Loki (29 page)

Tyr slowed the flow of blood from his severed wrist with torn cloth, looking more angry than hurt. Once Fenrir was almost completely bound, he approached. He snarled menacingly, but the dwarfs’ fetter had served its purpose, and he was now helpless.

“
Tyr, your hand . . .”

“
It will heal,” Tyr said simply, a trace of bitterness in his voice. “We have stopped him. That is all that matters.”

Fenrir growled at him. “I will take more than your hand! When I am free—”

Tyr cut him off. “You will never be free. You could have roamed these fields in peace, but you instead attacked those who sheltered you.”

Fenrir spat his disgust. “Peace? What do you know of peace, you who murder infants?”

Balder pressed Fenrir’s face into the stone floor roughly. “Enough. You will not speak to your betters like that.”

“
Let him speak. He can do no harm now.”

Balder reluctantly removed his hand, Fenrir’s furious eyes on him as he withdrew.

“
I will be free, and I will feast on your entrails. You will have to slay me.”

Tyr grimaced as he tightened the bloody cloth around his stump, the flow of blood lessening with each passing moment. “No, we will not slay you. The Allfather has forbidden it. But you will never run free again.” He turned to one of the nearby Einherjar. “Go and tell the High One what has happened here. Tell him we require his advice about what to do with the Fenris Wolf.” The mutilated warrior nodded, but as they turned the Allfather was there, clad in his gray traveler's cloak with Gungnir in hand, disguised as a walking stick.

“
He is bound,” Odin said.

“
Yes, Allfather,” Tyr said.

“
For now.” His back to Tyr and Balder, Odin approached the wolf who could do nothing but wheeze through the tightening coils of Gleipnir. Odin put his hood up and brought his face close.

Fenrir saw the old face shift and change, the wrinkles smooth out, the gray beard withdraw and lighten. The familiar face—the face of his father—smiled once before shifting back. Trussed up, Fenrir could do little but feel the rage roil inside him.

Odin dropped his hood and turned back to Balder and Tyr. “Have him brought to Gladsheim,” he said, before walking back out the door, leaving the two gods alone with the bound wolf, wondering what Odin had said to him to increase his fury.

Balder’s Dreams

The sleep of the most handsome god was most troubled. Balder tossed and turned in his bed, unable to shake off the creeping sleep demons that haunted him night after night. He would wake with a sheen of sweat covering his body, mistaking the shadows for the rapidly fleeing wraiths from his disturbed slumber. Moments later he could not remember them; there was only the persistent feeling of dread hanging over him like a funeral pall.

All the gods were dismayed when he told them about his visitors. Despite their concerns and hand-wringing, however, none could offer any solution to what could be done to banish these dreams. It was his own father who finally decided to visit Niflheim to find an answer.

The one-eyed god mounted Sleipnir and galloped off for the underworld, the home of Hel, the half-corpse creature who reigned over the dead. Sleipnir crossed nine backwards flowing rivers before he stood face to face with Garm, the huge hound that stood guard at the gates of Niflheim. With a sharp spurring of Sleipnir, Odin leapt past the jaws of the beast and rode past the cold fields of the dead, onward to Hel’s hall.

At the door, Odin found pathways strewn with gold, a welcoming for someone important.

He found Hel on her throne. Odin addressed the creature he had banished to this place so long ago. “Who is it that you plan to welcome into your realm?”

Hel did not answer at once, but instead let a sly smile spread across her face. “The tribute is for the one who will soon be joining me here.”

Odin felt a sharp pain at her words. “You do not mean Balder?”

“
The handsomest of the gods will be my guest ere long.”

Odin’s brow was knit with distress. “Who is it that kills him? At least you can tell me that.”

“
It will be a tragedy that will rend the hearts of all in Asgard, made the more tragic by the blind hand of he who slays his brother.”

Odin knew she meant Balder’s brother, Hod. “Why does brother slay brother?”

“
It is Hod and not Hod who will lay his brother low.”

Odin said, “What can be done to prevent this from happening?”

Hel’s smile grew wider. “You of all should know that fate cannot be prevented. You set Balder on this path long ago.” With a gleam in her eye, she added, “Your own crimes will ever be your undoing, One Eye.” And with that she closed her mouth and refused to say another word.

Odin reluctantly turned and left. His ride back was somber and silent, although he imagined the faces of the dead laughing at him as he made his way back to Asgard . . .

Chapter Nineteen

It had been months since Fenrir was bound and his stain removed from Asgard. They had taken him, wrapped and immobilized in Gleipnir, to Nidavellir, and sought out the expertise of the dwarfs once more. Masters of underground spaces as well as masters of craftsmanship, the dwarfs led them deep underground, till the stinking rot of Niflheim seemed only a breath away. Tyr had come, as well as Frey, and their servants carried Fenrir on a litter that dragged behind them. It took ten servants to drag the beast over the rough and rocky ground of the cave.

The dwarfs led them down long, winding tunnels into the blackness of the underground till they came to an expansive cavern with a wide platform of rock in the center. They dragged Fenrir onto it, and Balder brought out a sword and chain he had brought with him. In the center of the platform was a metal ring embedded in the rock, and the dwarfs attached one end of Balder’s chain to it. He slid the other end around the blade of the sword and approached the silent beast.

Kicking him over onto his back, he put one foot on Fenrir’s throat to hold him in place. With two hands he rammed the sword into the bottom of Fenrir’s jaw and out the top of his muzzle to fully gag him and bind him to the boulder. He snarled savagely, but was unable to struggle because of Gleipnir’s tight coils.

