The Chronicles of Loki: Book One: The Gathering Storm

By M. Gregory Kendrick

The Chronicles of Loki: Book One The Gathering Storm, is the first book in a trilogy centered on the life of the Norse trickster, Loki. Essentially, this is a reworking of the Norse myths in which the character commonly identified as the god of mischief and wickedness gets to tell the story from his point of view. Unlike more traditional treatments of these stories, this book treats Loki, Odin, Frey, and company as if they were real human beings who lived ages ago on a lost island continent they called Igdrasil, which, as in the myths, was also divided into nine realms inhabited by distinctly different peoples and cultures. The most challenging (and fun) part of this first book has been reimagining Loki's various adventures and misadventures as they might have actually happened without the benefit of magic and sorcery (though supernal elements are introduced in the second book on which the author is presently working).

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9781543978926

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©2019 M. Gregory Kendrick. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other

noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN: 978-1-54397-891-9 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-54397-892-6 (ebook)

For my Palo Alto Pals David Casci,

John Nystrom, and Yoko Yanari

Contents

Fathers and Sons

In the Beginning, or How the Children of Ymir Came to Igdrasil

Fafnir, Imre, and Fegelin the Feral

Of the Vanir, Aesir, and Jotun Tribes and the Places in which They Settled

Wherein We Make the Acquaintance of Odin and Frey

How I Came to Asgard

Wherein We Meet the Twins and the Lord Surt

How I came to Asgard

A Meeting in Midgard and a Dinner Date in Asgard

The Funeral of My Father

Mimir, High Shaman of the Ymir

The Ymir Althing

The Twins Dine with the Dwarves

Getting to Know My New Family

A Heist in Vanaheim and a Trip to the Lady Imre’s Dungeons

My Early Years Among the Aesir (and how I rebuilt Asgard’s walls)

A Trip to Alfheim

Regarding the Matter of Idunn and Her Apples

The Lady Hela Pays a Visit to Jormundgand

I Become High King of Jotunheim, Woo and Wed Angrboda, and Sire a Wolf

Chapter One

Fathers and Sons

Jormundgand

As a longstanding servant of the House Farbauti and the faithful bondsman of Lord Loki, it had been Thrimm’s misfortune to interact with a great many unpleasant folk over the years. Ill-bred Jotuns, conniving dwarves, Vanir whores, and bellicose Aesir among others. But no one was more difficult to deal with than the man towering over him at the present moment, Loki’s eldest Jotun offspring, Fenrir.

Fully seven feet in height—a true giant even among a people that were normally over six feet tall—and a veritable mountain of muscle and sinew, Fenrir was a terror to behold. Nor did the face glaring down at Thrimm, with its thick raven black locks, glowering green eyes, scarred vulpine features, and brilliant white teeth make him feel more at ease. Verily, this one truly deserved the cognomen, Wolf, which his father had bestowed on him as a young man.

My Lord Fenrir surely knows that the morning is his father’s time of reflection and meditation. I am under strict instructions from him that he is not to be disturbed.

You mean he’s busy reminiscing about his life among his Aesir captors, Fenrir growled. Time enough for that when we’ve put that lot to the sword and burned their precious Asgard to the ground.

Be that as it may, Fenrir, your father’s wishes are commands I am sworn to obey, with my life if necessary.

Thrimm’s remark elicited a deep contemptuous laugh from Loki’s son. With his thumb, he pointed to the two unconscious guards in the anteroom behind him.

They said something similar to me Thrimm and now they’re enjoying an early nap. Come now old man, you know I have no desire to harm you, particularly in light of the fact that you’re family, but I must see him now.

Why is that Fenrir?

I have received important news that is vital to the progress of the coming war against the Aesir. I know my father would want to hear of it immediately.

Realizing that any further attempt to dissuade Fenrir from his course of action would be futile, Thrimm asked him to wait while he informed his father that he wished an immediate audience with him. Turning on his heel, the aged bondsman approached the doors to his master’s sanctum sanctorum, the study of his second Jotun son, Fafnir, High King of Jormundheim. Knocking gently, Thrimm stepped inside the room, closed the doors quietly behind him, and stood in silence; waiting patiently for the man he had served his entire life to take note of him.

While waiting, Thrimm found himself once more awed by the space in which he stood. Directly in front of him, behind the large desk at which his master worked, was a beautifully beveled ceiling to floor window looking out across the city Jormundgand and its ship filled bay. Etched in the center of this glass was the god of the people of Jormundheim, the great Ouroboros serpent eating its own tail. To the left and right of this wondrous portal were great book shelves carved into the walls and running the length of the room, and within this shelving Thrimm knew were crammed all manner of manuscripts--histories, atlases, lexicons, works of philosophy-natural and metaphysical-memoirs, art treatises, compendia of magic and sorcery, and even recipes. And in the center of this great storehouse of knowledge, deep in thought and frenetically writing away was Loki scion of the House Farbauti and by dint of that lineage, High King of Jotunheim.

Though no longer a young man, Thrimm was struck once more by how well his master had aged. While flecked with grey, Loki’s auburn hair was still lustrous and wavy. Except for the furrow of his brow, his face retained the fair, almost delicate features of his youth. A smooth forehead atop high well-defined cheekbones. A long aquiline nose, thin lips, and dimpled cheeks and chin. It was his eyes, however, which he now turned upon Thrimm, that were his most arresting feature. Jade green with a hint of gold around the irises. Few could resist their allure.

