Ragnarok: I Bring the Fire Part VI (Loki Vowed Asgard Would Burn)

by C. Gockel

With that, he turns on his heels and begins to jog. The team hastens to follow him. Stumbling in the muddy ground, Bohdi hears the sound of plasma fire behind him, followed by shouts in Asgardian, and Fire Giantish. He looks behind him but sees nothing but mist.

  “We’re nearly there,” Valli says, his voice not even breaking.

  Plasma fire streaks over their heads. Somewhere a Fire Giant screams.

  “Too close!” says Larson.

  “We’re here!” Valli says. Feet slowing, Bohdi blinks. At first he sees nothing, but as he takes a few more steps he sees a headstone in the waist-high grasses. It’s a few inches taller than Bohdi, and a little wider than his shoulders. Thor would barely have fit through, but it’s the perfect size for someone of Bohdi’s height and build. Instead of the brownish grasses, in front of the stone waist-high orange flowers with sea green leaves grow. Emerald green ivy, with delicate blue butterfly-shaped flowers, crawls over the headstone itself, nearly obscuring Nordic-looking runes. Bohdi feels a sort of heaviness coming over his heart. The grave site looks like it hasn’t been tended in years. Still, it is the only color they’ve seen since coming to Nilfheim. It’s evident that someone who was loved is buried there. Valli strides over to the stone and stands guard. Sigyn follows; taking out the shard of Gungnir she carries, she wades through the orange flowers, brushes the ivy aside, and starts to chant.

  “Form a perimeter,” Larson says, and Bohdi obeys, kneeling in the grass, raising his rifle to the sound of battles.

  Behind him, Sigyn pants. “It’s done. Go!”

  Larson starts calling out names one by one. Bohdi keeps his rifle ready as he waits, but doesn’t see anything but swirling mist. Another bolt of plasma whizzes above his head, and he flinches. He hears someone scream orders in Asgardian. Odin knows he’s disobeyed … he swallows. If Steve is being tortured now, it’s all his fault.

  “Patel!” Larson calls. Bohdi hesitates just a moment, thinking he sees shadows approaching ... but then shaking his head, he turns, takes a breath, and plunges into the headstone.

  x x x x

  Steve hangs like a limp rag between two guards. The bright sun overhead is too hot. He feels a sharp jab at his side. His body tenses in anticipation of what will come next. Sure enough, a bolt of pure pain shoots from his side to the rest of his body. When it’s over, Steve feels completely drained. Forget trying to summon magic, it’s hard to summon oxygen. In the periphery of his vision he sees people by the side of the road staring at him. He reminds himself that this is all his fault.

  After breakfast they’d taken him to a dark room, tied him to a chair, and smacked him around a bit. He’s bruised, one tooth is loose, his nose might be broken, and he can’t open one eye: injuries that look worse than they are. Or maybe being paralyzed and in unending, inescapable pain has just dulled his sense of what pain is—at least when someone is smacking you they pull back occasionally. He’d almost laughed at one point, thinking how ironic it was that Odin had made him immune to their little game, but he couldn’t quite manage it. He’d glimpsed instruments of torture in the room that made his blood run cold. They could do worse, and they were letting him know about it.

  Afterwards, they’d taken him to a room and locked him in. It was actually a very nice room, opulent even, with a huge comfy bed, tiny sitting area, and a window with a beautiful view of Asgard proper, and ice, lots of it, for his bruised face. Steve knew what they were doing—letting him know they could be nice, and they could be cruel—probably in hopes that he’d beg Bohdi to cooperate with them. Steve had sat for a few minutes in that room, feeling like a damsel in distress from a fairy tale. He knew from friends who’d done prisoner-of-war training that the best thing to do was play along. Instead, he’d used magic to set the curtains on fire, hoping to escape in the confusion.

  He’d been captured and gained some broken ribs in the process. And now, being dragged along by his shoulders, he’s got bloody knees, too. Why had he been such a fool?

  Because he had to do something—for Bohdi, Lewis, and Claire … his head sags. But really, it was pride that made him rebel. He cannot accept not being in control, the master of his own destiny.

  A skinny man at his side snaps in English, “Do you think we don’t know how to deal with magic users? Now you’ll spend your captivity in the tower!”

