The Makers and the Made

The silver-gilt vessel settled gently onto a colorless rocky plateau, releasing a soft hiss to mark the end of its journey and its utter lack of intention to go anywhere else. Stepping out of the strange craft and clutching his cloak against a cold that cut straight to the bone, Lóki looked around in bafflement. The stone platform, a few miles, was hemmed in on all sides by a vast gorge. At its bottom roared a muddy river, foaming as it struck the barrier of the plateau and, forced into a bend, thundered past in fury. It took effort for Lóki to recognize in this raging torrent the usually sluggish, sullen Gjöll. The river of the dead was in full revolt, heaving boulders and splintering the trunks of trees swept into its waters, as if intent on shattering the funereal stillness of Helheim itself. Not a trace remained of the place’s usual gloom — no eternal gray fog, no stagnant hush. Everywhere he looked, a storm was raging: gray as everything else in these lands, but wild and merciless. Snow tore from the sky — sky? — or rather from the iron lid of clouds overhead, lashing his face before being snatched away by the wind. “Hel!” he shouted, raising his voice above the shriek of the blizzard. “It’s rude to keep a guest standing at your doorstep! One might even think you’re not pleased to see me!” The moment he finished voicing his indignation, the landscape shifted. The wind died as if it had never been. The snow-crusted gravel vanished under his feet, replaced by hard black stone, smooth and slightly molten-looking, as if it had been forged in a volcano’s maw. The sky, too, was gone — above him towered the vaulted ceiling of an immense cavern, its walls lit by the cold white tremor of scattered torches. There was no mistaking the frozen hall of the mistress of the dead. Lóki brushed melting snow from his hair and cloak and waited. He didn’t wait long. Hel appeared directly before him, radiant in her own unsettling way. In the realm of the dead color was sparse and feeble, but she managed to shine regardless, casting a cold white gleam through the cavern — as though she were the Moon herself. Aloof as ever, she stood motionless, yet her face, and especially her eyes — one white as moon-ice, the other black as the void, both without a hint of a pupil — conveyed a mixture of ire, curiosity, and no small amount of astonishment at the sight of her unexpected visitor. “Greetings, my lady.” Lóki dipped into a graceful bow, deciding to seize control of the conversation from the start — and quietly calling upon every scrap of luck and cunning he possessed. “Surely you weren’t expecting your dearest relative?” “ Lóki? How did you…” Lightning flashed in her mismatched gaze, as though Thor himself had slipped inside her for a heartbeat. “You slipped away again?” “I thought it only fair, daughter, since you tricked me first!” he replied, settling himself comfortably on the bare stone floor and smirking up at the mistress of the dead. “So — what did I miss? And since when, pray tell, has your realm’s weather shifted from ‘unpleasant’ to ‘apocalyptic’?” “You do not know?” Her voice was a rumbling whisper, unable to mask her true bewilderment. “You have been gone nearly three years. Winter has claimed all the realms.” “Well, I never cared much for the local fogs anyway,” Lóki said lightly, forcing nonchalance into his voice. Three years! He hadn’t imagined his little family reunion would drag on quite that long. True, a few of his drinking bouts with Odin had once stretched into ten-day feasts that left Asgard dry of mead and bereft of a single unravished valkyrie — but this? This was a new record. And besides, the end of the world was practically upon them. Then again… Farbauti could have sent him to any point in time. Why this moment? That was something he still had to unravel. “But no matter. Far more interesting is what you plan to do with me, my dear. Surely you didn’t lure me into this little trap of yours for nothing?” “You walked into it yourself, Æsir,” Hel hissed, turning her back to him. “And here you will remain — for all eternity.” With that, the mistress of the dead vanished, leaving Lóki alone. He only shrugged, resigned to a long wait. This was exactly how he expected the first round of their negotiations to go. His relationship with his daughter had always been… strained. And exile to the land of the dead had done her character no favors. The next several days passed for him as if in a fog. The vast cavern in which he was imprisoned had no exit, no entrance, and no features at all. He slept on bare stone; no one bothered feeding him — not that such things mattered in the realm of the dead. All he could do was wait, catching