For a moment, Thrimm was unsure if Loki was even aware that he was in the room. He knew well that far away look in his master’s eyes when he was deep in some reverie about the past, present or future. Whether Loki suddenly became aware of Thrimm’s presence, or had simply completed his train of thought, his gaze fell directly on his bondservant, and a gentle grin broke across his dimpled face, a smile, Thrimm thought, which had won his master the favor of more than one woman, or man.

Well, old Billy Goat, why the interruption? Have I forgotten to break fast for the morning? Do I need to bathe? Is there some protocol you wish to run me through for an event later in the day?

My lord knows it is long past when I deigned to disturb him with such mundane matters. A high king may eat when he wishes, and no one is more adept in matters of protocol across all nine realms than Loki of the House Farbauti. As for bathing, unlike so many of your Aesir or Jotun kin, you have appreciated the benefits of cleanliness since childhood.

Ah, a family matter then. Let me guess, Fenrir has important news for me again.

As always my lord, you are most perceptive.

My son is aware that this is the time of day I set aside for reflection and study?

So I informed him my lord, but he was quite insistent that you see him. So insistent in fact that he left two of your guards unconscious in the anteroom. Shall I send him away?

No, no. He’ll only become more agitated and likely damage anything or anyone with whom he comes into contact on his way out. He’s been stubborn and headstrong since he was a boy. Send him in, Thrimm.

When Fenrir entered his study, Loki was once more struck by his son’s resemblance to his mother, Angrboda. Tall, dark, raven haired, every inch a Jotun of her noble house. Only his face with its green eyes, aquiline nose, and long chiseled jaw attested to the fact that he was Loki’s son as well.

Well, what is it now Fenrir that necessitates disturbing me during the time of day I set aside for reflection? What is it that cannot wait until our regular meeting this afternoon?

A missive has arrived from my sister, father. A message of some importance I think.

Was this post addressed to you, Fenrir, or me?

Why you father, but Thrimm would have sat on it until far too late in the day.

I need not remind you boy that Thrimm has been my good and loyal servant since I was a child, and, unlike certain members of my family, he is aware of and sensitive to my needs. Further, if a letter for me from the Lady Hela arrived at any time of the day or night, he knows to bring it to my attention post haste. I am displeased with you Fenrir. You take far too many liberties, show too little respect for my servants and counselors, and, as I am weary of reminding you, you are woefully lacking in the patience and tact required of a son of Loki, a son, who may well be a high king someday.

Loki paused to let his reprimand have its full effect on his headstrong offspring. The crimson flush on Fenrir’s face signaled that the young man was both furious and ashamed at the same time. Good, Loki thought, my son needs to be reminded of his place, and that it is his father who commands here, not he.

Taking a less stern tone, Loki asked, I take it that aside from intercepting a post not intended for you; you have also taken the liberty of reading it?

Father, it grieves me that I am such a disappointment to you. As you know, patience has never been counted among my virtues, particularly where our enemies are concerned.

And as I’ve told you repeatedly my boy we will be avenged on those who have wronged us, but it will come at a time and place I deem likely to bring victory. In the meantime, you must learn patience and also give my servants and counselors the respect they deserve. If you need to vent your spleen on someone, then do it in the training yard with our recruits. They need your hard hand to ready them for the coming battle with Odin and his brood.

Well, what does your sister have to say?

At the mention of Hela’s letter, Fenrir’s scowl was replaced with a fierce grin.

Her husband Ragnar will join our crusade. Further, he places the resources and armies of Nifleheim under your command. When you summon them, they will come.

Well at least we’ll have sufficient supplies of walrus meat and oil, not to mention Nifleheim’s hearty hunters and fisher folk to throw into the fray. I’m sure the news of this will make the Aesir tremble.

I wouldn’t be so dismissive of Ragnar’s people, father. To survive the wastelands of the south requires both iron resolve and constitutions. I can turn them into warriors equal to any of the Aesir’s Midgard mercenaries.

"See that you do Fenrir. Now leave me, I wish to finish my meditations for the day, and compose a letter to your sister, expressing my thanks for her husband’s support. You will accompany me later this afternoon, to check on the progress being made on our flagship, Naglfar. Contact your brother Fafnir, and tell him to meet us here in the citadel. I have questions for him."

As you command father.

Oh, and Fenrir…

Yes father?

I would appreciate your sister’s letter. You know, the one that was addressed to me.

Of course, at once.

Reaching inside his cloak, Fenrir fished out a piece of folded parchment with a broken wax seal, which he quickly handed to his father. Loki took it from his son’s large coarse hand, unfolded it, and gently smoothed it out on his desk.

It’s lucky for you my boy that you did not damage your sister’s missive to me. I treasure her letters greatly, and I mean it when I say that if you truly wish to ride into battle against the Aesir with your siblings and me, don’t ever meddle with my correspondence again.

Kneeling before his father with his head lowered, Fenrir replied contritely, I apologize father, I have once again overstepped my bounds and displeased you as a result.

Rising and moving around his desk, Loki lifted his son’s head and said to him in an affectionate tone: Wolves are not only the most loyal of animals, my son, but the most difficult to tame. Now go break some heads on the training grounds, there’s much work to be done before we have our day of reckoning, our Ragnarok, with the Aesir.

