The Wizard And The Warlord (40 page)

“Adills!” Rolfr gasped in a muffled voice. “Then you did kill him, just as I suspected!”

Jotull nodded, his eyes watching Sigurd with a hard, bright stare. “Yes, I killed Adills. This isn’t an innocent game you’ve become involved in by bringing that box here, and Adills isn’t the first or last to die because of it. We’ve been searching for it for more years than you’ve existed. When we found it, we wasted no time on sentiment and softness. You saw what happened to Thongullsfjord; Bjarnhardr and I would kill a thousand more for the contents of that box. To think—all these years when we were searching for it, all that stood between us and it was one old woman and a brat of a boy. Take another look at old Adills, and see if there are still doubts in your mind about whom to obey.”

Sigurd shoved the dead bird away angrily without looking at it. “So this is what we’ve come to, Jotull. You haven’t befriended me for friendship’s sake. All you’ve wanted is to get control of whatever is inside this box. You know what it is, don’t you?”

Jotull no longer attempted to keep his features arranged pleasantly. “Of course I do, you fool,” he snapped. “Now before we open the box, I demand that you swear an oath of fealty to me to ensure your future obedience, or your life will be forfeit.”

“I won’t do it,” Sigurd retorted, putting a hand on his axe. “Why should I give up my freedom to you and Bjarnhardr, when the box and its contents are no one’s but mine? Bergthor, we’re not going to open that box as long as Jotull is in Svartafell. He’s no friend of mine, and never was.” He glared at Jotull with the white-hot anger of one betrayed.

Bergthor clutched the box under one massive arm and looked at his guests in consternation. “Now, let’s speak a little more calmly, my friends,” he said. “This talk of killings and swearings and threatenings is serious. It seems to me that the young man does indeed have the best claim to the box, and you, wizard, are attempting to seize what you have no right to, despite all the years you’ve spent coveting it. I don’t like to see a fellow being badgered in my own home, especially by someone who claims comradeship with Bjarnhardr. I’m afraid my hospitality is no longer offered to such a one as you, Jotull, if you persist in threatening Sigurd.”

Jotull transferred his haughty glare to Bergthor. “What do I care for your hospitality or you?” he answered with a sneer. “You’ll do as I tell you, or there won’t be another horse shod in Svartafell. This dispute is between Sigurd and me, and we don’t want your clumsy interference. Get yourself busy finding a key to that lock or make one or smash the lid in. I don’t care how you do it, but you must open that box immediately.”

Bergthor placed the box on the shelf again and folded his arms with a sinister smile. “A smith of the Dvergar has no need to fear a wizard of the Dokkalfar, even though you once were Ljosalfar. I have heard the story of your treachery to Halfdane of Hrafnborg. There is no place in my sympathy for such a murderer as you.”

Jotuil raised one eyebrow and looked at Mikia and Rolfr. “Which one of them told you? One of them is going to die for this.”

Mikia declared promptly, “I told him. I’ve waited a long time to avenge myself, Jotull. I knew from the first day you arrived in Hrafnborg that you were Dokkalfar in your heart.”

“Rolfr, get the men from the forge,” Bergthor commanded, taking his hammer from his belt. “We’ll take this spy to trial for his crimes, and it will be a bright day for the memory of Snowfell when we hang him and stake his carcass in the bog.“

Jotull stood up, staff in hand, with an incredulous smile. “You can’t think you can be more powerful than a full wizard of the Dokkalfar? I may as well warn you that being a traitor has distinct advantages. I know the spells of both Alfar, and neither the sun nor dark earth hold any terrors for me. If your sooty dwarves lay their hands upon me, I shall instantly kill them.” He conjured a blue plume of flame at the end of his staff and waved it contemptuously under Bergthor’s nose, almost close enough to burn his beard.

Bergthor raised his hammer and struck at the staff, causing an explosion of hot, red sparks and an impact that made Jotull stagger. A fiery halo surrounded the smith’s hammer and the mighty arm that wielded it. Bergthor advanced a step, motioning Rolfr to conduct his errand. “You must have forgotten, wizard,” he rumbled in a voice of menace, “the smiths of the Dvergar are the priests of Thor. I am the master smith and I have three other smiths besides three apprentice smiths. There are other arts which we practice besides the hammering of iron.” He reached out his hand, and suddenly it appeared to be full of cherry-red coals, with orange and blue flames lapping through his fingers. “Sit down, wizard, and put your staff on the table where we can watch it.”

