The Makers and the Made

The valley of Iðavöll spread wide between two mountain chains, a vast pale smear across the land, giving life and shelter to the eternal rulers of all Nine Realms — the mighty Æsir. In the center of that empty stretch, scarcely disturbed by low, rolling hills, the hrímþursar had once built their dwellings in ages long forgotten — foundations upon which the new gods later raised their palaces and feasting halls. At a glance, Asgard’s valley looked as flat as a griddle and just as harmless. In truth, its entire surface was riddled with caverns and natural tunnels left behind by a glacier long since gone. Lóki — more prone than the others to dusting off the heavy tomes of Valaskjálf’s library and learning inconvenient truths — knew that better than anyone. The rest of the Æsir, who considered the All-Father’s books a kind of expensive madness and a waste of leather better suited for stout boots, didn’t care. They only knew this: dragging a valkyrie beyond the city walls in a drunken attempt to “show her Asgard’s beauty” often ended not only in her pregnancy, but also in the suitor breaking both legs. Where the ground was relatively even, it was covered with unimpressive thornbush capable of reducing a warrior’s shins to bloody pulp — even through armor. None of that helped Lóki in the slightest; and traversing this now snow-smothered, utterly unrecognizable terrain took far longer than he had hoped. Cursing the wretched ship that had dropped him gods-know-where, he hobbled toward where the walls of Asgard’s mighty stronghold ought to stand — or so he prayed, for the snowstorm tearing the world apart made it hard enough to see even his own hands. Snow stung his eyes and swallowed him to the waist. As he took the next step, the ground shuddered beneath him. Directly where his foot should have landed, the earth split open, trembling violently and sending cracks skittering outward. Flailing awkwardly, Lóki felt the snowy footing vanish beneath him, threatening to send him straight back into Hel’s freshly vacated domain — by the shortest route possible — when a hand in a metal bracer seized him by the shoulder and yanked him upward. Thrown a few paces away from the widening pit, Lóki scrambled to his feet, trying to make out his rescuer. It was a broad-shouldered man, wrapped head to foot in bear pelts, tall even by Asgardian standards. Only his eyes could be seen through the slits of his half-mask helmet — bright, keen, and full of suspicion. “Who goes there?!” the man roared, shouting over the wind’s howl and the groaning earth. Shaking off a whole mound of snow, Lóki burst into laughter. He would have recognized that voice anywhere. “Well met, Vili. Have I been gone so long you no longer know your own brother?” “ Lóki?” The man tore off his helmet, letting loose a mane of dark hair, half braided, now thrashing wildly in the gale. “By the All-Father — brother, is it truly you? How in the nine worlds did you get here?” He paused, something dawning on him. “Wait. The sentries on the ridge spotted some strange flying drakkar a few miles west. That wouldn’t happen to be your work, would it?” “Mine, mine!” Lóki quickly replied, feeling his limbs stiffen in the killing wind. “I’ll tell you everything, brother — only grant me a fire, a roof, and perhaps a sip of mead first. Surtr knows I’ve earned it!” “Don’t invoke that name,” the warrior growled, then brought two fingers to his lips and whistled sharply. At his call, a dozen tall figures stepped out of the storm — lightly armored, snow-shoed scouts emerging from the blizzard like ghosts. “Einherjar,” Lóki realized from the unfriendly stares aimed his way — and from the sheer discipline with which the warriors moved. He hadn’t even noticed them until now. One of the figures stooped, rummaged in a travel pack, and tossed a pair of snowshoes at his feet. Lóki grunted as he strapped them onto boots that were far from suitable for winter terrain. A cloak followed — rough wolf pelts stitched together with all the finesse of drunken dwarves. The suggestion was unmistakable, but Lóki wasn’t proud enough to refuse it, not after spending the better part of an hour trudging through murderous cold and fresh drifts. Once he was equipped, the entire squad moved eastward, carefully skirting the widening fissures and watching new ones appear. The earth seemed intent on devouring itself, dragging to the depths anyone foolish enough to tread upon it and imagine themselves its master. At last, their path ended at a small rock platform, swept clean of snow, where three long canvas tents stood in a half-circle. Lóki was led into the central one and finally allowed to rest. Dropping the cloak, he glanced around at the interior: round wooden shields heaped by the entrance; whole bundles of short throwing spears; bedrolls stuffed with coarse straw and skins; and all the other field gear an Asgardian warband could cram into a tent. In the middle stood a small, wheezing fire pit — a heroic effort, yet hopeless at producing enough warmth. No wonder no one inside dared remove their outer layers. Only now, in relative heat, did Lóki understand how bone-tired he was — and how thoroughly sick he’d grown of freezing. He could tolerate cold. Snow. Even the fact that he couldn’t remember his last proper meal. Dwarves take it — but all at once? That was asking too much. Muttering a few choice words about the treacherous world that had dared to end so pitifully, he snapped two biting syllables. A wave of heat rolled from his feet across the tent. A heartbeat later, Lóki stood in fully dried clothing; a cloud of steam drifted around him; and