Fenrir took his father’s other hand, kissed the signet ring of the Jotun kings with its Falcon seal, rose, bowed his head once more, turned on his heel, and lumbered out of his father’s study.

Loki sighed thinking how much he missed Fenrir’s mother. She would have known how to calm their eldest son, how to best focus his raging emotions. Stepping back around his desk and taking his seat again, he opened his daughter’s letter, and was once more struck by the elegance of her hand. Each letter and word a study in calligraphy, every line flawless and without error. Reading her correspondence over the years truly has been a source of both aesthetic and intellectual joy for him.

My dearest father,

I suspect my oafish brother will have read these lines (or at least those words he recognizes) and has since brought this letter to your attention. You will be pleased, as I am sure Fenrir will be, to hear that Ragnar has agreed to join your war against the Aesir and their allies amongst the Vanir and the Earldoms of Midgard. As you know, my husband is a timid soul and not a little uneasy at the prospect of challenging the one who fancies himself the All-Father (All-Father of what exactly. To the best of my knowledge, while he may have coupled with many of the high born women among the Aesir—and who has not—and bedded more than one wench in the various realms of Igdrasil, he’s hardly the sire of everyone in the nine kingdoms. But, as is my wont, I digress…). After all, the folk of Nifleheim are not renown for their skills as warriors, and what resources they have are meager and hard won. This said, at the appointed time, my people, and whatever they can spare, will be at your disposal.

If you are wondering how I was able to win over Ragnar and his counselors, you will be pleased to hear that my rather striking appearance (a face half covered by a birth mark commands attention), in tandem with my mother’s reputation as a sorceress of some renown, have helped to transform me into a kind of holy woman, or shamaness among my rather superstitious subjects. Indeed, many of them have come to associate me with an ancient prophecy to the effect that a savior not born of Nifleheim will come at the end of days and lead them to a warm sun washed paradise with plentiful food and drink. Suffice it to say, I encourage this association, and I have promised my people that once the Aesir are overthrown, their rich lands will be open to them for settlement. I trust that you will approve of the idea of your daughter as the witch queen of the southern lands.

Other than these machinations on your behalf, I have little else to report. Not much changes in a land of perpetual ice and snow, nor do I have the pleasure of presiding over a learned court. Though the occasional minstrel makes his way to Eljudnir, the only thing that keeps me sane are the books Fafnir sends my way on his people’s ships, as well as his detailed accounts of his assorted experiments with the odd flora and fauna of Jormundheim.

I miss you father and look forward to that time in what I hope is the near future when we can be together again. I know you are terribly busy planning your great war against our Aesir oppressors, but if you find time to pen a letter, no matter how brief, please know that it would be greatly appreciated and treasured. I close with the following lines of an anonymous Vanir bard:

Here at the frontier, there are falling leaves.

Although my neighbors are all barbarians,

and you, you are a thousand miles away,

there are always two cups on my table.

Much love always, your daughter

Hela

Loki read through his daughter’s letter a second time, noting her acerbic wit, political acumen, and superb taste in poetry. Of his children by Angrboda, she was truly the one who had acquired all the best traits of her sires, without any of their shortcomings. He very much looked forward to seeing her again, and made a silent promise to answer her without delay. But before doing that, he turned back to the manuscript on which he was working before his son’s interruption. There is a story to be told, his story, and there was precious little time left to put it down on parchment Now, he mused, where was I?

Chapter Two

In the Beginning, or How the Children of Ymir Came to Igdrasil

No one really knows where the Children of Ymir—the Aesir, Vanir, and Jotuns—came from, or when we made our way to this island continent we named Igdrasil. As is his wont, my blood brother Odin is fond of weaving together all manner of nonsense about our origins so as to legitimize his claim to divinity, and with it his right to rule all the peoples of Igdrasil’s nine realms. According to the bards of the Aesir, in the beginning there was a place called Ginnungagap, a vast landmass fed by eleven rivers originating in a fiery volcanic region to the south and an ice covered waste in the north.

Unlike its more inhospitable neighbors, this Ginnungagap was a temperate region full of water and growing things, and among its flora and fauna was a great giant by the name of Ymir, who also had the good fortune to be served by an equally large cow called Audumla. From Ymir’s sweat glands, the Aesir tell us, came the vile Jotuns (typical of the Aesir to cast my people as little more than the perspiration of our shared progenitor). The Aesir, on the other hand, were brought forth whole and perfect from certain salty ice blocks (how ice came to be in this temperate land of milk and honey is left unexplained) licked by Ymir’s pet cow. Well actually, the first Aesir man, a fellow called Buri, emerged from the ice, perfect in form and figure (of course), and he somehow sired a son by the name of Bor, who married a Jotun maiden, and from this match was spawned the Aesir master race. Interestingly enough, Ymir’s Vanir offspring are missing in this creation narrative, probably because Odin has decided that they are merely another branch of his big happy family.

If all of this is not already too ridiculous for words, Aesir storytellers (and storytellers they most certainly are) go on to tell us that the sons of Bor (from whom, we are reminded, Odin is directly descended) took a disliking to Ymir and treacherously slew the old fellow. In the ensuing flood of blood and gore, all of my ancestors were drowned with the exception of a certain Bergelmir and his wife who escaped in a makeshift boat. Following this deluge, our doughty Aesir godlings then went on to fashion the world, as we know it, from Ymir’s remains. The earth out of his flesh; the mountains from his bones; rocks, boulders, and stones from his teeth and jaws; the ocean from his blood; and the sky from his skull. They also found time to fashion those humans who are not related to the Children of Ymir out of a couple of fallen trees. Thus the inhabitants of the other six realms of Igdrasil owe their existence to Odin’s divine forebears.

