And then came inspiration. ‘Wait!’ I said. ‘I have an idea. What if Sif could have new hair, better than she had before?’
Sif gave an indignant grunt. ‘I’m not wearing a wig, if that’s what you’re suggesting.’
‘No, not a wig.’ I opened my eyes. ‘Hair extensions, made of gold, that would grow just like your natural hair. And it wouldn’t need curling, or styling, or bleach, and—’
Sif said, ‘I don’t bleach my hair!’
Thor said, ‘I’d rather hit him.’
‘And let her hair grow back on its own? Well, if you’re happy to wait that long . . .’
Thor gave an indifferent shrug. But I could see that Sif was intrigued. She wanted her Goddess Aspect back, and knew that the fleeting satisfaction of seeing me bite the dust was never going to compensate for the loss.
She gave me a look that could have stripped paint, and put her hand on Thor’s shoulder. ‘Before you give him a pounding, dear, let’s just hear what he’s offering. You can hit him anytime . . .’
Thor looked doubtful, but let me go. ‘Well?’
‘I know a man,’ I said. ‘A smith. A genius with metals and runes. He’ll spin Sif a new head of hair in no time, and probably throw in some extra gifts for us as a token of goodwill.’
‘He must be a very good friend of yours.’ Odin looked at me thoughtfully.
‘Er, not exactly a friend,’ I said. ‘But I think I can persuade him to help. It’s just a matter of offering the right kind of incentive – to him, and to his brothers.’
‘You’re really that good?’ said Thor.
I grinned. ‘Better,’ I said. ‘I’m Loki.’
LESSON 8
Past and Present
Never trust an artist.
Lokabrenna
AND SO I WAS REPRIEVED – for a time – and I left Asgard on foot to go in search of the man who would save my skin. Dvalin was his name, and he was one of the sons of Ivaldi, the smith, and he and his three brothers had their forge in the caverns of World Below. They were the Tunnel Folk, delvers of gold, and their reputation was unmatched. More importantly, they were also half-brothers to Idun, the Healer, and I figured that if I claimed friendship with her, they would be sure to oblige me.
Now geography, like history, is subject to cyclical changes. In those days the Worlds were smaller than they are today, and less subject to physical rules. Don’t believe me? Look at the maps. And we, of course, had our own ways of crossing between the boundaries. Some involved working with runes – for instance, Raedo, the Journeyman, opens up many a door between Worlds – and some were simply a matter of footwork, wingwork and clever orientation. I set off on foot to convince the gods of the sincerity of my remorse, but as soon as I had crossed Ida’s plain and entered the forest of Ironwood, I found myself a shortcut. The river Gunnthrà ran through it; it was one of the tributaries that linked the nine Worlds to their primal source, and a direct link to World Below and the Worlds that lay beyond: Death, Dream and Pandaemonium. Not that I planned to go that far, but the Tunnel Folk enjoyed their seclusion, and it took me the best part of a day on foot to reach their fetid empire.
I found the smiths in their workshop. A cavern, deep in World Below, where a series of cracks in the earth gave vent to a seam of molten rock. This was their only source of light; it was also their forge and their hearth. In my original Aspect, I would not have suffered, either from the fire or the fumes, but in this body I was unprepared, both for the heat and for the stench.
Nevertheless, I approached the four smiths and gave them my most winning smile. ‘Greetings, sons of Ivaldi,’ I said, ‘from the gods of Asgard.’
In the light of the fiery forge, they turned their faces towards me. The sons of Ivaldi are almost identical; sallow-skinned, hollow-eyed, stooped and scorched with labour. Tunnel Folk rarely go aboveground. It interferes with their vision. They live, work, sleep in their tunnels, breathe the foulest of air, eat maggots and beetles and centipedes, and live only for the things they make from the metals and stones they find in the earth. Not much of a life, I thought. No wonder Idun had left them, taking with her the apples of youth made by her father as a wedding gift.
But now, as my eyes adjusted to the half-light, I saw that the cavern was filled to the roof with examples of the craftsmen’s work. All around there were objects of gold: jewellery, swords, shields; all embossed and gleaming with the soft sheen of beautiful things kept in darkness.
