Those who watched such things might have said that the Æsir had rekindled the flame of the Lofdar. That they had become a second bulwark against the ever-encroaching Mist and thus a fragile hope in the final Age of a dying world. Loki had given them that flame, as he had done for the Lofdar and for others ere them. And indeed, in two decades, the Æsir had become the new gods of the North Realms. Petty gods though, and none too quick to face the true threats plaguing Midgard.
And their king, as ever, proved both less and more than Loki could have ever hoped. Like a wildfire, he raged out of all control, consuming the World in his passions and leaving Loki the same hope as all others—that when all was done, perhaps the Mist would have burnt away in the conflagration.
“I do not require your presence here,” Odin snapped at him. “Why do you not return to your wife?”
Loki, crouched atop a boulder and staring into the Mist of a ravine, craned his neck around to take in his blood brother. He did not need to ask why the king failed to act on his own advice. Odin, for his part, looked away in acknowledgment of Loki’s unspoken point. Or dismissal of it, perhaps, for in truth, they faced different realities.
Sigyn did wait for Loki back in Asgard, no doubt wondering whither he had wandered in his endless pursuit of Odin. She knew, of course, that Loki worked to guide the king ever toward a destiny that might, if he played his moves well enough, allow a semblance of victory, however temporary. Odin’s true love, though, had been cast out of Midgard entirely, and by his own hand, no less. Loki’s blood brother no doubt felt affection for his wife Frigg, perhaps even trust, but Freyja would always hold Odin’s heart and—as Sigyn did with Loki—even a piece of his soul. Loki knew the pain of separation all too well.
Odin did not speak of such things oft, however. The king grunted instead, waving his hand southward. “We may have to move against them one day.”
“You are not prepared for such foes.” The Miklagardian Empire spread across the better part of the South Realms, forcing Men to their religion by sword point, to say naught of ensuring a steady stream of tribute flowed into the city of Miklagard. Indeed, someday Odin might need to confront them, if only for the threat of the spread of their faith—and the perverse truth behind their doctrine of life beyond death—represented to the spread of his own. Beyond the Sudurberks, they called the lands Outer Miklagard, for it lay far from their centre of power and the labyrinthine politics that accompanied it.
Odin stroked his greying beard. “Perhaps not yet. We will be … soon enough.”
Loki sighed and rose from the boulder. “I told you I would help you see this through. My promise binds me, even if I do not wholly approve of your machinations.” With a last shake of his head, he strode toward the tunnel entrance below them. Not content with the barely controllable weapon that Fire represented, Loki’s blood brother now courted another power, as if unwilling or unable to imagine there might be aught worse than Mist.
Odin snorted and fell into step beside Loki. “You are one to talk of machinations.” He fell silent a moment as they entered the dark tunnel, treading ever toward their treacherous ally. Given the choice, Loki would have suggested another path and yet, every glimpse of the future seemed to dry up more choices, leaving but the bitter urd he saw before them. Odin no doubt felt the same. “The Völsung line,” Odin said after a moment, “will allow me to recover the ring and finally bring down the Niflung dynasty, all in one stroke. Whatever the cost to them, the end result will prove worth it. You cannot tell me you have not made decisions in your long life—moves on the tafl board, rather—that sacrifice the happiness of a few for the long-term good of the whole.”
Loki grunted, acknowledging the hit. He had wrought a great deal of chaos and death in his time, all in pursuit of an endgame Odin did not yet—could not—understand. Because when the stakes surged high enough, surely any act is justifiable, or so both men told themselves.
Neither spoke while they trod through the tunnel, the only light coming from Loki’s flickering torch, and that at half the illumination one would expect, at least one who had never trod here. The clang of a hammer on anvil announced their host long ere the fires of his forge came into view.
A stream of shadows played around Volund’s forge. No Man ought to have trodden into this dverg ruin, far beneath the Sudurberks. These peaks forged the boundary betwixt Miklagard and the rest of the lands of Midgard, and a welcome one, Loki thought. In another age, the dvergar had constructed a deep forge here—massive underground chambers capable of generating flames that blazed hotter than any known to Man. In such places, they crafted their great works, their terrible artefacts that cast a fell urd upon all who came into contact with them. The crippled, ashen-skinned man working the forge was no fjallalf, however, but the far more sinister svartalf. Volund glanced at them with his gleaming eyes and his wicked half smile. Left with but his withered soul, the smith now seemed intent on claiming those of others. Loki ought not have brought Odin here but, having had no choice then, he remained with no choice now—if he allowed his blood brother to face such an adversary alone, Odin might fall even farther into darkness.
The smith set aside the blade he was working on and hobbled over to a shelf against the wall.
“Is it done?” Odin asked.
“As I said it would be. As you well know, Ás King, or you would not have come.” The svartalf’s voice was at once thick and etheric, as Otherworldly as the shadows that danced about him and his place, dimming Loki’s torchlight and leaving the forge in near darkness.
Indeed, they had both foreseen the weapon’s completion. It had drawn them here across frozen mountains and long miles, beckoning and irresistible. That, however, was not the only reason Odin had ventured so far.
Volund held up a short-hafted hammer with an overlarge head. “I give you Mjölnir.”
“A hammer?” Odin snorted. “I asked you to craft the greatest weapon on Midgard, and you make a tool for building houses?”
The smith grumbled and shook his head. “You are a fool, Ás, if you cannot see the weapon’s potential. I have improved on the design of Miklagardian war hammers, rendered it strong enough to break jötunn bones, even through armour. And should you yet have the vigour to wield it in your decrepit body, it will fulfil all your requests.”
Odin took the proffered weapon, examining it and testing its heft as Loki watched. “’Tis not for me.” Loki, in all his interminable years, had rarely seen quite such a weapon. No, but he had seen a great many terrible works, and this hammer rivalled any of them. Why should it not—for ’twas plain Volund had forged it from the ruined mace Sharur, once wielded by an incarnation of the Destroyer. Loki cast a wary glance at Volund, uncertain how the dark smith had come to possess such a thing. “I wonder …” Odin said, blissfully unaware of Loki’s fears. “Did you refuse to make a sword or axe simply as one more means of proving your mastery of your craft—the man who could make even a hammer a mighty weapon?” Odin blew out a long breath and looked around the forge.
Loki frowned. Odin was no doubt correct there. Volund had already forged a runeblade to rival those crafted by the dvergar as prizes for the Old Kingdoms. Now, he had crafted something new … But the way Odin looked on holding that hammer … did some part of him remember wielding Sharur? Vajra, before that?
Volund spread his hands. “Your goods are delivered, and thus, I have fulfilled my bargain.”
“And you shall have what I promised you.”
Loki clenched his jaw, saying naught—for the bargain was struck and naught was left to be said. Odin might think himself unlikely to ever have to fulfil his part of it, but Loki had witnessed more years than Odin could imagine, and such things oft came about in ways unexpected.
Grumbling, Odin slammed Gungnir on the floor one more time, then spun and stalked out of the workshop, Loki trailing behind. “Things are settling into place,” Odin said, making no reference to Volund’s accusations about Loki. He need not—already cracks rived their relationship, and Loki saw no easy means to fix things with his blood-brother.
Sometimes, Odin resented him, aye. Oh, but Loki loved Odin. Loved him even as he used him. For like Odin, Loki needs must play a longer game.
