I took off my helmet and held it as far down the right-hand passageway as I could. I flashed the light around, and studied the opening. The floor fell away at a slightly smaller angle of slope. It appeared to be completely dry, and it didn't appear to narrow down at all.

It looked like a much easier route, and probably a survivable one. I jammed the helmet back onto my head and studied the river passage again. My Sunday-school teacher had always said the road to hell was an easy passage; but I didn't think Christian ideals necessarily applied here.

As I squatted there at the very edge of the black river, I felt an almost subliminal humming along my calf. The knife strapped to my leg seemed to quiver in anticipation.

That wasn't necessarily a good sign.

Involuntarily I glanced down; then wished I hadn't. I spat and watched the tiny blob of spittle vanish as the tremendously swift current swept it away.

Hell, I still didn't know what to make of that knife.

And, though part of me wished bitterly that I'd never laid eyes on it, another part of me knew that nothing in the known universe could have prompted me to refuse accepting it. Call it guilt; call it cowardice. Hell, a case could even be made for compassion. . . .

I wondered what Gary's grandmother would make of me if she could see me now. I snorted.

Probably ask to borrow the knife back, then call the cops to come and lock me up once I was unarmed.

She'd seemed an extraordinarily capable old lady. Granted, we hadn't met under the best of circumstances. But then, they do say stress and grief tend to bring out a person's real personality. Which said a lot about her-and even more about me.

Even through the numb shock and the sick anger that had gripped me, once I had met Gary's grandmother, I'd discovered I envied my dead friend every minute of the time he'd spent growing up in her house. I'd never met anyone quite like her and knew I never would again.

Either the Vernon family had been a rare breed, indeed, or my life had been emptier than even I had thought.

I rubbed my eyes with thumb and forefinger, then tried to ease a cramped knot in the back of my neck. If I'd had any doubtsbefore the funeral about Who-or What-had killed Gary Vernon, I certainly didn't have any afterward. I probably shouldn't have been surprised; but the last place I'd expected to encounter more of Odin's legacy was at Gary's funeral.

The weather at the cemetery wasn't any better than Germany's, just warmer. Thick, drizzling mist threatened to become cold rain at any moment. I'd flown halfway around the world-threatened to let all hell loose if I didn't get the leave time I was owed, and get it rightthen -only to get rained on at my best friend's funeral.

I watched the grim procession crawl through the rusted iron gates and move toward me. Nothing could have induced me to set foot inside the funeral home; it was bad enough out here under the miserable sky, with the miserable mountains glaring down at me through the miserable mist.

This stretch of godforsaken Oregon coast ended at a cliff, dropping a sheer hundred fifty feet into crashing surf. The cemetery clung to the edge of the cliff, shivering in heavy, cold fog. The few markers were granite, some very old, three with the same date of death.

The Vernon family was almost completely reunited.

I didn't have to wait long for the line of cars to crawl through the gates and stop near the open grave. Small towns didn't have many mourners in them. I stood at some distance while they gathered, and knew I was almost invisible to the mourners through the fog, which suited my mood. Then, when the minister took his place, I shouldered my way closer. Friends of the family stared, wondering who the silent uniform belonged to. I was obviously too late an arrival to be a member of the honor guard who would give Mrs. Vernon that terribly expensive flag after they lowered Gary's box from under it.

The mist thickened, creeping between the tombstones and around the mourners, until I could barely make out the casket. It wasn't the right sort of mist; not tangy with salt air and the fresh sea scents of a living coastline. It stank of blood and bodies long dead. The cold, slimy feel of it clinging to me was the feel of the grave, the touch of Sleipnir's cold eyes. I shuddered, wanting to tear at the smothering mist and rip it to shreds with my fingers.

The preacher droned on about the mercy of God and I ground my teeth. There was no merciful God; just a bloodthirsty old bastard with one eye who wouldn't be satisfied with the dead he already had.

No one here would believe what had really happened; but the memory of that tiny shape swaying in the grip of Sleipnir's massive teeth was so strong, it was all I could do not to fling open the coffin to see if Gary's body bore teeth marks.

The sharp report of the first rifle volley snapped me back. Two more followed, echoing off the shrouded cliffs.

The woman beside me closed her eyes; but didn't flinch. I'd seen Gary's photographs enough times to know this was Mrs. Vernon. Gary's grandmother was a solid woman, built to live forever. In the wreck of a face made old by more than time, I could see she'd once been beautiful.

Gary's grandfather must've been crazy, to leave her to go off to war. Her hair was silver and diamonds in the mist, and her chin was firm and high.

