by Rick Riordan
Randolph gripped my shoulder. ‘Look down there, Magnus. What do you see?’
Cautiously I glanced over the side. ‘Water.’
‘No, the carved ornamentation, just below us.’
I looked again. About halfway down the side of the pier, a shelf of granite jutted over the water like a theatre seating box with a pointy tip. ‘It looks like a nose.’
‘No, it’s … Well, from this angle, it does sort of look like a nose. But it’s the prow of a Viking longship. See? The other pier has one, too. The poet Longfellow – for whom the bridge was named – he was fascinated by the Norse. Wrote poems about their gods. Like Eben Horsford, Longfellow believed the Vikings had explored Boston. Hence the designs on the bridge.’
‘You should give tours,’ I said. ‘All the rabid Longfellow fans would pay big bucks.’
‘Don’t you see?’ Randolph still had his hand on my shoulder, which wasn’t making me any less anxious. ‘So many people over the centuries have known. They’ve felt it instinctively, even if they had no proof. This area wasn’t just visited by the Vikings. It was sacred to them! Right below us – somewhere near these decorative longships – is the wreck of an actual longship, holding a cargo of incalculable value.’
‘I still see water. And I still want to hear about Dad.’
‘Magnus, the Norse explorers came here searching for the axis of the worlds, the very trunk of the tree. They found it –’
A low boom echoed across the river. The bridge shook. About a mile away, amid the thicket of chimneys and steeples of Back Bay, a column of oily black smoke mushroomed skyward.
I steadied myself against the railing. ‘Um, wasn’t that close to your house?’
Randolph’s expression hardened. His stubbly beard glistened silver in the sunlight.
‘We’re out of time. Magnus, extend your hand over the water. The sword is down there. Call it. Focus on it as if it’s the most important thing in the world – the thing you want the most.’
‘A sword? I – look, Randolph, I can tell you’re having a hard day, but –’
‘DO IT.’
The sternness in his voice made me flinch. Randolph had to be insane, talking about gods and swords and ancient shipwrecks. Yet the column of smoke over Back Bay was very real. Sirens wailed in the distance. On the bridge, drivers stuck their heads out of their windows to gawk, holding up smartphones and taking pictures.
And, as much as I wanted to deny it, Randolph’s words resonated with me. For the first time, I felt like my body was humming at the right frequency, like I’d finally been tuned to match the crappy soundtrack of my life.
I stretched my hand out over the river.
Nothing happened.
Of course nothing happened, I chided myself. What were you expecting?
The bridge shook more violently. Further down the sidewalk, a jogger stumbled. From behind me came the crunch of one car rear-ending another. Horns blared.
Above the rooftops of Back Bay, a second column of smoke billowed. Ash and orange cinders sprayed upward as if the explosion were volcanic, spewing from the ground.
‘That – that was a lot closer,’ I noted. ‘It’s like something is zeroing in on us.’
I really hoped Randolph would say, Nah, of course not. Don’t be silly!
He seemed to get older before my eyes. His wrinkles darkened. His shoulders slumped. He leaned heavily on his cane. ‘Please, not again,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Not like last time.’
‘Last time?’ Then I remembered what he’d said about losing his wife and daughters – a storm out of nowhere, fires.
Randolph locked eyes with me. ‘Try again, Magnus. Please.’
I thrust my hand towards the river. I imagined I was reaching for my mom, trying to pull her from the past – trying to save her from the wolves and the burning apartment. I reached for answers that might explain why I’d lost her, why my whole life since then had been nothing but a downhill spiral of suck.
Directly below me, the surface of the water began to steam. Ice melted. Snow evaporated, leaving a hole the shape of a hand – my hand, twenty times larger.
I didn’t know what I was doing. I’d had the same feeling when my mom first taught me to ride a bike. Don’t think about what you’re doing, Magnus. Don’t hesitate, or you’ll fall. Just keep going.
I swept my hand back and forth. A hundred feet below, the steaming hand mirrored my movements, clearing the surface of the Charles. Suddenly I stopped. A pinpoint of warmth hit the centre of my palm as if I’d intercepted a beam of sunlight.
Something was down there … a heat source buried deep in the frigid mud of the river bottom. I closed my fingers and pulled.
A dome of water swelled and ruptured like a dry-ice bubble. An object resembling a lead pipe shot upward and landed in my hand.
It looked nothing like a sword. I held it by one end, but there was no hilt. If it had ever had a point or a sharp edge, it didn’t now. The thing was about the right size for a blade, but it was so pitted and corroded, so encrusted with barnacles and glistening with mud and slime, I couldn’t even be sure it was metal. In short, it was the saddest, flimsiest, most disgusting piece of scrap I’d ever magically pulled from a river.
‘At last!’ Randolph lifted his eyes to the heavens. I got the feeling that, if not for his bum knee, he might’ve knelt on the ground and offered a prayer to the non-existent Norse gods.
‘Yeah.’ I hefted my new prize. ‘I feel safer already.’
‘You can renew it!’ Randolph said. ‘Just try!’
I turned the blade. I was surprised that it hadn’t already disintegrated in my hand.
‘I dunno, Randolph. This thing looks way past renewing. I’m not even sure it can be recycled.’
If I sound unimpressed or ungrateful, don’t get me wrong. The way I’d pulled the sword out of the river was so cool it freaked me out. I’d always wanted a superpower. I just hadn’t expected mine to entail retrieving garbage from river bottoms. The community-service volunteers were going to love me.
‘Concentrate, Magnus!’ Randolph said. ‘Quickly, before –’
Fifty feet away, the centre of the bridge erupted in flames. The shock wave pushed me against the rail. The right side of my face felt sunburned. Pedestrians screamed. Cars swerved and crashed into one another.
For some stupid reason, I ran towards the explosion. It was like I couldn’t help myself. Randolph shuffled after me, calling my name, but his voice seemed far away, unimportant.
Fire danced across the roofs of cars. Windows shattered from the heat, spraying the street with glass gravel. Drivers scrambled out of their vehicles and fled.
It looked like a meteor had hit the bridge. A ten-foot-diameter circle of asphalt was charred and steaming. In the centre of the impact zone stood a human-size figure: a dark man in a dark suit.
When I say dark, I mean his skin was the purest, most beautiful shade of black I’d ever seen. Squid ink at midnight would not have been so black. His clothes were the same: a well-tailored jacket and slacks, a crisp shirt and tie – all cut from the fabric of a neutron star. His face was inhumanly handsome, chiselled obsidian. His long hair was combed back in an immaculate oil slick. His pupils glowed like tiny rings of lava.
I thought, If Satan were real, he would look like this guy.
Then I thought, No, Satan would be a schlub next to this guy. This guy is like Satan’s fashion consultant.
Those red eyes locked on to me.
‘Magnus Chase.’ His voice was deep and resonant, his accent vaguely German or Scandinavian. ‘You have brought me a gift.’
An abandoned Toyota Corolla stood between us. Satan’s fashion consultant walked straight through it, melting a path down the middle of the chassis like a blowtorch through wax.
The sizzling halves of the Corolla collapsed behind him, the wheels melted to puddles.
‘I will make you a gift as well.’ The dark man extended his hand. Smoke curled off his sleeve and
ebony fingers. ‘Give me the sword and I will spare your life.’
SIX
Make Way for Ducklings, or They Will Smack You Upside the Head
I’d seen some weird stuff in my life.
I once watched a crowd of people wearing nothing but Speedos and Santa hats jog down Boylston in the middle of winter. I met a guy who could play the harmonica with his nose, a drum set with his feet, a guitar with his hands and a xylophone with his butt all at the same time. I knew a woman who’d adopted a grocery cart and named it Clarence. Then there was the dude who claimed to be from Alpha Centauri and had philosophical conversations with Canada geese.
So a well-dressed Satanic male model who could melt cars … why not? My brain just kind of expanded to accommodate the weirdness.
The dark man waited, his hand outstretched. The air around him rippled with heat.
About a hundred feet down the span of the bridge, a Red Line commuter train ground to a halt. The conductor gawked at the chaos in front of her. Two joggers tried to pull a guy from a half-crushed Prius. The lady with the double stroller was unfastening her screaming kids, the stroller’s wheels having melted into ovals. Standing next to her, instead of helping, one idiot held up his smartphone and tried to film the destruction. His hand was shaking so badly I doubted he was getting a very good picture.
Now at my shoulder, Randolph said, ‘The sword, Magnus. Use it!’
I got the uncomfortable impression my big burly uncle was hiding behind me.
The dark man chuckled. ‘Professor Chase … I admire your persistence. I thought our last encounter would’ve broken your spirit. But here you are, ready to sacrifice another family member!’
‘Be quiet, Surt!’ Randolph’s voice was shrill. ‘Magnus has the sword! Go back to the fires from whence you came.’
Surt didn’t seem intimidated, though personally I found the word whence very intimidating.
