by C. Gockel
Walking up the road from the sea, Loki’s jaw goes slack. He hasn’t been to the Iron Wood in perhaps centuries, and he’s never seen Gullveig’s Keep. Even from a distance, it is impressive. Tucked back from the sea, safely ensconced by the Iron Wood, the Keep is situated on a mesa. Carefully cultivated iron wood trees cover the mesa’s sides in easily defensible terraces that remind Loki of the rice fields of Midgard’s terraced rice patties. At the top of the mesa stands the Keep proper. It is a fortress built of living trees, stone, and metal. It is bound on six sides by giant trees that are clad in great plates of copper armor, green with age. The naked ochre wood of the giant trees is exposed where the Frost Giants have carved lookouts into the trunks. Between the giant trees are walls of gray stone, inset with more copper metal bands. Squinting, Loki realizes the copper bands are covering what must be the trunks of iron wood saplings, trained to grow in an orderly weave through the castle walls.
“Clever,” says Loki. “The trees make the Keep impervious to magic; the copper armor makes the place nearly impervious to fire.”
“And it’s pretty,” says Thor.
The scene is somewhat marred by smoke. Thick and black, it rises from many chimneys in great clouds. But Loki does not contradict Thor’s general assessment.
His eyes fall to the fresh, newly-paved road they walk upon. Iron wood trees, shedding their leaves for fall, crowd on either side, so they hadn’t brought Thor’s magic chariot.
Between the trees Loki catches sight of a man in hunter’s garb. Eyes on him, the hunter raises his hand to his mouth, makes a trilling noise like that of a bird, and then disappears. The trilling is echoed further up the road, and then again, and again toward the Keep. It’s a message to Gullveig. Loki’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t remember the tribes of the Iron Wood being quite so cooperative before.
There is another surprise when they reach the mesa’s base. They pass through two giant copper gates into chambers carved into the mesa’s stone foundations and are led by guards into a square paddock the size of a small hut. The paddock has a metal and wooden floor, and giant metal cables are anchored at each of its four corners. It is lit only by far-off sky lights.
“What sorcery is this?” Thor demands.
The guards laugh. “There is no sorcery here; that is women’s magic, Odinson. This is a levitator; its power is from steam.”
There is the hiss and the clacking of gears, and then the paddock begins to rise. Thor plants his feet wide and glares at the guards. For his part Loki cranes his neck and tries to determine the source of the enchantment.
Solid rock gives way to rough soil supported by wooden beams and tree roots. And then they are directly beneath the skylights, and the paddock comes trembling to a stop. The guards open the gates, and then lead them through an enormous wooden door into a market, shaded by giant iron wood trees. It’s evening, but the market hums with activity. It is lit with oil lamps of the type that just went up on the streets of London—evidence that Gullveig has been journeying to Midgard? Gullveig wouldn’t be so foolish as to violate Odin’s law, would she? Over the buzz of busy merchants he hears the ringing noise of blacksmith hammers in the distance.
They walk out from under the branches of an enormous tree and enter a sort of central square. Loki stops in place and gapes. Before them is a building the likes of which Loki has never seen. It looks like a cathedral from Medieval Europe, with stained glass windows and flying buttresses—but instead of stone, the buttresses are made of living trees.
Beneath an enormous window of stained glass, two great double doors open, and a woman stands silhouetted on the front steps. A few loose tree branches lift in the silhouette’s direction. “Gullveig,” Thor bellows. “Well met. We were hoping to go hunting in your wood.”
Gullveig strides down the steps toward them. Gullveig is not a queen, or a leader in the sense that Asgardians would understand. But she holds disproportionate sway over the many tribes that live in the forest. As she crosses the market square, men and women step out of her path and tip their heads. “Of course you are welcome in my wood, Thor,” she says, drawing to a stop before them. Her eyes fall on Loki. “But what brings you here, Loki?”
Bowing his head, he takes her hand. “Just hunting with Thor.” It’s been, what, a decade since he saw her at Utgard’s castle? She’d hummed with magic then, and now the hum is almost a song. Touching her skin gives him a feeling akin to the buzz of electricity in the air after Thor uses Mjolnir, but decidedly more pleasant. Above their heads he hears the trees rustling. Kissing her knuckles, he meets her eyes,
“You’re lying.” Gullveig sighs. “I’ve not broken any of the Allfather’s rules, Loki. I can prove it to you; there is no need to spy.” Loki senses no lie, but her hand trembles as she speaks, and Loki wonders what she fears.
