Beneath

Chapter Forty-Seven – Daggers

Loki didn't have long to wait, less than half an hour. More than enough time. He had even produced his mirror and healed the minor burns on his neck and face. He heard the footsteps, the stairs creaking underneath the weight. Brokk was bringing more friends. Brokk himself was not as tall as Loki, nor nearly as strong physically. Raised in Asgard's warrior society alongside Thor, Loki had trained harder than perhaps anyone else in the long history of Asgard. He was a highly proficient warrior even without magic. Although Brokk enjoyed collecting weaponry, he had never been a warrior; his biggest advantage had lain in the element of surprise, and that was long gone now. So, the creaking stairs told him, he had called on muscle to join him this time.

"You're back. Good. Comfortable? Our mutual friend didn't make things too unpleasant for you after I left, I hope. I merely needed him to hold you for a while longer so I could prepare. You understand. I'm sorry it came to this." Brokk stopped right in front of the bench where Loki sat. His serious, sad smile transformed into one of amusement. He chuckled. "That's not true. I've had a lot of fun lately, but this is the most fun I've had in centuries. I still can't believe you walked right into my house. Right into my house, Loki. Do you know how hard I was searching for you? Not that that was my task, but I couldn't help myself. You were right; I do like a challenge, and finding you when you don't want to be found is surely one of life's greatest challenges. And you walked right into my house, into my library, even into my circle. I was discussing your destruction and your nose was practically touching mine. You deserve everything you're going to get. But I'm going to miss you, Loki. No one has ever entertained me the way you can. Perhaps after a few centuries of torment I'll try to free you, if you're still alive, just so we can begin anew."

Loki merely watched him, and the two large Dark Elf warriors who'd followed him into the library.

"But first things first." He turned to the elves at his side, in full black and tan battle garb, black leather helmets, black leather boots with silver spikes protruding from the toes, black leather gloves with similar spikes at the knuckles. "We're going to take you to Asgard, and when things get bad enough, they'll deliver you to Jotunheim themselves."

"Bad enough"? Do you really think they can get much worse? They can hate me any more? You know what I've done. You saw what I am. But Loki didn't dare risk speech. He wasn't certain he would be able to maintain it without arousing suspicion.

"You used to be much more of a conversationalist. At least you aren't begging. I abhor begging. Terek, you two be ready as soon as I create a door here. He's clever. Don't trust him, don't even trust your eyes."

Wise advice, Loki thought with a private smirk. Too bad none of them were following it, not even Brokk himself.

The warriors nodded and Brokk continued. "Subdue him by whatever means you feel necessary, short of killing him. I'll open a small portal and keep us hidden, and we'll bind him to a tree on the edge of a forest, where he'll be found ea-"

"Not the Felingard Forest. Not if you want him to live," Terek said.

"Oh? No, not there," Brokk said, then snuffed out a blue flame with his fingertips, causing all the other blue ones to die instantaneously. He looked up at Loki sitting so still on the bench, and wariness crept into his face.

Loki forced a feral smile to his lips.

"No, he'll be safe where we're taking him. Well, at least until they send him to Jotunheim," he added with another chuckle.

Loki dismissed this threat easily. No matter how much Asgard hated him, no matter how many there might actually want him delivered to Jotun "justice," Thor had sworn an oath. He was in no danger of being sent to Jotunheim from Asgard. That didn't mean he was willing to be delivered to Asgard as a prisoner and be thrown right back into another cage.

Brokk carefully removed one yellow candle from the circle, keeping its silver flame burning. He lifted the invisible wall from the floor, as though gathering up curtains, watching Loki carefully, but also continually glancing around elsewhere inside the circle.

Loki silently gave him a little more credit. Brokk was not Thor.

When Brokk had lifted the "curtain" high and wide enough for his Svartalf accomplices to pass through, he brushed out the edges with his fingertips to secure it in place, and shaped it into a rough rectangle – a door, just as he'd said.

As soon as Brokk stepped aside, and before one of the warriors could step in to take his place, Loki sprang forward. Not the Loki they saw sitting calmly on the bench, but the Loki they didn't see, who'd been waiting by his side, putting more effort into maintaining a duplicate than he had since he'd first learned the skill in his young adulthood. The instant he stopped concentrating the Loki on the bench flickered and became somewhat transparent, but by then it didn't matter. The invisible Loki held an Einherjar's sword in his right hand and Brokk's own jeweled dagger in his left. He plunged the sword through the middle of the warrior who would have come first through the door into the circle, then put all of his strength into it and pivoted around, withdrawing the sword and using the momentum to shove the stunned warrior away to the side clutching his stomach.

