The Ship of the Dead, Page 25

  I wondered if God was greater than the punch in the stomach Sam had just given me. “Um, what do you mean?”

  “Oh, Magnus,” she said. “You are so emotionally nearsighted it’s almost cute.”

  Before I could think of some clever way not to respond to that—perhaps by shouting Look over there! and running away—Skadi’s voice boomed through the hall. “There are my early risers!”

  The giantess was dressed in enough white fur to outfit a family of polar bears. Behind her, a line of servants trudged in carrying an assortment of wooden skis. “Let’s rouse your friends and get you on your way!”

  Our friends were not thrilled about getting up.

  I had to pour ice water on Halfborn Gunderson’s head twice. Blitz grumbled something about ducks and told me to go away. When I tried to shake Hearth awake, he stuck one hand above the covers and signed, I am not here. T.J. bolted out of bed screaming, “CHARGE!” Fortunately he wasn’t armed, or he would’ve run me through.

  Finally, everybody assembled in the main hall, where Skadi’s servants set out our last meal—sorry, our breakfast—of bread, cheese, and apple cider.

  “This cider was made from the apples of immortality,” Skadi said. “Centuries ago, when my father kidnapped the goddess Idun, we fermented some of her apples into cider. It’s quite diluted. It won’t make you immortal, but it will give you a boost of endurance, at least long enough to get through the wilds of Niflheim.”

  I drained the cup. The cider didn’t make me feel particularly boosted, but it did tingle a little. It settled the crackling and popping in my stomach.

  After eating, we tried on our skis with varying degrees of success. Hearthstone waddled around gracefully in his (who knew elves could waddle gracefully?), while Blitz tried in vain to find a pair that matched his shoes. “Do you have anything smaller?” he asked. “Also, maybe in a dark brown? Like a mahogany?”

  Skadi patted him on the head, which wasn’t something dwarves appreciated.

  Mallory and Halfborn shuffled around with ease, but both of them had to help T.J. stay on his feet.

  “Jefferson, I thought you grew up in New England,” Halfborn said. “You never skied?”

  “I lived in a city,” T.J. grumbled. “Also, I’m Black. There weren’t a lot of Black guys skiing down the Boston waterfront in 1861.”

  Sam looked a little awkward on her skis, but since she could fly, I wasn’t too worried about her.

  As for Alex, she sat by an open window putting on a pair of hot-pink ski boots. Had she brought them with her? Had she tipped a servant a few kroner to find her a pair in Skadi’s supply closet? I had no idea, but she wouldn’t be skiing off to her death in bland white and gray. She wore a green fur cloak—Skadi must have skinned a few Grinches to make it—over her mauve jeans and green-and-pink sweater vest. To top off the look, she wore an Amelia Earhart–style aviator’s cap with her pink sunglasses. Just when I thought I’d seen all the outfits nobody but Alex could pull off, she pulled off a new one.

  As she adjusted her skis, she paid no attention to the rest of us. (And by the rest of us, I mean me.) She seemed lost in her thoughts, maybe considering what she would say to her mother, Loki, before she attempted to garrote his head off.

  At last we were all in skis, standing in pairs next to the open windows like a group of Olympic jumpers.

  “Well, Magnus Chase,” Skadi said, “all that remains is the drinking of the mead.”

  Sam, standing on my left, offered me the canteen.

  “Oh.” I wondered if it was safe to drink mead before operating skis. Maybe the laws were more lax out here in the hinterlands. “You mean now?”

  “Yes,” Skadi said. “Now.”

  I uncapped the canteen. This was the moment of truth. We’d ventured across worlds and nearly died countless times. We’d feasted with Aegir, battled pottery with pottery, slain a dragon, and siphoned mead with an old rubber hose just so I could drink this honeyed blood beverage, which would hopefully make me poetic enough to talk smack about Loki.

  I saw no point in doing a taste test. I chugged down the mead in three big gulps. I was expecting the taste of blood, but Kvasir’s Mead tasted more like…well, mead. It certainly didn’t burn like dragon’s blood, or even tingle like Skadi’s cider of not-quite-immortality.

  “How do you feel?” Blitz asked hopefully. “Poetic?”

  I burped. “I feel okay.”

  “That’s it?” Alex demanded. “Say something impressive. Describe the storm.”

  I gazed out the windows into the blizzard. “The storm looks…white. Also cold.”

  Halfborn sighed. “We’re all dead.”

  “Good luck, heroes!” Skadi called.

  Then her servants pushed us out the windows into the void.

