The Chronicles of Loki Book Two: Fimbulvetr The Terrible Winter

By M. Gregory Kendrick

The Chronicles of Loki Book Two: Fimbulvetr The Terrible Winter is the second 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. The twist with this treatment of Loki, however, is that he, Odin, Frey, and company are presented 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. Perhaps the most challenging (and fun) part of this book has been reimagining Loki's various adventures and misadventures as they might have actually happened without the benefit of magic and sorcery (though a Lovecraftian dimension comes into play in this book).

The book moves on two time axes. One is identified as Ragnarok, and takes place in the present. In this timeline, Loki, his family, and allies are setting in motion what will be a war of vengeance against Odin and the Aesir. Readers are introduced to the machinations of key characters in the myths—Odin of Asgard, Frey of Vanaheim, Surt, High King of the Muspelhim, the rulers of the wee folk of the West, i.e., Ivaldi, the principal ruler of the Dwarves, and Mama Cori, Lokane of Alfheim, as well as Loki's children, Fenrir (aka the Wolf), Fafnir (ruler of Jormundheim), and Hela, Queen of Nifleheim. The second timeline is a memoir of Loki's life, which in this second book encompasses the early years of Loki's rule in Jotunheim, his family life, the Aviking that takes him, Odin, Frey, and Freya to the realms of the Muspelhim, Dwarves, and Elves, and Loki and Odin's travels to Nifleheim and Jormundheim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 22, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098324544

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©2020 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: 978-1-09832-453-7 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-09832-454-4 (ebook)

For my Palo Alto Pals David Casci, John Nystrom, and Yoko Yanari,

and the champion of nerds everywhere, Tony Friscia

Contents

Chapter One

A Winter Like No Other

Chapter Two

On the Early Years of My Reign, the Birth of My Children,

and the Settling of Accounts with Njord

Chapter Three

Springtime Comes to Igdrasil

Chapter Four

The Midgard War, Frey Finds a Wife, and The Four of Us Go Aviking

Chapter Five

Things That Go Bump in the Night

Chapter Six

Gullárin (The Golden Years)

Acknowledgements

Glossary

Chapter One

A Winter Like No Other

The Sacred Grove of Igdrasil

Mimir dreamed.

Three cocks. A red one, Fjalar, crows to giants gathered in a wood. One that is golden-combed and called Gullinkambi wakens the warriors of Asgard. A third bird, unnamed and rust colored, summons the dead to life.

A wolf seizes the sun between his jaws and devours her, spattering Igdrasil with gore; his brother catches the moon and extinguishes its pale light from the night sky. The stars vanish.

The Ouroboros twists and writhes in fury causing the sea to rear up and waves to pummel the shores of the nine realms. And in these high seas sails a ship made from dead men’s nails.

Two brothers move forward side by side. One is a monstrous wolf, its slavering mouth wide open, so wide that his lower jaw scrapes against the ground and his upper jaw presses against the sky. Flames dance in his eyes and leap from his nostrils. His sibling is a great worm spewing venom that splashes the earth and sky with poison.

The earth begins to shudder. Great trees sway and topple, mountains shake and rock and come crashing down, and fire consumes the world.

Utgard

The Lady Urd had lived for the better part of a century. She had long since buried her sisters, Skuld and Verdandi, and seen to the ascension of their successors in the Norn Mother Houses of the Forests and Mountains. She was also well aware that her own demise was not long in coming. Though her mind was still sharp, her bones were brittle, her vision blurred, and her movements slow.

Over the course of this long life, she had seen and done much. Installed three Jotun high kings, presided over Althings great and small, witnessed the war among the Ymir, nurtured her Sisterhood, kept her people in the good graces of the Goddess, and worked with Loki Farbauti—often called the Sly One, the Trickster, the Shape Changer, the Sky Traveler—to grace Jotunheim with a peace and prosperity it had never known.

She was content with the course of her life and knew that the Good Goddess would welcome her at her hearth in the hereafter. This said, she could not shake the sense of foreboding that had descended onto her heart as of late. The world, her world, Igdrasil had changed. She could feel this in the water and the earth, and she could smell it in the air.

She had told herself that what she was feeling was nothing more than the awareness of any old woman that her days were drawing to a close. Or that her consternation was simply the dread she felt when contemplating Loki’s coming war against the Aesir. But in her heart she knew there was something afoot that had nothing to do with either her mortality or the machinations of high kings.

