Loki (36 page)

“
By Woden’s beard, you’re older than dirt!” Odin was amused to hear Olvir use one of his ancient names.

There was more laughter from his cronies, but nervous glances from the villagers. They sensed trouble, and their initial awe of the old man faded with the implied threat that Olvir radiated. It was clear to all gathered that there might be violence, and they felt a natural sympathy for this ancient creature who faced down three warriors in their prime, spurred on by a chief who had little regard or patience for anyone who challenged him.

“
Look, I’ve been patient till now, but you need to get out of my seat and pray to the gods that I don’t cave your old skull in.”

Odin looked beyond him, seeing a scene yet to come. “You will not be mollified so easily,” he said, shaking his head slightly. He returned to the present and stared up at Olvir. “Would you be so brave without your warriors at your back? Do you need six extra arms to deal with one old man?”

A silence overtook the crowd. Olvir stopped smiling. He was not unnaturally intelligent, but he perceived the dilemma. He was being taunted by this foolish old man in front of the entire village. Normally, that would require a show of strength to keep order, but it was clear that he could not gain much from delivering a beating on this old man.

If anything, he stood to lose stature because of the clear imbalance; he and his men would look like nothing more than bullies. He was smart enough to grasp that he ruled not just with his fist, but with the agreement of those under it.

“
I don't need anything other than my boot to deal with you. This is the last time I will tell you: get out of my seat and leave this village before I split your skull.”

“
I know you, Olvir. I have seen your birth.”

Despite himself, he was curious. “What do you mean? Just who in the Nine Worlds are you, old man?”

“
I saw your mother spread her legs wide to birth you, just as I saw her do the same as she laid down with dogs to conceive you.”

Olvir felt red-hot rage creep up his spine. He struck out quickly with his open hand, intending to cuff the old man on the side of the head.

The blow did not hit Odin. Instead, Olvir’s head jerked back as his hand was in mid-strike, and he fell violently to the ground, blood and three teeth flying out of his mouth after meeting the butt of Odin's spear.

The three warriors, shocked momentarily by the completely unforeseen turn of events, quickly gathered their wits and lunged at Odin. His staff rang out quickly, striking one man in the stomach, sending him doubled over to the ground. The second felt the hard wood crack against the side of his face, and he, too, went tumbling to the ground. The third found his throat in the old man’s iron grip, and his breath left him in an instant. His hands going instinctively to his neck, he was brought, like a struggling infant, closer to the old man’s face. Forced to look him in the one remaining eye, he saw the Nine Worlds reflected there, and he had an inkling of the magnitude of mistake he and his fellows had made. He ceased struggling, and Odin released him. He sank down to his knees, grateful that his miserable life had been spared.

Odin stood and slowly looked around the stunned village. They were all on their knees, their heads bowed in supplication. They did not truly comprehend who he was, but they realized they were in the presence of the sacred and reacted accordingly. Olvir and his men were likewise prostrated. They would recover from their injuries soon enough; he had used the barest amount of force on them, just enough to teach them humility and wisdom.

“
A dark time is coming,” he said. “The time of axes, swords, and wolves is at hand, to be followed by Fimbulvetr, the Winter of Winters.” He did not add the prophecy he had heard from Mimir time and again, that ‘brothers would slay brothers, mothers would sleep with sons, clans and families would be rent asunder . . .’ He had seen the visions himself, but saw no purpose in telling mortals the entire truth. It was enough for them to know that they faced dire times. They would need no extra prodding to bring these predictions to light.

As he spoke, their curiosity and fear at what he foretold overcame their awe, and though they remained prostrate, they eventually met his eye. As he looked into each of their eyes he further spurred their fear and base instincts. None of the mortals in this village would survive Ragnarok, and that was as he intended.

After delivering his message, eyes were wide and fearful, but left with purpose. Even Olvir and his three warriors looked as though they had overcome their initial rage and embarrassment. An understanding of a changing time to come permeated their being, and though few knew exactly who he was, all understood that he was at the very least a messenger from the gods themselves.

He pulled his hood back up over his head and left the village, slowly walking out while leaning on the disguised Gungnir. Dozens of eyes followed him in silence, a quiet that lasted till long after he was out of sight. Tales would be told of the gray traveler in the weeks and months to come. It would be said that he was the Spirit of the Gods, the human embodiment of Yggdrasil, a ghost. A scant few named him as Woden, after Olvir’s oath about how old he looked, but none were wholly certain of his identity.

Odin spent the next few weeks traveling from village to village to inform the mortals of their impending trials. For most places, it went much the same way as in Olvir’s village: a few brash warriors would challenge him and be swiftly silenced, the ensuing mortals would listen with rapt awe, and he would leave them to astonished silence and reverent whispers of the mysterious gray traveler.

Word of this harbinger of doom spread. As he traveled, mortals were already beginning to sow discord and chaos throughout Midgard. From village to village he heard the sounds of fear and anger, and was greeted with the sights of grinding axe and sword blades, of spikes being sharpened and stuck in the ground to skewer incoming enemies, of boats being laden with supplies and prepared for quick launch. The looks of trepidation and terror were on the faces of many, alongside the steel-set jaws of the fighters, eager to shed blood.

Odin smiled grimly. It was all as he had foreseen time and time again. He wondered if the horror to be visited upon Midgard was because of the impending doom of Ragnarok, or because of the word of it that he spread. Either way, the result was unavoidable. And the lives of a few mortals—briefer than the wink of an eye—were not of consequence when measured against what must come soon. Indeed, Odin would sacrifice the gods themselves at Ragnarok; those on Midgard must suffer and die as well. It was the way of things.

* * *

He did not bother to disguise his appearance as he walked into Jotunheim, still appearing as the gray traveler who brought words of doom and despair to mortal villages. Cliffs towered on either side of him as he plodded slowly into the homeland of his enemies.

