The Wizard And The Warlord (33 page)

When they finally left after Snorri had returned, they departed as heroes, with many injunctions to return for a longer visit. Gunnar gave them enough supplies and three extra horses, which would take them at least as far as Svartafell. He knew stories of the mountain where Bergthor worked his marvelous craft, and he and Mikla and Snorri spent hours poring over sheaves of maps, trying to find the one that must be Svartafell. Gunnar wanted most desperately to accompany them, but he didn’t like to leave his farm while Jotull or Bjarnhardr were searching for Sigurd. Their arrival at Gunnavik was not to be missed. Snorri’s face was doubly regretful when the three travelers departed.

Hross-Bjorn had learned caution from the fate of Vigbjodr, and the lengthening days decidedly handicapped his usual style. The sight of the three grisly bridles hanging from a pole near the camp was usually enough to keep Hross-Bjorn at a respectful distance, where he snorted and roared in an attempt to lure away the six horses—a ruse foiled by Mikla, who plugged the horses’ ears with beeswax. The travelers also learned that Hross-Bjorn had other tricks.

Sigurd was alone in the camp one silvery evening while Mikla and Rolfr were picketing the horses in a nearby ravine. Suddenly he heard a voice shouting in distress farther down the ravine, below the camp. Listening a moment, Sigurd was almost certain it sounded like Rolfr. Seizing his axe, he plunged away down the ravine, leaping over boulders and dodging bushes and small trees. He jumped over the small, icy streamlet, slipping on the mossy rocks in his haste. The cries for help continued below the lower part of the ravine. He wondered briefly how Rolfr had traveled so far in such a short time after leaving with the horses and Mikla, but his anxiety to save his friend soon overwhelmed the small nagging thought.

He ran and scrambled down the ravine until it suddenly occurred to him how dark it was around him. Halting suddenly, he realized he should have found Rolfr in his distress much sooner. He had been so wrapped up in the idea of appearing the hero that he had greatly overrun his common sense. As he started to turn back, feeling an icy brush of fear sweeping over him, he heard a splash not far away and the grinding of two rocks being stepped upon. He froze, listening, and again the shrill cry rang out in the ravine. Now he was close enough to realize the eerie sounds were not words but cleverly cadenced shrieks that he had tricked himself into hearing as words.

Swiftly, he turned and ran down the ravine, followed by Hross-Bjorn’s triumphant, rumbling chuckle. Several times he stopped to listen, hearing each time the stealthy padding of Hross-Bjorn’s hooves over the mossy stones, or the crackling of branches as the sending bulled his way through thickets. Despairing, Sigurd hurried on through the deepening darkness. Whenever he tried to climb the walls of the ravine, the sending anticipated him and appeared above him, grinning and snarling over the parapet. Once Sigurd thought he had escaped, but his groping fingers suddenly touched the sending‘s muzzle, and he narrowly avoided the creature’s viciously snapping teeth.

Just before the sky darkened entirely, he found a cave and crept cautiously inside on his hands and knees. It was dry, even it it wasn’t very deep, and Hross-Bjom was too large to fit in, unless he changed his shape. To forestall that possibility, Sigurd gathered a pile of wood and made a fire at the mouth of the cave, telling himself that Mikla would surely see it and come to his rescue. He listened disconsolately to the complaining of his empty stomach as he fed sticks into the fire, and he cursed his hasty overreaction to the trap Hross-Bjorn had cunningly set for him. Looking through the flames, he saw the nimbus that glowed around the sending’s heads, and three pair of eyes gleamed at him coldly across the ravine. He looked at his supply of wood and hoped it was enough to last the night. As the flames died down, Hross-Bjorn crept closer, retreating only when Sigurd added more wood.

When the night was perhaps half over, Hross-Bjorn seemed to lose interest in his game and wandered away down the ravine with much snorting and trampling back and forth. After his departure, Sigurd heard a few trolls hunting not far away and hoped earnestly that they wouldn’t see or smell his fire. A deluge of rain shortly before dawn put an end to the gruff calls of the trolls. Gratefully Sigurd abandoned his cave when he thought it was light enough to deter the attacks of trolls and sendings and rushed up the ravine.

The farther he traveled, the more uneasy and puzzled he became. He passed six forks in the ravine, any one of which might have been the one he had descended the night before. The rain had obliterated any trace of his passage, and it had been nearly dark. He could have wept in frustration. He shouted many times, but never received an answering shout. He sat down and concentrated on sending a mental message to Mikla or Rolfr, trying until his temples ached. The only obvious result was the rampaging of his natural power, which ever lurked one step behind him to guide his foot into a nettle patch or lead his hand into a place where two rocks were sure to pinch it.