Thor grumbles, “We are not here to spy!”
Lifting his eyebrow, Loki massages her knuckles, loathe to let go of her and her magic. “Of course we are not here to spy,” he says. Thor isn’t tasked with that, only him.
Eyes on him, fingers still trembling, Gullveig draws her hand away. He sees her throat move as she swallows. “Come,” she says, putting a hand on one of Thor’s beefy arms. “You must be weary from your journey.”
“Aye,” says Thor. “We are hungry.”
“And you stink like goats,” says Gullveig, leading Thor into the building that looks like a cathedral. “You’ll take a bath before you join us at our table.”
Loki sighs, expecting a long wait as servants fill tubs with cold water, and boil more water to bring the whole thing to an acceptable temperature. Of course maybe he could just heat the water himself … A jolt of warmth courses through him at the thought, a vine from one of the trees drops down onto his shoulder, and the warmth dissipates. Loki swipes it away.
“Thinking of magic already?” Gullveig asks, and Loki shoots her a glare.
Looking up at the offending vine, now slinking in her direction, Gullveig sighs. “That one is getting a bit obnoxious.”
He wonders why she always hums with enough magic to make the trees hungry, but before he can ruminate too much on it, they are inside the cathedral. It is not a place of worship. Immediately inside is an enormous foyer and banquet area, beyond which the interior is divided into several stories of apartments—or maybe places of business—Loki isn’t sure. There are children underfoot, and aged Frost Giants hobbling here and there. The bustle and clutter of the space is not as awe inspiring as the architecture of Asgard, but it is functional. Between the giant stained glass windows and the gas lamps, the space is bright and cheerful. And despite the height of the ceiling, it is warm … he taps his foot. The stones on the floor seem to be heated.
Gullveig leads them past the entranceway and down the main aisle of what seems to be a town within a town. They are led into a room that smells of pine and soap. To Loki’s surprise, there are spigots out of which steaming water pours. Beyond the small rinse room is a larger space with a pool-sized bath, with steam swirling up from the surface, and giant copper spigots set into the walls.
“Running hot water?” Loki asks.
“I have not kidnapped any humans, Loki, don’t worry, Loki—nor ventured on their shores.”
Loki senses no lie. “Then how —”
“I have the gift of sight,” says Gullveig. Loki says nothing, but the lie makes his skin crawl.
x x x x
The creak of a rickety stair beneath his feet makes Steve hastily grab a rough rope railing. He stares up the long, rickety flight of stairs and stifles a groan.
Steve’s legs burn as he steps on the next landing. The stairs creak and sway on the ropes suspending them. He tells himself this seeming death trap is taking them to some place where they’ll be safer. He lifts his head and sees Claire. Framed by light from open skylights, she’s bouncing on her feet on the landing five flights above, all smiles. She outraced the Asgardians, Frost Giants, and SEALs.
“This is all wrong,�
� Lewis pants a few steps below. “There used to be a freight levitator—elevator.”
A few steps above Steve, Heiðr says, “All lost in the fire.”
Steve hears Lewis whisper, “But that was two hundred years ago …”
Ralf, the Frost Giant who had declared Ragnarok, speaks in English. “Yes, it was Gullveig’s magic. She died and her magic died, too.”
Over the course of the day Steve has heard Asgardians and Frost Giants alike chide Ralf for his ability to understand humans. The Frost Giant had blushed and protested, “I cannot help it.”
“But it wasn’t magic,” Lewis pants. “It was technology.”
“Technology … it is magic, yes?” says Ralf.
“No …” she pants. “It’s steam powered?”
“Gullveig’s magic,” says Ralf. “She is dead. It won’t work.”
Steve feels a prickle on the back of his neck, and an itch over every inch of his body. He slides his gaze over the Asgardians and the Frost Giants. Thor’s face is frozen. Heiðr’s shoulders are rigid.
“A lot was lost in the fire,” says Heiðr, again.
