The Wizard And The Warlord (20 page)

“It could have been much worse,” Sigurd assured his friend as he quickly bound up the wound to stop the bleeding. “Another handspan and it would have missed you altogether. You’ve been extraordinarily lucky, you know; a handspan the other way and it would have caught you in the throat.”

Rolfr ground his teeth against the pain. “Oh yes, I know I’m very fortunate. This way I won’t be able to use my bow for who knows how long? I’ve seen small wounds like this become putrid and kill the fellow with much more pain and inconvenience than one clear shot to the heart. I’ve got everything to be thankful for, indeed.” He closed his eyes, looking desperately pale. “Blast and burn those trolls. Who would have thought they could shoot like that? Let me see that arrow.” Sigurd gave him the arrow, which he had broken into two pieces to remove from the wound. Rolfr pounced on the fletched end with a fierce exclamation. “Look at this! Red and black feathers mean this is Dokkalfar manufacture! There are not only trolls out there, Siggi; the Dokkalfar are with them.”

“I fear you’re right,” Jotull agreed from his kneeling position beside the entrance. “I can see their horses and recognize their helmets easily in the starlight.”

Sigurd smothered the fire with one of the few spells he had managed to learn from Adills. “You must have made a perfect target with the light behind you, Rolfr. I wonder how long we can hold them off in this cave.”

Jotull replied, “We’ll last as long as our food lasts and then we can eat the horses, if you want to carry it that far. We could even starve to death, but that’s not my idea of a noble way to die, nor do I relish the thoughts of throwing myself grandly on their spears and perishing as a martyr or a berserkr. If I am to be taken captive, let it be while I am at my best.” He flung his cloak over his shoulder and stepped to the entrance, raising his arms in a peaceful gesture.

“What? We’re surrendering and only one of us wounded?” Rolfr demanded, rising weakly to one elbow to glower at Jotull. “It would look a lot more heroic if everyone were bleeding, Siggi. You know you can’t write scalds without blood.”

“Hush, you’re out of your mind,” Sigurd snapped, keeping his eyes on Jotull, more than half-expecting another arrow to find its target.

“Halloo!” came a shout from outside. “Is it a peaceable surrender you want, or a fight until you’re all dead?”

“We’ll surrender, if you’re Dokkalfar from Svinhagahall,” Jotull answered. “You may approach. You have my word that we are done with fighting.”

With a businesslike rattling of weapons and harness, the Dokkalfar strode up to the cave and stared in at its occupants through a fence of swords and lances. Sigurd was astonished to see so much gold hammered into their helmets, sword hilts, and axeheads, if they were only common soldiers and not earls. Their helmets were a far cry from the functional, conical helmets of the Ljosalfar. The Dokkalfar helmets were wonders of craftsmanship, but Sigurd had the sense to wonder if they hadn’t been constructed more for beauty than for protecting their owners’ skulls from desecration by an enemy axe.

“Where have you come from?” the leader of the Dokkalfar demanded. He was a handsomely clad fellow with an arrogant bearing who would have looked striking if not for a narrow face like a fox and a furtive expression in his eye. “Raudborg isn’t far from here. Are you deserters, perhaps, from the Ljosalfar camps?”

“We’re not deserters.” Sigurd spoke up promptly when he saw Jotull take his usual stance for circumlocution. “We come from Hrafnborg and we’re not doing anything of any concern to the Dokkalfar of Bjarnhardr.”

“Hush, Sigurd, and let your elders do the speaking,” Jotull said severely, his eyes alight with displeasure.

“Anytime three Ljosalfar are caught prowling in the lowlands, it is of concern to the Dokkalfar,” the Dokkalfar chieftain said. “I suppose you are spies, in which case we shall take you directly to Svinhagahall. Bjarnhardr is particularly interested in spies and deserters. I know how he deals with Dokkalfar deserters, so it will be interesting to see what he does with you.”

The Dokkalfar behind him muttered their agreement and exchanged some significant glances. Under their watchful eyes, Jotull directed Sigurd to saddle their horses and assemble their possessions again. Rolfr leaned against the rock and watched, trying to start up a conversation with his captors.

“Who was it that shot this?” he finally asked, holding up the broken arrow with his good hand. When one of the younger Dokkalfar toward the rear admitted that it was his handiwork, Rolfr snorted and said, “It wasn’t a very good shot at all. If it had been you in this cave and me shooting into it, I’m certain you would have been dead by now. However, I’m grateful to you for your ineptitude, so I’ll be able to see what Svinhagahall is like and see your warlord face to face.”

“Hold there, what’s this?” the chieftain suddenly exclaimed. His jealous eye had watched every move Sigurd made until Sigurd reached for his box to put into his saddle pouch. Sigurd’s hands closed around it protectively as the chieftain approached, grinning avariciously. “It looks as if it might hold something valuable. I shall carry it for you, I believe.”

Sigurd looked at him coldly. “I believe you won’t. It’s of no value to anyone but me.” His eyes never left the mean, dark face of the chieftain, but he knew exactly where his sword and axe lay behind him.

The chieftain only grinned wider and raised his sword. “I say, if it’s valuable to you, then it’s valuable to me also. Hand it over or you’ll not live long to regret it.”

Jotull glided a few steps nearer. “The box is nothing to you. I don’t advise your touching it,” he said smoothly but firmly.

