Veil of Smoke

Part 5/6

"Helviti!"

The oath escaped Thor's throat, dagger-swift, before he would swallow it; Nanna's grip on his shoulders stiffened in response. His outstretched hand closed into a fist and then thumped down against his thigh; his lips compressed into a hard line as his eyes sought for Loki's cloaked form out in the demon-choked courtyard.

Nothing. His brother had vanished into the darkness like a draugr, leaving Thor with no choice but to do as Loki had bid, and be ready. And wait.

Curse it all, how he hated waiting . . .

He was aware of Nanna's tension, in her slight weight upon his back. Carefully he crouched; as she slid to the ground he steadied her with one large hand between her shoulders. Her eyes, too, were fastened with unwilling fascination on the shifting shadows in the bailey, and he felt a shiver ripple through her.

"Steady, now. All is well," he murmured.

"He left us," she said. Her voice ebbed uncertainly.

"He will return, child. He seeks a way forward, a clever way to deceive the dark guards so that we may escape."

At the opposite side of the gate, a dismissive breath chuffed out from between Brandr's lips. Thor glanced at him; his shoulders were hunched, his eyes hooded as he stared at the toes of his boots. When he felt Thor's gaze, he looked up with a scowl and said, "Oh, yes, very clever. And so enamored of his own cleverness! And if his cleverness fails, what then?"

"He will not fail."

"I'll be strung up by my bootheels from the battlements, that's what. A traitor to the Keep. This is the fate you and your damned brother have brought upon me."

Thor stood, though one hand remained, gentle, ruffling the hair atop Nanna's head. His voice was mild, but the eye he turned on the Nornheimir guard was frosted with cold. "You will not meet with such a fate. We have given you our word of honor that you will find asylum in Asgard. That promise still holds."

Brandr crossed his arms over his chest as if protecting all his vital parts. "Does it? But your promise means little unless that wildling can somehow pull yet another impossible trick out from under his cloak."

"His tricks have served us well this day, little man."

The guard's mouth stretched into a humorless smile. "That's your strategy for any situation, is it not? Your plan of attack? Remain behind and keep a weather eye on your crazed brother. Let him plunge headlong into the deathtrap, and you'll follow along behind, eh?"

"He is a match for it." Thor felt his neck tightening, the pulse suddenly pounding angrily at his temple, and he stared into Brandr's eyes until the guard swiveled his face away with a smirk. But the words swirled queasily through Thor's mind, pitching him adrift into a swift current of memory both unbidden and unsought.

Plunge headlong. Plunge into a deathtrap. . .

There'd been a day, swallowed long ago by the past's hungry mouth: a midsummer hunt, with he and Loki far in the vanguard. They'd halted, wheeling the horses in the face of a thick stand of pines choked with undergrowth; a fading crack and rustle in the brush marked the progress of their prey, as the boar they'd been harrying fled beyond their reach into the wood's impregnable fastnesses. And he'd said, "We've lost it. Father will be disappointed; the beast's been savaging the flocks in the lowlands."

Loki had flashed him that inscrutable, glinting glance, filled with humor but also edged and shadowed by some deeper emotion, and he'd said, "Well, we cannot plunge headlong into a thicket after a wounded boar; it's a deathtrap. Father's disappointment will be our burden to bear."

Thor remembered the defiance, heating his blood. "Who dares to say that we cannot?"

Loki's brow, rising in challenge. "Everyone? Anyone who's ever hunted boar?"

Thor had reached out to clap his brother's shoulder, shaking his head with exaggerated pity.

"Brother. You speak the words of cowardice. We are not just anyone; we are the sons of Odin!"

And he had dismounted with a wild swing and thrown himself into the undergrowth, twisting and bending his body to follow the faint trail of broken twigs and blood-smeared leaves, the spear gripped tight in his hand, the musky odor of wounded boar strong in his nostrils. But- -oh yes he remembered it as if it were this morning's shadow and not the shade of many years past- -he'd been aware, for the first time, of a tension at the base of his skull: not fear- -no, of course not that- - but rather a sharp reluctance to go forward alone. He'd slowed his steps, taking more care than was needed to duck beneath branches and clamber over fallen logs. Finally, at last, he'd heard the crunch of leaves underfoot, an exaggerated sigh of severely-tried patience, and the light footsteps that meant that his brother was, indeed, following. His heart had lightened, then; for did not the sons of Odin always face the foe together? He hadn't wanted to pursue a maddened, desperate boar unless Loki guarded his back.

