. Then
Skir'nir called for the journey to resume, and four of the
elves came over to lift Vidar on his litter.

"Wait a minute," said the Aesirman. With an effort, he
rolled over and got a knee underneath himself. Then he
wrestled his other leg into position, so that he was able to
raise himself on all fours.

He could hear the lyos murmur. He pushed up with his
hands until he was resting on his haunches.

N'orrat came to stand next to him. "What do you think
you're doing?" he asked. "You can't crawl all the way to
the sword."

"Don't intend to," said Vidar, letting himself get a little
angry at the elfs taunt. It would help to get his adrenaline
flowing. Then, with a loud grunt, he planted his right foot.
Pain tore at his knee and twisted up and down his thigh.

319

220 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

He planted the right foot, and wanted to cry out as his
nerves screamed in outrage.

Instead, he smiled. He was standing—not as steady,
perhaps, as the pine trees al! around him, but at least he
was on his feet.

Skir'nir stared at him. "You amaze me, Aesirman. Not
three days ago, we found you close to death—shattered.
And here you are ready to climb the mountain. Odin must
have been powerful indeed to have such sons."

"Hah," said Vidar. "You should have see Thor. He
would have hurt the mountain more than it hurt him"

Skir'nir crossed his arms on his chest, considering Vidar.
"It's a good thing for you," he said, "that I'm not so easily
deceived. You can't go very far—or very fast—for all your
bravado," He turned to one of the other lyos—the biggest
of them. "Why not give him some help, V'ili?"

The elf called V'ili walked over and threw Vidar's arm
over his neck. Vidar's legs were grateful for the support,
although he tried hard not to show it. "We'll move fast
enough," V'ili assured Skir'nir. "Even if I have to drag
him."

"Good," said Skir'nir, smiling grimly. "Then let's not
waste any more time."

Their boots crunched on the frozen carpet of pine nee-
dles. At first, Vidar found the going painful, even when the
ground was relatively level. Then he became accustomed
to moving his legs again, and the pain lessened. It felt as if
layer after layer of frost were cracking away from his
bones. By the time the afternoon wore thin, he was able to
walk by himself with a staff that V'ili had cut for him.

With sunset came a delicious fatigue. It had felt good to
walk again. He'd barely set aside his walking stick and
washed down his graincakes with a draught of cold water
before he fell asleep.-

Dawn found him even stronger. He felt as if he might
even throw away the staff—but he didn't, for he
remembered what kind of cruel terrain was still before

The Seekers and the Sword

221

them. Just before the sun reached its zenith, the forest
gave way to the cracked and crumbled mountainside that
Vidar had climbed once before.

The wind whistled around jagged upheavals of stone,
and the going was terribly slow. The ledges of sheer rock
were slippery with a thin layer of ice, and when they tried
to negotiate the snowdrifts, they sank in up to their arm-
pits. But they pressed ahead and were thankful for what
warmth the sun could give them.

When the light flared and died at the edge of the
mountain, they went on by starlight. Finally, they found
what Vidar knew was waiting for them—the long fissure in
which he'd slept only a handful of days ago. It still shel-
tered the ashes of his companions' fire. When he and his
new companions dropped into the cut, they found it
crowded, for Vidar had shared it with a smaller group last
time. But it held them all, and warmly, and the complaints
were few. It seemed that those who had to sleep the
farthest up the fissure groused the longest.

They heard wolves howling that night, and they were
not far off. Skir'nir posted a couple of sentries, but Vidar
didn't sleep well. He kept drifting off and starting awake,
teased by the fringe of sleep. He dreamed over and again
of the wolves that Loki had set loose on Vigrid. Every time
he shut his eyes, he could sense them, hunting him with
lolling tongues and devil's-fire eyes. When he woke the last
time, just an hour or so before dawn, his dream had been
so real that he looked at his hands—expecting to find the
beasts' dried blood there.

They left the fissure as soon as the sky lightened, before
they could even see the sun rise over the mountain. The
slope was steep, the ground underfoot a confusion of jag-
ged rocks and crevices, but at least there was no storm to
slow them up—for this was the place where Vidar's com-
panions had been forced to seek shelter. The sky was kind
to them that day, although the wind still etched its secrets
into their flesh.

222 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

When they reached the place where the mountain
seemed to have split at the seams, they dropped down
inside the seemingly endless ravine and stopped awhile to
eat, Skir'nir was the last to sit down, and he'd only accept
his portion of graincakes after he was sure everyone else
had had enough. It seemed that food was running low in
Skir'nir's company as well. Finally, Magni's foster son
hunkered down next to Vidar and chewed his meal in
silence.

"Seems to me we should have met G'lann by now," said
the Aesirman-

"Aye," said the elf, if distantly. "That's what I was
thinking." His deep, green eyes narrowed. "There's only
one way he could have gone—and this is it. If we have not
met him, it's because he has not yet descended with the
sword."

Vidar voiced the alternative. "Or never made it up."

Skir'nir nodded absently, intent perhaps on his recollec-
tions ofG'lann and Sif. "Or that," he conceded, wiping his
beardless mouth with the back of his hand.

"And there's something else," said Vidar. "When we got
to this spot before, G'lann and Sif were not sure of the
way. Someone—or something—showed it to us." Skir'nir
looked at him quizzically, his narrow face suddenly alive
with interest. Vidar went on. "It looked like you or I, from
a distance. But there was a vagueness about it, as if the
shadows were drawn to it. We couldn't tell what it was. But
later on, it brought us meat when we'd run out of food."

The elf shrugged, plainly at a loss. "Who could endure
this weather for very long? We elves moved out of the
mountains long ago, and none of us lived this high up
anyway. It's hard to believe that there's someone living
here now." He paused thoughtfully. "Are you sure that
you saw someone? The eyes can play tricks after staring at
slopes for a while."

Vidar shook his head. "Hallucinations don't leave their
arrows in the goats they've slain." He swallowed the last of

The Seekers and the Sword

223

his graincake. "And I wonder if this mystery man doesn't
have something to do with G'lann, and the fact that we've
not seen him. Just because this creature appeared benevo-
lent at first..."

"... doesn*t mean that his motives were snow-white,"
Skir'nir finished. "I see what you mean." His brow fur-
rowed. "If there is such a creature, then we've more than
wolves to be wary of—don't we?"

"Seems that way," said Vidar.

They went on. At times, the cut narrowed, so that they
had to proceed in single file. At other times the snow
became so deep that they had to wade through it, or a
rockslide humped up in their path. But there was no sign of
Vidar's mysterious benefactor—not even a goat slain for
their lunch.

Once Vidar slipped on some loose rocks and fell heavily.
For all his enmity, N'orrat was at his side in a moment,
-/   and V'ili right beside him.

Vidar cursed and brushed the snow off himself. He'd
reawakened the pain in his legs—something he'd hoped he
could forget. But he stood up nonetheless, shrugging the
elves off when they took his arms to help him climb.

"I'm not somebody's grandmother," he said, finding his
staff and planting it against the frozen ground. "You can
!   stop fussing over me."

But every time he negotiated a rough stretch of the
ravine, he found V'ili nearby, keeping a close eye on him.
Vidar could not help but smile. With enemies like these,
who needed friends?

Finally, they reached the end of the cut—but even
Skir'nir was not so headstrong that he would have gone on
in darkness. A thick blanket of clouds had moved in to blot
out the stars. The slope ahead seemed vague and feature-
less, dreamlike. They'd be unable to defend against
wolves—or anything else—even if they could see them in
time.

Vidar insisted that he stand one of the watches, Skir'nir

224 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

began to protest—but he was as tired as the rest of them,
and if the Aesirman had a death-wish, was it any of his
concern?

Vidar knew that he wouldn't be too much help against a
wolf attack, but his senses were still sharper than any elfs,
and he nrght be able to detect trouble before it was -too
late. Besides, V'ili would stand watch with him, and he
could hold off one of the beasts until help came.

The sky was dark, brooding, and the only sound was the
rush of the wind. There was something sad about the
enormity of these mountains, Vidar mused, something
ancient and apart.

He shifted his cloak on his shoulders. Perhaps the moun-
tains might have said the same about him.

He slid his fingers over the hilt of his sword, felt the
runes carved into the blade where it met the guard. He'd
not lost the sword in his fall. Of course not. There was
always a blade ready for him whenever the opportunity to
kill arose.

B'rannit had said that swords were not in themselves
evil. She'd said that though her people fashioned them, it
was other hands that turned them to a purpose. The hand
that held them was good or evil.

