by Rick Riordan
‘That stool is Rear-Rester,’ said Nabbi. ‘Crafted by Gonda. Once it held the tush of the master smith Alviss. Use it in comfort, Magnus, son of Natalie. And, Blitzen, you may sit on Keister-Home, famed among stools, made by yours truly. It survived the Great Bar Fight of 4109 A.M.!’
‘My thanks.’ Blitzen climbed onto his stool, which was polished oak with a velvet-padded seat. ‘A fine Keister-Home it is!’
Nabbi looked at me expectantly. I tried my stool, which was hard steel with no cushion. It wasn’t much of a Rear-Rester. It was more of a Magnus-Mangler, but I tried for a smile. ‘Yep, that’s a nice stool all right!’
Blitzen rapped his knuckles on the bar. ‘Mead for me, Nabbi. And for my friend –’
‘Uh, soda or something?’ I wasn’t sure I wanted to be walking around Dwarven Southie with a mead buzz.
Nabbi filled two mugs and set them in front of us. Blitzen’s goblet was gold on the inside, silver on the outside, decorated with images of dancing dwarf women.
‘That cup is Golden Bowl,’ said Nabbi. ‘Made by my father, Darbi. And this one –’ he nudged my pewter tankard – ‘is Boom Daddy, made by yours truly. Always ask for a refill before you reach the bottom of the cup. Otherwise –’ he splayed his fingers – ‘boom, Daddy!’
I really hoped he was kidding, but I decided to take small sips.
Blitz drank his mead. ‘Mmm. A fine cup for quaffing! And now that we are past the formalities, Nabbi … we need to speak with Junior.’
A vein throbbed in Nabbi’s left temple. ‘Do you have a death wish?’
Blitz reached into his pouch. He slid a single red-gold tear across the counter. ‘This one is for you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Just for making the call. Tell Junior we have more. All we want is a chance to barter.’
After my experience with Ran, the word barter made me even more uncomfortable than Rear-Rester. Nabbi looked back and forth between Blitzen and the tear, his expression vacillating between apprehension and greed. Finally the greed won. The barkeeper snatched the drop of gold.
‘I’ll make the call. Enjoy your drinks.’ He climbed off his catwalk and disappeared into the kitchen.
I turned to Blitz. ‘A few questions.’
He chuckled. ‘Only a few?’
‘What does 4109 A.M. mean? Is it the time, or –’
‘Dwarves count years from the creation of our species,’ Blitz said. ‘A.M. is After Maggots.’
I decided my ears must still be defective from Ratatosk’s barking. ‘Say what?’
‘The creation of the world … Come on, you know the story. The gods killed the largest of the giants, Ymir, and used his flesh to create Midgard. Nidavellir developed under Midgard, where maggots ate into the giant’s dead flesh and created tunnels. Some of those maggots evolved, with a little help from the gods, into dwarves.’
Blitzen looked proud of this historical tidbit. I decided to do my best to erase it from my long-term memory.
‘Different question,’ I said. ‘Why does my goblet have a name?’
‘Dwarves are craftsmen,’ said Blitzen. ‘We’re serious about the things we make. You humans – you make a thousand crappy chairs that all look alike and all break within a year. When we make a chair, we make one chair to last a lifetime, a chair unlike any other in the world. Cups, furniture, weapons … every crafted item has a soul and a name. You can’t appreciate something unless it’s good enough for a name.’
I studied my tankard, which was painstakingly engraved with runes and wave designs. I wished it had a different name – like No Way Will I Explode – but I had to admit it was a nice cup.
‘And calling Nabbi son of Loretta?’ I asked. ‘Or me the son of Natalie?’
‘Dwarves are matriarchal. We trace our lineage through our mothers. Again, it makes much more sense than your patrilineal way. After all, one can only be born from a single biological mother. Unless you are the god Heimdall. He had nine biological mothers. But that’s another story.’
Synapses melted in my brain. ‘Let’s move along. Freya’s tears … red gold? Sam told me that’s the currency of Asgard.’
‘Yes. But Freya’s tears are one hundred per cent pure. The finest red gold in creation. For the pouch of tears we’re carrying, most dwarves would give their right eyeballs.’
‘So this guy Junior – he’ll bargain with us?’
‘Either that,’ Blitz said, ‘or he’ll chop us into small pieces. You want some nachos while we wait?’
