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  Then he began composing a somewhat complicated spell that would create a simulacrum of himself. He also prepared to change his own shape, something Loki could do as naturally as breathe, though the transformation he planned would be of particular difficulty.

  In order for his newly conceived plan to work, he would have to do three things at once, and two of those things could not be accomplished until the third was done, and that was out of Loki’s control.

  And then the third thing finally did happen, as he knew it would: another fly buzzed about his face.

  At once, Loki performed the three actions required to enact his cunning plan.

  He clapped his hands together to crush the fly between his palms.

  He changed his own shape from his familiar dark-haired form to that of a fly.

  He activated the simulacrum.

  The eldritch doppelgänger occupied the exact space that Loki vacated when he made himself into a creature the size and shape of an insect, down to the clapped hands. Loki was confident that even Heimdall’s keen vision would not be able to detect the switch.

  Even as the fly he swatted fell to the floor, dead, Loki himself flew toward the keep’s window in the form of that insect. He also instructed the simulacrum to yawn, lie down on the bed, and sleep.

  Smiling to himself while shaped as a fly, Loki knew that Heimdall and Odin’s ravens would see only that Loki had tried to kill a fly and then given up and gone to sleep.

  And now he was once again free to move about the Nine Worlds as he pleased!

  But as soon as he fled his keep, he realized that he wasn’t sure where to go. So thoroughly had he accepted Odin’s decree that he had given no thought to what he might do if freed, since that day had seemed so far away until his insect-related brainstorm.

  As he flew upward, he caught a glimpse of Hugin and Munin, and upon seeing Odin’s pet birds, he knew what he had to do.

  Frigga had said that the All-Father was taking his horse on the road to Jotunheim. So Loki flew in that direction to see what Odin was up to and how he might interpolate himself into his adoptive father’s adventure.

  Chapter Three

  No one knew where Hrungnir got his golden horse.

  The fearsome frost giant had obtained a large, gold-maned mount, whom he had named Goldfaxi. And since acquiring the horse, no one had been able to defeat Hrungnir.

  Some say he won the steed in a game of chance with the dwarves. Others said it was a game of skill, but that seemed unlikely. Dwarves are too canny to be defeated by a giant by anything other than luck or strength, and no dwarf would enter a contest of strength with a giant, especially not one of Hrungnir’s might.

  Others say he stole the horse from the stables belonging to Karnilla, Queen of the Norns. At one time, such a notion would have been unthinkable, but Karnilla was kidnapped once by another giant, Utgard-Loki, and since then, the Norn Queen’s reputation had suffered. Nonetheless, many of the giants who followed Hrungnir feared retribution from Karnilla.

  Another story was told that Hrungnir purchased the mount from a stable on Midgard, where the mortals had used their science to breed a horse of great speed and power.

  Regardless of where Hrungnir obtained the mount, Goldfaxi had proven to be a great boon. The horse was large enough to support the giant’s girth, yet still fleet enough of hoof to outrun any mount in the Nine Worlds.

  Or so Hrungnir claimed. In any event, the results spoke for themselves. Hrungnir and the other giants who had pledged loyalty to him had not yet lost a campaign since Goldfaxi became his steed.

  On this day, Hrungnir led his followers to the outskirts of Nornheim. When he announced his plan, his trusted lieutenant, Thjasse, spoke to him in private.

  “Is this wise, mighty Hrungnir? Karnilla is a vengeful queen, and if you approach her with the very horse that you stole from her—”

  But Hrungnir only laughed boisterously. “Do not believe all the stories you hear, clever Thjasse. I have no reason to fear anything from the Norn Queen—though perhaps after today, I shall give her reason to fear me, eh?” Again, Hrungnir laughed, and he spurred Goldfaxi onward.

  While Thjasse and the other giants struggled to keep up with their leader’s golden-maned steed, Hrungnir rode ahead until he reached a farm located on the outskirts of Karnilla’s lands.

  A group of men and women who were tilling the fields saw Hrungnir, and put down their hoes and shovels and wheelbarrows and faced the giant.

  One of the women stepped forward as Hrungnir brought Goldfaxi to a whinnying halt. “We know who you are.”