Brokk knew instantly what had happened; Loki could feel him pulling at his magic, trying to make him visible. But Loki had learned how to make himself invisible almost as long ago as he'd learned how to make a believable duplicate, and Brokk's efforts were in vain. The other warrior, Terek, put his few seconds of advance warning to use and lowered himself into a defensive stance, long curved sword drawn diagonally across his body. Loki drew him to the side with a glancing strike at his arm, then plunged the dagger into his heart, leaving it there and reaching across his body to draw the second dagger from its place on the opposite thigh. Terek gasped and pitched forward, swinging his sword around and down, slicing through Loki's tunic, and drawing a thin stinging line of blood down his chest before Loki could step back. Terek hit the ground with a thud and did not move, unlike the other warrior, who was trying to pull himself up from the floor.

Loki's head jerked up from them as he felt a harsh tug at his magic. He found Brokk, standing only a few steps away, between him and the door, staring right at him, having succeeded in doing what he shouldn't have been able to.

"Back in the cage, Loki," Brokk growled. "You aren't leaving this realm except as my prisoner."

"Then I suppose I'll stay. Perhaps I'll take up residence right here, once I've evicted the current occupant." He wrenched the magic for his invisibility back and stepped quietly to the side. Brokk was unarmed. Foolish. Loki hurled the dagger hard at the center of Brokk's chest.

It came to a sudden halt just before it would have pierced his flesh, and clattered to the ground. Brokk extended his hand and the dagger leapt up to it. "Didn't I mention it, Loki? These daggers, and in fact all of my weapons, are enchanted not to harm me. It's the first thing I do when I acquire them. How has this never come up before?"

Loki crept back before Brokk. He'd wanted to use the dagger. He'd wanted to enjoy the dagger. But the sword would do, too. When he was close enough he lunged and thrust forward and up, toward Brokk's chest, aiming to cut deeply but not impale, still desiring his revenge for the betrayal.

Brokk gave a gratifying strangled cry of pain and the next thing he knew Loki was stumbling backward, off-balance, as though struck hard in the shoulder. He blinked heavily and looked down. The dagger's silver guard with its sapphire jewel rested against his right shoulder, and for a fraction of a second he couldn't process what he was looking at. A deep red stain was slowly advancing down his light gray tunic, below the line of the rough brown cloak. Moving slowly as though mired in mud he strained his neck around to the right and saw several inches of blade protruding from his back, through the cloak.

"I…suppose I also forgot to mention…the daggers are also enchanted…to find whoever sought to harm me with them. They don't…need to see you."

He dragged his gaze back around to Brokk, hunched over and cradling his chest, trying to heal it. Loki was missing his chance. He folded the dagger into his invisibility – there was no time to remove it – and silently shifted to the left. He tried to lift his sword, and his shoulder and entire arm burned in stubborn protest, the first pain he'd actually felt there. He took it in his left hand instead. He wasn't nearly as proficient that way, but he was still proficient enough to slice Brokk into shreds.

Brokk disappeared.

Loki snarled.

He could stay and fight this out, but he had just lost the advantage. With him no more able to see Brokk than Brokk was able to see him, it could become a long and difficult fight. Loki's control of magic was impaired and his right arm was nearly useless until he could heal it or it eventually healed itself. The Svartalf warrior behind him was pulling himself to his knees. Loki moved to finish him, but stopped short. Brokk would be expecting that. He took careful stock of the scene, at a slight swirl of dust near the struggling elf. Brokk had never been as good with invisibility as Loki was.

He could stay, but he'd already lost. He hadn't come here to kill Brokk; he'd come here to get him to remove Odin's curses.

Loki knew when to retreat.

/


/

Activity in Asgard's palace had largely returned to the way it had been prior to the explosion four days ago, except for the throne room itself. It had been declared safe, but repairs were progressing slowly due to the continued mobilization of most of the realm's warriors. Odin still had no throne to sit upon, although its reconstruction had been made a priority.

Meetings were held in other locations, secured by Einherjar and carefully swept by Maeva or someone she designated. Many such meetings took place in the Feasting Hall, sometimes combined with revelry over a meal and sometimes not, and this enormous room was now more heavily guarded and secured against magical incursion as well.

