The Wizard And The Warlord (25 page)

Silently, Sigurd agreed with him, but he said nothing. He and Rolfr passed the night listening to Bjarnhardr’s intermittent outbursts and marking the hours by the changing of the watchmen in the ruined towers above, who tramped down the narrow stairway and exited through the main hall entrance. Once Sigurd thought he heard the triumphant cackling of Hross-Bjorn and the thunder of its hooves on the hall doors, but he might have dreamed it.

After that, sleep even in the smallest of cat naps was impossible, although the morning watchmen had not yet relieved the midnight watch. Sigurd left Rolfr sleeping in an uncomfortable knot beside the cold hearth and went prowling through the labyrinth of Bjarnhardr’s subterranean fortress, looking for someone to question about Jotull. His lamp was dim, the grass wick almost gone, and he saw oniy a few scuttling rats and Bjarnhardr’s hounds, who wagged their tails, stretched, and decided he was as good a person as any to accompany on a jaunt through the cold corridors. He came upon a few servants dragging bundles of wood, but they scuttled away from him almost as readily as the rats, recognizing him as the wielder of the cursed sword. He found the infirmary in the lowest and dankest of the subcellars, but no one there was in any condition to talk to him. Halfdane’s surprise attack on the previous day had taken a heavy toll among Bjarnhardr’s guards, which no doubt was part of the reason for the warlord’s disagreeable humor.

Thoroughly chilled by this time, Sigurd hurried back to the main hall, where a skinny old thrall was heaping up a generous fire in preparation for Bjarnhardr’s morning appearance. The old fellow started when he saw Sigurd and apprehensively exclaimed that the breakfast wasn’t ready yet, adding in rather an accusing tone that the hour was early, and no one else was awake.

“I don’t mind waiting,” Sigurd said. “Go on about your duties. I’ll watch the fire and mend it if it needs it.”

“Good. Then you won’t mind letting in the morning watch when they knock at the door, will you?” the thrall inquired hopefully, rubbing his knotty hands together near the flames.

Sigurd agreed, and the ragged creature disappeared into the dark passageway, leaving Sigurd to be the first one to discover what sort of mood Bjarnhardr was in after a night of drinking and bellowing for Jotull or Slyngr. He hadn’t waited long when the morning watch tramped up to the door and knocked respectfully. With gruff mutters of thanks, they marched into the hall, and the last one ushered in another fellow in a snow-laden cloak.

“Says he’s a messenger. Knows something of Jotull’s whereabouts, if he’s to be believed,” the guard announced, giving the stranger a poke with his bow in passing and eyeing the fire enviously.

The messenger positioned himself before the fire and shook off the snow so his cloak could steam in the welcome heat. Sigurd sat down in a chair and rested his chin in his hands, taking no further notice of the messenger. The servants came in to place the eating things on the table. The moment they were gone, the messenger pushed back his hood and turned to Sigurd, who was idly examining the hilt of his sword and trying to decipher the runes carved into the handle. When Sigurd glanced up at the messenger, he recognized a scowling and vengeful-looking Mikla.

“What are you doing here?” Sigurd asked, putting his hand on the sword. “Do you want to get killed?”

“No more than Halfdane did,” Mikla replied bitterly. “I came to get you and Rolfr and bring you back. The others have gone ahead with Halfdane to the nearest house of healing.”

“Then he’s not dead?” Sigurd gasped.

Mikla shrugged. “There may yet be a chance that a bit of life still lingers, but I myself have very little hope. Where’s Rolfr?“

Sigurd nodded toward the passage. “Asleep. Why don’t you get out of here before someone discovers you, Mikla? If Jotull found you here, he’d make cats’ meat out of you.”

“Never mind that. Come en, Sigurd, don’t you want to escape from here?” Mikla glanced nervously toward the passage .

“I’m not a prisoner,” Sigurd snapped, without much conviction as he thought about the sending. “And when I do leave, it won’t be to go back to Hrafnborg, not with all those vengeful Alfar waiting to shed my blood for Halfdane. I’m going to Svartafell to see the maker of this box and ask him to open it.”

“Then I shall go with you. If I have anything to do with this matter, I won’t allow Bjarnhardr or Jotull to get control of what you carry in the box. Once either of them gets control of whatever that thing may be, we may as well seal the doom of the last of the Alfar.”

“Outlaws, you mean. You’re all Alfar,” Sigurd said, still toying with the sword. “It seems to me that I’ve allied myself with the side that has the best chances of survival. Just look around and compare Svinhagahall to Hrafnborg and you’ll see why I have no intention of forsaking what I have for the privilege of freezing to death with you on the way to Svartafell. Even if we did succeed, it would still be a losing battle to try defending little hill forts like Hrafnborg against something like Svinhagahall.”

“So that’s your decision? You’ll join with the side that looks the strongest, whether right or wrong? Listen, I’ve looked around Svinhagahall and I’ve seen enough to convince me how much better off we are at Hrafnborg. Did you ever see anyone freeze or starve there? Did Halfdane eat meat when there wasn’t meat for his men? Maybe his hall wasn’t opulent, but there wasn’t any meanness there, at least. Svinhagahall reeks of meanness, Sigurd, and I’m shocked that you can’t smell it, too.”

Sigurd felt his temper rising, particularly when he realized he couldn’t find much to say in defense of Bjarnhardr’s method of leading his men. Bjarnhardr liked to keep his people dependent upon him for their survival. While such a situation was rather harsh on some when they fell into disfavor, Sigurd thought he was above their plight—at least, until he earned Bjarnhardr’s displeasure.