Vidar had resolved to turn a blade against his father,
even his brother, to stop the slaughter that Vali perpetu-
ated, What did that make his hands?

B'rannit—dark elfqueen. Even now, she drew his memo-
ries like a lodestone. Balm for his tortured dreams, cer-
tainty where he doubted, she was like no one he'd ever
known. Not in all the centuries of his youth in Asgard, not
in all the long years of his life on Earth. Even Alissa's fire
seemed small and sordid next to B'rannit's laughing eyes.
Vidar felt himself smiling.

He put the memory from him. B'rannit was a world
away and his business in Alfheim was far from finished.
There was still the matter of Frey*s sword to resolve, and
the war that ravaged the elfworld. But long after he'd

The Seekers and the Sword 225

turned his thoughts outward to scan the slope for stalking
shadows, he found that he was smiling still.

Then he sensed it—the sudden presence of wolf. Like a
scent on the wind, the brush of soft fur. Not one wolf, but
many. The hairs on Vidar's neck stirred. He strained to see
movement on the slope, but there was none.

Yet they were somewhere down there—so many of them
that their bloodred thoughts had been like a sudden elec-
tric shock to his wide-ranging Aesir consciousness. But
even then, he would not have noticed them if his senses had
not been extended, and the mountains so tranquil other-
wise. Even the powers of the Aesir had their limits.

He must have flinched or something, because V'ili
gripped his arm. "What is it?" asked the elf.

"Wolves," said Vidar. "Somewhere about."

V'ili scanned the mountainside. "I don't see them," he
said.

"No," said Vidar, offering no further explanation. The
lyos would chalk it up to Aesir witchcraft. "But it might
not be a bad idea to wake the others." He listened. Yes—
he could hear them now. A pack of them padding their
way up the slope.

V'ili roused the others. As Vidar heard the sounds of
Skir'nir's lyos reaching for their weapons, they seemed
distant, unreal. The more immediate, more tangible sound
was the soft crunching of the wolves' approach over the
brittle crust of the snowfields. They were still far off, but
headed this way- Their approach grew noisier with each
passing moment.

Heimdall would have heard them long before this, but
Heimdall had been better than radar. It used to be said in
Midgard that he could hear the grass growing before it
pricked the surface of the ground.

Skir'nir crawled up the wall of the ravine next to Vidar.
"What is it?'* he asked.

"Wolves," said Vidar. "You can't see them yet, but
they're coming. Trust me."

226 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

Skir'nir muttered something. Then, as they watched, a
scattering of tiny ruby-red fires appeared downslope. Like
hell's fireflies. Or the night-bright, knife-sharp eyes of
mountain wolves. The lyos fitted arrows to their bow-
strings—was there an elf alive that did not carry his bow
with him like another limb?—and waited for the creatures
to come within their range. The wolves moved slowly,
cautiously—as if they knew the elves had teeth and claws
of their own. But they did not stop. They spread out into
individual shadows, the red hunger in their eyes blinking
fiercely like beacons in a storm wind.

"N'orrat, K'alif, Im'u—shoot a single arrow at them,"
said Skir'nir. "Perhaps we can scare them off."

The lyos drew back their shafts and let them fly. One
struck a wolf full in the face, killing it instantly. It slumped
without a sound. But the others did not scatter. They only
froze for a moment—waiting to see if the barrage would
continue, it seemed. Then, just as slowly as before, they
advanced, their bellies grazing the hard surface of the
snow.

They were near enough now for Vidar to count them.
About a dozen—even odds. Again, a few of the elves took
aim and fired—this time, with no success. The wolves
crouched for a moment, lying low, then slunk closer. Bes-
tial thoughts of maddening hunger and imminent flesh-
rending beat at the fringe of Vidar's consciousness. And
something else—something he could not define, as if there
were another mind guiding these beast-minds. But who?
The shadow-being that had brought food when Vidar's
companions were hungry? If he'd helped G'lann, why
would he stand in Skir'nir's way?

Then there was no more time for speculation. Without
warning, the wolves attacked. They swarmed up the slope
and slithered into the ravine, silent but for their panting.
Their claws scraped against rocks and snow as they
sprang.

Vidar caught one with his staff while it hung in midair.

The Seekers and the Sword 227

The staff broke, but the creature dropped like a bag of
stones. An elf cried out and the sound became a thick,
gurgling noise as his throat was ripped open. His blood
turned the snow crimson as he died,

Swords struck flesh and bone, but in close quarters the
lyos had to be careful not to carve each other. Vidar saw
V'ili bury his blade in a gray hunter's shoulder. The
animal thrashed about for a moment, then fell still, adding
his life's blood to the palette of destruction.

Skir'nir fought beside Vidar, slashing at the beasts each
time they darted in. It took Odin's son a few moments to
realize that the elf was protecting him, and at the risk of
his own life. If there was anything Vidar hated, it was
someone risking their life to preserve his. He drew his
sword and tried to stand beside Skir'nir, but his legs were
still too weak to bear him well in battle.

Then he saw it—an attacker from behind. But the wolf
had sunk its fangs into Skir'nir's shoulder and borne him
down before Vidar could shout a warning-

Franticalty, he dropped the sword and flung himself at
the wolf. His fingers probed iron-hard muscle. With an
effort that plumbed the depths of his strength, he
wrenched the beast off Skir'nir. The animal writhed and
turned its head to snap at him. He flung it from him—but
not far enough. He stumbled. In a moment, it was at his
throat. He inserted his fingers in between its slavering jaws
and tried to thrust it away.

But he had no strength left. He should have been able to
pry those jaws apart and snap the wolfs mandibles at the
joint, but too much of his energy had gone into healing
himself. Bit by bit, the wolf forced its head down toward
Vidar's neck. He cursed himself for his feebleness, teeth
grinding. The beast's saliva dripped on his face, hot and
thick. Its growl became a roar as it gradually broke free of
his restraining fingers.

As he felt his arms go numb with exertion, Vidar saw
the irony—the great wolf-slayer of Ragnarok, slain by a

228 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

wolf. He could feel the pulse in his jugular where the beast
would sink its fangs....

But it seemed that it was not his day to die- There was a
sudden thud that made the wolf jerk away, its growl
become a whimper. Vidar looked up and saw Skir*nir, his
shoulder wet with gore, and his sword-edge no less bloody.
The wolf lay lifeless, slumped over Vidar's legs. He slith-
ered out from beneath the carcass as the elf, satisfied with
his handiwork, went looking for another beast to slay.

Then, as quickly as they'd attacked, they were gone—
low-lying shadows slinking away up the slope. But there
were fewer of them, for half the wolves had been cut down
by Skir'nir's band.

Nor had the lyos bought their lives cheaply. Four of
their companions lay stretched out against the walls of the
ravine, blood still running from the awful ruin of their
throats. And Skir'nir's left arm hung limp and useless
where the wolf had clamped its jaws onto his shoulder. He
sat down heavily, leaning back against a boulder, and laid
his sword upon the ground.

N'orrat shredded a cloak that one of the slain had worn
and bound Skir'nir*s wound with it. Vidar got to his feet
and staggered over to make sure that N'orrat knew what
he was doing. As it turned out, he did.

Skir'nir looked up at Vidar, flinching at N'orrat's minis-
trations. "Now we're both cripples," he said.

Vidar shook his head. "When N'orrafs got the bleeding
under control, 1*11 tend to you. Not all our Aesir tricks are
destructive."

"No," said Skir'nir. "I know of your healing—Magni
told me about it. But he also said that it saps your strength,
and you have little enough of that to begin with." He
winced. "Heal yourself if you can."

Vidar frowned. The elf was right, of course, but that
didn't ease the sting of his frustration. Healers healed—
they couldn't walk away from pain. It had been that way
since he'd developed the talent as a child.

The Seekers and the Sword

229

"When I get stronger," said Vidar, "you will, too."

"Aye," said Skir'nir, considering the carnage without
expression. "I'm countng on it- Ow! Must you be so
clumsy, N'orrat?"

"Quiet," said the elf, "or I'll sink my own teeth into
you."

In stone silence, they dragged the bodies of their com-
rades—as well as the carcasses of the wolves—out of the
ravine. But before Skir'nir left the dead to the mercy of the
elements^ he said something under his breath. It was not
quite a prayer—the lyos had no gods. But the effect was
the same.

