Swiftly Wade estimated his antagonist. Tryggvard was no fool. He would make no blundering attacks or rushes. Nor could he be goaded into blind fury—unless the Norse berserker madness came upon him. Wade did not want that to happen.
He was lifted atop the great table. There was plenty of room there for sword-play. Tryggvard bounded lightly up beside him.
“Skoal!” he said. “You are no coward, to challenge me thus. But not even great jarls can stand against my sword named Skull-Breaker. Bring mead!”
Hollow horns filled with liquor were thrust up. Tryggvard drained one, Wade drank from the other.
“Waes hael!”
“Drinc hael!” Wade answered.
The giant Norseman stepped back, lifted his sword. His eyes flashed. He tossed the drinking-horn aside.
He swung the blade in a two-handed blow down at Wade’s unprotected head.
Something warned Thunder Jim even as he parried. Tryggvard’s blow had been a feint. Few men could have halted the downward rush of the great brand, but the Viking did it, stepping back and deflecting Skull-Breaker’s slash so that it drove in sidewise toward Wade’s body. He was ready. He, too, sprang back, and as the Norseman’s point whistled past, ripping cloth from his shirt, his own sword flicked out. It sang against Tryggyard’s steel, but the giant moved swiftly as a wolf. Wade had aimed for the other’s arm, not wishing to kill. His blow missed, though only by a hair’s breadth.
WOLF and panther crouched there, facing each other, on guard and ready.
Again Tryggvard lunged. He handled Skull-Breaker as lightly as though it had been a rapier. But Jim Wade was not fighting the weight of his own sword. Instead he took advantage of it, his trained muscles responding instantly. He let Tryggvard come in, caught the blow on his own steel, and felt a numbing shock tear at his wrists as the impact drove him down to his knees. But the Norseman’s brand had slid away harmlessly. Tryggvard recovered before his point could drive itself into the boards of the table.
His hands numbed, Wade fought cautiously for a brief time. This was not easy, for Tryggvard pressed every advantage. Nor were the long-swords meant for fencing. Strength and skill were necessary in equal proportions.
But now Jim Wade had correctly gaged his man. Each fighter has his vulnerable points. And Tryggvard had his. He knew skill and dexterity were important—but he did not realize quite how vital they were!
The ring of Norsemen pressed about the table, eyes bright with battle-lust, teeth gleaming. Tryggvard laughed.
“The skalds will have a song to sing,” he roared. “ ’Ware Skull-Breaker! ’Ware!”
Wade said nothing; his face was completely impassive. His body, as he moved catlike, was a symphony of flowing grace. Not one of Tryggvard’s blows had gone home. If they had, the fight would have ended then.
On the other hand, Wade had not been able to touch his opponent.
But now he pressed the fight. The sword’s hilt was slippery with sweat. He gripped it tighter. The steel flamed in the firelit gloom. Clash and singing of fighting blades! And the hot, panting breathing of the two battlers the only sound in the great hall.
It ended suddenly, without warning. Wade apparently let his guard drop for a second. Tryggvard sensed the trick and merely feinted. Instantly Wade lunged at the giant’s throat.
The Norseman had expected that. He swayed his huge body aside and brought Skull-Breaker down in a screaming slash that would have cleft Wade in two had it landed. But it did not.
Thunder Jim’s sword sang through the air as he whipped it up and aside with all his strength. Steel shrieked as the two blades came together. Skull-Breaker was torn from Tryggvard’s grasp!
Across the hall it sped like a flash of lightning. It dug into a shield that hung on the wall and remained there, quivering, little crinkles of red light dancing upon it. Wade drew back, lowering his own sword.
“Take your blade again,” he invited. “Or shall we fight bare-handed?”
Tryggvard was standing motionless, a bearded colossus, staring at his sword across the room. His eyes had a curious, depthless expression.
“We fight no more,” he said, very softly. “The Norns have spoken. That is my shield Skull-Breaker pierced.”
A SHUDDERING gasp rippled from the Norsemen about the table. All eyes were on Tryggvard.
“It is an omen,” the giant whispered. “In it I read my death. The Norns guided your hand, Karl Wade. We fight no more! Unless we fight shoulder to shoulder.” He lifted his bearded face, staring into the gloom of the rafters. “And I think that will be soon! The Norns make ready to break the web. Skoal! I shall be ready then!”