“A levitator—is that like an elevator?” says Larson.
“Yes,” pants Lewis.
“That would explain the cables up there,” says Bohdi. Steve cranes his neck and sees what looks like the guts of a giant clock and some enormous dangling ropes of braided copper. An idea begins to form at the back of his mind … but he holds his tongue; he can’t say why.
“Captain,” Larson whispers, one step behind him. “Maybe we could offer help in fixing the elevator in exchange for shelter? It looks pretty basic and would keep us busy.”
That is exactly what Steve was thinking. There is a lot of mechanical experience among the team members, they can probably figure it out. He is about to say so when Ullr’s hand tightening on the pommel of his sword catches his eye. From the hard-packed ground beside them, a root snakes out toward the warrior. Ullr brushes it away with a grunt, but not before shooting a dark look in Larson’s direction.
Steve runs his tongue over his teeth; this is a touchy topic. For all Heiðr’s and Thor’s promises of safety on neutral ground, Steve would rather not risk a confrontation. Feigning fatigue, Steve falls back with an exaggerated gasp for breath. Meeting Larson’s eyes, he puts his finger to his lips, shakes his head, and mouths, Later.
Larson’s eyes get wide, but he nods and starts up the stairs.
Lewis, one more step behind, doesn’t catch the silent exchange, or just as likely, doesn’t care. “But by now,” Lewis says, head bowed, “you must have—”
Finger still to his lips, Steve puts a hand to her shoulder. Her head snaps up and then her mouth drops open. For a moment he thinks he’s going to face a Lewis tirade. But then she gives a hasty nod.
Steve feels a tickle in his ear, and sight and sound become muted. He instinctively smacks his hand at the offending tickle, and finds it ensnared in a slender white root.
“What?” he says, shaking it away.
“Your eyes were glowing,” says Lewis.
Steve blinks down at his hand and has a feeling of vertigo—and not just because they’re hundreds of feet up on swaying stairs. “We’ll talk about this later,” Steve whispers, and turns around fast.
A few minutes later, he’s on the landing, resting his hand on Claire’s shoulder. The Frost Giants open two worn doors that don’t quite fit the ancient archway. The team steps out onto the mesa’s top. From below he’d estimated that it was probably a few miles across. Lewis had said something about a giant cathedral structure being atop the mesa—a village within a town, she’d described it. He sees no such thing, just shanties. The trees on the mesa are young and sparse, none wider than a large oak. Steve smells salt in the air. He hears a bird’s cry, looks up, and sees a bird that looks a lot like a seagull drift above the tree tops. His eyes narrow. Of course, they’re close to the ocean, and would have had to walk alongside it if the giants hadn’t known of a shortcut through the Triple Peaks. He brings his eyes back down to earth. Shacks are clustered around the bases of young iron wood trees. Off to one side, there is a multi-story building that stands out for its sturdier construction and circular shape. Made of stone, it has a copper roof, a copper door, and copper window shutters. In front of the windows are neat boxes filled with cabbages of various colors. Standing in front of the building is a woman who can’t be more than four and a half feet tall. She has pale, nearly translucent skin, and black hair that is pulled back in a complicated arrangement at the back of her neck. She has enormous eyes that glow like a cat’s, a tiny nose, and full lips that give her the appearance of a doll. She wears a wide-brimmed hat and a finely cut coat of silver fur that reaches to her toes.
One of the Frost Giants takes a few exaggerated steps toward the small woman, obviously trying to frighten her. She draws back, but her feet stay firmly rooted to the spot.
The Frost Giant laughs and says in Jotunn, “Humans are magic now, Dwarf, and your kind are truly the most useless branch of the World Tree!”
He hears Thomas, the hulking historian of the team whisper, “Look, no beard! Tolkien was wrong.”
The woman scowls, and the ever conscientious Tucker says, “I think she understood you.”
Thomas taps his helmet and bows. “Excuse me, ma’am, I meant no offense.” Tucker does likewise, and so does Berry.
The apology seems to terrify the woman. Her eyes go wider still and she jumps, sending her hat flying toward the party. She immediately throws up her hands as though to shield her eyes from the sun. Steve blinks—the pale skin, the large eyes—didn’t the dwarves in Norse mythology avoid the light of day?