With the morning came a light, windless snow that
muffled all sounds but that of their own breathing. They
trekked up a broad flank of the mountain, up to their knees
sometimes in snow. After a while, the stuff had caked so
thickly on Vidar's beard that he had to use the warmth of
his hand to melt it. He made his way without the staff now
and he missed it. But this part of the journey was not all
that difficult, as he remembered—and soon a staff would
not be of much use. The ledge from which he'd fallen was
not too far ahead.

Soon they came to the place where the slope narrowed
and began to wind around the side of the mountain. The
wind was more insistent here, but not as bad as the last
time. Bit by bit, the path became a ledge, and the ledge
diminished until the only way to go on was sideways.

This time, Vidar did not look down. He remembered the
abyss well enough without having to refresh his memory. It
didn't take long before his legs grew cramped and cold,
impatient at this slow, torturous progress. After what
seemed like a very long time, Vidar came to a break in the
ledge—a hiatus of not more than a couple of feet. He
considered it. It was the place where he'd fallen. Pressing
his face and shoulders into the icy rock, he stretched his
right foot out across the gap. Carefully, he planted it,

230 MICHAEL JAN FRffiDMAN

shifted his weight and stepped across. He went on without
looking back.

But there was still a long stretch of ledge before him—at
least fifty feet that he could see, and more around the
curve of the mountain. Vidar slid one foot after the other,
sometimes finding purchase in the rock with his fingers,
sometimes stopping when the elf ahead of him stopped.
The snow began to fall more heavily, disguising the cracks
and bulges in the rock, so that each step had to be felt
rather than seen.

Then the ledge widened and they were able to move
ahead with more certainty. It broadened into a steep
escarpment full of great boulders—which looked as if they
might tear loose from their moorings at any time and come
bounding down to crush them. They threaded their way
among these monsters, careful not to lean on any of them.
Vidar wondered how they had come to be here, frozen into
place.

It was at the top of this escarpment that Skir'nir called a
halt. The sun had not gone down yet, for the world was still
light. But he'd seen how tired his companions were.

"Tomorrow," said Skir'nir, when someone asked him
how far they were now from their goal.

Vidar hunkered down and surveyed the peaks that rose
all about them like the foundations of heaven. The air was
thinner here and colder. He watched his breath freeze in a
cloud of white vapor, rubbed his hands together to work
the numbness out of his joints.

Why was it that he could bend iron with his hands, heal
the infirm and shape men's volition like a puppeteer—but
when it came to heat and cold, he was as vulnerable as any
other creature? He spat.

Looking up, he saw Skir'nir coming over to sit by him.
The elf settled himself and was silent for a little while,
staring off into the rose-tinted sky in the west.

Finally, he spoke. "Still no sign of G'lann or Sif.

The Seekers and the Sword

231

Aesirman. Something must have happened to them.
Wolves, perhaps."

Nor had there been any survivors.

With some surprise, Vidar realized that he had accepted
that conclusion long ago.

•€

J''

XXV

Skir'nir spoke no more that day, nor the next morning,
when they found a path that twisted up through the
heights. They'd left the boulders behind them and only the
very peak of the mountain loomed ahead.

The elf mourned the loss of his sister and brother—it.
was plain in the dull cast of his eyes, the pallor in his face.
But at the same time, he must have felt a relief that there
was no longer a G'lann to carry out Odin's destruction

unawares.

What about the others—Eric, N'arri, UlHr? How had
they died? All together or separately? Had they even
made it past the ledge, or fallen as Vidar had? A lump
began to grow in his throat and he cursed softly.

More nightmares, more ghosts. After a while, what was
the difference?

But there was always a difference,

They trudged through snow, now deep, now shallow, but
a constant obstacle. The morning passed with eerie slow-

232

The Seekers and the Sword

233

ness and stretched out beyond noon, under a pale sun that
barely showed through the overcast. Without warning,
Skir'nir stopped.

He turned to the rest of them. "Here it is," he said-

Vidar looked over the elfs shoulder. The mountain
bulged up against the sky, featureless, blinding white even
in this weak sunlight. Was Skir'nir kidding? Then Vidar
saw it—a narrow cleft that might allow them through one
at a time- And beyond that—the sword.

There was no rush of joy, no cries of triumph. Just a
sodden silence, punctuated by the skirl of the wind. The
price they'd paid to reach this place had been too steep for
them to shout much.

Then there was a shout after all—but it could hardly be
described as triumphant. Skir'nir yelled again, his eyes
wide with apprehension. He pointed downslope.

Vidar turned. He saw what had made Skir'nir cry out.

The mountain had grown a shrugging, writhing skin of
gray fur- A river of wolves, running upstream- A sea. A
tidal wave.

They made for the notch in the mountain as if the beasts
were much closer than they were. Vidar scrambled as fast
as he could, but V'ili helped him along from behind with
frantic haste. When Vidar looked back, he saw that the
wolves were gaining on them.

If they could reach the cleft, they could defend it. The
wolves would have to come through one at a time, and they
could handle them that way. At least until their sword-
arms gave out. But they had to get there first.

Somewhere amid the adrenaline-rush of fear—for even
the Aesir feared, contrary to imperial propaganda—it
occurred to Vidar that wolves did not gather in such large
numbers. Nor did they hunt by day. There was someone
behind this—and Vidar hoped to survive long enough to
find out who it was.

Odin? Could he have pursued the sword alone? Vidar
slipped on some loose snow, righted himself and launched

234 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

his body up the slope. Then there was no more time for
speculation—the snarls were getting a little too loud
behind him.

The cleft stood above them, filled with a dark gray. sky.
The wind roared down the mountainside, a force that
threatened to pick them up and fling them down to,the
beasts below. Storm—Vidar sensed it as he had sensed the
wolf pack the night before last. He sniffed ozone on the air,
and in the east, he saw the first dark coils of a sky serpent
begin to sneak around the side of the mountain—irrefuta-
ble proof that this was no natural storm.

Odin. More and more, the evidence pointed toward him.

Clinging to the slope, Vidar waited a moment until the
wind died down, then chugged toward the cleft. Off to the
east, where the sky was darkening steadily, there was a
brief, threadlike flash of lightning. The thunder that fol-
lowed was more echo than anything else—but it was get-
ting closer.

Vidar drove himself. He climbed with hands and feet,
ignoring the pain such exertions brought. Wolves barked
behind him, closer than before, and he looked over his
shoulder to see Just how close they were. He turned and
strove against the rising storm.

Then Skir'nir, the foremost of them, slipped through the
notch. A second elf disappeared through the narrow open-
ing. A third.

Vidar could feel V'ili pressing him from behind. He
could hear the wolves' panting now, like a soughing of
branches in a sudden wind, and he lurched ahead.

Not much farther. A few yards. The furred tide of
beast-flesh behind him snarled and snapped, churning the
snow up. Vidar could almost feel their hot breath.

But he wasn't about to give up now—not with the
prospect of finding Odin so near at hand. With a last spurt,
Vidar flung himself headlong through the cleft like a
fullback diving between blockers. He made it through—

The Seekers and the Sword

235

sprawled in the snow, V'ili came through right behind him,
tripped over him and sprawled, too.

Then Skir'nir and the others closed up the passage with
their bodies, swords drawn, ready for the rush of wild gray
beasts.

None came-

There was no need. The small, bowllike valley into
which they'd emerged was full of wolves already.

Vidar stood and drew his own weapon. For a brief space,
the beasts did not move. Then they began to slide along the
perimeter of the bowl, en masse, their teeth exposed as if
they were grinning. In the corner of his eye, Vidar saw the
flare of lightning. A few moments later, he heard the
thunder. But the wind did not seem to be able to penetrate
this place.

"What are they doing?" asked N'orrat.

"Herding us." said Vidar.

"What do we do?" asked another elf.

"We move as they wish us to," answered Vidar.

The wolves advanced on them and they moved back.
keeping their points between those gray hunters and them-
selves. The wolves ignored the blades and kept on coming.
The elves gave way, step by step, until it became obvious
that the beasts were guiding them toward the far end of
the valley.

Vidar glanced that way and saw a cave. Caves made
good hiding places for things you didn't want found. It
didn't take long for him to put two and two together.

"Skir'nir," he said, "I think we've found the sword-
cave."

The elf turned to look about, saw it, then returned his
attention to the wolves. "So it would seem,'* be said.

If it was true—if the original Skir'nir had entrusted
Frey's sword to this cave long ago—then it would take only
a couple of weeks to attune to it, and they'd have a way
out.

That is. if their food didn't give out. And if the wolves

236 MICHAEL JAN FRffiDMAN

didn't attack them first. And if Odin hadn't grabbed the
sword for himself already—a distinct possibility, or why
would he have his wolves corral them in the very place that
might free them?

