Something, that irresistible power, drew Luther Schlacht up the great stairway. His heart thudded heavily. Valhalla—where his father should be, feasting with the heroes of the ages. Was this to be his reward? He, too, was a soldier.
At the open portal he halted and peered in. He saw a vast chamber with a ceiling of golden shields, saw benches decorated with polished armor, saw countless long tables heaped high with food. He saw brawny men, yellowhaired, black-haired, armor-clad—and all with heads resting on folded arms upon the tables.
Asleep!
Bewildered, Luther Schlacht tried to turn away, but that resistless force swept him on into Valhalla, urged him across the polished floor. His bare feet faltered as he darted fearful glances about him, and he was glad his feet were bare so that he could move without sound. As far as he could see, the rows of tables continued, at each two-score men—and all slept.
Asleep! The word rang in his brain. Was all Asgard asleep? Were the prayers of his race unheard? Were the teachings of the Leader and his successors false?
What of his father? Was he here, asleep like all the rest? He looked half-fearfully at the men he passed, then looked more closely as fear gave way to wonder. These warriors were old. Not old as living men might be, but mummy-old, with skin yellowed and dried and tautly drawn over cheek and jaw and brow. Yet they were not dead! Here and there he could see shoulders barely rising and falling in shallowest breathing. Not dead, only deep in deepest sleep.
Perhaps in another part of Valhalla might sleep modern men of battle. He turned aside into a branching aisle, and as though permission were being granted, the strange guiding force lifted.
Everywhere through the gigantic hall Luther Schlacht wandered, seeking men of his own time. But, though he saw warriors in the garb of many lands, and though he saw men of different races, all were of an ancient day. And all were still with a stillness near that of death.
The teachings about the Elder Gods were lies! Here was no reward for the soldier dead of his day. Here no haven for heroic Aryans. The cords in the throat of Luther Schlacht swelled in anger, anger that died even as it formed. Fear stopped it, fear of this awesome place. Why was he here? He must leave!
As though in answer, the guiding power gripped him, and he sped toward the portal, sped out, down the long steps to the road of polished marble.
His pace slowed, became his habitual mechanical march. The action was instinctive, for he could think only of what he had seen in the Hall of Heroes.
After a time he saw a second great castle far ahead. That was the magnet drawing him, and there, perhaps, he would find answers. He marched on swiftly, and at last the immense structure with its intricate sculpturing, its golden towers, loomed above him. Its single great portal gaped in an edifice that, though smaller than Valhalla, outshone it in beauty and splendor. He strode through the open doorway.
He caught a glimpse of the golden interior, then saw only the twelve great seats at the end of the hall, in which sat twelve of the Elder Gods. Not asleep these, the mighty ones of Gladsheim, the judgment hall of Asgard! Luther Schlacht fell to his knees and hid his face in his hands.
“Arise, warrior.” A mighty voice swept through the hall, echoing, swelling. “We have called you; have no fear. Come forward.”
Slowly, Luther Schlacht rose to stare at the awesome figure in the throne-seat high above the other Gods. Wodan, Allfather, God of the Wind, God of Wisdom, Leader of Heroes. He saw a figure huge as a giant in a book of children’s tales, gray-haired, bearded, with a golden eagle helmet upon his head, and a golden footstool under his feet. He wore a suit of gray, and a blue-gray mantle hung from his shoulders, on which rested two great ravens, blinking drowsily at Luther Schlacht. In one hand Wodan gripped a massive spear of gold, and at his booted feet lay two enormous wolves, their heads resting upon outstretched paws, apparently asleep.
As he drew closer, Luther Schlacht saw, half-concealed by a lock of iron-gray hair, the empty hollow which had held the missing eye of Wodan, the eye that the God had given in exchange for wisdom. He saw something more—the skin of Wodan, dry as parchment, like the skin of the warriors in Valhalla! And he saw weariness in the aged face, in the half-bowed head, the drooping body. Only the solitary eye seemed bright and youthful, and that eye transfixed Luther Schlacht as he halted a dozen feet from the God. The great voice swept past him.
“You have been called, warrior, as a messenger to your race. We have a tale for you to bear to those who command you. And we have a command for them that must be obeyed.”
“Aye—must be obeyed!” a second voice rumbled; the sound was like thunder in distant hills.
Fearfully, Luther Schlacht looked at the second speaker, a God huge as Wodan, mighty thewed, with bristling red hair and beard. He knew this must be Donar even before he saw the huge, short-handled hammer clutched in one great fist. But even on the face of Donar, dark now as an overcast day, was that same veil of weary age.
Wodan said quietly, “Peace, Thor. They think they do well with us. Let them hear. Then, if they do not as we will . . .” He left the thought unfinished, and looked toward one of the other Gods. “Tell him the tale, Bragi.”
And Bragi, God of Poetry and Music, swept his fingers across his golden harp and began to sing. It was a depressing song, a dolorous chant, and as it drifted through Gladsheim, Luther Schlacht felt a weight of sadness pressing upon him. Bragi sang:
Once there was feasting, fighting and loving
In every castle throughout all Asgard.
Joyous those days when Wodan, Allfather,
Ruled in his mighty strength.
