Loki (39 page)

The image in the pool gained more definition, the face becoming clearer. And as it did, its flames faded and became more flesh-like. In the moment when she recognized the face, she was released from the pool’s thrall. Quickly, she chanted the runes as she felt the presence attempting to snare her again. The questing tendrils lost their cohesion, and the water, now set loose from the entity's control, spilled across the stone floor.

Freyja rose to her feet and fled from the room as the pool went dark, the presence leaving a residue that would taint any image that followed. It did not matter; she knew she would never use the pool again. There would never be another opportunity. Time was short, and Ragnarok was even now closing in upon them.

As she raced down the empty halls of her keep, all doubts of the end left her. Odin must be told, although perhaps he already knew. Soon enough it would be plain for all in Asgard, and then Vanaheim and Alfheim, followed by Midgard and its surrounding realms. By the time all knew what came for them, it would be too late.

It had been surprising enough to see the face in her pool, and even more so to feel its influence despite the distance between them. More upsetting was the second face, the one that she had always feared would lead to destruction and chaos. And Loki had looked more certain, more filled with power and hatred than she had ever seen him.

Even more threatening than the armies of Jotunheim and Niflheim combined was the utter destruction represented by Black Surt, he whose existence was partly only legend. Somehow Loki had made that legend manifest and had given a force of nature a corporeal form. Worse, Black Surt was little more than an extension of Loki himself, and now, with this power in his grasp, his victory may well be inevitable.

Servants were summoned and quickly dispatched to Odin. She wondered if any of these preparations even mattered. When Loki crossed into Asgard bearing the power of Black Surt, it was unlikely that anything would survive.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Loki overflowed with obscene power.

He stood on the bridge of a massive ship that sailed without need of water or wind, but was powered by the ghastly presences of the armies of Niflheim. It was bound for Asgard.

Fenrir stood next to him. Loki could feel the anger emanating from his son, his eagerness to take revenge on those who had wronged him. Down below, Jormungand’s enormous bulk slithered steadily forward, the rumble and destruction of his passing clear for leagues in all directions. His was a basic, instinctual intelligence, filled with longing for the destruction of his enemies, although it could not be articulated in such terms. Loki’s third child remained behind with her slave, Balder. She would sense the battle from afar, feel every death as the gods were sent to Niflheim to become her servants.

Black Surt welled up within him in anticipation of the destruction to come. Surt’s purpose was solely to destroy, and Loki could feel the dim and vague consciousness of the thing bristle against him, desperate to break the yoke that he held it with. If it could, it would destroy everything it touched. Loki would keep it in check, use it against the gods and, when they were all gone, would let Surt loose back in Muspelheim where it would be contained. He could not hold onto it forever, but he was strong enough to possess it for the time it took to wreak havoc on the Aesir and their allies.

The armies of Niflheim—vaster even than those of Jotunheim—were pressing up against him with their desire to bring others into their fold. He had purposely held back, increasing their lust for the slaughter to come, and also to coincide with the assault by the armies of Jotunheim.

The gods, powerful though they were, would not be able to withstand all the forces aligned against them. Soon he would stroll through the blood-soaked fields of Asgard, noting the dead and dying Aesir around him, and his revenge would be complete.

The lush grassland between Bifrost and the towering spires of Asgard was filled from left to right with the armies of the Aesir, a clear line of warriors marking the spot beyond which they would suffer no enemy. This was where they would cleave skulls, lop off limbs, and rip open entrails till all who sought to destroy them were dead at their feet.

At the forefront, in the exact center of the line, was Odin, clad in gray mail and helmet, Gungnir firmly in his fist and blood-red cape flying out behind him. He was a grim visage of death, made more so by his skeletal frame. His ravens circled overhead, acting as Odin’s eyes while they waited for the giants to cross Bifrost. His wolves waited impatiently at his side, eager to feast.

To his right, dwarfing all the other warriors of the Aesir, was Thor, the Thunderer. Mjolnir was gripped in his hand and lightning crackled around the hammer, as if the weapon itself anticipated the battle to come. Thor’s eyes were lit and sparked with energy, his red beard and hair looked as though they were made of fire, and his armor seemed that it could only barely contain his mass.

To Odin’s left were One-Handed Tyr, sword in his remaining hand and gleaming shield strapped to the other, and Frey, clad in Vanir battle armor but with sword still sheathed and looking—unlike the Aesir around him—less intensely focused, more serene. Next to him was his sister, Freyja, clad in similar armor, but also with sword unsheathed. Prepared for battle in such a similar way, the twins were difficult to distinguish from each other with their delicate features.

Spread out across the front rank were the other Aesir: Frigg, mother of Balder and wife of Odin; Magni and Modi, sons of Thor and Sif, along with Sif herself; Ull the archer, with expertly crafted yew bow and arrows with shafts of bone; Vali and Vidar, sons of Odin; Forseti, son of Balder; Bragi the poet; Honir, released from his war-bond by the Vanir, further strengthening the ties between the Vanir and the Aesir; along with hundreds of other Asgardians, each skilled and fierce in battle, each longing to draw giant blood.

Behind the front ranks of the gods were the Einherjar. These grotesque warriors were even more eager for blood than their masters. Since the moment each of them arrived at Valhalla, they had done little but fight. Each day was a litany of battle where they bloodied each other in anticipation of Ragnarok. Each night was a feast where those who had survived the day raised cups and bowls to the fallen. And each morning, all would rise—those who had survived and those who had died—to fight again. The cycle repeated each day, with Ragnarok always in the forefront of their minds. This was what they had been brought to Valhalla for, and they savored the thought of finally slaking their thirst for the blood of the enemies of the gods.

