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Authors: Joanne M. Harris

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LESSON 9

Hammer and Tongs

Never trust an insect.

Lokabrenna

B
ROKK’S WORKSHOP
was not at all like that of Dvalin and his brothers. For a start, he had a regular forge, fed with regular fuel, and therefore had none of the natural advantages enjoyed by the sons of Ivaldi. His brother Sindri, whom I’d rather expected to be the brains behind the outfit, looked little more than a halfwit. There were no objects on display here; no weapons, no jewellery; only a pile of raw materials: metals, pieces of sacking, animal skins, lumps of wood and other pieces of detritus more suited to a ragman’s cart than to an artist’s studio. And it stank; of sweat and goat and smoke and oil and sulphur. Hard to imagine that out of this mess could ever come anything beautiful.

However, I was suspicious. I watched the two brothers carefully as they began work, and saw that, although they both seemed boorish and slow, Sindri had very nimble hands, and Brokk’s arms were very strong as he worked at the giant bellows that would bring the forge to sufficient heat.

This gave me a sudden idea. ‘I’m going outside for some air,’ I said. ‘Call me when you’ve finished.’

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, assumed my human Aspect again and rapidly pulled on my clothes.

A moment later, Brokk came to find me and showed me the golden arm-ring.

‘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?’

Brokk went back into the workshop, muttering. I resumed my gadfly Aspect and followed him.

This time, from the pile of materials, Brokk selected a pigskin and a fist-sized lump of gold, and flung them both into the fire. While his brother shot runes at the work in progress, Brokk wielded the bellows, and something big began to emerge; something that growled and grunted and snarled and glared with
burning amber eyes from the golden heart of the forge.

Once more I flew towards Brokk and stung him on the neck. He yelled, but never stopped working the bellows. A moment later, Sindri pulled out a giant golden boar from the forge, and I fled back to get dressed again.

‘This is Gullin-bursti,’ said Brokk, as he showed me 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. But I shrugged again, and said: ‘Not bad. But the sons of Ivaldi have given Frey mastery of the ocean. And what about the Thunderer? You’ll have to work harder to please Thor. The sons of Ivaldi have given him a wife whose beauty will be the envy of every woman, and the desire of every man. Can you and your brother offer more?’

Brokk glared and went inside without a word. In gadfly Aspect I followed him, and watched as, still glaring, he pulled from the pile of raw materials a piece of iron as big as his head. He threw it into the heart of the forge, then, as Sindri started to shape it with runes, he wielded the bellows, his face turning red with the effort.

I could already see that this third artefact was shaping up to be something unique. What was it? A weapon? I thought it was; shaped like the rune
Thurís
and snapping with glam and energy. I had to make sure that this time it failed; and so I flew into Brokk’s face and stung him right between the eyes, stung him hard enough to draw blood. He gave a roar of anger and raised a hand to sweep me aside – and for a moment, a second, no more, he loosened his grip on the bellows.

Sindri cried out; ‘
No! Don’t stop!’

Brokk redoubled his efforts. But it was too late; the weapon that had taken shape in the forge was already losing its substance. Sindri cursed and started to cast runes at an incredible speed. Could he salvage the delicate work? I was inclined to believe he could not. Even if he managed to save it somehow, I
knew it wouldn’t be perfect.

I flew back into the passageway, resumed my Aspect (and my clothes). I was waiting when Brokk came out, blood still trickling down his face and something, wrapped in a cloth, in his hands.

‘Well?’ I said.

‘Well, this is it,’ said Brokk, unwrapping the object.

It was a warhammer, I saw; heavy and brutal and laden with glam from its nose to the tip of its handle – a handle that was rather short, the only flaw in a weapon that even I could tell was wholly unique; unique and uniquely desirable.

‘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 pocket knife and—’

‘Excuse me,’ I interrupted. ‘A show of modesty? Are we still talking about a hammer?’

Brokk displayed those awful teeth. ‘Of course Thor loves his wife,’ he said. ‘But when it comes to impressing his friends, a giant weapon is all he needs.’

I pulled a face. The Maggots rarely manage humour, and when they do, it tends to be coarse.

