The Wizard And The Warlord (36 page)

For several days, Rolfr’s spirits remained low, and Sigurd supposed it was Mikla’s death that depressed him. Rolfr spent a lot of time watching their backtrail, perhaps expecting to see Mikla following them, miraculously safe and unhurt. Since a great part of each night consisted of several hours of twilight, Rolfr had ample opportunity for perching himself on a high point to gaze back over the way they had journeyed that day. Finally Sigurd climbed up to him, determined to convince him that it was useless to hope after nearly a week since the accident on the glacier.

“Rolfr, what are you watching for?” he began, rather impatiently. He would rather spend his evenings resting and eating— with only two to feed now, there was more food. “If you think Mikla may still be alive and trying to catch up with us—”

“No, no, it’s not that. I only wish it were something so agreeable as forlorn hope that forces me to keep watching. Siggi, don’t you feel it, too? Isn’t there something amiss with your peace of mind?” Rolfr frowned and pulled his cloak tighter against the cold wind that was howling dirges in the jagged cliffs nearby.

“Well, I hadn’t thought about it lately,” Sigurd said. “Since I got my sword back, I felt more confident; but yes, I felt a little uneasy in that place where we lost Mikla. What do you think it is? Now that you mention it, I do feel unaccountably uneasy—but that may be Hross-Bjorn’s influence. 1 can always tell when he’s near.”

“This feeling is another influence you should recognize,” Rolfr replied, with a significant glance at Sigurd.

“You mean Jotull?” Sigurd scanned the wasteland of twisted rock and ice below. An approaching storm draped the scarps one by one with a mantle of misty gloom. “I hadn’t felt threatened, exactly, in the same way you seem to be.” He frowned, thinking that the reason for that might be that Rolfr had always regarded Jotull and Bjarnhardr as enemies, but Sigurd’s feelings were still confused.

Rolfr sighed, his breath making a cloud. “Let’s go below and start a fire in the cave instead of freezing on this rock. Even Jotull would have better sense than to travel on a night like this. We’ll see it snow before dawn.”

The cave where they camped had been a shelter for travelers for countless years, which seemed to promise that they were on the right track for Svartafell and the other Dvergar settlements to the north. Fires had blackened the cave’s walls and unknown hands had inscribed the walls with runes and messages for other travelers. From the wood left behind by others, Sigurd built a crackling fire, and the horses outside crowded around the cave mouth to be near the light and warmth.

Rolfr studied their map in the firelight. “We’re getting near,” he said hopefully. ‘Tomorrow, if all goes well, we’ll start down the north side of these fells into the Dvergarrige. I’ll feel somewhat safer there, since the Dvergar are no friends of Bjarnhardr, who doesn’t quite dare to try routing them from their mountain halls. This time tomorrow we may be in a dwarf’s dwelling, instead of shivering in a miserable cave and looking forward to sleeping in the dirt and rocks. Then it will be free sailing to Svartafell and Bergthor.”

He put the map away and stretched out by the fire, where the wall made a natural curving reflector for the heat, but his expression was not altogether content. It seemed to Sigurd that Rolfr was listening to the sounds outside the cave, but all Sigurd was aware of was the approaching storm, which suggested a feeling of excitement. Sigurd kept getting up from his pallet to look out at the deepening cobalt gloom which had filled all the valleys below and was now creeping toward their little cave with gusts of its rainy breath.

He turned back and sat down for the fifth time, after a look at the horses to be sure they wouldn’t stray in the storm. Then he stood up again, listening intently. Rolfr met his eyes and reached for his bow.

“It’s only Hross-Bjorn, up to his usual tricks,” Sigurd said, but Rolfr slowly shook his head, motioning Sigurd to be silent. In a moment, a faint voice hallooed from the top of the next ridge south.

“Hross-Bjorn,” Sigurd insisted.

“No,” Rolfr said, extinguishing the fire with a quick spell. “It isn’t Hross-Bjorn, and if you’d think about it, you’d know it isn’t Hross-Bjorn either. Get your axe and be ready, if they can find our cave in the dark.”

Sigurd picked up the sword, but he put it down again in favor of the axe. The rain pattered down outside with increasing force and he heard a grumble of thunder booming from cliff to cliff in the valleys below.

“I can’t see a thing,” he muttered, “so I’m certain whoever is out there can’t see us, either.”

Almost as he spoke, a brilliant bolt of lightening shuddered across the sky, illuminating the landscape in its stark, white light. The horses tugged at their picket ropes restlessly.

“It’s useless, they’ll find us,” Rolfr said grimly. “Be ready to fight, Siggi. We’re not giving up the box this close to Svartafell. I wish I’d thought to burn that map, so they wouldn’t learn the way.” He scratched around in the dark, moving rocks, and Sigurd supposed he was hiding the map drawn on the pouch. “They’ll probably keep us alive with the thought of torturing the directions out of us, but it would be better to be dead than to consign that box to their hands.”

