by Rick Riordan
He didn’t stay down long. With a roar so powerful I felt the sound vibrations, he punched his fist through the shield and came at me again.
I hit him with everything I had. Isa, the ice rune, slowed him down by turning the mansion’s brick walkway into a skating rink. He stomped his boot, shattering both the ice and the bricks underneath. I tossed the uruz symbol above his head and dropped a very surprised ox on top of him. He flicked the animal off like a piece of lint and sent it flying, legs akimbo, into a nearby pond. Using my hagalaz stone, I pummeled him with grapefruit-size hail; then I blowtorched him with flames I summoned with my kenaz rune. But he still kept coming.
After using so many runes, I was nearing exhaustion. I darted around a corner of the house and hid in a nearby rosebush to catch my breath. Thorny yet secure, it gave me time to search my memory for a troll’s weakness.
But I came up empty. As I crouched in the bush, waiting for the troll to kill me, the names my father used to call me echoed in my mind. Worthless. Disgrace. Stupid.
I was in danger of falling into a shame spiral when it hit me. Names. The best weapon against a troll is to learn its true name. Like a password, speaking the name out loud unlocks the way past the troll’s natural defenses—its thick hide, its thicker skull, its bad breath.
Okay, I thought. Now how do I get him to tell me his name? Asking wouldn’t work. Even if he understood ASL, I doubted he’d be stupid enough to answer my question. Then I remembered where I was—not the rosebush, but Alfheim.
Elves liked to feel superior to others—a skill my father had honed to a sharp, cutting edge. Perhaps a troll who lived here would, too. If I could get him to brag about himself, he might let his name slip.
I touched Inge’s band for courage and emerged from the bush. The troll thundered over, arms outstretched and gloved fingers reaching for my neck. I flung up my hands in surrender. My heart hammered two beats before he lowered his meaty paws.
“What trickery is this?” he roared.
I feigned confusion, pointed to my ears, and shook my head.
The troll sneered. “Oh yes. The deaf elf who can do magic. I’ve heard of you. Mr. Alderman’s brat, right?”
Through lip-reading and some guesswork, I got the gist of what he said, but I wrinkled my brow as if utterly baffled.
The troll circled me, still suspicious. His eyes darted to my rune bag. With a surprisingly quick move, he snatched it from my hands. “Ha! Now you’re deaf and powerless!” Smirking, he dangled the bag just out of my reach.
I cowered appropriately but kept watching his lips.
“Oh yeah!” He tucked the bag into his belt. “What has two thumbs and just defeated the mighty Hearthstone?” He pointed his thumbs at himself. “This troll! And now this troll is going to have some fun.”
He rearranged his expression to one of sympathy and bent forward, hands on knees, to look me in the eye. “I’m going to pretend to have second thoughts about killing you. First I’ll gain your trust.” He plucked a rose and held it out to me encouragingly.
I faked a look of growing hope and took it.
The troll smiled and patted me on the head. “Isn’t that nice? What’s even nicer is how I’m going kill you.” He mimed opening a screw-top bottle and guzzling its contents. “I’ll twist your head off your neck, then drink down all your blood. Yum, yum.” He smacked his lips and offered me a sip from the pretend bottle.
Smiling hesitantly, I accepted and mimed taking a swig. On the inside, though, I was dying. Pretending to drink your own blood from your decapitated body has that effect.
“And you know what I’ll do after that?” the troll continued. “I’ll mount your head on a stick and fasten it to my vest so everyone will know that I, Siersgrunnr the Magnificent, bested the famous magic-wielding deaf elf!”
I almost gave myself away then, and not just because the troll had let his name slip. Roughly translated, Siersgrunnr means Cheesebutt. You try lip-reading that and not laughing.
Instead, I shoved my hand in my pocket and clasped the dagaz rune. With the other, I pointed to myself and then at the open gate. I can go?
“You want to leave? Oh, sure, sure. I don’t mind killing you when your back is turned.” He made a shooing motion to hurry me along.
Heart pounding, I walked a few paces toward the exit. I had no intention of leaving. I just wanted to move closer to the bullhorn.
