The Gospel of Loki (17 page)

‘Enough,’ said Utgard-Loki. ‘We’ve tested our guests to their limits. Now it’s time for us all to relax – it’s getting late. We’re all tired.’

We spent the rest of the evening eating, drinking and listening to music played by the king’s servants. No lutes in Utgard, thank the gods, but lots of heavy guitars, playing complicated, interminable solos. In victory, Utgard-Loki was as genial as he’d previously been rude; offering us the best cuts of meat, the best seats at his table. We didn’t enjoy the experience much – Thor and I were too ashamed, and Thialfi and Roskva were suffering from a serious emotional let-down – but the giant king was at pains to make the rest of our stay as pleasant as he could. We slept on soft beds covered in furs, and in the morning, when we rose, our host was there to greet us. Once more he plied us with food and drink, although the rest of his people were still asleep on the floor of the hall, and then he accompanied us out of the
gates and back to the ridge of mountains.

‘This is where I leave you,’ he said, stopping at last to address us. None of us had been especially talkative on the way out of Utgard. Thor was still angry about his defeat; Roskva was sulking because no one had asked her to demonstrate her skills, and Thialfi was still limping. Face it, we’d all been humiliated, and we wanted to forget the experience as soon as we could.

‘So, what did you think of my city?’ said Utgard-Loki with a smile. ‘What kind of impression do you think you made on me, and on my people?’

Thor shook his head listlessly. ‘I think we’re all more than aware we didn’t exactly shine,’ he said.

Once more Utgard-Loki smiled. ‘Let me tell you this,’ he said. ‘If I’d known how strong you were, Asa-Thor, and how powerful the gods of Asgard were in comparison to my folk, I would never have let you within a hundred miles of the city. Do you know you were nearly the death of us all?’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Thor, perplexed.

But I was beginning to guess at the truth. The city was filled with glamours. The great hall had been thick with them, far too many to identify. A game of smoke and mirrors, I thought; enhanced by powerful runelore. And the giant king? A trickster, Skrymir had told us; a trickster to rival even the Trickster himself.

‘I think I do,’ I told him. ‘
You
were Skrymir, weren’t you?’

Utgard-Loki gave a smile. ‘That’s right. I was Skrymir. I saw you coming from afar, and wanted to find out who you were, and what kind of threat you might pose to us. Remember the pack with the food inside? I fastened it with the rune
Naudr
, the Binder, so you couldn’t open it. And later, when Thor tried to smash in my skull with that pretty hammer of his – nice weapon, by the way, but it’s what you do with it that counts – he
may
have thought he was striking me, but in fact he was aiming for that ridge – the one with the three square-shaped valleys.
The valleys are Thor’s hammer-blows.’

Thor isn’t what you might call especially quick on the uptake. He pondered the giant’s words for a while, then frowned and said: ‘And after that?’

‘My man Logi, who beat Loki in the eating contest.’ Utgard-Loki winked at me. ‘That was Wildfire in his elemental Aspect, which is why he looked familiar – and why he ate the trencher as well as the food inside it. And Thialfi, who raced so fast that I could hardly believe his speed, was racing against Hugi, the speed of Thought. And as for you, Asa-Thor . . .’ He turned once again to Thor, whose face was slowly turning red. ‘The drinking-horn from which you took such great draughts – that was a funnel that led to the One Sea, and you’ll see for yourselves when you return how far back the tide has receded. The cat was the World Serpent, that circles the Worlds with its tail in its mouth, and you lifted it so high into the air that you almost dragged it out of the ocean. And as for my old nurse, Ellie . . .’ Utgard-Loki shook his head. ‘That was an Aspect of Old Age, and she only wrestled you to one knee.’ He paused and looked at us all in turn.

‘That’s why,’ he said, ‘this is goodbye. You’ll never see me or my city again. My glamours will hide us for ever. Your people might search a thousand years and still you’d never find us. Let’s chalk this up to experience, shall we? Live and let live, that’s what I say.’

At this, Thor’s face went purple. He grabbed Mjølnir and raised it. But before he could use it, the Trickster of Utgard shifted Aspect and disappeared, leaving nothing but a faint scent of burning and a signature that led deep into the earth. And turning back towards Utgard, we saw that where the gleaming city had stood – its walls, its gates, its shining spires – there was nothing but grasslands and plain, unmarked as far as the eye could see.

‘Wow,’ said Thialfi. ‘Just – wow. Wait till I tell the people at home about
this
.’

I looked at him. ‘If I were you, I’d keep that story to myself.’

Thor growled: ‘This isn’t over.’

I shrugged. It was, and he knew it.

