The Fantasy MEGAPACK ®

by Lester Del Rey

  The dreadful possibilities unreeled in his mind. They held disaster for the Allied cause. That disaster would not come from the mere addition of a few thousand fierce warriors to the Nazi legions. Not even though the appearance of the legended Aesir as allies of the Axis might well superstitiously influence the northern peoples into following Hitler also.

  The real menace was in those tremendous and mysterious powers of which Brynhild was mistress. This unique fault in the continuum of space-time was the focus of cosmic forces unknown to the outer world. The ruling house of the Aesir had learned how to wield those forces. If Germany learned that also, its scientists would be able to forge weapons that would blast the armies of the democracies from existence.

  “Heysing must not persuade Brynhild to join the Nazis!” he said feverishly. “They’ll use her and her warriors as tools, and as soon as they have learned the secret of her powers, will throw her aside.”

  Helverson groaned. “How can we stop it? These Aesir long for war and battle. They are tempted by the German’s promise of fighting.”

  “They’re a race with the Viking warlike traditions of centuries ago,” Fallon agreed. “They think war is all that is manly and admirable.”

  “Thor’s daughter seemed to like you, Fallon,” the Norwegian said doubtfully. “I could see that you interested her. Maybe if you made love to her, you could turn her against Heysing’s proposal?”

  “Don’t be a fool,” the American retorted. “She and all the rest of these people think I’m a coward now because I said I hated war. We’ve got to find some better plan than that to beat that damned Nazi—”

  He broke off. The chieftain Tyr was approaching them, for now the great hall of Valhalla was almost empty except for themselves.

  Tyr had a half-disgusted expression on his hard, grizzled face. “Now I have you on my hands to guard,” he growled. “Let me give you fair warning —at the slightest attempt to escape, you’ll be killed.”

  “That’s clear enough,” Fallon admitted. “But you don’t have to lock us up in that chamber again, do you?” Tyr shrugged wide shoulders. “You can come out with me to watch our warriors at their games, if you wish. Or perhaps the sight of even friendly fighting would sicken a lover of peace like yourself?”

  Fallon flushed at the gibe, but answered evenly. “We’ll go out with you and watch.”

  As they accompanied the armored Aesir chieftain down a long stone hall, the American asked him a question.

  “Is that fellow Thialfi very close to the princess Brynhild?”

  Tyr looked at him quizzically. “He hopes to be her-bridegroom. Though I do not know why that should interest you, outlander.”

  Fallon was dismayed by the information. He knew the sulky-faced Thialfi strongly favored Heysing’s proposal. If the man were that close to Thor’s daughter, he would surely influence her toward the plan.

  The situation seemed more and more hopeless, but the American refused to surrender hope. Somehow, he told himself desperately, he must find a way to defeat the Nazi’s evil scheme.

  They emerged from the massive face of Valhalla castle into the chill day. Looking back upward, he was struck by the way in which the citadel hugged the sheer, frowning rock cliff that rose far overhead.

  Helverson was staring puzzledly at the gray sky. “I cannot understand why there is day and night in this valley,” he muttered. “If the time here is a hundred times faster than outside, there should be daylight and night every few minutes.”

  “You’re forgetting that this is the midnight sun country, far north of the Arctic Circle,” Fallon reminded him. “The day and night are each months long, outside here. In here, they’re only hours long.”

  “Then it’s already been months since we entered here!” gasped the Norwegian. “What has happened out in my country since then?”

  Horsemen were galloping away down the valley toward the other distant castles, spurring along narrow roads through the dark forest.

  “They go to summon all our chieftains to the council tonight,” grunted Tyr. “Niord and Bragi and Hermod and all the rest will be here.”

  The grizzled captain led the way to a small natural amphitheater near Valhalla castle, in which a crowd was gathering. Tall Viking warriors, lithe Valkyr-girls in glittering mail, older women in long white linen gowns, even children—all had come to watch the games.

