Hammered, Page 2

  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.

  Chapter 2

  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.

  Ratatosk said with delicious anticipation.

  His euphemism startled me, until I remembered that I was talking to a squirrel; I confirmed through the images and emotions in our mental bond that he was using the expression to mean the defeat of an enemy, nothing more.

  I affirmed his thoughts and then fell silent as I considered the very real possibilities behind my lies. The Norns would be waiting by the trunk of Yggdrasil as we ascended to Asgard. I was certain they’d not know that it was I who was coming—not because I was a god like Bacchus from a different pantheon, but because my amulet protected me from divination—yet they’d probably know Ratatosk would be bringing someone or something with him at this particular time. They’d be curious at the very least, paranoid at the worst, and if the latter was true they might have planned something unpleasant. They might even send someone down the trunk to see who was riding on Ratatosk.
As soon as I thought of it, I cast camouflage on myself, my clothes, and my sword as a precautionary measure. The Norse shouldn’t be able to penetrate it, if the mythology was to be believed; they were continually fooling one another in the Eddas with basic disguises, much less magical ones.

  We still had a decently long trek ahead of us, which suggested to me it was an ideal time for a fishing expedition. I told Ratatosk that my creator, Eikinskjaldi, had given me only basic knowledge of Asgard. Would he be so kind as to fill in some gaps in my information? The squirrel was agreeable, so I peppered him with questions from the old myths: Was Loki still bound with his own son’s entrails? Yes. Was the Bifrost Bridge still functional, and did the god Heimdall still guard it? Yes. Had the eagle and the wyrm run out of insults for each other yet?

  Ratatosk chuckled.

  Do tell.

 

  That’s a good one, I acknowledged. Accurate yet succinct. Did the eagle offer a riposte?

  He stopped again.

  It’s been remarked upon before, I admitted.

  Ratatosk said, then began sprinting up the root once more. I didn’t agree that this was good. Confirmation that the Norns were expecting me sounded extraordinarily bad.

  the squirrel continued,

  What an odd relationship they have. Speaking of odd relationships, why is Idunn married to Bragi, the god of poets? It wasn’t a subtle way to introduce the true object of my foray into Asgard, but I had a feeling Ratatosk didn’t require subtlety.

  The squirrel slowed noticeably while he thought it over, but he didn’t stop this time. he said, then sped up again.

  That is undoubtedly part of it, I conceded. But I think their lives must be very inconvenient. Do not Idunn’s apples grow far from the city of Asgard and therefore far from Bragi’s audience of the gods?

  Ratatosk chattered shrilly, which startled me at first, until I felt through our bond that he was amused. That sound had been his laughter.

  Ah, then my point is made. Where do they live?

 

  I can’t? Why?

 

  I was told Freyr’s hall was in Alfheim, but I did not think it would be right on the border. I would like to visit this Gullinbursti, since he is a construct like myself, but my creators have told me little except how to get to Gladsheim. Perhaps I will visit after I deliver my message. How would I get to Freyr’s hall from Gladsheim?

  Ratatosk said. I’d been told nothing about Asgard from anyone, of course, but by inquiring about the locations of all the famous halls and landmarks from the sagas in relation to Gladsheim, I could gradually gather a sense of the plane’s layout and thus make my way around. I think I felt a brief twinge of guilt at taking advantage of the furry fella’s gullibility, but I ruthlessly smooshed it and kept asking questions. Information increased my chances of escape without incident, and besides, Ratatosk was full of juicy gossip about the gods. Heimdall was spending a lot of time in Freyja’s hall recently. Freyja’s cats had just had kittens, but Odin’s dogs had eaten three of them. And Odin didn’t want anybody to mention Baldr in his presence ever again.

 

  Where?

 

  Two distant black shapes chopping the cerulean sky indicated the presence of Odin’s ravens. He saw whatever they saw, and I wondered if they could see through my camouflage. I really hoped they couldn’t.

  I see them now, I said to Ratatosk.

 

  I can’t speak to them like I can speak to you. I probably could, but the last thing I wanted to do was bind myself, however indirectly, with the mind of Odin.