“There’s power loose here, and I wouldn’t vouch for its being under absolute control if you should touch that box.”

The chieftain hesitated, while small gusts of power nudged at him and tweaked his beard and cloak almost playfully, but when he took a decided step nearer, Sigurd’s power leaped at him in a bright crackling arc, knocking his sword across the cave. Cursing, the chieftain clutched his hand and shook it, glaring at Sigurd in fury.

“Well then, you’ll have to give it up to Bjarnhardr,” he growled. “Come on, make haste! Let’s get going. I’m not going to wait until spring for you. Bjarnhardr won’t be deprived of his entertainment in your cases, I’m certain. You’ll soon see how he treats deserters and spies.”

When they arrived at Svinhagahall after approximately two days of hard traveling, they immediately recognized Bjarnhardr’s method of dealing with deserters and spies. The earthworks surrounding the hill fort were dotted with bonfires, which half-illuminated a row of gibbets.

“A new batch of deserters must have been captured,” one of the Dokkalfar observed in a low tone to a companion as they rode past the grisly gateposts of Bjarnhardr’s fortress.

Within the walls crouched the massive ruin of an ancient hall at least as antique as Adills’ round tower. Small fires burned in dark niches throughout it, like a multitude of eyes glowing in hollow sockets. Knots of Dokkalfar peered out over the parapets at the newcomers, but Sigurd heard none of the roistering greetings that would have welcomed a Ljosalfar patrol. The Dokkalfar attended strictly to their duties, scarcely sparing a glance to either side as they stood at their posts or hurried on errands.

Their captors took them solemnly through the main entrance of the ancient hall into what had once been an expansive court, where now most of the roof had collapsed; the hollow shell furnished a good location for stabling horses. The captives’ horses were left there, and the Dokkalfar pointed the way down a dark tunnel, lighted at intervals by small, smoky fires, where a few watchmen crouched over the handful of coals, trying to capture some of the warmth before the icy wind whistled it away.

“You’d be warmer in your underground halls, instead of this drafty ruin,” Jotull observed to the chieftain as they waded through a small drift of snow sifting through a broken wall. “I’d always thought the Dokkalfar had a better eye to their own comfort than this place suggests.”

The chieftain’s dismal snort sounded as if he would like to agree, but he replied, “You won’t catch me complaining. I’m of rather low rank around here and I have no need for comforts, besides. When the Dokkalfar rule Skarpsey, our wizards will rediscover the source of the eternal winter, so this will be a pattern for things to come.” He heaved a sigh and slogged through another snowdrift. “It will be glorious times for the Dokkalfar—if we don’t all freeze to death first. We lose at least one guard every watch.” He looked sharply at the guard beside the door where he halted his party, but the poor, stiff fellow still possessed enough life to stand up and salute shiveringly. “I am Gunnolfr. Open the door, you sluggard. You can’t complain of the cold with such a fire as that.”

Sigurd and Rolfr looked at the wretched handful of coals expiring on the frozen earth. The ragged creature hastened to hammer on the door, which opened a small crack after a very long interval. A suspicious voice demanded to know what was wanted. When the message was imparted, the door grumbled open a little wider, and someone summoned them inside impatiently and slammed the door shut with a clattering of bars and bolts.

“Now then, what’s your business that you think Bjarnhardr should be interested in it?” The speaker was clad in a fur cloak and hood, muffled up so that hardly anything of his showed, except the end of a blue nose and two hard, bright eyes under a hedge of beetling brows. “It had better be good, Gunnolfr. You didn’t acquit yourself well at Bedasford, not at all. Bjarnhardr has his eye upon you, after your debacle.”

Gunnolfr shifted his feet uneasily. “But I have something here to redeem myself. These are spies I captured from Hrafnborg. I don’t doubt even Bjarnhardr will be astonished and pleased—enough to forgive us for being so wildly slaughtered at Bedasford. You needn’t say that, of course. You won’t mention that I said such a thing, will you, Slyngr?”

Slyngr looked at Jotull, Sigurd, and Rolfr, so far amazed as to pull back his hood slightly for a better look, revealing more of his sharp features and a neatly braided beard. The hand that pushed the hood back bore a glittering collection of gold and jewels. “Come with me, then, all of you,” he said with an impatient sigh. “We needn’t stand here in this drafty hallway, chattering about it, when Bjarnhardr can decide for himself what to do. They admitted to being spies, did they?” He glanced anxiously at Jotull, whose stern, calm presence commanded attention.

“No, indeed,” Jotull answered. “I am a wizard, not a spy, and I’ve wanted to see Bjarnhardr for quite some time. I shall welcome the opportunity to deliver my greeting to him in person. Lead us to him, Slyngr, and we shall follow right willingly.”

Slyngr muffled himself inside his hood again with a last disbelieving glare at the strangers and turned to lead them down a passageway by the faint light of a small oil lamp. It was narrow and icy, although the whipping breeze had been shut out, which made it seem somewhat warmer than outside. They descended several flights of crumbling steps and passed earthy-smelling rooms where the doors had been torn off for firewood. At last, the twisting passage led them to the final low door where two guards dozed over their small fire, weapons in hand. Slyngr stirred them up viciously with his staff and harangued them for sleeping before he opened the door and led his procession inward with a pompous air of triumph, as if no one but he had captured the spies and brought them thence.