Brokkolfr lifted his head, careful not to push with his elbows, and craned his neck to see better. There was, predictably, a shape behind each set of eyes, a shape dull and dark in color, like a hunched lump of stone—but they showed up as crooked silhouettes against the pale limestone behind. The torchlight wavered over something with the nap of cloth, something with the shimmer of metal. Kari’s torch had gone into the water. Brokkolfr’s flickered fitfully against the stone where he had thrust it, and Brokkolfr knew it would soon gutter out. “Svartalfar,” Brokkolfr said, aware of the relief coloring his voice and embarrassed by it. He sounded so damned young sometimes, and Kari was—well, not exactly older. But more worldly. “Maybe they’ll help pull you out.” “I wouldn’t count on it,” Kari said softly. “Come on, Brokkolfr. I can’t feel my feet.” Indeed, as Brokkolfr edged slowly backward—and the two svartalfar watched silently, leaning on their staffs, the torchlight catching an occasional glint off their jewelry—the puddle of water that oozed from Kari’s clothes and soaked Brokkolfr’s frontside was frigid enough to make him shiver and curse under his breath.
