The Heir to Thunder
Prince Faen Lokison
The motel room was small and cramped, and not in the ‘oh, how quaint and cozy’ way either. If Faen had a cat, he wouldn’t have had enough room to swing it (which he would have. Faen hated cats). It was late afternoon; the blinds were pulled as far shut as he could get them – there wasn’t enough fabric to blind the whole window – and dust motes danced across the partially shaded room.
Faen, who had changed his suit for a simple blue hoodie and grey joggers, slouched uncomfortably in the rooms one, poorly designed chair, eyes fixed to the television screen, scanning the news for information on either Beta Ray Bill’s touchdown, or the appearance of what the media had begun to dub ‘The Onyx Hulk’. The Prince of Lies had a suspicious nature, and he wondered if it wouldn’t be a stretch if these two apparently separated events were governed by the realm of coincidence.
The only other occupant in the room, and the one taking up the most space, was Beta Ray Bill himself, laying unconscious upon the single bed, the tortured piece of Ikea furniture struggling to hold the weight of the alien visitor. It was the first time anyone either than Faen had been in that bed since he had rented the room. What a depressing statement about his love life that was. It was a task of near Herculean proportions, carrying that big slab of meat and muscle here. Yes, Faen had used a teleportation spell to get them here, but it didn’t stop Bill being heavy. The golden hammer which Bill had dropped had been left in the alley, as despite no end of effort on his part, Faen had been unable to wrench it from its place on the dirty alley ground. He remembered hearing stories that only those of worthy nature could life Thor’s hammer, so theorised that the same could be said for Bill’s weapon. Faen had no worries of it going missing. It wasn’t like there was an abundance of those with worthy souls living in New York.
The big alien began to rouse, smacking his equine lips as he returned from unconsciousness to the land of the living. Faen moved to his side and raised a glass of water to his lips, which Bill greedily gulped down, before turning a slow gaze upon his host.
“Not Loki at all,” he finally demurred.
“Though created in his image. Kith or kin?” Faen’s relief at the bigger man’s markedly less violent reaction to his visage now was palpable. He wasn’t sure that he could best Bill in such tight confines, even weakened as he was. That, and the manager of the motel would have charged him a extortionate sum for any damages to the room.
“Son, actually, though the physical resemblance is all we share. I prefer to think that I take after my uncle in character. Faen is my name, or Prince Faen Lokison to give myself my full title.” Bill’s eyes widened at that, and he forced himself to sit up, the bed beneath him groaning in frustration as the alien shifted his considerable bulk.
“You’ve seen the Odinson! When? Where?” The questions were barked, an edge of mania to the clipped sentences. Faen again questioned just how safe it was to be this close to an unknown quantity like Bill, but resolved to keep his ground, and his courage, before answering.
“Ah, I should, ah, elucidate. I’ve never actually met ‘the Odinson’. Nobodies seen him in years, or Thor for that matter. I simply meant that I hope I’m closer to him in character, than I am to Loki. Honestly, I actually thought you were Thor returned to us when I first saw you falling from the sky… Incidentally, why were you falling?” It was one of those questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answering, but knew that it would chew away at him if he never got an answer to it. Just what – or who – was strong enough to damage a Thor-level being so badly that it could send him tail-spinning through the stratosphere?
Bill clamped his mouth shut tight, and gave every impression that he didn’t intend to answer. Faen hated being ignored – as the good Dr Strange and his manservant were beginning to learn – and was going to repeat himself, when the alien opened up, albeit grudgingly.
“My falling, and the whereabouts of the current Thor, are inextricably linked.” This piqued Faen’s interests, and so he pulled his chair closer, leaning into the alien so he didn’t miss a scrap of information.
“Thor had not just passed beyond the ken of man, but that too of the Gods. Even vigilant Heimdall could do no more than guess at the Storm-Gods location. There were stories of course. Tales of the Thunderer travelling into the deep, unknown, unexplored reaches of dark space. Of a golden-haired woman who wielded lightning and journeyed across strange dimensions. A pilgrim to far off places who, along her long sojourn, helped the helpless and punished the wicked. And while these fables may have been no more than rumours and falsehoods, they gave us hope that one day Thor would return to us.”
