Loki

by Vasich, Mike

  Ragnarok

  The sun will fade and the world will be enveloped in darkness. Earthquakes will wrack the lands, and monsters will be set loose from their bonds. Worst of all, the wolf Fenrir will be set free, and he will roam the land devouring whatever he sees. He will yearn for the final conflict, when he and the other forces of chaos will face the gods.

  His terrible brother, the Midgard Serpent, will rise up from the depths of the ocean and carve a swath of destruction wherever he goes. He will level mountains with a swipe of his tail, and will yearn to take revenge on the gods for throwing him in the ocean all those years ago.

  Loki will not be idle at this time. His vile sons, Fenrir and Jormungand, will so shake the earth with their destruction that he will be loosed from his bonds. He will gather an army of the dead from Niflheim and gather them on a ship made of dead men’s nails. His daughter, Hel, the ruler of Niflheim, will be at his side, and she will be horrible to behold. Half of her body is beautiful and desirable, while the other is decayed and dying. She will wish nothing but death on the gods for banishing her to Niflheim.

  Loki and Hel will converge upon Asgard with Fenrir and Jormungand. Together, they will bring the combined might of all of Jotunheim, marching steadily upward on Bifrost, the rainbow bridge, along with the legion upon legion of the dead, eager to escape their fate in the underworld. Heimdall will sound his horn, Gjall, the signal that Ragnarok has begun.

  The gods will meet the forces of chaos, and the sound of their clashing will shake the Nine Worlds. There will be vicious fighting and terrible battles, and age-old enemies will meet, steel against steel, tooth and claw upon axe and shield.

  Odin’s spear will stab out the eyes and brains of many a giant, and he will leave the battlefield strewn with the massive corpses of his enemies. He will turn and face Fenrir, eager for revenge, and the two will engage. The Allfather will not be able to match the ferocity of the wolf, and will find himself stuck between his two slavering jaws. Fenrir will choke Odin down his gullet, and that will be the end of the Allfather.

  Thor will see his father swallowed by the Fenris Wolf and will fly to his aid, but a terrible shadow will fall upon him. He will look up only to find himself bound in the jaws of Jormungand, the Midgard Serpent, and the snake will whisk him up and away from the battle. The two will struggle mightily, and in the end the Thunderer will smash the skull of the snake, who will fall to the ground with a thunderous crash that will knock all Asgard to their knees. Thor will rise, weakened, and will stagger nine steps before he is drowned in the lake of venom spewed out by the dying snake.

  One-handed Tyr will search the battlefield long for Fenrir, eager to avenge the loss of his hand to that ravenous beast. His sword will swing in a mighty arc, cutting off the heads and limbs of any giant he meets. When he finally spies Fenrir, bloody and engorged from swallowing the Allfather, he will move swiftly to bring his steel to bear against him. But he will not move swiftly enough. His way will be barred by a cousin to the wolf: the hound, Garm, who will long to close his jaws around the throat of the fierce god. The two will launch themselves at each other and battle long and hard, each inflicting massive wounds on the other. In the end, they will both lie dead from their wounds.

  Frey will also bring ruin to the sons of Jotunheim. His path of destruction will lead him to the foot of Black Surt, brandishing his flaming sword overhead. Frey will battle the fire giant valiantly, but in the end will be overcome and crushed under his flaming heel.

  Heimdall will meet Loki, and the two age-old enemies will engage. Though Loki will be outmatched by Heimdall’s strength and battle prowess, he will still have his wits and wiles about him, and will prove the match of the Guardian of Bifrost. They will trade blows, meeting steel for steel. In the end, they will slay each other, Heimdall’s blade cleaving skull while Loki slides his sword up under Heimdall’s ribcage and into his heart. Their corpses will be trampled down into the dirt by further fighting between the Einherjar and the sons of Jotunheim, and their bodies will be lost forever under the soil of Asgard’s bloody plain.

