Sleipnir

Chapter Twelve

It figured that Odin's favorite son—and one of Loki's worst enemies—would be on hand to greet me.

He stared out at the mist for a moment; then pulled himself together visibly. "I apologize," he said with a wan smile. "Thinking about my uncle is a little upsetting. I try not to, at all." He looked me up and down, taking my measure. "You didn't come all this way to torment Loki, surely?"

"No. That was her idea." I jerked my head toward where the skiff had vanished. "I'm really just looking for some information from him."

His face clouded somewhat. "I wouldn't advise that. Loki is dangerous, and not exactly cooperative." A pained expression crossed his face. "I ought to know."

"It must be rough, huh?" I asked, trying to sound sympathetic.

He shrugged, and smiled ruefully. "Well, it isn't great, no, and the mold growing on your feet can get to you; but it isn't so bad, really. Plenty of peace and quiet, no worries to speak of, so long as you avoid Loki. He's kind of bitter about the whole thing."

And Baldr wasn't? If someone had murdered me and dumped me in this gawdawful place for eternity... Maybe living in Niflheim did scramble a person's brain, or maybe dying was akin to gelding, because it was hard to believe that any Norse god could be this mellow, never mind a son of Odin who'd been murdered.

On the other hand, madness did take a variety of forms. I was convinced that Odin himself was 'round the bend and gone, so it was entirely possible that Odin's dead son was cheerfully mad in his own inimitable way. But while my current ability to judge relative sanity might be impaired (I was in hell, after all), Baldr didn't look insane. He looked hale, hearty, and sort of wistful around the eyes.

"What can I be thinking?" he said with a grimace. "I can only excuse my manners by pointing out that we get so few visitors, it's easy to forget courtesies. Baldr is my name."

He held out his hand. I started to take it and he clasped my forearm instead, in a firm grip.

"Baldr," he said again, "son of Odin, longtime resident of Niflheim. And you "—his eyes twinkled—"are something of a mystery."

I glanced over my shoulder in the direction Modgud had disappeared, and wondered if Baldr were lying. Everything I'd read about Baldr said he was the primal good guy. But if Modgud knew what was going on, surely Baldr did too? Or did Modgud know simply because she was in charge of the ferry, so it was her business to know? Or had she just made a very shrewd guess?

How the hell was I supposed to know which gods knew what?

I looked back at Baldr. "Yeah, well, everything that's been happening to me lately is kind of mysterious. I'm damned if I know how to explain it." I shrugged ruefully. "I'm Randy Barnes."

"Yes, I know."

My blood went cold and my eyes went hard.

Baldr chuckled and added, "Let me explain. A while back a Norwegian came through here, wrapped in ropes, cursing something awful, bones sticking out odd places—one hell of a mess, if you'll pardon the pun—and he said you were in a powerful hurry to get here. Of course, he thought he'd spoken figuratively." Baldr chuckled. "Then Hel heard your arrival—the living are so noisy in comparison with us dead folk; your footsteps echoed all the way down Sleipnir's tunnel and across the Gjoll—and we realized the poor man had inadvertently spoken literal truth."

Baldr was still chuckling; but I remembered Bjornssen's death scream. I didn't like the casual way these gods killed us off when it suited their game plan. Baldr's laughter died away, replaced by puzzlement.

"Why are you angry about this?"

"Why did you kill Bjornssen? It wasn't necessary."

He looked more puzzled than before. "I have never killed anyone."

"Yeah. Right. Tell it to the birds."

My knees had gone shaky—reaction setting in, maybe, or just plain rage—so I strode to the nearest boulder and sat down before I collapsed embarrassingly in front of him. I was whacked out, and bone-deep sore in more places than I wasn't, and standing there talking was a goddamn waste of time I probably didn't have to spare. I had people to see, and Gary Vernon to avenge.

"Sorry," I muttered. "I keep getting all you gods mixed up."

Baldr squatted beside me, and studied my face for several moments; then stared out across the Gjoll. When he spoke, his voice was distant, contemplative. "Each man's death is his own to meet, and each man must face it alone at the time decreed for him. That is one moment no one can take from him or assume for him. The fault of your friend's death cannot be yours, any more than it can be mine or any of the other gods'."

I glanced up; but couldn't tell whether he was talking about Klaus or Gary.

Baldr was still talking. "The Norns decree all that must be. They guided his footsteps up to the moment of his death, as surely as they have guided yours here while you still live."

Gary's death proved that wrong; but I didn't feel like arguing the point with Odin's son.

"All I want is to talk to Loki," I growled.

Baldr's eyes narrowed. "About what?"