Fire Dude studied me like I was as barnacle-encrusted as the sword. ‘Give it here, boy, or I will show you the power of Muspell. I will incinerate this bridge and everyone on it.’
Surt raised his arms. Flames slithered between his fingers. At his feet, the paved ground bubbled. More windshields shattered. The train tracks groaned. The Red Line conductor yelled frantically into her walkie-talkie. The pedestrian with the smartphone fainted. The mom collapsed over the stroller, her kids still crying inside. Randolph grunted and staggered backwards.
Surt’s heat didn’t make me pass out. It just made me angry. I didn’t know who this fiery jack-hole was, but I knew a bully when I met one. First rule of the streets: never let a bully take your stuff.
I pointed my once-might-have-been-a-sword at Surt. ‘Cool down, man. I have a corroded piece of metal and I’m not afraid to use it.’
Surt sneered. ‘Just like your father, you are no fighter.’
I clenched my teeth. Okay, I thought, time to ruin this guy’s outfit.
But, before I could take action, something whizzed past my ear and smacked Surt in the forehead.
Had it been a real arrow, Surt would’ve been in trouble. Fortunately for him, it was a plastic toy projectile with a pink heart for a point – a Valentine’s Day novelty, I guessed. It hit Surt between the eyes with a cheerful squeak, fell to his feet and promptly melted.
Surt blinked. He looked as confused as I was.
Behind me a familiar voice shouted, ‘Run, kid!’
Charging up the bridge came my buddies Blitz and Hearth. Well … I say charging. That implies it was impressive. It really wasn’t. For some reason, Blitz had donned a broad-brimmed hat and sunglasses along with his black trench coat, so he looked like a grungy, very short Italian priest. In his gloved hands he wielded a fearsome wooden dowel with a bright yellow traffic sign that read: MAKE WAY FOR DUCKLINGS.
Hearth’s red-striped scarf trailed behind him like limp wings. He nocked another arrow in his pink plastic Cupid’s bow and fired at Surt.
Bless their demented little hearts. I understood where they’d got the ridiculous weapons: the toy store on Charles Street. I panhandled in front of that place sometimes, and they had that stuff in their window display. Somehow, Blitz and Hearth must’ve followed me here. In their rush, they’d done a smash-and-grab of the nearest deadly objects. Being crazed homeless guys, they hadn’t chosen very well.
Dumb and pointless? You bet. But it warmed my heart that they wanted to look out for me.
‘We’ll cover you!’ Blitz charged by me. ‘Run!’
Surt hadn’t been expecting an attack by lightly armed bums. He stood there while Blitz smacked him across the head with the MAKE WAY FOR DUCKLINGS sign. Hearth’s next squeaky arrow misfired and hit me in the butt.
‘Hey!’ I complained.
Being deaf, Hearth couldn’t hear me. He ran past me and into battle, thwacking Surt in the chest with his plastic bow.
Uncle Randolph grabbed my arm. He was wheezing badly. ‘Magnus, we have to go. NOW!’
Maybe I should have run, but I stood there frozen, watching my only two friends attack the dark lord of fire with cheap plastic toys.
Finally Surt tired of the game. He backhanded Hearth and sent him flying across the ground. He kicked Blitz in the chest so hard the little guy stumbled backwards and landed on his butt right in front of me.
‘Enough.’ Surt extended his arm. From his open palm, fire spiralled and elongated until he was holding a curved sword made entirely of white flame. ‘I am annoyed now. You will all die.’
‘Gods’ galoshes!’ Blitz stammered. ‘That’s not just any fire giant. That’s the Black One!’
As opposed to the Yellow One? I wanted to ask, but the sight of the flaming sword kind of stifled my will to joke.
Around Surt, flames began to swirl. The firestorm spiralled outward, melting cars to slag heaps, liquefying the asphalt, popping rivets from the bridge like champagne corks.
I’d only thought it was warm before. Now Surt was really turning up the temperature.
Hearth slumped against the railing about thirty feet away. The unconscious pedestrians and trapped motorists wouldn’t last long either. Even if the flames didn’t touch them, they’d die from asphyxiation or heat stroke. But, for some reason, the heat still didn’t bother me.
Randolph stumbled, hanging off my arm with his full weight. ‘I – I … hum, umm …’
‘Blitz,’ I said, ‘get my uncle out of here. Drag him if you have to.’
Blitz’s sunglasses were steaming. The brim of his hat was beginning to smoulder. ‘Kid, you can’t fight that guy. That’s Surt, the Black One himself!’
