9 from the Nine Worlds (Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard)

by Rick Riordan

  “You owe me a quarter,” I said huffily.

  The minuscule muscleman stepped closer and menaced my midriff with a scowl. “Someone wants to see you,” he said.

  I cut my eyes toward the front of the bar, where Junior’s henchman was questioning the bartender. “If it’s that guy, I’m not interested.”

  The burly dwarf glared up at me, then kicked open a hidden door next to the machine and stepped aside. “In back. Now.”

  I would have refused, except I heard the bartender say, “Yeah, he’s here. Now play, drink, or get out.”

  “Right. In back. Now.” I darted through the opening. The door closed with a quiet click behind me.

  The back room was as dimly lit as the bar. A massive oak desk—beautifully carved, clearly a one-of-a-kind piece—took up much of the space. Behind it was a hand-tooled leather chair with brass rivets, its back to me.

  “Um, hello?” I ventured. “You wanted to see me?”

  The chair rotated with agonizing slowness. I held my breath, waiting to see who sat in it. It was empty.

  “Ha-ha, very funny. You got me—whoever you are.”

  Laughter gurgled from the side wall. A light suddenly blazed, illuminating a large fish tank. There were no fish in it, though. Just a severed, bearded head bobbing in the water next to a plastic treasure chest.

  I groaned. “Mimir. I should have known.”

  Mimir, an ancient god and my sometime employer, had a body once. Then he tried to pull a fast one on the Vanir. He dispensed wise advice through Honir, the god of indecision, and made them think he was a sage. When the Vanir discovered the deception, they decapitated Mimir. He survived from the neck up thanks to Odin’s magic and the waters of the well of knowledge at the roots of Yggdrasil. He can usually be found there still, dishing out intel to supplicants in exchange for their servitude. I’d been his servant for a few years (long story), but even now that I was free, he still sometimes showed up in other bodies of water, usually to make my life miserable.

  The head bobbed to the surface. “Hey, Blitz,” Mimir said. “Long time no see. Pull up a seat. We got things to discuss. That’s why I brought you here.”

  “What do you mean, brought me here?”

  Mimir chuckle-bubbled. “A little wheelchair sabotage, a little magical manipulation of certain alleyways, bada-bing, bada-boom, and here you are. So, take a seat and have a listen.”

  I drew myself up to my full five feet five inches. “Odin freed me from your service, remember?”

  Mimir sloshed with annoyance. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thing is, the worlds might be in trouble if you don’t act on what I’m about to tell you. Now you interested in what I got to say?”

  I huffed as I sat in the leather chair. Why me? “I’m listening.”

  “Right. You ever heard of a dwarf named Alviss?”

  “No.”

  “Nasty piece of work. Anyway, he’s plotting to kill Thor on account of Alviss was supposed to marry Thor’s daughter, Thrud. Only Thor changed his mind at the last minute and petrified the guy instead. Someone fixed Alviss up with a little water, so now he is back to normal, and he is peeved. When he found out Thor was heading to Nidavellir on his jog through the Nine Worlds—”

  “Thor’s jog through . . . ?” I held up a hand. “Never mind. It’s Thor. I should know better than to ask.”

  “As I was saying, Alviss is planning to take his revenge.” Mimir floated down to the treasure chest and, using his chin, pressed a button to open it. Out popped a card, which he grabbed in his teeth, brought back to the surface, and offered to me.

  I removed it gingerly from between his chompers. It was a plastic laminated map of Nidavellir.

  “See that X?” Mimir asked. “My sources say that’s where Alviss will attack. Be there. Stop him. I estimate you’ve got two hours to come up with a plan to save the thunder god.”

  “Me, save Thor?” I scoffed. “He can take care of himself!”

  Mimir did a spit take. “You don’t get it! You’ve gotta do the job without letting Thor realize he was ever in danger. That means zero contact with the thunder god. You can’t even call out his name. If he finds out about Alviss, he could get mad enough to zap all the dwarves—boom!”

  Before I could ask further questions, like why his sources couldn’t deal with Alviss themselves, Mimir yanked a plug at the bottom of the tank with his teeth and was sucked down the drain, leaving me with a dripping map and no idea what to do. And I was still out a quarter from the pachinko machine.

