The Gospel of Loki

by Joanne M Harris

  They came together like drawn swords; their giant shadows leaping out against the cloak of the Northlights. Below, on the plain, the other wolves howled in unison, a chilling sound. Above them, eight-legged Sleipnir spun his web of runelight.

  They fought. From Asgard’s battlements, familiar figures watched the fight, their colours flaring – blue, red, gold. All my erstwhile companions: Thor; Frey; Týr; Njörd; Honir; Aegir; Heimdall. All of them watching in silence as Allfather battled the Fenris Wolf with the mounting desperation of a man who knows he is destined to lose.

  It wasn’t an elegant combat. The Old Man had his glam, his runes and his stubborn will to fight. The wolf had cunning and savage strength as well as his mother’s protection. Both were bloodied and tired and torn; their breath plumed pale against the night; below them, Ida’s plain was scorched and spackled with cantrips and broken runes.

  But in the end, the Old Man was no match for the wolf’s brutal cunning and vigour. Bleeding in two dozen places, he fell to one knee, and the wolf closed in to tear out his throat in a single bite.

  But just as Fenris opened his jaws to howl his victory at the night, there came another figure onto the Rainbow Bridge.

  It was Thor, with Mjølnir. His fiery tread shook the Bridge and brought stones tumbling from Asgard’s battlements as, in his rage, he hurled himself at the Fenris Wolf, slamming violently into him and sending both of them hurtling off the edge of the parapet and into the thick of the enemy, who scattered to avoid them like crows at a handful of firecrackers.

  Pieces of the Bridge showered down. Thor in full Aspect was far too much for such a delicate structure to take, and the walkway, already compromised by the assault, began to unravel, the thousands of runes that made up its length dispersing into the smoky air. Soon, it would be gone, leaving no means of escape for the gods and opening the way for my fleet.

  Meanwhile, on the ground, the Thunderer and the Fenris Wolf were locked in mortal combat. For a moment, Thor had been stunned by the fall, and I’d hoped the wolf would finish him off; but then he grasped Mjølnir, and suddenly the fight was on. Accuracy wasn’t Thor’s strong suit, but he had strength to make up for it. Mjølnir flashed in his hand; the Wolf sprang back, snarling and baring his giant teeth.

  For a time, they circled; Fenris dodging the hammer blows, Thor flailing at the enemy. The great hammer smashed into the plain, opening huge craters of fire wherever it struck; reducing flesh to cinders; steel to shrapnel; bone to dust. Wherever he struck, the Thunderer left a trail of carnage; fusing even the rocks to glass. At last, a blow connected, smashing the spine of my monstrous son, who died there on the battlefield, thrashing and snarling his hatred. One more for the Oracle.

  Meanwhile, Thor was making his way across the plain towards my ship, using his hammer like a flail, cutting us down like ripe corn.

  From afar, I heard his voice. ‘Loki! You’re next!’

  But he never reached me. My second son, monstrous Jormungand, had noticed the Thunderer’s approach. Moving slickly across the plain, levelling troops with his powerful stench, the World Serpent now moved in on Thor, massive jaws flexing in slime and steel.

  Thor saw him coming and turned to fight, but by then the snake had already half ingested him, drawing him into that giant maw as if he were a melon seed.

  I said: That’s my boy, or something close.

  But Thor had Mjølnir, and Jormungand had only his mass of foul blubber. The mighty hammer struck three times, even as Thor stood wedged inside the monster’s throat, its venom cascading over him as he sent the hammer hurtling through the back of the monster’s head.

  Jormungand gave a convulsive swallow. Thor hung on for dear life. And then, as I watched, the Thunderer staggered free of the Serpent’s jaws, and Jormungand, dying and out of control, whipped the still half-frozen ground into a lake of mud and gore before sliding beneath the surface.

  From Asgard’s distant parapet came a cheer of victory. But the victory was brief. Thor took nine steps away from the place where Jormungand had breathed his last. Then, overwhelmed by the monster’s venom, the Thunderer collapsed and died, just as the Oracle had prophesied.

  There goes free will, I told myself.

  After that, all Hel broke loose.

  LESSON 6

  Settling Scores, II

  So what’s the worst that could happen?

