Laufeyson stepped from the shadows, holding firmly onto Rex; he must have gone around to the back of the house to collect the dog. The eyes of the wavering mob suddenly left Lee to stare at the animal.
Leif felt sick at the obviously rotten timing. He moved toward the dog, just as the crowd seemed to forget the animal and concentrate on the figure of Laufeyson.
There was a furious, startled shout. “Hey! It’s him! The new guy! The dirty stinking traitor’s gone over to their side!”
Now Lee was swinging back, his face shocked and furious at Laufeyson’s actions. But Laufeyson had eyes only for the group. He stepped farther forward and began calling out names—Summers, Faulkner, Sheriff Collins, and all the rest. Even as Leif realized that nothing could infuriate the mob more than having their disguise pierced, someone let out a yell, and they began boiling forward.
“Ho!” The roar from Jordsson was filled with a sudden savage pleasure. “Ho!” He moved forward, covering Lee while the twin dropped the useless rifle and darted back for is axe.
Jordsson’s voice rang out again, like a clap of thunder, and the maul left his hand in an air-piercing sweep. Something splattered out on the snow, and the maul seemed to rebound as if it had hit a spring instead of a head. It bounced back squarely into Jordsson’s waiting hand. Leif noticed it abstractly, but his eyes stayed riveted to the headless thing on the ground. The automatic fell from his hands. His stomach heaved, but his throat was to constricted to cooperate.
The crowd flinched, and a few in front leaped back, but the pressure of those behind was too great. Now that blood had been spilled, they reacted like sharks gathering at the smell of death. With a strange, animal sound of sheer fury, they charged forward. Lee, Jordsson, and Laufeyson were moving to meet them, in spite of the guns that were appearing now in all hands. Beside them, Rex was flying through the air in a leap toward an unprotected throat.
Leif bent to recover the automatic, and something whistled by his ear. Realization finally penetrated that it was a bullet. He stood there, stupidly drying the automatic and shoving it into his pocket aimlessly for another minute. Then belated instinct seemed to take over, and he dashed frantically after the other three, who had already driven into the crowd at quarters too close for the firing of guns.
In front of Leif a man was clubbing at Laufeyson’s head with a rifle. Lee’s axe swept around, leaving a gory trail, and Leif grabbed at the rifle and got it before it could drop from the falling man’s hand.
There were axes and knives in the crowd, too. Even as the barrel of the gun fitted into Leif’s hand, he was forced to drop the weapon and to grab desperately at the handle of an axe that was being swung at him. It grazed his arm, shredding off leather from his coat, and he was down on the ground, grappling with the axeman and being trampled.
Something reared over him, and a blade chopped expertly down. The hand at Leif’s throat went limp, and the axe came free in his grip, just as Laufeyson grabbed his hand and yanked him upright. Whatever the actions of Laufeyson before, there was no question of his loyalty in the battle.
A part of Leif’s mind was still wondering automatically whether he was a coward, and another detached fragment was fighting at the sickness he could still feel all through him. But the hysteria of the mob and the ferocity of these former friends and neighbors had entered into him. He swung out underhanded, feeling the axe cut through the leg of someone before him, and moved up beside Laufeyson, who was now separated from the other two.
He still couldn’t bring himself to kill deliberately, but maiming and crippling seemed almost as effective. Things became a red haze in front of him for the next few minutes. When it cleared, he could see that most of the attackers were retreating wildly. They had counted on a lynching with little danger, had been swept into something more violent, and were now losing their frenzy in the face of the danger to their lives.
Then Leif heard singing coming from the air above, and he caught a faint glimpse of at least half a dozen women on horses, high up and dimly white as they circled against the of the black sky. Then he dropped his eyes.
Jordsson was farthest away, taking a final toll of the retreating mob. Nearer, Rex was dragging himself along by his front legs, obviously wounded. Leif started toward him, then stopped when he saw his brother. Lee was trying to sit up, holding onto his abdomen where blood was spilling out over the snow from a great, ugly gash. As Leif moved toward him, Lee lifted himself to an elbow, trying to point, and let out a warning cry. But it was too late.
