The troll listened, twitching with impatience, till Stegg’s footfall died away. Then he scurried out like a magnified rat and returned with his arms full of the articles Shea had ordered. He dumped them in the middle of the passage and with a few words opened the door of Shea’s and Heindall’s cell.
«Put our all but one of the torches,» said Shea. While Snögg was doing this the amateur magician went to work. Holding the beeswax over the brazier, he softened it enough to work and pressed it into conical shape, making two deep indentations on one side till it was a crude imitation of Snögg’s proboscis.
«Now,» he whispered to the popeyed troll, «get the water bucket. When I tell you, pour it into the brazier.»
Shea knelt before the brazier and blew into it. The coals brightened. He picked up a fistful of the driftwood chips and began feeding them onto the glowing charcoal, They caught, little varicoloured flames dancing across them. Shea, on his haunches and swaying to and fro, began his spelclass="underline"
«Witolf and Willharm,
Stand, my friends!
Andvari, Ymir,
Help me to my ends!
The Hag of the Ironwood
Shall be my aid;
By the spirit of Svarthead,
Let this spell be made!»
The beeswax, on the board above the brazier, was softening. Slowly the cone lost its shape and slumped. Transparent drops trickled over the edge of the board, hung redly in the grow, and dropped with a hiss and spurt of yellow flame into the brazier.
Shea chanted:
«Let wizards and warlocks
Combine and conspire
To make Snögg’s nose melt
Like the wax on this fire!»
The beeswax had become a mere fist-shaped lump. The trickle into the brazier was continuous: little flames rose yellowly and were reflected from the eyes of the breathlessly watching prisoners.
Shea stuffed handfuls of grass into the brazier. Thick rolls of smoke filled the dungeon. He moved his arms through the murk, wriggling the fingers and shouting:
«Hag of the Ironwood, I invoke you in the name of your subject!»
The waxen lump was tiny now. Shea leaned forward into the smoky half-light, his eyes smarting, and rapidly moulded it into something resembling the shape of an ordinary nose. «Pour, now!» he cried. Swoosh! went the water into the brazier, and everything was blotted from vision by a cloud of vapour.
He struggled away and to an erect position. Sweat was making little furrows in the dirt along his skin, with the sensation of insects crawling. «All right,» he said. «You can put the light back on now.» The next few seconds would tell whether his deception was going to work. if the other prisoners did not fail him — Snögg was going along the passage, lighting the extinguished torches from the one that remained. As the light increased and he turned to place one in its bracket on the opposite side of the wall, Shea joined involuntarily in the cry of astonishment that rose from every prisoner in the cells.
Snögg’s nose was no bigger than that of a normal human being.
Harold Shea was a warlock.
«Head feel funny,» remarked Snögg in a matter-of-fact tone.
NINE
The troll put the last torch in place and turned to Shea, caressing the new nose with a scaly hand. «Very good magic, Harald Warlock!» he said, chuckling and dancing a couple of steps. «Hail Elvagevu, you like me now!»
Shea stood rooted, trying to absorb events that seemed to have rushed past him. The only sound he could utter was «Guk!»
He felt Heimdall’s hand on his shoulder. «Well and truly was that spell cast,» said the Sleepless One. «Much profit may we have from it. Yet I should warn you, warlock, that it is ill to lie to the gods. Why did you tell me, at the Crossroads of the World, that you had no skill in magic?»
«Oh,» said Shea, unable to think of anything else, «I guess I’m just naturally modest. I didn’t wish to presume before you, sir.»
Snögg had gone off into a ludicrous hopping dance around the hall. «Beautiful me!» he squealed. «Beautiful me!»
Shea thought that Snögg, with or without nose, was about the ugliest thing he had ever seen. But there seemed little point in mentioning the fact. Instead, he asked, «How about getting us out of here now, friend Snögg?»
Snögg moderated his delight enough to say: «Will be do. Go your cage now. I come with clothes and weapon.»
Shea and Heimdall exchanged glances. It seemed hard to go back into that tiny cell, but they had to trust the troll now, so they went.
«Now it remains to be seen,» said Heimdall, «whether that scaly fish-eater has betrayed us. If he has —» He let his voice trail off.
«We might consider what we could do to him if he has,» grinned Shea. His astonishing achievement had boosted his morale to the skies.
«Little enough could I accomplish in this place of fire magic,» said Heimdail, gloomily, «but such a warlock as yourself could make his legs sprout into serpents.»
«Maybe,» said Shea. He couldn’t get used to the idea that he, of all people, could work magic. It was contrary to the laws of physics, chemistry, and biology. But then, where he was the laws of physics, chemistry and, biology had been repealed. He was under the laws of magic. His spell had conformed exactly to those laws, as explained by Dr. Chalmers. This was a world in which those laws were basic. The trick was that he happened to know one of those laws, while the general run of mortals — and trolls and gods, too — didn’t know them. Naturally, the spells would seem mysterious to them, just as the changing colour of two combined chemicals was mysterious to anyone who didn’t know chemistry. If he had only provided himself with a more elaborate knowledge of those laws instead of the useless flashlights, matches, and guns —
A tuneless whistle cut across his thoughts, It was Snögg, still beaming, carrying a great bundle of clothes and something long.
«Here clothes, Lords,» he grinned, the tendrils on his head writhing in a manner that no doubt indicated well-being, but which made Shea’s skin crawl, «Here swords, too. I carry till we outside, yes?» He held up a length of light chain. «You put round wrists, I lead you. Anybody stop, I say going to Lord Surt.»
«Hurry, Harald,» said Heimdall as Shea struggled into the unfamiliar garments. «There is yet hope, though it grows dim, that we may reach the other Æsir before they give my sword away.»
Shea was dressed. He and Heimdall took the middle and end of the chain, while Snögg tucked the other end in his belt and strode importantly before them, a huge sword in either hand. They were as big as Hundingsbana, but with plain hilts and rust-spotted blades. The troll carried them without visible effort.
Snögg opened the door at the end of the dungeon. «Now you keep quiet,» he said. «I say I take you to Surt. Look down, you much abused.»
One of the prisoners called softly. «Good luck go with you, friends, and do not forget us.» Then they were outside, shambling along the gloom of the tunnel. Shea hunched his shoulders forward and assumed as discouraged an expression as he could manage.
* * *
They passed a recess in the tunnel wall, where sat four trolls. Their tridents leaned beside them, and they were playing the game of odds-and-evens with their fingers. One of the four got up and called out something in troll language. Snögg responded in the same tongue, adding: «Lord Surt want.»
The troll looked dubious. «One guard not enough. Maybe they get away.»
Snögg rattled the chain. «Not this. Spell on this chain. Goinn almsorg thjalma.»
The troll seemed satisfied with the explanation and returned to his sport. The three stumbled on through the dimness past a big room hewn out of the rock, full of murky light and motion. Shea jumped as someone — a man from the voice — screamed, a long, high scream that ended with gasps of «Don’t. don’t. don’t.» There was only a glimpse of what was going on, but enough to turn the stomach.