The Wizard And The Warlord (37 page)

Jotull scowled angrily at Sigurd, who was too amazed by Rolfr’s fierce speech to do more than stare from Rolfr to Jotull. “Sigurd! If you value the life of this puppy, you’d better tell him to stop his snarling before he gets himself killed. I daresay you’ve not turned against an old friend like me, have you? I know I can count on you, Sigurd, not to turn me out in the storm.”

Sigurd looked from one furious countenance to the other and drew a deep breath. Carefully he said, “I wouldn’t want to turn anyone out into such a storm as this, even though it might well be one of your own creations. What I propose, if you’ll both listen to me, is that Jotull will leave in the morning and promise to go back to Svinhagahall without doing anything to prevent our journey to Svartafell. The box and its contents are mine, Jotull, and I’m the one who will decide what to do with them—and whatever I do, it won’t be giving them to Bjarnhardr or anyone else.”

Jotull shook his head and sighed. “I’ve never mentioned Bjarnhardr, or giving up the box to me or anyone. I’m merely trying to protect you so you’ll survive long enough to get that confounded box open. I don’t want it, and I don’t want Bjarnhardr to have it, either. I couldn’t be more glad to see it in your hands. Perhaps I have spoken too harshly, but I’ve traveled a long way with very little rest and I’m very much out of temper. I may not have been very sympathetic to Mikla; he ran away and betrayed his master in a most dastardly way, after all, but I didn’t put him into the terrible condition you see him in now. He was in wretched shape when I found him, and I certainly wouldn’t want to do anything to make him more of a burden than ever. What would that benefit me? Now then, let’s forget this ridiculous quarrel for tonight, at least, and take it up tomorrow v/hen we’re all better rested. Isn’t that a reasonable suggestion?” He looked appealingly to Sigurd, who found himself nodding and agreeing.

“We’ll settle it tomorrow,” he promised, very much relieved. “Come on, Rolfr, be reasonable. You wouldn’t want to turn a dog out into such a storm as that.”

Rolfr turned away in disgust. “You’re a bigger fool than you were before, Sigurd, if you believe you’ll be rid of him so easily.”

Sigurd’s anger swelled after such an affront, but he swallowed his angry retort. “I know you don’t mean that, so I’ll forget you said it,” he said rather stiffly. For the rest of the evening, Rolfr refused to speak to him, choosing instead to watch by Mikla. Sigurd talked amiably with Jotull, who quickly assured him that their friendship was in no way impaired by his unexpected removal from Svinhagahall; even Bjarnhardr was as kindly disposed toward him as before and understandably anxious for his safety. Jotull asked to see the sword and seemed glad to see it when Sigurd showed it to him.

In the morning, Mikla awakened weak and peevish, but glad nevertheless to see his friends. The return of Jotull he accepted with bitter resignation, eyeing his old master with such a look of smoldering hatred that Sigurd wondered why Jotull tolerated it. Jotull returned Mikla’s scowls coldly, remarking that he hoped Mikla’s strength would return soon so he could resume his old duties.

“I’d rather have died,” Mikla muttered sullenly, looking venomously at Sigurd as he fastened the sword around his waist. “As if we didn’t have troubles enough, now we have to worry about you losing your temper and killing all of us. Remember that I warned you, Sigurd.”

“I can take care of myself,” Sigurd retorted. “Somehow I’d hoped that nearly losing your life would have made you a more pleasant fellow to be around, Mikla, but I can see you’re as spiteful as you ever were and maybe worse.” He threw the last of his tea in the fire.

Mikla would have snapped back at him, but Jotull told him to be silent. “Much as I despise reviving unpleasant topics, I must do so, with the earnest hope that you have done some reconsidering in the night and are no longer adverse to my accompanying your party to Svartafell. I hate to be so insistent as to stoop to coercion, but you might as well know that I have this.” He held up the rune stick carved by Grisnir.

“That belongs to Sigurd,” Rolfr declared, flushing with anger. “You took it from Mikla, like a common thief. A friend gave it to Sigurd, and you’d better return it to us, or—”

“Be quiet,” Jotull said, in a voice of deadly calm. “How was I to know if Mikla was dead or alive? When I found him, it was anyone’s guess how long he would survive.”

“If you’re so honorable, you’ll return our property to us,” Rolfr said, disregarding Sigurd’s signals to be silent, “without attaching any conditions to it. I know what your conditions are, and I tell you now we reject them. We can find Svartafell without the rune stick or you.”

