Free Wolfsangel by M. D. Lachlan Page A

down. The caves became smaller. She had never been in them before and sensed they were not part of the real world, but some place accessible only by magic. She could taste the smoke in her throat, thick and bitter, and the voice became louder. Then in the dim light she could make out a figure. At first she thought he was shrouded in mist, but as she drew nearer she could see something between steam and smoke hissing from his thrashing body.

    The man was naked and tied to a rock with bloody and glutinous ropes, while above him snakes of vivid purple, green and yellow writhed, dripping venom onto his face and into his eyes. His features were swollen, bruised and black. His tongue was mottled blue and white and the poison sizzled on his flesh. His pale skin was burned into welts and his red hair singed to patches. He was screaming and howling, tearing at his bonds, but he couldn’t get them off. The witch had practised enough minor magics to recognise the fetters for what they were. They were entrails.

    Suddenly, for the first time since before she had joined her sisters underground when she was small, the witch queen felt like the child she was. The presence of this tormented man terrified her. This, she knew, was a creature even the gods feared.

    Next to him was a silver bowl. The witch came forward and picked it up, collecting the venom before it fell onto the god’s face. She knew now who it was - Loki, lord of lies, betrayer of the gods, bane of heroes but sometimes, occasionally, friend of man.

    ‘I send my mind forth in torment. I travel the nine worlds in agony, witch. Do you see what they did to me, the slaughter-fond gods, they who have taken numberless heads in battle, just because I took one little life? Who could love Baldur, the perfect god, the stinking lickspittle? Not so perfect he couldn’t die, eh?’

    The witch had hardly spoken since she had been a girl, her only language what she picked up from initiates and servants who came to the caves late - aged seven or eight at the oldest. So she said nothing now.

    ‘You have given me something, you have granted me respite. What is it you want?’

    He turned his head to hers. Even during her long training, in her conversations with the rock spirits, with the dwarfs and the elves, she had never seen such a terrible sight. His whole face resembled a blood blister ready to burst. The bowl was overflowing, her fingers swelling as the venom splashed on them. She flung the steaming liquid to the floor, but before she could return the bowl to its place, the venom of the snakes fell once more on Loki, singeing and blackening his flesh. The god screamed and vomited and the witch shoved the bowl back under the flow of poison.

    ‘Twice you’ve given me respite from this torment. What is it you want? For the first respite you gave me, I will tell you that you and your sisters are not long from death. You have grown too strong in magic and knowledge and he, the lore-jealous lord Odin, will strike at you. Odin is coming for you in your realm on earth. He has taken human form and is upon you, in the flesh, mighty in his corrosive magics.’

    This puzzled the witch. She was close to Odin. She had looked for the god many times, and it was he she had expected to find through the ordeal of water.

    Loki went on, coughing and retching from the effects of the poison. ‘For the second respite you granted me, I will tell you that you have it in your hands to avoid this fate. He does not yet sense himself. The god is not yet awake; he does not know who he is. Act quickly and strike at him. There are two boys, Fire and Frost. One to live, one to die.’

    The bowl overflowed again, Gullveig cast aside the poison and replaced it above the screaming god. Now her own arms were swollen and burned, her fingers numb. Only her training helped her ignore the pain.

    ‘No one has ever stayed to offer me three bowls of respite,’ said Loki, ‘and for this service I grant you your