Veil of Smoke
Part 4/6
There is a danger in scrying the past, and it is this: the past pulls upon the seer, luring her ever deeper with promises of clearer vision, with the hope of understanding events that have seemed unknowable, and with the low-voiced seduction of reliving joys that have receded into the dusk of days gone by.
But Frigga Queen of Asgard is no simple-minded dilettante, sailing a dangerous current merely for the thrill it sends down the spine. She makes her way carefully, stepping softly, and with every breath she takes, she reminds herself: here are my hands folded in my lap, in the present. Here is the grass, beneath my feet, in the present. Here is the softly-filled breath, the stifled cough: Lady Sif, as she watches over me, in the present. I am present: the past is illusion.
Around her, in her mind's eye, the past displays its pictures: static and still, all of them, suspended in the matrix of crystallized time. She wanders among them, with the past all around her like clear water, resolutely ignoring the lures that it offers: Thor's childish face, laughing in delight over some new plaything; Odin, tall and straight and brown, helmet tucked awkwardly under one arm, bowing over her hand; Loki . . . Loki staring in amazement as he conjures a flame onto his small palm for the first time. She turns her eyes from them, following instead the slight pull on her mind as she searches for one among the crowd peopling her past, until at last she stops before a hazy image of a beautiful, ageless face: the Queen of the Norns.
"Ah," she says, and her voice is sad. "Hello, old friend."
She stretches out her hands, and walks forward, swiftly, and the image ripples and flows, and engulfs her.
Now she sees an opulent bedchamber; the Norn Queen sits before a mirror, turning her head this way and that. She might be studying her own reflection, but for the fact that her eyes are fixed, a shrewd and measuring gaze, upon the tall, cowled figure who stands in the center of the room.
"You've done well, though it took you long enough." she says. She raises a brow. "You were not pursued?"
The demon's voice grates, as its crooked fingers gesture toward a huddled, forlorn figure crumpled in a chair on the far side of the room, knees drawn up, gray eyes staring above a pale, trembling chin. "Who would dare pursue?"
"True. Although it was always a possibility."
Silence, and then the demon rasps, "What purpose?"
Both brows rise, slightly mocking. "You inquire into my motives?"
The demon hardens its stance. "What purpose?" it repeats.
The queen shrugs, and waves a dismissive hand. "I have looked into the future, and I have seen that this child, in some way, interferes with my future happiness."
"Easier, then, to slay?"
"Oh, perhaps. But then I considered, instead, that I would take her for my own. For what a jest! What a triumph to rear the child of the enemy, and turn her into a weapon under my own hand."
Frigga's heart drops, a sickening swoop. 'A weapon under my own hand . . .'
The queen swivels on her bench and stands, with the cold and regal grace that characterizes all her actions. She says, slowly, "The villagers will no doubt make their way to Odin King, in the next day or two."
"Reprisals?"
Her lips thin. "Perhaps. It is only one village child, of course, and I do not know if Odin will seek open war over such a little thing. But he may send . . . someone. Take your troops, and ride out. Occupy the main passages before the border into Asgard. If someone does come to call. . . dissuade them."
The demon emits a long, sighing hiss. "Wait in the passes? How long?"
"As long as it pleases me, slave. Do not question me further."
The demon bows, a ragged scrap of a bow, and slides silently from the room. Frigga, watching, feels the uneasiness rising in her belly. The Norn Queen could not have known that her crime would be discovered so quickly, that a rescue of the child was already underway. That was all to the good, and yet . . .
A sudden vision presses itself upon her: Thor and Loki, the child bundled in their arms, racing back toward Asgard. They would be looking behind, for pursuit from the Keep. They would not expect the passages at the border to be held against them.
She steps back from the scene being played out before her. The image of the Norn Queen slows and stiffens to immobility as Frigga retreats, her breath tight in her chest as the past clutches at her with greedy fingers, as it wraps itself around her ankles thick and clinging as cold mud, making each step heavier than the last. Back, back again: the steps maddeningly slow. She focuses all her mind, all her thought upon her hands, in her lap, in the present.
In the present, her hands curl into fists . . .
And then, with a petulant sputter, the past released her, and she fell forward into the present and found herself looking up into Sif's anxious face, with Sif's strong hands gripping her shoulders.