It goes without saying that this account of our origins is pure folderol designed to do little more than justify the Aesir claim that it is their right, their destiny to rule over all the peoples of Igdrasil. What little I have been able to uncover about the origins of the Vanir, Aesir, and Jotuns is that we do appear to share a common ancestor, or patriarch by the name of Ymir. That he had a pet cow is likely given the fact that our peoples all practice herding of one form or another in the realms we now call our homes.

Moreover, the Children of Ymir, as we have always styled ourselves, also likely hale from some region to the north of Igdrasil. Whether this place was called Ginnungagap, or something else, by our ancestors is unknown. The idea that inhospitable regions to the north and south bordered it may merely be a reflection of the fact that this continent also sports a fiery north and an icy south. Or it may refer to a point in time when our common homeland was rendered largely uninhabitable by either volcanic activity, glaciers of ice, or both; a development that resulted in the decision of all three of our tribes to build the great long boats for which we are known and make our way to a new home somewhere to the south.

Whatever the reasons for our great migration, our ancestors made their way to this island continent, which they named Igdrasil after a cutting of a sacred ash tree they brought with them. Why it was regarded as holy is also unknown, but the concept of a guardian tree somehow linked to all of creation is commonplace in most of the mythical cosmogonies I have come across in my journeys. The important point is this tree was, and still is, a symbol of the essential unity of the Vanir, Aesir, and Jotun peoples. So much so that it was planted in a grove outside of the borders of our kingdoms and made into an object of reverence and pilgrimage. And it is to this shrine that our peoples repair unarmed for festivals, the Althing, which is the great assembly of the Children of Ymir, and the yearly vision quests with their rituals of fasting and bodily mortification.

The chieftains who led our peoples to this land may also have sported names like Buri, Bor and Bergelmir. Bor has long been a name favored by the high kings of the Aesir. Indeed Odin’s father, who was also my foster father, sported that name. And my own family house, the Farbautis, traces its lineage back to a Jotun named Bergelmir who ostensibly led our people to the shores of what came to be known as Jotunheim.

Chapter Three

Fafnir, Imre, and Fegelin the Feral

Jormundgand

The sound of gentle rapping on the door to Loki’s study alerted him to the fact that it was now the time of day he had set aside for the prosecution of his war against the Aesir. Putting aside his manuscript, he called out for Thrimm to enter, and was pleased to see that his faithful servant had anticipated his need for some light nourishment and a steaming cup of kaffi, a slightly bitter beverage brewed from the berries of a shrub found only in the jungles of Muspelheim in the far north of Igdrasil. Over the years, Loki had become inordinately fond of this drink because of its stimulating effect on him. Under its influence, he had found that he thought in a clearer fashion and could work for longer periods without the need of rest.

"Ah, my dear Billy Goat, as always you appear to be capable of reading my mind. Though you know I could easily finish off an entire pot of your splendid kaffi."

You drink too much of that accursed brew my lord, and then fail to take adequate rest. You’ve already consumed a pot this morning. One large cup should see you through the afternoon.

A pox on rest Thrimm! I rested way too many years on that miserable island to which the Aesir exiled me after that whole sordid affair with Odin’s golden boy Balder. I’m through with rest old man, especially in light of the fact that there will likely be an inordinately long respite ahead.

I am sure you have a great many years left to you my lord. Farbautis….

Are a short-lived breed, Thrimm. Both my grandfather and father died young in battles against the accursed Aesir. If any of my children are to have even a chance of a normal lifespan, we will need to destroy Asgard once and for all, and that is something I mean to do.

His master’s angry tone reminded Thrimm that between Loki and his Aesir kindred there was much bad blood over the dam and under the bridge. War, skulduggery, murder, betrayal going back to his childhood. A reckoning was surely coming and Thrimm feared for this man who was like a son to him. In an attempt to change the subject, he brought Loki’s attention back to the matter at hand.

Be that as it may, my lord, I hope you will do me the favor of at least sampling some of the victuals I have prepared for your breakfast. You’ll note the herring in your favorite cream sauce, the salted ham and boiled eggs, the sharp Vanir cheese you like so much. And that bread is fresh from the oven.

A smile creased Loki’s face, and for a moment Thrimm saw in that expression, the care free, loving, mischievous boy he had cared for so long ago in Asgard.

Fixing him with those remarkable eyes of his, Loki replied, changing the subject hey old Billy Goat. Directing my mind to more pleasant and pleasurable considerations. You forget how long we’ve been together Thrimm. I can read you like one of the many books in this library.

And that being the case, you know I think of nothing more than ensuring your health and well being. Now save the blood and iron for your sons and eat something!

Loki laughed and with that laughter the storm lifted from his brow.

As you command old man. At least between you and I, we know who rules here, and it most certainly is not me. And with that admission of defeat Loki of the House Farbauti, High King of the Jotuns, Sly One, Trickster, Shape Shifter, and Sky Traveller, fell upon his breakfast and devoured it with great relish.

