"Be warned. Loki is master of lies and trickery. His moods are more changeable now than ever before. He may be chained; but he is still very, very dangerous to a mortal man. Do what you must, for Fate will have it no other way, but guard your life if you value it."
That struck me as an odd statement for a god who believed wholeheartedly in predestination. I wondered if Skuld's predilection for strange behavior was contagious.
"I must leave you now. Remember—caution... ."
My mouth was dry and my palm was wet when I clasped his arm.
"I... uh... thanks." I wanted to say more but had no idea how to say it. I owed Baldr my life. Killing his father wasn't much of a thank you, which made the moment more awkward than it should have been. "Guess you ought to take this worthless nag back with you, huh?" I jerked my thumb at my horse.
Baldr shook his head solemnly. "Keep him for a while. If you don't need him, he'll find his way back home. But if you do need him..."
"Yeah."
Baldr gripped my arm one last time; then turned, mounted, and galloped away without another word. The Norse weren't much on prolonged goodbyes. Either that, or he was as scared as I should have been. I watched him disappear into the shimmer marking the boundary with the Norns' world; then I leaned against a nearby boulder and contemplated my situation. I had a horse that bolted at the sight of its own shadow, but I was in better physical shape than when I'd started out, thanks to Verdani and that marvelous drink of water.
I was about to meet Loki face-to-face—with no guarantee I'd survive the interview. Well, I was armed to the teeth, and then some. Meet Loki? Nothing to it. Just walk right up and introduce myself. I'd survived Hel and Fate; what was a little chat with Loki?
I shrugged out of my battered pack and started getting ready. The soil was so cold I wondered whether it might be made of frozen hydrogen. On further reflection, I decided that if the temperatures here were cold enough to freeze hydrogen solid, I'd be a Han Solo-style popsicle by now. I was, however, still alive and functioning. Well, mostly. I wasn't too sure the end of my nose was ever going to regain feeling.
Despite the numbing temperatures, I took my time getting ready. No sense rushing in half-assed. Half-asses got killed a little too quickly to suit me. I did not want to die in this frozen wasteland.
I loosened the Armalite from the pack and restrapped it so I could pull it loose with one quick jerk. Then I checked my spare magazines and stuck them into various convenient pouches on my web gear where I could get at them in a hurry. There were six extras for the rifle and two spares for the P-7. I had some good civilian, soft-point hunting ammo in the rifle, but had been able to get only military "hardball" ammunition for the pistol. I regretted again that I hadn't had enough cash to buy a large supply, and so had picked up some old World War II surplus stuff—armor-piercing German rounds—priced to sell. It'd tested okay when I shot some; but I didn't like it as much as the hollow points I would rather have had in the P-7.
It occurred to me presently that I was letting my preparation become procrastination. I couldn't afford to let my courage get cold. Caution was one thing—but too much thought bred inaction and that would probably prove fatal. So. The guns were set, the ammo was set, and Gary's knife...
The Sly Biter had grown deadly quiet in my boot sheath. I didn't care much for that portent, but I wasn't going to let it worry me. I loosened the Biter's sheath snap, and shouldered my pack. Then I drew a deep breath, mounted my horse, and set him to a brisk trot. The frigid air got blood and adrenaline flowing again.
I headed toward the distant overhang, keeping the larger boulders between me and the source of that low scraping sound, which had already started to set my teeth on edge. My horse was growing more nervous with every step. I had my hands full keeping him under control. We rounded a corner—
Loki!
Before my horse could scream, I whirled his head back around. We retreated behind sheltering rocks. Freezing air knifed my lungs with each gulp. Gripping the reins firmly, I risked another look—and found myself overcome by a rapid, shrinking sensation that reduced my ego to its proper insignificance.
Loki...
One of the few names from Norse mythology most people had at least heard... It was a name full of dark madness. Only who was madder: the god, or the fool seeking him out?
I had thought I was ready for this interview. Now I knew why Baldr never came here. Loops of slender chain bound Loki to three flat slabs: one under his head and shoulders, one under his hips, and one under his knees. It looked hellishly uncomfortable. I couldn't guess what the chains were made of; but they were damned (as it were) strong. He writhed like an epileptic in grand mal seizure and all they did was creak a little. No wonder the ground trembled constantly.
He was a dark god, in more than just reputation. Long black hair, plastered by centuries of sweat and grime, hung across dark skin and deep-set black eyes. An aura of darkness hovered around him, tantalizing the eye and blurring details I needed to see. If he'd been clothed when the gods bound him here, the fabric had long since rotted away. Or maybe it'd been eaten away... .
Acid burns and half-healed scars covered him, turning a face that might once have been very handsome into a grotesque parody of human features. Only the eyes remained human—and they burned with an endless rage.
Prospects for a productive interview looked poor.
Likewise, I wasn't thrilled with the idea of getting any closer to those slabs of rock, because the entire rest of the space beneath the overhang was filled with seething, half-seen movement. Rounded boulders of dark, coppery bronze surrounded Loki on three sides, hellishly lit by the glowing rock of the overhang. Covering those boulders—swarming on and around them by the tens of thousands—were vipers. Big ones. Little ones. Colored like the rainbow and writhing in a solid mass toward the chained god. All of them hissed and dripped venom.
Onto Loki.
And if I went in there...
A huge head reared above the tangled mass of snakes—and my mouth went dry as dusty kitty litter. The "boulders" weren't rock at all. They were the coils of the biggest, scaliest snake I had ever had the misfortune to encounter. It leaned over Loki and spat. Drops of venom the size of basketballs splashed across him and splattered over the ground.
He screamed. The ground heaved. My horse's groans were drowned by the roar coming from Loki's rocky prison. The horse stumbled sideways, and I came loose. The ground was a long way down; but I kept my grip on the reins, even when I couldn't get my breath, or see anything but stars. My nag—bucking and rearing—all but dislocated my shoulder. When the ground tremors finally died away, I found my horse sprawled beside me. It didn't look like either one of us was interested in getting up.
Did I say getting up? Hell—I ought to be getting out. Except I didn't exactly remember the way out... . And I still had this little problem with Odin... .
I had to talk to Loki. No way around it.
I finally crawled back to my feet and risked another quick peek. A woman had stooped over the chained god. She held a large bowl in trembling hands. I couldn't remember her name; but I knew she was Loki's wife. She, too, had once been beautiful. You could almost see it shining through the wreck of her face. Now her whole universe was the bowl she held, trying unsuccessfully to catch all the drops of venom before they could splash onto her husband.
As I watched, a slow rage began to simmer through me. What was she doing here? No man was worth this. But then, I was a twentieth-century man and she was not a twentieth-century woman. Viking goddesses had been models of archaic honor, sacrificing themselves for family whenever sacrifices were called for. Nanna had voluntarily died to join Baldr in Niflheim, and Loki's wife had willingly gone into exile with her wretch of a husband. Some of the assholes I'd known over the years would have cheered. I wanted to throw up.