The panorama below was one of the dreariest I'd ever seen; it was dark and dull, in shades of green, grey, and black, with a very little bit of dirty white and yellow shining up briefly whenever the eerie phosphorescent lightplay in the ceiling flared brighter directly overhead.
There was movement in the "fields," and along the narrow clay roads. I couldn't identify the crops growing in the farm rows. There was no cheerful sound of bustle and activity, no warm firelight from hearths or windows; just a slow, ponderous sense of heavy, endless work to be done by people dead long before I'd been born.
The farms and the miserable town must furnish Hel with foodstuffs and goods. She hadn't been dead when Odin had banished her here; so presumably she still needed to eat, drink, and make merry in her own gloomy fashion. In that context, it made sense to put to work the legions of dead under her authority. I wondered if she gave them any choice. Somehow I doubted it; but even hard work must be a somewhat attractive alternative to eternal boredom.
As I watched, a curtain of dull mist swept in off the river, obscuring the hall, so Baldr led the way down the slope and I fought to keep from sliding up my horse's neck. When we finally touched level ground again, we were near a hard clay road. It led from a black dock on the river to the massive gate of Hel's hall. The dock seemed to be for Modgud's skiff—I saw no evidence of any other craft.
We rode toward the gate, and were swallowed by dark mist. I shivered under a blast of sleet, which was condensing within the mist to fall on anything miserable enough to be caught below. The gate was closed, and—judging from the looks of the fortress—probably barred from inside.
The closer we rode, the bigger it loomed, until I had to crane my neck, shielding my eyes with one hand against the sleeting mist. The wall itself was built from massive chunks of utterly black stone, mortared with what looked sickeningly like dried blood.
The gate was metal, dull and colorless until a blast of wind opened a rent in the mist, admitting a glare from a bright swirl directly overhead. The brighter light revealed it to be badly tarnished silver. The surface was utterly flat, with no patterns; but the massive posts at the corners were topped by human skulls, coated inside and out with silver, also badly tarnished.
The gate swung ponderously open at Baldr's approach. It groaned like something out of a really bad horror movie. I could've done without the theatrics. If I hadn't been so jittery, I probably would have laughed out loud. Baldr rode straight through. I followed nervously, craning my neck to see what had opened the massive gate so effortlessly. There was nothing there, of course.
Instinctively I rebelled at the idea that it opened by magic; but I was dealing with gods and goddesses, and I'd already seen several sciences go out the window, at least partway. Gary's death alone had tossed out physics and biology. It would have made me feel slightly better to believe there were hidden weights and pulleys concealed inside that massive wall, the better to awe superstitious peasants. But I couldn't really bring myself to believe it.
However she managed it, the gates swung wide to admit us, then closed solidly again. The heavy thud sounded muffled behind us. My horse shied, and I grabbed at his mane to keep from falling off.
"Stupid animal," I muttered, wondering why my rock-steady beast would turn abruptly skittish. The fact that Baldr was also having trouble with his mount made me feel slightly better—until I thought through the implications. . . .
"Better dismount while you can," Baldr called back, jumping lightly to the ground.
I tried to imitate his style; but my knees gave out and my feet slipped on the ice coating the stone road. I landed in a painful lump under my horse's belly, and the blow jarred the wind from me. The horse snorted and bolted sideways, leaving me to scrape my much-battered self off the road.
Baldr lent me a welcome hand. I swayed for a moment, feeling as though all my bones had jellied under this last insult. Baldr kept me from falling, and I leaned on his arm for support until the worst had passed.
"What's got into them?" I wheezed, jerking my thumb at the horses, who stood huddled against the gate. Obviously they wanted out again very badly.
"Even a dead horse can smell death."
Oh.
We stood on a paved flagstone road that led to enormous double doors. Huge grooves, six inches deep, slashed into the flagstones just beyond the gate. I remembered reading—somewhere back in the world of yellow sunlight and warmth—that Sleipnir had jumped this gate, when the gods sent him to ask Hel to return the newly murdered Baldr. Sleipnir's hooves had cut those grooves; but his mission had failed. Baldr was still Hel's guest.
