Elizabeth Boyer - The Elves And The Otterskin

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THE SORCERER'S TRAP

Lorimer glared balefully at his quarry. Nothing of the sorcerer's face showed except his eyes. "Throw

down those ridiculous weapons," he ordered. "If youwere able to kill me, I would restore myself with

another body, and my power would only be the greater."

The horse paced forward without flinching. Lorimer raised his staff and began muttering the words of a

spell.

Ivarr abandoned his bold stance and scuttled around a large rock. Before him lay a jumble where no

horse would ever risk its legs. He plunged into it, leaping over boulders and sliding down the face of

others. Exulting at his escape, he tumbled over a small ledge and dropped into a clearing among the

stones.

He fell directly at the feet of Lorimer, who stood patiently waiting.

THE ELVES AND THE OTTERSKIN

ELIZABETHBOYER

ADel Rey Book BALLANTINE BOOKS NEW YORK

CHAPTER 1

SECOND SONS OF POOR FISHERMEN ALWAYS GOT THE short shrift, Ivarr reflected darkly

as the old cart rattled and jerked along. The horse pulling it was much older than he was, and the cart

itself was certainly from the first landing on Skarpsey long ago. Ivarr glanced sideways at the owner of

these relics and summed her up as the oldest and most sinister-looking woman he had ever seen— even

barring the fact that she was the famous witch of Hvitafell. She darted him a sharp glance, as if reading his

thoughts, and he flapped the frayed reins in a useless attempt to startle some speed into the old nag. It

merely swiveled one ear around and rolled its left eye in long-suffering disdain. Its other eye was

missing—probably required in some unsavory spell of old Birna's.

Indentured to a witch! Ivarr heaved a sigh for himself and hunched his shoulders resentfully. That was

typical luck for his father, Hoskuld of Fishless. Luck had abandoned Hoskuld long ago as a hopeless

cause, leaving him to drift from misfortune to misfortune like a ship with no rudder in a rocky fjord. His

wife and seven children and various sponging relatives were his helpless cargo.

The whole mucky bargain had begun harmlessly enough. Hoskuld and Thorgerdr were arguing, as usual,

about the lack of food, firewood, and clothing, and the overabundance of family to feed, warm, and

shelter. Thorgerdr argued, that is, and Hoskuld leaned upon the mantel, contemplating his own inner

thoughts. The five youngest children rolled around on the floor like good-natured bear cubs, ignoring their

parents and the damage their flailing limbs did to the meager furnishings of the house. Ivarr and his older

brother Sveinn exchanged worried glances. If the next winter was anything like the last one, none of the

family would survive.

Hoskuld finally bestirred himself to respond to a particularly withering insult from his good wife. "I've got

it all thought out," he said. "I shall go a-viking next spring as soon as the ice melts, and then we'll never

have to worry about getting gold or food again."

"You, a viking? Hah!" said Thorgerdr. "And in the meantime all we have to do is quit eating. If I have to

ask my brothers again for food this year—"

"We have our chieftain," said Hoskuld hastily. "Old Breiskaldi won't let us starve, exactly, if we work for

what we get. And we do have two strong sons who can herd his sheep, feed his horses, or whatever."

Thorgerdr's angry reply camouflaged Ivarr's groan of dismay. Sveinn nudged him warningly—their

mother was in what they called her berserkr state, in which she was known for her irrational acts of pure

rage. But Ivarr whispered angrily at his brother, "I'm not working for that old tyrant again this winter. He'll

work us to death and you know it." He sank his chin into his hands and glared at his exhausted old boots

which were leaking toes all around. "What I wouldn't give to get away from Fish-less. I'd do anything. I

wish I were old enough to go a-viking."

"You'd have to ask Mother first."

The knock at the door was unheard for a few minutes as the squabbling continued, and the five fat little

younglings knocked the table over and broke a crock of cream. The crash seemed to bring everyone to

his senses. Thorgerdr snapped, "And that was my last crock!"

"Ah well," said Hoskuld soothingly. "The cow is nearly dry anyway, so we won't be missing it for long."

Thorgerdr flung up her hands. "Such a man!" she shrieked, and was getting into full cry on her "Such a

man" tirade when the door opened and the old woman stepped inside.

"Good day," she said, her eyes traveling around the house and finally settling on Sveinn and Ivarr. "The

gods bless your house and all within—looks as if they've been a bit neglectful of you lately. This place has

a singularly luckless atmosphere, I might say." The cream, which was creeping toward her toes, filled the

house with a sour smell.

