Action & Adventure
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Hammered: Book Three of The Iron Druid Chronicles
In the third novel in the New York Times bestselling Iron Druid Chronicles, two-thousand year-old Druid Atticus O'Sullivan must take down the Norse god of thunder himself.
"A page-turning and often laugh-out-loud-funny caper through a mix of the modern and the mythic."-Ari Marmell, author of The Warlord's Legacy
When the naysayers say, "Nay, don't mess with the man who wields the lightning bolts," ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the ancient Druid Atticus O'Sullivan would nod along and agree. But when multiple people convince him that Thor, the Norse god of thunder, needs to get got, he thinks maybe this is the one time he should ignore the advice of the wise-even if those sages include deities who tend not to be wrong about very much.
Because Thor has undeniably done somebody wrong-many somebodies, in fact, and Atticus doesn't think he can simply dismiss it as someone else's problem. Plus he has made promises that he doesn't feel he can break, promises that will take him away from Midgard to the planes of the Norse, where his actions will create ripples throughout the nine realms.
On top of that there's a turf war brewing amongst the vampires, a zealous group of mystic hunters called the Hammers of God running rampant, and a pack of werewolves who very much don't wish to see their leader taken off to Valhalla.
In order to avoid being the nail underneath the hammer Mjöllnir, Atticus will need every ounce of Irish luck he can muster, and maybe the help of a few deities in his corner.
Don't miss any of The Iron Druid Chronicles:
HOUNDED | HEXED | HAMMERED | TRICKED | TRAPPED | HUNTED | SHATTERED | STAKED | SCOURGED | BESIEGED
"A page-turning and often laugh-out-loud-funny caper through a mix of the modern and the mythic."-Ari Marmell, author of The Warlord's Legacy
When the naysayers say, "Nay, don't mess with the man who wields the lightning bolts," ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the ancient Druid Atticus O'Sullivan would nod along and agree. But when multiple people convince him that Thor, the Norse god of thunder, needs to get got, he thinks maybe this is the one time he should ignore the advice of the wise-even if those sages include deities who tend not to be wrong about very much.
Because Thor has undeniably done somebody wrong-many somebodies, in fact, and Atticus doesn't think he can simply dismiss it as someone else's problem. Plus he has made promises that he doesn't feel he can break, promises that will take him away from Midgard to the planes of the Norse, where his actions will create ripples throughout the nine realms.
On top of that there's a turf war brewing amongst the vampires, a zealous group of mystic hunters called the Hammers of God running rampant, and a pack of werewolves who very much don't wish to see their leader taken off to Valhalla.
In order to avoid being the nail underneath the hammer Mjöllnir, Atticus will need every ounce of Irish luck he can muster, and maybe the help of a few deities in his corner.
Don't miss any of The Iron Druid Chronicles:
HOUNDED | HEXED | HAMMERED | TRICKED | TRAPPED | HUNTED | SHATTERED | STAKED | SCOURGED | BESIEGED
Editorial Reviews
Praise for The Iron Druid Chronicles
"[Kevin] Hearne is a terrific storyteller with a great snarky wit. . . . Neil Gaiman's American Gods meets Jim Butcher's Harry Dresden."-SFFWorld
"[The Iron Druid books] are clever, fast-paced and a good escape."-Boing Boing
"Hearne understands the two main necessities of good fantasy stories: for all the wisecracks and action, he never loses sight of delivering a sense of wonder to his readers, and he understands that magic use always comes with a price. Highly recommended."-The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction
"Superb . . . plenty of quips and zap-pow-bang fighting."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"Celtic mythology and an ancient Druid with modern attitude mix it up in the Arizona desert in this witty new fantasy series."-Kelly Meding, author of Chimera
"[Atticus is] a strong modern hero with a long history and the wit to survive in the twenty-first century. . . . A snappy narrative voice . . . a savvy urban fantasy adventure."-Library Journal
"A page-turning and often laugh-out-loud funny caper through a mix of the modern and the mythic."-Ari Marmell, author of The Warlord's Legacy
"Outrageously fun."-The Plain Dealer
"Kevin Hearne breathes new life into old myths, creating a world both eerily familiar and startlingly original."-Nicole Peeler, author of Tempest Rising
"[Kevin] Hearne is a terrific storyteller with a great snarky wit. . . . Neil Gaiman's American Gods meets Jim Butcher's Harry Dresden."-SFFWorld
"[The Iron Druid books] are clever, fast-paced and a good escape."-Boing Boing
"Hearne understands the two main necessities of good fantasy stories: for all the wisecracks and action, he never loses sight of delivering a sense of wonder to his readers, and he understands that magic use always comes with a price. Highly recommended."-The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction
"Superb . . . plenty of quips and zap-pow-bang fighting."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"Celtic mythology and an ancient Druid with modern attitude mix it up in the Arizona desert in this witty new fantasy series."-Kelly Meding, author of Chimera
"[Atticus is] a strong modern hero with a long history and the wit to survive in the twenty-first century. . . . A snappy narrative voice . . . a savvy urban fantasy adventure."-Library Journal
"A page-turning and often laugh-out-loud funny caper through a mix of the modern and the mythic."-Ari Marmell, author of The Warlord's Legacy
"Outrageously fun."-The Plain Dealer
"Kevin Hearne breathes new life into old myths, creating a world both eerily familiar and startlingly original."-Nicole Peeler, author of Tempest Rising
Readers Top Reviews
Kindle Nick Bret
Bit of a dogs breakfast of a story this one. The author seems determined to have every possible god appear in this tale and so you end up with a mish-mash of the numerous superstitions available. Once again we get the ideology of the American Irish being displayed with all its lack of cultural awareness. Try asking for an Irish Car Bomb in the Falls Road and see how amused the natives are at your wit. While Oberon the dog continues to work well as comic relief this is not enough to make me want to continue with the series.
JoycetheVoiceKind
Kevin Hearne is a brilliant story teller. I read the series a few years ago and have bought the first three for my youngest 30yr old son to read. I loved the ongoing magical saga based loosely on Norse mythology. Great entertainment with loads of humour interspersed too. Highly recommended.
RandalJoycetheVoi
I really like the Iron Druid books, featuring Atticus, an ancient druid who looks about nineteen and runs a bookstore in Tempe Arizona. He has a quirky Irish Wolfhound called Oberon, with whom he has a telepathic link, and an apprentice Druid called Granuaile. Anyhow, this time Atticus is in trouble after making a couple of promises in exchange for help in the previous book. Both involve trips to Asgard. The first, to retrieve a golden apple, is bad enough, and leads to unintended fatalities. The second promise, to his vampire lawyer friend, Leif, is a game changer. He's promised that he will help Leif kill the Norse god Thor. Thor, apparently is a dangerous and destructive arse, and could do with a good killing, so Atticus Leif and Gunnar the werewolf end up with a team, a Russian thunder god, a Finnish magician and a Chinese immortal, all with good reasons to want Thor dead. But you can't go up against one Norse god without going up against the whole pantheon. There's a lot of collateral damage to the denizens of Asgard and Atticus is warned twice that killing Thor will have extremely bad repercussions, but unfortunately the team members are determined to finish the job I confess I didn't enjoy this book as much as the first two, and I was trying to work out why. Less Oberon, maybe? In places the pacing seems a little slow, and I didn't particularly connect with the new characters in the god-killing team, especially when there's a long break while everyone tells their own story. In previous books Atticus has been defending himself against beings who want him dead, maybe that's why it didn't feel quite right that this time he was going after someone (a god, no less) without a personal grudge. He knows it's not right, but he's made a promise to a friend and he's going to keep it. I presume the next book will deal with the fallout from Atticus and company's trip to Asgard.
Loves FictionRand
I confess that I had a difficult time with this storyline, hence the four stars. Leif is not the friend I thought him to be and what he does and expects is incomprehensible, that Atticus keeps his oath, especially after receiving not one, but two warnings of dire consequences, was very difficult for me. I like that his word is his bond and I am anxious to see what happens in the next installment. I hope for a storyline that perhaps justifies some of what happened in this story.
WilliamSneaky Bur
I really enjoyed books 1&2, but this was hard to stomach. I get that Atticus needed to fulfill his promise and go to Asgard to get some magic apples - I get that. But I didn't expect to actually see it happen. This book could have been summed up in one paragraph, so that the reader could have gotten back with the happy-go-lucky 2100 year old Druid. Instead he decides to write a detailed account of Atticus with Asgard while leaving the characters we love behind on earth, leaving us to labor through ridiculous imaginary conversations amongst Cpt. Kirk, Spock, and Attitcus. And yeah, I'm not a Trekkie, but I do have some Trek-sense. Spock would not be much into cursing. "It's just not logical." Anyway, this book was exactly what I expected would happen: that Hearne would jump the shark. So now I feel like Padme: "Hearne, you're taking me to place that I cannot go" - a ridiculous line for a ridiculous book.