There was a sound behind Leif, and something struck sharply against his back, sending him twisting and reeling. He could see that one of the men who had seemed unconscious was now up and charging toward him. He tried to swing himself around and bring up his axe, but the man had already raised a big corn knife for another stroke. It swished in the air and began chopping down.
Leif jerked sideways, trying to throw himself out of the way. But there was no time. The blade came down remorselessly. It whistled by his ear, hit against his jacket, and went on through. Pain lanced through him as muscles parted and the collar-bone splintered. He was falling now, the big machete-like knife coming loose. He started to shout, but his voice was a burble, and there was the salt of blood in his mouth.
He twisted as he fell. The attacker was coming forward again. Then an axe-bit was buried in the man’s skull, and Laufeyson was kicking the falling corpse aside. Laufeyson sank to his knees, lifting Leif’s head in one arm, while Leif made waving motions and opened his mouth in a wild shout toward the sky. Laufeyson’s arm was gentle, but his lips were smiling in triumph as he looked at Leif Svensen!
Wild singing was coming from the air above, and with it came the thunder of hoofs, beating like a muffled drum. An object flashed down as the pain in Leif began to sharpen and became unbearable. It separated into a big woman on an immense horse, dropping out of nowhere. Everything was turning into a gray mist, but consciousness had not left entirely. He felt her hands clutch his hair, felt himself lifted with a single heave of her arm and dropped across the shoulders of the horse.
Then the wind was whistling about him, and he could sense the Earth falling away. Behind him, the song suddenly rose to a strange shrieking set of tones, and they seemed to twist crazily. Rainbow spots merged into great bands and seemed to quiver through Leif’s whole body, blotting out the pain.
The horse was laboring now. Its breath came in short, hard gulps, and the huge hoofs seemed to slip and slide. Again, the rider urged her mount onward, while the rainbow bands quivered, tightened, and relaxed. Leif felt the sweat from the horse begin to soak into him, stinging sharply as it worked into his wound, lifting the pain to new heights.
Again the horse strained, and something seemed to give with sticky reluctance. The pattern of the rainbow ran together, beating almost audibly. The horse seemed to breast some sort of rise, and his hoofs settled again into the steady pounding, while the woman’s shout turned back to the song she had first been singing.
There were words and names in the song that seemed familiar. Even the language tugged at his memories, reminding him of words and names his grandmother had used. It as if the pain were driving his mind back to its beginnings. Warrior maids—the shield maidens—who rode through the air over some magical bridge named Bifrost. A brawling, stalwart superman with a hammer who could cause tides by drinking the ocean; a sly one chained to rocks under a serpent’s venom; giants and monsters; wonders and a doom that must destroy everything including the Earth.
It was a myth and a language dead a thousand years. It was nonsense.
There was a violent wrenching that threatened to tear Leif apart, atom by atom, and the rainbow colors of Bifrost poured out in a wild final burst.
Then all grew quiet. Blackness closed over Leif Svensen mercifully...
Chapter IV
The sound of distant metallic clashing and the shouts of men reach Leif’s ears, with a realization of the passage of hours in unconsciousness. He
stirred, before remembering his wounds. But the pain was gone. Either a lot of time had passed, or the whole final part of the mob battle had been only a delusion from a concussion. Now he was obviously on some sort of bed, though the usual hospital smell was lacking. There was a subtle feeling of strangeness that told him he was not in his own house, either. He opened his eyes, then blinked them shut. The darkness was the same in either case, though he could feel no bandages across his face to shut out the light.
From nearby, he heard a sudden stirring and the sound of footsteps. He lay quietly, afraid to move yet and find out how badly he was hurt, wondering why the lights were out.
“The trance still lasts,” a woman’s soft voice said. A hand ran across his forehead caressingly, and he could feel the hair being pushed back from his face. The fingers remained another moment, and there was a welcome coolness and an odd tingle to the touch. “He’s slim for a hero, as Balder was—and comely, too. But I find no war lines on his face. He looks—perhaps gentle…”
There was a lusty answering laugh, heavy with amusement. “Be careful, Fulla. Such words are odd in a virgin of the Asynjur. Remember Freyja’s mortal husband.”
