The Wizard And The Warlord (13 page)

“At least you have a horse of your own,” Sigurd said, remembering his stout little piebald horse that the trolls had taken. “I’d be glad for the opportunity to ride out. You must be as resentful of being confined to the hill fort as I am, and here I am to blame for it. You must hate me, Rolfr.”

“What foolishness,” Rolfr answered. “It will be worthwhile if you help me mortify Ragnhild. Tomorrow is the day; I wonder what Jotull has for her?”

Later the new horses were judiciously parceled out, better horses were passed down to deserving riders, and the most unfit of the horses were retired, either for a much-needed rest or, in the case of the most hopeless, to be fattened for slaughter. The advent of new horses was an occasion for much joking and laughter in the horse paddock, as well as groaning and complaining. Rolfr was delighted to learn that he was eligible for another horse, but as it turned out, he was awarded one notorious for pitching its rider off suddenly and cantering homeward unencumbered by the nuisance of a man in its saddle. The horse greatly begrudged anyone climbing onto its back and usually did its best to discourage such an attempt at the beginning of every patrol by biting and kicking and bucking. It was quite a famous horse at Hrafnborg, having passed from rider to rider. It was not a fast horse and certainly not lovely, but it was apparently indestructible. A vicious temper seemed to have added years to its vitality.

Rolfr at once became the center for much good-natured banter, which did little to prevent him from feeling sorry for himself. Rolfr’s old horse was retired to pasture, and Sigurd looked at it longingly, thinking it would carry him at least part of the way to Svartafell. Halfdane’s voice calling out his name startled him from his morose thoughts.

“Sigurd the Scipling, come forward and get your horse,” Halfdane called over the voices of the others. Sigurd scrambled through the bars into the melee of horses and men and toward Halfdane, scarcely believing his luck. Halfdane looked up from his list of horses and riders and pointed to a large gray horse. “That’s yours, and it’s your responsibility to care for it. You’ll speak to the horsemaster about it. I’m going to try you out on a day patrol near the hill fort with a dozen or so of the youngest lads who are just beginning their training. Rolfr will stay with you, and old Borgill will give you your orders. He’s too splendid a fellow to leave idle, and he can’t see well enough in the dark anymore for night rides. I hope you’ll be satisfied with the assignment.” Halfdane looked at Sigurd with a trace of a scowl.

“I shall,” Sigurd replied, more delighted than he cared to show Halfdane. “Do we start today?”

Halfdane waved him toward Borgill, who was assigning the young lads to some of the least debilitated old nags. “I see no reason why not. Speak to Borgill about it.”

Borgill was willing. Sigurd took a great liking to him at once. He was a tall, thin old Alfar with a flowing silver mustache that he was inordinately proud of. It lent him an air of dignity and distinction as he directed his rackety young troops. He spoke quietly and remained calm under the most trying of circumstances. Boys fell off horses, horses bolted, horses refused to move. None of them had saddles except for Borgill, Rolfr, and Sigurd, who used Rolfr’s old saddle, a thing that might have been worse than no saddle at all, as liable as it was to falling apart at any moment. Still, Sigurd was happier than he had ever been at Hrafnborg. His horse was a pleasant mare, sedate and middle-aged, but she galloped willingly—not fast, to be sure, but many of the other horses the young fellows had were much worse. Almost all had been pitched off several times or run away with, but they were still game. As they rode into the hill fort, the night patrol was riding out, well-equipped and well-horsed, setting up a frightful contrast with Borgill’s outfit, which made it a source of good-natured merriment for everyone concerned. Sigurd burned with embarrassment when he saw Ragnhild laughing from the hall, and he grimly hoped that Jotull’s suprise for her would be a most unpleasant one.

Jotull reappeared after sundown on the eve of Ragnhild’s birthday when Halfdane’s patrol was gone. He rapped on the low door of the tower room with the end of his staff. “Come! It’s here,” he called, when Rolfr opened the door. “The gossip of something unusual will soon reach Ragnhild’s ears, so you’d better hurry if you want to see it first. It’s in the stall where she keeps her nag.”

Adills pushed the door open to confront Jotull. “I hope you’re not up to any unpleasant tricks, Jotull,” he said warningly.

“It’s only for a joke,” Sigurd hastened to say. “I asked Jotull to help us. It’s nothing to worry about, Adills. Let’s go have a look at it.”

“I certainly shall,” Adills declared, seizing his staff.

“There’s no need,” Jotull said with a condescending smile. “I fear the walk to the barn would be too much for you. Your knees look definitely wobbly these days.”

Adilis lifted his staff. “Then we shall dispose of knees altogether. When will you learn, Jotull, that the wizard’s body is only a poor shell for the wizard’s spirit?” With a few words, the wizard Adills vanished in a puff of light and reappeared in the shape of a small red hawk. It bobbed its head up and down, the better to see them, looking amazingly wise in the process, and whetted its beak on the post where it sat. With a shrill whistle, it spread its wings and glided toward the distant barns.

By the time the others arrived, they found Adills sitting comfortably in a chair the horsemaster had kindly brought him and sipping at a cup of something hot and fragrant.

