The Wizard And The Warlord (23 page)

“No—you must be mistaken. Old swords always have these dire sayings. Rolfr, your brain is still fevered if you think I’d ever kill you. I’d rather die first.” Sigurd glanced toward the place where he’d hidden the sword. “Surely the message wasn’t intended solely for you, Rolfr.”

“But it was, I know it was. I looked at those tangled runes and thought nobody could ever make sense of them. Then the next thing I knew, the firelight seemed to pick out certain ones, and I read their message. I can’t escape it, Sigurd.”

Sigurd stepped quickly to the doorway to see if anyone might be listening outside. He heard a scuttling noise, but it was only the rats. “I’ll give it back to Bjarnhardr and tell him to break it. It’s rather a nice sword, though—I’d hate to see it ruined. 1 can’t see how a sword can decide whom it’s going to kill. Surely, Rolfr, you must have imagined it.” He needed a sword, and good swords weren’t easy to get, especially since he had no gold to trade for one.

“No, I know what I saw. That sword has marked me for death.”

“But why? What did you do to deserve special magic runes? I ought to be the one it wants to destroy, because I have the box and everyone wants to get it. Perhaps the message was meant for me, do you suppose?” He and Rolfr stared at each other. Then Rolfr shook his head.

“No.” He sighed. “Much as I would like to believe otherwise, it was meant for me. I have that feeling of doom.”

“It gave me rather a cold feeling when I first saw it, and then Jotull said something strange that made Bjarnhardr look as if he wanted to cut Jotull’s throat. Something about the sword serving me the same as it had served its past owners. Jotull was rather provoked about the whole thing, as if the sword were no great thing. But I think it has a curse on it. I’m going to give it back to Bjarnhardr and tell him what I think of anyone who would give a cursed sword as a gift to someone who is supposed to be his friend. Maybe I was right to doubt and fear both of them. Maybe I should—”

Rolfr reached out and grabbed his arm. “Sit down, you idiot. You’ll not say anything to them to make them suspicious of us. You don’t even dream what a situation we’re in. If you were an Alfar, you’d know more what really goes forward here, but perhaps it’s best to be unaware sometimes of the real danger. Listen to me, Sigurd, and do as I tell you, or, I promise you, you won’t be sorry; you’ll be dead. Now I know you’re going to say it isn’t as bad as all that and that you can take care of both of us; but perhaps there is a way we can do what Bjarnhardr wants and still survive. Therefore, it’s best to be as friendly as possible to him and Jotull for a while. Continue as you started; regard the sword as a great gift of friendship. Who knows, maybe they are genuine in their friendship for you. You’ve certainly not disappointed them in your hatred for Halfdane.”

“But the curse on the sword,” Sigurd interrupted. “What about that? Why would they give it to me, if their intentions weren’t evil?”

Rolfr sighed and scowled. “I certainly felt a curse on it for me, at least, but it probably won’t harm you. Curses on old swords such as that one are as common as fleas on sheep. It might have been the mildest curse on any sword he possessed. Maybe he simply doesn’t know—but Jotull would know. Jotull can smell a spell a hundred miles off. I had the same dread feeling when I saw that carved box, Siggi, and I knew then that something bad would happen if I mixed up my fate in the fate of whatever is inside that thing.”

Sigurd thought of the box, which he had packed in his saddle pouch. “I think that I hate it already without even knowing what it is,” he said bitterly. “It was in that box waiting for me before I was even born. It’s simply not fair. Look at all the trouble it’s caused already. 1 don’t think I want to open it any more, for fear of worse troubles. Talk about a curse—an entire settlement was deserted because of it, my grandmother died prematurely, and I’ve always suspected something strange about poor old Adills’ death.”

“But there has been one benefit,” Rolfr said with a wan smile. “Without the curse of that box, you and I would never have become such friends—for however long it may last.”

Sigurd found little comfort in Rolfr’s words. He took the sword and hid it where he wouldn’t have to look at it. With unusual reluctance, he joined Bjarnhardr and Jotull in the main hall. Their friendship and hospitality had never seemed so genuine, however hard he might try to see the evil in them. When Bjarnhardr perceived his sober countenance, he at once limped to his side, sat down to inquire earnestly what was troubling him, and poured him a cup of mead to cheer him up.

“It’s that sword you’re worrying about, isn’t it?” Bjarnhardr tapped his nose thoughtfully and looked rather sly. “You’re afraid you can’t repay my favor someday, aren’t you?”

