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

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 whetstone. 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!”