  He jabs Steve again, and Steve must black out because when he opens his eyes, he’s indoors, this time in a building with rough stone floors. He hears the clink of metal and Skinny Guy with the poker talking angrily in Asgardian a few feet away. Steve is still being held aloft by his guards. After his pain-induced nap, he is feeling slightly better. Carefully keeping his eyes on the floor, he takes a deep breath, summons his magic, and translates …

  “He must be kept here! He’s a dangerous magic user!” Skinny Guy grumbles.

  “We’re filled to capacity with Fire Giants. We haven’t even finished processing them,” someone else says, and Steve’s stomach constricts at the implications of “processing” living beings. The speaker continues, “We expect more from Niflheim at any moment.”

  Steve hears the sound of fast footsteps, and then a man shouts, “Honorable Mage, your presence is requested in Niflheim.”

  “What? Why would I be summoned there, Messenger?” Skinny Guy responds, his voice an octave higher. He’s afraid?

  The messenger, says, “The humans have gone missing.”

  Skinny Guy snaps, “Give this human the traitor’s cell!”

  “We can’t give him the traitor’s cell!” the guard declares. “The traitor is dangerous.”

  “Process him, then!” snaps Skinny Mage Guy, and for a terrifying moment Steve doesn’t know if they’re talking about him or “the Traitor.” He wills his muscles not to tense up and his breathing not to give him away. “That will make the Traitor behave.”

  Steve’s eyes slip closed in relief and shame of that relief. Someone might be “processed” because of him.

  “Odin doesn’t want the traitor processed,” someone else says.

  “Honorable Mage, we must leave,” says the messenger. His feet are so close Steve can see the points of his leather shoes.

  “Throw the human in with the Traitor. But keep an eye on them,” says Skinny Guy.

  “How can we do that? We’re shorthanded as it is! Every inch of the tower is packed.”

  “Do it!” shouts Skinny Guy. Steve hears his footsteps, lets go of his magic, and feels the jab of the stupid magical prod. White pain flashes behind his eyes, his body goes limp and he must temporarily pass out again, because next thing he knows he’s sitting on the floor. Shackles are affixed to his wrists. They are bound together by a chain, and from that chain dips another chain. It leads down to a third chain stretched between his ankles, also shackled.

  He’s hauled to his feet and a new guard appears, decked from head to toe in metal armor, his face behind a mask. He says something in Asgardian to the two guards at Steve’s side. One of them barks in British-sounding English, “Walk!”

  They make him climb a spiral staircase. The chains around his feet are too short, and the shackles cut into his ankles. As he climbs the stairs, Steve notices a section of wall seems to be composed of newer stones and mortar. He surveys the irregular edge of the repairs, and sees what looks like black discoloration caused by smoke. Was there some accident here or a prison break? The thought gives him hope.

  That hope is dashed when they reach the next landing. Before them stretches a long hallway. At one end he can just make out what looks like a guard room. Between the landing and the guardroom are what must be Fire Giants. They’re chained to the walls. They have skin shades that range between blacker than Steve’s own to tan; and they’re taller, with hair that might be blonde when washed. Packed shoulder to shoulder, and back to stomach, they’re emaciated, filthy, and stripped naked. Some are sitting, ankle shackles affixed to rings on the floor. Others are standing with their wrist shackles bound to rings in the ceiling. They don’t eve
n acknowledge the guards’ presence.

  “Norn’s teeth, Forge,” Steve’s guard says in Asgardian, “How will we sell them to the Red Dwarves if they’re so thin?”

  The man who must be Forge takes what looks like a thick, long hose from the wall. “We haven’t had time to process them and don’t want them starting fires. Even the ones that aren’t mages can do that.”

  Pointing the thing that looks like a hose at the Fire Giants, he whistles. Water shoots from the hose and he unceremoniously drenches the prisoners. “‘Course we keep them extra wet and naked to make sure they don’t start fires, too.”

  Moans and screams rise up from the Fire Giants. The guards grunt. Steve is hauled down the hallway to a huge wooden door. The guard slides a little bar and then peers in a window set in the door. Seemingly satisfied, he takes some keys out of his belt, pulls the door open, and motions with his head for the guards to escort Steve into the dark cell beyond.

