The Gospel of Loki (29 page)
Read The Gospel of Loki Online
Authors: Joanne M. Harris
There goes free will.
Lokabrenna
O
N THE NINTH DAY
, we attacked. Nine is the perfect number. Nine Worlds: nine days, nine nights till the end of the Worlds. There is a curious poetry to such an equation. Nine days, nine nights. And on the ninth day, everyone died.
Everyone who matters, that is.
Of course, the sun didn’t rise that day. Nevertheless, we followed tradition and attacked more or less at dawn. The Ice and Rock Folk launched a two-pronged assault to the north and east of Asgard, while the rest of our army gathered to wipe up the rest of the Folk and, as Heidi’s people moved up out of Iron-wood to challenge Bif-rost, I, in Wildfire Aspect, at the helm of my fire-ship, led my fleet across the plain to scour the land in a thin red line.
Finally, I knew what to do. I was in my element. Lighting up the darkness in glorious red-gold, deadly bursts; eating through wood and bone and flesh; clashing joyfully on steel. Within an hour, the snowfields of Ida were nothing but a grid of flame, and Bif-rost’s gleaming parapet was alive with capering figures. Wolves howled; witches flew; ephemera surged out of Dream to take any shape they chose to take from the fears of those who
assailed us. The gods were outnumbered ten thousand to one. Ice Folk here; Rock Folk there; Wildfire in the middle. And on the Bridge, our champions, howling their defiance and rage at the beleaguered Aesir; Fenris, the Wolf; Jormungand, lolling in his sheath of slime; and a host of vile ephemera dragged from the bed of the River Dream.
The air was black with smoke and ash; the plain of Ida slick with blood. Of course, in my Wildfire Aspect, I could not hear the blood in my veins; or smell the stench of carnage; or see the millions of ephemera flying like moths towards the Bridge; or taste the salt of sweat on my tongue; or feel the fear in the back of my throat like an animal trying to get out; or hear the howl of battle like the voice of ten thousand winds . . .
But there was carnage; delirium; joy – and a kind of purity. It had been such a long time since I’d last experienced the thrill of unbridled destruction, untrammelled by conscience, fear or guilt or any of those other feelings with which Odin had corrupted me. For the first time in an Age, I was free, and I meant to enjoy it to the full.
I launched my fire-ship at the Bridge. It cast a bloody pall across the plain. Cutting through Worlds like a razor, slashing between Death, Dream and beyond, releasing fragments of Chaos into the charged and rapturous air. All that stood between Asgard and us was that Bridge; cloaked in Northlights; gleaming like eternity.
And now, a figure came to stand halfway across its narrow expanse. Odin in full Aspect; spear in hand; colours flying. Sleipnir stood by him, in giant Aspect, his eight legs spanning the sky like a spider’s web; a nimbus of flame around them both gave them a twin corona. I had to admit that at that moment there was something magnificent in the Old Man; something noble and melancholy that might
almost
have touched my heart – that is, if I had one. As it was, I dropped my Wildfire Aspect, the better to enjoy the scene about to unfurl in front of me. The noise of the battle fell silent. All eyes turned to the Rainbow
Bridge.
Now Odin comes to face the foe.
Against the Fenris wolf he stands.
He fights; he falls. Need I say more?
The verse was as clear as Mimir’s well, but still, I didn’t believe it. Odin must have had plenty of time to study the Oracle’s small print; to tease the weft of the prophecy into some kind of a safety net. I
knew
him. He wouldn’t go gently; and although Fenris was powerful, a part of me expected – feared – that Odin’s guile might still win through.
Behind me came an eerie lull as the hordes of Chaos waited. I watched him from the prow of my ship; naked; in human Aspect. Now I could feel the fire at my back; the chill in the air; the smoke in my lungs. All kinds of sensations flooded me – triumph; admiration . . .
Hope?
He looked at me from the parapet, his one eye filled with blue fire. And then he raised his battle-spear and launched it at the fire-ship.
Was
he aiming at me? Who knows? If so, he missed his target. I saw the missile coming; swore; slipped back into Wild-fire Aspect. The spear, with its shaft of laddered runes, passed right through the fire-ship and struck the fiery plain below in an icy eruption of glam. He took another step forward and slowly drew his mindsword.
‘Fenris, are you ready?’ he said.
There came a ripple from the ranks. The Fenris Wolf came forward. Fenris, the Devourer; thirty feet from nose to tail: fangs as long as a man’s arm; fearless as hunger incarnate. For a moment, Old Man and Wolf faced each other in silence. I’d resumed my human Aspect to watch; now I felt the hairs on my neck stand up like a hedge of upraised spears. Behind me, all Chaos was watching; even the dying took notice. We all knew that something legendary was about to happen. And
then . . .
