The Gospel of Loki

by Joanne M. Harris

Dvalin nodded and set to work.

Dvalin nodded and set to work. His brothers and he worked as a team, smoothly and gracefully. One handled the materials; one cast the runes; one tended the forge. One hammered out the hot metal; one finished the piece with a polishing cloth.

The first of the gifts was for Odin — a spear.

The first of the gifts was for Odin—a spear. It was a lovely piece of work, straight and light and beautiful, carved down the shaft with a ladder of runes. It was a regal weapon, and I grinned inside as I pictured the Old Man’s surprise and pleasure as he received it. “This is Gugnir,” said Dvalin. “She always flies true, and never fails to hit her mark in battle. She’ll make your brother invincible, as long as he keeps her by his side.”

The second gift looked like a toy — a little ship, so dainty that it made you wonder how Dvalin, with his big, clumsy hands, was able to handle it with such ease.

The second gift looked like a toy—a little ship, so dainty that it made you wonder how Dvalin, with his big, clumsy hands, was able to handle it with such ease. But when it was finished, he said with pride: “This is Skidbladnir, greatest of ships. Winds will always favour her. She will never be lost at sea. And when the journey’s done, she can be folded up so small that she’ll fit into your pocket.” And then he uttered a cantrip, and the ship folded up like paper, fold after fold after fold, until it became a silver compass that he dropped into my hand.

“And now for Sif’s hair, if you don’t mind.”

“And now for Sif’s hair, if you don’t mind.” At this the Sons of Ivaldi brought out a shapeless piece of gold, and while one of them held it in the forge’s heat, another used a wheel to spin it into the finest thread. Another cast runes; another sang in a voice as sweet as a nightingale’s, cantrips and spells to bring it to life. Finally, it was finished, gleaming and jewelled and fine as spun silk. “But will it grow?” I asked Dvalin. “Of course. As soon as she sets it in place, it will become a part of her. More beautiful than ever before, rivalling even Freyja’s.”

Everyone has a weakness, and I make it my business to know them all.

All I can say in my defence is that World Below must have clouded my brain. All that gold and glamour — and now was a chance to get some more, and for free. Besides, the children of Chaos can never resist a wager.

“I’ll wager my work against your head.”

“I’ll wager my work against your head.” He gave me a very nasty smile. “Really? That’s all?” I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. These artist types can be very intense, and besides, what would he do with my head? “I’d use it as a doorstop,” said Brokk. “That way anyone coming in or out of my workshop would know what happens to anyone who dares to disparage my craftsmanship.”

Never trust an insect.

Never trust an insect. —Lokabrenna

I went into the passageway and shifted my Aspect to that of a fly.

I went into the passageway and shifted my Aspect to that of a fly. A gadfly, to be precise, quick and sharp and annoying. I flew back into the workshop unseen and watched from the shadows as Brokk picked up a piece of raw gold and flung it into the heart of the forge. Sindri was casting runes into the fire. His style was eccentric, but he was fast, and I watched with curiosity as the piece of gold began to take shape, spinning and turning over the coals. “Now, Brokk,” said Sindri. “The bellows, quick! If the piece cools before its time . . .” Brokk started to pump the giant bellows for all he was worth. Sindri, with his delicate hands, was casting runes as fast as he could. I was starting to feel a little nervous. The piece that hung between them was looking quite impressive. Still in my gadfly Aspect, I buzzed up to Brokk, with his bellows, and stung him sharply on the hand. He cursed, but didn’t flinch, and moments later the piece was complete: a beautiful golden arm-ring, worked and chiselled with hundreds of runes. I flew back into the passageway and rapidly pulled on my clothes.

“This is Draupnir,” he said, with a grin. “A gift from me for your General. On every ninth night, she’ll give birth to eight rings just like her. Do the maths, Trickster. I’ve just given your people the key to unending wealth. Quite a princely gift, don’t you think?” “Not bad.” I shrugged. “But the spear makes Odin invincible. Which one do you think he’ll value most?”

“This is Gullin-bursti,” said Brokk, as he showed me the result of their work. “He’ll carry Frey across the sky on his back, and light the way ahead.” I noticed that he gave the word “ahead” an inflexion I didn’t like at all.

I flew into Brokk’s face and stung him right between the eyes, stung him hard enough to draw blood.

“This is Mjølnir,” said Brokk, with a snarl. “The greatest hammer ever forged. In the hands of the Thunderer it will protect all of Asgard. It will never leave his side; it will always serve him well; and when a show of modesty is required, it will fold up like a pocketknife and — ”

“A bet’s a bet.

And it was the sound of their laughter that followed me back to my bolt-hole, where I pulled out the stitches and howled in rage and swore that one day I would pay them back — all of them, and especially my loving brother — in full. In blood.

