Norse mythology created some of the most interesting villains in classic literature--one of the most famous of whom is Loki. Throughout the various legends he is referred to as "the trickster" for although he causes the Gods a lot of grief, he is not altogether bad. Indeed, many of the Gods' greatest treasures came to them because Loki was fixing some trouble he had caused. Loki is especially dangerous because of this good side, because you may let your guard down long enough for him to get close to you. In my novel, the different characters are reincarnated versions of the old Gods, and Loki, of course, will have his place among them. Below is an excerpt from a chapter introducing Luka, heir to the throne of Folkváng, a country bordering on Asgard.
Folkváng’s Heir
“Attending
such ceremonies encourages love and loyalty from one’s subjects…”
What
a droll, un-utterably boring man, Luka thought as he stared at the emissary in front of him. The man was
tall, and thin, and wore the rich brown tunic associated with the lower houses
of Folkváng nobility. Thin grey hair strung from his head and his voice droned
on as interesting as a slab of rock. No
one here has any imagination. I am alone in the world, he mourned inwardly.
“And reminds the King of his duties
towards his people…”
Visibly his shoulders heaved with a
sigh. It was almost physically painful how long Lord Caldwell could talk about
nothing.
What
am I doing here? he thought, not for the first time, as his eyes bored holes into his tutor. He,
Luka, would be King of Folkváng one day, whether or not he listened to these
droll lessons.
With that he stood up from the heavy
carved oak chair and strode towards the door.
“But, but your majesty,” Lord
Caldwell called after his retreating back, “We’re not finished yet,”
“Oh,” Luka turned just inside the
doorway, placing one hand on the frame, “But we are,”
and giving the man a crooked smile, he shut the door firmly behind him.
Striding down a long hallway lined with grey marble he seethed a little. What would Lord Caldwell do if his hair
turned purple in the night? he mused. Or found scorpions in his socks?
A vague smile lit his features. The man might finally do something interesting
for once in his life.
His uncle
would be upset with him for walking out of that lesson, yes. But he simply
couldn’t bear another minute of listening to that old toad. He learned far more
interesting things reading in Folkváng’s vast library—about the lores and
ancient legends. And about magic. The ancient rulers of Midtenheim had real
power, that didn’t bend beneath the whim of their people.
Besides, what did Luka care if he
upset his uncle?
The old fool was only regent for another year and a half, until Luka turned 18
and could rule on his own. His uncle
didn’t really care for him anyhow, and would be more than happy to replace him
in a second.
Just then, a
plain-looking maid in a white smock passed him in the hall, keeping her head
down, and giving him a small curtsy.
“Elsa, right?” he stopped, gathering himself quickly. Luka considered himself decently handsome,
he had dark hair and a lean build—so he flashed her one of his most charming smiles.
“How is that rash of yours doing?”
The maid in exchange gave him a
terrified glance, “My Lord?”
Boring.
Everyone in this whole Palace. Were they all brainwashed as infants to be
totally and utterly stupid?
“It looks quite painful,” he
noted, pointing to her sleeve where angry red skin peeked beyond the cusp.
“Have you been feeling just awful?”
“I…it…” She stuttered, “It’s feeling much better now, m’ Lord.”
“Well.” He nodded, “I hope whoever was responsible for that horrible
trick is apprehended soon.”
“Yes, my Lord,” she
breathed, looking towards the ground. He
waved her away with a dry grunt, and she scurried on gladly into the nearest
room, glancing back at him over her shoulder.
What would I give for a little
excitement around here, Luka sighed. His eyes searched the
surrounding grey pillars for inspiration.
There were only so many interesting pranks one could come up with to keep
oneself amused— dusting the servant’s beds with itching powder just didn’t seem
to be enough anymore.
Perhaps it was time for his cousin’s favorite lady-in-waiting, the one
Luka had seen him gazing at like some stupid calf, to be caught getting into a
little trouble. He stepped father into
the shadow of the wall and began to feel the familiar tingle in his skin.
Just then, ahead of him a dark cloak whisked around the corner into an
open stairwell. He stared after it, a lump of anger rising back to the base of
his throat.
There it was again—his shadow.
Luka’s boredom had increased dramatically a year or so ago after this
man, whoever he was, had begun following him around the palace, and everywhere he went. Because of the nature of Luka’s powers, he could not be
seen doing them, or risk being compromised in future tricks. And the man was
good—so good at hiding that Luka had not yet been able to catch a glimpse of
his face.
“Curse you, uncle,”
He hissed under his breath. Whoever the man was, there was no doubt in Luka’s
mind he had been sent by King Steven.
The old man was afraid of Luka, he was sure of that. Though Luka had
never been caught at his pranks, and the King’s own children seemed to have
been caught red-handed at more than their share. Of course they would always
deny their involvement afterward, and the King somehow still regarded him with suspicion.
It was about a year ago that Luka had overheard something interesting
from the servants, who exchanged the rumor in whispers just outside the palace
stables.
“The king,” they
whispered, “can he really allow that boy to take the throne?”
At the mention of the word “king”
he had drawn closer, pressing himself to the rough wooden planks of the barn.
He allowed his skin to tingle and morph—taking on the color of the surrounding
wood.
“I don’t care if he’s the rightful heir, the boy is a monster. You should
see what sort of things he has done to those frogs and snakes he catches.
Absolutely mutilated.”
Indeed, it was him they were
talking about. Luka’s eyes squinted, trying to pick out which servant was
ratting on him.
“It’s a shame really, his parents were the kindest people—rest their
souls. And he had an older brother once, didn’t he?”
Luka felt himself quiver and his skin turned a slightly more reddish
brown. There was that older brother of his again.
“Such a shame he’s gone,” they
murmured.
At this point the male speaker lowered his voice. “I’ll wager he’s behind
the tricks being done around the palace. Since he could walk there have been
some mighty strange things happening. I tell you that boy has something about
him…”
Luka’s breathing grew heavier. How could they possibly know it was him? Well they can’t prove anything, he thought.
“Perhaps,” a woman’s voice chimed in, “The king’s
son Harvik could be proclaimed as heir? He’s as fine a boy as there ever was,
big as a bear already— and kind! As I see it, the king
would do well for Folkváng if he would let that boy rule instead—“
He had heard enough. Luka’s mind roiled with what he had just heard, and
couldn’t resist taking a quick peek around the corner to see who spoke.
It was a manservant that Luka recognized as one who waited on the sons of
the King. The other was a maid he didn’t know, but guessed that she worked in
the kitchens.
A peculiar rage came over him, and that very night, his cousin Harvik's
room had caught fire.
The boy’s life had barely been
saved. The manservant and maid on the other hand were found with the firepower
in their rooms, and the king had been forced to punish them. As for the talk
about Harvik ascending the throne, well, that died down greatly, after Harvik lost much of his sight in the fire.
“Worse things have happened to people than going blind,” Luka muttered,
thinking back. His cousin hadn’t died after
all. And now Folkváng was certain to have their rightful King—one that would
lead the people with intelligence rather than with muscle or weak emotion. It
really was for the best.
If only the same thing could be done for all the mourning over his lost
brother. A dead brother would always be idolized. Criticism was something left
for the survivors.
