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See, this is the thing about history. His story. That’s all it is. The Old Man’s version of events, which basically the rest of us are supposed to accept as the undisputed truth. Well, call me cynical, but I’ve never been one to take things on trust, and I happen to know that history is nothing but spin and metaphor, which is what all yarns are made up of, when you strip them down to the underlay. And what makes a hit or a myth, of course, is how that story is told, and by whom.
After all, words are what remain when all the deeds have been done. Words can shatter faith, start a war, change the course of history. A story can make your heart beat faster, topple walls, scale mountains — Hey, a story can even raise the dead. And that’s why the King of Stories ended up being King of the gods, because writing history and making history are only the breadth of a page apart.
the world came into being through Change, which is the servant of Chaos, and only through Change has it endured.
Life and Death in one package — with Order and Chaos acting not as two forces in opposition but as a single cosmic force too vast for us to comprehend.
perfect Order does not bend; it simply stands until it breaks, which is why it rarely survives for any meaningful length of time.
But with power comes responsibility. And with responsibility comes fear. And with fear comes violence. And with violence comes Chaos. . . .
In those days the General liked to travel in Journeyman Aspect throughout the Worlds.
In those days the General liked to travel in Journeyman Aspect throughout the Worlds. His blind eye, sacrificed to the runes, saw much farther than his living one ever had, and he was obsessed with exploration and the pursuit of knowledge. He was a great traveller in Dream—that river that skirts our borders, flowing alongside Death itself, dividing this world from the next—and he would often watch our realm from the far side of the river, muttering cantrips to himself and squinting through his blind eye.
He didn’t look all that impressive back then — a tall man in his fifties, with unruly grey hair and an eye patch. But even then I sensed that he was something out of the ordinary. For a start, he had glam — that primal fire stolen from Chaos, which the Folk later came to call magic and to fear with a superstitious awe. I could see it in the colours swirling all around him and by the signature he left, as unique as a fingerprint — a broad blaze of kingfisher blue across the bleakness of rocks and snow. I’d seen that signature in dreams that were bigger and brighter than the rest, and now I could almost hear him, too, his soft and coaxing voice, his words:
Loki, son of Laufey.
Son of Farbauti — Wildfire
He didn’t look all that impressive back then — a tall man in his fifties, with unruly grey hair and an eye patch. But even then I sensed that he was something out of the ordinary. For a start, he had glam — that primal fire stolen from Chaos, which the Folk later came to call magic and to fear with a superstitious awe. I could see it in the colours swirling all around him and by the signature he left, as unique as a fingerprint — a broad blaze of kingfisher blue across the bleakness of rocks and snow. I’d seen that signature in dreams that were bigger and brighter than the rest, and now I
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My father was a lightning strike, and my mother was a pile of dry twigs (no that’s not a metaphor), which, to be fair to Yours Truly, made for pretty poor parenting.
the difference between god and demon is really only a matter of perspective.
“I’ll make you a god.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
Chaos may not have rules as such, but it does have laws,
Loyalty, honour, truth, good faith — all those things belong to Order. The children of Chaos neither need nor fully understand them.
“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.”
glam in its purest form exists only in the realms of Chaos and Dream.
Never trust a brother.
You’ve probably already heard of Asgard.
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.
“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.”
Treachery’s a crooked rune that never flies straight, or hits the mark.”
“I’m Loki,” I said. “Good doesn’t enter into it.”
I hate lutes.
“Well — not bad. Birdbrain can shoot,” I said. “But I can beat him.” “It’s Hawkeye, actually,” said Heimdall, between clenched teeth. “And if you think you’re going to win by standing right next to the target — ” “Now we turn it round,” I said. Once more, Heimdall looked confused. “But that would — ” “Yes. That’s right,” I said. Heimdall shrugged and gestured to the two servants, who obediently turned the target around so that the bull’s-eye was on the back. “Now try to hit the bull’s-eye,” I said. Heimdall sneered. “That’s impossible.” “You’re saying you couldn’t?” “No one could.” I grinned
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Who needs friends when you can have the certitudes of hostility? You know where you stand with an enemy. You know he won’t betray you. It’s the ones who claim to be your friends that you need to beware of.
