The ground rose steadily as the giant plane tore on through the Alaskan sky. Occasionally Wade referred to the map. It wasn’t long before they sighted the lake MacDougall had mentioned. There was a cabin on its shore.
And the cabin, they found upon landing, was empty. It had been stripped. Tracks in melting snow showed that two men had visited the scene, one much later than the other. The sign led toward the towering mountains that lifted tremendously in the eastern sky.
Again the Thunderbug took the air.
The quarry had been too quick. Now, apparently, Trefz was heading back toward the poison-gas tunnel that led to the lost valley, and Svendson was on his heels. How much of a lead did they have?
Enough. Wade sent the Thunderbug swooping down toward the cliff-face where a gaping black aperture was visible even without the glasses. There was no trace of life.
“What now?” Argyle asked.
For answer Wade lifted the plane in a long curve. “We’re going up,” he said. “Up and over. The valley can be seen from the air. If we can land—”
The ranges towered to the sky. But the Thunderbug slipped over a hog-back lower than the others, battling roaring winds that tore viciously at it. Briefly Wade was occupied fighting the controls. Then, at last, there was a lull.
He looked down. Beside him, he heard Marat gasp.
The valley was there—a Y-shaped gap that seemed to be stamped out of the mountains by some tremendous die. At the end of the left-hand branch was a glacier, and a cluster of buildings.
“The Norse city,” Argyle said quietly.
Wade sent the plane curving away. There was a city at the end of the other branch, too, much different in architecture. There were domes crudely made of what might be wood or rock. Difficult to tell at this altitude.
“The Russian city,” Wade nodded. “Built by the refugees who escaped from Catherine the Great. Svendson’s story was true, then.”
Argyle grunted. “That means this guy Trefz is trying to start a half-pint blitzkrieg here. Trying to get the Russians to conquer the Norse, so he can get the Norse treasure.”
“What’s the next move?” Marat asked.
“We’ll try a landing.”
Wade wasn’t as sanguine as he sounded. The air-currents were the most treacherous he had ever encountered. The combination of snowy peaks and hot volcanic regions made the place a maelstrom of hurricanes, thermals, and side-currents. It was like trying to shoot an aerial rapids. Moreover, the ground was so broken that finding a landing-place would be unpleasantly difficult.
He gave it up at last, knowing that no plane could ever land in this lost valley. Silently he turned the nose of the Thunderbug back toward the mountain barrier.
“The tunnel?” Marat asked. “Oh, the devil. I hate walking.”
“We won’t walk,” Wade told him, with a little chuckle. “We’re going through the tunnel—in the Thunderbug!”
Chapter IV
The Challenge
IT WASN’T necessary to use skis on the plane to land. There were flat, sloping clearings where the snow had melted. Wade retracted the pontoons, pumped out the regular landing carriage, and then brought the plane down lightly on the ground. Not too far away loomed the towering mountain ramp and the black circle that revealed the entrance of the tunnel.
The Thunderbug’s wings were drawn in, tractor wheels pumped out, and in a matter of minutes the plane had been transformed into a tank. A rather unusual type of tank, but it had both speed and maneuverability, as had often been proved in the past. The Thunderbug wasn’t a flying fortress. That wasn’t necessary. A tiger is somewhat more dangerous than a rhino and probably has as much power, all things considered. Thus Wade’s combination tank-plane-submarine could do things ordinary tanks, planes, or subs could not do, since they lacked the two vital factors that made the Thunderbug a miracle of scientific engineering. It was light—incredibly light, made chiefly of an alloy lighter than aluminum and tougher than beryllium steel. And its source of power was known only to Thunder Jim Wade and his two colleagues. Scientists had speculated on whether Wade had achieved the ability to harness the atom—but no one really knew.
The point was, the Thunderbug’s motors could rev up a tremendous amount of power.
It was maneuverability that was needed now, however, as Wade sent the tank nosing gingerly into the mouth of the tunnel. He had already closed the ports and started air-filtering apparatus, so there was no danger from the poison gas. But whether or not the Thunderbug could get through this perilous passage was another matter.