"My lady!"
She nodded, drawing a deep breath. And then, though the movement felt stiff and strange, she reached up and lay a hand on Sif's forearm.
"I am well. Thank you, Sif."
Dry as dust, her throat, as if she'd run a brutal race. She swallowed, and tried to remember: what was it that she had seen, in the past's watery depths?
'. . . what a jest, what a triumph to rear a child of the enemy . . . '
She shook her head, clearing the cold voice away, and the memory flooded back: the passes, the border!
Something must be done.
She said, her voice strengthening on each word. "Lady Sif, do you tire of this inactivity?"
The warrior maiden leaned back on one heel, head tilted, a quizzical smile tugging at her mouth, "I do, my lady."
"As do I. Tell me, my dear. Do you know where Hogun and Fandral might be found, just now?"
Is he utterly mad?"
Brandr's hissed whisper fractured the silence like a boot through thin ice; the muscles across the back of Thor's shoulders clenched in irritation. He glanced over at the other man, though he could see nothing but a vague shape, sunk deep in the shadow of the thick windowsill upon which they were crouched, several long spans above the hard-packed ground.
"Steady, man," he muttered in response. "They'll hear."
"They already have. They're choosing to ignore us because we're not actually down there in the courtyard."
Thor grunted, noncommittal; his gaze pivoted back to the pool of darkness that was the Keep's bailey. As they had loitered here, waiting, the gray skies overhead had gradually shaded to deep charcoal and then dusky black. The clouds, invisible now, veiled the brilliant stars and glowing nebulae that would have illuminated the night in a less dreary realm, and the darkness was viscous and heavy, like a rising tide of silt-choked water. The courtyard was drowned in night, and filled with the tall, cloaked figures of the demon-guard.
The cider kettle stood abandoned. The fire underneath had faded to a few glowing coals, their dim light forlorn in the dark bailey. A few stubborn guards had remained for a while, hunched over it, their courage fortified by the flagons of brandy that they'd splashed into the pot, but as another and then another and then another demon had emerged from the sloping archway, their numbers slowly growing, the guards had fled, finally, the last one uttering an oath as he flung down an empty flagon with a loud, defiant crash. The demons had laughed, a sibilant wheeze that had set Thor's skin to crawling as he watched.
Now, below, the demon-guard gathered and re-gathered, in aimless groups, their voices low and hissing, a wordless murmur.
Thor afforded them only the smaller portion of his attention; his eyes were fastened uneasily on the niche under the buttress, where the shadows were black as spilled ink, and where there knelt, unseen, a slim, motionless figure.
Beside him Brandr shifted; Thor could smell the fear on the man as he muttered, once again, "He's mad."
Without turning his head, Thor said, "You have known my brother for nearly the span of an entire day. That is sufficient time to learn that his tricks are never without purpose."
"That's all very well if his purpose is to get himself slaughtered!" Brandr's voice climbed, and then faded again as Thor tapped a warning knuckle against his arm. He whispered, barely audible, "No one ventures into the bailey while the demons occupy it. No one."
Thor answered mildly, "So you said before. But Loki's scheme is the only workable plan we have."
Though his voice was even, nevertheless he felt Brandr's foreboding, creeping over his shoulders, sliding along his scalp, grounding itself in a tightness behind his eyes. He squinted into the darkness, pushing away the irritation. Swallowing the thought that, if they'd executed a direct attack, he and Loki-and the child-would already have been far away and gone from this cursed Keep.
Why do I always accede to his plans? What if he really does come to harm, down there?
"They are not stupid, and they have their ways. They're going to sniff him out." Brandr craned his neck; Loki's figure was still buried deep in shadow, unmoving. "And then he'll be forced into using sorcery. And that will attract the Queen's notice."
Thor directed another glinting glance at him. "Is that a hopeful note I hear in your voice, friend?"
Brandr froze, and clamped his lips shut. The warning in that murmur had been unmistakeable.
"I fear your hope will come to naught," Thor continued. "Put it aside. Not all of Loki's tricks involve magic."
He leaned his head back, against the window coping, and added, "And, anyway, I do not fear these demons. There are not so many of them. I count only twenty-seven."