Short Excerpt Teaser
Chapter 1
According to popular imagination, squirrels are supposed to be adorable. As they scurry about on this tree branch or that trunk, people point at them and say, "Awww, how cuuuuute!" with their voices turning sugary and spiraling up into falsetto ecstasy. But I'm here to tell you that they're cute only so long as they're small enough to step on. Once you're facing a giant bloody squirrel the size of a cement truck, they lose the majority of their charm.
I wasn't especially surprised to be staring up at a set of choppers as tall as my fridge, twitching whiskers like bullwhips, and tractor-tire eyes staring me down like volcanic bubbles of India ink: I was simply horrified at being proven so spectacularly right.
My apprentice, Granuaile, had argued I was imagining the impossible before I left her back in Arizona. "No, Atticus," she'd said, "all the literature says the only way you can get into Asgard is the Bifrost Bridge. The Eddas, the skaldic poems, everything agrees that Bifrost is it."
"Of course that's what the literature says," I replied, "but that's just the propaganda of the gods. The Eddas also tell you the truth of the matter if you read carefully. Ratatosk is the key to the back door of Asgard."
Granuaile gazed at me, bemused, unsure that she'd heard me correctly. "The squirrel that lives on the World Tree?" she asked.
"Precisely. He manically scrambles back and forth between the eagle in the canopy and the great wyrm at the roots, ferrying messages of slander and vitriol between them, yadda yadda yadda. Now ask yourself how it is that he manages to do that."
Granuaile took a moment to think it through. "Well, according to what the literature says, there are two roots of Yggdrasil that drop below Asgard: One rests in the Well of Mimir in Jötunheim, and one falls to the Spring of Hvergelmir in Niflheim, beneath which the wyrm Nidhogg lies. So I assume he's got himself a little squirrelly hole in there somewhere that he uses." She shook her head, dismissing the point. "But you won't be able to use that."
"I'll bet you dinner I can. A nice homemade dinner, with wine and candles and fancy modern things like Caesar salad."
"Salad isn't modern."
"It is on my personal time scale. Caesar salad was invented in 1924."
Granuaile's eyes bugged. "How do you know these things?" She waved off the question as soon as she asked it. "No, you're not going to distract me this time. You're on; I bet you dinner. Now prove it or start cooking."
"The proof will have to come when I climb Yggdrasil's root, but," I said, raising a finger to forestall her objection, "I'll dazzle you now with what I think so that I'll seem fantastically prescient later. The way I figure it, Ratatosk has to be an utter badass. Consider: Eagles normally eat squirrels, and malevolent wyrms named Nidhogg are generally expected to eat anything-yet neither of them ever tries to take a bite of Ratatosk. They just talk to him, never give him any guff at all, but ask him nicely if he'd be so kind as to tell their enemy far, far away such-and-such. And they say, ‘Hey, Ratatosk, you don't have to hurry. Take your time. Please.' "
"Okay, so you're saying he's a burly squirrel."
"No, I'm saying he's turbo-burly. Paul Bunyan proportions, because his size is proportionate to the World Tree. He's bigger than you and I put together, big enough that Nidhogg thinks of him as an equal instead of as a snack. The only reason we've never heard of anyone climbing Yggdrasil's roots to get to Asgard is because you'd have to be nuts to try it."
"Right," she said with a smirk. "And Ratatosk eats nuts."
"That's right." I bobbed my head once with a sardonic grin of my own.
"Well then," Granuaile wondered aloud, "exactly where are the roots of Yggdrasil, anyway? I assume they're somewhere in Scandinavia, but you'd think they would have shown up on satellite by now."
"The roots of Yggdrasil are on an entirely different plane, and that's really why no one has tried to climb them. But they're tethered to the earth, just like Tír na nÓg is, or the Elysian Fields, or Tartarus, or what have you. And, coincidentally, a certain Druid you know is also tethered to the earth, through his tattoos," I said, holding up my inked right arm.
Granuaile's mouth opened in astonishment as the import of my words sank in, quick to follow the implication to its logical conclusion. "So you're saying you can go anywhere."