They came together like drawn swords; their giant shadows leaping out against the cloak of the Northlights. Below, on the plain, the other wolves howled in unison, a chilling sound. Above them, eight-legged Sleipnir spun his web of runelight.
They fought. From Asgard’s battlements, familiar figures watched the fight, their colours flaring – blue, red, gold. All my erstwhile companions: Thor; Frey; Týr; Njörd; Honir; Aegir; Heimdall. All of them watching in silence as Allfather battled the Fenris Wolf with the mounting desperation of a man who knows he is destined to lose.
It wasn’t an elegant combat. The Old Man had his glam, his runes and his stubborn will to fight. The wolf had cunning and savage strength as well as his mother’s protection. Both were bloodied and tired and torn; their breath plumed pale against the night; below them, Ida’s plain was scorched and spackled with cantrips and broken runes.
But in the end, the Old Man was no match for the wolf’s brutal cunning and vigour. Bleeding in two dozen places, he fell to one knee, and the wolf closed in to tear out his throat in a single bite.
But just as Fenris opened his jaws to howl his victory at the night, there came another figure onto the Rainbow Bridge.
It was Thor, with Mjølnir. His fiery tread shook the Bridge and brought stones tumbling from Asgard’s battlements as, in his rage, he hurled himself at the Fenris Wolf, slamming violently into him and sending both of them hurtling off the edge of the parapet and into the thick of the enemy, who scattered to avoid them like crows at a handful of firecrackers.
Pieces of the Bridge showered down. Thor in full Aspect was far too much for such a delicate structure to take, and the walkway, already compromised by the assault, began to unravel, the thousands of runes that made up its length dispersing into the smoky air. Soon, it would be gone, leaving no means of escape for the gods and opening the way for my fleet.
Meanwhile, on the ground, the Thunderer and the Fenris Wolf were locked in mortal combat. For a moment, Thor had been stunned by the fall, and I’d hoped the wolf would finish him off; but then he grasped Mjølnir, and suddenly the fight was on. Accuracy wasn’t Thor’s strong suit, but he had strength to make up for it. Mjølnir flashed in his hand; the Wolf sprang back, snarling and baring his giant teeth.
For a time, they circled; Fenris dodging the hammer blows, Thor flailing at the enemy. The great hammer smashed into the plain, opening huge craters of fire wherever it struck; reducing flesh to cinders; steel to shrapnel; bone to dust. Wherever he struck, the Thunderer left a trail of carnage; fusing even the rocks to glass. At last, a blow connected, smashing the spine of my monstrous son, who died there on the battlefield, thrashing and snarling his hatred. One more for the Oracle.
Meanwhile, Thor was making his way across the plain towards my ship, using his hammer like a flail, cutting us down like ripe corn.
From afar, I heard his voice. ‘
Loki! You’re next!’
But he never reached me. My second son, monstrous Jormungand, had noticed the Thunderer’s approach. Moving slickly across the plain, levelling troops with his powerful stench, the World Serpent now moved in on Thor, massive jaws flexing in slime and steel.
Thor saw him coming and turned to fight, but by then the snake had already half ingested him, drawing him into that giant maw as if he were a melon seed.
I said:
That’s my boy
, or something close.
But Thor had Mjølnir, and Jormungand had only his mass of foul blubber. The mighty hammer struck three times, even as Thor stood wedged inside the monster’s throat, its venom cascading over him as he sent the hammer hurtling through the back of the monster’s head.
Jormungand gave a convulsive swallow. Thor hung on for dear life. And then, as I watched, the Thunderer staggered free
of the Serpent’s jaws, and Jormungand, dying and out of control, whipped the still half-frozen ground into a lake of mud and gore before sliding beneath the surface.
From Asgard’s distant parapet came a cheer of victory. But the victory was brief. Thor took nine steps away from the place where Jormungand had breathed his last. Then, overwhelmed by the monster’s venom, the Thunderer collapsed and died, just as the Oracle had prophesied.
There goes free will
, I told myself.
After that, all Hel broke loose.
So what’s the worst that could happen?
Lokabrenna
H
AVING SEEN
their two greatest heroes undone, the remaining Aesir and Vanir gave up any thought of strategy. They fought where they stood; on Asgard’s walls, besieged from all sides by the multitude. Some of our troops had crossed the Bridge and were already chipping away at the battlements, unravelling the thousands of runes that made up Asgard’s gleaming walls. Some attacked from the sky, as birds, or flying snakes, or dragons; some swarmed up from Ida’s depths, clinging to the rock face; some attacked directly from Dream.