the frozen earth beneath his boots melted into a muddy puddle. “I’d kill for that trick!” someone boomed from behind — and Vili barreled into the tent, grinning. Leaning his greaves and sword against a bundle of spears, the scout shook snow off his fur cloak and kicked off his snowshoes. “Héim, you jötun-spawn, why aren’t you here to greet our guest?” Stirred by Vili’s thunderous bass, the far curtain shifted, and another Æsir stepped in — tall enough to nearly butt the canvas roof. Heimdallr looked as though he had just stepped away from household chores: a light leather cuirass, loose trousers tied below the knee, and a wide patterned sash at his waist. He surveyed the lounging Einherjar and the bothersome scouts who were tearing him away from monitoring the battle outside — and then his gaze landed on a face he had not seen in three winters. With a joyous roar — frightening several warriors into grabbing their axes — Heimdallr lunged forward, seized Lóki, and lifted him half a man-height off the ground. “Put me…” Lóki wheezed, dangling in the bear-hug like a straw doll. “You oaf — you’ll crush me!” “Nonsense!” Heimdallr snorted, and with a wet squelch set him back on his feet, burying Lóki’s boots in the mud almost to the ankles. “You earned it! Where in all the branches of Yggdrasil have you been? We stopped expecting you ever to show up again!” “Good thing you did,” Lóki replied, wrestling his feet free. “Otherwise, my head would already be on a pike.” “What for?” Heimdall’s confusion was so genuine it was nearly comical — he could get lost in palace intrigue faster than most mortals lost their keys. “For being attached to the neck of the most notorious traitor in Asgard, obviously. Or are you pretending everyone has forgotten?” “Forgotten? No,” Heimdallr said, suddenly grave. “But you vanished. Not among the living, not among the dead — nowhere in the Nine Realms. There was no one left to suspect. We thought you had perished.” “And that’s worth discussing!” Vili chimed in from his seat, lazily tossing a small throwing axe from hand to hand. “Since we never saw you in the enemy camp, the All-Father forbade killing you on sight. But you vanished for three years without a trace — and then you suddenly turn up?” “Hold, Vili…” Heimdallr raised a hand, cutting Lóki off before he could answer. “Are you really starting this again? I don’t believe in these prophecies, and I don’t believe our brother is a traitor. He didn’t arrive at the head of a jötunn army, did he?” “Spies don’t usually travel with an entourage,” Vili muttered darkly. “Let him first explain how he wound up in the valley!” “Flew in, of course,” Lóki shrugged. “Borrowed the lady Hel’s transport.” A hiss rippled through the tent the moment the Trickster finished speaking — loud enough to nearly deafen everyone present. Loudest of all was one particular einherjar: a red-bearded brute whose teeth were so rotten they looked borrowed from a wight. Lóki disliked him on sight. The man thrust a finger — crooked, nail snapped halfway off — and jabbed it accusingly at Lóki’s back. “Naglfar! Did you hear? The völva spoke true!” Of course she did, Lóki thought darkly. “By the Great Ash!” he groaned aloud, rolling his eyes. “Is there anything in existence that blabbering simpleton hasn’t managed to predict?” His dismissiveness only fed the warrior’s outrage. The man leapt to his feet and, unchecked by his commanders, planted himself before Lóki, fists shaking. “You slippery scoundrel — you can wriggle out of any charge! But this time the seeress made no mistake. She said you’d come to the final battle in a ship built of the nails of the dead!” During this impressive indictment, Lóki simply stared at the man’s hands, as if evaluating the offered building material. Then he grimaced, ready to reply with all the venom he could muster. But he didn’t get the chance — Vili stepped in, pushing his subordinate aside. “Enough, Wulgir!” the scout growled, shaking his head. He shot Lóki a reproachful look, as though the entire scene were his fault. “We all want to believe you, brother. No one here calls you a traitor. But we need to know what happened to you all this time.” “That’s no secret. I was Hel’s prisoner,” Lóki replied in a perfectly weary tone — carefully avoiding overacting. “After I escaped Asgard — where you brave Æsir captured my son with the cunning of maidens and ribbons meant for their hair — my daughter decided to show me the hospitality due a father. It took me three years to talk my way out. Lucky for me she was distracted raising her army and forgot all about her dear old man.” “Army?” Vili’s voice cracked like a bowstring snapping — and was instantly drowned out by the rising mutter of the warriors. No wonder: the chief scout of Asgard had somehow missed the existence of a marching host. “What did you think, dear brother?” Lóki gave him a crooked smile. “Just because I resigned myself to my son’s prison doesn’t mean everyone else would. I managed to steal Hel’s ship — the dwarves forged it for her — and without it she cannot command her dead. But her forces are only a day behind me, and soon enough they’ll be at your gates.” “Sorrowful tidings you bring, uncle,” Heimdallr said at last, rubbing the back of his neck, brow furrowed. “If what you say is true, I must think carefully and report everything to the All-Father. As for you — rest from the road and prepare for what comes next. What do you require?” The Trickster shrugged. Boasting wasn’t his style — well, not right now — but extracting a few comforts from the situation was hardly beneath him. “Hot meat,” he said, “and a mattress that isn’t half-rotted.”