Thorgerdr began to cluck and fluster, settling the visitor in a chair, fetching her a cool drink, and offering

her a place to stay the night. Fishless was a good day's journey from the next settlements up or down the

coast. Visitors and travelers were always made welcome, even if the family went hungry the next day and

Ivarr and Sveinn had to sleep in the cow shed.

When all the social amenities were taken care of, and the proper questions asked and answered about

inconsequential things such as weather and common acquaintances, the old woman took a slender clay

pipe from a black pouch at her waist and began to smoke it. The five younger brothers and sisters stood

around her in an admiring and mostly naked semicircle, mouths agape and eyes goggling.

Thorgerdr knew the fame of the old woman of Hvitafell as a healer, and she was dying to know why

such a personage would purposely want to visit her, but she concealed her curiosity. Hoskuld leaned

against the mantel shelf, already forgetting they had company.

"Now you know who I am, and I've heard something of you," she began. "They call me Birna the witch

of Hvitafell behind my back, just as they call your husband Hoskuld the Luckless behind his. I've come

here looking—" She eyed Ivarr and Sveinn piercingly. "—for a young man to hire for some work. I'm

getting too old to tend to my livestock and do the trading and harvesting. I live in a little shieling alone in

the big fell near Hvitaness. I have one horse, three cows, and a flock of sheep and goats, and twenty

geese. It's rather a lot for one old woman, in addition to my duties as a healing physician for man and

beast. So I came here to take one of these great hungry boys off your hands, and I shall furnish his , keep

in exchange for work. In addition to that, I shall pay you each month with a share of milk or cheese or

wool, and four marks in silver at the offset. Of course he'll be expected to work hard to earn his keep,

though." Her eyes were quick and sharp, noting the glance that passed between Ivarr and Sveinn.

Thorgerdr's eyes were alight in an instant, but she said, "Well, I'm sure you know that sons are a scarce

commodity—" She had five of the creatures, all hungry. "—and one hates to barter them away. And I

couldn't spare you my eldest, so it would have to be Ivarr." She managed to sound apologetic and

portentous at the same time.

"Well, what's wrong with him?" Birna's eyes flashed over him from head to toe. "He looks suitable. A

little lean for his size, perhaps, but he'll get all he wants to eat at my house. I just hope he's not a

daydreamer." She times to be healed. But most importantly, you will be required to listen to all I say and

learn all I teach you. I won't be here forever and I want someone to be able to take my place when I'm

dead. If you are good enough, that is, and aren't as stupid as most Sciplings. That's why I've spent the

last two days telling you about Light Alfar and Dark Alfar, dwarves, giants, trolls, and whatnot. If you are

to be my assistant and someday replace me, you'll have to listen especially quick, my boy, or you'll find

yourself food for the trolls."

Ivarr's head still reeled with all the information she had put into it with the perfect confidence that he

would absorb it. The problem was, he could scarcely understand it—two realms existing side by side,

and the Sciplings having no idea the Alfar realm existed.

"Will I have to go into that invisible realm you mentioned?" he asked, feeling a long, long way from

Fish-less.

"Certainly. There's not much call for real magic in this realm, except for healings and fighting sendings;

once in a while we'll get to deal with a ghost walking and making a nuisance of itself; and someone

always wants a charm to make the weather pleasant, or rain, or somesuch. But in the other realm is

where you'll find real magic. You're not afraid, are you?" She pointed to a stool for him to sit on and

began pouring tea and cutting slabs of cold smoked mutton. She also had rhubarb soup, one of Ivarr's

favorites. "It's nothing to dread. All you require is the drops in your eyes and the proper spell in the

proper place. I can see you'll need tune to get used to the ideas of magic and power and the two worlds.

I shall allow you two years, during which time I'll make certain you become acquainted with all these

strange ideas the Sciplings try to disclaim. Later, I shall introduce you to some Alfar. Lesson two shall be

trolls, then wizards, and so on, until we get to necromancers." Her voice changed and she put the pot

down with a thump. "I hope you'll be happy here, young fellow, and find it an interesting life. I know it

has its dangers and rewards."

"I think I'll like it," said Ivarr, thinking of the dangers and wondering what the rewards might be.

