The Trap

by Michael Grant

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Nott led them along a hallway you could have taxied a 747 down. Here, too, there were blank spaces where tapestries had once hung, and spots where darker flooring suggested there had once been furniture.

  Part of Mack was actually relieved. He finally knew where the trap was. Grimluk must have suspected the Pale Queen would try to reach out to Odin and his brood.

  The bathroom was interesting. Mack wasn’t quite sure what he had expected. But he had not expected a gray granite counter with two giant oval holes.

  This counter was god-height, appropriate for a fourteen-foot-tall person, not so useful for people under six feet.

  Mack stood on his toes to see that the holes did not lead to a bowl, or even a pipe. Or a hole in the ground.

  “Those are clouds,” Jarrah said. “Well, that’s pretty high and mighty.”

  The oval holes opened directly onto the tops of fluffy white clouds.

  “It’s over the sea,” Nott said a little defensively.

  “Bad luck for some poor fisherman, eh?” Jarrah huffed. “A little present from the gods?”

  Xiao was the only one who seemed really upset. “This is very wrong behavior,” she said to Nott. “With great power comes great responsibility.”

  Nott curled her lip. “Is that your precious Confucius?”

  “Spider-Man’s dad,” Stefan said.

  “That’s his uncle, not his dad,” Jarrah said. “Uncle Ben.”

  “Huh.”

  “I believe Socrates said something like it, too,” Xiao said. “I was translating loosely.”

  “Naw, it was Uncle Ben,” Jarrah insisted.

  “The point,” Xiao said, gritting her teeth, “is that just because you are a god or a dragon or any other powerful being, you don’t have a right to literally—”

  “Enough,” Nott interrupted. “I’m only tolerating you out of affection for Shen Long. And because I have the knowledge you need to defeat the Mother of All Monsters. But I won’t be lectured by a mortal. Or a dragon, for that matter.”

  “And we are grateful for you helping us,” Mack interrupted smoothly. “But what do you mean, help us defeat the Pale Queen?”

  “Why do you think Grimluk sent you to the Externsteine?” Nott asked.

  “To find me, of course,” Dietmar said.

  “Perhaps, in part,” Nott said. “But also so that I may give you this.” She held out a small stone disk, no bigger than a DVD, but quite a bit heavier. It was covered, edge to edge, with incredibly ornate scrollwork.

  Mack took it. “Thanks,” he said, looking at it carefully. “What is it?”

  “It is a key. The ancient key of the MacGuffins. You must take it to the tomb of William Blisterthöng MacGuffin. You will find the disk into which this one fits.”

  “Say what now? Tomb?” Mack said.

  “He has been dead for a thousand years. Even in Scotland they don’t just leave corpses lying out on park benches.”

  “And why exactly am I digging up a dead guy?”

  “Because when this disk is centered in the outer disk, you will have many of the great Vargran words of power. The Vargran you must have to defeat the Pale Queen!”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t track on anything after the part about digging up a dead guy,” Mack said.

  “I got it,” Dietmar said.

  “Yeah, well, so did I,” Jarrah snapped.

  “I, too, got it,” Xiao said.

  “Huh?” Stefan said.

  “Here’s what I get: probably we shouldn’t all stay in the bathroom for much longer,” Mack said. “Thor will get suspicious.”

  “Thor is an idiot,” Nott said. “But Fenrir will come to investigate. We must hurry. If we can reach the observatory, you may escape with your lives. The observatory is where All-Father Odin watches what happens in the world of humans. Mostly sports. Football, and the Olympics. It is why we keep the back door to the Externsteine in existence: Odin is a big supporter of Arminia Bielefeld and likes to attend actual matches in disguise.”

  In response to Mack’s quizzical look, Dietmar said, “It is the local football team. Soccer to you.”

  “Why would Thor sell us out? He seemed like a nice guy,” Mack protested.

  That actually brought a laugh from Nott. And she didn’t strike any of them as a giggly person.

  “Thor? A nice guy?” Nott said. “And no doubt Odin seemed like a weary old man. But listen, young fool: in the olden days of yore, the Vikings used to raid in their longships. They would arrive at first light, taking a small town by surprise and catching people in their beds. They would seem like demons to the townsfolk. Every atrocity you can possibly imagine would take place. And always the cries of ‘Wotan’ and ‘Thor’ were on the lips of the berserkers.”

