Sleipnir

Her horse leaped into a gallop that sent us speeding across the surface of the subterranean lake. Wind tore my breath away. I was proud of riding skills I'd accumulated the hard way; but I still took advantage of the opportunity to wrap my arms around her golden-armored waist. Rangrid didn't seem to mind. I gave a quick squeeze, and heard a chuckle float back to me on the wind.

The horse's golden hooves touched the far shore and he slowed to a walk. We had entered the outer fringes of an array of fighting men that dwarfed even the cast of The Longest Day. These fighting men, however, were all dead: the Einherjar, Chosen Heroes of Odin.

They constituted a solid mass, moving toward a vast, dark hall set on an open plain. The corners of the hall were lost beyond the horizon in either direction. Rangrid urged her horse through the crowd; soldiers gave over with surprisingly little grumbling. I wondered how many of them she'd personally collected. I saw men dressed in battle gear from every culture back to the dawn of time itself, all crowding against the bloodred stallion's flanks. Many of them were badly wounded; but they were mending before my eyes. The effect was dizzying, utterly alien.

All of us—dead warriors, horse, Rangrid, and I—were making for a massive doorway. I couldn't begin to grasp the size of the Valhall.

I could see only one side of it from our position, and not even the whole side at that, since the wall receded into apparent infinity. The door stood wide, dwarfing every other doorway I'd seen. Men streamed toward it, turning the bloodred plain black with their numbers. I knew from my studies there were six hundred thirty-nine doors in the Valhall. And this was just one of them? Sometimes, an occasion arises when a man fully appreciates how puny his imagination truly is. At a conservative guess, close to a thousand men would fit through that massive opening ahead without jostling. I glanced back. We'd just ridden through a solid mass of humanity that stretched from the doorway all the way down to the water's edge.

The stallion's golden hooves rang out on hard stone flooring as Rangrid urged him on through the dark opening. Tables that looked like they'd been hewn from an entire forest of giant redwoods stretched away into the distance, covered with preparations for a great feast. An enormous goat stretched on its hind legs, nibbling at the buds of a tree growing within the Hall. Ale flowed like amber milk from the animal's heavy teats, falling with a pleasant splashing sound into strategically placed buckets.

I snorted: convenient.

Hundreds of thousands of men, women, and children—billions and billions, for all I could tell—scurried between the tables, bearing trays of goblets, and heavy pitchers of what smelled like beer but was probably mead.

More staggered under loads of roasted meat, trenchers of steamed vegetables, stacks of hot, freshly baked breads. I couldn't imagine where all these people had come from. None of the materials I'd read had mentioned slaves in Valhalla, even though many of the Vikings had kept captives to serve them. Slaves had sometimes been put to death and buried with their masters—especially young girls—but those few burials wouldn't account for the thousands of men and women of every conceivable age here.

"Rangrid, who are all these people?"

She twisted slightly in the saddle. "Those are the ones who die in war but are not warriors themselves."

"You mean they're the i

"Where else would you have them go? To freeze in Hel's dour worlds? No, they belong here, in Valhalla, where they are at least warm and treated well."

A child of no more than eight staggered past with a heavy tray. I ground my teeth. "You call that good treatment?"

"You've been to Niflheim!" she snapped. "Would you rather see her slaving for the creature called Hel?"

Recalling Hel's tastes, I couldn't help wondering if she wouldn't have preferred eating the child—but that didn't excuse what was being done to these people. It was bad enough that Odin was snatching people like Gary—but i

Back in Germany, I'd fought ragheads on behalf of people just like these. Now I had another reason to kill Odin. I couldn't blame Rangrid for this latest outrage—she was just a soldier following orders, which was something I knew about—but Odin was another story. What was being done to these people was unforgivable.

I didn't respond to Rangrid's angry retort, and she didn't press me further.

At the far end of the vast room, almost lost in distant shadows, was the High Seat of the Valhall. The carved throne stretched into the darkness that hid the rafters from view. Rangrid's stallion danced toward it, picking his careful way between the scurrying slaves.

Valhalla's High Throne was occupied, and I didn't have to ask by whom; that vermilion eye glowed balefully from the shadows as we approached. Two slavering, gaunt timber wolves chained near Odin's feet raged, first at one another, then at anyone foolish enough to get too close to them. The two black ravens still sat on Odin's shoulders. Having slightly more leisure to study them, I realized they were virtually identical. I thought the one on the left was Hugin and the one on the right was Munin; but my memory wasn't entirely clear.

In my ear, Rangrid murmured, "Beware of Geri and Freki, hero. These wolves are called Greedy and Gluttonous for good reason. Not even Odin's own portion from the boar Saehrimnir's eternal flesh is enough to satiate them. Living mortal is a treat they have never seen."

"Thanks for the warning," I said dryly. It was only appropriate that Odin's pet wolves reflected his own personality. Most pets did.

Rangrid drew her mount to a halt and we sat waiting for Odin to speak. He sat in silence for a moment, just staring. I returned the look with an outward semblance of calm. Inside... My hands ached to close around his throat.

"So, you have come living to Valhalla."

His gravelly voice reminded me surprisingly of Hel's—an observation which startled me into some interesting conjectures.

"You will find my hospitality generous, mortal—but once I have entertained a guest, I am constrained to continue his entertainment. Eternally."

He laughed uproariously.

I growled, "I'll bet you're dynamite at a party, with a lamp shade."

Rangrid giggled; Odin looked grumpily puzzled.

The wolves' jaws gaped expectantly.

Odin recovered his composure to gesture at the ebony birds on his shoulders. Their little black eyes hadn't left me.

"Hugin and Munin also bid you welcome. Thought and Memory advise me of all that happens in the wide, wide worlds."

Briefly I wondered if these feathered tattletales were the source of "a little bird told me."

He added, with a tight, feral smile, "They have kept me well informed of your treason, mortal."

"Treason?" I barked. "That's rich."

Odin scowled at the interruption. "You have provided some measure of entertainment, despite your colossal presumption. Now—having been amused for so unexpectedly long—I return the favor. Have you any questions before you die in honorable combat?"

"Sure. I got a million of 'em, but I'll settle for just one answer before I turn your ugly ass into wolf chow."

He narrowed his eye; but nodded. "Speak."

"Okay, buddy. Why?"

Surprise lifted his shaggy grey brows. Rangrid turned in her saddle to look at me. Odin's voice was flatly puzzled.

"Why what?" It came out sounding almost petulant.

I enumerated my points by ticking them off on the fingers of one hand.

"Why are you murdering men who never knew you existed, wouldn't have worshiped you if they had, and could care less about you, your Valhall, or your petty squabbles with Surt?