Kevin Hearne - Hammered

Moralltach was a problem. There was no way I could afford to take it with me down Ratatosk’s bolt-hole in the root of Yggdrasil. Now that I was being pursued, I wouldn’t have the necessary time to climb down that shaft using the excruciatingly slow process of binding my skin to the bark with each step. I had to fly down, but there was no way I could carry the sword as an owl.

I had no choice but to leave it behind. Checking my six as I approached the root, I saw that a few Valkyries had taken to the air again and they were circling aimlessly, looking for me. Hugin and Munin hadn’t returned to the sky, so Odin was still out of it. Cursing the necessity, I returned to my human form and unslung the sword from my shoulders after I caught the apple popping from my mouth. I knelt on the ground and asked it to part for me. It did, accepting the sword that I drove straight down to the depth of my elbow, so that it would remain there like a spike in the earth. As satisfied as possible under the circumstances, I carefully closed the earth over it, making sure that the turf on top looked undisturbed, even going so far as to back away ten paces and spending the effort to remove all traces of footprints.

They might find it; if Heimdall knew to look for it, he probably would. But if I simply left while Odin was still zonked, there was no reason they wouldn’t assume I’d taken it with me. I already had a reason to come back to Asgard, in any case: I’d promised my attorney and friend, the vampire Leif Helgarson, that I would bring him there to settle an old grudge against Thor the violent way.

I shape-shifted to a great horned owl and picked up the apple in my talons as gingerly as possible. I couldn’t avoid puncturing its thin skin a little bit, but I figured Laksha would just have to deal with it. I flew up to the hole in the root and then, once over the lip, folded my wings against the sides of my body and dove for the bottom.

After swooping out of the hole underneath Asgard, I dove again for the bottom of the root. The Well of Mimir was unattended, as it had been when I arrived. Mimir had long since been beheaded by the Vanir, but I expected that such an important site would be watched. Since it was now Black Friday, perhaps its keeper was off somewhere taking advantage of a DoorBuster sale. I pulled out of my dive, dropped the apple in the snow, and shifted to plain old Atticus. I promptly began to shiver.

Hugging the tree root and clutching the blasted apple, I found the tether to earth and pulled my center along it until I returned to what everyone thinks of as the “real” world. It was just as cold in Siberia as it was in Jötunheim, and I had no clothes. I groaned out loud and took a moment to enjoy the feeling of not being chased. I also needed to give my body a bit of a break. Despite the fact that all the energy I’d used had come from the earth, the rapid shape-shifting was taking its toll; I felt shaky and weak, and my liver wanted to know if it would get to spend some time in its wonted shape.

Unfortunately, the answer was no. I wasn’t out of danger yet. The Norse were perfectly capable of following me to this plane, and I had no doubt that they would, sooner or later. Once they followed my clear trail to Idunn and Bragi’s hall, they’d start to piece things together. If they found my buried clothes in the orchard, they’d know I came from Midgard; if they found the Norns, they’d know a sword killed them; if they found Moralltach, they’d recognize it as a Fae weapon and chase that lead until they found out the truth—namely, the being responsible for stealing a golden apple and knocking Odin on his ass wasn’t a demon or a god but rather a Druid.

I hoped they wouldn’t find that out until much later, if at all. My primary advantage right now was my anonymity. Once Odin woke up and couldn’t find me in Asgard, he might waste time looking around Jötunheim until someone figured out I’d come from Midgard.

Taking a couple of deep breaths to brace myself and with apologies to my liver, I shifted once more to a stag and picked up the golden apple. The run south to the forest took me only two hours instead of three. I’d never been so relieved to see a friendly bunch of trees; once I shifted planes to Tír na nÓg, I’d be able to recover a cache of clothes I’d left there and make myself presentable. I wanted to shift to North Carolina this afternoon and place the apple in Laksha’s hand with cavalier indifference, as if stealing it had been no more taxing than running to the local grocery store.

She had slain twelve Bacchants without breaking a sweat—something I’d never be able to do—so in terms of badass grandstanding, I needed to make this caper appear as if it had cost me nothing, even though it might end up costing me everything. It had already occurred to me that Laksha might be hoping I’d never return from the trip and that the whole arrangement was an elaborate way to marshal me to knavery. Part of her—perhaps a very large part—would be disappointed that I’d succeeded without a scratch to show for it.

Thinking of how surprised she’d be made me smile. I was, in fact, dangerously close to contracting another acute case of Smug. But just before I cozied up to an old oak and shifted to Tír na nÓg, I looked up at the sky and saw two ravens circling above me. To the north, dark thunderclouds were boiling rapidly in my direction.

Odin was awake, those damn ravens really could see through my camouflage, and Thor the Thunder Thug was on his way to settle accounts.

Sometimes people ask me how I got to be so old. It’s tough, I tell them. The short answer is to live as best you can while avoiding all the things that will kill you—but that never satisfies anyone. They want specific nuggets of wisdom, like “You probably shouldn’t go yachting off the coast of Somalia,” or “Never eat sushi in a restaurant where you’re the only customer.” But even these sound a bit disappointing. “Stay away from the guy who throws lightning bolts,” though—that’s a classic. Highly recommended.

My amulet wouldn’t protect me from a bolt of lightning, so I shifted to Tír na nÓg before Thor could get himself in range. He’d probably set the forest on fire once I left, just for spite.

I remained in Tír na nÓg just long enough to recover my cache of clothes, and then I shifted to another Fae plane, Mag Mell, and luxuriated in a hot mineral spring. It was partially to recuperate and partially to throw off Hugin and Munin; they couldn’t follow me to the Irish planes, and that was a blessed pint o’ peace.

Another blessed pint was the one served to me by a comely wood nymph in the spring: Goibhniu’s Mag Mell Ale. It’s a worty and voluptuous brew, quite mouthy, with a smooth yet grainy foundation and a bodacious, provocative finish that couples a whiff of wanton peaches with the innocence of a virgin. If you can get to Mag Mell, it’s free.

That’s right, there’s free beer in Irish paradise. Everyone’s jealous.

After a few of those, I had my Smug on for sure, and I shifted to Pisgah National Forest outside Asheville, North Carolina, to visit Laksha. We arranged by cell phone to meet in Pritchard Park downtown, where we sat on the rocks next to a small waterfall. If she was surprised or disappointed by my appearance, she hid it well. After inquiring about the small blemishes on the apple’s surface, she took a bite, and I saw true pleasure illuminate the features of the face she inhabited. Her skin, already beautiful, tightened and smoothed and shone with health.

“Satisfied?” I asked.

She nodded. “Very much so. Well done, Mr. O’Sullivan.”