Jotuil shrugged. “Certainly, you can find Svartafell. But how can you be sure Bergthor will even consent to talk to you? Dwarves are suspicious creatures by nature, and you might be killed or thrown into a dungeon first, with questions later. This stick, however, has a message on it from Grisnir to Bergthor, telling him he can trust the bearer. If I know dwarves, I think I can fairly promise you that you won’t get near an important dwarf like Bergthor without some sort of authorization or recommendation from someone known to him.” He smiled in his superior manner and took up his staff. “Well, Mikla, are you ready to depart? This is likely to be your last look at your old friends, so remember them well.”

“You won’t give them up so easily,” Mikla said, with a jaundiced glower at Sigurd and Rolfr. “You’ll go to Bergthor and you’ll invent a plot to trap them.” He gave Rolfr a warning scowl.

Rolfr’s eyes narrowed. “Then we’ll have to have that rune stick. If he won’t hand it over after reasonable threats, then we’ll have to kill him somehow.” He drew his sword before Sigurd could stop him. “If you’re a friend to me, Sigurd, you’ll help defend me.”

“Rolfr! Are you crazy? We can’t kill him! We’ll have to take him with us,” Sigurd exclaimed. “Now put away your sword and be reasonable!”

“I won’t,” Rolfr said, making a flourish with his sword. “I told you last night we wouldn’t be easily rid of him. He wouldn’t leave us for anything, Sigurd, and you’re a fool if you don’t know it.”

Jotull backed warily toward the opening. “You’re wrong, Rolfr. I shall leave and I’m taking your only chance of seeing Bergthor along with me.” He held up the rune stick and laughed, shoving Mikla outside behind him as he went. “Goodbye to your only piece of luck!”

“Wait! Jotull, don’t leave!” Sigurd started to follow, but Rolfr stepped in front of him, still with the sword in his hand.

“Sigurd, don’t stop him! You’re being an idiot! You’re letting him get you under his control!” Rolfr hissed.

“No, you’re the one who’s being a fool!” Sigurd retorted, with a shove. “Get out of my way! We’ve got to have the rune stick!”

Rolfr responded to the shove by knocking Sigurd flat with a heavy blow from his left fist. Sigurd rolled up and twisted out of the way, reacting as he had been taught. He drew his sword as he regained his feet, lunging forward to meet the figure advancing upon him with sword in hand. The fury of the curse was upon him as well as his own indignation, making him totally forget it was Rolfr he was attacking. The swords clashed in the tight quarters of the cave, striking sparks from each other that hissed and sang.

Sigurd was beginning to be surprised at Rolfr’s ability with a sword. But suddenly Rolfr misjudged the lowness of the roof and struck the stones a jarring, resounding stroke that sent his sword spinning out of his reach. Sigurd wavered an instant, but the curse impelled him forward to finish the fight. As he raised his sword, a fist-sized rock flew at him from nowhere and struck him in the pit of his stomach with staggering force. He fell over backward, gasping for breath painfully. For a moment, he forgot about the fight, and Rolfr immediately seized the opportunity. He trod heavily on Sigurd’s wrist and twisted the sword out of his grasp, not minding that he cut his hands in doing so. With a warning shout, he rushed from the cave and scrambled nimbly up the side of the skarp, evading the determined pursuit of Sigurd. At the summit of the cliff, Rolfr swung the sword around his head and let it fly in a spinning arc out over the ranks of jagged pinnacles and chasms hundreds of feet below. It flashed like a needle before plunging downward out of sight. Neither Rolfr nor Sigurd heard it strike the stones below.

Sigurd could not look at Rolfr. Gruffly he said, “I’m glad it’s gone. Sorry I was such an ass. It was senseless of me to think I was stronger than the curse.”

“Yes, you were an idiot,” Rolfr agreed angrily. “Sometimes I think the only thing good about you, Sigurd, is your natural power. You would have killed me if it hadn’t stopped you. Just as I foresaw it in Svinhagahall.”

“It’s gone now,” Sigurd said, shuddering and hating himself. “Neither of us has to worry about it any more.”

Jotull clambered up the face of the rock and seemed startled to find them both sitting down talking. He looked quickly from one to the other, then out over the pinnacle to the depths below. “Gone?” he inquired of Sigurd, with a lowering glance at Rolfr.

Sigurd nodded, and Jotull shook his head, as if such irresponsible behavior was beyond his comprehension. “Well then, I only came to say farewell, and I wish you the best of luck in getting to Bergthor.”