Jotull hesitated, measuring Bergthor’s potential powers of destruction against his own. With no abatement of his scorn and pride, he sat down and laid his staff across the table, a choice influenced perhaps by the arrival of the other six smiths armed with their hammers.

“Dyri, we’ll need a chain capable of holding a wizard,” Bergthor said. “A chain with powers. Have you got one that will do the job?”

Dyri snorted into his scorched red beard. “Have I got a chain to hold a wizard? I’ve got one that will hold the Fenrir-Ulf, if I was of a mind to go a-hunting wolves.” He stalked away to fetch it from the forge, and Jotuli glowered haughtily at Bergthor.

“You needn’t think this will stop Bjarahardr from getting that box,” he snarled. “And you, Sigurd, you’ve still got Hross-Bjorn following you, and you’ve still got two murders to commit with that sword. It won’t leave you alone until you do what you know you must. If you want to be rid of the sending and the curse, order Bergthor to get rid of these hulking idiots and proceed immediately with opening the box.”

Sigurd shook his head. “I know what you are, Jotull. I’ll never trust you again.”

Rolfr and Mikla nodded at him, their eyes alight with encouragement, and Mikla heaved a great sigh of relief. “I thought he’d never open his eyes,” he whispered to Rolfr.

Suddenly they all heard Dyri give a shout from the forge and the sound of running feet, followed by scuffling outside the door. It burst open before anybody could reach it to see what the trouble was. A fence of Dokkalfar swords surged into the room. The smiths met them with a battery of hammer blows; but at a shout from Bergthor, they left off and retreated.

“Before we fight, I want to find out who we’re fighting and what for,” Bergthor thundered, striding into the center of the room, his hammer held aloft and flaming. The Dokkalfar at the door shrank back and presented the sharp tips of their swords. “Who are you? What business do you have here?”

They glowered at him from under their helmets and backed away until a solitary figure stood between them and Bergthor. With a stumping gait, the figure advanced a few steps until the gleaming of Bergthor’s torch illuminated his features.

“It’s Bjarnhardr!” Sigurd exclaimed, covering his dismay by adding, “The berserkr!”

Bjarnhardr turned his menacing smile upon Sigurd. “Is it you, Sigurd? I might have known you’d be the first to know me. What’s the cause of this conflict? What are these great fellows doing in here looking so grim and evil, when they ought to be working?”

Jotull leaped up. “I’ll be glad to explain! They were holding me prisoner and they had the presumption to think they could put me on trial for treachery to Halfdane. Sigurd refuses to assist us and won’t let Bergthor open the box. If you hadn’t been so slow in getting here, we might have avoided any bloodshed, but right now I don’t see how we can avoid killing the lot of them. It would save us a great deal of trouble later.” He bent a cold, gloating gaze upon Sigurd, Roifr, and Mikla.

Bergthor shook his head like an angry bear. “If you harm any of them, I’ll see to it that no one ever opens that box without being struck by curses and plagues that will lay the lands barren for a hundred years.”

“No, no, there’s no need for that,” Bjarahardr said anxiously, pegging closer to Bergthor. “Now sit down here and let’s discuss this like rational men. Let me explain to you why you must open this box for us—”

“I won’t open it for anybody but Sigurd,” Bergthor declared, folding his arms and looking away from Bjarnhardr, but still holding his hammer in one fist.

“Come now, surely you realize Sigurd is nothing in this game,” Bjarnhardr pursued. “He’s as good as lost right now, and you will be, too, if you don’t follow the rule—which is that the least powerful had better submit to the wishes of the most powerful if they want to continue surviving. Not only you are in question here, but these other smiths. Think what a wealth of knowledge and power will be wasted when they die.”

“They won’t die in vain. The least I can do is smash your skull before I die,” Bergthor replied placidly. “That would leave Jotull in command at Svinhagahall, if he escapes, or some lesser churl if he doesn’t. We may as well as die and leave the curse of this carved box to the next person who finds it.”

“Is that what you’re resolved upon?” Bjarnhardr inquired. “A senseless slaughter, with none of us profiting and all of us losing?”

“If you lose, then I profit,” Bergthor growled, swinging his hammer lightly. “The realm will be well rid of vermin such as you, and I suppose there are more smiths to take my place in Svartafell.”

