The Gospel of Loki (5 page)

LESSON 5

Bricks and Mortar

Never trust a labourer.

Lokabrenna

A
ND SO
, Your Humble Narrator received a grudging acceptance, though it was hardly the warm welcome that the General had promised me. It wasn’t just that I was racially different, or physically less imposing, or radical in my opinions, or unfamiliar with their ways. It was simply (and I say this in all modesty) that I was a whole lot
cleverer
than the rest of the folk in Asgard. Clever folk aren’t popular, by and large. They arouse suspicion. They don’t fit in. They can be useful, as I proved on a number of occasions, but among the general population there’s always a sense of vague mistrust, as if the very qualities that make them indispensable also make them dangerous.

There were a few compensations to having corporeal Aspect. Food (jam tarts were my favourites); drink (mostly wine and mead); setting things on fire; sex (although I was still extremely confused by all the taboos surrounding this – no animals, no siblings, no men, no married women, no demons – frankly, it was amazing to me that
anyone
had sex at all, with so many rules against it). There was also sleep, which I enjoyed; and flying above the battlements in hawk Aspect (and occasionally shedding a well-aimed load onto Heimdall’s golden armour as
he stood watch on Bif-rost). This, I discovered, was
humour
, another new sensation for me – and in its way even better than sex, although here again, it was hard to know where to draw the limits.

By then, I had already found out that there was as much xenophobia in Order as in Chaos, especially among the Vanir, of which Heimdall was the worst. In my experience, it’s always the mixed-race types who are the most sensitive, and being half-born of Chaos themselves, they felt a special need to express their moral superiority over such scum as Yours Truly.

Among them, besides Heimdall, 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.

Then there was Bragi, the Bard, and his wife, Idun the Healer, keeper of the Apples of Youth – both lute-playing crystal-gazers of the most tiresome kind, who believed in the healing power of song and liked to wear flowers in their hair. Then there was Njörd, the Fisherman, who spent much of his free time standing in rivers, tickling trout; and Aegir, the Sailor, who, with his glaucous wife Ran had assumed the role of Lord of the Waves. Their hall was underwater, guarded by luminous jellyfish, and they ruled there on thrones made of mother-of-pearl, their long hair waving like seaweed.

On the side of the Aesir, there was Odin’s eldest son Thor, known as the Thunderer (I assumed at first for his unruly bowels), a muscle-bound oaf with more beard than brain and a love of sports and hitting things. His wife was Bright-Haired Sif, a blonde prone to excess poundage, whom Odin had accorded (not without humour, I thought) the title of Goddess of Plenty.

Then there was Frigg, the Enchantress, Odin’s calm, long-suffering wife; Honir, nicknamed the Silent for his apparent ability to speak without ever stopping for breath; Týr, the
god of War, a strong and mostly silent type with an underbite like a bulldog’s; Hoder, Odin’s blind son; and his brother Balder, nicknamed the Fair, whom I hated on sight with a particular intensity.

Why Balder, do you ask? Some things are just instinctive. It wasn’t that he disliked
me
– that, after all, was hardly unprecedented. It wasn’t that women adored him, or that men all wanted to
be
him. It wasn’t even that Balder was handsome, brave, good and true, or that if he as much as farted, birds sang, flowers bloomed and small, furry animals gambolled and frolicked around him in joyous abandon. To tell the truth, I don’t really know
why
I hated Balder. Perhaps because people
liked
him so much; perhaps because he’d never had to struggle for acceptance. Face it, the guy was born with a whole set of golden cutlery in his mouth, and if he was good, it was only because he’d never had to be otherwise. And to make matters worse, it was
he
who first poured me a cup of wine, put a garland on my head, and told me I was welcome.

Welcome.
The snivelling hypocrite.

Welcome?
Hardly the welcome that Odin had led me to expect. And in spite of Balder’s efforts to make me into one of the boys – to rope me into sporting events, to introduce me to unmarried girls, to generally encourage me to let my hair down and ‘chillax’ – I could tell that most of Asgard still secretly despised me. At last they had a whipping boy; someone to despise, to blame. And blame me they did, for
everything
.

If Freyja got a spot on her nose, it was always Loki’s fault. If Bragi’s lute was out of tune, if Thor lost one of his gauntlets, if someone farted audibly during one of Odin’s speeches – ten to one I’d get the blame.

All the others had halls of their own. I was stuck in a back-room with no running water, miles away from anywhere, damp and gloomy and in a draught. I had no servants, no fine clothes, no rank. No one offered to show me around. Call me picky if you like, but I’d hoped that Odin’s new brother might have had
a more royal treatment.

Still, you’ll notice that history doesn’t reveal what happened to Odin’s
other
brothers, the legendary Vili and Ve. Probably buried under a patio somewhere, or scattered across the nine Worlds. In any case, there I was, regarded with veiled hostility by most of my new friends – except for the ladies, from whom I received a slightly warmer reception.

Well, don’t blame
me
for being attractive. Demons are, for the most part. Besides, it wasn’t as if the competition was especially tough. Sweaty, hairy warlords with no polish and no address, whose idea of a good time was to kill a few giants, wrestle a snake and then eat an ox and six suckling pigs without even taking a shower first, whilst belching a popular folk song. Of
course
the ladies gave me the eye. A bad boy is always appealing, and I’d always had a silver tongue.

One of Freyja’s handmaidens seemed especially taken with me – Sigyn, a motherly type with a soupy expression and a not-unpleasant figure, which she hid under a series of demure floral housedresses. Even Thor’s wife, Bright-Haired Sif, wasn’t entirely immune to my charm, which ran more to witty conversation than merely hitting things, a welcome change in Testosterone Central.

