Hammered

  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.

  Chapter 22

  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.

  Chapter 23

  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.

  “Maybe is Hugin and Munin?” Perun wondered aloud.

  “It cannot be. There is only one of them,” Väinämöinen said.

  “What is it, then?” Gunnar asked.

  “Perhaps it is simply a bird,” Zhang Guo Lao said.

  Leif shook his head. “No, its blood smells wrong.”

  “Oh, bollocks,” I breathed, realizing who it must be even before the crow swooped down and shape-shifted into a milk-white naked woman. “It’s the Morrigan.” She’d followed me to the Norse plane. Like Druids, the Tuatha Dé Danann could travel anywhere, but they usually confined themselves to the Irish planes and earth out of courtesy to other pantheons.

  Her eyes glowed red as she approached, seemingly unaffected by the cold. I stole a quick glance at Suttung to gauge his reaction, and he appeared impressed and perhaps inclined to ask if the lady was spoken for. If he was smart and thought it through, he would realize that a woman with glowing red eyes will always speak for herself, and it would be best to keep his mouth shut.

  “Siodhachan Ó Suleabháin,” she said with spine-tingling minor chords in her voice, “I must speak with you ere you proceed with this madness.”

  I shivered uncontrollably. Freezing cold plus the Morrigan’s voice will do that to a guy. “Right. Of course. Let’s, uh, go speak. Guys, you think maybe you could get a fire going while I’m gone? I’ll talk to Hrym when I return. I mean, if he’s ready to talk.” I shivered again.

  They all assured me a fire would be no problem, don’t worry about a thing, see you soon, Atticus. The Morrigan and I walked west together, out where no one would be able to overhear us.

  “You are poorly dressed for this climate,” the Morrigan began, still utterly undressed herself.

  “Yeah, might you have a thermal blanket in one of your pockets?” I asked.

  The Morrigan continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “It suggests how poorly planned your entire adventure is. This is most unwise. Surely you realize I cannot help you in Asgard? Even here, in Jötunheim, I cannot protect you. If you die, the Valkyries will take you wherever they wish.”

  “Yeah, about the Valkyries. Turns out they can’t choose me to be slain.”

  The Morrigan turned her head sharply and looked at my face to see if I was teasing her. Deciding I was serious, she asked, “How do you know this?”

  “I ran into them about a week ago and they tried to snuff me. My amulet turned cold but otherwise nothing happened. I came out ahead in that battle and I’m going back for round two.”

  “You’ll fight them directly?”

  “I don’t know. If they come after me, it’s possible. I’m not really interested in the fighting. I’m more interested in keeping my word to Leif, and that’s all about getting him to Asgard. I’m sure you wouldn’t advise me to become an oath-breaker when I have made an oath to you.”

  “Then why are you here talking to the frost Jötnar?” she asked. “You did not promise Leif you would recruit them, did you? Or promise to bring these other hangers-on? Drop the vampire off and be gone. Leave these other men behind.”

  “Morrigan, Thor is completely bereft of nobility. You should hear what he’s done to those lads. He’s a total choad-chomper.”

  “He is what?”

  “Never mind. Look, the more guys I bring with me, the more likely it is that I get away. I’m just going to let Leif take his shot and see how it turns out. If Thor kills him, we leave. If he kills Thor, we also leave. We’re not sticking around to lay waste to the entire plane.”

  “There will be dire consequences in either case, Siodhachan.”

  “I’ve already had this conversation with Jesus, and I’m still following through. The way I add it up, the consequences will be dire if I don’t. What have you got to add to that?”

  “I’m not privy to your conversation with the Christian god. But I have foreseen your death in a vision.”

  I had to stop. You can’t keep walking casually when someone says they have foreseen your death. “Here or on earth?”

  “On earth.”

  I frowned. “Aren’t you supposed to have my back there?”

  The red in her eyes faded. “Yes. But I foresaw your death anyway. It was … unsettling.”

  I’ll say. What had she been doing in that scenario?

  “Well, I promise to be extra paranoid when I go and super turbo paranoid when I get back. But I’m going, Morrigan.”

  “I know you will go.
I simply want to minimize the impact you will have.”

  “Impact on what?”

  She chose to ignore that question. Instead, she stepped closer to me and waited for my eyes to meet hers. “Siodhachan, some of the Valkyries …” Her mouth twisted and she broke eye contact as she searched for words. She couldn’t say they were her friends. “… I know them,” she finished.

