Hammered

still entangled, as were Zhang Guo Lao and Týr; the other four Æsir had plowed into the frost giants, and several large blue corpses lay in the snow. I recognized two of the Norse by sight—Odin and Freyja. Odin wore the same spectacled helmet I’d seen him wear before, but the simple reindeer tunic over mail was gone. His leather armor was articulated with broad lames, tooled with Nordic runes, and doubtless enchanted to be as strong as plate without the heaviness or movement restrictions of metal.
    Freyja, for her part, was not quite as hot as I had expected. In fact, I wasn’t sure at first why the frost giants were so taken with her. She was fair, to be sure, but not excessively so. I could walk on a beach in Rio or the south of France and find dozens of women with more sizzle in their bacon. She was blond, her hair gathered in two long braids and falling out of a helmet wreathed in flowers. Over mail and a green leather cuirass she had draped a white cloak, fastened at the right shoulder with a brooch. Her belt was slim and golden, and thin flowering vines trailed down from it, resting on top of a green lamellar skirt. It was an odd juxtaposition of images, but she was an odd deity, equal parts fertility, beauty, and war. I think the fertility and war must have appealed to the frost giants every bit as much as the beauty—and the influence of war, no doubt, colored her appearance somewhat. Her jaw was just a bit too square, too mannish, to be called truly beautiful in my eyes. She worked for the frost giants, though.
    At a guess, one of the other Æsir might have been Odin’s son Vidar; his armor was a gloomy black studded with steel, and he had no beard on his chin. The last one, with the bow, was most likely Ullr, and he had parted his brown beard and braided it. Perun was attempting to reach Odin, but Ullr was behaving like a bodyguard and firing arrows at the Russian as fast as he could nock them. Some of these Perun had either dodged or swatted away, but I saw at least two shafts sticking out of his left arm.
    That was all I could take in with a frenzied glance around, because true battles don’t allow for leisurely vistas and the taking of tea. They are quick and savage and likely to end abruptly for all concerned.
    I was likely to end abruptly if I didn’t move. I was currently standing between a wounded boar and a wounded werewolf, either of which could churn me to gravy. Fragarach was going to be useless if I had to face Gullinbursti head-on. Even if I poked him between the eyes, he’d run over me on sheer inertia.
    I waited until the boar had a good head of steam, then I tossed Fragarach toward the fallen body of Freyr and shifted to a hound. I sprinted after my sword, and the boar swerved to pursue me. He was faster than I was—but not faster than Gunnar. The snarling werewolf took advantage of the angle I’d provided and leapt onto the boar’s back, his claws digging savagely into the creature and knocking him off my tail. The boar squealed and tried to buck the werewolf off, but Gunnar was all tooth and claw and methodically tore chunks out of the beast while ropes of intestines kept sliding out of his own belly.
    A cheerful bark welled in my throat as I saw Gunnar rip huge, vital, pulsating things out of the boar—those had to be important. But it turned into a whine as the boar toppled fatally to the earth with a final peal of anguish, crushing Gunnar underneath his massive bulk in the process. I ran over to where he fell, ready to shift back to human form to try to lift the boar off my friend, but Gunnar was undergoing the shift himself—his final one, bereft of pain for this time only. Wounded beyond his wolf’s ability to heal, he expired, and his face smoothed with a peace he’d never possessed in life.
    I tried to scream » No! « but forgot I was a hound. It came out as a strangled yip.
    I’ve had friends die on the battlefield before—more than that, for my wife, Tahirah, died on the battlefield—and it always has the same effect on me. There is a quick stab of sorrow, but it is quickly shunted to the back of my mind until I have leisure to indulge it; my Celtic rage is kindled to white-hot temperatures in the meantime, which only the blood of enemies can ever hope to quench. Gunnar’s passing flipped a switch inside my head, and I turned into the Celtic warrior—a fearless, unreasoning creature that kills until he cannot kill anymore. A red haze clouded my vision and