STAVE TEN
"Never laugh
At live dragons."
-JRR Tolkien
Loki drew himself up, straightened his cape, and rounded the corner. Ahead of him opened a broad door that led to the King's View: the box seats that overlooked the Mestr Leikrstaðr, the grand gaming arena of Asgard. As he stepped down the three stairs, and gazed down through the wide open space above the vast colosseum, memories rang through his mind.
"Ah! This is the one!"
Loki halted, his head coming around. Fandral strode toward him whilst removing his leather bracers. The blonde man shot him a grin. Loki frowned. Fandral was closely followed by Hogun and Volstaag. Volstaag had the same look of brash glee on his face that Fandral did, but Hogun's black eyes were unreadable.
"Can I help you?" Loki asked.
"You already did," Fandral crowed. "The pageboy told me you were the one in charge of the illusions and dangers in this tournament."
"Indeed, I was," Loki answered, narrowing his eyes and studying each of them in turn.
"We were just wondering if that was as challenging as they possibly could be," Volstaag rumbled, grinning at his friends. "We were told that the creator of these illusions was a master—that he could maim or kill his foes without even touching them."
Loki raised an eyebrow.
"Are you complaining that you weren't maimed this afternoon?"
"I think he is saying that your reputation has been exaggerated," Hogun said, straight-faced.
"Thank you for translating," Loki said coldly.
"What my friend is saying," Fandral laughed, putting a hand on Volstaag's broad shoulder. "Is that we hope you aren't disappointed. You mustn't be, you know. I doubt you've been tested against warriors of our caliber before."
"You shouldn't listen to stupid gossip," Hogun scolded Fandral. "If he could maim people without touching them, don't you think he would have been out here in the contest with us, trying to become one of Thor's best?"
"You're right, of course." Fandral looked at Loki with interest. "You've doubtlessly just performed illusions to amuse the All-Father in the past, am I correct?" He glanced at the others. "I've heard of monarchs who keep illusionists as they would keep minstrels or jesters."
Loki's mouth hardened.
"It's too bad, really," Volstaag said. "It would be nice to have someone in our band that could fight like that."
Loki's eyes caught a flash of red far past them. He turned back to the three.
"Pardon my curiosity, my lords, but may I ask the name that this pageboy used to identify me?"
"The Illusion Master," Hogun answered.
"Yes, that is one of my titles," Loki answered. Then, he raised his voice and his head. "Thor!"
The three jumped, and their eyes went wide. They had never heard someone call him by just his given name.
"What do you want?" Thor bellowed back, in an impetuous, familiar tone. Loki didn't answer—he just folded his arms and waited.
Thor, his armor flashing blindingly, his red cape billowing out behind him, strode across the tournament field, hopped over a piece of machinery, and swung around the tall form of Volstaag, smiling.
"Ah, my new friends—I see you've met my brother!"
Loki paused at the foot of the steps, fighting back a shiver. The air here, usually so warm and balmy, had lowered to an unearthly chill. Usually, he did not mind cold—but this penetrated too deep for any comfort. And usually, this room was well-lit by afternoon sunshine, filled with the scents of roasting meat and baked bread, and flooded with the roar of a cheerful, excited crowd awaiting tournament.
Now it hung dark, with green light muttering in the lamps that barely illuminated the furniture. Loki crossed the space, stepping toward the great opening to peer down.
Below, in the arena, a small section had been roped off for the nobles of Asgard to sit—and that is all they did, silent and pale. The rest of the arena was clogged to bursting with Hela's glowing wraiths, who rippled and rustled and chattered their dry teeth, their tattered banners stirred by an unfelt wind. And even as Loki stood, gazing out across them, they began to sway, and utter a deep, bone-chilling chant that vibrated the stones of the Leikrstaðr:
"Ófriðr! Blóð! Bál! Dauðadagr!"
Loki recognized the words, though their accent was ancient, and their pulse like the rumblings of an earthquake.
War.
Blood.
Fire.
Death.
"Loki Sky-Walker," purred a voice from the darkness to his right. Loki turned to see Hela, sitting on the velvet couch where Odin and Frigga used to sit. She wore a shimmering black gown and emerald cape, her hair half done up and held with a silver pin in the shape of a lute—a pin Loki recognized.
He had given it to his mother on her last birthday.