“Mikla, I don’t know why you’re wasting your time here,” he said. “I’m not leaving with you, and you can’t force me as long as I’ve got this.” He half-drew the sword, threateningly.

Mikla glowered at him. “Oh, indeed? You’re just a Scipling, Sigurd, and I’m very nearly a fully adept wizard. I daresay I can pretty well take you anywhere I think you should go and I’m going to take you and Rolfr to Svartafell despite your best efforts to bluster and make a fool of yourself. We haven’t much time, so go wake Rolfr and get yourselves together ready to travel. I’ve got your horses saddled and waiting.”

Sigurd stood up and drew the sword. “This is my answer. You’d better leave now before I get angry enough to kill you, too.”

Mikla raised his staff. “Oh, you’ve acquired a taste for killing your friends, have you? Put that sword away or I’ll melt it and your hand with it, without much regret at all.”

“Spoken like a true friend,” Sigurd replied with a snort. “I know who my real friends are, and you’re not one of them, Mikla.”

“Yes, I am, you idiot, and you’re too stupid to know it,” Mikla retorted.

Sigurd blazed with fury, and he had never wanted anything as much as he wanted to kill Mikla. “Those are words a man never forgives,” he said, and made a deadly thrust at Mikla, who had learned from Halfdane’s example to expect treachery and saved himself by twisting away. Only his cloak was pierced by the gleaming blade.

Mikla leaped over the table and raised his staff for a spell. Sigurd would have followed, but suddenly the back of his head seemed to explode and he staggered a few steps across a wildly tilting floor before collapsing. Rolfr peered into his face anxiously while the room whirled around giddily.

“Are you all right, Siggi? I hope I didn’t hit you too hard.”

“No, I’m all right, nothing’s the matter,” Sigurd said a little thickly, sensing a terrific lump rising on the back of his skull. He looked at Rolfr reproachfully, feeling terribly betrayed.

Sigurd rose rather shakily to his hands and knees and made no protest when Mikla pounced upon his sword with a vengeful grunt, sheathed it, and tucked it away in his belt. By the time Sigurd felt like standing up, Rolfr had stowed their possessions in two saddle pouches, stolen a fine cloak and new boots for Mikla, and taken possession of most of the food on Bjarnhardr‘’s table. He draped Sigurd’s cloak around his shoulders, careful not to jar his tender wound, and announced, “We’re ready. Let’s go, Mikla.”

They each took one of Sigurd’s arms and marched out the door and down the long dark passageway to the outside, where the guard tending his miserable fire scarcely looked up at them as they hurried importantly by. When the guards at the earthworks stepped forward to question them, Mikla replied in an irritable shout, as a person of consequence would do, and set spurs to his horse.

They galloped away into the thinning darkness, and nearly half a day of sunshine put them that much ahead of their pursuers. Mikla and Rolfr were exultant. Sigurd still sulked, and every turn of his head was another reminder of Rolfr’s perfidy. After a few days of travel, he began looking forward to the sunlight hours and condescended to speak to Rolfr and Mikla.

The first thing he demanded of Mikla was his sword, but Mikla replied, “I’ve got it in a safe place where it won’t do any harm. You really don’t want that sword back, Sigurd. I read its runes and it’s cursed to any hand that bears it. It says ’Three treacheries I do commit.‘ The runes are Dvergar— probably the Dokkalfar captured a smith and forced him to make a sword of power for them, and this was the way the smith got even with them. Dwarves are excellent fellows sometimes, but they carry a grudge forever. When we get to Svartafell, we’ll ask Bergthor if he can destroy this sword so no one else will be killed.“

Sigurd sighed and stared into the fire that was heating their meager breakfast. “I don’t admit it often, but it’s always true—I’m a fool. Jotull and Bjarnhardr set it up so Halfdane would be enticed into Svinhagahall where I would have this sword to kill him.“

“Yes, Bjarnhardr made sure the message arrived at Hrafnborg,” Mikla said. “Halfdane suspected a trap, but I’m sure he never thought it would be you. 1 can’t exactly place all the blame on you, but it will be difficult for you to redeem yourself. I hope that box holds something marvelous to make up for the loss of Halfdane.”

Rolfr stoically pulled on his sodden boots. “I can’t help wondering where Jotull is. Did he continue after the fellows with Halfdane, or is he following us? Which prize does he think the most valuable—or the easiest to capture?”

No one cared to answer his question, but it was the one that they all thought about as they mounted up and rode into the darkness. Each day the sun came up earlier and lingered longer, which seemed to have a disheartening effect on the trolls, and considerably delayed their pursuers from Svinhagahall. On cold, frosty nights they could hear the clatter of horses’ hooves over stone several miles away, and Mikla wove his best spells to thwart the Dokkalfar. He raised fogs so thick that breathing was almost impossible and caused snowstorms and thunderstorms to cover the tracks of their horses and to confuse their pursuers. He experimented with illusions, such as a brightly lighted hall and merry voices singing, which led the Dokkalfar from fell to fell until they realized it was only a ploy to put them off the track. His best spell was the illusion of a deep crevice in the earth barring the Dokkalfar from their prey, which led them far aside when they tried to find a way around it or through it. Sigurd began to look upon Mikla with new respect when he conjured an awesome, fiery spectacle in the sky to discourage their following enemies further.