"But why haven't they attacked again? Are they waiting for us to make a move?" Supplies Advisor Geirmund asked. Minimally trained in battle, he had long served the court as a clerk and functionary, and was one of the few non-warriors at the latest meeting in the Feasting Hall.

There was plenty of speculation, but no answers. It was not the first time the question had been asked. "If Thor's theory is correct," Sif began, "then perhaps they are waiting for us to attack, so they can then find a way to portray us as the aggressors, and ensure the support of their people."

"Especially on Vanaheim," Fandral said, on his first evening out of the Healing Room.

Hogun, too, was there for the first time since the explosion, and nodded. He had made his way to the table slowly, a cane in each hand and his friends at his side; both of his legs had been crushed, the bones shattered, by the falling pillar in the throne room. The healers were hopeful he would make a full recovery, but it would take time and continued treatment to make all of the damaged bones and connective tissues properly reform.

"And that is precisely why we have not attacked," Tyr said with a nod. "But whether Thor is correct or not, this lull will not last forever; if we don't break it, they will. If we don't act the way they expect us to, they may simply change their strategy. And we'll be right back where we started. We cannot hold off seven realms indefinitely simply by reacting defensively."

"If they intend to fight with unconventional uses of magic, then we must be prepared to do the same," Maeva said.

"Fight with magic?" Fandral asked. This discussion too was not new, but it was the first Fandral and Hogun had heard of it.

"Our warriors are not trained for such things," Tyr said.

"The Einherjar will resent it. They train hard to earn their title, and their accomplishments come through strength and skill and cunning, not outright trickery," Hergils said.

Thor listened to the familiar debate continue; it set him on edge as it had earlier. He agreed with Hergils. His mother, also at the table but mostly remaining silent, had often called war "ugly." He'd had a taste of it now, albeit a brief one as his father often reminded him, and yes, he could begin to see that it was ugly. But there was a beauty in it as well, perhaps a beauty that only a warrior could see. And that beauty came from the honor of fighting well, and for a worthy cause. Thor could also see the benefit in the use of magic. Certainly Loki's magic had come in useful on occasion when they found themselves in dire circumstances. But there were unwritten rules Asgard had always followed, as had the other realms, for the most part. There were lines that were not crossed. If those lines became blurred, and were crossed again and again, what would Asgard become? What Asgard would be saved? Would Asgard become the very thing the other realms claimed that it was now? Asgard had the tesseract. If they were willing to stoop to any level, they could probably find a way to use the tesseract to destroy the other realms. And that, of course, was unconscionable. Or was it, if there were no other way? What if the options were turning over Loki, the Ice Casket, and the tesseract, not turning them over and being utterly destroyed, or opening up the Weapons Vault to turn its most deadly treasures against the other realms?

"More mead," Thor said, lifting his hand from the table and waving the serving girl over. She hurried around the table, having just refilled Sif's tankard.

"We need Loki," Volstagg announced, interrupting Geirmund.

Thor drew in a sharp breath, then jumped back from the table as the serving girl – Vedis, he thought her name was – spilled mead from her pitcher straight into his lap. "What are you doing?!" Thor bellowed. The girl looked mortified, and started to reach down with a towel, then wisely thought better of it and handed Thor the towel.

"I apologize, my prince, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm terribly sorry," she kept muttering as she managed to pour some mead into his tankard this time.

Thor glared at her for a moment, then tried to calm himself. He was supposed to be more in control of his temper than this. And spilled mead was the least of his concerns.

The girl, on the verge of tears, disappeared into the kitchen and the distraction was forgotten.

"No one knows how to use magic in battle like Loki does," Fandral said, a touch of reluctance in his voice.

"We cannot trust Loki," Sif said.

"We do not have Loki," Thor said. "And…we couldn't trust him if we did," Thor said, glancing up at his father and mother, sitting together, unlike at feasts, where they usually sat on opposite ends of the table. Odin had once said essentially the same thing, when it was Thor noting that Loki's skills would be helpful. Frigga's jaw moved, and her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing.

It was Odin who finally spoke, although he sidestepped the issue of Loki. "Right now we must focus on what we do have. Bragi, do your men and women all have their new instructions now?"

"They do, All-Father. And we now have eleven more in place, including one in Muspelheim – a woman who is one-quarter Fire Giant – and three in Svartalfheim."

