"Jarls and captains of the Aesir," Odin boomed. "Drink welcome to the Jarl Keith, our guest and friend from beyond Niffleheim."
"Skoal to the Jarl Keith!" roared bearded Thor, winking jovially at me as he raised his huge drinking-horn.
"Skoal!" pealed Freya's silver voice. Every voice in Valhalla hall repeated the greeting. Hundreds of drinking-horns were raised. Odin waved me toward a seat at his table of nobles, between Freya and the delicately lovely wife of Thor. As I took the chair, serving-maids brought me a great slab of beef on a platter, and a horn of mead. I tasted the drink curiously. It was thin, sweet and potent.
Freya leaned toward me. She was dressed now like the other Aesir ladies, in a long white linen gown. Her bright hair was bound by a silver circlet, her dress belted by a heavy metal girdle studded with flashing emeralds.
"Shall I name the others for you, Jarl Keith? You will meet them all soon."
At my right, beyond giant Thor and his wife, sat three other sons of Odin — Vidar, Vali and Hermod, tall and fair-haired, stalwart men all. There was Heimdall, the warder of Asgard gate, whom I had already seen. Niord was a squat, jovial bald man of middle age, with his wife Skadi. Forseti was a sober young man, apparently much respected by the other Aesir.
To my left, beyond Freya, sat Frey and his lovely wife, Gerda. Beyond them were Bragi, a gentle-looking man with dreaming eyes, his wife, the noble-featured Idun; Aegir, a gaunt, white-bearded old sea-king, and his aged wife, Ran. At the- table-end sat Tyr, a young man but most gloomy and silent of any in the hall. Drinking moodily, he watched the merry feasters with brooding eyes.
"Tyr is always dark and silent," Freya explained, "but not in battle. He is a berserk."
I remembered the legend of the berserks — men who went blood-mad in battle, and fought with unhuman frenzy, without mail.
"How is it that some of you are old, if the radiation keeps you all from aging?" I asked.
"They were old when the catastrophe first kindled the radiation below. Since then, none of them has grown older. The few children born here grow normally till they reach maturity, and then do not age further."
"You've all lived here in Asgard for centuries on centuries," I muttered. "It seems repulsive."
"Not all of us, Jarl Keith," said Freya. "I am not centuries old!"
She smiled when I looked at her doubtfully.
"Your name was known and worshiped in the outer world centuries ago, Freya."
"My mother's mother was named Freya also," she explained. "She was sister to Frey, who sits beside you. She and her husband Odur were among the party of Aesir Odin mentioned, who perished in a mission beyond Niffleheim. But Freya left two daughters, Hnoss and Gersemi. Gersemi was my own mother. She perished from drowning twenty years ago, soon after I was born."
"Then you're really only twenty years old?" I exclaimed. "I'm glad of that!"
"Why should you be glad, Jarl Keith?" she asked quite innocently.
I was spared a reply by an interruption to the feast. Tall Heimdall stood up and called:
"A saga from the king of skalds, Bragi!"
When the feasters took up the cry, Bragi rose. Smiling, he went to a great harp at the end of the hall. His fingers touched the strings, and rippling, shivering music welled out. He sang in a clear, strong voice.
Bragi sang on, describing the migration of the Aesir from their disaster-smitten underworld, their repulse of the Jotuns, the hunt and the battle of their ships along Midgard's coast, and the fury of the sea.
"Skoal, Bragi!" roared the audience, and all raised their horns.
I drank with the others. The potent mead made me a little dizzy. I nearly forgot I was Keith Masters. I was the Jarl Keith, sitting beside Freya in Valhalla, feasting and shouting.
"Now for the games," Odin announced.
A gleeful yell came from the warriors.
"What games are these?" I asked.
"Sword-play with blunted blades, and wrestling," Freya said. "As a guest, Jarl Keith, you'll take part in them, of course."
I saw everyone looking expectantly at me. Somewhat sobered, I stood up.
"I'm but a fair swordsman, lord Odin," I said, "yet I'll join in."
"Who will try sword-play with the outland Jarl?" Odin asked.
"Tyr, you are our best swordsman."
"No, lord Odin, not I," the berserk Tyr answered broodingly. "You know that a sword in my hand brings the madness on me."
"I'll face Jarl Keith," said Frey, standing up and smiling at me.
We walked around to the open space in front of the tables. There we were given gauntlets, shields, and two long swords whose points had been cut off.
"Who delivers three stout blows on his opponent's helmet wins the game," Odin stated.
The game appeared dangerous to me, for our faces were quite unprotected. I hadn't much hope of besting Frey; but I was determined not to show any semblance of fear before Freya and these fierce warriors.
Frey's blade clashed against mine. Next instant, I realized I could never meet his equal. Centuries of practice had made him unhumanly skillful. His blade flew like a streak of light and crashed on my helmet. As I staggered from the stunning blow, he hit my helmet again. A roar went up from the crowd. Resentment gripped me, and I lashed out savagely at Frey's head.
By sheer luck, the unexpected stroke caught his mailed shoulder. When he stumbled, I smote down on his helmet.
"Well done, Jarl Keith!" roared the bull voice of Thor.
But Frey recovered before I did. His blade became a blur of steel in front of me. Grimly I tried to hold him off. But he soon got in his third blow.
"Are you hurt, Jarl Keith?" asked Frey solicitously.
"Only my pride," I said ruefully, as I put down the sword and shield.
Thor strode around the table to me. His bearded red face and little eyes were twinkling with jovial expectation.
"You look like a wrestler, Jarl from the outlands," he boomed. "Will you try a fall with me?"
"Aye, a match between Thor and the outland Jarl!" the audience shouted.
"Jarl Keith hasn't rested!" Freya cried indignantly to the Hammerer. "It's not fair!"
"I'm ready," I said coolly to Thor. I realized to the full that the chances of my overcoming the giant were infinitesimal. But I realized, too, that all this was a kind of hazing which these Vikings gave to any newcomer. Thor tossed aside his hammer. We faced each other, hands extended, seeking a grip.
I was a fair wrestler, and I knew that my only chance was to overcome Thor by a quick trick that he might not know.
As the giant grabbed for me, I slipped past him. Leaping to his back, I got a half-nelson on him before he could expect it.
A mighty shout went up from the watchers as they saw the Hammerer claw furiously to pull me loose. Furiously I hung on.
With one sturdy arm against the back of his heavily cabled neck, and my legs braced, I strained to force his huge head downward. For a moment I thought I had a chance to win the match. Then a bull-roar of rage came from Thor.
He jerked his head upward with such tremendous force that my hold was torn loose.