The dagaz rune was heating up in my palm. It was now or never. I turned back to face the troll. Widening my eyes, I pointed at something over his shoulder. Oldest trick in the book—and he fell for it.
In one fluid sequence, I grabbed the bullhorn, hit the ON button, tossed dagaz into the air, and spelled out the troll’s name in rapid-fire ASL.
“Siersgrunnr!”
Cheesebutt whirled around, his face contorting in sudden fear. He knew he was weaker now that his name had been spoken. “Who—who said that?”
I dropped the bullhorn and jerked two thumbs at myself. Then I darted forward and grabbed my rune bag. The tiwaz stone—the rune of Tyr, the god of war—practically leaped into my fingers. I used it to transform the rose into a thorn-spiked club. One swing took him out at the knees. A second knocked him unconscious.
Once they realized they couldn’t hide behind Cheesebutt any longer, Wildflower and Sunspot raced up from the guard shack, their billy clubs at the ready. But the double threat of my rune bag and spiked club sent them running right back to the gate again—and into the hills beyond.
My bracelet sparkled.
Inge.
I mounted the house’s front steps and banged on the door with the thorn club.
Someone inside must have seen everything. The door opened, Inge was shoved out, and then it slammed shut again. Inge leaped into my arms.
After a moment, I pulled back and signed, Are you okay?
She nodded and signed back, You were brilliant. They were terrified.They—
She suddenly froze and stared past me in shock. Tremors shook the ground. Had the troll awakened? I spun and thrust Inge behind me.
Then I relaxed. The troll was still lying where I’d left him. The tremors were from a different, but equally disturbing source: Thor.
“Hello, Mr. Elf, Ms. Hulder!” he called as he jogged by.
Hi, Thor, I signed. Nice shorts.
Thor stopped and pointed at his earbuds. “Sorry, I’m listening to rock! Maybe you should use the bullhorn.”
Or I could just sign louder.
“Add in bicep curls for a full-body workout?” Thor hefted his hammer, Mjolnir. “A worthwhile suggestion, Mr. Elf! Well, good-bye!”
Thor thundered off.
Usually, I’d leave Alfheim just as quickly. This time, though, I didn’t mind staying a bit longer. Maybe it was the success of the dagaz magic or defeating a troll single-handedly.
But I suspect Inge’s smiling face had something to do with it.
“I ASSUME you know why I summoned you here, Samirah.” Odin sat back in his desk chair and regarded me expectantly.
I willed myself not to squirm. “Um, if it’s about how I butt-dialed you during that einherji acquisition just now, I can explain. See, she was thrashing a lot, and my phone was in my back pocket and—”
Odin silenced me with a raised hand. “I admit that overhearing your struggle was . . . unsettling. Such an excessive amount of grunting and cursing. It reminded me of my survival-training seminar with Bear Grylls. Who is not, incidentally, an actual bear. But I digress.” He leaned forward over his desk. “I have a new job for you.”
A thrill shot up my spine. Since becoming Odin’s Valkyrie in charge of special assignments, I’d gone on several dangerous missions. No doubt this next one would prove just as challenging.
“Whatever it is, Lord Odin,” I replied fervently, “I’m your Valkyrie.”
He nodded with satisfaction. “Excellent.” He opened a folder and slid a grainy photograph across the desk to me. “Tell me, what do you make of that?”
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I studied the image carefully. “It’s an egg.”
He rolled his hand, encouraging me to continue.
“A red egg. In a nest.”
“Exactly. But not just any egg.” He picked up a remote and pushed a button. A video screen descended from the spear-enhanced ceiling and locked into place. He pushed another button. Images of wolves, giants, gods, and weapons flashed across the screen. Then a title: The Signs of Ragnarok: Doomed if You Know Them, Doomed if You Don’t.
I groaned inwardly. I’d sat through Odin’s instructional video when I first became a Valkyrie. I saw it a second time after I helped re-shackle the dreaded killer Fenris Wolf on Lyngvi, the Isle of Heather. Then once more after I’d inadvertently aided my father Loki, a vile trickster, to escape his imprisonment. And after Loki was recaptured? Yep—got to see it again.
