The Gospel of Loki (12 page)

But the Old Man had done as I’d asked; with my bird-vision I could see bundles of firewood stacked on the battlements and barrels of dry shavings drenched in oil, just ready to burn. My body, under the feather cloak, was trembling with exhaustion and fear. I folded myself into a dart and made a final lunge for the walls . . .

‘Light it up! Light it up!’ I yelled as I shot past the battlements.

I hit the ground with more urgency than grace, rolled and
flung off the feather cloak. Idun, still in hazelnut form, bounced across the cobblestones. I freed her with a cantrip, then collapsed in exhaustion, drained of every scrap of glam.

If my plan had failed, that was it. I was totally helpless.

But I hadn’t failed, of course. The fires were burning fiercely. The combination of dry wood and oil had caused the blaze to leap up fast and Thiassi, hot on my tail, had found himself heading, not for battlements, but for a massive firewall.

Wings alight, he lost control and fell in flames to the parapet. After that, they finished him off – old as they were, with sticks and rocks – and that was the end of Thiassi. The greatest hunter who’d ever lived; flame-grilled like a chicken and killed by a gang of old-age pensioners.

Gods
, I told myself,
I’m good
.

Then I got up, still shaky, and took a bow. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Refreshments are available. Form an orderly queue, please . . .’

Idun gave out her apples.

LESSON 3

Feet

Laughter disarms the fiercest of men.

Lokabrenna

I
T WASN’T TOO LONG
before the news of Thiassi’s death reached the Middle Worlds. I may have had something to do with that; after all, it isn’t every day that Yours Truly turns out to be a hero. The best part of revenge, I found, was earning the enemy’s gratitude: Bragi wrote songs about me; people sang them in roadside inns. Soon, it was common knowledge that Loki had lured the Hunter to an ignominious death. Before I knew it I was famous; my name was on everyone’s lips. Women loved it – though I’ll admit I could have been more careful.

As it was, I’d forgotten about Thiassi’s daughter, Skadi. She must have heard what had happened, because some three months afterwards, she arrived at Asgard’s gates, armed and ready for combat, demanding recompense for her father’s death and threatening the gods with war.

I have to say, she had a point. Killing Thiassi in battle was one thing. A worthy end for a would-be god. But to be slaughtered and grilled like a chicken – well. It was no less than he deserved for what he’d done to me, of course, but the Ice People were a proud lot, and it must have rankled.

Odin could have sent Skadi packing, of course, but he didn’t
want war with the Ice Folk. A friendly foothold in the North would make far more sense than another set of enemies. And so he invited her to talk, and to see if they couldn’t come to some kind of agreement.

It didn’t start well. Skadi was not what you might call the approachable type. One of those chilly blondes; cropped hair, the runemark
Isa
– ice – on her arm. She arrived all in furs, wearing snowshoes, and carrying a runewhip – crafted from thousands of shining strands of woven glam, and barbed with the cruellest of runes – which slithered and hissed in her hand like a snake.

I’ve never been a fan of snakes. And so that whip did nothing to endear her to me. Nor did the fact that when she arrived, she demanded my execution.

‘Why me?’ I protested.

Skadi gave me a poisonous look. The whip in her hand hissed and slithered. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘You’re Loki, the Trickster. Everyone’s saying you planned the whole thing. You lured my father into a trap and then you disgraced his memory.’

‘It wasn’t
exactly
like that,’ I said.

‘Really? You weren’t as modest when you were spreading the tale around the Middle Worlds.’

‘That was poetic licence,’ I said. ‘Bragi uses it all the time.’

Odin smiled. ‘Now, Huntress,’ he said. ‘You should know better than to listen to rumours. Stay here a while – have a rest, drink our mead – and we’ll discuss how best to handle this.’

Skadi shot me a sideways look. Her runewhip crackled like lightning. But she accepted a cup of mead, and when we sat down all together to feast, she ate six whole carp to herself, and half a barrel of salt herring. Clearly grief hadn’t interfered with her appetite, although she never smiled from one end of the meal to the other.

