The Gospel of Loki Page 3

  He fixed me with his one eye; blue and chilly and none too kind. Behind him, his colours showed no fear, just wariness and cunning.

  ‘So. You’re Loki, are you?’ he said.

  I shrugged my new shoulders. ‘What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell just as pink and virginal. And speaking of which, if you could find your way to lending me some clothes . . .’

  He did – some breeches and a shirt, taken from his backpack, and smelling rather strongly of goat. I put them on, grimacing at the smell, as my new acquaintance introduced himself as Odin, one of the sons of Bór. I knew him by reputation, of course. I’d followed his career from afar. I’d watched his dreams. I wasn’t what you’d call impressed – and yet his ambition and ruthlessness were not without potential.

  We talked. He explained his position as General in Asgard; painted a pretty picture of the Sky Citadel and its inhabitants; spoke of Worlds to conquer and rich rewards to be won, then moved onto the subject of a possible alliance with my folk against the Ice People, the renegade Vanir, Gullveig-Heid and the warlords who occupied the Outlands.

  I had to laugh. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  I explained that Lord Surt was really not an alliance kind of guy. ‘“Xenophobic” doesn’t begin to cover how much he despises strangers. It’s bad enough that your kind of life emerged from the ice in the first place, but you’ll never get him making a deal with a race of people that entered the Worlds naked and covered in cow-spit.’

  ‘But if we could talk—’ Odin began.

  ‘Surt doesn’t talk. He’s a primal force. He reduces Order in all its forms into its component particles. From the mightiest warlord to the tiniest ant, he hates you all impartially. Simply by virtue of being alive and conscious, you’re already an offence to him. You can’t talk him round. You can’t par-lay. All you can do, if you’ve got any sense, is simply to keep out of his way.’

  Odin looked thoughtful. ‘And yet you came.’

  ‘Shoot me. I was curious.’

  Of course, he didn’t understand. The closest he’d ever got to Chaos was through Dream, its ephemeral sibling. And primitive people always imagine their gods to be something like themselves; at best, a kind of warlord, with a warlord’s mentality. For all his intelligence, I could tell that Odin would never understand the scale and the grandeur of Chaos – at least not until the End of the Worlds, by which time it would be too late.

  ‘I’m going to rule the Worlds,’ he said. ‘I have power, gold, runes. I have the finest warriors the Worlds have ever seen. I have the Sun and Moon. I have the wealth of the Tunnel Folk—’

  ‘Lord Surt isn’t into possessions,’ I said. ‘This is Chaos we’re talking about. Nothing has substance, or order, or rules. Nothing even keeps to the same physical Aspect. These things you care so much about – gold, weapons, women, battlements – I’ve seen them all in your dreams, and none of that means a thing to him. To Surt, it’s all just cosmic debris; flotsam and jetsam on the tide.’

  ‘Forget Lord Surt for a minute,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’re right. But what about you? It seems to me that someone like you could be a big hit in my camp.’

  ‘I bet they could. What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Well, freedom, to begin with. Freedom and opportunity.’

  ‘Freedom? Do me a favour. Do you think I’m not free?’

  He shook his head. ‘You think you are? When there are Worlds to discover and shape, and you have to stay in one place all the time? You’re no more than a prisoner of this Surt, whoever he is.’

  I tried to explain. ‘But Chaos is, like, the hotbed of creation. Everything else is just overspill. Who wants to live in a septic tank?’

  ‘Better a king in the gutter,’ he said, ‘than a slave in an emperor’s palace.’

  You see, that silver tongue of his was already making mischief. And then he started to talk to me of the Worlds he’d visited; of the Middle World, abode of the Folk, where already the people of Asgard were beginning to be worshipped as gods; of the Tunnel Folk of World Below, toiling to bring out gold and gems from the darkness; of the World Tree, Yggdrasil, its roots in the depths of the Underworld, its head in the clouds of Asgard; of Ice Folk; of the One Sea; of the Outlands far beyond. All ripe for conquest, Odin said; everything new and up for burning. All that could be mine, he said, or I could go back to Chaos and spend an eternity shining Surt’s shoes . . .

  ‘What do you want from me?’ I said.

  ‘I need your talents,’ said Odin. ‘The Vanir gave me their knowledge, but even runes aren’t everything. I brought this world out of blood and ice. I gave it rules and a purpose. Now I must protect what I’ve built, or see it slide back into anarchy. But Order cannot survive alone; its laws are too fixed; it cannot bend. Order is like ice that creeps, bringing life to a standstill. Now that we’re at peace again, Aesir and Vanir, the ice will creep back. Stagnation will come. My kingdom will fall into darkness. I cannot be seen to break my own rules. But I do need someone on my side who can break them for me when necessary.’

  ‘And what do I get in return, again?’

  He grinned and said: ‘I’ll make you a god.’

  A god.

  Well, you’ve seen the Prophecy. Odin was already tacitly taking credit for the creation of the Worlds as well as the birth of humanity. Thus:

  From the Alder and the Ash,

  They fashioned the first Folk from wood.

  One gave spirit; one gave speech;

  One gave fire in the blood.

  Folk have a tendency to assume that the third one, the fire-giver, was Your Humble Narrator. Well, I may be guilty of many things but I’m not taking the blame for the Folk, or anything to do with them. Wherever they came from, it sure as Hel wasn’t a couple of trees and Yours Truly. And whatever the Oracle really meant, it was not to be taken literally. Still, it was a common tale, and did no harm to Odin’s burgeoning reputation as the daddy of us all.

  For now, back to the story, and Odin’s promise of godhood.

  Well . . .

  He had a point about Chaos, I thought. There are advantages to being an independent entity. In Pandaemonium, I knew I would always be a spark in a forge; a flicker in a bonfire; a drop in an ocean of molten dreams. In Odin’s new world, I could be anything I wanted to be: an agent of change; a firebrand; a worker of miracles. A god.

  Which all sounded quite appealing, but . . .

  ‘Of course, you could never go back,’ he said.

  I thought about that too. He was right. Chaos may not have rules as such, but it does have laws, and I knew its lords had ingenious ways of dealing with people who broke them. Still . . .

  ‘How would they even know? Like you said, I’m a drop in the ocean.’

  ‘Oh, I would need assurances of your good faith,’ said Odin. ‘Look at it from my point of view. It’s going to be hard enough for me to explain your presence to the Aesir. I need to be sure of your loyalty before I open Asgard’s gates.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  Oh, please, I thought. Loyalty, honour, truth, good faith – all those things belong to Order. The children of Chaos neither need nor fully understand them.

  But somehow the Old Man had read my mind. ‘I’m not going to ask for your word,’ he said. ‘But all the same, I’ll need something. A mark of allegiance, if you like.’

  I shrugged. ‘What kind of a mark?’ I said.

  ‘This,’ said Odin, and suddenly, I felt a searing sensation in my arm. At the same time, something hit me so hard that I fell onto my back in the snow. Colours blazed around me. Later, I learnt that this was called pain. I already knew I wasn’t a fan.

  ‘What in Pandaemonium was that?’

  Of course, in my fiery Aspect I’d never experienced physical pain. In some ways, I was still very innocent. But I did recognize some kind of attack, and leapt back into my primary form, ready to rejoin Pandaemonium.

  ‘I wouldn’t do that if I were
you,’ said Odin, seeing my intention. ‘My mark is on you now. My glam. We’re brothers, whether you like it or not.’

  I jumped back into physical form, and – dammit – I found I was naked again. ‘No way am I your brother,’ I said.

  ‘We’re brothers in blood,’ said Odin. ‘Or brothers in glam, if you prefer.’

  I touched my arm. It still hurt. But now, on the new pink flesh, there was a mark, a kind of tattoo, which gleamed a soft violet against my skin. The sting was fading but the mark, the shape of a broken twig, endured.

  ‘What’s that? What did you do to me?’

  Odin sat down on a rock. Whatever he had done to me had taken a great deal of glam from him. His colours had faded considerably, and his face was almost colourless.

  ‘Call it a badge of loyalty,’ he said. ‘All my people have one now. The Vanir taught us their names and their use; yours is Kaen, Wildfire. Quite appropriate, I thought, given your demonic nature.’

  ‘But I don’t need a badge,’ I said. ‘These runes of yours’ – I indicated the violet mark – ‘they’re just some of the letters that make up the language of Chaos. I don’t need runes to do what I do. I can tap Chaos at the source.’

  ‘Not in this World, or this body, you can’t. Your Aspect determines what you can do.’

  ‘Oh.’ I should have thought of that. Of course, glam in its purest form exists only in the realms of Chaos and Dream. Here, I’d have to work for it. Work. Like pain, I sensed that this was an experience I would want to avoid as often as possible.

  ‘That wasn’t part of the deal,’ I said. But I knew the old fox had me cold. As soon as he gave me that runemark, some part of his glam and mine had merged. If I returned to Chaos now, they’d know I had betrayed them. And now, I had no other choice but to go with his offer of godhood.

  ‘You bastard. You knew this would happen,’ I said.

  Odin gave a wry smile. ‘Then that makes us brothers in trickery. But I told you the truth,’ he said. ‘I’ll never forget what I owe you. I’ll never take a drink of wine without first seeing your goblet filled. And whatever your nature drives you to do, I promise that none of my people will ever lay violent hands on you. You’ll be as close as a brother to me. As long as you promise to serve me, of course.’

  What choice did I have? I gave him my word. Not that a promise means much to a demon – or a god. But I did serve him. I served him well; though half the time even he didn’t know what he really needed. And even when he reneged on the deal . . .

  But more of that later. Suffice it to say: never trust a brother.

  LESSON 4

  Hello and Welcome

  Never trust a friend.

  Lokabrenna

  AND SO I CAME TO ASGARD, where Odin introduced me to my new friends, the twenty-three Aesir and Vanir. All of them burnished, sleek and well-fed, dressed in furs and silks and brocade, crowned in gold and gemstones and generally looking rather pleased with themselves.

  You’ve probably already heard of Asgard. The Worlds were already full of tales about its size; its magnificence; its twenty-four halls, one for each god; its gardens, cellars and sports facilities. A citadel built on an outcrop of rock so high above the plain below that it seemed part of the clouds themselves; a place of sunlight and rainbows, accessible only by the Rainbow Bridge that linked it to the Middle Worlds. That’s the story, anyway. And yes, it was impressive. But in those days it was smaller, protected by its location; a cluster of wooden buildings surrounded by a palisade. Later, it grew, but at that time it still looked like a pioneer stronghold under siege – which was exactly what it was.

  We met in Odin’s hall, a sizeable, warm, vaulted space with twenty-three seats, a long table set with food and drink, and Odin’s gilded throne at the head. Everyone had a seat but me.

  It stank of smoke and ale and sweat. No one offered me a drink. I looked at the cold faces around me and thought: This club isn’t taking new members.

  ‘This is Loki,’ the Old Man announced. ‘He’s going to be one of the family, so let’s all make him welcome, and no picking on him because of his unfortunate parentage.’

  ‘What unfortunate parentage?’ said Frey, the leader of the Vanir.

  I gave them all a little wave and told them I was from Chaos.

  A second later I was flat on my back, with two dozen swords jabbing at the parts of me I’ve always preferred to keep intact.

  ‘Ouch!’ Unlike the rest of my newly acquired physical sensations, the pain thing wasn’t getting any more fun. I considered the possibility that this might be some kind of an initiation ceremony, more of a game than anything else. Then I looked at those faces again; the narrowed eyes; the bared teeth . . .

  No doubt about it, I told myself. These bastards really don’t like me.

  ‘You brought a demon into Asgard?’ said Týr, the General’s war chief. ‘Are you out of your mind? He’s a spy. Probably an assassin, as well. I say slit the little rat’s throat.’

  Odin gave him a quelling look. ‘Let him go, Captain.’

  ‘You’re kidding,’ said Týr.

  ‘I said, let him go. He’s under my protection.’

  Reluctantly, the hedge of blades was withdrawn from around Yours Truly. I sat up and tried a winning smile. No one around me seemed to be won.

  ‘Er, hi,’ I said. ‘I know it must seem strange to you that someone like me should want to hang out with people like you. But give me a chance and I’ll prove to you I’m not a spy. I swear it. I’ve burnt my boats by coming here; I’m a traitor to my people. Send me back, and they’ll kill me – or worse.’

  ‘So?’ That was Heimdall; a flashy type, with golden armour and teeth to match. ‘We don’t need a traitor’s help. Treachery’s a crooked rune that never flies straight, or hits the mark.’

  That was typical Heimdall, or so I came to realize later. Pompous, rude and arrogant. His rune was Madr, straight as a die; boxy and pedestrian. I thought of the mark of Kaen on my arm and said:

  ‘Sometimes crooked is better than straight.’

  ‘You think so?’ said Heimdall.

  ‘Let’s try it,’ I said. ‘My glam against yours. Let Odin decide the victor.’

  There was an archery target outside. I’d noticed it as we came in. The gods were predictably keen on sports; popular types so often are. I’d never used a bow before, but I understood the principle.

  ‘Come on, Goldie,’ I said, and grinned. ‘Or are you having second thoughts?’

  ‘I’ll give you this,’ he said. ‘You can talk. Now let’s see how well you perform.’

  Aesir and Vanir followed us out. Odin came last, looking curious. ‘Heimdall’s the best shot in Asgard,’ he said. ‘The Vanir call him Hawkeye.’

  I shrugged. ‘So what?’

  ‘So you’d better be good.’

  I grinned again. ‘I’m Loki,’ I said. ‘Good doesn’t enter into it.’

  We stood in front of the target. I could tell from his colours that Heimdall was sure of beating me; his golden smile radiated confidence. Behind him, all the rest of them stared at me with suspicion and scorn. I’d thought that I knew prejudice, but this lot redefined it. I could see them itching to spill some of my demon blood, even though it ran through the veins of a dozen or more of them. Heimdall himself was one of them – a bastard child of the primal Fire – but I could see he wasn’t about to celebrate our kinship. There are races that hate each other on sight – mongoose and snake; cat and dog – and though I didn’t know much of the Worlds, I guessed that the straightforward, muscular type would be the natural enemy of the lithe and devious type who thinks with his head and not his fists.

  ‘How far? A hundred paces? More?’

  I shrugged. ‘You choose. I couldn’t care less. I’m going to beat you anyway.’

  Once more, Heimdall smiled. He beckoned two servants forward and pointed at a distant spot right at the end of the Rainbow Bridge.

  ‘Stand the target there,’ he told them. ‘Then, when Lo
ki loses his bet, he won’t have quite so far to walk home.’

  I said nothing, but only smiled.

  The servants set off. They took their time. Meanwhile I lay down on the grass and pretended to have a little nap. I might even have slept a little, if Bragi, the god of music and song, hadn’t already been working on a victory chant for Heimdall. To be fair, his voice wasn’t bad, but the subject matter wasn’t entirely to my taste. Besides, he was playing a lute. I hate lutes.

  Ten minutes later, I opened one eye. Heimdall was looking down at me.

  ‘I’ve got pins and needles,’ I said. ‘You go first. Whatever you do, I promise I can do better.’

  Heimdall bared his golden teeth, then summoned the rune Madr, aimed and fired. I didn’t see where the rune struck – my eyes weren’t nearly as good as his – but I could see from the flash of his golden teeth that it must have been good.

  I stretched and yawned.

  ‘Your turn, traitor,’ he said.

  ‘All right. But bring the target closer.’

  Heimdall looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I said, bring the target closer. I can hardly see it from here. About three dozen paces should do.’

  Heimdall’s face was a study in confusion. ‘You say you’re going to win – against me – by bringing the target closer?’

  ‘Wake me up when you’ve brought it,’ I said, and lay down for another nap.

  Ten minutes later, the servants returned, carrying the target. I could see Heimdall’s strike now, the rose-red signature of Madr stamped right in the bullseye. The Aesir and the Vanir all clapped. It was a fairly impressive shot.

  ‘Hawkeye Heimdall wins,’ said Frey, another handsome, athletic type all gleaming with silver armour. The others seemed inclined to agree. I guess Frey was too popular for them to contradict him – or maybe it was the runesword balanced suggestively at his hip that made them want to stay friends with him. An elegant piece, that runesword. Even at that early stage I found myself wondering if he would be as popular without it.

  Odin turned his one eye upon Your Humble Narrator. ‘Well?’

  ‘Well – not bad. Bird-Brain can shoot,’ I said. ‘But I can beat him.’