And it was the sound of their laughter that followed me back to my bolt-hole, where I pulled out the stitches and howled in rage and swore that one day I would pay them back — all of them, and especially my loving brother — in full. In blood. The stitches healed quickly. The pain went away. But Brokk’s awl was a magical tool. It left a permanent mark on me. Nine neat little cross-stitch scars that faded silvery with time, but never vanished. After that, my smile was never quite as true, and there was something in my heart, a barbed thing, like a roll of wire, that never ceased to trouble me. The gods never suspected it. Except perhaps for Odin, whose eye I often felt on me, and whose morality, I knew, was almost as dubious as my own.

Basically, never trust anyone.

Power always comes at a price, and the higher they climb, the farther they fall. I meant to engineer that fall, and to laugh as they came tumbling down.

Power always comes at a price, and the higher they climb, the farther they fall. I meant to engineer that fall, and to laugh as they came tumbling down. Till then, I bided my time, and smiled as sweetly as my scarred lips would allow, until the day I would take my revenge and bring the gods down, one by one.

And so I became the Trickster, despised and yet invaluable, hiding my contempt for them all behind my scarred and twisted smile.

“The Sons of Ivaldi may not have been judged the best craftsmen in the Nine Worlds — although I still dispute this — but they are undoubtedly the finest goldsmiths I’ve ever seen, as I’m sure you’d agree, if you’d seen their work.

“Well,” I began, helping myself to a grape. “The Sons of Ivaldi may not have been judged the best craftsmen in the Nine Worlds—although I still dispute this—but they are undoubtedly the finest goldsmiths I’ve ever seen, as I’m sure you’d agree, if you’d seen their work. I’m talking about gold, Freyja. Necklaces, bracelets, the lot—shining like scraps of sunlight. And there was one particular piece—a necklace like you’ve never seen. A choker, broad as the length of your thumb, made up of links so delicately crafted that it might almost be a living thing, moulded to every curve of your neck, gleaming, reflecting, perfecting—” Freyja gave me a sharp look. “Perfecting?” “Sorry. My mistake. Of course. My lady, you’re perfect already.”

“Four nights,” said Dvalin. “After that, the necklace is yours forever.”

They say “never trust a one-eyed man.” But some might say that where women are concerned, all men are one-eyed, and even that eye doesn’t see much.

They tell you revenge isn’t worth it. I say there’s nothing finer.

Heimdall, looking like a golden retriever triumphantly bringing one of his master’s slippers, flung me at the General’s feet.

Loki has shown more loyalty than any of your people. Lay a hand on him again, you overgrown canary, and I’ll knock you off your perch for good. All right?”

He left, grinding his golden teeth so violently that sparks flew.

Slowly, Odin shook his head. Behind him, on the back of his throne, his ravens — Hugin and Munin, the physical manifestations of Allfather’s thoughts in bird form — clicked their beaks and glared at me.

“Please,” she said. “I’ll do anything. . . .” “I think we’ve established that,” I said.

And that’s why the Goddess of Desire has two Aspects: the Maiden, ripe and beautiful as a golden peach in summertime; and the Crone, the carrion demon of battle, hideously beautiful, gloved in blood to her armpits and screaming with unsatisfied lust.

the business with Freyja had changed him. He became increasingly moody and withdrawn. He’d always been fond of travelling, but now he left Asgard more often than ever — alone, except for Sleipnir, his horse — and often for weeks and months on end.

There was darkness in Odin, a darkness that only I understood, and I could see how it preyed on him, eating him from the inside.

Remember Honir the Silent? The same young man that Odin had sent with Mimir to spy on the Vanir long ago. A vapid, indecisive type, better at sports than at thinking. Basically, an expendable, which was why Odin chose to take him along.

And so, when Odin suggested a little trip out of Asgard, I was happy to oblige. There were three of us: the General, Honir, and Yours Truly. Remember Honir the Silent? The same young man that Odin had sent with Mimir to spy on the Vanir long ago. A vapid, indecisive type, better at sports than at thinking. Basically, an expendable, which was why Odin chose to take him along. As for myself, I like to think that Odin valued my company; or maybe it was just to make sure I didn’t cause trouble while he was away.

I didn’t see that the sky looked any different from the sky we could see in Asgard, but when Odin was in poetic mood, there was no reasoning with him.

“Ark. Share your meal with me,” it said, “and I’ll make sure the meat is cooked.”

The eagle kept on eating, tearing at the pieces of meat with its brutal, bloodstained claws.

“Come on. A joke’s a joke. Put me down and finish your lunch. You can even have my share if you like.”