The beasts advanced and the company retreated. They
came to the cave. The wolves flared out, forming a wall of
gray fur around the cave-mouth. They came forward
again, snarling, until the lyos backed up into the darkness
of the cave-

Skir'nir turned toward Vidar. His face was almost
occluded by the gloom. Only one side of it and a single-eye
still caught the light.

"Now what?" asked the elf.

Suddenly, something moved—something deeper in the
cave. The elves whirled, straining to see into the blackness.
Instinctively, they backed off, despite the rising cacophony
of fury as the wolves outside saw them coming.

More movement in the cave. More sounds, the scrape of
stone against—leather? A whispering. Then the thing
emerged into the light, other things on either side of it.

It was G'lann. He seemed transfixed, or confused, it was
hard to tell which. But his gaze was for Skir'nir alone.

Eric and Sif came out into the light beside him, and -
H'fimif. They shaded their eyes, striving to see into the
blinding reflections off the snow—for them as impenetra-
ble as darkness.

Then G'lann's eyes narrowed, their Aesir-born acuity
allowing him to adjust before the others could. His mouth
twisted savagely.

"It is you," he whispered, glaring at his foster brother.
With a quickness no other lyos could match, he leaped
forward and drove his fist into Skir'nir's face.

The elf's head snapped back and he sprawled backward
into the cave wall. He struck the wall hard, slumped and
rolled away in agony, clutching at his wounded shoulder.

G'lann bent over him, dug his fingers into the fabric of

The Seekers and the Sword

237

Skir'nir's tunic. He lifted him up with one hand, the other
seeking the sword that hung from his belt.

Iron rustled out of nearly a dozen sheaths, as V'ili and
N'orrat and the others moved to stop G'lann. At the same
time, G'lann's companions interposed themselves, still
blinking at the light, but waving their swords to show their
intentions.

"Hold!" cried Vidar. They all seemed to freeze—even
G'lann. Skir'nir gasped in his grip. Vidar took a step
toward Magni's son. "Put him down, G'lann. He's not the
enemy, damn it!"

"Vidar!" shouted Eric, his point dropping.

"Kinsman," muttered Sif, plainly astonished. "But
where..."

Yet G'lann did not release his foster brother. His eyes
became slits and his teeth showed as he answered. "He's
killed my friends. He's slain my kin—my father. And now
I'll kill him with the sword he would have used to rule
Alfheim."

He drew Prey's blade. It glittered along its length in the
bright light that streamed in from the cave-mouth. The
runes that had been carved into it in Svartheim seemed to
writhe in anticipation.

"No!" cried Vidar, taking another step forward. "You're
a fool, G'lann. Both you and Skir'nir—dupes. And so am
I."

"What do you mean?" asked Sif. Her mouth was hard,
her eyes cold. She'd made no move to stop G'lann.

"Skir'nir is not the traitor," said Vidar. "It's Magni."

"What?" G'lann spat. "My father?"

"Yes," said Vidar. "In league with Ygg. And we're all
playing into the destroyer's hands—slaying one another
while Ygg sits somewhere and laughs. He'll be here soon,
G'lann—who do you think sent the wolves, the sky-
serpent? And when he gets here, he'll think it a fine joke
that you slew your brother for him—saving him the
trouble."

238 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

G'lann hesitated, caught between anger and disbelief.
He looked up into his brother's face, seeking the truth
there. Then, slowly, he let Skir'nir down. The elf sank to
his knees, a trickle of blood starting at the corner of his
mouth. Sif sheathed her sword and came over to where
Skir'nir knelt.

For a moment, she regarded him, perhaps weighing the
possibility of her father's guilt. Then she knelt beside
Skir'nir and put her arms around his shoulders. Suddenly,
she sobbed, and her head came to rest against his neck.

Eric moved near to her, but sensed that this was none of
his business. His hand brushed away a loose wisp of
auburn hair from her cheek, and then he took a step back.

G'lann let the sword fall from his fingers. It clattered
noisily against the cave floor. The anger left him and he
peered at Skir'nir, who now looked up at him, half-smiling.

"What have I done?" asked G'lann. His face was blank,
desolate. He shook his head. "I don't understand."

"It's nothing now," said Skir'nir. "It's over." He took
G'lann by the wrist and drew him down. Magni's son
resisted for a moment. Then he too was kneeling, his arms
encircling Sif and Skir'nir, moving his big hands over their
backs.

H'limif and Var'kald looked at one another. Var'kald
shrugged. Then they put their weapons away. Skir'nir's
lyos did the same, and the cavern hissed with the sound of
iron again.

Sif looked up. Her green elvish eyes were wet and shiny.
She regarded those who had come up the mountain with
Skir'nir and smiled.

"It's been a long time, N'orrat," she said.

N'orrat nodded. "Too long, my lady."

Vidar saw that there was still the distance of bloodshed
between them—but that would heal. It might take a long
time, but the wounds would close.

Ullir moved to Vidar's side, placing his hand on Vidar's

The Seekers and the Sword

239

shoulder. "Care to tell us what's going on here? We
thought we'd lost you."

Vidar shrugged. "I guess I'm not that easy to lose. Vali
can tell you that." Even as he spoke, N'arri and M'norr
came over to greet him.

Then the wolves, who'd leaped and snarled outside the
cave during the confrontation, began to quiet down. Vidar
watched them. They seemed to be listening for something.
Behind them, lightning turned the valley splendid. Thun-
der came, louder than before. The sky grew old and leath-
ery, so that the darkness outside began to approximate
that inside the cave.

Sif rose and gently drew her brothers up alongside her.
She looked for Vidar, came over and took his bands. "I'm
glad to see you, too, kinsman. You brought me a gift I
could not have hoped for." She wiped at her eyes with the
back of her hand.

"But I took away, too, didn't I?" asked Vidar.

Sits face lost some of its color. "Aye. But if it's the
truth, I cannot fault you for it."

Vidar nodded. "It's the truth."

"And how did you find Skir'nir?" she asked.

"He came upon me," said Vidar, and explained how
they had worked out Ygg's scheme between them. "But
how long have you been penned up tike this?"

"Days," said Eric. "Four, I think." He looked out
toward the wolves, strangely silent in their multitude.
"The storm is getting worse. Ygg must be close."

"Aye," said Vidar.

Gilling clapped him on the shoulder. "Good to see you,"
said the Aesirman. "Although I've seen you look better."

But someone was missing. Vidar looked around. Ar'on?
Where was Ar'on?

When he asked, everyone fell silent. Finally, Ullir spoke.
"When we got here, there were no wolves. But it took us
some time to find the sword—this cave is deeper than it
looks—and by the time we were ready to come out. we

240 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

found what you see now. We knew that our only chance
was to fight our way out, no matter how bad the odds.
Ar'on fell in the second attempt."

G'lann spat. "He would be alive today if not for the
damned harp," he said. "He dropped it—and as the rest of
us were retreating toward the cave, he went back to get U."
He shook his head. "You want to see it? 1 tried to save him,
but it was too late- All I could rescue was ... that."

G'lann pointed into a shadowy corner of the cave. There
sat the leather bag with the harp in it-
Outside, the storm was growing worse. The wolves' eyes
flashed every time the lightning did, and they did not bark
at the drone of thunder that followed each flare. They
waited patiently for their master, their tongues hanging
loose in their mouths-

"But how did Ygg know where the sword was?" asked
Ullir.

Vidar thought for a moment, "By latching onto our
minds," he said. "G'lann's, Sifs, Skir'nir's...."
"I thought that was an Aesir talent," said N'orrat.
Vidar shrugged. "We don't know much about Ygg," he
lied. "Could be that he's Aesir after all."

"My lord!" They al! turned. It was M'norr, who stood at
the cave-mouth with N'arri. "Come see what the storm
brought!" cried the dark elf.

XXVI

The dark, cloaked figure came straight toward the cave.
It seemed as if a black cloud hovered over its head. Then
Vidar was able to discern it for what it was—a flock of
hovering ravens. A chill went down his spine as he
remembered his dream of Valaskjalff.

Lord of the wolves. Lord of the Ravens,

Ygg's face was concealed by a cowl. Just as well,
thought Vidar, recalling what Loki's fire had done to that
face. The wolves rose and parted before his passage, fawn-
ing over him like dogs at their master's knee.

Somewhere outside this bowl of a valley, the wind
howled like a madman and the thunder crashed. Lightning
split the sky, more thunder. The sky-serpent reared, huge
and dark and terrible, as high as the roof of the gray,
tortured world.

