Loki (3 page)

Heimdall felt a brief moment of alarm that was suddenly gone as the mason and his horse drew closer. It had felt as though the rays of the sun had been blocked, and an icy shadow had chilled his skin. He dismissed the inexplicable panic and focused his attention back on the man.

Heimdall nodded in greeting, and the mason and his horse halted a dozen strides away.

“
What do you seek in Asgard?” he asked, eyeing the mason carefully. He could not see anything strange about the man—in fact, he looked almost painfully normal—but he could not relinquish the unsettling idea that there was more here than met his watchful eye. Still, it was inconceivable that any enemy could mask his true nature from Heimdall for long. Although his sword arm was strong, it was his keen eye that made him the most suitable guardian of Asgard. If this mason hid himself behind an innocent-seeming mask, Heimdall would eventually see through it.

“
The wars are over?” the mason asked.

“
What business is it of yours?”

The mason did not directly reply, but instead stared far beyond Heimdall, as if he could see the tall spires of Asgard from where he stood, a feat that none but Heimdall and perhaps Odin could accomplish.

“
Does Asgard still stand?”

It seemed that he already knew the answer to the question. Heimdall’s natural mistrust was proving valid.

"Asgard stands well enough." He paused briefly, as if the knowledge of the destruction that had been wrought on sacred ground caused him physical pain. "There is work that needs to be done, but it would take more than magic tricks," he nearly spat the words out with disgust, "to topple it."

The mason nodded, as if acknowledging the truth of Heimdall’s words. “And the surrounding wall? Does it still stand?”

He was losing his patience. “Who are you to question these things? Make your purpose clear now or leave the way you came.”

The mason did not look intimidated by his threat. This man was either uncommonly brave or a fool. Whatever the case, Heimdall had already decided that he would not pass. If he attempted to force his way through he would have no one to blame for his lost head but himself.

“
I come to rebuild Asgard’s wall,” he said simply.

Heimdall laughed, softly at first, then louder as he considered the absurd proposal.

“
You? Rebuild Asgard’s wall?” He laughed harder. “Go back to Midgard and toil away your miserable life building hovels and carving tombstones.”

The mason stood his ground, unmoved by Heimdall’s mocking. His laughter was quickly ended by a flapping sound from above. He looked up to see Odin’s ravens flying overhead. The birds circled high over Heimdall and then flew back towards Asgard. Odin’s message was clear.

“
It seems that the High One would like to have audience with you.” There was a trace of confusion, but only a trace. If Odin decreed that this mortal be let onto Asgard to pursue his ridiculous goal, then who was he to question? Odin’s wisdom was eternal, and he obviously saw purpose in allowing this mortal to pass.

As the mason led his horse to the end of Bifrost, Heimdall considered that the strangeness that he could not identify in the mason was the reason the Allfather wanted him to be let in. He contented himself with the thought of the Allfather’s wisdom, keeping them safe from the evil that festered in Jotunheim, where the giants continually sought the death of the gods and the order they brought to the Nine Worlds.

The frozen crunch of grass under the mason’s feet grew fainter and fainter with every step he took as Heimdall watched him dwindle in the distance, a lingering doubt mostly fading.

The Allfather’s summons came while he fought a dozen retainers in the courtyard. Tyr was unarmed save his fists, and the warriors came at him with sword and axe, each intent on drawing blood.

Tyr was fast enough to avoid them, but it was not his speed which served him so much as his ability to anticipate. He read their motions and gestures, the eye movements that showed where they aimed. As one drew closer, he grabbed a sword arm in mid-swing and tossed the attacker into two others, sending all three roughly to the ground. He kicked the feet out from under one and bent under the clumsy lunge of another, sending him tumbling to the ground. A few more deft attacks and counters, and all of his attackers were disarmed, or on the ground, or both.

He picked up a fallen sword and approached the closest man. He held the point to his chest. “That did not go well,” he said.

Orn wiped sweat from his forehead. “No, my lord. It did not.”

Tyr stuck the sword in the ground and helped Orn to his feet. His other retainers rose and recovered weapons, some nursing bruises.

“
You see our plans before we do, my lord. It is not a fair battle.” Orn pulled his sword out of the ground. His tone did not ring of complaint, merely fact. The others nodded or grunted in agreement.

Tyr acknowledged the truth of Orn’s words, if only to himself. It was true that even a dozen of them could never hope to beat him. His battle prowess was legendary, and none of the Aesir could match his skill with a sword. Only Thor was a match for him on the battlefield, and that was only due to raw power and strength. None could match the Thunderer for those, but in terms of pure craft with a blade, there was no contest.

“
There is no fair in war,” Tyr said. “You will not face one other of your exact skill on a battlefield.”

“
But you are Aesir, my lord,” Geir said. “We won't face even one such as you.”

“
It's true, lord,” Orn added. “Even unarmed we cannot touch you.”

Tyr frowned. “What will be your excuse when the giants march on us? 'They're too big?'”

Another of his retainers, Kjallar, said, “But my lord, the giants will at least be easy to hit. We could just barely see you move. How could we hit you when your movements are faster than our eyes?”

Tyr sighed. “If I wanted complaining I'd have the women out here.”

His retainers, embarrassed at the light chiding, forestalled further complaint.

“
You are able fighters, but your skills of observation are piss-poor. I did not beat you because I am faster or stronger. I beat you because I could see your clumsy attacks coming. You gave yourselves away with looks and gestures.”

Geir looked abashed. “How, my lord? I barely thought before I launched myself at you.”

“
Your every movement gives you away. A step here, a glance there. And you attack me as individuals, not together. You will never lay a hand on me like that.”