It had always been so: a strait-forward plunge into battle with his brother at his back. Why had that changed? How was it that here, in this dark and dangerous Keep, Loki had become the one to take the plunge?

Because you have allowed it, his heart whispered. You should be the one out in that courtyard, rather than allowing him to risk himself so wildly.

But I had no notion of what to do, his mind retorted. I knew not how to effect our escape, and he did. He knew at once. Because he is clever.

He is clever . . .

"So enamored of his own cleverness!" Brandr's voice slithered into his thoughts and coiled around them like a serpent subduing its prey.

"Borr's Helm, Loki," he swore, under his breath.

Nanna reached up, her small fingers twisting anxiously in the folds of his cloak. Her eyes were frightened.

With an effort, Thor smiled down at her. "Shall I tell you a tale, child, to pass the time? Would that please you?"

He ignored Brandr's derisive sniff. Nanna hesitated, her eyes sliding to the guard's scornful face, and then, deliberately, she brought her gaze back to Thor, and nodded.

"Well, then, hear me now, for once, long ago, my brother and I were trapped, deep in a wood, cornered by a wounded, and very angry, boar . . ."

As he spoke, he compelled his voice to remain even and schooled his face into calm planes. But his fist tapped against his thigh, over and over, as his eyes followed the surging, distorted shadows out in the bailey.

Be careful, brother. How can I return to our mother and say that the blood shed this day was yours?

In the bailey, the Nornheimir guards were lining themselves along the perimeter of the yard, eyeing the demons warily. The sharp, oddly-angled faces gleamed in the rectangles of lamplight that spilled from the windows, wet with the discharge from their wounded eyes; the pupils, blown wide by Loki's attack, were focusing now, blearily, and, like a flock of birds thrown asunder by a hawk diving through their midst, they were regathering themselves. Their hissing voices lost the keening wail of pain and shaded back toward mindful, cold-edged anger.

The captain of the guard raked them with his eyes, his feet planted belligerently wide, his arms crossed so tightly across his chest that his biceps bulged in protest.

"Search the bailey!" he commanded.

His men hesitated, their dubious fear obvious even in the dim light. The captain's jaw flexed, straining to contain his rage.

"Do it," he bellowed. "Search the bailey! That sly-faced hound is somewhere within the Keep and by the Queen's crown we will find him. Search!"

He thrust one arm out, fingers stiff, toward the agitated demons. "Don't think to interfere, demonkind! We work the Queen's business, same as you, and she will hear of it if you trifle with my men!"

The demons checked their formless movements, and as one they pivoted toward the captain. He stiffened under their hostile regard; a flush, brick-red, spread itself over his face.

"Search the bailey. Now!" His voice throbbed with the promise of punishment to any soldier who would disobey.

Finally, one of the guards sidled forward, a scuttling, awkward motion, and seized a dead torch from the firepit. He jabbed it down into the smoking coals below the hanging kettle, and stirred the fire back into life. Lifting the sputtering brand, he edged into the crowd of demons, the torch held before him like a talisman.

The demons' scratchy laughter met him, but they backed away from the torch like water from oil, averting their wounded eyes from its light.

Doubtful glances lanced among the remaining guards. But, as the captain's hands curled into fists and he began to rumble like an overheated stewpot, they followed their fellow guard's lead, arming themselves with burning brands, and filtering out into the bailey.

Loki watched them, from the temporary shelter of the niche beneath the buttress, and he noted the hatred and fear that marked their faces, as they whipped their torches this way and that. He let out a breath, silently, a thin sigh of sardonic amusement.

Oh, but you despise them, don't you, guards of Nornheim? The Queen's monstrous, dangerous pets . . .

He tilted his head to one side, studying the patterns in the demon's were more complex, now: groups of three or four drifting in eddying curves meant to confuse and infuriate the guards searching among them. He watched as they encircled one hapless guard; he spun around, his face tight with sudden fear, breath puffing harshly, knuckles white as he grasped his torch with both hands. And as quickly as they'd trapped him, they melted away, leaving him crouched awkwardly, his eyes blazing with humiliated rage.

You hate them. You fear them. And they disdain you. Such . . . useful emotions.

This situation could not have been more ideal if he had shaped it with his own hands. His gaze hovered then, once more, over the captain's fury-mottled face, and a spark of laughter glittered in his eyes.

