Hammered [3] Read Online Free PDF Page A

the idea of aborting the mission. It had a nice light flavor to it, a piquant savor of surprise. I could try my hand at being unemployed in Greenland. Maybe that would keep me off the radar. Laksha would never find me there, I felt sure.
    But the Norse probably would. And Oberon would be miserable. There was the bitter aftertaste.
    Still, I had time to think of something better; I had until New Year’s to get the golden apple. Laksha wouldn’t start looking for me until then, and that would allow me to plan a thorough disappearance.
    Except that then I would be running from both Laksha and the Norse. Whether I liked it or not, killing the Norns in self-defense made me an enemy of the whole pantheon. Stealing an apple at this point could hardly make it worse. That being the case, I decided to see the mission through and at least expunge my debt to Laksha.
    I wiped Moralltach clean on one of the Norns’ gowns and resheathed it before squatting down and sinking my fingers through fallen leaves into the springy turf of Asgard, which was surprisingly akin to a moor—at least in the immediate vicinity of Yggdrasil. The Norns’ bodies had turned sickeningly black. I spoke to the earth through my tattoos and it acknowledged me, though it felt strained and far away, as if it had to struggle through a layer of cheesecloth. Obediently it parted to let the bodies of the Norns sink into its peaty depths, and obediently it closed again, leaving no trace of what had happened tothem. That chore done, I scoured the earth around the base of the tree to find a few small remnants of Ratatosk, the finest of squirrels. I was glad I had left him feeling good about himself. I carefully placed the fragments of bone in a pouch attached to my belt. Later I would say words for him.
    The Norns would be missed when the gods held their council in the morning, so I had until then to steal a golden apple and get out of Dodge. I couldn’t afford to linger, but I took a moment to look up at the towering trunk of Yggdrasil and fix in my memory my avenue of escape. Its size beggared the imagination; extending for miles in either direction, it gave the illusion of being an immense wooden wall rather than a cylinder. I assumed that there must be another hole in the trunk somewhere that Ratatosk used to access the root that led to Niflheim. A few minutes’ jog counterclockwise found it, and I noted that it looked a bit larger and more well used than the other one. Satisfied that I wouldn’t confuse the two holes and take the wrong exit home, I followed the directions Ratatosk had given me—not to Gladsheim but rather directly to Idunn’s hall. I ran west and slightly south toward the northernmost range of the Asgard Mountains, and if I got there after nightfall, which seemed likely, I could hope for Gullinbursti’s mane to act as a homing beacon. I leeched a wee bit of power from the earth with every step to keep myself fresh and tireless. I’d probably arrive there as Odin was working the gods into a froth over rumors of betrayal in Svartálfheim and invasion from a Roman god. I’d kicked the Norse anthill a good one, and now the gods would come spilling out, seeking something to bite.

Chapter 3
    In many ways, I’m disappointed that
Star Trek
never became a religion. The archetypal skeleton was there, but they never strove to make it anything more than a TV show. If they’d capitalized on it, then its adherents would have orders from the nebulous gods of the Federation to explore new worlds and boldly go where no one has gone before; the crew of the
Enterprise
could have been minor gods—angels, perhaps—guiding us through our personal frontiers on a daily basis. Spock could have been the angel of logic on your left shoulder, pointing out fallacious reasoning and suggesting courses of action based on mountains of evidence, while Kirk could have been the angel of emotion on your right shoulder, exhorting you to gird your loins, check your gut, and