The Wizard And The Warlord (42 page)

By nightfall, his condition was much worse and he was scarcely conscious, imagining himself back at Hrafnborg or in his grandmother’s house at Thongullsfjord. Instead of his grandmother, however, the person he imagined beside him was Ragnhild. He had kept the bowstring made from her hair, the ring she had given him, and the red jewel, thinking many times that he ought to have thrown them away. As he lapsed in and out of consciousness, he thought he saw Ragnhild bending over him, but her face always seemed to change into a troll’s face. Then he thought his enemies must have found him and were carrying him away to his doom, slung like a half-empty sack over the back of a shaggy horse, jogging and jouncing over the stones in the ravine. The last thing he remembered thinking was what peculiar feet the horse possessed, large and hairy, with great black toenails instead of hooves.

When he finally awakened, he was astonished to realize that he felt as if he might live after all. The next thought uppermost in his mind was to see where he was and who had carried him there. By the light of a low fire, he saw dozens of small, laughing faces peering at him from the shadows, and they gave him a great fright until he realized that they were only carvings of little creatures made of wood or stone. A memory straggled for recognition in the depths of his weary brain.

Then he saw an old heap of motley skins shift itself slightly. A long, stringy arm reached out to stir the contents of a black kettle hanging over the fire. A troll, Sigurd told himself with surprise, wondering if his troll band had decided to return for him after all. But his trolls had possessed no snug shelter with a hearth and shelves hewn into the stone, and certainly not a fine bed such as he was lying in, with carved pillars at the four comers and coarse clean linen.

“Grisnir!” He fell back, relieved and exhausted after solving the puzzle, and closed his eyes with a sigh of almost contentment.

Grisnir shuffled near the bed and laid one furry paw on Sigurd’s brow. “The fever’s gone,” he rumbled. “And you recognized me for the first time. It looks as if that poisoned Dokkalfar arrow isn’t going to do its evil work, after all.”

Sigurd opened his eyes and couldn’t help returning the old troll’s fearsome, grimacing grin of delight. Nothing could be quite as ugly or as welcome as Grisnir’s battered countenance with almost every tooth bared in pleasure.

“Grisnir. I must be dreaming you,” Sigurd said, wishing he didn’t feel üke such a weakling. “How’s the leg?”

“Crooked and gimpy and aches like a bear’s got his teeth in it when the weather’s wet,” Grisnir replied promptly, “but I’m not complaining. At least I’m still alive and able to repay you your debt for saving this old troll. Now it’s my turn to be doing the good deed for you, and what a pleasure it is! It seems that old ravine is a bad place for legs, at times,” he added, as a gentle hint that he would like to know more about how Sigurd came to be wounded.

Sigurd’s brief happiness faded. “Perhaps it’s no favor you’re doing me, or anyone else, Grisnir. If the valley people ever found out that you preserved the life of the hated troll-man, they’d hunt you out and nail that old hide of yours to a barn.”

Grisnir only grinned the wider and rubbed his hands together. “Then you’re the troll-man who has caused so much havoc among the Dokkalfar? Nothing could delight me more!”

“Let me finish. I became a troll because of a horror, one which I’ll never forgive myself for as long as I live. It is a fearful burden. I killed my own father. I was used like a mindless tool by his enemies. When I die, I won’t be sorry for myself and I don’t think anyone else will be sorry, either.” He stared at the ceiling of the cave, not wanting to see Grisnir’s joy turn to scorn.

Grisnir said nothing for a while, digging into his ear with one thick finger. “I hear voices from time to time,” he muttered in irritation. “Voices took me to you the night I found you in the ravine, and they’ve plagued me ever since. There’s a Mikla, and a Rolfr, and a Ragnhild who are calling for you. Are they enemies of yours, Sigurd? If they are, all you have to do is command me to defend you, and I’ll perish in the attempt. Indeed, you have done a tragic thing, but I won’t turn my back. The sorrow is mostly yours, so I don’t wish to add to it. You can stay here with me as long as you wish—forever, if you like.”

Sigurd did not doubt his sincerity. “Grisnir, I’m nothing but a burden to you. I’m a burden to myself, so how can you be so kind?”

Grisnir shrugged and cast his eyes upward to think a moment. “A part of my heart will belong to you as long as you live, and there’s nothing much you can do to shake my friendship for you. Would you like for me to get rid of these three people who are calling for you? I can, if you wish it.”