fleeting glimpses of Hel’s silhouette. Despite her cold exterior — and possible madness — Lóki had always sensed the same hidden curiosity in her that lived in himself. And he welcomed it. She appeared from time to time, lurking in the shadows, only to vanish the instant he became aware of her. More than once he thought he saw blue flickers deep within the eyes of the shadow-wrought specter that was the mistress of the dead, and he wondered whether this was the same echo of power he had glimpsed in Fenrir’s gaze. He no longer doubted that he had. That a battle was coming was beyond any doubt. The trembling of the world, which shook the rock beneath him, had grown far stronger during his absence. And now there were distant metallic clangs — steel on steel — and the low roar of forges kindling to life. The dead, summoned by Hel, were abandoning their silent afterlives and readying for war with the living. After a span that might have been a week or several years — time had no meaning here — the goddess deigned to appear again. And not as a wraithlike shadow this time, but fully, in all her terrible radiance, shining in the dark like a guiding star whose light would doom anyone foolish enough to follow it. Blinking away the glare, Lóki propped himself up on one elbow and glowered at the disturber of his rest. “Well?” His voice was hoarse from sleep. “My dear, have you finally decided to stop skulking in corners and talk?” Hel’s eyes flared with anger. Apparently, she had hoped her earlier visits would go unnoticed. “Did you truly think you could outwit your old father?” Lóki had already adjusted to the searing light in her gaze and slipped back into his usual, mildly mocking tone. “If I were you — and wanted to surprise myself — I’d simply say things plainly. That would certainly leave me speechless.” He gave a thoroughly inappropriate giggle, studying Hel’s reaction from the corner of his eye. “For example… how go your preparations for that war with Odin and the Æsir?” The expression that played across the mistress of the dead was absolutely delightful. “How did you know?!” Her shout made his ears ring — and several stalactites quiver. “It does not matter…” she added in a whisper, extinguishing her fury as abruptly as she had kindled it. “Nothing matters now. You cannot stop anything, Father! None of your tricks will keep me from taking vengeance on the blasphemers who imprisoned my brother! And you will rot in this tomb and watch the rest of the Æsir die…” After confirming that her entire incriminating tirade — switching, as usual, between shrieks and whispers — was finished, Lóki gave a soft, amused snort and smiled disarmingly. “Wonderful! I shall enjoy watching your triumphs, little one. And whatever gave you the idea that I intend to stop you?” Seeing the bewilderment on her face — she clearly had not expected such a response — Lóki allowed himself a quiet sigh and prepared to lie as he had never lied before. “You don’t imagine I’d have left my son bound if I had any chance at resisting Odin’s will, do you? I was exiled for arranging the death of that whelp of Frigg’s who dared call himself a god. I assume he’s already told you whose doing it was?” “Yes,” Hel answered darkly, studying him. “His daily curses in your name annoyed me so much that I ordered two shades to tear out his tongue each morning, just so I could enjoy a little silence.” “Excellent! The little swine deserved far worse,” Lóki said with a vindictive grin. “But we digress. When Odin summoned me back to Valhalla, begging my support for his precious battle, I managed to coax him into letting me see Fenrir. But the fetters on him were far too strong. I had no choice but to flee. I tricked Heimdallr, made it back to Midgard — but then what?” He let a note of weary sincerity creep into his voice — just enough. “In the end I decided to seek help from those who could stand against Asgard. Real strength. Allies unafraid of a few overfed warriors stumbling out of their endless feasts. But I could not approach them openly — the Watcher of Worlds would have found me the instant I set foot on any living road. Which left only the paths unseen by the living.” “So that is why you came to me?” The goddess’s eyes widened as realization struck. “But then…” “Yes,” Lóki drawled, mocking her dawning understanding. “Your little stunt nearly ruined my plans. But I still managed to reach the hrímþursar. Many believe they’re all dead — that Niflheim is empty and the road there sealed forever — but that isn’t so. The giants hid themselves, watching the gods’ mischief from beyond all sight.” He poured out the tale like an inspired bard, spurred on by Hel’s hungry attention; the story came together