Some were merely decorative – bracelets, rings, headpieces – some intricate to the point of obsession, some starkly, deceptively simple. And some were virtually buzzing with glam; carved and filigreed with runes so intricate that even I could only guess at their purpose.
I’ve never cared that much for gold, but in the hall of the Tunnel Folk I found myself feeling covetous; eyeing those bright and beautiful things, planning and wishing to make them mine. It was a part of their glam, I suppose; the glam that runs through World Below like a seam of precious metal. It makes men greedy and women corrupt; blinds them with the light of desire. Too long in this place could drive a man mad – the gold, the glam, the fumes from the forge. I had to get out of there, and quick. But not without Sif’s golden hair. And if I could manage to persuade them to give me a little extra . . .
I took another step and said: ‘Greetings, too, from your sister, Idun the Healer, Idun the Fair, Keeper of the Golden Fruit.’
Ivaldi’s sons all looked at me, their eyes shining and skittering like beetles in their sunken sockets. Dvalin stepped forward. I knew him by reputation, and by the fact that his right foot was twisted and lame – an accident, the circumstances of which I may tell in some later tale (not that Yours Truly was involved . . . well, not very much, at least). I hoped he didn’t bear a grudge, or better still, that he didn’t recognize me in my current Aspect. I said:
‘Greetings, Dvalin, to you and yours. I bring you marvellous news from Asgard. You and your brothers have been chosen, among all the craftsmen of World Below, to carry out a delicate task, for which your names will be celebrated and your work be known throughout the Worlds. For a limited time only, this opportunity will allow you, the sons of Ivaldi, to share in the glory of Asgard; Asgard the golden, Asgard the fair, Asgard the eternal—’
Dvalin said: ‘What’s in it for us?’
‘Fame,’ I said with my broadest smile. ‘And the knowledge that you’re the best. Why else would Odin have chosen you, of all the smiths in World Below?’
That was the way to draw them in. I knew it from the old days. The Maggots can’t be bought in the regular way, they already have all the wealth they need. They have no passions beyond their craft, but they are very ambitious. I knew they wouldn’t be able to resist a challenge to prove their superior skill.
‘What do you want?’ said Dvalin.
‘What have you got?’ I said, and smiled.
It took the Tunnel Folk some time to prepare themselves for the task I’d set. I explained about Sif’s hair – omitting the reason for its loss – and the smiths all laughed in their sour way.
‘Is that all?’ said Dvalin. ‘Any child could make that for you. It isn’t a proper challenge.’
‘I also want two special gifts,’ I said. ‘One for my brother Odin, leader of the Aesir, and one for Frey, leader of the Vanir.’
This was a political move on my part; Frey, the Reaper, was in fact only one of the Vanir leaders, but he was influential. In favouring him – over Heimdall, for instance – I would be giving him the edge over his friends. With luck, he would remember that when it came to rewarding me; besides, he was Freyja’s brother, and I needed to get her back on my side.
Dvalin nodded and set to work. His brothers and he worked as a team, smoothly and gracefully. One handled the materials; one cast the runes; one tended the forge. One hammered out the hot metal; one finished the piece with a polishing cloth.
The first of the gifts was for Odin; a spear. It was a lovely piece of work, straight and ligh
t and beautiful, carved down the shaft with a ladder of runes. It was a regal weapon, and I grinned inside as I pictured the Old Man’s surprise and pleasure as he received it.
‘This is Gugnir,’ said Dvalin. ‘She always flies true, and never fails to hit her mark in battle. She’ll make your brother invincible, as long as he keeps her by his side.’
The second gift looked like a toy; a little ship, so dainty that it made you wonder how Dvalin, with his big, clumsy hands, was able to handle it with such ease. But when it was finished, he said with pride:
‘This is Skidbladnir, greatest of ships. Winds will always favour her. She will never be lost at sea. And when the journey’s done, she can be folded up so small that she’ll fit into your pocket.’ And then he uttered a cantrip, and the ship folded up like paper, fold after fold after fold, until it became a silver compass that he dropped into my hand.
‘Nice,’ I said. I knew Njörd’s son would appreciate this gift most of all. ‘And now for Sif’s hair, if you don’t mind.’
