The Wizard And The Warlord (31 page)

Mori snorted and chuckled, then set about discouraging Hross-Bjorn. When the sending finally made its abrupt exit with two snouts full of porcupine quills, Sigurd squeezed out of the barrow and hurried toward the hall.

He found Mikla and Rolfr there before him, assembling Kambi’s thralls and paid workers and arming them with hay knives, pitchforks, sticks, and rocks. Very unwillingly, they followed Mikla to the ravine to look for Kambi. To everyone’s astonishment, they found him alive, and no one was more astonished than he was, although the sending’s teeth had left ugly wounds. It would be a long time before Kambi could throw a sheep and shear it.

Ulfrun lost no time in seizing the uncontested rule of Thufnavellir. The next day after the accident, she sent for her three brothers to help her run the farm, supposedly until Kambi recovered, but Sigurd secretly wondered. Ulfrun never openly invited the three unwelcome visitors to leave, but she made it plain that she blamed them for Kambi’s injury and the further aggravation of Vigbjodr, who had become a terror every rtight. Mori’s tricks also became much more dangerous and destructive, and many of them centered on Sigurd. Ulfrun began to perceive Sigurd as an immensely unlucky object to have around. Her discerning, ratlike eye discovered Sigurd to be the source of all misfortune, and Sigurd himself could not disagree.

After the arrival of Ulfrun’s brothers, who similarly bore the family traits of parsimoniousness and incivility, Mikla, Sigurd, and Rolfr decided to depart. They asked permission to bid Kambi farewell, and Ulfrun grudgingly allowed them to see him for the last time. She kept him a virtual prisioner in his bed, feeding him a prisoner’s rations of gruel, boiled turnips, weak tea, and other nourishing substances.

Kambi greeted them weakly, but he was glad to see them. Ulfrun hovered nearby, begrudging them even a farewell, as she had begrudged the pay they had earned and the supplies to carry them on their journey. She inserted as many answers to their questions and statements as she possibly could before Kambi could arrange his slow thoughts and get his mouth open, but he did manage to say he was sorry to see them leave before Hross-Bjorn was turned back, and he regretted the behavior of his father’s draug, since Vigbjodr had been friendly and hospitable before his death. Then, as Ulfrun was sternly ejecting them from the sickroom, Kambi called out, “I hope you have the bridles, Mikla. I shall expect to hear soon that you have succeded in destroying Hross-Bjorn. You won’t give up, will you?”

“Of course not,” Mikla said, resisting Ulfrun’s efforts long enough to shake Kambi’s hand. “We’ll undo him or send him packing back to Bjarnhardr. I don’t believe you’ll have to worry much about Vigbjodr once we’re not here to annoy him any longer.“

Kambi’s eyes rested upon Sigurd with a benevolent, anxious expression. “It’s a long journey to Svartafell,” he said thoughtfully. “And very dangerous. But remember that I am your friend, and you can always come back to Thufnavellir, no matter what has happened.”

Sigurd was spared making an answer because of Ulfrun’s haste to see them on their way. With deepening shame, Sigurd thought guiltily of the sword, and how easy it would be just to leave it, but he hated to concede the battle, now that it had progressed so far. As long as he must fight for the box anyway, he might as well have the sword to fight for, too. It would also be wise to keep it as a weapon, since Mikla refused to let him use the other one.

A day’s journey took them past several of Kambi’s near neighbors and brought them to Kvigudalir, where they were politely informed that no more workers were needed. Sigurd, astonished and suspicious, noted that the farmers were even farther behind in their shearing than at Thufnavellir, and the master had only three hired men to help.

“Our reputation has become known,” Mikla said in a low voice, when Sigurd told him what he thought.

The hospitality of Kvigudalir, offered somewhat reluctantly for one night, was of such a parsimonious nature that Sigurd was almost glad they weren’t able to stay longer. The farmer pointed out a corner in his hall where the unwelcome guests might stable their horses and a platform rather far from the fire where the travelers might sleep. The food was plain and ungenerous. The inhabitants of the farm, from the master to the least thrall, seemed to slink around with a frightened, conciliatory manner that puzzled Sigurd almost as much as it angered him.

“What’s wrong with them?” he whispered to Mikla that night as they stretched out uncomfortably to sleep. “Surely they know we’ll be leaving as soon as we can. I’ve never seen such inhospitable Ljosalfar. They scarcely even talk to us.”

“Surely they’ve dealt with sendings before,” Rolfr muttered.

Mikla leaned on one elbow. “It’s not the sending they’re afraid of. They’re afraid of angering Bjarnhardr and Jotull against them, and it’s well known that we are running away from Bjarnhardr. Kambi is known as a rebel, and fearful folk such as these have no wish to be tainted with any unwelcome suggestions of insurgence.”

Sigurd snorted. “I think Kambi was far happier and twice as much the man for his independence as this sniveling Geirmundr is for his craven loyalty to Bjarnhardr.”

“I’ll certainly be glad to leave them to themselves,” Rolfr replied. “They’re more like daytime Dokkalfar than real Ljosalfar. I’m sure they’ll find the means of sending word to Bjarnhardr where we are. I wish we hadn’t stopped here, Mikla.”

Mikla shook his head. “It will be all right. I once asked Kambi if it would be safe, and he told me to cast a spell on them in the morning to make them forget we were ever here.” He chuckled in satisfaction.