It was thus that they had left him. Chained and muzzled, frozen in that place till he died of starvation, or perhaps stuck there for eternity. Balder had no idea if the beast was immortal or not, but if he was, all the better; his suffering would be never-ending, a fitting punishment for so foul a creature. Balder could feel Fenrir’s burning gaze on him, the anger thick and palpable. He could not keep a grim smile from his face as they left the wolf in the cavern to begin his endless agony.

Tyr ran his hand over the stump for the thousandth time. Despite the long months since the wolf had taken his hand, it had still not healed. It would never be healed. He could still feel the jagged teeth sinking in, ripping muscle and sinew from bone, separating flesh from flesh, and the memory of it made him sick.

It was not as if he had never suffered an injury before.There had been many over the course of his battles, and each time he had healed—sometimes quickly, other times more gradually—but all wounds had eventually closed, and he had been made whole again in time. But he had never been wounded like this before.

Never had a piece of him been so savagely ripped away, so effectively separated from his person. The loss went far deeper than simply a loss of a limb. It felt as if part of his identity had been ripped out, and in its place was a stinking abscess that refused to heal.

He paced his bedchambers, anger and frustration building in equal amounts, as they had each day since the injury. His servants stayed away from him, aware that he did not want to be bothered, and also fearful of his silent anger. They had never seen their master in such a state, and it worried them. His manner had ever been measured, rarely showing anger even when warranted. Perhaps those loyal to Thor were used to mercurial passions, but Tyr’s servants had come to expect balance in all things with their lord.

He was aware of their misgivings, but could not contain his feelings. Instead of roaming through his hall angrily, he chose to stay in his bedchambers and pace the floor to exhaust the bile inside him.

Despite the punishment Fenrir had received, he was not satisfied. In the moment he had not questioned the Allfather's dictate that the wolf not be killed, but as the months went by, he grew to resent it more and more.

He knew that the only thing that could sate him would be to meet the wolf in combat. Fenrir would not escape Gleipnir, however. The only possibility was that he might be freed at Ragnarok, although who knew when or if that would happen.

He found it curious that all his life he had felt dread at the thought of the end, but now he strangely looked forward to it. He was not patient, but he could wait. And while he did, he would anticipate the feel of his sword slicing Fenrir open.

Heimdall had seen the old woman crossing over Bifrost for leagues now, slowly and laboriously making her way to Asgard. It was not unusual for mortals to cross over onto Asgard for various reasons. The mason, to Heimdall’s shame, would never have been able to cross had it been irregular to request entry onto Asgard. Many village wise men and witches made their way there to request audience with one or another of the Aesir, and such audiences were granted often enough to make the long journey across Midgard worthwhile.

Occasionally, bereaved fathers and mothers would attempt to see sons who had been sped from a battlefield death by Valkyries. Some left satisfied that their sons were serving the High One, constantly preparing to defend Asgard at Ragnarok. They could see their son, now an immortal warrior, and feel a measure of peace upon learning that his death had meaning. Others left with different emotions, seeing instead a hollowed-out ghoul with missing limbs and scars from repeated injuries. They likely thought that their sons were restored, as if a blade had never even touched them when the Valkyries swept them up to Asgard. But Odin did not promise such things; he had no need for warriors that were fair of face and body, only those who could wield cold steel.

Heimdall scoffed at the notions of these mortals. How could they pay homage to the Aesir—gods of battle—and think that their sons would somehow become beautiful once taken to Valhalla? Those that valued such things would do better to worship the Vanir. Or better yet, they should stay where they belonged in the realm of mortals, where they would not have to see a dead son who still walked after having the top of his head shaved off by a blade, his ill-fitting helmet the only thing keeping his brains from spilling out onto the ground.

He did not know who this old crone was who so slowly made her way across Bifrost, but he knew that she was here either to beg audience with one of the gods, or to see a long-dead son. Whatever the reason, she was bound to leave disappointed, and Heimdall had little patience for the small concerns of those who dwelt below.

As she got closer, Heimdall marveled at how she had managed to make this entire journey, so slowly did she move. He had never seen such an old human before, and he wondered how she had survived the perils of her journey. Usually they came in groups. The dangers were too numerous to count: wolves, thieves, and murderers, not to mention giants and other evil creatures that preyed on humans. And yet here she was, alone and feeble, as old as Yggdrasil itself by her looks. And she was hideous. Her face was like an old, dirty sack that had been gnawed by goats. Her body was bent over so far that Heimdall wondered if her jaw might scrape the ground when she spoke, and her back bore a mountainous hump that could have carried a small child had it been hollow. Even her smell was foul, the stench of death and piss.

“
Hail, brave Heimdall,” she said weakly, as she came close enough to hear his response. What little remained of her teeth were blackened stumps that hung precariously in her gums, ready to stick into the flesh of any apple she bit into.

He narrowed his eyes at her, this ugly old crone who so presumptively attempted to gain access to the realm of the gods, and felt an odd amusement creeping through him. This pathetic, wizened shell of a human, this shambling sack of bones and skin, had made a trip from her village to the foot of Asgard by herself. Despite her appalling nature, she was worth some small measure of respect for her sheer tenacity.

“
What do you seek in Asgard?” he said, not unkindly.

The old crone took long minutes to catch her breath and answer, her hump heaving with each gasp. “My son was long ago taken by the Valkyries. I would like to see him before I pass into Niflheim.”

It was as he thought, although he shook his head at the futility of the request. “When was he taken to Valhalla?”

“
Many years ago, when I was much younger. He was defending our village against marauders, but there were too many. Our men managed to fight them off, yet the toll was heavy. My son stood against them and killed many before he was cut down.”

Heimdall was not so hardened that he did not feel for a mother’s pain, although he constantly wondered at the thoughts of these mortals. They longed to go to Valhalla and serve the gods, and they railed against an ignominious death that sent them to Niflheim. Yet they sorrowed for their sons when they achieved a glorious death and reward. He could not understand them.