“Aw,” said one of them, “he’s no As. Bump him off and let’s get t’ hell out of here.”
One of them loosened a knife at his belt. Shea felt a deadly constriction of fear around the heart. But the largest of the lot—leadership seemed to go with size in giantland—roared: “Lay off! He was with that yellow-headed stumper. Maybe he’s one of the Vanes and we can get something for him. Anyway, it’s up to Lord Surt. Where the hell are those horses?”
At that moment more fire giants appeared, leading a group of horses. They were glossy black and bigger than the largest Percherons Shea had ever seen. Three hoofs were on each foot, as with the ancestral Miocene horse; their eyes glowed red like live coals and their breath made Shea cough. He remembered the phrase he had heard Heimdall whispering to Odinn in Sverre’s house—“fire horses.”
One of the giants produced leather cords from a pouch. Shea and Heimdall were bound with brutal efficiency and tossed on the back of one of the horses, one hanging down on either side. The giants clucked to their mounts, which started off at a trot through the gathering dusk among the trees.
Far behind them the thunders of Thor still rolled. From time to time his distant lightnings cast sudden shadows along their path. The red beard was certainly having fun.
Seven
The agonizing hours that followed left little detailed impression on Harold Shea’s mind. They would not, he told himself even while experiencing them. The impression was certainly painful while being undergone. There was nothing to see but misty darkness; nothing to feel but breakneck speed and the torment of his bonds. He could twist his head a little, but of their path could obtain no impression but now and then the ghost of a boulder or a clump of trees momentarily lit by the fiery eyes of the horses. Every time he thought of the speed they were making along the rough and winding route his stomach crawled and the muscles of his right leg tensed as he tried to apply an imaginary automobile brake.
When the sky finally turned to its wearisome blotting-paper gray the air was a little warmer, though still raw. A light drizzle was sifting down. They were in a countryside of a type totally unfamiliar to Shea. A boundless plain of tumbled black rock rose here and there to cones of varying size. Some of the cones smoked, and little pennons of steam wafted from cracks in the basalt. The vegetation consisted mostly of clumps of small palmlike tree ferns in the depressions.
They had slowed down to a fast trot, the horses picking their way over the ropy bands of old lava flows. Now and again one or more fire giants would detach themselves from the party and set off on a tangent to the main course.
Finally, a score of the giants clustered around the horse that bore the prisoners, making toward a particularly large cone from whose flanks a number of smoke plumes rose through the drizzle. To Shea the fire giants still looked pretty much alike, but he had no difficulty in picking out the big authoritative one who had directed his capture.
They halted in front of a gash in the rock. The giants dismounted, and one by one led their steeds through the opening. The animals’ hooves rang echoing on the rock floor of the passage, which sprang above their heads in a lofty vault till it suddenly ended with a right-angled turn. The cavalcade halted; Shea heard a banging of metal on metal, the creak of a rusty hinge, and a giant voice that cried: “Whatcha want?”
“It’s the gang, back from Jötunheim. We got one of the Æsir and a Vane. Tell Lord Surt.”
“Howdja make out at Utgard?”
“Lousy. Thor showed up. He spotted the hammer somehow, the scum, and called it to him and busted things wide open. It was that smart-aleck Loki, I think.”
“What was the matter with the Sons of the Wolf? They know what to do about old Red Whiskers.”
“Didn’t show. I suppose we gotta wait for the Time for them to come around.”
The horses tramped on. As they passed the gatekeeper, Shea noticed that he held a sword along which flickered a yellow flame with thick, curling smoke rising from it, as though burning oil were running down the blade. Ahead and slanting downward, the place they had entered seemed an underground hall of vaguely huge proportions, full of great pillars. Flares of yellow light threw changing shadows as they moved. There was a stench of sulphur and a dull, machinelike banging. As the horses halted behind some pillars that grew together to make another passage, a thin shriek ululated in the distance: “Eee-e-e.”
“Bring the prisoners along,” said a voice. “Lord Surt wants to judge ’em.”
