The Ship of the Dead (Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard #3)

The storm cloud descended, and I realized it was a face—a face that did not look happy to see us.

From my previous dealings with giants, I’d learned that the only way to process their immense size was to focus on one thing at a time: a nose the size of an oil tanker, a beard as thick and vast as a redwood forest, round gold-rimmed glasses that looked like crop circles. And on the giant’s head, what I’d taken for a storm front was the rim of the universe’s largest panama hat.

The way his voice echoed in the basin, pinging off the cliffs with tinny reverberations, made me realize we were not, in fact, in a volcanic crater. Those cliffs were the metal rim of a huge pot. The steaming lake was some kind of brew. And we’d just become the secret ingredient.

My friends stood with their mouths open, trying to make sense of what they were seeing—all except for Halfborn Gunderson, who wisely remained unconscious.

I was the first to regain my wits. I hate it when that happens.

“Hello,” I said to the giant.

I’m diplomatic that way, always knowing the right greeting.

Frowny McHugeface furrowed his brow, giving me flashbacks to my sixth-grade science lesson on plate tectonics. He glanced to either side and called out, “Daughters! Get over here!”

More gigantic faces popped up around the rim of the pot: the nine women from the maelstrom, but much larger now, their frothy hair floating about their faces, their smiles a little too manic, their eyes bright with excitement or hunger. (I hoped it wasn’t hunger….It was probably hunger.)

“We got them, Dad!” one of the women squeaked—or it would have been a squeak if she hadn’t been the size of South Boston.

“Yes, but why?” their father asked.

“They’re yellow!” another giantess chimed in. “We noticed them right away! With a ship that color, we figured they deserved to drown!”

I mentally began composing a list of words that began with F: Frey. Father. False. Friend. Frick. Frack. And some others.

“Also,” said a third daughter, “one of them mentioned mead! We knew you’d want to talk to them, Dad! That’s your favorite word!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Alex Fierro waved his hands like there was a flag on the play. “Nobody here was talking about mead. There’s been some kind of mistake….” He hesitated, then frowned at me. “Right?”

“Uh…” I pointed to Samirah, who backed away, out of range of Alex’s cutting wire. “I was just explaining—”

“DOESN’T MATTER!” boomed Frowny. “You’re here now, but I can’t have you in my cauldron. I’m just cooking down the mead. A Viking ship could totally ruin the flavor of the honey!”

I glanced at the bubbling liquid around us. I was suddenly glad I hadn’t inhaled any of it.

“Honey?” I asked.

“Don’t you dare call me that,” Alex growled. Possibly he was kidding. I didn’t want to ask.

A massive hand loomed over us, and Frowny plucked up our ship by the mast.

“They’re too small to see properly,” he complained. “Let’s scale things down.”

I hated it when gigantic people changed the proportions of reality. Instantly the world telescoped around me. My stomach imploded. My ears popped. My eyes expanded painfully in their sockets.

BOOM! SCRAPE! THUMP!

I stumbled over my own feet, and found myself standing with my friends in the middle of a vast Viking hall.

In one corner, our ship lay on its side, hot mead still dripping from the hull. The room’s walls were columned with dozens of ship keels, soaring hundreds of feet up and curving inward to form the rafters of a peaked ceiling. Instead of planks or plaster filling in the space between the columns, there was nothing except rippling green water, held in place by no physics that made sense to me. Here and there, doors lined the watery walls, leading to other undersea chambers, I guessed. The floor was carpeted in squishy kelp that made me glad I had shoes on.

The hall’s layout wasn’t much different than your typical Viking party pad. A rectangular feasting table dominated the space, with chairs of carved red coral along either side, and an elaborate throne at the far end, decorated with pearls and shark jaws. Freestanding braziers burned with ghostly green flames, filling the hall with a smell like toasted seaweed. Hanging over the main hearth fire was the cauldron we’d been floating in, though it now appeared much less massive—maybe just big enough to cook a team of oxen in. The pot’s polished bronze sides were engraved with designs of waves and snarling faces.

Our host/captor, the frowny-daddy giant guy, stood before us, his arms crossed, his brow knit. He was now only twice as tall as a human. The cuffs of his army-green skinny jeans were turned up over pointy black boots. His suit vest was buttoned over a white dress shirt, the sleeves pushed back to show lots of swirling runic tattoos on his forearms. With his panama hat and his gold-rimmed glasses, he looked like an agitated Whole Foods shopper, stuck in the express line behind a bunch of people with too many items, when all he wanted to do was purchase his macrobiotic matcha smoothie and leave.

Behind him, in a loose semicircle, stood the nine wave girls—who were not (shockingly) doing the wave. Each giantess was terrifying in her own special way, but they all leered and giggled and pushed each other around with the same level of excitement, like fans waiting for a star to come through the stage door so they could tear him to pieces to show their love.

I recalled my encounter with the sea goddess Ran, who had described her husband as a hipster who liked microbrewing. At the time, the description had been too weird to comprehend. Afterward, it had seemed funny. Now it seemed a little too real, because I was pretty sure the hipster god in question was standing right in front of me.

“You are Aegir,” I guessed. “God of the sea.”

Aegir grunted in a way that implied Yeah, so? You still tainted my mead.

“And these…” I gulped. “These lovely ladies are your daughters?”

“Of course,” he said. “The Nine Giantesses of the Waves! This is Himminglaeva, Hefring, Hr?nn—”

“I’m Hefring, Dad,” said the tallest girl. “She’s Hr?nn.”

“Right,” said Aegir. “And Unn. And Bylgya—”

“Bigly?” asked Mallory, who was doing her best to hold up a half-conscious Halfborn.

“Nice to meet you all!” Samirah yelped, before Aegir could introduce Comet, Cupid, and Rudolph. “We claim guest rights!”

Samirah was smart. In certain polite jotun households, claiming guest rights could get you a free pass from being slaughtered, at least temporarily.

Aegir harrumphed. “What do you take me for, a savage? Of course you have guest rights. Despite the fact that you ruined my mead and you have an insultingly yellow ship, you’re in my house now. We at least have to have a meal together before I decide what to do with you. Unless one of you is Magnus Chase, of course, in which case I’d have to kill you right away. One of you isn’t he, I hope?”

No one responded, though my friends all glared at me like Dang it, Magnus.