FORTY-ONE
Blitz Makes a Bad Deal
I had to hand it to Nabbi. He served good near-death nachos.
I was halfway through my plate of guacamole-enhanced tastiness when Junior showed up. On first sight, I wondered if it would be faster just to drain Boom Daddy and go boom, because I didn’t like our chances of bartering with the old dwarf.
Junior looked about two hundred years old. Scraps of grey hair clung to his liver-spotted head. His beard gave scraggly a bad name. His malicious brown eyes flitted around the bar as if he were thinking, I hate that. I hate that. And I really hate that. He wasn’t physically intimidating, shuffling along with his gold-plated walker, but he was flanked by a pair of dwarven bodyguards, each so burly that they could’ve been used as NFL tackle dummies.
The other customers got up and quietly left, like in a scene from an old Western. Blitzen and I both stood.
‘Junior.’ Blitz bowed. ‘Thank you for meeting with us.’
‘Some nerve,’ Junior snarled.
‘Would you like my seat?’ Blitzen offered. ‘It is Keister-Home, made by –’
‘No, thanks,’ Junior said. ‘I’ll stand, compliments of my walker, Granny Shuffler, famous among geriatric products, made by Nurse Bambi, my private assistant.’
I bit the inside of my cheek. I doubted that laughing would be good diplomacy.
‘This is Magnus, son of Natalie,’ Blitzen said.
The old dwarf glared at me. ‘I know who he is. Found the Sword of Summer. You couldn’t wait until after I died? I’m too old for this Ragnarok nonsense.’
‘My bad,’ I said. ‘I should have checked with you before I got attacked by Surt and sent to Valhalla.’
Blitzen coughed. The bodyguards appraised me like I might have just made their day more interesting.
Junior cackled. ‘I like you. You’re rude. Let’s see this blade, then.’
I showed him my magic-pendant trick. In the dim neon lights of the bar, the blade’s runes glowed orange and green.
The old dwarf sucked his teeth. ‘That’s Frey’s blade, all right. Bad news.’
‘Then, perhaps,’ Blitzen said, ‘you’ll be willing to help us?’
‘Help you?’ Junior wheezed. ‘Your father was my nemesis! You besmirched my reputation. And you want my help. You’ve got iron guts, Blitzen, I’ll give you that.’
The tendons in Blitz’s neck looked like they might bust his well-starched collar. ‘This isn’t about our family feud, Junior. This is about the rope. It’s about securing Fenris Wolf.’
‘Oh, of course it is.’ Junior sneered at his bodyguards. ‘The fact that my father, Eitri Senior, was the only dwarf talented enough to make Gleipnir, and your father, Bilì, spent his life questioning the quality of the rope – that has nothing to do with it!’
Blitzen clenched his pouch of red-gold tears. I was afraid he might smack Junior upside the head with it. ‘The Sword of Summer is right here. In just six Midgardian nights, Surt is planning to free the Wolf. We’re going to do our best to stop him, but you know the rope Gleipnir is beyond its expiration date. We need information about the Wolf’s bindings. More importantly, we need a replacement rope just in case. Only you have the talent to make one.’
Junior cupped his ear. ‘Say that last part again.’
‘You’re talented, you crusty old –’ Blitzen stopped. ‘Only you have the skill to make a new rope.’
‘True.’ Junior smirked. ‘It so happens I have a replacement rope already made. Not be
cause of any problems with Gleipnir, mind you, or because of any of your family’s scandalous accusations about its quality – just because I like to be prepared. Unlike your father, I might add, going off alone to check on Fenris Wolf like an idiot and getting himself killed.’
I had to step in front of Blitzen to keep him from attacking the old dwarf.
‘Okay, then!’ I said. ‘Guys, this isn’t the time. Junior, if you’ve got a new rope, that’s great. Let’s talk price. And, um, we’ll also need a nice set of earrings.’
‘Heh.’ Junior wiped his mouth. ‘Of course you will. For Blitzen’s mother, no doubt. What are you offering in payment?’
‘Blitzen,’ I said, ‘show him.’
Blitz’s eyes still danced with rage, but he opened the pouch and spilled some red-gold tears into his palm.
‘Huh,’ said Junior. ‘An acceptable price … or it would be, if it wasn’t from Blitzen. I’ll sell you what you want for that pouch of tears, but first my family’s honour must be satisfied. It’s high time we settled this feud. What do you say, son of Freya? A contest – you and me. The traditional rules, the traditional wager.’