Odin nodded and was about to respond, when an Einherjar ran into the hall, his cape billowing behind him.

"All-Father! Heimdall advises that the Dark Elves are massing on horseback and on foot. They aren't attempting to hide themselves. Their numbers are much larger than in any of the individual attacks we faced earlier."

"Is there any sign of a portal being formed, there or here?" Odin asked.

"There is not."

"Then that is probably being hidden. Such a portal cannot be created quickly, not by any magic I know," Maeva said.

"But why would they hide it, if they aren't hiding their warriors this time? What would be the point?" Volstagg asked.

"Could Loki know how to do it?" Hogun asked quietly, looking first at Thor, then at Maeva.

Thor stared at Hogun in surprise, then anger, then disbelief, then anger again, because Hogun asking the question made him wonder the same. Loki is on Midgard. Even if his betrayal continued, if he decided to turn his anger on Asgard instead when he could not find Jane, he could not. He can't leave Midgard.

"No," Maeva finally said, as the rest of the group sitting at the table got over their own surprise at the question. "I…I don't think so," she amended.

"He could not. Not solely with his own abilities," Odin said. "Loki is irrelevant to this discussion. Get word to the warriors that we believe an attack is imminent," he said to the Einherjar.

The Einherjar saluted and left, and others began rising from the table.

"The Warriors Three fight for Asgard a…again," Volstagg said, his tone going from boisterous to something quiet and awkward at the end, as Hogun, seated beside him, struggled to stand.

"Go," Hogun said. "I'll assist in the Healing Room, and join you as soon as I can."

The group drifted away, sharing plans as they went, but Thor lingered, lost in thought, until only he and his parents remained.

"Loki wouldn't do this, Thor," Frigga said.

Thor looked up, startled. "No, I…" He'd been about to say "I know," but the truth was, he didn't know. How could he know for certain what Loki would and would not do now? He had sought out Jane. There was no reason for Loki to do such a thing, except out of pure, hateful spite. He'd gone after Midgard out of spite, and failed to take it. He'd gone after Jane, and failed to find her. Now…who knew what he might go after next?

His gaze lingered on Frigga. She didn't know he had been on Midgard looking for Loki, and thus he hadn't told her that he'd learned Loki had tried to find Jane. It was better if she didn't know; Loki had already broken her heart enough times.

He looked next at his father. "Father is dead…your banishment…the threat of a new war…." "I'm sorry…thank you for coming here." How had Loki done that? Had he come via bifrost? Or opened his passage with his own magic combined with Gungnir's power? He'd never asked. It didn't matter now, he supposed. Loki had neither bifrost nor Gungnir.

"What is it, son?" Frigga asked.

He shook off disturbing and pointless thoughts of Loki and remembered the girl he'd nearly brought to tears. "Nothing, Mother. I'm going to go apologize to that servant." He got up from the table and walked away, but Frigga caught him as he went past and pulled him into a quick embrace.

"Everyone is tense, Thor," she whispered into his ear.

He nodded, though he wasn't sure what she was referring to, the serving girl or something else. When he reached the kitchens, the head cook on duty apologized profusely for the spilled mead and said the girl had been let go, as it was the third time in recent months she'd spilled something while serving. Thor didn't remember any prior incidents; probably they hadn't been as dramatic, and certainly she hadn't spilled anything else directly on him. He requested she be given another chance, and the cook promised to offer it; a "request" from the heir to the throne was not ignored. And that was all Thor could do. He, too, needed to go join the warriors in preparing to defend against the attack; there was no time for chasing after crying servants. He wouldn't even take the time to change his clothing, instead taking the servant's mistake with him into battle.

/


/

Loki stopped in a darkened alleyway between two buildings. He didn't need the privacy – he was still invisible – but he needed the solitude and lack of distraction. His shoulder was aching terribly now, and he still had a dagger buried in it. If Brokk put his mind to it, he might be able to track him through the enchanted dagger, so he needed to get rid of it. And he knew it wouldn't be pleasant.

He took a series of deep breaths, his left hand resting just over the dagger's grip, then on an exhale wrapped his fingers around it and pulled. He hadn't felt it going in; the dagger made up for it coming out. The pain left him trembling and gasping. When his hands finally stopped shaking, he let the dagger clatter to the pale red brick-covered alleyway and laughed. "I forgot to mention one more thing, Loki, I've enchanted my daggers to inflict pain ten times worse than any normal dagger." It wouldn't surprise him. Then again, maybe it was so bad simply because he'd been stabbed in the back in the same spot the day before.