Take this winter, this terrible winter all were now calling the Fimbulvetr, which had descended on the nine realms of Igdrasil. Never in all of her long life had she witnessed the freezing of the bay on which Utgard was perched. Ships were quite literally encased in ice, and her people were able to skate far out onto the sea. The snow had not stopped falling for months and every Jotun community worked desperately on a daily basis to keep doorways, paths, and roads clear and accessible. Indeed, if the mountain Jotuns had not found deposits of the black rock they called kol, a combustible stone that generated a great deal of heat, many of her people would have frozen to death by now. And if Loki had not ordered every family, clan, and tribe in the realm to put down provisions sufficient for a long winter, many others would have starved.

The winter to the side, however, there were also her dreams. Cocks crowing; the dead stirring; wolves and serpents moving together over the land; the sky sunless, moonless, and starless. And then there were the trees and mountains shaking and falling, and fires consuming the earth.

Yes, Urd knew in her bones that her world was coming to an end and that she was helpless to do anything about it.

Asgard

Odin the One-eyed, Lord of Battle and Undefeated Champion of the Aesir, High King of Asgard, and self-styled Allfather of the Ymir, inspected the carcass of the latest animal in his menagerie to die from the bitter cold that had descended on the nine realms. This creature was an ugly brute that put one in mind of the great worms of legend. Indeed, the Muspelhim; in whose jungles its kind lived and hunted in packs; called it dreki, or dragon.

Odin had procured this specimen when it was young and little more than a small lizard. Over time, he had watched it grow to ten feet in size, with a long tail, which it could use for support when it stood on its hind legs in order to attack animals that were high up or out of reach. Its maw boasted 60 one-inch-long, razor sharp teeth, and its bite was highly poisonous. In its native environment, these dragons were known to hunt and devour monkeys, goats, wild boars, deer, horses, and even water buffalo. They had also been known to attack and eat any hapless humans that might stumble upon one of their hungry packs.

I confess father that I’ve always been rather fond of this one, said Thor, who was standing next to Odin looking down into the pit that had served as the late creature’s lair over the years. Nasty brute, he continued, but a top-notch killer and none too picky about its prey.

Much like yourself, Odin replied to his son, which is doubtless why you gravitated towards him over the years. One carnivore to another.

"Why do you suppose all the fiercest and most dangerous predators, tígrisdýr, ljón, and these dreki, come from Muspelheim father?"

Doubtless because it’s hot and wet year-round. Life is abundant in places like that and the creatures you just named have a bounty of living things on which to feed.

Rumor has it that it hasn’t stopped raining in Muspelheim since this winter began. Rivers and streams are overflowing and doing a fair bit of damage throughout Surt’s kingdom. Apparently, that bitch goddess they worship, Kafta or Katka, I can never remember her name, has been getting fat from all the boys and girls he keeps feeding to her in hopes that she’ll let the Muspelhim dry out.

That’s Katla, and yes doubtless Surt’s feeding her well, superstitious lout that he is. Goddesses living in volcanoes. What a lot of folderol!

I seem to recall you’re no stranger to the worship of gods and goddesses, father.

The Elder Ones whose minds I have touched, Thor, are not imaginary fire tarts living in magma chambers, or tail-eating serpents at the bottom of a well. They are actual beings of great power who ruled Igdrasil once and yearn to do so again.

Yes, yes father, you’ve told me all this before. They spoke to you while you hung on the tree and declared you the agency of their return to the nine realms.

Though when they reclaim Igdrasil it will be but one realm ready to receive and serve them.

Under you as its Allfather.

If they so deign, Odin replied with a faraway look in his eye, an expression that Thor and the others of his family associated with what they called his vision madness.

Fearing his father was about to slip away into one of his long brooding silences or begin speaking in a tongue no one could understand but him, Thor quickly interjected, "Well, before that can happen, Father, there’s still the little matter of your blood brother and his allies, not to mention this Althing you’ve agreed to attend in the spring. That is, if there ever is a spring again."

Coming out of his reveries, Odin fixed his eye on his son and said, Though he doesn’t believe it, Loki is a central player in what is unfolding before us. Our families, his and mine, will usher in a new age for Igdrasil and the world surrounding us.

At the cost of considerable bloodshed, Thor replied.

All new life enters the world in a blood bath, Thor. That is simply the way of things. Now other than enjoying the sight of things dead or dying, what brings you to my menagerie?

Well, speaking of blood baths father, I was wondering if you wanted me to continue my clandestine raids on the Jotun borders. You know, keep probing Loki’s defenses, and give your Einherjar something to do with themselves other than practice day in and day out.