  “Berserkers?” Stefan asked. He liked the sound of that.

  “The berserker state,” Nott said distastefully. “It is a madness that seizes warriors, a madness sent by All-Father Odin. A madness so wild, so fierce, so fearless, so enraged that no foe could stand against them, and even their friends kept away lest they be slaughtered in the heat of it.”

  “Huh,” Stefan said. “Cool.”

  “But why would he sell us out?” Mack demanded.

  “Have you not noticed the shabbiness and decay that is Asgard?” Nott asked. “We are forgotten by those who once worshipped us. Our economy is in shambles. Once men sacrificed to us: food, weapons, gold. Now we are reduced to selling the tapestries and furnishings at the Gammel Strand flea market in Copenhagen.”

  “So you’re getting paid to give us up?” Jarrah asked.

  “The Pale Queen is very rich,” Nott explained. “She never relied on sacrifices for income. Instead she pillaged and then invested wisely. She invested in cell phone carriers, airlines, and health insurers—anything evil. And of course she owns several banks. Whereas we . . . well, All-Father Odin was never a wise steward. So our gold was spent on beer and sausages, and our antiques were sold. All we have left now is our minority share of Lego.” Nott sighed. “We’re reduced to shopping the sales at the Aldi.”

  “A discount chain,” Dietmar explained.

  “Ah. Like Costco.” Mack nodded.

  Mack opened the door a crack and peeked out into the hallway. “I think it’s clear.”

  “Then let us go,” Nott said.

  “So long as it’s not on anyone’s head,” Xiao said.

  Stefan laughed and offered her a high five, which Xiao stared at blankly.

  Nott led the way out of the bathroom. She glided. The rest of them trotted as quietly as they could.

  Mack saw a blue-green glow ahead. The observatory. Although what exactly that meant was a mystery to him.

  “I guess it was cooler for you gods in the old days,” Mack said in a low voice, searching for something polite to say to smooth over the argument between Xiao and Nott.

  “Yes,” the booming voice of Thor said. “It was cooler in the old days.”

  He stepped into view, filling the arch at the far end of the hall. He still had his guitar, but the T-shirt and sweatpants were gone. Now he wore tall leather boots, sketchy deerskin leggings, a threadbare orange-red knee-length tunic, and what looked like the mangy skin of one very large bear over his shoulders.

  He did not have a helmet, let alone one with horns.

  He did, however, have a very impressive belt hung with a very wicked-looking sword.

  Nott said, “Let them go, Thor. The old days are dead and gone. You cannot bring them back, not even with the Pale Queen’s money.”

  Thor’s cold blue eyes stared at her with open contempt. “Three thousand years ago the Pale Queen was taken and bound. And for a long while after, we still kept our power, Nott. But each year it faded. Just a little at first. But little by little . . . And now look at me. Gaze with pity and contempt upon he who was once the god of thunder!”

  “Dude,” Mack said. “No one was dissing you. You are still totally Thor.”
/>   “Very much so,” Jarrah said. “Excellently Thorlike.”

  But Dietmar said, “We have no need of such silly things as gods of thunder.”

  “Sure we do,” Mack said, trying to catch Dietmar’s eye and get him to play along. “I think everyone should have a god of thunder.”

  But Dietmar wasn’t having it. He stood with hands on hips, defiant. “You should be ashamed of your behavior, you so-called god of thunder, threatening us this way.”

  “No, no,” Mack said tersely. “He’s totally cool with the whole giant boots and sword thing and all.”

  “No. He is just a big bully,” Dietmar insisted.

  “Emphasis on big,” Jarrah said. “So maybe we should all be a bit more polite, eh, mate?”

  “Nonsense. He can squash us like insects, but that is no reason for us to flatter him.”

  “Actually—” Mack started to say.

  But he stopped when he felt very large, very meat-scented breath coming from behind him. He turned slowly, and there stood Fenrir, grinning his wolf grin.

  “Gentle, Fenrir, gentle,” Thor said. “Hel will want them alive. You know she likes her meat fresh.”

  Mack was busy calculating the distance to the green-blue glow of the observatory beyond Thor. It was only a hundred yards or so. A hundred yards and one giant thunder god.