Sigurd closed his eyes again, exhausted. “No, Grisnir, they’re my friends, too. True friends, like you. I still think 1 wish all of you would allow me to go my way and be a troll or die—or whatever hard fate I deserve.”

Grisnir shook himself. “No, no, we can’t permit that. I see you are tired now, so I recommend you go to sleep. It will take your other friends a while to find you here, and you’ll have to be strong and well by the time they get here.”

Sigurd relaxed willingly. “I want to stay here, Grisnir. I don’t want to go back with them.”

“Not just yet, no,” Grisnir replied soothingly, and tiptoed back to the pot of broth simmering over the fire.

The last days of winter passed, and it was well into spring before Sigurd felt that his strength had returned. His wood carvings, which had occupied him so well during his convalescence, lost much of their charm after the sun returned to the land. He knew he had to take care to avoid being seen by anyone who still harbored a grudge against the troll-man, but he couldn’t resist being outside the dark cave on a warm, bright day.

“My old cave is getting a little small for you,” Grisnir noted, with a sage wrinkling of his large forehead. “It won’t be long until your friends hear you sending for them.”

Sigurd shook his head, still anxious. “No, I don’t see how I can ever face them again,” he said, but in his heart he knew he wanted something more than hiding in a troll cave for the rest of his life.

“I saw another friend of yours last night,” Grisnir went on thoughtfully. “That sending Bjarnhardr and Jotull put on you knows you’re still alive, and he’s waiting for you. Someday you’re going to have to do something about him, Sigurd.”

“I know, I know,” Sigurd muttered. “Do you really want to get rid of me so badly, Grisnir? I know you’re used to being alone—”

Grisnir interrupted with a huge snort. “Get rid of you, indeed! I said you may stay forever, if you wish it. But I can plainly see that you’re beginning to look around, and you know you’ve got more important things to do before you salt yourself away to hide.”

Sigurd sighed, then smiled wryly. He gave the old troll a couple of hearty thumps on the back and said, “Yes, I know you’re going to say it will be good for me and I&rsqou;ll be happier in the long run, and all you really want is for me to be satisfied.”

“Why, how did you know? You took my very words!”

“Maybe my powers are becoming more acute,” Sigurd said, “but one doesn’t share a cave with a troll without coming to a very strong acquaintance.”

Grisnir had instructed Sigurd in the use of his natural powers during the winter, and by spring Sigurd could do things by the power of his mind that would have amazed him a year earlier. With more instruction, Grisnir assured him, he would be as Alfar as any Alfar born, thanks to his excellent heritage of innate powers from his father Halfdane. He knew how to summon Mikla and Rolfr, after Grisnir had taught him to listen for them calling him. To his surprise, he heard Ragnhild more frequently, particularly when he concentrated on her ring and her bowstring, and it was to her he sent his first call through the vast uncharted spheres of the mind’s magic. Then he called for Mikla and Rolfr, whose signal was stronger and often mingled with an unfamiliar one which might have been the smith Bergthor, still searching for him.

“They’re coming,” Grisnir announced one evening as they sat watching the shadows descending the surrounding fells.

“Yes, I feel it, too,” Sigurd answered, with more gladness and excitement than he had anticipated.

“I wonder if Hross-Bjorn will be as glad to see them,” Grisnir said slyly. “I suspect they’ll bring his doom with them.”

For a moment, they both studied the sending, which occupied a hilltop considerably out of the reach of Sigurd’s power. Hross-Bjorn no longer caracoled in ecstasies of arrogance and power. He lurked around Grisnirsfell, lean and deadly, waiting to play his tricks when he thought he saw an opening. While Sigurd was ill, the sending had tried to get into the cave through a variety of disguises which hadn’t fooled Grisnir for an instant. Hross-Bjorn no longer wasted his energy in useless displays of fury; he concentrated on ways to get to Sigurd. Sometimes he changed his form to several wolves or other dangerous predators, but of late he had shifted his tactics to more devious schemes. Once he slipped under the door, disguised as a shaft of straw, but Sigurd swiftly tossed him into the fire, where he roared up the chimney with a deafening howl of wind. The sending changed himself into a furious storm, which caught Sigurd a mile from the cave and kept him under a rock for several hours until he discovered how to rebuff the sending with his own powers. It was no wonder that Hross-Bjorn began to be frustrated and so desperate that he restorted to tricks, which Sigurd and Grisnir only laughed at.

