Hammered

the prospect was daunting, but a deal was a deal: I had promised to steal a golden apple from Asgard in return for twelve dead Bacchants in Scottsdale. Laksha Kulasekaran, the Indian witch, had held up her end of the bargain, and now it was my turn. There was a chance I’d be able to pull off the theft without consequences, but there was no chance that I could renege on the deal and not face repercussions from Laksha.
    » It’ll be an adventure, for sure, « I told Granuaile.
    An adventure in squirrels, apparently. As I faced the stark reality of being so stunningly correct, gaping slack-jawed at the colossal size of the rodent above me on the trunk of the World Tree, an old candy bar jingle softly escaped my lips: » › Sometimes you feel like a nut ,‹ « I crooned, » › sometimes you don’t .‹ «
    I’d really hoped Ratatosk would be on the other root, or even hibernating by this time. It was November 25, Thanksgiving back in America, and Ratatosk looked like he’d already eaten Rhode Island’s share of turkeys. He was properly stuffed and ready to sleep until spring. But now that he’d seen me, even if he didn’t bite off my head with those choppers, he’d go tell somebody there was a man climbing up the root from Midgard, and then all of Asgard would know I was coming. It wouldn’t be much of a stealth mission after that.
    I had been climbing Yggdrasil without tiring, binding knees, boots, and jacket to the bark all along the way and drawing power from it through my hands, because it was the World Tree, after all, and synonymous with the earth once I’d shifted planes. While I was doing fine and not in any danger of falling off, I could not hope to match Ratatosk’s speed or agility. I moved like a glacier in comparison, and Asgard was still miles away up the root.
    He chattered angrily at me, and his breath blew my hair back, filling my nostrils with the scent of stale nuts. I’ve smelled far worse, but it wasn’t exactly fragrant either. There’s a reason Bath & Body Works doesn’t have a line of products called Huge Fucking Squirrel.
    I triggered a charm on my necklace that I call faerie specs, which allows me to view what’s happening in the magical spectrum and see how things are bound together. It also makes creating my own bindings a bit easier, since I can see in real time the knots I’m tying with my spells.
    Ratatosk, I saw, was very firmly bound to Yggdrasil. In many ways he was a branch of the tree, an extension of its identity, which I was dismayed to discover. Hurting the squirrel would hurt the tree, and I didn’t want to do that, but I didn’t see what choice I had—unless I could get him to pinky-swear he wouldn’t tell anyone I was on my way to steal one of Idunn’s golden apples.
    I focused my attention on the threads that represented his consciousness and gently bound them to mine until communication was possible. I could still speak Old Norse, which was widely understood throughout Europe until the end of the thirteenth century, and I was betting Ratatosk could speak it too, since he was a creation of Old Norse minds.
    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