Loki (43 page)

There was no time to savor the death of his enemy, however. Before Loki’s brains could even strike the ground, Black Surt was released, and there was a massive explosion of fire that flared outward in an instant. Heimdall and Odin’s remains were the first to burn, to be followed by all those in the immediate vicinity who were instantly incinerated. The fire swept out in broad, recursive waves, each one stronger than the one before, Surt’s power growing with each life claimed, with each act of individual destruction.

In a matter of seconds, all life on the grassy plain was extinguished—the dead of Niflheim turned to ash and cinders, the flesh of all the giants was roasted and charred before disintegrating and falling to the ground, the Asgardians and their allies who remained—few though they were—were hardy, and did not die easily, which only prolonged their suffering, but they were not spared. Fenrir, even then ripping throats and limbs from enemies, was transformed into a ball of furred flame, roasted alive and howling in agony before finally succumbing.

The tall spires of Asgard were first blown apart by the concussive force of the onrushing fire before the timber and stone ignited and burned the realm to ashes. Beyond the city itself, the forests roared with flame, and the denizens of those woods were burned alive where they stood.

The fire continued to spread, offering respite to none. Alfheim burned, Vanaheim burned, Bifrost shattered in flames. Nor were the higher realms the only casualties. Midgard was not spared, and every mountain, every structure, every tree, every mortal thing on that middle world was turned to cinders. The dwarfs in Nidavellir naively thought themselves safe in their mountain strongholds, but their caves acted like ovens, and the entire race perished. The dark elves in Svartalfheim used their considerable magic and sorcery to protect themselves and their land, but the all-consuming might of Surt was not to be denied.

Sitting on her throne in Niflheim, Hel soberly weighed her mistake. She had known Surt would destroy Asgard—indeed, this was why she had sent Loki to him—but she had not realized the extent of his power. The fiery death reigning in the realms above sent no new souls to her; its consumption was complete and total, an utter destruction of body and spirit. Niflheim was empty save for her alone. She had sought out Balder after she felt Loki’s death, but he was not to be found.

She pondered only a moment on the impossibility of him breaking free from her, but found that her attention was diverted by the wave of heat and light that began to rip through her realm. Looking out her high window, she saw that Niflheim’s mist and darkness were gone. Every crag and black valley, every dark river and lake, were lit up as if the sun itself hung directly overhead. And then she was gone as a wall of flame that dwarfed her hall swept her and all she knew away into oblivion.

Epilogue

The flames died down after a time, when they had consumed all that they could consume and naught was left but ash. The Nine Worlds were no more: Asgard, Vanaheim, Alfheim, the upper realms; Midgard, Nidavellir, Svartalfheim, Jotunheim, the realms in the middle; Niflheim, the underworld; and Muspelheim, the realm of fire and destruction that touched on all the other realms. All had been destroyed; only one remnant of the Nine Worlds had survived.

Yggdrasil was badly blackened and charred, but it still stood. The tree that always was and always will be had not been claimed by the fire. It could not, however, continue on without any life to feed it. Even while the ashes smoldered, it sent out its roots far and wide, gathering all that remained, using whatever life had been destroyed to create anew. Land reformed above its roots, spreading out as far as could be seen.

From high atop its branches, it sent seedlings floating throughout the new world that was being created. Wherever a seed landed it burrowed its way down into the newly-created soil, and a sprout appeared. In time, these sprouts would grow into trees and vines of their own, lending their strength and life to the land around them.

Its highest leaves, dancing amongst the heavens, floated off and formed clouds in the dark sky, clouds which sent gentle rains across the land, dampening the few remaining fires and sending life-giving rivulets into the soil to nurture the new sprouts that had recently arisen.

Yggdrasil then released those who had been nestled inside it, safe from the flames. Their numbers were few, and their confusion and fear were great, but both those things would change in time. The important thing was that life would begin anew, that Yggdrasil would continue to preside over the universe as it always had.

Freyja walked across the fresh, new grass, reveling in the softness of the tender shoots. She reached the edge of the cliff and stared out across the sea. The water was bluer than any water she had seen before, and she could feel the spray of the waves as they crashed against the cliff walls below. Her feelings were mixed, as ever.