Bif-rost was seconds from falling, scattering in bright, glassy shards onto the battlefield. My fire-fleet stood ready to cross; arching brightly into the sky, consuming everything it touched.
I lost my sense of direction; in the turmoil of fire and smoke I caught glimpses of my once-companions, their shadows monstrous against the sky: Freyja in her Crone Aspect, slicing into the ephemera with a viciousness that came naturally; Týr, whose missing hand had been replaced by a gauntlet of glamours, reaping the crowds with his mindsword; Frey, who could have used his own sword if he hadn’t given it away, flinging runes into the plain; Sif, in her Warrior Aspect, almost as
fearsome as Thor himself, screaming revenge and murder.
I have to admit, they were good. With my help, my loyalty, they might even have survived the onslaught.
That
was what hurt me most, I guess; the knowledge that with my help, we could have beaten the prophecy. We could have held Asgard. We could have won. And in the heat of the battle, with fire to the left and ice to the right, and smoke and fumes and glamours and blood painting their own dark rainbow across the sky, Your Humble Narrator was suddenly seized with a kind of clarity.
I looked up at our battlements, now crumbling beneath the assault. I looked up at Bif-rost, its bright curve sagging with a legion’s weight. Once more assuming my Wildfire form, I left my fire-ship and raced across the bloody battlefield, leaving a trail of fire in my wake, and leapt onto the Rainbow Bridge.
There I assumed my human Aspect; clothed in nothing but smoke and glam; ready to take on the enemy in the form in which they knew me best.
Why did I leave my fleet, you ask? Well, I knew what was coming next. Bif-rost was the final link in the chain that joins Worlds together. Gullveig had already opened the gates of Dream and Death. Only one remained: Pandaemonium – which meant that any remaining business, scores to settle, for instance, would have to be dealt with swiftly, if they were to be dealt with at all.
And so I crossed the Rainbow Bridge in the Aspect of Loki, the Trickster, just as the last shining filaments that held it all together dissolved like a soap bubble in the sun. I was unarmed, except for my glam; I’d never had much interest in weapons, and besides, this time I wasn’t looking for a fight. There was one enemy left in Asgard who hadn’t joined the fray, and for an excellent reason. He was – at least, technically – already dead, but that wouldn’t stop me, I promised myself, from making him even deader.
The Oracle. That thrice-damned Head. Mimir’s Head was to blame for all this. That damned Head and its prophecies. Why
had we ever listened to them?
Well, if I had my way, I told myself, no one would ever listen again. I would bury the thing so deep that even the dragon at Ygg’s root would have to strain to hear it. And so, with that intention in mind, I jumped lightly from the vanishing Bridge; shielded myself with a cantrip of
Bjarkán
; skated past a phalanx of ephemera; jumped onto the battlements; dodged a few little skirmishes and found myself in Asgard again, this time facing Odin’s hall; its roof collapsing and blackened.
I went inside. It was empty. Odin’s high seat was toppled and smashed. But Mimir’s well was still untouched; the intruders had not yet understood the true nature of the enemy. So harmless, so apparently dead, so tranquil in its darkened pool, the Oracle lay in wait for me; glowing a little, as if in satisfaction, its calcified features shining.
I stood there, naked and covered in soot, looking into Mimir’s well. Then I reached in and recovered the Head. Held it up at arm’s length.
‘You bastard,’ I said. ‘You disembodied stone bastard. So much for your prophecy.’
The Oracle looked smugger than ever. ‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,’ it said. ‘All I do is say what I must. The rest is up to you.’
I glared into the calcified face. ‘Don’t give me that. I worked it out. I know Heidi set this up. You were in it together.’
The Oracle glowed. ‘You’re a smart boy. I knew you’d figure it out in the end.’
I snarled: ‘Let’s see if you figure
this
.’ And I tucked the Head under my arm and made for the battlements again.
‘What are you doing?’ the Oracle said.
‘I’m going to bury you so deep that not even the Maggots will hear you.’
‘Why?’ I thought its tone wavered a little.
I laughed. ‘Don’t give me that,’ I said. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m going to die, but at least if I do, I’ll go out knowing that
you’re
where you deserve to be.’
‘What, Hel?’ sneered the Oracle. ‘Go on, by all means, send me there. I’ve been waiting since the Elder Age. Or do you imagine I
liked
it here, being at Odin’s beck and call, knowing that he’d used me –
twice
– and unable to do a thing about it?’