“No, don’t leave just yet,” Sigurd said, starting to follow him down. “Let’s talk some more about the rune stick. We were friends once, Jotull, if you recall.”

Jotull inclined his head. “Yes, I recall our friendship and it seems a pity now that we should fight over this little stick of wood. 1 realize now that we are equals, you and I, no longer the great wizard and the admiring little Scipling. I must admit that I admire the way you have outwitted Bjarnhardr, as well as myself, for as long as you have. You have great power, Sigurd, and it’s a shame if we can’t come to an agreement together that will benefit both of us.”

Considering Jotull as an equal seemed to remove much of his threat. “Well then, if we can’t get rid of you, I suppose we’ll have to take you as well as the rune stick. But I want you to swear that you won’t attempt to trick me out of the box and its contents, and I demand that you put a stop to Hross-Bjorn.”

“I promise that I won’t attempt to steal the box and whatever is inside,” Jotull replied. “May I be stricken by all the powers of darkness if I do. But as for Hross-Bjorn, that’s a problem. You see, I did manufacture that sending, I am ashamed to admit, but I gave its control to Bjarnhardr. There’s nothing I can do to stop him in his treachery. He would kill me in an instant, and I bitterly regret my misplaced trust in him. But I know I can trust you, Sigurd. You can be as great as Bjarnhardr or Halfdane one day and I know you are far more worthy to be a leader of the Alfar.”

“You should know me too well to try flattery,” Sigurd said. “I might be worthy of such power someday, but right now the task before us is finding Svartafell, so I propose we get to it.” He thought that sounded rather fine and dignified, but the effect was ruined by a hoarse laugh from Mikla, tottering against the rocks below.

“The task before you, Sigurd, is finding out how gullible you really are. You’ll give the box to your enemies next. What will it take to open your eyes?”

Jotull and Sigurd exchanged a glance, and Jotull sighed. “You can believe whomever you choose, Sigurd. I won’t try to force your decision—but it was a very good point you mentioned about you and Rolfr not being able to continue alone.”

“I’ve decided,” Sigurd said. “Rolfr? Surely you understand that it’s the best choice for us, don’t you? These past nights worrying about whether Hross-Bjorn will get to us or not have very nearly been the death of us both. Come on, don’t look so sulky. You wouldn’t want to lose Mikla either, would you?”

Rolfr glowered at Sigurd and Jotull and turned away to seek another path down. He looked rather pale and shaken, now that his anger had drained away. “I don’t think my opinion matters much, Sigurd. All I want is an end to all this fighting, one way or another.”

“This is the best way for us,” Sigurd assured him anxiously, but Rolfr did not look back or halt his descent. “I’m sure Jotull will give us a better chance at seeing Bergthor.”

The weary voice of Mikla interposed. “Promises! What foolishness! What could you possibly know about anything concerning Jotull?”

Sigurd chose to ignore Mikla. He felt he had done the only logical thing despite the fact that both Mikla and Rolfr maintained a flinty silence for the rest of the day and stared at him with cold, accusing eyes whenever his back was turned.

He found himself thinking of the sword throughout the day, and Jotull mentioned it several times, as if he couldn’t forget about it either. Sigurd was glad it was gone before it had fulfilled its grim prophecy of three villainous killings—one killing was more than enough for Sigurd’s conscience to bear.

That night they camped in a small, green dell on the downward side of the mountains, where the snow still lingered in tall, weeping drifts, pooling into a thousand icy little ponds where the grass and moss were green around their edges like bowls of emerald. The horses were glad tor the grass, and Sigurd was glad to be out of the high-altitude winds. Most comforting of all was the possession of the rune stick, which Jotull had presented him with in a handsome gesture of faith, so they now knew exactly what directions to take. Highly pleased, Sigurd attempted to compensate for the frigid silence of Rolfr and Mikla by chatting with Jotull as they used to do in Hrafnborg. However, he forbore to ask any questions about the events of Svinhagahall. He didn’t want to renew the subject of Halfdane’s death. Nor did he wish to question the wizard too closely about Hross-Bjorn. He knew he had to be exquisitely careful, or he might arouse Jotull’s volatile temper once again.

After the evening meal was eaten and the guard posted, Sigurd remembered that he ought to look at one of the horses’ hooves to check on the healing of a stone bruise. Elfradr, Ragnhild’s horse, nibbled at his beard by way of a friendly greeting, and Sigurd found himself thinking of the horse’s owner, reflecting that his days spent at Hrafnborg had been a happy time, if only he had had the sense to know it then. He shrugged, supposing it did no good to brood about it.