The Ship of the Dead

  a tenth of his presence of mind when I had to face Loki.

  My conscience answered NO! then broke down in hysterical sobbing.

  Thanks to the rain, I finally managed to sleep, but my dreams were not relaxing, nor were they reassuring.

  I found myself back on Naglfar, the Ship of the Dead. Masses of draugr swarmed the deck, rags and mildewed armor hanging from their bodies, their spears and swords corroded like burnt matchsticks. The warriors’ spirits fluttered inside their rib cages like blue flames clinging to the last remnants of kindling.

  Thousands upon thousands shambled toward the foredeck, where hand-painted banners hung along the rails and waved from the yardarms in the frigid wind: MAKE SOME NOISE!, GO, DRAUGR, GO!, RAGNAROK AND ROLL!, and other slogans so terrible they could only have been written by the dishonored dead.

  I did not see Loki. But standing at the helm, on a dais cobbled together from dead men’s nails, was a giant so old I almost thought he might be one of the undead. I’d never seen him before, but I’d heard stories about him: Hrym, the captain of the ship. His very name meant decrepit. His bare arms were painfully emaciated. Wisps of white hair clung to his leathery head like icicles, making me think of pictures I’d seen of prehistoric men found in melting glaciers. Moldy white furs covered his wasted frame.

  His pale blue eyes, though, were very much alive. He couldn’t have been as frail as he looked. In one hand, he brandished a battle-ax bigger than I was. In the other hand was a shield made from the sternum of some huge animal, the space between the ribs fitted with sheets of studded iron.

  “Soldiers of Helheim!” the giant bellowed. “Behold!”

  He gestured across the gray water. At the other end of the bay, the glacial cliffs crumbled more rapidly, ice cracking and sloughing into the sea with a sound like distant artillery.

  “The way will soon be clear!” the giant shouted. “Then we sail to battle! Death to the gods!”

  The cry went up all around me—hollow, hateful voices of the long dead taking up the chant.

  Mercifully, my dream shifted. I stood in a recently plowed wheat field on a warm sunny day. In the distance, wildflowers blanketed rolling hills. Beyond that, milk-white waterfalls tumbled down the sides of picturesque mountains.

  Some part of my brain thought: At last, a pleasant dream! I’m in a commercial for organic whole wheat bread!

  Then an old man in blue robes hobbled toward me. His clothes were tattered and mud-stained from long travel. His wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, though I could make out his graying beard and secretive smile.

  When he reached me, he looked up, revealing one eye that gleamed with malicious humor. The other eye socket was dark and empty.

  “I am Bolverk,” he said, though of course I knew it was Odin. Aside from his less-than-creative disguise, once you’ve heard Odin give a keynote address on best berserker practices, you never forget his voice. “I’m here to make you the deal of a lifetime.”

  From beneath his cloak, he produced an object the size of a cheese round, covered in cloth. I was afraid it might be one of Odin’s inspirational CD collections. Then he unwrapped it, revealing a circular whetstone of gray quartz. It reminded me of the bashing end of Hrungnir’s maul, only smaller and less maul-worthy.

  Odin/Bolverk offered it to me. “Will you pay the price?”

  Suddenly Odin was gone. Before me loomed a face so large I couldn’t take it all in: glowing green eyes with vertical slits for pupils, leathery nostrils dripping with mucus. The stench of acid and rotten meat burned my lungs. The creature’s maw opened to reveal rows of jagged triangular teeth ready to shred me—and I sat bolt upright, screaming in my bed of tarps.

  Above me, dim gray light filtered through the skylights. The rain had stopped. T.J. sat across from me, munching a bagel, a strange pair of glasses on his face. Each lens had a clear center, bordered by a ring of amber glass, making T.J. look like he’d acquired a second set of irises.

  “Finally up!” he noted. “Bad dreams, huh?”

  My whole body felt jittery, like coins rattling inside a change-separator machine.

  “Wh-what’s going on?” I asked. “What’s with the glasses?”

  Alex Fierro appeared in the doorway. “A scream that high could only be Magnus. Ah, good. You’re awake.” She tossed me a brown paper bag that smelled of garlic. “Come on. Time’s wasting.”

  She led us to the main room, where her ceramic duality dude still lay in pieces. She circled the table, checking her work and nodding with satisfaction, though I couldn’t see that anything had changed. “Okay! Yep. We’re good.”

  I opened the paper bag and frowned. “You left me a garlic bagel?”

  “Last awake, last choice,” Alex said.

  “My breath is going to be terrible.”

  “More terrible,” Alex corrected. “Well, that’s fine. I’m not kissing you. Are you kissing him, T.J.?”

  “Wasn’t planning on it.” T.J. popped the last of his bagel in his mouth and grinned.