Ultimately, there was nothing to do but continue up the ravine; attempting to choose the way that seemed to feel right. He tried to remember the lessons Adills had taught him about finding lost things and using his instincts to guide him. It seemed that when he felt the most certain he was on the right track, the ravine suddenly ended at an unfamiliar wall of rock or a waterfall.

By midday he was ready to admit that he was lost. He was also hungry. Wearily he sat down to nibble a handful of early-spring herbs he had recognized and gathered without much expectation of relieving his hunger. The most sensible thing to do was to wait to be found, but it was difficult just to idle away the afternoon without the least indication of whether or not Mikla and Rolfr were going to find him. He climbed the side of the ravine to watch for them and saw nothing but mile upon mile of green, folded landscape, stitched with a thousand streams, pools, and rivers that collected from the melting of the winter snow. It was depressing to be so dreadfully alone and insignificant.

Before evening arrived, Sigurd began to hunt for another cave to hide in. To his growing dismay, he found nothing suitable. He stumbled along in the shadows, doggedly searching for any sort of niche that might deter Hross-Bjorn’s attacks. The sending followed him, perhaps two bends behind, seemingly appreciating his plight and finding it tremendously humorous, judging by the chuckling.

At last Sigurd stumbled upon a tiny grotto between two stones, with a third forming a crude roof. Hastily he scrabbled together an armful of wood and squeezed himself into his inadequate shelter. He reached into his pocket for his tinderbox, but it wasn’t there. For a long, dumb moment, he stared at nothing until the realization sank in that he was almost defenseless. Fiercely, he searched all his pockets, glaring around wildly for inspiration. His miserable cave held out no opportunities or advantages, and the ravine might well have been a sterile desert for all the help it offered. Sigurd took a good grip on his axe and wiped the sweat from his face on his sleeve, knowing he and the sending had come to their final confrontation at last, however unprepared he might be.

Hross-Bjorn trotted into view, ears forward and tail waving like a banner. In the dying daylight, he looked confidently aware of Sigurd’s helplessness. Sigurd ground his teeth and wished for Bjarnhardr’s berserkr sword, which made him able to attack and kill almost anything. The sending stopped and posed ceremoniously, acknowledging Sigurd and his axe with a defiant snort.

Sigurd, much to his annoyance, observed his capricious natural power tugging at his cloak and making it flap. The power nudged at him like an anxious young billy goat, and even pelted him with a few small pebbles, exasperating him to the point of cursing at it and telling it, “You’ve been nothing but a nuisance from the very start, and now that I’m about to perish in a most horrible fashion, you want to torment me, too. Stupid, useless bad luck is all you’ve ever been to me. When I’m dead you’ll have no one to bother.” He took his eyes from Hross-Bjorn long enough to glower around at the invisible influence, which had been tweaking at his beard.

Hross-Bjorn advanced a few dancing steps, with his foremost head turned playfully to one side, grinning in horrible delight. Sigurd took a step, balancing his axe. A breath of wind fanned his cheek, and suddenly a fist-sized rock struck the sending right between the eyes of the right-hand head. The beast fell back on his haunches astonished, as another rock struck full in the chest with a great thud. Staggering backward, the beast roared with pain and indignation. Sigurd stared around carefully and saw no one who could be throwing rocks. The sending suddenly charged at Sigurd, digging his hooves into the soft earth and hurling up clods in his wake. Sigurd crouched, ready, but he was spared again by a small avalanche of rocks flying down from above.

Hross-Bjorn tried to swerve to miss a keg-sized rock bouncing at him and leaped over a volley of smaller stones; after tripping and stumbling on the rolling rocks, he skidded on his side into a pool of water at the foot of a small waterfall. As he dragged himself out, more rocks flew through the air with deadly accuracy to hammer on his ribs and knock against his skulls. Large, stationary boulders rolled ponderously from their resting places as if intending to block his escape, jostling together with an ominous rumble and striking sparks from one another. Hross-Bjorn cleared them with a series of desperate flying leaps and disappeared at full gallop down the ravine, followed by a deluge of hurtling rocks.