"Sleipnir."

Baldr's eyes widened. "What in the nine worlds has Sleipnir to do with this?"

I glanced up from checking my P-7 for rust. "Got to do with what?"

He swept a hand around at the landscape. "Your presence here. Obviously the Norns have brought you here for a reason, and a very important one; but Sleipnir is Odin's horse, not Hel's. He doesn't live in Niflheim."

I met his blue eyes squarely. "I saw him just a few minutes ago, in that big tunnel of his. He was headed this way."

Baldr grinned, and shrugged. "I didn't say he doesn't occasionally visit." Then his expression sobered, and he pursed his lips. "Whatever's up, it certainly bodes to be interesting."

"Huh. You just said a mouthful, friend."

Living in interesting times was a curse I could've done without. I reholstered the P-7.

"You'll point out the way to Loki, then?"

He shook his head. Mistrust had crept into his eyes. Baldr was supposed to've been the trusting type. Clearly, he'd learned caution in the eons he'd been stuck in this slimepit of a world.

"No, I think not. This game is too serious for blundering about in the dark. My hostess will want to speak with you, at the very least."

"I thought Hel was only interested in dead men."

His smile was sincere enough. "True; but this is her world, after all, and we are but guests in it. She would not be pleased if you refused an audience. And believe me, no living mortal within her sphere of influence would want to anger her. I am not complaining, understand. She's a good hostess. But you are out of place here, so the same rules don't exactly apply to you."

I didn't bother to observe that so far none of the rules had applied to me.

"Come, pack up your strange belongings and follow me; I'll take you to Hel."

I didn't care for the sound of that; but didn't see that I had much choice.

We struck out along the shoreline. Baldr said conversationally, "I couldn't help noticing that the Sly Biter is with you."

"The what?" I glanced around involuntarily.

"The Sly Biter. Your knife. I'd always wondered what had become of it. Somehow, I'm not too surprised it wound up in your hands. It has a way of turning up precisely when and where it's needed. How'd it find you?"

I started to comment; then shut my lips. I shouldn't have been surprised.

"You recognize this thing, huh?" I slipped the knife out of its sheath and watched in satisfaction as the tail wrapped around my arm.

"Of course." He sounded surprised. "I used to see it frequently when I was younger. It disappeared, though," he added thoughtfully, "right before I was killed."

Interesting. Maybe I could finally get some answers.

"Where'd it come from? What exactly is it?" Green light caught the blade and sang gleefully along the invisible edge. The scaly haft was warm against my palm. It pulsed with an arcane life.

Baldr's voice warmed to his subject. "The Biter has been since before I was born. Some say it was carved from the living root of Yggdrasil." He gestured toward the cavern "ceiling," and the familiarity of swirling light patterns clicked.

"Others claim... Well, it just is. The Norns probably would know for sure where it came from. My father had it for a while; that's how I know it. But it's an odd creature, the Biter."

"Then it is alive?"

"Oh, yes, without a doubt. Well, not perhaps alive in the sense you might think; but it is not just a soulless artifact. It chooses those who will carry it, not the other way around, though I'm not terribly clear on why or how."

He grinned. "Father was furious when it deserted him. It's said that when the Biter chooses a mortal, only the mortal's death will break the bond." He frowned thoughtfully, and gave me a disquieted glance. "I'm also told it turns up whenever the Balance swings precariously. When that happens, it acts its will on those who are destined to tip the scales in the direction decreed by the Norns. Thus will it be until Ragnarok. The Destruction of the Worlds," he added, as if expecting me not to know what it meant.

"I know what Ragnarok is," I said dryly.

He smiled, unoffended. "Most of your contemporaries don't. It's sad, you know, being forgotten."

"Yeah, life's a bitch and then you die."

"How very Norse!" He chuckled.

I wasn't laughing.

Instead, I stared at the Biter. Worked its will on me, did it? We'd just see about that. Light sang off its black skin, glinted in its black eyes. Something Baldr had said had begun to bother me. If the Biter did its own choosing—and had deserted Odin—what, precisely, did that mean to me? What did it want? And just whose side was it on, anyway? Could I trust it or not?

Whatever the answer, Odin had been upset to lose it. I grinned. The thought that the Biter preferred my company to his gave me a great deal of satisfaction.

"It's a temperamental little bastard," was all I said.

I carefully resheathed it. At Baldr's request, I related a few of my adventures with the Biter, leaving out key bits of information here and there. Baldr laughed merrily when I told him about the entrenching tool and the ragheads. I managed to keep the conversation light and humorous.

