Loki, who had dodged the strike, now scrambled out of the creature’s range, avoiding the whiplike tentacles of runelight that thrashed crazily this way and that; and, looking up at the top of the Hill, saw a tall, slim figure standing there, a mindbolt in each outstretched hand.
Below her, half a mile away, he could just make out a familiar trail – Thor’s colours, like a cloud of angry red dust, along the winding road to the Hill.
‘Maddy. You left that a little late.’ He hid his relief with an impudent grin.
‘Not half as late as you nearly were.’ She began to move towards him down the side of the Hill, making sure not to slip on the snow and keeping a cautious eye on the stricken ephemera. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Damn, that hurts.’ He rolled up his sleeves and, wincing, rubbed a handful of snow onto his venom-scorched skin.
‘You should let Idun see to it.’
Loki said nothing, but looked at her, thinking, not for the first time, how much she had changed since first they’d met. In three years Maddy Smith had grown from a sullen, uncertain fourteen-year-old into a striking young woman with granite-gold eyes and dark hair hidden beneath her wolfskin hood. Three years ago she had been mostly untrained, unsure of her powers and cut off from her tribe. Now, with her youth and her unbroken glam – one of the mysterious new runes, Aesk, the Ash – she was stronger than any of the Vanir or the Æsir; a power in her own right, a true child of the New Age.
The stricken ephemera watched her too. Even as it faded and died, it stared back at Maddy without fear, its grey-gold eyes widening in what seemed like recognition.
Behind them, Loki’s eyes widened too, going from Maddy to the snake as finally he understood why the creature had looked so familiar. He opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it as Maddy approached the ephemera, mindbolt in hand, keeping a safe distance between herself and the woman-faced thing that twisted and writhed on the ground before her.
‘Do I know you?’ Maddy said.
The snake-bodied thing just stared at her, and Maddy couldn’t rid herself of the thought that she’d seen something like it before, that she knew it somehow, or that it knew her …
She turned to Loki. ‘Did it speak?’
‘More than that. It prophesied.’
Maddy looked curious. ‘What did it say?’
‘It told me Asgard would be rebuilt. It spoke of runes and ruins …’
‘Asgard?’ said Maddy curiously. Of course, she was the only one of the Æsir who had no memory of the Sky Citadel. She knew it only from stories – the Cradle of the Gods, they’d called it – and there were many tales of how Asgard had shone above the clouds, linked to the Worlds by the Rainbow Bridge; of how it had been built for them, using the runes of the Elder Age; how each god had had his own hall there – except for Loki, which rankled with the Trickster even now, given that he’d been instrumental in the construction of the Sky Citadel in the first place, and that without him there would have been no Asgard and no halls, and probably no Gødfolk, either.
Loki shrugged. ‘That’s what it said. Don’t ask me what that means.’
He wondered whether to mention to her what he’d seen in the snake-woman’s features. He had no idea what it meant, of course – but Maddy clearly wasn’t aware, so he filed the information away for use at some later time.
Maddy was talking to the snake. ‘Do I know you?’ she said again. ‘Have I seen you somewhere before? Why did you come after Loki?’
The dying ephemera flexed its jaws. ‘Ss-see you in Hel—’ it hissed. And vanished in a cloud of sparks, returning to the fabric from which it had been spun, leaving only a stench in its wake, and a broad bare strip of melted snow.
‘Well, whatever it was, it’s dead now.’
Behind her, Loki made no sound. She turned, half expecting to see him passed out, either from exhaustion or from the snake’s venom. But Loki simply wasn’t there – not by the rock where the creature had been, nor lying breathless in the snow, nor even at the top of the Hill.
By the time Thor arrived on the scene she had searched the Hill from foot to crown, but still there was no sign of the Trickster; nothing but his discarded glove, and the scuffle of snow where he’d tried to escape, and his footprints – only three of them – leading away into nowhere at all, as if something had plucked him from out of the sky, or dragged him into the side of the Hill, or maybe simply swallowed him whole, leaving not even the smallest gleam of runelight to mark out the place where he had stood.