When the last pebble had fallen, Sigurd looked around slowly at the disordered rocks lying at his feet with their green caps of moss torn off and jagged with new fractures. “I don’t understand it,” he said aggressively to the silent darkness, “but thank you.” His power nudged him gently, and suddenly he had the feeling he wasn’t alone any more, and it was a warm, comforting sensation. He knew he no longer needed to hide in his miserable cave, so he stepped into the ravine silently, requesting his power to find Mikla and Rolfr. It responded with a definite push upstream along the ravine, so he trudged forward, glancing back often for Hross-Bjorn.

The moonlight shone brilliantly all that night. Hross-Bjorn followed almost silently, staying just out of the range of Sigurd’s power. Tired and miserable as he was, Sigurd couldn’t help being delighted with the ability to move things with a glance of his eye; a purposely directed thought fired a stone at Hross-Bjorn like a catapult. He did not know the precise instant when his natural power submitted to his control, but he suspected that it had to do with his realization of his certain death if something extraordinary didn’t happen. The power soothed his fears, guided his feet to the spots where they wouldn’t slip, and assured him that he would find Mikla and Rolfr, who were probably searching for him in the higher reaches of the ravine.

Thus it was that Sigurd was feeling tremendously confident and capable when he rounded a curve in the streambed, and something rose up before him without a sound and grabbed him in great hairy arms. He tore himself away, smothering a yell of fright and ran a few yards down the ravine before he realized nothing was chasing him. Breathing hard, he stopped and looked back.

“Hello?” a faint voice called. “Is someone there, someone other than a draug or my imagination? Probably just a dream,” the speaker added, with a heavy sigh that became a moan. Sigurd heard a chain rattle.

“Who’s there?” he called gruffly.

“Bless me, someone is here! Hello! Help! I’m caught in a trap here and I’d gladly pay you to free me! Please help me. I’ve been here for three days and I’m about to starve to death. Worse yet, the person who set this trap is likely to come by at any time and make an end of me. I assure you, I’ve done nothing to deserve such a fate. I’ve never done anything violent in my life, and to die like a common troll is an outrage to my dignity.”

Sigurd listened to the voice in amazement. It was a hoarse, rather fussy voice which reminded him of the petulant and comfortable old retainers of Halfdane who liked to sit by the fire in the hall and boast of their past deeds.

“Who are you?” he asked, stepping closer. “What sort of trap are you caught in?”

“My name is Grisnir, and I’m caught in a troll trap, of course,” exclaimed the voice impatiently. “I don’t know much about it besides that, and it’s hurting my leg dreadfully. If you won’t help me, just go away and stop tormenting me with the hope of escaping. I’ll abandon myself to despair!” Grisnir suddenly uttered a terrifying howl and rattled his chain.

Sigurd crept forward for a look, since the fellow apparently couldn’t attack him with his leg in a trap. Warily, Sigurd peered around the rock and saw a large troll sitting in the middle of the ravine with a metal contraption with some large, savage teeth clamped onto one leg.

“You’re a troll,” Sigurd said stupidly.

Grisnir folded his arms across his chest. “To be sure I am, since this is not a man trap or a fox trap or a bird trap, but indeed a troll trap. Did you ever hear of a troll being trapped with anything else? This one is an excellent style forged by Vigasmid, the smith who lives in Sleggjavellir, and I can recommend it from personal experience. There is no way a troll can escape from it, once captured. I believe you can have one made for about two and half marks.“

Sigurd came a little closer, and the troll looked at him with gleaming eyes. “But if I were to free you, I think you’d probably kill me for a meal almost immediately, wouldn’t you?” Sigurd asked.

Grisnir sighed and hunched his shaggy shoulders. “I am not the sort of troll who eats anything undiscriminatingly. I have a rather delicate digestion and I understand that you Alfar carry a great number of diseases, not to mention the plague. No offense to you, but I prefer beef, nicely roasted over an open fire and basted with its own drippings.”

Sigurd’s mouth watered at the thought of it. “I’m more than a little hungry myself—but I’ve always been told you can’t trust a troll’s word.”

Grisnir shifted impatiently. “Listen, my friend, you like gold, don’t you? I know all Alfar love it. I’ll give you more than you can carry away with you, if you’ll only help me get out of this trap. I’ll give you all you can eat of my beef and venison, too. My house isn’t far from here. A treacherous thing to set a trap almost on my doorstep! Come, can’t you see I’m not interested in killing you or anybody? My leg hurts dreadfully, and all I want is to get safely underground again where I can nurse it. It’s such a small thing for you to free a troll from a trap, but I assure you it’s terribly important to me.”