  “I—I didn’t say anything about—” I stammered. “I didn’t mean…” My face felt like it was crawling with fire ants. “Whatever. T.J., why are you wearing those glasses, anyway?”

  I’m good at subtly changing the conversation like that when I’m embarrassed. It’s a gift.

  T.J. wiggled his new specs. “You helped jog my memory, Magnus, talking about that sniper last night! Then I dreamed about Hrungnir and those weird amber eyes of his, and I saw myself laughing and shooting him dead. Then, when I woke up, I remembered I had these in my haversack. Completely forgot about them!”

  It sounded like T.J. had way better dreams than I did, which was no surprise.

  “They’re sniper glasses,” he explained. “They’re what we used before scopes were invented. I bought this pair in Valhalla, oh, a hundred years ago, I guess, so I’m pretty sure they’re magic. Can’t wait to try them out!”

  I doubted Hrungnir was going to stand still while T.J. sniped at him from a safe distance. I also doubted any of us would be doing much laughing today. But I didn’t want to spoil T.J.’s pre-combat buzz.

  I turned to the ceramic warrior. “So, what’s going on with Pottery Barn guy? Why is he still in pieces?”

  Alex beamed. “Pottery Barn? Good name! But let’s not assume Pottery Barn’s gender.”

  “Uh. Okay.”

  “Wish me luck.” She took a deep breath, then traced her fingers across the ceramic warrior’s two faces.

  The ceramic pieces clattered and flew together as if they’d been magnetized. Pottery Barn sat up and focused on Alex. The faces were still hardened clay, but the frozen twin sneers suddenly seemed angrier, hungrier. The right side’s eye sockets glowed with golden light.

  “Yes!” Alex exhaled with relief. “Okay. Pottery Barn is nonbinary, as I suspected. Preferred pronouns are they and them. And they are ready to fight.”

  Pottery Barn jumped off the table. Their limbs grinded and scraped like stones against cement. They stood about eight feet tall, which was plenty scary to me, but I wondered if they stood a chance against whatever clay warrior Hrungnir had created.

  Pottery Barn must have sensed my doubt. They turned their faces toward me and raised their right fist—a heavy clay vase glazed bloodred.

  “Stop!” Alex ordered. “He’s not the enemy!”

  Pottery Barn turned to Alex as if asking You sure about that?

  “Maybe they don’t like garlic,” Alex speculated. “Magnus, finish that bagel quickly and let’s get on the road. We can’t keep our enemies waiting!”

  AS WE WALKED through the early-morning streets of York, I ate my garlic bagel and told my friends about my dreams. Our new buddy Pottery Barn clanked along beside us, drawing disapproving looks from the sleepy locals, like Bah, tourists.

  At least my story kept T.J.’s attention, so he didn’t pester too many Yorkshire folk with thank-yous and handshakes.

  “Hmm,” he said. “I wish I knew why we needed the whe
tstone. I think maybe Odin discussed the Bolverk incident in one of his books—The Aesir Path to Winning? Or was it The Art of the Steal? I can’t remember the details. A big beast with green eyes, you say?”

  “And lots of teeth.” I tried to shake off the memory. “Maybe Odin killed the beast to get the stone? Or maybe he hit the beast in the face with the stone, and that’s how he got the mead?”

  T.J. frowned. He’d propped his new glasses on the rim of his cap. “Neither sounds right. I don’t remember any monster. I’m pretty sure Odin stole the mead from giants.”

  I recalled my earlier dream of about Fjalar and Gjalar’s chain-saw massacre. “But didn’t dwarves kill Kvasir? How did giants get the mead?”

  T.J. shrugged. “All the old stories are basically about one group murdering another group to steal their stuff. That’s probably how.”

  This made me proud to be a Viking. “Okay, but we don’t have much time to figure it out. Those glaciers I saw are melting fast. Midsummer is in, like, twelve days now, but I think Loki’s ship will be able to sail long before that.”

  “Guys,” Alex said. “How about this? First, we beat the giant, then we talk about our next impossible task?”

  That sounded sensible, though I suspected Alex just wanted me to shut up so I wouldn’t breathe more garlic in her direction.

  “Anyone know where we’re going?” I asked. “What’s a Konungsgurtha?”

  “It means king’s court,” T.J. said.

  “Was that in your travel book?”

  “No.” T.J. laughed. “Old Norse 101. Didn’t you take that class yet?”

  “I had a scheduling conflict,” I muttered.

  “Well, this is England. There’s got to be a king with a court around here somewhere.”

  Alex stopped at the next crossroads. She pointed to one of the signs. “What about King’s Square? Will that do?”

  Pottery Barn seemed to think so. They turned their double faces in that direction and strode off. We followed, since it would’ve been irresponsible to let an eight-foot-tall pile of ceramics walk through town unaccompanied.