‘Face it,’ I said. ‘We’ve both been had. Any more fuss and the story will spread right across the Middle Worlds. Let’s go home. If anyone asks, we were never here.’

And so we went back to Asgard as if nothing had happened. We dropped off Thialfi and Roskva at their parents’ house on the way – we’d both had enough of celebrity, applause and expectation by then – and we drove home through the back roads, staying in human Aspect and keeping a low profile.

Neither of us mentioned our trip to the land of the midnight sun, though sometimes, looking at Odin, I wondered if he knew more than he was saying. In spite of that, the story spread all over the Middle Worlds, rivalling even that of Thor’s wedding to Thrym in popularity. Soon everyone knew the tale of how the Trickster had been beaten at his own game. Some laughed; some jeered; some were sympathetic. And some seemed to take my defeat to heart, as if I’d deliberately let them down.

Thor’s reputation did better, I think. After all, intelligence had never been his strong point. But mine never quite recovered. I’d shown myself to be fallible – never a good move for a god – and the grudging respect I’d earned had all too soon been eroded. That was all Thor’s fault, of course. He was the one who’d insisted on picking up Thialfi and Roskva. He was the one who’d decided to go to the land of the midnight sun. And
he
was the one who’d demanded that we go to Utgard.

But just like that, the bubble had burst. That eerie sense of contentment was gone. My fame had once more become mere notoriety. The snarl of barbed wire was back in my heart, and whenever I looked at my twin sons, I saw their disappointment.

That
was what did it. That look in their eyes. And that was why, as time went by, I became increasingly aware of my
damaged mouth; my damaged soul; my damaged reputation.

I’d always been a man of words. Now, my words deserted me. I spent too much time in my hawk Aspect; I slept too little; I drank too much mead. And all the time two little words chased each other around my head like Odin’s ravens.

Two words; one goal.

Get Thor.

LESSON 10

Feathers

A bird in the hand will leave you with birdshit on your fingers.

Lokabrenna

O
F COURSE
, that wouldn’t be easy. Thor was almost indestructible. Even without Mjølnir, his fireproof gauntlets, his belt of strength, he was a force to be reckoned with. Not that I meant to
use
force; Thor’s besetting weakness was trust, and
that
was what I meant to exploit.

The first step was to create the trap into which I was to lure him. This proved harder than I’d thought – not because Thor didn’t have any enemies – in fact, the Worlds were littered with folk who were keen to do him harm – but because no one would believe that I could ever betray him. Our fame had given rise to some underserved rumours of friendship between us, besides which my own reputation as a master of deceit meant that whomever I tried to recruit would immediately (and unfairly) assume that I was not to be believed.

No, straightforward recruitment was out. I had to do something subtle. Something that would persuade the mark that
my
idea was
his
idea.

A long con, in effect.

And so I assumed my hawk Aspect and went to visit the Ice Folk. It was my first time in that region since Thrym’s death,
and the mark was Thrym’s successor, a brutal warlord named Geirrod. I knew him by reputation; I knew that he was ambitious; I knew that he thought he was smart; I knew that he liked hunting with hawks and that he had an unusual way of snaring the birds he meant to train. I also knew that he hated Thor, who happened to have killed one of his relatives, which made him the ideal target for the plan I had in mind.

Still, after the deaths of Thiassi and Thrym, no warlord of the Ice Folk would have dreamed of making a deal. No, I had to approach Geirrod in a way that would lead him to believe that
he
had got the better of
me
– not an appealing prospect, I know, but you have to speculate to accumulate. And so I flew to Geirrod’s camp, where the man himself was training hawks, settled on a branch nearby, and let events take their course.

The trap was simple, but effective. The hunter had spread a kind of glue onto the branches of the tree on which I’d chosen to rest a while. When I came to fly away, I found that my feet were stuck to the branch, and before I could react, I was caged. What a humiliation.

Of course, I kept to my hawk Aspect throughout the unpleasant procedure, biting and screaming and flapping my wings. Geirrod’s keen, acquisitive eyes brightened as he looked at me.

‘This one has spirit. I’ll train him myself. I’ll put him in jesses and feed him scraps. He’ll make me a fine hunter.’

I glared at him. He looked amused. I didn’t like being kept in a cage, or being put into jesses, but there was glam around Geirrod, and I knew he’d recognize me quickly enough. He called over his daughters, two rather plain girls called Gjalp and Greip, and together they stared into the cage at Your Humble Narrator.

‘There’s something funny about this hawk,’ said Geirrod. ‘Have a look at his eyes.’

I closed my eyes and tried to look asleep.

‘Who are you?’ said Geirrod. ‘Name yourself.’

I, of course, did no such thing.