He made a quick gesture. A man handed up mead-horns.
“We drink once more,” Tryggvard said. “But in friendship now. Waes hael, jarl Wade!”
“Drinc hael,” Wade said again, and drained the horn. A lucky chance, he thought, that the Viking’s blade had pierced his own shield. The Norsemen were superstitious—and that was convenient, under the circumstances. Tryggvard was better as an ally than as an enemy.
The giant flung his horn away. “And now we feast. It may be for the last time. The skald will make us a song, and you and your friends shall sit next to me. By Odin All-Father! If I must die tomorrow, then I shall feast tonight!”
He took the snake-bracelet from his arm and broke off a ring, clasping it about Wade’s bronzed biceps. “This is in friendship.” His eyes went to Skull-Breaker, piercing the shield. He laughed.
“And now—the feast!”
He sprang down from the table. Jim Wade followed him. Argyle and Marat crowded close. The little man spoke in English.
“That was a close one. What next?”
“Palaver,” Wade murmured. “Diplomacy is the watchword. The more we find out, the better.”
Ten minutes later they were seated at the head of the T-shaped board, and all around them Vikings were eating and drinking. The women, apparently, were not allowed at such gatherings. That suited Wade. He was after information.
He got it, presently. Tryggvard was willing to talk, in his own way. Only on one subject was he taciturn, as Wade discovered.
“How we came here? The story has come down to us in an edda. Otherwise we would not know, it has been so long ago.”
“Your ancestors—” Wade prompted.
Tryggvard drank mead. “Wulf Longsword was my ancestor. A great jarl he! His dragon ships swept the seas. They sailed even to the Middle Sea, to Rome and Byzantium, plundering and looting and slaying. Down by Britain the red longboats went, past the Tin Isles, past Spain and to the Golden Horn. Long and long ago this was.”
The red-beard jutted. “There was fighting in those days, I think. Well, Wulf Longsword set sail with his fleet, and he came to Byzantium. This was long ago. His lean warriors fought like devils after so many months at sea. They were thirsty for loot and blood. And they plundered the cities of the south. Laden with treasure, Wulf Longsword sailed for the north.”
“And then?”
TRYGGVARD replied somberly.
“We had stolen the treasures from the temples of the south. Their gods were enraged. Not even Ran, the sea goddess, could save Wulf Longsword. The storms smashed the fleet. The ship of Wulf was driven westward. Into the unknown it went. Fogs veiled the sky. Blindly the dragon ship went on—on and on through perilous straits and waters, seeking the Northland. Far and far—till it was wrecked on a bleak shore. There were few survivors. And these were attacked by the natives, dwarfish flat-faced men.”
“Inuits,” Wade supplied. “That would be around Point Barrow. The survivors fled here?”
Tryggvard nodded. “Some few of them, carrying what treasure was left. The natives followed, killing from ambush. Wulf Longsword found sanctuary here. With his retinue—the slave-women from Byzantium, and his Vikings—he found the entrance to this valley. There he was safe, for the natives feared to follow. They were superstitious.”
Wade suppressed a grin. “Why did Wulf stay
here?”
“Because he died,” the Viking said logically. “There were few warriors left, and most of these were crippled or wounded. There were not enough to build or man a ship to get home. Too, the women said, ‘Stay for awhile. We are safe here.’ So my ancestors stayed—and stayed. The long years passed.”
He drank mead. “Two hundred years ago, or less, the Russians came. They were a weary, exhausted, suspicious band. We did not waste blows on them. They settled up the other valley, for they fled from something. Later they intended to leave, I think. But the earth opened, and the dark goddess Hel breathed death. The tunnel was barred. The fiery breath of Midgard-Serpent bars it now.”
Wade nodded. “It checks,” he remarked to the others. “After the Russians got here, volcanic activity started the poison gas spouting up, and that locked the valley.” He turned again to Tryggvard. “The Russians—are they enemies of yours?”
The Viking shrugged. “We have nothing in common. Sometimes we would meet and trade, but we kept apart. Yet if they wish to fight us now, we shall be ready.”