At this the sons of Ivaldi brought out a shapeless piece of gold, and while one of them held it in the forge’s heat, another used a wheel to spin it into the finest thread. Another cast runes; another sang, in a voice as sweet as a nightingale’s, cantrips and spells to bring it to life. Finally, it was finished; gleaming and jewelled and fine as spun silk.
‘But will it grow?’ I asked Dvalin.
‘Of course. As soon as she sets it in place, it will become a part of her. More beautiful than ever before, rivalling even Freyja’s.’
‘Really?’ I grinned again at that. Freyja was rather protective of her position as fairest of all. I filed the knowledge away for possible use at a later date. Everyone has a weakness, and I make it my business to know them all. Dvalin’s was pride in his handiwork, and so I praised him to the skies as I picked up the three precious gifts.
‘I have to say I doubted you,’ I told him as I prepared to leave. ‘I knew you were good, but not how good. You and your brothers are masters of all the craftsmen in World Below, and that’s what I’ll tell them in Asgard.’
Well, a little flattery never hurt, I told myself. Now to get home with the loot. It was time. I turned my face towards World Above. I was sick as a dog with the fumes from the forge, and I needed a wash like never before, but I was flushed with triumph. This ought to show the General, I thought. And as for that smug bastard Heimdall—
But as I was about to leave, I found a figure blocking my way. It was another craftsman, Brokk, one of Dvalin’s competitors. A squat little bulldog of a man, with eyes like currants and arms like logs.
‘I heard you gave Dvalin some work,’ he said, looking at me from under his heavy brows.
I admitted I had.
‘You were satisfied?’
‘More than satisfied,’ I said. ‘He and his brothers are incredible.’
Brokk sneered. ‘Call that incredible? You people should have come to us. Everyone knows my brother and I are the kings of World Below.’
I shrugged. ‘Talk’s cheap,’ I told him. ‘If you want to prove yourself better than Ivaldi’s sons, go ahead and match their work. Otherwise, as far as Asgard’s concerned, you’re just another amateur.’
I know. I shouldn’t have baited him. But he was getting on my nerves and I was eager to get out.
‘An amateur?’ he said. ‘I’ll show you who’s the amateur. A wager. I’ll make three gifts for you, Trickster, and come back with you to Asgard. Then we’ll see whose work is the best. Let your General decide.’
All I can say in my defence is that World Below must have clouded my brain. All that gold and glamour – and now was a chance to get some more, and for free. Besides, the children of Chaos can never resist a wager.
‘Well, why not? I’m in,’ I said. Three more gifts for the Aesir, at minimal risk to Yours Truly. I’d be a fool to pass by the chance. ‘And what shall we wager?’
Brokk scowled at me. ‘You’ve damaged my reputation,’ he said. ‘All of World Below now believes Dvalin’s work to be better than mine. I need to make a point.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll wager my work against your head.’ He gave me a very nasty smile.
‘Really? That’s all?’ I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. These artist types can be very intense, and besides, what would he do with my head?
‘I’d use it as a doorstop,’ said Brokk. ‘That way anyone coming in or out of my workshop would know what happens to anyone who dares to disparage my craftsmanship.’
Nice, I thought. But a bet was a bet. ‘Fine,’ I told him. ‘But you’ll have your work cut out.’
He smiled, if you can call that a smile. His teeth were like pieces of amber. ‘I’ll be doing the cutting,’ he said. ‘If you’re lucky, I’ll use a knife. If not—’
‘Just go ahead,’ I said.
Not really the best choice of words, come to think of it. But I was feeling confident. I had a few more tricks up my sleeve, and besides, when I walked into Asgard, I knew I’d be the blue-eyed boy, and therefore immune to everything.
Just proves how wrong you can be, I guess.
LESSON 9
Hammer and Tongs
Never trust an insect.
Lokabrenna
BROKK’S WORKSHOP was not at all like that of Dvalin and his brothers. For a start, he had a regular forge, fed with regular fuel, and therefore had none of the natural advantages enjoyed by the sons of Ivaldi. His brother Sindri, whom I’d rather expected to be the brains behind the outfit, looked little more than a halfwit. There were no objects on display here; no weapons, no jewellery; only a pile of raw materials: metals, pieces of sacking, animal skins, lumps of wood and other pieces of detritus more suited to a ragman’s cart than to an artist’s studio. And it stank; of sweat and goat and smoke and oil and sulphur. Hard to imagine that out of this mess could ever come anything beautiful.