Hel's hall was made of extremely dense wood, coated black as Modgud's skiff had been. The closer we approached, the harder the sleet fell. I found myself shuddering uncontrollably. I maintained a tenuous grip on the ice, which coated everything, and was glad I'd worn my combat boots. I concentrated on not falling a second time. I was too proud to ask Baldr for help walking this last little bit—although by the time we got to the doors, I regretted it.
A rectangle of blackness loomed; I looked up to see the huge hall door swinging silently open. Come into my parlor. . . . Baldr stood waiting. I tried to hurry; but just as I reached the threshold, he grabbed my arm.
"Take care," was all he said. He reached out with one toe and tapped the broad flagstone in front of the door. It dropped dizzily out of sight, instantly lost into a yawning black chasm.
I swayed. He steadied me. "The entry stone of Hel's Hall is called Drop-to-Destruction—never forget that."
That wasn't bloody likely.
The stone slid up out of the depths, grinding back into place. Baldr stepped carefully over it; then turned and gave me assistance I badly needed. By the time we were inside, I was leaning pretty heavily on his shoulder, pride be damned. The door swung shut with a hollow bang. I looked around Lady Death's home.
"What's this place called?" I muttered, trying to adjust my eyes to the extremely dim light.
"Eljudnir," Baldr answered. "That means Damp-with-Sleet," he added, glancing at me to see if I'd take offense at the translation.
"Huh. Appropriate."
An enormous fireplace across the room boasted the oddest fire I'd ever laid eyes on. It flickered eerily in the semidarkness, its flames an odd blend of greens and yellows as some unknown, glowing vegetable matter burned on the hearth. I could feel the heat from where I stood, though, and leaned imperceptibly toward it, wishing I had the strength to walk closer. Baldr guided me slowly across the room.
The air was thick, the light foul and disturbing. It distorted the shapes of stone furniture scattered around the immense room. I looked for the source of the strange lighting, and found—hanging from the ceiling in enormous nets—twisted fungi. They glowed balefully in the shadows near the ceiling. Great loops of chain ran between the nets, and held suspended in midair large, glowing boulders. Their rusty red and orange phosphorescent minerals added a touch of alien color to the room.
I noticed queasily that the boulders had been carved into horrifying shapes. The impression was of a torture chamber bathed in bloody light.
"Ugh, how can you bear this?" I muttered.
Baldr shrugged, and helped me to a stone chair near the fire. "It's better than a dank hovel out in the sleet. And I told you, Hel really isn't a bad hostess. Just a little grim."
Grim wasn't the word for this nightmare room. If her house were this bad . . . Decor usually reflected the owner's personality. Well, she was Death. At least the fire was warm. An extraordinarily old man was making his way toward us from a shadowed doorway, moving so slowly, it looked as if he were swimming through blood.
Baldr addressed him before he could get very far into the room.
"Ganglati, please inform your mistress that her guest has arrived, and ask Ganglot to send my wife to us."
The ancient man nodded, took five minutes to turn around, and slowly disappeared.
"Twins, he and his sister. They serve Hel, and do their best; but they're aptly named."
I just looked at him, too tired and too busy swallowing back nausea to answer.
"Slow-moving. Both their names mean slow-moving."
I nodded. Fortunately, the message reached Baldr's wife faster than the old man moved—he must've called ahead. The woman who swept into the hall was stunningly beautiful. A look of gentle concern on her face made her presence the most welcome thing I'd seen since arriving in hell.
"Baldr, whatever have you been doing to this poor dear? Didn't you even think to take a cloak to warm him through the sleet? Of course not; it was never your worry to see to such things." The words were not accusatory, just solidly practical. Women took care of details like food and clothing, her tone suggested, so how could a mere man be expected to remember?
She touched my forehead with the back of her hand, reminding me of childhood and Mom standing next to my bed in the middle of the night. Her hand was cool and gentle. She frowned.
"Fetch warm furs and go rescue some of that hot soup Ganglot was preparing for Hel's dinner. It should be nourishing for a mortal."
Baldr surrendered me to her care without a word, and she smiled reassuringly. "My name is Nanna, if no one's thought to tell you. I understand you are Randy Barnes?"
I was beyond surprise. I just nodded.