‘We’ll see about that, shall we?’ I said. ‘As for your weapon, it seems to me to be a little – ah, short in the shaft.’

‘It’s what you do with it that counts,’ growled Brokk. ‘Now, shall we get going? My brother and I have a wager to win.’

I led the way to Asgard.

LESSON 10

Needle and Thread

Basically, never trust anyone.

Lokabrenna

I
WAS FEELING QUIETLY CONFIDENT
as we arrived in Odin’s hall. Sif was already waiting for me (her head still wrapped in a turban); Thor at her side like a thundercloud. Odin was watching from his throne, his one eye gleaming with anticipation. Heimdall was looking slightly put out – I guess he hadn’t expected me to make good my promise to return. And the goddesses – especially Sigyn, who had been making eyes at me since I arrived – were watching me expectantly, no doubt wondering whether I would manage to save the day once again.

Brokk, looking (and smelling) all the more repulsive for being in the daylight, stood at my side with his three gifts, with the golden boar Gullin-bursti growling at the end of his chain, and the hammer sticking out of his waistband.

‘Who’s this?’ said the Old Man.

Brokk said his piece and explained about our wager.

Odin raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, let’s see these gifts of yours,’ he said. ‘We’ll vote on their merit afterwards.’

I shrugged. ‘I think you’ll find—’ I began.

‘Let’s see them, Trickster,’ said Odin.

I presented my gifts. Brokk offered his. After what seemed
like an unnecessarily lengthy interval, Odin gave his judgement.

‘Ivaldi’s sons have done well,’ he said. ‘Their work is quite remarkable.’

‘Isn’t it?’ I winked at Sif, who was already wearing her new head of hair. True to Dvalin’s promise, the hair extensions had bonded perfectly with Sif’s own hair, restoring her Goddess Aspect.

She gave me a grudging look. ‘It’s all right.’

‘And what about the spear?’ I said. ‘
And
the compass that turns into a ship . . .’

Odin nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘But Brokk’s gifts are also remarkable. The hammer, Mjølnir, especially.’

‘What? That little stubby thing?’

Odin gave a chilly smile. ‘It’s true, the handle’s a little short. But even so, it’s a magnificent piece, more impressive than my spear, or the Reaper’s runesword. And in Thor’s hands, it could mean the end of all our current defence issues.’

Thor was holding Mjølnir protectively in the crook of his arm. ‘I agree. Brokk wins.’

Odin turned to the other gods. ‘What do you think?’

Frey nodded. ‘I say Brokk.’

‘Heimdall?’

‘Brokk.’

‘Njörd?’

‘Brokk.’

‘Balder?’

Golden Boy sighed. ‘Oh, dear. Honestly, I’m afraid it’s Brokk.’

Aesir and Vanir, one by one, voted Brokk’s gifts the superior. All except Sif, who was plaiting her new hair, Idun, who didn’t like weapons, Bragi, who was already working on my death anthem and Sigyn, who was watching me with a disturbingly motherly look, as if at any moment she might be impelled to put a soothing hand on my forehead.

I was revolted. ‘Seriously?’

Odin shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. You lost.’

Brokk’s dark eyes lit up. ‘I win.’

‘That’s right,’ I told him. ‘You’re the best. Now about that silly wager—’

‘Your head belongs to me,’ said Brokk, pulling out his knife from its sheath.

‘I’ll give you its weight in gold instead,’ I said, retreating a step or two.

‘No deal,’ said Brokk. ‘I want your head. That way, anyone walking into my workshop will know how highly I value my reputation.’

‘How about double or quits?’ I said, taking another step backwards.

He grinned, once more showing his disgusting teeth. ‘Tempting . . . but no. I’ll take the head.’

‘I guess you’ll have to catch me, then,’ I said, shifting into my Wildfire Aspect. In less than a second I was out of the hall, trailing smoke behind me. But Thor was even quicker than that, and he was wearing his gauntlets.

‘Oh no, you don’t. Shift back,’ he said.

I struggled and cursed in Thor’s big fist, but knew I had no chance of escape and resumed my habitual Aspect. Now Yours Truly was covered in soot and clad in nothing but his skin.
Not
my finest moment.

