Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard, Book 2: The Hammer of Thor

by Rick Riordan

  Kids, do not try this at home. I’m a trained einherji who died a painful death, went to Valhalla, and now spends most of his time arguing with a sword. I am a qualified professional who can jump out of thirty-foot-deep muddy holes. You, I hope, are not.

  I landed on the riverbank just as the waterfall collapsed back into the pond, granting all the little fishies a very wet miracle and a story to tell their grandchildren.

  The grouper tried to wriggle free. “Let me go, you scoundrel!”

  “Counterproposal,” I said. “Andvari, this is my friend Jack, the Sword of Summer. He can cut through almost anything. He sings pop songs like a demented angel. He can also fillet a fish faster than you would believe. I’m about to ask Jack to do all of those things at once—or you can turn into your normal form, slow and easy, and we can have a chat.”

  In two blinks, instead of holding a fish, my hand was wrapped around the throat of the oldest, slimiest dwarf I’d ever seen. He was so disgusting that the fact I didn’t let go should’ve proven my bravery and gotten me into Valhalla all over again.

  “Congratulations,” the dwarf croaked. “You got me. And now you’re gonna get a tragic demise!”

  Let Me Go Immediately, or I Will Make You a Billionaire

  OOH, A DEMISE!

  Normally I am not threatened with a demise. Most folks in the Nine Worlds don’t use fancy words like that. They just say “IMMA KILL YOU!” Or they let their chain-mail-wrapped fists do the talking.

  I was so impressed with Andvari’s vocabulary, I squeezed his throat tighter.

  “Ack!” The dwarf thrashed and wriggled. He was slippery, but not heavy. Even by dwarf standards, the dude was tiny. He wore a fish-skin tunic and underwear that was basically a moss diaper. Slime coated his limbs. His stubby arms hammered away at me, but it didn’t feel any worse than getting hit with Nerf bats. And his face…well, you know how your thumb looks after it’s been under a wet bandage too long—all wrinkly and discolored and gross? Imagine that as a face, with some scraggly white whiskers and mold-green eyes, and you’ve got Andvari.

  “Where’s the gold?” I demanded. “Don’t make me unleash my sword’s playlist.”

  Andvari writhed even more. “You fools don’t want my gold! Don’t you know what happens to people who take it?”

  “They get rich?” I guessed.

  “No! Well, yes. But after that, they die! Or…at least they want to die. They always suffer. And so does everyone around them!” He wiggled his slimy fingers like, Woo, woo, threatening!

  Hearthstone was listing slightly to port, but he managed to stay on his feet. He signed: One person stole gold, no consequences. Then he made my least favorite name sign: index finger and thumb pinched together at the side of his head, a combination of the letter L and the sign for devil, which fit our friend Loki just fine.

  “Loki took your gold once,” I interpreted, “and he didn’t die or suffer.”

  “Well, yeah, but that’s Loki!” Andvari said. “Everybody else who got the gold after him—they went crazy! They had horrible lives, left a trail of dead bodies! Is that what you want? You want to be like Fafnir? Sigurd? The Powerball lottery winners?”

  “The who?”

  “Oh, come on! You’ve heard the stories. Every time I lose my ring, it bounces around the Nine Worlds for a while. Some schmuck gets ahold of it. They win the lottery and make millions. But they always end up broke, divorced, sick, unhappy, and/or dead. Is that what you want?”

  Hearth signed: Magic ring, yes. That’s the secret of his wealth. We need that.

  “You mentioned a ring,” I said.

  Andvari went still. “Did I? Nope. Must have misspoken. No ring.”

  “Jack,” I said, “how do his feet look to you?”

  “Real bad, señor. They need a pedicure.”

  “Do it.”

  Jack flew into action. It’s a rare sword that can remove caked-on pond scum, shave off calluses, trim gnarly toenails, and leave a pair of dwarf feet shiny clean without 1) killing said dwarf, 2) cutting off the flailing feet of said dwarf, or 3) cutting off the legs of the einherji who is holding said dwarf…and all the while singing “Can’t Feel My Face.” Jack is truly special.

  “All right! All right!” Andvari shrieked. “No more torture! I’ll show you where the treasure is! It’s right under that rock!”

  He pointed frantically to pretty much everything until his finger came to rest at a boulder near the edge of the waterfall.

