The Wizard And The Warlord (8 page)

“Nonsense. She’s a very clever opponent. It will be well worth your while matching wits with her.” Then he changed the subject to Mikla, the apprentice to the wizard Jorull. Before Sigurd was quite aware how it happened, he was trudging up the steep hillside behind the rest of the longhouses and huts toward the solitary house where Jotull lived.

“Now, I may as well warn you,” Rolfr said, stopping to catch his breath after the rather steep climb. “Jotull is about as disagreeable a fellow as you’d care to meet anywhere. He can’t abide nonsense of any sort, which is why he hates me so mucn, I suppose. He keeps Mikla working late hours almost every night and can scarcely bear to let him off for an hour. What I hope is that Jotull isn’t here tonight. He goes off prowling, much like old Adills, and Mikla and I have had some merry times in his absence. Once we got into some books of spells Jotull keeps locked away and we learned how to raise a corpse out of the grave. It took us all night to wrestle the creature back in before it killed us.”

“And that’s what you call fun?” Sigurd demanded. “I want no part of anything to do with draugar!”

“Oh, it was just a passing fancy. Necromancy and the evil arts are best left alone. We were just being mischievous. Now hush and let’s creep up on the house and try to look in for Jotull. If he’s there, we won’t be visiting Mikla.” He beckoned, leading the way around the corner of a low turf house.

They paused beside the door, which was open a crack to let in some cool air. A fire blazed inside, illuminating a young man beside the hearth, reading in a thick book.

“There’s Mikla, and not a sign of Jotull,” Rolfr whispered. “But just to be certain—” He scratched softly at the door, and Mikla looked up intently.

“Who’s there?” he called, taking up his staff warily.

“Just me,” Rolfr whispered. “Is the old dragon gone? I’ve brought the Scipling for you to meet.”

Mikla opened the door in two strides. “Come in, come in. I heard about Halfdane bringing back a Scipling. How do you do? I’m Mikla and I hope you’ll like it in Hrafnborg for as long as you decide to stay.”

Sigurd liked his quiet, serious demeanor. “Thank you. My name is Sigurd. Hrafnborg is a different place from what I’ve been accustomed to, but otherwise it seems very pleasant. Not as much freedom as I would like, and I’m not quite sure what the difference is between Ljosalfar and Dokkalfar yet, but I’m sure I shall learn quickly.”

“Worlds of difference! Come in, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, and a good deal extra besides.” Mikla pointed out chairs to sit on and began passing around a clay bottle of something that turned Sigurd’s legs to lead and his brains to fire. He felt he had never understood anything so clearly as Mikla’s words about the Ljosalfar and Dokkalfar, but when Mikla paused for him to ask questions, he couldn’t remember a thing.

“I’m still not convinced,” he heard himself say stupidly—stubbornness was a good camouflage for ignorance, he had discovered. “I don’t even know what that thing is inside the carven box, so how am I supposed to decide who should have it?” He knew he was talking too much, but the effects of the fire and the ale and whatever was in the clay bottle combined to make him rattle on willy-nilly.

“I suppose it’s something very valuable, but not gold because it isn’t at all heavy. What I wonder the most is how my grandmother came to possess something belonging to the Alfar realm. When she was dying, she tried to tell me about something, but all I learned from it was the name of her daughter who’s dead twenty years, and I suppose she must have been my mother. She might have known where the box came from, if she had lived. Strange to think she was about my age when she died. Her name was—”

He was seized suddenly by a yawn, and Mikla looked apprehensively toward the door and thrust the bottle under his cloak. Sigurd finished, “Ashildr.” He felt too sleepy to continue, but his drowsiness fled when the door suddenly creaked open and the wizard Jotull stepped into the room.

Rolfr leaped up in fright. “Sorry to have disturbed you, Mikla, we were just leaving. Pleasant to see you, Jotull. Hope you’ve had a jolly trip. We won’t trouble you any longer with the nuisance of our presence, if you’ll kindly—”

Jotull remained in the doorway, blocking it effectively. He silenced Rolfr by thrusting him aside with his staff so he could take a better look at Sigurd.

Sigurd looked back at him, fascinated by the thought that he was face to face with a practicing wizard. The wizard was a tall, imperious-looking fellow, black-bearded and elegantly clad in black from head to foot. His eyes held Sigurd’s with an expression of glad recognition. Jotull closed the door, dropped his satchel in a corner, and flung off his cloak.

“No, no, you needn’t leave just yet,” he said with a smile. “Sit down and let’s become better acquainted. I’ve long had a great regard for the Scipling realm and its inhabitants. Mikla, bring us something to make our visit a little more pleasant and our house more hospitable.”

Rolfr shrank into a chair, making no attempt to conceal his astonishment as Jotull commenced to chat comfortably with Sigurd. Sigurd soon lost his awe of the great man, and before their hour-long visit was over, he was convinced that he had found a friend and an ally in Hrafnborg.

Jotull took an amazing interest in Sigurd’s welfare. In the days to come, he saw to it that Sigurd received the best teachers to instruct him in the crafts of warfare and promised to be Sigurd’s teacher in magical skills. Rolfr could scarcely contain his amazement and glee, immediately extorting the promise from Sigurd that he’d promptly teach Rolfr everything he learned. Rolfr had established himself as Sigurd’s satellite and basked in the reflected glow of Jotull’s favorite at every opportunity.