With his steed, Sleipnir, Wodan the Wind God
Rode over Bifrost, fought with the giants . . . .
Now he is weary.
Once mighty Donar, Thor, God of Thunder,
Ruled all the nations, ruled with his hammer,
Miolnir invincible.
Joyous to watch him shatter the rain clouds,
Waken the lightning, smite the great thunder-drums.
Joyous to watch him win every battle . . .
Now Thor is weary.
Time was when every God found joy in living.
’Neath the ash, Yggdrasil, at Urdar fountain,
Drank we the waters, ate Idun’s magic fruit,
Found youth unending.
Ziu, God of Battle, armed with his mighty sword—
Vali, the archer—Balder the beautiful—
His son, Forseti, wisest law-giver—
Fro, God of Sunshine—yea, even Bragi—
All dwelt in happiness here within Asgard. . . .
Now we are weary.
Bragi paused, and silence filled Gladsheim. Luther Schlacht scarcely breathed lest he displease the Gods. Then again Bragi stroked his golden harp and began to sing.
Over Asgard Wodan looked
Long and long ago.
He saw Valhalla’s chosen slain Battling on Asgard’s plain,
Dealing wounds that gave no pain.
Rising, feasting, to fight again.
He saw the Gods from first to last
In mold of dreary habit cast,
Their lives lived in a deathless past.
He bade the Gods at Gladsheim meet;
Saw each in his appointed seat
And said in accents drear:
“Our day is done.
The Norns have all their fabric spun.
The AEsir’s race is almost run—
I swear it by my spear.
“Now shall we sleep.
All Asgard is awearied by the play
Of feasting, fighting through an endless day.
In sleep profound, as deep
As dark Ginnunga-gap, the Great Abyss,
We rest until the Midgard snake shall hiss.
“And none will call
The AEsir. All the Gods, the warrior slain,
Will sleep in peace until for Vigrid’s plain
They leave each golden hall.
/> The Giallar-hom will wake us with its breath,
And Ragnarok will bring its promised death.”
Again Bragi fell silent. His deep-set eyes seemed to be peering into vistas of memory awakened by his song. Luther Schlacht looked narrowly at Wodan. The great bearded head had sunk against his chest, and his great hands hung limply from his knees. He stole a glance at Donar, whom the Gods called Thor, and he looked away hastily. Those fierce red eyes were fixed on him unwaveringly.
At long last Bragi picked up the thread of song. His words came slowly at first, and softly, then gradually they came faster, louder:
Then Wodan bowed his head and slept,
And over Asgard slumber crept;
Unbroken silence fell.
Time, walked heavy with years unborn,
Waiting the blast of Giallar-horn
To break the God-cast spell.
But ere the day Wodan decreed,
Faint voices whispered, “Gods give heed;
We worship thee alone.
A northern warrior race we are
Who call upon thee from afar—
O Gods, hear thou thine own!”
Unceasingly those voices came,
Those voices calling us by name,
Till sleep had left our eyes.
Awake at last, we sought for those
Whose prayers had shaken our repose—
And called you to the skies!
Bragi laid his harp upon his knees. Luther Schlacht’s gaze moved from face to face of the Gods before him, fearfully, not knowing what to expect. Then Wodan spoke.
“That is the tale, warrior. Tell the leaders of your race that we want none of their worship. We seek only rest. Tell them to call upon other gods. If they do not let us rest—”
Thor thundered, “If they do not let us rest, I’ll gird me with my belt Megin-Giord, and I’ll take Miolnir the crusher, and I’ll smite your land from the face of Midgard. Tell them that, and may they heed!” The cloak of years seemed to drop from Thor as he whirled his hammer about his head. Faint thunder rumbled through Gladsheim, and lightning sparks flashed from the whirling weapon.
“Go, warrior,” Wodan said solemnly. “Go and tell what you have seen and heard. And even as Thor has said—woe to your race if they do not cease their praying.”
Stiffly, Luther Schlacht strode from the golden hall. His mind was completely numbed. He could not think, could not have told his own name. His feet began to rise and fall in a rhythmic march. Rose and fell, rose . . .
And fell. And strains of martial music blared in his startled ears.
Before him he saw a square-shouldered figure, one of a long, straight line of marching men. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the stone figure of the Leader that they had just passed. Had—had all that happened—or had he dreamed it in—in the time of a single step? If—if only he could think . . . His jaws tightened. He knew what he had seen, and he knew what he must do.
Mechanically, he marched with his comrades. He pivoted with the precision born of long practice and turned into a hollow, at its center the altar where the sacrifice would be made. From the opposite side came another marching company. His heart pounded. The—Elder Gods did not want their worship, and he must tell it, must tell those in command. Dull wonder oppressed him. Why had he been chosen, he who had such a small mastery of words?
The cadence slowed; they marched in place. Suddenly, Luther Schlacht broke ranks, darting between the lines. Marchers faltered. Cries of protest arose, and as he ran toward the platform where the Leaders stood, someone shut off the music. During the moment of stunned silence Luther Schlacht sprang to the dais.
