The Wizard And The Warlord (39 page)

At sundown, they halted in the desolate refuse of an abandoned mine, and the woodcutter announced with grim satisfaction, “This is where we part company. Goodbye.” He started to lead the pony toward the gaping mine portal, which was inscribed with crumbling runes.

Jotull strode after him. “Wait a moment, you old ruffian. You said you’d show us the way to Svartafell. This certainly doesn’t look like the dwelling of an important man like Bergthor. Is this your notion of assisting strangers in your land—to lead them to a deserted spot miles from the nearest settlement in the hopes they’ll lose themselves? If that’s what you have in mind, my friend, I can promise you some very bitter regrets which will make your present complaints sound like the mere squeakings of a mouse.” His eyes gleamed with a deadly light that Sigurd didn’t like to look at.

The woodcutter turned to glower threateningly at Jotull. “I only said that you might follow me to Svartafell, as this load of wood was for Bergthor’s forge. I never said Svartafell was where I was going to. You were presumptuous, my fine fellow.”

Jotull clutched his staff. “You mean to say you never intended to lead us to Svartafell?” he inquired, trying to keep his voice calm.

“Well, I brought you here, didn’t I?” the woodcutter countered.

“Yes, but this isn’t Svartafell,” Jotull snapped.

“Oh, aye? Isn’t it?” The woodcutter feigned great surprise.

“You mean this is Svartafell?” Jotull exclaimed.

The woodcutter pondered, but could see no way of denying the truth. “Some say it’s Svartafell,” he said grudgingly.

“Then why didn’t you just come out and say so?” Sigurd demanded.

The woodcutter eyed him disapprovingly. “You didn’t ask.”

“I can’t believe a person of any importance would live in a place like this,” Jotull growled as they picked their way down the dark mine tunnel toward a glowing light ahead. Heaps of unrefined ore were flung here and there with no regard for the path where people might have to walk. Unfamiliar implements used for mining loomed in the dim light, rusty and menacing. As they neared the forge, they heard the snorting and stamping of horses and voices shouting and cursing in the manner reserved for men who were trying to induce a fractious and powerful horse to do something against its wishes.

When they came into view of the forge area, they saw an immense, shaggy, gray horse plunging with half a dozen men clinging to its neck and muzzle, trying to stay out of the way of the lashing hind heels and the pawing forefeet. The horse carried the men into seven other big gray horses that welcomed the opportunity to rear and lunge against their halters. After a great deal of wild struggle, someone brought the horse under control by biting its ear, and the beast subsided, legs braced and trembled indignantly. When the smith’s apprentice picked up one hoof, the entire kicking, cursing battle was repeated. Eventually the horse was thrown on its side and secured with a network of ropes, and the apprentice began trimming its huge hooves.

Then Bergthor, the stoutest and sootiest of all the men, realized that he had strangers in his forge. He folded his arms and scowled at the woodcutter for an explanation. The woodcutter jerked his thumb over his shoulder and grumbled, “I brought your wood, and these Alfar fellows followed me. I don’t know who they are or what they want, but if you ask me, strangers are always trouble.”

Bergthor took off his thick gloves and shoved them under his belt. He was a thickset, powerful man in the prime of his life, rather taller than the other dwarves Sigurd had seen, and his beard and hair were black and bristling from repeated singe-ings at the forge. “Well then, strangers, have you come for business with me? I am Bergthor of Svartafell.” His voice boomed over the angry snorting of the thrown horse and the puffing of the bellows as another apprentice heated the iron to shape the horseshoe.

Jotull stepped forward with a stiff bow. “I am the wizard Jotull, and I have brought this Scipling Sigurd for you to examine a piece of your handiwork to see if you can make a key to open it.” He motioned to Sigurd, who stepped forward with the carven box.

“You made the lock, I believe,” Sigurd said, “quite some time ago. You see your name carved into the box itself.”

Bergthor brushed past Jotull to take the box gently in his huge, black-seamed hands. A look of delight and astonishment replaced the black scowl. “Wherever did you get this? I made this a long time ago, before the mining trade became so profitable. Now I spend much of my time shoeing these villainous horses and mending machines. I used to work with beautiful things like wood and silver and gold, but now all I have time for is iron.” He sighed and shook his head. “Let me think—I made this box for a lady as a wedding gift. This is no place to talk, though. Come with me and we’ll have something to drink while we remember.”

The woodcutter brightened at the mention of drink and gladly stumped along after them down a narrow tunnel to a smaller room, very rough and jumbled, filled with smoke from the incompetent roasting of a large piece of meat. Bergthor sat on a large, black chair that creaked ominously under his weight, and he placed the box before him on the table.

“It has been a long time since I used a little chisel and a small hammer to carve with,” he said fondly, then summoned the serving girl with a shout and directed her to bring them ale. “We must not be in any hurry to open it. I wonder what’s inside it.” He shook it, listening to the soft rattle inside.

Jotull’s eyes burned. “Its contents will be of no interest to you. The box has been in the Scipling realm for many years and whatever has been put inside is probably of no significance.”

Sigurd and Rolfr looked at the wizard in silent astonishment, and Mikla smiled grimly. Jotull darted them all a covert, warning glance.

“Then what do you want to open it for?” Bergthor smiled and rubbed his broiled-looking nose with one large forefinger. “If it wasn’t something valuable to you, why did you come all this distance to have me open it?”

