Stefan handled the sword like a toy now. He whipped it around in a circle of steel, like a lawn-mower blade.
Thor stopped charging. He drew back mighty Mjolnir, and there was no way he could possibly miss now. Not with Stefan basically filling the entire hallway.
“Esk-ma pateet!” Jarrah yelled.
Mjolnir flew.
A bright turquoise-and-gold serpentine creature smacked into the hammer in midair. Mjolnir went flying harmlessly past Stefan, but knocked Xiao into a wall with a sickening crunch.
“Hey!” Stefan yelled. “I promised to get her back safe!”
He charged Thor—who was still waiting on Mjolnir to return—and stabbed him with the sword.
The sword went into Thor’s side and opened him up like a gutted trout. . . . Well, it would have gone straight into Thor’s side and opened him up like a gutted trout except that Stefan was shrinking. And he was shrinking even faster than he had grown. So instead of the trout-gutting move, it was a thigh-stabbing move.
Blood sprayed. It sprayed like a fire hose because there’s no such thing as a berserker without high blood pressure.
“AAAARRGH!” Thor cried.
“Yeah, try that on,” Stefan said. But it was less than effective as a triumphant gloat because he was getting a bit of a chipmunk sound in his voice as he shriveled like cashmere in a hot dryer.
Thor was yelling and dancing around in pain, holding the wound in his thigh. It was a good thing he was distracted, because Stefan was now just about hobbit sized, and that whole scene where the hobbit stabs the king of the Nazgûl in the foot is fine in a book or a movie, but this was real life.
“Make him grow again!” Mack cried.
“You can’t repeat a spell in less than twenty-four hours!”
“Huh,” Stefan said in an adorable little voice.
“Plan B: ruuuun!” Mack cried.
Xiao had recovered. She swooped low, snatched tiny Stefan up, and they all pelted past Thor, who was really being kind of a big baby about the wound in his thigh.
Mack, Jarrah, and Dietmar raced after her. Nott swept in behind them, providing a sort of shield from whatever Thor might throw their way next.
The observatory was just ahead. What exactly that meant for Mack, he wasn’t sure.
Chapter Thirty
NOT VERY LONG AGO . . .
Paddy “Nine Iron” Trout grew old in the service of the Nafia and the Pale Queen. The world changed around him, going from bad to worse. Then back to bad. Then worse again.
He lived through wars and plagues and many terrible hard times. He survived them all. He even survived the departure of Simon Cowell from American Idol.
After long, long lives, his parents died.
First his father, who drank himself to death. No, not whiskey: sow’s milk. It was the sow’s milk of August. Never drink sow’s milk in August. Sh! You don’t need to know why: just don’t.
Then, at the age of 121, Paddy’s mother died of a broken hearth.
As you know, a hearth is a fireplace. And in County Grind all the cooking was done in the hearth. Mother Trout was getting quite old, and a little forgetful. She had prepared oat-stuffed bladder a thousand times before. But this time—who knows what may have distracted the poor dear—she forgot to pierce the bladder. In the heat of the hearth the bladder swelled, swelled, bigger and bigger, and with no way for the oat vapor to be released, it exploded. The hearth blew apart, killing Mother Trout instantly.
Paddy came to her funeral.
Well, actually he was on the way to kill a guy over in County Toyle and he thought, You know, while I’m here, I could finally kill Liam. That would have been a twofer.
But when he arrived at the old house, he saw the terrible damage done, and in his heart he knew he couldn’t kill Liam. Because with the house all destroyed, the farm was worthless. The last thing Paddy wanted to do was inherit a worthless farm. Far better to let Liam live out his miserable, impoverished days on a run-down oat farm.