by Rick Riordan
TYPE: God
HOME WORLD: Asgard
APPEARANCE: Bulging tattooed biceps, mountainous shoulders, massive chest, and carrot-colored hair. Wears a rarely washed sleeveless leather jerkin and leather pants, a chain-mail vest, a magic belt, and iron gauntlets. His finger knuckles are also tattooed.
FAMILY: Thor sired many children; his favorite sons are Magni and Modi. He had other offspring with his wife, the goddess Sif.
BEST KNOWN FOR: Being the god of thunder. He has a weekday named after him. His creative cusswords and explosive farts are almost as legendary as his strength, with which he protects humankind. Binge-watches Midgard television procedurals in his spare time.
FAVORITE WEAPON: His mountain-crushing hammer, Mjolnir, which also has the ability to pick up Wi-Fi and broadcast television in high resolution. If he were ever to lose it, he’d miss out on his favorite shows. Oh, and also, the Nine Worlds would be in serious trouble. He has a staff made of giant-forged iron as a backup.
ANIMAL COMPANIONS: Tanngnjóstr (meaning “Teeth Grinder”; you can call him Otis) and Tanngrisnr (meaning “Snarler”; just use Marvin), two talking goats that can be killed, cooked, eaten, and then resurrected. Convenient when you are hungry while on the road.
Growing up, I never suspected I was the son of the Norse god of thunder. Why would I? I was born in America—West Virginia, North Carolina, I’m not exactly sure where—’round about 1840 or so. Oh, did I mention? My mamma was a slave. That means I was a slave, too.
And my daddy? In my heart, he was the man my mamma was married to, the man who raised me and loved me like his own. But as it turns out, we weren’t blood kin.
When I was born, Thor sent me an anonymous gift—Mjolnir Junior, a tiny version of his own hammer, though I didn’t know what it was then. There was enough of him in me that I took to that hammer like a duck to water, which is to say I pounded the living daylights out of anything and everything. (I ate, farted, and snored like Thor, too. Still do. No cussing, though. My mamma raised me right.)
As I grew, so did that hammer. I reckon that should have been a clue that it was magic. But greater things were on my mind in those days. The Civil War, for one, and later, the end of slavery. I was in my twenties when I became a freeman. With my mamma’s blessing in my ears and her kiss on my forehead, I stuck my hammer in my belt and set off to make my way in the world.
I’d been traveling for a while when I met up with a man. Biggest fella I’d ever seen. Tall and wide, with tattooed arms the size of tree trunks and shoulders like granite. Matted red hair and a thick beard to match. One whiff of him, though, and I was ready to hightail it in the other direction. But something stopped me. He had a hammer in his hand. A hammer just like mine.
So I sat with him by his fire. We shared a meal of goat stew and a mug of a drink he called mead. (He called the stew Otis. I found out why when I got to Valhalla.) We traded stories. He told a whopper about some thief named Thrym who once stole his hammer. He played a trick on Thrym to get it back. Pretended to be the woman Thrym wanted to marry—bridal gown and all! Just before the ceremony, Thrym gave his “bride” the stolen hammer as a token of his love. Thor grabbed it and bashed Thrym in the head. Took out the groomsmen, the guests, and the cake, too.
You might think hearing that story would put me on guard. But for some reason, I trusted the big fella. And he trusted me. When I asked if I could try his hammer, he let out a snort of laughter punctuated with a colossal fart. “Be my guest!”
I passed out from the strain of trying to lift it. When I came to, he and his hammer were gone. But he left a note behind. Trouble is, back then, I couldn’t read. So I just tucked the paper in my pocket.
Not long after, my hammering skill got me a job driving steel spikes for the railroad. Mile after mile, month after month, I pounded track into place. I was the best worker of all—until the day a smooth-talking, scar-faced salesman rode into town. He was selling steam-powered drills he claimed were faster and stronger than any steel-driving man. I couldn’t read, but I saw the writing on the wall. His machine was going to put me and plenty of others out of work.
I had no choice but to try to show him up. I bet him that, in one day’s time, my hammer and I could lay more track, and through a mountain no less, than his machine. If he won, the railroad would buy his machines. If I won, he would leave and never come back. He took my bet.