  Traps, Hearthstone signed.

  “Andvari,” I said, “if I move that boulder, what sort of traps will I spring?”

  “None!”

  “What if I move it using your head as a lever, then?”

  “All right, it’s booby-trapped! Exploding hexes! Trip wires to catapults!”

  “I knew it,” I said. “How do you disarm them? All of them.”

  The dwarf squinted with concentration. At least I hoped that’s what he was doing. Otherwise he was making a deposit in his moss diaper.

  “It’s done.” He sighed miserably. “I’ve disarmed all the traps.”

  I glanced at Hearthstone. The elf stretched out his hands, probably testing our surroundings for magic the way I could sense eels and guppies. (Hey, we all have different talents.)

  Hearth nodded. Safe.

  With Andvari still dangling from my hand, I walked to the boulder and flipped it over with my foot. (Einherji strength is also a good talent.)

  Under the rock, a canvas-lined pit was filled with…Wow. I didn’t usually care about money. I’m not about that. But my saliva glands went into overdrive when I saw the sheer volume of gold—bracelets, necklaces, coins, daggers, rings, cups, Monopoly tokens. I wasn’t sure what the value of gold per ounce was these days, but I estimated I was looking at about a gajillion dollars’ worth, give or take a bazillion.

  Jack squealed. “Oh, look at those little daggers! They’re adorable.”

  Hearthstone’s eyes regained their alertness. All that gold seemed to have the same effect on him as waving a cup of coffee under his nose.

  Too easy, he signed. Must be a catch.

  “Andvari,” I said, “if your name means Careful One, why are you so easy to rob?”

  “I know!” he sobbed. “I’m not careful! I get robbed all the time! I think the name is ironic. My mother was a cruel woman.”

  “So this hoard keeps getting stolen, but you keep getting it back? Because of that ring you mentioned?”

  “What ring? Lots of rings in that pile. Take them!”

  “No, the super-magic one. Where is it?”

  “Um, probably in the pile somewhere. Go look!” Andvari quickly pulled a ring off his finger and slipped it into his diaper. His hands were so filthy I wouldn’t have noticed the ring at all if he hadn’t tried to hide it.

  “You just dropped it down your pants,” I said.

  “No, I didn’t!”

  “Jack, I think this dwarf wants a full Brazilian waxing.”

  “No!” Andvari wailed. “All right, yes, my magic ring is in my pants. But please don’t take it. Getting it back is always such a hassle. I told you, it’s cursed. You don’t want to end up like a lottery winner, do you?”

  I turned to Hearth. “What do you think?”

  “Tell him, Mr. Elf!” said Andvari. “You’re obviously an elf of learning. You know your runes. I bet you know the story of Fafnir, eh? Tell your friend this ring will bring you nothing but trouble.”

  Hearth gazed into the distance as if reading a list on some heavenly whiteboard: –10 GOLD FOR BRINGING HOME A CURSED RING. +10 GAJILLION GOLD FOR STEALING A GAJILLION GOLD.

  He signed, Ring is cursed. But also key to treasure. Without ring, treasure will never be enough. Will always come up short.

  I looked at the Jacuzzi-size stash of gold. “I don’t know, man. That seems like plenty to cover your wergild rug.”

  Hearth shook his head. It will not be. Ring is dangerous. But we have to take it just in case. If we d
on’t use it, we can return it.

  I twisted the dwarf to face me. “Sorry, Andvari.”

  Jack laughed. “Hey, that rhymes, too!”

  “What did the elf say?” Andvari demanded. “I can’t read those gestures!” He waved his grubby hands, accidentally signing donkey waiter pancake in ASL.

  I was losing patience with the old slime-bucket, but I did my best to translate Hearth’s message.

  Andvari’s moss green eyes darkened. He bared his teeth, which looked like they hadn’t been flossed since zombies inspired the Mayflower Compact.

  “You’re a fool, then, Mr. Elf,” he growled. “The ring will come back to me eventually. It always does. In the meantime, it will cause death and misery to whoever wears it. And don’t think it will solve your problems, either. This won’t be the last time you have to come home. You’ve only delayed a much more dangerous reckoning.”

  The change in Andvari’s tone unnerved me even more than his change from grouper to dwarf. No more wailing or crying. He spoke with cold certainty, like a hangman explaining the mechanics of a noose.