Still, I thought her attitude softened just a little – the Old Man had gone out of his way to show respect, seating her by
his side, with the men, next to Thor and Balder. As you know, Balder was popular; being athletic, smooth-skinned and with more teeth than brainpower. Ladies liked his floppy hair; men liked the fact that he was good at sports and otherwise nicely unthreatening. I’d never seen the appeal myself, but even I had to concede that the guy was doing a pretty good job of melting Skadi.

She’d downed a good half-barrel of mead on top of the carp and the herring. I reckoned if that didn’t soften her, then nothing would. The women were bringing in dessert – honey-cakes, dried figs, giant baskets of fresh fruit – and Bragi was getting out his lute in preparation for some after-dinner entertainment when Odin turned to Skadi and said:

‘I’m sorry for your father’s death. I’ll like to offer you something.’

She took a handful of figs and said: ‘Whatever you offer won’t bring him back. Or lift the shame of his passing.’

Odin smiled. ‘I’ve always found that gold covers shame, if used in sufficient quantities.’ I thought he was looking at Freyja as he said it, but that might have been a trick of the light.

Skadi shook her head. ‘Gold? My father’s hoard belongs to me now. So does his empty castle. Gold won’t buy me company, or make me laugh as
they
do.’ She looked enviously down the table towards the seated goddesses, all of them beautiful, carefree, at ease.

Odin looked thoughtful. ‘Is
that
what you want?’

Skadi’s eyes flicked towards Balder. ‘If I had a husband, then perhaps I could learn to laugh again.’

Balder looked distinctly nervous. ‘A husband? Really?’

Skadi said, ‘Yes. If I could choose one of the Aesir . . .’

For a moment Odin considered it. Skadi looked at Balder again. I grinned inside as Golden Boy began to look uncomfortable.

‘Well?’ said Skadi. ‘Is it a deal?’

Odin nodded. ‘All right. As long as this ends the hostility.’

Skadi’s eyes lit. ‘All right. Then I choose—’

‘I’ll let you take your pick,’ he said. ‘But on one condition. We’ll stand all our eligible men behind a screen, with only their feet on display. Then you’ll choose. You’ll choose your husband by his feet. Agreed?’

I stared at him. I mean, really.
His feet?
What new perversion was this?

But Skadi nodded and said, ‘Agreed.’

I guess she must have been thinking how much you can tell from a man by his feet. Or maybe she wasn’t thinking at all. I’ve seen that look on faces before; that soupy, soft, idiotic look. Oh, Skadi was falling for Balder, all right. Skadi had it big-time. I have to say, I was just a
little
disappointed. I’d thought better of Thiassi’s daughter. And, although I’d already discarded the idea of allying myself with the Ice Folk, an alliance with the Aesir would make that all the more difficult. I had to hand it to the General: it was a very neat little move.

And that was how, at the end of the meal, all of us found ourselves lined up behind a screen, with nothing but our bare feet on show, while Bragi played power chords on his lute and Skadi moved slowly down the line, trying to work out which pair of feet was Balder’s.

Finally, she came to a decision. ‘I choose
him
,’ she said, pointing.

Please. Not me. Not me
, I thought.

‘Are you sure?’ Odin said.

Skadi nodded, her iceberg gaze starting to melt as the screen was removed. And then she found herself face to face . . . not with Balder, as she’d assumed, but with Njörd, the Fisherman – whose feet, like those of all fishermen, were clean and white and shapely.

‘But I thought . . .’

I began to laugh. Beside me, Golden Boy’s relief was almost as great as my own.

‘But I thought . . .’ she said again.

The gods saw her dismay, and smiled.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Odin. ‘But that was the deal. You chose Njörd. Be good to him.’

Skadi’s face darkened. ‘Is this a joke? Do you see me laughing?’ she said. She lifted the runewhip again, its serpent coils seething angrily. ‘I said I wanted to laugh again,’ she said. ‘You promised me laughter. Now, either someone makes me laugh, or I’ll take the next best thing. Hand to hand combat, here and now. All together or one at a time. I don’t care. Who wants a fight?’

