"The Norns!" Ratatosk was so alarmed by this that he actually became still for a half second. "The Three who live by the Well of Urd?"

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.

"Gladly will I take you to Asgard!" 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. "Can you climb upon my back?"

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.

"We go," 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, "Hey, everybody! Eldhár here has some bad news from Nidavellir!" 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.

"Less than an hour," 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?

"They are early risers. Surely they are finished by now. But the Norns will still be there. Why not simply tell them what the trouble is? Hey." 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. "Shouldn’t the Norns be able to see this danger coming? Why do we have to warn anyone?"

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.

"Oh." Ratatosk leapt forward again but then halted abruptly after a few steps, as another thought locked down his motor functions. "Why does the Dwarf King know about this and Odin doesn’t?"

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.

"Ohhhhh," Ratatosk said knowingly. I got the sense that he thought the dark elves could keep secrets from Odin if anyone could. "When is Bacchus coming?"

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

"I shall." Reassured and reinvigorated, Ratatosk leapt up the root of Yggdrasil even faster than before. "Is Bacchus a powerful god?"

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.

"I hope I will be there to see it," Ratatosk said with delicious anticipation. "It has been far too long since the gods have taken anyone’s nuts."

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?

"Not by a long shot!" Ratatosk chuckled. "Want to hear the latest?"

Do tell.

"Nidhogg says the eagle is a cream-shitting feather duster that doesn’t even know its own name!"

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

"Yes, the eagle had a reply. I was on my way down to deliver it, but the Norns told me to come down this root instead to find something unusual. Hey!" He stopped again. "They must have been talking about you, because you’re pretty weird."

It’s been remarked upon before, I admitted.

"Well, then, they know you’re coming, so that’s good," 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.

"Anyway," the squirrel continued, "the eagle said, “Nidhogg can stick the left fork of his tongue into my cloaca and taste what I think about having a name.” But I think he said something very similar three hundred years ago."

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. "I suppose it is because they enjoy mating together," 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. "No one knows where they grow. That is a closely guarded secret. But they do live far from Asgard."

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

"North of the Asgard Mountains. They live on the border between Vanaheim and Alfheim. Their hall is on the Vanaheim side, and on the other side lies the hall of Freyr. You can’t miss it."

I can’t? Why?

"Because at night, the mane of the great boar Gullinbursti lights up the sky, even from inside his stable."

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?

"Run due north," 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.

"Speaking of Odin, there’s Hugin and Munin circling around!"

Where?

"Look to your left."

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.

"Your message is for Odin, right? Why don’t you just tell them?"

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.

"You can’t? Well, I can relay a message for you. Just tell me what to say."

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.

"All right, I will tell them." 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. "Odin is angry," Ratatosk said, running up the tree again, "but he will await your arrival at Gladsheim."

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.

"It will not be very much longer," Ratatosk added. "Soon we will be in the bones of Yggdrasil and emerge aboveground in Asgard."

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.

"In a moment you will begin to see the light," the squirrel replied. "That will be the hole in the root above the grassy Plain of Idavoll."