The Valkyries were everywhere; ghostly, translucent battle maidens astride similarly ghost-like steeds. They did not stay in one spot for long, but would disappear and reappear among the massed armies. Each was armed with a sword and bow, and they could engage in vicious melee or skewer the enemy from afar with spectral arrows.

The Aesir were joined by the armies of the Vanir, the mystical gods from Vanaheim who had at one point been their bitter adversaries. Now the two groups, long uneasy allies, tossed aside all thought of old injuries and banded together to face the common enemy that threatened them both. They brought with them their spells and sorcery, their mastery of all living things. They had made fearsome enemies; now they would be equally devastating as allies.

And yet all of these armies together only constituted a fraction of the armies of Jotunheim. They could hear the giants even now, stomping on Bifrost, row upon row of massive, towering creatures of chaos, intent on destroying any and all in their path. A quiet unease went through the armies briefly, only to be quelled by the calm and focused ferocity of the Aesir at the forefront. These gods were the anchors upon which all others depended. Their steadfastness lent strength to those around them.

The armies were silent. The time for noise and battle and death would come soon enough. For now, they stood their ground and waited.

The marching of massive feet on Bifrost was all Heimdall could hear as he stood at the edge of Bifrost with his few dozen retainers, awaiting the giants. Swords were out, faces were grim and determined, as they formed a wall separating the end of Bifrost from the plain that led to Asgard. The giants would have to smash that wall to gain access, and Heimdall would not allow that to happen so long as he had breath left in his body.

Heimdall had seen them for leagues before they even set foot on Bifrost, but as the legion upon legion of giants marched inexorably forward, he realized how much bigger they were as they closed the distance. And even more daunting were the numbers. As the first ranks came into view of Heimdall’s retainers, he could hear gasps from the brave warriors. The snake-like procession of enemies encompassed the whole of the bridge and the land leading up to it. Heimdall had not known that so many giants existed, and the thought of them marching on Asgard was intimidating, despite his dauntless nature.

As the first wave drew closer, he gripped his sword tighter. Whatever the outcome, this would at least prove to be a battle for the skalds to sing of.

There was space enough on Bifrost for the giants to march about ten abreast. Since Heimdall’s small band was spread out as they were, shoulder to shoulder in four ranks, it would be difficult for the giants to flank them unless they actually crashed through the lines. While they would probably be able to do it, it would cost them dearly when his men dug steel into giant flesh.

He wondered if he might be able to halt all of the armies here, at Bifrost, and lay waste to the entirety of Jotunheim in a glorious battle that would earn him the envy of all the Aesir. He smiled at the thought. To stir up Thor’s innards with jealousy and deny him a role in this battle would be supremely satisfying, for ever was there competition between the Aesir for the title of strongest, boldest, most fierce warrior. Heimdall had seen Thor’s fury at being denied battle, and he and the others had made good sport of it. If that could be done today . . .

He ended the thought, amusing as it was. If he were to maintain this position and keep the giants off the sacred ground of Asgard, it would require his full attention.

The first line of giants was nearing. They were mostly the same size—tree height, at least—but there were several who were more than twice that size and far more bestial looking. Heimdall saw the danger and scanned the faces of his men.

“
Stay firm on the line!” he called out. “Keep your ranks tight! Leave the big ones to me!” He noted their grim and determined nods, and turned back to the giants. They had halted, taking full measure of the small force that stood between them and Asgard. They were armed primitively—clubs, hammers, bare fists—trusting their massive size to overwhelm their enemies. Heimdall noted the looks of overconfidence; they smirked, laughed, and even pointed derisively at the small opposing force. It was clear they considered this to be an easy battle and a foregone conclusion.

Without warning they let loose with battle cries that shook the sky and charged forward, weapons and fists brandished high. Heimdall’s band stood firm and awaited the onslaught.

The first wave of giants met the steel fury of the Asgardians, and blood sprayed out and above, coming down again like thick, red rain. The line was pushed back as the giants pummeled with fist and club, and several of the men fell, but the ranks behind quickly stepped up and filled the holes, and the line held. The men, though hopelessly outmatched in both strength and number, made up for their deficiencies with fury and skill.

Giant legs were hacked off with broad swings from the front ranks, guts were stabbed through with short, quick thrusts from the back ranks, hands and fingers were lopped off as they sought to grab and crush these annoying insects that defied them. Their initial momentum had carried them forward strongly and had moved the Asgardian line back. But where it held it had become an assemblage of stabbing and biting steel, drawing blood wherever its dozens of stingers struck.

The giants tried to pull back, but the force of the bodies behind pushed them into the line, and swords and axes continued to hack and slash at anything they could touch. As the giants fell, some of them roaring and screaming in agony and bitter frustration, they created a wall to those behind them, and the Asgardians were able to use these giant corpses as barriers from which to strike behind. As giant upon giant fell, the fervor of the Asgardians increased, and their blades bit deeper, hit harder, slashed faster. This furor enraged those giants who could not yet reach them, but who could see these tiny creatures laying waste to their brethren. They doubled their efforts to reach them, thus pushing those in front ever more into the biting teeth of the Asgardians.

While Heimdall felled giant after giant he watched for the larger ones. They would move forward and toss the fallen bodies aside, making holes for the others. He had killed two of the larger ones already, but there were many more behind, and they were able to reach or even step over those on the front line to wade into the Asgardian ranks.

He slashed off the arm of one giant at the elbow and then plunged his sword into its side all the way to the hilt. Blood and gore sprayed as he pulled the sword out and the creature crashed onto the pile of dead giants. Heimdall felt the ground rumble near him and he whirled to face the threat, but he was too late. The giant picked him up in his hand roughly—he felt and heard ribs crack—and then he brought Heimdall to his gaping mouth, intent on either eating him or simply biting him in half.