“Then, eventually, the stories started to change. They began to tell tales of a God gone mad, a typhoon of devastation given form. Rumours of free worlds falling to a tyrant with hammer in hand, of once peaceful peoples being enslaved by raiders led by a silver-helmed warrioress, of lands being pillaged and strip-mined for all their valuable resources, then left as barren husks. It was impossible, we all said, for these new songs of horror to be about our friend Thor. Eventually Hogun, Fandral and Volstagg, those brave Warriors Three, set off on a quest to establish the veracity of those claims. To my knowledge, they have not been seen alive since. They needn’t have left though, like a bad penny, Thor eventually returned home.”
“Imagine the Asgardian’s surprise when, after her long absence, she came, trailing lightning and cosmic storms, resplendent in her effulgence. Now picture their surprise when she sundered the walls of their home, and led an army of reavers and ravagers into the breech. Imagine the horror as they realised their greatest champion had abandoned them to join rapists and pillagers. Think of the gut-wrenching terror they would have felt when Mjolnir was raised in wrath above them, smiting mighty warriors and innocent children alike into the hard-packed dirt. Now imagine all that happening during the Odinsleep, when Asgard’s defenders are at their most hard-pressed. The destruction was … immense.” Bill fell silent then, his eyes glazing over, lost in whatever horrors his memories held for him. Faen had never seen the home of the Asgardian’s, but he had seen old recordings of Thor’s battles upon earth. The devastation that could follow one of her battles was impressive, and that was when Thor was on the side of angels. If she truly had turned her back on what she once stood for, then he shuddered to think of the chaos she could cause.
Though that did raise the question of just why Thor, once a paragon of the good and the just, would seemingly change her allegiances and attack those she once protected, once allied herself with. Without ever having met the God of Tricks, it sounded like one of Loki’s schemes to Faen.
“Without trying to sound callous, are you sure it was Thor who attacked. It doesn’t sound like her and …” He peeled off when Bill rounded on him, his gaze on fire, gnarled fist shooting out to grip Faen around the throat, cutting off his air supply in a not-all-that-surprising titan grip.
“SPEAK NOT OF THOSE THINGS YOU KNOW NAUGHT, SPAWN OF LOKI!” He spat, fury evident in every syllable as his grip tightened. A normal humans spine would have shattered already. As it was Faen felt like his head was going to pop off his neck like a bottle rocket, his face already turned a violent purple.
“I have fought beside Thor many times, once counting her amongst the closest of my allies! I would recognise her anywhere! The insults you lay upon my honour by questioning my judgement our forgivable, but the insults you offer to the spirits of the dead Asgardian’s who fell at Thor’s hands by doubting the identity of their killer is near-beyond forgiveness!” Black spots were swimming in the Prince of Lies eyes when Bill finally released his grip, letting the half-breed fall to a painful heap on the floor. Several moments of coughing and spluttering followed, before Faen finally managed to pull himself back up onto his stool. Bill had returned to his prone position on the bed, and a distinctive red liquid had begun to pool underneath his back, no doubt already staining the sheets. The Lokison found himself unable to concern himself with the berating he would no doubt receive from the motel manager, realising that Bill’s outburst had conspired to open the eldritch sutures – Faen didn’t know a lot about healing magic, but he knew a little bit – that he had stitched into his back wound.
“Is it sore?” He asked gently. Bill glared at him for a moment, before sighing deeply and closing his eyes.
“I have felt worse pains, son of Loki. But yes. It is sore. A sore reminder of the treachery of Thor. A sore reminder of all those friends I have disappointed. Let down. Hogun. Fandral … The Lady Sif.” He fell silent once more, mulling over dark thoughts. Faen would have liked to leave him in peace, recognising a tortured soul when he seen one – it took one to know one – but the story wasn’t done, and Faen had a feeling he knew where it was going.
“Bill, I hate to pressure you, but you still haven’t told me why you’ve come to earth.” The alien opened his eyes once more, and for half a moment Faen could have sworn those red orbs were moist with unshed tears. They were gone in a heartbeat though, and with a grunt Bill continued with his story.
“The battle for Asgard went poorly. Thor was too powerful, and his allies to numerous. In their desperation, Asgard called for aid. I alone answered the call.” Faen wondered if they had called to earth. The relationship between Midgard and the home of the Gods had been
icy for a few years now, and even if the Asgardian’s had found someone to send their missive to, he doubted anyone in the world would have responded. It wasn’t like they had an Avengers to send to the rescue anymore.
“With Stormbreaker in hand, I duelled Thor amongst the stars above the shining city, testing my hammer against the might of Mjolnir. I do not know why the power of the hammer remains with a host who is so obviously unworthy of it, but remain it does.