  Odin’s brave son, Vidar, will watch in horror as his father is swallowed by Fenrir. He will stride forward to attack him. Fenrir will gape wide to swallow the son, as well, but Vidar will be ready for him. He will put his hands on Fenrir’s upper jaw while his boot trods on the lower. This boot will protect his foot as he stomps down hard and, with his hands, pries apart Fenrir’s jaws and rips the beast wide open. Fenrir’s bleeding corpse will not even be fit for the carrion birds who flock to feed on the bloody battle grounds. Thus will Odin be avenged.

  In a fury, Black Surt will whirl his flaming sword and cast fire throughout the Nine Worlds. All those gathered will burn, both living and dead. Asgard’s spires will burn. Midgard will erupt in flames. The whole of creation will be set afire, and all those living and dead will die. Thus will the entirety of creation be sundered to ash and smoking coals. Only Yggdrasil, the tree that always was and always will be, will survive.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Odin dismounted Sleipnir. One hand on his mane, he communicated his wishes to his steed without saying a word. The massive horse stepped backwards and disappeared, leaving Odin alone in Midgard. The Allfather did not look back, but in his mind’s eye he could see the horse fade into the space between the Nine Worlds, becoming more and more insubstantial with every passing second. Odin pulled the hood of his gray cloak over his head and walked toward the village in the distance.

  Gungnir was with him, but it was only visible as a long and gnarled walking staff. It would not do to walk into a strange village armed with a weapon that could slay the entire populace. The spear had an effect on those who viewed it; sometimes spurring them senselessly towards it, usually to be impaled on its tip. The mortals in the village would still have some fear of him, but Odin wanted to avoid unnecessary slaughter for the moment.

  As he reached the outer edge, some of those outside took notice of him. Two men were skinning a sheep that had been slaughtered and strung up on a wooden crossbeam, four young children—three boys and one girl—were wrestling on a trampled patch of thick grass, several older boys were hauling wood in armloads with axes slung over their shoulders. All paused when the gray-cloaked old man wandered towards them, his long gray beard poking out from the shadows of his hood.

  They ceased their activities as he walked past them. There was something strangely captivating about this wizened old man who so blithely traipsed into their village as if he belonged there. The old man radiated an aura that inspired awe and fear. They did not know why they were afraid, for all could see that the thin old man was no threat, but a dread existed, nonetheless, one that kept them all fixed where they stood.

  He reached the center of the village and sat on the large tree stump that served as the seat of power. That action unfroze most of those watching, and they first looked to each other with perplexed stares before slowly walking towards the stump where Odin sat. A few ducked into longhouses to alert their elders and the others, and it was not long before Olvir, the brawny, blond-haired chief of the village, came out of the largest longhouse, a thick piece of cured meat in his hand and a large chunk of it in his mouth.

  Chewing slowly, he approached Odin, flanked by three of the village warriors, none of whom were armed. Having seen many battles and formidable foes, these four were not awed by Odin’s presence as the others had been. Some wondered if the chief would be incensed by this old man’s presumptive actions, but as Olvir approached, he looked more amused than anything.

  “Old goat, what do you think you’re doing?” he said to Odin as he reached within axe distance. There was nervous and scattered laughter, but most watched in silence.

  The remainder of the village began to drift over to see the scene of the old man confronting Olvir in the middle of the village. Like many chiefs, Olvir was not unduly loved or hated. His prowess and strength were admired, and his ability to make quick decisions was prized, even if many of his
decisions were not favored by the rest of the village. Still, they had been safe and mostly prosperous under him, and these two qualities trumped affection for a leader quite easily.

  Odin reached up and pulled his hood down, exposing his craggy, weathered face. He stared up at Olvir with his one good eye and said nothing. Gungnir lay innocently across his lap.

  The chief’s eyes went slightly wide at the sight of the Allfather’s gnarled face. He swallowed the chunk of meat he had been chewing and then laughed mockingly. Taking the cue, his warriors did likewise.

  “By Woden’s beard, you’re older than dirt!” Odin was amused to hear Olvir use one of his ancient names.