Peering through glass, Wade was reminded of Dante and his descent into the Inferno. The scene was fantastic enough. Before him, in the glow of the searchlight that shot out from the tank’s nose, white and reddish vapors coiled and twisted up from cracks and fumaroles in the floor. Yet he already knew that two men, at least, had safely made their way through this tunnel into the lost valley. He could do the same—unless the cavern grew too narrow to permit the Thunderbug to pass.
The tank lurched and jolted, moving forward, picking its way like some huge black insect. Wade’s hands flickered over the controls, playing them as some master musician might bring forth delicate nuances from his piano. Indeed, the Thunderbug was like a part of Wade—an extension of his own body. He handled the craft with deceptive ease.
Dirk Marat had taken a throwing-knife from the holster between his shoulder-blades and was testing its point.
“Think we’ll run into our friends in the tunnel, Jim?” he asked.
“Maybe. Can’t tell. If not, we’d better head for the Norse settlement.”
“What about the lingo?” Marat put the knife back. “I don’t know ancient Norse.”
Wade chuckled. “We’ve been in Reykjavik.”
“Iceland? But they talk Danish there—mostly.”
“Icelandic is one of the purest languages—hasn’t changed much in a thousand years. Leif Ericson sailed from Iceland, you know. These people—Norse descendants—probably talk a tongue we can understand.”
MARAT cocked up an eyebrow skeptically. Both he and Argyle had a working knowledge of many tongues and dialects, but Wade was the acknowledged master in that field. He had read the Eddas and Sagas in their original forms, and was a natural linguist. Then too, apparently Svendson had been able to communicate with the Norsemen in the valley. The chances were that Svendson knew modern Danish, probably Icelandic dialects as well, so the difficulty did not seem a serious one. As for the Russians, all three men knew that tongue, and could easily handle an archaic form of it. Catherine the Great had ruled about 1762.
“Curious formation here,” Argyle rumbled thoughtfully. “Volcanic, but there are traces of water.”
“Plenty of volcanoes in Alaska,” Wade murmured. “Probably this tunnel was first blasted out by lava that found a soft stratum to follow. Then the activity stopped for awhile and a river flowed through here. Finally the fumaroles opened again, and now the place is full of poisonous gases.”
“Those people in the valley must be living on the edge of a volcano,” Argyle said.
Wade laughed. “They’ve been doing it for quite awhile. Are you expecting an eruption to wipe out the place the minute we get there? That only happens in fiction, Red. I don’t believe in raw coincidences. Natural balances aren’t easily upset. Our trouble will be with Trefz, not with volcanoes.”
“What can he do?” Marat asked. “One man—”
“He’s muy malo. A bad hombre, from what I hear. Remember, he’s raided Svendson’s armory, and plans to equip the Russians with guns and bombs. One man can cause plenty of trouble, if he’s in a position to put on the squeeze.
“Apparently the Russians and the Norse have lived here together for centuries, without scrapping—minding their own business. For his own profit, Trefz is trying to set ’em at each other’s throats. So—we’re stopping him.”
“If we can catch him,” Argyle grunted.
Wade shrugged. “We’re on the
way. Look.”
There was daylight ahead. The Thunderbug emerged from the tunnel, jolting and lurching along the bottom of a narrow gorge whose walls rose sheer to the sky. Foggy wraiths of mist curled about the tank as it moved steadily on. Presently they came out of the rift’s mouth.
“This is it,” Marat said softly.
Before them the ground fell away, wide and open. They were at the bottom of the great Y-shaped valley. Far ahead, at the end of the left-hand branch, loomed the towering crag of the Devil’s Glacier, with its unknown secret. Beneath the glacier—
Yes, it was a city. City of the Norsemen, lost and forgotten for centuries!
“No sign of life,” Wade remarked. “Except smoke. See?” He pointed to where greasy black smoke coiled above the roofs of the Norse city.
CITY was a misnomer, perhaps. It was actually a village—about a dozen huge structures, barn-like and grim upon closer inspection. The structures were made of wood and stone, crude strong buildings with slanting roofs. Viking halls, such as had stood on the fjords of Iceland a thousand years ago! The fjords from which red-sailed dragon ships had sped to wreck and plunder—eyries of the sea-raiders of the North!