  Lokabrenna

  HAVING SEEN their two greatest heroes undone, the remaining Aesir and Vanir gave up any thought of strategy. They fought where they stood; on Asgard’s walls, besieged from all sides by the multitude. Some of our troops had crossed the Bridge and were already chipping away at the battlements, unravelling the thousands of runes that made up Asgard’s gleaming walls. Some attacked from the sky, as birds, or flying snakes, or dragons; some swarmed up from Ida’s depths, clinging to the rock face; some attacked directly from Dream.

  Bif-rost was seconds from falling, scattering in bright, glassy shards onto the battlefield. My fire-fleet stood ready to cross; arching brightly into the sky, consuming everything it touched.

  I lost my sense of direction; in the turmoil of fire and smoke I caught glimpses of my once-companions, their shadows monstrous against the sky: Freyja in her Crone Aspect, slicing into the ephemera with a viciousness that came naturally; Týr, whose missing hand had been replaced by a gauntlet of glamours, reaping the crowds with his mindsword; Frey, who could have used his own sword if he hadn’t given it away, flinging runes into the plain; Sif, in her Warrior Aspect, almost as fearsome as Thor himself, screaming revenge and murder.

  I have to admit, they were good. With my help, my loyalty, they might even have survived the onslaught. That was what hurt me most, I guess; the knowledge that with my help, we could have beaten the prophecy. We could have held Asgard. We could have won. And in the heat of the battle, with fire to the left and ice to the right, and smoke and fumes and glamours and blood painting their own dark rainbow across the sky, Your Humble Narrator was suddenly seized with a kind of clarity.

  I looked up at our battlements, now crumbling beneath the assault. I looked up at Bif-rost, its bright curve sagging with a legion’s weight. Once more assuming my Wildfire form, I left my fire-ship and raced across the bloody battlefield, leaving a trail of fire in my wake, and leapt onto the Rainbow Bridge.

  There I assumed my human Aspect; clothed in nothing but smoke and glam; ready to take on the enemy in the form in which they knew me best.

  Why did I leave my fleet, you ask? Well, I knew what was coming next. Bif-rost was the final link in the chain that joins Worlds together. Gullveig had already opened the gates of Dream and Death. Only one remained: Pandaemonium – which meant that any remaining business, scores to settle, for instance, would have to be dealt with swiftly, if they were to be dealt with at all.

  And so I crossed the Rainbow Bridge in the Aspect of Loki, the Trickster, just as the last shining filaments that held it all together dissolved like a soap bubble in the sun. I was unarmed, except for my glam; I’d never had much interest in weapons, and besides, this time I wasn’t looking for a fight. There was one enemy left in Asgard who hadn’t joined the fray, and for an excellent reason. He was – at least, technically – already dead, but that wouldn’t stop me, I promised myself, from making him even deader.

  The Oracle. That thrice-damned Head. Mimir’s Head was to blame for all this. That damned Head and its prophecies. Why had we ever listened to them?

  Well, if I had my way, I told myself, no one would ever listen again. I would bury the thing so deep that even the dragon at Ygg’s root would have to strain to hear it. And so, with that intention in mind, I jumped lightly from the vanishing Bridge; shielded myself with a cantrip of Bjarkán; skated past a phalanx of ephemera; jumped onto the battlements; dodged a few little skirmishes and found myself in Asgard again, this time facing Odin’s hall; its roof collapsing and blackened.

  I went inside. It was empty. Odin’s high seat was toppled and smashed. But Mi
mir’s well was still untouched; the intruders had not yet understood the true nature of the enemy. So harmless, so apparently dead, so tranquil in its darkened pool, the Oracle lay in wait for me; glowing a little, as if in satisfaction, its calcified features shining.

  I stood there, naked and covered in soot, looking into Mimir’s well. Then I reached in and recovered the Head. Held it up at arm’s length.

  ‘You bastard,’ I said. ‘You disembodied stone bastard. So much for your prophecy.’

  The Oracle looked smugger than ever. ‘Hey, don’t shoot the messenger,’ it said. ‘All I do is say what I must. The rest is up to you.’