  WE HURTLED through the sky like things that hurtle through the sky.

  The wind whipped my face. The snow blinded me. The cold was so bad it made me cold.

  Okay, yeah, the mead of poetry definitely wasn’t working.

  Then gravity took hold. I hated gravity.

  My skis scraped and hissed against packed snow. I hadn’t been skiing in a long time. I’d never done it careening down a forty-five-degree slope in subzero temperatures and blizzard conditions.

  My eyeballs froze. The cold seared my cheeks. Somehow, I avoided a wipeout. Each time I started to wobble, my skis autocorrected, keeping me upright.

  Off to my right, I caught a glimpse of Sam flying along, her skis six feet above the ground. Cheater. Hearthstone zipped past on my left, signing, On your left, which was not very helpful.

  In front of me, Blitzen fell out of the sky, screaming at the top of his lungs. He hit the snow and immediately executed a series of dazzling slaloms, figure eights, and triple flips. Either he was a much better skier than he’d let on, or his magical skis had an evil sense of humor.

  My knees and ankles burned with strain. The wind ripped straight through my superheavy giant-weave clothes. I figured any minute I would stumble more than my magical skis could compensate for. I’d hit a boulder, break my neck, and end up sprawled across the snow like…Forget it. I’m not even trying that one.

  Suddenly the slope evened out. The blizzard abated. Our speed decreased, and all eight of us slid to a gentle stop like we’d just finished the bunny slope at Mount Easy McWeakSauce.

  (Hey, that was a simile! Maybe my usual just-average skill with description was coming back!)

  Our skis popped off of their own accord. Alex was the first one back in motion. She ran ahead and took cover behind a low stone ridge that cut across the snow. I suppose that made sense, since she was the most colorful target within five square miles. The rest of us joined her. Our riderless skis turned around and zipped back up the mountain.

  “So much for an exit strategy.” Alex looked at me for the first time since last night. “You’d better start feeling poetic soon, Chase. ’Cause you’re out of time.”

  I peeked over the ridge and saw what she meant. A few hundred yards away, through a thin veil of sleet, aluminum-gray water stretched to the horizon. At the near shore, rising from the icy bay, was the dark shape of Naglfar, the Ship of the Dead. It was so huge that if I hadn’t known it was a sailing vessel, I might have thought it was another promontory like Skadi’s mountain fortress. Its mainsail would’ve taken several days to climb. Its massive hull must have displaced enough water to fill the Grand Canyon. The deck and gangplanks swarmed with what looked like angry ants, though I had a feeling that if we were closer, those shapes would have resolved into giants and zombies—thousands upon thousands of them.

  Before, I’d only seen the ship in dreams. Now, I realized how desperate our situation was: eight people facing an army designed to destroy worlds, and our hopes hinged on me finding Loki and calling him some bad names.

  The absurdity of it might have made me feel hopeless. Instead, it made me angry.

  I didn’t feel poetic, exactly, but I did feel a burning in my throat—the d
esire to tell Loki exactly what I thought of him. Some choice colorful metaphors sprang to mind.

  “I’m ready,” I said, hoping I was right. “How do we find Loki without getting killed?”

  “Frontal charge?” T.J. suggested.

  “Uh—”

  “I’m kidding,” T.J. said. “Clearly, this calls for diversionary tactics. Most of us should find a way to the front of the vessel and attack. We cause a disturbance, draw as many of those baddies as we can away from the gangplanks, give Magnus a chance to get aboard and challenge Loki.”

  “Wait a second—”

  “I agree with Union Boy,” said Mallory.

  “Yep.” Halfborn hefted his battle-ax. “Battle-Ax is thirsty for jotun blood!”

  “Hold on!” I said. “That’s suicide.”

  “Nah,” Blitz said. “Kid, we’ve been talking about this, and we’ve got a plan. I brought some dwarven ropes. Mallory’s got grappling hooks. Hearth’s got his runestones. With luck, we can scale the prow of that ship and start making chaos.”

  He patted one of the supply bags he’d carried from the Big Banana. “Don’t worry, I’ve got some surprises in store for those undead warriors. You sneak up the aft gangway, find Loki, and demand a duel. Then the fighting should stop. We’ll be fine.”

  “Yeah,” Halfborn said. “Then we’ll come watch you beat that meinfretr at insults.”

  “And I’ll throw a walnut at him,” Mallory finished. “Give us thirty minutes or so to get in position. Sam, Alex—take good care of our boy.”

  “We will,” Sam said.