He sensed Brandr's shrug. "Whether there be twenty or ninety, what does it matter? They will kill him just for the amusement of it, the devils. The bailey is theirs alone, at night. All of Nornheim knows it."
"I wonder that your Queen tolerates such barbarity."
"Who can tell? They do her work." Bitterness coated Brandr's words, for a moment. "That's perhaps why there are so few of them out there, tonight. She's sent the rest on some mission."
The skin along Thor's arms prickled. "Some mission, heh?"
But he did not pursue the thought, for, down in the bailey, an agitated shudder rippled through the scattered clusters of the demon-guard. A lone man came striding nonchalantly out of the shadowed niche beneath the buttress.
Loki.
He was uncloaked, so that the faint light from the firepit's coals gleamed dully on his Nornheimir armor, and helmetless; Thor could see the sheen of dark hair, and a momentary gleam of the whites of his eyes as they swept the yard.
One by one the demon-guard gathered, into a single, milling mass on one side of the bailey, every hooded head following Loki's progress. The silence was suddenly breathless and deep, broken only by the creaking of the leather under Loki's armor, and faint rasp of metal on metal in the joints. He walked across the open ground opposite the shadowy flock of demons, with the easy, unconcerned steps of a man strolling beneath the noonday sun. A baleful wheeze emerged, from beneath one hood, a razor-edged sigh that rustled through the entire throng. As their heads turned, Thor could see, even through the shadows over their faces, the glitter of many black eyes, and all of them fixed on Loki with palpable menace.
And, yet, also, with a cautious puzzlement.
A grin stretched Thor's lips in the darkness, despite the tight set of his jaw. "They will not attack at once," Loki had said, when he'd outlined his plan for them. "They will wait. They think as one, and they will wait until, as one, they understand." And he had laughed. "And they'll wait until Ragnarok, if that be their goal."
Loki halted beside the dark firepit. He drew a dagger from his boot, and squatted on his heels, and, ignoring the demons, he began to trace something into the dusty ground before him.
A rising hum among the watchers, the hooded heads weaving back and forth, necks stretching to gain a better view. One lifted a long-fingered hand and pushed back its cowl, thrusting forward a sharp-angled face framed by a mane of pale hair. A breath, and then the others did the same; in the tiny halo of light from the coals in the firepit, their shadows crept lengthening across the ground as, in a single rippling movement, they leaned forward.
The dagger's point scraped harshly through the grit, while Loki's arm flowed in fluid, spiraling lines. He seemed absorbed in this task, his head bent over it, his shoulders relaxed. The demons muttered; from several throats arose long, wavering syllables that might have been words, and yet, somehow, weren't. All of the heads tilted askew, to one side, and then the other.
Then, as if they'd heard some soundless signal, they began sliding forward, slowly, slowly, converging on this brazen interloper, their malevolent attention so trained upon him that they failed to notice, off to the side, as first Thor, and then Brandr, his movements made clumsy by terror-strangled muscles, lowered themselves by the arms from the window well where they'd been lurking and dropped, softly, to the ground.
The flowing mass of demon-guard split in two, one half circling around Loki's huddled figure, the other spreading into a dark pool before him. The throbbing whirr of their voices had changed in tone, and now it was possible to hear the undercurrent of scorn and anger, a malign countermelody to their unwilling curiosity. In another moment, they had encompassed him, and Loki crouched alone beside the firepit, the silent linchpin of a writhing wheel of demons.
In an alcove at the juncture of two halls, a brightly-burning lantern hung suspended from a thick chain, and it spilled its light over the table beneath, where three guards slouched over a meager heap of coins, a collection of throwing pieces, and a grubby sheet of parchment listing the wagers, pinned to the table with the nicked blade of a well-used dagger. One of the players was just in the act of scooping up the dice for another throw, when his fellow stopped him with a cheerful wallop against his breastplate.
"There it is again. D'ye hear?"
He paused, chin lifted, a frown excavating a deep crevice between his brows. In the sudden silence, a series of dull thuds came echoing down the left-hand hall.
"What is that?" the third player asked, clambering to his feet. As the two others spun toward the sound, his fingers darted forward, and several of the coins disappeared into his belt pouch.