Loki brought his breathing back under control, then turned to the matter of his clothing. If he stayed invisible it wouldn't matter, but night would fall again soon, and Loki wouldn't make it out of the city to another town before then. He would need another room. A place to rest and heal himself and think in peace and quiet. A place he had no money for again. Because he'd given it all to that stupid girl, because he'd taken pity on her for some unfathomable reason. Loki shook his head. Because she reminded me of poor, poor Jane. Wretched woman.

It wouldn't have been enough for lodging, anyway. He'd have to get more. And he'd have to do it carefully. He'd spent plenty of time gaming here, in Svartalfheim's capital, in times past. He would have to pursue his second choice, a Dark Elf who lived in a coastal village far to the northeast, and he would have to acquire another horse to do so, he realized with a groan. A flier would be preferable for that longer journey, but only a select few senior officials had them; among the realms where the inhabitants lived thousands upon thousands of years, there was rarely a need to hurry, and a loathing to dirty their home as Midgard had with all its mechanical forms of transport.

First things first. He was bleeding heavily now that he'd removed the dagger. He took off the cloak and set it aside, then the tunic and tore it into strips, wrapping them over his shoulder and under his arm. It was tedious and painful work, because he could barely use his right arm at all, and when he tried it was like being stabbed all over again. He looked at the blood-soaked material that used to be his tunic. If this keeps up, I'll wish I'd brought those Midgardian garments. He drew out his suitcase and opened it; he was down to two tunics plus the one he wore as part of his nightclothes, and the one he'd put on yesterday afternoon still had blood stains. He pulled out the black tunic and slowly, painfully pulled it on. He hoped the blood wouldn't show too badly on this one. He sent the suitcase away, then turned to the cloak. The blood stains there were fresher, and with some effort he managed to remove them with magic, and without punishment for any of it. He didn't bother with the holes; the cloak was so roughly hewn that they were barely noticeable.

Removing the blood from the cloak was more difficult than he'd expected. It could be simply due to the stress of the circumstances, and a certain weakness from loss of blood, but Loki was beginning to recognize this as wishful thinking. He would have to be even more careful. An end to these curses, and the return of his full ability to use magic, was now at least several days away, even assuming Mador could manage it, and entailed unknown risk.

Had Thanos somehow reached out to all of Svartalfheim's strongest magic-wielders? That was a sobering thought. He hoped it was only Brokk. What game was Brokk playing? There was precious little time, but Loki had erred in not bothering to take the time to think things through before – and he always thought things through, to a fault, Thor had said countless times – so he did it now. Brokk had wanted to leave him in Thanos's tender mercies, or else trade him to Asgard – for what? The tesseract? Some other item of "raw power"? The tesseract certainly seemed most likely, but now that Brokk knew what he really was, surely he understood that Odin would never hand over the tesseract for such an abomination. So he then planned to simply tie him to a tree on Asgard? With the expectation that Asgard would deliver him onward to Jotunheim? Why?

"You will long for something so sweet as pain." "You will long for death." If this was what Thanos wanted, if it was the fulfillment of his threat…

He tried to picture it, and found it extraordinarily difficult. His mind rebelled against it. He tried harder. Odin. Thor. Frigga. Escorting him to the little wooden building they'd erected to hold the tesseract. Would they take him to Jotunheim, exchange a few diplomatic phrases with whomever ruled in Laufey's place, perhaps get another truce in force, before handing him over in chains and walking away? Or just send him alone and be done with it, leave without looking back? There was a wall there, a wall he couldn't see past. A wall he didn't want to see past. He would choose death before being sent to Jotunheim with no means of escape – though again it was difficult to imagine that he wouldn't be able to come up with some means of escape, it was just a question of how long it would take – and Thanos and his lackey would know how much he detested the Frost Giants, but he didn't understand why he was to suffer at the Frost Giants' hands via Asgard, instead of directly from Svartalfheim. He reminded himself that it was irrelevant. That Odin might order such a thing, but Frigga would never support it, and Thor would never allow it because of his oath. "I'll go in your place if I must," Thor had said. Not that Odin would ever allow that to happen.

