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  There was a narrow gap between the stone beams and the crooked wooden purlins. Jerry forced his way up there, but then realized that wasn't going to help. He was going to be crushed into the rotten thatch.

  Luckily, the thatch turned out to be really, really old and rotten, cracking and splintering—and trickling icy water down his collar. Jerry managed to squirm his head up and through the rotted reed. Then, he got an arm out and pulled himself up, away from the crushing rock. Beneath him the stone beam groaned.

  It was bleakly gray out here, and cold. The bitter wind brought flurries of snow to join that which already lay in drifts wherever it could find purchase on the steepness. Heaving—cautiously, because this thatch was centuries old by the feel of it—Jerry hauled himself out onto the roof. It was apparently merely thatch over a hole, because he could see rock, gray and snow-corniced, and wind-bent little alpine bushes off to the side.

  Just below him was the head and shoulders of the PSA agent. The man's face was contorted with pain, and he was struggling to get up. Jerry could no more leave him there than he could have deserted a book. Cautiously he edged down and helped.

  "My leg is trapped," said the man, weakly. "Ahhh. I can't move it. Pull me!"

  Jerry did his best, but the thatch was truly rotten. He put his foot right though—onto a stone beam. That gave him something solid to stand on so he could pull properly. Which he did, with the result that when the slab of stone of the 'bridge' was dropped inside—or at least, by deduction and the crashing noise, Jerry imagined that must have happened—the PSA agent came free abruptly. Together they rolled, slid and cascaded down the thatch. It was probably the only safe way to have gotten off that rotted surface without falling through it, down into the hall—a fifty-foot fall, very possibly into the fires.

  They landed together in a tumble of snow, filthy rotten straw and the debris of centuries, at a point where the runoff was plainly intended to go off down the hillside.

  By this time the PSA agent was groaning and white-faced with pain.

  Jerry knew he faced some very awkward choices. The others were in there, somewhere. But what did he do with an injured man?

  He settled for examining the injury. He was no anatomist, and the man was no help. The sandal-clad foot had plainly been trapped between the stone beam and the rising bridge-piece. Only the fact that they were both very roughly hewed could have saved the man's foot from becoming jelly, but plainly it hadn't saved several bones. The injury itself shouldn't kill him. But given the temperature out here, exposure would. Bare legs, except for brass greaves, bare arms and a skirt of peltoi and a brass cuirass, were fine for Mediterranean summer warfare. Here the man was going to die from the shock and the cold.

  "Can you lean on me and we can try to get to some shelter?" asked Jerry.

  The PSA agent nodded. "Lost my gun."

  "That's the least of your worries right now," Jerry grunted, helping him up. They followed the watercourse down. It ended in a short cliff—the sort of thing Jerry might have been able to climb alone, but the injured man wasn't going to manage.

  "Sit here." said Jerry. "Let me look around."

  Unencumbered, he was able to move easier and faster. Just over a small ridge he spotted a structure made of huge slabs of stone, chinked with mosses. There was a hole-window and Jerry managed to get up to the sill and look in.

  Inside, the large, fat, red-bearded man snored and bubbled from the floor. Beside him was the room's only piece of furniture, an enormous stone chair. The room wasn't the ideal place to find shelter, but the air coming out was quite warm. And it would give him a chance to try to find the others. So Jerry went back and helped the PSA agent up and over to the hole-window.

  They had to approach the sill along a path that wasn't wide enough for two men. The sill was shoulder high. It all made for a somewhat epic and monumental effort, but Jerry got the man into the room.

  He was just helping him off the sill when someone spoke. "Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Einherjar!"

  Jerry turned to find himself being grabbed by the man with the loose beard and the iron gauntlets and girdle who had been talking to Odin. The hands in those gauntlets were enormously, crushingly strong. But their attacker only had two arms—and two people to hold. Back at grade school Jerry had only once ever hit someone. The class bully had poured milk—Jerry's milk—onto the book Jerry had been reading. Jerry had been quite accustomed to being the butt of various jokes and pranks. He usually just read on and ignored them. He was not that attached to milk anyway. But one didn't mistreat books like that. He'd punched the bully in the eye, a reaction so out of character and unexpected that the kid had backed off, despite being twice his size, and despite it being a totally ineffectual, feeble blow.

  Jerry tried it again. Like the last time he hit the offender in the eye. Like last time he also hurt his hand, but the physical exercise he'd been forced into by the Greek myth adventure paid dividends. The man who had grabbed them with those incredibly strong hands did not quite let go, but he staggered back, to fall into the stone chair. The chair began to rise slowly from the floor on the backs of two enormous women who had apparently been hiding under its legs, in a hollow there. They'd been covered with a blanket, sprinkled with floor-filth, to make it invisible.