“Don’t bother apologizing to a dwarf,” Ralf shouts.
Claire darts from Steve’s side, picks up the hat, and carries it over to the small woman. “Here you go, ma’am,” she says.
The woman takes it with a timid hand. Still keeping a hand up to protect herself from the light, she manages a tiny bow. The Asgardians and Frost Giants mutter, and some glare at Claire. Steve glares right back at them. Catching up with Claire, he drops a protective hand on her shoulder.
Lifting her head, she whispers, “Dad, I didn’t like them scaring her.”
Steve’s eyes run over the Frost Giants, talking to the humans as though they are long lost kin, and the Asgardians who are glaring at the Frost Giants and humans—except Thor. Thor is walking along with Bohdi and Lewis, Beatrice close beside them. Thor’s expression is deeply sad.
Further beyond them Sigyn, Nari, and Valli are talking to Heiðr. They seem to have missed the exchange between the dwarf woman, Frost Giants, and humans completely.
Steve looks back at the dwarf dwelling. There is history and politics that he doesn’t understand. A sense of foreboding falls upon him like a lead weight. Trees beside him rustle their leafless branches. Belatedly, he says to Claire, “I didn’t like them scaring her either.”
Chapter 11
Amy pulls on a change of clothing that seems the least dirty and wraps her wet hair in what passes for a towel. In Gullveig’s time there had been thick plush towels made of the local linen. What she’s using now looks a lot more like an old-fashioned cloth diaper. Beatrice steps into the small bathing area. “All yours, Grandma,” Amy says, gesturing to a bucket beneath a large wooden barrel with a spout. Through the thin plank walls, she hears one of the guys in an adjoining room shout, “Shit, that’s cold!”
Amy shivers. “It’s cold, but at least we’re clean.”
“Joy,” says Beatrice. “Get out of here. There isn’t room for two.”
“See you in the new digs,” says Amy, stepping out of the small bathing room into a semi-open chamber. The ruins of the large soaking baths from Loki’s memories surround her, trees in several stages of growth peeking out between the tiles.
Amy quickly passes through the space and out into the snow-covered alleyway that runs through the small town of crude wooden structures. She sees Cruz and Park
standing guard beside a hut that doesn’t look much bigger than her bedroom at home. Fenrir is sitting beside them, panting in the snow. Fenrir’s ears are at the level of the eaves. Amy looks up at the thatch roof and hopes there won’t be critters in the hay. She lifts her chin and thinks of the positives. It has a prominent chimney; hopefully soon there will be a fire. As Amy hustles over, Fenrir gives a happy bark.
Cruz says hello and gives a nod, but Park is busy talking to two Frost Giantesses. In Jotunn he says, “I am flattered that you like my eyes, ma’am … but I’m on duty right now.” As Amy passes by, he gives a thumbs up.
Amy goes to the door and is about to turn the handle when she hears Rush whining. “Aw … come on Harding, I can rock you just as good as Ragnar.”
“Get your hand off me or you’re going to lose the only girlfriend you’ve got,” Harding snaps.
Amy pushes the door open just in time to see Rush withdrawing his hand from Harding’s shoulder. The small Marine is sitting on her heels in front of a fireplace, arranging some logs.
Rush scowls down at her. “You don’t have to be so defensive,” he says, sounding like a petulant child.
“Go take a bath and wash out your mind,” says Harding.
Rush says something too low for Amy to hear, but she knows it isn’t nice. And then he turns and strides by her. He doesn’t say hello or acknowledge her and gives her plenty of distance.
To the other woman, Amy says, “Are you okay?”
“Yep,” says the Marine, taking out a lighter. The flame catches, and some small pieces of tinder begin to crackle. Harding scowls into the fire.
Amy steps closer to her. “Are you going to report him?”
Pushing a stray lock of blonde hair behind her ear, Harding blinks up at her. “What? No, he backed down.” Shaking her head, she looks back at the flames.
“But isn’t it—”
Harding cuts her off. “He’s stupid, clumsy, and an ass. But we need to stick together here.” Sighing, Harding adds, “Look, don’t worry. He won’t give you any trouble. He knows Patel will cut his balls off if he does.” She smiles. “After your grandmother kills him.”