‘OUT OF THE question,’ said Heimdall at once. ‘I’m not sending out a rescue party for someone who may not even be missing. I mean – who in the Worlds would take Loki, and why? Chances are he got scared and took off. You’ll see. In a couple of days he’ll come crawling back with some lame excuse about why he had to leave in a hurry while you dealt with the enemy.’
It wasn’t often that Maddy called for a meeting of the gods. Apart from the time this usually took – an hour at least to fly to the Sleepers in bird form; another hour to fly back – she knew that Æsir and Vanir were allies by force of circumstance, nothing more. But Loki’s disappearance, she felt, counted as an emergency. Surely they could agree, just this once, and face the crisis together?
‘He didn’t run,’ she tried to explain. ‘I told you, Heimdall. The thing was dead. I turned away for a second or two, and when I looked back, Loki was gone.’ She gave the Vanir a sharp look. ‘Now I know several of you have issues with Loki—’
‘Issues!’ exploded Bragi, the Poet.
‘Bless you,’ said Idun kindly. The Healer had an annoying tendency to see the good in everyone, including Loki – even though the majority held that, in his case, there was nothing to see. ‘I think that’s a little unfair, Maddy. I know Loki can be a bit – well, wild – but we all care about him really …’
‘Can’t stand the little bastard,’ said Njörd. The Man of the Sea had never quite forgiven Loki for bringing Skadi to Asgard – Skadi, Njörd’s warlike ex-wife, who had proved to be a far cry from the shy, domesticated lady Loki had led him to expect.
Idun looked reproachful. ‘Well, you wouldn’t want to see him hurt …’
‘I’d rather see him dead,’ said Heimdall through his golden teeth. The Watchman also had issues with Loki; not least the fact that they’d been on opposite sides at Ragnarók.
‘Well, if you’re going to be negative …’ Idun turned to the four Æsir. ‘I’m sure the rest don’t feel that way …’
‘Don’t look at me,’ said Bright-Haired Sif. ‘I’m sick and tired of his stupid jokes. Can I pour you a glass of swine, Sif? So nice to see you snout and about. Shall we go for a pork in the park? Honestly. It’s juvenile.’
There came a faint choking sound from behind the goddess of grace and plenty. Of all of them, Sugar-and-Sack had found it hardest to come to terms with his new identity as a god. Even in his Aspect – as Brave-Hearted Tyr, the god of war – he still retained far more of his goblin characteristics than was entirely appropriate.
‘Sorry. Bit of a cough,’ he said.
Sif gave him a long, hard stare.
‘I agree entirely,’ said Freyja, buffing her fingernails. ‘If anything could make life in this putrid little village even close to bearable, it would be knowing that Loki was somewhere else.’
‘But you can’t just abandon him,’ Maddy said. ‘You owe him something for saving the Worlds—’
‘Gods alive,’ exploded Thor. ‘If I hear that whole Loki-saved-the-Worlds thing one more time I swear I’m going to wring someone’s neck—’
‘Stop it,’ said Ethel. ‘All of you. Shouting won’t solve anything.’
The gods had assembled in the Parsonage – the only place that afforded both space and privacy for their purpose – and if Nat Parson had lived to witness the sight of the ten of them in their full Aspects, sitting around his coffee table, drinking tea from his best china and discussing the workings of demons – and with his wife, of all people �
�� he would probably have dropped dead on the spot. Not that the casual observer would have seen much to remind him of Ethelberta Parson in the calm and thoughtful woman who had spoken with such authority. And yet there was more than you might have expected. Ethel’s patience, her loyalty, her kindness and her good sense served Frigg the Seeress well in her present Aspect, and the gods turned towards her instinctively as she put down her cup and addressed the group.
‘Friends,’ she told them quietly. ‘A lot has changed since the End of the World. Three years ago was a time of disorder. Now we have a chance to rebuild. And just as Loki helped build the Sky Citadel, we may well need him to build it again.’
‘Build it again?’ said Heimdall. His keen blue eyes were two points of ice. ‘Since when was that an option?’
The Seeress smiled at him. The runemark Ethel on her arm – one of the runes of the New Script, mystic and full of power – glowed a hazy blue-white. ‘The cards are about to be re-dealt,’ she said. ‘I speak as I must, and cannot be silent.’