Blitzen backed into the bar. He squirmed so badly I could almost believe he had evolved from maggots. (ERASE. Bad, long-term memory. ERASE!)
‘Junior,’ he said, ‘you know I don’t – I couldn’t possibly –’
‘Shall we say tomorrow at mossglow?’ Junior asked. ‘The panel of judges can be headed by a neutral party – perhaps Nabbi, who I’m sure is not eavesdropping behind the bar right now.’
Something banged against the catwalk. From below the counter, Nabbi’s muffled voice said, ‘I would be honoured.’
‘There you are, then!’ Junior smiled. ‘Well, Blitzen? I have challenged you according to our ancient customs. Will you defend the honour of your family?’
‘I …’ Blitzen hung his head. ‘Where should we meet?’
‘The forges in Kenning Square,’ Junior said. ‘Oh, this will be amusing. Come on, boys. I have to tell Nurse Bambi about it!’
The old dwarf shuffled out with his bodyguards in tow. As soon as they were gone, Blitzen collapsed on Keister-Home and drained Golden Bowl.
Nabbi emerged from behind the counter. His caterpillar eyebrows wriggled with concern as he refilled Blitz’s goblet. ‘This one’s on the house, Blitzen. It’s been nice knowing you.’
He went back to the kitchen, leaving Blitz and me alone with Taylor Swift singing ‘I Know Places’. The lyrics took on a whole new meaning in a subterranean dwarf world.
‘Are you going to explain what just happened?’ I asked Blitz. ‘What is this contest at mossglow? Also, what is mossglow?’
‘Mossglow …’ Blitzen stared into his cup. ‘Dwarf version of dawn, when the moss begins to glow. As for the contest …’ He swallowed back a sob. ‘It’s nothing. I’m sure you’ll be able to continue the quest without me.’
Just then the bar-room doors burst open. Sam and Hearthstone tumbled inside like they’d been pushed from a moving car.
‘They’re alive!’ I jumped up. ‘Blitz, look!’
Hearthstone was so excited he couldn’t even sign. He rushed over and almost tackled Blitzen off his stool.
‘Hey, buddy.’ Blitz patted his back absently. ‘Yeah, I’m glad to see you, too.’
Sam didn’t hug me, but she managed a smile. She was scratched up and covered with leaves and twigs, but she didn’t look badly hurt. ‘Magnus, glad you haven’t died yet. I want to be there for that.’
‘Thanks, al-Abbas. What happened to you guys?’
She shrugged. ‘We hid under the hijab as long as we could.’
With all the other stuff going on, I’d forgotten about the scarf. ‘Yeah, what was that about? You’ve got an invisibility hijab?’
‘It doesn’t make me invisible. It’s just camouflage. All Valkyries are given swan cloaks to help us hide when necessary. I just made mine a hijab.’
‘But you weren’t a swan. You were tree moss.’
‘It can do different things. Anyway, we waited until the squirrel left. The barking left me in bad shape, but, thankfully, Hearth wasn’t affected. We climbed Yggdrasil for a while –’
A moose tried to eat us, Hearth signed.
‘Excuse me?’ I asked. ‘A moose?’
Hearth grunted in exasperation. He spelled out: D-E-E-R. Same sign for both animals.
‘Oh, that’s much better,’ I said. ‘A deer tried to eat you.’
‘Yes,’ Sam agreed. ‘Dvalinn or maybe Duneyrr – one of the stags that roam the World Tree. We got away, took a wrong turn into Alfheim …’
Hearthstone shuddered, then simply signed, Hate.
‘And here we are.’ Sam eyed Blitzen, whose expression was still blank with shock. ‘So … what’s going on?’
I told them about our visit with Freya, then our conversation with Junior. Hearthstone steadied himself on the bar. He spelled with one hand: M-a-k-i-n-g? Then he shook his head vehemently.
‘What do you mean, making?’ I asked.
‘A making,’ Blitz muttered into his goblet, ‘is the dwarven contest. It tests our crafting skills.’
Sam tapped her fingers on her axe. ‘Judging from your expression, I’m guessing you don’t trust your skills.’
‘I am rubbish at crafting,’ Blitzen said.
Not true, Hearth protested.