“What I meant to say,” Jotull replied gracefully, “was that you probably wouldn’t think it was worth much. Obviously, it’s not gold or jewels, or we’d hear a different sort of sound. Therefore, it can’t be anything worth coveting.”

Bergthor grinned, showing great white teeth like a horse’s. “I understand. You’re afraid I might want to take it from you. Well, my friend, you’re safe with me. There isn’t much that I covet anymore. I’m not so young and greedy now as I was when I made this box.”

“Was it a very long time ago?” Sigurd asked. “Perhaps you made it for my grandmother.”

“Perhaps I did, but I don’t remember doing any work for the other realm at that time. Now and then I do something for Sciplings who have a little power, but this box now, I made it for a lady. Was she an Alfar lady? No, wait—she was a Scipling. Ha, now I remember her. She was beautiful and she was about to marry an Alfar warlord. Her name was Ashildr. This lovely little box was a gift from her husband to hold her jewels and precious things. Ah, but she was a dainty little thing to look at, and she came here with him, she did, because she wanted to have a look at a black dwarf.“

Sigurd put down his horn cup excitedly. “She was my mother. I never remembered her, because she died and my grandmother took me to raise. If she was married to an Alfar, that means that I am half of this realm and half of the other. That explains why I have a natural power.” He grinned at Rolfr, who beamed at him and winked knowingly. “What else do you know about my parents, Bergthor? You can’t imagine how I’ve yearned to know about them, and my grandmother died before she could tell me anything at all.” He leaned forward eagerly, his attention riveted on the smith.

Bergthor’s genial eyes misted over and he shook his head gently. “Imagine you coming all the way from the other realm with this box to find your father. There’s probably not another soul who could tell you his name, and I’m honored and touched to be able to tell someone such news that it will gladden both our hearts for the rest of our lives. His name, lad, was Halfdane.”

Sigurd leaped up with a yell he couldn’t stifle, knocking over the bench beneath him with a crash. He slammed his fist on the table and shouted into Bergthor’s blank face, “No! That’s not his name!”

“Why, what’s the matter?” the smith demanded, rising to his feet with a flicker of outrage in his puzzled tone.

Jotull leaped up. “Sigurd, sit down. It might not be the same one, you know. Halfdane is a very common name in this realm. I’ve known five or six men in my lifetime who bore that name. Sit down and calm yourself. What a fool you’re being.”

Sigurd sat down, covering his face with his hands to hide his shame. He was shaking with a horrible fear. “I’m sorry, Bergthor, terribly sorry to have been so rude, but it was a—a shock when you said that name. I owe you an explanation, painful as it is to me. You see, I killed a man named—of that name—just lately, more by accident than anything else. You must understand what a jolt it gave me to hear you say—well, never mind. I think I’d like to walk around a bit before we open that box. Maybe you could use another hand in nailing the shoes to those eight gray horses.”

Bergthor scratched his chin ruefully. “That I certainly could, but I don’t know if it’s good manners to ask a guest to risk his life and limbs with those stallions. Whenever they come in to be shod, I wonder if I’ll get my brains kicked out.”

Sigurd stood up resolutely. “That sounds like exactly what I need. Rolfr, are you going to join the fun?”

Rolfr looked white, and his eyes were staring. With a shake of his head, he broke whatever trance he had slipped into and said, “Why not?” He stumbled along to the forge, and he and Sigurd did not speak to each other for the rest of the night. When the horses were finally shod, they were glad to fall into the beds which Bergthor indicated. Sigurd fell asleep, too exhausted even for nightmares.

In the morning, he awoke with the knowledge that the box had to be opened, and the dread of it almost choked him. When he joined the others beside the fire in Bergthor’s main room, another unpleasant surprise was awaiting him. Bjarnhardr’s sword lay on the table. “I found it where you had left it beside your door last night,” Bergthor told him. “You shouldn’t be so careless of such a finely crafted blade. I’d keep it in its sheath if I were you.”

Sigurd only nodded dumbly, staring at the bright metal of the sword, twinkling at him mockingly in the firelight. He had little appetite for the breakfast which Bergthor “s housekeeper prepared for them. He looked at the carven box reposing in a place of honor on a shelf and wished he had never found it in Thorarna’s trunk.

After breakfasting on several more pots of ale, the woodcutter went out to unload his cart. Sigurd offered to help him, but the woodcutter only stared at him and said that no one laid a hand on his firewood except himself, since not every fool could unload a cart, and away he stalked in high dudgeon, shaking his head and muttering.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Sigurd said, when Bergthor lifted the box down. “I don’t want to know what’s inside it.”

Jotull darted him a venomous glance. “Don’t be a simpleton. Sigurd. You have to open it now. I haven’t spent all my time coaxing you along and strengthening your will just to have you go sour on me at the last moment. You will open that box and you will accept whatever you find inside. I’m afraid I overestimated you, and you’re going to disappoint me. It hasn’t been easy to get you this far, Sigurd, and you’ve a long way before you, but as long as you listen to me I can promise you’ll prosper. If you don’t do as you are bidden, you’ll be cast aside. We’ll provide for you as long as you conduct yourself according to our plans. I snail show you what happens to those who get in the way.” He took a small parcel from his satchel and unwrapped the cloth covering. Sigurd shrank back as the wizard placed a dead bird before him—it was a sparrow hawk, with its eyes sunken and its claws shriveled.