“I wonder if any spell is strong enough to make them forget Hross-Bjorn,” Rolfr said with a sigh. Sigurd entertained some private worries about Vigbjodr, whose sword was concealed underneath him now. By day he wore it behind his back under his cloak, but he knew he couldn’t expect to hide it much longer.

Near dawn, Hross-Bjorn and Vigbjodr arrived at Kvigudalir. The hall door suddenly thundered with Vigbjodr’s furious knocking, and the sleeping hounds began to howl in terror. With a rending of wood and palings, the cattle escaped from their pens and bolted away like mad things while Hross-Bjorn brayed atop the cowhouse. Geirmundr and his craven sons cowered as Vigbjodr battered at the door and they beseeched Mikla to do something to preserve them. Mikla obligingly cast a few spells, but Vigbjodr replied with spells of his own that threatened to shake the house down. The eventual diminishing of the dark into silvery predawn finally discouraged the draug’s attacks. As soon as they could ready themselves, the travelers departed with no breakfast and a curt refusal of their help in gathering the strayed cattle.

Sigurd rode with a feeling that the silence of Mikla and Rolfr was somehow accusatory. He knew Kambi must have told Mikla about the sword, and he fervently wished he had never let Mori tempt him into stealing it from Vigbjodr.

“What did we ever do to earn Vigbjodr’s following us?” Rolfr finally demanded bitterly, when they stopped to rest the horses at the top of a steep green fell. Kvigudalir lay far below.

Mikla said nothing, nor did he even look suspiciously at Sigurd. “It will all come out in a while,” he said rather ominously.

“Vigbjodr won’t want to get far from Thufnavellir,” Sigurd said hopefully. “His grave is there, and the people Bjarnhardr sent him against.”

“But Bjarnhardr might have changed his mind and sent him against us,” Rolfr said.

“No, that’s not it,” Mikla said stubbornly. “But we’ll all have to suffer until the truth comes out—not to mention the fright and distress of the farmers we hope to work for until we get near to Svartafell. I am afraid that the matter is not in our hands.” He looked at Rolfr as he spoke, and Sigurd hoped his own mortification was not as apparent as he felt it to be.

In the next five days, they stopped at three farms, where they were gladly received until the advent of the two sendings. Some of the farmers were sympathetic, some were loyal to Bjarnhardr, but none were interested in having their farms torn up and their livestock terrorized by Hross-Bjorn. The travelers earned barely enough pay in food for the little work they did to take them to the next farm. They quickly learned that spending their nights in the open was nothing short of warfare all night long. Without the magical knowledge of Mikla, either of the sendings would have easily overpowered them. Mikla became exhausted; by the time they reached Gunnavik, he looked almost ill. As they always calculated to arrive at a new farm early in the morning, they were able to work a full day. Mikla ate nothing that night and fell asleep on his pallet directly, despite the rather jovial company. The master of the farm, Gunnar, a pugnacious little fellow with a bristling red beard, made no secret of his hatred of Bjarnhardr and was fiercely indignant when Sigurd ventured to warn him in advance of the sendings.

“Sendings! We’re not afraid of Bjarnhardr at Gunnavik,” he declared, his eyes sparkling in anticipation of a battle of any nature. “My brother-in-law is a first-rate wizard and he’ll rattle those sendings down to their toes. I’ll tell, my men to be ready for them and we’ll catch them up short, indeed we will!”

His enthusiasm was only slightly dampened when he later learned that his brother-in-law the wizard was visiting at another farm and not expected to return for three days. Sigurd began to look at Mikla with more apprehension as the night deepened. Gunnar also looked at him, cocking his head to one side like a stout, elderly bird looking at something with one eye.

“He’s got a fever,” Gunnar said decisively, summoning a servant to come and attend. “I don’t think he’s going to do much good against those sendings tonight, my friend. He’s half out of his head already, and I don’t expect him to get any better for quite a while. Drat that wretched Snorri! What did he have to go to Gautrvellir for at a time like this? Well, never you mind, we’ll still show those sendings that Gunnavik is not a place where Bjarnhardr can frighten us. We’re good honest Ljosalfar and not afraid of a fight,” He strode around, giving the orders in a brisk, cheerful manner, but Sigurd could only sit and stare at the delirious Mikla with the heaviest feelings of impending doom and dread.

When Hross-Bjorn made his appearance around midnight, he found a stableyard securely locked, barred, and bolted with all the beasts within. Gunnar’s sons, hired men, and thralls waited with arrows and lances behind walls and under doorways. When Hross-Bjorn triumphantly settled himself upon the stable and commenced to roar and scream, the archers stood up and filled his grizzled hide with arrows. Not accustomed to such mistreatment, Hross-Bjorn took flight, growling and snarling, with his arrogant tail tucked under his haunches. When he reached a safe distance from the archers, he stopped to paw the ground and scream in pain and fury as he bit at the arrows sticking to him.

Vigbjodr was not to be put off so easily. He shambled into the farmyard and hammered at the door of the hall as expected, but in reply to the burst of arrows that descended upon him, he conjured up gales of wind and sleety snow to baffle his assailants. Inside the hall, Sigurd knew the plans had gone awry. Rolfr looked grim and unsheathed his axe.