To my immense relief, Odin fast-forwarded past the early warning signs: the death of his beloved son Balder, the three years of endless snow and ice known as Fimbulwinter, and the wolves who swallow the sun and the moon. He paused on a shot of three roosters.
“According to all sources, one sign of Ragnarok is the crowing of these roosters.” He circled each bird with a laser pointer as he identified it. “Gullinkambi, who will hatch right here in Asgard. Fialar, whose egg resides in Jotunheim. And Nameless, the future foul fowl of Helheim.”
I raised my hand tentatively. “Excuse me, sir, just to clarify—the rooster’s name is Nameless?”
“It has no name, so I named it Nameless.”
“Oh.”
Odin stood up and paced the room. “In a recent scan of the Nine Worlds, I confirmed that Gullinkambi and Nameless are still in egg form, which is good—very good—because they are unlikely to herald Ragnarok while in their shells.” His piercing blue eye flicked over to me. “It’s the third egg that has me concerned.”
I picked up the photo. “The egg of Fialar. In Jotunheim.”
“That photo was taken three months ago by—well, you don’t need to know that. But now the earth giants have blocked my view of the nest with their distortion magic. I suspect they are hiding something from me. That’s where you come in.”
My heart leaped with excitement. Odin was sending me to fight the jotuns in Jotunheim! I jumped up and summoned my spear of light. It blazed with anticipation. “I won’t let you down, sir! I’ll take care of those giants and their wretched sorcery!”
“Ah. No.” Odin handed me a Valkyrie Vision body cam. “I need you to take a new photo of the egg. So I can see if it is beginning to hatch.”
My spear dimmed. “Oh.”
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s an important job. Likely fraught with danger.”
“Oh, sure,” I agreed. “Snapping a pic of an egg in a nest would be . . . obviously. I’ll be on my way, then.”
“Take a mount if you wish. But you will need to be discreet. I don’t want the giants to know you were ever there. And this warning, Samirah: Your magic hijab will be of no use in Jotunheim. On their own turf, giants can see through that kind of magic.”
My hijab has the ability to camouflage me and one other person. Being hidden from enemies had come in handy in the past. Not this time, though, it seemed.
I nodded to show my understanding, then departed with the photo and body cam.
Minutes later, I was winging over the earth giants’ land on a horse made of mist. I’d been to parts of Jotunheim before and used familiar landmarks, like the crumbled ruins where a particularly nasty family of giants once lived, to get my bearings. When I didn’t see any eggs or nests in that zone, I expanded my search parameters.
Finally, I saw the nest perched on a hilltop surrounded by a forest. It matched the photo Odin had shown me—a thatch-work of leaves, sticks, grass, and what I really hoped wasn’t human hair—but was much bigger in person, about the size of an aboveground swimming pool. The bowl of the nest was deep. If the egg was inside, I couldn’t see it. I nudged the horse downward and dismounted in a distant clearing. The horse took one look at the trees and bolted back into the sky.
I couldn’t blame her. The trees were unbelievably creepy—pitch-black and gnarled, with thick ropy vines twisting throughout their branches. As I walked past one loop of vine swinging in the wind, I recalled the forest’s name from an old picture book about Jotunheim: Gallows-wood. I shuddered and kept walking to the hill.
Get a grip, Sam, I scolded myself. They’re just— Oh, Helheim, I cursed, dropping into a crouch.
Coming over the far side of the hill was a giant. He was skyscraper tall. Muscles bulged beneath his dark shirt and pants. His receding salt-and-pepper hair was shorn tight to his skull. Interestingly, he had a golden harp dangling from his belt instead of a weapon.
I crossed my fingers and hoped that he was just passing through. But he settled on the nest like a mother hen, carefully tucking the harp in next to him.
“Play!” he commanded. The harp immediately plucked out a tune. The giant cleared his throat and sang along.
“I am Eggther,
Protector of the egg.
If you dare come near me,
I will break your leg.”
My mouth turned dry. Had the giant seen me?
“Gouge out both your eyes
And punch you in the throat.
Squeeze you dry into a cup
To make a blood-beer float.”
