Runelight Read online

  The Trickster arrived in the village at dawn, with Jolly trotting at his heels. No one saw him but Crazy Nan Fey, who was doing her laundry down by the Strond, and who recognized him instantly. Nan, of course, was as mad as a fish, but she was no fool, either, and she knew Loki for a Fiery at once from the trail he left behind him. The little man at his heels, now, might have been a goblin, she thought, but for his colours, which crazed and spun …

  ‘I see you, Dogstar,’ cackled Nan Fey. ‘Who’s your little friend, eh?’

  Loki gave her a sharp look. ‘He’s no friend of mine,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, so that’s it?’ said Nan with a grin. ‘Gods keeping ye on a short leash? Is that because of the prophecy?’

  Loki glared at her. ‘Just because there’s a prophecy doesn’t mean Yours Truly’s involved. Nothing’s going to happen, all right?’

  Nan gave another toothless grin. She didn’t need any prophecy to know that something was on its way. The Auld Man had already told her that. Since the End of the World the Auld Man had come to her many times in dreams, whispering and coaxing; telling her stories and songs from her youth that Nan had thought forgotten. The words often sounded like nonsense to her, but there was wisdom in nonsense, she knew, if one could only fathom it; and as she watched the Fiery trail, she hummed a little rock-a-bye that had been on her mind since she awoke – a little rhyme that went all the way back to the Elder Age:

  See the Cradle rocking

  High above the town.

  Down come the Firefolk

  To bring the baby down.

  All the way to Hel’s gate

  Firefolk are bound.

  Pucker-lips, a-pucker-lips,

  All fall down.

  She wondered if Loki knew that rhyme. Probably he didn’t, she thought; which was no doubt for the best. Nan Fey liked the Trickster, and was genuinely sorry for what was to happen to him. But sentiment could play no part in the coming chain of events. The Auld Man’s plans must always come first, and if he demanded a sacrifice …

  And so she watched the Trickster go by, and gave her little toothless smile. Pucker-lips, a-pucker-lips. That wasn’t quite the right word, of course. But something was coming. Something big. The Auld Man had told her so.

  LOKI AND JOLLY’S first port of call was Dorian Scattergood’s farmhouse, from the open window of which came a thunderous snoring. Loki was quick to pick the lock, and to follow the sound to the four-post bed that Dorian had once occupied – but further investigation revealed the sleeper to be female, stout, with blonde hair of unusual wiriness.

  Damn it!

  Loki took a hasty step back onto Jolly’s foot, which raised a growl from the little man. The goddess of grace and plenty gave a sigh and rolled over, eyes half open in the shadows.

  Wincing, the Trickster held his breath. To be in the village at all was bad enough. But to be here, of all places …

  ‘Shh,’ he whispered. ‘It’s all right. You’re only dreaming. Go back to sleep.’

  Sif gave a sigh and rolled over again with a noise like a sousaphone in distress. Most of the bedclothes rolled with her, and Loki was treated to rather more than he wanted to see of the goddess’s plump hindquarters, which still bore the mark of Dorian’s livestock tattoo.

  ‘Please, no,’ whispered Loki. The last time he’d sneaked into Sif’s bedroom had ended with his lips being sewn together – painful, but nothing at all compared to what had originally been planned; or, indeed, to what Thor would do to him this time if he ever found out.

  Sweating, he began to move back, inch by inch, towards the door. Jolly matched him step for step – he moved soundlessly, in spite of his gait. And as Loki breathed a sigh of relief and the bedroom door swung shut in his wake, there came a voice in his left ear as low and as dangerous as that of a distant avalanche, and at the same time a large hand clamped around his neck.

  ‘So tell me,’ growled Thor, ‘’cos I want to know. Exactly how do you want to die?’

  ‘Ah, Thor,’ Loki said, in a casual voice that lost much of its effect for being half an octave higher than usual. ‘Believe it or not, I was looking for you.’ He tried to extricate himself from the Thunderer’s grasp, without success. ‘In fact, I have some information that I know you’re going to—’ A thumb on his windpipe cut him off.

  ‘No, I don’t think you do,’ said Thor. And he began to apply pressure against Loki’s throat.

  ‘Just listen,’ said the Trickster.

  Thor showed his teeth.

  ‘Three little words—’ gasped Loki, beginning to turn blue.

  So it really happened, reflected Thor. He hadn’t noticed it before. People really did turn blue …

  ‘Please,’ whispered Loki.

  Thor eased the pressure from his thumb.

  Loki coughed.

  ‘That counts as one.’

  ‘Thor—’

  ‘That counts as two,’ said Thor.

  Loki gave him a vicious look. He put a hand to his bruised throat and took a deep breath, trying not to cough again.

  Then he said: ‘Mjølnir—’

  A heavy object moving at speed takes a certain time to come to a halt. For a moment Thor’s fist continued its trajectory, and might even have reached its target if Loki hadn’t managed to duck; then it stopped in mid-air and Thor’s face took on an expression of doubt mingled with a dawning hope.

  ‘The Hammer?’ he said.

  ‘No, dummy, the other Mjølnir. The one that flies through the air, catching birds.’

  The Thunderer looked slightly confused.

  ‘Of course the Hammer,’ Loki said. ‘Thor, listen – I know where it is. In any case, I know who it’s with. And the good news is: they’re willing to trade.’

  Loki was used to death threats. A death threat or two before breakfast, he thought, was just the way to begin the day. Some people preferred cereal, but Loki ran on energy, and there was nothing better, to his mind, than a daily helping of menace and intimidation to sharpen his intellect and keep him on his toes.

  Which was why, over the course of that morning, Loki had already received no fewer than twelve promises of immediate torture, beating, dismemberment, disembowelling, and other acts of unpleasantness – none of which had been carried out, thanks to Thor, whose reluctant belief in Loki’s tale had swayed the four Æsir and most of the Vanir, with the obvious exception of Heimdall (who would no more have believed the Trickster than he could have given birth to ocelots) and Skadi, of course, who wasn’t there.

  Which wasn’t to say that they were pleased. In fact, during that morning’s emergency council of war (convened in haste by Ethel and Thor, and held in the drawing room of the ex-Parsonage) Loki had to answer a great number of awkward questions and swear a good many binding oaths before anyone else would believe him; and even then, it was only the presence of Maddy and Thor that dissuaded the Vanir (who didn’t enjoy being summoned like this) from trying out on Loki’s person a variety of methods of interrogation designed to ensure he was telling the truth.

  ‘But why would I lie?’ said the Trickster.

  ‘Because you’re the Father and Mother of Lies,’ said Heimdall, gnashing his teeth so hard that they sparked.

  ‘Ah, come on, Goldie. Give me a break.’

  ‘With pleasure. Legs or spine?’

  ‘I swear there’s nothing in this for me.’ Now Loki directed a heartfelt plea towards his circle of judges. ‘But you all heard the prophecy. Asgard’s going to be rebuilt, with us or without us. A deal with Chaos gives us a chance to be part of it. And if Thor gets his hammer back, with the new runes Angie can share with us—’

  ‘New runes? Are you sure?’ said Frey.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Loki said. ‘I only saw two, but there must be more. And—’

  ‘And if there are,’ Frey went on, ‘then maybe Asgard can be raised, and we can recover our Aspects. And if Thor gets his hammer back …’

  It was a powerful argument. To the gods, exiled for five hundred y
ears, its power was irresistible, and finally even Heimdall was moved to grudging acceptance.

  ‘They’ve got the Hammer? Are you sure?’

  Loki nodded. ‘On my life.’

  ‘If you’ve lied to us, Dogstar, you’re dead,’ said Heimdall, bringing the total of threats to thirteen. ‘Just as long as we’re clear on that.’ And he put his hand out to join the rest, completing the circle.

  Loki gave a sigh of relief. ‘All right. Now for the oath.’

  Freyja sniffed. ‘But there’s no one else here!’

  ‘Please. Just this once. Do as I say.’

  And now Loki began to recite the terms Angrboda had laid out: ‘Amnesty for our allies in Chaos. The return of disputed territories: Ironwood for Fenris; the One Sea for Jormungand; and a hall to be readied in Asgard for Angrboda, known as the Temptress, in payment for her loyalty—’

  There came a low, impatient growl. The Thunderer was getting restless.

  ‘Such pact to be sealed,’ went on Loki in haste, ‘by a gesture of goodwill from our new allies – to wit, the return of Mjølnir, the Hammer of Thor, such return to be effectuated as soon as the settlement is agreed—’

  ‘For gods’ sakes, get on with it,’ said Thor.

  ‘Are we agreed?’ said the Trickster.

  Æsir and Vanir nodded in turn.

  There was a rather lengthy pause.

  ‘So – now what?’ said Freyja at last.

  Loki shrugged. ‘I suppose we wait.’

  They waited, hands clasped, in a circle. They waited so long, in fact, that Thor regained his dangerous look, Heimdall showed his golden teeth, and even Loki, who had assumed an air of insouciance throughout the proceedings, seemed to lose some of his confidence.

  ‘What’s holding us up?’ said Njörd at last.

  ‘I suppose these things take time,’ Maddy said.

  Loki shot her a grateful look.

  ‘If this is one of your games …’ Thor began.

  ‘Leave it out,’ said Loki. ‘Fourteen death threats and counting, and I haven’t even had breakfast yet. You’re going to hurt my feelings.’

  ‘I’m going to hurt much more than that,’ said Thor, breaking the circle and taking two steps towards Loki, who took refuge behind one of Ethel’s chairs. ‘In fact, if something doesn’t happen right now, I’m going to—’

  But precisely what Thor planned to do was suddenly interrupted by a sound from behind him. A sound of laughter, to be precise, and if Loki didn’t recognize it, that was simply because his diminutive comrade had previously shown so little sign of the explosive mirth to which he now gave noisy vent.

  Lounging on the ottoman, teacup in one hand, biscuit in the other, Jolly the dwarf was laughing.

  His presence had barely registered with any of the gods before. Only Tyr had noticed him, and that was because the god of war was still primarily Sugar-and-Sack, a renegade goblin from Red Horse Hill, who knew a dwarf when he saw one, and who, on seeing Jolly, had been quick to dismiss the comparison.

  Now he turned to the little man. ‘Have we met before?’ he said.

  Jolly gave an insolent smirk. Sprawled on the ottoman he looked even more misshapen than before, his massive head thrown back onto the cushions, the china cup held with exaggerated delicacy between his pudgy fingers. He seemed quite unafraid of Tyr, or, indeed, of any of the gods.

  ‘I’m talkin’ to you,’ said Brave-Hearted Tyr, lapsing into goblin-speak. He levelled his gaze on the little man and, taking a step, addressed him thus:

  ‘Short-arse—’

  Jolly’s laughter stopped at once. ‘What?’ he said in a dangerous tone. ‘Who’re you callin’ short?’ In a second he was out of his seat, his iron-grey eyes level with those of the reluctant god of war. Sugar had time to wonder how such little legs could ever support such a massive head before something butted him in the pit of the stomach and sent him flying across the room.

  ‘My china!’ said Ethel.

  ‘Don’t call me short.’

  From behind the overturned china cabinet, Sugar gave a feeble thumbs-up.

  Jolly resumed his place on the couch – as well as his good temper. ‘As long as that’s understood,’ he said. ‘Now p’raps we can talk.’

  He poured himself a cup of tea, added nine lumps of sugar and rolled up his shirt-sleeves, revealing the double rune on his arms.

  ‘Folks, the name is Mjølnir. But you can call me Jolly.’

  THE LITTLE SQUARE-HEADED man’s revelation caused uproar amongst the gods. Only Loki seemed at all inclined to laughter, although he wisely kept out of the way as Æsir and Vanir faced each other with expressions of outrage and disbelief, and Jolly simply drank his tea and grinned all over his puglike face.

  ‘Thor, what in Hel’s name is going on?’ said Heimdall, finding his voice at last. ‘How can this – this – be a hammer?’

  Jolly smirked evilly. ‘Learned mesself some new skills while I’ve bin in World Above,’ he said, looking pleased with himself. ‘Couldn’t just lie around waitin’ for you lot to wake up, could I?’

  Heimdall glared at Loki. ‘And you’re trying to tell us you didn’t know?’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ said the Trickster. ‘I didn’t make Mjølnir. We all knew it had powers …’

  ‘Powers, yes. But – arms? Legs?’

  Jolly scratched his armpit and yawned. ‘I’da thought youdda bin more pleased to see me,’ he said. ‘Seein’ as you’re goin’ to be needin’ me soon.’

  Loki narrowed his eyes at him. ‘You’re not an oracle as well, are you?’

  Jolly shook his head.

  ‘Thank gods.’

  ‘Still,’ said Jolly cheerfully, helping himself to more tea. ‘From what I heard, there’s trouble ahead, and you’re goin’ to need every bit of help you’ve got. ’Cos if they come at you through Dream—’

  ‘Bloody prophecies,’ said Thor. ‘Why don’t they ever make proper sense? All this stuff about gates and dreams. All this stuff about new runes. Why can’t we have war in the real world?’ He bared his teeth at Jolly, who bared his own teeth in return. ‘With Mjølnir and Brave-Hearted Tyr on our side, we’ll give them a bloody good hammering.’

  Brave-Hearted Tyr gave a sickly smile. ‘Is war really the answer?’ he said.

  Jolly gave him a knowing grin. ‘Gettin’ cold feet, are yer?’ he said.

  ‘Course not,’ Sugar said. ‘But god of war – shouldn’t that job go to someone … more warlike?’

  Jolly shrugged. ‘Bit late for that now, innit?’ He stretched out his feet on the ottoman. ‘Nice tea, by the way. Got any more of them biscuits?’

  ‘So – er – Jolly,’ said Thor, whose baffled expression had gradually darkened to one of growing impatience. ‘I mean, I’m glad you’ve kept busy and everything, but – when do I get my hammer back?’

  Jolly gave him a look. ‘What?’

  ‘Well – of course I’m happy to meet you, but … when do I get my hammer back?’

  Jolly’s face took on an expression not unlike Thor’s own. ‘And that’s all I get, is it?’ he said. ‘No Hey, Jolly, I’m so glad you’re here, or What was it like, bein’ swallowed by the World Serpent? Or even How did you manage among the Folk? No. It’s just Where’s me bloody ’ammer without so much as an if-you-please—’

  ‘Well, you do belong to me,’ said Thor.

  ‘Belong to you?’ Jolly snapped. ‘I’ll ’ave you know that things’ve changed a bit since I were anybody’s property. I’m not just here for hittin’ things. And if you’re expectin’ me to fold up and sit in your pocket like I used to do in the old days, then you’ve got another think comin’, because I’ve got business of me own—’

  ‘But – you’re a hammer,’ protested Thor.

  ‘Not any more,’ Jolly said, calmly proceeding to finish his tea.

  Thor’s face darkened even further. ‘Loki …’ he said in a dangerous voice.

  But as the Trickster had wisely chosen that moment to find urgent busine
ss elsewhere, it was left to Thor himself to point out that perhaps there was someone, after all, who annoyed him more than Loki did.

  This knowledge did nothing to improve his temper, and there were thunderclouds on Red Horse Hill throughout the whole of that afternoon, while, from another mountaintop, a penetrating eye was levelled on the valley of the Strond, and two black birds flew into the storm, skirted the lightning that stalked the skies, wheeled around the Sleepers twice and then were swiftly lost from sight.

  MAGGIE’S RETURN TO the Communion Inn had not been as easy as she’d hoped. Perhaps if she had managed to evade Mrs Blackmore’s vigilant eye, then she might have been able to collect her few belongings and leave before difficult questions were asked. Unfortunately for Maggie Rede, this happened to be delivery day, and by the time she and Adam reached the alley behind the Communion Inn, her absence had already been noted.

  ‘So here you are, madam – at last!’ said Mrs Blackmore as she came in. ‘And where do you think you’ve been all night?’ Her gaze took in Maggie’s furtive look, her crumpled clothes and the scarf knotted hastily around her head. ‘You look a proper vagabond and no mistake. And who’s this?’ The beady eyes narrowed on Adam, standing quietly outside the door, holding the Good Book under his arm.

  Mrs Blackmore at once dismissed the likelihood of his being a potential customer. If he had been, her scruples might have taken a back seat. As it was, she took in his travel-stained clothes, his long hair and his Outlandish look, and launched into a shrill tirade, in which she denounced all northerners, riff-raff and vagabonds, bemoaned the loose morals of young folk today and almost passed out at the sight of the Book.

  ‘Oy!’ shrieked Mrs Blackmore in alarm. ‘I’m not ’avin’ that thing in ’ere! That’s stolen, that is, stolen from the Order! You got no business takin’ it!’

  Maggie tried to explain. But Mrs Blackmore (whose plague charms had once included pages torn from books such as this) was already working herself into a state of high moral outrage. ‘There’s powerful words in there!’ she said in a voice that could have shattered glass. ‘Ye’ve not been trying to read them? Laws preserve us, what next, girl? Out all night gallivanting, and now what? Looting – witchcraft?’