The Wizard And The Warlord (30 page)

Sigurd withdrew slightly, but not so far that he couldn’t watch as Kambi and Mikla made three bridles, using the most abhorrent materials Sigurd could imagine. Kambi didn’t say where he had got them, but the pieces of the bridles were various parts of corpses. The cheek pieces were hip bones, the reins were skin, a bone from the throat formed the bit, and pieces of scalp were used for the crown pieces of the bridles. Sigurd was awed into complete silence, knowing he was seeing magical apparatus taking form before his eyes.

As they worked industriously, something scratched at the door and moaned. Instantly Sigurd leaped to his feet, thinking of Vigbjodr creeping from his barrow with vengeance as his object. His three companions looked up at each other a moment before returning to the absorbing task of the bridles. Sigurd could not keep his eyes off the door, checking a hundred times to make sure it was indeed barred.

“My jawbones!” a voice whimpered just outside the door. Sigurd’s hair lifted. “I want my jawbones!”

Somewhat accustomed to Thufnavellir’s draugar, Rolfr replied in a shout, “We haven’t got your jawbones! Go back to your grave!”

“My jawbones!” the draug called more insistently.

“Just ignore it,” Kambi said, without looking up from his grisly chore. “It will lose interest in us in a moment and go away.”

“My jawbones!” the draug shrieked. “In the fire!”

Mikla leaped up and raked a set of jawbones and teeth from the fire. “Open the door, Sigurd! How can I work with all this nonsense going on!” When Sigurd hesitated, horrified, Mikla exclaimed, “What are you afraid of? Open the door!”

Sigurd unbarred the door and opened it a small crack while Mikla tossed the bones outside. Evidently contented, the draug did nothing more to make its presence known. Sigurd could not stop thinking about Vigbjodr, however. Every time the door rattled, he experienced a nervous thrill of sheer dread. He wondered if he ought to take the sword back as soon as it was daylight.

The wind howled around the corners like a choir of draugar and rattled at the door with the utmost urgency to get in. Suddenly the door shuddered under a series of thundering knocks. The occupants were startled, but one became accustomed to mysterious knockings at Thufnavellir. Mikla remarked that it sounded like rather a large draug this time, and Rolfr looked a little concerned. Sigurd began to sweat with the worst fear he had ever known—the fear experienced by the truly guilty under imminent exposure. He had no doubt that it was Vigbjodr out there knocking.

Another salvo of heavy knocks echoed in the hall, followed by an angry shout. A voice muttered indistinguishably, then came another attack on the door until it rattled. Sigurd rejoiced in the thick turf walls and the stout door until he thought of the malicious Mori, whose idea of fun might be to open the door and let the angry draug in. The furious roars and bellows on the other side of the door did not remind Sigurd in the least of the pitiful draug of last night who had wanted nothing but to reclaim its usurped resting place.

The roars and screams became distinguishable as words. “I want my sword! Give it back! Thieves!” The last word trailed away into a wild howl that gave Sigurd gooseflesh. He glanced covertly at Mikla and Kambi to see if they suspected anything.

“Pay no attention to him,” Kambi instructed his guests, not looking up from his stitching. “He can’t harm us as long as he can’t get in. We’ll be finished with these before much longer if we keep at it.”

Kambi did not look at Sigurd, but Sigurd was certain Kambi knew about the sword. He resolved to give it back tomorrow, or as soon as Kambi demanded its return. Kambi, however, gave all his attention to the bridles.

Sometime after midnight, the storm cleared away and Thufnavellir was strangely silent. All the draugar had likewise disappeared. The moon shone through the clouds, peaceful and brilliant in the pale northern sky. Kambi nodded his head and fastened the last stitch. “The elements are helping us,” he said approvingly.

Sigurd left the safety of the hall with utmost reluctance, but he knew it would look absurd to protest. Glancing around on all sides for Vigbjodr lurking in any of the shadowy corners of Thufnavellir, he clung to Kambi’s heels as they set out to search for Hross-Bjorn. They did not have to search very long before they spied three sets of sharp ears just barely showing over the peak of the cow house roof.

“Now then, there he is,” Kambi said. “I don’t believe we’ll have any difficulty coaxing him down from there. We’ll move over to the hay meadow where there’s plenty of room for him to tear around.”

“There’s not much shelter,” Sigurd grumbled. “What if your bridles don’t work?”