That night, my redheaded friend showed up at my tent. “John Henry,” he said, “I know this salesman. He’s a [expletives deleted] trickster, and [expletives deleted] tricksters don’t play fair. So I’m going to lend you something to even the odds.”
He took off his belt and looped it around my waist. The minute it touched my skin, power surged through my veins. He laid his hammer in my hands. This time, I wielded it with ease.
At dawn, I strode toward the tunnel. That scar-faced salesman raised an eyebrow when he saw the hammer. “Well,” he said, “this just got interesting.”
Here’s what happened next: We competed. I won. And then I died. I landed here in Valhalla with the hammer in my hand—and the redheaded man’s note in my pocket. A pretty lady on a strange smoky-looking horse read it to me:
This man is my son. Treat him right. If you don’t, I’ll bash your heads in.
It was signed Thor. And that’s how I learned who my real daddy was.
TYPE: God, born of two giants
HOME WORLD: Asgard
APPEARANCE: Messy hair in shades of red, yellow, and brown. Handsome except for a horribly scarred face and lips marred by pierce holes.
FAMILY: The father of Hel; Fenris Wolf; the World Serpent, Jormungand; Narvi and Vali, among others. The mother of the eight-legged steed, Sleipnir. (How’s that for dysfunctional?)
BEST KNOWN FOR: Being a trickster, magician, and shape-shifter. This smooth-talker is very dangerous. Currently, as punishment for engineering the death of the god Balder, he is lashed to boulders and tortured by venom dripping onto his face from a serpent’s mouth. Still, he somehow manages to get around and cause trouble throughout the worlds.
That Loki, he’s some kind of handsome, huh? Until you see the scars on his face and the little pinholes above and below his lips. Betcha don’t know how he got those holes. Cop a seat on that boulder, and I’ll tell you about it.
So Loki, one day he’s bored. He breaks into Thor’s place to muck around with the thunder god’s stuff. Not too smart, if you ask me. Anyway, Thor’s not home, but his wife, Sif, is. Now Sif, she’s this gorgeous platinum blonde. Well, not platinum so much as gold. Real pretty hair, though, and wicked long. Loki sneaks up behind her with a knife. She doesn’t hear him, because she’s asleep. He cuts off her hair, which was a rotten thing to do on account of she was so proud of it.
She wakes up, sees she’s pretty much bald, and starts crying her eyes out. Who walks in then, but Thor. Let me tell you, he’s not the brightest coal in the kiln, if you get my drift. But even he can make out what’s got Sif all upset. I mean, Loki is standing there with a knife in one hand and Sif’s hair in the other. Calling Captain Obvious, am I right?
So Loki’s caught red-handed. But he’s a persuasive guy. He tells Thor, who is ready to pound him to a pulp with his fists, that he’ll get Sif a wig that’ll look even better than her real hair. Thor says okay, because what else is he going do, let his wife go around bald and crying? Not hardly.
Only one place Loki can get a fine piece of craftsmanship like that, and that’s right here in Nidavellir. So he hops on the tree at Asgard, changes branches in Alfheim, and gets off at Nabbi’s Tavern. He asks around and finds a couple of dwarves—Ivaldi’s boys—to take the job. They make Sif a wig, and just to show off, throw in a magic spear and a ship that folds up so small it fits in a pocket.
You think Loki hoofs it back to Thor’s palace with the goods? Nah. He’s having a good time in Nidavellir. That’s when me and my bro Sindri come into the story. Loki saunters into our shop and starts poking around. He shows us th
e wig, the spear, and the ship, and bets his head—no joke, his head—we can’t make anything that good. Sindri and me take the bet, because we know our stuff is insanely awesome.
So we’re firing up the kiln, hammering some metal, kind of showing off for the god. He watches for a few minutes, then says he’s going back to Asgard. What he really does? Turns into a horsefly and gets all up in our faces while we’re working. We had, like, no clue it was him bugging us, but it didn’t even matter. What we made rocked. First thing we pumped out was this boar with golden bristles that could run wicked fast. Second thing was a gold ring that makes eight copies of itself every ninth day. How fantastic is that? But the best thing we made was this hammer that always hits its target and boomerangs back to its owner.
