Hammered

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:
    » Stop it, Thor, that tickles! «
    That was calculated to make him throw his hammer at me. Leif and I knew from experience how the male psyche works: If one weapon doesn’t work, switch to something else and try to shove it sideways through an orifice far too small to allow for comfortable entry.
    The clouds above exploded with Thor’s rage, and I dimly heard Leif cry behind me, » Get ready, Atticus! Here it comes! « I could see a pale smudge against the clouds now that must be Thor in his chariot, but Leif could already see him in Hi-Def. » Now! « Leif shouted, telling me that Thor had thrown his hammer and that target lock was acquired.
    That was my cue. I tossed Fragarach into the snow and leapt after it, triggering the charm that bound my form to a sea otter in the process. Mjöllnir’s targeting spell was dissolved in that instant, and simple physics held sway on the hammer now. A couple of cute otter hops brought me to my sword and I switched back to human.
    » Come on, Leif! « I shouted as I picked Fragarach out of the snow.
    The vampire was already out of the Finn’s seeming and paces away by the time I’d finished speaking. He had Moralltach gripped in his right hand and a savage grin on his face, fangs out.
    » It’s hammer time, « I said, and then winced. » Sorry. «
    » For what? «
    Mjöllnir plowed into the snow in front of us before I could explain the brief popularity of MC Hammer.
    Mjöllnir has a spell on it that Odin’s spear, Gungnir, does not: It’s enchanted to return to the hand of he who throws it. We were counting on it.
    » Grab on! « Leif said, and I promptly dropped into the snow and wrapped my left arm around his right leg. Leif reached out with his left hand and grasped the handle of Mjöllnir, which, after contact with the earth, was already turning back in Thor’s direction. We were abruptly yanked skyward, wrenchingly so, and gaining speed. But we were headed toward a Grade A asshole who had no idea that a crime he’d committed ages ago was finally coming back to haunt him with a thousand years’ violent interest.
    Thor wasn’t going to be my business; I was after the Valkyries. Twice now they had tried to snuff me without so much as a verbal challenge, and I knew they’d do the same to the rest of the party if I gave them the chance. The problem was, there were twelve of them on flying horses and only one of me, and I was hitching a ride butt naked on an airborne vampire’s leg, with nothing more than a sword. Soon the vampire would engage in battle with a thunder god, and I had to be gone by then.
    My aura was the problem. If I laid hands on Mjöllnir, my amulet would most likely snuff the return spell and all other magic and leave us with a regular hammer. That would deny Thor a powerful weapon, but it would still leave us with twelve airborne Valkyries who would doom our entire party as soon as they spotted us. Curiously, though we could be shortly facing the entire host of Asgard, it was the Valkyries we feared the most, because they could choose the slain. Therefore, Gunnar had suggested this more risky stratagem during the previous night’s planning session with the frost giants. Thor’s death was the ultimate objective, but killing the Valkyries before they could pronounce sentence was the top priority.
    I had a single glimpse of Thor before I had to direct my attention elsewhere. He was not the clean-shaven man Americans were used to seeing in comic books. A gnarly blond beard covered his jaw but did not extend down to his neck. There was no winged helmet, or any helmet at all. He had a thin strip of rawhide tied around his forehead to keep his long hair out of his eyes. He wore a mail shirt and a red tunic over it, belted with Megingjörd, which doubled his already prodigious strength. Járngreiper, his iron gloves, clutched the reins of his chariot as if he imagined they were our wee, stringy necks. His face was so red it practically matched his tunic; it was scrunched into constipated fury. He could not believe I was