  Fallon was astonished by the character of the contests. Aesir warriors fought with padded battle-axes that were still highly dangerous to skulls. They wrestled furiously, with many bruising falls until one or the other was senseless. They sparred with sword and shield until both contestants were bleeding from serious wounds. The crowd applauded wildly.

  “You Aesir have rough sports,” the American commented in amazement. “I’d think that you would all kill each other in these games.”

  “Now and then a man gets killed but not often,” Tyr answered casually. “Many are wounded, but Brynhild’s magic makes them whole again.”

  He added discontentedly, “But we’re tired of this mock fighting. There’s nothing else to do—nothing but hunt occasionally in the forests and supervise the thralls who till our fields. We’ll be joyful if Brynhild leads us forth to taste real war again!”

  From nearby, the chieftain Heimdall launched an ironical invitation at Fallon. “Would you care to join in the sword-contests, outlander?”

  A roar of insulting laughter went up from all the Aesir. Fallon turned dull red, knowing what these fierce, warlike men now thought of him.

  He rose to his feet, determined to accept the satirical invitation and prove that he was no coward. He remembered enough of sabre-fencing from military-school days to make at least a showing.

  But a sudden inspiration crossed his brain. It was the idea for which he had been seeking to defeat Victor Heysing’s plans. It might work, and if it did, it would crush the Nazi’s scheme.

  Fallon sat down again, slowly and unwillingly. He hated doing so, but he dared take no chances until he could carry out his idea tonight.

  “I thought that you would think twice before entering the games,” Heimdall said scathingly to him.

  Tyr turned and glared at the American. “By the Norns, you love peace indeed. The one who calls himself a German was right about the softness of your race.”

  Fallon ventured no reply. But on the way back to the castle later with their disgusted guard, he found a chance to whisper to Helverson.

  “I’ve an idea for ending Heysing’s devilish plans,” he said rapidly. “If that Nazi dies tonight, his scheme will die too!”

  Darkness came softly and slowly down on the valley Asgard. It was strange to think that this slow nightfall was really the coming of the long months of Arctic night to the lands outside.

  Torches flared in Valhalla’s halls and passageways. Chieftains of the Aesir were constantly riding up from the castles farther down the valley, by now. Each brought with him retinue of excited fighting-men.

  Tyr conducted Fallon and the Norwegian into the great council-hall. In its red torchlight, hundreds of the Aesir lords were gathered. Thialfi was there, near the throne-dais, and Victor Heysing was with him.

  “Homage to the princess!” roared the shout of fierce throats as Brynhild entered and faced them from the dais.

  Pride and consciousness of power were brilliant in her blue eyes as she faced them. The white lynx crouched beside her, whining softly.

  Before she or anyone else could speak, Mart Fallon put his desperate idea into execution. He took a step toward the dais and raised his voice loudly.

  “Princess Brynhild, hear me before your council opens!” he demanded. He pointed at Victor Heysing. “That man has said that I lied when I told you his Leader and his purposes are evil. I maintain that he lies. That forms blood-feud between us, by your own
Viking traditions.”

  His voice rose louder. “I claim warrior’s right to settle that feud here and now. By tradition, you are bound to give swords to my enemy and myself and let us fight to the death!”

  CHAPTER V

  Storm Sorcery

  It was Fallon’s desperate inspiration. He had dimly remembered that ancient Viking custom of permitting a warrior to settle a personal feud by public single combat. And he had seen in that a hazardous chance to avert Heysing’s evil schemes by ending the Nazi’s life.

  How hazardous the chance was, he fully realized. Heysing, like most German officers of his class, would in all probability possess more skill with the saber than Fallon’s own rusty practice. But the American’s desperation was such that he would almost have welcomed death for himself if he could be sure of taking the Nazi with him.

  The torchlit hall was in an uproar. The fierce Aesir chieftains had instantly warmed to the prospect of a death-duel.

  But Thialfi was on his feet, glaring at Fallon. “It is a trick!” he accused. “The dark outlander is a coward who has no wish to fight.”