She slid the backpack off my shoulders, fussed with the web gear until I showed her how it unhooked, and shortly had me out of my ragged clothes. Baldr returned with several fur rugs, and wrapped me in them; then handed over a steaming mug. I peered into it suspiciously. I was revolted by the thought of drinking anything that glowed that shade of green and had floating lumps of iridescent yellow in it; but the stuff smelled wonderful and I was much too hungry to argue. I shut my eyes and drank slowly. The taste wasn't bad at all.
When I had finished the first mug, Nanna produced another, and I drank that; then I consumed an entire loaf of dull grey bread spread with a thick, crumbly green substance that tasted like cheese paste. It was wonderful. I ate slowly and carefully until my shrunken stomach would hold no more. Baldr produced a mug of incredibly potent ale, and shortly I sagged in the chair. My last thought was that I really ought to remain on my guard.
Waking up took a long time, with various parts of me clamoring for attention as I slowly became aware of them. There was an ungodly burning in my knees, a dull ache in the muscles of my arms and legs, sharp pain across my tailbone and back, and a matching pain across my belly. Other than that I felt wonderfully refreshed. I even managed to sit up on my own.
I was in a small room with no windows, dimly lit by a net full of bloated puffball fungus. I accepted the illumination gratefully; but avoided looking directly at the mottled "light fixtures."
Under fur coverings, I was naked and undeniably scrubbed. Even my hair felt squeaky clean. Smears of ointment had been daubed on the worst of my injuries. I actually blushed. Who'd bathed me while I was unconscious? I couldn't credit Baldr's doing it, and wondered if a goddess had the strength to pick up and carry a grown man.
Someone had obviously given my battered wardrobe as much attention as they'd given me. My boots stood on the floor beside me, cleaned and polished, and the remnants of my pants hung on a nearby chair. While badly stained, they were patched and repaired with some sort of heavy grey cloth. My tattered shirt was missing. It had been replaced by a coarse peasant-type shirt of nondescript grey. Socks and underwear lay on top of this, laundered somehow. The rest of my gear was piled beside the chair, and from here it looked like nothing had been disturbed.
Easing carefully out of bed, I found that someone had also thoughtfully provided a chamber pot. I grinned. They might not be accustomed to living guests; but someone had remembered. I relieved myself gratefully; then slowly dressed. I was hungry again, and wondered if I could wrangle another meal before having to meet the mistress of the hall. A soft knock sounded at the door and I hastily zipped my fly.
"Uh, yeah, come on in; I don't think it's locked."
The door opened and Baldr stuck his head in. He grinned when he saw me.
"Good, you're up and about." He came in, leaving the door ajar, and nodded in satisfaction. "Much better. I hope you're feeling better as well as looking it?"
"Much, thanks. When's supper?"
He chuckled. "You really must have been half-starved."
"I was." I thrust my hands into my pockets, and regarded him seriously. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to get here?"
He shook his head. "No; I couldn't even guess. None of us can quite believe you managed it at all. Hel is most anxious to meet you."
"Huh. I'll bet she is."
She had to figure Odin was behind this. I just hoped I could convince her I wasn't a threat, to her, at least. Unpleasant as it sounded, she and I were mostly on the same side—against Odin. I hoped Baldr hadn't guessed the truth of that.
"Let me get my knife, and I'll be ready to go."
I strapped Gary's knife to my calf and felt a hum of approval go through my leg. Good—I wanted the Biter's backup in case things got unpleasant.
Baldr led the way through immense corridors, past closed and barred doors, until we came to a wooden door decorated with silver filigree. I didn't even try to make sense of the ghastly scenes depicted in that metalwork.
Baldr knocked, and a woman's voice, low and gravelly, answered, "Enter."
Baldr pushed open the heavy door and motioned for me to proceed. I stepped through, glad when Baldr followed. The room was lit by even ghastlier carvings than the main entrance hall. I carefully averted my gaze, not wanting to spoil her first impression of me by throwing up on her carpet. There were indeed carpets on the floor, knotted in intricate patterns from what looked like plaits of human hair.
The walls were hung with tapestries—also woven from hair—and with heavy furs of animals I didn't recognize. Strange carvings of bone and ivory stood on smaller tables and shelves, and one massive piece of furniture seemed to be a wardrobe for clothing. Briefly I wondered what Death wore. Another ghostly fire blazed in a fireplace which must've required regular harvesting of giant sequoias. A heavy table stood beside it, laid with one place setting.