I appealed to the Old Man. ‘Odin, please . . .’

‘A bet’s a bet. You lost. It’s out of my hands,’ he said.

‘Frey? Njörd? Anyone?’

No one seemed ready to intercede. In fact, I thought that a number of them showed signs of a callous enjoyment. The bastards were enjoying the show. Heimdall’s eyes were gleaming, and Týr had actually brought snacks.

Thor dropped me at Brokk’s feet; beaten, exhausted, abandoned by all. But brilliance in extremis has always been one of my attributes.

I put up my hands. ‘All right. I give up.’

I heard Sigyn gasp.

‘Brokk, be my guest.’

Brokk raised the knife. He pulled back my hair, exposing my throat to the wicked blade . . .

‘Er – hang on a minute,’ I said. ‘I thought our deal was for the head.’

Brokk looked nonplussed. ‘Well, so it is.’

‘But you were going to slit my throat,’ I said, with feigned indignation. ‘Fair’s fair, the head belongs to you. But no one promised you the neck. In fact, the neck is out of bounds. Totally and utterly. Put as much as a scratch on the neck, and the deal’s off. A bet’s a bet. Don’t you agree, everyone?’

For a moment I watched as Brokk struggled with this new information. ‘But how do I . . .?’

‘Not the neck,’ I said.

‘But—’

‘You set the stakes,’ I told him. ‘You were the one who insisted.’

‘But I can’t take the head without the neck!’

‘Fine by me,’ I said, and grinned.

Brokk’s face darkened. Behind him, the Aesir and Vanir began to smile. Even Thor, who had a rudimentary sense of humour at best, was looking amused.

Brokk turned to Odin. ‘That’s not fair! You can’t let him get away with this!’

‘I’m sorry, Brokk,’ Odin said. ‘You made the bet. It’s out of my hands.’ His face was stern as granite, but I knew that inside he was smiling.

For a moment longer, Brokk tried to find words to express himself. His fists clenched. His body shook. His dark face darkened still more with rage. Then he turned on me, eyes smouldering like the coals from his forge.

‘You think you’ve outwitted me, Trickster,’ he said. ‘Well, maybe I can’t claim your head. But since it now belongs to me, I can at least make some improvements.’

‘What? Are you going to cut my hair into a more flattering
style?’

Brokk shook his head. ‘No. But that smart mouth of yours can be taught a lesson. I can do that, if nothing else.’

And from his pocket he pulled out a leatherworker’s awl and a long, thin leather thong.

I said: ‘You can’t be serious.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Brokk, with a grin. ‘We Tunnel Folk aren’t such humorists as you seem to believe. Hold his head, someone.’

And so, while Heimdall held me down (of course, it
had
to be Goldie, and I could tell he was enjoying himself), Brokk sewed my lips together. It took nine stitches, each of them like being punched in the mouth by a fistful of wasps.

But much as it hurt, it didn’t hurt as much as did their laughter. Yes, they
laughed
, my so-called friends; they laughed as I struggled and whimpered, and no one moved a finger to help, not even Odin, who had sworn to treat me like a brother – but we all know what happened to
them
, don’t we? Bragi, Njörd, Frey, Honir, Thor – even goody-two-shoes Balder joined in the laughter, succumbing to peer-group pressure like the weakling he secretly was.

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.

As for the rest of them, they thought I’d forgotten. I never did. ‘A stitch in time saves nine’, or so goes the saying among
the Folk. Well, I could have saved the Nine Worlds. I could have halted Ragnarók. But the gods, in their arrogance and greed, had clarified my position. I would never be one of them. I knew that now. I was alone. I would always be alone. I’d learnt my lesson for good, this time.

Basically, never trust
anyone
.

‘Every dog has his day’, as the old Middle-Worlds saying goes. Every dog and every god, and now I began to long for the day when our roles would be reversed, and I would be the one looking down on all of
them
as they pleaded and cried. That day would come, we all knew that. Change is the wheel on which the Worlds turn, and the time would come when gods would be dogs, howling as everything they had built came down in ruins around them. Power always comes at a price, and the higher they climb, the further 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.

BOOK: The Gospel of Loki
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