Loki Read online

  Odin smiled slightly, a rare sight. “The episode will fade in time. Be content that you have served Asgard. No other could have done what you have.”

  Loki bowed, and Odin turned back to the window, once more gazing out across Asgard. The audience over, he backed out of the room and swiftly made his way down through the winding stairwells and corridors of Valaskjalf.

  The rest of the Aesir would not look upon his role in this as a boon to Asgard, but the Allfather recognized his contribution. For now, it was enough.

  * * *

  Deep in his storm home, Thiazi felt waves of chaos strike him, sending constricting pains deep into his body and forcing him to double over in agony. The pain subsided for an instant, but he was struck again, worse than the first time, and he fell to the ground curled up in a tight ball, waiting for the pain to pass.

  The chaos washing over him was stronger than any he had ever encountered. His own chaos energy had risen instinctively when it had felt the first wave of power touch him, and it had set up a defense that was riven almost instantly, sending radiating spokes of pain through him. Grinding his teeth while he lay on the stone floor, he willed his energy to lessen its defense—slowly so as not to be subsumed by the assault—until he could interweave it with the chaos assaulting him.

  Eventually the pain dwindled down to a dull thudding ache, and he was able to rise to his feet. He probed the invading chaos to see what kind of enemy he faced. He had never felt such raw power before, but as he sent tendrils out to probe the waves of invisible force, he was surprised to discover that there was no intent in the assault. He was not, as he initially assumed, attacked. Rather, the waves were the natural emanations of . . . something of greater power than he had ever encountered.

  He made his way through the meandering halls of his keep and up spiraling stairs, finally stepping out onto a tall tower where he could see anything that might be approaching. The chaos force had been so strong that he expected he might find an army of fire giants at his door, or perhaps even Black Surt, the Lord of Fire, come to claim a facet of himself left over from before creation. At first he saw nothing, which was even more surprising, and somehow more disturbing.

  After long moments of gazing out at the road that led up to Thrymheim, he saw a sole figure approaching, so far away as to be little but a speck. He could scarcely believe it, but it seemed that the waves of power that had laid him low emanated from this solitary creature. He continued to watch as the figure made his way steadily towards the gates of Thrymheim.

  The figure was a giant, but aside from the chaos that radiated from him, did not look exceptional. He disappeared from Thiazi's view as he drew closer to the gates, and Thiazi stood looking out over the path, feeling the chaos stronger than ever. There was no longer any pain; he had made his own chaos to be a part of the far more powerful energy of the giant.

  He suspected that his visitor was not fully aware of the potential he contained. Thiazi had thought that his own ability to wield chaos made him the strongest in Jotunheim. The power flowing from the giant at his gates made his own seem non-existent.

  He looked towards the rainbow bridge that was only hinted at from this distance. The enemies of the giants were just beyond, but who knew when they might lead their legions of undead warriors and ghost-maidens across it to storm Jotunheim. The red-bearded wielder of the lightning hammer alone had slain hundreds of giants, slaughtering without regard. He showed up for no other reason than to wreak havoc, and did not leave until every giant he faced was dead. The others were little better, and every inhabitant of Jotunheim knew that the day would come when they would march on the land of the giants.

  He heard the booming sound of fist on the wooden doors below. His servants would seek him out for instructions, and he would have them let this visitor in. He would listen to his reasons for coming to Thrymheim, and then he would craft a way to use his power to help him destroy the gods.

  Heimdall woke to the sound of footfalls on Bifrost. He rose from his bed to stare out the window, the rainbow bridge only a stone’s throw from his keep. His ability to see vast distances and hear sounds from hundreds of leagues away were exaggerated by those who told tales of such things, but his senses were still far more keen than any other of the Aesir. Because of this, it was his duty to stand watch at the entry to Asgard.

  He turned at the sound of servants entering, one carrying a tray of food and drink, the other armor and weapons. They could anticipate his needs almost before he was aware of them.

  “An intruder on Bifrost, my lord?”