  Even Alex did not complain. I realized I’d been completely outmaneuvered. My friends had united on a plan to maximize my chances, regardless of how dangerous it might be for them.

  “Guys—”

  Hearth signed, Time is wasting. Here. For you.

  From his pouch, he handed me othala—the same runestone we’d taken from Andiron’s cairn. Lying in my palm, it brought back the smell of rotting reptile flesh and burnt brownies.

  “Thanks,” I said, “but…why this particular rune?”

  Does not just mean inheritance, Hearth signed. Othala symbolizes aid on a journey. Use it once we are gone. It should protect you.

  “How?”

  He shrugged. Don’t ask me. I’m just the sorcerer.

  “All right, then,” T.J. said. “Alex, Sam, Magnus—we’ll see you on that ship.”

  Before I could object, or even thank them, the rest of the group trundled off through the snow. In their jotunish white clothes, they quickly disappeared into the terrain.

  I turned to Alex and Sam. “How long have you all been planning this?”

  Despite her cracked and bleeding lips, Alex grinned. “About as long as you’ve been clueless. So, a while.”

  “We should get going,” Sam said. “Shall we try your rune?”

  I looked down at othala. I wondered if there was some connection between inheritance and aid on a journey. I couldn’t think of any. I didn’t like where this rune came from or what it stood for, but I supposed it made sense that I’d have to use it. We’d earned it with a lot of pain and suffering, the same way we’d earned the mead.

  “Do I just throw it in the air?” I wondered.

  “I imagine Hearth would say…” Alex continued in sign language: Yes, you idiot.

  I was pretty sure that wasn’t what Hearth would say.

  I tossed the rune. The othala dissolved in a wisp of snow. I hoped it would reappear in Hearth’s rune bag after a day or two, the way runes usually did after he used them. I definitely didn’t want to buy him a replacement.

  “Nothing happened,” I noted. Then I glanced to either side of me. Alex and Sam had disappeared. “Oh, gods, I vaporized you!” I tried to stand up, but unseen hands grabbed me from either side and dragged me back down.

  “I’m right here,” Alex said. “Sam?”

  “Here,” Sam confirmed. “It seems the rune made us invisible. I can see myself, but not you guys.”

  I glanced down. Sam was right. I could see myself just fine, but the only sign of my two friends was their impressions where they sat in the snow.

  I wondered why othala had chosen invisibility. Was it drawing on my personal experience, feeling invisible when I was homeless? Or maybe the magic was shaped by Hearthstone’s family experience. I imagined he’d wished he were invisible to his father for most of his childhood. Whatever the case, I didn’t intend to waste this chance.

  “Let’s get moving,” I said.

  “Hold hands,” Alex ordered.

  She took my left hand with no particular affection, as if I were a walking stick. Sam did not take my other hand, but I suspected it wasn’t for religious reasons. She just liked the idea of Alex and me holding hands. I could almost hear Sam smiling.

  “Okay,” she said, “let’s go.”

  We trudged along the stone ridge, heading for the shore. I worried about leaving a trail of footprints, but the snow and wind quickly blew away all traces of our passage.

  The temperature and wind were as bitter as the day before, but Skadi’s apple cider must have been working. My breathing didn’t feel like I was inhaling glass. I didn’t have the need to check my face every few seconds to make sure my nose hadn’t fallen off.

  Over the howl of the wind and the boom of glaciers calving into the bay, other sounds reached us from the deck of Naglfar—chains clanking, beams creaking, giants barking orders, and the boots of last-minute arrivals tromping across the fingernail deck. The ship must have been very close to sailing.

  We were about a hundred yards from the dock when Alex yanked on my hand. “Down, you idiot!”

  I dropped in place, though I didn’t see how we could hide much better than being invisible.

  Emerging from the wind and snow, passing within ten feet of us, a troop of ghoulish soldiers marched toward Naglfar. I hadn’t seen them coming, and Alex was right: I didn’t want to trust that invisibility would keep me hidden from these guys.

  Their tattered leather armor was glazed with ice. Their bodies were nothing but desiccated bits of flesh clinging to bones. Blue spectral light flickered inside their rib cages and skulls, making me think of birthday candles parading across the worst birthday cake ever.

  As the undead tromped past, I noticed that the soles of their boots were studded with nails, like cleats. I remembered something Halfborn Gunderson had once told me: because the road to Helheim was icy, the dishonored dead were buried with nailed shoes to keep them from slipping along the way. Now those boots were marching their owners back to the world of the living.