There had not been much time yet to adjust to this new world, and she longed for those who were gone forever, but she could not help her feelings of awe and bliss at seeing a new world created right before her eyes, of every day seeing something that had not existed before made anew by Yggdrasil. She would not have thought it before, but she was humbled by the presence of this entity that was greater than the gods themselves. She felt blessed to be a part of this rebirth.

Soft footsteps behind made her turn her head slightly, but she had no need to see to know who approached her.

“
Are the seas wider than they were yesterday?” Balder said, warm curiosity and anticipation in his voice.

“
Stand next to me and see for yourself, my lord.”

He laughed softly as he took his place next to her. “There is little need for titles here. We are gods no more.”

“
So you remind me each day,” she said, not unkindly. “But such habits do not die easily, and I find a . . . comfort in their use, a link to what was lost. I do not want to ever forget what was lost, even if what we have gained is so much greater.”

He nodded. “Magni has found something that will never let us forget what we have lost.”

She turned to him. “What is it?”

“
You must come see it for yourself.”

Magni Thorson stood with his back to Freyja in an open glade of burgeoning saplings, his frame partially blocking her view of a large rock he stared at intently. She and Balder—a smile spreading across his face—approached, and she touched Magni lightly on the arm. He did not turn, but grunted a greeting at her. She was reminded of his father in both size and manner, but he lacked the wildness that permeated Thor’s being. Or at least it had disappeared after his release from the tree.

Her eyes went wide with surprise when she saw the object on the rock. “Where did this come from?” she asked.

“
Good question,” Magni replied gruffly.

Balder added, “The rock was here from before, but there was nothing on it till this morning. Magni found it and sent for me, perhaps thinking I knew something of it.” Magni gave a look that affirmed what Balder said. “But it is a mystery to me.”

Freyja was confused, but not unpleasantly. Indeed, it seemed an omen, a sign that the past was not forgotten, would never be forgotten.

“
Does this mean that Thor may have survived?” she asked.

Magni’s response was quick and to the point. “No, my father is dead.”

“
Then what . . .?”

Balder spoke. “Despite all his ferocity, Thor was a god of rebirth, as well. No matter how violent the storm, it always brought life-giving rains to the earth. After destruction, life always returns somehow. Perhaps that is the meaning of this.” He looked up at Magni. “Have you tried to lift it?”

“
No.”

“
Will you try?”

Magni tore his gaze from where Mjolnir lay on the large rock. “It is not here for that. It is not here to be wielded as a weapon.” He looked back down at his father’s legendary hammer, looking still as if it were newly crafted by the dwarfs. “Only my father could lift Mjolnir. I will not try.”

Balder nodded. “It will be our symbol then, and the center of a new village, which will one day grow into a great city. Tales will be told around this rock of the bravery and might of the Thunderer, of the sacrifice of the Allfather, of the mischief of the Trickster.” And even while he said it, he realized that his enmity against Loki was gone, that he would tell the tales of his mischief, but without venom.

He no longer burned with anger and hatred at Loki’s misdeeds. He felt some measure of sorrow for the banished god, and even some sympathy. This new world somehow allowed him to view the past more clearly, to see it without the stain of emotion and fury. He now saw Loki as a necessary part of the cycle of the universe.

His father, he now knew, had seen this clearly from the beginning, had orchestrated the events so that Ragnarok would not be avoided, if indeed it could have been avoided at all. Both Odin and Loki had played their parts, and Balder would not sully this new world with bitter thoughts of the past, would not bring back up what was meant to lie fallow.

He put a hand on Magni’s broad shoulder and his other on Freyja’s soft cheek. They were gods no longer, but this new world did not have need of gods.

This was now the time of men.

About the Author

Mike Vasich teaches English to gifted and talented students in suburban Michigan. This book was inspired by the teaching of Norse mythology in his class, and is dedicated to all the students who have ever said, “Mr. V, you should write a book!” He lives with his wife and two sons, who were almost named Loki and Thor, and who cause more destruction than any Norse god could ever hope to equal.