No, Thor, Odin answered. "The calling of an Althing requires all of the Ymir to observe a truce in which no bloodshed is permitted among the three tribes. The Aesir will honor this tradition, as will the Vanir and the Jotuns. If you and the Einherjar are restless, go harry Loki’s allies in Midgard, though I doubt you’ll find many of them out in this weather. Surely, there are also plenty of animals about that you can slaughter to satisfy that gargantuan appetite of yours."

The ones that are the best sport appear to be hibernating, Father, but I’m sure I can find some way to amuse myself before the return of the spring.

And perhaps your brother will write a song celebrating it, Odin added.

I keep telling you, Father, I don’t bugger boys, so there’s precious little chance Bragi’s likely to figure me into one of his lays.

More the luck for you, Odin replied smiling. Now be off with you. I have to attend to my zoo’s declining population.

Turning back to the lair of his late dreki, Odin’s mind slipped back in time to that moment when he hung helpless and dying on the great ash tree in the sacred grove of Igdrasil, to the moment when an inhuman appendage, wet and squamous, lifted his face, and a voice that was not a voice spoke to him of the coming of a Ragnarok, when brothers would kill brothers, fathers would slaughter their sons, and mothers would abandon their menfolk to bed with others.

A winter, the voice that was not a voice had said to him, will converge from north and south, and east and west. There will be bitter frosts, biting winds; the sun will be helpless to warm you. The earth will start to shudder, forests will topple, mountains will shake, and the sea will rear up and its waves will pommel the shores. The great tree, the sacred ash on which you hang, will moan, its leaves will tremble, its limbs shiver and shake, and finally die.

The Sly One, the Trickster, the Shape Shifter, and Sky Traveler will bring his followers in a ship made of nails to Vigrid Plain, and the Allfather will witness the coming of a new world.

As these memories flooded his mind, Odin lifted his hands in supplication and spoke the words of a language not heard in Igdrasil since time out of memory,

Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu cf’tagn.¹

Jormundgand

Loki of the House Farbauti, High King of Jotunheim, was attempting to tease out a tune on the lute that had been his mother’s, while watching the heavy rain lash and pound at the great window of his son Fenrir’s study. Periodically, the gale would be lit up by long bolts of lightning that would split apart the sky and reveal Jormundgand’s storm-tossed bay filled with ships seeking shelter from the fierce fillibylurs of wind and waves that had made the seas surrounding Jormundheim impassable.

He stopped strumming his lute when he heard soft footsteps behind him.

Having trouble sleeping my dear? he said.

Please don’t stop playing, Father, Hela said. You know how much I love hearing you play grandmother’s lute.

Turning to face his daughter, Loki noted that she was wearing one of her robes made from the white fur of the Isbjörn, the ferocious giant of a bear worshipped by the Eskimói of Nifleheim. In the light of the candles lit throughout the room, its color made the right side of Hela’s face appear even more purplish in color than normal. Gesturing to her to take the seat next to him, Loki said,

"It must be colder than usual if the High Queen of Nifleheim walks about the royal keep of Jormundgand in one of her bear robes. Come sit by me my dear, the kol in my brazier will warm you."

Seating herself, Hela smiled at her father and replied, It is ironic that I came here seeking a respite from the cold of Nifleheim, when Ragnar tells me in the occasional letter he writes—dictates actually, as the man’s illiterate for all practical purposes—that our kingdom is experiencing the warmest weather anyone can remember. The Bay of Eljudnir hasn’t iced over, the great bears are confused and haven’t gone into hibernation as is usual, and the fishing has been apparently fabulous. What do you make of it, Father?

"Well, it’s certainly a winter the like of which no one presently alive has ever experienced, and Urd tells me there’s no record of any like it in the past. What little news comes my way by raven indicates that Muspelheim is underwater, as is Alfheim; the Dwarves are living in their mines because they’re the warmest places in Svartalfheim; and we Ymir are largely icebound. And here in Jormundheim, no one can make landfall or sail anywhere because of these fillibylurs that keep whipping up the seas around us. So your report that Nifleheim is now the garden paradise of Igdrasil does not really surprise me."

It appears Mimir’s premonitions were very much on the mark, don’t you think? Could this herald the coming of something more dire, Father?

Weather changes, my dear, Loki replied, as does everything in life. This winter may herald the beginning of a climate change for Igdrasil, or it may just be a fluke that signifies nothing.

Didn’t Odin claim that one of his visions concerned such a winter as this?