‘You said that already.’
‘But Hearth and me – we’re supposed to protect you!’
I wanted to snap, And you’re doing a great job with the MAKE WAY FOR DUCKLINGS sign! But what could I expect from a couple of homeless dudes? They weren’t exactly commandos. They were just my friends. There was no way I’d let them die defending me. As for Uncle Randolph … I hardly knew the guy. I didn’t much like him. But he was family. He’d said he couldn’t stand to lose another family member. Yeah, well, neither could I. This time I wasn’t going to run away.
‘Go,’ I told Blitz. ‘I’ll get Hearth.’
Somehow Blitz managed to hold up my uncle. Together they stumbled off.
Surt laughed. ‘The sword will be mine, boy. You cannot change fate. I will reduce your world to cinders!’
I turned to face him. ‘You’re starting to aggravate me. I have to kill you now.’
I walked into the wall of flames.
SEVEN
You Look Great Without a Nose, Really
Wow, Magnus, you’re probably thinking. That was … stupid!
Thanks. I have my moments.
Normally I don’t go stepping into walls of flame. But I had a feeling it wouldn’t hurt me. I know that sounds weird, but so far I hadn’t passed out. The heat didn’t feel so bad, even though the asphalt was turning to sludge at my feet.
Extreme tempera
tures have never bothered me. I don’t know why. Some people are double-jointed. Some people can wiggle their ears. I can sleep outside in the winter without freezing to death, and hold matches under my hand without getting burned. I’d won some bets that way in the homeless shelters, but I’d never thought of my tolerance as something special … magical. I’d definitely never tested its limits.
I walked through the curtain of fire and smacked Surt in the head with my rusty sword. Because, you know¸ I always try to keep my promises.
The blade didn’t seem to hurt him, but the swirling flames died. Surt stared at me for a millisecond, completely shocked. Then he punched me in the gut.
I’d been punched before, just not by a fiery heavyweight whose ring name was the Black One.
I folded like a deckchair. My vision blurred and tripled. When I regained my focus, I was on my knees, staring at a puddle of regurgitated milk, turkey and crackers steaming on the asphalt.
Surt could have taken my head off with his fiery sword, but I guess he didn’t feel I was worth it. He paced in front of me, making tsk-tsk sounds.
‘Feeble,’ he said. ‘A soft little boy. Give me the blade of your own free will, Vanir-spawn. I promise you a quick death.’
Vanir-spawn?
I knew a lot of good insults, but I’d never heard that one.
The corroded sword was still in my hand. I felt my pulse against the metal as if the sword itself had developed a heartbeat. Resonating up the blade, all the way to my ears, was a faint hum like a car engine turning over.
You can renew it, Randolph had told me.
I could almost believe the old weapon was stirring, waking up. Not fast enough, though. Surt kicked me in the ribs and sent me sprawling.
I lay flat on my back, staring at the smoke in the winter sky. Surt must have kicked me hard enough to trigger a near-death hallucination. A hundred feet up, I saw a girl in armour on a horse made of mist, circling like a vulture over the battle. She held a spear made of pure light. Her chain mail shone like silvered glass. She wore a conical steel helmet over a green head wrap, sort of like a medieval knight. Her face was beautiful but stern. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second.
If you’re real, I thought, help.
She dissolved into smoke.
‘The sword,’ Surt demanded, his obsidian face looming over me. ‘It’s worth more to me freely surrendered, but, if I must, I will prise it from your dead fingers.’
In the distance, sirens wailed. I wondered why emergency crews hadn’t shown up already. Then I remembered the other two giant explosions in Boston. Had Surt caused them, too? Or brought along some fiery friends?
At the edge of the bridge, Hearth staggered to his feet. A few unconscious pedestrians had started to stir. I couldn’t see Randolph or Blitz anywhere. Hopefully they were out of danger by now.
If I could keep Burning Man occupied, maybe the rest of the bystanders would have time to clear out, too.
Somehow I managed to stand.
I looked at the sword and … yeah, I was definitely hallucinating.
Instead of a corroded piece of junk, I held an actual weapon. The leather-wrapped grip felt warm and comfortable in my hand. The pommel, a simple polished-steel oval, helped counterweight the thirty-inch blade, which was double-edged and rounded at the tip, more for hacking than for stabbing. Down the centre of the blade, a wide groove was emblazoned with Viking runes – the same kind I’d seen in Randolph’s office. They shimmered a lighter shade of silver, as if they’d been inlaid while the blade was forged.
