Linda Evans: Sleipnir

Sleipnir is for

My family, because Lois, Don, and Michael Evans, Darrell Walton, Ron Walton, Frances Walton, and Zella Evans all believed in a skinny, awkward kid...

Susan Collingwood, because she always tells me when I'm wrong, and believes in me when I despair...

David R. Palmer, because he taught me craft and went above and beyond the call of friendship doing it...

Marj Schott, because she gives of her soul...

Ms. "Mom" Wiley, Dr. Constantine Santas, Dr. Andrew Dillon, Dr. Gail Compton, Mrs. Bushong, Mrs. Hill,

and all teachers everywhere, because

they create our future...

Doyle Pope, because so long as we remember, his Manta Ship will fly the stars...

Dr. John Boyle, because good doctors are worth

their weight in diamonds...

Toni Weisskopf and Jim Baen, because they

made my dream come true...

Debbie Anderson, Mary Ann Emerson, Bill Brand, Brenda Long, Kathy Lyons, Amy Repasky, Daryl Finnegan, Jenny Bruno, Sandra Kay Haile, Robert Berger, Kathy Rath, and all my many, dear friends in the North-Central Florida Sportsmen's Association and the NRA, because without good friends, we can accomplish nothing, but with their help, we can work miracles...

but mostly, Sleipnir is for Bob Hollingsworth,

and all the heroes who fought the Cold War, because some of them never returned to tell the tale.

Pushing a cave isn't a job for amateurs.

But then, neither is hunting gods. Especially in their own stomping grounds. Predictably, I was doing a lousy job of both.

Considering my past history—I never took advice I didn't like—it wasn't too surprising my spelunking guide was so mad at me he wasn't speaking. Now, nobody has ever accused me of possessing tact, but in Klaus' case, it had taken a lot of effort to get him to the stage of silent jaw-grinding. Klaus had several thousand reasons—all of them deliciously green—to put up with my demands, but even poor old Klaus had finally reached his limit.

Every morning for the past three days he had insisted we turn back for the surface. I insisted we keep going. Klaus was stubborn; but I've been called less flattering names than a bullheaded, mule-eared horse's backside. I got my way.

When I woke up that morning, I knew Klaus would try again. I braced myself for the inevitable, and wasn't disappointed. Even before I'd crawled out of my sleeping bag, he looked me straight in the eye—which left me half-blind, since he was pointing the carbide light on his helmet right at my face—and muttered, "We go back. Now ."

The moment was fast approaching I'd either have to tell him what I was really doing down here, or hit him over the head and go on alone. So, trying to delay the inevitable a little longer, I snapped, "Tonight! We got one more day to go before I turn around. Read your contract if you're not happy about it. And get that light out of my face!"

Nobody should have to argue with an angry Norwegian before breakfast. I'm not human until I've had coffee—which probably explained my mood, since it'd been a week since I'd had any. I got myself clear of the sleeping bag, and flexed my knees, trying to limber up before we came to blows. He was older than I was, but probably in better shape. My leg still hurt from the gunshot wounds, and a slithering fall down a sharp rockface two days previously hadn't done the rest of me any good, either.

Klaus scowled. His round face took on the look of a satanic elf. "Damn it," he growled, making two words of it, "we have walked deeper than anyone. You have the record, Herr Barnes. We have pushed Garm's Cave far enough. We turn back now . Our supplies are low—"

I nudged to see how far he'd give. "Tonight, Bjornssen! Or didn't I pay you enough?"

He looked for a moment like he wanted to punch me. In fact, when his fists tightened down I set myself to feint to one side and end this the hard way. Then he just turned his back and slammed his gear together. I let tense gut muscles soften, and started breathing normally again. Another day gained...

Given the white-lipped set of his face, I halfway expected him to march back toward the surface—alone. But he didn't. He just slouched down with his back to me, and started wolfing his breakfast. For all the attention Bjornssen paid me, I might have been part of the rock under his khaki-clad backside.

I thought about apologizing, but I wasn't about to go back now. Not after the price I'd paid—money and blood—to get this far. So I kept my mouth shut and let him stew in silence. When I was ready to go, I stood up and shrugged into my pack.

Bjornssen glanced back and eyed my unorthodox gear. He scowled again; then deliberately reached for another handful of dried apples from his own supplies. I shrugged metaphoric shoulders. Klaus Bjornssen had known what I was carrying from the outset. That gear was partly why his fee had been so high. Besides, he was the only guide I'd been able to find willing to take a rank amateur into a cave only professionals had dared "push" before.

Part of the reason I'd been riding him so hard was the hope he'd finally blow his temper and leave me to get back out the best way I knew how. To date, that part of the plan had failed. Call it professional ethics or masochism, Bjornssen had absorbed all the punishment I could dish out, and was still with me. All things considered, Klaus was entitled to a sulk. So while he finished his meal, I lit my carbide lantern and explored the passageway out to the limit of Bjornssen's helmet light. My footsteps sounded hollow against the muffled sounds of Klaus reshuffling gear and readjusting straps.

I glanced back as Bjornssen marked the wall with a strip from his ever-present roll of surveyor's tape; then I moved on as he turned to follow. A whole series of hundred-foot dropoffs, which had required ropes and rock-climbing pitons to traverse, had given way to another long, low cavern with no apparent end. The rock no longer looked entirely like limestone; or maybe it was just my eyes. I'd been looking at nothing but grey rock for days, now. The only genuine difference I could pinpoint was the absence of water.

After a good bit of beard-scratching, I decided that must account for the almost subliminal changes I was noticing. The lack of water worried me—we were lower on water than anything else—but it shouldn't have surprised me. It was predictable that the immortal bastard I was hunting would dry up the water supply when I needed it most.

Bjornssen's footsteps stomped up close behind me. He was muttering to himself in Norwegian. From the sound of it, he probably wanted to tear my head off and serve it to me for lunch. I started to step out of his way before he could shoulder past and take the lead—

—and he yelled. The light from Bjornssen's lamp swung crazily. He smashed forward into my back and kept falling. I stumbled, and windmilled for balance. A loud, sickening scrape reached my ears, then he grabbed wildly at my ankles. I crashed to the floor and bruised face and ribs on rough stone. The impact extinguished my lamp. Stunned, I tried to catch my breath. Bjornssen gabbled hysterically. His weight was pulling me backward over a lip of rock. Both of us slid out over nothing at all.

I yelled—and all that came out was a gurgling croak. I left skin behind on the rough stone, and tried to lift my face. We were still sliding. I grabbed for any available handholds to brake our fall, and didn't find any. His whole weight hung suspended from my ankles. The only light came from his helmet. It swung crazily as he struggled. Wild, distorted shadows left me grabbing for handholds that were nothing but illusion.

"Hang—on—" I gasped. He made a lunge for my knees with one hand—and missed. I slid backward another six inches, and dug in with my fingernails. The rough lip of stone caught my crotch. "Dammit"—I used elbows and hands, hugging stone in an effort to stop our fatal slide—"get your—hands around—my knees—"