Shea felt himself removed and tucked under a giant’s arm like a bundle. It was a method of progress that woke all the agonies in his body. The giant was carrying him face down, so that he could see nothing but the stone floor with its flickering shadows. The place stank.
A door opened and there was a babble of giant voices. Shea was flung upright. He would have fallen if the giant who had been carrying him had not propped him up. He was in a torchlit hall, very hot, with fire giants standing all around, grinning, pointing, and talking, some of them drinking.
But he had no more than a glance for them. Right in front, facing him, flanked by two guards who carried the curious burning swords, sat the biggest giant of all—a giant dwarf. That is, he was a full giant in size, at least eleven feet tall, but with the squat bandy legs, the short arms and huge neckless head of a dwarf. His hair hung lank around the nastiest grin Shea had ever seen. When he spoke, the voice had not the rumble of the other giants, but a reedy, mocking falsetto:
“Welcome, Lord Heimdall, to Muspellheim! We are delighted to have you here.” He snickered. “I fear gods and men will be somewhat late in assembling for the battle without their horn blower. Hee, hee, hee. But, at least, we can give you the comforts of one of our best dungeons. If you must have music, we will provide a willow whistle. Hee, hee, hee. Surely so skilled a musician as yourself could make it heard throughout the nine worlds.” He ended with another titter at his own humor.
Heimdall kept his air of dignity. “Bold are your words, Surt,” he replied, “but it is yet to be seen whether your deeds match them when you stand on Vigrid Plain. It may be that I have small power against you of the Muspellheim blood. Yet I have a brother named Frey, and it is said that if you two come face to face, he will be your master.”
Surt sucked two fingers to indicate his contempt. “Hee, hee, hee. It is also said, most stupid of godlings, that Frey is powerless without his sword. Would you like to know where the enchanted blade, Hundingsbana, is? Look behind you, Lord Heimdall!”
Shea followed the direction of Heimdall’s eyes. Sure enough, on the wall there hung a great two-handed sword, its blade gleaming brightly in that place of glooms, its hilt all worked with gold up to the jeweled pommel.
“While it hangs there, most stupid of Æsir, I am safe. Hee, hee, hee. Have you been wondering why that famous eyesight of yours did not light on it before? Now you know, most easily deceived. In Muspellheim, we have found the spells that make Heimdall powerless.”
Heimdall was unimpressed. “Thor has his hammer back,” he remarked easily. “Not a few of your fire giants’ heads will bear witness—if you can find them.”
Surt scowled and thrust his jaw forward, but his piping voice was as serene and mocking as before. “Now, that,” he said, “really gives me an idea. I thank you, Lord Heimdall. Who would have thought it possible to learn anything from one of the Æsir? Hee, hee, hee. Skoa!”
A lop-eared fire giant shuffled forward. “Whatcha want, boss?”
“Ride to the gates of Asgard. Tell them I have their horn tooter here. I will gladly send the nuisance back to his relatives; but in exchange I want that sword of his, the one they call Head. Hee, hee, hee. I am collecting gods’ swords, and we shall see, Lord Heimdall, how you fare against the frost giants without yours.”
He grinned all around his face and the fire giants in the background slapped their knees and whooped. “Pretty hot stuff boss! “Ain’t he smart!” “Two of the four great weapons!” “Boy, will we show ’em!”
> Surt gazed at Shea and Heimdall for a moment, enjoying to the utmost the roar of appreciation and Heimdall’s sudden pallor. Then he made a gesture of dismissal. “Take the animals away and put ’em in a dungeon before I die laughing.”
Shea felt himself seized once more and carried off, face downward in the same ignominious position as before.
###
Down—down—down they went, stumbling through the lurid semi-dark. At last they came to a passage lined with cells between whose bars the hollow eyes of previous arrivals stared at them. The stench had become overpowering.
The commanding giant thundered: “Stegg!”
There was a stir in an alcove at the far end of the passage, and out came a scaly being about five feet tall, with an oversize head decorated by a snub nose and a pair of long pointed ears. Instead of hair and beard it had wormlike excrescences on its head. They moved. The being squeaked: “Yes, Lord.”
