The Wizard And The Warlord by Elizabeth Boyer Page A

from anyone, and the order stands in its entirety until I declare otherwise. The Scipling is not to leave the confines of the hill fort under any circumstances, except a total rout if we were under attack. Perhaps you did not know of my wishes, Jotull. I prefer to think you were merely ignorant, rather than willfully insubordinate.” His voice and his expression were scornful as he added, “I don’t see the need for Sigurd to be taught much magic. Your time is better invested elsewhere. Let your apprentice show him a few tricks, if he can learn them.”
    Jotull knit his brows and came a step closer. “As you wish, of course, but Sigurd has a natural power which plagues him with its capriciousness. It is only a matter of time until it becomes dangerous to him and perhaps even to the rest of us. I would like to capture it and get rid of it.”
    “You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Halfdane replied, turning sharply to look at Jotull. “Leave his training to me and attend to your own business of wizarding us away from extinction at the hands of the Dokkalfar. There will be no more of your lessons. You may depart, Jotull. I’m finished with you.”
    Jotull clasped his hands around his staff and darted a look at Sigurd. “My lord, I think you are making a mistake. Consider the might and power of Bjarnhardr for a moment and how small our chance of repelling his winter campaign again this year. I happen to know the secret you’re keeping from Sigurd and I think you should tell him at once what you know.”
    “Wizard! Keep your silence!” Half dane commanded in a tone that made everyone flinch.
    “I shan’t,” Jotull replied earnestly. “It’s in the best interest of Hrafnborg that Sigurd knows who—”
    Halfdane had listened with his hands clasped behind his back, but suddenly he brought one hand forward and pointed at Jotull. Sigurd staggered back as a great force thrust against him in passing, catching Jotull off guard and flattening him with a heavy crash. Gasping, the wizard recovered his dignity quickly, making a quick plunge to retrieve his staff, but Halfdane blasted it across the room with a flick of his finger. Sigurd stared at the black gauntlet he wore, remembering Mikla’s mention of it. The cuff was heavily embroidered with gold and silver thread and studded with silver nails.
    “You may leave, Jotull,” Halfdane continued steadily. “I shall send a boy up later with your staff.”
    For a moment, Jotull’s face was a mask of rage and humiliation; then he composed himself to his customary steely grace. “Very well, I shall thank you for it. I won’t soon forget your kindness.” With a slight, stiff nod he departed.
    Sigurd and Rolfr gazed at each other in silent amazement. Sigurd was transfixed by the utter hatred he had glimpsed in Jotull’s eyes. He knew better than to inquire what secret Halfdane withheld from him, but he was certain it concerned the box.
    Halfdane removed the gauntlet and put it under his belt. “I trust that you neither one will hasten to carry tales to the men that Halfdane and Jotull have quarreled. For your own assurance, I shall tell you that Jotull and I frequently disapprove of one another and engage in matches of wits that uninformed observers might construe as battles.” He beckoned to Jotull’s staff and brought it to his hand, examining it with minute interest. “The only way to win the respect of a powerful and haughty wizard is to frighten him periodically. He overreaches as a matter of course, which brings us to you, Sigurd.”
    Sigurd eyed Halfdane, disliking him more than ever for humiliating Jotull in front of him and Rolfr. “I suppose you mean to say that learning magic is forbidden to me now?‘’
    Halfdane glared at him from under a hedge of beetling brows. “Mikia can show you what you need to know for everyday purposes. What I have in mind for you is something quite different. You’ve been wasting too much time with the Alfar—very good