  "Damn it!" cursed the man with iron gauntlets. "Not me!"

  He let go of Jerry, just as Jerry took another swing at him, and pulled the iron rod from his belt. It grew as he held it and pushed the chair back down, with the two gigantic women yowling. Jerry took this opportunity to get away. He fell over the still-snoring Red-beard, who, for his part, muttered and rolled over—sending Jerry staggering to the door and into the arms of some burly Norsemen, backed up by the one-eyed one.

  Whatever One-eye said in his foreign tongue, it did stop them from killing him.

  It didn't stop them being tied up like Christmas turkeys, though, both him and the PSA agent with the injured foot. The corpulent red-bearded man slept through all of it, even fake-beard kicking him and shouting at him, and Odin rebuking him for it. Jerry would have liked to ask him why he spoke English but the gag was fairly effective, and very dirty.

  A few minutes later, with one less shoe than he'd had earlier and half the sleeve torn off his windbreaker, Jerry found himself being carried outside and bundled onto a cart, and left there, under guard, next to a moaning but barely conscious PSA agent. The guy had at least tried to fight. Kicking someone with that foot probably came under the heading of less than clever though.

  Distantly, Jerry could hear the sounds of mayhem and search continuing.

  Chapter 8

  "Jerry! Jerry!" screamed Liz, watching in horror from the crumbling edge as the rod in the gauntleted man's hands had grown, widening and raising the stone slab out of the bridge, and crushing it into the vast dim beams.

  Lamont pulled her back. "We've got to run, Liz. There are more of those goons coming." He pointed. Sure enough, running along a sort of balustrade-ledge was another group of the Norse warriors she'd tipped off the ladder.

  Liz found it hard to care. They'd been through such a lot . . . and . . . and . . . she was just getting know him and love him for all his crazy habits. She was vaguely aware that she was being hustled along, and that Lamont was crying too. Jerry and Lamont had been close friends a lot longer than she'd known him. A now ex-maintenance man was not the most likely of friends for a visiting professor of mythology, but that was Jerry.

  She swallowed. That had been Jerry. So blind to ordinary things that he saw right through to the person on the inside. Okay, capable of wearing his pants back to front, but what was that to someone of his quality?

  She sniffed angrily. Damn fool! She should have been at the back, not him.

  "There are more of them that way," said someone.

  "Quick, in through here. There's a staircase."

  There was. But it was not designed for humans. The steps were one and a half times too high, forcing Liz to try
to concentrate on actual circumstance or tumble headlong down the stairs onto everyone else.

  When she got to the bottom, she was in a gloomy cavernous room. Her first thought was that they had strayed into some kind of Norse giant's torture chamber. Then she realized it just smelled that way, and that the implements could just as easily belong in a giant's kitchen. One without much house-pride . . . or any idea of hygiene. The floor was ankle deep in slushy stuff that she didn't want to think about too much.

  There was bellowing from up the stairs. And more, answering bellows coming from outside.

  Someone said "psst!" from calf height. Looking down, Liz saw a very black face in the ruddy firelight from the ox-roasting-size open range. It wasn't the sort of black face to inspire any confidence; it had a big warty nose, snaggled teeth, and a lot of black, wild hair. But the owner of the face was beckoning.

  "Svart," he said looking at the Jackson family. And then some more Norse that was above Liz's ability to guess.

  "What's he saying?"

  "I only get one word, but I think he wants you to go in there because you're black," said Liz. "Like him."

  "In," said Marie, pushing children forward. "I can't run any more. And he does look as black as the ace of spades. If that gets us help, I'm not too proud to accept it."

  The gap was narrow and the space inside, dark. It seemed to be dusty and full of hard lumps of stuff.

  "It smells like coal," said someone.

  "Hush," said someone else.

  Outside, they could hear the clatter of searchers. They waited silently in the utter darkness of a giant coal-cellar.

  The wait gave Liz time to reflect and to regret. To cry too, in the darkness. She didn't have very long though, because a little hand found hers. "Come," it whispered. "Mom says."

  The tunnel was dark and narrow, and hot. It came out at a river, near a dock beneath the cliff. The broad, cold green-water river was rimmed with ice. The water bobbed with the heads of swimmers, many of whom were as black and furry as their guide. He pointed and dived in.

  "Do we swim it, Lamont?" said Emmitt, looking doubtful.

  Lamont felt the water. "No way," he said. "It's like Lake Michigan in midwinter. Those guys might be able to swim in this and live, but I don't think we could."

  Liz leaned down and felt. Sure enough, it was finger-numbing cold. The bitter wind made it worse when she took her fingers out. "I agree. That's hypothermia material, and you'd be too cold to swim in it. I'm not sure if you'd die of cold or drown first. We'll have to find some other way."