Sigurd attempted to shrug off his mood as general low spirits or somesuch nonsense, but Bjarnhardr would have none of his evasions. Before very long, Sigurd told him the entire story about Rolfr and the sword. Bjarnhardr threw himself back in his chair, with an expression of great astonishment.

“A fine picture, giving a man a sword with a curse on it!” he exclaimed, shaking his head as if he were in deep pain. “I can’t believe you’d think it of me. You know I’m completely honest with you. Haven’t your cares become my cares, and your journey mine also? I wouldn’t leave Svinhagahall for any cause except one I felt to be almost as important as my own life is to me.

“I don’t wish to be the cause of ill feelings between two such friends as you and Rolfr, but I might remind you that he still feels loyalty to Halfdane and it would be a great credit for him if he were to bring you and the box back to Halfdane. You must also remember that the poor fellow has been desperately ill and may suffer from a diseased brain for the rest of his life. I’m glad you brought this matter to my attention, so we can make allowances for Rolfr’s condition. It would be better if we could persuade him not to come with us on this journey, which is certain to be hazardous for such a weakened constitution. If he does depart with us, I greatly fear he shall not return.”

Sigurd knew there would be no persuading Rolfr to stay behind. “But about the sword—you’re quite certain there’s no such curse on it that might require me actually to kill Rolfr with it?”

Bjarnhardr shook his head emphatically. “Upon all that I hold sacred in my life, I swear there isn’t, I would never put such a weapon into the hands of a friend.” He clutched the arms of his chair as he followed Jotull with a baleful eye. “That wizard would like nothing better than to see bad blood between you and me. Perhaps he did something to the runes. He made that Hross-Bjorn, you must know. You’ve got to watch out for him, my lad, or he’ll steal that box away from you.”

“No, he won’t,” Sigurd answered. “I escaped from Halfdane, who wanted it just as badly.”

For a moment, Sigurd and the battered warlord measured each other warily. Then Bjarnhardr rapped or, the floor with his peg and laughed. “You’re a match for Halfdane, indeed. That’s why I gave you the sword. When you’ve done for Halfdane, you can kill Jotull, can’t you?” His eyes gleamed with malignant delight.

“Then all I’ll have left is you,” Sigurd answered without a trace of humor, looking steadily at Bjarnhardr.

When the time arrived for their departure, snow and wind howled around Svinhagahall with no sign of abating. Jotull stalked up and down the broken parapets with the snow hissing around him and plastering his beard. When he returned to the hall, he flung off his cloak irritably and declared, “There’s magic involved in this storm or you can have my staff and satchel. You saw how it comes from the south—from Hrafnborg? If it’s that measling rat Mikla, I’ll hang him up by his heels for the next fifty years.”

Rolfr brightened at the mention of Mikla, but Sigurd felt a chill of dread at the possibility of adverse magic being directed at him from Hrafnborg. The door shook in its frame and he thought he heard the sending snuffling under the door. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, and the wind seemed to chuckle mockingly at the idea of one lone Scipling challenging the sweeping fury of the storm.

“Can’t we leave anyway?” he asked. “It’s only a spring storm and not likely to last long.”

“No indeed,” Jotull replied, looking into his satchel intently. “We’re going to counter their blizzard with another spell, one which I hope will rattle them to their boot soles.” He snatched up some devices and an assortment of small objects and strode hastily toward the narrow winding stair that would take him to the high parapets of the fortress, an ideal place for hurling counterspell.

Sigurd fumed and fidgeted while Rolfr and Bjarnhardr sat opposite one another by the fire, pretending to doze but in reality exchanging suspicious stares. Several times Sigurd went to the door to listen, thinking he had heard muffled shouts of alarm, but he didn’t dare open it for fear of the lurking sending. He sent the servants out instead, one by one, but the perverse creatures did not return. Slyngr was the last to go, after much arguing and complaining that it wasn’t his duty to run errands—his duty, as far as Sigurd was able to surmise, was to do nothing but humor Bjarnhardr and insult the chieftains when they came for their orders.

The useless fellow was gone only a few moments, and Sigurd had scarcely fastened the last of the many bars on the inner door when Slyngr threw himself against it in a flurry of kicking and pounding and screeching. He fell inside the moment Sigurd opened the door, skewered through by a Ljosalfar arrow but still alive. Bjarnhardr scuttled across the floor, clutching his sword, but Sigurd had the door shut and locked in an instant.

