Loki (4 page)

“
. . . a lone mason has offered to . . .”

The scene shifted again. He stood in the hall of a one-handed god. A wolf as large as a horse was being wrestled to the ground. The image was dark, and the faces were not clear, but it looked as though Tyr was there. The wolf struggled, but he was already partially bound by a silver rope. The rope was being wrapped around paws and body, but the wolf's muzzle was yet free. The powerful jaws lashed out and clamped down tightly. There was a howl of pain and a final image of a bloody arm clutched tightly.

He returned to the present. An old servant—Edil, he thought—knelt before him, waiting for some sort of response.

“
Allfather?” His voice shook with fear.

He looked down at the quivering servant. It was always thus when those who were not Aesir approached him. Few could stand in his presence without feeling his terrible aura.

He could well understand why they feared him. He was the Terrible One, the Hanged God, the Lord of the Gallows. He was the god of mystery, magic, and death, and the tales of his exploits were not sung by drunk warriors seeking to pluck up their own courage for an upcoming battle. Instead, they were tales to frighten small children, and grown men as well. They were grim tales of death and its certainty, the shade of One Eye appearing to send one to Niflheim with a thrust of his spear or a gaze from his eye. He was not a god to be loved; he was a god to be feared.

And it was well that it should be so. None could fathom his burden, the depth of his knowledge and wisdom. Even the greatest of the Aesir—Tyr, Thor, Heimdall—were but children to him, with their simple understanding of the ways of the Nine Worlds.

“
Tell Heimdall I have received his message.” He dismissed Edil with a nod, and the old servant backed away slowly, head down, before finally turning around and exiting the hall quickly.

Odin had already sent his ravens to signal Heimdall to let the traveler cross over onto Asgard; the messenger was a courtesy.

He called for his own servants to send word to the other Aesir to gather in Gladsheim for a council, and in an instant they were scrambling to the halls of each of the other gods. They would arrive soon enough, and Odin would then pretend that they had a say in the decision to come.

The mason would soon be there to present his proposal to the assembled Aesir, and he could not dispel his dread at the deal that would be struck. He would feign rejection, but knew that it would ultimately be accepted. While it was true that each day led inexorably towards Ragnarok, he could not question the outcome. The cycle of the Nine Worlds must play out as destiny intended, and even he—the High One, the Allfather—was not exempt from fate.

As she passed the threshold, all eyes turned to her, as usual. Freyja’s beauty was nothing if not breathtaking, and no one—mortal or god—could see her pass without directing longing glances her way. The servants averted their eyes after the first initial glance, deference for being in the presence of one such as she. The seated Aesir turned back to their conversations while Odin sat mute and staring at the head of the table, his two wolves panting at his feet.

She was not surprised to see the High One sit thusly, separate from the others in spirit, and also seated apart from them at the head of the table. He was distant and often seemed to be pondering great mysteries with a furrowed brow, seeing things that no other could comprehend.

During the wars between the Aesir and the Vanir, Odin had been the most feared enemy. His gaze alone had slain many of her kind, and his sorcery was the rival of any of the Vanir, adept though they were in such arts. He was unique among the Aesir in this respect; while all were powerful warriors, he alone wielded death as a weapon. It was good that the wars had ended. While there had been many losses on both sides, the Vanir had suffered far more.

Freyja took her seat while servants scrambled to pull out her chair, fill her cup, and otherwise see that her needs were met. She noticed that all the main gods were present save two. She knew that Thor would not be joining them, but Loki was expected. If it had been up to her they would have proceeded without him.

Loki was no friend to the Aesir, much as he pretended to be one of them. Like Odin, there was an air about Loki that set him apart from the others, but it was different than with the High One. Odin, for all his distance, was the tree from which the branches that were the Aesir spread. He was father to many of them, but his spirit infused them, as well, as it did the entire realm of Asgard. Without Odin, there would be no Aesir, no Asgard.

The same could not be said of Loki. Freyja sensed a strangeness about him, one that perhaps even he was not aware of. He acted like them in many respects, but he shunned their straightforward ways, their warrior ethos. He was skilled with a blade, of course, and powerful as well, as befitting an Asgardian. However, his true skill was in deception and cunning. In many ways he was the very opposite of Thor, the embodiment of direct, unrelenting, and uncompromising strength.

It was surprising to her that Thor and Loki did not appear to hate each other, despite their differences. She wondered if the Thunderer did not perceive the Sly One as a threat, and so was beneath his notice in that way. Certainly, Thor did not pay attention to small details, instead opting to assault enemies directly and head on. In fact, his current absence was due to his travels in Jotunheim, where he undoubtedly sought out giants to slaughter.

It was not surprising, however, to see the enmity between Loki and Heimdall. The guardian of Bifrost felt nothing but contempt for the ways of the Sly One, and it was no wonder. As the protector of Asgard, he drew a clear line between friend and enemy; the giants were deception and chaos. Those who used such means might as well be allied with the giants themselves. It was no matter to Heimdall that Loki’s ways were in service to Asgard, or so the Sly One proclaimed. In Heimdall’s scheme, those who fought for the side of the gods did not use the weapons of the enemy. If not for the domineering presence of the Allfather, Heimdall might take it upon himself to slay Loki before he could cause the downfall of Asgard.

Freyja did not relish death, but she would find it hard to shed tears for Loki. It was strange that even her divining was unable to uncover the strange air that surrounded him. She only hoped that Odin was correct in his wisdom to keep the Sly One around.

Balder sat at the long table, impatiently drumming his fingers against the hard oak. Occasionally he would lift his cup of mead and take a long drink, servants immediately refilling it each time it touched the table, although he did not give any thought as to why his cup never emptied. His mood continued to sully as the waiting went on. Why must they all wait for Loki to rear his deceitful head?