The giant said: “Got a couple more prisoners for you. Say, what stinks?”
“Please, Lord, mortal him die. Five days gone.”
“You lug! And you left him in there?”
“No lord here. Snögg say ‘no,’ must have lord’s orders to do—”
“You damn nitwit! Take him out and give him to the furnace detail! Hai, wait, take care of these prisoners first. Hai, bolt the door, somebody. We don’t take no chances with the Æsir.”
Stegg set about efficiently stripping Shea and Heimdall. Shea wasn’t especially afraid. So many extraordinary things had happened to him lately that the whole proceeding possessed an air of unreality. Besides, even the difficulties of such a place might not be beyond the resources of a well-applied brain.
Stegg said: “Lord, must put in dead mortal’s cell. No more. All full.”
“Awright, get in there, youse.” The giant gave Shea a cuff that almost knocked him flat and sent him staggering toward the cell which Stegg had opened. Shea avoided the mass of corruption at one side and looked for a place to sit down. There was none. The only furnishings of any land consisted of a bucket whose purpose was obvious.
Heimdall followed him in, still wearing his high, imperturbable air. Stegg gathered up the corpse, went out, and slammed the door. The giant took hold of the bars and heaved on them. There was no visible lock or bolt, but the door stayed tight.
“Oh, ho!” roared the giant. “Don’t the Sleepless One look cute? When we get through with the other Æsir we’ll come back and show you some fun. Have yourselves a time.” With this farewell, the giants all tramped out.
Fortunately the air was warm enough so Shea didn’t mind the loss of his garments from a thermal point of view. Around them the dungeon was silent, save for a drip of water somewhere and the occasional rustle of a prisoner in his cell. Across from Shea there was a clank of chains. An emaciated figure with a wildly disordered beard shuffled up to the bars and screamed, “Yngvi is a louse!” and shuffled back again.
“What means he?” Heimdall called out.
From the right came a muffled answer: “None knows. He says it every hour. He is mad, as you will be.”
“Cheerful place,” remarked Shea.
“Is it not?” agreed Heimdall readily. “Worse have I seen, but happily without being confined therein. I will say that for a mortal, you are not without spirit, Turnip Harold. Your demeanor likes me well.”
“Thanks.” Shea had not entirely forgotten his irritation over Heimdall’s patronizing manner, but the Sleepless One held his interest more than the choleric and rather slow-witted Thor or the sneering Loki. “If you don’t mind my asking, Golden One, why can’t you just use your powers to get out?”
“To all things there is a limit,” replied Heimdall, “of size, of power, and of duration. Wide is the lifetime of a god; wider than of a thousand of your feeble species one after the other. Yet even gods grow old and die. Likewise, as to these fire giants and their chief, Surt, that worst of beings, I have not much strength. If my brother Frey were here now, or if we were among the frost giants, I could overcome the magic of that door.”
“How do you mean?”
“It has no lock. Yet it will not open save when an authorized person pulls it and with intent to open. Look, now”—Heimdall pushed against the bars without effect—“if you will be quiet for a while, I will try to see my way out of this place.”
The Sleepless One leaned back against the wall, his eyes moving restlessly about. His body quivered with energy in spite of his relaxed position.
“Not too well can I see,” he announced after a few minutes. “There is so much magic here—fire magic of a kind both evil and difficult—that it hurts my head. Yet this much I see clearly: around us all is rock, with no entrance but the way by which we came. Beyond that there lies a passage with trolls to watch it. Ugh, disgusting creatures.” The golden-haired god gave a shudder of repugnance.
“Can you see beyond?” asked Shea.
“A little. Beyond the trolls, a ledge sits over a pile of molten slag at the entrance of the hall where the flaming swords are forged, and then—and then”—his forehead contracted, his lips moved a trifle—“a giant sits by the pool of slag. No more can I see.”
Heimdall relapsed into gloomy silence. Shea felt considerable respect and some liking for him; but it is hard to be friendly with a god, even in a prison cell. Thjalfi’s cheerful human warmth was missing.
Stegg re-entered the cell hall. One of the prisoners called out: “Good Stegg, a little water, please; I die of thirst.”
