Loki's Gambit, page 82
part #1 of I Bring the Fire Series
Bohdi doesn’t like Gerðr. No one does. She has, upon occasion, loudly declared humans to be on par with snow weevil shit. But still…he narrows his eyes at Skírnir’s back and his hands clench at his side. Glancing down, he sees Steve is having a similar reaction.
Steve tilts his head. “I’ll look out for Gerðr. I need you in the meeting though, Lewis.”
She nods. “Of course. By the way…the little stick he’s carrying is Gambanteinn, a magic wand.”
“Like Harry Potter?” says Bohdi without thinking.
Glancing back to Bohdi, Amy says to Steve, “It’s not really like a Harry Potter wand.” Her voice goes soft. “It’s not as versatile. I think it may have some powers of compulsion…but in some stories, it was also used as a sword.”
They step into a hallway, and Beatrice falls back until she’s walking side by side with Bohdi. They’re just past a service hallway when Thor and Skírnir, escorted by Bryant, Brett, and Hernandez, slip between two armed guards into the magically sealed conference room. Steve and Amy follow them in, and Beatrice and Bohdi step forward as one to do the same—and both of them run into a hand of the guards
“Excuse me, young man,” says Beatrice, glaring up at her guard, the tip of her umbrella just beneath his chin.
Giving his guard a smile, Bohdi says, “I’ll just go in in case they need audio-visual help.”
Both guards step sideways so they’re blocking the now-closed door. The one in front of Beatrice says, “Sorry, Ma’am.” The one in front of Bohdi—Smith, or Jones, or something—just glares at him and says, “No.”
Beatrice backs up a step. “I’ll just wait for my granddaughter here, then.”
“Could be a while, Ma’am,” says one of the guards, his voice apologetic.
Bohdi’s eyes dart to the side. The hallway is pretty clear. “Hmmm…well, I’ll just get back to work,” says Bohdi.
“You do that,” says the guard whose hand he’d run into earlier. The guy doesn’t even look at him. Which is good. Bohdi walks casually down the hall. The guards continue to talk to Beatrice. Which is also good—it keeps them distracted.
“Do you want to pull up a chair?” he hears the nice guard say to Beatrice.
“Are you offering to get me one?” asks Beatrice.
“Well—”
“We can’t leave,” says the other guard.
Bohdi checks over his shoulder. No one is looking. He sidesteps into the short service hallway and hears Beatrice’s voice echo behind him. “Well, I’m not leaving either.”
The service hallway is only a few feet long. Besides some dust bunnies, there is a dirty window, an emergency exit that leads to a fire escape, and a non-descript door. Pulling out his wallet, Bohdi extracts a credit card and checks over his shoulder one more time. He’s still alone. With a quick movement, he slides the credit card between the door and the wall and feels the lock give. Checking one more time over his shoulder, he opens the door, steps into the room, and then shuts the door quietly behind him.
He looks around. It’s the same room Steve and Hernandez had locked him in two years ago and it brings a bitter taste to his mouth. Of course, Steve would have him enlist into the most fucking gung-ho branch of the armed services. If Bohdi had known what a shit deal joining the Marine Corps would be and how easy this particular lock was to unlatch, he’d have taken his chances being no one in nowhere. He shakes his head. But of course, if he’d run away, he wouldn’t have Steve’s parents to retreat to on Sunday nights for dinner. And enlisting did get him his current job—it’s a job he usually loves—spending all day trying to hack into the classified files of the FBI and ADUO. When he’s successful, he’s not supposed to read the files, but of course, he does. It’s awesome.
He looks around the room. His job may be awesome, but listening in on Thor and Skírnir’s conversation with Steve right now? He’s betting that’s even better.
They’ve changed the space into a storage area since he was last here. Unused desks, folded up and coated with dust, lean against one wall. Fortunately, they’ve left the wall with the air-conditioning intake free. Bohdi smiles.
Instead of being cooled and heated by a central air conditioning and heating system, ADUO’s headquarters have heavy-duty industrial heating and AC units set into the walls at regular intervals. Most of the units cool more than one room. The unit with the intake vent in this little room cools the conference room next door. The units are so loud that in the winter, the office just relies on the building’s ancient radiators.
