The Wizard And The Warlord (22 page)

He sat for hours beside Rolfr in the adjoining room where his friend was suffering some ill effects from his wound and spending most of the time in a drugged stupor or restlessly raving nonsense. Otherwise there was little to do except scratch the itching of the new beard Sigurd had decided to grow or to sit in the company of Bjarnhardr and Jotull.

At rare intervals, Sigurd poked his nose outside and saw nothing but snow, darkness, and the sentries shivering over their posts. Several times he saw Gunnolfr, cold, pinched, and envious. The other chieftains looked little better when they came to Bjarnhardr to report or complain. Sigurd suspected that the lot of the common soldier was not quite as comfortable as his own, and probably not as good as that of the horses. He chose not to dwell on his observations, however.

Bjarnhardr kept Sigurd’s attention distracted by a host of amusements. There was nothing less agreeable to Sigurd than this fulsome flattery, and he would not have tolerated it, if not for the necessity of waiting for Rolfr to recover from his injury before they could resume their journey to Svartafell. He chafed at the delay.

Bjarnhardr, too, found the delay irritating, and every cunning glance at Sigurd’s box seemed to aggravate him further. Loudly he complained to Jotull when his bondmen were driven back across the Bedariver. When the darkness at midday paled to hopeful twilight, Bjarnhardr lamented that the winter was almost over and Halfdane was still undefeated. Jotull, undisturbed, retorted that the winter was far from over yet; once they returned from Svartafell, wondrous feats of destruction might yet be realized.

Covertly Jotull and Bjarnhardr had tried to persuade Sigurd to leave Rolfr behind, that they might depart immediately, but Sigurd refused to consider the idea. He said it would be a coward’s deed to abandon his friend, but secretly he knew he relied upon Rolfr as an ally against two powerful rivals. As soon as Rolfr was fit, it would take all their strength to resist and think up some way of losing Jotull and Bjarnhardr. Sigurd seized every opportunity of poring over their maps until he knew vaguely the location of the dvergar regions that lay over the lowlands to the east, where the mountains began again. He grimly hoped that two riders could make it that far without falling prey to trolls or other enemies.

Sigurd made no mention of his plans to Rolfr, knowing that someone was certain to overhear. The only safe topics were Svartafell and how soon Rolfr would be strong enough to travel. Rolfr had been considerably wasted by the fever, almost to a shadow of his former robust self. Daily he gingerly practiced bending his bow; but, judging by his trembling and pained grimaces, it would be many weeks before he could be thought deadly with his arrows.

Sigurd and Rolfr seldom missed a chance to survey their surroundings during the few hours of pale twilight when the sun appeared on the horizon. The view from the fortress parapets was dismal enough—nothing but stark snowy fells, frozen lakes and rivers, and the wretched deserters dangling from the gibbets. Svinhagahall itself, with its rotting towers and broken walls, was not a sight to cheer the hearts of two young, homeless men who both gazed southward toward Hrafnborg for long silent periods without saying what they were thinking.

The sun hung reluctantly overlooking such a scene for a short space, then slid gratefully back into oblivion, and the land fell again into darkness. As Sigurd and Rolfr descended the crumbling stairway, they met Jotull coming quickly up in search of them.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he said, breathless and impatient. “You shouldn’t wander off without telling anyone where you’re going. It’s not as safe as you think it is in Svinhagahall. I’ve got some news for you, Sigurd, most unwelcome news indeed. Just before noon, while it was still dark, someone sighted an old friend of yours who has come hunting for you.”

Sigurd stopped. “Not Halfdane, surely!”

“No, no, although it wouldn’t surprise me much,” Jotull said in a tone of peculiar satisfaction. “Come along, don’t stop now. It simply isn’t safe prowling around this old ruin.”

“Why not?” Rolfr demanded. “You never said anything before. We should have nothing to fear—unless Hross-Bjorn has somehow made a reappearance.” He looked hopeful until Jotull nodded grimly.

Sigurd smothered a groan of despair. “It always comes along just when I feel that I’m making progress.”

Rolfr trod on his foot warningly and Sigurd closed his mouth. Lately, to relieve the boredom, Rolfr and Sigurd had been practicing what little magic they knew between them in an effort to get Sigurd’s power under control. They mentioned their experiments to no one and carefully concealed their mistakes.

“The longer we delay in Svinhagahall, the better the chance that Hross-Bjorn will find you,” Jotull continued. “There are a thousand hiding places in this wretched old catacomb. I can’t protect you every instant, especially if you persist in wandering away. By the end of the week, I want to be away, whether Rolfr is ready to travel or not.”

Immediately Rolfr said, “I shall be ready. I can travel, although I won’t be much good with my bow. What I would like to know is why you can’t get rid of the sending. I always thought you had power enough to do just about anything, Jotull.”

“Why bother? We’ll just leave it behind.” Jotull sounded impatient, so they followed him down with no further questions.

The sending lost no time in making its presence known. It became the terror of the half-dozen guards, and stalked any lone stragglers wandering about the walls and earthworks. The gibbets on the earthworks earned a fresh reputation for horror after the sending took up residence in the chamei pit nearby and gnawed upon the frozen carcasses of the deserters as they hung in their chains.

Sigurd learned to hate Svinhagahall with a bitter loathing during the last days before their departure. He thought he heard Hross-Bjorn slinking after him around every corner, and the wind flapping a hanging startled him inordinately. Sigurd’s nerves became raw, and he realized he was scarcely better than a prisoner. The only time he felt truly safe was standing outside, gazing at the sun when it came up to throw its golden gleam and long, black shadows behind every object. The sending preferred darkness to work its mischiefs on him, when he felt the most insecure.