He pulled his hood low, and eased out of the dark niche, attaching himself to the outer edge of then flowing stream of demons. A memory overtook him, then, sharp and bright as new-poured ale: his mother and himself, heavily cloaked, huddled in the darkened doorway of a silk-weaver's shop at the edge of Asgard's central marketplace. She'd woken him at dawn, and handed him the cloak without a word, bidding him be silent with a firm gesture, though the half-smile she bent on him as they slipped through the gate and out into the streets seemed to belie her serious mien. He'd pressed a hand to his chest, certain his heart would burst with suspense, when they'd finally halted here.

"Why . . .?" he'd begun, and she'd laid a finger on his lips, and murmured, "Today we shall walk through the market, my son. And we shall be invisible to every eye."

He smiled inwardly, now, as he twisted and flowed through the dark chaos of the Keep's courtyard. How he'd frowned, while his child's spirit had secretly thrilled to be discussing the ways and means of magic with his mother, she with her formidable skills.

"But surely that isn't possible?" he'd asked. "Our magic isn't capable of that?"

She'd leaned closer, her eyes dancing as she lifted the overhanging hem of his hood enough to peer down into his face. "You're right. It is not. But I do not speak of magic, Loki. There are other ways to disappear."

He must have looked his confusion, for her smile broadened, and she'd said, "We shall hide in plain sight, you and I, a magic derived not from dark energy but from the very nature of the people around us. They see only what they expect to see, for the most part, and that's what we'll give them. Two cloaked travelers, walking confidently through the crowd. The shortened stride, the hesitant gesture: these draw the eye more surely than the loudest shout. But we will walk, quiet and strong, and no one will give us a second glance."

He'd eyed her doubtfully, and she'd laughed. "You must trust my experience, my dear."

"I do, of course, Mother," He'd cocked a brow at her. "But, please, when have you ever had need to vanish into a crowd?"

"Ah. I see. To you I am only your gentle Mother, and that is how it always is, with children and their parents. But you must remember that I am now, and have always been, more than just your mother. I am Frigga, of Asgard."

His heart had vibrated in tune with the ring in her voice. He'd drawn himself up, and tried to match it. "And I am Loki, of Asgard."

"Yes." Her hand, soft on his shoulder. "So you are, my child. And so you shall always be. Never forget that."

Then she'd drawn her hood further over her head, and her voice had said, warmly, "Are you ready? To vanish?"

He'd followed her, into the bright morning of the marketplace, trying with all of his childish might to mimic every movement she'd made . . .

As he glided forward, now, adapting his stride to the hooded figures around him, his eye upon the captain of the Nornheimir guard, Loki smiled to himself. In this, as in many other things, his mother's wisdom had served him well.

On every side, the demons pressed close; he could feel their anger at the guard's invasion of their nighttime haunt, a fresh rage made all the more hot by the incandescent fury he'd provoked with the cider-kettle trick. The guards' actions only stoked that fire, as they thrust the torches here and there, the light flaring up into demon-faces that jerked away in response, fangs bared. Loki allowed the circling flow of the demons to carry him across the yard, until he was directly below the doorway where the captain stood, glaring. He reached inside himself then, and skimmed a tiny draught of power from the well of dark energy pooled at the core of his being. In a thin, quiet stream, he released it, and conjured a mailed gauntlet over his left hand.

Then, deliberately, as he stepped through the wavering block of light spilling from the open doorway, he shortened his stride, the briefest of hesitations, a subtle jerk of movement that nonetheless, as his mother had shown him so long ago, drew the eye like a wasp to spilled honey. He bent his head, keeping the hood far forward, and twisted back toward the center of the yard, but all of his senses were focused on the spaces around him, and he heard the pound of boot heels approaching, and the roughly indrawn breath as a hand seized him by the shoulder and his hood was ripped away.

The captain of the guard stared into his face, his eyes bulging with ugly glee.

"I guess I'll have that pleasure after all," he sneered.

Loki lifted both brows. He quirked the corner of his mouth in a smug expression calculated to be as deeply provoking as possible.

"Of seeing you rot in my dungeons!" the man continued, face reddening. He tightened his grip, and turned his head, his shoulders rising as he filled his lungs and drew in breath to shout for his men. But before he could let the shout fly, Loki brought up his left arm in a brutal chop, driving his armored fist under the man's chin like a sprung beartrap. The captain's head snapped back, his teeth slamming together with an audible clack, and his eyes rolled back white. As he began to fall, Loki scythed his legs out from under him with an efficient swing of one leg.