  I glared into the calcified face. ‘Don’t give me that. I worked it out. I know Heidi set this up. You were in it together.’

  The Oracle glowed. ‘You’re a smart boy. I knew you’d figure it out in the end.’

  I snarled: ‘Let’s see if you figure this.’ And I tucked the Head under my arm and made for the battlements again.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the Oracle said.

  ‘I’m going to bury you so deep that not even the Maggots will hear you.’

  ‘Why?’ I thought its tone wavered a little.

  I laughed. ‘Don’t give me that,’ I said. ‘I’m pretty sure I’m going to die, but at least if I do, I’ll go out knowing that you’re where you deserve to be.’

  ‘What, Hel?’ sneered the Oracle. ‘Go on, by all means, send me there. I’ve been waiting since the Elder Age. Or do you imagine I liked it here, being at Odin’s beck and call, knowing that he’d used me – twice – and unable to do a thing about it?’

  I grinned. ‘I’m not going to send you to Hel. Hel’s too close to Chaos. Chaos is too close to Heidi, whom I’d trust as far as I would trust a hungry seal with a barrel of fish. No, Old Man, I’m going to make sure you stay around for a long time.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Its voice was sharp.

  ‘You’ll see,’ I told it.

  I’ve always been quick at casting runes. This time I worked faster than ever; there was a dark cloud in the eastern sky, darker even than the night, and if it was what I thought it was, I didn’t have much time left. I cast a dozen runes in rapid succession, twisting them together like the strands of a fishing net. By the time I’d finished, I had something like a cat’s cradle of runelight in my hands, which I pulled tightly around the calcified Head. Then I stood on the battlements and aimed it straight down, at a spot roughly five hundred feet below us, where Jormungand had made his last dive.

  ‘Wait,’ said Mimir. ‘We should talk.’

  ‘What about?’ I said.

  ‘Gullveig-Heid. I can tell you everything. I know—’

  And that – that very moment – was when Heimdall chose to strike at me from behind, using a form of the ice-rune Hagall, knocking me sideways from my perch and onto the crumbling parapet. Mimir’s Head went one way, bouncing off the battlements and down into the burning plain, and I found myself lying flat on my face in front of Goldie, armed to the chops, and clad in his showiest armour.

  I said: ‘Didn’t you know it was a party? You should have made an effort.’

  Heimdall flashed his golden teeth. ‘Get on your feet, scum,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking forward to this.’

  I grinned. ‘I always knew you cared.’

  The cloud on the eastern horizon was getting closer very fast. I’d thought I might have a little more time – time to make a stand, perhaps; to jump onto the battlements and to scream my defiance at everything. Still, this was better than nothing. If I was to die in flames, I couldn’t have chosen better company.

  I assumed my Wildfire Aspect and leapt at Heimdall, all colours blazing. For a moment he clung to me, trying to find a hold on my fiery person. We struggled, he casting runes to immobilize me, I searing him with fire and flame.

  Of course I didn’t stand a chance. Heimdall was stronger, and armour-clad, and sooner or later I knew he’d get the upper hand. Just as I thought I had him – his face half blackened, his glam getting weak – Goldie cast Isa and froze me in place, yanking me from my fiery shape and back into my human form.

  For a moment, time froze. I could feel the darkening air; smell the stench of the fire-pits; hear the Watchman’s breath in my ear and see – was that a star in the lurid sky? Was that my star hanging there? I looked towards the east again and saw the black tip of a giant wing coming out of the shadow-cloud.

  Then Heimdall looked straight into my eyes and stepped right off the battlements, carrying me down with him through the hot air towards the ravaged battlefield.

  I grinned. He was so predictable. I’d guessed he would follow me from the Bridge to try and even the score with me. I’d guessed he would be quite prepared to sacrifice himself for me. And now he was staging a double jump, just as the end came into sight – secure in the grim satisfaction of knowing that, if he had to die, at least he’d taken me with him.

  There wasn’t much time to struggle. Even if I’d tried to escape, Isa would have held me fast. All I could do was watch the ground rushing up to receive me, looking very rocky and hard and cratered with smoking pits of fire.

  So what’s the worst that could happen? I thought. Doesn’t Hel owe me a favour?