Quietly unfolding a foldout chair leaning beneath the window, Bohdi steps up. Through the vent, Thor’s voice booms, “We have come to your realm seeking passage to Nornheim.”
Amy’s voice isn’t as loud; Bohdi has to press his ear to the vent to hear her reply.
“Asgard has its own World Gate to Nornheim,” she says, her voice firm and clear even if it’s soft. “What are you hiding from us?”
Drawing back, Bohdi scowls and takes out his knife. If he’s going to hear all of this conversation, he’s going to have to get a little closer. Flipping open the Phillips-head screwdriver hidden in the knife handle, he begins to work on the grate.
Chapter Two
The conference room is windowless and lined with magic-blocking Promethean Wire. The wire makes the conversation invisible to Heimdall if he’s looking this way. It also makes it impossible for magic to work in the room, making Skírnir’s wand just a stick, and Mjolnir, Thor’s hammer, just a hammer. Steve is at the head on one end of a long, oblong table. Thor is at the other. Amy is sitting stiffly on one side, half way between them. Brett and Bryant are seated next to her. So is Agent Stodgill, ADUO’s legal counsel. Hernandez and some other men are standing along the walls, eyes on Thor and his companion. Skírnir is sitting directly across from Amy, his very pale eyes trained on her.
Amy glares right back at him. Loki’s memories of Skírnir make Amy wish that he’d do something threatening. It would be nice if one of the agents had an excuse to shoot him.
“What are you hiding from us?” Amy says, directing the question at Thor. Skírnir hasn’t spoken since they entered the room. And she doesn’t want to speak to him.
Feeling something wiggle in her pocket, she blinks. Eight tiny feet scamper up onto her lap. Keeping her eyes on Thor, she reaches down and gently wraps a hand around Mr. Squeakers, the eight-legged venomous spidermouse that Loki had given to her over two years ago. Squeakers doesn’t like it when people upset her. Slipping the stowaway back into her pocket, Amy glances around the room. No one seems to have noticed her tiny protector.
Thor leans forward and meets Amy’s gaze. “The Norns have closed all known gates to their realm.”
Tapping a finger on the table, Amy says, “Why doesn’t Odin just create a new World Gate?” Creating a World Gate isn’t as simple as opening one to walk thru, and yet she has this feeling…
Across the table from her, Skírnir’s head does a quick jerk. “What makes you think that Odin can do that?”
Amy’s heart beats fast. Loki’s memories don’t normally come to the surface unless she stumbles upon something relevant. Now they come forth in a deluge.
Loki awakens to darkness, lying on his side. He tries to open his eyes and finds he can’t. He tries to move his arms to wipe away whatever is obstructing his vision and feels the bite of bonds at his wrists. Dull pain throbs through his shoulders, and his shins and ankles. He tries to move his legs, and succeeds in yanking his own wrists backward. A shocked yell comes unbidden to his throat, but all that comes out of his mouth is a muffled whine and the taste of linen invades his senses.
From a few feet away, a rough male voice says, “Oh, look, he’s awake.”
“Broken bellows,” mutters another voice. “The draught of potion should have kept him knocked out longer.” Loki hears more grunts, and the sound of steel against stone.
Draught of potion? Above his blindfold, Loki’s brows constrict. The last thing he remembers was being in Svartálfaheimr, realm of the dwarves, on a diplomatic mission with Odin. He’d been escorted to the servants’ kitchens, and offered a draught of mead…
His eyes scrunch tighter. “Broken bellows.” Loki’s mind whirls at the curse words. Dwarves. His eyelids flutter beneath his bonds. He should have realized that immediately from the Dwarven tongue they’re speaking, but he’d magically translated the language without a thought.
He squirms. Something enters his nostrils. Dust maybe? And are those pebbles beneath him? Is he lying on the ground? If he is, it hasn’t rained in a long time; it’s as dry as the stones of the World Gate in midsummer. Very little light is filtering through his eyelids. Is it nighttime? He strains to hear the sounds of night animals. There is a humming, but nothing like he is used to.
“He might be more fun awake,” says the first voice. “What is he? Sixteen or seventeen years old? He’s pretty enough to be a girl.”
There are chuckles around Loki. His body goes still. It’s not the first time he’s heard such words, but never while in such a vulnerable position. The sound of his heart pounding in his ears grows so loud it is almost deafening.