“Comrades,” he shouted, “I have seen a vision. I am not good with words, but I have been commanded to tell what I have seen. The Gods, Wodan, Donar and the rest—they do not want our worship. They have been asleep for centuries, and they want only to continue sleeping. We have disturbed them—”
A red-faced officer reached him at that instant and clutched his shoulder, spinning him around. “Fool,” he rasped. “Idiot! I’ll disturb you! Sacrilege! Your name?”
Instinctively, Luther Schlacht’s fist drew back and struck the officer’s jaw. The hand fell away from his shoulder. He must tell what he had seen and none could stop him.
“Hear, comrades! I was marching toward the temple—then in an instant I was lifted up, and I was marching in Asgard on a great highway! And I saw the Gods, comrades—I saw Wodan, Donar, Ziu, Bragi, and the others—with my own eyes I saw them. And they bade me tell that we must stop our worship. I saw Valhalla—and none of our race are there. Our Leaders’ teachings are false—lies—”
As though a closed switch had released the waters of a dam, a great, angry roar surged through the temple. And like the waters of a dam the mass of men swept toward him. Hands reached for him, hands that sought to rend and crush, hands that he kicked futilely while he shouted of Donar and his threats. Those hands bore him from the platform, and blows were showered upon him, blows he scarcely felt.
Words hammered in his brain, solemn words of Wodan: “Woe to your race if they do not cease their praying . . .” The thought vanished in a cloud of blackness as something thudded against the head of Luther Schlacht.
Dully, Luther Schlacht looked through the barred entrance of the prison toward the nearby forest. There was a puzzled glint in his blue eyes, and a hint of anger in the twist of his full lips. He thought of many things as he stood there watching the play of sunlight through the leaves. He thought of the mockery of a trial a week ago when again he had told of his vision. He thought of the laughter. He thought of the Leader, and for the first time since he was able to think, he saw him only as a man of the past who had deluded them all with lies—lies!
There would be little time for him to think. He had been condemned—not to the executioner’s axe, as he had expected—but to something worse. Because of the nature of his crime, because of his unparalleled sacrilege, he would be the first human sacrifice to the Elder Gods. Since his offense was against the Gods, it was to them he must atone. And since the Underground even now hovered on the brink of a break to freedom, was awaiting the psychological moment to strike, it was fitting that they make a great sacrifice.
All of today was to be spent by the faithful in prayer and fasting, and tonight, with the setting sun, he would be marched to the temple, would be bound to the altar—would die! He scowled. Would die in the stead of cattle. Why had this befallen him? He had meant no harm, had only obeyed orders.
With slowly mounting fear Luther Schlacht watched the shadows of dusk creep through the forest. Nervously, he paced the floor of the delapidated building, moving to the limit of the chain attached to his leg iron. Left alone in the room, he had tested the anchorage of the chain, but there was no possibility of his breaking loose. With growing fear he watched the dusk deepen. Doubts assailed him. Had he imagined his vision? “Woe to your race—” When would the Gods act?
Through the gloom he saw two men approaching, one his friend Hans Schmale. He straightened, stood at attention. He was a soldier. Hans gave no sign of recognition as he unlocked the manacle. Soberly, they led him out, their feet rising and falling with the regularity of the drill field. They passed through the strip of woods, and Luther Schlacht saw a platoon of soldiers waiting near the hidden entrance to the tunnels, a gap for three men in their ranks.
He glanced toward the setting sun, his last glimpse of it, he thought. Then he gasped and halted, pointing. He heard an amazed growl, then:
“Mighty Allfather—planes! We’ve been betrayed!”
A stunned instant, then: “There are hundreds . . . Quick, the temple!” And Luther Schlacht stood alone, forgotten.
Puzzled, he looked into the murky red of the western sky, past the jagged teeth of wrecked buildings. What had they meant—planes? There were no planes. Only a great black cloud hiding the sun, and the chariot of Donar riding upon the cloud. The God had come as he had said, and they spoke of plane
s.
A giant, Donar, standing upright in his great brazen chariot, his red hair and beard bristling, angry fire leaping from his eyes, his mighty hammer held aloft. Two great goats drew him across the heavens, sparks flying from their swift hoofs. It was strange; though the great black cloud, spreading over more and more of the sky, was clearly visible, Donar and his chariot seemed like a vision, dimly seen through the dusk. Yet he could hear plainly the rumble and drone of the chariot wheels. And now the Thunder-God began to hurl Miolnir the Smiter.
Luther Schlacht heard a muffled roar, saw a spurt of angry fire. Another roar—and another—then an endless din. There arose flames, and sluggish yellow-gray smoke. And that cloud continued spreading. Now it was above him, and he could no longer see the God. But the roar of the chariot wheels had become deafening, and he could see gaping openings where the mighty blasts penetrated into the heart of the Underground, imagined he could hear faint screams in the tumult.
Detachedly, Luther Schlacht wondered at his own calm. Yet why should this excite him? He had been warned. He sat on a crumbled wall to watch the destruction.
He was still sitting there when a world-engulfing detonation burst nearby. And even as he died, Luther Schlacht wondered vaguely if he—who had obeyed the Elder Gods—might not awaken in Valhalla.
Forgotten Fiction Page 72