  “Well, that may be. But every one of them tried to choose me for death, and then I made them look stupid and ineffective. If we meet again, they’re not going to want to do Jell-O shots off my tummy, you know?”

  “I can imagine their anger at you,” the Morrgian said. “And I know better than most that you cannot promise me anything about a battle. I have merely come to advise you that this is a situation where fulfilling the letter of your oath would be wiser than fulfilling the spirit or intent.”

  I smiled wryly at her. “Don’t you find that to be wise in every situation?”

  “I often do, yes.”

  “That is a difference between us.” Something the Morrigan said earlier came back to gnaw at me. “Did you say you saw my death in a vision?”

  “It was a lucid dream, yes. Not an augury or casting of the wands. It happens sometimes.”

  “Any of those ever wind up not coming true?”

  “No.” Her lips pressed tightly together and she would not look at me.

  “And you’re sure it was me, not some other handsome rake with a faerie sword?”

  “There aren’t many faerie swords around. Or red-haired Druids wielding them. I’m positive.”

  “Ah, well then. I’ve had a pretty good run, whenever it comes—don’t you think? It would be ungracious of me to complain.” I wasn’t going to ask her precisely when, where, or how I was going to die. I didn’t want to know, and she might not have the answers. I sighed and watched my breath crystallize in the dark. “Say, do you ever go up to people and tell them, ‘Congratulations! This is going to be an awesome year for you in many ways, but especially because you won’t die this year’?”

  “No,” the Morrigan said, “that never occurred to me. It seems frivolous.”

  “You might enjoy it. People might take a liking to you. Especially if you shag them afterward and they know that they’re going to survive the encounter.”

  The Morrigan chuckled. “Are you trying to hint that you would like to enjoy my favors, Atticus?”

  “Oh, no,” I said with a snort, trying to keep my tone light when I was actually terrified by the prospect. The Morrigan is stunningly beautiful, but she makes love the way linebackers love quarterbacks: The last time I’d “enjoyed her favors,” Oberon thought I’d been on the losing side of a street fight. “I cannot spend myself now if I’m going to battle shortly. And, besides, I have an alliance to make with the frost giants. How’s the amulet coming?” I asked, to get her off the subject completely.

  “Slowly, but I believe some progress is being made. I’ve found an iron elemental who will speak to me. I gave it three faeries to eat, and I think it might answer me more quickly the next time I call it.”

  “That’s excellent, keep it up,” I said.

  The Morrigan purred with the praise and stepped close to kiss me farewell. She yelped when she pressed against my chest. “You’re bloody cold!” she said.

  “And you’re not? You’re standing bare-assed in the snow and you’re telling me you’re all warm and toasty?”

  “Raise your core temperature, you fool!”

  “Oh.” I nodded as if I knew what she was talking about, but she kept staring at me expectantly, waiting for me to obey her command. So I was forced to say, “Um, how do you do that?”

  She slapped me across the face. For the Morrigan, that wasn’t even a mild rebuke. She was just making sure I was paying attention. “How have you survived all this time without knowing that particular binding?”

  “With many layers of warm clothing, like everybody else.”

  “Where are these layers now?”

  “Elsewhere, regrettably.”

  “You can bind your sight to the magical spectrum, I hope?” the Morrigan asked. The question was fairly insulting, since it was one of the first bindings all Druids learned. But it was a lengthy one, unsuited for stressful situations, and I had simplified the casting of it long ago.

  “Yes, that’s what this charm is for,” I said, pointing to one on the left side of my amulet. Using a charm was like clicking on an icon to launch an application. They were shortcuts that freed me of the time and concentration necessary to craft the bindings from scratch each time. On the left side, I had charms for camouflage, night vision, healing, and my faerie specs, along with one other. On the right were the charms I used to bind myself to animal shapes, plus the bear charm I used for magic storage. I turned on my faerie specs and said, “Show me how to raise my temperature.”

  The Morrigan showed me and taught me the words for the binding. It turned out to be adjustments to the thyroid and hypothalamus so that my metabolism increased, burning more fuel in my cells and thus releasing more heat, while simultaneously preventing my blood vessels from restricting due to cold air on the surface of my skin.