“They’re here,” Slyngr gasped, staring around in horror. “Like white wolves in the snow. Silent—dreadful—arrows!”

“It’s Halfdane,” Bjarnhardr said grimly, his features split by a fierce grin. He clapped Sigurd on the shoulder. “This time I shall have someone to fight for me who won’t fail. That sword against Halfdane’s gauntlet will be better than an even match. I knew I survived with this crooked back and wooden leg for a reason, and that reason will be vengeance—sweet and precious and final vengeance.”

Rolfr looked up from the pale-faced, dying Slyngr, who was staring with an accusing gleam in his eyes toward Sigurd. “You’re not going to fight Halfdane, are you? Remember, he saved your life twice, Siggi.”

Sigurd listened to the hushed trample of feet approaching the outside door and trembled with the anticipation of battle. “If he thinks I’m going meekly back to Hrafnborg as his prisoner, then I’ll fight him. I’ll fight him to the death, if he thinks he can take the box away from me. I know that’s what he’s come for.”

Bjarnhardr drew his own sword and positioned himself behind Sigurd. “I’m not much good, but I’ll protect your back as much as I can, Sigurd, as a true friend should.” He darted a malignant glance at Rolfr, who remained beside Slyngr.

“I’ll not lift a hand against Halfdane,” Rolfr said flatly. “Sigurd, it will be much to your discredit if you fight him.”

Sigurd paid no heed. The door suddenly shuddered under a battery of blows, and a chorus of voices demanded that the door be opened. Bjarnhardr blanched and withdrew a few more paces toward the doorway to the narrow stair leading upward.

A voice outside silenced all the others. “Hold your noise. We’ll blast the door open if we have to. Halloa! Sigurd! Are you in there?”

Sigurd crept up on the door. “I’m here. That sounds like Mikla, the apprentice.”

“It is, you fool. Now open this door before I burn it down. We’re rather out of patience with you, Sigurd.”

Sigurd was about to make a hot-tempered reply when Jotull suddenly descended the stair and burst into the room with a bound. He took the foremost position at the door, ignoring Bjarnhardr“s relieved exclamations and pretending not to have noticed the warlord attempting to sneak up the stairway.

“So it’s Mikla, is it. who is wizard to Halfdane now?” Jotull boomed through the door, using his spitting staff’s head to unlatch several of the locks. “You sound far too brave for a lowly apprentice. You’re not a wizard yet by any means. 1 can’t suppose that even you would have the rash ill judgment to wish to match me with magic or face me even at swordpoint.”

His reply was a thunderous assault on the door. “Open it, or we’ll bury you with this door for your coffin,” the voice of Halfdane rumbled. “You alone are the one I hold responsible for this folly, Jotull. When we have the time, we shall settle the matter and leave one of us dead.”

Jotull nudged the final bolt almost off and leaped to a better defensive position. The next assault from outside sent the door reeling half off its hinges and Halfdane surged inside, halting at a respectful distance from Jotull and Sigurd with his sword.

Bjarnhardr sat down in his chair with a wide grin, as if the situation were conceived solely for his amusement.

“Good evening, Halfdane, my old enemy and rival,” he said, tapping his peg on the ground to call everyone’s attention to himself. “Isn’t this like old times, when we used to burst in on each other more regularly to fight it out? I’ve missed the old Hrafnborg in the lowlands quite dreadfully. Every time I see its ruins, it gives me a not-unpleasant pang, I assure you.”

Halfdane advanced into the room, lowering and snow-covered, an uncouth contrast to the assured Bjarnhardr. “I wish nothing but the pangs of premature death for you, Bjarnhardr. It seems that the most useless creatures are the hardest to kill, like snakes and Dokkalfar. Shall I have to kill you this time, so you can join your guards and wall-watchers in their recent unfortunate fate? I’ve come here for the Scipling whom Jotull abducted from Hrafnborg, and I won’t leave without him.”

“Well, then, you’ll have to discuss that with Jotull and the Scipling,” Bjarnhardr said, still grinning as he played with his sword.

Sigurd and Halfdane exchanged art unfriendly glower. Jotull leaned on his staff and said, “I don’t believe you understand that Sigurd came away without the least persuasion, so you can’t accuse me of abducting him.”

“You influenced him,” Halfdane retorted with a fiery glare. “You knew you could convince him of almost anything you found it convenient for him to believe. If he wanted to leave Hrafnborg, you certainly did nothing to coax him to stay.”