  “I should hope you are aware of Hrungnir the Mighty, Hrungnir the Brawler, Hrungnir the conqueror of all he meets and conquers!”

  The farmers exchanged a glance, and even Hrungnir realized that his phrasing was poor. But he was no Asgardian god with their flowery speech. He was a man of action.

  “And what I meet today,” he added quickly, “is you. My followers are hungry, and we will take some of your food.”

  “Without this food, we will starve,” the woman said.

  Hrungnir looked out at the fields, which were lengthy and full of plants in full bloom. “You are growing more food, far more than you shall need to feed yourselves.”

  “And what of winter?” the woman asked. “We must grow more than we need so we do not starve during the cold months, and so that we may be prepared in case of a bad harvest.”

  Hrungnir snorted. “Your future plans are of no interest to me, little farmers. I am Hrungnir, and I take what is mine.”

  “What if you are challenged?” the woman asked before Hrungnir could goad Goldfaxi onward.

  Barking a cruel laugh, Hrungnir asked, “Who among you would challenge me?”

  “Not you,” the woman said. “Your horse. The reason why we know who you are is because of your steed. They say that Goldfaxi is faster than any horse in the Nine Worlds save Sleipnir, the steed of the All-Father himself.”

  “I would wager that even Odin’s horse would be poorly matched against mine. So how would such as you challenge me?”

  “Our horses are not fast, but they are strong. Goldfaxi may be fast, but can he pull a plow as well as our Alsvinnur?”

  She pointed to the farm’s large, brown horse, currently at rest but still tethered to the plow.

  Again, Hrungnir laughed. “And what is your challenge, fair farmer?”

  The woman bowed her head. “Alsvinnur was about to plow the north end of the field. Tomorrow, after he is rested, he is to plow the south end. Our challenge is thus: Alsvinnur will indeed plow the north end, and Goldfaxi the south. The two sections are of equal size. Should Alsvinnur finish first, you and your giants will leave us in peace.”

  Before the woman could continue, Hrungnir spoke. “And when Goldfaxi wins, you will not stand in our way as we take however much of your food we wish?”

  “As you say. Do I have your word that you will keep to the bargain?”

  Hrungnir’s face grew serious. “On my word, fair farmer, Hrungnir the Mighty will abide by the terms of our wager.”

  “And I, Sveina, daughter of Herdis, subject of the Norn Queen, do also swear by Karnilla’s crown that I too shall abide by the terms.”

  With that, Hrungnir dismounted Goldfaxi. By the time Thjasse and the others had caught up, some of the farmers had retrieved their spare plow and were in the process of hooking Goldfaxi up to it. Meanwhile, three others led Alsvinnur and his plow to the north end of the field.

  Thjasse approached Hrungnir and asked, “What is happening, mighty Hrungnir? Why is Goldfaxi being tethered to a plow? That is the fate of old horses that no longer can be ridden. Surely that is not your valiant steed’s destiny?”

  “Not at all, Thjasse. The farmers have proposed a wager and I have accepted. Should Goldfaxi plow his half of the field faster than the plowhorse, we shall take what we wish without resistance.”

  Frowning, Thjasse said, “I assume you have found a way to guarantee victory?”
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  “Don’t speak nonsense, Thjasse. ’Tis a wager, and a fine one at that. Besides, I have faith in my steed. Goldfaxi shall win, and then instead of being forced to kill and maim these farmers, they will tell tales to their fellows of Hrungnir’s might without those tales being leavened by weeping for their dead and cries in pain from wounds.”

  “But what if Goldfaxi does not win?”

  Hrungnir shrugged his mighty shoulders. “If Goldfaxi is not the strongest mount in the Nine Worlds, better to know it than not, wouldn’t you say?”

  Thjasse said nothing in response, thinking only that it was better to guarantee a tangible victory than hope for a moral one.

  Sveina stood at the center of the field, holding up a handkerchief. “When I drop this cloth, the horses may start. Whoever reaches me first will win the wager.”

  Standing near Goldfaxi, Hrungnir waited for the cloth to fall, while another farmer did likewise across the field, ready to goad Alsvinnur onward.

  Amused by the whole thing, Hrungnir actually waited several seconds after Sveina dropped her kerchief before patting Goldfaxi on the rump. Even then, the gold-maned mount hesitated, unaccustomed to having to drag such a great weight.

