by Rick Riordan
You’ll see.’
Dmitri began to sing:
‘Oh, Odur! Od, Od, Odur,
Where is that Odur; where is my love?’
The other two musicians harmonized on the chorus:
‘Od wanders far, my Odur is missing,
How odd it is, not to be kissing
My Odur! My sweet Od, Odur!’
Triangle.
Bongo solo.
Blitzen whispered, ‘Her godly husband was an Aesir named Odur, Od for short.’
I wasn’t sure which name was worse.
‘He disappeared?’ I guessed.
‘Two thousand years ago,’ Blitzen said. ‘Freya went looking for him, disappeared herself for almost a century while she searched. She never found him, but that’s why Frey sat in Odin’s chair in the first place – to look for his sister.’
The goddess leaned forward and cupped her face in her hands. She drew a shaky breath. When she looked up again, she was weeping – but her tears were small pellets of red gold. She wept until her hands were full of glittering droplets.
‘Oh, Odur!’ she sobbed. ‘Why did you leave me? I miss you still!’
She sniffled and nodded to the musicians. ‘Thank you, Dmitri. That’s enough.’
Dmitri and his friends bowed. Then the best band I wished I’d never heard of shuffled away.
Freya raised her cupped hands. Out of nowhere, a leather pouch appeared, hovering above her lap. Freya spilled her tears into the bag.
‘Here, my son.’ Freya passed the pouch to Blitzen. ‘That should be enough payment if Eitri Junior is at all reasonable.’
Blitzen stared glumly at the pouch of tears. ‘The only problem is, he’s not.’
‘You will succeed!’ Freya said. ‘The fate of my earrings is in your hands!’
I scratched the back of my neck. ‘Uh, Lady Freya … thanks for the tears and all, but couldn’t you just go to Nidavellir and pick out your own earrings? I mean, isn’t shopping half the fun?’
Blitzen shot me a warning look.
Freya’s blue eyes turned a few degrees colder. Her fingertips traced the filigree of her necklace. ‘No, Magnus, I can’t just go shopping in Nidavellir. You know what happened when I bought Brisingamen from the dwarves. Do you want that to happen again?’
Actually, I had no idea what she was talking about, but she didn’t wait for an answer.
‘Every time I go to Nidavellir, I get myself in trouble,’ she said. ‘It’s not my fault! The dwarves know my weakness for beautiful jewellery. Believe me, it’s much better that I send you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time for our evening luau with optional combat. Goodbye, Magnus. Goodbye, my darling Blitzen!’
The floor opened beneath us, and we fell into darkness.
FORTY
My Friend Evolved from a – Nope. I Can’t Say It
I don’t remember landing.
I found myself on a dark street on a cold, cloudy night. Three-storey terraced clapboard houses edged the sidewalk. At the end of the block, a tavern’s grimy windows glowed with neon drink signs.
‘This is Southie,’ I said. ‘Around D Street.’
Blitzen shook his head. ‘This is Nidavellir, kid. It looks like South Boston … or rather, South Boston looks like it. I told you, Boston is the nexus. The Nine Worlds blend together there and affect one another. Southie has a definite dwarvish feeling to it.’
‘I thought Nidavellir would be underground. With claustrophobic tunnels and –’
‘Kid, that’s a cavern ceiling above your head. It’s just a long way up and hidden by air pollution. We don’t have daytime here. It’s this dark all the time.’
I stared into the murky clouds. After being in Freya’s realm, the world of the dwarves seemed oppressive, but it also seemed more familiar, more … genuine. I guess no true Bostonian would trust a place that was sunny and pleasant all the time. But a gritty, perpetually cold and gloomy neighbourhood? Throw in a couple of Dunkin’ Donuts locations, and I’m right at home.
Blitz wrapped his pith helmet in its dark netting. The whole thing collapsed into a small black handkerchief, which he tucked into his coat pocket. ‘We should get going.’
‘We’re not going to talk about what happened up there in Volkswagen?’
‘What’s there to say?’
‘For one thing, we’re cousins.’
Blitz shrugged. ‘I’m happy to be your cousin, kid, but children of the gods don’t put much stock in that sort of connection. Godly family lines are so tangled – thinking about it will drive you crazy. Everybody’s related to everybody.’
‘But you’re a demigod,’ I said. ‘That’s a good thing, right?’
‘I hate the word demigod. I prefer born with a target on my back.’
‘Come on, Blitz. Freya is your mom. That’s important information you kinda forgot to mention.’
‘Freya is my mother,’ he agreed. ‘A lot of svartalfs are descended from Freya. Down here, it’s not such a big deal. She mentioned how she got Brisingamen? A few millennia ago she was strolling through Nidavellir – who knows why – and she came across these four dwarves who were crafting the necklace. She was obsessed. She had to have it. The dwarves said sure, for the right price. Freya had to marry each of them, one after the other, for one day each.’
‘She …’ I wanted to say, Gross, she married four dwarves? Then I remembered who was telling the story. ‘Oh.’
‘Yeah.’ Blitz sounded miserable. ‘She had four dwarvish children, one for each marriage.’
I frowned. ‘Wait. If she was married for one day to each dwarf and a pregnancy lasts … the maths doesn’t work out on that.’
‘Don’t ask me. Goddesses live by their own rules. Anyway, she got the necklace. She was ashamed of herself for marrying dwarves. Tried to keep it a secret. But the thing is, she loved dwarven jewellery. She kept coming back to Nidavellir to pick out new pieces, and every time …’
‘Wow.’
Blitzen’s shoulders slumped. ‘That’s the main difference between dark elves and regular dwarves. The svartalfs are taller and generally more handsome because we have Vanir blood. We’re descended from Freya. You say I’m a demigod. I say I’m a receipt. My dad crafted a pair of earrings for Freya. She married him for a day. She couldn’t resist his craftsmanship. He couldn’t resist her beauty. Now she sends me to purchase a new pair of earrings because she’s tired of the old ones and Asgard forbid she find herself saddled with another little Blitzen.’
The bitterness in his voice could’ve melted iron plating. I wanted to tell him I understood how he felt, but I wasn’t sure I did. Even if I never knew my dad, I’d had my mom. That had always been enough for me. For Blitzen … not so much. I wasn’t sure what had happened to his father, but I remembered what he’d told me at the Esplanade lagoon: You’re not the only one who’s lost family to the wolves, kid.
‘Come on,’ he told me. ‘If we stand in the street any longer, we’ll get mugged for this bag of tears. Dwarves can smell red gold a mile away.’ He pointed to the bar on the corner. ‘I’ll buy you a drink at Nabbi’s Tavern.’
Nabbi’s restored my faith in dwarves, because it was in fact a claustrophobic tunnel. The ceiling was a low-clearance hazard. The walls were papered with old fight posters like DONNER THE DESTROYER VS. MINI-MURDERER, ONE NIGHT ONLY! featuring pictures of muscular, snarling dwarves in wrestling masks.
Mismatched tables and chairs were occupied by a dozen mismatched dwarves – some svartalfs like Blitzen who could easily have passed for human, some much shorter guys who could have easily passed for garden gnomes. A few of the patrons glanced at us, but nobody seemed shocked that I was a human … if they even realized. The idea that I could pass for a dwarf was pretty disturbing.
The most unreal thing about the bar was Taylor Swift’s ‘Blank Space’ blasting from the speakers.
‘Dwarves like human music?’ I asked Blitzen.
‘You mean humans like our music.’
; ‘But …’ I had a sudden image of Taylor Swift’s mom and Freya having a girls’ night out in Nidavellir. ‘Never mind.’
As we made our way towards the bar, I realized that the furniture wasn’t just mismatched. Every single table and chair was unique – apparently handcrafted from various metals, with different designs and upholstery. One table was shaped like a bronze wagon wheel with a glass top. Another had a tin and brass chessboard hammered into the surface. Some chairs had wheels. Others had adjustable booster seats. Some had massage controls or propellers on the back.
Over by the left wall, three dwarves were playing darts. The board’s rings rotated and blew steam. One dwarf tossed his dart, which buzzed towards the target like a tiny drone. While it was still in flight, another dwarf took a shot. His dart rocketed towards the drone dart and exploded, knocking it out of the air.
The first dwarf just grunted. ‘Nice shot.’
Finally we reached the polished oak bar, where Nabbi himself was waiting. I could tell who he was because of my highly trained deductive mind, and also because his stained yellow apron read: HI! I’M NABBI.
I thought he was the tallest dwarf I’d met so far until I realized he was standing on a catwalk behind the counter. Nabbi was actually only two feet tall, including the shock of black hair that stuck up from his scalp like a sea urchin. His clean-shaven face made me appreciate why dwarves wear beards. Without one, Nabbi was gods-awful ugly. He had no chin to speak of. His mouth puckered sourly.
He scowled at us like we’d tracked in mud.
‘Greetings, Blitzen, son of Freya,’ he said. ‘No explosions in my bar this time, I hope?’
Blitzen bowed. ‘Greetings, Nabbi, son of Loretta. To be fair, I wasn’t the one who brought the grenades. Also, this is my friend Magnus, son of –’
‘Um. Son of Natalie.’