Odin looked at me. ‘Loki.’

‘What,
me
? You want
me
to fight her?’

‘Of course not, idiot.
Make her laugh.’

It was a Hel of a challenge. A sense of humour’s one of those things that you either have or you haven’t, and nothing I’d seen of Skadi thus far suggested any sign of one. But laughter disarms the fiercest of men, and besides, there was no way I was going to take on that runewhip. And so I marshalled all my wits and prepared for some stand-up comedy.

There was a little white goat nearby, tethered to a wooden beam. I guessed that Idun had brought it in – she was partial to goat’s milk, and rarely dined on anything more substantial. I untied the leash and stepped forward, bringing the little goat with me.

‘Got milk?’

That earned me a snigger from Thor, but Skadi was unaffected. I could see this was going to be a somewhat difficult audience.

I put on an air of innocence. ‘Lady, I can explain,’ I said. ‘I was taking this goat to market . . .’

I yanked at the leash. The goat yanked back.

‘See what she’s like?’ I said. ‘Typical goat. Never does what she’s told to do. Plus I had this basket of fruit . . .’ I took one from the table and demonstrated the problem. Every time I brought the basket into the goat’s range, the goat would try to go for the
fruit. It was a lively young goat, and I was hard put to control it.

I looked at Skadi. She still wasn’t smiling. I said:

‘I need to tether the goat – but to what?’ I pretended to look around. ‘What I could use is some kind of,
um
– appendage – um, about
this
long . . .’ I held out my finger and thumb about six inches apart.

Thor, never subtle, sniggered again.

I continued to feign puzzlement. ‘But
where
?’ I searched my person. Pockets, waistcoat, belt . . .

I paused. Dropped my gaze an inch or two.

Around me, expectant laughter.

I went on with my story. ‘So – I tethered the goat securely to the only suitable –
ahem!
– I could find.’ I demonstrated with the leash. Once more the little goat tugged on it.

‘Ouch!’

Thor’s big face went red with mirth.

‘Will you
stop
that!’ I yelped at the goat, yanking at the leash in my turn. Some fruit fell out of the basket. The goat danced nimbly towards it, dragging me along with it.

‘Ouch!’ More fruit fell out of the basket. I yelped. ‘Oww-
oww
! My plums! My plums!’

Now
all
the gods were laughing. Even the icy Skadi joined in. Turns out the one thing that could make her laugh was the sight of Yours Truly, tied by the balls to a nanny goat.

I only saw her laugh again once. As it happens, in tragic circumstances, at least for Your Humble Narrator. But that’s another story, one for a darker, colder day.

And so the Huntress joined our ranks – though not for long, as it turned out. She missed the snow of the far North, the howling of wolves and the icy wastes. As for Njörd, in spite of his wish to make a success of the marriage, he found that he was incapable of living so far from Asgard and his hall overlooking the One Sea, with the sound of the waves and the cries of birds and the soft clouds gathering overhead. And so they agreed to live apart, though Skadi was always welcome in
Asgard, and would sometimes call round, in animal Aspect; an eagle or a white wolf or a snow leopard with ice-blue eyes.

I wasn’t sorry to see her go. My clowning around had saved me once, but there was a nasty look in those eyes. I suspected she was the kind to bear a grudge, which made me think that the further I got from her – and from that runewhip – the happier I was likely to be.

Turns out I was right, of course – but more of that later. For the moment, suffice it to say that though laughter may be the best medicine, there are some folk who can
never
be cured. Skadi was one, and Lord Surt was another – there is no laughter in Chaos, except for the desperate laughter of those imprisoned in Surt’s Black Fortress. But that was a lesson I had yet to learn. And of course, the more time I spent in this world of laughter, hate and revenge, the smaller my chances of ever returning to my primal state of grace . . .

