Stormbringer

by Alis Franklin

  Interlude: Gifts

  It all started with Sif’s hair. Specifically, her lack of it, on the morning she woke up to find it shorn. Being understandably displeased with this state of affairs, Sif summoned her husband, Thor, and the pair determined the hair-cutting prankster to be none other than one Loki Laufeyjarson.

  And so it was that Thor found Loki, took him by the shoulders, and threatened to break every bone in the jötunn’s body. Unenthused by this possibility, Loki swore to Thor that he would seek out the services of the dvergar, the greatest craftsman in the Realms, to make Sif a wig to cover her stubbly scalp. And not just any wig, Loki claimed, but one with hair made from solid gold, and enchanted such that when Sif placed it on her skin, it would become part of her, and the hair would grow as if it were her own.

  Sif was pleased enough with this promise, secretly thinking Loki would never be able to keep it, and so Thor released the hapless jötunn, in order that he may make the long trek through the Myrkviðr, to the placed called Niðavellir, where the dvergar made their home.

  In the town of Sindri, Loki found a pair of brothers, the sons of the great smith Ívaldi, who agreed to forge his magic wig. Loki, of course, had no gold with which to pay the commission, but instead promised Ásgarðr’s favor for the task. Keen for good relations with the gods, the sons of Ívaldi agreed, and added more treasures besides. One of these, Skíðblaðnir, was a ship that could be folded up like cloth and placed into a pocket when not in use. The other, Gungnir, was a spear fashioned from the tooth of a mighty dreki, whose bloodlust could curse any man with violence.

  Pleased with his success, Loki found another dvergr, this one named Brokkr, and bet his head that Brokkr’s own brother, Eitri, could not forge gifts that rivaled those produced by Ívaldi’s get. The houses of Brokkr and Ívaldi had been in conflict for an age, and Brokkr saw Loki’s task as a way to once and for all settle whose crafts were the greater. And so Brokkr agreed, and the bargain was struck.

  In order that the forging might be done, Eitri set his brother to work manning the bellows. He laid a pigskin within the hearth, and bade Brokkr not cease his work until the skin was fully cured. The moment Eitri left the forge, however, a fly landed on the laboring Brokkr’s hand, biting deep into his flesh. Yet Brokkr did not pause in his work, and when Eitri returned unto the forge, he removed the pigskin, which had turned into a wondrous golden boar, Gullinbursti, that would ride truer than any other mount.

  Next, Eitri laid a piece of gold inside the hearth. Once again, he bad Brokkr blow on the bellows. And once again, when Eitri left the forge, a fly settled on Brokkr’s neck, biting even deeper than before. Still Brokkr did not relent in his task, and when Eitri returned, the lump of gold had been forged into a ring, Draupnir, that would create eight copies of itself on every ninth night.

  For the last treasure, Eitri laid a lump of iron within the hearth. Once again, Brokkr worked the bellows, and once again he left the forge. This time, the fly—desperate, perhaps, for the safety of its head—landed on Brokkr’s eye, and bit down hard enough to draw blood. Still, Brokkr did not fail at his task, not so much as flinching from the bite. And yet, soon, the blood had run into his eye, clouding his vision of the forge. Quickly, he scrubbed his hands to clear it, and yet not quickly enough; as he did, the bellows grew flat.

  When Eitri returned to the forge, he was furious at Brokkr’s failure. For though the hammer within the coals was forged, it was imperfect and had come very close to being spoiled.

  Still, the three treasures were done, and Brokkr returned with them to Loki. If Loki’s lips seemed stained with blood, Brokkr did not mention it, and the pair traveled back to Ásgarðr.

  Once there, the gods assembled at the seats of judgment, with Odin, Thor, and Freyr to decide which treasures would be deemed greatest.

  To Thor, Loki presented the wig of golden hair, forged for Sif exactly as he’d promised. To Freyr, Loki gave the ship, Skíðblaðnir, and to Odin, Gungnir. Loki, being Loki, explained at length the great benefits of these gifts, and the gods were pleased.

  Then it was Brokkr’s turn. To Odin, he presented Draupnir, to Freyr, Gullinbursti. Finally, to Thor, Brokkr presented the hammer, which he called Mjölnir.