Loki inclined his head to Hela, and gave her a smile.
"Min Dróttning."
She smiled at him, her grey eyes luminous.
"You have a very pretty manner," she said. "And a graceful carriage. I cannot believe you were raised in Asgard."
Loki chuckled.
"I suppose I took my cues from the magic makers of the realm," he said. "Which, of course, happened to belong to your fair sex."
"Oh, indeed," Hela nodded. "And Frigga, despite her marriage, did nonetheless carry herself well."
Loki said nothing, just watched her for a moment, then looked down at the arena again, where disembodied green light wafted round the empty playing court.
"How did you find your gift?" Hela asked.
"She will take some breaking," Loki replied frankly. "Though she will be all the more delicious for it."
Hela chuckled.
"Come," she said, waving a graceful hand. "Sit with me."
Loki faced her again, and bowed.
"As you wish," he said, moved over and easily sat, letting out a sigh as he leaned back and folded his arms. "How long before we begin?"
"They only await my command," Hela replied. "Would you care for anything to refresh you?"
"No, thank you, I am quite satisfied," Loki replied, still studying the arena.
"Very well," Hela said. "So am I." She arose, the cape tumbling around her feet, and stepped up to the railing. She held up a hand, and the sweeping masses outside fell still. Hela took a deep breath.
"Let the tournament for the throne of Asgard begin!"
Her voice rang through the dark air, and all her thanes shivered in glee. Hela took a step back and sat down again, draping her hand over the back of the couch so that her fingers nearly touched Loki's shoulder. She glanced over and smiled at him, and he returned it.
Then, the great portcullis at the left end of the arena reeled open with the clanking of a mighty chain, and a broad-shouldered man strode out.
Thor, in his bronze dwarvish armor, a winged helm on his head, bearing Beowulfearm, shining bright as daylight. His boots left marks in the shallow sand as he strode to the center. And when he achieved it, he stopped. He did not look around, nor did he search the high box where Loki sat.
He waited.
Across from him, the portcullis there drew open also…
And a shaft of dark starlight strode out.
He was tall—a head taller than Thor—clad in sleek black armor that reflected the green light like mirrors. His silvery-white hair streamed out behind him, his graceful white left hand resting upon the pommel of an elegant blue sword that hung at his belt. A cape like gathered night fell from his shoulders and slithered behind him in the dust. As he walked, he cast his cold, silvery gaze across the company, his face placid as a winter lake.
He stopped a length away from Thor, giving him a frozen, distant look, then closed his eyes and inclined his head in a princely manner.
Thor did not move.
The half-elf's eyes opened, and he gave Thor a piercing look.
"Shall we begin, then?" Fenris, son of Hela and Wormwood, asked calmly.
"I don't know what we're waiting for," Thor answered.
The crowd chuckled wickedly.
Fenris grinned.
The next second, like a shaft of lightning, he had drawn his sword and lashed out at Thor.
Thor leaped back, bringing Beowulfearm to bear. The blades clashed—the thunder of their meeting shattered the air.
Fenris advanced, his rapid, sweeping swings like the beating of wings, his sword a flashing flame. Thor countered and parried as he stepped back, his sword growling and snarling. The crowds seethed as they watched.
Fenris whirled, striking at Thor's head. His tip grazed Thor's helmet even as he ducked. Green sparks flew. Thor lunged forward—the elf stepped sideways—Beowulfearm clipped his breastplate. Red flame burst.
Fenris came round and struck Thor in the back with the butt of his sword—Thor threw himself forward, dove and rolled, then leaped back to his feet. Fenris flung his cape out at him—
Thor caught the cloth with his left forearm, then yelped and pulled back.
The cape hem had slashed into his upper arm like claws. Blood streamed down his skin. The crowd rumbled.
"Ulfr! Ulfr! ULFR!" they chanted.
Fenris bared his teeth—his fangs—and let out an unearthly, hissing growl.
Thor bared his teeth too, and threw himself at Fenris, hacking down at his head with the giant sword.
Fenris danced out of the way, spun and parried. The swords then tangled, biting and swirling, spitting colored sparks. The combatants' feet kicked up cascades of dirt, Fenris' cape billowing behind him like a deadly cloud.