His men looked at each with some guilt. They all realized the truth of their lord's admonishments.

“
Now come at me again. But this time, coordinate your attacks. Look around you quickly, and know what the one next to you and the one next to him is going to do before he does it. Don't wait till an action is undertaken before you commit to an attack. And once you do attack, read the movements of those around you, adjust your plan as you see the battle unfolding.”

The warriors looked at each other, attempting to read the intentions of the others without giving their own intentions away to their lord. They knew it was unlikely that they would be able to strike him, much less best him, but they would at least show that they heeded his lessons.

A servant dashing towards him from the keep halted the attack. Tyr held up his hand and the warriors paused, some of them looking relieved to avoid another beating.

“
My lord, the Allfather summons you.” The servant was out of breath for running to deliver the message. “He has summoned a council at Gladsheim. A stranger has appeared.”

He eyed the servant carefully. He looked agitated.

“
What is known of this stranger?”

“
Little, my lord, save that he is a mason. He has come alone except for his horse.”

Tyr dismissed his men with a nod.

“
Send word that I am on my way,” he told the servant, who bowed low and quickly returned the way he had come. Tyr stroked his beard, wondering what this news boded, and why it was important enough to gather the gods at Gladsheim to hear it.

Odin's Sacrifice

Yggdrasil towered over all the Nine Worlds. It had always been, and it would always be. It was so large that its branches brushed the heavens high above, and its roots wound down into the underworld.

One root delved deep into Niflheim, coursing down into a blackened and foul spring. That land was filled with corpses and decay and the dragon Nidhogg, who spent his days devouring the dead and his nights chewing on Yggdrasil’s root, constantly threatening the life of the eternal tree. From time to time he would cease his gnawing, but only to give insults to the squirrel that scurried up the trunk of the tree to deliver them to the majestic eagle that perched at the top of Yggdrasil.

Another root wound into Asgard underneath the Well of Urd, where the three Norns resided to decide the fates of gods and mortals alike. The Norns—Urd, Skuld, and Verdandi—would sprinkle the tree with life-sustaining water from the well, countering the evil of the dragon. As shapers of fate, they carved a thin channel into the wood for every being in creation. At the top of the channel, life began. At its end life would cease. Some channels were long, indicating a full life, and others were mercifully short. Such is the way with the fates of both gods and men.

Yet another root wound its way down into Jotunheim, where the giants dwelled, underneath the Spring of Mimir. Its water would grant insight to any who drank from it.

Standing at the spring in his gray cloak and with his mighty spear, Gungnir, disguised as a walking stick, Odin lusted for the knowledge he would gain from drinking from the spring. Reaching up he plucked an eye from its socket and tossed it into the waters in exchange for a single taste. Great wisdom and knowledge were now his, but this only caused him to thirst for more.

He approached Yggdrasil alone and impaled himself upon the tree with his own spear. There he hung for nine long nights, sacrificing his life so that he might rise again and gain the knowledge of what would be. When his ordeal was over, the High One was wiser, but also sadder and more brooding. For not only had he learned all, he had also seen his death and the death of all the gods at Ragnarok. It was with a heavy heart that he bore this burden, full with the realization that this fate could not be changed. And so Odin returned to Asgard to ponder the future he could see but not avoid . . .

Chapter Two

The present was hazy, sometimes more so than the past or even the future. Odin could see a wall of giants descending on Asgard, marching across Bifrost, the bridge shattering underneath their collective weight. It was a mass of chaos intent upon nothing more than the destruction of Asgard and any who resided there, and it was an irresistible tide that could not be halted.

And then the image was gone.

Instead, there was a lone traveler with a large draft horse in tow, steadily crossing Bifrost with a beltful of masonry tools. He would have an offer for them soon, an offer that they would accept. Or had they already accepted it? It was unclear. Odin could see, however, that the mason was not what he appeared to be, but the rest was vague and shadowy. For a brief second there was an image of destruction and horrific violence so intense that it sent a bludgeoning pain through his body But it was gone as quickly as it had come, leaving him to stare blankly at the empty council hall of Gladsheim.

Heimdall’s messenger came meekly into Odin’s presence. The Allfather had seen him enter through the front doors after telling his servants that he had an urgent message from Heimdall. They let him in quickly, and the old man, Edil, who Odin had known for decades as Heimdall’s most trusted servant approached him with a message that he had known would come ever since he first plucked an eye out all those years ago.

“
Allfather, I have an urgent message from my lord Heimdall.” Edil lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head at Odin’s foot. He could see visible shaking while the man knelt in terrified supplication.

“
Speak it.”

Edil would not raise his head to meet the gaze of Odin’s one eye.

“
Allfather, Heimdall sends word that . . .”

Odin’s attention drifted. He was there in his hall, but at the same time elsewhere, too. He saw a snake plucked from its nest by one with a fair face and the air of sorcery about him. He saw the mystic runes carved into the air as the creature changed. The fair-faced one—Frey, he realized—disappeared with the snake into a cave.

The image shifted, and he saw the rustling waters of a narrow, cold stream. They hunted for a fish, one that was not a fish. It weaved its way into the depths of the stream. The fish was wily and small, able to be grasped in one hand. A net was thrown over one end, its weights dropping down to the bottom of the stream while two gods—Thor? Frey?—he could not see it clearly—waded in and stomped forward, pushing their prey closer and closer to the net while another perched over it. The fish, unable to see an escape through the legs of the Aesir, made a last, desperate leap, only to be grabbed in mid-air. It writhed and wriggled to be free, but to no avail.