  Hearthstone didn’t look rattled. He wore the same expression he’d had at his brother’s cairn—as if he was reliving a tragedy that had happened long ago and couldn’t be changed.

  The ring, he signed.

  The gesture was so obvious even Andvari understood it.

  “Fine.” The dwarf glared at me. “You won’t escape the curse either, human. Soon enough you’ll see what comes of stolen gifts!”

  The hairs on my arms stood up. “What do you mean?”

  He grinned evilly. “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.”

  Andvari did the shimmy-shimmy-shake. The ring dropped out the leg hole of his diaper. “One magic ring,” he announced, “complete with curse.”

  “There is no way,” I said, “that I am picking that up.”

  “Got it!” Jack dove in and made like a spatula, scooping the ring out of the mud with the flat of his blade.

  Andvari watched wistfully as my sword played paddleball, flipping the ring from one side of his blade to the other.

  “The usual deal?” the dwarf asked. “You spare my life and take everything I own?”

  “The usual sounds great,” I said. “What about all the gold in the pit? How do we carry it?”

  Andvari scoffed. “Amateurs! The canvas lining of the pit is a big magical sack. Pull the drawstring and voila! I have to keep the stash ready for quick getaways for those few times I avoid getting robbed.”

  Hearthstone crouched next to the pit. Sure enough, poking from a hole in the hem of the canvas was a loop of string. Hearth pulled it and the bag snapped closed, shrinking to the size of a backpack. Hearth held it up for me to see—a gajillion dollars’ worth of gold in a superconvenient carry-on size.

  “Now honor your part of the deal!” Andvari demanded.

  I dropped him.

  “Humph.” The old dwarf rubbed his neck. “Enjoy your demise, amateurs. I hope you have pain and suffering and win two lotteries!”

  With that vile curse, he jumped back into his pond and disappeared.

  “Hey, señor!” called Jack. “Heads up!”

  “Don’t you dare—”

  He flipped the ring at me. I caught it out of reflex. “Aww, gross.”

  Seeing as it was a magic ring, I half expected some big Lord of the Rings moment when it landed in my hand—cold heavy whispering, swirling gray mist, a line of Nazgûl doing the Watusi. None of that happened. The ring just sat there, looking very much like a gold ring, albeit one that had recently fallen from a thousand-year-old dwarf’s moss diaper.

  I slipped the ring into my pants pocket, then studied the circle of slime residue on my palm. “My hand will never feel clean again.”

  Hearthstone shouldered his expensive new backpack like Gajillionaire Santa Claus. He glanced at the sun, which was already past its zenith. I hadn’t realized just how long we’d been trekking through the wilds of Mr. Alderman’s backyard.

  We should go, Hearth signed. Father will be waiting.

  And If You Order Now, You Also Get This Cursed Ring!

  FATHER WAS waiting, all right. He paced in the living room, sipping golden juice from a silver goblet while Inge stood nearby waiting for a spill to happen.

  When we walked in, Mr. Alderman turned toward us, his face a mask of cold anger. “Where have you—?”

  His isosceles jaw dropped.

  I guess he didn’t expect to see us soaked in sweat, covered in grass and twigs, our slime-caked shoes leaving slug trails across his white marble floor. Mr. Alderman’s expression was one of the best rewards I’d ever gotten, right up there with dying and going to Valhalla.

  Hearthstone plopped his canvas bag on the floor with a muffled clatter. He signed: Payment—palm up, brushing one finger toward his dad like he was flicking a coin at him. The way Hearth did it made it look like an insult. I liked that.

  Mr. Alderman forgot that he wasn’t supposed to acknowledge sign language. He asked, “Payment? But how—?”

  “Come upstairs and we’ll show you.” I glanced behind Alderman, where Inge stood wide-eyed, a grin slowly spreading across her face. “We’ve got a demon-skin rug to cover.”

  Ah, the sound of golden Monopoly tokens cascading across a fur rug…There is nothing sweeter, I promise you. Hearthstone tipped over the canvas sack and walked around the rug, hosing it down with a torrent of wealth. Mr. Alderman’s face got paler. In the doorway, Inge jumped up and down, clapping with excitement, heedless of the fact that she hadn’t paid her master for the privilege.