"Good, good." The old woman could actually smile —a wintery smile, but her eyes warmed.

She was a hard taskmaster, after the absentminded maunderings of Hoskuld and the distracted fury of

Thor-gerdr. She made him learn the names of the herbs she harvested, and what they were good for;

before long she was sending him out to the fells to gather them alone. He learned to make salves, potions,

poultices, and simple charms. At night she drilled him with the legends and lore and history of the Alfar,

and how the greed for gold had caused the Dark Alfar to split off from the kings of light and become the

master miners of the earth, forsaking the the world above ground for their gold and powers of darkness.

She told him about dwarves and their three degrees of power—white, brown, and the powerful black

dwarves. He learned the names of their domains and leaders and wizards; they became as familiar as the

names of the chieftains and lords of the Four Quarters.

In this way a year passed, and Ivarr began to enjoy his role as the witch's assistant. The farmsteads

around Hvitaness and north and south along the coast called upon her for her healing arts, and were

grudgingly beginning to accept Ivarr's skills also. They often succeeded when all other attempts had

proved fruitless. When Birna was feeling out of sorts, she sent Ivarr to apply the poultice or administer

the herb or charm—at least to the four-legged patients. Birna herself treated the human patients, who

feared and respected her abilities. Ivarr itched to get his hands on some of the secret cures and spells she

used, but she steadfastly told him he was not yet ready, although Ivarr himself was bursting with

confidence.

By the end of the second year, Ivarr was fuming with impatience. He pestered Birna to give him

something difficult to do, begged for new charms to try, and was always wanting to know exactly when

he could go to the Alfar realm and actually meet Alfar and wizards. He was getting bored with holding

her satchel and handing her things while she was getting all the credit for curing the patients.

Steadfastly Birna would answer, "Later, later, after your lessons are finished. You are not yet ready.

There's plenty of time, and you're still very young. Be assured, you shall have your purpose. Wait, learn,

and grow strong."

"But what purpose?" Ivarr demanded one day. "You won't let me try my own skills anyplace where it

really matters. How will I ever learn if all I ever get to do is hold your satchel and hand you this or that, or

pour horrible-smelling swill down a sick calf's throat? And you get to do exciting things like fixing corpses

so they won't walk and stopping sendings. What exactly is this purpose you keep talking about?"

Birna sighed impatiently. "You'll find out soon enough. It's only been two years, and you're not ready

yet."

"But there is something special you want me to do? How am I to learn it if you won't even tell me what it

is? What's the sense in waiting? You're not getting any younger, you know, and the longer you wait, the

more time is wasted if I'm supposed to do something special with these things you're teaching me. Or the

things you only hint at, Birna."

"Impudent boy! How would you like it if I changed you into a goat—a most obnoxious young billy goat

is exactly what you remind me of," she retorted, nodding at him furiously.

Ivarr quickly made a few signs behind his back for protection. He wasn't sure even yet what to make of

her notorious powers. He had seen her do many things, and there were other things he had almost seen,

or suspected, which she wouldn't permit him to ask questions about. Was she merely an herbalist, with a

few good luck or fertility charms thrown in, or was she something quite different? She never answered

him directly when he asked if she were Alfar, and usually turned snappish on him.

This time, however, he decided to goad her a little. "And that's another thing," he said, sidling around

closer to the door for a fast escape if one became necessary. "You once mentioned fylgja forms, and I've

long suspected you occasionally turned yourself into a sly old gray fox which I see spying on me almost

every day. If you can do it, why can't you teach me how to do it for myself? Or is that something only the

Alfar can do?"

"You impertinent young rogue!" She whirled around from her wool-carding, but he was out the door like

a racehorse, whisking around the corner of the house out of sight but not out of hearing. "Do you hear

me, you great oaf?" shrilled Birna. "I know you're just around that corner, so listen up. I can see you're

starting to think this whole business is nothing but a lark. I shall have to change that, yes indeed. You're

losing your respect. Yes, I believe it's time to teach you a little fear."

Ivaar peered around the corner uneasily, somewhat taken aback by the tone of her voice. She was

carding wool again, ignoring him, but the expression around her mouth was peculiar. Sometimes she said

things to frighten him into obedience, but this time he had the feeling she meant what she said. He decided

it would be a good idea to disappear for the day and perhaps she would forget her threats.