“Don’t get close to him, Longbeard. He’s scrawny, but closer to twenty-three and made his first kill when he was naught but a boy. Killed a foe too wicked for even Odin.”
Loki tries to inhale deeply but barely fills his lungs. He tries to swallow, and feels drool trickling down his chin. He hadn’t been trussed up like a helpless blind worm when he’d slain the giant Cronus.
Longbeard snorts. Loki can’t help but notice that he’s drawn closer. “This boy? Impossible. I’ve never seen a lad this pretty. The Norns said they wanted him intact, but they didn’t say we couldn’t play with him. What could be the harm?”
“Rites of War,” someone chuckles.
Loki’s breath comes in short shallow bursts, and he wiggles away from the sound of Longbeard’s voice. Unfortunately, it takes him closer to the sound of the other voices.
“Look!” someone shouts. “I think he understands you.”
“He squirms like a worm!” says someone else.
There are a few dark chuckles. “Longbeard will give him a worm!”
Curling his body into as tight a ball as he can manage, Loki concentrates. He imagines a hulking troll stomping through the camp—
Yelps rise up around him. Longbeard gives a satisfying gasp of fear. There is the sound of metal on metal, and then someone snorts. “Don’t let him stoke your battle fires, men. That is just an illusion. Real trolls don’t step into flames…or through trees…”
“You won’t get away from me that easily,” says Longbeard.
There are dark murmurs around camp. Loki lets the illusion fade and scowls beneath his blindfold. Hoenir and Odin had always told him he should learn to use his illusions as eyes and ears; they’d even shown him how, but he hadn’t bothered to practice. If he could see the dwarves and their fires, his illusion would have been more convincing.
There is the sound of approaching feet.
“Don’t go near him!” the owner of the first voice shouts. “If we fail, the Norns will never reveal the location of Andvaranaut, and our land will continue to be blighted with its curse!”
“I don’t plan on not delivering,” says Longbeard, drawing closer.
The sound of Loki’s heartbeat is so loud and strong now, it sounds like hoof beats.
Something tickles his cheek. Loki writhes in his bonds, his vision going red. Heat flashes against his face and Longbeard screams.
“Longbeard’s beard is on fire!” someone screams. “Drop and roll on it.”
Loki would laugh, but he’s too terrified.
Screams erupt around the camp. “Einherjar! We’re being attacked! Grab the boy! Grab the boy.”
Loki feels himself hoisted up onto a burly shoulder. He hears a hiss and a thunk beneath him. The wind is knocked out of him as his captor falls and Loki lands on top of his fallen body. Around him, steel rings on steel, and hooves beat in every direction.
Odin’s voice cuts through the din like thunder. “Find Loki!”
Wiggling his way onto his knees, hands still tied behind him, Loki tries to let out a cry, but his voice is barely audible even to him.
“Loki!” Odin roars from behind. Loki tries to turn toward the sound.
Crossing swords clang in Loki’s ears. Horses whinny and bellow. A hand touches his blindfold. Loki screams beneath his gag, the blindfold disappears, and he blinks and sees a blur of flame dancing before him. Loki screams again and the fire snuffs out.
“Loki!” shouts Odin.
The blur in front of Loki comes into focus, and he’s staring into Odin’s single eye. The Allfather’s eyebrows are smoldering slightly. Surprisingly, Odin, Loki’s king and guardian, looks more relieved than angry.
Loki swallows and feels tears prickle behind his eyes. He wants to throw his arms around Odin, as he did when he was a child. Perhaps it’s best he’s still trussed up like a pig. Odin is a king, and Loki is not a child, nor his kin.
Loki closes his eyes. Patting him once on the cheek, Odin says. “Easy, I’m going to cut you loose.” Opening his eyes, Loki sees Odin pulling out a long knife. The Allfather walks around him, and Loki feels the knife slice through the bonds. His limbs snap free with such force, he almost topples over, but Odin catches him.
Loki’s wrists tingle and burn with the sudden rush of blood. “Give yourself a minute,” Odin commands. Loki looks down alarmed. He can’t feel his feet, and his legs feel as limp as newly tanned leather. Rubbing his wrists together, he looks around.