  And then something swept across the land like the shadow of a monstrous black bird, and the ground disappeared; and the sky disappeared; and a cold like the ice of distant stars fell into sudden silence.

  Now comes the final reckoning.

  Now come the folk of Netherworld.

  Now comes the dragon of darkness, Death,

  Casting his shadow-wing over the Worlds.

  And at the same time, I felt something snap inside me, like a little bone. I’d never felt the sensation before, but all the same, I knew what it was. They say you know instinctively whenever you break a bone, and in the same way I knew that what I’d just felt was the rune Kaen, giving up the last of its glam, reversed by a violent psychic blow.

  And I knew Death wasn’t my problem. No. My problem was a larger one. That cloud – that wing of darkness – was Surt in his primary Aspect. Surt the Destroyer; Chaos incarnate; the ultimate ruler of Netherworld, crashing into the Worlds through Dream . . .

  I said: ‘Oh, crap.’

  Then, night fell.

  Oh, crap. As last words go, it wasn’t what you’d call memorable. But as the icy darkness fell, I was dimly aware of a voice speaking to me very close, like the voice of the sea inside a shell, before the darkness engulfed me at last, body, mind and what passes for soul.

  EPILOGUE

  Always look on the bright side.

  And if there is no bright side?

  Look away.

  Lokabrenna

  EVERYONE THOUGHT I WAS DEAD.

  Well, technically speaking, I guess I was – but Dream is a river than runs through Nine Worlds, and in the aftermath of Chaos’s triumph, my physical and ephemeral Aspects were separated one from the other for good, and my ephemeral Aspect was dragged, not to Hel, where I had hoped for an early release – Hel had sworn an oath, after all, and such oaths are not lightly broken – but into Netherworld itself, the antechamber of Chaos.

  There, Dream rules in its darkest form, and every nightmare is played out. Chaos isn’t forgiving to those who try to defy it. Even less so to traitors – and I, of course, was both.

  I shan’t bore you with the details. Suffice it to say, it wasn’t fun. A cell built from my deepest fears, and guarded by a demon especially chosen to keep me subdued.

  A snake, of course. It’s always a snake.

  Not my finest moment.

  But I was not alone there. Those who had fallen before Surt’s arrival had been ferried straight to Hel; but when the black wing descended, and Pandaemonium was unleashed, some of the surviving gods were dragged into Netherworld alongside me, while the rest fell into darkness, or Dream, or Hel, or Pandaemonium. Gullveig-Heid took my place alongside Surt, who gave her a new, fiery Aspect. Now she was Burning Ambition; more ruth
less and destructive than Wildfire had ever been. Well, I guess she’d earned it. I half expected her to call and visit me in my new cell – to gloat or to commiserate – but she never did.

  I know. Not a happy conclusion, but you already knew how this would end. Everyone dies, or disappears, or fades into oblivion. Let’s face it, that’s how all stories end, once you reach the final page. There’s no happy-ever-after for anyone, least of all the gods, who, if they’re lucky, get to rule the world for a while before another tribe takes over.

  As for Asgard, it too fell under Surt’s extended wing, onto the plain of Ida, showering most of World’s End with cantrips and broken rune fragments.

  And the Folk?

  Collateral damage, I fear. It’s very hard not to step on the ants when you’re fighting a war on an anthill. And then, when darkness came . . . well. Winter did the rest. A winter that lasted a hundred years, or so said the new historians – bringing new gods for a New Age of Order and enlightenment.

  But I’m getting ahead of my tale. The Worlds as we knew them were at an end. Still, the Worlds have ended before, many times, and been remade. Nothing lasts. History spins its yarn, breaks threads, spins again, like a child’s top, going back to the beginning. The Oracle knew that. That’s what those last stanzas mean; a new world, rising from the ruins of the old. Of course, there was no chance of us ever getting to see it. Our time was done; the Oracle had made that very clear. And yet . . .

  On what was once the battlefield

  A New Age dawns. Its children

  Find the golden game-boards

  Of bright Asgard, the fallen.

  See what the Oracle did there? That’s what we call a teaser. A lure, thrown out at the end of a tale suggesting a continuation.