‘Why is she talking like that?’ said Sugar.
‘Shhh,’ said Maddy, who knew a prophecy when she heard one.
Ethel went on in a distant voice:
‘I see a mighty Ash that stands beside a mighty Oak tree.
I see a Rainbow riding high; of cheating Death the legacy.
But Treachery and Carnage ride with Lunacy across the sky.
And when the ’bow breaks, the Cradle will fall,
Then down comes Oak, and Ash, and all.’
She paused, as if waiting for inspiration. The gods waited expectantly – Heimdall with his eyes averted; Njörd with a look of hope; Thor with a growing scowl on his face; Frey the Reaper with a smile; Idun with the wide-eyed look of a young child listening to a story.
‘I hate it when she gets cryptic like this,’ said Thor at last, scratching his beard. ‘Call that a prophecy? Sounds more like a forester’s manual.’
But Ethel was already speaking again, reciting in clear and measured tones:
‘The Cradle fell an age ago, but Fire and Folk shall raise her
In just twelve days, at End of Worlds; a gift within the sepulchre.
But the key to the gate is a child of hate, a child of both and neither.
And nothing dreamed is ever lost, and nothing lost for ever.’
Maddy thought it sounded like one of Nan Fey’s nursery rhymes. Maddy’s knowledge of these was not vast – in the days of the Order it had been rumoured that even the most seemingly harmless rhymes hid knowledge of the Elder Days – but everyone knew the old rock-a-bye about the baby in the treetop, and of course, as everyone knew, the Sky Citadel had once been known as the Cradle of the Firefolk.
‘Is there any more?’ she said.
But nothing more came from the Seeress. Instead, Ethel blinked at them, her Aspect fading once more to that of a simple parson’s wife, a puzzled expression on her face.
‘You’re all very quiet,’ she said, looking around the circle of gods. ‘Was it something I said? Now, what was I doing?’
They looked at her.
‘Ah, yes. Tea.’ She smiled and reached for the china pot. ‘Nothing like a nice cup of tea to put everything in perspective again. Shall I be Mother, everyone?’
LOKI AWOKE IN darkness. All of him hurt: he was bound hand and foot, and as he tried vainly to summon light and found that his glam was as thoroughly wiped out as the rest of him, he was forced to conclude that he might be in trouble.
He seemed to be in a kind of cave. He knew that from the cold, the echoes, the nuggets of rock on the hard floor that seemed to know exactly where to dig into him most painfully, and the unmistakable cave-smell – the creeping scent of holes and cellars, like dust and earth and seeping moisture and blind things growing from cracks in the stone.
He wasn’t under Red Horse Hill. Loki knew that Hill too well, and he would have sensed his territory. No, this place was unfamiliar, and whoever – whatever – had brought him here must have dragged him through from World Above. He remembered standing on the Hill, rubbing snow on his hands, and then …
Just flashes. He remembered a light – not daylight, but brighter and shining with a red-white glow …
He remembered being hit on the back of the head so hard that he fell to his knees …
Then a voice saying, Got him, dude …
Then nothing but the dark.
So maybe I’m dead again, he thought. But Hel didn’t generally tie up her guests. And Loki had been most efficiently bound, hands and feet roped together, the cord looped around the back of his neck.
At least he was alone, he thought. To have left him unguarded was careless – Loki had a knack of escaping from confinement – and he began to feel more optimistic. Those ropes would last for precisely as long as it took his weakened glam to recover – after which he would be out of here as fast as his wildfire Aspect could take him.
He tried to move to a more comfortable position, and all around him the echo awakened like a nest of shifting snakes, slithering all around him, projecting their voices to a thousand lost places, a thousand cavities in the rock.
Startled, he cursed, and once more the echoes picked up the sound, and soon the cave was percussive with it as it ricocheted against the stones, going deeper and deeper into the caves until nothing was left but a low vibration that tugged at his eardrums and made his hackles stand on end.
So much for escape, Loki thought.
