Hammered [3] (31 page)

Once at the root, we hopped down from the frost giants’ backs and they shifted to eagles—bloody big ones. They launched themselves straight up, following the root to Asgard. Long ago, Hrym told me, young Jötnar tried to climb the root to see if there might be a way to Asgard, but none ever returned. Ratatosk slew them, perhaps, or else the Norns did. Now there was nothing to prevent them from taking advantage of Ratatosk’s passage to the plane.

Perun was going to provide transport for the rest of us. I could have shifted to an owl and joined the frost Jötnar, but I wanted to hold on to my clothes for a bit longer. Väinämöinen and Zhang Guo Lao deposited their packs at the base of the root, to be picked up on the return trip. I slipped my wallet and cell phone into Väinämöinen’s pack, because rule number one of committing naughty shit is that you don’t take ID with you.

“You have arms out to sides, legs together,” Perun said, demonstrating with his own wingspan. We all did as he instructed, but Gunnar in particular looked tense, and his yellow eyes indicated he was struggling to keep his wolf under control. It was a control issue, period, because Perun was going to fly us up there. Thunder gods
have to be able to push storms around, so summoning sufficient wind to carry us up the trunk was no problem for him. Keeping all six of us from twisting away unpredictably in the winds was a bit tougher. Imagine an extremely turbulent airplane ride without a seat belt. Or a barf bag. Or a plane. The first half mile was rough on us all, but Gunnar suffered especially, because wolves don’t like to fly.

During the flight, Väinämöinen’s beard flew up around his face, completely hiding it, and a steady stream of Finnish curses could be heard from behind the white curtain of hair. My earlier suspicion that he had weapons hidden under his beard was confirmed: Strapped to his tunic at the top of his chest were seven thin sheathed blades suitable for throwing. Four hilts could be drawn from the right, three from the left.

Perun was finally able to stabilize us and we flew steadily upward. He pushed himself ahead of us, the better to direct the winds at the top of the root, where we’d have to duck into Ratatosk’s hole and then rocket up the chute that would give us egress to the Plain of Idavoll. He gradually strung us out underneath one another in a tight little wind tunnel, which would also facilitate our travel up the root’s throat.

The plan was simple. Once on the Plain of Idavoll, we were going to follow the immortal strategy of Ebby Calvin “Nuke” LaLoosh and “announce [our] presence with authority.” Perun would send thunderstorms toward Asgard, and everyone would yell at Thor for failing to control them. He’d get angry over the loss of face and come barreling out to investigate the source of the trouble. Meanwhile, the frost giants would send shivering ice storms at Fólkvangr, and Freyja would harness her kittehs to ride out and put a stop to it. There would be no long march on Asgard to attack fortified positions. They’d come to us. That was the plan. It was simple,
playing to our strengths and preying on the enemy’s weakness. What could go wrong?

One word: Heimdall.

He was lingering around the roots of Yggdrasil instead of tending to Bifrost—probably as a result of my nighttime raid for the golden apple—and must have thought it odd when twenty giant eagles came flying out of Ratatosk’s passage to Jötunheim. Thus, when we emerged from the hole directly behind said eagles and Perun let us drift down to the new-fallen snow around the trunk, there was already blood staining it. Heimdall had cut down two of the frost giants as they shifted to their bipedal forms, but the rest had shifted successfully and were converging on him. He didn’t see much hope of getting out alive, and he spied us landing and realized we weren’t friendly tourists either. So the bastard whelp of nine mothers put a horn to his lips—Gjallarhorn, specifically—and blew for all he was worth until the giants smooshed him to paste with colorful, juicy noises.

Hrym’s people considered this to be a wholly positive turn of events, and they laughed uproariously at the pulped remains of the god. Stomping Heimdall into a bloody smear was tangible, immediate proof that we could change the future and that Ragnarok would not play out according to the prophecy of the Norns. Heimdall was supposed to have killed Loki on the Field of Vigrid and be killed in turn. He was fated to be the last of the gods to die; instead, he was among the first.

But I thought their celebration was misplaced. Gjallarhorn was supposed to warn everyone in Asgard that Ragnarok had begun, and now everyone who could grab hold of something pointy would come running to the source of that magical call—including the berserker hordes of Einherjar.

“Look to the west, Leif. That’s where they’ll come from. I need to see if I can find Moralltach,” I said.

“Which way is west here?” he asked, and I realized that he’d probably become disoriented during the flight up, and the stars weren’t the same as ones we saw on the plane of Midgard in any case.

