Kevin Hearne - Hammered

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: