The Gospel of Loki (18 page)

Thor grabbed hold of a dead tree that stuck out from the river bed, and hauling us both upright again, managed to struggle to the far bank. Gjalp fled, mouthing curses, and, wet, cold and filthy, we moved on towards Geirrod’s hall.

‘So, this Geirrod,’ said Thor as we went. ‘How well do you know him?’

‘Not very well,’ I said cautiously. ‘But he offered me hospitality last time I was in these parts.’

‘Really?’ said Thor.

‘Absolutely,’ I said. ‘Two weeks without lifting a finger. He’d have kept me another week, to be sure, if I hadn’t insisted.’

Thor seemed mollified by this, and as evening approached we reached Geirrod’s settlement. I was on my guard by then but saw no sign of imminent violence. Instead, a servant greeted us and led us to our quarters. In winter the Ice Folk build their homes from the ice itself; in summer, they live in wood-framed tents covered in animal skins, though Geirrod had a good-sized hall overlooking the river. Our tent was large, with a chair, a lamp and two beds covered in elk and deerskin.

I went off to wash in the stream, and Thor sat down on the chair and promptly went to sleep. Ten minutes later, I returned to find that, rashly, Geirrod’s daughters had tried to ambush the sleeping Thor. One had looped a length of thin garrotting wire around his neck; the other was trying to hold him down while her sister finished him off.

Big mistake, girls, big mistake. You should have trusted Loki. The one thing not to do around Thor (except, perhaps, to
mess with Sif’s hair) is to disturb his naptime.

As I entered, Thor sat up, grabbing one of the daughters in each fist. Gjalp and Greip were cawing like crows, trying to shift Aspect, but Grid’s borrowed gauntlets held them fast and all they could do was struggle.

I adopted the casual approach.

‘Oh. I see you’ve met Gjalp and Greip,’ I said.

‘What the Hel?’ roared the Thunderer. ‘These crones were trying to strangle me!’

I quickly disposed of the length of wire. ‘Thor, this is hardly chivalrous. Not when our host’s lovely daughters were trying to give you a relaxing massage, using – er – the traditional
massage cord
for which the Ice Folk are famous.’

Thor made an explosive sound. ‘
Lovely daughters?’

I had to admit
that
was quite a leap. I pointed out that, though muffin-faced, Greip
did
have quite a nice figure, and besides, not
everyone
finds body hair unappealing.

Thor looked a little more closely at Gjalp. ‘Isn’t that the hag who tried to drown us earlier?’ he said in a piercing whisper.

‘Oh, no, I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘That one was
much
uglier.’ Then, addressing the two beauties, I said: ‘Perhaps we’d better go and see your father before we accept any more hospitality? I’m sure he’s keen to welcome us.’

I looked at Thor, who reluctantly loosened his hold on the two hags, and now stood looking vaguely confused, as if alarmed at his own strength. Grid’s belt might have helped him, but even without it, half the time, Thor has no idea of his power. Just looking at those hands of his in their iron gauntlets, I felt a growing discomfort, and I was about to suggest we left when Geirrod’s servant re-entered the tent and announced that his master was ready.

‘He is?’ I said.

‘Oh, yes,’ said the servant. ‘He thought perhaps you might like to join in a few games before dinner.’

‘Dinner?’ said Thor.

‘Games?’ I said.

It crossed my mind that the kind of games Geirrod liked to indulge in were probably not the kind of games I was likely to enjoy. But Thor, to whom the word
dinner
was like a clarion call to arms, was halfway out of the door by the time I could voice my objection.

I followed – what else could I do? – and as we entered Geirrod’s place we saw that, instead of the usual fire, there was a row of furnaces all down both sides of the long hall. It was already sweltering inside; the light was red and treacherous. Just the way I like it, in fact, but Thor was squinting against the smoke.

I could just see the figure of Geirrod somewhere near the back of the hall; he was carrying a pair of blacksmith’s tongs, and as soon as we entered, he picked something out of one of the furnaces and flung it straight at both of us. It was a massive iron ball, heated to a dull red, and I shifted quickly to avoid it, adopting my Wildfire Aspect. But Thor just caught the iron ball between those massive gauntlets and hurled it back with terrific force. It struck Geirrod midsection, and went on travelling right through him, crushing his ribs and smashing the wall behind him into kindling.

If this was a game, I was pretty sure Team Aesir had already won it, but you know Thor; once he sees red, there really is no stopping him. He smashed Geirrod’s hall to rubble, leaving it littered with body parts. Then he went outside and did it there too, and when the worst was over, I saw him, bloody to the armpits, looking over the scene of carnage with an air of vague confusion, no doubt remembering my account of green meadows, blue skies and a host with two lovely daughters.

I decided not to stay around to compare recollections. Shifting to my hawk Aspect, I winged it back to Asgard, vowing to leave a healthy interval before my next meeting with Thor. He had a fearsome temper when roused, but he seldom bore a grudge. In a week or two he would have forgotten the details
of our little adventure, and my skin would be safe once again.

The Ice Folk, however, were another matter. I knew that my part in the day’s events, innocent though they might have been, would ensure that there would be no escape for me in that part of the Middle Worlds. I was quickly running short of places to hide – should I need them. And there was something in the air that told me the time was approaching . . .

LESSON 11

Ransom

Blood is thicker than water.

But gold – gold pays for everything.

Lokabrenna

I
TOLD YOU
the Worlds had ended before. Of course that isn’t entirely true. The Worlds never really end – just the folk who have made it their own. And Order and Chaos never end, but the balance of power is in constant flux, which is why the General never slept well, and never relaxed his vigilance.

We’d had a pretty good run thus far. Decades of security, with only sporadic attacks from the bands of Ice Folk and Rock Folk who still had an eye on Odin’s throne. Gullveig-Heid had gone underground; Chaos seemed to be sleeping. Order was firmly in command, and there was nothing but blue skies ahead.

Of course, these were always the times when Odin felt the least secure. The Old Man was perverse in so many ways, always believing the worst of folk; always suspicious; always on guard; never giving a thing away. When I got back from my trip with Thor, I found that Odin had been perched in his crow’s nest for the entire duration of our absence, talking only to his birds and to Mimir’s Head in its cradle of runes.

Why the fascination with a disembodied Head? Well, crossing back from the Land of the Dead gives a certain perspective.
Sometimes it gives the power to foretell the future – though you know what I always say: ‘never trust an Oracle’. But Mimir’s Head, understandably, resented having been brought back to life and kept in an ice-cold spring for years, and so, although Odin could make it speak, it rarely did so willingly. Hence the time he spent with it, whispering over the secret spring, tracing runes on the water, trying to see his way in the dark . . .

No one knows when the Oracle first delivered the prophecy. Did the General
force
it to speak, or was it Mimir’s initiative? No one knows for sure any more, except the Old Man himself, and Mimir’s Head, if it still survives. But those thirty-six stanzas changed the world in which we lived; eclipsed our sun and moon and sent Odin’s ravens flying to the far roots and branches of Yggdrasil in search of . . . what, exactly? Understanding? Deliverance?

Death?

I had no problem with
that
, of course. As far as I was concerned, the gods had had it too easy for far too long. But my own position was hardly secure, and I was in no hurry to die, be it at the hands of the Aesir or in the bosom of Chaos. If All-father
was
spying on me (of which I was becoming increasingly sure), then I needed to understand why. I mean, he’d always known what I was. What did he think I was guilty of?

And so, having failed to work on Thor, I started work on Odin. I thought that if I could talk him into leaving Asgard for a while, I might find out the reason for the growing distance between us. He’d always enjoyed our trips abroad, and so I suggested an outing into the valleys of Inland, for a little hunting and fishing.

I asked Honir to make up the party – he was annoying but at least he had no particular grudge against me, which made him unique among the gods. Besides, the three of us had often gone hunting together, back in Asgard’s early days, and I hoped that Odin’s nostalgia for those days when we were still friends might prompt him to confide in me – or at least, to let something
slip.

To my surprise, the Old Man agreed that he needed a few days away from home. He was looking tired, I thought, and the long hair under the hat he wore seemed more than usually grey. And yet he seemed pleased to leave Asgard; to dress in his oldest, shabbiest clothes; to carry his ancient haversack; to pretend he was just a journeyman, selling his wares as far as World’s End. Perhaps that was all he wanted, I thought; the illusion of normality. But that’s the problem with being a god – you lose the knack of being human.