The central fixture of the room, however, was a bed on a raised platform. Silver skulls—human ones—topped stout posts at all four corners. Hangings of shimmering cloth obscured the occupant I could just barely see. Death reclined at her ease.
"So, you are the man who dares enter my kingdom before his time."
Her Bette Davis voice didn't sound angry; just intrigued.
"Come closer. I would look at you."
Baldr nodded toward the bed, so I moved across the carpets and approached the shimmery hangings, not without considerable trepidation. Unlike Baldr, Hel was very much alive. Her voice came again, chill as the wind and sleet outside.
"My home appears to distress you. What would you have me dwell in? A shining, fairy-tale palace full of warmth and light? Once those things were mine; but those who banished me made certain such were taken from me forever. Instead I wield a terrible power, and do not miss such trivialities."
She moved behind the hangings, nothing more than a shadow and a voice.
"My table is set with Hunger and Famine. I repose at my leisure in the Sickbed you mortals dread. My draperies—do you not admire them, the way they shimmer and lure you? They are Glimmering Misfortune, shining with elusive promise until you are ensnared. Come closer, mortal—or have you already come too near and tangled yourself forever?"
The hangings billowed out. For an instant, I was engulfed in a smothering cold stench, like a slaughterhouse. I lunged backward, and found the Biter in my hand. The stench vanished, and I was free.
"Very good," she purred.
The draperies subsided. A slim white hand pulled them aside. A fetid smell of sickness assaulted my nostrils and sent me back still another step. The goddess rose gracefully and let the hangings drop back into place. I tried not to stare. Then sternly repressed an idiotic urge to grin. I seriously doubted she would appreciate being laughed at.
But . . . honestly. . . !
She was half black, half white. The colors split right down the center, from head to foot. And—God help me—she looked as if she'd stepped right out of the hammiest Star Trek episode ever filmed. Her dark right side was the deep ebony of southernmost Chad, with long, black hair intricately braided and knotted in an arrangement that fell to her waist. Her left side was fairer than Baldr, with masses of silvery-blond hair braided just as intricately as the right side. Where the two colors met at the crown of her head the braids were interwoven, forming a banded pattern that reminded me unpleasantly of snakeskin.
The gossamer thin veil she wore left absolutely nothing to the imagination, and was held in place only by a snarling wolf's-head brooch at one shoulder.
Her gaze caught mine, and all trace of amusement drained away, leaving me clutching the Biter with a sweaty hand. Her eyes were crimson. They glowed hot like coals. When she smiled, her teeth were sharp, white fangs. She was beautiful, in a terrifying, compelling fashion. I understood, deep in my gut, why men throughout the ages had been repelled by—yet fatally attracted to—the angel of death. I found myself wanting to embrace her, to stretch out on her pallid bed and let her come to me. . . .
The Biter flared in my grasp. A flash of brilliant green light reflected the anger that flashed abruptly through my whole being. Hel was playing games, and I was cast in the role of toy. I blinked sudden sweat from my eyes.
Hel smiled, and gestured as if to say, "You can't blame me for trying." I discovered that I was shaking.
Her voice was a sultry purr, like a self-satisfied cat, and her eyes glinted briefly.
"Enough amusement, for now. I can see that you are a strong hero, so there is little to gain by deception. Come, sit at my table."
"Unh-uh." I stayed right where I was.
"Baldr," she said, a trifle wearily.
"It's all right to sit down," he said from the shadows. "Just don't accept anything from her table and you'll be fine."
She gave Baldr a pained glance; then gestured us to chairs. We sat; she joined us. I kept my grip on Gary's knife, and it kept its grip on my arm. Hel lifted a goblet and drank deeply; then set it down and contemplated me again. Her expression was impossible to interpret, shadowed here and highlit there by the eerie glow of an orange sculpture suspended above her table. I glanced at it only long enough to determine that the carving showed something utterly unspeakable being done to a pregnant woman, then hastily averted my gaze.
Hel's eyes narrowed slightly. "What I must know is why you have come to Niflheim. Can you answer that?"