Odin could never hold council without guidance from Loki, and it was an insult to the rest of them, especially him. To be held in thrall to that trickster galled him. What wisdom did Loki bring to bear that could not be gleaned from other sources? Why was it necessary to wait around for one who was so reviled by all?

He drained his cup in frustration before letting it hit the table, the last few drops of mead spraying out. In an instant, another servant rushed over with a pitcher and refilled the cup. His dislike of Loki had grown since his most recent dreams, and he could not dismiss the foreboding that ran through him every time he was in his presence.

For some time now Balder would wake in a cold sweat, sometimes still swiping at phantom images. Much of the dreams faded as he woke, but certain images stubbornly persisted. In all the dreams there was a gathering of the gods that would begin as a feast. As he ate, one of them would suddenly begin clawing at his or her throat and vomiting blood, only to fall face first on the table in a paroxysm of agony. Another would follow, and then another, until the entire hall was filled with violent eruptions. As the spasms died down, all those he knew and loved would be horribly dead except for himself and his brother, Hod.

It was not, however, the blind, handsome face he knew and loved, but rather a sinister face, smiling with derision and vileness. It was the pure face of an enemy, one who was opposed to him in every way. In the way of dreams, however, Hod was not Hod, but rather someone wearing his face as a guise.

He had told no one of these dreams. It seemed womanly to worry about phantoms that haunted one’s sleep, and it was not hard to imagine that he would be made sport of for admitting the fear they left him with. But he carried them with him, and even though the dread lessened as the day went on, it returned as he lay down for the night, knowing that sleep would bring the images and feelings back, and that he would wake again with his bed drenched in sweat, vainly chasing away ghosts that could not be seen.

Tyr did not think he would ever be relieved to see Loki stride into a room, but he felt just that as the Sly One took his seat near Odin. Loki nodded at each of the assembled gods in turn, with no trace of anything other than respect. At least they would now learn why Odin had assembled them.

Tyr noted how quickly the hush fell over those assembled as all eyes turned to Odin to explain why they gathered. The Allfather raised his gray head and sat up straighter in his chair. He looked like an ancient warrior returned from the dead, but still housed within the thin body of a corpse. He stared out at them, saying nothing for long moments. He appeared to look beyond them, and Tyr wondered if he were going to speak at all just before his voice rang out.

“
We have a visitor,“ he said simply. He motioned to the great doors of Gladsheim which were being pulled open wide by servants on either side.

Tyr expected someone of consequence. Perhaps a high ranking Vanir or Underlord of Svartalfheim, with their inky black skin and ugly features. He was even prepared for it to be an emissary from Jotunheim with a declaration of war, or possibly even some inclination towards peace, however unlikely that might be. He would not, however, have guessed that a council of the gods would be called for this visitor.

The doors were fully open, and the bright sunlight streamed into the dark hall, causing eyes to squint. A silhouette appeared in the light of the door, walking in slowly with a beast of burden in tow. The visitor strode to the center of the hall.

He stood impassively before the gods, awaiting permission to address them. Tyr could see nothing special about him. He was some sort of a craftsman, or so his tools indicated, and he looked strong, as if he were used to building things.

Tyr stared at the man for a moment, and then quickly glanced at the other assembled gods. His gaze finally settled on Odin, who indicated nothing whatsoever. The Allfather leaned forward in his seat and put his arms on his knees before speaking.

“
You have an offer for us,” he said. It was not a question.

The mortal did not look intimidated or uneasy, which made Tyr suspicious. He glanced over at Loki and saw him with his chin in hand, obviously pondering the situation. The others simply stared, curiosity plain on their faces.

“
Yes,” the mortal replied.

Odin did not seem bothered by the familiarity and lack of respect, even if Tyr was. He wondered about the sanity of a mortal who would dare to address gods as if he were their peer, but for now he was content to abide by Odin’s unsaid wishes to hear his words.

“
Speak your proposal.”

The visitor looked at them all, pausing briefly on Freyja. And short though his glance was, there was no mistaking the desire it held. If she noticed it, Freyja did not seem bothered. As far as Tyr knew, Freyja received such looks from all she met, so perhaps she no longer even noticed them.

“
On Midgard we have heard of the war between the Vanir and the Aesir. We have heard of the destruction of Asgard’s mighty wall, the enclosure that keeps Asgard safe from invaders.

“
You see my tools.” A hand indicated his belt. “I am a mason. I create strength with stone and mortar. There is much to rebuild in Asgard—I have seen ruined towers and halls, once proud structures now scraping the sky like broken teeth.”

It was a good thing, Tyr thought, that Thor was not here. Odin’s wishes or not, he would have split this mortal’s head wide open to hear him speak such insults about Asgard. As it was, Tyr could feel his own ire rising. He wondered how long Odin would let this continue.

“
With all that you must do, I only propose that you allow me to rebuild Asgard's wall.”

Tyr could hear snickers and low murmurs from around the room. He silently echoed their sentiment. To say the least, it was presumptuous for this lone mortal to come to Gladsheim and claim to rebuild a wall that had taken the gods months to assemble. Why did Odin tolerate this? The Allfather's expression was blank, but that did not mean that he dismissed the idea outright. What madness was this?

“
And what price would you ask?” Odin was nothing if not succinct.

The mason glanced around the chamber, pausing briefly on Freyja. She noticed his attention this time. Her brows lowered, and she looked over to Odin questioningly. Tyr thought he knew the price the mason was about to name, and anger welled up inside him. He glanced over at Freyja's twin brother, Frey. Either the Vanir prince did not understand what the mason was about to request, or Tyr could not read his expression. Either way, he could not predict what his response might be, although his own was clear.

“
I would not ask for a fee that could not be paid.”