  There was more laughter from his cronies, but nervous glances from the villagers. They sensed trouble, and their initial awe of the old man faded with the implied threat that Olvir radiated. It was clear to all gathered that there might be violence, and they felt a natural sympathy for this ancient creature who faced down three warriors in their prime, spurred on by a chief who had little regard or patience for anyone who challenged him.

  “Look, I’ve been patient till now, but you need to get out of my seat and pray to the gods that I don’t cave your old skull in.”

  Odin looked beyond him, seeing a scene yet to come. “You will not be mollified so easily,” he said, shaking his head slightly. He returned to the present and stared up at Olvir. “Would you be so brave without your warriors at your back? Do you need six extra arms to deal with one old man?”

  A silence overtook the crowd. Olvir stopped smiling. He was not unnaturally intelligent, but he perceived the dilemma. He was being taunted by this foolish old man in front of the entire village. Normally, that would require a show of strength to keep order, but it was clear that he could not gain much from delivering a beating on this old man.

  If anything, he stood to lose stature because of the clear imbalance; he and his men would look like nothing more than bullies. He was smart enough to grasp that he ruled not just with his fist, but with the agreement of those under it.

  “I don't need anything other than my boot to deal with you. This is the last time I will tell you: get out of my seat and leave this village before I split your skull.”

  “I know you, Olvir. I have seen your birth.”

  Despite himself, he was curious. “What do you mean? Just who in the Nine Worlds are you, old man?”

  “I saw your mother spread her legs wide to birth you, just as I saw her do the same as she laid down with dogs to conceive you.”

  Olvir felt red-hot rage creep up his spine. He struck out quickly with his open hand, intending to cuff the old man on the side of the head.

  The blow did not hit Odin. Instead, Olvir’s head jerked back as his hand was in mid-strike, and he fell violently to the ground, blood and three teeth flying out of his mouth after meeting the butt of Odin's spear.

  The three warriors, shocked momentarily by the completely unforeseen turn of events, quickly gathered their wits and lunged at Odin. His staff rang out quickly, striking one man in the stomach, sending him doubled over to the ground. The second felt the hard wood crack against the side of his face, and he, too, went tumbling to the ground. The third found his throat in the old man’s iron grip, and his breath left him in an instant. His hands going instinctively to his neck, he was brought, like a struggling infant, closer to the old man’s face. Forced to look him in the one remaining eye, he saw the Nine Worlds reflected there, and he had an inkling of the magnitude of mistake he and his fellows had made. He ceased struggling, and Odin released him. He sank down to his knees, grateful that his miserable life had been spared.

  Odin stood and slowly looked around the stunned village. They were all on their knees, their heads bowed in supplication. They did not truly comprehend who he was, but they realized they were in the presence of the sacred and reacted accordingly. Olvir and his men were likewise prostrated. They would recover from their injuries soon enough; he had used the barest amount of force on them, just enough to teach them humility and wisdom.

  “A dark time is coming,” he said. “The time of axes, swords, and wolves is at hand, to be followed by Fimbulvetr, the Winter of Winters.” He did not add the prophecy he had heard from Mimir time and again, that ‘brothers would slay brothers, mothers would sleep with sons, clans and families would be rent asunder . . .’ He had seen the visions himself, but saw no purpose in telling mortals the entire truth. It was enough for them to know that they faced dire times. They would need no extra prodding to bring these predictions to light.

  As he spoke, their curiosity and fear at what he foretold overcame their awe, and though they remained prostrate, they eventually met his eye. As he looked into each of their eyes he further spurred their fear and base instincts. None of the mortals in this village would survive Ragnarok, and that was as he intended.

  After delivering his message, eyes were wide and fearful, but left with purpose. Even Olvir and his three warriors looked as though they had overcome their initial rage and embarrassment. An understanding of a changing time to come permeated their being, and though few knew exactly who he was, all understood that he was at the very least a messenger from the gods themselves.