“That way.” I pointed, indicating the mountain range that surrounded Asgard.

Leif started shouting in Old Norse and then repeating himself in English to get everyone facing west. He had Hrym and Suttung erect a wall of ice behind us so that we couldn’t be easily flanked from the other side of Yggdrasil, and he asked Väinämöinen to cast a seeming over us so that Hugin and Munin couldn’t scout our forces. I liked that spell because it targeted an area rather than me specifically, so my amulet didn’t shut it down.

Once standing uncertainly over a spot that seemed close to where I had cached Moralltach for later retrieval, I had to dig down through two feet of snow to reach the half-frozen earth. The storm that had brought this snowfall must have hit shortly after my last visit. I was so very glad the Morrigan had taught me the core-temperature trick, because the ground was still bloody cold when I put my bare feet on it. The tattoo on my heel renewed the strained connection I had with the earth on this plane, and I used it to search out the cold bite of iron that would indicate the presence of a sword. It bit me, blessedly, after only a few seconds’ searching; Moralltach was three feet to my left. That required more digging through the snow, but it was worth it. The frozen earth cracked and groaned as it parted under my command and yielded Moralltach back to my hands with no time to spare for inspection.

“Atticus!” Leif called. “He’s coming with the Valkyries! I need you up here!”

Gods Below, that was fast. Heimdall’s horn had brought the cavalry at top speed. I wasn’t ready yet. I
was supposed to be point man when Thor showed up, but here I was yards behind and still clothed.

I stripped hurriedly and ran to join the others, carrying both Fragarach and Moralltach with me. It occurred to me, somewhat manically, that running naked through the snow was a holiday tradition at some college campuses, and I should have participated in order to train for this frantic moment. The snow slowed me down as my feet sank into it, and I biffed it twice in my hurry to advance to the vanguard.

The reason for my hurry was that I had the only proven dodge to Norse targeting spells. Thor’s hammer, Mjöllnir, had the same targeting spell on it that Odin’s spear did. Plus, Odin and the Valkyries had doubtless described me to the other gods—perhaps as “red-haired, naked, and mad”—so I wanted to make sure Thor saw me as described. Since I was the slayer of Sleipnir, he’d want to wipe me out fast to earn brownie points with Odin.

Secondarily, we couldn’t let the Valkyries target the rest of the group; aside from Leif, who was already dead, they could choose the lot to die somehow and never leave Asgard alive. Though I bemoaned the necessity, I had to take the Valkyries out, no matter how much it would displease the Morrigan to lose her BFFs. I hoped that would be the extent of my participation in this battle.

“Väinämöinen, contract your seeming!” I shouted as I tossed Leif the sodden scabbard of Moralltach. It had most likely suffered some water damage, but hopefully the ice had halted the beginning stages of rust from progressing too far. I drew Fragarach from its scabbard and tossed the latter into the snow, not caring if I found it later or not.

The Finn’s seeming sloughed off me palpably and I picked up speed, surprised that his illusion had slowed
me down. I ran perhaps another ten yards and stopped, a bit out of breath because I couldn’t reach the earth through the snow and I didn’t want to draw on the power stored in my bear charm until necessary. Thunderclouds were rolling in rapidly from the west. Thor was certainly there, but my eyes were not the equal of Leif’s, even with night vision, and I couldn’t pick him out yet. I couldn’t see the Valkyries either. I didn’t know what their visual range was, but thanks to Väinämöinen’s seeming, they should see nothing but me for the moment.

“Leif,” I called back to him, “where are the Valkyries in relation to Thor?”

“Eight o’clock, slightly behind him,” he replied. “V formation.”

“Väinämöinen, do your voice thing now!” I shouted.

Voice thing
, I’d decided, was a technical term. There was no way I could make Thor hear me from this distance, but Väinämöinen had the pipes to do it. He could whip out that
kantele
of his and whisper creepy, flirtatious things to a Harajuku girl in Tokyo if he wanted. And even though I was probably thirty yards or so in front of him and to his right, he could make it seem like I was the one saying it. Thor had never heard me speak before, so he’d have no clue he was being duped. Leif and I had coached the Finn in precisely what to say in Old Norse to turn Thor murderous, and Väinämöinen recited it flawlessly, his voice booming across the Plain of Idavoll:

“Thor, Goatfucker, Violator of All Animals Great and Small, come and face your doom! Jörmungandr is a worm compared to me! I have slain Sleipnir and knocked Odin on his ass! I have slain the Norns, and now your fate is in my hands!”