The only movement anywhere about her leaked from the corners of her eyes. She never sobbed once; but the tears didn't stop or even slow down, and there wasn't enough courage in my whole body to meet her eyes. I wasn't sure she'd even noticed my presence when I'd nudged my way between her and a disapproving neighbor.

The bugler began taps amidst an unexpected growl of thunder from the Pacific. The service wasn't over yet when a violent squall swept in off the sea and shredded the mist, sending it flying before a sharp, salty wind. Rain tore at the mourners, cleansed the casket; the stars and stripes draped over it blazed when the lightning flashed. I pulled off my overcoat and held it above Mrs. Vernon's head while the gathering broke and ran for parked cars, leaving a mere handful to finish out the graveside service.

Rain and wind slashed through the graveyard, battering at us. My arms shook slightly, holding up the sodden coat. I peered intently through the storm, half expecting to see the monstrous, deformed shape of that eight-legged hellhorse rise up out of the stormy sea to tower above us.

Except he'd already come and gone, his dirty work done.

I found myself standing between Gary's grandmother and the wind, shivering, but determined toprotect Mrs. Vernon. She was the only bit of Gary left alive in the world.

"You'd best go on now, Ingrid."

One of the gravediggers had appeared. Mrs. Vernon was holding the folded flag. The service had ended while I was watching the rotten storm. Mrs. Vernon and I were the only two mourners left at the gravesite.

"I'll go when my boy's home, none sooner."

Not a quaver; but her tears came faster. Either that, or the wind was crying, too. I edged closer to her side, not quite daring to put an arm around her, and faced down the gravedigger. He looked at my bedraggled dress uniform and shrugged.

They lowered Gary into the earth, their grunts and oaths barely audible above the storm. The splunk of mud against dark, wet steel settled all argument. A moment later we turned to go.

Mrs. Vernon looked me up and down, and my heart jumped into my mouth. I was a good half-a-foot taller than she was, for all that she was impressive; but she could've knocked me into the mud with a look.

"You'll be coming to the house." It wasn't a question, but I made noncommittal noises.

"Mr. Barnes, you've come all the way from Germany, as none of the rest of them have, and I'll not see you turned out into a storm for thanks. You follow my car back."

For a moment I was puzzled that she knew my name; then it occurred to me that I had no idea what sort of letters and/or pictures Gary had sent home. I nodded and helped her back through the mud and rain to the waiting limo.

The limousine dropped Mrs. Vernon off on a tree-lined street, in front of a small stone home. I parked my rented Mustang and stepped out into a deep puddle that soaked coldly through my already drenched shoes.

Mrs. Vernon ushered me onto the porch and into an unfashionable living room filled with unmatched, comfortable old furniture, and family pictures in heavy gold and wooden frames. I dripped muddy water onto her throw rug, and tried not to look at the laughing faces in those photos. Across the room a few brown pine needles and a stray "icicle" on the carpet showed where a Christmas tree had stood until recently.

Merry Christmas, Ingrid Vernon.

She spoke then, while pulling off her coat. "Sit down, make yourself comfortable, Mr. Barnes. I'll be just a moment."

She disappeared into the back of the house. I stayed where I was. I'd already ruined the seat of the rental car.

She returned sooner than I expected, having left the sodden coat somewhere, but she still wore the muddy shoes and bedraggled black dress. Her hair dripped onto her shoulders. She held before her, on outstretched hands, a long narrow box wrapped in an old, faded bit of gingham cloth.

She glanced down at it for a long moment; then met my eyes.

"You were special to my boy."

I didn't know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.

She unwrapped the gingham and held out a slim wooden case. "The men who carried this are all gone. Gary wouldn't take it with him over there; he said it would just get stolen some night. And maybe -maybe it would have, at that. There arethose . . ."

She faltered; her eyes closed briefly, then opened. Her chin came up resolutely and she stared into my eyes, apparently searching for something-and whatever it was, I couldn't have explained why, but right then, for just an instant, I'd have been willing to die to give it to her.

And then the moment was past. Mostly.

Softly Ingrid Vernon said, "I'd be proud if you would have it. It was meant for Gary, at least I'd hoped it was; but that wasn't to be. None of what I'd hoped for was meant to be. . . ." Her eyes heldunshed tears. Her expression, while utterly bleak, somehow conveyed an impression of frustrated rage and a sense of personal betrayal. "But life is as it will be," she continued, and finished grimly, "regardless of pain."