The city seemed empty. Only the smoke showed that it held life. The Thunderbug moved on up the valley. There were a few farms, Wade saw—not many. But here and there in the groves he caught glimpses of animals. Presumably the Norse had found a way to live even in this hostile environment.
Yet it was not unduly hostile. The climate was not freezingly cold—the subterranean activity took care of that. And this was fertile alluvial soil, where a river had once flowed. Yes—people had lived on under much more difficult conditions.
The nearest hall was the largest. Its great doors were shut, but they opened slightly to admit a gaunt, tall figure who waved at them frantically. The man’s left arm was in a sling.
“Svendson?” Argyle hazarded.
“Yeah. He’s coming to meet us.” Wade stopped the Thunderbug and swung open the door. He stepped out, followed by Argyle and Marat.
The trapper ran to meet them, his withered, brown face alight with relief.
“Wade? You believed my message—”
“I took a chance, anyway,” Wade grinned. “Any danger?” His hand was near his gun.
Svendson shook his head. “Not now for awhile. I couldn’t catch Trefz. He took my guns from my cabin—”
“I know. We stopped there.”
“Well, I followed him back into the valley, but he went too fast. He headed for the Russian city. I figured the best thing I could do was come here—and hope you’d follow.”
“What about the Norse?” Wade asked. “Are they friendly?”
“Sure. Their fight’s with Trefz. He tried to steal a treasure from a sort of temple of theirs—”
“Treasure?”
“Some sort of ancient idol, covered with jewels. It looks Chinese to me—and it’s very old. The thing’s huge, Wade, and made of solid gold. Worth a fabulous fortune.” He hesitated. “Anyway, I told the Norse that if you came, you could settle matters.” Svendson jerked his head back toward the doors. “They’re in there. The Thing—the rulers. Tryggvard the Red is the high muckamuck. Come on.”
The lean old face cracked in a smile. “The Norse are—well, they are suspicious, but I talked to them, and they came around. There’s no danger. They saw you coming, and assembled in Tryggvard’s hall to meet you.”
“Fair enough.” Wade locked the Thunderbug. “Red Argyle—Dirk Marat—meet Svendson.”
The trapper nodded. “Glad to know you. We’ll need all the help we can get. Once Trefz arms the Russians and gets them on the march, we’re sunk. The Norse here don’t know much about guns. They figure a battle-axe is a match for a grenade.”
He led the way toward the hall. The doors swung open at their approach.
Red firelight painted the great hall, contrasting with the gray daylight that filtered through narrow windows high up in the bleak, bare walls.
A T-shaped table ran the length of the room, the cross-section raised on a dais. Men thronged the hall—burly giants, with flowing hair and tangled beards, ruddy-faced and with eyes as blue as the Northland seas. Their garments were those of the long-dead past. Some few wore horned helmets. Many had snake bracelets of gold clasped about their bare, brawny arms.
One man came forward. He stood well over six feet tall, with a red beard that rippled down over his deep chest. His voice rumbled as though from the depths of a cavern.
Without much difficulty, Wade understood the language. It had changed but little in more than a thousand years, here as in Iceland.
“Svendson! These are the men you expected?”
The trapper nodded. “Aye, Tryggyard. Jim Wade, who is a great jarl among his people. And his two friends—”
The Norseman turned, thrust up a huge arm to his men.
“Take them! Take them captive!”
As though they had waited for the signal, the Norsemen swept forward, surrounding Wade and the others. Steel flashed. Marat, with a whispered curse, snatched out his tiny automatic. But it was knocked from his hand.
“Tryggvard!” Svendson yelled. “What’s the idea—”
The giant red-beard laughed. “We need no aid from weaklings!”
For a moment death hovered in the balance. Wade knew that his men were as ready as he—that their bullets could wreak havoc among the Norse. But what then? He had not come here to kill these warriors. They were not his enemies, though they might think so at present.
