But sometime during the night last night somebody drove a dagger into Erief's heart while he slept.

The dagger got stuck between the hero's ribs. The assassin abandoned it.

That blade was foreign, like none known in the north. Not even Trygg had seen its like. And Trygg had visited many far lands in his youth.

The foreigners went into the pit, protesting their innocence, minutes after the crime was discovered.

Trygg thought mem innocent. His view, however, constituted a minority. The missionaries were awfully convenient.

Pulla gathered the old folks close. "These foreigners must be powerful sorcerers. They scattered the stick hut over the pit, then flew away."

Trygg snorted derisively. "Someone helped them climb out The someone who really murdered Erief.

Someone huldrin."

That started a ferocious argument over whether the foreigners had been beaten badly enough before being dumped into the pit. They should not have been able to climb, even with help.

Herva, a crone so ancient she made Trygg seem young, snapped, "You waste your breath. None of mat matters. They have escaped. They must be brought back. There must be a trial. Find Shagot the Bastard and his brother."

The people of Snaefells heard her. They approved. Shagot and his brother had been Erief's lieutenants. They were hardened, cruel men who made their own people nervous. Especially now that there was no Erief to rein them in. So why not get mem out of the village and exploit their experience at the same time?

Something screamed on the mountainside. Nearer, some thing laughed in the dark. "*** "*