Stormbringer (8 page)

If there's one thing Loki Laufeyjarson never lacked for, it was children. He'd tell you they're a side effect of living a long life. This, like many things Loki says, would be a lie.

His eldest child is a daughter.

The story goes that once upon a time, the witch Gullveig came to the gates of Ásgarðr. Three times the gods killed her for it, driving spears into her breast, and three times was her body burned. When finally the deed was done for good, when Gullveig's magic resurrected her no more, all that was left was her blackened heart, burned upon her pyre. Loki, it is said, took this heart and ate it, and from this he birthed all the evil in the world.

This story, needless to say, is an exaggeration. Nonetheless, Loki does have an eldest daughter, and her name is Eimyrja.

Loki's second child was a son. We don't talk about that one, and neither does Loki. The boy was taken from him and, once the deed was done, Loki swore an oath that he would never lie with another such as the child's father. Like many oaths of Loki's, this is one he broke.

Children three through five were monsters. Their mother, Angrboða, the Grief-Bringer, was one of the
íviðjur
, the
jötnar
of Járnviðr, the Iron Wood. Her hatred of Ásgarðr was strong and so, at that time, was Loki's; fresh and raw from the loss of his second child. That spite and pain and rage became the couple's children. The first was Fenrir, the great wolf, who was bound in chains upon an island. The second, Hel, had half-corpse skin that saw her exiled to the lands of the dishonored dead. The third, Jörmungandr, grew so large in size it was thrown into the ocean, where it encircled the world with room to spare.

Child number six was a mistake. When Ásgarðr was still young, the
æsir
hired a stranger to build a wall around its borders. As always with the gods, they promised much in return for the task, under stipulations they thought could not be met. They had demanded the wall be built within three seasons, and that the builder have help from no other man. The builder agreed, so long as he could still employ the services of Svaðilfari, whom the gods thought of as his stallion.

Svaðilfari, needless to say, was no man. He was also not a stallion, but a
jötunn
of a kind the gods were not used to seeing.

Loki, of course, being a
jötunn
himself, knew Svaðilfari for what he was, and so encouraged the gods to take the builder's contract, thinking it amusing to see them bested.

When it looked as if Ásgarðr's wall would be built on time, the gods returned to Loki and threatened him with pain and death unless he could find some way to stop it. So Loki took the shape of Svaðilfari's people, and fluffed his feathers and flicked his tail, and the two went galloping off into the forest.

Needless to say, the builder was enraged at this seduction and, in his rage, the magic that had made him seem a man was broken, revealing him to be a
jötunn.
The gods called for Thor, the
jötunn
-killer, and by the time Loki returned from his pointless tryst, the builder was dead and Ásgarðr's wall unfinished.

Sometime later, Loki gave birth to Sleipnir, whose shape was that of his father and whose throat could voice no words. The gods took him for a horse, too.

Loki's last three children were with his wife, Sigyn. The first two were born as boys, Váli and Nari. Like their father, they were
jötunn,
but Loki hid their horns and feathers with the same skin curse that held his.

The children, of course, knew exactly what they were, thanks to the efforts of their mother. Sigyn would take them into the Járnviðr, where they would spend quiet nights with Angrboða's clan. She would watch them play with the young
íviðja
girls, and dream of the day their true skins could be revealed.

This day came, not long after Sigyn gave birth to Loki's final child, his daughter Eisa. By then, Loki's place among the gods had been rescinded. He was captured and imprisoned, bound by iron chains Odin made from Nari's entrails. Entrails obtained when Odin undid the skin curse laid on Váli, whose horns and feathers brought with them a terrible berserk. When it cleared, Nari was dead. In fear and shame, Váli fled into the woods.

For her part, Sigyn vowed to stay with her husband in his prison, but a vile cave was no place to raise a daughter. Nor, Sigyn thought, was Ásgarðr, having seen the awful fates given to her husband's other offspring. And so she sent Eisa away, to be raised by Loki's eldest, safe among the
jötnar.

Nine children, all in all, called monsters by the gods, imprisoned and killed and exiled.

Nine children and, it must be said, three grandchildren. Born to Loki's banished son, raised in ignorance of their lineage.

