The Ship of the Dead

  Njord shifted his back against the rail. “Well, no. We separated shortly thereafter. She wanted to live in the mountains. I liked the beach. Then Skadi had an affair with Odin. Then we got a divorce. But that’s not the point! My feet on the day of the contest—they were amazing. They won the hand of Skadi, the beautiful ice giantess!”

  I was tempted to ask if he only won her hand or the rest of her, too, but I decided against it.

  Blitzen stared at me. He twitched his hands like he wanted to sign something ugly about Njord but then remembered that Njord could read ASL. He sighed and stared at his lap.

  Njord frowned. “What’s wrong, Mr. Dwarf? You don’t look impressed!”

  “Oh, he is,” I promised. “Just speechless. We can all tell that…uh, your feet are very important to you.”

  What is your beauty secret? Hearthstone asked politely.

  “Several centuries of standing in the surf,” Njord confided. “It smoothed my feet into the perfectly sculpted masterpieces you see today. That, and regular pedicures with a paraffin-wax treatment.” He wiggled his shiny toenails. “I was debating about buffing or no buffing, but I think the buffing really makes those piggies shine.”

  I nodded and agreed that he had very shiny piggies. I also wished I didn’t have such an odd family.

  “In fact, Magnus,” said Njord, “that is one of the reasons I wanted to meet you.”

  “To show me your feet?”

  He laughed. “No, silly.” By which, I was pretty sure, he meant yes. “To give you some advice.”

  “On how to buff his toenails?” Blitz asked.

  “No!” Njord hesitated. “Although I could do that. I have two important bits of wisdom that may help you on your quest to stop Loki.”

  We enjoy bits of wisdom, Hearth signed.

  “The first is this,” Njord said. “To reach the Ship of the Dead, you must pass through the borderlands between Niflheim and Jotunheim. This is harsh territory. Mortals can perish from the cold in seconds. If that does not kill you, the giants and draugrs will.”

  Blitz grumbled, “I’m not enjoying this particular bit of wisdom.”

  “Ah, but there is one safe harbor,” Njord said. “Or at least one potentially safe harbor. Or at least one harbor where you might not be instantly killed. You should seek out Thunder Home, the fortress of my beloved Skadi. Tell her I sent you.”

  “Your beloved?” I asked. “Aren’t you divorced?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you’re still friends.”

  “I haven’t seen her in centuries.” Njord got a distant look in his eyes. “And we didn’t exactly part on good terms. But I have to believe she still holds some affection for me. Seek her out. If she grants you safe harbor for my sake, that will tell me she’s forgiven me.”

  And if she doesn’t welcome us? Hearth asked.

  “That would be disappointing.”

  I took this to mean: You will all end up in Skadi’s meat locker.

  I didn’t like the idea of being my grandfather’s test balloon for a reconciliation with his ex-wife. Then again, a potentially safe harbor sounded better than freezing to death in twenty seconds.

  Unfortunately, I got the feeling we hadn’t heard Njord’s worst “helpful” advice yet. I waited for the other shoe to drop, even though Njord did not appear to own any shoes.

  “What’s the second bit of wisdom?” I asked.

  “Hmm?” Njord’s focus snapped back to me. “Oh, yes. The point of my story about my beautiful feet.”

  “There was a point?” Blitz sounded genuinely surprised.

  “Of course!” Njord said. “The most unexpected thing can be the key to victory. Balder was the most handsome of the gods, but because of my feet, I won the girl.”

  “Whom you later separated from and divorced,” Blitz said.

  “Would you stop dwelling on that?” Njord rolled his eyes at me like Dwarves these days. “My point, dear grandson, is that you will need to use unexpected means to defeat Loki. You began to realize that in Aegir’s hall, didn’t you?”

  I didn’t remember biting off any clumps of sea giantess hair, but a ball of the stuff seemed to be forming in my throat.

  “A flyting,” I said. “I’ll have to beat Loki in a contest…of insults?”

  New gray whiskers spread like frost through Njord’s beard. “A flyting is much more than a series of simple put-downs,” he warned. “It’s a duel of prestige, power, confidence. I was present at Aegir’s hall when Loki flyted with the gods. He shamed us so badly….” Njord seemed to deflate, as if just thinking about it made him older and weaker. “Words can be more lethal than blades, Magnus. And Loki is a master of words. To beat him, you must find your inner poet. Only one thing can give you a chance to beat Loki at his own game.”

  “Mead,” I guessed. “Kvasir’s Mead.”