It was a silent attack, the work of a few moments only, and all of it masked by darkness and shadow and tall, hooded demons. Loki waited, for an instant more, for an opening to appear, and then he pushed the man's body away, lifting and thrusting it with a booted foot, so that it flopped and rolled like a child's plaything, and came to a stop with a thud beside the firepit, a crumpled, boneless heap.

The entire courtyard froze. The demons murmured, and seethed with confusion for a moment; then, as one, they converged into a single mass. The guards spread among them stirred, staring at the huddled body on the ground and then at one another in consternation.

Loki whirled, spinning out from between two of the demons; as he straightened, he threw back his hood, and came to a stop with his head uncovered, centered in the light falling from one of the tower windows.

His face was no longer his own; he'd borrowed one that he'd come to know rather well, that day.

One of the nearest guards started, and peered at him uncertainly. He stepped forward, while two of his fellows ran to bend over the fallen captain. "Brandr?" he ventured, voice filled with question, clearly audible in the stillness that gripped the courtyard.

Loki twisted Brandr's face into an enraged mask. He lifted a shaking finger, and pointed it at the fallen captain. "They struck him down!" he rasped.

The guard's face creased with puzzlement. "Who did?"

Loki swung his arm toward the swaying, leering demons.

"This scum! This . . . hive of evil insects! These demons! They struck the captain down! They dared to touch one of us!"

He stooped, and seized a dark, smoking brand from the firepit; he swept it through the air, and it flared to life, a surging, eager flame. The demons leaned away from it, wheezing and sighing their uneasiness, lifting their hands and forearms to shelter their tender eyes. They retreated, leaving a small, cleared space around him, but their voices rose and fell in an agitated buzz. Loki swung the burning torch skyward, the sharp lines of Brandr's cheekbones casting fantastic shadows over his clenched jaw. He allowed Brandr's eyes to glow, wild with hate and a kind of ecstatic madness, and the demons hissed and writhed around him, though they kept a careful distance from the fire. He glared at them and pulled Brandr's lips back in a sneer.

"Look at you! You hideous creatures! What have any decent men to do with such abominations?"

He tossed the torch to his other hand, and shook his fist. "My brothers! My fellow guards! The demons are a plague upon the Nornkeep. They've struck down the captain. Which of us will they fall upon next?"

His voice was shaking with passion; his eyes drilling into the face of every guard whose gaze he could capture. The guards were shifting their feet, lifting their swords, looking at one another in confusion and a growing dread. Loki could almost hear their panicked thoughts: Had Brandr gone mad? Why didn't someone stop him?

Circling round, the demons chittered and buzzed like hornets spilling from a broken nest.

Loki uncurled his fist, and stabbed his hand outward in a gesture that was unmistakably obscene, a deadly insult; the demons were instantly, ominously silent, and with Brandr's voice ratcheted up almost to a shriek, Loki's bellowed, "They cannot destroy us if we destroy them first! Death to them! Death to every demon! Send them to the cold passages of Hel where they belong. And long live the Guard of Nornheim!"

And suddenly he spun, and thrust his burning torch into the face of the nearest demon.

The creature screamed, a hideous yowl. An answering screech was pulled from every demon throat, and then, as one, their heads swiveled; their baleful glares focused on the guards among them. And, with a vengeful hiss, they wheeled about, to and fro, and fell upon the guards around them in a blind rage.

The courtyard exploded into a frenzied clash of sword and demon-claw, a shouting, grappling, unmitigated brawl.

Loki, hidden once more in the depths of his demon-cloak, gazed for a moment upon his handiwork. Then he made his way toward the silver garden gate, watching it narrowly even as he sidestepped a pair of guards grappling with a demon, and he saw two dark forms slip out and vanish into the deeper shadows along the wall.

He grinned then, tightly, and ran forward, weaving through the melee like the wind through grass. As Thor and Brandr gained the meager safety of an arched passageway, he slid into the shadows with them. Nanna, cradled under one of Thor's arms, reached out and tugged on his cloak in greeting. He inclined his head, gravely, dropping one eyelid in a solemn wink.

Thor jerked a thumb out toward the courtyard.

"Surtur's Fire, brother! Is this diplomacy? We promised no bloodshed."

Loki cast a frown over his shoulder, and then waved a dismissive hand. "We aren't shedding any blood. What they do amongst themselves is their own affair. Our oath is intact. Mostly."