  At least I got back to my apartment safely, thanks to directions from the minuscule dwarf thug. Once inside, I studied the map. I recognized the X’s location, a steep cliff overlooking a river I had once fallen into with my buddy Hearthstone. We’d washed up in Mimir’s well of knowledge, which was how we ended up bound in service to him in the first place.

  Knowing the X’s location was the plus in the situation. On the minus side, the only way I could think of to stop Alviss—aside from killing or maiming him, which I was not going to do; I had enough enemies in Nidavellir already—would be to replicate what Thor did and petrify Alviss. Then I could revive him with fresh running water once the thunder god was out of danger.

  There was just one catch: petrification required sunlight, something Nidavellir lacked.

  Okay, two catches: if the sunlight hit me, I’d turn into a statue, too. A well-dressed one, but still . . .

  I paced the apartment. Made myself a snack. Paced some more. Checked the time. Panicked. Paced some more.

  “Sunlight. Where am I going to get sunlight?”

  I searched the room for inspiration. I picked up an expand-o-duck, my handcrafted metal figurine that thwarted enemies by growing to immense size and crushing them. Would it solve my problem with Alviss, though? I didn’t think so.

  Still holding the duck, my gaze landed on Hearthstone’s tanning bed. My elf friend used its simulated sunlight to keep him healthy when he came to visit. I looked from the duck to the bed and back again. Suddenly, the wheels in my brain started turning.

  “What if I built a smaller version of the tanning bed,” I asked the duck, “but tweaked the light so that instead of a soft warm glow, it shot out a powerful concentrated beam of sunlight when I opened it? That could work, right?” I made the duck nod, then got busy.

  Forty-five minutes later, I had crafted a perfect handheld replica of Hearth’s bed. When I opened the clamshell—away from my face—a burst of brilliant sunlight shone out. I quickly snapped it shut again. “Probably not going to be a big seller in Nidavellir,” I acknowledged. “But, hopefully, it’ll do the trick.”

  With no time to lose, I selected a stylish ninja outfit from my closet—fitted dark jeans and a black cashmere hoodie with a front pocket for the mini bed—and hurried to the riverside. I hid myself in the shadows.

  But either Alviss was a no-show or Mimir’s sources were wrong, because no one else, angry dwarf or jogging god, was anywhere in sight.

  Or so I thought.

  Scritch-scritch.

  Nidavellir is an underground world with domed cavern ceilings overhead instead of sky. The scratching sound had come from above me. I looked up and saw a dwarf clinging to a stalactite. One end of a rope was wrapped around his waist. The other was attached to a second stalactite far in front of him and directly over the street where Thor was likely to run. Jammed in Alviss’s belt was a club bigger than he was.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out his plan: swing down like a pendulum and club Thor on the head.

  This presented my plan with two unanticipated problems. One, I wasn’t sure how far my sunbeam would shoot. The Nidavellir darkness might swallow it before it reached Alviss on the ceiling. I’d have to wait for him to swing down. That meant hitting a moving target. Problem number two, assuming I petrified the dwarf, I had to be sure he swung past or over Thor, not into him.

  Then a third problem arose. The ground started shaking with measured thuds, which meant I’d run out
of time.

  “Thor.” Alviss’s furious whisper echoed off the cavern walls.

  Heart pounding, I pulled out the mini bed. The footfalls drew closer. Thor thundered around a bend in the distance. The sight of him in his tighty-leatherys almost made me root for Alviss.

  “Rock, rock. Rock-rock-rock. Rock, rock. Rock-rock-rock,” Thor muttered in a loud monotone.

  Eyes glued to Alviss, I got into a crouch. Thor drew nearer. I huffed a few quick breaths to psych myself up. Then—

  “Aaaiiiiii!” With a triumphant yell, Alviss let go of the stalactite. At the same time, I launched myself into Thor’s path. I tucked, rolled, and caught a horrifying glimpse of his leather-clad god parts a split second before he tripped over me.

  “Rock. Rock. Rock-rock-whoa!”

  Thor pitched forward just as Alviss flew overhead, swinging for the fences. The dwarf’s club swished through empty air. Thor righted himself and kept going. “Rock. Rock. Rock-rock-rock. . . .”

  I’d broken the “zero contact” instruction, but the thunder god seemed oblivious to my presence, so no harm done. As for the killer dwarf—

  “Noooooo!”