  The answer didn’t sit right with me. I’d been on the streets long enough to see how well “mead” improved people’s skills. Pick your poison: beer, wine, vodka, whiskey. Folks claimed they needed it to get through the day. They called it liquid courage. It made them funnier, smarter, more creative. Except it didn’t. It just made them less able to tell how unfunny and stupid they were acting.

  “It’s not merely mead,” my grandfather said, reading my expression. “Kvasir’s Mead is the most valuable elixir ever created. Finding it will not be easy.” He turned to Hearthstone and Blitzen. “You know this, don’t you? You know that the quest may claim both your lives.”

  “YOU SHOULD have led with that,” I said, my pulse jackhammering in my neck. “Hearth and Blitz do not die. That’s a deal-breaker.”

  Njord’s toothy smile was as white as Scandinavian snow. I wished I knew his secret for staying so calm. Zen meditation? Fishing? Hotel Valhalla yoga classes?

  “Ah, Magnus, you are so much like your father.”

  I blinked. “We’re both blond and like the outdoors?”

  “You both have kind hearts,” said Njord. “Frey would do anything for a friend. He always loved easily and deeply, sometimes unwisely. You have the proof of that around your neck.”

  I curled my fingers around Jack’s runestone. I knew the story: Frey had given up the Sword of Summer so he could win the love of a beautiful giantess. Because he had forsaken his weapon, he would be slain at Ragnarok. The moral of the story, as Jack liked to put it: Blades before babes.

  The thing was, pretty much everybody would be slain at Ragnarok anyway. I didn’t blame my dad for his choices. If he didn’t fall in love easily, I would never have been born.

  “Fine, I’m like my dad,” I said. “I still choose my friends over a cup of mead. I don’t care if it’s pumpkin spice or peach lambic.”

  “It’s blood, actually,” Njord said. “And god spit.”

  I started to feel seasick, and I didn’t think it was because of the direction I was facing. “Come again?”

  Njord opened his hand. Above his palm floated the miniature glowing figure of a bearded man in woolen robes. His face was open and cheerful, his expression caught in mid-laugh. Seeing him, it was hard not to lean forward, smile, and want to hear what he was laughing about.

  “This was Kvasir.” Njord’s tone took on an edge of sadness. “The most perfect being ever created. Millennia ago, when the Vanir and Aesir gods ended their war, all of us spit into a golden cup. From that mixture sprang Kvasir, our living peace treaty!”

  Suddenly I didn’t want to lean so close to the little glowing man. “The dude was made of spit.”

  “Makes sense,” Blitzen grunted. “God saliva is an excellent crafting ingredient.”

  Hearthstone tilted his head. He seemed fascinated by the holographic figure. He signed, Why would anyone murder him?

  “Murder?” I asked.

  Njord nodded, lightning flickering in his eyes. For the first time, I got the impression that my grandfather wasn’t just some laid-back guy with nice feet. He was a powerful deity who could probably crumple our warship with a s
ingle thought. “Kvasir wandered the Nine Worlds, bringing wisdom, advice, and justice wherever he went. Everyone loved him. And then he was slaughtered. Horrible. Inexcusable.”

  “Loki?” I guessed, because that seemed like the logical next word in that list.

  Njord barked a short, sour laugh. “Not this time, no. It was dwarves.” He glanced at Blitzen. “No offense.”

  Blitzen shrugged. “Dwarves aren’t all the same. Like gods.”

  If Njord sensed an insult, he didn’t let on. He closed his hand and the tiny spit man disappeared. “The details of the murder aren’t important. Afterward, Kvasir’s blood was drained and mixed with honey to create a magical mead. It became the most prized, most coveted drink in the Nine Worlds.”

  “Ugh.” I put my hand to my mouth. My idea of which details should be left out of a story was very different from Njord’s. “You want me to drink mead that is made from blood that is made from god spit.”

  Njord stroked his beard. “When you put it that way, it sounds bad. But yes, Magnus. Whoever drinks Kvasir’s Mead finds their inner poet. The perfect words come to you. The poetry flows. The oration dazzles. The stories enthrall all who listen. With such power, you could stand toe-to-toe, insult-to-insult in a flyting with Loki.”

  My mind pitched and swayed along with my stomach. Why did I have to be the one to challenge Loki?

  My inner voice responded, or maybe it was Jack: Because you volunteered at the feast, dummy. Everybody heard you.

  I rubbed my temples, wondering if it was possible for a brain to literally explode from too much information. That’s one death I’d never experienced in Valhalla.

  Hearthstone stared at me with concern. You want a rune? he signed. Or some aspirin?