Never trust a friend.
there was Frey, the Reaper, and his twin sister, Freyja, a bold-eyed hussy to whom Odin had given the title of Goddess of Desire. Both were tall, bronze-haired and blue-eyed, and drawn to reflective surfaces.
On the side of the Aesir, there was Odin’s eldest son, Thor, known as the Thunderer
The Rock Folk had attacked us twice, first taking the lower flanks of Asgard’s mountain, where there was a flat ledge on which they could build and shelter, then by flinging huge rocks at us by means of giant catapults.
The Ice Folk were also restless — they often were in summertime — and had moved down from the Northern lands to gather on the outskirts of Ironwood.
There was no point in having an impregnable wall around the Sky Citadel if there was rebellion within.
Well, I wasn’t completely naïve. I knew the Old Man needed to show his authority. There was no point in having an impregnable wall around the Sky Citadel if there was rebellion within. Heimdall was especially combative (besides which, he hated me), and I knew that if Odin showed weakness, then Goldie would be there to take his place as fast as thrice-greased lightning.
“You’re going to have to make a stand,”
“You’re going to have to make a stand,” I told him, as the deadline approached. “Call a meeting of the gods. You have to assert some discipline. If you show weakness now, you’ll never get your people back again.”
To do him justice, the Old Man knew exactly where I was coming from. Which made me suspect that perhaps he’d been having exactly the same unquiet thoughts. What made mine less so was the fact that I already had a plan, which I’d been keeping under wraps for maximum dramatic effect. I prepared for a killer performance.
So, on the eve of winter’s last day, the Old Man called his people to an emergency council meeting. The outer wall was almost complete — only the giant gateway remained half built, a massive arch of raw grey stone. One more trip to the quarry would be enough to finish the job, after which the mason could claim the reward I’d promised him.
I don’t wish to brag, but really, folks, the day that I don’t have a plan is the day Hel freezes over. Still, it had to be done in a way that gave Odin back his authority. I knew I was never going to be anything but an outsider in this camp, but as long as Odin was on my side, I was safe. I knew where I stood.
“We all thought he had a plan,” Frey went on. “Now he’s lost us the Sun and Moon, and Freyja into the bargain.” He turned on me, drawing his runesword. “Well, what do you say? What are we going to do now?”
What an actor.
The gauntleted hand on my shoulder gripped me harder than ever now, forcing me to my knees. I yelped. “Please! Give me a chance!” I said.
For a moment the grip held fast. Then, to my relief, it relaxed.
“You’ll have your chance,” said the General. “But your plan had better work. Because if it doesn’t, I promise you’ll be in Nine Worlds of hurt.”
I nodded, dry-mouthed. I believed him. What an actor.
“I promise, by tomorrow night we’ll be in the clear, with nothing to pay, honour and promises intact.”
The day a cowboy builder takes Loki for a ride is the day that pigs fly over the Rainbow Bridge and Lord Surt comes to Asgard for tea and little fairy cakes, wearing a taffeta ball gown and singing mezzo-soprano.
he lunged at Odin, revealing himself in true Aspect at last as one of the tribe of the Rock Folk — massive, savage, and lethal. But Thor was upon him in seconds; a single blow from the Thunderer’s fist was enough to crack the giant’s skull.
The mason looked round at the assembled gods and goddesses, watching him from their shining thrones. His dark eyes narrowed. “Someone’s missing,” he said. “Where’s that little red-haired rat with the freaky eyes?”
Odin shrugged. “Loki? I have no idea.”
“Cavorting with my horse, that’s where!” shouted the mason, clenching his fists. “I knew there was something about that mare! I could tell from its colours! A trick! You’ve tricked me, you two-faced bastards! You slags! You sons and daughters of bitches!”
