by Alane Adams
“Put it on the table,” Frigga commanded. Fiery red hair was coiled up on top of her head. There were fine lines etched around her eyes, but she was still a great beauty. She tightened the sash on the silken robe wrapped tightly about her regal form as she sat herself at her vanity. “These festivals tire me so. Thank you. You may leave.”
The old woman hesitated, twisting gnarled hands together. “Your children are so beautiful, my lady. I saw them at the festival today. Thor, Hod, and that Baldur.” Her words were tinged with awe.
Frigga glowed as she dipped a cloth in the water and dabbed at her face. “Yes, I am rather proud of them all.”
The old servant crept closer. “I hear Baldur is invincible. Surely that cannot be!”
Frigga smiled, staring at her reflection in her mirror. “Yes, it is true. Not a living thing in any of the nine realms may harm Baldur.”
“My word, not a living thing?” the servant crowed. “That is something! Not even the mushrooms?”
“Of course not,” Frigga snapped, dabbing harder at her face. “Mushrooms can be quite poisonous.”
“And the wild beasts with claws and fangs?”
Frigga picked up a brush, flicking it through her hair as she dismissed the comment. “Baldur is immune to them all. From the fish in the sea to the serpents in the grass to the deadly berries and hemlock on the vine.”
The old woman clapped her hands with glee. “By the gods, so there is nothing that can harm the boy?”
The queen hesitated, then threw her brush down. “Nothing of consequence. Truth be told, I have not yet spoken to the mistletoe. But there is no danger in mistletoe. Leave me now, woman.”
The servant backed away and shut the door. Outside in the hallway, her shoulders shook with laughter as her arms thickened and legs grew sturdier until Loki, God of Mischief, had shifted into his natural form.
“Let the games begin,” he cackled softly.
The next morning, as the gods and goddesses assembled for the daily games, Loki huddled in the shadows watching and listening as Odin sat on his throne beside his beloved wife Frigga and patted her hand.
“We have done well, my love. Look at how our son is so loved.” For everyone in the great hall found Baldur, son of Odin and Frigga, to be kind and strong and worthy. “But I am troubled by his dreams. He tells me he has foreseen his own death. Such a vision must be heeded.”
Frigga just smiled serenely. “Fear not, husband. I have taken care of the matter.”
Odin frowned. “What do you mean? What have you done, woman?”
She gave a small shrug of her shoulder. “I went to every living creature in all the nine realms and received a promise that none would harm our son.”
Odin stared at her in disbelief then guffawed with laughter. “Truly, wife, you astound me.”
She just smiled, her eyes glowing with pride as she watched the festival.
Odin clapped his hands. “Hear me, gods and goddesses of Asgard. I declare Baldur to be invincible. Let us see any one try and harm him. I will grant the challenger ten pieces of gold the size of my fist for a single scratch.”
Baldur flashed his father a grin and planted his hands on his hips. “Aye, father, I welcome the challenge.”
Up first was Baldur’s big brother, Thor. The blond giant threw his mighty hammer, but the spinning weapon stopped an inch from Baldur’s face and returned to Thor’s hand, refusing to harm Baldur.
After Thor, the gods and goddesses lined up, each tossing their powers at the bold figure, who didn’t even flinch at the barbs and weapons thrown at his head.
“This is boring,” Loki muttered to himself. “Let’s liven things up. Make them interesting.” Moving through the crowd, he searched out Hod, Odin’s youngest offspring. Hod stood in the corner, nursing a glass of mead, looking quite downcast.
“Dear boy, why so glum?” Loki said, slapping him on the back.
Hod’s sightless eyes stared blankly at him. “Have you forgotten I’m blind? If I could see, I would get a lick in on my brother.” Hod grinned wryly. “Odin knows he’s tormented me enough over the years, always pinching me and running off. I wouldn’t mind leaving my mark.”
“No fear, my boy, Loki is here to help. Here,” Loki pressed a thin branch in Hod’s hands. “Follow me, and when I say swing, swing as hard as you can.”
Hod laughed. “This switch will not do much to the mighty Baldur.” But he grinned and put a hand on Loki’s shoulder. “Still, I shall have fun. Lead on.”
Loki made his way through the crowds, leading Hod until they stood just behind the golden-haired warrior.
“Baldur, turn around,” Hod shouted.
The handsome Baldur turned with a grin as Loki faded back into the crowd. “What is it, little brother?”
“Just wanted to get my lick in,” Hod said, and then as Loki called out “now!” he swung the branch at Baldur.
The warrior held up a hand, easily blocking the sprig of mistletoe.
There were roars of laughter. Hod joined in, not minding the teasing.
But Baldur stood frozen, staring at the tiny thorn embedded in his palm.
“What is it, brother?” Hod asked, cocking his head as his keen ears picked up on Baldur’s moan of distress. “Do you not find this funny?”
“I . . . I feel weak,” Baldur said, and he stumbled, falling to his knees.
Hod reached for his brother, grasping his shoulders. “Baldur, what is it?”
“I can’t breathe,” Baldur gasped, and then he collapsed.
Frigga pushed her way through the crowds. “What is it? What has happened?”
“Mother! I am sorry!” Hod cried. “I meant only to have some fun. I hit him with just this sprig.”
He held up the mistletoe branch.
Frigga gasped, paling. “No! Hod, how could you?”
“What have I done?” The poor blind boy looked stricken.
And then Odin was there, laying a hand on Baldur’s forehead. “Baldur, enough of this nonsense, you aren’t even wounded.”
But Baldur lay still. Vacant eyes stared up at the frescoed ceiling.
“He’s dead,” Odin whispered, shock etched into his brow.
“Who did this?” Frigga cried, grabbing Hod by the shoulders. “Who gave you that branch?”
“It was Loki. He meant only for me to have some fun.”
“LOKI!” Odin leapt to his feet, his eyes blazing fire. “Come out, you sniveling worm.”
Loki scurried away, but a battalion of Valkyrie wrestled him to the ground. They hauled him forward, kicking and screaming, “It’s not my fault!” he shouted. “I was just having a bit of fun. How was I to know a tiny thorn would cause such harm?”
But Frigga pointed a finger over Baldur’s still form. “It was you,” she hissed. “You evil shape-shifter. You came into my chambers last night. That serving woman was the only one I told of the mistletoe.”
Loki’s guilt was written all over his face.
Odin’s glare was cold enough to freeze even Loki’s hard heart. “You killed my beloved son. For that, you will die.” He drew the mighty sword at his side, the Sword of Tyrfing, and raised it over his head. He was about to bring it down on Loki when his wife shouted at him.
“Stop!”
Odin froze, the sword clutched over his head.
Frigga sobbed as she held Baldur to her chest. “Death will be too easy and quick for one as evil as Loki. He must be punished. Lock him up for eternity in the darkness of the underworld. Let him be tormented every day with the dripping of water on his chains. Let his children also be punished. Banish them to the farthest reaches of Asgard.”
“No!” Loki screeched. “My children don’t deserve such punishment.”
“Your children are monsters,” Frigga announced. “A menace on the world.”
Odin slowly lowered his sword. “Wife, you are wise. It shall be as you say. The Valkyries will escort Loki to Sinmara’s underworld and chain him there. I will see to se
curing Loki’s horrible offspring myself. Frey, you will contain his wife, Angerboda, lest her wrath bring down the walls of Valhalla.”
Frey, the sprightly God of the Elves, nodded, his round eyes full of sadness as he studied Baldur’s still form. “I will take her to the black dwarves of Gomara. They will encase her in ice and bury her deep in their mines.”
Odin looked at Loki, hatred and pain etched into his face. “I never want to see or hear from this traitor or any of his family members ever again. I curse him for eternity. Should he ever come in contact with mistletoe, let it bring him unending pain, but not death.”
Loki wrestled against the tight grip of Thor and Tyr. “You will regret this, brother,” he snarled. “One day, I will make you pay. You will lose the things you value the most, the same as you have made me lose those I love.”
ISLE OF MUSSPELL
The Eighth Realm of Odin
Present-Day Orkney
Chapter 1
The raven’s wings beat the air with a fury and strength that belied its size. In its beak, it carried a tattered black triangle of skin. The ear of a once-mighty beast. A bolt of lightning split the sky, singeing the wing of the bird and knocking it spinning before it regained its speed. Next to it, a figure appeared, a falcon with golden eyes and sharp claws that reached for it, grabbing at the black bird with its talons. The raven tucked its wings, dropping like a stone. In a flash, the falcon was after it, letting out a high-pitched screech. Another winged being joined in the chase, a white swan bearing a gilded breastplate and a helmet of shining gold.
The two birds pinned the raven between them, flying in tandem and closing in on it. The falcon clawed at the scrap of skin, trying to snatch it. The raven tucked its beak, deter-minedly holding on. The sky shimmered ahead.
Not far now.
The swan butted the raven, trying to knock it off its path, but the raven struggled on. And then the air grew still as the raven broke through the shimmering veil. The air felt stuffed with cotton, all noise blotted out. The falcon let out a sharp cry of anguish as the raven released the tattered scrap of skin, letting it fall into the raging water of the seas below.
The swan tried to snatch it, but a sudden sharp breeze carried it out of reach, and the piece of flesh fluttered down into the water. A bright light lit up the sky for a moment, and then a puff of wind swept across the waves, wiping away the veil of cotton, bringing with it the smell of sulfur. In the distance, the skies were revealed a fiery red, lit up by the perpetual rumblings of the volcanoes that marked that land and heated the air.
The swan and the falcon chased after the raven with increased fury. Desperate to escape, the raven pecked at the eye of the swan, drawing blood and forcing it to move off. As the swan tumbled blindly, the falcon veered off, aiding the swan to a spire of rock jutting out of the depths of the ocean.
The raven continued on, not looking back, keeping its eyes on the growing red city in front of it.
The swan landed hard on the stone, transforming into a woman with flaxen hair tied into a thick braid. Around her wrists, she wore golden cuffs that matched her shining breastplate and helmet. An ornately carved sword hung at her side. The falcon shed its cloak of feathers and became a woman with ginger-red hair liberally laced with gray. On her head sat a crown of finest gold. Kneeling by the injured woman, she cradled her head in her arms.
“Dear Geela, are you all right?”
“Fine, my queen. The Valkyrie are made of iron.” Climbing to her feet, Geela held a hand to her bleeding eye and asked, “Do you think we stopped him?”
Frigga, queen of the gods, wife to Odin, watched the fluttering black shape of the raven make its way toward the city of their enemy.
“No, Geela. I’m afraid we failed. When Odin’s flesh touched the sea, the veil protecting Orkney was torn.” She sighed, and it was as if the world sighed with her. The waves rose and crashed against the rock, and a wail echoed from the depths of the ocean as the creatures of the deep joined her in her despair.
“What will Surt do when he finds out Odin is dead?” Geela asked, her blue eyes clouded with fear.
Surt ruled over the fire giants of the South in Musspell, the Eighth Realm of Odin. Since the dawn of time, the giants and the gods had warred over mankind. Odin had always been mankind’s protector, and Surt had always stood ready to destroy them.
Frigga stared at the distant island of smoking volcanoes and replied, “He will go to war. Return to Valhalla and wait for me. There is something I must attend to.”
Circling above the spires of the stone fortress, the raven settled on a window ledge, spent and out of breath. Its heart hammered in its chest, but it was a black heart, devoid of human emotion.
As the raven regained its strength, it reshaped its form. Wings lengthened out into arms. The bird’s feet thickened and grew, sprouting knees and toes. Its beak flattened out and broadened into a face that broke into a smile as he looked down at his human shape.
Spitting out a black feather, Loki, God of Mischief, jumped down lightly. His feet were bare. Stocky legs stuck out through the tattered pants he had worn for centuries while chained to the rock in Odin’s underground prison. Loki stood in a long open-air hallway marked by archways that led to a pair of double wooden doors reinforced with bars of steel.
The red sky outside was lit up by plumes of shooting lava. Heat emanated from the stone walls. Under his feet, a stinging burn rose up from the deep chasms of molten rock flowing underneath the floors. Skipping along to the barred entrance, Loki grabbed hold of the handles and ripped the doors off their hinges, hurling them to the side before springing into the chambers of the great lord of the South, Surt.
More than two dozen of the fire giants were assembled at a long table at the base of a throne. As one, they leapt to their feet, letting out angry roars, drawing swords, and surrounding Loki in a flurry of red flesh and muscled anger.
Pushing the tip of one sword away from his face, Loki called loudly, “Would you kill your guest before he delivered the best news of the century?”
“Let him through.” The deep rumbly voice of Surt came from across the vast room.
Loki ducked between the legs of the warriors and made his way to the throne where Surt held court. The warlord had thick red skin, bumpy like that of an alligator, and a flat broad face. His nose was pierced with a gold ring. A thick black ponytail sprouted from the top of his head and was tied in a long braid down his back. His eyes were yellow, slanted upward slightly, and filled with curiosity and simmering rage. A pair of female she-giants lolled against him, stroking his arm. His stained fingernails were filed into razor-sharp points.
Loki was not a tall creature, but being near the giants made him appear like a waif. Climbing up onto a chair, Loki bowed at the waist.
“Greetings, my brother.”
Surt snorted with laughter. “Brother, you say? I killed my brothers and threw their headless corpses into the fires of Musspell.”
The volcanoes of the Eighth Realm spewed lava every day of the year. The hardened residents lived under clouds of ash that darkened the sky and searing heat that choked the life out of any living plants.
Loki grinned, undeterred by the raucous laughter of the giant men who crowded in closer. The points of their swords pricked his back.
He hadn’t broken out of that underworld to be skewered by this lot—not before he’d regained everything he’d lost.
“Really, Surt, is all this sword rattling necessary? There is only one of me, and I’m quite harmless. Might we share a leg of lamb and drink to the glory of your victory?”
Surt’s yellow eyes narrowed into slits. “I know who you are, Loki, God of Mischief. You cause only trouble. What victory do you speak of?”
Loki grabbed a helmet and pounded it once with his fist, flattening the metal so he could sit on it. Reaching across the table, he helped himself to a roasted leg of meat. As he was about to bite into it, Surt drew a blade and skewered the lamb in place in fr
ont of Loki.
“I asked you a question, mischief-maker. What victory?”
A slow grin raised his cheeks. “Why, your victory over mankind. The war you have wanted to wage since you drew your first squalling breath.”
“Mankind is protected by that fool Odin. We have already had our Ragnarok, the war between the gods and the giants. No one came away a winner.”
Loki leaned forward, pulling Surt’s knife out and holding it up to the light. “But what if Odin were dead?” He looked Surt in the eye. “Would you go to war then?”
Surt stared at Loki, searching his eyes. The giant slammed his meaty palms on the table. “What proof do you bring me of this?”
Loki bit into the leg of lamb and waved it at Surt. “Can you not smell the sweetness of grass and fresh air in the wind? The veil has been taken down; you know, the one Odin put in place to keep you lot here in this miserable pit of lava.”
Surt drew back, waving Loki away. “Bah, you are full of lies and nonsense. I would know if the veil had been torn. Odin cannot be dead. The gods continue on like the sun. It sets and disappears from sight and then it rises again. Odin is not gone.” He shook his head, folding his thick arms. “It is not possible.”
Loki gnawed the meat down to the bone, licked his fingers, and tossed the skeletal piece back on the table, letting out a satisfied belch. “Suit yourself, my giant high lord. But don’t blame me if you’re late to the party.”
The fire giant’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, with or without you, I am going to war. Orkney is ripe for the picking. No one’s running the place. I say it’s time for a change at the top.”
“You’re up to something. I can smell your lies.”
Loki grinned. “Here’s the truth: Odin took my wife and kids from me. I intend to get them back.”