  “It is a fine thing,” he told the gods. “And will always strike true, as hard as you might wish. If you throw it, it will go as far as you command, and it will never miss its mark.”

  Thor looked at the hammer, expression slowly folding into doubt. “It’s a little small, isn’t it?” he finally asked.

  “Ah,” said Brokkr, silently cursing every wicked fly. “Yes, well . . . that is, um. To keep the size modest, you see. So that you may carry it with ease upon your belt.” Then, at the dubious looks from the three gods. “Er, well. Yes,” he admitted. “Yes, it’s a little short.”

  Loki, meanwhile, grinned, thinking his head safe for one more day.

  And so Odin, Thor, and Freyr turned to deliberations. After some time, it was their verdict that the hammer, Mjölnir, was the greatest of the treasures, and thus Brokkr was the victor.

  Loki, it must be said, was not enthused by this ruling.

  “But the handle!” he said. “It’s so . . . so short!”

  Odin looked at Loki, and grinned his rictus grin. “Ah, true,” he said. “But it is the best defense against our enemies, the jötnar, don’t you think?”

  As with many times, Loki did not think. And so he said, “But the spear!”

  “Is made from a jötunn’s tooth,” Odin countered, eyes bright with knowing. “It may make great wars among the lands of men, may fill Valhöll to overflowing with their warriors. And yet I cannot trust a jötunn’s magic as defense against the jötnar. Surely you must understand this?”

  Loki, in his black and seething heart, did. And so he gritted his teeth and hissed, “I bet my head.” Keenly aware that every eye was now turned on him, least of all being Brokkr’s.

  “Well,” said Odin. “Sadly, that is your mistake, not mine. What else would you have me rule, when we so clearly have a victor?”

  And so it was that Loki’s head was won by Brokkr, who did not forget the bite of the fly on his skin, nor of the blood in Loki’s mouth. Loki, for his part, was fond of his head, and less fond of the way Brokkr had drawn his knife, and so fled from the judging place.

  “My head!” Brokkr said, turning to Thor. “That thief Loki has absconded with it!”

  Thor could not deny the truth of Brokkr’s words, and so he retrieved Loki from his flight.

  When Thor returned with his struggling quarry, Brokkr bade the panicked jötunn still, so that Brokkr may hew off his head and return to Niðavellir with what had been promised as his prize.

  “Wait!” Loki cried, as the knife gleamed above his flesh. “Wait. I wagered you my head, yes. This is true. And yes, you may have it. But I did not promise you my neck. Take my head as you will, but should you touch once single inch of other flesh, then well, my friend, I think that would be a problem!”

  Brokkr, displeased, looked to Odin, who said, “I’m afraid he has you there. The head is yours. But only that.”

  So Brokkr looked to Thor, and to the other assembled gods. Far more so than one angry dvergr could deal with alone. And so he sighed, and said, “Fine.” And put away his knife.

  Loki, it must be said, also sighed, and was half way to standing when Brokkr pulled something else from out his pocket. Something long and thin and sharp.

  An awl.

  “Your neck you keep,” Brokkr said. “But your head is mine. And your words, which are too clever by half, I think. Perhaps we should sew you up, and spare us all the hearing of them.” And, in his other hand, he held up a leather thong.

  Loki, gripped tight within Thor’s hands, couldn’t run.

  Nor, after the first few stitches, could he scream.

  Chapter 17

  I fucking hate the ocean. Hate it. Hate hate hate. Almost as much as I fucking hate caves. I’m a thing of fire and of air, of movement
and chaos and light. All this dark dank plodding bullshit makes me twitchier than a roo on a highway.

  Being stuck in a cave on a boat in the ocean? Surrounded by a bunch of dvergar and the bratty sons of Thor? Not my idea of a great holiday.

  I spend most of my time smoking. The cigarettes aren’t real, but with one hand free I’ve got enough narrative trickery in me to conjure up the memory of ash and nicotine, if only for a little while.