  He pulled his hood back up over his head and left the village, slowly walking out while leaning on the disguised Gungnir. Dozens of eyes followed him in silence, a quiet that lasted till long after he was out of sight. Tales would be told of the gray traveler in the weeks and months to come. It would be said that he was the Spirit of the Gods, the human embodiment of Yggdrasil, a ghost. A scant few named him as Woden, after Olvir’s oath about how old he looked, but none were wholly certain of his identity.

  Odin spent the next few weeks traveling from village to village to inform the mortals of their impending trials. For most places, it went much the same way as in Olvir’s village: a few brash warriors would challenge him and be swiftly silenced, the ensuing mortals would listen with rapt awe, and he would leave them to astonished silence and reverent whispers of the mysterious gray traveler.

  Word of this harbinger of doom spread. As he traveled, mortals were already beginning to sow discord and chaos throughout Midgard. From village to village he heard the sounds of fear and anger, and was greeted with the sights of grinding axe and sword blades, of spikes being sharpened and stuck in the ground to skewer incoming enemies, of boats being laden with supplies and prepared for quick launch. The looks of trepidation and terror were on the faces of many, alongside the steel-set jaws of the fighters, eager to shed blood.

  Odin smiled grimly. It was all as he had foreseen time and time again. He wondered if the horror to be visited upon Midgard was because of the impending doom of Ragnarok, or because of the word of it that he spread. Either way, the result was unavoidable. And the lives of a few mortals—briefer than the wink of an eye—were not of consequence when measured against what must come soon. Indeed, Odin would sacrifice the gods themselves at Ragnarok; those on Midgard must suffer and die as well. It was the way of things.

  * * *

  He did not bother to disguise his appearance as he walked into Jotunheim, still appearing as the gray traveler who brought words of doom and despair to mortal villages. Cliffs towered on either side of him as he plodded slowly into the homeland of his enemies.

  In the outlying places he saw a scattered few giants. They stared incredulously at this foolish lone mortal who wandered into a place that was doom for him. Amused, they simply watched him walk by, clearly unaware of where he was or where he was headed. They thought him likely to be an addle-brained old human, and they knew he would meet his death soon enough when he wandered too far into Jotunheim. In the meanwhile, they enjoyed the humorous and incongruous spectacle.

  The villages and citadels of the giants were as massive as he remembered them, dwarfing the structures of the Aesir and making them look as if they were places for children. When he finally reached a large village—and the village was indeed large, with long houses that could house huma
n armies—he had several dozen giants in tow, following him out of pure curiosity, eager to see what would happen to this foolish human.

  As in the human villages, Odin went to the center. But the seat of power, so similar to those he had seen before, was taller than he was. He stood next to it instead, and turned to face the crowd of giants that had gathered.

  The smallest was at least twice Odin’s height, and there were many of this size. Others were far taller and more massive. There was no correlation between age and size—the range from smallest to largest was different than that for humans, and gods, even.

  They drew closer, still keeping some distance from him. Fear did not register on a single face. That would soon change.

  “Bring me your leader,” Odin said, his voice sounding weak amongst the towering figures around him. At this point he was loosely surrounded by a small army of giants, a group that might be able to lay waste to Midgard if they wanted. It was lucky for the humans that the giants rarely took interest in their affairs.

  He was first greeted by stunned silence, but that gave way to thunderous laughter, so loud that the ground shook in its wake. Giants doubled over and roared their amusement to the heavens; the thought of this lone scarecrow of a human demanding anything of them was the most ridiculously bold and absurd thing that any of them had ever heard.

  Odin silently waited for the laughter to die down. When it did, he said again, even more quietly than the first time, “Bring your leader to me.” He let his cloak drop to the ground, and they could see that he wore gray mail underneath, emblazoned with the image of a raven in black. Although the giants had not taken their eyes from this ridiculous creature since he had entered, none saw him don a black helmet with horns curving downward. It sat firmly on his head, and the expression on his face was grim. Gungnir shed its disguise as a gnarled walking stick and stood revealed, a battle spear with a long, menacing, razor-sharp head.