So we bring the stuff to Asgard, looking for Loki, because he never showed to collect. We’re confident, right, so we also bring a bag to put Loki’s head in. Not that we think he’s really going to pay up. Surprise, surprise, even though all the gods say the boar and the ring and the hammer are the coolest things ever and we totally win the bet, Loki tries to squirm out of the deal.
“I just promised you could take my head off,” Loki says. “But I didn’t say anything about my neck. Don’t touch my neck!”
How are we supposed to cut a guy’s head off without touching his neck?
“You’re a cheat and a lying weasel,” Sindri says to him. “So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going make sure you can’t talk anyone else into making stuff for you.”
Sindri and I jump him. Loki doesn’t see it coming and falls like a ton of bricks. The other gods, they just look the other way while Sindri takes out his needle and thread and—well, you’ve seen Loki’s mouth. Sure, he can talk now. Eventually he managed to tug the stitches out of his lips. But he wasn’t saying a single thing when we left that day.
In case you’re wondering, we gave the boar to Frey, the ring to Odin, and the hammer to Thor. You don’t hear much about the first two, but yeah…the hammer we made is that hammer.
TYPE: God
HOME WORLD: First Vanaheim, then Asgard after the Aesir-Vanir War; now rules over Alfheim
APPEARANCE: Blue-eyed, blond, and absurdly good-looking in a tan, unshaven, outdoorsy kind of way. Leans toward flannel shirts, well-worn jeans, and hiking boots. Radiates warmth, peace, and contentment.
FAMILY: Son of Njord, the sea god; twin brother of Freya; husband of the frost giantess Gerd
BEST KNOWN FOR: Being the god of spring and summer, and the lord of Alfheim. He’s sunshine on a cloudy day. When it’s cold outside, he’s the month of May.
FAVORITE WEAPON: Sumarbrander, the Sword of Summer (yay!). Unfortunately, he gave it away (boo!). A deer antler will do in a pinch.
ANIMAL COMPANION: When he isn’t sailing his ship, which can be folded up to fit in a pocket and always has a favorable breeze, he can be seen riding a shining dwarf-made boar.
JACK
I’m Jack, the Sword of Summer, Sumarbrander, Blade of Frey.
That is, I was his, until he tossed me away.
FREY
Jack, I did you wrong. You know I’m feeling the guilt.
JACK
Yeah, right. Forget you, man. Talk to my hilt!
FREY
Come on, Slice! Give me a chance. At least let me explain
why I passed you off to Skirnir—
JACK
I know why. You were insane.
You sat on Odin’s throne to search for Freya, your lost sister.
A giantess caught your eye. So much for Freya. You just dissed her.
FREY
Gerd was gorgeous. Total hottie. I dream of her still.
Shining face, lovely hair—
JACK
I think I’m going to be ill.
FREY
I know you’ve suffered, Blade of Frey, Sword of Summer, Sumarbrander.
JACK
The worst is yet to come, when I’m with my new commander.
FREY
You mean Surt, at Ragnarok.
JACK
The Black One of Muspellheim.
On the day of doom, he’ll wield me—
FREY
—and free the Wolf. Chaos time.
JACK
Boiling seas. Bloodred skies.
FREY
Gods will vanish. Giants rise.
JACK
I’ll be sad to see you go.
FREY
Will you really?
JACK
Really? No.
FREY
Destiny is destiny. We all have our parts to play.
JACK
I’ll act mine now then, Nature Boy,
and say, “See you later, Frey.”
FREY
There’ll never be another
quite like you, Sword of Summer.
Our paths may cross again.
If not…good-bye, old friend.
TYPE: Goddess
HOME WORLD: Originally from Vanaheim, sent to Asgard after the Aesir-Vanir War, now back in Vanaheim
APPEARANCE: Bathed in and emanates golden warmth. Long blond hair braided in a single thick plait. Lithe figure clad in a white halter top, mid-length skirt, and a gold belt. Carries a knife and key ring on the belt.
FAMILY: Daughter of Njord; twin sister of Frey
BEST KNOWN FOR: Presiding over Folkvanger, where half the slain heroes spend their afterlife. Sheds tears of red gold. Expert practitioner of alf seidr. Has a passion for love, pleasure, and fine dwarven-crafted jewelry. Her signature piece, Brisingamen, is a very sparkly ruby-and-diamond lacework necklace of unsurpassed beauty.