  The dvergar boat is made of metal. Magni and Móði treat this as if it’s the most arcane sorcery they’ve ever encountered, stamping across the deck and tapping against the walls just to hear the clang. At one point, Móði teases me for my lack of interest. I’m about to sneer something sarcastic in response when it occurs to me I don’t even know where to start on a couple of guys whose frame of reference is wooden boats designed to be hauled cross-country on log rollers by a few dozen burly guys. How the hell do I explain a fifteen-hundred-foot-long supertanker compared to that? Hell, forget the supertanker; how do I explain a moderately sized commercial cruise ship?

  I tell it to a dvergr instead. One of Tóki’s boys. The boat is stacked with them. He’s understandably interested, and asks a bunch of questions about ballast and displacement and corrosion I have no answers for. Then he asks whether the mortals mount weapons on their giant floating metal whales, so I explain about ballistic missiles, and wonder—not for the first time—why the Wall-Banging Wonder Boys are bothering with something as pathetic as a hammer.

  It’s a long and awful journey, down there in the dark and damp and cold. Sitting on the deck with my back against a wall, I learn I do, in fact, get somewhat seasick. A great character trait in a god born from a land of seafaring traders, I assure you. But between the magic cloaks and not-quite-horses, we just didn’t go on that many boat journeys. Even when Odin got it into his head to go wandering on Miðgarðr. Where our people were, there we could be. And there are ways and means for gods to travel through the Tree. We’re on one now, in fact. Just not one I would’ve picked of my own volition.

  Somewhere, out in the dark, the dim glow of a second ship bobs quietly in our wake.

  Eventually, the bottom of the boat scrapes gravel. We’ve washed up on a bleak and rocky shore, the only illumination coming from the lapping waters of the Skærasær and the few lanterns our dvergar crew hand over as they dump us on the beach.

  From here, we make our own way.

  The rock is slippery and the mud clings between my toes and coats my feathers. Magni and Móði make me walk ahead, where I clip my horns painfully on stalactites hanging from the too-low ceiling. In the end, I wind up crawling over rock and though crevasses on all fours, which makes Magni sneer, but fuck him. His boots have smooth leather soles and I have built-in pitons, so whatever.

  We scramble in near silence for maybe an hour before we see the light. A dim yellow glow coming from up ahead. As we get closer, I feel the Realms around us shift and shimmer, and when I next stumble, I’m able to catch my fall on an iron railing, bolted to the wall.

  Up ahead, I hear voices.

  Everything is connected, sea to sea, earth to earth. Know the right places to fold and space itself becomes little more than complex origami, threaded on the Wyrd.

  The lights get brighter. Electric lights, erected by the people who run tours in this cave. Because that’s what the voices are ahead: children shrieking about bats and monsters while their parents call for hush and snap dim and blurry photos.

  Welcome to the Wombeyan Caves, a charming and quaint tourist locale in southeastern Australia. Not quite where we want to go, but close.

  Not quite home, either. And even farther still.

  The tourists don’t see us, because we don’t want them to. The caves are caves. The light helps, but the smell of earth and the way the walls close in on every side does not. Nor does the weight of the shackles, the cold press of the iron, and I will my hearts to stop shuddering, because no. Not now. Not in front of Móði and motherfucking Magni. Breathe in, and out, and in, and think of Sigmund. So close, safe and happy, sitting on the couch, Inferno controller in his hand and face slack in concentration as he murders his way through the enemies du jour.

  One phone call. That’s all it would take. To Sigmund, to Nic. Just one, and this is all over. I’m back in my tower, Travis is back with his empire. Because how dare they, these half-dead memories of a forgotten age? Beasts born from blood and death, who know nothing of the world beyond their ill-gotten Wall. I broke their chains and burnt myself clean and that would’ve been the end if only they could let it go. Could see their own futility, written on the warp and weft of fate. Dead gods for dead people, lost like blinking children before the bright laughter of mortals they no longer understa—

  Oh Jesus, we’re outside. Thank fuck.

  Wind. Wind and sun and light, the warm, crisp air of inland Australia, dirt and gums and the faint whiff of diesel from a dozen SUVs running up and down the dirt tracks of the mountains.

  “Where are we?”

  Fucking Magni.

  I open my eyes. It doesn’t do much. Beneath my claws I feel half-dead grass and sun-dried dust.

  “Miðgarðr,” I say. “A place called New South Wales.”

  Magni frowns, looking around. “The Saxon lands?”