“You go too far, Reginleif.” There was confusion in the voice of the girl called Fulla. “Though it has been a long time since a mortal joined us. And the Aesir grow empty as the einherjar. Oh, nonsense!”
The other laughed again, but did not press the point. “He was trouble enough. Carrying him through Bifrost was almost too much for even the loan of Gna’s favorite Hoof-Tosser. The horse will be good for nothing for a week now. And I’m still weak and worn from holding your hero to the horse. Let’s hope this man is a real berserker, with the knowledge the Sly One tells Asa-Odin we need. Surtr’s hot breath is getting too close.”
There were retreating footsteps, and the voices faded. Leif Svensen lay frozen, turning the fresh madness over in his head. Balder, Aesir, Odin—the gods of the ancient Norse. This must be more of his delirium. Yet there had been the Valkyr ride—and the hammer that returned to Jordsson, like the ancient hammer of Thor. It was ridiculous.
And where was Lee? He struggled to a sitting position. “Lee!”
He had heard no sound, but a hand touched his shoulder, pushing him back with a strength that must be that of a man. “Quiet, Leif Svensen. Your brother will be cared for. I could wish—but no matter. Bifrost has burned your sight. Here, take my hand and make your eyes follow the feel of its motions.” Laufeyson’s voice held no amusement now, but seemed worried. “You’ll need all your senses at the Thing. I’ve some skill at sleight, as has been told. If you’ve guessed who I am by now, remember that. Now…”
The motions were a curious hocus pocus, and the next words came as a chant:
By Ironwood’s mother,
This matter make right;
Speed minutes; and man,
Still mortal, gain sight!
It worked. The room sprang into sudden light. Leif blinked, looking at the aged beams of the ceiling. The room was huge, with hard wooden bunks around it, covered with bearskins. Weapons of primitive design decorated the walls, and the light streamed in from tiny windows of oiled parchment. It was no hospital, but something from the scenes of a second-rate production of a Wagnerian opera. Leif’s eyes jerked to his shoulder. There were no bandages or open wounds, but only a livid red scar to mark where the wound had been.
He swung to the one he had known as Laufeyson, who was now wearing a helmet with spikes and wings and was clad in heavy mail. “Loki! And this…”
Loki nodded. “I’m Loki Laufeyson, and also the son of Nal. And this is Asgard—the home of your ancestors; gods. You’re whole, Leif, though you had to be near death before you could be ripped from your ties to Earth. Going through the dimensional bridge of Bifrost revitalizes the body until it can repair such damage in a day. And yes, you’re looking at myths—but myths with sharp teeth, Leif Svenson. To convince you—what language am I speaking?”
Leif could remember the English words for myth and dimensional in the speech, but the rest—he couldn’t place the words, though they seemed clear in his mind. It was like his grandmother’s language, but incredibly changed—or incredibly older.
“We can’t read minds here,” Loki explained. “But any vocalized words carry their meanings to all—such is the nature of Asgard. Each of the worlds we know has its own peculiar laws. Will you believe?”
Leif shook his head, still uncertain. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t turn off his scientific training to accept the other’s words so quickly. Neither could he wholly deny them, particularly from the fragmentary hints of reason that Loki’s words had offered.
Loki frowned. “No matter—you’ll have to believe. Already Fulla returns. Listen, then, and remember! Play dead, as you were, as long as you can. And follow my lead later. Valfather Odin is stubborn—and sometimes a fool. After I was recalled and convinced him a modern man was needed, he chose Lee. Thor and I were sent for him, but I connived things in such a way that I could take you instead. But we can both suffer for the deceit. To the others, you must be the berserker, your brother, who could hold back a score in blood-rage to save a friend, as Odin saw from his throne. Remember that, and play the part. And play it well. Odin’s rage is not—pleasant!”