Odin has laid claim to a great many things over the years, my dear. Contact with a race of old gods; visions of himself as an Allfather fated to bring all of Igdrasil and the world surrounding us into a new age; and let’s not forget his purported mastery of the eighteen runes of the Ymir, which he says have given him the power to heal, blunt, or break metal; to quench flames and calm stormy water; to seduce; to send witches into a spin; to speak to hanged men; and to anticipate and thwart evil intentions. Indeed, the last of these was given as the ostensible reason for the many wrongs he has visited on our family.

Do you believe any of it, Father?

Oh I believe he saw something during that vision quest. Who wouldn’t after nine days of fasting, mortification of the flesh, and a day spent hanging from the World Tree by skewers of bone pegged through the skin of his chest? When he was cut down, he was more dead than alive, and raving in some tongue no one could understand, not even Mimir, who knows all the languages dead and living of Igdrasil.

The Lady Urd claimed it was the black speech from the time of Mu-Thulan.

Aye, it might have been, and he would have picked it up from that accursed book I gave him the night before the wedding of your mother and me.

"Yes, the Lady Urd mentioned that as well. Something called The Book of Eibon."

The very one, Hela, the very one. I made a grave error of judgment when I gifted him that grimoire. He became obsessed with it over the years. So much so that Frigg became concerned about his sanity. Why do you think she and your mother were so supportive of our travels throughout Igdrasil during those years before his vision quest?

I had always assumed it was because they knew it would be pointless to protest once you two had made up your minds to do something.

Well, there was that I’ll grant you, but there was also their desire to get Odin’s mind off of that book.

Didn’t the loss of his eye have something to do with that grimoire?

Oh yes! He lost it while performing a ritual that promised him wisdom beyond that of other men. It was following that he made all the claims regarding the runes.

Is it possible he actually did unlock their secrets?

I think he probably did. After all, he had been studying them most of his life under the tutelage of the Norn Sisterhood. And likely they spoke of healing, earth, air, fire, water, sex, witches, and the dead. All of which are subjects addressed in the languages of living and bygone civilizations.

What about the power he claims this understanding gave him?

"Oh come now, Hela! Odin was a student of the Norns, so of course he knows something of healing. He and I discovered a great many things about metal, fire, and weather when we were boys together studying Alkemia. As for the power to seduce, though Odin never had much interest in sex, he was certainly knowledgeable about it, and being both a high king and a very attractive man, he could have just about anyone he might want in the nine realms. Making witches spin? Ridiculous! As we both know, there are no wicked sorceresses in need of spinning. And anyone can walk up to a hanged man and speak to him, and if his neck hasn’t snapped, or he hasn’t died of asphyxiation, I’m sure he could speak back to you. As for anticipating and thwarting evil, that’s a prerequisite of kingship, though in Odin’s case this has become little more than giving vent to his paranoid delusions."

But he’s so convinced of all this, Father, and then there’s this winter and Mimir’s dreams.

Taking his daughter’s hands into his own, Loki gazed deep into her eyes and said, My dearest daughter, it doesn’t really matter whether or not some dark god actually spoke to Odin on the Sacred Tree. The point is he believed this happened and that he was gifted with the supernal experience he had sought his whole life. And because of that experience, and his interpretation of it, your mother is dead; you were forced into a marriage with a bear-worshipping savage in the wastes of Nifleheim; your brother Fenrir is filled with a fiery hatred of all things Aesir; I was falsely charged with bringing about the death of Frigg’s precious Balder and then imprisoned on an island situated in a lake filled with poisonous vipers; and our people are threatened once again with Asgardian aggression. These are the facts with which I must contend, not vague premonitions or fears that we are at the end time.

And knowing you as I do, Father, I have no doubt that Odin will meet his final reckoning at your hand.

Or your brother, Fenrir. He’s quite set on removing Odin’s head from his body and placing it on your mother’s tomb.

How ghastly, Father. Mother would never have approved of such a thing. Should Fenrir kill Odin, you simply mustn’t allow him to profane mother’s grave with a blood offering, even if it is that of the man responsible for her death.

One thing at a time my dear, one thing at a time. For now, we have to get through this ghastly winter. And on that note, might I interest you in a tune or two, starting with the one you and your mother loved the most?

Oh yes father! That would be truly wonderful.

And with that Loki began to sing of another winter long ago and of a young man whose heart was aflame with desire for a certain maid who was far away."