  “You will need to eat a bit more to maintain this,” the Morrigan explained, “and do not forget to readjust these when you return to warmer weather or you will never stop sweating.”

  “Thank you, Morrigan. This is very helpful,” I said, already feeling myself warming up. “And delivered to me entirely without pain.”

  The Morrigan sucker-punched me hard in the face, sending me sprawling in the snow and breaking my nose.

  “You spoke too soon and with entirely too much sarcasm,” she said. “We could have parted with a kiss. Remember that. And remember that I advised you not to fight the Norse. Consider it well.” She spread her arms and they blackened; her legs rose from the ground and also turned black as her body bound itself to the form of a crow; and she flew west toward the root of the World Tree, where she could shift away from this plane, leaving me to bleed and regret my choice of words.

  Chapter 24

  When I returned to the center of the village, nose knitting and blood washed away with a handful of snow, a blessedly clothed Hrym had joined Suttung and my companions around the communal fire pit. Someone had produced some dry wood from somewhere, and now a cheerful blaze from a few logs of northern pine illuminated the scene. Some other frost giants were standing around, curiosity driving them outside, making my friends look like Halflings. I surveyed the tableau with my faerie specs and saw that Väinämöinen had taken it upon himself to cast a seeming over the area, shielding us from the sight of Odin’s spies.

  The frost giants had interesting auras; the white noise of their magic was elemental and limited to ice, of course, but over that I saw colors of curiosity and mistrust and even anger over our presence. I could have been misinterpreting what I was seeing, however, since I had no baseline experience with frost giants.

  Hrym was taller than Suttung and much broader in the chest. Reminiscent of a growling heavy metal singer, he had studded black leather bracers on his wrists. He also had a fine fur cloak draped around him, which marked him as the chief and a little more sensible about the cold. I’m not sure he ever got to finish his business with his partner, though; the expression on his face combined with the tone of his skin suggested that he might be feeling a bit blue.

  He was grimacing down at Leif, who was trying to explain something in Old Norse, when one of the other giants directed his attention to my approach. He sized me up with his cold eyes and did not seem to be impressed. He had a beardcicle thicker than my neck and longer than my torso.

  “You are the Druid?” he said.

  “Aye. Call me Atticus.”

  “I am Hrym,” he said, and thus the pleasantries were concluded. He pointed at Leif. “This dead man tells me you can get to Asgard without crossing Bifrost.”

  “It is true. I have already done it.”

  “He tells me the Nor
ns are dead, as is the great squirrel, Ratatosk.”

  “Also true. It is why Hugin and Munin have been so active recently. They are looking for me.”

  “Graah. Those cursed ravens always hound me. They know I will lead the frost Jötnar to the final battle.”

  “Have you thought that the final battle may not occur as foretold anymore, now that the Norns are dead?”

  The Jötnar all looked at one another to see if any of them had thought of this. It was clear they hadn’t.

  “The prophecy can outlive the prophet and still come true,” Hrym finally said.

  “Graah,” the Jötnar chorused in agreement, nodding their heads at Hrym’s nugget of wisdom. A few of their beardcicles snapped off at this unexpected activity.

  “Sleipnir is dead as well,” I said. “Does that not change the outcome of Ragnarok?”

  “No,” Hrym replied. “In some tales Odin rides Sleipnir to confront the wolf Fenris. In others he does not. Nothing is changed.”

  “But without the Norns to spin their fate, the lives—and deaths—of the Æsir can be changed. We can change the outcome now.”

  “You wish to begin Ragnarok now?”

  “No. We wish to bring justice to Thor for his many crimes against humanity and the Jötnar. We ask for your aid in this.”

  “Why should we help you?”

  “You will remove your oldest enemy.”

  “Jörmungandr will remove him for us,” Hrym said. “All we must do is wait.”

  “For how long? The frost Jötnar need not cower any longer in Jötunheim. Help us slay Thor, and the spoils of Asgard will be yours to take. The goddess Freyja, for example, will be among the spoils.”

  “Freyja!” Suttung exclaimed. All the male frost giants took up the name in a sort of horny echo. It was like walking into a nerd party and shouting, “Tricia Helfer!” or “Katee Sackhoff!” I checked their auras again and the males were turning red with arousal. The women were rolling their eyes and trying not to vomit. It let me know that their auras could be read reliably like human ones.