by Rick Riordan
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 temperatures 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 m
y 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.
The sword was definitely humming now, almost like a human voice trying to find the right pitch.
Surt stepped back. His lava-red eyes flickered nervously. ‘You don’t know what you have there, boy. You won’t live long enough to find out.’
He swung his scimitar.
I’d had no experience with swords, unless you count watching The Princess Bride twenty-six times as a kid. Surt would’ve cut me in half – but my weapon had other ideas.
Ever held a spinning top on the tip of your finger? You can feel it moving under its own power, tilting in all directions. The sword was like that. It swung itself, blocking Surt’s fiery blade. Then it spun in an arc, dragging my arm along with it, and hacked into Surt’s right leg.
The Black One screamed. The wound in his thigh smouldered, setting his trousers on fire. His blood sizzled and glowed like the flow from a volcano. His fiery blade dissipated.
Before he could recover, my sword leaped upward and slashed his face. With a howl, Surt stumbled back, cupping his hands over his nose.
To my left, someone screamed – the mother with the two kids.
Hearth was trying to help her extract her toddlers from the stroller, which was now smoking and about to combust.
‘Hearth!’ I yelled, before remembering that was no good.
With Surt still distracted, I limped over to Hearth and pointed down the bridge. ‘Go! Get the kids out of here!’
He could read lips just fine, but he didn’t like my message. He shook his head adamantly, hoisting one of the toddlers into his arms.
The mom was cradling the other kid.
‘Leave now,’ I told her. ‘My friend will help you.’
The mom didn’t hesitate. Hearth gave me one last look: This is not a good idea. Then he followed her, the little kid bouncing up and down in his arms crying, ‘Ah! Ah! Ah!’
Other innocent people were still stuck on the bridge: drivers trapped in their cars, pedestrians wandering around in a daze, their clothes steaming and their skin lobster red. Emergency sirens were closer now, but I didn’t see how the police or paramedics could help if Surt was still storming around being all fiery and stuff.
‘Boy!’ The Black One sounded like he was gargling with syrup.
He took his hands from his face, and I saw why. My self-guided sword had taken off his nose. Molten blood streamed down his cheeks, splattering on the ground in sizzling droplets. His trousers had burned off, leaving him in a pair of flame-patterned red boxers. Between that and the newly sawed-off snout, he looked like a diabolical version of Porky Pig.
‘I have tolerated you long enough,’ he gargled.
‘I was just thinking the same thing about you.’ I raised the sword. ‘You want this? Come and get it.’
In retrospect, that was a pretty stupid thing to say.
Above me, I caught a glimpse of the weird grey apparition – a girl on a horse, circling like a vulture, watching.
Instead of charging, Surt bent down and scooped asphalt from the road with his bare hands. He moulded it into a red-hot sphere of steaming gunk and pitched it towards me like a fastball.
Another game I’m not good at: baseball. I swung the sword, hoping to knock away the projectile. I missed. The asphalt cannonball ploughed into my gut and embedded itself – burning, searing, destroying.
I couldn’t breathe. The pain was so intense I felt every cell in my body explode in a chain reaction.
Despite that, a strange sort of calm fell over me: I was dying. I wasn’t coming back from this. Part of me thought, All right. Make it count.
My vision dimmed. The sword hummed and tugged at my hand, but I could barely feel my arms.
Surt studied me, a smile on his ruined face.
He wants the sword, I told myself. He can’t have it. If I’m going out, he’s going with me.
Weakly, I raised my free hand. I flipped him a gesture that he wouldn’t need to know sign language to understand.
He roared and charged.
Just as he reached me, my sword leaped up and ran him through. I used the last of my strength to grapple him as his momentum carried us both over the railing.
‘No!’ He fought to free himself, bursting into flames, kicking and gouging, but I held on as we plummeted towards the Charles River, my sword still embedded in his stomach, my own organs burning away from the molten tar in my gut. The sky flashed in and out of view. I caught a glimpse of the smoky apparition – the girl on the horse diving towards me at a full gallop, her hand outstretched.
FLOOM! I hit the water.
Then I died. The end.
EIGHT
Mind the Gap, and Also the Hairy Guy with the Axe
Back in school, I loved ending stories that way.
It’s the perfect conclusion, isn’t it? Billy went to school. He had a good day. Then he died. The end.
It doesn’t leave you hanging. It wraps everything up nice and neat.
Except in my case it didn’t.
Maybe you’re thinking, Oh, Magnus, you didn’t really die. Otherwise you couldn’t be narrating this story. You just came close. Then you were miraculously rescued, blah, blah, blah.
Nope. I actually died. One hundred per cent: guts impaled, vital organs burned, head smacked into a frozen river from forty feet up, every bone in
my body broken, lungs filled with ice water.
The medical term for that is dead.
Gee, Magnus, what did it feel like?
It hurt. A lot. Thanks for asking.
I started to dream, which was weird – not only because I was dead, but because I never dream. People have tried to argue with me about that. They say everybody dreams and I just don’t remember mine. But, I’m telling you, I always slept like the dead. Until I was dead. Then I dreamed like a normal person.
I was hiking with my mom in the Blue Hills. I was maybe ten years old. It was a warm summer day, with a cool breeze through the pines. We stopped at Houghton’s Pond to skip stones across the water. I managed three skips. My mom managed four. She always won. Neither of us cared. She would laugh and hug me and that was enough for me.
It’s hard to describe her. To really understand Natalie Chase, you had to meet her. She used to joke that her spirit animal was Tinker Bell from Peter Pan. If you can imagine Tinker Bell at age thirty-something, minus the wings, wearing flannel, denim and Doc Martens, you’ve got a pretty good picture of my mom. She was a petite lady with delicate features, short blonde pixie hair and leaf-green eyes that sparkled with humour. Whenever she read me stories, I used to gaze at the spray of freckles across her nose and try to count them.
She radiated joy. That’s the only way I can put it. She loved life. Her enthusiasm was infectious. She was the kindest, most easy-going person I ever knew … until the weeks leading up to her death.
In the dream, that was still years in the future. We stood together at the pond. She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of warm pine needles.
‘This is where I met your father,’ she told me. ‘On a summer day just like this.’
The comment surprised me. She rarely talked about my dad. I’d never met him, never even seen pictures of him. That might sound strange, but my mom didn’t make a big deal out of their relationship, so neither did I.
She was clear that my dad hadn’t abandoned us. He’d just moved on. She wasn’t bitter. She had fond memories of their brief time together. After it ended, she’d found out she was pregnant with me, and she was elated. Ever since, it had been just the two of us. We didn’t need anyone else.