He tried a cantrip then –
a named thing is a tamed thing
– which, if I had been a regular bird, would have confirmed my innocence. But, though I did not reveal my name, my ability to hide it from him told Geirrod all he needed to know.

So he opened the cage again and grabbed me tightly by the throat. I struggled and tried to bite him, but Geirrod was used to handling hawks.

‘I know you’re no ordinary bird,’ he said. ‘Tell me your name, or you’ll suffer.’

I guessed I’d suffer a whole lot more if he suspected he was being had. And so I continued to play dumb, and said nothing.

‘All right,’ said Geirrod. ‘I can wait. We’ll see how you feel in a week’s time.’ And he opened a massive, iron-bound chest and thrust me, struggling, inside. Then he slammed down the heavy lid and left me there, in the airless dark.

Not Yours Truly’s finest hour. The chest was locked. I was hungry and scared. I couldn’t change Aspect; my glam was low, and I was using all of it to conceal myself from my captors. I waited for them to release me, but time passed and I realized that Geirrod’s threat had been sincere; he meant to leave me there for a week, starving and dizzy from lack of air, unless I agreed to cooperate.

It was like Thiassi all over again, except that this time I’d chosen my fate. I was exactly where I’d meant to be, but after a few days of captivity I was starting to wonder if my plan hadn’t been a little foolhardy. Of course, I needed to make Geirrod believe that he’d broken me for real; the problem was, I wasn’t sure whether I could last the course.

Days passed without reprieve. I was hungry; thirsty. Then, after seven days, Geirrod opened up the chest and grabbed me by the throat again.

‘Well? Are you ready to show yourself?’

I took a desperate gulp of air. It felt good, but I was alarmed at how weak I’d become over seven days. Much more of this and
I wouldn’t have the strength to go on. And yet I clung to my hawk Aspect, knowing that if he suspected my game, I would be helpless, in his power.

‘All right. That’s earned you another week,’ he said, and slammed the chest shut again.

Now I don’t do well with prisons. A free spirit like Yours Truly was never made to be caged like this. Once more, I sweated and starved, listening to the muffled sounds of voices from the outside. Seven days later, once again, my captor opened the iron-bound chest.

‘Well? What do you say?’ he said.

I blinked at the sudden sunlight and took a desperate gasp of air. I was very weak by now. Hunger and thirst tore at my guts; my feathers were broken and covered with dust.

‘I’m counting to three,’ said Geirrod. ‘Then you can rot for another week. One. Two—’

‘Mercy,’ I said, resuming my current Aspect. I didn’t need to fake this: I was in a bad way. Naked, starving, on my knees; my throat so dry I could hardly speak. ‘Mercy, please,’ I repeated.

Geirrod’s dark eyes opened wide. ‘I know you,’ he said slowly. ‘You’re that weasel Loki.’

I tried to get up, but couldn’t. Changing Aspect was out of the question. ‘You don’t want me,’ I told him. ‘I’m worth nothing. Look at me. No one will offer a ransom for me, or even notice that I’m gone. Let me go, and I’ll make sure you’re paid. Whatever you want, I can find it.’

Geirrod thought about that for a while. ‘Anything?’

‘I swear it,’ I said. ‘Money, girls, power –
revenge
– you name it, you’ve got it.’

Geirrod looked even more thoughtful. ‘Revenge, eh?’

‘Absolutely.’ I hid a smile. ‘My word on it.’

‘All right,’ said Geirrod. ‘Revenge it is. I want you to bring Thor to my hall, without his hammer Mjølnir.’

I gave him a look of anguished appeal. Inside, I was grinning. ‘But Thor’s my friend,’ I protested.

‘You gave your word,’ said Geirrod.

‘I know. But does it
have
to be Thor?’

‘Thor killed my kinsman Hrugnir. I want him to pay. In full. In blood.’

Yes, I know. I’m
that
good. Geirrod had taken the bait, and I had provided myself with an alibi, so that if things went wrong and I was found out, Geirrod and his daughters would swear that I’d given my oath under torture.

And so we agreed I’d deliver Thor, unarmed and unsuspecting. Then Geirrod’s daughters saw to my needs; fed me and clothed me; gave me a bed. And in the morning, tired and sore, but secretly still grinning inside, I flew off back to Asgard.

Persuading Thor to come with me wasn’t as hard as you might expect. I suggested a trip to see a friend, Geirrod, of the Ice Folk; a friend with two lovely daughters. It was still summer, which meant plenty of game, good fishing, and no snow in the valleys. Of course, Sif wouldn’t approve, I said, but if Thor left his hammer behind, and went without his chariot, then we could be there and back before Sif even knew we were gone. It didn’t hurt my case that Sif had been prickly of late, following the little fling Thor had had with Jarnsaxa, a warrior woman from the mountains. Much as he hated the Rock Folk, he had a thing for their slim, dark haired, strong and hot-blooded women (which might account for the number of enemies he’d made over the years), and Sif, never the patient type, was quick to comment when he strayed.

