I moored the plane between two boulders and removed my flying togs to don regulation exploring clothes for Arctic weather. With a pack of food pellets and blankets on my back, I began to climb the jagged, craggy wall.
Gasping for breath, I reached the rim of the lofty cliffs. Cold sea winds buffeted me, and the boom of bursting breakers came muffledly from below. Harshly screaming sea-gulls soared and circled around me.
To my right lay the edge of the cliffs. To my left, a strip of heather ended in a forest of fir trees, bending in the wind. Beyond the dark fir forest, shaggy, wooded hills rose steeply. Toward the south lay the greater part of the land, rising into higher forested hills. It was a wild northern landscape, bleak, harsh, inhospitable. Yet somehow I relished being alone among screaming winds and gulls, and booming surf, and groaning trees.
I stared at the towering little island I had glimpsed. Its cliffs rose sheer from the green sea for a thousand feet. Its flat top was on a level with the mainland, and separated from it only by a narrow, deep chasm through which the ocean surged.
But upon the island itself rose massed gray towers — buildings! Great castles stood out boldly against the gray, tossing sky, grouped into an amazing city on the small plateau. From the island to the mainland sprang the arch of a stupendous bridge. The flying bow of stone soared up and out for hundreds of feet. Painted in brilliant red and blue and yellow, it gleamed like a fixed rainbow.
A rainbow bridge, leading to the high eyrie of great gray castles! Into my mind rushed the stupefying memory of the legends I had read so recently — Asgard, the fabled city of the Norse gods — the rainbow bridge that connected their abode with Midgard.
Was I looking upon the city of the Aesir? Impossible! Yet this place was real…
Chapter III
Jotun and Aesir
A cry in the unhuman uproar startled me. I whirled around. A horse and rider were charging along the edge of the cliff, coming from the south.
"Good Lord!" I gasped. "Must everything be like a dream?"
The rider of that charging black steed was a young woman, but like none I had ever seen before. She wore a winged metal helmet, beneath which her bright yellow hair streamed like flame in the wind. Blue eyes flared hatred out of a beautiful, angry face. Her dress was a gleaming brynja, or coat of ringed mail, over a kirtle. Her white knees were bare, gripping the saddle. As she urged her mount down upon me, a straight, light sword flashed in her hand.
"You dare spy upon Asgard, Jotun dog!" she cried fiercely in a language that was remarkably close to Norwegian. "Death for that!"
Then that high eyrie of great gray castles was Asgard, home of the legendary Aesir! And this wrathful Viking maid took me for a Jotun, one of the race who were mortal enemies of the Aesir! Was I dreaming all this, or had I actually stumbled somehow into the land of ancient Viking legend?
Then I woke to realization of my peril. As the woman's sword stabbed toward my breast, I ducked under it. I felt the blade scream above my head as her horse thundered past. Swiftly I reached up and grabbed her outstretched mail-clad arm. My hold tore her from the saddle.
The sword flew from her grasp as she fell. But she was up and darting toward it in a single motion. I leaped after her and caught her before she could reach the weapon. She fought like a tigress. The strength of her slender, mail-clad body was amazing. Her small fist struck my mouth furiously.
"Scum of Jotunheim!" she hissed. I finally succeeded in pinning her arms to her sides. Her white face, inches away from my own, was blazing with rage, her sea-blue eyes stormy in wild anger. She was beautiful, with a vibrant loveliness like that of a tempest. Her helmeted, golden head came only to my chin, but her blue eyes glared into mine without a trace of fear.
"You'll dangle from the walls of Asgard for daring to lay hands on me, Jotun!" she snapped.
She spoke a strangely antique form of the Norwegian tongue. I answered in the Norwegian I knew.
"Why did you try to kill me?" I asked. "I'm not your enemy."
"You are a Jotun, an enemy to the Aesir," she declared. "You have the dark hair of a true Jotun dog, even though you have chosen to dress in outlandish garments. And you dared spy on Asgard!"
In the old legends, I remembered, the mighty Aesir had been fair-haired. Their mortal enemies, the Jotuns, had been dark-haired.
"I am no Jotun," I said earnestly. "I have but newly come to this land, from far across the outer ice."
She laughed scornfully. "Do you think I believe that you have come from beyond frozen Niffleheim? Your lie is not even clever. Why do you delay in killing me? Death is preferable to your touch, Jotun. And the death of Freya will soon be avenged."
"Freya?" I gasped.
This woman was Freya, whom the old Vikings had worshipped — Freya of the white hands, loveliest of the Aesir? It was impossible! She was real, warm, panting with hate as she sought to free herself. Yet she had spoken of Asgard. That distant eyrie of gray castle was Asgard, just as the legends had described it, even to the flying rainbow bridge that connected it with the mainland.
"I can't understand, Freya," I faltered, still holding her. "My name is Keith Masters. I came from beyond the ice — Niffleheim, as you call it."
For a moment, doubt softened her stony blue eyes. Then she looked past me, and they became bitter and hate-filled again.
"You need lie no longer. Here are your Jotun comrades now, come to help you."
I turned, appalled. Eight men were approaching stealthily, after tethering their horses at the edge of the forest. They were taller even than I. Their hair was black as mine, and hung down in shaggy locks from under cap-like metal helmets. They wore armor tunics of overlapping metal scales, and high buskins on their feet, and carried swords and shields. Their faces were black-bearded, brutal.
"He is the man — kill him!" a brawny man bellowed, pointing to me with his sword.
They rushed forward. Freya's sword lay near my feet. I released the woman and snatched up the weapon. As I faced the Jotuns, I glimpsed Freya staring in wonder from me to the charging barbarians. I heard their captain shouting orders.
"Strike them both down. Be sure the man does not escape!"
They came at me in a bunch. The light, straight sword in my hand flashed out viciously. I was a fair hand with a saber, for it was a sport I had practiced in university days. Except for its straightness, this sword was like the blades I had used.
It bit through a Jotun throat, then swung in a slicing slash at his nearest comrade's neck. Both men crumpled, but the others came on. I knew I was done for. Real life isn't like the movies. One man just can't stand off six in a sword fight.
"We are at the edge of the cliff," Freya said calmly. "Another step backward and we fall."
"Take care not to push the man over the cliff," shouted the Jotun captain apprehensively. "We must not lose his body!"
Whatever its reason, their caution gave me a chance I would not have had otherwise. I stood up against their stabbing blades, fending off savage thrusts. But such a battle could not go on for long. Already my arm was tiring, and I was exhausted by all I had gone through.
"He weakens!" roared the Jotun captain. "Thrust home!"
At that moment I heard a thunder of approaching hoofs.
"Help comes!" Freya cried. "My kinsman and the Jarl Thor!"
The Jotun warriors stopped and swung around. A bellow of rage and terror went up from them. Two riders were charging toward us, from Asgard, followed by a hurrying troop. One was a helmeted, gold-haired man, whose handsome face was wild with anger. The other's red face and small eyes were blazing. His yellow beard bristling, he swung a huge hammer that to me seemed his only weapon.