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

“You both have kind hearts,” said Njord. “Frey would do anything for a friend. He always loved easily and deeply, sometimes unwisely. You have the proof of that around your neck.”

I curled my fingers around Jack’s runestone. I knew the story: Frey had given up the Sword of Summer so he could win the love of a beautiful giantess. Because he had forsaken his weapon, he would be slain at Ragnarok. The moral of the story, as Jack liked to put it: Blades before babes.

The thing was, pretty much everybody would be slain at Ragnarok anyway. I didn’t blame my dad for his choices. If he didn’t fall in love easily, I would never have been born.

“Fine, I’m like my dad,” I said. “I still choose my friends over a cup of mead. I don’t care if it’s pumpkin spice or peach lambic.”

“It’s blood, actually,” Njord said. “And god spit.”

I started to feel seasick, and I didn’t think it was because of the direction I was facing. “Come again?”

Njord opened his hand. Above his palm floated the miniature glowing figure of a bearded man in woolen robes. His face was open and cheerful, his expression caught in mid-laugh. Seeing him, it was hard not to lean forward, smile, and want to hear what he was laughing about.

“This was Kvasir.” Njord’s tone took on an edge of sadness. “The most perfect being ever created. Millennia ago, when the Vanir and Aesir gods ended their war, all of us spit into a golden cup. From that mixture sprang Kvasir, our living peace treaty!”

Suddenly I didn’t want to lean so close to the little glowing man. “The dude was made of spit.”

“Makes sense,” Blitzen grunted. “God saliva is an excellent crafting ingredient.”

Hearthstone tilted his head. He seemed fascinated by the holographic figure. He signed, Why would anyone murder him?

“Murder?” I asked.

Njord nodded, lightning flickering in his eyes. For the first time, I got the impression that my grandfather wasn’t just some laid-back guy with nice feet. He was a powerful deity who could probably crumple our warship with a single thought. “Kvasir wandered the Nine Worlds, bringing wisdom, advice, and justice wherever he went. Everyone loved him. And then he was slaughtered. Horrible. Inexcusable.”

“Loki?” I guessed, because that seemed like the logical next word in that list.

Njord barked a short, sour laugh. “Not this time, no. It was dwarves.” He glanced at Blitzen. “No offense.”

Blitzen shrugged. “Dwarves aren’t all the same. Like gods.”

If Njord sensed an insult, he didn’t let on. He closed his hand and the tiny spit man disappeared. “The details of the murder aren’t important. Afterward, Kvasir’s blood was drained and mixed with honey to create a magical mead. It became the most prized, most coveted drink in the Nine Worlds.”

“Ugh.” I put my hand to my mouth. My idea of which details should be left out of a story was very different from Njord’s. “You want me to drink mead that is made from blood that is made from god spit.”

Njord stroked his beard. “When you put it that way, it sounds bad. But yes, Magnus. Whoever drinks Kvasir’s Mead finds their inner poet. The perfect words come to you. The poetry flows. The oration dazzles. The stories enthrall all who listen. With such power, you could stand toe-to-toe, insult-to-insult in a flyting with Loki.”

My mind pitched and swayed along with my stomach. Why did I have to be the one to challenge Loki?

My inner voice responded, or maybe it was Jack: Because you volunteered at the feast, dummy. Everybody heard you.

I rubbed my temples, wondering if it was possible for a brain to literally explode from too much information. That’s one death I’d never experienced in Valhalla.

Hearthstone stared at me with concern. You want a rune? he signed. Or some aspirin?

I shook my head.

So Uncle Randolph’s notebook hadn’t been a trick. He’d left an actual, viable plan for me to follow. In the end, despite all he’d done, it seemed like the old fool had experienced some remorse. He had tried to help me. I wasn’t sure if that made me feel better or worse.

“What about the name Bolverk?” I asked. “Who is that?”

Njord smiled. “That was Odin’s alias. For a long time, the giants possessed all of Kvasir’s Mead. Odin went in disguise to steal some back for the gods. He succeeded. He even scattered drops of mead around Midgard to inspire mortal bards. But the gods’ supply of the elixir was exhausted centuries ago. The only mead that remains is a tiny portion, jealously guarded by the giants. To get it, you will have to follow in Bolverk’s footsteps and steal what only Odin was ever able to steal.”

“Perfect,” Blitz muttered. “So how do we do that?”

“More important,” I said, “why is it so dangerous for Hearth and Blitz? And how can we make it not be?”

I had an overwhelming desire to write a letter for Hearth and Blitz: Dear Cosmic Forces, Please excuse my friends from their deadly fate. They are not feeling well today. At the very least, I wanted to outfit them with safety helmets, life jackets, and reflective decals before sending them off.

Njord faced Hearthstone and Blitzen. He signed, You already know your task.

He made a stick figure man standing in his palm: ground; then two fists, one tapping the top of the other: work.

Lay the groundwork. At least, I thought that’s what he meant. Either that or: You farm the fields. Since Njord was a god of crops, I couldn’t be sure.

Hearthstone touched his scarf. He signed, reluctantly, The stone?

Njord nodded. You know where you must look for it.

Blitzen broke into the conversation, signing so fast his words got a little muddled. Leave my elf alone! We can’t do that again! Too dangerous!

Or he could have meant, Leave my elf in the bathroom! We can’t do that wristwatch! Too much garbage!

“What are you guys talking about?” I asked.

My spoken words sounded jarring and unwelcome in the silent dialogue.

Blitzen brushed his chain mail vest. “Our long-range reconnaissance work, kid. Mimir told us to look for the Mead of Kvasir. Then we heard rumors about a certain item we’d need—”

“Bolverk’s whetstone,” I guessed.

He nodded unhappily. “It’s the only way to defeat”—he spread his hands—“whatever’s guarding the mead. We’re not clear on the who, how, or why.”

Those all seemed like pretty important points to me.

“The thing is,” Blitz continued, “if this stone is where we think it is…”

It’s all right, Hearthstone signed. We must. So we will.

“Buddy, no,” Blitz said. “You can’t—”

“The elf is right,” Njord said. “You two must find the stone while Magnus and the rest of the crew sail on to discover the location of the mead. Are you ready?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said. “You’re sending them away right now? They just got here!”

“Grandson, you have very little time before Loki’s ship is ready to sail. Only by dividing can you conquer.”