The first two turned back, and for a stretched moment a different game came into play, as they stared unblinkingly at one another, a game known very well indeed to guards on duty: Who Will Go and Do The Thing That Must Be Done?
Finally the first guard sighed, and shifted his scabbard to a more workable position; favoring his companions with a sour grimace, he set off down the hall. He'd passed the door to the Armory when the angry thumps sounded again, much louder this time, and clearly from within. Carefully, the guard drew his sword; as he eased into the room, the furious banging shook the hinges on one of the storage alcove doors, rattling its bar in the bracket. Puzzled, and more than a little wary, the guard raised the bar and flung wide the door, sword lifted.
And then the sword dropped from his fingers with a ringing clang, as he beheld his captain: bound and gagged, booted feet lifted to smack once more against the door, both eyes blackening beneath a green and purple bruise across the bridge of his nose, and his face swelling burgundy with incandescent rage.
Out in the courtyard, Loki shoved the dagger back into his belt; now he was collecting stones half-buried in the earth around him, and stacking them in a strangely compelling pattern, an arcane tower of pebbles. He curled himself over it; his hands moved with quick assurance, even though only the barest corona of dull red fire rimmed the last few coals under the kettle, and the darkness was almost total. His mind was wholly occupied with the movements of the demon-guard as they pressed more closely in around him. He did not allow himself to look at them, but he tracked the sounds of the feet, shuffling through the dust, the growing tension in their murmurs. He could picture what they were seeing: puzzling symbols scratched into the dirt, an inexplicable little structure now, rising under his hands. He imagined them, their large eyes flared open, straining to see, their minds struggling to understand why anyone would risk their wrath, their casual malevolence, to build a tower of stones in the dusty ground of the bailey. He smiled inwardly, and forced down the chuckle that rose in his throat. He reveled, for a moment, in the efficacy of the ridiculous, though he felt coiled readiness building itself to an almost unbearable pitch in the depths of his belly. Oh, yes. Of all of the weapons in his considerable arsenal, the wielding of chaos was by far the most potent.
You cannot make sense of the nonsensical, you foolish creatures. But keep trying, little wolves. Come nearer. Feast your eyes.
They were close now, circling around him, veering and weaving like a shoal of fish. Out of the corner of one eye he could see the pale, lank hair of one falling forward as he bent to look more closely at the marks Loki had carved into the earth, all but invisible now.
For a stifling moment, the only stirring in the courtyard was the swift movements of his own hands.
Then he felt the shifting of the air, the sudden collapse of their patience, the surge of black anger, as clawed fingers reached out toward him, to grasp him by the shoulder and haul him upright.
With a lithe twist, he slid out from beneath their reach. He waited an instant, to be certain that all of their eyes were fastened on him, that they were all drawn in as closely as possible, with their black eyes wide and the pupils gaping thirstily to gather in the few particles of light in that dark courtyard.
Then he spread his arms, cocked his chin upward, and said, "Hail, Nornheimir thraell." As they registered the insult, and surged forward, hissing, he added, "And farewell!"
And before they could seize him, he conjured a single, large, fiery spark off the tip of one finger, and flicked it into the cider kettle.
With a percussive gasp, the abandoned brandy in the bottom of the kettle exploded into flames redolent of smoke and apples, a blazing tongue of furious light that seared itself directly into the pupils of every demon in the courtyard.
They threw up their arms, wailing, clawing at their eyes with hooked fingers. Their coordinated movements collapsed into violent spasms, and the howl of their fury filled the bailey to its brim.
As soon as he saw the spark arcing through the air, Thor nudged Brandr, a silent rap on the shoulder.
"Time to storm the gate, my friend."
Then he was running forward along the garden wall, huge, noiseless strides that left the guard far behind. He saw the fire erupt, from the corner of his eye, and hastily turned his face away to preserve his own night vision, his teeth flashing in a relieved grin. As the demon's screams assaulted the night air, he drew his sword, slid its tip through the lock securing the gate, and wrenched it open. He pushed the gate ajar, reached back without looking, grasped Brandr by the breastplate as he came stumbling forward with his hands over his ears to stifle the shrieking chaos, and pulled him bodily into the quiet garden.