  Plus one very giant wolf.

  “You’re trying to reach the observatory?” Thor said, smirking. “Well, go ahead. I’m not as quick as I used to be when I worked out in battle every day. Run for it.”

  Mack had no particular phobia involving giant gods. And he’d had quite a bit of experience dealing with bullies. But this wasn’t like the old days of trying to outthink or outrun Stefan.

  “Any of you guys have anything?” Mack whispered.

  Xiao said, “Vargran spells will not work on gods. Except indirectly. If you had a spell to turn yourself into one of them, and a spell to give yourself a big magical spear . . .” Xiao blushed. “I realize that’s not very helpful.”

  “We must not let them push us around,” Dietmar added stoutly.

  “That’s even less helpful,” Mack said.

  He took a deep breath. He had an idea. But it wasn’t a very good one. He turned to face Fenrir. The wolf was as big as an elephant.

  “Hey, Fenrir, are you one of those wolves who like to dress up in women’s clothing and try to pass as Grandma?” Mack asked the world’s largest wolf.

  Fenrir’s yellow eyes narrowed to slits.

  “I mean, it’s amazing, really, how lame wolves are,” Mack went on. “Outsmarted by Little Red Riding Hood. Killed and cooked by the Three Little Pigs.”

  “Lies,” Thor said. “Myths.”

  “Dude, you’re a myth,” Mack said, turning back to him. “I mean, what a disappointment. You’re supposed to be all crazy-tough and dangerous, and instead you’re some pitiful Guitar Hero wanna-be.”

  Then, back to Fenrir. “And what’s even more pathetic is your big dog.”

  A growl pitched somewhere around the sound a jet engine makes when it sucks in a goose escaped from Fenrir.

  “Don’t call him a dog!” Thor cried. The concern in his voice was genuine; Mack was sure of it. He was already putting his hands out in a calming gesture.

  Yes, that was it: the pressure point, the thing he could do to really infuriate the wolf.

  “Can you do any tricks, Fenrir? Can you roll over? Can you shake hands? Can you play dead?” In a low murmur to his friends, he said, “When he jumps, go through Thor’s legs.”

  The growl deepened, the ruff of fur on Fenrir’s shoulders stood up, and he seemed to swell in size. But still Fenrir did not attack.

  “My friend has a dog just like you,” Mack said. “And you know what? He eats his own poop.”

  Fenrir’s leap was so sudden and so powerful, Mack was almost caught standing.

  It was stunning to see something so large move with such shocking speed.

  Mack bolted. Jarrah, Xiao, and Dietmar reacted with speed that almost equaled Mack’s. But frankly, no one could beat Mack when it came to bully dodging. And Stefan had no experience at all with running away.

  So what happened was this: Mack leaped for the gap between Thor’s tree-trunk legs. He cleared the obstacle and was flying down the polished stone hallway at about the speed of sound when he realized that Xiao, Jarrah, and Dietmar had collided trying to squeeze through.

  And Stefan was still standing around. He was just not any good at terrified fleeing.

  And Fenrir was flying through the air.

  So Mack yelled, “Look out!”

  Stefan crouched beneath Fenrir’s hairy belly; the wolf flew over him and slammed into his master, who was yelling in a scared god voice, “Fenrir, down! Down, boy!”

  The wolf, the god, the three kids—well, two kids and one dragon passing as a kid—wrapped themselves into one big bowling ball of deerskin, fur, sword, and tangled limbs.

  Jarrah was quickest to recover. She yanked Dietmar to his feet and hauled butt toward Mack. Stefan jumped atop Fenrir, bounced off his back, avoided a wild grab by a prostrate Thor, and landed—grinning hugely—on the safe side of the gaggle.

  Only Xiao was still trapped. She was sort of squashed beneath one of Fenrir’s shoulders.

  Mack’s every instinct told him to keep running. But in that terrifying moment he came to realize a really dreadful truth: it was the Magnificent Twelve. Not the Magnificent Eleven. Or Ten. Or any smaller number.

  They were like the Three Musketeers, except there would be Twelve Musketeers. So instead of all-for-one-and-one-for-all times three, it was going to be all-for-one-and-one-for-all times twelve—which meant not losing anyone. Not Xiao, not Jarrah, not Dietmar. Not even that traitor Valin. And managing all that was going to be really difficult.