And at that he lunged at Odin, revealing himself in true Aspect at last as one of the tribe of the Rock Folk — massive, savage, and lethal. But Thor was upon him in seconds; a single blow from the Thunderer’s fist was enough to crack the giant’s skull.
“Sleipnir — that’s our little friend’s name — is going to be very useful to him. He has his father’s powers and mine — the power to cross over land or sea; to travel with a foot in each World; to span the sky in a single step, faster than the Sun and Moon.”
As for Your Humble Narrator, it was some time before I returned to Asgard, and when I did, I was leading a colt — a rather unusual eight-legged colt of a fetching strawberry hue.
I blew a kiss at Heimdall as I approached the Rainbow Bridge.
The Watchman gave me a sour look. “You’re revolting, d’you know that? You seriously gave birth to that thing?”
I gave him my most fetching smile. “I took one for the team,” I said. “I think you’ll find that the others will be more than happy to welcome me back. And as for the General . . .” I patted the colt. “Sleipnir — that’s our little friend’s name — is going to be very useful to him. He has his father’s powers and mine — the power to cross over land or sea; to travel with a foot in each World; to span the sky in a single step, faster than the Sun and Moon.”
Never trust a lover.
Never trust a lover.
—Lokabrenna
the Goddess of Plenty has a great deal tied up, so to speak, in her hair; it’s where most of her powers lie, and without knowing it, in a single snip, Yours Truly had robbed her not only of her beauty, but also of her Goddess Aspect.
Anyway, I wooed her a little, spun her a little yarn or two, and one thing led to another. Fine. Thor had a place of his own to sleep, far from Sif’s bedchamber, so the lady’s reputation was safe — that is, until the moment at which Yours Truly decided (in an early-morning moment of madness) to mark his victory by taking a trophy — in the form of the lady’s hair, which spilled across the pillow like grain.
So shoot me. I cut it off.
To be fair, I assumed she could grow it back, or change her Aspect the way I could. My mistake. How could I have known? Apparently, the Aesir can’t change their shape like the Vanir can. But the Goddess of Plenty has a great deal tied up, so to speak, in her hair; it’s where most of her powers lie, and without knowing it, in a single snip, Yours Truly had robbed her not only of her beauty, but also of her Goddess Aspect.
“No, not a wig.” I opened my eyes. “Hair extensions, made of gold, that would grow just like your natural hair. And it wouldn’t need curling, or styling, or bleach, and — ”
“I know a man,” I said. “A smith. A genius with metals and runes. He’ll spin Sif a new head of hair in no time, and probably throw in some extra gifts for us as a token of goodwill.”
Never trust an artist.
Never trust an artist.
—Lokabrenna
They were the Tunnel Folk, delvers of gold, and their reputation was unmatched.
And so I was reprieved—for a time—and I left Asgard on foot to go in search of the man who would save my skin. Dvalin was his name, and he was one of the Sons of Ivaldi, the smith, and he and his three brothers had their forge in the caverns of World Below. They were the Tunnel Folk, delvers of gold, and their reputation was unmatched. More importantly, they were also half-brothers to Idun, the Healer, and I figured that if I claimed friendship with her, they would be sure to oblige me.
as soon as I had crossed Ida’s plain and entered the forest of Ironwood, I found myself a shortcut. The river Gunnthrà ran through it; it was one of the tributaries that linked the Nine Worlds to their primal source, and a direct link to World Below and the Worlds that lay beyond: Death, Dream, and Pandaemonium.
“Greetings, Sons of Ivaldi,” I said, “from the gods of Asgard.”
Too long in this place could drive a man mad — the gold, the glam, the fumes from the forge.
“Greetings, Dvalin, to you and yours. I bring you marvellous news from Asgard. You and your brothers have been chosen, among all the craftsmen of World Below, to carry out a delicate task, for which your names will be celebrated and your work known throughout the Worlds.
“I also want two special gifts,” I said. “One for my brother Odin, leader of the Aesir, and one for Frey, leader of the Vanir.”