  But the giant’s steed was made of sterner stuff, and he finally began his work—a full ten seconds after Alsvinnur commenced his.

  Sure enough, by the time Alsvinnur was halfway through the north end of the field, Goldfaxi was fast approaching Sveina’s position.

  And when Goldfaxi arrived at the center of the field, while Alsvinnur still had a quarter of his land to toil through, all the giants gave a throaty cheer.

  “Go, my loyal subjects!” Hrungnir cried out. “Take what food you wish from these farmers—but only food! Do not harm any of them, nor damage their things! Anyone who does so will answer to Hrungnir the Mighty!”

  Thjasse and the other giants proceeded to the storehouse to raid it for food, while Hrungnir himself turned to untether his horse.

  As he did so, he cast a glance at Sveina, whose visage spoke of a woman whose heart had broken. “You should be pleased, fair Sveina. Your bravery in the face of Hrungnir the Brawler was most impressive. That is why I spared your life and your things.”

  “And am I to fall to my knees in gratitude?” Sveina asked bitterly. “Without those stores, we will surely die this winter, only instead of the quick, violent death expected from an attack by your kind, it will be slow and painful.”

  “Be wary, Sveina, for Hrungnir’s mercy is not unlimited. You still live, and where there is life, there is a chance. But you also defied the frost giants, and that never comes without a price to pay.”

  Within minutes, the giants had filled their burlap sacks with fruits and vegetables and herbs. In truth, they did not take as much as Sveina feared, for the giants preferred the meat of a beast that roamed the ground to the berries and roots that grew under it.

  But food was food, and the giants still took more than their fill.

  Hrungnir mounted Goldfaxi once again and rode away from Nornheim, having accomplished much for one day. They headed back in the direction of Jotunheim, Hrungnir leading his men in a song. They sang off-key, and Hrungnir was making up the words as he went along, making it hard for the others to keep up, but they all tried their best.

  By the time the midday sun started its slow journey toward sunset, Hrungnir spied a lone traveler on the road from Asgard.

  He was elderly, looking like one of the Aesir: large, by human standards, but still puny to one such as Hrungnir. His clothes were shabby and his white beard thick. Indeed, between the beard and the large floppy hat he wore, Hrungnir could scarce make out any of his face beyond his nose. A fly buzzed about the stranger’s head, and he swatted at it absently, though the insect managed to avoid the old man’s hand.

  However, he rode a mount that was as impressive as any Hrungnir had seen outside of Goldfaxi himself.

  “Ho, stranger!” Hrungnir cried out. “That is a fine steed you ride!”

  The stranger bowed his head modestly, and spoke in a quiet tone. “My thanks, good sir. You, too, ride a most excellent horse.”

  “I had thought you to be of the Aesir, but perhaps not,” Hrungnir said with a chortle. “None of those vain gods would ever speak with such respect to a frost giant. Indeed, were you not so old and infirm, I would expect you to unsheathe a sword at the very sight of me and mine.”

  Bowing his head, the old man said, “I am called Bolverk, and I wish no trouble, good sir. I am but a simple traveler who wishes to ride through these empty roads in peace.”

  And now Hrungnir let out a throaty laugh. “Truly you are not of Asgard, for all those who dwell in that thrice-cursed city know that peace is not the watchword of the frost giants—and certainly not that of Hrungnir the Mighty! But tell me of your mount, stranger. Rarely have I seen one with coat so bright and legs so strong. His gait is effortless even with the weight of both you and your supplies upon him. Whence comes this fine horse?”

  “It is merely a family beast, good sir.”

  “What name has he?”

  “None, good sir, for it is not the custom of my family to name those who cannot reply with voice to one’s call.”

  Hrungnir laughed. “True enough.”

  “May I be on my way?” Bolverk asked humbly.

  “Not as yet, Bolverk, for I must know which of our steeds would be fastest, my gold-maned mount, or your own unnamed beast.”

  The man who called himself Bolverk hesitated, for despite Hrungnir’s beliefs, he was indeed of the Aesir, indeed the ruler of them all. Odin had changed into shabby clothing, mounted Sleipnir, the fastest horse in all the Nine Worlds, and hoped to take a lengthy ride alone in the lands between the realms. After the distasteful business with Loki and Thor and the trolls, he had hoped to have some time with only his own thoughts for company.