Again, Fenris spun, his cape catching the edge of Thor's helmet and knocking it off. The helmet tumbled, and with one swift movement, Fenris kicked it away, then slashed at Thor's neck.
Thor ducked back—the edge of the blade missed his face by an inch—he knocked Fenris' sword away even as he let out a roar. He swung again at Fenris, battering him back, slamming Beowulfearm down upon him over and over again. Fenris parried, bending his knees beneath the blows, sliding his feet backward like a fencer. Then, he danced aside, flaring his cape across the side of Thor's face.
Blood bloomed in long streaks across Thor's cheek and head. He cried out, leaping back. Fenris bent at the waist, opened his mouth and snarled again, his eyes burning red. Blood dripped into Thor's eyes.
He took Beowulfearm in both hands, then, and attacked Fenris with vengeance. The elf retreated under the fury of Thor's blade, as the crowd began simmering.
Hela sat up, just slightly, her mouth hardening. Loki did not stir, just sat with his arms crossed.
Fenris retreated back and back, until his heel caught the wall of the arena. He dipped low just as Thor brought a crushing blow down to kill him. Beowulfearm skidded across the stone. Fenris tried to step free—
Thor struck out with his foot and stepped down on that wicked cape.
It tore.
A desperate howl sounded from the rending cloth. A large piece ripped loose, leaving a jagged edge behind. The piece beneath Thor's foot writhed, and withered to dust.
Fenris staggered, then turned horrified eyes upon Thor's boot.
Thor heaved Beowulfearm and its brilliant blade cut the air, slashing another bright line in the cape.
The ranks of Hel bellowed.
Fenris spiraled away, brandishing his weapon like a storm of thorns. Thor, grinning, chased after him.
And then…
Fenris sheathed his sword. He kicked a tight twirl in the dirt, ended it by ducking low and planting one hand on the ground, his cape flying over his head like a banner.
And the next moment, a black mist swallowed him, twisting through his armor, spinning round his head.
Thor jerked to a halt, lifting his sword.
Fenris' shape disappeared in a tornado of shadow—and the pillar of smoke then took to the sky, stabbing upward like a lance. Lightning flashed within it, and thunder rumbled.
Then…
The shadow stretched and lengthened, and in a matter of moments, a mammoth, four-legged beast materialized. It shook its great body, and black shadow flung loose of its thick fur like water. It opened its eyes—bright as red stars; bared its teeth—long as swords; and let out a bone-breaking roar from its vast mouth—hot as a furnace.
It was enormous. It could have bounded out of the arena in three leaps—the spread of its feet took up half the field. Its great tail swept across the ranks of Asgard, who had to leap back and flee lest they be crushed.
Smoke seethed from its teeth and nostrils. Its infernal eyes blazed. It laid back its vast ears, lowered its head, and eyed Thor as if he were a rabbit caught in a thicket.
"Ah," Loki said brightly. "I believe that's my cue."
"What?" Hela's head came around.
"Just watch," Loki said, nodding and pointing with one finger.
Hela, frowning, lifted her chin.
Fenris lowered his head further, the hair on his back bristling like a mane. Thor hefted his sword, shifting back only a few steps, baring his teeth again even as the wolf's burning breath gusted all around him.
Then, an odd, cold counter wind blew in, swirling against Thor's back.
Fenris' mouth closed. A cautious, thundering growl shuddered through his massive chest.
And with a clap of thunder, a dragon landed on the edge of the arena.
The wolf twitched back.
Thor spun around.
An immense black dragon, with shimmering violet scales and gleaming green eyes, with a wingspan stretching to encompass the entire arena, sank its claws into the very stone, thrashed its finned head, and let out a rending screech.
The ranks of the dead answered it with a terrified howl.
But before the wolf could retreat, or the army dissipate, the dragon flung itself off the parapet with another shriek, and plunged onto the playing field—
Where it exploded—
And turned the entire arena into a pool of glittering black fog.
Hela's expression turned poisonous.
And the next instant, she flicked a thin dirk from her belt, spun, and plunged it straight through Loki's heart.
But instead of a gasp—instead of his eyes flying wide…
Loki just lifted his eyebrows, gazed back at her…
And grinned.
Then, as Hela watched, he shimmered across with golden sunshine…
And disappeared. Leaving her knife blade stuck impotently into the cushion.
To be continued…