I cleared my throat, and was irritated with myself for having to do so. "I want to speak with Loki."
Hel sat back slightly, which left her face in deeper shadow.
"That is what Baldr said. I did not believe him."
Hel fell silent. I had no idea what to say in response to that. I'd only been telling the truth, after all; sitting here was not my idea. The longer she remained silent, the more I sweat. I caught a glint in her eyes as her look sharpened, and the brief flash of sharp teeth as she licked her lips with the tip of a pointed tongue.
"Precisely what did you want to discuss with my father?"
"I have reasons for wanting information about Sleipnir."
"And those reasons are?"
I had to clear my throat again. "Private."
Her blond eyebrow rose. "I see." She picked up a knife—its handle was carved with scenes of blasted crops, skeletal men and beasts—and cut into a slice of meat on a dish shaped like a starving child's bloated belly. My jaws worked. I clamped them shut on nausea when she bit into the bloody meat and chewed thoughtfully.
"You realize that I am vitally interested in anything to do with Loki?"
I was aware of the reasons, and nodded.
"Good. You do understand why?"
I nodded again. Odin had imprisoned her father. He had also imprisoned her and her two brothers, simply because they were supposed to make trouble at some future, unspecified time. Given the gods' unshakable belief in predestination, I supposed it made sense from their point of view, despite the fact that they themselves believed the action would prove futile. Eventually the siblings—Fenrir and the World Serpent—were supposed to escape. Their wretched treatment ensured a well-whetted appetite for revenge. It looked to me like self-fulfilling prophecy; but then, given what I now knew, it was easy for me to point out what looked like flaws in Odin's thinking.
An idea nudged the fringes of my awareness then; but Hel spoke again, and I couldn't devote any attention to it.
"You are indeed an odd mixture of signals and portents, mortal. I wonder whose side you choose in this conflict? Mine? Or Odin's?"
The name was spat out. Her eyes flashed, daring Baldr to protest. He held silent. Wise man.
I sympathized with her, truly I did. The part of me on the side of justice cried out for the wrong done her to be righted.
Unfortunately, the day Hel's wrongs were redressed, everything I had ever known and loved was supposed to come to a fiery end; a consideration that tended to push me toward Odin's side of the bargaining table—where I emphatically did not want to be.
"Let's say I'm on my side," I answered, forcing a tight smile. Truth, Justice, and the American Way . . . Gary would've been proud.
She looked at me with astonishment. "Your side?" she echoed. Baldr looked equally baffled.
"Well, my world is caught in the middle, isn't it?"
She started to speak; then stopped and looked thoughtful. Taking another drink from her goblet, she studied my face for a long, tense interval before answering. What she finally said left me cold, sweating, and on my feet.
"I think," she purred, glancing up at me from beneath her eyelashes, "that you are entirely too dangerous to leave running about loose. It has been a long, long time since I took a hero of your strength to my bed, mortal. I think you will find my hall . . . less unpleasant . . . once you are dead."
I knew she had a thousand ways at her disposal to do me in right where I stood. And the wonderful knife in my hand wouldn't be the slightest bit of help against most of them. You can't fight off bubonic plague or a heart attack with a knife. Not even a supernatural one. I had to move fast. . . .
"Look, Hel, before you kill me, there's something you ought to know."
She paused in the act of lifting one slim white hand.
"Yes?" Her red eyes reflected morbid curiosity.
I wanted to glance at Baldr, and didn't dare. "Baldr," I growled, "get the hell out of here, will you? This is between me and her."
He hesitated. Then went without a word spoken. I heard the door thud softly shut behind him. I was alone with Death.
Hel had risen to her feet. She moved around the table toward me; I backed up involuntarily, and swung the knife up between us.
Her lips quirked in amusement. "You are certainly entertaining, mortal, and uncommonly brave; or perhaps merely foolhardy. It is hard to decide which." Her eyes actually twinkled for a moment, looking like flame-shot rubies. "What is so secret that you do not wish Odin's son to hear it?"
Cut the crap and get straight to the point. . . .
"I don't plan to die yet, Hel, and it's not in your best interest to kill me."
Both her brows soared this time. "Oh?" That came out softly dangerous.