Only a few moments had passed; the fire shrunk into a mass of sullen flames, slowly blackening the kettle, but all around, in the windows of the towers surrounding the bailey, lamps were flaring, as shutters were thrown open and wary heads thrust through to stare down into the fluttering maelstrom that the courtyard had become. The added light drove the demons into a further, raging fury, and cast their flailing staggering about into a hellish dance of flitting shadow and slanting shards of lamplight. As their yowling ratcheted upward in volume, Thor risked a glance, eyes darting until he found a dark figure, gracefully easing its way through the blinded demons, twisting aside here, swerving lightly there, avoiding any touch. As Thor watched, one of the demons halted, suddenly, eyes streaming, face lifted: slitted nostrils opening wide as he batted an arm out, fingers groping. Loki ducked beneath, but the demon's other arm swung around and seized his shoulder.
"Curse it!" Thor swore, softly; he lunged forward, one step, but then he saw the flash of a dagger in his brother's hand, heard the gasping rattle of a punctured lung, saw the demon fall to one knee.
Loki whirled around, from the demon's other side, and as the creature collapsed, he whipped off its enveloping cloak, and swirled it around his own body.
The kettle fire was burning itself out, devouring all the brandy-soaked apples that remained in the bottom of the pot. Loki came running forward toward the gate; a flash of acknowledgement lit his eyes as he saw Thor waiting there. In another instant, he was through the opening; Thor pulled the gate closed behind him. They shared a speaking glance, and then, as one, they spun, each grasping the gaping Brandr by one of his upper arms; they pushed the guard before them back into the garden's sweet-scented shadows, and deposited him against the leaning trunk of an ancient pine. He fell forward, hands on his knees, swallowing convulsively. Thor caught the bitter scent of bile.
After a moment, he looked up at them, his face a pale smudge in the darkness, and he said, "We are all going to die."
"Is that a philosophical statement, or a prediction?" Loki's voice was tinged with impatience. "Because if it's the latter, I can only express my sincere disappointment in your lack of faith."
"You are mad!"
"Am I?' he turned to Thor. "Brother?"
Thor grunted. "That remains to be seen."
"That's not the answer I was hoping for."
Thor's voice deepened with impatience. "We've no time for nonsense, Loki. Let's go."
Brandr said tightly, "And how are we going to get out again? The courtyard is full of demons."
"I've negated that problem," Loki said.
"For now! They'll regain their vision, soon enough!"
A soft creak of leather as Loki shrugged. "Well, yes. But that's a new problem, to be dealt with as it arises."
Brandr groaned, low in his chest, and bent over again, head hanging. Thor regarded him, arms folded, and then, jerking a thumb in his direction, said grimly, "This is the difficulty with subterfuge, brother. It makes a man physically ill."
"Only those weak of stomach. Surely you, my brother, are made of sterner stuff."
"I am not weak!" Brandr protested. He straightened, steadying himself with one hand against the tree's trunk.
"Fine," said Thor.
"Excellent," said Loki
"Let's go then," said Thor.
Brandr sighed, "What are we going to do?"
"What we came for," Thor said, and he turned his face toward the tiny cottage, half-hidden by a grove of dark trees on the far edge of the garden.
"If the child is truly there, she will be guarded," Brandr muttered.
Thor looked back at him; in the darkness his voice was cool. "That will not be a problem, new or old."
In a small room, sparsely furnished, an old servant woman sat before the fire, her head cocked to one side as she listened to the distant sound of demon-screeching, somewhere out there in the night.
"What are those devils about?" she muttered. Her gaze strayed from the fire to settle upon the little bed in the corner, where a child slept, the flames throwing strange shadows over her tear-stained face. The old woman's eyes softened.
"Poor little mite."
Then she frowned, and sat firmly upright, sucking in her breath; a soft thud, outside, and a sighing groan, and a strangled oath from one of the guards, out there on the doorstep, cut off with a gurgle in mid-syllable.
Slowly, the old woman levered herself upward out of the chair's embrace. For a moment, she stood irresolute; she pressed trembling fingers to her lips. And then, lips stiffening, she reached forward, and grasped the poker leaning against the hearth, and, heart pounding, sidled over to the door. She drew in a harsh breath, and then lifted the latch and eased the door open, poker held high.
