«Now they’ve got me,» he thought. He rolled over, his head swimming from the jar. But it was not he they were interested in. The giant over whose legs he had fallen was Heimdall, his wig knocked askew to reveal a patch of golden hair. The straw with which he had stuffed his jacket was dribbling out. He was struggling to get up; around him a group of fire giants were gripping his arms and legs, kicking and cuffing at him. There was a babble of rough voices:
«He’s one of the Æsir, all right!» «Sock him!» «Let’s get out of here!» «Which one is he?» «Get the horses!»
If he could get away, Shea thought, he could at least take news of Heimdall’s plight to Thor. He started to crawl behind the projecting root of a tree, but the movement was fatal. One of the fire giants hallooed: «There’s another one!»
Shea was caught, jerked upright, and inspected by half a dozen of the filthy gorilla-like beings. They took particular delight in palling his hair and ears.
«Aw,» said one of them, «he’s no As. Bump him off and let’s get t’ hell out of here.»
One of them loosened a knife at his belt. Shea felt a deadly constriction of fear around the heart. But the largest of the lot — leadership seemed to go with size in giantland — roared:
«Lay off! He was with that yellow-headed stumper. Maybe he’s one of the Vanir and we can get something for him. Anyway, it’s up to Lord Sun. Where the hell are those horses?»
At that moment more fire giants appeared, leading a group of horses. They were glossy black and bigger than the largest Percherons Shea had ever seen. Three hoofs were on each foot, as with the ancestral Miocene horse; their eyes glowed red like live coals and their breath made Shea cough. He remembered the phrase he had heard Heimdall whispering to Odinn in Sverre’s house — «fire horses.»
One of the giants produced leather cords from a pouch. Shea and Heimdall were bound with brutal efficiency and tossed on the back of one of the horses, one hanging down on either side. The giants clucked to their mounts, which started off at a trot through the gathering dusk among the trees.
Far behind them the thunders of Thor still rolled. From time to rime his distant lightnings cast sudden shadows along their path. The redbeard was certainly having fun.
SEVEN
The agonizing hours that followed left little detailed impression on Harold Sheas mind — They would not, he told himself even while experiencing them. The impression was certainly painful while being undergone. There was nothing to see but misty darkness; nothing to feel but breakneck speed and the torment of his bonds. He could twist his head a little, but of their path could obtain no impression but now and then the ghost of a boulder or a clump of trees momentarily lit by the fiery eyes of the horses. Every time he thought of the speed they were making along the rough and winding route his stomach crawled and the muscles of his right leg tensed as he tried to apply an imaginary automobile brake.
When the sky finally turned to its wearisome blotting-paper grey the air was a little wanner, though still raw. A light drizzle was sifting down. They were in a countryside of a type totally unfamiliar to Shea. A boundless plain of tumbled black rock rose here and there to cones of varying size. Some of the cones smoked, and little pennons of steam wafted from cracks in the basalt. The vegetation consisted mostly of clumps of small palmlike tree ferns in the depressions.
They had slowed down to a fast trot, the horses picking their way over the ropy bands of old lava flows. Now and again one or more fire giants would detach themselves from the party and set off on a tangent to the main course.
Finally, a score of the giants clustered around the horse that bore the prisoners, making towards a particularly large cone from whose flanks a number of smoke plumes rose through the drizzle. To Shea the fire giants still looked pretty much alike, but he had no difficulty in picking out the big authoritative one who had directed his capture.
They halted in front of a gash in the rock. The giants dismounted, and one by one led their steeds through the opening. The animals’ hoofs rang echoing on the rock floor of the passage, which sprang above their heads in a lofty vault till it suddenly ended with a right-angled turn. The cavalcade halted; Shea heard a banging of metal on metal, the creak of a rusty hinge, and a giant voice chat cried: «Whatcha want?»
«It’s the gang, back from Jötunheim. We got one of the Æsir and a Van. Tell Lord Surt.»
«Howdja make out at Utgard?»
«Lousy. Thor showed up. He spotted the hammer somehow, the scum, and called it to him and busted things wide open. It was that smart-aleck Loki, I think.»
«What was the matter with the Sons of the Wolf? They know what to do about old Red Whiskers.»
«Didn’t show. I suppose we gotta wait for the Time for them to come around.»
The horses tramped on. As they passed the gatekeeper, Shea noticed that he held a sword along which flickered a yellow flame with thick, curling smoke rising from it, as though burning oil were running down the blade. Ahead and slanting downward, the place they had entered seemed an underground hall of vaguely huge proportions, full of great pillars. Flares of yellow light threw changing shadows as they moved. There was a stench of sulphur and a dull, machinelike banging. As the horses halted behind some pillars that grew together to make another passage, a thin shriek ulutated in the distance: «Eee-e-e.»
«Bring the prisoners along,» said a voice. «Lord Surt wants to judge ’em.»
Shea felt himself removed and tucked under a giant’s arm like a bundle. It was a method of progress that woke all the agonies in his body. The giant was carrying him face down, so that he could see nothing but the stone floor with its flickering shadows. The place stank.
The door opened and there was a babble of giant voices. Shea was flung upright. He would have fallen if the giant who had been carrying him had not propped him up. He was in a torchlit hall, very hot, with fire giants standing all around grinning, pointing, and talking, some of them drinking.
But he had no more than a glance for them. Right in front, facing him, flanked by two guards who carried the curious burning swords, sat the biggest giant of all — a giant dwarf. That is, he was a full giant in size, at least eleven feet tall, but with the squat bandy legs, the short arms and huge neckless head of a dwarf. His hair hung lank around the nastiest grin Shea had ever seen. When he spoke, the voice had not the rumble of the other giants, but a reedy, mocking falsetto:
«Welcome, Lord Heimdall, to Muspellheim! We are delighted to have you here.» He snickered. «I fear gods and men will be somewhat late in assembling for the battle without their horn blower. Hee, hee, hee. But, at least, we can give you the comforts of one of our best dungeons. If you must have music, we will provide a willow whistle. Hee, hee, hee. Surely so skilled a musician as yourself could make it heard throughout the nine worlds.» He ended with another titter at his own humour.
Heimdall kept his air of dignity. «Bold are your words, Surt,» he replied, «but it is yet to be seen whether your deeds match them when you stand on Vigrid Plain. It may be that I have small power against you of the Muspellheim blood. Yet I have a brother named Frey, and it is said that if you two come face to face, he will be your master.»
Surt sucked two fingers to indicate his contempt. «Hee, hee, hee. It is also said, most stupid of godlings, that Frey is powerless without his sword. Would you like to know where the enchanted blade. Hundingshana, is? Look behind you, Lord Heimdall!»
Shea followed the direction of Heimdall’s eyes. Sure enough, on the wall there hung a great two-handed sword, its blade gleaming brightly in that place of glooms, its hilt all worked with gold up to the jewelled pommel.