“I have seen it,” he greeted them, “and I do not approve.” He nodded to a nearby stall, where a horse was reaching out its muzzle to sniff at the newcomers. It was a delicately formed white horse with large, dark eyes and sharp, inquisitive ears. Sigurd rubbed its neck in considerable amazement and envy.

“It’s too beautiful to give to Ragnhild,” he said. “What we should give her is a nag like Rolfr’s.”

Jotull chuckled indulgently and flicked some straw away from the toe of his boot. “No, no, this horse isn’t a bit too good for Ragnhild, and once you learn what its habits are, I think you’ll hasten to agree.”

Adilis snorted. “I know what it is and I don’t think it’s a good idea at all. I’m tempted to put an end to your scheme and I could do it by saying a single word.” He rose to his feet and glared at Jotull, much like a tiny sparrow hawk hissing and snapping its beak at an eagle.

“No, it will be perfect!” Rolfr exclaimed. “Tomorrow we’ve planned an exhibition of riding skills and games and races in honor of the great birthday. Ragnhild will be very haughty with her new horse, which is obviously the finest and fastest in the hill fort and completely useless to a good fighting man who has need of such a horse. In the middle of all the festivities, one of us will ride up near her and whisper the word ever so gently in this lovely creature’s ear, and away it will go like an arrow, straight for the nearest water where it will plunge in, right while everyone is watching. Ragnhild and her fine new clothes and new saddle will all get completely soaked, and so will that arrogant little nose which she keeps in the air. She’ll be so humiliated she won’t show herself for a month. You know how she boasts about her horsemanship. I wonder if it should be the horse pond we duck her in or the lake at the end of the valley. The horse pond is frightfully muddy and full of leeches, so perhaps we ought to use it.”

Sigurd looked warily from one friend to another, not wanting to appear ignorant by asking foolish questions. Adills caught his expression at once and explained, “This is not an ordinary horse; it’s more of an evil monster. It appears tame and willing enough and will gladly carry a rider, but just mention its name and it will bolt away to dive into the nearest body of water. Such creatures have been known to roll on their riders and drown them, too. Imagine trying to explain your clever trick to Halfdane if something happens to Ragnhild.”

“We’ll make certain nothing happens to her except a good drenching,” Rolfr said amiably. “Siggi and I will stay with her, mostly so we can get the first laugh at her. Perhaps we can be in the race to the lake and call the word just as she gets there.”

Adills shook his head resolutely. “It’s too dangerous.”

“But half the hill fort will be there to pull her out,” Rolfr said. “Besides, that lake isn’t very deep. Siggi and I could be waiting there to shout the horse’s name if you prefer, and then we can jump in after her instantly if she requires it. I’d prefer to let her flounder around awhile first and swallow a lot of water and get thoroughly soaked.”

“I shall speak to Halfdane about it the instant he gets back in the morning,” Adills said indignantly to Jotull. “This is your doing and I have a feeling it will turn out evil.”

Jotull only shrugged and turned away to leave. “There’s no convincing you otherwise, I see. Do as you think fit, Adills.” His eye met Sigurd’s briefly, and Sigurd had the sudden assurance that Jotull had no intention of being thwarted by Adills.

Ragnhild and a troop of Alfar descended upon the barn to confirm the rumors that a very special present from Halfdane awaited her there. Ignoring Sigurd and Rolfr, she swept forward to admire the horse, and Adills was jostled quite out of the way by the Alfar crowding forward to have a look, so he had no chance to warn her. Rolfr took command of Adills before his fragile bones were accidentally crushed. Being rather small and bent, the old wizard was easy to overlook. Indomitably, he settled his cap on his head, plunged into the crowd of taller Alfar, and nearly reached Ragnhild’s side, when suddenly Sigurd saw him double over, clutching his back in pain.

Rolfr spied the mishap instantly and sprang after Adills, catching him and gently lowering the old wizard to a heap of clean straw before he collapsed.

“Wretched back!” Adills gritted, his face gray with pain. “I fear you’ll have to carry me home, Rolfr. This will take days to cure. I won’t be able to move a finger.”

“Do you have these seizures often, Adills?” Sigurd inquired, still staring at the doorway, where only a moment ago he had seen Jotull hidden by shadows, making some gestures that looked very like the moves essential to a spell. He was on the point of telling Adills about it; but after a moment’s consideration, he decided that would be carrying tales on Jotull, and Jotull wouldn’t like it if he found out.

“I never have them when it’s convenient,” Adills growled, as they placed him aboard a plank to carry homeward. “It feels like knives sticking into my flesh. Blast it, I won’t be able to do anything about that wretched nikur you’re giving Ragnhild as a horse. Rolfr, if you truly cared about me, you wouldn’t permit Jotull to carry out this foolish plan. But I can see you’re determined to have your fun, no matter what I say. Don’t say I didn’t warn you, when something goes wrong.”

“Nothing will go wrong,” Rolfr soothed him, as they carried him down the steep steps into the tower, head foremost. “I only regret you’ll miss out on the joke.”

Sigurd remained silent during the administration of herbs and poultices that made his eyes water and great steaming compresses that threatened to broil the little wizard alive. When nothing seemed to have the desired effect, and Adills was in a thoroughly irascible temper, he casually suggested it might be an evil spell.