Ivarr had spent all his free time for the past two years exploring the ravines and slopes of the fells above

Hvitaness. By this time he knew them well and knew those ancient bills held many curious old secrets. He

prowled around barrow mounds so old no one knew who was buried there, and forgotten ship-rings,

and other stone circles and solitary stones which had been planted by living hands. Birna was also

snappish about the stones and told him to stay away from them, saying only that they were ancient

guideposts put up by long-forgotten people for unknown destinations.

When Ivarr returned that evening to milk the cows and do the work, he attempted to behave himself and

not ask so many questions. Birna seemed to have forgotten about her threat, much to Ivarr's relief.

In the days to come, Birna gradually let Ivarr do more than assist. After half the year had passed, he was

beginning to be more satisfied, but he was still aware of mysteries she, kept dangling just out of his reach.

One evening in early winter they were returning home in the dark, although it was hardly into the late

afternoon of the day. It was foggy also, so Ivarr was not too surprised when Birna turned from the usual

path.

"Haven't you made a mistake, Birna?" he asked.

"No indeed. The last mistake I made was years ago and it nearly cost me my life. I do not make

mistakes any longer, as they can be very time-consuming and expensive. Now follow me closely. If I

should lose you now I can't imagine what trouble it would cause."

Ivarr was suddenly reminded of her old threat to teach him fear. It was such an unwelcome thought on a

night like this that he curtailed his questions and hurried after her. She strode along, showing no indication

that her knees or back were getting old, as she had claimed. Now that he thought about it, she never

showed the least sign of disability.

Finally she halted and reached out her hand to touch an upright stone. Ivarr's skin prickled when he

realized they were standing inside one of the old stone circles. He found himself holding a fold of Birna's

cloak and he didn't care to let go of it, either.

"Birna?" he whispered.

She was standing stock-still, concentrating. Her eyes flew open and she pushed him behind a stone,

"Quiet now and watch. Something is going to happen. You stay here." She left him there, retreating to the

top of the hill.

Ivarr crouched unhappily behind the big stone, not liking to get too near it, nor too far away, either. His

hair bristled, as if lightning were about to strike nearby.

Then a light flickered in the shadows beside one of the stones. A small fire sputtered into life and Ivarr

stared at it like a bird staring into a snake's eyes. Suddenly he became aware of a dark shape taking form

behind the fire, a tall shadowy outline of a man with his hood drawn close around his face so nothing

showed. In one hand he held a curiously carved staff with the head of an adder and two tiny red eyes.

When the stranger seemed solid enough, he turned to peer around into the shadows, and Ivarr's heart

thumped nervously. He seemed to look straight at Ivarr's hiding place. Then he strode to the center of the

circle where a low mound stood, and the fire glinted on the emblems and devices he wore around his

neck and fastened to his belt. Ivarr could now see his beard and part of his face. He shuddered, not

liking what it reminded him of. The summer before, the peat cutters had found a corpse in the bog,

perfectly preserved by unknown chemicals. This stranger's face reminded Ivarr of the corpse's

face—skin that looked like dried leather stretched thinly over the bones of the skull and hollow eye

sockets sunken into shadows.

The stranger opened a small bag similar to Birna's. What followed was a series of spells calculated to

raise a corpse from his grave. This Ivarr knew from illicit snooping into Birna's books of spells.

The necromancer took a parchment from his satchel and a stick carved with runes. He began to roll the

stick back and forth across the mound, meanwhile reading from the paper in a droning chant the words

which Ivarr knew were written in the necromancer's own blood. Other formulas were added to the

chant, and the earth on the mound began to heave and stir.

Unearthly moaning sounds and muttering voices carried to Ivarr's pale, cold ears, but he was too

paralyzed to run. The necromancer continued his spells, undaunted by either the sounds or the grisly sight

of a head beginning to emerge from the earth.

"Lorimer, Lorimer," moaned a hoarse voice. "Let me sleep in peace."

Lorimer chanted his spells faster and rolled the rune-wand more briskly. The ghost rose further out of

the grave, a boney, misshapen creature with a huge knobby skull and remnants of a hairy hide still clinging

to the bones. When lumps of soil threatened to tumble off the grave, Lorimer quickly caught them before

they escaped; once the grave was closed again, any clods of earth that fell off could not be replaced.

"What are you troubling me for this time?" wailed the ghost. "Can't you let a body lie quiet?"