Stegg turned his head a trifle. “Dinner time soon, slave.” The prisoner gave a yell of anger and shouted abuse at the troll, who continued down to his alcove in the most perfect indifference. Here he hoisted himself onto a broken-down stool, dropped his chin on his chest, and apparently went to sleep.
“Nice guy,” said Shea.
The prisoner across the way came to the front of his cell and shrieked: “Yngvi is a louse!” again.
“The troll is not asleep,” said Heimdall. “I can hear his thoughts, for he is of a race that can hardly think at all without moving the lips. But I cannot make them out. Harold, you see a thing that is uncommon; namely, one of the Æsir confessing he is beaten. But there is this to be said: if we are held here it will be the worst of days for gods and men.”
“Why would that be?”
“So near is the balance of strength, gods against giants, that the issue of what will happen at the Time hangs by a thread. If we come late to the field we shall surely lose; the giants will hold the issues against our mustering. And I am here—here in this cell—with my gift of eyesight that can see them in time to warn. I am here, and the Gjallarhorn, the roaring trumpet that would call gods and heroes to the field, is at Sverre’s house.”
Shea asked: “Why don’t the Æsir attack the giants before the giants are ready, if they know there’s going to be a war anyway?”
Heimdall stared at him. “You know not the Law of the Nine Worlds, Harold. We Æsir cannot attack the giants all together before the Time. Men and gods live by law; else they would be but giants.”
He began to pace back and forth with rapid steps, his forehead set in a frown. Shea noted that even at this moment the Sleepless One was careful to place one foot before the other to best display the litheness of his walk.
“Surely they’ll miss you,” said Shea. “Can’t they set other guards to watch the giants get together, or”—he finished lamely at the glint in Heimdall’s eye—“something?”
“A mortal’s thoughts! Aye!” Heimdall gave a short bark of bitter laughter. “Set other guards, here and there! Listen, Turnip Harold; Harold the fool. Of all us Æsir, Frey is the best, the only one who can stand before Surt with weapons in hand. Yet the worlds are so made, and we cannot change it, that one race Frey fears. Against the frost giants he has no power. Only I, I and my sword Head, can deal with them; and if I am not there to lead my band against the frost giants, we shall live to something less than a ripe old age thereafter.”
/> “I’m sorry—sir,” said Shea.
“Aye. No matter. Come, let us play the game of questions. Few and ill are the thoughts that rise from brooding.”
###
For hours they plied each other with queries about their respective worlds. In that ominous place, time could be measured only by meals and the periodic shrieks of “Yngvi is a louse!” About the eighth of these cries, Stegg came out of his somnolent state, went out, and returned with a pile of bowls. These he set in front of the cells. Each bowl had a spoon; one was evidently expected to do one’s eating through the bars. As the troll put the bowls in front of Shea’s cell, he remarked loftily: “King see subjects eat.”
The mess he put in them consisted of some kind of porridge with small lumps of fish in it, sour to the taste. Shea did not blame his fellow prisoners when they broke into loud complaints about the quality and quantity of the food. Stegg paid not the slightest attention, relapsing into his chair till they had finished, when he gathered up the bowls and carried them out.
The next time the door opened, it was not Stegg but another troll. In the flickering torchlight this one was, if possible, less handsome than his predecessor. His face was built around a nose of such astonishing proportions that it projected a good eighteen inches, and he moved with a quick, catlike stride. The prisoners, who had been fairly noisy while Stegg was in charge, now fell silent.
The new jailer stepped quickly to Shea’s cell. “You new arrivals?” he snapped. “I am Snögg. You be good, nothing hurt you. You be bad, zzzp.” He made a motion with his finger to indicate the cutting of a throat, and turning his back on them, paced down the row of cells, peering suspiciously into each.
Shea had never in his life slept on a stone floor. So he was surprised, an indefinite time later, to awaken and discover that he had done it for the first time, with the result of being stiff.
He got up, stretching. “How long have I been asleep?” he asked Heimdall.
The Complete Compleat Enchanter Page 9