  "But . . . where?" asked Marie. "I don't think we could find our way back down that tunnel without that little hairy guy to guide us. He might have been as ugly as my old boss, but he sure knew those tunnels and got us out of a jam. I saw someone even opened that coal-hatch, just when we were leaving."

  "I guess we'll just have to try," said Lamont. "We can't stay here for very long; it's too cold. At least it was warm in there. Come on, everybody, take hands."

  Liz found herself walking back into the dark little tunnel holding Neoptolemeus' hand and that of one of these moronic PSA agents. She desperately wanted Jerry's hand, but his body would be back in Chicago now. That thought was enough to start her crying again. You never knew how much you needed someone, until they weren't around to be told how much you needed them.

  It soon became apparent that they needed a guide down there, too. They ran into several dead ends and had to reverse back down one passage and try another. It was as black as pitch, and hot and seemingly airless. Liz was beginning to wonder if they'd ever get anywhere, except lost forever, when she saw a gleam of firelight ahead.

  This time they really had come out into the torture chamber. What was worse was that there was nothing much they could do for the two wretches they saw in barred cells. Lamont looked grim, and looked around at the torture tools. He found a file and a crowbar, and passed them through the bars to the astounded looking creatures trapped there.

  "We don't know if they've searched down here, and I'm getting the kids away from this place. But you can get away down there," he said, pointing to the trapdoor they'd come through.

  He got a gabble of amazed Norse in return. The language was Germanic enough to sound familiar to Liz without being intelligible. But pointing at the knives set next to the rack was clear enough. She passed them each one, feeling sullied just by the touch of the metal. Going up the winding stair out of here might be more risky but at least it felt cleaner. And it wasn't just filth underfoot that she was thinking about.

  After more wandering in dark tunnels, they found themselves in a familiar looking passage. Sure enough, it was the one leading to the alcove with the ladder. And there were voices again, coming toward them. It felt almost as if they were trapped in some kind of horrible repeating cycle. "Up the ladder again," she said.

  They hauled it up and jammed it halfway again, and crept down the passage past the snorer. He was still at it. Liz didn't even look. But Ella tugged hard at her sleeve. "You've got to come look," said the child in a whisper.

  She did, not out of any real desire to, but just to oblige the kid. Ella normally talked nineteen to the dozen, with her twin filling in the other nineteen, on the occasions that Liz had met them before the incident. Liz wondered briefly, sadly, if Jerry and she had ever had kids . . . what would they have been like? Morose Emmitt? Sparky little Ty?

  And then she saw.

  The huge sleeper was still there, but the stone chair had fallen over and a hole—a shallow foxhole—was revealed where it had been standing. And on the floor lay a hoplite helmet and something that made her heart leap like a klipspringer on amphetamines. The torn sleeve of that ratty old jacket of Jerry's.

  No blood. Just a piece of torn fabric, and, now that she looked . . . one shoe. Jerry's.

  It had to have gotten here after the incident on the bridge. Had to!

  Ignoring the sleeper, she went into the room. Looking around, she saw a lot of old straw on the floor, and the mark of a human hand in the snowdrift next to the window.

  It all came together now in a wild surge of hope. Impossible! But it had to be. He must have come here . . . through the roof! She found words were just too difficult. But she hugged Ella so hard the poor child probably had difficulty breathing.

  Lamont and the others bundled into the room too. "Can we get out of the window? They're coming from both sides."

  Liz looked. "Yes. The ledge is a bit narrow, but we can."

  She vaulted out to prove it, nearly choked on her hooked shoulder-bag strap, then almost fell over the cliff yanking it free, and still couldn't stop smiling, especially at seeing the footprints in the drifted snow outside the window. Whatever had happened to Jerry, he had been alive, well after she thought him dead. Hope was like a wild fountain inside her, as she helped Ella down and was pushed aside by young Ty. He didn't need help! How old did she think he was?

  More out of a desire to see where Jerry had come from than any other reason, Liz led them off, following the occasional footmarks. They seemed to go in threes for some reason. Not very straight threes. But that was a left and there a right sole pattern. Despite herself Liz started to sing "Oh, my soul is on the line . . ."

  Lamont caught up and shook her, his face worried. "What's up, Liz?"

  She pointed at the footmarks in the snow. "Jerry. He didn't get killed, Lamont. He got away, somehow."

  A huge smile split Lamont's face. "Well, I'll be dipped . . . uh," he looked at his kids. "Are you sure those are his prints?"

  Liz nodded. "His jacket sleeve and shoe were in the room with the sleeper, and a Greek helmet. No blood. He might have been killed since then, but he didn't die when I thought he had. He may be a captive . . . he may be dead. But he wasn't. He wasn't!"

  Lamont gave her a squeeze. "He's quite a man, that. Makes good puns. Even sings better than you do."