Nevertheless, I began to sense that tensions were running against me. I’d been with the Old Man some time by then, and I still had to prove my worth to him. Not that he’d said so in as many words, but there was a kind of chill in the air whenever he and I were alone, and I sensed that sooner or later he would start to put the screws on me. Besides, we’d had trouble from the North: 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.

This was a first for the Rock Folk; we knew they were excellent builders, carving great halls from the mountains, but we’d
never seen them build engines before, or come at us in such numbers. Odin guessed that there must be a new warlord on the scene, maybe working with Gullveig-Heid, with aspirations of godhood. 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. From Asgard, they looked like packs of wolves circling; wary at first, awaiting their opportunity. But Odin knew the Ice Folk to be more of a threat than they appeared. Many had fragments of rune lore bartered from the renegade Vanir, and they were masters of shapeshifting, often travelling in wolf, bear or eagle Aspect. They were less organized than the Rock Folk, living in smaller communities, often warring among themselves, but if at last they had decided to put their rivalries aside, as the Aesir had done with the Vanir . . .

Suffice it to say that Odin was more than a little concerned about this; and although so far neither tribe had managed to reach the Sky Citadel, their numbers were growing alarmingly. The warriors of Asgard – Thor, Týr and Frey – had made short work of the rock-slinging engines of the Rock Folk, but the enemy had not withdrawn as far as we had expected. Instead they remained around Ironwood, mostly hidden from our eyes, which made the Old Man all the more cautious. The perfect time of crisis, in fact, for me to show my value to the gods. All I needed was the right opportunity.

This finally came when Heimdall – who, by token of his keen vision, had appointed himself Watchman for the rest of us – saw a figure on horseback slowly approaching Asgard. The Ice Folk never used horses – horses don’t thrive in the far North. The Rock Folk did, but not often, and besides, the lone rider didn’t look as if he was trying to stage an attack. He was too slow, to start with. Dressed like a rustic from the Lowlands, he was both unarmed and unburdened; his signature showed no trace of glam, and he approached us openly across the plain, without any apparent concern.

This plain was called Ida, and in those days was a barren, arid wasteland, scattered with the fragments of Asgard’s war defences, levelled during the conflict between the Aesir and Vanir. No one crossed it without intent – usually malevolent – and the gods all watched with suspicion as the rider neared the Rainbow Bridge.

Thor was all for hitting first and asking questions afterwards.

Týr, who was even less subtle than Thor, was of the opinion that hitting first, and then hitting some more afterwards, was probably the best way to go.

Heimdall thought it might be a trap, and that the stranger might be hiding a powerful glam behind his humble appearance.

Balder, who always tried to believe the best in everyone – until proved wrong, at which point he would look pained, as if he’d been personally betrayed – said
he
thought the man might be delivering a message of peace from our enemies.

Odin gave no opinion. He simply glanced at me briefly, then gestured at Heimdall to let the man pass. Twenty minutes later, the stranger was standing before Odin’s high seat, with all the gods around him.

Closer inspection revealed him to be a broad-shouldered man with iron-grey hair, as slow and massive as his horse. He wouldn’t give his name. Nothing surprising about
that
– names, like runes, are full of power. Instead he looked around at the hall – which was solidly built from ancient oak – then around at all of us. It was clear he wasn’t impressed.

Finally, he spoke up. ‘Well, so this is Asgard,’ he said. ‘What a mess. What a cowboy job. One big puff could blow it down.’ (At this I winked at Heimdall, who bared his golden teeth and growled.)

‘Are you out of your mind?’ said Thor. ‘This is Asgard, the home of the gods. We’ve withstood
decades
of warfare.’

‘Yes,’ said the man. ‘And it looks it. Wood’s all very well
for a
temporary
settlement, but if you’re looking for permanence, stone’s by far the best way to go. Stone stands in all weather. Stone has a rugged authority. Stone is the future, you mark my words.
That’s
where the smart money’s going to be.’

Odin looked at the stranger through his blue, unflinching eye. ‘Is this a sales pitch?’

The stranger shrugged. ‘I’d be doing you a favour,’ he said. ‘But I can build you a fortress with walls so high, so massive that nothing – not the Ice Folk, not the Rock Folk, nor even Lord Surt himself – will get through. It’ll be a great investment.’

It sounded like a great idea. I knew how anxious Odin was about safeguarding his position. ‘How soon could you build it? And what’s your price?’

‘Oh, eighteen months, give or take a few. I’m only a one-man outfit.’

‘And your price?’ repeated Odin.

‘It’s high. But I think I’m worth it.’

Odin stood up. From his high throne he looked about twenty feet tall. ‘You’ll have to give me an estimate before you start the work,’ he said. (That’s how you talk to builders.)

The builder grinned. ‘So this is the deal. I’m going to need the goddess Freyja as my wife.
And
the Sun and the Moon Shields.’

Freyja was the most beautiful of all the goddesses in Asgard. Red-gold hair, skin like cream; she was Desire incarnate.
Everybody
wanted her – even Odin wasn’t immune – which was why all the gods were outraged at this suggestion (though unsurprisingly, the goddesses seemed willing to negotiate).

As for the Sun and Moon Shields, these had been put in place when Sól and Mani, the sky charioteers, had been assigned their duties. Born from the fires of Chaos itself, bound with runes and glamours, the shields gave their riders protection from the minions of Surt, sent to recover their stolen glam and to return it to Chaos.

To give up Freyja would have been bad enough, but to give
up the Sun and the Moon Shields would have been disastrous. Mani, the Moon, who happened to be awake and off duty at the time, went even paler than usual, and Odin smiled regretfully and shook his head.