Their story is something else entirely.

More time passes. I spend it staring at the ceiling, wishing I had my cell phone. Or, at the very least, a fucking cigarette.

I have neither, however, so instead I occupy myself with delusions of rescue. These mainly involve Sigmund, dressed in some suitably revealing “armor,” kicking in the door to the cell, crying my name in an anguished way, then coming to rub himself all over me while stroking my horns and telling me how brave I am and how worried he was.

Because to hell with reality, he's joined a moment later by Sigyn, covered in blood and brandishing Magni's head like a trophy. The pair kiss me senseless for a while, then unlock my chains and suddenly it's time for a nice soft bed and a threesome.

I'm halfway through imagining the taste of Sigmund's tongue and the feel of Sigyn's hand between my thighs when the cell door bursts open once again.
Jötunn
anatomy is discreet in these matters, which is nice because I'm technically naked and getting caught by Forseti with a raging boner is not a deliverable on my current project plan.

Forseti is grim and stern and, sadly, also trailing Thor's brats behind him.

“Is it time to go yet?” I ask. “ 'Cause it's getting kinda dull in here and you really wouldn't like me when I'm bored.”

“Silence, silver tongue,” Forseti says. “From now on you will speak only when spoken to.”

“Or what?” I ask. When Magni grins, it occurs to me I may come to regret the question.

“How does this work, then?” he says. To his brother, not to me. As he speaks, he raises his left hand. There's something on the palm, a tattoo in dark ink, still raw-edged and fresh.

The design on the tattoo is familiar. It should be; it's part of the one repeated over and over on my own back.

“The curse's runes are complex,” Móði is saying. “I couldn't quite—” He shoots one look at me, swallows visibly, then continues, “Spit will be pain. Blood, agony.”

(oh, fuck)

I know how this goes. Back in the '70s I spent an evening in a bar in Hong Kong, buying drinks for a shitfaced Sun Wukong. Sometime between the “falling down” and “passed out” stages of drunkenness, the Monkey God told me about his so-called Journey to the West. Specifically, the “magic torture headband” part of it.

It hadn't, by his account, been the best experience of his life. Even with a Buddhist priest holding the whip, and a Bodhisattva of compassion watching from the sidelines.

Here, now, in this cell, I have neither of those things. Instead, what I have are three bloodthirsty assholes who still believe in blood vengeance and slavery.

And one of them is licking the palm of his left hand.

This time, it takes me longer to come back. Bound and trapped, the skin of my back and biceps burning like raw flesh rubbed with sea salt.

It doesn't last long, but it doesn't have to. Not with a thousand years held just beneath the surface. The memory of poison, hissing as it fills the hollows of burned-out sockets, the taste of it running down a throat already left black and full of holes.

When I howl, the earth itself echoes with my pain, but this time no succor is coming. No bowl held in trembling hands will reappear above my head, bringing a comfort timed by the agonizing
drip drip drip
of the countdown till world's end.

Instead, I get a slap across the cheek.

“—t's wrong with it? You said it would be a moment, only.”

I'm hauled upright, eyes blind and Wyrdsight splintered by my own fear, awareness of the world outside breaking further with each trembling shudder of my hearts.

“
Ergi
jötunn
bitch can't take a little pain.”

I lash out, or try to, hands held back first by chains, then by a weight, pressing me hard against the wall, cold stone rough against my cheek and chest and—

“Control yourself, your hysterics shame us all.”

Forseti. That's Forseti's voice, and his arms I can feel holding me still. Jesus. Fuck. The little shit is right. PTSD and panic attacks won't help me now. Not with—with—

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

The word runs in my head, over and over, and I use it to time my breath. In, fuck, out, fuck, in, fuck, out, fuck.

Slowly, piece by piece, I take and all the fear and pain—all the helplessness—and file it away into a box. The box is shaped like a heart, and it beats black venom, eating up every awful thing it's fed. And, as it swells and fattens, I feel my breathing slow.

Then, finally:

“Well. That was fun.” Describing my voice as “thready” would be generous, and when Forseti steps back, I slump in an exhausted heap against the wall, bones dissolving into slurry beneath my skin.