Surrounding Odin and Loki, backs to them, stand the Einherjar, the human warriors recruited from every corner of Midgard, and made immortal by Idunn’s apples. Their swords are drawn, but no one seems to be confronting them.
Near Loki’s head, Odin whistles.
Sleipnir, Odin’s enormous, eight-legged steed, emerges between the other horses, pale as a moonbeam, his halter glowing faintly. Sleipnir’s halter is magical. Woven from the strands of Gleipnir, the rope that can hold anything. Mimir always said that an ordinary stallion was difficult enough to control; give a stallion eight legs and you need magical control…
Sleipnir snuffles against Loki’s cheek, gently nudging Loki from his reverie, and then the horse pricks his ears toward the darkness.
Around them, the Einherjar begin to fan out. The night is very dark. Loki cannot even see the stars, but he thinks he makes out the shapes of dwarves lying on the nearly barren ground, arrows protruding from their bodies. He hears a few low groans.
Odin hauls Loki to his feet and surveys the scene.
Loki eyes the Einherjar with apprehension. Odin always says their gratitude makes them braver and more loyal than any Aesir or Vanir warrior. That Odin would think he needs them to fetch Loki suggests Odin suspects a dangerous foe, and yet they seem to have dealt with the dwarves quickly enough.
A tall Einherjar, his skin nearly as black as the night around them, approaches Odin. “We’ve dispatched the dwarves, Your Majesty.”
Guiding Loki by the shoulder, Odin says, “Good, let’s get back to the World Gate.”
Shaking, Loki says, “The dwarves were going to take me to the Norns.”
Hoisting himself up onto Sleipnir, Odin grunts. “Yes, Heimdall heard that just before they slipped you through Svartálfaheimr’s World Gate.” Almost to himself, he says, “The Norns requested you in exchange for information the dwarves were seeking.”
Loki feels as though his stomach has suddenly shrunk to the size of a robin’s egg. Odin and Frigga have told him that the Norns know everything that has ever happened and is happening—some say they even know what will happen—though Frigga long ago disabused him of that notion. The Norns will provide information to requestors at a price: either an object of power, or a nearly impossible favor. Loki isn’t an object of power, and capturing him doesn’t seem so impossible.
“Why would the Norns want me?” he asks, wincing at the whine in his voice.
From the saddle, Odin offers a hand to help Loki up behind him. Loki takes it—he needs it. Sleipnir’s back is nearly as high as the top of his head, and Odin’s got the stirrups. Hoisting Loki up, Odin says, “I do not know. It’s a question for later—we need to escape quickly.”
“Escape…what?” says Loki, swinging up behind Odin.
“Everything wicked in the realms eventually makes its way to Nornheim,” Odin says, holding up a hand for silence.
The tall Einherjar who’d just spoken to Odin follows the direction of Odin’s gaze. “Hoof beats,” he says.
A horse comes galloping out of the darkness, the whites of its eyes visible as they roll in terror. The beast’s saddle is askew; its rider has slumped forward and is dangling dangerously over the animal’s side, groaning loudly. Wispy gray ropes cling to both steed and warrior.
Running to grab the horse’s reins, one of the Einherjar shouts. “It’s Hsu! He was with the others guarding the World Gate.”
In the saddle, the warrior Hsu groans. “They took the gate…they…”
A bolt of gray-white rope the width of a man’s arm shoots from the darkness above and affixes to Hsu’s mouth. The warrior’s head is yanked up by the rope with such force his neck cracks. An instant later, his corpse is ripped from his saddle and pulled up into the darkness above. More bolts of rope shoot from above and affix to the Einherjar and their mounts. The horses scream as they and their riders are pulled into the air.
“Follow me!” Odin shouts, drawing a sword and severing a rope that has affixed to Sleipnir’s neck.
Some of the Einherjar are able to slip from their mounts and jump to the ground, only to have the ghostly ropes shoot from the sky and affix to their bodies and the flat edges of their swords. Sleipnir rears, and Loki clings to Odin. The Allfather curses, and Loki glances above to see Odin’s sword has been ripped from his hands. More ropes affix to Odin. One lands on Loki. Frantically trying to shake the wet sticky thing from his arms, Loki looks around in horror. His arm tightens instinctively around Odin’s waist. They are now surrounded in a forest of glistening gray-white strands.
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