"Not when I think it might be useful." Lorimer stopped his spells with the ghost still buried up to his

middle in the earth, where it struggled ineffectually for a few moments to escape. Lorimer then extended a

cup to the ghost, which it snatched from his hands eagerly and drained in three large gulps, letting dark

thick trickles escape down its chin.

"The blood always makes you glad enough to talk," said Lorimer.

"Get on with it, then," growled the ghost, rather more lively now. "Two questions and no more."

Lorimer leaned forward. "How can I turn Svartarr, king of the black dwarves, against his old friend and

ally Elbegast of the Light Alfar?"

The ghost sighed. "Elbegast—Alfar. What a bane they are, even to an old dead troll like me. But I have

seen the future, and I have a plan for you which will destroy Elbegast and his Snowfell, if you are clever

enough. I have also seen five men of the Alfar in Svartarrsrike."

"Yes, I know which ones. They are spies for Elbegast, but easy game for the rebels who follow me."

"No, fool. Listen to me," the rasping voice continued. "Let Svartarr do that when the time comes. You

must arrange a trap for these five spies, a web of outlawry, murder, and revenge. I see much blood and

gold spilled. And I see that Svartarr has a young son, a boy who likes to go about in the disguise of an

otter. The death of a prince would excite every loyal black dwarf, would it not? Particularly if it were a

secret murder?"

"Ah yes, I begin to see. These five Alfar spies shall soon become murderers and outlaws. Svartarr will

de-mand weregild for the prince, but I have ways of seeing to it that it shall never be paid. Then Svartarr

will take vengeance upon Elbegast."

"No. I have a better idea. See to it Svartarr gets the otter pelt. Tell him to put a spell on it so it will get

larger and larger for every bit of gold placed upon it. This way, Svartarr will get all the gold, and since the

pelt can never be completely covered to pay the prince's weregild, Svartarr will have to attack Elbegast."

The ghost made a grab for Lorimer just as the necromancer turned and stalked away.

"You've been most helpful, Grus. If you'd been this cooperative when you were alive, I wouldn't have

killed you. And now for my last question. Listen carefully, Grus. How can I overthrow Svartarr and seize

Svartarrsrike for my own kingdom?"

"Greedy, greedy, aren't you? Well, let me think a moment. Svartarr—yes, it may be possible. Let's

see— blast, I keep getting one of those wretched Scipling savages into my thoughts." His voice began to

splutter and gasp. "Lorimer, you're in danger of your life. I see a terrible sword coming out of a barrow

mound, a dwarvish sword with your death written upon it. A hero, a Scipling, will wield it, and you will

perish on the soil you covet."

Lorimer tossed his head and uttered a mirthless chuckle. "I refuse to contemplate a death at the hands of

a mere Scipling. I have died five deaths and returned stronger each time. No Sciplings, Grus. But

because of your kind warning, I shall take care to kill any Scipling hero I find wandering in the Alfar

realm." He unsheathed his sword, a long slender blade that gleamed with a faint blueness in the moonlight.

"And now because you've been so helpful, I'm going to take you with me on my travels, Grus."

The ghost waved its arms and made a fearful grimacing cackle. "You know very well what I'd do to you

the instant I got my legs free of this grave. I'm older than you are, Lorimer, and far stronger."

Lorimer raised his sword. "I'm aware of that, old friend. But you'll be hard put to do anything to me with

no arms or legs, I fear." With one whistling blow, he swept off the corpse's head, and it rolled across the

circle almost to Ivarr's feet. Lorimer strode after it, and snatched it up by the hair. "You shall tell me more

about this Scipling hero, Grus, and I fear you really have no choice, unless you want me to leave you

where the rats can find you or any number of other unpleasant things."

The head rolled its gleaming green eyes and it sputtered and snarled. "You can't do this, it's not—it's not

decent. What about my poor body? You won't just leave it like that, will you?"

Lorimer laughed harshly and put the head into a leather pouch hanging from his belt. He turned his

attention back to the grave, much to Ivarr's relief, after standing close enough to him to reach out and

touch him.

Lorimer began his spells and chanting, alternately cursing Grus, whose body was fiercely resisting

reinterment.

Grus chuckled unpleasantly. "It doesn't want to go, Lorimer. Perhaps we'd ought to take it along."

"You wretched little brute, it will go back into the ground, or I'll—"

"Hsst! Lorimer, Birna's coming! Get us out of here, fast!"