LESSON 4

Love

Love is boring. Lovers, even more so.

Lokabrenna

Y
OU’D HAVE THOUGHT
that after
that
close shave, the folk of Asgard might have been a little more careful with their affections. But love was in the air that year, perhaps because of Idun’s return, and suddenly it seemed that all the gods were thinking of marriage. That was fine by me, of course. Marriage means discord, generally, and Discord is my middle name. It’s so much easier to stir up trouble between a married couple than between single, healthier types.

Take Frey, for instance. After having lavished him with gifts from the Tunnel Folk – and at considerable personal risk – I’d expected at least a word of thanks. Not so – he’d accepted them as no more than his due, which made me feel that perhaps he deserved a little lesson in gratitude.

I had been lying low for a while, trying to live down my new-found celebrity. It was all very well being famous, I thought, but my reputation had grown so fast that it was starting to hinder me. Trickery and subterfuge are best performed in stealth, I find, and the new, high-profile Trickster was finding it hard to go unseen. The Folk of the Middle Worlds were the worst, pointing at me as I went by, trying to get me to tell jokes, asking
me to sign my name on amulets, weapons and pieces of rock. I found that the only way to prevent rioting wherever I went was to adopt a disguise – a hat, a cloak, another Aspect – which, apart from being tiresome, made my ongoing, secret quest for allies against the General all the more difficult to pursue.

Besides, my own list of enemies was growing daily. The Ice Folk still blamed me for Thiassi’s death. I could expect no help from them – or mercy, if they caught me. The same was true of the Rock Folk and the Maggots – not to mention Chaos, of course. I decided to suspend my activities abroad until my notoriety had abated, and to concentrate on the simpler task of undermining the gods, one by one. I’d already scored a few decent points, but my methods were opportunistic, rather than part of a plan, which was one of the reasons I’d managed to stay so far ahead of the game. I’d drawn on my new-found knowledge of weaknesses and emotions and come to the conclusion that, although greed, fear and jealousy are powerful motivators, there’s an even greater one.
Love
.

Can’t say I understood it, myself. Of all the emotions I’d learnt about during my time on the corporeal plane, this one seemed the most pointless, painful and complicated. It’s all about
giving
, apparently. Seems like
taking
isn’t enough. There’s also a lot of random stuff about poetry, flowers and lute music, plus kissing and cuddling (lots of this), wearing similar outfits, talking incessantly about the current object of devotion, and generally losing one’s faculties. As far as I could understand, love made you weak and boring. Balder, who by that token must have been in love
all the time
, told me, with his pitying look, that it was one of life’s greatest joys. I guessed he’d never experienced revenge, a threesome or Sigyn’s jam tarts.

Still, back to the story, and arrogant Frey, and how I used love to bring him down.

Now, Odin had the power to see anywhere in the Nine Worlds; it was a power for which he’d paid dearly, and he was unwilling to share it. That was why the high seat in Asgard
was reserved for him alone; it was where he kept Mimir’s Head, bound by glamours, and where he came to be alone, and to think, and to plan his strategies.

Frey had no business sitting there, and probably wouldn’t have thought of it, if I hadn’t given him the idea. But marriage and love were in the air – Idun was back with Bragi, and their happiness together was almost enough to make a man gag. Plus Balder had just got married to Nanna, a doe-eyed milksop who thought he was a genius and deferred to him in every way –I guess his blind date with Skadi must have given him an extra push. Anyhow, Frey was bored (and restless, and randy) and feeling unloved. The pool of available goddesses in Asgard wasn’t what you’d call plentiful, and when you ruled out his sister and his various cousins among the Vanir, there wasn’t much left to work with.

Enter Yours Truly, with sympathy and the hint that Odin was getting his sexual kicks from spying on women throughout the Nine Worlds.

‘You can see
everything
from that throne,’ I told him, over a jar of mead. ‘Women undressing, bathing, the works. No wonder Odin spends so much time there. It’s like an old man’s wet dream.’