Loki thought back to what else he'd noticed about Brokk. The new wood paneling on his dwelling. The expensive new rug on the floor. The new bookcase in his library, already half-filled with books. The promise of "raw power" from Thanos. It still made no sense. Brokk had curried favor with someone – Thanos had no money to give him, certainly not through the magical connection through which they communicated. His magic may be powerful, but if Asgard knew how to do one thing well it was protecting its magical treasures.

Then he remembered the supposedly secret gateway – guarded and blocked on Asgard, trap in place on Svartalfheim. Could Svartalfheim have threatened Asgard in an effort to obtain the tesseract? But Svartalfheim presented no real challenge to Asgard's warriors, and Svartalfheim knew that. Like all the other realms, they lacked the extensive training and universal warrior spirit of Asgard, even if they did outnumber the Aesir.

He couldn't make the pieces fit, and he couldn't wait here forever. The sun was no longer visible – still up, but hidden behind low Svartalf buildings and an overcast sky. He made himself visible, then set off, but this time paid much more attention to his surroundings, and not just the occasional sentry patrols he came across. It began to rain, but even before then the streets seemed quiet for the city, not as quiet as Asgard's, not empty, but quiet nonetheless. Something was going on. Why hadn't he recognized it before? Svartalfheim quiet, Asgard quieter. His thoughts kept jumping back to Thor, as the person who'd most recently started a war between two realms, but he didn't see how Thor could figure in with Brokk, who had to be involved. And he was now jumping to unreasonable conclusions. He'd seen no one fighting, no armies readying to fight. Perhaps it was the threat of war hanging in the air in both realms.

He heard hooves striking the cobbled street in the distance, soon growing to a thunder, and three men on saddled horseback, warriors, rounded a corner and raced toward him. Loki's heart raced but he maintained his pace and direction. He averted his face to take in the storefront display to his right, a toy shop, though he paid no attention to its goods and instead watched the reflection in the glass. He breathed a sigh of relief when they passed, although it was in the direction of Brokk's home. He could have fought them if he'd had to, but any fighting was best avoided in his current state, and he had no idea how far Brokk's influence now reached, how much of Svartalfheim's might could be called down upon him.

Ahead of him now was a tavern he'd never visited before; Loki ducked in. The interior wasn't large, smaller than the one in Marheim. A small serving area was on the left wall, two doors behind it probably led to the kitchen and to the stairs to the lower levels, and six round tables seating six or eight patrons took up the rest of the space. There was less of a crowd than he'd expected, a few tables with small groups of two or three, and one table with eight seated and another four standing around.

"You're dripping water everywhere," a woman with dark hair and skin said, having rushed up to him after depositing plates at one of the tables. An old, white-haired elf sitting at the closest table turned to see who'd arrived.

"My apologies," Loki said quickly, hoping to not draw any further attention to himself.

"Welcome. Let me get this," she said, reaching up for the clasp at his neck.

He started to pull away and her hand came into accidental contact with his wounded shoulder; he stilled, clamping his jaw down hard to avoid reacting to the touch.

"I'll not have you ruining our floors. We just got them repaired. I'll hang this up in the drying closet and get you a towel, all right?"

Loki nodded and allowed the woman to remove his cloak. It would permit a better look at his face, but he could hardly keep the hood up the whole time, anyway, certainly not if he wanted to engage these patrons in a game of chance.

The woman was carrying the cloak away when the older man, still watching him, narrowed his eyes. "You're not of Svartalfheim," he said.

Loki cringed on the inside and knew instantly what had happened. His hair, loosened underneath the hood of the cape, had become damp in the rain, mussed and curling at the ends, obviously enough to reveal his ears.

Before he could respond, the woman was back, speaking for him. "Vanir are welcome here, Dathen. They're our allies, or have you forgotten? Have a seat, I'll get your order in a few minutes."

Loki nodded, relieved for the assumption. It was exactly what he'd been about to say. Except for the part about Vanaheim and Svartalfheim being allies. They weren't enemies, but he couldn't recall any Dark Elf, or any Vanir for the matter, referring to the other realm as an ally. "Actually, I was hoping to discuss lodging first," he said, and was directed to Jetta, the woman at the counter currently washing out tankards.

He repeated his room haggling process and was surprised to find the prices lower than in Marheim, though still much higher than he recalled them being here.

"I don't know," one of the men at the crowded table said – and Loki noticed now that the women outnumbered men, which wasn't unheard of but which he wished he'd noticed right away, because it affected his ability to win the money he needed for his room and the renting of another horse. Women didn't usually participate in tavern games. "That's not the kind of thing I raised my sons and grandsons to be a part of," the man continued in the meantime.