And so we crossed Bif-rost and set off on our way – I with a cheery little wave to Heimdall, who watched me go with clenched teeth and a look on his face that, if looks could kill, might have left me, if not dead, at least with some nasty bruising. We headed for the Northlands on foot, into our old hunting grounds, where summer was ripe for the picking and there was plenty of game to be had. We found the river Strond as it ploughed a furrow between the mountains, and walked down a gully of waterfalls into a shady forest. We’d come in the Aspect of three of the Folk, unarmed and without signs of status. And I’ll admit, it was fun to leave Asgard behind, with all its tensions and politics, to hunt with a sling and a pocket of stones; to sleep on a blanket under the stars. It was fun to pretend to be someone else; someone who didn’t matter. And yet, it was still a performance. Odin and I both knew it. It was a kind of play, a dream of how things might have been if he and I had been capable of trusting each other for a change. And so we hunted, and sang, and laughed, and told heavily edited stories of the good old days, while each of us watched the other and wondered when the knife would fall.

We followed the river, and as evening approached I managed to bag our dinner, using my sling and a single stone; a fine otter as it sat by the riverbank, eating its catch of fresh salmon. I picked up the dead otter and the salmon (which was almost as large as the otter itself), and, rejoining the others, suggested we
stop and make camp.

‘We can do better than that,’ Odin said. ‘There’s a little farm not far away. Let’s offer to share our food with them in exchange for a dry bed.’

That was typical Odin. Don’t ask me why; he
liked
the Folk. Any excuse to talk to them, to pretend to be one of them, he’d take it.

I looked at my catch and shrugged. ‘All right. Let’s see what your friends say, shall we?’

Well, we knocked at the farmhouse door. The farmer’s name was Hreidmar, and he welcomed us affably enough, until the subject of dinner came up, and he saw the otter. In a moment his eyes went cold, and he walked into the little house without another word.

‘What’s eating him?’ I said.

Odin shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Let’s find out,’ he said.

We followed Hreidmar into the house. His two sons were sitting by the fire. Fafnir and Regin were their names, and they were no friendlier than he had been. They barely spoke as we settled ourselves in front of the fire, but glared at us in silence. I didn’t care for it at all, and if Odin hadn’t been so keen to spend the night under their roof, I think that in his place I would have taken my chances sleeping outside by the river. But Odin and Honir didn’t seem to have picked up on the fact that we weren’t entirely welcome.

Finally, I cooked dinner. No one else seemed about to. Our three hosts must have been vegetarians, because they barely touched the fish and wouldn’t even look at the meat, but I just thought
well, more for us
, and finally unrolled my bed and settled to sleep by the fireside.

Odin and Honir did the same, and we slept deeply and dreamlessly – that is, until, some four hours later, when somebody slapped me awake and I found myself and my friends tied up hand and foot, with Hreidmar and his two sons watching us intently.

‘What’s this?’ said Odin.

I tried to assume my Wildfire Aspect but found myself bound with runes as well as rope. The farmer and his two sons weren’t quite as rustic as they looked; if only we’d checked their colours before accepting their hospitality.

Hreidmar bared his yellow teeth. ‘Which one of you killed my son?’ he said.

‘Your
son
? We haven’t killed anyone . . .’

He showed me the otter’s skin in his hand.

‘Oops,’ I said. ‘That was your son?’

‘Yes, that was Otter,’ said Hreidmar. ‘He used to like to hunt by day. He often took that Aspect. In the evening, he’d bring home his catch to share with me and his two brothers.’

Well, I mean to say. Who wanders through the woods during the hunting season disguised as
lunch
, for gods’ sakes? And why hunt as an otter when you can catch more salmon with a net? This Otter couldn’t have been very bright. I was about to point this out when I saw Hreidmar’s face, and decided against.

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ I started to say. ‘Obviously, I didn’t know who he was. If I had, do you think we’d have come here?’

Hreidmar drew his knife and grinned. ‘Talk all you want. Otter’s still dead. And now you’ll pay for what you’ve done. In full. In blood.’

In blood.
That
again.

‘Does it
have
to be blood?’ I said. ‘How much do you want? I’ll raise it.’