When Helgi scheduled an interview for me with the lovely goddess Freya, I found myself wishing I’d spent more time battling in the fields and less dining on slabs of Saehrimnir. But then I recalled that because I was dead, my physique wouldn’t change no matter how much I exercised. I settled for spritzing myself liberally with my favorite lady-pleasing cologne, Thane for Men.
I was about to make my way through Yggdrasil to Vanaheim when Thor stopped me, shoved an envelope in my hand, and ordered me to deliver it to Freya. Naturally, I was only too happy to help.
With my raven scribe at my side, I arrived in the throne room of Sessrumnir, Freya’s mansion, at the appointed hour. Instead of the goddess, however, I found a scruffy-looking individual wearing a multihued short-sleeved garment bearing the words KEEP CALM AND FOLKVANGER ON lounging on the dais.
MAN: Whoa, dude, are you supposed to be in here?
SNORRI STURLUSON: Yes. The goddess Freya herself is to honor me with her presence.
M: Cool. I’m Miles. And judging by your body odor [leans close and sniffs SS], I’m guessing you’re a Fart Elf.
SS [indignant]: I am a thane.
M: Sorry, my bad. Well, Athane, I’m not sure when Freya’s going to be home. Can I get you a beverage item or some salty snackage while you’re waiting?
I was saved from being rude by the arrival of Freya in her cat-drawn chariot. She was every bit as radiant as I remembered her. With her was a young woman—newly deceased, by her bewildered look.
FREYA: Snorri, darling. It’s been too long. [Air-kisses SS.] Mwah. Mwah. Miles, be a love and take—what was your name again, dear?
WOMAN: Ag-Agnes.
F: Hmm. [Taps finger on lips.] Are you quite certain Ag-Agnes is the name you want for the rest of your death?
AG-AGNES: What do you mean the rest of my death?
F: Maybe something a little perkier. Let’s see. [Strokes cats.] I think Kitty will do nicely. That’s what we’ll call you, my dear.
KITTY: Who are you people?
F: Miles, explain everything to Kitty, will you?
M: I’m on it. [Fires a finger gun at SS.] Catch ya later, Athane. Here, Kitty, Kitty, Kitty!
K: Seriously. What is going on?
F: Oh, darling, don’t you see? You’re dead.
K: I’m dead?
M [grabbing Kitty in a headlock
and giving her knuckle noogies]: Come on, Kit-Kat, it’s not so bad!
K: I’m dead?
[Miles and Kitty depart.]
F: Sweet girl. She makes designer eyewear. [Slips on bejeweled cat-eyed spectacles.] When she died, I just knew I had to have her for Folkvanger.
SS: Valhalla’s loss, I’m sure. How did she perish?
F: A gas explosion. She died while dragging someone from the fire. Speaking of gas [sniffs SS], you’re rather pungent.
SS: Am I?
F: Yes. Do take a step back, dear. My eyes are starting to water red-gold.
SS: My apologies. Before I forget, I have a message for you from Thor.
F [reads Thor’s note*]: Oh, Odin’s Eye, not again. Snorri, sweetie, we’ll have to reschedule. Thor needs to borrow something of mine right away. Can you deliver it to him?
SS: Your wish is my command, my lady. What am I to bring?
F: My magic cloak of falcon feathers. He has to fly to Jotunheim to search for…well, I’m not at liberty to say.
SS: Might I use the cloak to return to Asgard?
F: I’d like nothing better than to allow that.
SS: Wonderful!
F: But no. I’m concerned your odor would negatively affect the feathers. You understand, of course. Carry it at arm’s length, will you? Off you go now, there’s a love.
As of publication time, my interview with the dazzling goddess had not been rescheduled.
TYPE: God
HOME WORLDS: Alfheim and Asgard
APPEARANCE: Nice-looking, if a bit shifty-eyed
BEST KNOWN FOR: Being Frey’s servant and messenger. He received the Sword of Summer in exchange for promising that he would convince Gerd, a frost giantess, to marry Frey. He was also sent to the dwarves to instruct them to make the magic rope, Gleipnir, that would bind Fenris Wolf.
It’s not every day I get my hands on a fine piece of magical weaponry. So when Frey offered to give me Sumarbrander in exchange for going to Jotunheim to talk to Gerd for him, you’d better believe I said yes.