The Wizard And The Warlord Read Online Free PDF Page A

away. Peering through a crack, Sigurd had a glimpse of hulking hairy shoulders, ungainly arms, and large pricking ears tufted with hair. With a last nervous cackle, they vanished into the shadows behind the empty sheepfold.
    Sigurd opened the door and listened warily. The dawn was not far off, lighting the sky and making the earth seem all the darker. He saw nothing and heard nothing unusual, so he closed the door again and sat down to gnaw abstractedly at the stale dried meat, trying not to think about the coming day or anything in particular. His dazed brain was incapable
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making any intelligent decisions. He could leave, but he knew the trolls would track him down mercilessly and kill him easily once he was without the scant protection the house still offered.
    While he sat, he must have dozed; the next thing he knew, he was startled awake by a sudden noise at the door. Seizing his axe, he leaped up and stared at the door, which was shuddering under a thunderous knocking. Outside he heard the snorting and pawing of horses and the rattle of their bridles. He also heard muffled voices, then the authoritative knocking resumed.
    “Is anyone there?” a deep voice demanded, and the latch shook. “It’s locked from within, so someone must be inside.”
    “Not likely,” another voice said. “The last of the Sciplings left several days ago. You might just find a troll holed up in there, I should think.”
    “The trolls were trying to dig someone out of here. I think there must be a survivor. Someone burned a corpse on the hilltop.” The door creaked on its hinges as someone shouldered it experimentally. Again the voice called, “Hulloa! Is anyone inside? You’ve nothing to fear from us.”
    “You’ll never convince the old woman of that, I fear,” someone said. “She’s hid herself pretty well from you these past twenty years.” A muffled conversation ensued on the other side of the planks, and Sigurd crept closer in an effort to hear what they might have to say about Thorarna and possibly himself.
    Someone suggested blasting the door open, and another predicted that some kind of trap awaited them. Yet another boomed, “Well, it’s far more likely the poor wretches have starved to death and there’s nothing inside but corpses. The trolls have taken everything essential to life. I suggest you give it up, Halfdane.”
    The door creacked and shuddered again. “I’ve searched too long to give it up so easily. We’ll have to use magic to get the door open. It looks as if the old woman has prepared us an unfriendly reception.”
    Sigurd’s anger took fire again. The sendings, the trolls, and the final desertion of Thongullsfjord were the preparations for this meeting. He knew now that the man or wizard or whatever he might be who pounded so impatiently on the other side of the door must be the warlord Thorarna had prepared him to challenge one day—the warlord who wished him dead for no apparent reason.
    Sigurd jerked back the bars and flung open the door. Axe in hand, he stared at the strangers, who stared back in mutual surprise. They were heavily cloaked and hooded against the chill of night, and Sigurd could tell little about them, except that they were about fifteen altogether and they all carried weapons.
    “Who are you, and what do you want with me?” Sigurd demanded. “Isn’t it enough that people have died and the settlement is deserted except for me? What is this grudge you’ve been carrying for twenty years?”
    The foremost of the strangers, the one who had done the knocking, half-raised his axe. He was a burly fellow with a dark mane of beard framing his scowling face.
    “Who are you?” he demanded gruffly, advancing a step.
    “My name is Sigurd, if it’s of any concern to you. My grandmother told me about you, and I’ve seen enough of your works in this past year to make me glad to meet you now. You caused the sendings and the trolls and the deaths of many Sciplings. I hold you