However, I was suspicious. I watched the two brothers carefully as they began work, and saw that, although they both seemed boorish and slow, Sindri had very nimble hands, and Brokk’s arms were very strong as he worked at the giant bellows that would bring the forge to sufficient heat.
This gave me a sudden idea. ‘I’m going outside for some air,’ I said. ‘Call me when you’ve finished.’
I went into the passageway and shifted my Aspect to that of a fly. A gadfly, to be precise; quick and sharp and annoying. I flew back into the workshop unseen and watched from the shadows as Brokk picked up a piece of raw gold and flung it into the heart of the forge.
Sindri was casting runes into the fire. His style was eccentric, but he was fast, and I watched with curiosity as the piece of gold began to take shape; spinning and turning over the coals.
‘Now, Brokk,’ said Sindri. ‘The bellows, quick! If the piece cools before its time . . .’
Brokk started to pump the giant bellows for all he was worth. Sindri, with his delicate hands, was casting runes as fast as he could.
I was starting to feel a little nervous. The piece that hung between them was looking quite impressive. Still in my gadfly Aspect, I buzzed up to Brokk, with his bellows, and stung him sharply on the hand. He cursed, but didn’t flinch, and moments later the piece was complete: a beautiful golden arm-ring, worked and chiselled with hundreds of runes.
I flew back into the passageway, assumed my human Aspect again and rapidly pulled on my clothes.
A moment later, Brokk came to find me and showed me the golden arm-ring.
‘This is Draupnir,’ he said, with a grin. ‘A gift from me for your General. On every ninth night, she’ll give birth to eight rings just like her. Do the maths, Trickster. I’ve just given your people the key to unending wealth. Quite a princely gift, don’t you think?’
‘Not bad,’ I shrugged. ‘But the spear makes Odin invincible. Which one do you think he’ll value most?’
Brokk went back into the workshop, muttering. I resumed my gadfly Aspect and followed him.
Th
is time, from the pile of materials, Brokk selected a pigskin and a fist-sized lump of gold, and flung them both into the fire. While his brother shot runes at the work in progress, Brokk wielded the bellows, and something big began to emerge; something that growled and grunted and snarled and glared with burning amber eyes from the golden heart of the forge.
Once more I flew towards Brokk and stung him on the neck. He yelled, but never stopped working the bellows. A moment later, Sindri pulled out a giant golden boar from the forge, and I fled back to get dressed again.
‘This is Gullin-bursti,’ said Brokk, as he showed me result of their work. ‘He’ll carry Frey across the sky on his back, and light the way ahead.’
I noticed that he gave the word ‘ahead’ an inflexion I didn’t like at all. But I shrugged again, and said: ‘Not bad. But the sons of Ivaldi have given Frey mastery of the ocean. And what about the Thunderer? You’ll have to work harder to please Thor. The sons of Ivaldi have given him a wife whose beauty will be the envy of every woman, and the desire of every man. Can you and your brother offer more?’
Brokk glared and went inside without a word. In gadfly Aspect I followed him, and watched as, still glaring, he pulled from the pile of raw materials a piece of iron as big as his head. He threw it into the heart of the forge, then, as Sindri started to shape it with runes, he wielded the bellows, his face turning red with the effort.
I could already see that this third artefact was shaping up to be something unique. What was it? A weapon? I thought it was; shaped like the rune Thurís and snapping with glam and energy. I had to make sure that this time it failed; and so I flew into Brokk’s face and stung him right between the eyes, stung him hard enough to draw blood. He gave a roar of anger and raised a hand to sweep me aside – and for a moment, a second, no more, he loosened his grip on the bellows.
Sindri cried out; ‘No! Don’t stop!’
Brokk redoubled his efforts. But it was too late; the weapon that had taken shape in the forge was already losing its substance. Sindri cursed and started to cast runes at an incredible speed. Could he salvage the delicate work? I was inclined to believe he could not. Even if he managed to save it somehow, I knew it wouldn’t be perfect.
The Gospel of Loki Page 6