Ygg approached. They watched him. When he stood less
than a spear-cast from the cave, he halted. Then he
whipped his head back and the cowl fell from his face.

241

242 MICHAEL JAN FR1EDMAN

Eric gasped. "That's not Ygg," he whispered.

After the first shock of recognition, the surprise drained
from Vidar. All the pieces fell into place. In a corner of bis
mind, perhaps, this had not been unexpected.

"Greetings, uncle," he called out.

Hoenir smiled. The wolves all around him glared at
Vidar, less polite than Odin's brother,

"I see the journey wasn't too hard on you, nephew."

"No," said Vidar. "Except for a few broken bones, I'm
fit as a fiddle. I take it that you brought the wolves, the
ravens, the sky-serpent... ?"

"Aye," said Hoenir. "Insurance—to make certaufthat
my trip wasn't for nothing. Now, the sword, if you don't
mind."

Vidar laughed, trying to conceal from Hoenir how weak
he was still. "We mind, uncle. We mind a whole lot."

Hoenir shrugged—the family gesture. "I don't see that
you have much of a choice. Jawbreaker. You seem to be
outmatched."

The wolves snarled as if on cue. Lightning etched a
jagged white line in the blackboard sky and the air bel-
lowed its outrage—just for emphasis.

Suddenly, N'orrat drew back on his bowstring and let an
arrow fly. In the fraction of a second in which it hung in
the air, it appeared to be headed straight for Hoenir's
breast.

But in the same fraction of a second, the ravens that had
hovered about Hoenir's head converged into a shield of
sleek black feathers. One of the birds squawked and fell to
earth, impaled on the shaft. The others darted about,
screeching, ready to defend their master from a second
arrow.

"That was not smart," said Hoenir.

The valley flashed with white-hot intensity for a moment
and the mountain seemed to crumble all around them.
Rocks fell from above the cave-mouth and smashed at
their feet. The thunder was instantaneous. It reverberated

The Seekers and the Sword

243

in their skulls as if it would turn their brains to putty, and
the ground shook.

When they regained their feet, they saw that a few of
the wolves had been seared to death by the blast. The smell
of their burnt fur was stifling.

But Hoenir had not even flinched. He was still standing
there calmly, his hair blowing in the soft breeze.

"There's more where that came from," he said. "Do you
think that I spent the last thousand years in idleness,
Jawbreaker? I mastered the elements as no stromrad ever
mastered them- Not even Odin can control the storm as I
do. Not now." He smiled indulgently. "After all, if Odin
had not returned, 1 might have taken a shot at Vali's
throne. That required preparation."

"Then Odin's boast was no lie—you are in league with
him," said Vidar.

"Aye," said his uncle. "Have been since Utgard."

"And what will you do," asked Vidar, "when the uni-
verse is dead and the nine worlds are destroyed? What's in
it for you, Hoenir?"

Hoenir laughed softly. "My brother must have left out a
few details when he talked to you. Of course, there will be
destruction. It's a cleansing. But when it's all over, we'll
start again—he and I—to build a universe like the one we
built long ago. A new empire. A new Asgard—not like the
mockery Vali has built, a shadow. But a braver place,
peopled with a race that will know no cowardice, no fear. It
will be like the old days, before Ragnarok." Hoenir
paused. "It's only a pity you won't be around to see it,
Vidar. There was a time when you would have liked such a
place."

"And you will rule at Odin's side?"

"Aye," said Hoenir. "As I did once before—before
you'd taken your first breath. Then there were three of
us—Odin and Lodur and myself. The world was different
then. Jawbreaker."

Vidar shook his head slowly from side to side. "No. He

244

MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

lied to you. There'll be no new world—only destruction.
And you're no more than a tool to him, to be discarded on
the last day, when his victory is complete."

Hoenir spat. "You think you know Odin, Jawbreaker?
I'm his brother. He could never lie to me."

"He's insane now," said Vidar.

Hoenir laughed. "That's what you think/* he said.
"Now—give me the sword, and 1*11 let you all live. For the
time being, anyway."

They were silent for a moment, while the wind blew and
the thunder muttered to itself. Vidar groped for a way to
forestall the inevitable.

"Then you knew all along that Odin was not in
Alfheim," he called, feigning bitterness. "You knew it was
a ruse from the start."

"Of course," said Hoenir, allowing a wolf to lick at his
hand. "A few thursar priests were to leave the mask in the
cave. All I had to do was find it, and the evidence would
lead you to believe that he'd gone into Asgard. Then the
same priests made sure to leave a casualty when they won
through into Alfheim, so the incident wouldn't go unno-
ticed, and again you took the bait."

"Silly me," said Vidar. "But how did you know where
the sword was?"

"I didn't," said Hoenir, "until I got your message. Then
I abandoned that patchwork army of yours and made my
way into the mountains. In a week or so I'd found Skir'nir
and latched onto his mind. Then I let him lead me to the
sword." He chuckled. "Of course, I didn't want to have to
face too many of you up here, so I thinned the troops out a
bit with my wolves and a well-timed avalanche."

Skir'nir said nothing, but his lips formed a taut white
line.

"Then where is Odin?" asked Vidar. His mind raced,
searching for a way out of this. If Hoenir left this place
with the sword, Odin would wield it soon enough. Hoenir

The Seekers and the Sword

245

would not dare to try to keep it for himself. And with
Frey's blade in his hand, who would be a match for Odin?

"He's busy crushing Vaii," said Hoenir.

"And where's Vali?" asked Vidar.

Hoenir laughed. "You'd like to know, wouldn't you?"
Odin's brother shook his head, and his hair whipped in the
wind. "Be glad I won't tell you that, Vidar. I couldn't let
you live then. Asgard might attempt a rescue, and that
would slow matters down considerably—wouldn't it?"

"I suppose," Vidar muttered to himself.

The clouds moved ponderously overhead. The wolves
prowled Just outside the cave-mouth and the ravens
wheeled, screeching.

"Enough," said Hoenir. He must have been aware of
Vidar's delay tactic, but seemed to enjoy the boasting it
afforded him. Now his patience had come to an end.

G'lann took a step forward suddenly. "You want the
sword?" he yelled. The wolves growled at him, baring their
fangs. He lifted it, point up. Vidar hadn't seen him pick it
up again, but it seemed that G'lann had recovered it in the
confusion.

Hoenir smiled, his eyes narrowing. "Aye," he said.

"Then fight me for it," said the elf, the slightest stain of
mockery in his voice. "And if you win, the sword is yours,"

"No," said Vidar in a whisper. "You haven't got a
chance, G'lann. Let me. At least I can—"

Skir'nir stopped him, gripping his arm. "Once again,"
he said, "your courage exceeds your strength, Aesirman.
G'lann is our best hope now."

Vidar looked at Skir'nir and scowled. The lyos was
right.

But Hoenir just shook his head and chuckled. "It's not
my style, boy, to take up pointless challenges. Nor would it
be much of a battle." He turned toward Vidar. "Drum
some sense into the whelp. Jawbreaker. And quickly. I
don't have as much patience as I used to."

"It wouldn't be as easy as you think," shouted G'lann,

246 MICHAEL JAN FMEDMAN

advancing another step. The wolves coiled to spring, but
Hoenir must have held them back for some reason of his
own. "Odin's blood is in me, too," G'lann went on. His
green eyes were trained on the gaut, the creator, who had
pushed up mountains and carved riverbeds in his youth—
long before G'lann's grandfather had been born. But
G'lann pressed his case much as his grandfather would
have done. "I repeat the challenge," he said, "unless you
fear to face me."

Vidar whistled softly.

"And I repeat my refusal," said Hoenir, anger showing
through the slightest cracks in his facade of reason. Then,
more gently, in measured tones, "Come now. Do you think
I look forward to killing you all? All I require is the
sword."

No one moved, no one spoke. Not even G'lann.

"Surely," said Hoenir, "you must know there's no way
out. Must I make an example of someone?"

A handful of wolves turned toward them suddenly and
moved in. They backed off, tightening into a knot of
resistance, swords drawn and ready. Eric darted forward
and took a swipe at one of the beasts, but he had to give
way as two others leaped for his throat. G'lann battered
one aside and Vidar the other.

But they were not quick enough to ward off the ravens.
There was a streak of black in the air and suddenly V'ili
was doubled over, clutching at his face. Another attack
and Ullir staggered, the side of his face scored with blood.
Vidar stepped in front to protect him—and inspiration
struck.