‘Really?’ said Frey. ‘Despicable. Women undressing – bathing, you say? Shocking. Honestly, I’m shocked.’

‘Me too,’ I said and grinned.

We finished the mead in silence.

I found Frey a few days later, sitting in one of the gardens, listening to Bragi playing his lute and looking glummer than ever.

‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

‘Oh, everything.’

Well, there’s only one thing that can make a man want to listen to lute music. Turns out he’d sneaked into Odin’s high seat, and seen the girl of his dreams there. He’d spied on her, watched her undress, and now he was desperately in love.

Whatever. Love is boring. People in love are even more so, and I had to pretend to listen while Frey ranted on about his girl; her beauty, which was like radiant stars, her laughter, which was like nightingales, and all kinds of other quite frankly nauseating details, until he got to the bit where he was going to die if he didn’t get to meet her in person.

I tried to keep a straight face. ‘Well, why don’t you go out and get her, then?’

‘It isn’t as easy as that,’ said Frey. ‘If I tell Odin, he’s sure to ask how I found out about her in the first place. And there’s another thing . . .’

‘Really?’ I said.

‘She’s the daughter of one of the Rock Folk. A relative of—’

‘Let me guess. The builder who gave us our battlements. Oh, dear.’ I feigned sympathy. ‘
His
blessing’s out of the window, then.’

‘I’ve got to have her,’ said Frey. ‘I’ll die if I can’t have her.’

Well,
that
was a bit of hyperbole. No one dies of sexual frustration. Still, he looked pretty miserable, which made me increasingly cheerful.

‘I’ll see what I can do, shall I?’ I said, and went off to do some matchmaking.

First I went to the father. Gymir was his name, and he was as hairy and unpleasant a man as ever sired a daughter. The daughter was called Gerda, and I guess she took after her mother because she was fragrant and beautiful and smooth in all the right places.

I went in disguise, with a fake beard. I introduced myself as Skirnir, Frey’s servant, and informed the uncouth Gymir that Frey was desperately in love. Predictably, the father told me to perform an impossible sexual act but, on reflection, understood that he was more likely to benefit if he considered the offer.

Frey was the perfect mark, I said: ready to give up anything for the sake of gratification. I pointed out to Gymir that this was
his chance to capitalize. If he refused, then he and I knew that Frey would take Gerda anyway, in which case her father would lose, both the girl, and any chance of recompense.

‘This way,’ I said, ‘you name your price. Go on. Ask for anything.’

Some people have no vision. When I say ‘ask for anything’, I expect to hear something better than a pigskin filled with gold, some sheep or a lifetime’s supply of dung. Still, the Rock Folk weren’t what you’d call the most sophisticated of people, and I sensed I might have to guide him.

I started by telling him something about Frey, the chief of the Vanir. I stressed his good looks, his flashy armour, his wealth of gold and treasures. I spoke of the ship, Skidbladnir, that folds up into a compass, and of the golden boar Gullin-Bursti, and of the runesword made for him in the early days of the war between Aesir and Vanir. Most of all, I described that sword, chased in silver and gold and fizzing with glam from point to hilt; that runesword, symbol of his might, his manhood, his authority . . .

‘Name your price.
Any
price,’ I said to Gerda’s father. ‘Don’t be afraid to speak up for yourself. A daughter is worth more than gold. More than cattle. More than rubies.’

Gymir scowled. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘My price for Gerda is Frey’s runesword. That is,
if
she wants him. If not . . .’ He shrugged. ‘I’m warning you. My daughter’s unusually headstrong.’

I hid my smile behind my hand. ‘Sir, you drive a hard bargain,’ I said. ‘Still, Frey
did
say he’d pay
anything
.’

Now to persuade the daughter, I thought. It shouldn’t be too difficult. A little flattery and charm; some baubles; a little poetry . . .

I found the girl in her father’s hall. A blonde and haughty piece of work – just Frey’s type, in fact. Blue eyes, creamy skin, legs that just went on and on. And that look that men like Frey seem to find irresistible; a look that says,
On your knees, scum, because you know I’m worth it.

