Linda Evans - Sleipnir

"Perhaps," he mused, "you have good reason. I would give a great deal to know what you said to Hel. In all my centuries here, I've never seen her in such a towering temper. Frankly, I'm astonished she let you live."

"As someone else has found out recently"—I smiled tightly—"I'm not so easy to kill."

He stared levelly into my eyes. "That may be. But Niflheim isn't exactly hospitable to someone who's still alive. Please believe me, if you want to survive much longer, you will have to accept some help. Without food, water, or a sense of direction, you won't last another four songs."

"Twenty-four hours, huh? You don't know what a tough bastard I am. And the Biter can get me where I want to go."

—Unless where I wanted to go conflicted with its notion of where it thought I should go, a possibility I had to consider.

"It's your funeral." He shrugged. "I'd thought you were more intelligent than that. I would be more than willing to guide you to Loki, and you would travel safely in my company. I swear that on whatever you consider sacred; but only if we visit the Norns first. I, at any rate, would like to know what I've let myself in for, befriending you. Hel was not amused when I left her hall to come after you."

I studied him narrowly; but found no hint of guile in his troubled blue eyes. Had Odin's son really put it on the line for me? It didn't seem likely. On the other hand, Baldr's reputation argued that he was telling the truth. I found myself wanting to believe him. I liked this stocky, blue-eyed god who'd been dead before mankind learned to turn iron ore into weapons. Baldr waited in silence, while I sat astride my dead horse and tried to decide what to do.

I was already ravenously hungry, especially now that I was away from Hel's unappetizing home. I had no food of my own, and there wasn't much water left in my canteens. If the River Gjoll were any indication, none of the water in Niflheim might be drinkable. I might be able to steal some of the weird mushrooms I'd seen growing nearby; but I couldn't be sure which ones were safe. Nanna had known, and Baldr probably would, too, but I might end up poisoning myself, especially if they had to be specially prepared to get rid of toxins. I'd be no good to Gary dead of starvation and consigned to Hel's hall for eternity.

On the other hand, visiting the Norns might not be such a bad idea. If they called the shots—or once had—I might get valuable information from them. The more I thought about that, the more it made sense. Predestination had gone screwy. So who better to consult than the three old witches who were supposed to preordain everything? For all I knew, maybe they'd gotten so senile they'd simply lost track of what they were supposed to be arranging. In which case, I might be able to do a helluva lot more than I'd hoped.

I glanced over at him, and scowled. "Dammit, Baldr, you know I haven't got much choice."

He grinned and tossed me a fur overjacket slung across his lap. "Then get into that before you freeze—and see if you can guide your horse out of this ice storm without breaking your fool neck. Whatever do they teach warriors these days?"

"Yeah? Well, I'd like to see you try and drive an M-113 armored personnel carrier," I muttered. I slid the parka on and closed it up, then turned in the saddle and checked my gear. Everything was there. I slipped the web gear on; then adjusted the pack straps to fit over the fur jacket.

"Okay, pal o' mine, lead the way."

Baldr smiled, friendly and relaxed again, then turned his horse's head and set off at a walk. I wondered briefly what I'd let myself in for this time, then wondered what Hel made of all this. Probably was gnashing her pointed teeth. I shivered in a stray blast of wind, and hoped I never saw Hel again, before death or after.

We skirted the enormous wall and headed inland.

Once past the wall, Baldr glanced back curiously. "What, exactly, did you say to Hel back there?"

"What Death didn't want to hear."

He favored me with a long, keen stare; then shut up. I heard him mutter to himself, "It's going to be a long ride."

Then both of us fell silent.

He was right—it was a long ride. I developed saddle sores the size of dinner plates on my butt and thighs. He produced some sort of ointment that healed them into calluses. The food Baldr had brought along was edible—barely—but it kept body and soul together, a fact that undoubtedly displeased Hel tremendously. I thought a lot about Gary Vernon, and what Valhalla might be like. I hoped to God it was better than Niflheim. If it wasn't... Well, that's why I was here, wasn't it?

Baldr did most of the talking. He had an endless stream of stories to tell, but I no longer found the exploits of murdering gods amusing. Letting him talk, though, proved easier than shutting him up, so I let him ramble, and hoped I might eventually learn something useful. Most of the stories were little more than braggadocio. At least most of them weren't about Baldr. My new friend really was a self-effacing kind of guy. Despite my vow to remain cautious of him, I found myself ever more grateful for his company. For a Norse god, he was a decent guy.

The horses plodded on untiringly. It still bothered me that they needed neither food nor water. There was no way of telling time from the environment; the lighting never changed. Only my watch hands, moving faithfully around the luminous dial, told me time was, indeed, passing. I was halfway surprised my watch still functioned. I'd always figured Hell would be a place where time stopped. Not even the dead were immune from the inexorable sweep of years.

As we continued riding, for what felt like days, I began to grow suspicious again. There was no end to the barren wasteland we had entered upon leaving Hel's gates. The ridges had grown steeper, and the valleys colder and more desolate. That was about it. We could have been riding across the surface of the moon and found more life. There weren't even any more of the strange fungi Baldr had harvested along the way.

With our supplies running low, and sources of neither food nor water in sight, I was beginning to wonder if Hel had sent Baldr to lead me into the desert to die. The opposite side of the cavern was still lost beyond the horizon. The ceiling was unchanged, still swirling and flickering in random, abstract patterns of darkness and light. There were times when the overwhelming alienness of Niflheim pressed in like a boulder on my sanity.

Gary Vernon's face, floating in my memory, and the image of Sleipnir's wild eyes, kept me going.

Eventually—when we topped another ridge and I saw nothing except more of the same nothingness—I stopped my horse and planted my fists on my thighs.

"Okay, Baldr, don't you think this has gone on long enough?"

He turned in the saddle. Surprise flickered through his blue eyes. "What do you mean?"

"You know damned well what I mean. We're going nowhere. There's nothing out here but more nothing, and pretty soon you're going to watch me die of dehydration. I let you talk me into this against my better judgment, so I guess it's my own damn fault; but I didn't come this far just to wander around Niflheim's Outback until I drop conveniently dead."

The Biter came unbidden to my hand. I tested the edge casually with one thumb. "I wonder how dead horse tastes."

My mount grunted in distress. He tossed his head, and danced sideways; but my riding skills had improved steadily, and I not only stayed with him, I brought him under control. "Not you, stupid, the other one."

This time Baldr's horse pranced sideways, away from me. One eye rolled white at the Biter. The dead god brought his animal up short, and said, "Randy, put the knife away. There's been no trick. We're almost there."