At these tables sat the chief captains and warriors of the Aesir. Hundreds of big, fair-haired men, helmets laid aside, their mail glistening in the torchlight, were feasting and drinking. At the table raised upon the dais by the southern wall sat the nobles of the Aesir and their ladies. In his high, carved chair in the middle sat Odin. Beside him was a woman of matronly beauty, his queen, the lady Frigga.
"Jarls and captains of the Aesir," Odin boomed. "Drink welcome to the Jarl Keith, our guest and friend from beyond Niffleheim."
"Skoal to the Jarl Keith!" roared bearded Thor, winking jovially at me as he raised his huge drinking-horn.
"Skoal!" pealed Freya's silver voice. Every voice in Valhalla hall repeated the greeting. Hundreds of drinking-horns were raised. Odin waved me toward a seat at his table of nobles, between Freya and the delicately lovely wife of Thor. As I took the chair, serving-maids brought me a great slab of beef on a platter, and a horn of mead. I tasted the drink curiously. It was thin, sweet and potent.
Freya leaned toward me. She was dressed now like the other Aesir ladies, in a long white linen gown. Her bright hair was bound by a silver circlet, her dress belted by a heavy metal girdle studded with flashing emeralds.
"Shall I name the others for you, Jarl Keith? You will meet them all soon."
At my right, beyond giant Thor and his wife, sat three other sons of Odin — Vidar, Vali and Hermod, tall and fair-haired, stalwart men all. There was Heimdall, the warder of Asgard gate, whom I had already seen. Niord was a squat, jovial bald man of middle age, with his wife Skadi. Forseti was a sober young man, apparently much respected by the other Aesir.
To my left, beyond Freya, sat Frey and his lovely wife, Gerda. Beyond them were Bragi, a gentle-looking man with dreaming eyes, his wife, the noble-featured Idun; Aegir, a gaunt, white-bearded old sea-king, and his aged wife, Ran. At the- table-end sat Tyr, a young man but most gloomy and silent of any in the hall. Drinking moodily, he watched the merry feasters with brooding eyes.
"Tyr is always dark and silent," Freya explained, "but not in battle. He is a berserk."
I remembered the legend of the berserks — men who went blood-mad in battle, and fought with unhuman frenzy, without mail.