“I’m not sure I want to learn magic,” Sigurd said uneasily when he presented himself for his first lesson from Jotull, with Rolfr accompanying him. “Sciplings don’t possess any magic by nature, as you Alfar do. I fear you’ll be rather disappointed with such a slow and stupid pupil as I suspect I’ll be.” He looked around Jotuli’s workroom, which was cluttered with the substance of many experiments. Mikla nodded at him encouragingly and went on grinding something with a mortar.

Jotull folded his arms and shook his head reprovingly. “That’s not the attitude to begin with, or you’re defeated before you try. There’s nothing supernatural about magic, as you Sciplings believe. It’s merely the physical evidence of your own powerful belief in your own capabilities. I think you’ll be astonished at how easy it is, once you try it. You’ll be able to move inanimate objects, find lost objects, remove or resist spells and curses, blunt the weapons of your enemies, or transport yourself through space. Or change your form at will. But those are highly advanced skills for wizards, and occasionally the apprentices of wizards. Most average Ljosalfar don’t get much beyond casting very simple spells, and their idea of resisting curses is to carry a collection of amulets and the most popular talisman—a dried hawk’s foot or some such nonsense.”

Sigurd observed Rolfr going through his pockets and pouches and throwing away his amulets and dried charms with disgust. “I’ll do my best. I covet the skills of magic, and they would make me less dependent in this realm if I learned even the basic ones.”

Jotull looked pleased. “Yes, you’ve no need to be dependent if you learn your lessons well.”

Sigurd wondered if he was referring to the carven box. He would speak to Jotull about it soon and ask him his advice, when Rolfr wasn’t around to carry tales back to Halfdane.

The first lessons in magic were dull enough. Jotull taught him how to write in runic, as well as how to read what he had written.

“You learn very quickly,” Jotull said, when Sigurd had mastered the scratchy figures. “I can’t recall a more promising student. If you continue as you’ve begun, I shall hope for great success for you.”

Mikla and Rolfr looked at each other in silent wonder. Neither of them would dream of receiving such praise from Jotull, knowing well he wouldn’t deign to notice them unless they had done something absolutely stupendous, like floating Hrafnborg in midair for a week or more.

“I think we’ve done enough with the runes for now,” Jotull continued, taking up his elegantly carved staff and giving its silver knob a quick polish, much like a cat giving its coat two or three quick licks to reassure itself how handsome it was. “Let’s go outside now and we’ll talk about some direct effects. Perhaps you can even try a few for yourself, Mikla, I want you to come along for the exercise. You need some fresh air in those Guild-pickled brains of yours and some color in your book-blanched face, so you’ll look more like a man than a vegetable that’s been kept down cellar too long.” He smiled at his joke, but Mikla took umbrage at once and looked sulky. “Takes himself far too seriously,” Jotull muttered to Sigurd as they left the house. “The Wizards’ Guild is a very good school, but its graduates tend to think a great deal more of themselves than they ought to.”

Rolfr cleared his throat apologetically, “I don’t mean to interfere, Jotull, but Halfdane doesn’t want Sigurd to leave the hill fort. Maybe we ought to inquire first if—”

“Inquire?” Jotull asked in an odd tone, fixing Rolfr with a sharp stare. “If Sigurd is safe with anyone, it ought to be me. I am teaching lessons in magic and I don’t want the petty demands of a mere warlord interfering. I hope you have the good judgment not to earn my wrath and disappointment by carrying tales to Halfdane.” He said it very jovially, with evident good humor, but Rolfr was effectually silenced as they descended the hill toward the earthworks.

Jotull strode past the guards without a glance at them and led the way through the opening in the earthworks to the meadows and fells outside. Sigurd was delighted to see something else besides the same views of barns and longhouses inside the earthworks. The last light of the sinking sun lingered on the steep, green fells, softening them with shades of blue, and the rising mist made them seem almost transparent.

When they were about a hundred yards from the earthworks, Jotull stopped and leaned upon his staff, gouging its point into the soft, green moss. “We’ll begin with a demonstration of power. Mikla, I hope you can oblige us with a simple example of your art. You don’t need to astonish us with your extraordinary Guild education; just an easy demonstration will suffice.”

“I am glad to comply with your wishes,” Mikla said, with a solemn and deferential nod, “but you must surely be aware that Halfdane gave orders for Sigurd to stay within the earthworks and boundaries of the hill fort.”

Jotull merely sniffed and shrugged. “Can the Scipling be in any danger as long as I am here? If I need to, I shall explain to Halfdane that I am conducting lessons and I don’t tolerate interference and interruptions. Now, sir, are you sufficiently disburdened of your useless admonitions so you can proceed?”

Mikla patiently levitated a few rocks, sent for some sticks and set them afire without benefit of a tinderbox, found a gold coin that Sigurd hid, and performed other schoolboy tricks, as Jotull disdainfully called them. Then, for good measure, Mikla conjured a fire show, a dazzling production of multicolored flames shooting from an upright stone as if the bare, black surface were exploding with flowers.