  We found the place. Hooray.

  King’s Square wasn’t a square, and it wasn’t very kingly. The streets made a Y around a triangular park paved in gray slate, with some scrubby trees and a couple of park benches. The surrounding buildings were dark, the storefronts shuttered. The only soul in sight was the giant Hrungnir, his boots planted on either side of a pharmacy named, appropriately enough, Boots. The giant was dressed in his same quilted armor, his shaggy limestone beard freshly avalanched, his amber eyes bright with that can’t-wait-to-kill-you gleam. His maul stood upright beside him like the world’s largest Festivus pole.

  When Hrungnir saw us, his mouth split in a grin that would’ve made masons’ and bricklayers’ hearts flutter. “Well, well, you showed up! I was beginning to think you’d run away.” He knit his gravelly eyebrows. “Most people run away. It’s very annoying.”

  “Can’t imagine why,” I said.

  “Mmm.” Hrungnir nodded at Pottery Barn. “That’s your ceramic second, eh? Doesn’t look like much.”

  “You just wait,” Alex promised.

  “I look forward to it!” the giant boomed. “I love killing people here. You know, long ago”—he gestured toward a nearby pub—“the Norse king of Jorvik’s court stood right there. And where you are standing, the Christians had a church. See? You’re walking on somebody’s grave.”

  Sure enough, the slab of slate under my feet was etched with a name and dates too faded to read. The whole square was paved with tombstones, maybe from the floor of the old church. The idea of walking over so many dead people made me queasy, even though I was technically a dead person myself.

  The giant chuckled. “Seems fitting, doesn’t it? Already so many dead humans here, what’s a few more?” He faced T.J. “Are you ready?”

  “Born ready,” T.J. said. “Died ready. Resurrected ready. But I’m giving you one last chance, Hrungnir. It’s not too late to opt for bingo.”

  “Ha! No, little einherji! I worked all night on my fighting partner. I don’t intend to waste him on bingo. Mokkerkalfe, get over here!”

  The ground shook with a squishy THUMP, THUMP. From around the corner appeared a man of clay. He was nine feet tall, crudely shaped, still glistening wet. He looked like something I might make in Pottery 101—an ugly, lumpy creature with arms too thin and legs too thick, his head no more than a blob with two eyeholes and a frowny face carved into it.

  Next to me, Pottery Barn started to clatter, and I didn’t think it was from excitement.

  “Bigger doesn’t mean stronger,” I told them under my breath.

  Pottery Barn turned their faces toward me. Of course, their expressions didn’t change, but I sensed that both mouths were telling me the same thing: Shut up, Magnus.

  Alex crossed her arms. She’d tied her yellow raincoat around her waist, revealing the plaid pink-and-green sweater-vest I thought of as her combat uniform. “You do sloppy work, Hrungnir. You call that a clay man? And what kind of name is Mokkerkalfe?”

  The giant raised his eyebrows. “We’ll see whose work is sloppy when the fighting begins. Mokkerkalfe means Mist Calf! A poetic, honorable name for a warrior!”

  “Uh-huh,” Alex said. “Well, this is Pottery Barn.”

  Hrungnir scratched his beard. “I must admit, that is also a poetic name for a warrior. But can it fight?”

  “They can fight just fine,” Alex promised. “And they’ll take down that slag heap of yours, no problem.”

  Pottery Barn looked at their creator like I will?

  “Enough talk!” Hrungnir hefted his maul and scowled at T.J. “Shall we begin, little man?”

  Thomas Jefferson Jr. put on his amber-rimmed glasses. He unslung his rifle and pulled a small cylindrical paper packet—a gunpowder cartridge—from his kit.

  “This rifle has a poetic name, too,” he said. “It’s a Springfield 1861. Made in Massachusetts, just like me.” He tore open the cartridge with his teeth, then poured the contents into the rifle’s muzzle. He pulled out the ramrod and jammed down the powder and ball. “I used to be able to shoot three rounds a minute with this beauty, but I’ve been practicing for several hundred years. Let’s see if I can do five rounds a minute today.”

  He fished out a little metal cap from his side pouch and set it under the hammer. I’d seen him do all this before, but the way he could load, talk, and walk at the same time was as magical as Alex’s skill at the pottery wheel. For me, it would’ve been like trying to tie my shoes and whistle “The Star-Spangled Banner” while jogging.

  “Very well!” yelled Hrungnir. “LET THE TVEIRVIGI BEGIN!”

  My first task was my favorite one—getting out of the way.

  I scrambled right as the giant’s mallet slammed into a tree, smashing it to kindling. With a dry CRACK, T.J.’s rifle discharged. The giant roared in pain. He staggered backward, smoke streaming from his left eye, which was now black instead of amber.