While Loki sang of falling leaves and the kisses and touches of his beloved, Imre and Fafnir were meeting with her counselors in another part of Jormundgand’s royal heap. Imre’s ministers were not given to groundless fears, for they knew that the only thing they really needed to fear was her displeasure. This said, however, she could see they were all uneasy. It had been a long, cold, and very wet winter. Jormundheim’s fisher folk had not been able to ply their trade because of the near constant sea storms; farmers in the island’s center watched their crops being washed away; herdsmen had been forced to find shelter and forage for their animals; and then there were all the signs and portents reported to her by the priesthood of the Ouroboros.

As Fafnir never tired of reminding her and the priests, some of these occurrences were not strange at all and could be easily explained. For example, a report had come in of a river that had always been dry but was suddenly flooded with water and drowned all the men who were walking on the dry riverbed. Even Imre, who was by no means a natural philosopher, knew that in light of the deluge Jormundheim had experienced over the winter months, flash floods of this nature were to be expected. News had also arrived that lighting had destroyed two temples in the interior, and someone had seen a comet that was so bright it could be seen rushing through the sky during the day. Again, given the thunderstorms the island had been subjected to, lighting striking high buildings such as temples was bound to happen, and comets—many of them very bright—were not unknown to put in an appearance from time to time. Then there was the woman who had given birth to a child with two heads. Yes, Fafnir had agreed, this was surely unusual, but anomalous birth defects did indeed occur. Consider the birthmark that had transformed his sister’s face into a domino mask.

There were others, however, that were not so easily explained, and one of them was presently in her council chambers. Standing before her ministers was a high priest of the Ouroboros from one of the towns in the mountains of Jormundheim. In his arms, he was holding a turkey cock whose forehead appeared to be a mirror. The cleric had just finished explaining how the week prior to this gathering, the bird had been found wandering about in the precincts of his temple. Aside from its odd head, the priest also had claimed that he and his assistants had actually seen images reflected in the mirror, and they were not of themselves. When pressed by Fafnir to be more specific, he had volunteered that they were varied and disturbing—a constellation of stars that was unknown to himself and his colleagues, wolves devouring the sun and the moon, great squamous tentacles, a fierce one-eyed warrior sounding a war horn, and fire everywhere.

"Were you and your fellow priests imbibing any of your sacred mushrooms or inhaling that venom laced tòbak you are all so fond of?" Fafnir asked in a voice that did little to hide his skepticism or disdain.

Oh no, milord Fafnir, the priest replied. As you know such concoctions are only consumed on certain sacred occasions and even then under the strictest of supervision. It is true that occasionally my brothers and sisters will imbibe them when doing a solitary vision quest, but even then they require the permission of their high priest. Milady Imre can attest to the truth of what I’m saying.

He’s right, Fafnir, Imre replied. Apprehending a turkey cock, no matter how strange a bird it is, would not occasion the imbibing of any mind-altering substances.

Grunting, Fafnir rose from his seat next to her and approached the priest.

May I examine this ‘magical’ bird your eminence? Fafnir asked, again in a voice dripping with disdain.

Why of course, your majesty, the priest replied, and promptly handed over the turkey cock to his king. Fafnir placed the bird on the ground and began to examine its wings, talons, beak, and what passed for a mirror in its forehead. The recipient of this examination proved to be remarkably patient and pliant.

Well, Fafnir, Imre asked?

It appears to be a common variety turkey cock that you could find in any of the woodlands of Jormundheim or purchase in any marketplace. I’ll grant you the mirror-like object in its forehead is odd, but it’s not transmitting any images, at least it’s not doing so for me. Perhaps it senses that I’m not religiously inclined.

This last remark elicited some uneasy laughter from Imre’s counselors.

I could dissect it if you like Imre, Fafnir continued. See if there’s anything unusual going on inside the bird.

This offer was met with a gasp of horror from the priest who stepped forward and said, Mistress Imre, Bride of the Ouroboros, Keeper of his Holy of Holies, and high priestess of his cult, I beseech you to spare this bird. We, your devoted servants, believe this creature to be a portent of some kind sent to us by the Great Serpent. It is true that its mirror is dark now, but it may yet reveal something to you, if not your consort Lord Fafnir.

Assuming her role as mediator between her priest and husband, Imre smiled and said, My dear husband, while I value your expertise in animal husbandry, as well as your offer to further examine this creature, I believe I must take the side of my devoted servant here and spare this unusual bird that he has brought to my attention and that of the council. Gesturing to a guard, Imre continued, So if it is acceptable to you, reverend father, she said to the priest, I will have this man take charge of your find and take it to my workshop for further study. I promise you it will be well cared for.

The priest bowed and said, Consider the bird yours, most high one.