And so we let it be known in Asgard that we were going fishing, and then we crept over Bif-rost, Thor looking as guilty as sin, Yours Truly as innocent as a newborn babe. Which I was, if you think about it; if Thor had been faithful to his wife, my plan would never have got off the ground. Which was why, I told myself, if the Thunderer came to any harm on our adventure, it would not be my fault, but his. It’s the kind of poetic justice that people like Thor tend to overlook, which was why I
didn’t mention it to him at the time (or later).

As always, Heimdall watched us go. I would rather he hadn’t seen us, of course, but there was no hiding anything from the sharp-eyed Watchman. We travelled into the Middle Worlds, keeping to the main roads, crossed the realm of the Rock Folk and, as we neared the ring of peaks that marks the approach to the Far North, we stopped to rest by a mountain pass, where an old friend of Odin’s happened to live.

Her name was Grid, and she lived alone in her cabin in the wilds. She was one of those outdoor, sporty types; all hunting and fishing, cropped hair and sensible shoes. She could eat and drink almost as much as Thor could, and with the belt of strength she wore – a present from the Old Man – she could wrestle a bear to the ground. She had a pair of gauntlets, too, fireproof and woven with runes, which looked a lot like the ones that I’d gone to such pains to persuade Thor to leave behind.

Meeting her was the worst kind of luck. You might almost suspect that the Old Man, seeing Thor and Yours Truly sneaking out of Asgard, had sent her to keep an eye on his son and make sure he didn’t run into trouble.
Could
Odin have suspected me? The thought didn’t exactly fill me with reassurance. Still, it was too late to change the plan. And so we accepted her offer of a night’s hospitality and followed her back to her cabin at the edge of the pine woods.

There, she fed us on fresh-caught fish and made us two beds by the fireside. She offered us beer and honey-wine, but I wasn’t in the mood for drinking. Something really didn’t feel right. My nerves were ringing alarm bells, and when I finally fell asleep, it was thin, unsatisfying sleep, from which I was roused some time later by the sound of whispering.

I kept my eyes closed and listened. Grid and Thor were still awake. I was already feeling uneasy; then I caught Geirrod’s name in the conversation, and sensed I might be in trouble. I continued to feign sleep; after a minute or two, Thor came over
to where I lay, and stood there for a long time. Still I kept my eyes closed; then after a while he went to bed, and soon I heard him snoring.

In the morning, we set off again, and I watched Thor attentively, trying to work out how much he knew. I saw with growing discomfort that Grid had lent him her belt of strength and her iron gauntlets. I wanted to ask him why, but couldn’t find a way to do it without arousing suspicion. There were two ravens flying above the canyon through which we were travelling; I suspected Hugin and Munin, and wondered – not for the first time – whether Odin was spying on us.

Why would Odin do that?

Well – Odin hadn’t got where he was through honesty and openness. He’d chosen to recruit me
knowing
my volatile nature, and though he’d kept his promises of friendship and protection, he’d never really trusted me. Fact is, I don’t think he trusted anyone – not even Thor, his own son – which, looking back, explains a lot about what happened later.

But those birds unsettled me. Besides, I knew that by this time Geirrod and his daughters would be watching my approach from afar, and if they saw the ravens, or suspected a double-cross, then I’d be in a world of hurt.

We travelled further north, beyond the Hindarfell pass, and soon approached the Vimur River. It was broad at that point, and fast, swollen by a long month of rains. Rocks and boulders made it worse; and as if that wasn’t bad enough, there on the far bank stood Geirrod’s muffin-faced daughter Gjalp, singing a cantrip of
Logr
, so that the river swelled even more monstrously, now rushing with filth and debris, threatening to sweep us both away.

Damn. Those ravens must have alerted them. I’d always known Geirrod was twitchy. Rather than stick with the original plan, he’d decided to try and dispatch us both before we reached his stronghold. The river kept on rising – Gjalp casting runes at it all the time – and the bank at my feet began to give
way.

‘Loki, who’s this hag?’ yelled Thor, above the roar of the water. ‘Anyone you know?’

I wisely omitted to tell Thor that the lady on the far bank was one of the beauties I’d promised him. Instead I grabbed onto his belt for dear life as the rising water swept us away. Gjalp laughed as the river took us, and we were pelted and beaten and scratched by rocks and pieces of driftwood.