Chapter 6
The racing wind began to subside after the caravan had come to a stop, having arrived at its destination. Loki's gaze darted back and forth from the Frost Giants to their scaled servants, both drawing his interest in equal amounts. The giants received orders in their mother tongue, a gruff muttering, a slurred hissing, as if their tongues had grown numb from the cold. Another two brutes exited the caravan, their bare feet landing on the ground with a thud. On their backs their supplies was secured, on one Loki could see the glistening blade of a polished axe, though slightly scratched and chipped with use. From what could be deciphered, they seemed to be there on the humble errand of chopping down pines. Nothing but a group of lumberjacks, as rambunctious as they may be. That offered Loki some relief, once they filled the caravan they would return to a town or city to sell what they had collected. The God of Mischief took in a deep breath before bringing himself to make a move. The pivotal moment had come.
Whispering an incantation into the wind, he brought the axe to rise in midair. Its blade appeared to come off its handle and spin like a disk, propelling itself into a tree trunk. The Frost Giants gazed in awe, the jaw of one of the brutes was gaping as the pine began to fall. Once the disk sliced through its first target like butter, it flew towards the creatures, the speed of its movement steady and threatening. To give them a good scare and just enough time to run, so was Loki's aim. Two of the giants stumbled for the woods, keeping their heads bowed low. The others, however, feared their commander more than they feared death, so it seemed. The leader of the troop held his ground, giving orders to lay low as he made an attempt to handle the situation. He stood on the defensive with a plank of wood used as a shield, gritting his teeth in anticipation for the disk to strike again.
Loki bit his lip in fear mingled with annoyance. They were supposed to run, the lot of them. He had not expected to see any so called heroes. He did not possess the strength, especially in his wearied state, to turn a Neanderthal's tool into a lethal weapon, though he knew such incantations were possible. At the moment the force necessary to bring down a tree in a single bound with his mind and the aid of archaic spells was beyond him. He could manage an illusion however. The giant had only to look and he would find the axe still in place in his sack of supplies, as authentic as Loki's replica was. The situation now called him to improvise.
The god summoned a storm, or rather a flurry of snow that whirled about the clearing like a miniature tornado. It all but served its purpose, distracting the giants long enough for him to dart from the safety of the rocks. Now that he was out in the open Loki had to act fast. He did not make way for second thoughts, he allowed not the briefest moment of hesitation before slitting the throat of one of the giants. The blade of his hatchet dripped with blood which he smeared onto his arm on a freshly made wound. He could now feign the scent and aura of the Frost Giant, creating a disguise that would adequately conceal him, hiding him in plain sight. The same could not be said for the giant whose shape Loki had acquired, the body nestled against a tree trunk, only to be found if one were looking. But who would be inclined to look for something that is not missing?
The whirlwind began to calm at which point Loki had to regain his composure, settle into his role. With stealth of hand he made another few slashes and tears before hiding the dagger underneath his clothes.
"What cursed trickery is this!" the chieftain growled, his body swerving to the left, then to the right as he strained to see in all directions at once, still on edge for another attack. His eyes then fell on his comrade and the stain of red calling attention to itself against its background of snow. The others were compelled to followed suit, their interest piqued by the sight of blood.
"Jarl!" one of the giants turned to Loki. "You are wounded!"
The God of Mischief strained to stay focused as four sets of crimson eyes scrutinized him. These were the vital few seconds that would establish him as friend or foe. Whether or not he could have himself passed off as a Frost Giant of the brigade was a matter of wit and chance. How he dreaded this moment, having already invested the last of his willpower towards unsavory tasks in slaying the distraught buffoon, now hunched over only a few meters away from the group. Oh how he prayed that the body would not be found.
"The foul axe!" Loki snarled, contorting his features into a scowl of menacing fury. "Whichever damned soul did this will pay with his life!" He held the interpretation of rage and contempt for the appraisal of the group, hoping that the theatrical threat of vengeance was on par with the character of Jarl.
Out of the corner of his eye, Loki could see the two cowards who had retreated make their way back to the clearing, their cumbersome bodies pushing past low branches. Then again, perhaps it was not fair to dub them as cowards but merely beings who valued their own lives. If the roles were reversed Loki would have surely ran. He had his wits about him as not to engage in needless bloodshed, his own blood that is. Loki would have run as fast as his legs would carry him, and the inclination to do so at the present only grew stronger.