At the same moment Jotunheim’s high king was breaking his fast, a rather nondescript fellow, long of face, and lean of form, was making his way surreptitiously through the warrens of Jormundgand. This man, known to his associates as Fegelin the Feral (doubtless because his face put people in mind of a weasel or some other ferret like creature), prided himself in an ability to maneuver unnoticed in most surroundings. He was smallish in height and easily overlooked by the taller folk who passed him in the alleyways and narrow lanes of the city. And being a slender fellow, he was also able to fold himself easily into the shadows afforded by overhanging balconies, eaves, and doorways. Few were ever aware that he was in their vicinity, and those that might notice him were wont to dismiss him as little more than a malnourished waif of the streets.

If you happened to be a person of interest to Fegelin the Feral, however, such a dismissal was a grave and usually fatal error in judgment, for you see this fellow was also a highly trained and skilled assassin. Though gaunt, his body was a hardened mass of muscle and sinew trained in a wide array of unarmed combat techniques. Over the course of his life, he had honed all of his extremities—fingers, hands, elbows, legs, knees, feet, even toes—into weapons capable of dealing out death to whoever was their target. Of course being a Vanir Morðingi Fegelin was also an adept with garrotes, daggers, assorted edged arms, and poisons, the latter of which he was an unquestioned master.

As he made his way this chill fall morning to the Jormundgand street market, Fegelin the Feral was terribly excited by both his prospective target and the means he had selected for his eminent demise. Kings were a rare prize for a Morðingi, even one of his caliber, and killing them required a considerable degree of study, planning, and timing, especially when you were a single agent in the territory of the ruler in question. Today’s kill would be the culmination of many months of observing his prey’s movements and manners, and, if all went as planned—and having never failed, Fegelin could not imagine why it would not—he would be up and away before anyone would even suspect that something might be amiss with the high king he had been sent to kill. Indeed, this would be the culmination of an already lustrous career, and the bounty he would receive would make it possible for him to retire to a long and richly deserved retirement in a fine house in Noatun, his every need attended to by a vast household of comely slaves.

His plan was actually a simple one. During his months of preparation, Fegelin had secured a spot on the high market road normally occupied by a young street urchin noted for his skill with a musical pipe. The lad’s sudden disappearance had been noted by nearby merchants with some dismay as his lilting melodies and playful tunes often attracted an audience that not only filled his begging bowl, but also lingered to inspect the offerings of nearby stalls. Consequently, they were delighted when another boy, equally skilled with the same woodwind, just happened to pop up one sunny day to fill the void left by his predecessor.

Without fail, come rain or shine, at early noon, this unassuming, short, slender youth with the facial features of a ferret, would make his way to a spot near the stalls of the wee merchants of Alfheim, and commence to sing for his supper. Though quiet and usually uncommunicative—so much so that many suspected him simpleminded—the boy was a welcome addition to this quarter of the Jormundgand street market, and he was treated as a kind of mascot or talisman whose skill with the pipe always insured a sizable audience of listeners and potential customers.

As Lord Loki finished the victuals so painstakingly prepared for him by his bondsman Thrimm, Fegelin the Feral was, as he had been doing for months, spreading his cloak on the pavement of that part of the Jormundgand street market, to which he had laid claim. He also fished out of the knap sack he carried with him everywhere a begging bowl—with a few coppers in it to remind those that might listen to him this day that nothing in life was free—and a finely carved pipe, the very instrument that had charmed so many of the good citizens of King Fafnir and Lady Imre’s capital.

Seating himself in a cross-legged upright position, Fegelin then took up his pipe and commenced to play. For the first song of the day, he chose a lighthearted ditty familiar to all the seafaring folk of Igdrasil. Its cheerful notes swept over the local stalls causing more than one merchant to tap their feet, drum out a beat on their counters, and even break out into song. Fegelin’s tune also captured the attention of passersby, and his bowl began to fill, pleasingly, with coins.

While playing his pipe, Fegelin the assassin, the Morðingi was scanning the nearby thoroughfare for the slender cloaked figure of the man he had been hired to kill. Over the months he had spent in Jormundgand, Fegelin had noted that his intended victim unfailingly passed this way on a daily basis, usually in the late morning or early afternoon, to pay a visit to a large walled enclosure in the city’s bay near its harbor. Though sometimes accompanied by a counselor or family member, he was usually alone, his face covered by a hood. On more than one occasion, he had paused to listen to a certain young street musician when he piped a tune, whose lilting lyrics whispered to their listeners of loves lost. That he was particularly fond of this melody was attested to by the large gold piece he always left at its conclusion.

On this day, Fegelin the Feral not only intended to reward this man with his favorite song, but also to deliver him from whatever sadness drew him near to listen to it’s haunting notes. Though not in need of justification or absolution for his deeds—such requirements were for lesser men—it pleased Fegelin that his actions this day might also provide his victim with a release from the anguish caused by the loss of loved ones in his past. Indeed, he suspected other beasts of prey probably felt similarly when ending the lives of other wounded, sickly, or aged animals.

Fegelin quickly put these metaphysical considerations to the side upon detecting the familiar olive green cloak and hood of his intended victim coming into view. Abruptly dropping the cheerful ditty he had been playing, he began to pipe instead his melody of love’s labors lost. In response, the merchants in their stalls, their assistants, and those surrounding the piper grew silent and somber, their eyes misting at the memory of the loss of loved ones. Fegelin was also pleased to see that his tune had brought into the circle surrounding him, the slender, albeit regal, figure of the man he intended to kill.