A blood-curdling howl erupted, and a guard stumbled headlong against the silver gate, rattling it on its hinges.

"Whether it will remain so," Loki added, "depends upon the speed with which we depart this festive gathering."

"No doubt," Thor agreed, and he turned toward Brandr, frowning as he took in the guard's clenched jaw. "Are you well, man? If we take this passage out, will we be nearer to the stables . . ."

The words were still on his lips when, with a ringing bang that cut through the cacophony in the courtyard, a set of double doors on a balcony opposite were flung open, and a slim, graceful figure strode out. The flickering light gleamed on a fall of lustrous black hair, and two pale hands raised in a gesture of furious command. An imperious voice demanded, "What madness is this?"

Brandr stiffened, staring up at her. He mouthed, soundless, "My Queen," and then his face hardened, his eyes flashed, and he stepped forward, neck cording as he prepared to shout.

Loki sprang at him, clapping one hand over the guard's mouth and wrapping the other around his throat, pulling him deeper into the passageway. With a muffled oath, Thor swung Nanna up unto his shoulders, whirled, and seized Brandr's arm above the elbow. Together, they hustled him backward, his feet stumbling and dragging.

The Norn Queen's voice followed them, echoing down the passageway's curved walls. "Cease this brawling at once!"

At the passage's far end, a huge, heavy wooden door awaited, balanced on enormous iron hinges. Thor thrust out his arm like a battering ram; it burst open before them, and they spilled out into the chill night air, with thin starlight glowing wanly on the pale rock of the surrounding cliffs.

Loki thrust Brandr away; he spun, and grasped the edge of the door, and eased it silently closed. Then he turned back, chin lifting as he grinned at Thor, and said, "Thus we storm the Nornkeep, brother . . ."

Brandr ripped his arm from Thor's grasp, his face contorted with fury. He ran forward, two strides; his fist came up, cocked back behind his shoulder, and then shot forward like a thrown spear, directly at Loki's jaw.

There was a flash of blurred movement, and then a loud smack of flesh on flesh, as Loki caught the incoming blow in his hand, closing his long fingers over Brandr's clenched fist.

"Brandr!" Thor growled. Nanna, peering over his shoulder, let out a startled squeak.

The moment hung there, silent. Brandr's bicep strained against the leather of his armored sleeve; the skin of his neck reddened over the stiffened, bulging muscles. He leaned forward, his lips baring clenched teeth, but he could not thrust his fist any further forward.

Loki's knuckles were whitening. He raised one questioning brow. "Something troubles you, Nornheimir?"

"You used my face!" the guard hissed fiercely, his voice thin and brittle with rage. "My face!"

"I used the materials at hand," Loki answered.

"I will be branded a lunatic! As well as a traitor!"

Loki eyed him narrowly. "And what does it matter? You travel with us to Asgard, do you not? Or have you . . . changed your mind, about that?"

"No, damn you! Not after you dared to use my face! "

"I would dare a great deal more than that, to deliver my brother, myself and this child safely back to Asgard. I do what I will, with no recourse to your delicate sensibilities."

He loosened his grip, and pushed the guard's fist away.

Brandr bared his teeth, and drew breath to speak, but Loki raised his chin and murmured, "Do not raise your hand to me again. You will rue the day."

"I already rue this day." Brandr's eyes were bleak, lit with incandescent fury.

Thor stepped between them, raised a hand to Brandr's chest, and pushed him back a step. "Enough of this! We must be off," he growled. "Brandr, the stables. Now!"

Loki smiled, though no humor glowed in his eyes. "My brother chafes for the road, Nornheimir. Lead on."

Face expressionless, Brandr twisted on his heel, and without another word, stalked off into the darkness. Loki watched him go, and then traded a grim glance with his brother.

"Not the most amiable of companions," he murmured. "Somehow I feel he's not nearly as fond of us as we are of him."

Thor shook his head, mouth tight. "We must shoot the arrow we've notched, brother. And hope it flies true."

Hogun and Sif had rolled several downed logs near to the fire, and Fandral had spread his cloak over one with a gallant bow. So Frigga had seated herself, and allowed them to serve her, knowing well that busyness of hand suited warriors far better than idle lounging.

Fandral stepped closer now, offering her a cup of warm mead dipped from the pot that stood gently simmering at the fire's edge.

"Are you well, my lady? It was a hard, long ride, to come this far in the course of a day."