Fafnir interjected, And if you find something of interest about the creature, I trust you’ll let me know about it, Imre.

Rest assured that I will, my husband. Now, it’s been a long and tiring day, and with this winter in full swing, it looks like we’re in for more of them, my counselors. In the meantime, I want you to reassure the people that their king and queen are apprised of their situation and ready to assist them in any way we can. The fisher folk should use this time to mend their nets and repair their boats. Let the farmers know that I’ll provide them with new seed in the spring and any provisions they’ll need while waiting for the harvest. As for the herdsmen, tell them to keep warm with their animals. If they need forage, I’ll order the stores we have on hand in the various royal keeps throughout the country to be distributed to them. And on that note, I bid you all good night and pleasant dreams.

After the departure of her counselors, and seeing Fafnir off to his harbor haunt, Imre retired to her workshop to more closely study what her devotees regarded as a portent from the gods. Ignoring the whimpering of her latest test subject, who was strapped to an X-shaped cross in the corner of the room, she bent to examine the bird, which was leashed to one of the iron rings embedded in the walls. At first glance, she had to agree with Fafnir; it really did seem like little more than a run-of-the-mill turkey cock destined for her dinner table. Still, the mirror-like forehead was interesting. Leaning in to take a closer look at it, she gasped as what looked like smoke beginning to swirl in its center and gradually clear to reveal a great plain littered with the bodies of dead and dying men. In her mind, a great horn sounded as the mirror cleared, only to be filled with images of Asgard, Midgard, Jotunheim, Nifleheim, indeed all of the eight realms, ablaze with raging flames, swirling smoke, and ashes. She gasped again, as these scenes were followed by the sight of Jormundgand’s great pyramid trembling, cracking, and crashing into its plaza, while waves of water washed over the city. At that moment, something wet and scalelike touched her mind, and the mirror was filled with a rimless golden eye that said in a voice that was not a voice in a language she knew not but still understood, Behold, dark sister, Ragnarok, the twilight of the gods, and prepare yourself for the doom that is coming.

As these words that were not words echoed in her mind, the Lady Imre, a woman who was no stranger to the ways of fear, pain, and death, tore her eyes away from the mirror and let out a blood-curdling scream. Rising shakily to her feet, she made her way to a nearby table on which her torture instruments were laid out, selected a sharp blade, crossed back to the turkey cock and its now dark mirror, and sliced its head from its neck. She picked up its remains and tossed them into a nearby brazier, watching as the carcass caught fire and began to burn. She could not turn away until it was reduced to ashes.

Only then did she notice that her latest test subject had stopped whimpering and was staring at her fixedly. There was a madness in his eyes that was somehow different from that which she had inflicted on so many like him in the past. Moving over to him, she slapped him savagely across the face and said, How dare you look at me in that manner. Perhaps I should give you a lesson in etiquette.

In response to this, the man fixed his eyes on Imre again and said in a voice that was not a voice, "Dark sister, it is you who are about to receive a lesson in manners. Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn. Cthulhu cf’tagn."

Screaming, Imre ran from the chamber. When guards raced to her side, she said to them in a shaking voice none of them had ever heard in all their years of service, I want you to go back to my workshop and kill that man—or whatever he has become—burn the body, and scatter the ashes to the winds. And never speak of this again on the pain of a death that I promise you will take a very long time.

Noatun

Jokull, the most accomplished assassin in all Vanaheim and Master of the dreaded Morðingi, sat uneasily in the shadows cast by the roaring fireplace to his left. Though seated as close to its hearth as possible, he was still cold, and even the mulled wine that he was sipping could not warm him. Indeed, when he first raised the cup to his lips, it had already cooled.

Not for the first time he wondered how his host, who was standing near a great window that looked out over Noatun’s frozen harbor, was able to do so while wearing only soft slippers, trousers, a linen shirt, and a long fine woolen cloak. It was as if he was oblivious to the fact that they were living through the most bitterly cold winter anyone in Vanaheim could remember.

As if reading his mind, his host said, You know I have you to thank for my seeming imperviousness to the cold, Jokull. What did you used to tell me? To fight the cold, you have to use its weapons, and so during the winter it was only freezing baths in the morning. And then there were the nighttime exercises where Freya and I had to stay afloat in the ocean for hours at a time. God, we hated you! But I must say, the experience certainly prepared me for this cold snap. I’m surprised it’s affecting you so, Jokull. You look positively miserable.

I’m afraid, I’m little more than an administrator these days, sire. No time for exercise, much less actual field work.

Such a shame, Jokull. As I recall, you were unequaled in your trade.