Despite the horrific lyrics, I relaxed. The “you” in Eggther’s song didn’t seem specific to me. I hoped.
Still, I was in a quandary. So long as the minstrel of Gallows-wood sat on the egg, I couldn’t snap my photo. With Eggther’s rousing refrain ringing in my ears—Bash, maim, squish, splat / Pound and kick until you’re flat—I backtracked silently into the woods to consider my options. One: I could return to Valhalla and explain to Odin why I’d failed. Two: I could ask Eggther to pose for a photo with the egg. Three: I could try bashing Eggther before he bashed me.
I was leaning toward Option Two when Eggther stopped singing and started snoring. I risked a peek. He was fast asleep, chin on his chest and a line of drool dribbling from his mouth. Unfortunately, he was still sitting on the egg. That ruled out Option Three, for while I could now easily bash him, I wouldn’t have a prayer of moving his body off the nest. I’m strong, but not that strong.
Then my gaze landed on the harp. Seeing it reminded me of an old fairy tale, “Jack and the Beanstalk.” The giant in that story had a self-playing golden harp, too. When Jack stole the harp, it alerted the giant by playing loudly. (I always hated the harp for that.) I was willing to bet Eggther’s harp would do the same.
I formed a plan. Using the vines, I’d sneak up, rope the harp, and fly off with it. My nebulous horse would have been ideal for this part, but I can fly on my own in short bursts. The harp would sing out—hopefully—the giant would wake up and chase after it—probably—and I’d drop the harp, circle back, snap the egg pic, and hightail it back to Asgard.
Amazingly, everything went according to plan—right up until it didn’t. The problem? Golden harps are heavy. Like, really, really heavy. When I pulled the rope to lift it, it wouldn’t budge. Luckily, it didn’t play, either, though I detected a bit of sleepy humming. I took that as a good sign that if—when—I dislodged it, it would sing out an alarm.
I retreated back to Gallows-wood to ponder the problem.
You know how you think you’ll never use math and science outside of school? Well, an eighth-grade physics lesson about moving heavy objects with a rope saved the day. Basically, a heavy object can be shifted by attaching one end of a rope to the object, the other to a fixed, immovable object, and then pulling on the rope’s center point.
One end of my vine rope was already looped around the harp. I tied the other around a stout tree at the bottom of the hill. Then I wrapped my hijab around my waist like a harness, tied it to the rope’s midpoint, and backpedaled until the rope formed a taut V. According to physics, if I pulled hard enough, the harp would move.
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br /> “Here goes nothing,” I muttered.
I faced the inside of the V so I could keep an eye on the harp and the giant. Then I threw myself back into the harness like the anchor on a tug-of-war team. My legs pushed against the earth, muscles straining.
The harp rocked slightly, made an ominous thrumming sound, and then settled back into place.
Cursing, I tried again. My foot slipped and I fell. Rubbing my tailbone, I gave myself a quick pep talk.
Come on, al-Abbas! You can do this! You can—
I paused in mid-pep. Something was coming around the hill. Something big and hairy and fast. Something in butt-hugging leather shorts. And it was coming right toward me.
“Thor!” I yelled frantically. “Stop! Or at least detour!”
He didn’t hear me. I scrabbled frantically at the knot in my hijab. It came loose a split second before Thor barreled up. In one motion I put the hijab back over my head and dove to one side. His foot caught the rope, but he didn’t break stride.
Twang!
The rope went taut, popping the tree out of the ground like a cork from a champagne bottle. The harp burst out of the nest at the same time.
“Well, that worked,” I said.
As I’d hoped, the harp’s strings began plucking out a frantic alarm. The volume increased as it bounced along the ground behind Thor and left Eggther behind. Eggther woke up.
“Hey!” he yelled. “That’s mine!” He jumped up and gave chase.
I flew into the air to make sure the giant stayed focused on the thunder god instead of me. From my vantage point, I was treated to a truly bizarre sight: Thor puffing along, the tree and the harp bouncing behind him, Eggther trying to snatch the instrument in the air while bellowing threats. If you’d like to see it for yourself, feel free to take a look at the Valkyrie Vision video I “accidentally” shot.