“We were near evenly matched, though in the end I threw down my enemy, and in so doing forced her to flee, though not before she left me with a painful reminder of our encounter. The rest of her forces were quick to follow her craven example, and so Asgard was saved.”
“In the aftermath, before even the dead had been counted, I and the surviving warriors of Asgard formed a war-council. We all realised that Thor, while beaten, was not done, though would look to strike at a less well-defended prize before trying her might against the city of the Gods once more” “Earth” Faen gasped.
“Exactly our thoughts.” Admitted Bill with a grunt, though gave Faen an annoyed glance that, if Faen was any expert on alien facial expressions, said
‘who’s telling the story here’.
“Midgard, we decided, was ill-prepared to face an assault of the calibre that Thor could bring to bear, and so I volunteered to travel here, to warn you’re defenders, and bolster your guardians.”
“Little did I know it was a trap. Thor and her reavers waited for me, in the slipstream between worlds. She struck hard, and struck fast, the blows, as you have seen, were nearly fatal. By little more than luck I survived, and with little more than fury I countered, before I fell to earth. I upset her supply train with my last blow, no slowing her armies advance, though for how long, I cannot say. Her army will be here in earnest in little more than days. Her scouts are here already, probing at your planets meagre defences.” Faen took some umbrage at that last comment – he counted himself as one of those
meagre defences, after all – though decided to brush it off. Bill seemed like a brusque fellow, and he’d already found out once today how limited his patience was. Instead the Prince of Lies decided to focus on what he thought was truly most pressing with Bill’s statement.
“What was that about scouts! Where? And more to the point, how on earth would you even know! All you’ve done since getting here is bleed all over my bed!” For a moment the alien turned his gaze away in what Faen liked to think was shame at his own poor efforts at being a guest.
“I know they are here because I can feel them trying to claim Stormbreaker – which you left behind for them to pick at like curs over a rotting carcass, I must note – for themselves. They think if they can lift my hammer they will have power to rival their own dread mistress. The imbeciles are focused on fools quest, though one that is going to end presently, for I feel a need to have a reckoning with their ilk.” The big alien began to push himself from the bed, only to spasm in pain and fall back. He growled in annoyance, and was about to go for a second effort, when Faen placed a palm on his broad chest and pushed him back.
“Probably best if you stay where you are old man. I think it unlikely you could force a reckoning with a pride of mildly-annoying kitties right now, and we’ll need you at your best for when Thor does arrive. Leave the lackeys to me.” Bill’s eyes widened in surprise once more, though thankfully he stopped trying to leverage himself up from the bed. Faen got up from his chair, and with a single utterance and a wave of his hand, his casual clothing disappeared to be replaced with a suit of light armour and long coat that seemed vaguely Asgardian, coloured in green and gold. His father’s colours.
“You would serve on the frontlines of your own world’s defence? Mayhap there is some distinction between you and your father after all, Lokison.” Faen turned back to the alien and gave him a wink and a smirk.
“That’s just what I’ve been trying to tell you. I’m a super-hero” He wondered if that looked as confident as he’d hoped, or if the rising panic building in his chest was making itself known on his features. He’d never faced a real super-powered threat yet, hardly had to match wits with a foe more dangerous than a corner store mugger armed with a handgun. Was he really up to the task of stopping a force of intergalactic raiders led by a mad-God?
Only time would tell.
“Don’t wait up Billy.” He turned to face the shadowed corner of the room and held both hands up together towards the wall, thumbs tucked in and touching one another, before folding his right hand out and muttering the proper incantation,
“Umberostium.” Without waiting for a good bye from his new alien friend – the term friend her being used lightly – he stepped into the shadows and was gone.
“You gentlemen really shouldn’t play with things you find in the street. You just don’t know where it could have been.” Not counting one quick stop to pick up some
goodies, Faen had made good time to the alley way where he had left Stormbreaker. The incantation of Umberostium was a shadow-walking spell, a crude method of transportation, allowing one to travel vast distances using the dark places of the world. It sure beat rush hour traffic, and let a man get from A to B in record time. Seeing his foes, who had gathered round Bill’s hammer and were each trying to wrench the unresisting metal from the alley floor, he half wondered if he shouldn’t have dragged his heels on the way over.
The group of four were – save one notable exception – ugly in the extreme, though each in their own particular idiom. One seemed to be a bird-man-skeleton hybrid, garbed in armour of Egyptian styling, a tarnished gold helm sitting upon it’s beaked skull, long-bones boasting tattered strips of decaying flesh jutting from its back in a crude approximation of wings.
