Blind man on the road to Hel-

(I prayed to you, you let me die)

Odin No-Eyes, still alive? Not.

For.

Long.

When at last he heard a living voice, sensed the colors of a living being, he almost missed them both among the clamor and commotion. The voice rose and fell plaintively, seeming to argue with itself at length before falling silent for a moment, then resuming its one-sided argument.

“I tell you, I can’t-

“I can’t an’ I won’t, d’ye kennet, it’s unnatural, you can’t make me, all right, p’raps you can but-

“Mortal peril, he sez-

“Mortal peril…

The signature was goblin gold, tinged now with the colors of uncertainty and fear. There was something else in its vicinity-a token, perhaps, imbued with glam-that bore a very familiar sign.

Now, Odin was not in the least bit interested in Sugar-and-Sack, but he knew Loki’s sigil well enough, and it was easy enough, using ýr and Naudr, to approach the goblin unseen and to grab him before he could make his escape.

A few seconds later Sugar was dangling forlornly from Odin’s fist.

“Why, General, Your Honor,” he began. “What a surpr-”

“Save your blather,” said Odin. He sat down on the rocky floor, keeping a firm hand on Sugar. “In a moment I’m going to say a name, and you are going to tell me everything you know. You are going to tell me clearly, quickly, truthfully, and without a single superfluous word. Otherwise I’ll have to break your neck. I may break it anyway. I’m not at my best right now. Understand?”

Sugar nodded so vigorously that his whole body shook.

“Are you ready?”

Once more Sugar nodded.

“Right,” said Odin. “Loki.”

Sugar swallowed. Recalling Odin’s threat, he delivered his information in a single gabbling breath: “Netherworldrescuemission maddysfathermortalperiltimerunningout-”

“Wait.” Odin’s fingers tightened fractionally around Sugar’s neck. “Again. Slowly.”

Sugar nodded. “Netherworld,” he said in a strangled voice. “Rescue mission. Maddy’s father. Mortal peril. Time running out.”

“I don’t understand a word you’re saying,” snapped Odin.

“That’s because you’re throttlin’ me, sir,” said Sugar.

Odin loosened his grip.

“Thank you, sir,” said Sugar apologetically, sitting down on the floor. “Only it’s bin a while since I wet my whistle, sir, and it’s a tricky tale. I’d do better telling it in me own words, beggin’ yer pardon, and with me neck in one piece. Kennet?”

Odin sighed. Goblins, he told himself. Might as well interrogate the dead as expect a sensible answer from a goblin. He curbed his impatience and began again.

“Now tell me,” he said. “Where’s my brother?”

14

As it happened, Loki was waiting in a cell in Netherworld as Maddy prepared to meet the Thunderer.

This cell was entirely different from the one Loki had occupied. For a start, it looked neat and comfortable: there was a bed with sheets and a thick quilt, there was a standard lamp with a fringed lampshade, a small flowered rug, a window looking out onto green fields. On the window ledge there was a vase of flowers. A small occasional table stood by the bed, on which Maddy could see something that looked very like a tray of tea and biscuits. And beside the table was a rocking chair, in which a very small, very old lady was working on a piece of knitting.

Behind her Loki began to laugh. “So this is Thor the Thunderer’s cell,” he said. “Gods, Thor, I knew you were twisted, but this is ridiculous.”

Maddy turned to him, bewildered. “I thought you said my father was here.”

“And so he is,” said Loki, grinning.

“I don’t understand.”

Loki indicated the old lady, still rocking and knitting in her chair. “Meet Ellie,” he said. “Otherwise known as Old Age.” Once more he began to laugh, his eyes gleaming with mischief and amusement.

Ellie looked up from her knitting and fixed Maddy with a pair of eyes as black and bright as a bird’s. “Be quiet,” she said. “My husband’s asleep.”

Maddy stepped quietly up to the bed. Sure enough, there was someone lying under the quilt; she could just make out the curve of a shoulder, the baby growth of white hair across a skull that was as fine and delicate as a robin’s egg.

“You stop that,” said Ellie, standing up with the aid of a walking stick. “Have some respect for your elders and betters.”

“I’m sorry,” said Maddy. “I’m looking for my father…”

“Your father, eh?”

“Thor, son of Odin. The one they call the Thunderer.”

Now the old lady’s apple-doll face split into a thousand wrinkles. “You must have made a mistake, my dear,” she said. “There’s only me and my man here-and he’s sick, poor fellow, almost to the grave…”

Maddy turned to Loki. “You lied,” she said. “My father’s not here.”

Loki shook his head. “Remember what I told you, Maddy,” he said. “In the Black Fortress each man makes his own cell; each prisoner appoints his own jailer from the ranks of his deepest, most inescapable fears.”

“His fears?”

“With me, as you know, it was snakes. With him it’s Old Age and a comfortable bed. Each to his own.”

As he spoke, Loki had moved across to the other side of the bed, and now Maddy could see him fingering small runes into his left hand like darts, ready to cast. He was still smiling, but his eyes were narrowed with concentration.

“Now you stop that,” snapped Ellie, grabbing her stick and hobbling quickly to the far side of the bed. “I’ll not have you waking my husband.”

Loki stepped out of her way. She was old, but she was fast, and the stick that she carried crackled with runelight.

“Stand clear,” he told Maddy, and at wildfire speed cast the first of his runes-she recognized Ós-at the sleeping figure. Loki’s colors dimmed a little more; the old man flinched and muttered; a thin hand clutched at the sheets.

Ellie was looking distinctly menacing now. Her button black eyes gleamed with rage; her crone’s face was a distorted mask. “Young man, I’m warning you,” she said.

Now Loki flung a second rune-it was Naudr, reversed-once more his colors dimmed, and the old man gave a cry, as if in the throes of a fearsome dream.

Ellie gave a squawk of outrage and hit out at Loki with her runestick.

He stepped back in haste, and the blow missed him by a hairsbreadth, pulverizing the table that lay between them. She struck again-missed-and the last flickering handful of runes shot out from between Loki’s fingers and struck the old man squarely in the chest.

“What are you doing?” shouted Maddy above the shrill cries of the angry crone.

Loki said nothing but stood there and smiled. His signature was fading fast; the violet glow was ghostly pale. But the room was changing. Gone was the window with its pleasant view; now a slit in the wall looked out onto the void of Netherworld. The rest too-chair, curtains, flower vase-had vanished, leaving only the bed-now a simple stone ledge decked with rotting straw-and its single occupant.

And on the ledge, before their eyes, the old man shifted and flexed, grew muscle, grew bulk and more bulk, grew hair as red as Loki’s own, grew a red beard that bristled furiously, opened eyes as hot and dark as embers.

The Thunderer awoke in full Aspect, and the ground shook beneath his tread.

“Now’s the time to keep your promise,” Loki told Maddy, backing as far away from the menacing figure as the dimensions of the tiny room would permit.

Thor followed him in a single step, sweeping Ellie aside as he came, and stopped twelve inches away, standing fully two feet taller than Loki, his hands crackling with crimson runelight.

“What promise?” said Maddy.

“Your promise to intercede on my behalf if any family members happened to-shall we say-take umbrage at my continued survival.”