  Alex’s hand shivered in mine. Or maybe I was the one shivering. At last the dead passed us, heading for the docks and the Ship of the Dead.

  I got unsteadily to my feet.

  “Allah defend us,” Sam muttered.

  I desperately hoped that if the Big Guy was real, Sam had some pull with him. We were going to need defending.

  “Our friends are facing that,” Alex said. “We’ve got to hurry.”

  She was right again. The only thing that would make me want to go aboard a ship filled with thousands of those zombies was knowing that if we didn’t, our friends would fight them alone. That wasn’t going to happen.

  I stepped into the tracks left by the dead army, and immediately, whispering voices filled my head: Magnus. Magnus.

  Pain spiked my eyes. My knees buckled. I knew these voices. Some were harsh and angry, others kind and gentle. All of them echoed in my mind, demanding attention. One of them…One voice was my mother’s.

  I staggered.

  “Hey,” Alex hissed. “What are you—? Wait, what is that?”

  Did she hear the voices, too? I turned, trying to pinpoint their source. I hadn’t seen it before, but about fifty feet away, in the direction from which the zombies had come, a dark square hole had appeared in the snow—a ramp leading down into nothingness.

  Magnus, whispered Uncle Randolph’s voice. I’m so sorry, my bo
y. Can you ever forgive me? Come down. Let me see you once more.

  Magnus, said a voice I’d only heard in dreams: Caroline, Randolph’s wife. Please forgive him. His heart was in the right place. Come, darling. I want to meet you.

  Are you our cousin? said the voice of a little girl—Emma, Randolph’s older daughter. My daddy gave me an othala rune, too. Would you like to see it?

  Most painful of all, my mom called Come on, Magnus! in the cheerful tone she used to use when she was encouraging me to hurry up the trail so she could share an amazing vista with me. Except now there was a coldness to her voice, as if her lungs were filled with Freon. Hurry!

  The voices tore at me, taking little pieces of my mind. Was I sixteen? Was I twelve or ten? Was I in Niflheim or the Blue Hills or on Uncle Randolph’s boat?

  Alex’s hand dropped from mine. I didn’t care.

  I stepped toward the cave.

  Somewhere behind me, Sam said, “Guys?”

  She sounded concerned, on the edge of panic, but her voice didn’t seem any more real to me than the whispering spirits’. She couldn’t stop me. She couldn’t see my footprints on the trampled path left by the zombie soldiers. If I ran, I could make it down that icy road and plunge into Helheim before my friends knew what had happened. The thought thrilled me.

  My family was down there. Hel, the goddess of the dishonored dead, had told me as much when I’d met her on Bunker Hill. She’d promised I could join them. Maybe they needed my help.

  Jack pulsed warmly against my throat. Why was he doing that?

  Off to my left, Alex muttered, “No. No, I won’t listen.”

  “Alex!” Sam said. “Thank God. Where’s Magnus?”

  Why did Sam sound so concerned? I had a vague recollection that we were in Niflheim for a reason. I—I probably shouldn’t be diving into Helheim right now. That would probably kill me.

  The whispering voices got louder, more insistent.

  My mind fought against them. I resisted the urge to run toward that dark ramp.

  I was invisible because of the othala rune—the rune of inheritance. What if this was the downside of its magic? It was allowing me to hear the voices of my dead, pulling me into their realm.

  Alex found my hand again. “Got him.”

  I fought down a surge of irritation. “Why?” I croaked.

  “I know,” Alex said, her voice surprisingly gentle. “I hear them, too. But you can’t follow them.”

  Slowly the dark ramp closed. The voices stopped. The wind and snow began to erase the tracks of the zombies.

  “You guys okay?” Sam called, her voice an octave higher than usual.

  “Yeah,” I said, not feeling very okay. “I—I’m sorry about that.”

  “Don’t be.” Alex squeezed my fingers. “I heard my grandfather. I’d almost forgotten what he sounded like. And other voices. Adrian…” She choked on the name.

  I almost didn’t dare ask. “Who?”

  “A friend,” she said, loading the word with all sorts of possible meanings. “Committed suicide.”

  Her hand went limp in mine, but I didn’t let her go. I was tempted to reach out with my power, to try to heal her, to share the backwash of pain and memories that would flood my head from Alex’s past. But I didn’t. I hadn’t been invited there.

  Sam was silent for a count of ten. “Alex, I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Be glad,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Alex agreed.

  Part of me was still resisting the urge to run across the snow, fling myself down, and claw at the ground until the tunnel reopened. I’d heard my mother. Even