The second was a gray-green ghoul, twice the size of a man, heavily muscled, and featuring two too many pairs of arms. Gore-stained tusks protruded from its monstrously oversized mouth, while it’s small, buggy eyes emanated nothing but violence and stupidity. Each of its six ham-sized fists were encased in iron gauntlets, and Faen could only shudder to think how hard that mountain of meat could hit.
A Dökkálfar, better known as a Dark Elf, was the only member of the group from a species Faen recognised, a lithe female with a predilection or knives, if the four baldrics bristling with sharp metal and dull hilts adorning her skimpy leather-looking armour was anything to go by, and judging by the fluid, graceful way she turned to face him, she probably knew how to use them.
The final member of the group was the least human looking. It moved on all fours, looking akin to a giant dog, it’s shoulders easily reaching Faen’s chest, four giant paws ending in long talons. It’s long canine muzzle was filled with razor sharp teeth, deep set eye sockets blazing with red wisps of fire. Two pairs of long, curved horns curled from behind it’s ears, much like a rams, and it’s back was covered in course quills, each about a foot long and oozing a green pus that smelt like trash left out in the sun for too long. A long, whip like tailed whished at its back, and Faen realised with a start that it featured a sickle like blade at the end of its length. Everything about the damn thing seemed to be designed to kill.
Lovely.
The group were staring at him now, the bird-Skeleton dropping to its haunches and pulling a wicked looking khopesh from a sheathe at its back, the six-armed bruiser cracking its knuckles menacingly, the Dökkálfar edging to the back of the group while palming a knife, and the hell-hound lowered itself while snarling a warning.
“Now I know how this is supposed to go down, the first meeting between you intergalactic invaders and me, a bonafide costumed superhero, but I have a proposal for you all. Why don’t we skip the epic battle, and instead I take you all to this lovely little coffee place I know about downtown. It’s only five minutes walk away, and I’m not lying when I say they make the best banana muffins in the world. And birdy, you really look like you need the potassium.” The skeleton-bird’s head crooked as if saying
‘who, me?’, and Faen was certain that he spotted the Dökkálfar break a smile. He couldn’t believe it, was this
working? Was he actually going to be able to talk them into submission?
“So how ‘bout it guys? Calm, reasoned discourse doesn’t sound so bad huh? Surely a hell of a lot better than us all trying to kill one another?” For half a second no one spoke, no one moved. Faen was congratulating himself on a job well done, thinking that this hero gig wasn’t going to be so hard after all. Of course, you know what they say about counting your chickens before they’re hatched, and true to form it was the boney-bird that showed the truth of that. With an eardrum-shattering shriek it leapt into the air, grotesque wings pumping to power it into the air as it raised its khopesh. The hound was right behind it, leaping forwards with a blood-wrenching howl, the six-armed behemoth charging right on its heels. The Dökkálfar stayed where she was, though raised her knife, no doubt ready to hurl it at whatever soft squishy flesh Faen was foolish enough to show.
The Prince of Lies was momentarily frozen to the spot, fear rooting him in place. What, you think you’d do better in his position? He’d never dealt with anything of this magnitude before, and for a second he had no idea what to do. Just a second, mind. Then he remembered who he was. He was Prince Faen Lokison, and he had the blood of warrior Jotuns, never mind that of the God of Trickery, running through his veins. He knew what he was going to do.
He was going to fight.
“Ok, then, plan B I guess. Looks like its HAMMER TIME!” His right hand flickered up, in the direction of the swooping bird-man. A speck of dust flew out of his sleeve, jumping across the space between him and his foe, ballooning in shape and twisting into the shape of a 23lb sledgehammer, a handy piece he had borrowed from a local industrial supplier on his way to the alley from the motel. The heavy tool spun end over end, picking up speed as it flew, until it was no more than a blur, before it’s heavy metal head thundered into the bird-skeleton’s helmet. With a desultory squawk the monster fell from the sky to hit the dirty with a thump, getting itself tangled up with the hell hound in the process. Thank Thor for that one boys, Faen thought to himself, because I got that one straight out of his playbook.
Still, he was going to have to come up with something better than that if he wanted to survive this encounter, glancing at the still charging behemoth, and the smirking Dökkálfar who was taking careful aim with her throwing knife.
“Ok hero, what now?”