  “So it seems.” He grabbed bread and a cup of mead from the tray, tore off a chunk with his teeth and downed it with a swallow of the syrupy-sweet liquid. His breath sent out plumes in the cold castle air, but the weather did not bother him. He was used to the cold clime, and it was the beginning of winter, after all. The mortals down below on Midgard may imagine the High Realm being one of eternal summer, but Asgardian winters were no less cold.

  He glanced out the window again, attempting to see if the intruder was in sight. He could hear the footfalls, but he could not see the intruder yet. His vigilance often saw threats where there were none, so he automatically thought of the unknown person as an intruder. Better to see a threat where none existed, he thought, than assume peaceful intentions and be caught unaware.

  “My horn,” he said, just as a third servant came in with Gjall, shining and golden, seated in its case. He put his armor on, not quickly, but with enough purpose so as not to waste time, and strapped on his sword. He hung Gjall on his belt as well. He rarely needed it, but would not leave without the horn, for who knew when the giants might march on Asgard?

  It bothered him that he could not yet see the intruder. Something seemed amiss, but he could not understand what it might be. There were six individual footfalls, and he could tell by the gait that it was a lone traveler with a horse in tow. The sounds of their footfalls seemed heavy at times, and lighter at others. It was as though their weight shifted as they came closer. Perhaps they were shedding supplies, he thought, but he could hear no other sounds that might indicate a sloughing off of items. He put it out of his head for the moment as he left the keep and rode out to the edge of Asgard, where Bifrost arced down to Midgard.

  Heimdall planted himself in the center of the path, directly in the way of the intruder and his horse. It wasn’t long before he could see them both, but his sense of unease was not quelled. They appeared as he had expected based on the sounds of their approach. Although they were still leagues away, he could see that it was a lone mortal leading a single horse.

  There was something unusual about the traveler, but he could no longer detect anything strange about his gait. He found himself relaxing his guard somewhat. If this mortal and his horse were a threat, then at least they appeared far less threatening than the thundering mass of giants he expected to come crashing down on Asgard one day, and he had no doubts that he could keep this solitary figure from holy ground if need be.

  It was a long while until the traveler reached him, but when he did Heimdall saw nothing terribly remarkable about him. He looked strong, but not unnaturally so, and he could say the same for his horse. He considered that his original estimation was faulty, that too many years of guarding the path to Asgard might have caused him to see threats that were not really there.

  Still, he eyed the two warily. The man had no apparent weapons, but did carry a bag over his shoulder. He could hear the clink of tools—hammers, chisels, wedges, and the like. The horse was likewise burdened. The traveler—a mason, clearly—was simply dressed, and his face bore the marks of one who had toiled under a hot sun or with an icy wind constantly barraging his face. His hands were rough as well; Heimdall could hear his fingers scraping together, the sound like grating sand on skin.

  Heimdall felt a brief moment of alarm that was suddenly gone as the mason and his horse drew closer. It had felt as though the rays of the sun had been blocked, and an icy shadow had chille
d his skin. He dismissed the inexplicable panic and focused his attention back on the man.

  Heimdall nodded in greeting, and the mason and his horse halted a dozen strides away.

  “What do you seek in Asgard?” he asked, eyeing the mason carefully. He could not see anything strange about the man—in fact, he looked almost painfully normal—but he could not relinquish the unsettling idea that there was more here than met his watchful eye. Still, it was inconceivable that any enemy could mask his true nature from Heimdall for long. Although his sword arm was strong, it was his keen eye that made him the most suitable guardian of Asgard. If this mason hid himself behind an innocent-seeming mask, Heimdall would eventually see through it.

  “The wars are over?” the mason asked.

  “What business is it of yours?”

  The mason did not directly reply, but instead stared far beyond Heimdall, as if he could see the tall spires of Asgard from where he stood, a feat that none but Heimdall and perhaps Odin could accomplish.

  “Does Asgard still stand?”