Barely in time, for a change, I managed to bite back my response. It would have been entirely too heartfelt-I'd heard the same line from Gary too many times. But however much I wanted to rage at her -to tell her it was her fault; that she'd made him the way he was, and that's what got him killed-I couldn't have said a thing like that to my worst enemy, let alone this proud, stubborn old woman trying not to inflict her grief on her grandson's friend.

Reverently she handed me the box. "You arechosen ."

I blinked but carefully said nothing. It seemed likely that she would explain further. (And oddly enough the prospect sent a chill up my spine.) "For generations, it has alwayschosen its keeper from the males of my family. Now there are no more. You are the one it wants."

I opened the lid. For a long moment, my eyes refused to focus on the object inside. Black as Sleipnir's eyes, a long, somehow menacing shadow crouched between folds of crimson velvet. From needle-pointed blade tip to end of pommel, absolutely no light reflected from the knife. It wasn't coated or plated to look black; itwas black-even the razor-honed edge, which should have reflected silver; but didn't. A dragon's-head guard and tail-shaped haft curled into a belt or thong clip. It might have been gaudy-should have been-but it wasn't.

Not at all.

Without quite knowing how it got there, I found my fingers closing about the haft which lay on my abruptly sweating palm. It was soft and warm to the touch; it felt almost like living flesh. Something, no doubt feedback from my inexplicably pounding pulse, created a sensation within my fist that felt oddly like the purr of a smugly self-satisfied cat.

I looked at it more closely. From its appearance, I couldn't hazard a guess as to what it was made of. Obviously it was very old (possibly even ancient). It was certainly utterly unique, and unmistakably priceless; somehow I knew instantly that the last place it belonged was a museum-or maybe, as I became aware of my surroundings once again, the next-to-the-last place. . . .

Hastily I dropped the knife back into the velvet, snapped the lid closed, and met Ingrid Vernon's unfathomable gaze.

"I can't accept this!" I sputtered.

She held up a hand. I shut up.

"Itchose you," she stated flatly, "and that's all there is to be said. Keep it, Randy. For his sake."

I gave up. Briefly (and without notable success) I tried to say something appreciative. Eventually I fell silent.

Presently she said, "It was good of you to want to come."

"I always wanted to meet you," I fumbled.

She offered a wan smile. "Thank you, I see you mean that, and I wanted to meet you, too. But I didn't want it to be . . ."

I couldn't answer. She seemed to understand.

Finally, after a timeless interval, I broke the quiet that had settled over the room. "I, uh, guess I'd better be going. Have to get back to Portland, to the airport. . . ."

Flushing, I made an awkward farewell.

I could feel her eyes on my back all the way to the rented car; then I was alone with the knife. I opened the box again, and stared at the dead black shape for a moment. It occurred to me that Gary probably had been right. This little number was thief-bait. Even if I hadn't had a job to get back to- Uncle Sam still wanted me-I probably wasn't going to want to look at it again for quite some time. If ever. Too many memories. It would have to get used to its dark little box until my discharge.I experienced an inexplicable flash of anger at the thought. The feeling grew stronger as I snapped the lid shut and rewrapped the gingham. It intensified further as I began to think about getting back to duty. The feeling persisted all the way back to Germany, where I asked that it be logged in and locked up safely in the arms room. As I walked away, I received an indelible impression of frustrated rage.

Chapter Seven.

A dark swirl of water raced away from me, down into the heart of the mountain, as cold as my gut.

The next choice I made might well be my last. I had to decide not only whether I went left or right; but also whether or not to trust the knife which now hung poised along my calf. A grimace tugged at my lips.

The immortal Juliet had begged Romeo not to swear by the "inconstant moon" lest his love prove just as changeable; the risk that this knife would be just as fickle loomed in the foreground of my awareness.

I eyed the blade uneasily; then reached down and felt the grip slide smoothly into my hand. Instead of holding it by the haft, I simply laid the knife across my palms and stared at it. It was heavy and reassuringly solid to the touch; but-as I had learned shortly after acquiring the damned thing-I had ample reason to be wary. I glanced at the river again. The fall of black water churned its surface with endless boiling motion.

Black knife, black water . . .

The knife lay cold and dead against my palms, giving me no clue. But then I didn't really need the knife to make my decision. The Christian hell might be notoriously easy to get into; but I was betting the Norse one wasn't. I thrust the blade back into its sheath and came briskly to my feet. I cast one last longing glance down that dry passageway. . . .

Then strode forward into black spray.

Gingerly I tested the footing along the edge, as far away from the cascading waterfall as possible.