The sending did its best to thwart the arrival of Mikla and Rolfr, causing rains and floods and blizzards of snow, but finally the travelers arrived with a great thundering at the door. Sigurd hurried to open it, and they fell inside laughing and half-killing him with buffets, bear hugs, and punches to assure themselves he was truly alive and not an illusion. Grisnir closed the door against the driving blizzard, adding his admonitions to get out of their unhealthy wet cloaks and boots and to sit down by the fire while their dinner cooked.

When the uproar subsided somewhat, Rolfr exclaimed, “Sigurd, I can hardly believe it’s you. There are two streaks of gray in your beard, just like an old man, and you’ve got a limp. What have you done to age yourself so dramatically almost overnight?”

“It was a long, hard winter,” Sigurd replied with a smile, thinking how Rolfr would stare when he told him about living with the trolls.

“Well, the hard times are over,” Mikla declared with all of his customary earnestness and desire to be perfectly understood. “Nobody blames you for what happened at Svinhagahall. You had no control over those events. If you were to explain it completely to the men of Hrafnborg, they would forgive you and cherish an ever, greater hatred for Bjarnhardr. You must come back to the place where you belong, Sigurd, instead of hiding your shame among strangers.”

He seemed prepared to argue, but Sigurd surprised him by saying, “You’re quite right, of course, Mikla. You always were right in your judgments. I’ve been thinking for a long time that I ought to face the men of Hrafnborg and take what censure they decide to deal out. But first, there’s a thing I have to do. Did you bring me my box and the gauntlet inside, Rolfr?”

Rolfr’s eyes began to sparkle. “I certainly did. Are you going to claim the gauntlet, Sigurd?”

Sigurd let his eyes rest upon the box as Rolfr pulled it from his saddle pouch. “I shall be its humble servant and allow it to use me for whatever good I can do with it. It seems almost too much to hope that they might want me back at Hrafnborg, but I have an idea that might win them over. Tomorrow night, if it is fair, I’ll begin the final working out of my revenge upon Bjarnhardr.”

The following night was peaceful and overcast with silver clouds reflecting the starlight in a soft glow that made it perfectly easy to see. Sigurd drew the gauntlet from his belt and put it on as Hross-Bjorn greeted them with a contemptous snort from his perch among the rocks above Grisnir’s cave. Warning his friends to stay at a safe distance, Sigurd chose a level space on the other side of the ravine while Hross-Bjorn watched with interest, uttering a growl of suspicion.

“Hross-Bjorn, I challenge you and your creators to honorable battle,” Sigurd called. “You’re a cowardly, craven beast, and Bjarnhardr’s another. If you have any regard for yourself or your name, you’ll come down here and fight with me. Unless you do, I’ll tell all of Skarpsey what a nithling you really are, that you’re nothing but a heap of old bones and hide with three empty heads that make a great deal of noise, but there’s no courage beneath it all. Come now, sending, surely you’re not afraid of me, are you?”

Hross-Bjorn answered with a fiery snarl, raking his hooves on the flinty earth and snaking his heads until his manes writhed like snakes. Fire gleamed in his eyes and surrounded him like a pale nimbus. He reared aloft on his hind legs to answer Sigurd’s challenges with roars and bellows and much clashing of his deadly fangs. Then he charged down the rocky slope at Sigurd, necks outstretched, teeth bared, and his hooves thundering with destructive fury. Just as it seemed Sigurd would be run down, Sigurd stepped aside and struck the sending in the middle on his back with a gloved fist.

“Bravo!” Rolfr shouted, as the sending rolled head over heels and lay gasping.

In an instant, Hross-Bjorn was on his feet again, as angry as before. After much preliminary pawing, tail-lashing, and similar displays meant to frighten his intended victim, Hross-Bjorn charged again. This time Sigurd struck the beast in the throat of the right-side head, which checked his rush so abruptly that the creature plowed along on his knees and ended up by flipping over in a somersault. If Sigurd had chosen to fight with his axe, he might have finished the sending then and there; but for the sake of fairness, he allowed Hross-Bjorn to get to his feet without further damage. Wheezing, the sending eyed his opponent and thoughtfully raked one hoof.

“He’s contemplating a shape-shifting, Sigurd,” Grisnir called worriedly. “Don’t let him deceive you. Are you sure you don’t want some help?”

“Quite sure,” Sigurd replied, without removing his eyes from Hross-Bjorn. “Let him shift if he wants to, but he knows this gauntlet is more powerful than anything he can change to. Either fight or run away, Hross-Bjorn. But I shall find you one day and finish the job that I started tonight.”