Hreidmar’s eyes narrowed. ‘A ransom?’ he said. ‘I’m warning you, it won’t be cheap.’

‘Anything,’ I said. ‘I swear.’

Hreidmar and his sons conferred. Finally, he spoke up again. ‘All right. I agree,’ he said. ‘If you can bring me enough red gold to fill this otter skin in my hand, and then to cover it completely, I’ll let you and your friends go free. Otherwise . . .’ He ran his knife over the ball of his thumb, and smiled. The
blade made a nasty stropping sound.

‘I get it,’ I said. ‘Just let me go. You can keep my friends here as hostages.’

Honir looked alarmed at this, but the General just looked inscrutable. I guessed he was trying to assess how likely it was that I would just opt to save my own skin and leave the two of them to face the music.

I turned to him. ‘You can trust me,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ And then as Hreidmar released the runes, I took hawk Aspect and flew away to find the gold that would ransom my life.

I know. I know what you’re thinking. Why bother with a ransom at all? That was my chance to finish him; to strike at the heart of Asgard; to take the revenge that I’d so long desired . . .

Stop. Stop there a moment. Follow the thread to where it leads.

If Hreidmar killed the Old Man, the whole of Nine Worlds would hear about it. Thor would be quick to avenge him. And there would be no way to escape the fact that I was responsible for his death. The gods would be after me in force. They would hunt me wherever I tried to hide. They would never leave me in peace. They would slaughter my twin sons, just to make sure that neither boy grew up with thoughts of vengeance in mind. And when they caught me – and they would – they would torture me to death as sure as snakes are slippery.

So now you’ll see why I didn’t do what you might have expected. For all my resentment of the Old Man, he was still my protector. Without him, I would have been friendless, cast out of Asgard quicker than leftovers that are starting to stink. No, I needed Odin on my side. I needed him to be grateful. And how better to achieve all this than by saving his life at the risk of my own? If I’d known the power of Hreidmar’s runelore I might not have entered his den quite so fast. But I knew his reputation as well as his appetite for gold, and I’d been certain that enough of it would cover Otter’s unfortunate death.

Yes. I’ll admit it. I planned the whole thing. I needed Odin’s gratitude. And, for all his intelligence, he was so predictable – his affection for the Folk, his love for those little valleys and woods. Everyone has a weakness, and his was this sentimentality; it didn’t take much for Yours Truly to guide him to the appointed spot, while letting him think it had been
his
idea.

The rest had been easy. A handful of stones can bring down more than you might think. An otter, a man – even a citadel can fall under a well-aimed stone. All I had to do now was find enough red gold to ransom my friends, and I too would be redeemed.

So – where was I going to find the gold?

At first, I considered World Below. The Tunnel Folk could always supply plentiful quantities of gold of all varieties, but this time I sensed that Ivaldi and Sons might not prove altogether willing. Instead I made for the One Sea, where Aegir, the storm god, and Ran, his wife, had their cavern under the waves.

I arrived in Aegir’s hall dripping and naked. Not that they cared; the Undersea was hardly big on etiquette. Ran was the goddess of the drowned, and she and Aegir ruled the Deeps, while Njörd, the Man of the Sea, ruled the waves and kept them safe for fishermen.

Aegir’s hall was cavernous, lit by phosphorescence; dripping with water and studded with undersea gems and pearly shells. On a throne made out of a single shell, Ran sat, pale as sea-foam, watching me with oyster eyes.

I went up to her throne and bowed.

‘The General’s in trouble,’ I said. ‘I have a plan, but I need your help. Please, will you lend me your drowning-net?’

The net was Ran’s prize possession. Unbreakable and stitched through with glam, she used it to drag the ocean floor, to turn the tides and drown sailors who ventured too far into her realm. She handed it over – reluctantly.

‘What are you fishing for?’

‘Gold,’ I said.

Net in hand, I left the cave and went to explore the Under-sea. I found myself a cavern, lit by a long, vertical shaft that led back to the World Above, and cast the net into the sea. I happened to know that the Tunnel Folk had cousins all over World Below, and that one of them – Andvari, his name was – liked to mine the sea bed, which was rich in all kinds of minerals. With Ran’s net of woven runes, it didn’t take me long to sense Andvari’s presence, then to snare him and haul him out, totally at my mercy.