Yep. That did it. My amulet turned frosty in a familiar way as the Valkyries once again tried to choose me for
death. It’s funny how something like that will sweep away your moral uncertainties. Regardless of the wisdom of coming here at all, right now it was kill or be killed. A lightning bolt arced down from the sky and plunged through my body, and I felt no more than a tingle, thanks to the fulgurite Perun had given me. It was strung on my charm necklace now, resting on the back of my neck. I laughed, and so did Väinämöinen in the same loud voice. We wanted to make certain Thor knew his lightning was ineffectual. I was promptly struck seven more times by lightning, each as harmless as the first. We’d anticipated this too, and Väinämöinen spoke the appropriate line, choked with laughter:

“Stop it, Thor, that tickles!”

That was calculated to make him throw his hammer at me. Leif and I knew from experience how the male psyche works: If one weapon doesn’t work, switch to something else and try to shove it sideways through an orifice far too small to allow for comfortable entry.

The clouds above exploded with Thor’s rage, and I dimly heard Leif cry behind me, “Get ready, Atticus! Here it comes!” I could see a pale smudge against the clouds now that must be Thor in his chariot, but Leif could already see him in Hi-Def. “Now!” Leif shouted, telling me that Thor had thrown his hammer and that target lock was acquired.

That was my cue. I tossed Fragarach into the snow and leapt after it, triggering the charm that bound my form to a sea otter in the process. Mjöllnir’s targeting spell was dissolved in that instant, and simple physics held sway on the hammer now. A couple of cute otter hops brought me to my sword and I switched back to human.

“Come on, Leif!” I shouted as I picked Fragarach out of the snow.

The vampire was already out of the Finn’s seeming
and paces away by the time I’d finished speaking. He had Moralltach gripped in his right hand and a savage grin on his face, fangs out.

“It’s hammer time,” I said, and then winced. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

Mjöllnir plowed into the snow in front of us before I could explain the brief popularity of MC Hammer.

Mjöllnir has a spell on it that Odin’s spear, Gungnir, does not: It’s enchanted to return to the hand of he who throws it. We were counting on it.

“Grab on!” Leif said, and I promptly dropped into the snow and wrapped my left arm around his right leg. Leif reached out with his left hand and grasped the handle of Mjöllnir, which, after contact with the earth, was already turning back in Thor’s direction. We were abruptly yanked skyward, wrenchingly so, and gaining speed. But we were headed toward a Grade A asshole who had no idea that a crime he’d committed ages ago was finally coming back to haunt him with a thousand years’ violent interest.

Thor wasn’t going to be my business; I was after the Valkyries. Twice now they had tried to snuff me without so much as a verbal challenge, and I knew they’d do the same to the rest of the party if I gave them the chance. The problem was, there were twelve of them on flying horses and only one of me, and I was hitching a ride butt naked on an airborne vampire’s leg, with nothing more than a sword. Soon the vampire would engage in battle with a thunder god, and I had to be gone by then.

My aura was the problem. If I laid hands on Mjöllnir, my amulet would most likely snuff the return spell and all other magic and leave us with a regular hammer. That would deny Thor a powerful weapon, but it would still leave us with twelve airborne Valkyries who would doom our entire party as soon as they spotted us. Curiously, though we could be shortly facing the entire host
of Asgard, it was the Valkyries we feared the most, because they could choose the slain. Therefore, Gunnar had suggested this more risky stratagem during the previous night’s planning session with the frost giants. Thor’s death was the ultimate objective, but killing the Valkyries before they could pronounce sentence was the top priority.

I had a single glimpse of Thor before I had to direct my attention elsewhere. He was not the clean-shaven man Americans were used to seeing in comic books. A gnarly blond beard covered his jaw but did not extend down to his neck. There was no winged helmet, or any helmet at all. He had a thin strip of rawhide tied around his forehead to keep his long hair out of his eyes. He wore a mail shirt and a red tunic over it, belted with Megingjörd, which doubled his already prodigious strength. Járngreiper, his iron gloves, clutched the reins of his chariot as if he imagined they were our wee, stringy necks. His face was so red it practically matched his tunic; it was scrunched into constipated fury. He could not believe I was still alive and bringing a friend to the battle. As he watched us approach, he dropped the reins and hoisted a shield from the side of his chariot and secured it to his left arm.