  I shook my head.

  So Uncle Randolph’s notebook hadn’t been a trick. He’d left an actual, viable plan for me to follow. In the end, despite all he’d done, it seemed like the old fool had experienced some remorse. He had tried to help me. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.

  “What about the name Bolverk?” I asked. “Who is that?”

  Njord smiled. “That was Odin’s alias. For a long time, the giants possessed all of Kvasir’s Mead. Odin went in disguise to steal some back for the gods. He succeeded. He even scattered drops of mead around Midgard to inspire mortal bards. But the gods’ supply of the elixir was exhausted centuries ago. The only mead that remains is a tiny portion, jealously guarded by the giants. To get it, you will have to follow in Bolverk’s footsteps and steal what only Odin was ever able to steal.”

  “Perfect,” Blitz muttered. “So how do we do that?”

  “More important,” I said, “why is it so dangerous for Hearth and Blitz? And how can we make it not be?”

  I had an overwhelming desire to write a letter for Hearth and Blitz: Dear Cosmic Forces, Please excuse my friends from their deadly fate. They are not feeling well today. At the very least, I wanted to outfit them with safety helmets, life jackets, and reflective decals before sending them off.

  Njord faced Hearthstone and Blitzen. He signed, You already know your task.

  He made a stick figure man standing in his palm: ground; then two fists, one tapping the top of the other: work.

  Lay the groundwork. At least, I thought that’s what he meant. Either that or: You farm the fields. Since Njord was a god of crops, I couldn’t be sure.

  Hearthstone touched his scarf. He signed, reluctantly, The stone?

  Njord nodded. You know where you must look for it.

  Blitzen broke into the conversation, signing so fast his words got a little muddled. Leave my elf alone! We can’t do that again! Too dangerous!

  Or he could have meant, Leave my elf in the bathroom! We can’t do that wristwatch! Too much garbage!

  “What are you guys talking about?” I asked.

  My spoken words sounded jarring and unwelcome in the silent dialogue.

  Blitzen brushed his chain mail vest. “Our long-range reconnaissance work, kid. Mimir told us to look for the Mead of Kvasir. Then we heard rumors about a certain item we’d need—”

  “Bolverk’s whetstone,” I guessed.

  He nodded unhappily. “It’s the only way to defeat”—he spread his hands—“whatever’s guarding the mead. We’re not clear on the who, how, or why.”

  Those all seemed like pretty important points to me.

  “The thing is,” Blitz continued, “if this stone is where we think it is…”

  It’s all right, Hearthstone signed. We must. So we will.

  “Buddy, no,” Blitz said. “You can’t—”

  “The elf is right,” Njord said. “You two must find the stone while Magnus and the rest of the crew sail on to discover the location of the mead. Are you ready?”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “You’re sending them away right now? They just got here!”

  “Grandson, you have very little time before Loki’s ship is ready to sail. Only by dividing can you conquer.”

  I was pretty sure the old divide and conquer saying meant that the divided army got conquered, but Njord didn’t sound like he was in the mood for a debate.

  “Let me go instead.” I staggered to my feet. I’d just had the longest day in the history of days. I was ready to fall over. But there was no way I was going to stand by while my two oldest friends got sent into mortal danger. “Or at least let me go with them.”

  “Kid,” Blitz said, his voice cracking. “It’s okay.”

  My burden, Hearth signed, both hands pushing down on one of his shoulders.

  Njord gave me another calm smile. I was about ready to punch in my grandfather’s perfect teeth.

  “The crew of this ship will need you with them, Magnus,” he said. “But I promise you this: once Hearthstone and Blitzen have found the location of the whetstone, once they have laid the groundwork for the assault, I will send them back to get you. Then the three of you can face the true danger together. If you fail, you’ll die as a team. How is that?”

  That didn’t make me yell hooray, but I figured it was the best offer I was going to get.

  “All right.” I helped Blitz to his feet and gave him a hug. He smelled like toasted kelp and Dwarf Noir eau de toilette. “Don’t you dare die without me.”

  “Do my best, kid.”

  I faced Hearthstone. I put my hand gently on his chest, an elfish gesture of deep affection. You, I signed. Safe. Or me. Angry.

  The corners of his mouth pulled upward, though he still looked distracted and worried. His heartbeat fluttered under my fingertips like a scared dove.

  You, too, he signed.

  Njord snapped his fingers, and my friends broke into sea spray, like waves crashing against the bow.

  I swallowed down my anger.