“This man—Trefz—tried to steal some treasure from you, didn’t he?” Tryggvard nodded. “Yes. He did not succeed—and he escaped our swords.”
“And now he’s trying to get the Russians to fight you, so he can get back the treasure. Just what is it, anyway?”
The Norseman stood up. “I shall show you, Jarl Wade. And your friends. Come!”
Svendson, Marat, and Argyle followed as Tryggvard led Wade toward a side door. No one paid any attention to their leaving. The feast was well under way.
Silently Tryggvard took a little trail that slanted up toward the Devil’s Glacier. It ended at the mouth of a small cave, barred with a door that had been deftly fitted into place. Tryggvard touched some concealed mechanism; the barrier slid creakingly aside.
HE walked forward, took a torch from the wall. Wade said: “There’s no need for that.” He pressed the button of his flashlight, which the Vikings had restored after the battle with their leader.
Light lanced out, flashing, flaming, glittering on golden and rainbow jewels. This was the treasure cave.
“This is what Trefz tried to steal,” Tryggvard said. “Our people, ages ago, stole it when they plundered the Mediterranean. Originally it came from the most distant east—that was the legend we heard. A sunlit land where men’s skins were yellow and their eyes slanted. It is an evil god, and brought vengeance to Wulf Longsword. When we came into this valley, we placed the god here and gave it sacrifices of wolf’s blood.”
Wade nodded, staring across the dim cave at the devil of Devil’s Glacier. His mind strove to comprehend the fantastic history of it—the idol’s journeys since its making in China so many centuries ago. It was a dragon, with worn symbols traced upon it—symbols Wade recognized from his delvings into the past. An ancient dynasty had made the dragon in China before the Mongol conquerors came. The workmanship was exquisite, and the image, larger than a man, was studded with precious stones. Rubies, diamonds, emeralds, blazed on the monstrous coiling form—the dragon of old China.
“That,” Dirk Marat breathed, “is worth plenty. Plenty!”
“Yeah,” Wade said. “No wonder Trefz was willing to start a war for it. I’d hate to make a guess as to its value. Solid metal, I think—and those jewels. Whew!”
Tryggvard made a beckoning gesture. “Let us go. I do not like it here. The ghosts of my ancestors fill this place. Come…”
Back in the great hall, the feast was still going on. Wade, his mind filled with the incredible treasure he had seen, kept on with his questioning of Tryggvard.
“Do you think the Russians will do what Trefz wants?”
The giant shrugged. “Perhaps. They wish to escape from this valley, I know. Their ruler is Duke Feodor—a very evil man. Let them come if they wish. We shall slay them!”
“They’ll have guns,” Wade pointed out. “And grenades.”
“Svendson has told me of that. But we are Vikings! Such coward weapons cannot conquer us.”
On that subject Tryggvard was convinced. Logic was of no avail. As for sending an ambassador to the Russian city, that was definitely out. The Norsemen’s civilization was based on chivalric ideals—which meant they wouldn’t pass up a good fight. Wade could understand that, but he realized how much havoc modern armament would wreak among the Viking warriors, protected only by their shields and light armor.
More discussion got him nowhere. To Tryggvard, sending a message to the Russians would have meant capitulation. He wasn’t going to smirch his honor by seeming frightened. If the Russians wanted to fight—let them come!
NEVERTHELESS, Wade asked questions. He learned at last that there was at least one man among the Russians whom Tryggvard respected. His name was Vladimir, and he was a monk.
“A man of peace,” the Norseman said, “but he is stark—strong enough to be one of us.”
The night wore on, and gradually the Vikings got very drunk indeed. Wade kept on pumping Tryggvard. He found out what he wanted to know. Then he collected Argyle, Marat, and Svendson, and drew them aside, unobserved.
“I’ve got to get into the Russian city,” he said. “From what I can gather, Duke Feodor’s the only really bad egg there. He may tie up with Trefz, if he sees profit in it. But the rest of that outfit—well, if all they want is to get out of the valley, I can promise ’em that.”
“You’ll get your head blown off,” Marat said gloomily.
“I’m going disguised. Snaffle a costume somewhere—I can manage it.”
“Why don’t we all go?” Argyle asked. Why not take the Thunderbug?”