"Uh-huh," I confirmed. "But it's not something I brag about"-I pointed a finger at her-"nor should you, once you're bound the same way. Plenty of gods are already worried about me because of what happened to Aenghus Óg and Bres. But since I killed them on th...
According to popular imagination, squirrels are supposed to be adorable. As they scurry about on this tree branch or that trunk, people point at them and say, "Awww, how cuuuuute!" with their voices turning sugary and spiraling up into falsetto ecstasy. But I'm here to tell you that they're cute only so long as they're small enough to step on. Once you're facing a giant bloody squirrel the size of a cement truck, they lose the majority of their charm.
I wasn't especially surprised to be staring up at a set of choppers as tall as my fridge, twitching whiskers like bullwhips, and tractor-tire eyes staring me down like volcanic bubbles of India ink: I was simply horrified at being proven so spectacularly right.
My apprentice, Granuaile, had argued I was imagining the impossible before I left her back in Arizona. "No, Atticus," she'd said, "all the literature says the only way you can get into Asgard is the Bifrost Bridge. The Eddas, the skaldic poems, everything agrees that Bifrost is it."
"Of course that's what the literature says," I replied, "but that's just the propaganda of the gods. The Eddas also tell you the truth of the matter if you read carefully. Ratatosk is the key to the back door of Asgard."
Granuaile gazed at me, bemused, unsure that she'd heard me correctly. "The squirrel that lives on the World Tree?" she asked.
"Precisely. He manically scrambles back and forth between the eagle in the canopy and the great wyrm at the roots, ferrying messages of slander and vitriol between them, yadda yadda yadda. Now ask yourself how it is that he manages to do that."
Granuaile took a moment to think it through. "Well, according to what the literature says, there are two roots of Yggdrasil that drop below Asgard: One rests in the Well of Mimir in Jötunheim, and one falls to the Spring of Hvergelmir in Niflheim, beneath which the wyrm Nidhogg lies. So I assume he's got himself a little squirrelly hole in there somewhere that he uses." She shook her head, dismissing the point. "But you won't be able to use that."
"I'll bet you dinner I can. A nice homemade dinner, with wine and candles and fancy modern things like Caesar salad."
"Salad isn't modern."
"It is on my personal time scale. Caesar salad was invented in 1924."
Granuaile's eyes bugged. "How do you know these things?" She waved off the question as soon as she asked it. "No, you're not going to distract me this time. You're on; I bet you dinner. Now prove it or start cooking."
"The proof will have to come when I climb Yggdrasil's root, but," I said, raising a finger to forestall her objection, "I'll dazzle you now with what I think so that I'll seem fantastically prescient later. The way I figure it, Ratatosk has to be an utter badass. Consider: Eagles normally eat squirrels, and malevolent wyrms named Nidhogg are generally expected to eat anything-yet neither of them ever tries to take a bite of Ratatosk. They just talk to him, never give him any guff at all, but ask him nicely if he'd be so kind as to tell their enemy far, far away such-and-such. And they say, ‘Hey, Ratatosk, you don't have to hurry. Take your time. Please.' "
"Okay, so you're saying he's a burly squirrel."
"No, I'm saying he's turbo-burly. Paul Bunyan proportions, because his size is proportionate to the World Tree. He's bigger than you and I put together, big enough that Nidhogg thinks of him as an equal instead of as a snack. The only reason we've never heard of anyone climbing Yggdrasil's roots to get to Asgard is because you'd have to be nuts to try it."
"Right," she said with a smirk. "And Ratatosk eats nuts."
"That's right." I bobbed my head once with a sardonic grin of my own.
"Well then," Granuaile wondered aloud, "exactly where are the roots of Yggdrasil, anyway? I assume they're somewhere in Scandinavia, but you'd think they would have shown up on satellite by now."
"The roots of Yggdrasil are on an entirely different plane, and that's really why no one has tried to climb them. But they're tethered to the earth, just like Tír na nÓg is, or the Elysian Fields, or Tartarus, or what have you. And, coincidentally, a certain Druid you know is also tethered to the earth, through his tattoos," I said, holding up my inked right arm.
Granuaile's mouth opened in astonishment as the import of my words sank in, quick to follow the implication to its logical conclusion. "So you're saying you can go anywhere."
"Uh-huh," I confirmed. "But it's not something I brag about"-I pointed a finger at her-"nor should you, once you're bound the same way. Plenty of gods are already worried about me because of what happened to Aenghus Óg and Bres. But since I killed them on th...