  Victor Heysing himself spoke up confidently. “I am ready to meet him,” affirmed the Nazi loudly, “We Germans do not dodge battle.”

  A roar of applause greeted his boast. In this brief interval, Brynhild had been staring down at Fallon with a puzzled light in her eyes.

  “I cannot understand—” she murmured perplexedly, but then broke off, and spoke in clear, chill tones to the American. “You have claimed Viking right and you shall have it, outlander. Heimdall, give them helmets, shields and swords.”

  A wide space was hastily cleared for the duel, in front of the dais on which Brynhild sat. Expectant excitement pervaded the throng of Aesir warriors as the preparations were made.

  Helverson was expostulating with Fallon. He paid little attention, for Heimdall now had brought him the gleaming horned helmet, the small, heavy metal shield and long sword he was to use in the combat.

  Tyr showed him how to hold the shield upon his left arm. “You’d best handle a sword better than a shield or you’re dead now,” he grunted.

  The helmet felt heavy on Fallon’s head, and the shield was an awkward encumbrance as he gripped his sword and stepped to meet Heysing.

  Brynhild’s voice rang clearly. “The fight is to the death, or until one combatant shall admit himself vanquished,” she told them.

  Victor Heysing had a thin, triumphant smile on his handsome blond face as he turned to face the American.

  “It is too bad,” he mocked Fallon, “that when you got this crazy idea, you did not know I was saber-champion at Heidelberg.”

  Fallon set his teeth and said nothing. The daughter of Thor, leaning forward, spoke sharply. “Begin!”

  It was almost death for Fallon in the first minute. Heysing had not lied when he had boasted of his skill with the saber. The Nazi came in with a rush, his pale eyes gleaming behind his lunging blade. He was obviously determined to finish the fight as quickly as possible.

  Fallon tried to parry that blow with the shield, and nearly lost his life. For his clumsy use of the unaccustomed shield merely caused it to deflect the lunging blade toward his heart. Only a frantic sidestep saved him, but the sword of his enemy slashed his sleeve as it grazed him.

  Fallon stabbed back, uncertainly at first and then with rapidly increasing sureness as his rusty skill came back to him. But Heysing deftly parried the thrusts, and came back with wicked, slicing sweeps before which the American had to give ground.

  Heysing knew himself the superior swordsman for certain now, and exultant satisfaction shone in his eyes.

  “I am glad you challenged me, Fallon,” he said mockingly under his breath as they fenced. “It will greatly increase my prestige with these people when I kill you.”

  Fallon made no answer. Cold premonition of imminent failure and death were chilling him. He could not get through the German’s guard for a moment, and the other’s sword seemed thrusting from everywhere.

  As they circled and struck, blade ringing against blade or against a clanging shield, he glimpsed the torchlit, fierce faces of the Aesir throng watching the fight in delighted silence. And he had momentary vision of Brynhild’s white, beautiful face and widened blue eyes.

  “Take it!” hissed Heysing suddenly, and his sword-point came in like the head of a striking snake toward Fallon’s heart.

  Fallon frantically tried to raise the heavy shield but was only able to deflect the thrust. He felt the white-hot sting of steel searing along his left shoulder, and sprang back with blood wetting his jacket.

  Roar of excitement came from the watching Aesir throng at the sight. And now Heysing was coming in with wolf-savageness, thrusting, lunging, slicing, using all his skill to beat down Fallon’s guard.

  Another roar from the crowd, as steel whizzed past Fallon’s head and inflicted a grazing cut on his cheek.

  “Finish him, now!” the voice of Thialfi was shouting in adjuration to the German.

  And Fallon, red with blood and dazedly fighting off the Nazi’s savage attack, glimpsed Brynhild’s eyes looking at him in pity.

  Crimson rage exploded in the American’s brain. He’d be dead in a minute and this damned crowd of wolves would yell with glee. By Heaven, he’d do his best to take the Nazi with him!

