“It’s the River Gjöll that has a bridge, not the Slidr. Gjallarbrú they call the bridge. Be thankful we don’t need to cross it, Módgud stands guard.”

“Módgud?” I don’t really want to know.

“A giantess. The far shore of that river is corpse upon corpse. They build the Nagelfar there, the nail ship that Loki will steer to Ragnarok. And behind that bridge stand the gates of Hel, guarded by the chained hound, Garm.”

“But don’t we need to—”

“We’re already past the gates, Jal. The key, the door, all that took us into Hel.”

“Just the wrong bit of it?”

“We need to cross the river.”

Thirst rather than a lack of caution draws me on, hurrying me down those last few yards of the shore.

I advance to the shallows. “Yeah. That’s not going to happen.” The riverbed shelves away rapidly and although the swift-flowing water lies unnaturally clear it soon becomes lost in darkness. Crossing a river like this would be a serious problem under any circumstances but as I kneel to drink I spot the real show-stopper. In defiance of all reason there are daggers, spears, and even swords, being borne along in the current, all silvery clean, and sparkling with sharpness. Some are pointed resolutely in the direction the current takes them, others swirl as they go, scything the waters all around.

Snorri arrives at my shoulder. “It’s called the River of Swords. I wouldn’t drink it.”

I stand. Further out the blades look like fish shoaling. Long, sharp, steel fish.

“So, what do we do?” I stare upriver, then down. Nothing but miles of eroded banks stepping up to the badlands on either side.

“Swim.” Snorri walks past me.

“Wait!” I reach forward to get an arm in his way. “What?”

“They’re just swords, Jal.”

“Yessssss. That was my point too.” I look up at him. “You’re going to dive in among a whole bunch of swords?”

“Isn’t that what we do in battle?” Snorri steps into the water. “Ah, cold!”

“Fuck cold, it’s sharp I’m worried about.” I make no move to follow him.

“Crossing the Slidr isn’t about bridges or tricks. It’s a battle. Fight the river. Courage and heart will see you across—and if it doesn’t then Valhalla will have you for you will have fallen in combat.”

“Courage?” I know I’m sunk before I start then. Unless simply wading in constitutes courage . . . rather than just stupidity.

“It’s that or stay here forever.” Snorri takes another step and suddenly he’s swimming, the water churning white behind him, his great arms rising and falling.

“Crap on it.” I stick a foot in the water. The chill of it reaches through my boot as if it isn’t there and shoots up the bones of my leg. “Jesus.” I take the foot out again, sharpish. “Snorri!” But he’s gone, a third of the way across, battling the waters.

I take the opportunity to put the key back around my neck on its thong. I find it hot in my grasp, reflecting nothing, not even the sky. I wonder if I call on Loki will the true God see and drown me for my betrayal? I hedge my bets by calling on any deity that might be listening.

“Help!”

The way I see it is that God must be pretty busy with people appealing to him all the time, so he probably appreciates it when prayers cut to the chase.

I pause to consider the injustice of a Hell that contains no lakes that drown heroes and let cowards float, but instead holds test upon test over which someone with nothing to recommend them save a strong arm may triumph. Then, without further consideration I run three steps and dive in.

Swimming has never been my forte. Swimming with a sword at my hip has always resulted in swifter progress, but sadly only toward the bottom of whatever body of water I’m drowning in. The Slidr however, proves unusually buoyant when it comes to sharp-edged steel and Edris Dean’s blade rather than dragging me down, holds me up.

I thrash madly, my lungs too paralysed by the cold even to begin pulling back the breath that escaped me when I hit the river. The iciness of the water is invasive, seeping through blood and bone, filling my head. I lose contact with my limbs but it’s not drowning that concerns me—it’s keeping warm. Deep in my head, in the dark spaces where we go to hide, I’m crouched, waiting to die, waiting for the ice to reach me, and all I have to burn are memories.

I reach for the hottest memory I have. It isn’t the blind heat of the Sahar, or the crackling embrace of Gowfaugh Forest engulfed in flame. The Aral Pass unfolds, dragging me back into that blood-soaked gorge packed with men at war, men screaming, men at cut and thrust, men fallen about their wounds, time running red from their veins, men dying, whispering beneath the cacophony, speaking to their loved and lost, calling for their mothers, last words twitching on blue lips, bargains with the Devil, promises to God. I see another man slide back from my sword, leaving it black with gore. By now it’s too dull to slice, but a yard of steel is still deadly whatever edge it carries.