‘Hearthstone,’ Blitzen said, ‘even if I was excellent at crafting, Junior is the most skilled dwarf alive. He’ll destroy me.’
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You’ll do fine. And if you lose we’ll find another way to get that rope.’
Blitzen looked at me mournfully. ‘It’s worse than that, kid. If I lose, I pay the traditional price: my head.’
FORTY-TWO
We Have a Pre-Decapitation Party, with Spring Rolls
Crashing at Blitzen’s apartment was the high point of our trip. Not that that was saying much.
Blitz rented the third floor of a terraced house across the street from Svartalf Mart (yes, that’s a real thing). Considering the fact that he was due to be decapitated the next day, he was a good host. He apologized for not cleaning up (though the place looked spotless to me), microwaved some spring rolls and brought out a litre of Diet Sergeant Pepper and a six-pack of Fjalar’s Foaming Mead, each bottle uniquely handcrafted in a different colour of glass.
His furniture was spare but stylish: an L-shaped sofa and two space-age armchairs. They probably had names and were famous among living-room furniture, but Blitzen didn’t introduce them. Neatly arranged on the coffee table was a spread of dwarf men’s fashion and interior-design magazines.
While Sam and Hearth sat with Blitz, trying to console him, I paced the room. I felt angry and guilty that I’d put Blitzen in such a tight spot. He’d already risked enough for me. He’d spent two years on the streets watching out for me when he could’ve been here, kicking back with spring rolls and foaming mead. He’d tried to protect me by attacking the lord of the fire giants with a toy sign. Now he was going to lose his head in a craft-off with an evil senior citizen.
Also … the dwarven philosophy of crafting had unsettled me. In Midgard, most things were breakable, replaceable junk. I’d lived off that junk for the last two years – picking through what people discarded, finding bits I could use or sell or at least make a fire with.
I wondered what it would be like living in Nidavellir, where every item was crafted to be a lifetime work of art – right down to your cup or your chair. It might get annoying to have to recite the deeds of your shoes before you put them on in the morning, but at least you’d know they were amazing shoes.
I wondered about the Sword of Summer. Freya had told me to befriend it. She’d implied that the weapon had thoughts and feelings.
Every crafted item has a soul, Blitz had told me.
Maybe I hadn’t properly introduced myself. Maybe I needed to treat the sword like another companion …
‘Blitz, you must have a specialit
y,’ Samirah was saying. ‘What did you study in trade school?’
‘Fashion.’ Blitzen sniffled. ‘I designed my own degree programme. But clothing isn’t a recognized craft. They’ll expect me to hammer molten ingots or tinker with machinery! I’m no good at that!’
You are, Hearth signed.
‘Not under pressure,’ Blitz said.
‘I don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Why does the loser have to die? How do they decide the winner?’
Blitzen stared at the cover of Dwarf Quarterly – New Looks for Spring! 100 Uses for Warg Leather! ‘Each contestant makes three items. They can be anything. At the end of the day, the judges rate each item according to its usefulness, beauty, quality, whatever. They can assign points any way they wish. The contestant with the most overall points wins. The other guy dies.’
‘You must not have a lot of competitions,’ I said, ‘if the loser always gets decapitated.’
‘That’s the traditional wager,’ Blitz said. ‘Most people don’t insist on it any more. Junior is old-fashioned. Also, he hates me.’
‘Something about Fenris Wolf and your dad?’
Hearth shook his head to shut me up, but Blitzen patted his knee. ‘It’s okay, buddy. They deserve to know.’
Blitz leaned back on the sofa. He seemed suddenly calmer about his impending doom, which I found unsettling. I kind of wanted him to be punching walls.
‘I told you dwarven items are made for life?’ he said. ‘Well … lifetime for a dwarf can mean hundreds of years.’
I studied Blitz’s beard, wondering if he dyed out the grey whiskers. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty,’ Blitz said. ‘But Junior … he’s going on five hundred. His dad, Eitri, was one of the most famous craftsmen in dwarven history. He lived over a thousand years, made some of the gods’ most important items.’
Samirah nibbled on a spring roll. ‘Even I’ve heard of him. He’s in the old stories. He made Thor’s hammer.’
Blitz nodded. ‘Anyway, the rope Gleipnir … you could argue it was his most important work, even more than Thor’s hammer. The rope keeps Fenris Wolf from getting free and starting Doomsday.’