Feeling sated from his meal, Loki descended into the wide courtyard of his youngest son’s keep. Before him pairs of Jotuns armed with dulled edged weapons sparred with one another under the stern and watchful eye of Fenrir. Even though the edges and points of their broadswords and spears were not sharp, he could see that a great many of these young men were sporting a wide variety of gashes and cuts.

Upon espying him, all combat ceased and each combatant sprang to respectful attention.

I see you’ve been working this group particularly hard, Fenrir. Do remember they are not the enemy.

They’re hopeless my lord father, green as the barley fields of Jotunheim from which they hale. That said, they’ll be ready when you give the word to sail north.

If they’re Jotuns of the coast, wouldn’t it be wiser to have them building warships?

We both know father that this war will ultimately be fought on land, probably on the plain of Vigrid outside the walls of Asgard. As such, every Jotun will need some familiarity with an edged weapon. I intend to insure that all of our men will stand a fighting chance against the Aesir and their mercenaries.

Wise Fenrir, wise. I leave these matters in your capable hands.

And with that acknowledgement of his authority, Loki’s wolf ordered his recruits to recommence their training.

Raising his voice to carry above the din, Loki asked, Where is your brother Fafnir? I specifically asked him to join us today.

"He begs your indulgence, father, but he claims that he’s in the middle of an experiment that will give our side an advantage in the upcoming war. He plans to meet us at Naglfar, where he will give you the particulars of this project."

Loki shook his head and said, Fafnir and his endless experiments. He’s been a bookworm and a natural philosopher since he was a boy. Thank the gods he has a wife that understands the particulars of running a kingdom, or Jormundheim would fall into chaos.

Shall I summon a guard for our walk to the harbor, father?

I don’t think that will be necessary Fenrir. Who would dare lift a finger against me with you at my side.

Looking up at his giant of a son, Loki noted the fierce grin that spread across his face highlighting the brilliant teeth and chiseled jaw that had made even the great Tyr tremble in fear.

Of course, I will also go hooded through the streets so as not to cause too much commotion among the good people of Jormundgand. Lead the way my boy.

Adjusting his worn olive green cloak about him and covering his head with its cowl, Loki set out behind his son, the sight of whom served to instantly clear a path. As with so many port cities, Jormundgand had grown out in concentric circles from its harbor. Like its serpent god, the Ouroboros, all of its streets appeared to begin and end again at the town’s large bay. Traversing these circles, Loki knew, was a veritable maze of alleyways crowded with shops, businesses, and the crowded insulas within which most of the city’s population lived. The one great exception to this rule was the main market street Loki and his son were walking on at the moment, a well paved and bustling thoroughfare connecting the city’s principal port and ship building yards to the castle keep of Jormundheim’s high king and queen.

Breathing in the salt tinged air, Loki was once more struck by the industriousness of his son’s subjects. The entire length of the street on which he and Fenrir walked was quite literally a market divided into different sections, each offering a particular product or service. Because the Jormundganders were a seafaring island folk, the overwhelming majority of the wares on sale were gifts from the surrounding sea. Various kinds of ocean edibles—eels, sharks, tuna, herring, dried seaweed, sturgeon roe—oil from the great behemoths to light and heat homes, skins from sea mammals with which to make boots, pants, jackets, and mittens, bones for tools, needles, weapons, and scrimshaw, even sinews for cordage, and stomachs and intestines for waterproof containers.

As they drew closer to the docks, Loki noticed the stalls of merchants from the other realms of Igdrasil. To his right swarthy, heavily tattooed men of Muspelheim with their shaved, oiled heads culminating in a topknot of hair. Spread out around them was the produce of their homeland, kaffi and kakó beans, various kinds of taro roots, rich dyes, hot chilies and spices, bright capes and shields woven out of the plumage of exotic birds, and obsidian mirrors and blades sharp enough to cut through bone. On his left were an unlikely band of dwarves from Svartalfheim with their characteristically long beards, offering up an array of finely wrought jewelry, metal tools, swords, battle-axes, maces, and armor. Next to them in adjoining stalls, were found their kinsmen from Alfheim, the wee people known as the Elves who lived in the bowers of that region’s giant conifer trees. Just as their dwarf cousins were famed for their skill in metal work, so were these small folk renown for their fine woodwork, and spread about them Loki noted some samples of their craftsmanship—intricately carved dinner ware, children’s dolls and toys, totemic objects featuring the birds and animals of their forest homeland, exquisitely worked pipes for the smoking of the weed tòbak, and a wide array of weapons ranging from blow pipes and their darts, to war clubs, bows, arrows, and spears.

Everywhere there was a cacophony of sound, merchants shouting, children laughing and darting in and out of sight, customers dickering for a more favorable buy, coins jingling, scales groaning, and music offered up on a variety of instruments, by an assortment of street urchins.

There was a brief pause in the melody Fegelin was piping that allowed him to press a concealed knob on the side of his woodwind. This action caused a small shallow compartment within the instrument to open and deposit into the pipe’s cylindrical tube a tiny, terribly sharp, and venom tipped dart.

He’ll feel only the slightest sting in his leg, Fegelin thought. And the poison’s effects will not manifest themselves until later in the day. Long after, I’ve made my way out of the city.

Looking up into the green eyes of his victim, the assassin prepared to recommence his soulful tune and dispatch a high king of Igdrasil at the same time.