  It seemed that he already knew the answer to the question. Heimdall’s natural mistrust was proving valid.

  "Asgard stands well enough." He paused briefly, as if the knowledge of the destruction that had been wrought on sacred ground caused him physical pain. "There is work that needs to be done, but it would take more than magic tricks," he nearly spat the words out with disgust, "to topple it."

  The mason nodded, as if acknowledging the truth of Heimdall’s words. “And the surrounding wall? Does it still stand?”

  He was losing his patience. “Who are you to question these things? Make your purpose clear now or leave the way you came.”

  The mason did not look intimidated by his threat. This man was either uncommonly brave or a fool. Whatever the case, Heimdall had already decided that he would not pass. If he attempted to force his way through he would have no one to blame for his lost head but himself.

  “I come to rebuild Asgard’s wall,” he said simply.

  Heimdall laughed, softly at first, then louder as he considered the absurd proposal.

  “You? Rebuild Asgard’s wall?” He laughed harder. “Go back to Midgard and toil away your miserable life building hovels and carving tombstones.”

  The mason stood his ground, unmoved by Heimdall’s mocking. His laughter was quickly ended by a flapping sound from above. He looked up to see Odin’s ravens flying overhead. The birds circled high over Heimdall and then flew back towards Asgard. Odin’s message was clear.

  “It seems that the High One would like to have audience with you.” There was a trace of confusion, but only a trace. If Odin decreed that this mortal be let onto Asgard to pursue his ridiculous goal, then who was he to question? Odin’s wisdom was eternal, and he obviously saw purpose in allowing this mortal to pass.

  As the mason led his horse to the end of Bifrost, Heimdall considered that the strangeness that he could not identify in the mason was the reason the Allfather wanted him to be let in. He contented himself with the thought of the Allfather’s wisdom, keeping them safe from the evil that festered in Jotunheim, where the giants continually sought the death of the gods and the order they brought to the Nine Worlds.

  The frozen crunch of grass under the mason’s feet grew fainter and fainter with every step he took as Heimdall watched him dwindle in the distance, a lingering doubt mostly fading.

  The Allfather’s summons came while he fought a dozen retainers in the courtyard. Tyr was unarmed save his fists, and the warriors came at him with sword and axe, each intent on drawing blood.

  Tyr was fast enough to avoid them, but it was not his speed which served him so much as his ability to anticipate. He read their motions and gestures, the eye movements that showed where they aimed. As one drew closer, he grabbed a sword arm in mid-swing and tossed the attacker into two others, sending all three roughly to the ground. He kicked the feet out from under one and bent under the clumsy lunge of another, sending him tumbling to the ground. A few more deft attacks and counters, and all of his attackers were disarmed, or on the ground, or both.

  He picked up a fallen sword and approached the closest man. He held the point to his chest. “That did not go well,” he said.

  Orn wiped sweat from his forehead. “No, my lord. It did not.”

  Tyr stuck the sword in the ground and helped Orn to his feet. His other retainers rose and recovered weapons, some nursing bruises.

  “You see our plans before we do, my lord. It is not a fair battle.” Orn pulled his sword out of the ground. His tone did not ring of complaint, merely fact. The others nodded or grunted in agreement.

  Tyr acknowledged the truth of Orn’s words, if only to himself. It was true that even a dozen of them could never hope to beat him. His battle prowess was legendary, and none of the Aesir could match his skill with a sword. Only Thor was a match for him on the battlefield, and that was only due to raw power and strength. None could match the Thunderer for those, but in terms of pure craft with a blade, there was no contest.

  “There is no fair in war,” Tyr said. “You will not face one other of your exact skill on a battlefield.”

  “But you are Aesir, my lord,” Geir said. “We won't face even one such as you.”

  “It's true, lord,” Orn added. “Even unarmed we cannot touch you.”

  Tyr frowned. “What will be your excuse when the giants march on us? 'They're too big?'”

  Another of his retainers, Kjallar, said, “But my lord, the giants will at least be easy to hit. We could just barely see you move. How could we hit you when your movements are faster than our eyes?”

  Tyr sighed. “If I wanted complaining I'd have the women out here.”

  His retainers, embarrassed at the light chiding, forestalled further complaint.

  “You are able fighters, but your skills of observation are piss-poor. I did not beat you because I am faster or stronger. I beat you because I could see your clumsy attacks coming. You gave yourselves away with looks and gestures.”

  Geir looked abashed. “How, my lord? I barely thought before I launched myself at you.”

  “Your every movement gives you away. A step here, a glance there. And you attack me as individuals, not together. You will never lay a hand on me like that.”

  His men looked at each with some guilt. They all realized the truth of their lord's admonishments.

  “Now come at me again. But this time, coordinate your attacks. Look around you quickly, and know what the one next to you and the one next to him is going to do before he does it. Don't wait till an action is undertaken before you commit to an attack. And once you do attack, read the movements of those around you, adjust your plan as you see the battle unfolding.”

  The warriors looked at each other, attempting to read the intentions of the others without giving their own intentions away to their lord. They knew it was unlikely that they would be able to strike him, much less best him, but they would at least show that they heeded his lessons.

  A servant dashing towards him from the keep halted the attack. Tyr held up his hand and the warriors paused, some of them looking relieved to avoid another beating.

  “My lord, the Allfather summons you.” The servant was out of breath for running to deliver the message. “He has summoned a council at Gladsheim. A stranger has appeared.”

  He eyed the servant carefully. He looked agitated.

  “What is known of this stranger?”

  “Little, my lord, save that he is a mason. He has come alone except for his horse.”

  Tyr dismissed his men with a nod.

  “Send word that I am on my way,” he told the servant, who bowed low and quickly returned the way he had come. Tyr stroked his beard, wondering what this news boded, and why it was important enough to gather the gods at Gladsheim to hear it.

  Odin's Sacrifice

  Yggdrasil towered over all the Nine Worlds. It had always been, and it would always be. It was so large that its branches brushed the
heavens high above, and its roots wound down into the underworld.

  One root delved deep into Niflheim, coursing down into a blackened and foul spring. That land was filled with corpses and decay and the dragon Nidhogg, who spent his days devouring the dead and his nights chewing on Yggdrasil’s root, constantly threatening the life of the eternal tree. From time to time he would cease his gnawing, but only to give insults to the squirrel that scurried up the trunk of the tree to deliver them to the majestic eagle that perched at the top of Yggdrasil.

  Another root wound into Asgard underneath the Well of Urd, where the three Norns resided to decide the fates of gods and mortals alike. The Norns—Urd, Skuld, and Verdandi—would sprinkle the tree with life-sustaining water from the well, countering the evil of the dragon. As shapers of fate, they carved a thin channel into the wood for every being in creation. At the top of the channel, life began. At its end life would cease. Some channels were long, indicating a full life, and others were mercifully short. Such is the way with the fates of both gods and men.

  Yet another root wound its way down into Jotunheim, where the giants dwelled, underneath the Spring of Mimir. Its water would grant insight to any who drank from it.

  Standing at the spring in his gray cloak and with his mighty spear, Gungnir, disguised as a walking stick, Odin lusted for the knowledge he would gain from drinking from the spring. Reaching up he plucked an eye from its socket and tossed it into the waters in exchange for a single taste. Great wisdom and knowledge were now his, but this only caused him to thirst for more.

  He approached Yggdrasil alone and impaled himself upon the tree with his own spear. There he hung for nine long nights, sacrificing his life so that he might rise again and gain the knowledge of what would be. When his ordeal was over, the High One was wiser, but also sadder and more brooding. For not only had he learned all, he had also seen his death and the death of all the gods at Ragnarok. It was with a heavy heart that he bore this burden, full with the realization that this fate could not be changed. And so Odin returned to Asgard to ponder the future he could see but not avoid . . .