In the outlying places he saw a scattered few giants. They stared incredulously at this foolish lone mortal who wandered into a place that was doom for him. Amused, they simply watched him walk by, clearly unaware of where he was or where he was headed. They thought him likely to be an addle-brained old human, and they knew he would meet his death soon enough when he wandered too far into Jotunheim. In the meanwhile, they enjoyed the humorous and incongruous spectacle.

The villages and citadels of the giants were as massive as he remembered them, dwarfing the structures of the Aesir and making them look as if they were places for children. When he finally reached a large village—and the village was indeed large, with long houses that could house human armies—he had several dozen giants in tow, following him out of pure curiosity, eager to see what would happen to this foolish human.

As in the human villages, Odin went to the center. But the seat of power, so similar to those he had seen before, was taller than he was. He stood next to it instead, and turned to face the crowd of giants that had gathered.

The smallest was at least twice Odin’s height, and there were many of this size. Others were far taller and more massive. There was no correlation between age and size—the range from smallest to largest was different than that for humans, and gods, even.

They drew closer, still keeping some distance from him. Fear did not register on a single face. That would soon change.

“
Bring me your leader,” Odin said, his voice sounding weak amongst the towering figures around him. At this point he was loosely surrounded by a small army of giants, a group that might be able to lay waste to Midgard if they wanted. It was lucky for the humans that the giants rarely took interest in their affairs.

He was first greeted by stunned silence, but that gave way to thunderous laughter, so loud that the ground shook in its wake. Giants doubled over and roared their amusement to the heavens; the thought of this lone scarecrow of a human demanding anything of them was the most ridiculously bold and absurd thing that any of them had ever heard.

Odin silently waited for the laughter to die down. When it did, he said again, even more quietly than the first time, “Bring your leader to me.” He let his cloak drop to the ground, and they could see that he wore gray mail underneath, emblazoned with the image of a raven in black. Although the giants had not taken their eyes from this ridiculous creature since he had entered, none saw him don a black helmet with horns curving downward. It sat firmly on his head, and the expression on his face was grim. Gungnir shed its disguise as a gnarled walking stick and stood revealed, a battle spear with a long, menacing, razor-sharp head.

They did not laugh, but instead felt their lips curl up in sudden enmity for this brazen human who arrogantly strode into their land expecting to survive. Still, most were unsure if they should simply rush forward and stomp him into the ground, or wait till their chief had made a decision. A few brash, younger giants made the decision for them, striding forward with fists clenched and prepared to crush the life from this foolish human.

Gungnir flew from Odin’s hand and skewered one of the giants through the chest. He fell to the ground forcefully, clutching the shaft of the spear with both hands while blood spouted from the wound and his gaping mouth. The other giants who had moved forward paused, mouths wide in surprise, before looking back at Odin. Gungnir was in his hand once more, clean and poised to inflict more damage, the shaft of it still sticking from the chest of the now-dead giant on the ground.

There was first an interminable silence, followed by a roar of fury and a sudden onrushing mass of giant flesh charging forward to kill the old man, without any thought as to how he had so easily slain one of them or how the spear could be in two places at once.

At the center of the mass, Gungnir flashed out again and again, spearing one giant through the eye and slashing open the throat of another, drawing blood and life from every victim it struck, sending the towering creatures tumbling to the ground in bloody heaps around him. Each time it left his hands and opened the innards of another foe, it was inexplicably back in his hands, being let loose again to skewer another.

As the intensity of the slaughter increased, the houses in the village emptied themselves of their occupants, and a slew of giants witnessed the battle at its center. Brandishing whatever weapons they held or their bare fists, they joined the fray, not even certain who the enemy was, only knowing that someone or something was slaying their kind. The blood haze hung in the air, obscuring all but a fury of movement and violence, blood, and death.

When the carnage was finished, nearly all lay gutted and bloody on the ground around him. The piles of bodies obscured the thin figure in gray mail at the center of the scene. The village was devoid of almost all other life; a few had fled, but nearly all had joined the fray and fallen under Odin’s spear.

He had left nine giants alive. They were injured and in agony, but they would survive. They had fallen neatly near each other and were wheezing or moaning in pain. He approached them, navigating the maze of massive corpses.

They stared up at him, the anger pulsating on their faces, punctuated by biting stabs of agony from numerous wounds. Odin had chosen these nine to survive, and had tempered Gungnir’s attacks so they would do so. He had swung the spear like a staff on some, breaking legs and sending them to the ground, had pierced shoulders on others, ripping muscle from bone, crippling without killing.

“
You want my name,” he said, a statement more than a question. They did not respond, but stared at him with undisguised loathing. “You want to know who could do this to you.”

He stabbed Gungnir into the ground next to him and took off his helmet. It faded into nothingness as he pulled it off, as did his armor. He was left with his gray cloak, hanging loosely on his thin frame as it had when he first entered the village.

“
I was old when the mountains were new. I created the lands you tread on, the clouds in the sky, the oceans surrounding Midgard. I carved them from the giant, Ymir, the first of your foul kind, after my brothers and I slew him.

“
I am the Allfather, the High One, the Hanged God. I am the Lord of the Gallows, One Eye, the Master of Poetry. I am the Feeder of Ravens and Wolves, He Who Sits Above, the Gray Traveler. I am Eternal Wisdom and the Bringer of Death, the Lord of the Valkyries and the Einherjar. I am father to your greatest enemy, the World Shaker, the Thunderer, the Giant Slayer.”

There was a mixture of hatred and fear on their faces, but he did not relish it. He said what must be said, not for the sake of ego or arrogance, but for pure necessity that could never be explained or understood. None could fathom his burden.