Well, I gave her the works. I wooed her. Lutes, flowers, perfume, the lot. But Gerda was impervious. Nothing seemed to entice her. Not gold, nor presents, nor flattery, not even the golden apples of youth. The woman was incorruptible. Seems she’d caught sight of Frey once and he just really wasn’t her type.

Well, I sympathized with
that
. But I’d told Frey I’d win the girl, and besides, I had my plan to consider. And so I went back home to Frey, to tell him the girl was
practically
his, barring a little paperwork.

‘Paperwork?’ repeated Frey. He was learning to play the lute, and doing it rather badly.

‘Well, formalities,’ I said. ‘The man has to check your credentials before he entrusts his daughter to you. Plus, his asking price was unreasonably high.’

‘Oh, pay him and be done with it!’ said Frey. ‘I’m going crazy here.’

I shrugged. ‘All right. It’s your funeral. But when Odin finds out about all this, as you know he will, I want you to remember that giving up your runesword to your prospective father-inlaw was entirely
your
idea, and that I opposed it.’

‘Whatever,’ said Frey. ‘It’s
my
sword. Odin has nothing to do with this.’

See what I mean? Love makes us weak. That runesword was beyond price. A triumph of runes and glamours, it rivalled Odin’s spear in strength and even Thor’s hammer in accuracy. It was a true indication of how badly Love had got him that Frey hardly even glanced at me when I told him Gymir wanted it.

‘Just as long as no one blames me,’ I said. ‘You know what people are like.’

Frey waved an impatient hand. ‘What am I, a child?’ he said. ‘I make my own decisions. Now go and take the sword with you, and don’t come back without Gerda.’

Well, what else was I to do? The man had spoken. The promise was made. No one could doubt I’d done my best to talk Frey
out of this impulsive decision, as disastrous to the rest of the gods as it would prove to Frey himself. That sword was life insurance to them, and when the End of the Worlds came around, as I never doubted it would, Frey and the others would soon find out that there’s only so much you can do with a lute. Still, that was for later. For now, all I had to do was simply deliver the sword and win Frey’s girl.

Win
her? That implies fair play. I, of course, was planning to cheat. There’s more than one way of skinning a cat, strangling a snake or winning a girl, and even Gerda, obstinate as she was, would be no match for my persuasive tongue.

Having failed to win her with flattery, poetry or jewellery, I moved onto some basic threats; dire warnings of worse to come; painted a bleak but convincing picture of Gerda, alone and abandoned by all, shunned for her rejection of Frey, growing old and cursing herself for missing the opportunity. I reminded her that Death was long and that worms would dance in her cooling flesh, while all her peers would laugh at her for going to the grave a virgin.

Then I spoke of the prejudice that had blinded her to Frey’s charm. I spoke of tribes divided by war; of the romance of love at first sight; of the fact that of all the girls in all the caves in all the mountains of the Middle Worlds, it was
she
who had caught his eye. Surely that meant
something
to her?

When it became clear that it didn’t, I followed up with a desperate and colourful depiction of Frey’s magnificent hall in Asgard, with its formal gardens, its topiary, its ballroom and its ornamental fountains.

‘Really?’ said Gerda. ‘A topiary?’

Funny how even the most determined of women can be swayed by the prospect of nicely clipped hedges.

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Plus a rose garden, a lawn, a conservatory, some garden statues, a pond and a whole area devoted to decking and container plants. You’ll be mistress of the finest house in all of the Nine Worlds, and your friends will be green
with envy.’

And so she and Frey were married, and Gymir got the rune-sword. Not such a wise investment for Frey, who realized when love’s pink haze died down that he’d just delivered his most treasured weapon into the hands of the Rock Folk, but by then there was nothing to be done. ‘Marry in haste and repent at leisure’, as the old wives of Inland say, and, let’s face it, they should know. It’s an open secret that old wives really run
everything
.