 

  The black specks were growing larger. I couldn’t dodge by saying, “I have to give my message to Odin personally,” because those ravens were, in a very real sense, Odin himself. They were Thought and Memory. Time to lie some more—and blame the dark elves.

  Tell them that Bacchus is coming to slay the Norns, I said. The dark elves in Svartálfheim are working with the Romans to get Bacchus into Asgard through a secret tunnel they have been digging for a century. I will give him all the details when I arrive at his throne in Gladsheim.

  We stopped abruptly so that Ratatosk could concentrate on talking to the ravens, however he managed such a thing. I didn’t hear him make a sound. But after a few seconds, the ravens banked around and returned the way they had come. Ratatosk said, running up the tree again,

  Thank you, I said. I wanted Odin in Gladsheim rather than at his other residence, Valaskjálf. He had a silver throne there named Hlidskjálf, and legend had it that he could see everything from there—maybe even camouflaged Druids.

  Ratatosk added.

  I looked upward and had difficulty focusing on anything much, due to severe squirrel turbulence. All I could make out was that the sky above was gone; we had ascended into the shadow of a huge … tract of land. It was the plane of Asgard.

  Gritty rocks buttressed clumps of rich brown earth, and wispy roots waved drily in the wind, like the fine hairs that grow wild and unheeded from the edges of old men’s ears.

  There was no space between the earth above and the trunk of Yggdrasil, no place for the squirrel to go, and I thought he was going to ram us into it—or else keep chugging through one of those neato optical illusions that Bruce Wayne had in front of his cave. But instead he slithered into a large hole in the root of the World Tree, invisible until we were on top of it, and for a brief time—half a gasp—we were horizontal in a sort of scoop, a small concavity at the base of a long, wooden throat that yawned above us. The back wall was smooth, but the floor we rested on was rugged and littered with the shells of nuts and shed fur. Piles of uneaten nuts and a rough nest of leaves could be seen in a smaller area that winked dimly through a short passage. I assumed I was looking at the place where Ratatosk rested during the winters. The inside wall—or, rather, the opposite side of the root’s outer bark—was scarred and pitted and ideal for climbing, and Ratatosk flipped himself (and me) around so that he could ascend using that surface.

  We rose through a Stygian shroud of black, its only sense of depth coming from a hollow whistling of wind passing through my hair. How long will we travel in the dark? I asked Ratatosk.

  the squirrel replied.

  How far above the plain?

 

  You mean your length?

 

  I see the light now. Excellent. You are without a doubt the finest of squirrels.

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nbsp; Ratatosk replied, sounding at once embarrassed and proud. He was such an agreeable fellow, and I smiled briefly at the top of his head before frowning at the light. The unavoidable problem of the Norns grew closer with every leap upward. I could not coach Ratatosk out of this; whatever he did, the Norns would foresee it. But now I feared that they truly shared my paranoia and that in their eagerness to attack me—the unseen, uncertain danger on Ratatosk’s back—they would willingly accept collateral damage, wounding both friend and foe. I did not want Ratatosk to come to harm, but neither did I want to have him stop; they would be prepared for such an event. As it stood, he was bringing me directly to them, where they could easily attack me astride the squirrel, flat against the trunk like a target. Bugger it all.

  Ratatosk scurried out of the hole in the root and headed down the outside surface, and as soon as I saw the earth perhaps ten feet below, I unbound myself from his fur and leapt off, somersaulting in the air so as to land on my feet. A hoarse shouted curse and a flash of light startled me in midair, then I heard (and felt) Ratatosk scream as I landed, the sting of impact flaring in my ankles and knees. As the squirrel’s cries continued, I dropped and rolled to my right, expecting to be crushed underneath him as he fell from the tree. But that didn’t happen; his voice cut off abruptly, the bond between our minds snapped, and I glanced up to see naught but a flurry of ashes and bone fragments raining down from the place where he’d clung to the World Tree.

  My mouth gaped and I think I might have whimpered. The Norns had obliterated him completely—a creature they’d known for centuries—because of me. It was like watching Rudolph get shot by Santa Claus.

  Clearly, the Norns must have thought I represented a dire threat to act so rashly. I tore my eyes away from the horror and watched them warily, keeping still to maximize the effect of my camouflage.