  I told myself Njord had only sent Hearth and Blitz away. He hadn’t actually vaporized them. He’d promised I would see them again. I had to believe that.

  “Now what?” I asked him. “What do I do while they’re gone?”

  “Ah.” Njord crossed his legs in lotus position, probably just to show off the soles of his wave-sculpted feet. “Your task is equally difficult, Magnus. You must discover the location of Kvasir’s Mead. This is a closely guarded secret, known only to a few giants. But there is one who might be convinced to tell you: Hrungnir, who prowls the human land of Jorvik.”

  The ship hit a swell, jarring my stomach loose from its undercarriage. “I’ve had some bad encounters with giants.”

  “Haven’t we all?” Njord said. “Once you reach Jorvik, you must find Hrungnir and challenge him. If you beat him, demand that he give you the information you need.”

  I shuddered, thinking about the last time I was in Jotunheim. “Please tell me this challenge won’t be a bowling tournament.”

  “Oh, no, rest easy!” Njord said. “It will most likely be personal combat to the death. You should bring a couple of friends along. I would recommend the attractive one, Alex Fierro.”

  I wondere
d if Alex would be flattered by that or grossed out, or if she’d just laugh. I wondered if Alex’s feet were as well-groomed as Njord’s. What a stupid thing to wonder about.

  “Okay,” I said. “Jorvik. Wherever that is.”

  “Your ship knows the way,” Njord promised. “I can grant you safe passage that far, but if you survive and sail onward, your ship will once again be vulnerable to attack by Aegir, Ran, their daughters, or…worse things.”

  “I will try to contain my happiness.”

  “That’s wise,” Njord said. “Your elf and dwarf will find the whetstone you require. You will discover the secret location of the mead. Then you will retrieve the Mead of Kvasir, defeat Loki, and return him to his chains!”

  “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

  “Well, it’s more that if you don’t, Loki will flyte you into a pathetic, powerless shadow of yourself. Then you will have to watch all your friends die, one by one, until you alone are left to suffer in Helheim for eternity while the Nine Worlds burn. That is Loki’s plan.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway!” Njord said brightly. “Good luck!”

  My grandfather exploded in a fine sea mist, splattering my face with salt.

  SMOOTH SAILING.

  I never appreciated that term until I’d actually had some. The next two days were shockingly, perversely uneventful. The sky remained cloudless, the winds gentle and cool. The sea stretched in all directions like green silk, reminding me of pictures my mom used to show me from her favorite artist team, this couple Christo and Jeanne-Claude, who worked outside and wrapped entire forests, buildings, and islands in shimmering cloth. It looked like they had turned the North Atlantic into one huge art installation.

  The Big Banana sailed merrily onward. Our yellow oars churned by themselves. The sail tacked and jibed as needed.

  When I told the crew we were going to Jorvik, Halfborn grunted unhappily, but whatever he knew about the place, he wouldn’t share. At least the ship seemed to understand where we were heading.

  The second afternoon, I found myself standing amidships with Mallory Keen, who’d been acting even more disgruntled than usual.

  “I still don’t understand why Blitz and Hearth had to leave,” she grumbled.

  I had a sneaking suspicion Miss Keen had a crush on Blitzen, but I was not brave enough to ask. Every time Blitz visited Valhalla, I would catch Mallory checking out his immaculate beard and perfect outfit, then glancing at Halfborn Gunderson as if wondering why her boyfriend/ex-boyfriend/re-boyfriend/ex-boyfriend couldn’t dress so nattily.

  “Njord swore it was necessary,” I said, though I’d been doing little else but worrying about Blitz and Hearth. “Something about maximizing our time.”

  “Hmph.” Mallory waved at the horizon. “Yet here we are, sailing and sailing. Your grandpa couldn’t have just zapped us to Jorvik? That would’ve been more useful.”

  Halfborn Gunderson walked by with a mop and bucket. “Useful,” he muttered. “Unlike some people.”

  “Shut up and swab!” Mallory snapped. “As for you, Magnus, I warned you about taking Loki’s bait. And what did you do? Stepped up and volunteered for a flyting. You’re as stupid as this berserker!”

  With that, she climbed to the top of the mast, the most solitary place on the ship, and proceeded to glare daggers at the ocean.

  Halfborn mumbled as he swabbed the deck, “Redheaded Irish vixen. Pay her no mind, Magnus.”

  I wished we didn’t have to make our voyage while the two of them were feuding. Or while Sam was fasting for Ramadan. Or while Alex was trying to teach Sam how to foil Loki’s control. Come to think of it, I wished we didn’t have to make this voyage at all.