Nabbi nodded to me. His busy eyebrows were fascinating. They seemed to move like live caterpillars.
I reached for a bar stool, but Blitzen stopped me.
‘Nabbi,’ he said formally, ‘may my friend use this stool? What is its name and history?’
‘That stool is Rear-Rester,’ said Nabbi. ‘Crafted by Gonda. Once it held the tush of the master smith Alviss. Use it in comfort, Magnus, son of Natalie. And, Blitzen, you may sit on Keister-Home, famed among stools, made by yours truly. It survived the Great Bar Fight of 4109 A.M.!’
‘My thanks.’ Blitzen climbed onto his stool, which was polished oak with a velvet-padded seat. ‘A fine Keister-Home it is!’
Nabbi looked at me expectantly. I tried my stool, which was hard steel with no cushion. It wasn’t much of a Rear-Rester. It was more of a Magnus-Mangler, but I tried for a smile. ‘Yep, that’s a nice stool all right!’
Blitzen rapped his knuckles on the bar. ‘Mead for me, Nabbi. And for my friend –’
‘Uh, soda or something?’ I wasn’t sure I wanted to be walking around Dwarven Southie with a mead buzz.
Nabbi filled two mugs and set them in front of us. Blitzen’s goblet was gold on the inside, silver on the outside, decorated with images of dancing dwarf women.
‘That cup is Golden Bowl,’ said Nabbi. ‘Made by my father, Darbi. And this one –’ he nudged my pewter tankard – ‘is Boom Daddy, made by yours truly. Always ask for a refill before you reach the bottom of the cup. Otherwise –’ he splayed his fingers – ‘boom, Daddy!’
I really hoped he was kidding, but I decided to take small sips.
Blitz drank his mead. ‘Mmm. A fine cup for quaffing! And now that we are past the formalities, Nabbi … we need to speak with Junior.’
A vein throbbed in Nabbi’s left temple. ‘Do you have a death wish?’
Blitz reached into his pouch. He slid a single red-gold tear across the counter. ‘This one is for you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Just for making the call. Tell Junior we have more. All we want is a chance to barter.’
After my experience with Ran, the word barter made me even more uncomfortable than Rear-Rester. Nabbi looked back and forth between Blitzen and the tear, his expression vacillating between apprehension and greed. Finally the greed won. The barkeeper snatched the drop of gold.
‘I’ll make the call. Enjoy your drinks.’ He climbed off his catwalk and disappeared into the kitchen.
I turned to Blitz. ‘A few questions.’
He chuckled. ‘Only a few?’
‘What does 4109 A.M. mean? Is it the time, or –’
‘Dwarves count years from the creation of our species,’ Blitz said. ‘A.M. is After Maggots.’
I decided my ears must still be defective from Ratatosk’s barking. ‘Say what?’
‘The creation of the world … Come on, you know the story. The gods killed the largest of the giants, Ymir, and used his flesh to create Midgard. Nidavellir developed under Midgard, where maggots ate into the giant’s dead flesh and created tunnels. Some of those maggots evolved, with a little help from the gods, into dwarves.’
Blitzen looked proud of this historical tidbit. I decided to do my best to erase it from my long-term memory.
‘Different question,’ I said. ‘Why does my goblet have a name?’
‘Dwarves are craftsmen,’ said Blitzen. ‘We’re serious about the things we make. You humans – you make a thousand crappy chairs that all look alike and all break within a year. When we make a chair, we make one chair to last a lifetime, a chair unlike any other in the world. Cups, furniture, weapons … every crafted item has a soul and a name. You can’t appreciate something unless it’s good enough for a name.’
I studied my tankard, which was painstakingly engraved with runes and wave designs. I wished it had a different name – like No Way Will I Explode – but I had to admit it was a nice cup.
‘And calling Nabbi son of Loretta?’ I asked. ‘Or me the son of Natalie?’
‘Dwarves are matriarchal. We trace our lineage through our mothers. Again, it makes much more sense than your patrilineal way. After all, one can only be born from a single biological mother. Unless you are the god Heimdall. He had nine biological mothers. But that’s another story.’
Synapses melted in my brain. ‘Let’s move along. Freya’s tears … red gold? Sam told me that’s the currency of Asgard.’
‘Yes. But Freya’s tears are one hundred per cent pure. The finest red gold in creation. For the pouch of tears we’re carrying, most dwarves would give their right eyeballs.’
‘So this guy Junior – he’ll bargain with us?’
‘Either that,’ Blitz said, ‘or he’ll chop us into small pieces. You want some nachos while we wait?’