Sweat dripped into my eyes. "You want something I can give you."
Her voice filled the room with threat. "And what can you possibly know of Death's desires?"
I forced a laugh. It sounded one helluva lot braver than I felt. "What does every goddamn god and goddess in the entire stinking Norse pantheon want? Revenge."
"Revenge?" Her eyes narrowed. After a moment, she turned away to pace toward the hearth. Firelight glowed behind her, casting green luminescence through the filmy gown she wore. Firelight highlighted exquisite thighs and hips through sheer cloth rendered virtually invisible. I swallowed hard, and tightened my grip on the Biter. It squeezed back reassuringly.
She turned without warning and fixed me with a cold stare.
"Yes," she hissed quietly, "I do want revenge. Odin tortures my poor brother Fenrir, who did him no harm, and denies me my rightful place in the ruling councils of heaven. I have the dead"—she laughed coldly, and the bitter sound made my flesh creep across my scalp—"but the dead do not swell to near bursting with the lust for life, as I do. Cold lot of miserable, ambitionless slaves . . ."
She regained her composure and blinked in surprise for a moment. Then her brow furrowed deeply. "You are dangerous."
She reminded me of a cat about to pounce on a hapless beetle.
"Yeah." I grinned, still sweating. "I do believe I am. But not to you."
Her glance swept me from boot soles to crown. "Are you trying to tell me you won't fight to the end of your strength when I come for your soul?"
I managed a nonchalant shrug. "Who says you are going to collect it? I've got several deities vying for that right. Personally speaking, I'm not done with it just yet."
She actually gaped. Then laughed aloud. "Not done with it yet . . ." She wiped genuine tears from the corners of her eyes. "So tell me, little man," she said, still chuckling, "just what is it you intend to do with your soul while it is still in your possession?"
She hadn't killed me yet. If I could just keep her talking . . . I remembered somewhat desperately bargaining with Frau Brunner for that knife I'd given Odin. Gary'd told me, "If you could bargain that way when it really counts . . ."
"You want revenge on Odin. So do I. That makes us allies, not enemies. You're the goddess of death, yes; but only death from accident and sickness and old age. I've got a lot of fight left yet, which means Freyja and Odin both have a stake in me, too. Who knows, I've been so much trouble I might end up getting thrown into Niflhel with all the real badasses."
She smiled coyly. "That could be arranged."
"Huh. I'll bet it could. My point—my first point—is this. You've only got a one-in-three chance of getting hold of me. And if I'm dead, I can't finish what I set out to do."
She nodded impatiently. "Get to your real point. Why should I let you live?"
"Because I'm going to kill Odin for you."
She just stared. Then blinked once. Then she said, very quietly, "You aren't meant to be the instrument of his death."
I smiled into her eyes. "Are you sure?"
Hel frowned.
I pressed my slight advantage. "How many dead has he stolen from you already? Dead he shouldn't have been able to take?"
Her eyes widened, and she blurted, "How did you—?" Then Hel clamped her lips, and narrowed her eyes. "All right. You've made your point. Just how do you propose to kill him?"
I grinned. "Are you kidding? Tell you my plans with his son listening on the other side of the door? Besides, those goddamned, tattletale ravens of his could be hiding anywhere."
She started, and looked suspiciously into the shadows for Hugin and Munin. Odin sent that pair out daily as spies to the various nine worlds, to learn what was going down. Then she scowled and turned a baleful glare on me. "If you know so much, mortal, you should realize full well that Odin will die in the final battle! My brother will devour him."
I murmured again, "Are you sure?"
She paused. Then she licked her lips with a narrow vermilion tongue, and chewed absently at her lower lip with a sharp white fang. I sweat some more, and waited for her to think it through.
Finally she muttered to herself, "You seek a word with my father about Sleipnir, and say you wish to slay Odin." She looked up and held my gaze. "I can certainly guess why you need Sleipnir." Her tone was droll. I had no doubt whatever that she had. "And the Biter comes willingly to your hand," she mused aloud. "I am probably a fool. . . ."
She caught and held my gaze with a glittering ruby stare.
"Do you swear to me on your immortal soul that you will harm neither of my brothers in this mad quest of yours? Be warned—go back on this oath, and you are mine forever, regardless of the manner of your death."
