The Wizard And The Warlord Read Online Free Page A

settlement; then he began to burn with outrage. He stalked around the buildings, studying the tracks as intently as a hunter following his prey. On the knob of hill where he had burned Thorarna, he found the tracks of shod horses and a few marks of men’s boots where they had dismounted to look at the ashes. Sigurd clenched his axe and glowered around him at the fells that were shrouded in mists and cloud, wondering where his enemies were hiding—behind a waterfall, in the shadow of a crag, or inside a cave in the lava flows?
    “Come out, you cowards!” he roared in defiance. “Nithlings! You don’t dare to fight me!”
    The imperturbable silence finally quelled his furious ravings. With a last muttered curse, he returned to his defiled house and looked around numbly at the wreckage. Everything had been dragged out and smashed—kettles, crockery, and furniture. The clothing Thorarna had made with spinning wheel and loom during the dark days of winter was in shreds everywhere, and her faithful implements were likewise torn to pieces. Nothing was spared, and Sigurd’s sense of outrage swelled. The only object that escaped violation was Thorarna’s large carved trunk, which had been battered at with axes but remained miraculously intact. Perhaps the arrival of the men on horseback had had something to do with its salvation, since the creatures that had done the damage certainly weren’t human. Sigurd paused, staring at the trunk as he pondered, wondering who the horsemen could possibly be. Outlaws, he finally decided, who were probably feeling emboldened by the removal of the settlement. What an unpleasant surprise for them awaited on the fjord cliffs, Sigurd reflected with dark satisfaction.
    He took the key to Thorarna’s trunk from his pouch and used it to open the heavy lid. Immediately, the fragrance of herbs and the perfect orderliness of the trunk’s contents struck him with such a poignant remembrance of Thorarna that he could scarcely bear his losses. Gently he searched through her finery and keepsakes, resolving that he would burn them all to send their essences after her to the place where she had gone to meet her ancestors. She would be most indignant with him if she didn’t have her best dress.
    He discovered the object of his search at the very bottom of the chest, stowed away as if Thorarna hadn’t wanted to see it very often. Lifting out the small carved box, Sigurd took his first good look at it. Thorarna hadn’t been able to keep many secrets from a small, inquisitive child, but she had always refused to let him examine the box as closely as he would have liked. It was made of unfamiliar dark wood and its carving was beautiful, but he took no time to appreciate it in his anxiety to open it and ascertain if it held any clues to the identity of his enemy or his father. To his consternation, the box seemed to have neither hasp nor hinges. It was cunningly carved indeed, he thought in amazement, searching in vain for the crack that denoted the lid. He shook it and heard something rattle softly inside—documents made on sheepskin, perhaps, and probably containing all he needed to know. For a moment, he debated smashing the box to get at its contents and even gave it an experimental tap, but the carvings of twining serpents made him think it might be unlucky, and the carved faces of the figures seemed to look at him warningly. It was a rather small box, not much longer than a loaf of bread, so he didn’t imagine it would be too awkward to carry with him, wherever he decided to go. The sad ruin of Thorarna’s house and the desecration of his childhood memories convinced him that he didn’t want to stay any longer at Thongullsfjord than it would take him to assemble his possessions and decide where to go.
    He spent the rest of the day burning Thorarna’s belongings and gathering the remaining bits of her bones, which he buried safely beneath the huge black stone where she had often sat to rest