In seconds I was drenched to the skin, and the bottom continued to slope away, leaving me hip-deep and sinking in next to no time. The water wascold , nearer the temperature of an ice cube than liquid water. I gritted my teeth and kept going, trying unsuccessfully not to shiver as the icy water filled my boots and chilled my bones.

The bottom slowly leveled out, and I found myself waist-deep, struggling to stay upright in swift current that tugged at my pack and threatened to drag my feet out from under me. Gradually the current slowed as the walls widened out. Unfortunately, that made hanging on more difficult. Soon I couldn't reach both sides at once. After the roar of the waterfall died away, the only sound was that of the river itself, softly hissing over and around rocky protrusions.

I began to shiver in earnest as my frozen body tried to warm itself. Dying of hypothermia hadn't occurred to me; but it was entirely possible. Somehow I didn't think freezing to death qualified a hero for admission into Valhalla. Not that I felt much like a hero; I was just too goddamned mad to lie back and enjoy what most people would have considered inevitable.

I actually laughed aloud. The sound skittered across the black river and vanished downstream.

Odin was probably very unhappy that I wasn't most people. I hadn't been, even before Gary's death, and afterward . . .

Afterward, I had felt a bitter kinship with the poor guy in Heinlein'sThe Unpleasant Profession of Jonathan Hoag , who had started sleeping nights handcuffed to his wife. But that guy's solution to his personal nightmare had been to run away and hope it didn't get any worse.

I didn't do things that way.

It had eventually occurred to me that Gary's murder had been-mythologically speaking- impossible. Gary Vernon had been "collected" by Sleipnir, Odin's personal courier for fetching to the Valhall those warriorskilled in battle .

Gary Vernon had died in a traffic accident.Sleipnir did not collect-and never had-traffic-accident victims. Those who died accidentally ended up in Niflheim, not Valhalla. That realization had stopped me cold in my tracks for a couple of days; fortunately, they werequiet days, because an entire division probably could have rolled through the fences next to my tower and I wouldn't have noticed. I'd been too busy with thoughts that leapfrogged across all the old stories I'd ever read as I tried to make sense of something even more impossible than the impossible.

And then, when I couldn't make sense of it, I'd gone out and done additional research. Lots and lots of additional research. My new obsession might have made me the butt of endless jokes; but nobody razzed me much. Of course, Rosetti's new orthodontia, compliments of Uncle Sam, might have prompted some of that reluctance. Somehow word had gotten around to leave me and my pagan gods strictly alone. . . .

Beneath the trappings of glory and drinking and whoring it up, the old Viking religion was damned vicious. Three old hags called the Norns made all the rules-including the ones the gods themselves lived by. These three witches made the Greek Fates look like Sleeping Beauty's Good Fairies. Their rules for living-and dying-were ugly, cruel, full of blood and torture and death. Nobody, including Odin, spat without those three old hags' by-your-leave, andnobody broke the rules.

Warriors-those who died in battle-and accident victims did not share the same afterlife. Not ever. And yet there Odin was, apparently throwing everybody into one stewpot, willy-nilly. Odin wasn't allowed to collect victims of accidents-or disease, or old age-for his great battle hall. But he'd collected Gary. And apparently the Norns were letting him get away with it.

That had left me with two possibilities. Either the army had lied about the accident-which was not only entirely possible, but highly probable, if ragheads had been involved-or something really screwy was going on here. Why would Odin start stealing men wherever he found them? And why would the Norns let him?

To answer my first question, I'd collared Hill, the driver, and Rosetti-separately-and had done my best (or worst, depending on your viewpoint) to get the real story out of them. They had agreed on every detail. Gary had died in a plain-and-simple truck wreck. No raghead ambush, no sabotage of the truck, no nothing. Just one blind-drunk muther at the wheel and one dead GI. I think they had to rehospitalize Hill after I got done with him. . . .

Meanwhile, Odin had gotten away with murder. And probably would again-maybe even mine. I bitterly acknowledged that fact, and, somewhere in the process of getting drunk and ripping up a German bar and a few dozen of the Palestinian "Turks" who hung out there, I felt like I finally understood why Oedipus-who had also fallen afoul of a divine joke too cruel to bear-had stabbed out his own eyes.

And then, quietly and clear-headedly, I had vowed that Odin would pay. No matter what it took.

Which left me with figuring outhow . A mortal doesn't just hop a bus for the home of the gods. . . .

Not even dying was a surefire way to get to him. Most of the dead went to the goddess Hel's hall in Niflheim, and a full half the warriors killed in battle were claimed by Freyja forher hall, wherever that was. Besides, I didn't want to die first just in order to get to Odin. Dead men don't get much done, and I had a lot to accomplish.