Lorimer whirled around to stare into the darkness in the direction of the hill, his cloak swirling and

surging in an unfelt wind. Quickly he nodded the fire out. Then he gripped his staff and raised it aloft.

With a burst of luminous smoke, the necromancer disappeared.

CHAPTER 2

IVARR HUDDLED BEHIND THE STONE, NOT DARING TO LOOK

around it at the grave and the headless ghost. He could not remove the picture of the ghost from his mind

as its hands ran over the ground searching for the head.

When he finally did peek around the stone, certain he would see the apparition still searching around for

its head, he was completely amazed to see nothing of the kind. Nothing was there but a slight mound in

the grass which showed no sign of ever being disturbed. Nor was there a charred circle where a fire had

burned.

Ivarr raced for the top of the hill, but Birna hadn't waited for him. He ran homeward, never minding the

bushes that clawed at him like scraggy little hands or the streamlets and pools he splashed through. He

didn't know how he arrived there, but he came stumbling in just as Birna was taking the kettle off the

coals to pour two cups of strong tea.

"A necromancer!" he gasped. "In the stone circle! And he called a ghost out of that grave and cut its

head off!"

Birna nodded and fastened the door shut with a jerk of her head. Her hooded eyes glowed in their nets

of wrinkled skin. "Remember your lessons now and give me the points that enabled you to recognize a

personage of power, whether of ice and darkness or fire and light."

Ivarr circled the room distractedly, finally seizing upon an old staff. "This is no time for lessons. We've

got to defend ourselves. They know who you are and they must be somewhere nearby—"

"Nonsense. There are no necromancers between here and the northmost tip of Skarpsey. You're

dawdling, Ivarr. Tell me how one recognizes a personage of power."

"Birna! You can't just sit there swallowing tea and nagging me about some inconsequential lessons at a

time like this! We're in danger! Get up and start working some spells, or grab a club. I wish I had a

sword or at least a bow and arrows—" He flew around the tiny house from one window to the other,

checking the bar on the door half a dozen times.

"Ivarr, will you stop this insane behavior and listen to me?" Birna rose up with flashing eyes and a

commanding shout. Ivarr slunk into his chair at once. "If anyone was threatening us, I would be the first to

know, don't you suppose? You forget how insignificant two years of training is to the many years I have

practiced. The lesson you have seen was well-nigh wasted upon you, yet you've been clamoring at me

for a year to test you. Well, this was your test, and I must say you've done rather poorly."

Ivarr shriveled miserably. "But I did see something," he said. "Did you know Lorimer was going to

appear right there at that particular time?"

Birna sighed and picked up her wool and began carding. After a moment of briskly scraping the fibers

back and forth she replied, "You still don't know what you saw."

Ivarr stared at her, trying to decide if she was testing his memory or his powers of conviction. "I saw a

necro-mancer, Lorimer, who was raising a ghost from a grave," he said stubbornly. "I'm certain of

it—aren't I?"

"No," said Birna. "What you saw is what we call a ghoul. It wasn't the real Lorimer or the real Grus. It

was the image of them after the real event. I've told you frequently that everything done leaves its

impression, and most particularly deeds that are crimes or murders or other evil things. Using certain

spells, a gifted magical personage can recall any important action that took place in a certain spot. If

Lorimer had really been there, do you think you could have stood not ten paces away and him not see

you? We could go back and do it all over again, if you'd like, but I want you to be certain you'll

recognize Lorimer if you ever see him again."

Ivarr leaned his chin into his hands. "I'll know him a mile away. There's no need to go through that again.

Only an image, you say? And the real necromancer is far away from here doing something quite

different?"

Birna glared at him, not at all pleased, and he suddenly felt tired and discouraged. She said sharply,

"Now I know you're not as stupid as you're pretending to be. You've forgotten the most important part

of the whole lesson, Ivarr."

"I'm not pretending. I am stupid," he growled, trying to think and straighten out his fear-befuddled wits.

"Oh yes, I remember now. The five Alfar spies and Svartarr. He wants Svartarrsrike for his own, so he's

going to—"

"Yes, I've known about it for quite some time, Ivarr. Longer than I've known you."

"Has anyone warned Svartarr? What does Elbegast plan to do?"