Unruffled, Kambi pointed out the jutting heap of rock in the center of the meadow in case of any emergency and began his incantations. Hross-Bjorn listened and watched disbelievingly as its enemies walked out into the open field. Grunting, it scrambled after them, switching its tail with great interest. Its huge, round feet plopped down faster and it broke into a gallop, uttering a series of fierce growls as it bore down on its target. Mikla, Kambi, and Rolfr stood their ground, chanting away at the incantation, but Sigurd made a feint toward the rocks as the sending came hurtling toward him. He could hear its teeth gnashing viciously and he put on a burst of speed, but suddenly the sending sprawled in a heap, knocked over backward by Kambi’s rebuffing spell. Wheezing and gasping, the sending got to its feet, glaring a moment from Sigurd to Kambi before bolting away at a gallop, lashing its tail furiously and snorting clouds of reeking steam.

Kambi looked at Sigurd in gentle reproof, and Sigurd guiltily resolved to stand his ground next time.

Hross-Bjorn made several rushing charges at them, always stopping short skittishly and bolting away before Kambi could get close enough with his spells.

“He’s suspicious,” Kambi said, after the ninth attempt.

“He certainly came after Sigurd the first time,” Mikla said. “Perhaps we could hide in the rocks and let Sigurd walk toward him for a short distance to lure him in close enough.”

“You must not want to find out what’s inside the carved box,” Sigurd replied. “If I should die tonight, no one would ever know where I’ve hidden it.”

“You aren’t going to die,” Mikla answered. “Just walk out into the field far enough to get Hross-Bjorn to make a pounce at you. We’ll be right behind you, in case anything happens.”

Sigurd was not reassured, but he walked a few paces away from the boulders. Hross-Bjorn spied him immediately and came trotting from the dark ravine, heads held high warily. It halted a moment to survey the situation, then came forward at a cat-footed stalking pace. Sigurd backed away, wishing he weren’t so far from the shelter of the rocks. The sending quickened its strides, eyes gleaming intently. Sigurd turned and bolted just as the sending gathered itself for a mighty spring forward. Its teeth snapped behind him like three huge traps, one after the other. Sigurd zigged to one side, then the other, with Hross-Bjorn lunging after him in wide arcs, but the arcs were steadily narrowing. With a final desperate dive, Sigurd reached the safety of the rocks, and Hross-Bjorn came plunging after him like a monstrous dog chasing a rat.

Kambi rose up suddenly from his concealment, both hands outstretched as he intoned the words of his spell. The sending stared at him warily, growling, then whirled to flee at top speed. Mikla exclaimed in disgust. The sending, however, made a few lunging strides and came to a trembling halt, its sides heaving and its eyes glaring. With tremendous effort it tried to lift its feet, but they might as well have been mired in one of the stickiest of Thufnavellir’s bogs. Kambi nudged Mikla and Rolfr and began to creep closer.

Hross-Bjom flattened its ears and snarled horribly, but Kambi walked forward, still reciting his spells. Hross-Bjorn’s ghastly heads began to sink, and the snarls sounded more like snores. The lashing tail hung limp and the furious quivering vanished with a long, peaceful sigh. Sigurd held his breath. Kambi approached the unsightly beast and began fastening the bridle on the nearest nodding head.

Suddenly, with a convulsive heave and a snort, Hross-Bjorn snapped out of its trance, hurling one of the bridles backward into the air. Kambi leaped away as Mikla rose up with a derisive shout to distract the sending. Hross-Bjorn lunged at Mikla, teeth snapping and eyes gleaming fierily. Kambi seized the opportunity of plunging his sword between the sending’s ribs, which slowed its attack on Mikla. It stood on its hind legs with a terrible scream, took a few lunging steps toward the ravine behind the hall, then fell headlong down a gully, rolling in a tangle of legs.

“Is it dead?” Sigurd gasped in the sudden calm, unable to believe such luck.

Kambi shook his head and sank ponderously to his knees to catch his wind. “It’s not that easy to kill a sending, since those things aren’t really alive,” he said. “It’s a spell one must break, a most treacherous one. We’ll go look at him as soon as I’ve caught my breath.”

“It’s too dark,” Sigurd protested. “Let’s wait until dawn.”

“No, let’s have a look at him now,” Kambi insisted.

They climbed carefully down into the gully where the sending lay. Milda lighted his staff so they could see it, lying on its side with the sword still between its ribs. It looked and smelled as if it had been dead a long time, and all its eyes were tightly shut. Sigurd went closer for a good look at it, but Rolfr grabbed his cloak and pulled him back, shivering. “It doesn’t look as if it’s dead to me,” Sigurd whispered. “What if it’s only shamming?”