  One other thing he realized. He was one of the Twelve and he, too, was not expendable. Stefan, on the other hand . . .

  “Stefan! Get Xiao!” Mack yelled.

  Stefan spun like an athlete and ran straight back at the god-wolf tangle.

  Stefan didn’t grab Xiao’s up-stretched hand. Instead he grabbed the hilt of Thor’s sword.

  He pulled. And pulled. Straining his muscles.

  Thor was fourteen feet tall. His sword was a good six feet—longer than Stefan was tall—and it was not made of some lightweight space-age polymer. This was old-fashioned steel and gold and bronze and other heavy things.

  Stefan was strong. But he was not god-strong. He could draw the sword but, beyond that, all he could do was drag it across the floor.

  “Huh,” Stefan remarked.

  Fortunately Jarrah had something more intelligent to say. She said, “Esk-ma belast!”

  And Stefan began to grow.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Stefan began to grow. But it didn’t happen very fast. What did happen fast was Fenrir and Thor untangling from each other. Xiao slipped out from under them unnoticed. Stefan pulling on Thor’s sword had definitely stolen the spotlight.

  Now Stefan was sort of dragging the sword across the floor. The point left a scratch.

  Thor threw back his head and laughed. “Will you swing Thor’s sword? I don’t think so, little boy.”

  Stefan was just getting close to six feet. So he was almost as tall as the sword now. But he was still a long way from going all ninja with it.

  Thor wrapped his massive fist around Stefan’s throat.

  “Wait!” Mack yelled. “Wait! I thought you enjoyed battle. I thought that was the Asgard way.”

  Thor looked at Stefan, now dangling with his feet off the floor and the sword still dragging. “Battle? With this child?”

  Thor laughed again, and this time Fenrir joined in. One doesn’t normally think of wolves laughing. And one would be right about that. What Fenrir did was a sort of huffing, snorting sound that could have been laughter but could also have been asthma.

  “Look! He’s growing!” Mack said. “If you don’t kill him, h
e’ll be big enough to take you on.”

  Thor looked at Stefan. He weighed him in his hand and nodded thoughtfully. Stefan was definitely growing. As if to prove the point, Stefan lifted the sword up off the floor and made a feeble pendulum swing with it.

  “Battle,” Thor said, relishing the word like a toddler with the word candy, or a parent with the word sleep.

  Nott spoke up. “Would the thunder god show himself to be a coward in front of Hel?”

  “Is she here?” Thor asked nervously.

  “Not yet,” Nott said. “But just as Fenrir is not your dog, you are not hers. Or are you?”

  “Do not provoke me,” Thor hissed. He set Stefan down. Actually Stefan had almost set himself down by virtue of continuing to grow. He was NBA sized now. And unlike the Lepercons, Stefan’s muscles seemed to grow in proportion.

  Stefan took a couple of staggering steps back, and now he managed to actually level the sword, point aimed at Thor’s heart.

  Thor smiled. “But I have no weapon,” Thor said. “Just my guitar.”

  As Mack and the others stared helplessly, Thor’s massive guitar began to change shape. The strings smoked and evaporated. The neck shortened and thickened. The body lost its bright-polished sheen and became dull gray stone. Plus it looked a lot more like a two-headed ax.

  “Every guitar should have a name,” Thor said. “Do you know what my guitar is called?”

  Mack shook his head.

  But Dietmar nodded yes; he’d guessed. “Mjolnir,” Dietmar whispered.

  “MJOLNIR!” Thor roared.

  He grabbed the stone ax by its short handle and laughed like the crazy Viking god-warrior he was. “Mjolnir! The hammer of THOOOOOR!”

  To emphasize his point, he held it over his head. Lightning shot from it in a dozen bolts, sizzling the remaining hanging tapestries and singeing Fenrir’s fur.

  “Flee, human! Flee from the wrath of mighty Thor!”

  To which Stefan said, “No.”

  Stefan—now only a few feet shorter than Thor, and very able to lift the sword—ran straight at Thor with the sword pointed like a lance.

  Stone hit steel, and Thor batted the sword away with practiced ease. Thor hadn’t become thunder god by not knowing how to fight.