Bjarnhardr shook his head. “You aren’t following the rules, my dear fellow. In this sort of game, we are supposed to compromise to reach an agreement. Suppose I were to pay you in gold to open that box? What would you say to that?”

“I would say it’s Sigurd’s box, and you’d better pay him your gold if you’re so anxious to get rid of it,” the smith replied.

Bjarnhardr turned his fox’s grin on Sigurd. “Well, old friend, surely you realize you’ve lost everything by now anyway, so why don’t you cease to be a complication and order that box opened? It might save your life. I wouldn’t object to letting you live, as long as you keep out of Jotull’s way. Surely you realize there’s no sense in resisting any longer, don’t you? Weren’t we always good friends, Sigurd? Trust me once more when I tell you to open that box for us, and I’ll see to it you come to no harm.” He smiled with easy confidence and cast a sly wink in Jotull’s direction.

Sigurd stood still, hesitating. He looked at the stricken faces of Mikla and Rolfr, who waited anxiously for his answer. “Before I say yes or no,” he began slowly, looking intently at Bjarnhardr, “I want to know something more about the history of this box, Bjarnhardr. What do you know about it—without telling me what is inside?”

Bjarnhardr shrugged. “It’s a commonplace history, but I’ll tell you about it for the sake of wasting time so you can make up your mind. It was made by this same scowling Bergthor for a very famous warlord who had the misfortune to marry a Scipling woman, whose beauty must have charmed his natural caution, or he might have known what a weakness she would be to him. For her sake, he gave up much of his fighting against his enemies, such as I undeniably represent. She even took from him half of his powers and locked them away in a little box as a surety he would give up warfare as an occupation.

“Strangely enough, he agreed that he would hold and defend what he had, instead of conquesting for more of the fallen kingdom of Snowfell. This was noble of him, but rather foolish. One evening while he was gone from home, a band of Dokkalfar attacked his home fort and burned it to the ground with every person inside—no, not quite every person.

“The lady’s mother, a veritable witch in her own right, had made nothing but trouble for the pair since they were married, and it was later said that she escaped from the flames with the warlord’s infant son and the box—very sensible of her to save them, but infinitely troublesome for us, since she promptly returned to the Scipling realm and lost herself for more than twenty years. However, we found her again last year. There now, is that enough dull history for you, or would you like me to continue? The warlord’s story has a most amusing ending.”

As Bjarnhardr talked, Sigurd was hot and cold by turns with the realization of how the words applied to him. He covertly clutched the edge of the table with hands to resist the impulses that threatened to overwhelm him. “No, that’s enough. Bergthor, I want you to open the box now.”

Bergthor’s black brows crawled incredulously. “Now? With these wolves waiting to grab your birthright away from you the instant they see it?”

Sigurd darted a glance at Rolfr and Mikla, who stared at him in silent appeal and mute despair. “Yes, Bergthor, I’m ready to deal with them upon the terms they know best. Do as I ask you, please?”

Jotull and Bjarnhardr exchanged a triumphant wink, and all the Dokkalfar watching relaxed their grim expressions and leaned on their swords as if they no longer expected to use them at any instant. Bergthor gazed at Sigurd in uncomprehending anguish, then slowly lifted the box off the shelf and put it on the table, every movement betraying his deep disappointment and sorrow. With a reproachful glance at Sigurd, he delved into the pouch hanging at his belt for a massive ring of keys, which he examined one by one. The keys were flat bits of metal with two holes punched to correspond with the locking mechanism inside the box. Finally he found one and tried it, but it did not work the lock. His large, skillful fingers moved as slowly and clumsily as he dared, with Jotull and Bjarnhardr leaning over his shoulders to watch impatiently.

At last, he could no longer avoid finding a key that fitted. He slipped the key in place and pushed it to the other end of the lock slot with a significant clicking of the mechanism inside. Without touching the lid, he pushed the box across the table to Sigurd, even as Bjarnhardr made a grab for it. Sigurd put his hands on it protectively and stared back at Bjarnhardr and Jotull.

“There’s only one more detail in your story, Bjarnhardr,” he said. “What was the name of this unlucky warlord whose wife and home you wantonly destroyed?”

Bjarnhardr grinned and drew back in mock surprise. “Why, haven’t you guessed it yet? It was Halfdane of Hrafnborg, your own father, and you killed him with your own hand!”