Then, as he took up the thread of conversation and began an improbable tale about the Biter and a frost giant, a biting wind picked up, seemingly out of nowhere. I shivered hard. Whether I wanted to admit it or not, I was just about at the end of my strength, and I wasn't dressed for freezing wind. Given the state of my clothes, I was barely dressed. When I fell behind, wheezing loudly in the cold air, Baldr slowed and stopped.

"I fear I must apologize again," he said ruefully.

Baldr assisted me over to a large boulder, which sported flecks and speckles of glowing yellow phosphorescence. It wasn't a warm phosphorescence, though, so I just sat wearily, shivering.

"Yeah? What for this time?"

"You are injured, tired, and undoubtedly suffering from hunger and thirst, and I've kept you walking all this time when there was no need."

A gust of wind caught us, and I wrapped both arms around myself, trying to get warm.

"And you are cold, as well. I really am sorry... ."

"I know, I know, it's just that the dead don't get tired and thirsty, right?"

"Well, yes; but that's no excuse when I'm responsible for your welfare. By the time you've caught your breath they should be here."

"Who?"

He put fingers to his lips and emitted an extraordinarily shrill whistle. It was the loudest sound I'd yet heard from an inhabitant of Niflheim, and I was surprised when it echoed off the distant ceiling.

I was just getting my wind back—and the racing of my heart under control again—when a low rumble of thunder shook the ground. Before I could open my mouth to ask what was up, two enormous horses burst into view from beyond a nearby house-sized boulder. Their sharp hooves churned up the dark soil as they slid to a halt in front of us. They were bridled, and saddled, and obedient as big, shaggy dogs.

They didn't appear to be breathing hard from their run. In fact, I couldn't detect any breathing at all. When I thought about it, I realized that—except for drawing air to speak—Baldr hadn't been breathing, either.

I eyed our mounts. "Dead horses?"

"What else? Several of your ancestors were thoughtful enough to bury horses with themselves, which has provided us with a wide variety of excellent mounts and draft animals. These were once war horses." He grimaced, and sighed. "Their unfortunate masters died of old age in their sleep. Poor souls; no man deserves such a fate—but we can't all die in glory, can we?"

"No," I said dryly, "I don't suppose we can. The species wouldn't survive it, if we did."

He grinned. "I like the way you think. It's... refreshing. Here, let me introduce you to your mount so there'll be no misunderstandings. He hasn't carried a live rider in hundreds of years."

Baldr urged one of the horses forward, and I wondered what I was supposed to do. I'd never been on a horse in my life.

He glanced at my face—did a quick double take—then halted the animal several paces away. He rested one hand casually on the animal's—shoulder?—and lifted one shaggy blond eyebrow in apparent surprise.

His question came out sounding droll. "Not a horseman?"

"Uh, no."

He gave me a look that seemed to ask what the hell we learned on Earth these days. But he didn't say anything; just patiently explained how to mount, steer, start, and stop. I struggled aboard, envious of Baldr's graceful leap to his animal's back.

"We'll go at a slow trot," he said, urging his horse forward. I followed suit, and my horse obeyed, tossing its head briefly in irritation before settling down to the job of nursing me along.

Riding was marginally better than walking, except for the cold wind; but I couldn't grasp properly with my injured knees, so I just sat loosely, hanging on to the reins and the mane, and flopped along as best I could. Each jolt sent agony through the tear across my tailbone. Gradually the seat of my pants grew warm and sticky. I'd almost rather have walked.

My horse didn't like it much better than I did; but he was surprisingly cooperative, for a war stallion. Dying must've taken all the spirit out of him. We got along well enough, at any rate, and the horse's longer legs covered the ground in mile-eating strides. We approached a massive bend in the river, and Baldr turned his horse slightly inland, urging the animal up the flank of the nearest boulder-strewn ridge.

I followed, having absorbed enough basics to avoid sliding off backward when the horse started up the steep slope. My knees hurt from trying to grip; but I stayed on and, within moments, we reached the crest. Our new vantage point revealed a long, shallow valley, with headlands that jutted out on either side of the bend in the river. The result was an enormously broad, sheltered harbor.

I pulled up sharply. Baldr stopped his horse to let me look, innately courteous. Below us, situated some fifty yards inland from the river's edge, stood a building that would've dwarfed anything but the Pentagon. A gate the size of a football goalpost had been set in a massive wall that ran right around the structure. Spread out as far as I could see, squatting right up the slopes of the ridgelines to either side, were houses, mud streets, and what looked astonishingly like farms.

I felt like a high-desert plainsman astride my shaggy war horse, looking down from my barren wasteland onto civilization.

We had arrived at Hel's Hall of Death.