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

“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 boy. 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 if it was just a cold echo. Or a trick. A cruel joke from Hel.

I turned toward the sea. Suddenly I was more afraid of staying on solid ground than I was of boarding the Ship of the Dead.

“Let’s go,” I said. “Our friends are counting on us.”





THE GANGPLANK was made of toenails.

If that isn’t enough to gross you out, then no amount of Kvasir’s Mead will help me give you a sufficiently disgusting description. Though the ramp was fifty feet wide, it had so much traffic we had trouble finding an opening. We timed our ascent to follow a troop of zombies aboard, but I almost got stepped on by a giant carrying a stack of spears.

Once at the top, we ducked to one side, pressing ourselves against the railing.

In person, the ship was even more horrible than in my dreams. The deck seemed to stretch out forever—a glistening patchwork of yellow, black, and gray nail plates, like the hide of some armored prehistoric creature. Hundreds of giants bustled about, looking almost human-size in comparison with the vessel: stone giants, mountain giants, frost giants, hill giants, and a few nattily dressed fellows who might have been metropolitan giants, all coiling ropes, stacking weapons, and shouting at each other in a variety of jotun dialects.

The undead were not so industrious. Taking up most of the vast deck, they stood at attention in ranks of ghostly white and blue, tens of thousands, like they were waiting for a parade review. Some were mounted on zombie horses. Others had zombie dogs or wolves at their side. A few even had zombie birds of prey perched on their skeletal arms. They all seemed perfectly content to stand in silence until further orders. Many of them had waited centuries for this final battle. I supposed they figured a little longer wouldn’t hurt.

The giants did their best to avoid the undead. They stepped gingerly around the legions, cursing them for being in the way, but didn’t touch them or threaten them directly. I imagined I might feel the same way if I found myself sharing a ship with a horde of strangely well-behaved, heavily armed rodents.