so seamlessly he might have believed it himself — had it not been a figment of his imagination from beginning to end. “And I secured their aid for the coming battle,” he concluded grandly. “They were even kind enough to lend me their star-drakkar.” “Great Yew…” Her voice trembled. “Then they will help us? They will fight at our side?” “If you permit it,” Lóki said silkily, savoring his triumph. “And more than that — their ship can take us straight to the battlefield. You cannot defy the All-Father’s will or leave your realm by your own power, but his decrees do not apply to the works of the primordial giants.” Inwardly he smiled. Here he had spun all his secret desires into supposed fact. He had no idea whether Farbauti’s vessel would obey him — or whether it was even still where it had landed. For all he knew, a creation of the hrímþursar might have flown away the moment it considered its task complete. But that would come later. His immediate goal was simply to escape the stone trap Hel had thrown him into. She now stood before him, biting her lip in hesitation like some awkward village girl caught misbehaving — nothing at all like the dread sovereign of the dead. At last, she seemed to reach a decision. Her eyes flashed — and the cavern walls dissolved into swirling mist. A blast of freezing wind slammed into Lóki, nearly knocking him flat. Snow stung his face as he forced his eyes open and realized they were back on the same plateau to which he had arrived not long ago. A moment later he felt himself sinking to his knees. The wind tore at his lungs as though determined to freeze them solid; his eyes felt moments away from turning into two blind lumps of ice. Then, suddenly, the wind fell silent, granting him a brief, blessed reprieve. Lóki — no longer convinced he was on the verge of dying — cautiously opened his eyes and met Hel’s poisonous stare. The storm itself shrank back from her anger, curling away like a frightened creature and refusing to challenge the mistress who could freeze even an ice-gale solid. “That,” she said coolly, stepping over his sprawled body without looking down, “is what awaits you if you try to deceive me, Æsir. Now hurry — unless you want a repeat.” Groaning, Lóki pushed himself upright and staggered after her toward the gleaming flank of the star-vessel ahead. Amazingly, it was still there — and not even buried in snow. How it had avoided becoming a massive sparkling drift was anyone’s guess, least of all Lóki’s. The moment they approached, the ship opened itself with a welcoming hiss, as if it had been waiting patiently for their return. On impulse, Lóki placed his palm against one of the mirror-smooth plates of its hull, feeling a faint warmth and vibration pulse beneath his fingers. “Take us to Asgard, friend,” he whispered without lifting his hand. The vibration strengthened for a heartbeat — an oddly reassuring gesture for a thing without a soul. Taking that as assent, Lóki climbed inside, ignored Hel’s scornful glare, settled onto the matte-white surface that passed for a seat, and motioned for her to follow. Once both were aboard, the vessel dipped gently and the viewscreens — oval wind-eyes sealed with thick, crystal-clear plates — filled with the gray wastelands of Helheim. Moments later, those landscapes gave way to an impenetrable wall of clouds. Realizing their journey had begun, Lóki allowed himself to relax at last. He had no idea how long the flight would take. The route forged through worlds by the giants’ craft resembled neither mortal roads nor the hidden paths known only to gods. Guessing the duration was impossible. Best to prepare for a long voyage. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and let himself drift toward blissful numbness. Hel, sitting opposite him, looked like a frozen statue — motionless, silent since her last threat. It wasn’t a choice. The lands below affected her nature. Alive in the realm of the dead, she had been born a corpse in the realm of the living. It was one reason the All-Father had sent her away long ago — the sight of a rotting yet unkillable body spoiled his feasts and left a sour taste in the mead. Lóki too, he later admitted to himself, had not been especially thrilled — particularly about the smell. That had made their inevitable parting easier to bear. Remorse had pricked him at times, but there was no room for it now. There was no room for anything at all. Every so often he glanced down, seeing nothing beneath them but cloud and shadow — the dark mass behind them was Hel’s army, relentless, tireless, following their mistress like a single unstoppable tide. Only once did the silent sky break open, revealing the snow-choked giants of Jötunheim. The