"You are both mad," broke in Hakon Shorri's son. "It was a goat you saw-I saw the horns that grew upon its head-"
"Thor's blood," snarled Wulfhere, "be silent-listen!"
Within the temple had sounded the echo of a sharp, incredulous cry; a sudden, demonic rapping as of fantastic hoofs on marble flags; the rasp of a sword from its scabbard, and a heavy blow. Wulfhere gripped his axe and took the first step of a headlong charge for the portals. Then from between the columns, in silent haste, came Cormac Mac Art. Wulfhere's eyes widened and a slow horror crept over him, for never till this moment had he seen the steel nerves of the lean, Gael shaken-yet now the color was gone from Cormac's face and his eyes stared like those of a man who has looked into dark, nameless gulfs. His blade dripped red.
"What in the name of Thor-?" growled Wulfhere, peering fearfully into the shadow-haunted shrine.
Cormac wiped away beads of cold sweat and moistened his lips.
"By the blood of the gods," he said, "we have stumbled upon an abomination-or else I am mad! From the inner gloom it came bounding and capering-suddenly-and it almost had me in its grasp before I had sense enough to draw and strike. It leaped and capered like a goat, but ran upright-and in the dim light it was not unlike a man."
"You are mad," said Wulfhere uneasily; his mythology did not include satyrs.
"Well," snapped Cormac, "the thing lies upon the flags within; follow me, and I will prove to you whether I am mad."
He turned and strode through the columns, and Wulfhere followed, axe ready, his Vikings trailing behind him in close formation and going warily. They passed between the columns, which were plain and without ornamentation of any kind, and entered the temple. Here they found themselves within a broad hall flanked with squat pillars of black stone-and these indeed were carved. A squat figure squatted on the top of each, as upon a pedestal, but in the dim light it was impossible to make out what sort of beings these figures represented, though there was an abhorrent hint of abnormality about each shape.
"Well," said Wulfhere impatiently, "where is your monster?"
"There he fell," said Cormac, pointing with his sword, "and-by the black gods!" The flags lay bare.
"Moon-mist and madness," said Wulfhere, shaking his head. "Celtic superstition. You see ghosts, Cormac!"
"Yes?" snapped the badgered Gael. "Who saw a troll on the beacon of Helgoland and roused the whole camp with shouts and bellowings? Who kept the band under arms all night and kept men feeding the fires till they nearly dropped, to scare away the things of darkness?"
Wulfhere growled uncomfortably and glared at his warriors as if to challenge anyone to laugh.
"Look," said Cormac, bending closer. On the tiling was a wide smear of blood, freshly spilt. Wulfhere took a single glance and then straightened quickly, glaring into the shadows. His men bunched closer, facing outward, beards a-bristle. A tense silence reigned.
"Follow me," said Cormac in a low tone, and they pressed close at his heels as he walked warily down the broad corridor. Apparently no entrance opened between the brooding, evil pillars. Ahead of them the shadows paled and they came forth into a broad circular chamber with a domed ceiling. Around this chamber were more pillars, regularly spaced, and in the light that flowed somehow through the dome the warriors saw the nature of those pillars and the shapes that crowned them. Cormac swore between his teeth and Wulfhere spat. The figures were human, and not even the most perverse and degenerate geniuses of decadent Greece and later Rome could have conceived such obscenities or breathed into the tortured stone such foul life. Cormac scowled. Here and there in the sculpturing the unknown artists had struck a cord of unrealness-a hint of abnormality beyond any human deformity. These touches roused in him a vague uneasiness, a crawling, shuddersome half-fear that lurked white-maned and grisly at the back of his mind…
The thought that he had briefly entertained, that he had seen and slain an hallucination, vanished.
Besides the doorway through which they had entered the chamber, four other portals showed-narrow, arched doorways, apparently without doors. There was no altar visible. Cormac strode to the center of the dome and looked up; its shadowy hollow arched above him, sullen and brooding. His gaze sought the floor on which he stood and he noted the pattern-of tiling rather than flags, and laid in a design the lines of which converged to the center of the floor. The focus of that design was a single, broad, octagonal slab on which he was standing…
Then, even as he realized that he was standing on that slab, it fell away silently from under his feet and he felt himself plunging into an abyss beneath.
Only the Gael's superhuman quickness saved him. Thorfinn Jarl's-bane was standing nearest him and, as the Gael dropped, he shot out a long arm and clutched at the Dane's sword-belt. The desperate fingers missed, but closed on the scabbard-and, as Thorfinn instinctively braced his legs, Cormac's fall was checked and he swung suspended, life hanging on the grip of his single hand and the strength of the scabbard loops. In an instant Thorfinn had seized his wrist, and Wulfhere, leaping forward with a roar of alarm, added the grasp of his huge hand. Between them they heaved the Gael up out of the gaping blackness, Cormac aiding them with a twist and a lift of his rangy form that swung his legs up over the brink.
"Thor's blood!" ejaculated Wulfhere, more shaken by the experience than was Cormac. "It was touch and go then… By Thor, you still hold your sword!"
"When I drop it, life will no longer be in me," said Cormac. "I mean to carry it into hell with me. But let me look into this gulf that opened beneath me so suddenly."
"More traps may fall," said Wulfhere uneasily.
"I see the sides of the well," said Cormac, leaning and peering, "but my gaze is swiftly swallowed in darkness… What a foul stench drifts up from below!"
"Come away," said Wulfhere hurriedly. "That stench was never born on earth. This well must lead into some Roman Hades-or mayhap the cavern where the serpent drips venom on Loki."
Cormac paid no heed. "I see the trap now," said he. "That slab was balanced on a sort of pivot, and here is the catch that supported it. How it was worked I can't say, but this catch was released and the slab fell, held on one side by the pivot…"
His voice trailed away. Then he said, suddenly: "Blood-blood on the edge of the pit!"
"The thing you slashed," grunted Wulfhere. "It has crawled into the gulf."
"Not unless dead things crawl," growled Cormac. "I killed it, I tell you. It was carried here and thrown in. Listen!"
The warriors bent close; from somewhere far down-an incredible distance, it seemed-there came a sound: a nasty, squashy, wallowing sound, mingled with noises indescribable and unrecognizable.
With one accord the warriors drew away from the well and, exchanging silent glances, gripped their weapons.
"This stone won't burn," growled Wulfhere, voicing a common thought. "There's no loot here and nothing human. Let's be gone."
"Wait!" The keen-eared Gael threw up his head like a hunting hound. He frowned, and drew nearer to one of the arched openings.
"A human groan," he whispered. "Did you not hear it?"
Wulfhere bent his head, cupping palm to ear. "Aye-down that corridor."
"Follow me," snapped the Gael. "Stay close together. Wulfhere, grip my belt; Hrothgar, hold Wulfhere's, and Hakon, Hrothgar's. There may be more pits. The rest of you dress your shields, and each man keep close touch with the next."
So in a compact mass they squeezed through the narrow portal and found the corridor much wider than they had thought for. There it was darker, but further down the corridor they saw what appeared to be a patch of light.
They hastened to it and halted. Here indeed it was lighter, so that the unspeakable carven obscenities thronging the wall were cast into plain sight. This light came in from above, where the ceiling had, been pierced with several openings-and, chained to the wall among the foul carvings, hung a naked form. It was a man who sagged on the chains that held him half erect. At first Cormac thought him dead-and, staring at the grisly mutilations that had been wrought upon him, decided it was better so. Then the head lifted slightly, and a low, moan sighed through the pulped lips.