Milord Frey is much too kind. I had some small talent for the dispatching of troublesome people, nothing more.

Now you’re just being modest. The number of kills credited to you is the stuff of legend. Only that younger brother of yours came anywhere close to your record. Speaking of your sibling, word has reached me from my agents in Jormundgand that he was apprehended while attempting to kill Loki’s son, Fafnir, and met a bad end. Is this so Jokull?

The mention of his late brother and his botched attempt on the life of the High King of Jormundheim made Jokull uneasy, though his years of training as an assassin helped him to keep that fact from manifesting itself in any way. His face remained an expressionless mask, and his hand was steady as he took another sip of what was now chilled wine. Though the last thing that he wanted to discuss with his king—and one of his most important clients—was the folly of Fegelin (for who knew where such a discussion might go and what it might reveal), he also realized that where the Lord Frey was concerned, he had little recourse but to answer his question truthfully.

It does appear milord Frey that my brother did accept such a commission and got himself killed in the process. I advised against such an action, and ordered him to drop the matter, but, well, Fegelin was always headstrong.

Did you not think that ‘such an action’ as you put it, against a high king of Igdrasil, should have been brought to my attention? Especially in light of the current state of affairs?

To be perfectly honest, sire, I had no idea that Fegelin had decided to disobey me until I received word from certain individuals in Jormundgand, with whom I’ve done business in the past, that he had been apprehended attempting to kill Lord Fafnir. As the attempted assassination failed, and my brother was doubtless dispatched in some suitably ghastly manner by the Lady Imre, I didn’t think it necessary to trouble you about it.

Well, you should have troubled me about it, Jokull, particularly in light of the fact that I’m attempting to head off another Ymir civil war. Loki is not going to take an attempt on his son’s life lightly, and doubtless he will suspect I had some hand in it.

Why milord Frey? Jokull asked. Aside from your alliance with Odin, there’s no bad blood between you and the High King of Jotunheim.

"A state of affairs I wish to maintain prior to the upcoming Althing! By the way, who commissioned Fegelin to carry out this attempt on Fafnir’s life?"

"Milord Frey, you of all people know that Morðingi contracts are strictly confidential."

I also know that you met with a couple of Jotun twins who are known to be the trusted agents of Loki the day before one of my most prized possessions went missing. You know the guards that were on duty that evening are now prisoners in Muspelheim awaiting Lord Surt’s pleasure. I would hate to find out that you had something to do with that sordid little business, Jokull. I’m sure I could interest Surt in another Vanir snack for that fire goddess of his.

The mention of his meeting with Geirrod and Agnar redoubled Jokull’s unease, though again he was able to mask that fact. Not for the first time, he realized that he had grown overconfident and careless in his old age. Of course, Frey would keep eyes and ears trained on him and his order, and to meet two men in a public tavern who were known accomplices of Loki was the height of foolishness. It might indeed be time to retire from his trade. Killing people for a living really was a young man’s business.

Putting these thoughts aside, however, he replied, Now, now, milord Frey, you know that you have no more loyal servant than your Jokull and that I would never conspire with anyone to disabuse you of any of your possessions. As for Jotun twins, I do recall sharing some wine with two such brothers who were passing through Noatun, but other than directing them to suitable lodgings during their stay here, nothing of importance was discussed. Most certainly nothing touching on Lord Loki.

Tell me who commissioned your brother, Jokull, and I might just choose to accept your explanation of that meeting.

"Well, given the dire nature of the times, as well as my unquestioned loyalty to you milord, I guess an exception to the Morðingi rules governing the confidentiality of clients can be excused this one time."

How good of you to arrive at that decision, Jokull. Now out with it: Who wanted to see Fafnir murdered?

Ironically, sire, it was his priests.

His priests! What on earth are you talking about, Jokull?

There is a coterie of Jormundheim’s serpent-worshipping priesthood that wants their High King dead.

But he and Imre are the titular heads of their religion.

Well as milord Frey knows, Fafnir thinks Jormundheim’s religion is nonsense and he barely hides his disdain for its practitioners.

Like father, like son, Frey responded smiling.

And then there’s the matter of Jormundheim’s alliance with Lord Loki, a union that many of the followers of the Ouroboros regard as ill-advised and dangerous.

How so?

"Well before Fafnir’s marriage to Imre, Jormundheim had always kept its distance from the other eight realms. To be sure there was always trade, but the island was blessedly free of Igdrasil’s conflicts and wars. Now it’s not only a key player in Loki’s upcoming war with us, but Jormundgand is crawling with Jotuns and Eskimói, and Imre is pouring her resources into the construction of an armada to sail against Asgard. More to the point, sire, she hasn’t hesitated to demand ‘contributions’ to the war effort from her priesthood."