Steps were sounding from outside, and Loki was suddenly gone. Where he had been, a leaf was drifting on a gentle wind, to blow out through the doorway. Leif stared at it, his head spinning with too much and too little information. Delirium or not, he was sure that this was the time to follow orders. Loki’s worry had been genuine, at least. He dropped back quickly, closing his eyes and blanking out all expression.
“Still in a trance,” Reginleif’s rough voice commented.
“It should have been gone by now.” Fulla’s hand again rested softly on his forehead. “But nothing goes right since the awakening. Even the apples…Perhaps appointing me in Idunn’s place was a mistake. The tree responds to nothing I do. Well, he must be revivied, Reginleif.”
Reginleif tittered hoarsely. “I’ve revived enough heroes, Fulla, and Hoof-Tosser needs a rubdown. Besides, after that last ride, I don’t have energy enough to pass to him. You do it—since you want to, anyhow.”
Leif opened his eyes a crack, just enough to see the buxom woman leaving. Fulla was moving across the room toward him hesitantly, slim and supple, her hair long and golden, bound at the back by a curious metal crown of the same color. Her face had the beauty of a type sometimes called sweet or wholesome, when women wanted to be catty about their envy, and the blush that was covering her cheeks now added to the effect. Then she was too close, and Leif closed his eyes quickly.
There was hesitation in her movement as she touched him this time. Her arm moved under his head, while her other hand rested on his chest. And suddenly her lips were on his, full and warm, pressing gradually closer! Something like an electric current seemed to run between them, a warm glow of strange force.
Leif’s arm moved automatically around her, pulling her closer and tightening. “No. Ymir, no!” she gasped. “Not under the spell, or there will be a twining!” But his arm was stronger than her resistance, and their lips met again. This time, the warm flux of force seemed to go both ways. For a moment, until it seemed to weaken, she permitted it, her hand even moving to his shoulder and her lips responding. Then her breath caught in a thick gasp, and she jerked back, her face deathly white.
She looked better with his eyes fully open, and he grinned. The white of her face changed to crimson under his gaze.
“It was only customary—to awaken a hero entranced…” She stammered slightly over the words. Then her lips drew to a thin line as she studied him. “But you were revived before! You tricked me!”
The delirium was definitely taking a turn for the better, Leif decided, and the unreality of the situation cut off the last of his inhibitions. Besides, he was under Loki’s directions to act as Lee Svensen would. “Sure I tricked you,” he admitted cheerfull
y, catching her hand. “What kind of man wouldn’t, if he could?”
She struggled, half-heartedly and with a look of self-surprise. Halfway to him, she gave up all pretense and came to meet him eagerly. His grin vanished, and he was briefly shocked at his own response. There was no flux of fire this time, but something inside him seemed to gather itself together and burst. He was only conscious of Fulla and the need to be nearer to her, to gather her more tightly to him…
“Odin summons!” A hoarse croak announced it, followed by the caw of a crow. Fulla sprang back from Leif, the red of her face rushing up and disappearing into the roots of her hair. Leif followed her gaze, to see a black bird sitting on the shoulder of a shaggy grey wolf.
The bird regarded him steadily. “Odin summons the Son of Sven to the Thing. Let Fulla bring him.”
It cawed again, beat its wing sand was off, with the wolf loping after it.
Fulla avoided Leif’s eyes and began pulling a helmet and corselet of mail from the wall. “Put these on quickly. The Alfadur is impatient these days. And—we’ll forget this folly.”
Her modesty didn’t extend to any taboos about nudity, he noticed. He was scrambling into the odd get-up, and she was not only watching but trying to speed things up by helping. He tried to remember the mores of the Norse legends, but nothing about that seemed to come back. He was surprised to find that her attitude didn’t bother him. Maybe this was more of the automatic conditioning to Asgard.
He had no intention of forgetting what had happened; nor, he thought, did she. But he followed her out quietly. The building sprawled over acres of ground, low and massive, with door after door in the front. Other buildings lay around it, some higher, but none over four stories. Most had been gilded once, but now only faint flecks of gold caught the sunlight. Asgard seemed badly in need of repairs.
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