  “That was rude!” Hrungnir raised his mallet again, but T.J. circled to his blind side, calmly reloading. His second shot sparked off the giant’s nose.

  Meanwhile, Mokkerkalfe lumbered forward, swinging his tiny arms, but Pottery Barn was quicker. (I wanted to credit the great work I’d done on their coil joints.) P.B. ducked to one side and came up behind Mokkerkalfe, slamming both vase-fists into his back.

  Unfortunately, their fists sank into Mokkerkalfe’s soft gooey flesh. As Mokkerkalfe turned, trying to face his opponent, P.B. got yanked off their feet and dragged around like a ceramic tail.

  “Let go!” Alex yelled. “Pottery Barn! Oh, meinfretr.”

  She loosened her garrote, though how she could help without actually fighting, I wasn’t sure.

  CRACK! T.J.’s musket ball ricocheted off the giant’s neck, shattering a second-story window. I was amazed the locals hadn’t already come out to investigate the commotion. Maybe there was a strong glamour at work. Or may
be the good people of York were used to early-morning Viking/giant smack-downs.

  T.J. reloaded as the giant pressed him back.

  “Stand still, little mortal!” roared Hrungnir. “I want to smash you!”

  King’s Square was close quarters for a jotun. T.J. tried to stay on Hrungnir’s blind side, but the giant only needed one well-timed step or one lucky swipe to flatten T.J. into an infantry pancake.

  Hrungnir swung his maul again. T.J. leaped aside just in time as the maul splintered a dozen tombstones, leaving a ten-feet-deep hole in the courtyard.

  Meanwhile, Alex lashed out with her wire. She lassoed Pottery Barn’s legs and yanked them free. Unfortunately, she put a little too much muscle into it just as Mokkerkalfe swung in the same direction. With the excessive momentum, Pottery Barn went flying across the square and smashed through the window of a store offering payday loans.

  Mokkerkalfe turned toward Alex. The clay man made a wet gurgling sound in his chest, like the growl of a carnivorous toad.

  “Whoa there, boy,” Alex said. “I wasn’t actually fighting. I’m not your—”

  GURGLE! Mokkerkalfe launched himself like a wrestler, more quickly than I would’ve thought possible, and Alex disappeared under three hundred pounds of wet clay.

  “NO!” I screamed.

  Before I could move or even process how to help Alex, T.J. screamed at the other end of the courtyard.

  “HA!” Hrungnir raised his fist. Wrapped in his fingers, struggling helplessly, was Thomas Jefferson Jr.

  “One squeeze,” the giant boasted, “and this contest is over!”

  I stood paralyzed. I wanted to break into two parts, to become a duality like our ceramic warrior. But even if I could, I didn’t see how I could help either of my friends.

  Then the giant tightened his fist, and T.J. howled in agony.

  POTTERY BARN saved the day.

  (And, no. That’s not a line I ever thought I would use.)

  Our ceramic friend exploded from a third-story window above the payday loan office. They hurled themselves onto Hrungnir’s face, clamping their legs around the giant’s upper lip and whaling his nose with both their vase-fists.

  “PFBAH! GET OFF!” Hrungnir staggered, releasing T.J., who landed in an unmoving heap.

  Meanwhile, Mokkerkalfe struggled to get up, which must have been difficult with Alex Fierro imprinted on his chest. From beneath his weight, Alex groaned. Relief washed over me. At least she was alive and might stay that way for a few more seconds. Triage decision: I ran toward T.J., whose condition I wasn’t so optimistic about.

  I knelt at his side, put my hand against his chest. I almost snatched my hand away again because the damage I sensed was so bad. A trickle of red etched the corner of his mouth like he’d been drinking Tizer—but I knew it wasn’t Tizer.

  “Hang on, buddy,” I muttered. “I got you.”

  I glanced over at Hrungnir, who was still stumbling around trying to grab Pottery Barn off his face. So far so good. At the other side of the square, Mokkerkalfe had peeled himself away from Alex and now stood over her, gurgling angrily and pounding his blobby fists together. Not so good.

  I yanked the runestone from my neck chain and summoned Sumarbrander.

  “Jack!” I yelled.

  “What?” he yelled back.

  “Defend Alex!”

  “What?”

  “But do it without actually fighting!”

  “What?”

  “Just keep that clay giant off her!”

  “What?”

  “Distract him. GO!”

  I was glad he didn’t say what again, or I would’ve worried that my sword was going deaf.

  Jack flew over to Mokkerkalfe, positioning himself between the clay man and Alex. “Hey, buddy!” Jack’s runes pulsed up and down his blade like equalizer lights. “You want to hear a story? A song? Wanna dance?”