Лайон Спрэг Де Камп Array - The Incomplete Enchanter

A chorus of yells announced that Utgardaloki’s cat had arrived. It was a huge beast, grey, and the size of a puma. But it did not look too big for the burly Thor to lift. It glared suspiciously at Thor and spat a little.

Utgardaloki rumbled: «Quiet, you. Ain’tcha got no manners?» The cat subsided and allowed Thor to scratch it behind the ears, though with no appearance of pleasure.

How had he seen through the illusion of the eating contest? Shea asked himself. A teardrop in the eye. Would he have to bang his head again to get another one? He closed his eyes and then opened them again, looking at Thor as he put an arm around the big cat’s belly and heaved. No teardrop. The cats belly came up, but its four big paws remained firmly planted.

How to induce a teardrop? A mug of mead stood on the table. Shea dipped a finger into the liquid and shook a drop into his eye. The alcohol burned and stung, and he could hear Thor’s grunt and the whooping of the giants. He shook his head and opened the eye again. Through a film of tears, as he repeated «Sudri — Nordri — Nidi — Nyi —» It was not a cat Thor was lifting, but the middle part of a snake as big around as a barrel. There was no sign of head or tail; the visible section was of uniform thickness, going in one door of the hall and out the other.

«Loki!» he said. «That’s not a cat. It’s a giant snake that Thor’s trying to lift!»

«With a strange shimmering blackish cast over its scales?»

«Yes; and no head or tail in sight.»

«Now, right good are your eyes, eater of turnips! That will be nothing less than the Midgard Serpent that curls round the earth! Surely we are surrounded by evil things. Hurry with the finding of the hammer, for this is now our only hope.»

* * *

Shea turned from the contest, making a desperate effort to concentrate. He looked at the nearest object, an aurochs skull on a pillar, tried another drop of mead in his eye and repeated the spell, forward, backward, and forward. No result. The skull was a skull. Thor was still grunting and heaving. Shea tried once more on a knife hanging at a giant’s belt. No result.

He looked at a quiver of arrows on the opposite wall and tried again. «The sweet mead was sticking his eyelashes together and he felt sure he would have a headache after this. The quiver blurred as he pronounced the words. He found himself looking at a short-handled sledge hammer hanging by a rawhide loop.

Thor had given up the effort to lift the cat and came over to them, panting. Utgardaloki grinned down at him with the indulgence one might show a child. All around the giants were breaking up into little groups and calling for more drink.

«Want any more, sonny boy?» the giant chieftain sneered. «Guess you ain’t so damn good as you thought you was, huh?»

Shea plucked at Thor’s sleeve as the latter flushed and started to retort. «Can you call your hammer to you?» he whispered.

The giant’s ear caught the words. «Beat it, thrall,» he said belligerently. «We got business to settle and I won’t have no snotty little mortals butting in. Now, Asa-Thor, do you want any more contests?»

«I —» began Thor again.

Shea clung to his arm. « Can you ?» he demanded.

«Aye, if it be in view.»

«I said get outta here, punk!» bellowed Utgardaloki, the rough good nature vanishing from his face. He raised an arm like a tree trunk.

«Point at that quiver of arrows and call!» shouted Shea. He dodged behind Thor as the giant’s arm descended. The blow missed. He scuttled among the crowding monsters, hitting his head against the pommel of a giant’s sword. Utgardaloki was roaring behind him. He ducked under a table and past some foul-smelling fire giants. He heard a clang of metal as Thor pulled on the iron gloves he carried at his belt. Then over all other sounds rose the voice of the red-bearded god, making even Utgardaloki’s voice sound like a whisper:

«Mjöllnir the mighty, slayer of miscreants, come to your master, Thor Odinnsson!»

For a few breathless seconds the hall hung in suspended animation. Shea could see a giant just in front of him with mouth wide open, Adam’s apple rising and falling. Then there was a rending snap. With a deep humming, the hammer that had seemed a quiver of arrows flew straight through the air into Thor’s hands.

There was a deafening yell from the swarms of giants They swayed back, then forward, squeezing Shea so tightly he could hardly breathe. High over the tumult rose the voice of Thor:

«I am Thor! I am the Thunderer! Ho, ho, hohoho, yoyoho!» The hammer was whirling round his head in a blur, sparks dancing round it. Level flashes of lightning cracked across the hall followed by deafening peals of thunder. There was a shriek from the giants and a rush towards the doors.

Shea shot one glimpse as the hammer flew at Utgardaloki and spattered his brains into pink oatmeal, rebounding back into Thor’s gloves. Then he was caught completely in the panic rush and almost squeezed to death. Fortunately for him, the giants on either side wedged him so tightly he couldn’t fall to be trampled.

The pressure suddenly gave way in front. Shea caught the giant ahead of him around the waist and hung on. Behind came Thor’s battle howl, mingled with constant thunder and the sound of the hammer shattering giant skulls — a noise that in a calmer moment Shea might have compared to that made by dropping a watermelon ten storeys. The Wielder of Mjöllnir was thoroughly enjoying himself; his shouts were like the noise of a happy express train.

Shea found himself outside and running across damp moss in the middle of hundreds of galloping giants and thralls. He dared not stop lest he be stepped on. An outcrop of rock made him swerve. As he did so he caught sight of Utgard. There was already a yawning gap at one end of the roof. The central beam split; a spear of blue-green lightning shot skyward, and the place began to burn brightly around the edges of the rent.

A clump of trees cut off the view. Shea ran downhill with giants still all around him. One of the group just ahead missed his footing and went rolling. Before Shea could stop, he had tripped across the fellow’s legs, his face ploughing up cold dirt and pine needles. A giant’s voice shouted: Hey, gang! Look at this!»

«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.»