"I am, thank you." She smiled, and took the cup from his hand, but as her gaze fell back to the fire, the smile faded, and lines of tension carved themselves along either side of her mouth.

Sif, studying her, stirred suddenly, and said, "Do not fear, my lady. We saw the princes' tracks, diverging from the main road. They've taken some secret, stealthy route into Nornheim."

Hogun growled, "And no doubt will return again by the same path."

"Bearing the child like a snugly-wrapped parcel," Fandral swept her an extravagant bow.

Frigga chuckled. She could see the same thought on all of their faces, and she voiced it, though it felt dangerous, somehow, to do so. "And meanwhile the demon-guard will occupy the central passes in vain. Well, I hope it may be so."

She twisted on her perch, to look over her shoulder to where the jagged peaks of Asgard's Northern Marches blotted out the brilliant starlight with their dark, sharp silhouettes. Slowly, they all did the same, each eye tracing the deep break in the mountains' wall, the principle pass between Asgard and Nornheim.

Finally, Fandral spoke, his voice deliberately cheerful. "They will camp there on the heights, until their long noses turn blue with cold. And meanwhile the princes will come dashing home, along an unknown, crooked back road."

"Indeed they will," Frigga said, and then a note of steel made itself felt underneath the gentle cadence of her voice. "But, nevertheless, we will make for the pass ourselves. I will show myself to the demon-guard, and demand an accounting from the Norn Queen. Such a further distraction from us can only be a help, to the princes on their hidden path."

"We are at your service, my lady," said Sif. "And theirs."

The rising moon, a miserly crescent, grudgingly bestowed a thin silvery halo over Nanna's head as Thor lifted her into the saddle, cautioning her once more to silence with a finger on his lips. Brandr and Loki were already mounted, waiting, at the stableyard's rear gate, a broadly arched portal that pierced the wall itself, and would finally allow them exit from this cursed Keep. Brandr had unbarred it, and pushed it open just far enough to allow the horses' passage. He glanced back, his face grim with impatience and fear; his shoulders moved restlessly. As soon as Thor signaled his readiness, he kicked his mount into a swift trot, and disappeared through the narrow opening.

Loki's booted heel shifted, to urge his own horse after him, but Thor said, voice low, "Loki."

Loki's head turned, brows raised.

"We will return to Asgard through the central vale, and the main pass."

A short silence. Finally, Loki murmured, "Will we?"

"Aye. We will."

"How . . . optimistic of us."

Thor felt his jaw flexing. "There's no need to take that twisted, secret way. There's the danger of becoming trapped, by pursuers, there in those narrow gullies." His voice deepened into a rumbling growl. "And it takes too long."

"Speed is not our only concern, Thor."

"I think it may be. We may well have several hours before they discover the child's absence. . ."

"It could just as well be several minutes," Loki's voice was edged suddenly with some emotion Thor couldn't identify. "We're wasting time as it is, lingering here in tactical discussion."

"No. They're still recovering from the brawl. We will have a little time, and the cover of darkness. By the time dawn breaks, and they realize that she is gone, we will have nearly climbed the pass. We'll have gained the border itself before they can mount a pursuit."

"That's a gamble, Thor. A large one."

Thor set his jaw. "Is it any more a gamble than using yourself as bait to start a brawl?"

Loki tilted his chin, a frown creasing his brow. "That was no gamble. I knew . . . "

"No more schemes," Thor interrupted. "No more subterfuge! A strait-forward gallop back to Asgard, Loki. No more . . . cleverness." He felt his voice cracking unpleasantly on that word, and tried, unsuccessfully, to smooth it.

The frown deepened, and Loki's eyes flickered with some indefinable thought. "Can it be that you see yourself as the voice of reason, here?"

Thor paused, taken aback. "Well . . . yes, I suppose so."

A breath of laughter eased out of Loki's chest, as he rolled his eyes heavenward, contemplating the beggarly moon. Shaking his head, he looked back down at Thor and said, "What a choice piece of irony."

Thor felt his jaw tightening again. "What is?" he growled.

"Shall we say, the difference in our perspectives?" Loki said. He gathered up the reins, and then flipped one hand outward toward the door. "Lead on, brother. I will cover our backs, and take some steps to conceal our tracks."

Thor hesitated, "Up the central vale, then?"

"Aye."

"And over the main pass?"

"As you say. Over the main pass we'll ride. After all, what could possibly go wrong?"

Thanks so much for reading! One more chapter to go!