  Word had reached him of Hrungnir and his horse Goldfaxi, and how they had been terrorizing the lands near Jotunheim. He had intended to address the issue before long, but after he had had a relaxing journey away from the burdens of his throne.

  However, he was here now, facing Hrungnir, who was obviously confident in Goldfaxi’s superiority. Had Odin truly been a simple traveler on an ordinary horse, that confidence would have been warranted.

  “I challenge you, old man, to a race,” Hrungnir said. “For I must know if Goldfaxi is truly the fastest in the land, and only through a race may it be determined.”

  “Do you not have faith in your mount, good sir?”

  “In my own, yes, but in yours I can have neither faith nor surety, for they have not been tested against each other.”

  “And if I refuse this challenge?” It took all of Odin’s willpower to keep his voice in the same humble tone he’d adopted for the role of Bolverk, for he found this giant’s effrontery to be insulting.

  “Then all the giants gathered here will take your steed from you and leave you for dead on this road. But,” he added quickly, “the word of Hrungnir is his bond! You may ask the farmers who till the fields outside Karnilla’s realm if you wish. They proposed a wager, and Hrungnir the Mighty did abide by it—and took only what was his by the terms of the arrangement, no more, no less.”

  “And what would the terms of this wager be?” Odin asked with Bolverk’s quiet aspect, while again swatting at the fly that had harried him for half the trip from Asgard.

  “Should you win the race, old man, you may continue on your way, unmolested by the frost giants. If you think this a poor reward, think of the alternative.”

  “And should you win?”

  Hrungnir smiled. “Then I will claim your horse as my own, for the Brawler must also have the second-fastest horse in the realm.”

  Odin considered the giant’s offer. It was best to accept the wager, for that provided the best outcome. He knew Goldfaxi had no hope of riding faster than Sleipnir, and once the All-Father won the race, he would go on his way, with none the wiser regarding his disguise.

/>   If he lost—well, Hrungnir would learn that “Bolverk” was no mere elderly traveler to be trifled with. Odin would not give up noble Sleipnir without a fight, and the All-Father could fight very well.

  Hrungnir pointed to the nearby Algarrbyr Hill. “We will ride from here to the top of that hill, then turn and come back down again. My lieutenant, Thjasse, will stand here and await our return. Whoever reaches Thjasse first shall be the winner.” Hrungnir then stared at the old man. “Swear by the River Gjoll that you will abide by the terms of our wager.”

  Beneath his thick white beard, Odin did smile. The giant was cleverer than the All-Father had given him credit for. That oath was one that no Asgardian would ever break. “I swear by the River Gjoll that I will turn my mount over to you, should you win our race.”

  Only a fool wagered with a giant, but even Odin dared not go back on an oath sworn on the river of the dead. Breaking that oath would result in that river claiming the oath-breaker in question. And so now he needed to have the faith in Sleipnir that he accused Hrungnir of not having in Goldfaxi.

  Thjasse stood between the two horses as they faced Algarrbyr. “Be on your marks! Set, and—go!”

  Hrungnir kicked Goldfaxi hard with his heel, prompting the horse to gallop. For his part, Odin leaned forward, loosening the reins to give Sleipnir freedom to move his head and simply squeezed lightly with both knees.

  At first, the two horses were neck and neck. Odin did nothing to goad Sleipnir on, simply allowing him to gallop at his own pace. Meanwhile, Hrungnir repeatedly kicked his own mount, urging Goldfaxi to gallop ever faster.

  When they reached the top of Algarrbyr, Sleipnir was able to easily turn around, guided with only the slightest tug of the reins and a low whisper.

  Goldfaxi proved more recalcitrant, as Hrungnir had to wrestle with the steed to stop him from continuing down to the other side of Algarrbyr, and to instead turn around. By the time Goldfaxi was convinced to turn all the way around, Sleipnir had already started on the downward slope.

  From that point on, the race was decided. Hrungnir continued to goad and kick Goldfaxi, but moving downhill served only to make Sleipnir faster, and the giant’s mount simply could not keep the pace.