mountains of the giants rose to block their path late on the second day of flight. The ship plunged sharply, weaving between treacherous peaks. Peering through the storm outside, Lóki saw nothing but a blur of snow and the ruins of giant settlements. “Fimbulwinter,” Hel whispered — barely audible. “The Great Winter. That is what they named it in Midgard. Many in my halls could tell you of it.” “I can imagine,” Lóki replied darkly, shaking his head, not daring to picture how devastating these three years had been for mortals. “I know these ravines. We’re nearly there.” “Fancy that,” Hel rasped, a humorless chuckle escaping her. “The god of guile kept his word. No wonder the little mortals call this age the end of all things.” “I’ll surprise you yet, little one,” Lóki said with a crooked grin, closing his eyes, sending a single thought into the void: “Still going according to plan?” “Acknowledged. Arrival in three cycles.” The metallic voice in his mind responded at once. Who would have thought a creation of the hrímþursar could not only fly but speak? Then again, Lóki had already been surprised once — when the vessel had greeted him soundlessly and agreed to carry him to Asgard. After that, learning it was smarter than half the living beings he’d met hardly shocked him. “Good. And remember what comes next.” “Instructions validated.” Only the great Tree knew what that was supposed to mean. Soon the strange airy drakkar began its descent, giving Lóki a clear view of the land below. There rose Asgard — mighty and loathsome to him in equal measure — once glittering beneath this world’s cold sun, and now huddled in the grey stone of its own walls as though trying to escape the all-pervading chill. Nonsense, of course; the city of the Vikings would never show weakness. It would not wrap itself in furs like a trembling maiden. It would bare its chest to the storm as any true warrior must. Through the gloom Lóki made out movement upon the snow-covered fields before the city — and what he saw… A battle raged below. Fierce einherjar, defending the approaches to the gates and the mighty stone bulwarks, struggled to hold back the charge of the jötnar horde — fewer in number, but no less terrifying for it. How long the fight had lasted, he could not guess. But the fields were choked with the fallen: warriors of Asgard and great grey bodies of giants, sprawled together in heaps. He narrowed his eyes, trying to judge the losses — and the defenders’ chances. Surprisingly, the odds looked decent. Several thousand jötnar fought with dire desperation, but they lacked the unity and training of the einherjar. And surely the other Æsir were somewhere nearby, unless too occupied elsewhere — each of them worth ten giants in battle. Yes, the Asgardians could have won this fight against starving, frost-driven brutes from their dying realm… If not for the horde of the dead waiting to charge at Hel’s first command, ready to tip the scale into catastrophe. The star-vessel circled twice, then descended beyond a low hill, landing far enough from the battle to deny its passengers any further view. With a soft hiss the round door slid aside and up. Seizing the moment before anything could spoil his plan, Lóki rushed out — feeling, with the back of his neck, the door sliding shut again, cutting his companion off. He turned — just in time to see, through the transparent metal, Hel’s face twisted with fury as she realized her precious relative had tricked her yet again. Her body, once more reduced to a heap of decaying flesh, could not act — but her inhuman eyes burned with cold blue fire, promising nothing good for the traitor. “Task completed. Awaiting further instructions.” The metallic voice made Lóki smirk. Well, the ship had done its part flawlessly. Now he had to decide what came next. “Protect her. Fly away and hide her somewhere safe.” He finally settled on a course. “If there is even such a place left in all nine realms. Do your best, my friend. And tell her… tell Hel that I’m truly sorry.” “Command accepted.” A faint delay — and for the first time the voice sounded almost uncertain. “Warning: under current conditions, probability of mission success is zero point zero zero seven percent.” “I’d ask what your ‘percent’ are supposed to mean,” Lóki muttered with a bleak smile, “but never mind. Just go. And don’t argue.” The starship did not dare debate him further. It blinked once with a quick ripple of multicolored lights — then rose weightlessly into the air, vanishing upward as if made of nothing at all. Shaking his head, Lóki glanced at the untouched snow — no trace left of the hrímþursar’s marvel — and turned away, hurrying toward the battlefield as fast as he could.