“That is your leash.” Forseti is grim and dour, from his voice to his stance to the thin line of his lips, and the taste of it is like the dull gray lead of bullet. “Be obedient, and your masters will not be forced to use it.”

I stare straight at Magni. He's grinning, eyes gleaming with a dark malice that sends a strange ache straight through my hearts.

After Ragnarøkkr, Thor had been unrecognizable beneath his wounds, face all but torn away, guts spilling out over his belt. He had no love for the
jötnar,
was a berserker through and through, but I refuse to believe he would look now on his sons with pride.

Maybe. Or maybe that's just Lain talking, too much of Baldr's soft heart and Travis Hale's modern sensibilities. For all the news would have us believe otherwise, violence and torture are just so
unfashionable
nowadays. So many people have forgotten so much about just how blood-soaked the past could be.

“The runes will trigger from any distance,” Móði says. “Do not think running will save you.” He can't look at me when he speaks.

“Got it,” I say, somehow managing to push myself off the wall and stand.

I tell myself I'm not going to kill them. Assholes don't deserve the comforts of Hel's halls.

Forseti unbolts me from the floor, leaving me in the chains and handing the end to Magni like a leash. The three of them drag me out of the cell, through dark hallways I don't recognize and up a set of stairs into the sun.

There's a moment—just a single fleeting moment—when all the horror of the day is gone. Blown away by the clean, fresh air of Ásgarðr, cleansed by the bright light of Sól's only daughter.

Ásgarðr was home, for a while. It's nice to be back.

Or would be, if Magni wasn't pulling on my collar, dragging me forward like the big feathered dog he doubtlessly thinks I am.

Four horses are standing just ahead. Four horses and one young woman.

I bite back my grin and say instead, “Am I walking, then?”

“The fourth mount is yours,” Forseti says. “This journey is not mine to make. You will bring Magni and Móði to where they need to go and perform for them any task they do desire. You know the consequences if you do not.”

“Yeah yeah, more things for the email to Safe Work Australia, I got it.” As we approach the woman, I give a grin. “Þrúðr,” I say.

She huffs, refusing to meet my eye.

Þrúðr, Thor's eldest and only daughter. She takes after her mother more than she does her father, fine-skinned and long-limbed, curvy in sought-after places, with rich red lips and hair of shimmering gold. Literally shimmering gold, because divine genetics are strange things.

She's also, currently, stiff-backed, with her chin held high and red rings around her eyes, and I'm not the only one whose gaze she refuses to meet.

We mount up. My horse ends up being a cantankerous stallion more suited to hauling logs than carrying riders. There's nothing below my waist that's remotely suited to a saddle, so I spend some time fixing tack as appropriate. While I do so, Magni leers at me from atop his own mount and says:

“We couldn't find you a gelding. So you'll have to control your lusts yourself.”

I don't even bother looking up. After the first hundred years the taunt gets kinda old. Besides, right now? It might even be useful.

“Fortunately for me,” I say, “Odin isn't here to whore me out to buy his trinkets. And I doubt I have the right”—and here I glance at Þrúðr—“
virtues
to be worried you'll be interested in the same.”

Þrúðr's fingers tighten against her horse's reins, her neck going a delightful, angry red. She still won't look at me or at her brothers, for all Móði keeps trying to catch her eye.

Meanwhile, Magni's busy growling in my direction, holding up his tattooed palm in threat. “Have care how you speak,
níðingr.
Your shame is yours and yours alone.”

I shrug, dumping the unbuckled saddle on the ground and swinging myself up onto my horse. I hope I remember how to ride. Bareback, even. In handcuffs. Jesus, but it's been a while, and never in these metaphorical lack of shoes.

The horse rolls its eyes and stomps, unsure of what strange new thing is sitting on its back. I try to arrange myself in such a way that I won't gut it with my claws or choke it on the chain Magni has attached to his own saddle. It's awkward and ungainly and stupid, and Magni laughs at my efforts, tugging on the leash as soon as I'm settled, lurching me forward and causing my already nervous horse to buck and roll its eyes.