  Flailing his club, Alviss reached the swing’s high point and came screaming—literally—back. I opened the mini bed.

  Zot! Alviss’s scream cut off. I watched as the now petrified dwarf sailed past.

  I know what it’s like to be petrified. It stinks. So I had every intention of cutting Alviss free on his next pass-by and then dipping him in the river to restore him. But before I could, the stalactite attached to the rope broke. Alviss’s momentum carried him over the cliff edge. He landed with a splash in the water below.

  “Oops.” I peered down, then waved my hand dismissively. “Ah, he’ll be fine.”

  “Blitzen!” Junior suddenly appeared. He crutched toward me with his rocket-powered walker and a lot of friends. “Get him, boys!”

  “Ha! Eat light, Junior!” I unleashed the power of the mini bed.

  Sadly, instead of a turn-you-to-stone laser beam, a weak glow enveloped Junior like a soft blanket. The charge had run out. A thin crust formed around him. It was nowhere near as dramatic as instant petrification, but it was startling enough to make the other dwarves pause.

  And that made me think about how I looked to them. A dwarf who handcrafts a weapon that petrifies other dwarves? Not cool.

  “Listen!” I yelled. “My argument is with Junior, not you. When he decrustifies, tell him I want to talk.”

  I put the mini bed on the ground and showed them my empty hands while slowly backing away.

  It would have been a very powerful moment if I hadn’t backed off the cliff into the river. As I thrashed through the churning water toward shore, three things occurred to me. One, Junior would never, ever forgive me. Two, my cashmere hoodie was ruined. And three . . . Mimir owed me a lot more than a quarter.

  “READY FOR the next one?”

  I lip-read T.J.’s question and nodded. He slid a flash card with a handwritten swear word on it across the table, then watched me with gleeful anticipation.

  Smiling faintly, I opened my mind and focused on the dagaz runestone in my hand. Magic flowed through me like water through a pebbled stream. The stone warmed, and I signed the swear. I felt sound vibrations in the air, then T.J. fell back onto his bed, shaking with laughter.

  I gave him a look and signed three words: Pull yourself together.

  “Right. Sorry.” T.J. grinned. “It’s just . . . hearing cuss words come out of thin air like that cracks me up every time.”

  I’ve never heard the sound of voices. I’ve rarely uttered a sound, either, aside from the occasional sharp intake of breath. Communication had never been a problem, however. My closest friends, Blitzen, Magnus, and Sam, knew ASL—Alf Sign Language—so we conversed easily. When the need arose, they translated for me.

  But now I was spending more time in Hotel Valhalla. Many einherjar didn’t know or seem interested in learning ASL (except for T.J., who felt that he needed to learn more curses in order to keep up with Halfborn and Mallory). Blitz, Magnus, and Sam weren’t always around to translate, and I had an intense dislike for writing down my words for others to read. Because reasons.

  So, I came up with a different way to communicate: rune magic using dagaz, the symbol meaning new beginnings and transformations, to convert my signs into spoken words.

  I touched my tightly closed fingertips together: More.

  T.J. nodded and slid over another card. I’d just opened my mind when he broke my concentration by tapping my leg. He pointed to a thin gold band around my wrist and asked, “Why’s it doing that?”

  The band was a gift from Inge, a lovely hulder—a woodland being, like a sprite, with a cow’s tail and minor magical powers. Inge had once served my family in Alfheim. Been enslaved by, more accurately. I had released her from service the first moment I could. In return, she had made me the bracelet with strands of her hair. She and the band were connected by magic, she had explained. If I were ever in trouble, the bracelet would send her a signal. Likewise, I would know she needed help if the bracelet was twinkling.

  The bracelet was twinkling.

  Alarmed, I leaped to my feet and shoved the dagaz rune into my pocket. T.J. grabbed my arm. “Hearth! Is everything okay?”

  I shook my head and pulled myself free. T.J. deserved more of an explanation, but there wasn’t time. I had to get to Alfheim.

  I grabbed my rune bag and raced across the hall to Magnus’s room. Inside was an atrium with direct access to Yggdrasil, the World Tree. I swung up into its branches and climbed to the nearest entrance to my home world. The last thing I saw before I slipped through was T.J. staring up at me in confusion.