I, too, was probably a fool. . . .
Slowly I shook my head. "I'm not stupid, Hel. I'm not after your brothers, but no one can swear that kind of an oath and be certain of keeping it. Accidents happen. Innocent bystanders get in the way. I'll promise to do my damnedest not to injure either of them, but I won't swear an oath like that."
I expected her to kill me on the spot. Instead she smiled.
"You drive a hard bargain, mortal. And you are shrewd." She shrugged her smooth shoulders, which lifted her breasts tantalizingly beneath the gauzy gown. "Can you blame me for trying?"
I snorted. "Not really. Lady, you're about the farthest thing from stupid I've ever seen."
Her chortle was surprisingly warm. "Why, thank you." She reached out a long finger toward my chin. I stepped hastily back, swinging the Biter up between us. She halted, and looked hurt; then sighed. "And you are a very wise man. I really do regret this; you'd have been such fun in bed."
I wrapped my other hand around the wrist holding the Biter, not only to brace my arm, but to keep both hands from shaking so badly. Damn her. . . .
But she didn't kill me. She said only, "It is a bargain, then. I allow you to keep your life as your own—for now," she added with a winsome smile that left me dripping sweat, "and you agree to spare my brothers—if possible—" she amended graciously when I opened my mouth to protest, "when you go after Odin on this mad quest of yours. Agreed?"
I reviewed the wording of that contract with microscopic care. "You agree to allow me to keep my life as my own, period, no strings attached and no interference, and then you can haggle with me and with the rest of the gods and goddesses for my soul when my time to die eventually comes around in its own due course. And I agree to try not to injure or kill either of your brothers in the course of hunting and killing Odin, but make no promises that I might not accidentally kill or injure one or both of them, since I can't predict the course or outcome of any fight with a god or anyone or anything that might support him." I thought about what I'd said again, decided I was happy with it, and added, "Agreed?"
I saw her lips moving silently as she, in turn, reviewed the potential contract. At length she pouted in sheer annoyance and muttered, "Agreed."
I began breathing again; cautiously.
She turned aside, and toyed with the scraps of food left on her plate. "I suppose I should wish you luck in capturing my traitorous half-brother. Sleipnir is notoriously tricky. Of course," she flashed a grim smile, "he is our father's son."
I'd never quite thought of Sleipnir in terms of Hel's half-brother. I thought about the terms of our agreement, and wondered which two brothers I'd ended up swearing to try not to hurt. Of course, that knife cut both ways—I could always claim that she hadn't stipulated which two, and therefore I wasn't bound by any kind of oath regarding Sleipnir. Of course, she could then declare the whole thing null and void and kill me anyway. . . . I decided I'd better not hurt Fenrir, the World Serpent, or Sleipnir if I could possibly help it. Who would we get to judge a contract dispute?
"I think perhaps you are none of my affair, mortal," Hel was saying. "And since you wish to speak to my father, you are going to have to arrange for your own transportation to him." She glanced up at me. "He lies in Niflhel, mortal, not Niflheim, and no one enters Niflhel without the express permission of the Norns themselves."
I didn't know whether or not she was telling the truth. It didn't make sense that the goddess of death wouldn't have access to that part of the underworld where the truly evil dead were sent. Even psychopathic monsters sometimes died accidentally, or of old age. But then, someone had to judge the dead, and the Norns seemed as likely a candidate as anyone.
"I'd rather not make another detour," I said dryly. "It's nothing personal, but I'd just as soon spend as little time as possible in this world of yours, and I've got other people to call on. So why don't you just give me directions—"
She slammed her fists down on the table. The plate jumped, and the knife clattered to the floor. I'd never seen sparks literally fly out of someone's eyes. . . .
"Impudent little man! I have been patient enough with you!"
The Biter flared wildly green in my hand. I snarled right back, "Going to forswear yourself so soon, lady? Isn't that Odin's specialty?"
She bit down on whatever it was she had been about to say.
The next thing I knew—even before I could take in what had happened—I was standing in a driving sleet storm, dizzy and shivering. The Biter was in my hand; but I was utterly alone outside Hel's miserable hall of death. And all my gear was locked behind doors and walls I could never hope to penetrate.