When he thought he could stand it no longer, he cornered Jotull alone one day and said in a low voice, “We both know the sending is yours. What’s the use for it now, Jotull, since you’ve got me and the box away from Halfdane?”

Jotull’s eyes belied his wary caution. “That’s rather a dangerous accusation to make, isn’t it? I don’t think you’d care to offend my honor, would you?”

“No one else is listening, so your pride is still intact. Will you get rid of that sending or not?” Sigurd stared back at Jotull with the concentration lent him by anger and determination. His natural power overturned a chair and started launching small bits of peat at Jotull’s ankles. The wizard glowered around the room warningly.

“No, I won’t get rid of the sending,” he replied. “I shall keep it from hurting you if you stay near me. The least you could do is allow me to keep the box safe for you. If the sending got it, he might give it to Bjarnhardr, for all we know.”

Sigurd turned away, clutching the box under his arm. He always carried it with him now. “You’ll have to do better than that, Jotull. Halfdane was far more successful than you in winning my foolish trust, though Halfdane wasn’t half clever, I’m beginning to think. You know more about fear than trust, don’t you?”

Jotull permitted himself a small, dark smile. “It works as well, if not better, I should think. At least I know you’re not going anywhere without me.”

“Even Bjarnhardr is more clever than you, Jotull. Look at these fine clothes he gave me, besides the new saddle and that shield. Tonight he’s going to give me something more valuable, he said. I’m starting to believe he’s rather pleasant, in spite of being so ugly.” Sigurd smiled as Jotull’s looks blackened. “He says he plans to get rid of you as soon as you’re not useful to him any more.”

Jotull chuckled dryly and settled himself again into his chair. “That’s not news to me, so you needn’t think you can play us against each other. I’ll warn you now that any gift of Bjarnhardr’s is likely to have very long and stout strings attached. You’ll be sorry if you get yourself under any obligation to him.”

“And you are much more honest, with your simple coercion,” Sigurd observed ironically, as Jotull stretched out more comfortably by the fire.

“Precisely,” the wizard replied, shutting his eyes.

Sigurd noticed later, when Bjanrhardr presented him with the gift, that Jotull was not so carefree as he pretended. Jotull followed them watchfully as Bjarnhardr led the way to a heavily locked and barred door which opened into the warlord’s treasure room. Sigurd gazed around in silent admiration at Bjarnhardr’s loot, stolen from his vanquished enemies. Every imaginable object that could be made of gold or studded with precious jewels lay in carved chests, with swords, axes, knives, spears, helmets, and other useful items scattered among the ornaments and baubles.

Bjarnhardr unlocked an elaborate funeral chest and gingerly lifted out a sheathed sword. “This I give to you as a token of our friendship. I insist that you take it, or I shall be grievously offended.” He grinned and winked like a merry little troll. “If Halfdane comes looking for you, it will be wise to meet him with a sword in your hands. A bad day it will be for Halfdane, eh?” He grinned and winked even harder at Jotull, who looked away in disgust.

Sigurd took the sword and examined it, silently estimating how much such a fine implement was worth. Its hilt was heavily chased in gold and the blade was bright and sharp. Bjarnhardr watched him speculatively, and his eyes also were bright and sharp.

“Well? Does it meet with your approval?” he asked slyly. “If you don’t like it, I can find you another one—not so fine, and not so perfectly suited to your purpose, I fear.”

Sigurd had no delusions about Bjarnhardr’s gift. It was a payment, and nothing more, for a service Bjarnhardr hoped he would render. Sigurd smiled to think that Bjarnhardr was going to be disappointed, besides giving away an excellent sword.

“It’s perfect, and I thank you,” he said, sheathing the sword. “I hope I can repay you somehow, by whatever means I have.”

Bjanrhardr shook his head. “No, no, it’s merely a gift, a small gesture of esteem, and nothing more. Take it and be welcome.”

“And may it serve you as well as it has its past owners,” Jotull added, exchanging a glance with Bjarahardr, who scowled at him with a flashing eye.

Rolfr was looking over his arrows when Sigurd made his appearance with the sword. He unsheathed it for Rolfr to look at, tossing it on a fleece where Rolfr sat. “Have a look at this. Bjarnhardr gave me this as a token of friendship and nothing more. Or so he says. What would you say it means—friendship, or is it another bribe?” He admired the runes etched from hilt to point.

Rolfr stared at the sword twinkling in the firelight. His eyes widened as he gazed. Dropping his arrows, he covered his eyes with his hands and fell back, pale and trembling. “Take it away, Sigurd! I can’t look at it another moment!” he gasped.

Hastily Sigurd sheathed the sword and hid it under an eider. “Whatever is the matter, Rolfr?” he demanded. “Did you see something in those runes carved into it? Are you sure it wasn’t just a trick of the firelight? They’re old runes; they can’t mean anything for us.”

Rolfr shook his head, still trembling. His eyes were still glazed with shock. “I know what I saw. The runes twinkled and twisted like flames, and for an instant I could read them. Every Alfar is entitled to extraordinary perceptions now and then, and what I saw—” He stopped and dug at his eyes with his knuckles, as if he could remove the images they had seen.

“What? What did they say?” Sigurd demanded, torn between a desire to comfort Rolfr and the urge to fly across the room and tear the sword from its sheath to stare at the runes.

Rolfr sighed resignedly. He gazed at the fire. “It said, ‘By this hand you die.’ It was my own death I saw. It was with that sword—and at your hand.”