“Jotull and Bjarnhardr?” Sigurd squinted against the rain whipping into his face as he peered out into the storm. “Rolfr, I think you’ve lost your common sense. Jotull wouldn’t be traveling on such a dog’s night, let alone Bjarnhardr—”

Someone shouted again, much nearer to the cave, and another burst of lightning pierced the darkness with its lurid flickering. Rolfr made no reply except to fit an arrow into his bow. Sigurd looked outside again sharply, thinking he had heard the sound of hooves on the rock. Suddenly he knew he heard something, but the rumbling of the thunder prevented him from identifying the sound, and the restive pawing and squealing of the horses helped confuse him. In the next flash of lightning, he saw a dark, flapping figure framed against the opening of the cave. Rolfr leaped up with a warning shout, at the same instant as Sigurd raised his axe. but the figure collapsed before he could strike.

With an oath and a spell, Rolfr lit the fire again with a roar of heat and light, illuminating the huddled heap beside the opening. Together they bent to examine their unbidden guest, who was shaking with cold and soaked through by the icy rain, which had frozen to sleet on his cloak. They carefully turned him over, making a few signs to ward off evil.

It was Mikla. After an instant of shock and self-reproach, they hauled him close to the fire and began feverishly drying his clothes and trying to make him comfortable. Both his clothing and his person were mercilessly battered from his ordeal; one crudely bandaged arm might have been broken, and his boots were worn from five days of walking. Rolfr shook his head and repeated that he’d never forgive himself, never, for not trying to rescue Mikla from the maw of the glacier.

“Very commendable,” a voice said suddenly, from behind them. “Now that you’ve cared for the apprentice, how about the master?”

“Don’t stare, Rolfr,” Jotull continued, seating himself with his usual grace beside the fire and throwing aside his wet cloak. “It’s pleasant to see you again, Sigurd. You left Svinhagahall without telling a soul farewell—very bad manners, you realize.”

Sigurd recovered from his confusion quickly. He glanced at Rolfr, who was white with fury. “We didn’t leave under our own volition, but—”

“Yes, I know it was Mikla who took you away. He’s caused me no end of trouble, but the penalties for rebellious or runaway apprentices are rather severe, so I hope he’s learning a lesson.” Jotull crossed one foot over his knee as if he were completely at home, despite Rolfr’s furious glowering and Mikla’s groans.

“He might have died,” Rolfr snapped. “I can’t imagine you being anything less than savage when you have the opportunity, and I daresay Mikla was in no condition to defend himself when you found him. How many of these bruises and cuts are yours?”

Jotull smiled and shook his head pityingly. “Why, if I hadn’t come along when I did, he’d still be in that crevice, frozen hard as a rock. A bad apprentice is better than none, so I took him out, not without great difficulty and danger. I hope he’ll be grateful to me in the future for the risks I took in saving his wretched life. He owes me a tremendous debt for preserving him. Stubborn as he is, I believe he’s not quite so haughty now, eh?”

“You’ve treated him very shabbily,” Rolfr went on, still angry. “A bad master is far worse than a bad apprentice, particularly when the master is a liar, as well as a traitor and a spy.”

“Sigurd,” Jotull interrupted, “tell your friend he’s going too far for such a lowly thrall as he is.” He smiled lazily at Sigurd, whose blood was chilled at his glance.

“Rolfr, shut up,” he said at once.

- “Good, Sigurd. I hope your readiness to follow my orders will be an example to these other two friends of yours. Now then, get me something hot and decent to eat; and when you’re done, go attend to my horse.” He took a familiar rune stick from his belt and held it up admiringly. “I trust you are keeping the carven box safe?”

“Yes, I’ve got it,” Sigurd answered nervously. “I’m keeping it safe until we reach Svartafell.” A touch of defiance crept into his tone despite himself.

“Keep it, then,” Jotull replied with a weary sigh. “You’ve done well enough protecting it so far, I’d say, although I thought for certain you’d lose it at Gunnavik, as well as your life, when old Vigbjodr came back after you’d chopped him to pieces.”

Rolfr looked up from the preparation of Jotull’s food. “If you were there, you might have helped. And while we’re talking about sendings, why don’t you do something to get rid of Hross-Bjorn? I assume you’ve attached yourself to us now, so there’s no need of the sending to annoy us.”

Jotull’s dark eye flickered with displeasure. “Rolfr, your attitude has become rather impertinent—and imprudent. You have seen the way I dealt with Mikla’s overweening behavior. If you don’t wish to become acquainted with my wrath in a similar manner, you’d better mend your demeanor.”

Rolfr stalked away to look at Mikla, who had stopped shivering and was now sleeping heavily. “If Mikla were in any condition to speak, I know he’d say we don’t care for your attitude or demeanor either. What gives you the right to half-kill Mikla and to force yourself into our camp with all manner of threats and black looks? You’ve done nothing to help us along our journey when we were nearly starving and no place would take us in; now we’re almost there, and you move in as if you’d been in command all the time. We won’t surrender to you and Bjarnhardr so easily, Jotull. I’m not one to be inhospitable, but, unless you want to be killed, you’d better go back out into the storm.” He drew his sword and advanced a step, putting himself between Mikla and Jotull.

Jotull raised one eyebrow and got to his feet in a leisurely fashion. “Surely you realize how absurd you’re being. You’ve never even begun to be a match for me in a fair fight.”

Rolfr’s eyes flashed as he brandished his sword. “Fair fight? When have you ever fought a fair fight, Jotull? Your only success is in how well you cheat.”