Loki lingered at the periphery of the large group, waiting for an appropriate entrée into the conversation, and hopefully then into a game.

"I know. Believe me, I've thought the same thing. I have a young son fighting among our warriors. He's the one who told me about all this, as I mentioned. He's an honorable man. He was upset about it."

"It was the Vanir who were behind it?" a pale-skinned woman, paler than Loki, with ears large even for an elf asked. Standing behind the seated guests, she cast a nervous glance up at Loki.

The man with the honorable warrior for a son, whose back was almost directly to Loki, nodded. "That's what he told me. King Gullveig's man did it, even as Gullveig himself sat right there in the room, with King Odin and Prince Thor.

The people around the table responded in low murmurs among each other, while Loki's heart began to race again. He felt as though his name must be flashing in bright green letters above his head, but the few glances that came his way didn't linger. He could swear his own breathing was audible. What happened? he wanted to ask – to demand. What is going on?! He wanted to put a knife to a throat, to the throat of the man who'd just spoken so cryptically, and insist he make his story plain.

"This isn't the way war was meant to be fought," another man at the table said, his voice carrying over the others'.

War? What happened to them? He wouldn't allow himself to think it through. He couldn't.

"Women shouldn't be killed. Not unless they pick up a sword," someone else said, to general nods and sounds of agreement.

"Women were killed?" Loki asked, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them. He was trying to keep his expression neutral but feared he was failing; he could feel the strain in his facial muscles.

The man telling the tale nodded and turned partly in his chair, not quite enough to see his face, but Loki realized now that the man's relatively short blond hair did not reveal elongated Svartalf ears. Aesir or Vanir, then, though if he was following this correctly – and he wasn't at all sure he was – the man was probably Vanir. "A young servant cleaning in the throne room. And the queen herself had been there just moments before. She could have easily been killed herself."

"You're Vanir, too; what do you think of all this?" the older man, Dathen, who'd been sitting near the door but had since joined the group at the table asked. There was a challenge in his voice.

"I'm afraid I haven't heard the whole story," Loki said, and thought he deserved to be in one of those Midgardian movies for his acting skill. His voice was steady and calm, interested but not too interested; on the inside he seethed and was desperate to learn how his mother had come to nearly be killed, and why. And while he'd lacked a sense of direction for what he would do after getting Odin's curses removed, he had one now – end King Gullveig's life. Hardly what he'd imagined might be his next course of action, but it would certainly do.

It was one of the Svartalf women, rather than the storyteller himself, who at last filled him in. "It was the opening attack against Asgard. Right before the actual battles were launched, before our own warriors rode on Asgard. Gullveig and his man had gone to make a peace offer earlier, and while they were there in Asgard's throne room his man worked some kind of magic into the wall, and later it exploded. It caused many deaths and injuries."

"It killed even women," a wrinkled old woman said with a shudder.

"Then I think it is despicable," Loki said quietly, his thoughts on only one woman. "And their prince and king?" he asked.

"The prince was injured, the king was unharmed," the storyteller said, then twisted further in his seat to face Loki. There was a second's delay, and then the man's jaw dropped and eyes widened, clearly recognizing Loki.

Loki recognized him as well, though he could not put a name to the face. He set his jaw as he quickly assessed his options, but in the instant before he would have made himself invisible again and fled, he realized the man – Aesir, not Vanir, Loki knew this much now – was afraid of him, and was making no effort to reveal who he was, except by his obvious reaction to him, which a few of the others noticed.

"It's getting late. I'd best be on my way," Loki said.

"See, all this talk of politics is driving the customers away," Jetta said as she delivered refilled tankards.

Loki gave her a warm and entirely false smile and made his way to the door. A young boy of perhaps ten rushed in and pushed past him just as Loki reached the doorway.

"Mama! The sentries say there's an intruder from Asgard in the city!" he shouted. "He's already killed one warrior! They think he's here to commit sab…sab…"

"Hush, Mika," one of the women called from the table. No one else spoke. All eyes fell on Loki.

He gave a smile that was part grimace and made himself invisible yet again just as two of the men were pushing their chairs back to stand, their expressions angry. At least he wasn't punished; he could protect himself from Midgardians and from Svartalf…just not from Einherjar.