"Odin," he shouted, so that Hoenir could hear him even
above the wind and the thunder and the growling of the
wolves, "Odin would have accepted the challenge."

The wolves froze as suddenly as they had erupted, as
stiff as stone now. The ravens retreated. There was a
terrible stalk of light that struck the far side of the moun-
tain, shattering its bones and searing their vision.

The Seekers and the Sword

247

Hoenir's face had become a fiery red. Vidar's taunt had
found his uncle's most vulnerable spot—his inferiority
complex. Since Vidar could remember, and long before
that, Hoenir had been forced to stand in Odin's shadow.
He. was standing there still. But while he'd made the
choice to play alongside Odin, something in him must have
rankled at having to play second fiddle again.

"Very well, then," said Hoenir, his voice low and clipped
and dangerous. He drew his sword. Thunder boomed
above them. "But I want your arrows—every one of them.
And your bows. I don't-want to find you taking target
practice while my attention is elsewhere."

G'lann looked to Vidar. It seemed that this was the very
plan he'd had in mind.

"Well?" asked Hoenir.

G'lann's jaw set. He looked at his sister and gently
removed her bow from her back, passing it over her head
and arm. She moved her arm to make it easier- Then the
others followed suit, taking off bows and the straps that
held their quivers in place. Many of them had already been
emptied anyway.

Sif, Eric and Skir'nir carried the weapons out to the
brink of the wolf-tide. The beasts parted, allowing them a
corridor through which they might pass.

"All right," said Hoenir. "Far enough." He was smiling
again. "Now drop them and go back."

They did that. The path among the wolves closed behind
them, engulfing the pile of bows and quivers like
quicksand.

"Now then," said Hoenir- He shrugged off his cloak,
"Or have you lost your heart, elf-boy?"

G'lann spat and came forward, Frey's blade in his hand.
For all the power locked inside it, imprisoned there by the
dark elves at their forges in Svartheim, it was only a
common weapon in G'tann's grasp. He'd shown that he
had the talent to be a healer, a lifting, and could therefore
have attuned to the blade in the course of time. But not

248 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

even Vidar could have unlocked the sword's secrets in a
matter of a few days.

"Come, lad," said Hoenir, as G'lann strode toward him
and the wolves gave him a narrow path through which to:

approach. "1*11 be quick—for Thor*s sake. I promise." The
gray hunters around him backed off reluctantly, so that
there was space for fighting.

G'lann closed the gap between Hoenir and himself, but
it seemed to Vidar that the closer he came to his adversary,
the slower he walked. There was caution there. Good,
thought Vidar. The worst mistake G'lann could make
would be to underestimate Hoenir's power. Even without
his wolves and his ravens and his storm-making, he'd
always been a hell of a swordsman.

"Where's your courage now, boy—in your throat?'"
asked Hoenir. "Let's get this over with."

G'lann did not answer him. Perhaps fear had made his
tongue swollen. What was going on in the elflord's mind
now? Vidar wondered, watching—and wishing it were him
facing Hoenir instead. Was G'lann thinking of how he'd
left the field near Ar'vid's farm, while his comrades bought
his escape with their lives? Or was he remembering how
Magni had warned him about Hoenir?

When G'lann came within a couple of sword's lengths of
his enemy, he stopped. The air seemed to grow taut
between them, though neither moved. The ravens flew,
screeching.

Suddenly, G'lann lunged. He was quick, but Hoenir was
quicker. He batted the sword aside and slashed at G'lann's
head.

The elf barely spun out of the way before Hoenir's
brand buried itself in the densely packed snow. Hoenir
dragged it free and advanced on G'lann, stalking him. But
the elf was the one who attacked, rushing at him with
Prey's sword held high in both his hands. This time,
Hoenir caught the blade on his own. For a moment, he
seemed hard-pressed to keep the edge from his clavicle—

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249

perhaps surprised at the amount of strength G'lann had
inherited from his father. Then Hoenir gritted his teeth
and—with a flourish—tore the sword from G'lann's grasp.
It flew end over end in a high arc and landed point first in
the. snow.

Sif gasped. Skir'nir cursed.

Hoenir cut at the elf's legs. G'lann leaped high enough
to avoid the blade but stumbled when he came to earth. He
tried to right himself, but that only made it worse. He
sprawled backward.

Hoenir was on him in a moment. He smiled as his point
came to rest just beneath G'lann's jaw. The wolves howled
and the ravens screamed, as if they could taste blood
already. In fact, a thin line of gore ran down the elf's neck.

"Why, that must be the blood you boasted of," said
Hoenir, loud enough for all of them to hear. "Odin's blood,
wasn't it? Where are your boasts now, elf?" G'lann did not
move, but met Hoenir's glare evenly, unflinching at the
nearness of death.

Vidar had no arrows and no bow with which to launch
them. He had his sword, but it was useless at this distance,
even if he'd had the strength to fling it with some accuracy.
All that was left him was the power of his Aesir mind, and
he used it with all the violence and the raw, pulsing force
of which it was capable.

But even that was not enough. Hoenir too was Aesir,
and a gaut. He staggered, but his defenses did not fall.
G'lann looked at him, puzzled, and tried to squirm away.
But Hoenir took a step forward and pinned him again.

He turned toward Vidar, his face still twisted with the
effort of fending off his nephew's attack. "Nice try," was
the message that Hoenir sent him. "But you're a bit rusty,
it seems."

Then Hoenir retaliated with a blast of his own. Vidar
felt as if his brain were on fire. Instinctively, he clutched at
his head.

Hoenir turned back toward Magni's son. "Say good-bye,

250 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

sweet prince," he told him. Sif tried to charge out of the
cave, but the wolves leaped up in her way. Eric fought
beside her, and then Skir'nir and H'limif, but no one could
break through. Vidar found himself slashing at the wolves,
too, though he knew that it was all over for G'lann.

There was a scream—but it was not G'lann's. Vi4ar
took a step back and looked up.

Hoenir stood there above the outstretched elf, his sword
fallen, cradling his right hand with his left—for a black-
feathered arrow had pierced it, and now it stuck out of
both sides of the hand, having passed only halfway
through. The Aesirman looked for the bowman who'd
maimed him—and saw him as they all did, a vague figure
among the snow-covered rocks to one side of the cave.

Lightning sprang from the sky. There was a blinding
flash in the place where the archer had been—and now
there was nothing there, only a shattered boulder.

But in that small space of time, G'lann had picked up
the sword that Hoenir had dropped. Odin's brother turned
in time to see the blade bury itself in his chest.

G'lann staggered back, half-expecting to be blasted on
the spot. But Hoenir only stood there, looking more con-
fused than anything else. He stared at the blade, his hands
encircling the hilt as he tried to draw it out. When he
found that he could not, his eyes sought Vidar.

Thunder moaned. Hoenir fell to his knees, still clutching
the swordhilt. There was no anger in his face—only a
strange, gentle sorrow. Vidar felt something stir in his
mind. It was only a word—"M'thrund." Then Hoenir fell
forward and lay still.

Lightning flashed and the sky roared in agony. Outside
the bowl of the valley, the wind shrieked like a banshee.
The wolves withdrew, making fearful sounds deep in their
throats, and the ravens took off as one—gone like smoke in
a storm.

Some of them rushed forward—Sif. Skir'nir. H'limif

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251

and Var'kald. They ran to embrace G'lann. Vidar came
afterward.

But it wasn't Magni's son he came for. It was Hoenir.
He knelt beside him, turning him over so that his face was
thrust up toward the sky. It was too late for healing. His
uncle's handsome visage had gone slack, his clever gray
eyes gone as dull as slate.

So Odin's first victim among his kinsmen was the one
who had become his ally. Vidar appreciated the irony.

Vidar drew the blade from Hoenir's body and flung it
away. He found himself saddened. Why? He cursed him-
self. Hoenir had never done anything to deserve a
mourner. Just now, he'd been an enemy—ready to kill any
and all of them if he had to.

Vidar looked at his uncle's face. It was not so unlike
Odin's—or his own. That was the core of his sadness, of
course. Hoenir had been family—and it hurt to lose a
kinsman when there were so few of them left now.

All around them, the wolves snarled and withdrew. They
knew that they had no business here anymore. The will
that had called them was gone, so they slunk off like gray
shadows. Vidar watched them file out of the valley through
the cleft.

Even the storm abated somewhat, but that would take
longer to leave them. The sky would boil with Hoenir's
sky-serpent until the savage, winds could disperse it.

Then Eric was waving at him from the spot where the
archer had appeared—their mysterious savior. "Vidar!" he
called. "Come quickly!"