"They don't know about it. Time in the Alfar realm is quite a different commodity than here. Now that's

enough talk about the ghoul for tonight. You won't speak of this to a solitary living soul. And now that

you've seen Lorimer, I feel I must give you a warning. I believe it is no longer safe for you to wander

around after dark alone in the fells. Now don't interrupt me, let me finish. You can still be out late after

visits to sick folks or animals as long as I am there to protect you."

Ivarr gaped at the little shrewlike Birna and tried not to laugh. She was not nearly so tall as his shoulder

and, although she was amazingly tough and strong, she weighed no more than a child. .

She glowered at him fiercely, as if reading his thoughts.

a cozy, crowded room, full to bursting with stored food and goods for trading and fragrant with the

delicious smell of smoked mutton, which was to be eaten on Midwinter's Day. Ivarr had always liked the

storage room but now the image of the necromancer sprang into his mind, and Ivarr felt the first

feather-light touch of fear.

Birna was gazing out the open door to the steep green fell beyond. "Hvitafell has its safe places," she

said, "as well as its dangerous ones. They say the great smiths of the dwarves used to keep their forges

here inside the mountain. The first Sciplings to settle here used to leave a horse to be shod and a piece of

gold on a stone, and the next morning the horse would have a set of new shoes and the gold would be

gone. That's how close the two realms used to be. It has been a long, long time since a Scipling crossed

over from this realm into that."

"You mean I'm to go over, at last?" Ivarr swallowed dryly. His old excitement was somehow

contaminated with a dose of healthy fear.

Birna inclined her head in a single nod. "Last night while you were asleep I had a visitor from the other

side."

Ivarr leaped up. "Why didn't you waken me? You know I've been dying to see a real Alfar!" He paced

around the tiny room, anguished. "What about my lessons? And I was up in the loft just above; why

didn't you—"

Birna held up her hand for silence. "We talked of nothing but you, if you really must know. I thought it

better if you didn't hear until the next step is taken. I have done my part in preparing you. It's time for you

to go on, Ivarr, whether I think you're ready or not."

"Go on? Where? Can't I stay here any longer? You want me to go back to Fishless?"

Birna shook her head, casting her eyes upward. "We shall go back to the kitchen and I shall explain."

Making tea and putting together a meal seemed to help Birna organize her thoughts. She tore apart a

fresh loaf of bread, spread butter on it, and watched Ivarr devour it. He wondered at her silence and

likewise kept silent until he had eaten the bread and drunk a cup of Birna's very special ale from a small

cask she kept hidden until special occasions took place.

"And now," prompted Ivarr gently. "The messenger?"

Birna roused herself from her scowling reverie. "Ah yes, the messenger. He came to tell me that Ottar,

the son of Svartarr, has been killed and the murder assigned to the five Alfar spies. In cases such as this,

the Alfar laws are similar to your own. The nearest kin of the victim has the right of self-judgment over

the murderers. Svartarr captured them the day after the killing had been reported."

"And killed them?" asked Ivarr.

"Weregild." Birna shook her head. "Svartarr released the five spies, but as long as they are in

Svartarrsrike they are outlaws, which means no one can give them any help or food or shelter without

risking outlawry also. The Alfar have until the autumn equinox to cover the otterskin with gold. If they

can't, then Svartarr will exact a blood price on a great many Alfar."

"The pelt of an otter isn't very large," said Ivarr, but Birna glowered at him. "Did I forget something?"

"The pelt," she snapped, "is not merely the skin of a dead animal. It will take barrowloads of gold to

cover it. When gold is placed upon it it grows larger. Perhaps the pelt, like Svartarr's grief, has no limits.

He is like a creature possessed."

Ivarr nodded. "Yes, well, it's going to be a frightful mess, I fear. But what has all that to do with you or

rne, actually? We're a world away from it, and we've built up a cozy little business here. I thought I was

being trained to take your place one day a long time hence. This talk of moving me on is very upsetting. I

like it here, Birna."

"Yes, you are getting a trifle too comfortable here," Birna said. "But I've done my best in the time allotted

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THESORCERER'STRAPLorimerglaredbalefullyathisquarry.Nothingofthesorcerer'sfaceshowedexcepthiseyes."Throwdownthoseridiculousweapons,"heordered."Ifyouwereabletokillme,Iwouldrestoremyselfwithanotherbody,andmypowerwouldonlybethegreater."Thehorsepacedforwardwithoutflinching.Lorimerraisedhisstaffandbeganmu...

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Elizabeth Boyer - The Elves And The Otterskin

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