  Then I was floating through the intense sunlight of my world. Far below was the weed-choked rubble heap that was once my childhood home. I willed myself to shift direction away from it. Not because I regretted its destruction—quite the opposite; the place conjured up nothing but unhappy memories—but because I knew Inge would be elsewhere. And wherever she was, she was in trouble. The bracelet conveyed that much with its frantic twinkling. She’d been captured, I feared, and enslaved as she had once been by my family.

  I landed on an immaculate patch of grass in a picturesque park. The shade trees, duck ponds, trimmed hedges—everything around me screamed perfection, like most things in Alfheim. I kicked up a divot just to leave a blemish, then set off to find Inge.

  There was just one problem: Alfheim was vast. Wealthy estates like my family manor were separated by miles of open green space. Neat, orderly neighborhoods of smaller dwellings marched row after row as far as the eye could see. It would take weeks to locate her by going door-to-door, and even if I found the right house, it was unlikely that the homeowners would admit she was there.

  So, I made an educated guess and cut across the park toward the wealthiest neighborhood. I figured I was on the right track when the bracelet’s lights began pulsing faster. Just to be sure, I switched direction. The pulsing stopped. The miniature light show resumed when I returned to my original course. I did a subtle fist pump and hurried on.

  The bracelet led me to a gleaming white mansion surrounded by lush gardens, well-manicured lawns, and a polished marble wall topped with sparkling shards of glass. Unfortunately, it had a guard shack outside the massive iron gates, so climbing over that wall was out of the question. So was sneaking around to search for another way in, because, as I stood there thinking, the two guards spotted me. They were old acquaintances of mine, police elves Wildflower and Sunspot. And by acquaintances, I mean not friends.

  Why were police patrolling this mansion? I wondered. Then I saw their rather plain uniforms and skinny billy clubs. They weren’t cops anymore, but private security guards. After the last time I’d seen Sunspot and Wildflower, when my father had unleashed a herd of wild nøkks on them, they must have lost their badges. It was worth coming to Alfheim again just to see that.

  I took the direct
approach and walked up to the gate as if I had every right to be there. The guards’ eyes widened with recognition and, I noted with satisfaction, a hint of fear. Sunspot darted into the guard shack. Wildflower, meanwhile, produced a bullhorn and put it to his mouth. I assumed he was yelling at me, but since his lips were covered, I couldn’t tell what he was saying. And yes, he knew I was hearing-impaired. The fact that he used a bullhorn to communicate with a deaf person should tell you something about him.

  Without breaking stride, I pulled gebo, the rune for gift, from my bag and lobbed it at Wildflower. He flinched as the stone bounced off his forehead. Then he blinked, straightened, and offered me the bullhorn.

  I tucked the horn under my arm, touching my fingertips to my chin and signing Thank you as I walked past him to the gate. Sunspot remained in the guard shack, probably quaking in his rent-a-cop shoes. I pressed a lagaz rune against the lock. I must have put a little extra magical oomph into it, for the entire wrought-iron gate, not just the lock, liquefied into a puddle of molten metal.

  Whoops. My bad.

  Halfway to the mansion, I reached for my dagaz rune. I planned to amplify my ASL-to-speech magic with the bullhorn and pretend to be a giant who had come to collect his long-lost Inge.

  That plan fell apart when the ground began shaking. T.J.’s curse word flashed through my mind when I looked behind me and saw the cause of the tremors.

  Sunspot must have called for backup. It was a huge, hideous troll. (How such an unattractive creature had been allowed, much less employed, in Alfheim, I don’t know.) Protective sun-gear covered every inch of him and bore the same security-company logo. Even under his dingy white jumpsuit I could tell he had a massive chest and equally muscular legs, and I could see his yellow teeth and bloodshot eyes through the tinted plastic shield that hung down from his hood, covering his face. His thick gloved fingers flexed as if they itched to encircle and squeeze my neck.

  The troll charged me like an angry rhino. A rather slow angry rhino, but still.

  I dropped the bullhorn and scrabbled in my rune bag for the algiz protection stone. Backpedaling wildly, I hurled it at the troll’s massive work boots. A shimmering energy shield sprang up. The troll bounced off it like a bumper car and landed on his fleshy butt. The ground shuddered so violently I almost fell.