Kevin Hearne - Hammered

Suttung stood and spent a few moments reassuring himself that everything worked the way it had before. When he was satisfied, he examined Zhang more closely, trying to spot what he’d missed earlier—that this seemingly frail old man was truly quite dangerous. He likewise favored us all with suspicious glares—frosty, of course—wondering what powers we might possess that could destroy the Æsir.

“Graah. Follow,” he finally said, and turned east, dragging his massive feet to plow a trail through the snow for us.

The village of the frost Jötnar was two hours’ march through the biting cold. My jeans and leather jacket were not up to handling it, to say nothing of my sandals, so I was forced to beg a blanket and snowshoes from Väinämöinen, who gave them to me with an expression that clearly said he thought I was a dumbass. Chilblains I could heal; it was frostbite I worried about. The other members of the party seemed acquainted with such cold—or at least better prepared for it.

Perun walked beside me and thumped his chest, which was covered in matted curls. He wore a fur cloak, but his thin shirt was open in front and his personal fur was on prominent display. “You see? Hair is good for place like this. Is stupid to shave.”

“Would you give the same advice to a woman?” I asked.

“Of course! Hairy woman is good. Give me beefy, hairy women.”

“I’m fresh out. But, hey, you know, that sounds like a spectacular band name. Beefy Hairy Women. Think of the logo and merchandising possibilities. Could be trendsetting.”

Perun looked distressed. “We should speak Russian. I not know what you mean.” We switched to Russian and chatted amiably in Suttung’s wake. Perun was excited about the possibility of seeing the giantesses, who might indeed be both beefy and hairy. I deduced from this that he had not enjoyed an amorous encounter for some good while.

The frost Jötnar did not live in caves or primitive huts but rather in solid blocks of carved ice insulated with snow. In some cases, the snow was hardpacked and carved into attractive patterns around the windows and along the bases. They had steep roofs and chimneys and very tall doors.

There were no heaps of human bones in the street or evidence that the giants regularly shat in the snow. The village was remarkably clean, in fact, almost artistically so, without any of the squalor or refuse that one might expect from people fond of saying graah . There was a large communal fire pit in the center of the village, but it looked like it had not been used in some time. Perhaps, I reflected, all the human bones were buried in the snow, along with the missing squalor and refuse.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying a quiet night at home. The snow-lined main promenade was deserted, but orange glows from inside the houses and chimney smoke spoke of warm fires inside. For all of its idyllic appearance, however, the giants’ village did nothing to put our party at ease. We were half expecting an ambush.

“Where is everybody?” I asked Suttung.

“Graah. Hiding from Odin’s spies. Hugin and Munin have been visiting too often the last few days.”

How very interesting. Had they perhaps been looking for me there? “We should probably get indoors soon. It would not do to have them see us now.”

“We are here.” Suttung stopped in front of a house no larger than the others, marked by nothing spectacular to set it off from any other house. Granted, all of the houses were huge, but there were no special ice carvings around this one’s door; no skulls on a spearhead; no helpful sign saying that the chief was in. My ambush alarm went off and I checked our surroundings. Leif and Gunnar and Zhang Guo Lao also set themselves facing outward, watching for incoming attacks. Perun and Väinämöinen looked unconcerned. But no cadre of camouflaged giants appeared with spears in hand; no frozen Nordic zombies leapt out to snack on our brains.

Maybe Hrym wasn’t the chief right now. I’d asked Suttung to take us to him specifically because he was the giant who was supposed to lead all the frost Jötnar in Ragnarok. As such, I figured his word would carry some weight with the others.

“This is where Hrym lives?” I asked.

“Yes. You’d better hope he’s not hungry.” Suttung pounded twice on the door before swinging it open. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I expected to see Hrym sitting on a massive ice throne and holding a spear in one hand while a polar bear lounged at his feet, keeping his toes snuggly and warm. In his other hand he’d have a colossal tankard of mulled cider or maybe some honeyed mead. Some sort of chamberlain figure would be waiting attentively behind the throne, and there would be servants and courtiers and a long table set with meats and cheeses and freshly baked loaves of bread.

Instead, we saw two giants squelching noisily in what I cannot help but call a monstrous fuckpuddle.

There are some sights that, once seen, can never be unseen. They replay themselves on a loop in your mind’s home-theatre system with Dolby surround sound until you’re so desperate to be rid of them that you’ll resort to other loops simply to dislodge them for a while.

The long table I’d been expecting to see was actually there. Hrym had mounted his partner on top of it; they’d made little effort to clear away the trays of food or the spilled tankards of mead, and they were completely oblivious to the fact that they were now humping in front of a live audience. I am not sure they would have stopped for our benefit in any case.

“Graah,” Hrym said. Slap-slap-slap .

“Graah,” his partner said. Slap-slap-slap .

Suttung did his best to close the door again both quickly and discreetly, but the damage to my psyche had already been done. Recognizing the danger, I closed my eyes and began to sing: “ ‘The farmer in the dell, the farmer in the dell, hi-ho the derry-o, the farmer in the dell. The farmer takes a wife’—oh, bugger, that won’t do at all! Help me, guys, help me, I need a different song!”

“What are you on about, Atticus?” Gunnar asked.

“I need a vastly irritating, mind-numbing song to sing that will prevent me from reliving what I just saw. I have an intense need to forget it.”

“Oh, excellent plan. I’m with you,” Gunnar said, every bit as disturbed as I was. “How about ‘El Paso’ by Marty Robbins?”

“That’s good, it’s a catchy tune, but it won’t reduce us to catatonia quickly enough.”

“I have it!” Väinämöinen said, unexpectedly chiming in. “ ‘It’s a Small World, After All.’ ”

“That’s perfect!” I cried. “That’s just the tonic we need in a land of giants! Everybody, on three.” Soon the six of us were singing the execrable song with all the gusto at our disposal, a bit wild-eyed and panicked in the snow. Perun and Zhang Guo Lao weren’t familiar with it, but they learned quickly and joined us the second time around.

Suttung the frost Jötunn stared at us in perplexed silence, embarrassed at his faux pas and half convinced that we were all mad.

Before our neural ganglions dissolved completely into mush, we were saved by the arrival of a black bird in a black sky. Leif’s superior night vision spotted it first, and it was a welcome distraction from the twin traumas of bearing witness to Hrym’s marital exercise and singing the most soul-destroying song ever written. There was some small illumination coming from various fires within the ice houses, which kept it from being pitch dark.