‘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.
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, we
t, 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.
The Gospel of Loki Page 16