“Please!” I said. “I’ll do anything!” Finally, the eagle spoke. “Ark. You will?” “I swear!” I said. “Ark.” The voice was harsh and dry. “Swear you’ll bring me Idun, and her golden apples. Then I’ll let you go.” “Idun?” Too late, I saw the trap. “And the golden apples. Ark.”

“Unless you want to experience the world’s worst case of road rash.”

“Please,” I said, when the power of speech finally returned to me. “It can’t be done. It’s impossible.” “Ark. I suggest you find a way,” said the eagle, making for the next patch of scree. “Unless you want to experience the world’s worst case of road rash.”

“Remember your oath,” said the eagle. “Idun, and her apples.”

“Remember your oath,” said the eagle. “Idun, and her apples.” I flipped him the bird. Even doing that hurt.

Idun cut me a sliver of fruit. “Eat this. It’ll make you feel better.” It did — Idun’s golden apples were known throughout the Nine Worlds. They were Ivaldi’s wedding gift to her when she moved in with Bragi, and as well as conferring perpetual youth (always a bonus when applying for godhood), they also acted as a kind of universal tonic, healing most ills, from warts to the pox, and all but the most lethal of wounds. My cuts and bruises healed at once; the pain in my body disappeared; my glam was restored to its usual strength. “Thanks. That hit the spot,” I said. “Now about that tree . . .” She looked at me with eyes that were innocent as summer sky. “Shouldn’t we tell Bragi first? Or Odin — he’ll know what to do.” “What, and disappoint them if the apples don’t turn out to be like yours? No, let’s just go and check for ourselves. Then, if it’s good news, we’ll all celebrate.” I told you she was innocent. No sense of threat or danger at all. It was like abducting a kitten — but then, I was already running so many risks that the last thing I wanted at that point was a challenge.

I shielded us with the rune Ýr as we passed Heimdall’s lookout post on the Bridge. Then I led Idun as fast as I could into the plains of the Middle Worlds. It wasn’t easy — she stopped to sniff every flower on the way and to listen to every bird — but at last the enemy found us. In eagle Aspect he tracked us down, then, swooping from the leaden sky, he picked up Idun, basket and all, in his talons and flew away.

As I’d suspected, my avian friend was one of the Ice Folk — one of the worst. His name was Thiassi,

I cast the rune Bjarkán as he left and focused on his signature. As I’d suspected, my avian friend was one of the Ice Folk—one of the worst. His name was Thiassi, and he was a warlord of the far North, an ally of Gullveig, armed with her runes, and I’d just given him what he most craved—Idun’s apples, eternal youth, and the chance to make a serious bid for godhood.

It didn’t take long. The apples of youth, like all cosmetics, work on a cumulative principle. Meaning: Once you stop, you drop.

I pulled on Freyja’s feather cloak. An interesting sensation, though I had no time to enjoy it just then. I took flight at once, leaving them to watch me, open-mouthed, as I flew, and made my way back to the Northlands, shielding myself with runes all the way.

A single cantrip and I’d changed her into something a falcon could carry. Then I swept her basket of apples underneath my falcon cloak and let it transform me once again. A moment later, we were off — a falcon, flying hard and high, carrying a hazelnut.

I was three-quarters of the way there when I saw the speck in the sky, hunting me, observing me.

Wings alight, he lost control and fell in flames to the parapet. After that, they finished him off — old as they were, with sticks and rocks — and that was the end of Thiassi. The greatest hunter who’d ever lived, flame-grilled like a chicken and killed by a gang of old-age pensioners.

Laughter disarms the fiercest of men.

Laughter disarms the fiercest of men. —Lokabrenna

The best part of revenge, I found, was earning the enemy’s gratitude:

It wasn’t too long before the news of Thiassi’s death reached the Middle Worlds. I may have had something to do with that; after all, it isn’t every day that Yours Truly turns out to be a hero. The best part of revenge, I found, was earning the enemy’s gratitude: Bragi wrote songs about me; people sang them in roadside inns. Soon, it was common knowledge that Loki had lured the Hunter to an ignominious death. Before I knew it, I was famous; my name was on everyone’s lips. Women loved it—though I’ll admit I could have been more careful.

As it was, I’d forgotten about Thiassi’s daughter, Skadi.

Skadi gave me a poisonous look. The whip in her hand hissed and slithered. “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re Loki, the Trickster. Everyone’s saying you planned the whole thing. You lured my father into a trap and then you disgraced his memory.” “It wasn’t exactly like that,” I said. “Really? You weren’t as modest when you were spreading the tale around the Middle Worlds.” “That was poetic licence,” I said. “Bragi uses it all the time.” Odin smiled. “Now, Huntress,” he said. “You should know better than to listen to rumours. Stay here awhile — have a rest, drink our mead — and we’ll discuss how best to handle this.”