  One of Steve’s minders steps toward the door … and almost falls over. Steve blinks down and sees that the Fire Giant closest to the door has thrust a bony elbow in the guard’s way.

  “Why you—” The guard yanks out a slender stick, like the one Skinny had used on Steve. Something in Steve lights up, he feels magic flowing through him, and he has to react. Ducking his head, Steve plows into the guy before he can touch the Fire Giant.

  He immediately gets magically tased, of course. The world goes bright white, and he’s pushed into the darkness and lands hard on his shoulder. The guards are shouting, but he can’t understand their words. He feels like his ears are stuffed with cotton, as though his nose is blocked, and his vision is blurry. But he does see the eyes of the Fire Giant who checked the guard with his elbow. The man’s eyes are bright yellow and wolf-like. He nods imperceptibly at Steve before getting tased himself—and then the door slams.

  It’s too dark to see … and too quiet. Steve shakes his head and struggles with his bonds, a sense of dread overcoming him. He feels like he’s wrapped in black cotton—every sense, even touch, feels muted. From the darkness comes a voice with words that are a jumble of gibberish. Steve wonders if he’s been put into some sort of magical madness designed to disorient him.

  He shakes his chains to hear sound and feel pain. He bites his tongue to taste the blood.

  The voice rises again, this time in English. “Are you seeking magic?”

  Steve inhales sharply. That is what is missing—magic. Even in the Iron Wood he’d been able to feel it. Now it is gone, and it feels like he’s lost a limb.

  “A human should not notice,” says the voice.

  Steve takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Even without magic he can make himself calm. He opens his eyes and realizes he isn’t in complete darkness. There is a window high in the wall; backlit against its meager light is a tall hominid with long, silvery-blonde hair.

  The hominid approaches, and Steve makes out the tips of pointed ears.

  “You’re Steve Rogers. You’re the one arming the Dark Elves,” the man says.

  Steve’s heart beats fast. What had Skinny called this guy? The traitor. And he’s an elf that recognizes him. He’s been a “passenger” on the “Dark Elf Underground Railroad” that Steve’s parents are part of.

  The man takes a step closer. Like most elves, his features are finely hewn and so symmetrical it’s hard to look at them and hard to look away—Lewis once told him that when your brain encountered perfect symmetry in a face it went into overdrive trying to find flaws. Steve blinks. This man is tall. He doesn’t have Steve’s mass, but he’s still more muscular than typical. Steve’s glad they’re on the same side. Releasing a breath, he says, “You’re a Dark Elf.”

  The man gives him a thin smile. “I’m a Light Elf, actually.”

  Steve deflates. Had he felt hope? Had he sought to be the master of his destiny? He rattles the chains that bind him. Once again, he is at the mercy of Chaos.

  x x x x

  Amy can’t die. She looks at Daevas. “You scratched me, didn’t you?”

  He blinks his lashless eyes. “Yes, you should have sickened and become weaker. I would have feasted on your flesh, and then you would have been reborn as one of us … them.”

  Rush, standing close to Daevas, slides away with a “yeesh.”

  Daevas’s dragonfly wings flutter. “Instead of catching our disease, I caught yours—life.”

  Amy’s eyes go to the floor. “I didn’t get sick in Nornheim, but Bohdi nearly died, and the bear flu only gave me a cold.”

  She runs a hand through her hair and looks at Hoenir. “The World Gate that opened off the coast of the Iron Wood?”

  Hoenir nods. “It was probably your influence.”

  “I’ve discovered three new species in the past two years!” Amy says.

  Hoenir nods again. “Evolution of all sorts will always happen around you.”

  Amy’s lips part. “I invented a virus that makes humans magical.” She puts a hand to her mouth—magical viruses, World Gates opening around her, and evolution. “Is Bohdi really the incarnation of Chaos, or am I?” she whispers.

  Hoenir sighs. “Perhaps, but don’t claim the title. Chaos is despised, Creation at least gets lip service … however there is a reason the word luddite exists.”

  Amy blinks, remembering all the hostility she faced for making the magic virus contagious—even she isn’t completely at ease with it. She bites her lip and looks down at her hands. Creation isn’t always fair.