FORTY-ONE
Blitz Makes a Bad Deal
I had to hand it to Nabbi. He served good near-death nachos.
I was halfway through my plate of guacamole-enhanced tastiness when Junior showed up. On first sight, I wondered if it would be faster just to drain Boom Daddy and go boom, because I didn’t like our chances of bartering with the old dwarf.
Junior looked about two hundred years old. Scraps of grey hair clung to his liver-spotted head. His beard gave scraggly a bad name. His malicious brown eyes flitted around the bar as if he were thinking, I hate that. I hate that. And I really hate that. He wasn’t physically intimidating, shuffling along with his gold-plated walker, but he was flanked by a pair of dwarven bodyguards, each so burly that they could’ve been used as NFL tackle dummies.
The other customers got up and quietly left, like in a scene from an old Western. Blitzen and I both stood.
‘Junior.’ Blitz bowed. ‘Thank you for meeting with us.’
‘Some nerve,’ Junior snarled.
‘Would you like my seat?’ Blitzen offered. ‘It is Keister-Home, made by –’
‘No, thanks,’ Junior said. ‘I’ll stand, compliments of my walker, Granny Shuffler, famous among geriatric products, made by Nurse Bambi, my private assistant.’
I bit the inside of my cheek. I doubted that laughing would be good diplomacy.
‘This is Magnus, son of Natal
ie,’ Blitzen said.
The old dwarf glared at me. ‘I know who he is. Found the Sword of Summer. You couldn’t wait until after I died? I’m too old for this Ragnarok nonsense.’
‘My bad,’ I said. ‘I should have checked with you before I got attacked by Surt and sent to Valhalla.’
Blitzen coughed. The bodyguards appraised me like I might have just made their day more interesting.
Junior cackled. ‘I like you. You’re rude. Let’s see this blade, then.’
I showed him my magic-pendant trick. In the dim neon lights of the bar, the blade’s runes glowed orange and green.
The old dwarf sucked his teeth. ‘That’s Frey’s blade, all right. Bad news.’
‘Then, perhaps,’ Blitzen said, ‘you’ll be willing to help us?’
‘Help you?’ Junior wheezed. ‘Your father was my nemesis! You besmirched my reputation. And you want my help. You’ve got iron guts, Blitzen, I’ll give you that.’
The tendons in Blitz’s neck looked like they might bust his well-starched collar. ‘This isn’t about our family feud, Junior. This is about the rope. It’s about securing Fenris Wolf.’
‘Oh, of course it is.’ Junior sneered at his bodyguards. ‘The fact that my father, Eitri Senior, was the only dwarf talented enough to make Gleipnir, and your father, Bilì, spent his life questioning the quality of the rope – that has nothing to do with it!’
Blitzen clenched his pouch of red-gold tears. I was afraid he might smack Junior upside the head with it. ‘The Sword of Summer is right here. In just six Midgardian nights, Surt is planning to free the Wolf. We’re going to do our best to stop him, but you know the rope Gleipnir is beyond its expiration date. We need information about the Wolf’s bindings. More importantly, we need a replacement rope just in case. Only you have the talent to make one.’
Junior cupped his ear. ‘Say that last part again.’
‘You’re talented, you crusty old –’ Blitzen stopped. ‘Only you have the skill to make a new rope.’
‘True.’ Junior smirked. ‘It so happens I have a replacement rope already made. Not because of any problems with Gleipnir, mind you, or because of any of your family’s scandalous accusations about its quality – just because I like to be prepared. Unlike your father, I might add, going off alone to check on Fenris Wolf like an idiot and getting himself killed.’
I had to step in front of Blitzen to keep him from attacking the old dwarf.
‘Okay, then!’ I said. ‘Guys, this isn’t the time. Junior, if you’ve got a new rope, that’s great. Let’s talk price. And, um, we’ll also need a nice set of earrings.’
‘Heh.’ Junior wiped his mouth. ‘Of course you will. For Blitzen’s mother, no doubt. What are you offering in payment?’
‘Blitzen,’ I said, ‘show him.’
Blitz’s eyes still danced with rage, but he opened the pouch and spilled some red-gold tears into his palm.
‘Huh,’ said Junior. ‘An acceptable price … or it would be, if it wasn’t from Blitzen. I’ll sell you what you want for that pouch of tears, but first my family’s honour must be satisfied. It’s high time we settled this feud. What do you say, son of Freya? A contest – you and me. The traditional rules, the traditional wager.’
Blitzen backed into the bar. He squirmed so badly I could almost believe he had evolved from maggots. (ERASE. Bad, long-term memory. ERASE!)
‘Junior,’ he said, ‘you know I don’t – I couldn’t possibly –’
