Wrought of Iron and Silk, Book One [2014 Watty Award Winner]

Chapter 3 - Wagers in Fate

Chapter 3 - Wagers in Fate

The palace throne room was a remarkable achievement in Asgardian craftsmanship. Tall, decorated alabaster pillars held up the high vaulted cathedral ceilings. Beams of pale moonlight streamed through large overhead windows, illuminating the golden throne along the north wall. The dais for the throne was set upon massive slabs of golden steps that glowed with a brilliant light.

Women in shimmering silks of every imaginable color danced by on the arms of men in sleek leather as a mural of stars over the grand fire pit sparkled to reveal a moving scene of Sleipnir carrying the All-Father across the river Thund, whose waters thundered past Valhalla and then out of Asgard through a narrow canyon. Dazzling blue constellations formed the river banks as Sleipnir eight legs galloped faster than the wind, only dimming to gray as Odin rode across the wide, dreary plains that were dotted with putrid lakes and twisted trees that divided Asgard and Jotunheim.

As brilliant hues ignited the massive chamber, Loki hung back in a corner, disguised as Odin, The Father of the Gods, idly listening to the conversations around him. Like a worthy performer, he always appeared in control of the role, skirting the edge of imposture, where the mask envelopes the man; but he was never lost in it. It was impossible to ignore the dear delights of fraud and deception. And though he delighted in deviousness, he stood solemn and silent in the midst of awful solitude, looking in very truth like a god, as one would conceive such a being to appear.

Hreidmar, king of the dwarves of Nidavellir, looked upon the False Odin from the shadows with eyes red and squint. Loki had been endeavoring to consort with the dwarves of Nidavellir for months. It wouldn't do to appear too eager. Bearded and short in stature, the dwarf king beckoned him with a motion of his large, misshapen head. Slowly, Loki stepped away from his corner, arms dangling at his sides; the fingers of each hand barely touching his thighs. He took a deep breath through his nose before joining the meager monarch with coal-colored skin.

The dwarf king raised himself up straight, which looked comical before the great God, and clapped a hand on Loki's forearm. "I have traveled far from my great hall beneath Nidavellir to heed your call, All-Father." The dwarf king then raised his hand, with his index finger pointing up at Loki. "I've produced great works of wonder and powerful weapons for you Asgardians, and yet here I stand. How may I serve Asgard once more?"

Loki took Hreidmar off guard when he tilted his head back, sighing as he glanced upward toward the ceiling, his eyes distant. The starry scene began to illuminate once more. Golden beams of light formed the image of Odin, sitting upon Sleipnir as he led his grandiose armies from Asgard. How insufferably noble, Loki thought with repugnance; he grew tired of looking upon his father's face.

He clenched his teeth unconsciously, holding back waves of emotions as the vision of his mother appeared in his mind's eye. Only hushed whispers broke the heavy silence that hung like death over the hollow halls of his mind after her demise. Why was the past invading his thoughts? He'd foolishly ignored common sense and gave in to the pain of it. Loki fought back the memory of Frigga's face – and won gallantly. There were other forces at play.

"Ah, a magnificent sight, is it not?" Loki drawled, musing over the opulent scene unfolding high above their heads. "Do you not agree that Sleipnir is the finest horse in all the Nine Realms? There is none that can compare with his breed."

"That is your opinion," Hreidmar replied.

Loki raised a sardonic eyebrow. "It is a known fact."

"What would you know? You watch the events of the Nine Realms playing themselves out as you sit on your throne in Asgard," the dwarf king said, his voice revealing his growing displeasure. "Can you be so sure of your boast?"