A strong hand whipped through the opening, and caught her wrist. Another reached in and plucked the poker from her nerveless fingers, and she looked up into a sharp-featured face that smiled with winning charm, and said, "Good evening, amma."
She backed away from the door, and suddenly the room was overwhelmingly full of large armored men. She blinked, and realized, after a startled moment, that it was actually only three.
One of them closed the door, silently. The other, huge and fair, slipped across the room to crouch beside the child's bed, and lay a gentle hand upon her shoulder.
"Nanna," he murmured.
She glanced up again, into the amused eyes of the one who held her arm, and she said, her voice creaking, "You've come for the child?"
"Aye. That we have."
She pulled on her arm, just a little, and felt a distant surprise when he released her at once. Carefully, she reseated herself upon her chair, and said, chin lifted, "I'll not be stopping ye."
The smile, again. "No, you won't, amma. But I thank you for sparing us the trouble of convincing you."
She ran her eyes over him, her gaze lingering on the hilt of the dagger shoved into his belt, and then, with a strong arch to her brow, on the giant sword thrust into the fair one's leather scabbard. She allowed herself the indulgence of a humorless chuckle. "I'm many things, young man. But I am not now, nor have I ever been, a fool."
On the bed, the child stirred and stretched. For an instant, blank confusion filmed her eyes, as they opened, and then her whole body stiffened in terror and she froze, like a wild thing paralyzed in the gaze of a predator. Only her eyes moved, and her gaze was caught and held by Thor's open face and warm eyes, and, after a moment, she let out a shaking breath.
"Nanna," he said, again. "We've come to take you home. Back to Asgard, child. To your family."
She let out a whimpering sob, staring up at him, and then she flung herself upward, into his arms. At once, he stood, cradling her against his chest, and, after a silent moment, he asked, "Can you walk, child?"
A tiny nod, against his chest. He set her on her feet, and her eyes went to Loki and then to Brandr, only now truly seeing them, and her face blanched. She pressed close against Thor's thigh, chin shaking with suppressed tears, lips stiff with terror. Loki eyed her for a moment, smearing away with two gloved fingers a splash of blood on his cheekbone, relic of the brief encounter between his fist and the nose of one of the cottage's guards. He exchanged a quick glance with Thor, and then crouched down before her.
She cowered further behind Thor's leg. His hand tightened on her shoulder and he murmured, "Steady, now, child. This is . . . "
Loki held up a hand, giving Thor a quicksilver shake of his head. Then he said, voice solemn and low, holding the child's gaze with his own, "I am Loki of Asgard."
He waited, and after a moment the ingrained habits of etiquette impressed upon the child by her mother asserted themselves, and she answered, in a whisper, "I am Nanna."
Loki nodded. "Well met. I bring you greeting, from your mother."
The child's face lifted, a spark lighting her gray eyes. "You know Mama?"
"I have seen her just yesterday, in fact." He lifted a finger to his chin, his eyes narrowed in thought, "Let me see. . . She was wearing a blue gown, a pretty gown with a green apron over it. Yes?"
At the child's nod, he added, the corners of his eyes crinkling with sudden humor, "And yet she wore such very heavy, sturdy black boots?"
She smiled, shyly. "That is for the goat pen. She was in the goat pen . . . when the bad men . . . " Her voice faltered. The smile disappeared as the little face stiffened in memory, the eyes sliding away. Loki shifted his weight, leaning closer, capturing her attention once again.
"Ah, yes. Goats. Such unfortunate creatures." He raised a brow. "So very . . . " and he sniffed, with an exaggerated lift of his head as he said, ". . . untidy."
She giggled, a tiny gasp of laughter that nonetheless prompted an answering smile from Loki. "My brother here is fond of goats."
Thor grunted, and when Nanna looked up at him, he rolled his eyes ceiling-ward and said, gruffly, "I am most assuredly not. He's a terrible liar, this brother of mine."
She smiled, catching her bottom lip with her teeth.
"Nanna," Loki's voice had turned softer, more dark, and his face was serious as she looked back to him. '''Would you like to come with us, now, to your mother?"
"Oh, yes. Yes, please," she said.
"Then so we shall," he said, and he stood, and waved a hand toward Thor. "And you shall ride upon the back of this noble steed."