At this fateful moment, Fegelin the Feral was distracted by a stinging sensation in his neck that was almost immediately followed by a sense of numbness and paralysis spreading through his body. The last thing he saw as he tipped forward into unconsciousness was a smile breaking across the face of his intended victim.

When he awoke, Fegelin found himself bound securely to a chair in a darkened chamber lit only by a brazier filled with glowing embers. The fact that there were also irons nestled amidst the hot coals, and a variety of sharp and blunt instruments lining the walls to his right and left quickly confirmed the fact that he was likely in one of Queen Imre’s many chambers of not so gentle persuasion. This suspicion was quickly confirmed when the door to his dungeon swung open and in through it stepped the man he had tried to kill, flanked by the Lady Imre herself.

Fegelin the Feral was not one given to fear. He was fully versed in the dangers and pitfalls of his trade, and was certainly no stranger to pain. Nevertheless, looking into the jade green eyes of Lord Loki’s second son, Fafnir, high king of Jormundheim, and the coal black eyes of his consort, the Lady Imre, did cause his bowels to loosen, if ever so slightly.

Your majesties, Fegelin said, you honor this humble cutthroat with your presence. May I inquire as to how I find myself here? Surely, as one professional to another, you will grant me this small boon.

At this, the Lady Imre threw back her long slender neck and let out a full-throated, deep laugh.

Well Fafnir, you have to agree he has balls! At least for now, that is. She said this last sentence with a kind of rolling purr, a sound that left Fegelin with no doubts that here was a woman who knew her way around a torture chamber and took delight in her knowledge of, and expertise with, its various instruments.

If my sources are correct, I believe you go by the name of Fegelin, said Fafnir, ignoring his wife’s coy allusion to future fun and games at the expense of his unwilling guest.

You are well informed indeed, my Lord Fafnir. I take it you have agents in Noatun?

"My father has his eyes and ears throughout the nine realms, and he’s always been on good terms with your murderous riff raff, Fegelin. He is after all, half Vanir, and an accomplished Morðingi in his own right. Yes, we’ve been aware of you and your mission since you crossed into Jormundheim."

Why then didn’t you eliminate or apprehend me? Why let me come so close to satisfying my commission?

My good wife has a professional interest in your trade and was eager to observe how you intended to carry out your commission. In light of her support and encouragement over the years for my own studies and experiments, I felt it only fair to indulge her in this matter.

Producing Fegelin’s music pipe, the Lady Imre said, I must say that I was impressed by your work, assassin. First class in every respect. The murder of your predecessor in the street market and the disposal of his body in the city sewers was well done indeed. A quick, efficient kill without any muss or fuss. And your skill with this pipe was remarkable, in spite of the fact that you Vanir all seem to be born musicians. But the high point for me was how you managed to fashion a woodwind that could also serve as a blowpipe, doubtless an idea inspired by the blowpipes and poisoned darts of the dark elves. Just out of curiosity, one professional to another, what poison did you decide to use on this delicious little stinger of yours?

The venom of the sisal serpent native to Alfheim, milady. Very slow acting. So much so that the recipient of it remains unaware of the threat until he or she is crying blood from the eyes, and frothing at the mouth.

Ah yes, an inspired choice. The victim feels a sting and nothing more. Goes on about his day not knowing what is about to transpire until it’s too late to do anything. I must say Fegelin, you are worthy of your reputation.

Milady Imre honors this most unworthy assassin. It is not often that one of my ilk is privileged to have a conversation about his work with his intended victim.

Oh I look forward to many long discussions with you my friend. I believe we have much to teach one another, Imre purred, while moving to the brazier to inspect the irons.

I’m afraid I must disappoint you on that score my dear, Fafnir said. Though I would love nothing better than to leave this knave to your tender mercies, I have a better use for him today. One that will advance the plans of my father. Have him secured and delivered to my workshop in the harbor.

On the waterfront, Loki was surprised to see a band of tall, blond, and blue-eyed Vanir merchants pedaling the produce, wines, and cheeses for which Vanaheim was the envy of Igdrasil. Ah Loki thought, this must be where Thrimm obtained that exquisite cheddar he served me this afternoon.

Striding up to this group with Fenrir in tow, Loki threw off his cowl and greeted what were, after all, his kinsmen on his mother’s side.

Greetings men of Vanaheim! What news have you of my blood brother and sister Frey and Freya? Are they at home among their people, or still counted among the honored guests of the All-Father?

The sudden appearance of Jotunheim’s high king threw the area around the Vanir stalls into confusion as the Jormundganders in the vicinity adopted various poses of obeisance before their ruler’s father, and the Vanir merchants struggled to conceal their shock at the appearance of the sworn enemy of their suzerain, Lord Odin. Turning his attention to his son’s subjects, Loki adopted an affable reassuring tone.

My good people, please, no need to stand on ceremony. If you would be so kind as to give me a moment with my kinsmen from the north, I would be most appreciative.

And with that remark, the Jormundganders quickly dispersed in every direction.

Turning back to the remaining merchants, Loki sought out the nominal head of their band.

Who here leads this little expedition? I would speak with him.

A rather raffish looking fellow in a sky blue cloak, with a scar across his left cheek, and a twinkle in his grey eyes stepped forward.

I am Rolf, son of Njord, one of Vanaheim’s most respected merchants, and I speak for my people. This is an unexpected honor, Lord Loki. How might we be of service to you?

An answer to my first question as to Frey and Freya would be a good place to start.

