"Isn't it a glorious day, son of Odin?" Though clear as chimes, Loki's voice held an edge of threat. His slim hand stroked the hilt of an ebony- scabbarded sword at his hip.
Vidarr gave no answer, nor did Loki expect one. The Trickster adopted a look of suave assurance, stopped suddenly, and slid the sword from its sheath. The blade gleamed silver, then dulled to black as light fled and shadow gathered along its steel.
Unafraid, Vidarr frowned with impatience. He knew his life was protected by Loki's vow to Odin; the day had not yet come when one god could directly cause the death of another. Reluctantly, Vidarr examined the sword and found the craftsmanship exceptional. He demonstrated his admiration empathically and, when Loki sheathed the blade, returned his aura to one of abhorrence for his evil companion.
Loki laughed. "You like my brother and hate me. Fickle, aren't you, Silent One?"
Confusion wracked Odin's son. He waited for Loki's clarification.
Loki scuffed his feet in the dust, eyes dancing with evil mischief. "By my magic, the soul of my brother, Helblindi, resides in this sword."
Vidarr replied with tangible skepticism which flared to accusation. Surely Loki's claim was ridiculous, a sacrilege from any but a deity of Asgard.
Loki stepped around Vidarr with the grace of a cat, his cloak shimmering with enchantments. "Do you doubt me, Lord of Silence? I can prove my abilities well enough."
Vidarr followed Loki's movements with forced indifference. Yet curiosity glimmered faintly through his facade, and the Trickster seized upon it.
"I'd thought Odin's son too wise to judge with-out evidence." His voice assumed the recriminatory whine of a victim of injustice. "One demonstration will quell all doubt and clear my name. Would you deny me that right?"
It will take more than a display of magics to clear your evil name . Larson understood that Vidarr had kept this thought to himself. The message the silent god actually sent Loki was a mixture of impatience and reluctant concession.
Loki pressed his pale lips together and smiled like a child with a secret. "If you'll help gather materials, this task will be more quickly done. While I find the many necessary components here on the world of giants, I'd appreciate it if you'd procure some items from the dwarves. I'll need an anvil and a piece of white metal more precious than gold."
Before Vidarr could muster protestations, Loki disappeared. To appease the Sly Trickster and satisfy his own inquisitiveness, Vidarr traveled to Nidavellir, the dark home of dwarves. Time passed like a blur in Larson's mind, as if Vidarr tired of the tale and condensed his adventures to outline. He watched the silent god root through the parings of dwarven blacksmiths for a fist-sized chunk of platinum; then Vidarr hefted a half-ton anvil and tossed it carelessly across his shoulders.
Returning at dusk to the world of giants, Vidarr found his evil companion sitting cross-legged in the dirt, head lowered and eyes glazed in trance. Vidarr dropped the anvil; its impact tremored the meadow. Loki took no notice. Words burbled from his throat like boiling pitch. Orange light sprang to life, highlighting the Sly One in wicked splendor, a dancing radiance of Helborn power.
Larson longed to shield his eyes from the glare, but he was forced to witness the scene through Vidarr's eyes. Loki rose, and his aura flared green. "The metal?" Vidarr opened his hand, displaying his find. The platinum winked with reflected light from Loki's sorceries. "The spell works only:" Loki spoke gently, so as not to disturb the intricate mesh of his enchantments, "if the metal is carried by one burdened with a load of nine hundredweight who then becomes:"
Loki's aura broke to a red explosion of fire. Sparks scattered in a wild arc and sizzled to oblivion against spring greenery. ": its victim!"
Too late, Vidarr realized his danger. Metal spun from his hand as he whirled to run. Magic pounded his back like a giant's fist and sprawled him over the stolen anvil. He struck the ground, body and soul sundered with a violent lurch. Larson felt his thoughts fold in blackness, spinning in the cyclone of Loki's fury. Oblivion strangled Vidarr's scream. There remained only a nothingness beyond darkness, the visual void of the blind accompanied by the ultimate silence of the deaf.
There followed a greater nothingness, a time of pure ignorance without benefit of discovery. From his prison of soundless, sightless eternity, Vidarr reached for the perceptions of those who molded his new blade form and plied the Fates for his destiny. But each attempt slammed him solidly against the impenetrable mental defenses of the gods and men who held him. Doomed to an existence without any contact with sentient beings, Vidarr settled uncomfortably into his confinement.
Claustrophobic panic nearly overwhelmed Larson's senses. Then Vidarr's awareness broke free to wander, unrestrained, through the mind of a future-born wielder selected by Freyr for his in-ability to defend against mental probes. Aside from a tangled web of guilt- and fear-inspired flaws mingled with strange words and concepts, Vidarr found functioning eyes and ears and a hand he could influence while it gripped his hilt. Larson realized Vidarr's window to the world was his own consciousness.
Larson felt violated. Remembering that the god could read his emotions directly, he struggled to control rising resentment and concentrated on a single question. Why must I destroy you?
For several seconds, Larson received no answer. The sword shifted uncomfortably in his grip as Vidarr abandoned pictures for words. What makes you so certain HvergeImir will destroy me?
The dream-reader said:
The one who called me an unholy being? interrupted Vidarr.
Good point. Larson rolled to his back. Still clutching the hilt, he rested the sword across his chest and abdomen. What does happen when I toss you in the Helspring?
Uncertainty inundated Larson. Vidarr seemed irritated. How should I know? Hopefully, it frees me. Only the Fates know the means to break Loki's spell, aside from the Trickster himself.
The next question followed naturally. So who influenced my dream?
The hilt in Larson's fist went cold. That, of course, is the problem. Apparently your people lost all means of mental exchange and warfare. You can't defend against manipulation. All your thoughts are suspect.
Much of Vidarr's explanation meant nothing to Larson, but he had to agree with the final statement. Why, started Larson, trying to phrase the query delicately though he guessed Vidarr could read his intentions as well as his thoughts. Why must we set you free?
Reality crumbled before illusion as Vidarr again took control of Larson's mind, showing him the alternate fates of the world. Vision blurred to a vast white plain, and hail stung like cinders. Larson came to realize he was seeing a monstrous winter without end, a bitter frost which slew crops and beasts without mercy. Evil seized tree roots in a grip of ice, dropping century-old forests like stands of saplings.
As Larson watched in wonder, hordes of men appeared, arrayed in armor of skins, links, or chains. Shields gleamed on their arms. Axe, sword, and spear bobbed eagerly in the hands of warriors trembling like hounds before a hunt. Driven to madness by eternal cold, the armed men fell upon one another in a wild sea of battle without strategy, issue, or goal. Warriors dealt death to kin without remorse; men with matching crests fell, pinioned by each other's swords. Blood geysered, staining shields and snow like wine.
No! Larson bucked against Vidarr's control, ripped partially free only to fall prey to his own memories. The glint of light from metal became the flash of gunfire. War howls transformed to the roar of mortars. The scene broke to a tide of fire, and Larson screamed inwardly.