Ah, now we come to the real crux of the matter. The religious establishment wants to hold on to its wealth. But killing Fafnir wouldn’t change anything. Imre is the real power in Jormundheim.

True, but I believe their thinking is that without the marital tie, it would be easier to wean Imre away from Loki’s cause.

Ha, they obviously don’t know my brother very well. With or without Fafnir, he’s set on this war, and Imre’s too invested in Loki’s plans at this point to pull out.

The priests are also disturbed by what they call portents of disaster. This abysmal winter, an uptick in unnatural births, rumblings in the earth, disturbing visions of monstrous creatures, fields heaped with the dead, fire everywhere.

Not unlike what Mimir’s been going on about as of late. So, do you think Imre is aware of this cabal?

Oh, I think you can rest assured of that milord Frey. There’s very little that escapes Imre’s notice in her kingdom. I’ve also heard rumors that a number of priests have mysteriously disappeared from their postings, and that the Lady Imre has been wiling away the winter in her ‘workshops.’

The mention of Imre’s experiments sent a chill down Frey’s spine. Though he was no stranger to violence and murder, he had never delighted in inflicting pain just for the purpose of doing so. It was well known, however, that Jormundheim’s queen was a veritable aficionado of agony.

Dismissing these thoughts, Frey said, While your brother was a fool to have taken such a commission, and I’m glad he failed, you have my sympathy for his loss. No one should ever have the misfortune of falling into the hands of a sadistic bitch like the Lady Imre. As for this other matter of your meeting with the agents of Loki, for the time being, I have decided to accept your explanation.

Your condolences for the fate of my foolish brother are much appreciated Lord Frey, as is your expression of faith in my loyalty.

Oh I wouldn’t go that far, Jokull. I don’t believe for a minute that you met with Loki’s pet twins for a little wine and some light conversation about accommodations in Noatun. You were the one who taught me that such chance encounters seldom if ever occur in our line of work. This said, I’m sure you had your reasons for meeting with those two, and for the moment I’m willing to treat whatever those might have been as water over the dam and under the bridge.

Again, I am most relieved to hear this sire.

"Now to the real reason for this meeting. There’s an Althing coming up and a certain someone who needs killing."

Alfheim

Mama Cori, the Golden Lady, Lokane of the Elfish clans raised her hands in supplication to the idol of Mama Wata, Mother of the Waters, Guardian of the Woods, and Protector of the wee folk in the West, and beseeched her once more for relief from the incessant rain that was inundating Alfheim. As she had foreseen, winter had come early to the lands of her people, first in the form of cold bitter frosts that had stripped the leaves from many of the trees, and then as an unending series of rainstorms moving in from the ocean. The Nidavellir and its many tributaries were overflowing their banks; levees had given way; fields were flooded and crops washed away; and the low-lying settlements of the Elves had been abandoned as her people fled to the safety of their arboreal homes.

Prayers and offerings had been made to Mama Wata by the clan mothers throughout Alfheim in what had so far been a futile effort to dry the tears of the Mother of the Waters and bring an end to the suffering of the Elfish folk. Mama Cori herself was exhausted. Aside from overseeing all of the efforts aimed at alleviating her people’s woes, she had been fasting and praying in the sanctum sanctorum of her goddess for the better part of a month. Over the objections of her attendants, she had refused to ingest anything more substantial than fruit juices and broth, and had even resorted to piercing various parts of her body with thorns both as penance for any wrongdoing on her part that might have stirred the anger of the deity, as well as to offer a sacrifice of blood. Though Mama Wata was not known to nurse a blood thirst, the Lokane was at a loss as to what else might find favor in her eyes.

Having completed her supplication to the goddess, Mama Cori rose, approached the image of Mama Wata, slashed her hand with the thorn she had chosen for this purpose, and let the blood that flowed from this latest wound drop into the brazier that was always alight before the golden idol of Alfheim’s patroness. She was taken aback when the urn’s low burning flames suddenly roared upwards, and momentarily blinded her. When her eyes adjusted to the fire’s brightness, she noted that there were forms moving in the flame. Some were scenes of great cities both on land and under the sea, while others were of large amphibious creatures with great fan-shaped wings and long tentacles, not unlike the Skwid and Smokkfiskur that dwelled in the depths of the sea. She also glimpsed a night