“No gun-play, boys,” he said. “This calls for palaver.”
Argyle looked at his knotted fists reflectively, and shrugged. “Okay. But—”
The Norse seemed disappointed when Wade and the others let themselves be seized without putting up the slightest resistance. They liked to fight, presumably. But not helpless captives who wouldn’t lift a hand to defend themselves.
There was scorn in the glances cast at Wade.
Svendson was shouting at Tryggvard, whose beard was curled in a grin.
“You tricked me! What kind of treachery is this?”
The Norse ruler shrugged. “We stand and fight alone. We are a strong race. If the others—the Russians—march against us, they will get their skulls cracked.”
“You fool,” Svendson groaned. “Haven’t I showed you what guns can do?”
“We fight as we have always fought!” Tryggvard roared, his blue eyes blazing. “Aye! I pretended friendship to you, so that I could trap these men.” He swept out a big hand toward Wade and the others. “You said they would follow. Well, that’s done. All men but the Norse are treacherous. That is known. We do not want the aid of weaklings, and we do not need it. So you and your allies will be slain like dogs—since you will not fight like men!”
SVENDSON turned a haggard face to Wade. “He tricked me,” the trapper said between clenched teeth. “I didn’t know—”
“It’s okay.” Wade’s eyes were very thoughtful. He spoke in English. “Tryggvard’s acting according to his own standards. We’ll have to play along with him.”
“He doesn’t understand we’re trying to help him.”
“He respects one thing,” Wade said quietly. “If he wants to fight—fine.”
He lapsed into the Norse tongue.
“Tryggvard, I name you niddering—weakling.”
The red-beard turned a blank face to Wade. “Eh? By Odin All-Father! I had thought to slay you swiftly—but if you prefer to be flayed alive—”
“I’ll fight you,” Wade said. “With the weapons of your own choice, unless you are afraid. Have the Norse never heard of single combat?”
“A duel!” Laughter shook the red-beard. “Aye, we have our customs. But it will be no fair fight. I am stronger than you.”
Wade’s guns had been taken from him. He was unarmed, but the realization did not seem to trouble him. A grim smile touched his lips.
“Do you accept my challenge?”
“It is your right,” Tryggvard said. He flexed his gigantic arms. “I shall snap your spine, if you wish.”
Red whispered: “Let me take him on, Jim.”
Wade shook his head. “No soap. This is my job. It’s the only way now.”
“Bring the swords!” Tryggvard shouted. “Soon blood will flow! And Thor—great Thor will drink his fill!”
Chapter V
Fabulous Treasure
THIS had happened before, Jim Wade thought. It had happened unaccountable times, long ago, when the halls of the Viking raiders had rung with shouts of laughter and the clash of swordplay along the Northland coasts. The gage of battle—trial by combat.
Yes—it had happened before. But not for a thousand years, except in this lost valley. Firelight flickered on the smoke-stained beams overhead, and reflected redly in the avid eyes of the watching Norsemen. A crimson glow ran up the length of the great brand that had been thrust into Wade’s hand. He tested its weight and balance. A good blade—and an old one, forged, perhaps, in the days when Leif Ericson sailed to Vinland.
Laughter shook Tryggvard’s deep chest and danced in the blue eyes. The man was a giant even among his gigantic men. His brawny arms could swing such a blade with ease, in a two-handed blow that would slash a victim in two. Yet Tryggvard did not depend on strength alone. Wade did not make the mistake of underestimating his antagonist.
The Norse chieftain was a trained fighter. Big as he was, his sleek, smooth muscles spoke of the agility of a wolf. Power and skill combined in him to make a perfect fighting machine.
Well, Wade had faced tough enemies before. He had crossed krisses with an amok Malay in the jungles of Indo-China. He had fought with a machete in Guatamala, and he had handled a Turkish scimitar when it was his only protection against slashing blades. In his South Pacific stronghold, he had a vast collection of weapons, and had spent long hours perfecting himself in the use of them. His trained muscles reacted automatically to the balance and feel of a weapon. It was wolf against cougar now—giant wolf and deadly jungle cat.
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