“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.

“There are other gods to contend with before that can happen,” Hrym pointed out, justifiably so. “Freyja will not fight without her twin, Freyr, in attendance. If Thor goes to fight, Týr will probably tag along. Heimdall, maybe Odin himself, will oppose us, to say nothing of the Valkyries and the Einherjar. We are a mighty people, but we have learned the hard way that we cannot face the combined might of Asgard alone.”

“Excellent points. Allow me to remind you that you won’t be alone—you’ll have us—and the Einherjar should not be a problem. We’re going to show up on the opposite side of the plane from them. You cause lots of freezing and suffering as soon as we get there, and the Æsir will send out those who can respond the fastest—which means those who can fly, right? So we can expect Thor, Freyr, Odin and the Valkyries, and anybody else who can hitch a ride with them. They can’t bring all the Einherjar with them. We strike fast, kill Thor, and take Freyja, then leave. The Æsir will be crippled and—”

“Graah!” Hrym broke in. “How can you prevail against Thor? His thunderbolts will destroy us all.”

“Oh. Perhaps you have not had time to be introduced to our companions. We have our own thunder god.” I turned to Perun and asked him quickly in Russian to produce more of his fulgurites. “This is Perun,” I said to Hrym. “With his help, Thor’s primary weapon will be neutralized. The Æsir are unlikely to have similar protection, because they’ve never had to deal with it before. Our attacks will be unlike anything they have seen or prepared for. None of your people can be struck down by cowardly attacks from the air. If the Æsir are to defeat you, they must do so by force of arms, and surely the people of Hrym can acquit themselves well in battle.”

“Beware of tricks, Hrym,” one of the females said. “This could be a snare to draw you into the Æsir’s clutches.”

“See for yourself, lady, that I speak truth. Here,” I said, tossing her my fulgurite. She caught it and regarded it quizzically; she had probably never seen sand before. I signaled to Perun to let her have it and held my breath. I wasn’t sure that Perun’s powers would work here on the Norse plane—but they did. A lightning bolt struck the giantess, and the frost Jötnar dove for cover. “Graah!” they shouted.

But then they looked back at the woman and saw that she was laughing at them, completely unharmed.

“You see, Hrym? You can finally give back some of what you’ve been getting from the Æsir. There is no need to wait for Ragnarok. This can happen tomorrow.” Perun was busy passing out fulgurites to the frost Jötnar and grinning hugely at them. He was growing beardcicles of his own due to his proximity to the giants.

Hrym still had his doubts. “Is this real lightning you call down from the sky?”

I translated for Perun, and he promptly destroyed someone’s ice house to prove that he was using one hundred percent real f**king lightning. One of the Jötnar bellowed in outrage, but Hrym found this amusing and laughed like he was trying to clear wet cement from his throat.

“Very well, tiny man called Atticus. You may tell me more of your plan. How precisely do we bring the Æsir low?”

I told him.

Chapter 25

The frost giants needed no convincing that Thor needed killing. He’d slain the family members or ancestors of everyone in the village, so once they were convinced they had a hamster’s chance in Hel of surviving, asking them to come along was like asking a starving man if he’d like a bucket of chicken. Still, we did not get the entire village to join us; we got twenty, all of whom could shape-shift to eagles, and some of them came from other villages a short distance away. They were called during the day while Leif slept, and we all did our best to prepare for the night ahead by catching what sleep we could. Perun gave me a new fulgurite to replace the one I’d given to the giantess.

When the sun set that evening and Leif pronounced himself ready to get his revenge on, Hrym offered to carry us to the root of the World Tree, since we were so bloody slow in the snow.

Druid’s Log, December 3: “Hitching a ride on a frost giant’s back is both entertaining and eco-friendly.” First, the greenhouse-gas emissions are almost nil; you get to hear all about the many splendid beauties of Freyja; the wind noise is minimal, aside from the occasional graah; and since you don’t have to steer, you can simply enjoy the scenery from ten feet above the ground. On the downside, they smell like ice cubes made of sweat instead of water.

We were traveling in a valley between cragged sweeps of glacial mountain ranges, which I’d failed to notice while shivering in Suttung’s footsteps the night before. It was probably a lovely meadow in the summer—if summer ever truly came to this part of Jötunheim—but under recent snowfall it was a cobalt blanket gently undulating to the night horizon. Stands of evergreen timber, drooping with heavy snow, bracketed us on either side like mute and shivering spectators. A wolf howled off to the south, and Gunnar looked a bit wistful.

Once at the root, we hopped down from the frost giants’ backs and they shifted to eagles—bloody big ones. They launched themselves straight up, following the root to Asgard. Long ago, Hrym told me, young Jötnar tried to climb the root to see if there might be a way to Asgard, but none ever returned. Ratatosk slew them, perhaps, or else the Norns did. Now there was nothing to prevent them from taking advantage of Ratatosk’s passage to the plane.

Perun was going to provide transport for the rest of us. I could have shifted to an owl and joined the frost Jötnar, but I wanted to hold on to my clothes for a bit longer. Väinämöinen and Zhang Guo Lao deposited their packs at the base of the root, to be picked up on the return trip. I slipped my wallet and cell phone into Väinämöinen’s pack, because rule number one of committing naughty shit is that you don’t take ID with you.

“You have arms out to sides, legs together,” Perun said, demonstrating with his own wingspan. We all did as he instructed, but Gunnar in particular looked tense, and his yellow eyes indicated he was struggling to keep his wolf under control. It was a control issue, period, because Perun was going to fly us up there. Thunder gods have to be able to push storms around, so summoning sufficient wind to carry us up the trunk was no problem for him. Keeping all six of us from twisting away unpredictably in the winds was a bit tougher. Imagine an extremely turbulent airplane ride without a seat belt. Or a barf bag. Or a plane. The first half mile was rough on us all, but Gunnar suffered especially, because wolves don’t like to fly.

During the flight, Väinämöinen’s beard flew up around his face, completely hiding it, and a steady stream of Finnish curses could be heard from behind the white curtain of hair. My earlier suspicion that he had weapons hidden under his beard was confirmed: Strapped to his tunic at the top of his chest were seven thin sheathed blades suitable for throwing. Four hilts could be drawn from the right, three from the left.

Perun was finally able to stabilize us and we flew steadily upward. He pushed himself ahead of us, the better to direct the winds at the top of the root, where we’d have to duck into Ratatosk’s hole and then rocket up the chute that would give us egress to the Plain of Idavoll. He gradually strung us out underneath one another in a tight little wind tunnel, which would also facilitate our travel up the root’s throat.

The plan was simple. Once on the Plain of Idavoll, we were going to follow the immortal strategy of Ebby Calvin “Nuke” LaLoosh and “announce [our] presence with authority.” Perun would send thunderstorms toward Asgard, and everyone would yell at Thor for failing to control them. He’d get angry over the loss of face and come barreling out to investigate the source of the trouble. Meanwhile, the frost giants would send shivering ice storms at Fólkvangr, and Freyja would harness her kittehs to ride out and put a stop to it. There would be no long march on Asgard to attack fortified positions. They’d come to us. That was the plan. It was simple, playing to our strengths and preying on the enemy’s weakness. What could go wrong?

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 na**d 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, na**d, 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.