Vidar reached for Hoenir's cloak and dragged it across
his face. Then he rose and went to Eric.

When he climbed over the rock to where the boy was, he
found that Eric was not alone. He was folding his cloak so
that he could put it under the head of what appeared to be
a thursar.

A thursar only half-destroyed by Hoenir's blast, though
he was fading fast. A thursar who had saved their lives

252 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

more than once, it seemed. Vidar saw him clearly for the
first time now,

Ice trickled down his spine. It was Jam.

Eric looked up at Vidar, horrified. "Vidar," he whis-
pered, "how can it be?"

Then the giant shook his head, a slight movement from
side to side, for even that caused him great agony. "No,"
he rumbled, spitting out blood. "I am not... your com-
panion. It is only an appearance you ... seem to cherish.
That is why I have ... taken it."

"Who are you?" asked Vidar, pulling off his own cloak
to lay it over the giant form.

The immobile thursar features seemed to struggle for
expression. "My name ... is Kir. I am ... mokkurkalfi."

Vidar's memory reeled. He remembered such crea-
tures—had even seen one once, before they seemed to
vanish from Alfheim.

Then, as if the mokkurkalfi could read his mind, it said,
"I am ... the last. The last."

"You need not keep up the guise," said Vidar. "It must
cost you strength. You have nothing to fear from us,"

"Long ago ... lyos feared us," said the creature. "They
found us... ugly."

"That was long ago," said Eric. "You saved our lives—
and we are not lyos."

The creature—the thursar—said nothing. But little by
little, Jam's form diminished. His flesh melted away from
him, layer by layer, until only a blockish gray body
remained. Vidar regarded the mokkurkalfi's face—hair-
less, misshapen and soft, the eyes only slits beneath a
spongy brow. The creature was squat, clumsy-looking, and
it had no neck. Vidar had forgotten how monstrous its race
had been.

But it was impolite to cringe before someone who had
just saved your life.

"Why?" asked Vidar. "Why did you help us?"

The creature's face clenched, its body a bloody ruin, and

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253

wracked by spasms. "I sensed the good, and ... the evil.
Even if I had to ... help lyos."

Eric searched Vidar's eyes. "Can you heat it?" he asked.

Vidar placed a splay-fingered hand on the mokkurkalfi's
temple. He gave it a few more moments of life. But when
he looked up at Eric again, he shook his head from side to
side.

Kir peered up at Vidar through eyes set deep within the
soft folds of its flesh. "Aesir," it said.

"Aye," said Vidar.

Then the mokkurkalfi shuddered and died. Just like
that.

"What is it?"

Vidar turned and saw that it was G'lann who'd asked.
G'lann stared at the creature's inert form, disgust written
plainly in his face.

"Mokkurkalfi," said Eric. "And the last of its kind."

G'lann turned his head and spat. "Just as well. It's even
uglier than the tales tell."

"It just saved your life," said Vidar.

G'lann met his gaze evenly, then glanced back at the
mokkurkalfi. "You know," he said, "perhaps it doesn't look
so bad after all." Then his nostrils flared. "But it smells
like a field full of manure."

Vidar winced. "You're a sensitive guy, G'lann—a real
sensitive guy."

XXVII

Truly, my lord, I am a skald. But I cannot sing for
your hall tonight. I've lost someone close to me and I do
not feel much like singing.

A friend, my lord? That is a good question. Perhaps
not a friend exactly. Once I thought so, but now I think
differently.

Lars did not like me very much. He was a bard like
myself, and therefore a competitor. Nor was he the type
to be satisfied with next best, or second choice at table.
If we sang in the same hall and I was given the better
reward, he'd slander me the rest of the night out of
Jealousy.

But still I was sorry to see him go. Why? Because
there are few enough skalds these days, and the world
will be emptier without him. Even someone like Lars was
better than nothing.

Ah, you are too kind. Indeed, I have neither eaten nor

254

The Seekers and the Sword 255

drunk for longer than I care to remember. Not every
chieftain would give a poor skald food without a song.

Perhaps, my lord, my voice will be fuller tomorrow if I
have some of your mead tonight. I drink to you. May I
forget everything but my songs.

Sin Skolding
Radsey, A.D. 482

XXVIII

They built two pyres—one for Hoenir and one for Kir.
They used dry wood that G'lann had found deep in the
sword-cave—wood that the first Skir'nir might have left
there centuries ago, when he'd hidden the sword away. The
lyos had thought to leave both bodies in the cave, accord-
ing to their custom, but neither the Aesirmen nor the
Utgarders could abide by that.

Vidar stood beside his uncle's pyre and watched the first
flames lick at the dark, half-starred sky. Hoenir's face
looked as if it had been carved from the ice and then dusted
with gold. His sword—the one that G'lann had used to slay
him—lay on his breast, his arms crossed over it.

"You bastard," Vidar whispered. "You lived so long and
you never learned a thing."

Then the flames leaped up all around the body, casting
wild shadows over the snowscape. Vidar tried not to think
of the pyres on Vigrid, the flames that had consumed
Heimdall's remains, and Bragi's, and Hermod's. He tried

256

The Seekers and the Sword

257

to stave off the memory of Prey's pyre and Thor's. But he
couldn't.

Off to one side, the mokkurkalfi too was devoured by the
fire, a grotesque insect engulfed in a flower with long
golden petals. Vidar could not imagine how it had survived
so long here in the mountains. It had been said that the
mokkurkalfi were long-lived, like the Aesir and the Vanir.
But the loneliness... the incredible loneliness. How had
Kir borne that?

But the mokkurkalfi's last gift to them had not been
their lives. Just behind him, they'd found the sling full of
food that he must have carried for his own nourishment. It
was not much, but it had kept them from starving this
night.

The rest of the company clustered around a smaller fire
inside the cave, where there was shelter from the wind.
Vidar stood alone and watched the funeral flames blossom.
But when they shot up and sent a spray of sparks into the
sky, Eric came out to stand at Vidar's side. Then Ullir
came, and N'arri.

"You know," said Ullir, "I dont think I'll ever be able to
look at a funeral pyre again without feeling my heart leap
into my throat." But little else was said until the blaze
died, leaving only charred bones and ashes that the wind
would steal away.

Then they returned to the cave and the others, and sat in
the fire-shot darkness. Var'kald was strumming a harp—
the one that Ar'on had given his life for. It turned out that
Var'kald had some talent- His voice was clear and melodic,
like all the voices of his kind, and his fingers were deft.

He sang of the mokkurkalfi. Long and long ago, they
had lived in the lowlands and by the sea, powerful magi-
cians who reaped a rich harvest from the water as well as
from the land. The lyos had dwelled in the mountains
then, where their race had been weaned on hoarfrost and
what little the hard hills would yield them.

The lyos learned to hate the mokkurkalfi. First, for their

258 MICHAEL JAN FRBEDMAN

ugliness. Second, out of envy. And third, because the
mokkurkalfi would not share what they had. Early on?;the
elves had tried to come down out of their wolf-infested
mountains and live on the fringes of the mokkurkalfi
land—but the mokkurkalfi drove them away with their
magic. Later, the lyos tried to take the land by force-7-but
again the mokkurkalfi drove them back.

Still, there came a time when the lyos had grown so
numerous in their mountain fastnesses that no-magic could
contain them. They swept down upon their monstrous
enemies like a pestilence, depending on the strength of
their arms and the swiftness of their arrows to preserve
them against witchery.

The elves found that the mokkurkalfi were not nearly as
many as they had been in the past, nor as strong. They
pushed half the lowlanders into the sea, and the other half
into the mountains. The mokkurkalfi took their toll, how-
ever, for the one magic that was still rife among them was
that of illusion—and where a lyos should have seen a
brother, hp saw instead a grotesque, fleshy foeman. It was
only after the monster fell, an arrow growing from his
belly, that the lyos saw his victim for who he was.

Many of the elves fell that way at first, struck down by
their own friends and kinsmen. Then the lyos learned to
signal one another during the battle, in ways the mok-
kurkalfi could not predict. The enemy fell or was driven
away from his home, to endure the same cold and ice that
the elves had endured before.

When the war was done, the lyos swept away the dwell-
ings of the mokkurkalfi. They built their own villages on
the sites, for they were pleasant places, nestled in the
bends of wide rivers or in the lee of hills that rose near the
sea.

The lyos warned their young to be wary of the mok-
kurkalfi in those days—for sometimes one or two would be
found lurking in the forests, peering out at the places that
once were theirs. Nor did elf trust elf when mokkurkalfi

The Seekers and the Sword 259

had been seen in the vicinity, for who knew which of them
might be a monster in disguise?

But the sightings dwindled, even in the highlands. The
mokkurkalfi were thought to have died out, unable to live
in the cold, narrow places as the elves had. Finally even the
tales faded.

On that note, Var'kald's song trailed off. He put the
harp back inside its leather bag and placed it on the stone
floor next to him.

Outside, the wind howled and the fire seemed to cower.
Vidar wrapped his cloak about himself and closed his eyes-
But sleep did not come easily. Something was bothering
him—what? That the mokkurkalfi had kept himself alive
all these years as if waiting for the day he might intercede
and save them? Or the willingness with which Kir had
sacrificed himself?

Yes, those things. But also something else,...

Then it came to him—the message that Hoenir.had sent
him before he died. "M'thrund," he'd said. What was it?
A warning? A curse?

He opened his eyes and saw Ullir sitting cross-legged on
the other side of the dying fire, his yellow beard tinted by
the low golden light. His eyes were shut—after all, he'd
imparted a portion of his strength to V*ili, whose face had
been badly torn by the ravens, and to Skir'nir for his
shoulder wound.

Nor was he himself unscathed. He bore four parallel
scars on his cheek where the birds had raked him. Healing
took a lot more out of Ullir than it did Vidar, for his Aesir
blood was mixed with human. But when Vidar had offered
to share the burden of healing, Ullir had said he'd have no
part of it. He'd insisted that Odin's son save his strength
for his own hurts-

Vidar decided to let him sleep. He could ask him about
M'thrund later.

In the morning, they began their trek down the moun-
tainside. The first day and night, they went hungry.

260 MICHAEL JAN PRIEDMAN

Despair walked beside them, for it was a long way down,
and they knew that they would not make it without food.

But on the second day, N'arri spotted some goats, ind
they brought down two of them with their bows. On the
second night, they roasted them, and it was like a feast.

After that, game became almost plentiful. Without,so
many wolves about, the other wild creatures dared to move
around on the slopes. With their bellies fed, the company
did not even seem to mind the treacherous terrain and the
ice-cold edge of the wind. Food cured a multitude of evils,
and what it did not cure—the memories of comrades
lost—Var'kald's playing helped to soothe.

Once they got past the ledge where Vidar had fallen, the
atmosphere became near£\ i'ghthearted.

G*lann and Skir'nir spent much time together, and they
were not always laughing. Perhaps there were matters
upon which they would never agree—but they came to
walk beside one another as brothers again. Sif had
accepted Skir'nir much more readily, and often she would
glance at the two of them with a slight, knowing smile.

Just after they reached the pine forest, a wild and
sudden storm descended on them- Snow piled deep in the
spaces between the trees and weighed the branches down,
slowing their progress. But they made their way down the
mountain as quickly as they could, for somewhere below
elf was fighting elf, and there was blood being shed that
might have been prevented.

The storm finally broke and they emerged from the
forest. By then, a large measure of Vidar*s strength had
returned. He not only kept pace with the rest of them, but
sometimes he took the lead—when he felt that they might
take a slope a little faster. He still suffered small pains in
his legs and ribs now and then, but that had a lot to do with
the cold.

Skir'nir marveled at his powers of recuperation. "You
come back faster than a weed," he told him.

•Thanks," said Vidar. "I think."

The Seekers and the Sword 261

Whenever they rested, Vidar would help G'lann attune
to the sword. They had never spoken about who would
claim the sword once they reached it. But Vidar had
decided a long time ago that he would let G'lann have it
without a fight. Frey had left it to Alfheim's keeping—it
seemed only right that G'lann should be the one to wield it.

Magni's son caught on quickly. Just as he'd shown an
untutored aptitude for healing, he showed a natural talent
for attunement. Thor, his grandfather, had been the same
way, though Midgard had made more of his ability with
Mjollnir than his ability to heal.

Some six days after they'd left Hoenir's ashes to the
vagaries of the wind, Vidar spotted a few dark specks on
the slope below them. The longer he looked, the more
specks he saw. They moved like the advance scouts of an
army.

He called down the mountain until the air rang with his
cries. No matter who it was, they had no enemies now in
Alfheim. The scouts called back, though Vidar couldn't
make out the words.

They turned out to be dwarvin^ their green eyes dancing
beneath their black cowls. They hugged N'arri and M'norr
and knelt before Vidar, even in the snow.

"Get up," said Vidar. "A simple hello will do." But he
smiled as he said it, for he was glad to see them.

The main body of the army was not far away now. With
Hoenir gone, it seemed, one of the Aesirmen had taken
over as chieftain—a big man that Vidar believed he recog-
nized, even at this distance.

Thakrad.

Eventually, he stood face to face with the warrior he'd
bested in the cavern outside Asgard. Vidar half-expected
to have to fight him again. Thakrad's mouth was a thin,
tight line beneath his dark mustache, and he looked none
too pleased to have discovered Vidar again. He might have
hoped that Odin's son had perished in the sword-quest.

But if he was disappointed, he did not allow it to color

262 MICHAEL JAN FRIEDMAN

his sense of duty. Vidar had spared his life—and he owed
that life to him now, like it or not. Slowly, he withdrew his
sword from its place at his hip and held it out to Vidar with
both hands.                                        ;

"My lord," he said, and there was only the slightest
tinge of mockery in his voice.                       '«.

Vidar decided to ignore it. "Nice to see you again,
Thakrad." Then, perhaps, he surprised the Aesirman. **I
salute you," he said. "It took some courage to follow us
into the mountains as you did,"

Thakrad's brows met above his nose. "It was your com-
mand," be said.

"Aye," said Vidar. "But still, it took courage."

The gesture was not lost on Thakrad. Odin's son—
traitor or not—had complimented him before the entire
army. He inclined his head at a slight angle. Vidar nodded.
It would take the sting out of losing command—and per-
haps remove an enemy from his back.

"And the sword?" asked Thakrad, glancing at Vidar's
sheath and the hilt that protruded from it.

"We've got it," said Vidar. "But G'lann bears it—
Magni's son." He indicated the elflord, who stood between
Sif and Skir'nir and watched as Eric, Ullir and Gilling
found friends back in the ranks.

Thakrad regarded G'lann. Vidar could imagine what he
was thinking—a coward for a leader and elves wielding
weapons of power. His disgust was evident on his face.

"Come," said Odin's son. "We have much to tell."

Thakrad looked at him, scowling. He grunted his assent.

Vidar looked across the small fire at Ullir. "By now, the
word of how Hoenir died will have spread throughout the
army," he said, stirring the coals with a stick. "But I left
out the part about Odin. I just said that when he learned of
the sword's whereabouts, he made a bid for it himself."
The blondbeard nodded. The fire glinted in his eyes.
"They'll understand that in Asgard," said Vidar.

The Seekers and the Sword 263

"Treachery, on the other hand ... well, what's the point of
villifying him? He was a loyal defender of Asgard—once."

"Aye," said Ullir. "Then that's the story I'll tell, too."

"And I," said Gilling.

"Thanks," said Vidar.

"Have the elves gone out yet?" asked Gitling.

"Yes," said Vidar. "Just now, in pairs. Between
Skir'nir's warriors, H'limif and Var'kald, the word ought
to spread soon enough. With any luck, the war in Alfheim
will be over well before we reach Hargard."

"It had better be," said Gilling. "I don't mind dying
when it means something, but..,"

When it means something. Vidar spat.

"But there was something else you wanted to ask us,
wasn't there?" Ullir's face was a question.

"Yes," said Vidar. "Hoenir contacted me before he died.
It was some kind of warning, I think. Just one word—
M'thrund."

Ullir frowned, his brow knitting over his pale blue eyes.
Gilling whistled.

"You know what it means?" asked Vidar.

"Aye," said Ullir. "It's one of the worlds where Vali did
not fare so well. He tried to invade M'thrund as he had
Muspelheim and some of the others—but he couldn't. The
thrund—the inhabitants—were too strong. But that was
many years ago. Before my grandfather was born. Nor
does the name come up very often—no one wishes to
remind Vali of his only failure."

M'thrund. Vidar recalled the look on Hoenir's face as
he'd sent the message—one of apology. Perhaps a way of
making amends.

By giving him the information he'd asked for.

"Vidar—what is it?" asked Ullir.

Odin's son gazed into the flames. "I think I know where
to find Vali," he said.

But Odin would be waiting for him.

Along with the thrund.