  Drawing her from her musing, Mimir sputters, “Wait, what? Bohdi … the skinny Indian lad, he’s the next incarnation of Chaos?”

  Hoenir’s eyes go wide. Turning to Mimir, he says, “We really should have been suspicious.”

  Amy puts a hand to her temple. “We’re always together …” Hoenir had told her that, hadn’t he? Her mind goes back to that day, just after Loki’s death, in Hoenir’s hut.

  She’d asked Hoenir, “Why do you want me to be the Creator?”

  “Because you have the heart for it,” Hoenir said. He had touched her temple. “And the mind. Your training in the biological sciences suits the role well.”

  Amy had narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. “But I still have so much to learn.” She’d looked to a countertop. Her eyes fell to a jar with a six-legged, bat-winged, chameleon-like creature crawling up its side. Could a chameleon-sized heart support all those extra appendages?

  Hoenir smiled. “But it will come to you. All life, even the life of the stars, the galaxy and the universe will be knowable.” Stepping back, he spread his hands. Between them a glowing flower had emerged, as wide as his spread arms. Amy gasped. It was not a flower—it was a map of the universe suspended in his hands, the light of billions of stars and their galaxies converging to make it appear solid. She felt drawn toward the glow; she imagined if she just stepped into the light she’d know everything that really mattered.

  She almost did. But then, she remembered that just a few hours ago Loki had offered her an apple that bestowed magic and life. She’d turned it down, knowing that Cera would be able to control her if she became a magical creature. There was no Cera now, but ...

  “There’s a catch, isn’t there?” Amy whispered.

  Hoenir had sighed and closed his hands, the universe between them fading away. “You will not be able to kill or maim, even in self-defense. You won’t age, unless you expend energy to do so, and you won’t be able to die, no matter how great the injury or the pain.”

  Amy had forgotten to breathe as the implications of that had set in.

  Hoenir dropped his eyes. “And as the Creator, Chaos—the Destroyer—will be drawn to you, no matter what form it takes. You are two sides of the same coin.”

  Amy blinks back to the present. That last catch, that was what made her say yes. Loki had just died, and there was nothing she wanted more in the universe than to have him back. Had Hoenir been counting on the grieving heart of a young woman to make her say yes? She swallows, jaw getting
tight. He was older than Loki, and at least as old as Odin. Of course he had counted on her love and naivety. Creation isn’t always nice.

  Amy’s hands ball into fists at her side. She remembers him putting his hands on her temples, being overcome by a delicious feeling of warmth, and being amidst the stars, of literally being the heart of the universe exploding outward. But then, it was over, and she’d been just herself, the memory of galaxies spinning away from her, a mirage just out of reach.

  “The knowledge will come back,” Hoenir had whispered, “with time, as you find a way to harness your magic. But for now, you need to forget …”

  Amy opens her eyes and glares at Hoenir. “You made me forget everything. How?”

  Hoenir sighs. “I am still magical and still a master of biology. You weren’t. It was simple.”

  Amy takes a step closer. “And you made Sigyn, Nari, and Valli forget the World Gate in Chicago that led back to you.”

  He nods. “If you’d known what you were, you might have revealed it, accidentally. Odin would have found you before you could reunite with Loki. If Odin found me too quickly, he’d realize that I was no longer the Creator, and then he’d start looking for you.”

  Amy grinds her teeth and looks at the cobblestone floor.

  “Don’t be so angry,” Mimir says, his voice scolding. “Heimdall’s eyes are seeking Hoenir, he’s being your bait. Be grateful, young lady.”

  Remembering her own conversation with Odin, Amy gives the head and Hoenir a rueful smile. “Odin isn’t interested in Hoenir. He doesn’t think Creation is dangerous.”

  Hoenir straightens.

  Amy levels her eyes at him. “I’m going to show him he’s wrong. I’m saving Bohdi, Steve, and the rest of the team. Are you going to help me?”

  “Amy …” Beatrice says. “You can’t confront Odin alone. He has Laevithin. Won’t that make him next to invincible?”

  “I’ll confront him with Bohdi!” Amy says.

  “You’re still too weak—both of you,” Mimir huffs. “Especially if Odin has Laevithin.”

  Hoenir is silent.