“Because we don’t want to start a war—we want to stop one. If those Russians saw the Thunderbug coming at them, they’d get ready to fight. Trefz is the lad I’m after.” Briefly Wade’s eyes went hard and cold. “You stay here. If anything breaks, use your own judgment. Those damn fool Norse will commit suicide by charging grenades, and leave their women here to take the rap.”
He grinned. “Besides, one man is better as a spy than two or three. And you boys may be needed here. Adios, amigos.”
He left the others and slipped quietly out of the hall, unnoticed by the feasting Vikings. At the Thunderbug he paused to reload his pistol—which Tryggvard had returned—and to pick up a few other objects which might be useful. Then he started down the valley in the dim, gloomy twilight.
Ominous, holding its treasure, the Devil’s Glacier loomed like a gigantic ghost behind him.
Chapter VI
The Chamber of Torture
IT IS seldom entirely dark in the Arctic, but it was far from bright just now. The moon had not yet risen; the sun was hidden beyond the peaks and probably below the horizon; and there was no borealis. The sky was greenish and gloomy. The valley was filled with shadow.
But Jim Wade’s jungle-trained eyes found this little handicap—an advantage, rather, for he would be hidden from the gaze of any enemies who might be watching. Stealthily he went on, his progress making no sound. The Russian city, he knew, lay at the end of the other branch of the Y, a few miles at most.
He covered the distance rapidly, and was nearing his destination almost before he realized it. It was somewhat warmer in the other valley, where there was no glacier to chill the air. There were a few farms here, too, though Wade encountered no one. A distant glow told of the Russian city’s location.
He stopped suddenly. A man’s body was lying face up before him, in plain sight. The costume was patterned on that of a past century—Russia, in the eighteenth century.
Wade glanced around. No sound, no motion. On noiseless feet he approached the motionless figure.
The man was dead. There was a bullet-hole in his red tunic, which was stained darkly. Another proof of Trefz’ ruthlessness! Wade wondered at the story behind this grim tragedy. Perhaps Trefz, with callous disregard of human life, had merely been proving the deadliness of his weapons.
Wade knelt beside the dead man. He had re
ached out to investigate when something warned him. He froze, completely motionless. Something was… wrong.
What was it? Unmoving, his keen eyes probed the gloom. There was a false note somewhere.
Then he had it. There was dirt—bloody mud—on the body’s tunic, around the bullet-hole. And such a wound would have bled freely. Yet there was no trace of blood on the ground anywhere around.
The dead man had been killed elsewhere. And brought here for some reason. Some good reason.
It was a trap, of course. Wade remembered that Trefz was supposed to be an ingenious trapper. Still motionless, he looked further. Presently his deft fingers began to move.
He followed two thin wires, attached to the dead man’s garments, till they led him to two hand-grenades, hidden nearby. The wires were attached to the pins, which would have pulled free had the body been disturbed. Anyone following Trefz would almost certainly investigate a body lying in plain view.
A simple trap—but a diabolically clever one.
Wade pocketed the grenades. Then he returned to the corpse, carried it into deeper shadow, and stripped it, changing garments and the contents of his pockets as well. The shoulder holster he strapped on under the tunic—awkward, but necessary. Trefz’ strategem would boomerang.
As for the bullet-hole and the blood-stain—well, they could not be helped. They might not be noticed, for the tunic was red anyway. What next?
For awhile Wade studied the face of the dead man. He, too, was black-haired and black-eyed. There were certain racial points in the features which were important, but Wade felt certain he could pass as a Russian among the Russians. He hoped the language had not altered too much.
From a pocket he withdrew a small, compact make-up kit, and added a few touches to his face—enough to make him unrecognizable. Then he moulded a bit of wax and inserted it within his mouth, so that it seemed as though one cheek was swollen slightly. A supposed toothache would forestall inconvenient questions about an imperfect command of the dialect.
He was ready. Wade moved on up the valley.
The Russian city was no larger than the Norse one—a little village, with one building much larger than the rest, and topped by a dome. This would belong to Duke Feodor, Wade guessed, and Trefz would he there if anywhere. Now he could see people moving about the dim streets, some of them carrying torches, most of them making for the large, domed building. Unobtrusively Wade mingled with them. His attitude showed no hesitancy at all.
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