  When the last of the gold was out, Hearthstone stepped back and threw down the empty bag. He signed, Wergild paid.

  Mr. Alderman looked stunned. He did not say Good job, son! Or Oh, boy, I’m richer! Or Did you rob the Elfish Treasury Department?

  He crouched and inspected the pile, coin by coin, dagger by dagger. “There are miniature dogs and steam trains,” he noted. “Why?”

  I coughed. “I think the, uh, previous owner liked board games. Solid-gold board games.”

  “Hmm.” Alderman continued his inspection, making sure that the entire rug was covered. His expression turned more and more sour. “Did you leave the property to acquire this? Because I did not give you permission—”

  “Nope,” I said. “You own the wilderness behind the backyard, right?”

  “Yes, he does!” Inge said. The master glared at her, and she hastily added, “Because, ah, Mr. Alderman is a very important man.”

  “Look, sir,” I said, “it’s obvious Hearthstone succeeded. The rug is covered. Just admit it.”

  “I will be the judge!” he snarled. “This is all about responsibility, something you younger folks do not understand.”

  “You want Hearthstone to fail, don’t you?”

  Alderman scowled. “I expect him to fail. There is a difference. This boy earned his punishment. I am not convinced he has the potential to pay it off.”

  I almost screamed, Hearthstone has been paying his entire life! I wanted to pour Andvari’s treasure straight down Alderman’s throat and see if that convinced him of his son’s potential.

  Hearthstone brushed his fingers against my arm. He signed, Calm. Ready with the ring.

  I tried to control my breathing. I didn’t understand how Hearth could endure his father’s insults. He’d had a lot of practice, sure, but the old elf was intolerable. I was glad Jack was back in pendant form, because I would’ve ordered him to give Mr. Alderman the full Brazilian treatment.

  In the pocket of my jeans, Andvari’s ring was so light I could barely feel it. I had to resist the urge to check on it every few seconds. I realized that was one reason I felt so irritated with Mr. Alderman. I wanted him to say that the debt was paid. I didn’t want Hearthstone to be right about needing the ring, too.

  I kind of wanted to keep it. No, wait. That’s not right. I wanted to return it to Andvari so we didn’t have to deal with the curse. My thoughts on the subject
were starting to get muddled, as though my head was full of river sludge.

  “Aha!” Mr. Alderman cried triumphantly. He pointed to the top of rug, at the nape of its neck, where the fur was thickest. A single blue hair sprouted from the treasure like a stubborn weed.

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “That’ll just take a minor adjustment.”

  I shifted the treasure so the hair was covered. But as soon as I succeeded, another hair popped up from the spot where I’d taken the gold. It was like the same stupid blue hair was following me around, defying my efforts.

  “This is no problem,” I insisted. “Let me get out my sword. Or, if you have a pair of scissors—”

  “The debt is not paid!” Mr. Alderman insisted. “Unless you can cover that last hair right now, with more gold, I am going to charge you for disappointing me and wasting my time. Say…half this treasure.”

  Hearthstone turned to me—no surprise in his face, just glum resignation. The ring.

  A wave of murderous resentment washed over me. I didn’t want to give up the ring. But then I looked at the whiteboards around the room: all the rules and menu items, all the expectations that Mr. Alderman expected Hearthstone not to meet. The curse of Andvari’s ring was pretty strong. It whispered to me, telling me to keep it and get filthy rich. But the urge to see Hearthstone free of his father, reunited with Blitzen, and out of this toxic house…that was stronger.

  I brought out our secret last bit of treasure.

  A hungry light kindled in Mr. Alderman’s space-alien eyes. “Very well. Place it on the pile.”

  Father, Hearthstone signed. Warning: the ring is cursed.

  “I will not listen to your hand gestures!”

  “You know what he’s saying.” I held up the ring. “This thing taints whoever owns it. It’ll ruin you. Heck, I’ve only had it for a few minutes and it’s already messing with my mind. Take the gold that’s already on the rug. Call the debt paid. Show some forgiveness, and we’ll return this ring to its previous owner.”

  Mr. Alderman laughed bitterly. “Forgiveness? What can I buy with forgiveness? Will it bring Andiron back to me?”

  Personally, I would’ve punched the old dude in the face, but Hearthstone stepped toward his father. He looked genuinely worried. Curse of F-A-F-N-I-R, he signed. Do not.