Kevin Hearne: Hammered

He chattered angrily at me, and his breath blew my hair back, filling my nostrils with the scent of stale nuts. I’ve smelled far worse, but it wasn’t exactly fragrant either. There’s a reason Bath & Body Works doesn’t have a line of products called Huge Fucking Squirrel.

I triggered a charm on my necklace that I call faerie specs, which allows me to view what’s happening in the magical spectrum and see how things are bound together. It also makes creating my own bindings a bit easier, since I can see in real time the knots I’m tying with my spells.

Ratatosk, I saw, was very firmly bound to Yggdrasil. In many ways he was a branch of the tree, an extension of its identity, which I was dismayed to discover. Hurting the squirrel would hurt the tree, and I didn’t want to do that, but I didn’t see what choice I had—unless I could get him to pinky-swear he wouldn’t tell anyone I was on my way to steal one of Idunn’s golden apples.

I focused my attention on the threads that represented his consciousness and gently bound them to mine until communication was possible. I could still speak Old Norse, which was widely understood throughout Europe until the end of the thirteenth century, and I was betting Ratatosk could speak it too, since he was a creation of Old Norse minds.

I greet you, Ratatosk , I sent through the binding I’d made. He flinched at the words in his head and whirled around, the brush of his tail whipping my face as he scrambled up the root a few quick strides before whirling around again, regarding me warily. Maybe I should have moved my mouth along with the words.

came the reply, the squirrel’s massive whiskers all twitching in agitation.

Since I was coming up the root from the middle plane, there were only three places I could possibly be coming from. I wasn’t a frost giant from Jötunheim, and he’d never believe I was an ordinary mortal climbing the root, so I had to tell a stretcher and hope he bought it. I am an envoy sent from Nidavellir, realm of the dwarfs , I explained. I am not flesh and blood but rather a new construct. Thus my flame-red hair and the putrid stench that surrounds me . I had no idea what I smelled like to him, but since I was decked out in new leathers, with their concomitant tanning odors, I figured I smelled like a few dead cows, at least, and it was best from a personal safety perspective to frame my scent and person in terms of something inedible. The Norse dwarfs were famous for making magical constructs that walked around looking like normal critters, but often these creatures had special abilities. They’d made a boar once for the god Freyr, one that could walk on water and ride the wind, and it had a golden mane around its head that shone brightly in the night. They called it Gullinbursti, which meant “Golden Bristles.” Go figure.

My name is Eldhár, crafted by Eikinskjaldi son of Yngvi son of Fjalar , I told him. The three dwarf names were mined straight from the Poetic Edda . Tolkien found the names of all his “dwarves” in the same source, in addition to Gandalf’s, so I saw no reason why I couldn’t appropriate a few of them for my own use. Eldhár, the name I’d given for myself, meant nothing more than “Fire Hair”; I figured since I was pretending to be a construct, it would be consistent with names like Gullinbursti. I am on my way to Valhalla at the Dwarf King’s request to speak to Odin Allfather, One-Eyed Wanderer, Gray Runecrafter, Sleipnir Rider, and Gungnir Wielder. It is a matter of great importance regarding danger to the Norns .

Ratatosk was so alarmed by this that he actually became still for a half second.

The same. Will you aid me in my journey and thus speed this most vital embassy, so that the World Tree may be spared any neglect? The Norns were responsible for watering the tree from the well, a sort of constant battle against rot and age.

Ratatosk said. He switched directions again and shimmied backward, courteously extending his back leg to me and carefully holding his bushy tail out of the way.

It took me longer than I might have wished, but eventually I clambered up his back, bound myself tightly to his red fur, and pronounced myself ready to ride.

Ratatosk said simply, and we shot up the trunk with a violent gait so awkward that I think I might have bruised my spleen.

Still, I could not complain. Ratatosk was even more than I had imagined: In addition to being extraordinarily large and speedy, he was perfectly gullible and willing to help strangers, so long as they spoke Old Norse. Perhaps I wouldn’t have to kill him after all.

Most visual representations of Norse cosmology are based on the principle of “You can’t get there from here.” That’s because their cosmology isn’t magical merely in the sense that it defies all science, it’s also internally inconsistent, so that planewalkers like me tie themselves in knots trying to get around. For example, in some sources, Hel is in Niflheim, the elemental realm of ice, and in others Hel is its own domain separate from Niflheim, so you’d literally have to be in two places at once if you wanted to drop by for a visit. Muspellheim, the realm of fire, is just “south,” but no one seems to know how to get there. Luckily, I didn’t need or want to go to either place; I had to get to Asgard and bring back one of Idunn’s golden apples for Laksha so she wouldn’t invade my brain and switch it off. (I didn’t know if she could invade my brain or not; I hoped my amulet would protect me, but it’s not the sort of thing you invite someone to do on a dare.)

Ratatosk was taking me in the right direction, so I was confident that I’d make it to Asgard, bruised spleen or not. What would happen once I got there would probably be a surprise. The worst-case scenario would be that I’d arrive as all the gods were in council by the Well of Urd, right near the Norns, and Ratatosk would dump me in front of them all and say, and then I’d get my ass handed to me in short order.

Perhaps I should try to avoid that.

Ratatosk, how long before we are in Asgard? I asked him as we bounded up the great tree root. It was far, far thicker than a sequoia but gray and smooth-barked instead of red and etched with crenellations.

the squirrel replied.

My, that’s fast. Odin will surely commend you for your speed when I tell him how you helped me. Might you know if the gods are in council by the Well of Urd at this time?

Ratatosk stopped suddenly, halted by the intrusion of a disconcerting thought, and if I had not bound myself to his fur I would have flown upward for a brief time before gravity pulled me back down.

Clearly Ratatosk could not think and run at the same time. This danger comes from outside Asgard , I explained, then spun him a lie. The danger comes from the Romans. The Roman Fates, the Parcae, have sent Bacchus and his pards to slay the Norns, knowing that the Norns will not be able to see him coming .

Ratatosk leapt forward again but then halted abruptly after a few steps, as another thought locked down his motor functions.

Damn inquisitive squirrel. He found out from the King of the Dark Elves. The entire evil plot was hatched in their, uh, evil minds . When in doubt, blame the dark elves.

Ratatosk said knowingly. I got the sense that he thought the dark elves could keep secrets from Odin if anyone could.

The Dwarf King believes he may already be on his way. Time is of the essence. Let your haste commend your duty, Ratatosk .

Reassured and reinvigorated, Ratatosk leapt up the root of Yggdrasil even faster than before.

It is said that heroes have shat kine at the very sight of him. He drives men to madness. But I do not know how he would fare against the Norns. The danger is in the surprise he represents. If the Norns cannot see him coming, then he may be able to catch them unprepared. Their best defense will be my warning, and with your help all the gods of Asgard will have time to prepare a proper welcome for the upstart Roman .