He shoved the boy roughly to the side, perhaps causing him to fall – Loki didn't take the time to check – and fled out into the street. He raced several blocks away, then stopped. It was undignified. It was beneath him. He rested against a brick wall, letting his head fall forward and his eyes close.

What now? His head was spinning. Svartalfheim and Vanaheim – Vanaheim! – had allied against Asgard and declared war, their opening salvo, Vanaheim's at least, an attempt to assassinate Asgard's royal family. It was about as likely as Sif melting her swords down into a lovely new set of sewing needles. Loki's eyes went wide in further disbelief. What if something had gone wrong in his travel through Yggdrasil? What if it had somehow sent him to another Asgard, another Svartalfheim? Such things were theoretically possible, at least according to one of his teachers, and a handful of fanciful novels he'd read over the years. He'd never given it much thought.

It can't be. But this cannot be either. And Brokk and Thanos and Thor and…and Mother. He didn't know how, or if, it all fit together, but he stopped trying when he thought again of his mother. How many times did Gullveig kiss her hand? How could he do such a barbaric thing? His thoughts took another quick turn. Perhaps he's only now realized who he really is. What he really wants. Perhaps he's not satisfied in Asgard's shadow.

Was she hurt? he suddenly wondered. The Aesir in the tavern hadn't said; only that she'd nearly been killed. Suddenly he clutched at the satchel under his aching right arm. He could see for himself. Open the vial, drink the liquid, and go straight to her side. Without giving it any real thought he was opening up the bag and thrusting his left hand inside. Unexpectedly it hit cool metal and crinkly foil wrappers. He'd forgotten these newer objects in his haste. It gave him a new idea. It would be a poor use of what his mother had given him to simply check in on her; what would he do once he was there? If she were injured, she would have been treated by the healers. He would be wasting his single-use-only escape route for worthless sentiment. He had another way now, one that would not require such drastic measures. Pathfinder. He could return directly to Midgard, getting off of Svartalfheim where he was now wanted – as he leaned against the brick-face building a few other warriors passed his position without seeing him – then let Pathfinder send him to Asgard again to surreptitiously look in on his mother. Even that was perhaps too much a risk, with everything that was going on now. It would be better for him to assume Frigga was fine, and instead go to Asgard solely to use one of the portals, or one of four hidden pathways he knew, to Alfheim. He knew of a few magic-wielders there who might stand a chance at removing these curses. And Frigga didn't need him. She had her real son – injured though he may be – there to help her.

He waited just long enough to quickly consider whether he should really give up on Svartalfheim. Yes, he decided, it was time. He was, as far as these people knew, still a Prince of Asgard, and Brokk or the surviving warrior had made it public that he'd just killed one of their warriors. It would be immensely risky for him to stay in the city, and just as risky to try to travel out of it tonight. He ignored the crinkly wrappers and pulled out the two electronic devices, then slid the straps over his wrists.

Won't Jane be surprised to see me now? he thought with a small dark smile.

He toggled the switch that turned the transmitter back on.

Nothing happened.

He let out a quiet sigh, remembering that Pathfinder would send out a signal every five minutes. It could take up to five minutes, then, before he would be pulled back to Midgard. He steeled himself to arrive at the South Pole in nothing but his thin tunic and leather pants and boots, and wished he'd remembered to grab his cloak before leaving the tavern. Not that it would have helped much. And Big Red was conveniently nearby but inconveniently not invisible; he didn't want to risk even the few seconds it would take him to pull it out and make it invisible.

He watched as a patrol of four sentries and five citizens approached. If he didn't move they would bump into him, so he muffled the sound of his footsteps and hurried down the street, turning right at the next intersection. He took up a new spot and waited.

Nothing happened.

He began to count the seconds in his head as dread grew inside him. He stopped when he reached 300. Five minutes.

Nothing happened.

/


/

Similarly to last time, no previews unless by request, I don't want to spoil anything for those of you who don't want any spoilers. Except…okay, Loki is still on the move, and Pop-Tarts get eaten.

And excerpt (I had to find one completely incomprehensible, so massive bonus points to you if you can guess who Brokk is talking to - or maybe it's not that hard, I don't know, I never have much of a sense of how hard or easy it is to figure out these things):

"What have you learned?" Brokk asked without any preamble.

"I don't know. I don't understand half of what they say. Please, can't you just make this stop? I've done enough. I can't take it anymore."

"Don't be a child. You don't have to understand what they say. You simply have to repeat it back to me, and I'll do the understanding."