“Whoa, there, Gluestick,” I say, trying to both calm it and ignore Magni in the same action.

From my left, I hear Móði say, “Brother, enough.” Magni mutters something under his breath, but the chain goes slack.

The next time I think to notice, I catch Þrúðr regarding me with large, mournful eyes.

There's no parade as we ride out of Ásgarðr. No cheering crowds or saluting
einherjar
or maidens throwing flowers at our feet. Instead, it's just us and the horses, slinking out one of Ásgarðr's back roads. Even Forseti gives up watching our exit after we round the first corner.

“Not much of a send-off, is it? Man, last time I went off chasing Mjölnir, it was with your dad. I think every last living thing in Ásgarðr was there to watch us go. 'Course, that could've been 'cause your old man was dressed up like Freyja at the time. Such a pretty dress. The veil really compliment—”

“Silence!” Magni holds up his hand in threat. I sigh dramatically.

“You kids didn't inherit his sense of humor, that's for sure.”

“He was taken from us far too soon,” Móði says, shooting a glare my way. “Someone made sure of that.”

As if the Ragnarøkkr was my fucking fault! Well. Whatever. Arguing that one's been a lost cause for centuries, no need to flog a captured
jötunn
any more than he's already been.

Instead, this captured
jötunn
decides to enjoy the sunshine. The fresh air and cool breeze. Distant laughter and the gentle sound of rustling leaves. Even with all of that, there's an almost eerie silence lurking in the gaps. Because, for all its beauty, Ásgarðr is a tiny country town. An exclusive seven-star resort located on its very own private island, away from cars and trains and planes and even the eternal hum of bare electric lines. Beautiful, but desolate, too. A hollow void beneath a veneer of lush green and dappled gold.

I'm not used to this, not anymore. Not after nearly a century spent lurking at the heart of a human metropolis, a gyre pulling thousands of souls into its depths. Pandemonium is concrete and steel and smog, the endless narrative of three hundred thousand mortal lives, of dreams whispered down wires of copper and of glass. That's my home, now, the messy chaos of Travis Hale, of Lokabrenna. Not the wilds and silence of Ásgarðr.

Maybe the mortals are right. Maybe you really can't go home.

Somewhere, overhead, a single raven watches from the sky. Down here, on the ground, Gluestick twitches as the tips of my own clipped wings ghost against his flank.

We ride until sunset.

Time moves differently here, in the Outyards. Directed more by the ebb and flow of narrative than by the steady heartbeat of reality.

Still. It's a long ride, and by the time Sól's daughter kisses the horizon, my back aches and my ass itches from Gluestick's coat. Because, yeah. I'm kinda allergic to horses, go figure. Through clothes and tack it's not so bad, but a day's worth of skin and feather leaves me miserable, cursing Forseti and Magni and Móði and whichever one it was who took shears to my wings.

Maybe next time I'll cut their fucking toes off, see how they like being hobbled. Assholes.

We make camp by the side of the road, next to a huge runestone that marks the border between Ásgarðr and the lands beyond. Ahead, the road becomes rougher, blurred by grass and bramble. Tomorrow we'll hit the Myrkviðr, which is—as its more pop-culture familiar name of Murkwood suggests—a dirty great big scary forest. This is
þurs
country, sort of the rural redneck versions of the
jötnar.
That doesn't mean they'll appreciate me passing through their lands, and they'll like Magni and Móði even less.

Þrúðr they'll probably just want to marry. Whether that's a problem or not is up for her to decide, I guess.

Magni and Móði assemble a fire; Þrúðr rummages in her saddlebags for food. I stand around and lament the good ol' days, traveling in Thor's chariot by day and feasting on his fresh-slaughtered goats by night. I wonder what happened to those regenerating goats? Probably eaten by Jörmungandr, just like their owner.

“Oi,
jötunn
!”

“Lain,” I say, turning to where Magni is crouched in front of the unlit fire. “My name's Lain.”

“Jötunn,”
he repeats. “Light this.” A gesture toward the haphazard pile of sticks.

I echo it with my own gesture, rattling my manacles and lifting my chin to expose my collar. “With what, exactly?”