Kambi pulled at his lip worriedly. “Be ready for anything when I pull out the sword.” He put his foot against the beast’s ribs and pulled on his sword. Instantly, with a convulsive heave, the sending came to life like a cyclone almost under their noses. It seized Kambi and shook him furiously and threw him away to make a charge after the others, who had fled—Rolfr and Mikla in one direction and Sigurd in the opposite. The sending rushed after Rolfr and Mikla until it discovered that Sigurd wasn’t with them, then it turned and came looking for him.

He crashed wildly through the bushes in the gully, not knowing whether to hide or to outdistance the beast. He clambered up the steep side of the gully with the vague idea of somehow gaining the safety of the hall, but Hross-Bjorn, snorting up behind him, abruptly convinced him there was no time for that. He was certain he was doomed. He took his axe from his belt and chose a slight elevation to mount his defense. Just as the sending burst from the gully, looking around for him eagerly, Mori appeared on a nearby barrow, leaping up and down and shrieking “In here, in here! Come on, Sigurd!”

Sigurd raced to Mori’s mound without a moment’s hesitation. Mori beckoned to him from the opening of the barrow, laughing delightedly when Hross-Bjorn’s huge hooves thudded down the space Sigurd’s body had wriggled past just an instant ago. Mori rolled around in the soft earth in a fit of glee, gasping, “Oh, what fun, what fun! Another instant and he would have smashed your brains out!”

Sigurd slumped wretchedly against the moldy wall, not even minding the bones he was sitting on. He was too distraught to think of anything, except the way the sending had tossed Kambi away over its shoulder, torn and bleeding.

“My bad luck has struck again,” Sigurd moaned, watching Hross-Bjorn’s teeth clipping and foaming in a frenzy to get at him.

“Don’t be discouraged,” Mori said. “He’s still got Mikla and Rolfr to kill off yet. When you run out of friends, you’ll really be in trouble.” The idea was so droll to Mori that he fell into a fresh fit of writhing and gasping.

“You’re disgusting,” Sigurd said. “Get rid of Hross-Bjorn so I can go back and see if Kambi is still alive.”

Mori wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “I hope he’s dead. I hope you stay here for a long time indeed, my dear friend. You’re the finest misfortune ever to befall this unlucky place.”

“No, I’ll be glad to leave,” Sigurd snapped. “The sooner the better, too.”

“What a pity. I’m getting quite attached to you. But old Vigbjodr is the fondest of you, and he’s not as obliged to stay at Thufnavellir as I am. I wonder how you’ll like traveling with that vengeful old draug haunting your footsteps. He’s got dreadful powers and he wants his sword back. It was very foolish of you to forget to swear him to stay below the ground after you took his sword.”

“Foolish! You never told me to make him swear anything!”

“Didn’t I? How careless of me! What a dreadful mistake. But it will be more peaceful here at Thufnavellir without Vigbjodr, and Ulfrun will thank you for taking him away with you. She can also thank you for the removal of her husband from her life, courtesy of Hross-Bjorn.” Mori laughed until he was so tired he could only pant and kick.

Sigurd wished he had the sword as he glared at Mori murderously. His natural power buzzed around Mori like a flock of hungry carrion flies. “Why did you do this, you wretched piece of dried corruption? Was it Bjarnhardr that put you up to all of it? What could you possibly have to gain from it?”

Mori grinned horribly. “Nothing at all. I like to make people suffer. It’s so amusing. In your case, it’s so easy. You said you’d do almost anything for a sword, and look at what you’ve accomplished—Kambi dead, Vigbjodr thoroughly aroused and furious, and Ulfrun almost as upset as Vigbjodr. She’ll be even madder now, since it was your fault Kambi turned to magic and got himself killed by that sending.”

Sigurd knew it was true. “Bjarnhardr must be behind this somewhere,” he said bitterly. “I couldn’t make such a mess of things by myself. I know now that he was never trying to be a friend to me. All he wants is that box. But you can tell him, you revolting little carcass, that I don’t care this much for him.” He snapped his fingers under Mori’s desiccated nose.

“Ho, ho, indeed! Does this mean you want to put back Vigbjodr’s sword? That’s fine gratitude, even for a Scipling. Bjarnhardr has gone to a lot of trouble to help you.” Mori giggled, his sunken little eyes fastened maliciously on Sigurd. “Are you afraid?”

“You heard what I said. Now get rid of Hross-Bjorn so I can leave. I’ve earned that sword. I owe Bjarnhardr nothing.”