No wonder they hadn’t left a guard: he couldn’t make a move in this underground echo chamber without sending out signals for miles around. Gods knew what any sound might attract from out of the labyrinth of World Below: rats, bears, trolls – snakes …
Terrific, thought Loki. That’s all I need.
After that he tried to keep still, but his position was not a comfortable one. His back hurt; he was shivering; and now hunger was starting to worry at him, sharpening its claws on his belly.
Why me? he thought desperately. What did I ever do?
On further reflection, however, Loki had to admit he’d made a few enemies over the years, all of them more than capable of trying for a bit of revenge. There was Hel, whose hospitality he had just managed to escape during their last encounter, and who had promised to see him dead sooner rather than later. Then there were the Tunnel Folk, whom he’d conned out of some rather unique and very valuable merchandise several centuries ago, and whose long memories and ability to hold a grudge would have made an oliphant look positively fickle. Then Skadi, of course – the Snowshoe Huntress – who would be more than happy to collect his hide, or cut it to ribbons with her runewhip. In fact, none of the Ice People were likely to show him any mercy if they chanced to get hold of him; nor were most of the Faërie; nor the Sea Folk; nor the Cloud Folk; not to mention selected members of the Æsir, the Vanir and, of course, Chaos – perhaps the least likely of all factions to forgive a traitor in their ranks.
Loki sighed, making the cavern walls exhale despondently. In Ridings parlance, he was toast.
Suddenly he heard a sound, something not caused by the shifting of his body against the pebble-strewn floor. The sound of boot-heels against the stone. A single pair? No, more than one – pattering and scattering and chasing each other across the rock walls until soon they became a cavalcade that seemed to approach from every side, so that even if Loki had managed to break free, he would not have known which way to run.
His glam was still out, worse luck. All he could do was wait and see.
He did not have to wait long, however. He listened for five minutes or so to the sound of approaching boots before he saw a light somewhere to his left, and a hulking figure, made taller and more sinister by the leaping shadows, came into view. Behind this Loki could just glimpse two more dark figures, the first holding a lantern that spat out an oily, reddish light. He fought the urge to shrink back, and looked up calmly as they approached, trying not to betray his surprise.
For instead of being minions of Chao
s (or the Tunnel Folk, or the Ice People), his captors were simply three youths of the Folk – all three dressed in uniform black and each of them, for some reason, wearing a bandage on his thumb.
The one with the lamp seemed to be in charge. He stepped up to Loki without any sign of hesitation – which made him either very secure, or incredibly stupid, or both – and scrutinized him for a moment in the reddish light of the lamp.
Loki squinted up at him. He was sure he’d never seen him before. For some reason, however, the fact was less than reassuring.
The stranger looked to be in his late teens. His face was pale and angular behind a curtain of lank brown hair, and there was a keen intelligence in his grey-gold eyes that seemed absent in those of the other two. His comrades were very much alike; Loki guessed they were brothers. Both were shaggy and heavy-set, with oily skin prone to spots and thick-fingered hands carpeted with hair. Both were wearing heavy boots, and shirts of a design unfamiliar to the Trickster – some World’s End fashion, he assumed – embroidered with a pattern of skulls.
One of them – the bigger one – peered suspiciously at Loki. ‘Dude. You sure it’s him?’ he said.
‘You think I’d mess up?’ said the one with the lamp. ‘Sure it is.’ He stepped forward, took Loki’s arm and, with a single sharp gesture, tore his shirtsleeve to the shoulder, exposing the runemark Kaen, reversed.
The hairy brothers took a step back.
‘It’s all right. He totally can’t get away.’ The stranger narrowed his eyes at the captive Trickster. ‘I thought you’d be taller in real life.’
‘You’re making a mistake,’ said Loki. ‘Whoever you think I am, I’m not.’
‘Yeah, right,’ sniggered the larger, hairier brother.
‘Tell him, Big H,’ said the shorter one.
The lamp-bearer silenced him with a growl and turned again to Loki. ‘Don’t lie to me,’ he said softly, staring into Loki’s eyes. ‘I know exactly who you are. A named thing is a tamed thing. I hereby name you child of Chaos. I name you Keeper of the Fire.’
Runelight Page 4