As he lifted the child onto Thor's back, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, he said, gravely, "But as we go, we must be quiet as stalking cats. Can you do that?"
She nodded, eager to please. "Aye. Yes, my lord."
"Good. Hold tight to your perch then, little rider."
Thor turned swiftly, and Brandr twitched the door open. Man and child disappeared soundlessly out into the dark, with the guard close behind. Loki paused, on the threshold, as the old woman's voice stopped him.
"You'd best lock me in the kitchen, boy," she said.
He turned, "Shall I?"
"I have no wish to be blamed for this night's work. I'll tell them you overpowered me, three strong men. What chance does an old woman stand?"
Loki grinned. "None at all, apparently."
He stepped forward, and offered her his arm with a flourish. "If I may escort you?"
As he slipped out into the dark garden a short while later, stepping lightly around the bodies of the erstwhile door-guards, he found Brandr and Thor waiting for him, and his gaze fell upon the guard, coldly measuring.
Thor wheeled about at once and melted away into the shadows; Brandr moved to follow, but he was halted, suddenly, by a firm grip on his arm. He turned to find Loki's eyes studying him, coldly amused.
"Friend," he said, and his voice was not friendly. "I feel it is in your best interest to show you something, before we set out on the final leg of this noble venture." And he twisted his hand, and opened his fist to reveal a small object, gleaming in the faint light from the cottage windows. Brandr leaned closer, against his will, eyes narrowed. Then he raised his head and said, "A gold piece?"
"Good yellow Asgardian gold. Inscribed with the Valknut of Odin, no less."
Brandr's face was a study in confusion. "I don't want your gold."
"Oh, I know that you do not. For only a traitor to Nornheim would accept the gold of Asgard."
Brandr's face convulsed for a moment, in frustration and hatred. "I'm no traitor."
"Of course. I know that. And you know that. But if you should suddenly be gripped by a desire to prove your loyalty to the Keep, by betraying my brother and myself, well. . . what a shock it will be to your fellow guards, when they find Asgardian gold spilling from your pockets."
Brandr backed away. "I won't have any gold!"
"Yes, you will. I will make certain that you do." Loki closed his fist, and opened it again, and now the single gold piece had multiplied into a gleaming handful. "Do we understand one another?"
He held the man's gaze, until stiffly, he nodded.
Without another word, Loki waved his hand; the gold had disappeared as if it had never existed. "After you. Quickly now."
Brandr lifted his lips, baring his teeth, but he twisted away, disappearing after Thor into the shadows under the trees, and Loki followed, just behind.
By the time they'd reached the little silver gate, and pressed themselves close against the wall to peer carefully through, it was already apparent that the demons in the courtyard were recovering. Their vicious screeching spoke of rage, now, rather than pain; Thor whispered, grimly, "We'll not be simply walking out of here, Loki."
Loki nodded. "No." He pursed his lips, his eyes distant as he peered out into the courtyard. Thor could almost hear the thoughts racing behind his eyes. After a moment, he glanced back, and whispered, "I'll have to risk a little magic . . . "
Even as he spoke, a thunderous crash echoed through the courtyard. All three of them cocked their heads, craning their necks to see around the gateway's edge; a door in one of the towers had burst open, banging wildly on its hinges, and an entire troop of Nornheimir guard was spilling out into the demon-haunted courtyard.
And then a large and furious figure filled the door's opening: the captain of the guard, now possessed of a lividly bruised face, two blackened eyes, and a bellyful of rage.
Thor glanced sidelong at Loki, both brows lifted, but then his face tightened and his eyes flashed as he saw that his brother was already pulling the hood of the black demon-cloak up over his face.
"Loki," his voice held a warning. "What are you doing?"
"Making use of the materials at hand, brother. Be ready!"
Thor reached out to grasp his arm, but Loki had already slipped out through the gate, and vanished into the chaotic darkness of the bailey.
Note: There's no indication, in any of Marvel's lore, that Frigga is acquainted, in the past, with Karnilla, Queen of the Norns. That is purely an invention of mine, to give more texture to this story. But I'd like to think that Frigga's past was lively, and that the stories she has to tell would be interesting ones, indeed.