I grinned. ‘I’m not going to send you to Hel. Hel’s too close to Chaos. Chaos is too close to Heidi, whom I’d trust as far as I would trust a hungry seal with a barrel of fish. No, Old Man, I’m going to make sure you stay around for a
long
time.’
‘What do you mean?’ Its voice was sharp.
‘You’ll see,’ I told it.
I’ve always been quick at casting runes. This time I worked faster than ever; there was a dark cloud in the eastern sky, darker even than the night, and if it was what I thought it was, I didn’t have much time left. I cast a dozen runes in rapid succession, twisting them together like the strands of a fishing net. By the time I’d finished, I had something like a cat’s cradle of runelight in my hands, which I pulled tightly around the calcified Head. Then I stood on the battlements and aimed it straight down, at a spot roughly five hundred feet below us, where Jormungand had made his last dive.
‘Wait,’ said Mimir. ‘We should talk.’
‘What about?’ I said.
‘Gullveig-Heid. I can tell you everything. I know—’
And that – that
very
moment – was when Heimdall chose to strike at me from behind, using a form of the ice-rune
Hagall
, knocking me sideways from my perch and onto the crumbling parapet. Mimir’s Head went one way, bouncing off the battlements and down into the burning plain, and I found myself lying flat on my face in front of Goldie, armed to the chops, and clad in his showiest armour.
I said: ‘Didn’t you know it was a party? You should have made an effort.’
Heimdall flashed his golden teeth. ‘Get on your feet, scum,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’
I grinned. ‘I always knew you cared.’
The cloud on the eastern horizon was getting closer very fast. I’d thought I might have a little more time – time to make a stand, perhaps; to jump onto the battlements and to scream my defiance at everything. Still, this was better than nothing. If I was to die in flames, I couldn’t have chosen better company.
I assumed my Wildfire Aspect and leapt at Heimdall, all colours blazing. For a moment he clung to me, trying to find a hold on my fiery person. We struggled, he casting runes to immobilize me, I searing him with fire and flame.
Of course I didn’t stand a chance. Heimdall was stronger, and armour-clad, and sooner or later I knew he’d get the upper hand. Just as I thought I had him – his face half blackened, his glam getting weak – Goldie cast
Isa
and froze me in place, yanking me from my fiery shape and back into my human form.
For a moment, time froze. I could feel the darkening air; smell the stench of the fire-pits; hear the Watchman’s breath in my ear and see – was that a star in the lurid sky? Was that
my
star hanging there? I looked towards the east again and saw the black tip of a giant wing coming out of the shadow-cloud.
Then Heimdall looked straight into my eyes and stepped right off the battlements, carrying me down with him through the hot air towards the ravaged battlefield.
I grinned. He was
so
predictable. I’d guessed he would follow me from the Bridge to try and even the score with me. I’d guessed he would be quite prepared to sacrifice himself for me. And now he was staging a double jump, just as the end came into sight – secure in the grim satisfaction of knowing that, if he had to die, at least he’d taken me with him.
There wasn’t much time to struggle. Even if I’d tried to escape,
Isa
would have held me fast. All I could do was watch the ground rushing up to receive me, looking very rocky and hard and cratered with smoking pits of fire.
So what’s the worst that could happen?
I thought.
Doesn’t Hel owe me a favour?
And then something swept across the land like the shadow of a monstrous black bird, and the ground disappeared; and the sky disappeared; and a cold like the ice of distant stars fell into sudden silence.
Now comes the final reckoning.
Now come the folk of Netherworld.
Now comes the dragon of darkness, Death,
Casting his shadow-wing over the Worlds.
And at the same time, I felt something snap inside me, like a little bone. I’d never felt the sensation before, but all the same, I knew what it was. They say you know instinctively whenever you break a bone, and in the same way I knew that what I’d just felt was the rune
Kaen
, giving up the last of its glam, reversed by a violent psychic blow.
And I knew Death wasn’t my problem. No. My problem was a larger one. That cloud – that wing of darkness – was Surt in his primary Aspect. Surt the Destroyer; Chaos incarnate; the ultimate ruler of Netherworld, crashing into the Worlds through Dream . . .
I said: ‘
Oh, crap
.’
Then, night fell.
Oh, crap.
As last words go, it wasn’t what you’d call memorable. But as the icy darkness fell, I was dimly aware of a voice speaking to me very close, like the voice of the sea inside a shell, before the darkness engulfed me at last, body, mind and what passes for soul.