  Furiously, he flung away the encumbering shield and helmet. Bareheaded and with his lean, dark face raging, he flung himself forward and struck like a madman at the German.

  “The outlander is berserk!” rose a yell from the watching Aesir crowd.

  Fallon hardly heard it. He saw Heysing through red mists. The German’s face was startled. He recoiled from the crazy attack.

  No fencing or scientific swordsmanship now! Fallon was possessed by the rage to kill. And the furious sweeps of his sword were an unpredictable attack against which Heysing had no immediate defense.

  The convulsive strength of his strokes beat down the Nazi’s parrying blade. As Heysing staggered, Fallon slashed fiercely in again. The German tried to raise his shield. It caught the first impact of the American’s sword, but the sword flashed off it and bit into Heysing’s side.

  The Nazi swayed, dropping his sword and then falling heavily. His helmet hit the stone floor with a resounding clang. He lay still.

  “The outland berserk has conquered!” cried Heimdall incredulously.

  Thialfi rushed out, his sullen face furious. “The outlander did not conquer cleanly! The German slipped in the blood on the floor.”

  Voices disputed that assertion of Thialfi’s, but other voices supported it. The uproar in the torchlit hall of Valhalla was tumultuous.

  Thialfi was appealing to Brynhild. “Let the duel be fought again when the German’s wound is healed! That is but justice.”

  Fallon leaned on his bloody sword, panting for breath and with those red mists only now dissolving from his brain. Brynhild, Tyr, all the Aesir, were eyeing him now with a perplexed respect.

  They knew he was no coward now, he thought with grim satisfaction. For they thought him a “berserk,” most dreaded of Viking warriors, a man who flung away his armor when possessed by blood-madness in battle.

  Brynhild raised her hand imperiously to still the clamorous dispute about the fairness of Fallon’s triumph.

  “I did not see the German slip, cousin Thialfi,” she said curtly. “But since you claim he did, he shall be allowed the chance to repeat the duel when he is fit to fight again.”

  Fallon, standing a little weak and dizzy from loss of blood of his own wounds, made no objection to that decision.

  “It’s all right,” he told Helverson, who had sprung to his side anxiously. “Heysing will be unable to hatch his scheme until he recovers, and that will give us time to figure a way of beating him.”
/>   But he was soon to discover that his calculations had reckoned without the fantastic powers of which Brynhild was mistress.

  Thor’s daughter had come down from the dais toward him. That new, puzzled respect was strong in her dynamic face as she spoke.

  “Outlander, I shall soon heal those wounds of yours,” she told him. “I see now that we misjudged you. Come with me.”

  “And the German?” Thialfi interjected urgently, gesturing to the prostrate man.

  Brynhild nodded her golden head. “He, too. Bring him, Tyr.” “

  She raised her clear voice to the Aesir throng. “We cannot hold council now, chieftains. It must wait until the morrow.”

  Brynhild moved through the curtained doorway beside the throne-dais, with the white lynx padding softly at her side. Fallon unsteadily followed her, and Tyr came after them, carrying the unconscious Nazi.

  Fallon found himself with the daughter of Thor in a torchlit stone corridor that led toward the rear of Valhalla castle. It ended in a heavy door of massive bronze, beyond which was a spiral stairway tunneled out of the solid rock of the cliff.

  “Where do we go?” Fallon asked doubtfully, as they entered the dark stairway.

  “To heal your wounds,” Brynhild answered impatiently. “I have the power to do so. Come!”

  She grasped his wrist, leading up the twisting rock steps. It was the first time Fallon had experienced her touch.

  It sent a thrilling, faintly electric shock through him, as though life and energy flowed into him from the contact.

  And Brynhild’s slim white body glowed in the darkness of the stair with that dim lambency that had been only barely noticeable in the lighted hall.

  It made her seem more eerily unhuman —and yet the warm, tingling clasp of her fingers was far from that.

  The lynx snarled from the darkness above them, and Brynhild laughed softly. “Inro is jealous of you, outlander.”