LITMIR.BIZ

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up. “Who’s dead?”

      “Ralf Eiriksson. It’s all around the village,” shrilled Uncle Baldur. “His ship was wrecked and they were all drowned. Just as I thought!”

      The brothers flung their arms around each other and began a sort of stamping dance. Peer dropped the boot he was holding and sat in open-mouthed horror.

      “Dead as a doornail,” chortled Uncle Baldur.

      “A drowned doornail,” Grim wheezed, and Grendel leaped around them shattering the air with his barks.

      “Is this sure?” asked Grim, sobering suddenly.

      “Certain sure,” Baldur nodded. “Arne Egilsson’s been saying so. I went specially to ask him as soon as I heard. He didn’t like telling me, but he couldn’t deny the facts. The ship’s long overdue, and her timbers have been washing up further down the coast. She sank, it’s obvious.”

      Grim smacked his brother on the shoulder. “Then the land’s ours! No one will argue about that if Ralf ’s dead.”

      Baldur laughed. He paced up and down, slapping his great thighs. “We’ll be rich, brother. We’ll own the best half of Troll Fell. And after tonight, with the Gaffer’s gold —”

      Uncle Grim nodded at Peer. “The boy’s listening,” he growled.

      “Who cares?” Uncle Baldur caught Peer by the scruff and shook him. “He don’t know what I’m talking about. We’ll get the goods for the Gaffer now, all right. Who’s to stop us? With Ralf out of the way, we can do whatever we like!”

      He whacked Peer on the ear and dropped him. Peer felt sick. Poor, poor Hilde. Poor Ralf! And his father’s lovely ship, smashed on the rocks and lost for ever! Then with a stab of fear he saw what this meant for himself. No safety up at the farm. No escape from Baldur and Grim.

      “This calls for a drop of ale!” Baldur declared, rubbing his hands.

      “Mead,” Grim suggested.

      “You’re right.” Uncle Baldur licked his lips. “Something strong!”

      Soon the two brothers were singing noisily, banging their cups together. Mechanically, Peer finished cleaning the boots. He lined them up by the door and sank to the floor. Something gnawed at his mind. Tonight? Had Uncle Baldur said “tonight”?

      Midwinter! He’d been talking and thinking and planning about it for months. Now, with a shock like icy water dashed in his face, he realised he had no idea how close midwinter was. He thought back, counting on his fingers. How long since the first snow? Weeks? It seemed a long time. And the days were so short now; it was dark outside already. Midwinter must be nearly upon them.

      There was a bang at the door. Peer looked at his uncles. They were singing so loudly that neither they nor Grendel had heard. Peer shrugged and went wearily to open it. With his hand on the latch he paused. What if it was Granny Greenteeth, come to pay a visit before the ice locked her in for the winter? Well, let her come! He jerked the door open.

      A cutting wind whirled in. There stood two ordinary men, muffled up against the cold. They stepped quickly in and shook snow from their clothes.

      “Shut that DOOR!” Uncle Baldur yelled. Then he saw the visitors and staggered to his feet. “Look who’s here.” He prodded Grim. “It’s Arne and Bjørn.”

      “Give ’em a drink,” hiccupped Grim.

      But Bjørn’s good-natured face was stern. “Hey, Peer,” he said quietly, dropping a friendly hand on Peer’s shoulder. “Grim, Baldur,” he went on, “we’ve not come to drink with you. We’ve come to say one thing. Leave Ralf ’s family alone!”

      Uncle Baldur sprawled back on the bench. He gave an unpleasant laugh. “I don’t know what you mean.”

      “Yes you do,” said Arne. “You’re after Ralf ’s land on Troll Fell.”

      “But you won’t get it,” said Bjørn. “Arne and I will stand witness against you. It was never yours, and you know it!”

      Peer felt like cheering. He glowed with admiration for the two young men. They looked like heroes to him as they stood there together, their faces tight with anger. Baldur and Grim exchanged glances.

      “Why are you interfering?” asked Baldur with a suspicious scowl. “What’s in it for you?”

      “Why?” exploded Bjørn. “Because Ralf was our friend. Because the land was his. Because you’re a couple of cheating pigs who’d rob a widow and her family!”

      “Don’t bother trying to understand,” added Arne.

      “Get out!” Baldur surged to his feet. “Out, before I set the dog on you!”

      “Oh, we’ll go,” said Bjørn coldly. “I wouldn’t stay in your stinking mill for all the gold on Troll Fell.”

      He strode for the door, but Uncle Baldur grabbed his arm. “Gold?” he croaked. “What do you mean? What do you know about troll gold?”

      Bjørn stared at him and whistled. “That’s your game, is it? Don’t you worry, Grimsson. The only thing I know about troll gold is this: it’s unlucky and I don’t want anything to do with it. And if you’ll take my advice, neither will you. Goodnight!”

      Peer stepped hopefully forwards. If he could only catch Bjørn’s eye; if he could only go with him! But this time, Bjørn did not notice Peer. He and Arne slipped through the door and vanished into the night.

      Uncle Baldur sat down heavily. He tried to pour himself another drink, but the bottle was empty. He swore.

      “There’s no fun for a man round here,” he grumbled. “Nothing but trouble and work —”

      “Let’s have a dogfight,” suggested Grim. Peer looked up.

      “What with?” asked Uncle Baldur scornfully. “That thing of the lad’s? He wouldn’t last a minute with Grendel.”

      “He’s nippy,” offered Grim. “Bet you he’d last five.”

      A grin spread over Baldur’s face. “All right!” he said.

      “No!” Peer shrieked. “You can’t! You can’t, you bullies!” He hurled himself at Uncle Baldur, kicking and biting.

      “The boy’s mad!” Uncle Baldur twisted Peer’s wrist up behind his back. “Keep still, or I’ll break yer arm. You go and fetch the dog, Grim. The boy might turn him loose.”

      “Let go of me,” panted Peer, still struggling as Grim nodded and went out. “Let me go!”

      Loki trotted in at Uncle Grim’s heels, looking wary and puzzled.

      “They can’t fight in here,” said Uncle Baldur over Peer’s head.

      “No,” Grim agreed, “we’ll have it in the yard. I give you ten to one he lasts a good five minutes before Grendel grips him. He’s quick, you see.”

      “Done!” Baldur grinned. “Speed won’t save him from Grendel. One good crunch and it’ll all be over.” Peer couldn’t believe they were talking about his beloved dog.

      “Loki can’t fight, he won’t fight,” he cried. “He doesn’t know how.”

      Paying no attention, Uncle Baldur dragged him outside with Loki, while Uncle Grim brought Grendel along by the collar, holding a flaring torch in the other hand to light the dogfight. The snow had stopped falling, but was blowing about the yard chased by a cruel little wind. It was an unbearably cold night.

      Peer looked at the two dogs in despair. Grendel dwarfed little Loki. He was built like a wolf, but thicker and taller, with massive head and powerful jaws. Loki curled his tail between his legs and trembled.

      “Three… two… one! Eat him, Grendel!” yelled

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