As of the last time we were in Asgard, which was roughly two weeks ago, their highnesses were still residing in the Aesir capital. Other than that, I really cannot volunteer any further news. As a humble merchant, I do not move in such exalted circles milord Loki.

Loki smiled. There was obviously more to this Rolf fellow than met the eye. It was no secret that Vanir merchants enjoyed a privileged status both in their own homeland and Asgard. They were, after all, the eyes and ears of the one to whom they owed at least nominal allegiance, Odin Greybeard. Loki made a mental note to have this one kept under surveillance.

A little late in the year for Vanir merchants to be making their way to Jormundgand. I would imagine the seas were rough on your way here, given that winter is nearly upon us.

As you know milord, the merchants of Vanaheim are always afoot or asea whatever the time of year looking for opportunities to peddle their produce. And we have a great many clients here in the capital of Jormundheim who are eager to do business with us. After all, it’s not as if we are at war with these good people.

Loki was sure there was just the slightest hint of sarcasm in that last line. Yes, best to keep a sharp eye out for this one, especially if he does indeed have many clients in my son’s kingdom.

Yes, you’re perfectly correct my good Rolf. The Vanir are friends to all in the nine realms including myself, but I was of the understanding that you were banned from doing business with anyone associated with my house?

Lord Loki, the Vanir may acknowledge Odin as suzerain, but that does not mean he exercises absolute authority over us, especially when it comes to internal affairs of trade and commerce. We go where we will and do business with whom we wish.

Loki was also quite sure that such independence was tolerated only in so far as these merchants brought back valuable information about the enemies of their master.

Well it is good to see the Vanir still have some steel in their spines. You are of course welcome to ply your trade anywhere in Igdrasil that acknowledges me as a suzerain, ally, or simply friend. Perhaps before you depart, we can sup together.

We would not wish to impose ourselves on you milord, nor are we worthy of such an honor.

Why don’t you let me be the judge of that young Rolf. In the meantime, may your time here be a profitable one.

As Loki turned away, Rolf interjected one last question.

Excuse my curiosity Lord Loki, but we were of the understanding that after you departed your residence at Franang Falls, you went south to the court of your daughter Hela. Have you instead been here the whole time?

Ha. You mean escaped my prison at Franang Falls! No, since that blessed event, I have been spending time with all my children and relations in Jotunheim, Jormundheim, and Nifleheim. These have been very busy and productive years for the Farbauti family. But enough of this idle chatter, we will talk more deeply of things in my son’s feasting hall. Til then, good health, Rolf, son of Njord.

Resuming his walk, Loki made a mental note to have Thrimm arrange a banquet in honor of the visiting Vanir merchants. A meal fit for the high king of Jormundheim himself with only the finest vintages in his son’s cellars. What better way to loosen their tongues and hear news of what is actually transpiring among the Aesir and their allies.

Loki’s reveries were interrupted upon arriving at the shipbuilding yards that ran alongside the main port. This part of Jormundheim’s harbor was quite extensive and hidden from curious eyes by a high heavily guarded wall that extended well out into the sea. Striding to the gates that barred access into this area, Fenrir easily lifted the heavy round iron door knockers and brought them down several times to alert the gate keeper that he had guests.

A panel slid open revealing a pair of eyes that grew large upon seeing who was awaiting entrance into the shipyards. Their faceless owner quickly barked an order to open the gates and in a matter of moments they swung inward to admit Fenrir and Loki. Ignoring the salutes of the gatekeeper and his men, the two strode forward into a bustling mass of Jotun and Jormundgander men sawing and planing wood, working iron in forges, and assembling great long boats equipped with catapults and ramming prows. Spread out in the water to the right of the two men for as far as their eyes could see was a vast armada of already completed warships.

This sight paled however when Loki and his son came into view of what would be the flagship of this fleet, the incomparable Naglfar. Over 400 feet in length and 135 feet amidships, it was a long boat without peer in all of Igdrasil. It had benches for 120 rowers on either side, and a massive rectangular sail secured to a stout oaken mast over 70 feet tall. The double ended bow and stern boasted intricately carved dragonheads forged from iron, and the ship’s gunwales featured rows of round red shields with the Ouroboros serpent coiled in their centers. Perhaps most striking, however, were the thousands of nails hammered into the sides of the boat to provide it with an armored skin impervious to the ramming prows of other ships. When completed this vessel would be capable of carrying a small army and the provisions to feed them all the way to the shores of Asgard.

Standing in front of this ship was a tall shirtless sinewy figure with Loki’s eyes and aquiline nose, and Fenrir’s raven black hair. He was busy directing the various craftsmen charged with completing Naglfar, and was also directly engaged in working on the ship’s massive rudder. This involved nimbly handling a hard plane in the shaping of the rudder’s wood. The skill that this man displayed with this tool, as well his well toned chest and arm muscles, and heavily callused hands, attested to the fact that he was someone who knew his way around a shipyard, and enjoyed more than a passing familiarity with the men who made their living there.

A man working by his side alerted him to the fact that he had important visitors. Turning to greet them, he heard a familiar voice.

So Fafnir, I see that working with your shipbuilders is more important than meeting with your father.

Accepting a towel from an assistant, Fafnir attempted to wipe away some of the grime and sweat on his face, arms, and chest.

"But I am meeting with you father, while also attending to the business of getting your flagship ready to sail on the appointed day. You