  I laugh, a loud bark that startles a nearby tourist. He blinks, gaze ghosting across my skin and sliding off as his mind tells him not to see the pattern light makes inside his eyes.

  Magni and Móði know about Wales. The one up north. The Vikings did a bit of a stint as rulers in England for a century or so, so the boys would’ve done some wandering around as kids, back when that sort of thing was allowed. I doubt the land they remember bears much resemblance to the bright, dry place we are now, with its dull-dead grass and pale, too-thin eucalyptus.

  Plus Móði has noticed the kangaroos, watching us from the treeline.

  “Brother,” he says, “I don’t think—”

  Never have truer words been spoken. “New South Wales,” I emphasize. “As far east as China, as far south from Constantinople as Iceland is north.” I pause. “And possibly more again.” Like I ever took geography in school. I start walking, following the track, well trodden by generations of newly bought hiking boots.

  After a moment, Magni and Móði begin to follow. “I did not know the mortal lands extended thus,” Móði says.

  This is, of course, Móði’s problem. He has all the approximate knowledge of a tenth-century Viking trader. He knows about Wales and China and the Ottoman Empire and the eastern tip of Canada. That’s his world. His entire world.

  “We have heard tales,” he continues. “From some of the newer einherjar, but I’d thought them legends. The drunken boasts of sailors.”

  A little girl stops and stares at us, mouth agape beneath dark eyes. I smirk at her, and she gives a tentative wave before being pulled along in the next moment by a bustling mother, hurrying to catch up to her tour group.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Well. Welcome to the New World, kids.”

  There’s a reason I chose to hide here after Rangarøkkr. Gods are notoriously terrible at grasping new concepts. “An entire continent of people thousands of miles beyond any place we’ve ever heard of” counts as a pretty new fucking concept.

  Up ahead, a tour bus engine roars.

  There isn’t much here. Dirt tracks, cars, tourists. A few low-slung cabins painted that dull and ugly green that’s supposed to “harmonize” with the environment. We need to head east, along the road. The directions aren’t difficult, but it’s nearly a hundred-K hike. Maybe a day’s walk, all the way down shitty, precarious mountain roads.

  Magni and Móði boggle the first time they see a moving SUV. “I did not know the mortal possessed such things,” Móði says, running his fingers along the hood of a parked example of the same.

  The dead bring grave goods with them all the time. I spend a few moments wondering why no cars ever ended up in Ásgarðr, until it occurs to
me most people suffering death-by-vehicle wouldn’t be finding themselves in the hallowed halls of the einherjar.

  This is the part where we walk. All through the day, all into the night. Following one single road—the aptly named Wombeyan Caves Road—down the mountains and out into farmland, trees giving way to endless paddocks and bleary-eyed livestock.

  We see plenty of cars, roaring to and from the caves.

  They don’t see us in turn.

  Night falls. Somewhere just out on the horizon, the bright glow of a city blots out the stars.

  “We should stop,” I say. “It’s not far. We’ll get there tomorrow.”

  “Then we should get there tonight instead,” Magni says, fingers of his new gloves hooked into his purloined belt.

  “No point. We can only call the hammer during the day.” The place it’s hidden has operating hours. I don’t know how to explain this to Magni, so I don’t even bother. Let him think it’s magic or something equally banal.

  Magni grumbles but settles, coaxed down beneath the trees a short distance from the road. Móði starts to go foraging for deadwood to build a fire, before I tell him to stop.

  “This isn’t Ásgarðr,” I say. “It’s hot here, and dry, and if you build a fire the mortals will come and yell at you to put it out. Half this goddamn country burns down every year. They’re a bit sensitive about it.” I have half of one second after I say this to ponder the usefulness of a bushfire to my current situation. We’re surrounded by dry grass and gum trees, the latter of which have a tendency to explode when exposed to too much heat. Watching Magni and Móði burn to death might be satisfying, but not necessarily the endgame I’m playing, so I settle for listening to them grumble in irritation and content myself with imagining their death by snakebite.

  The dvergar sent us off with food: dried mushrooms and a sort of meaty, breadlike substance I’m trying not to think about the origins of. We eat; I enjoy both the silence and the half-formed fantasies of revenge inside my eyelids.