فصل 42

We Have a Pre-decapitation Party, with Egg Rolls

CRASHING AT BLITZEN’S apartment was the high point of our trip. Not that that was saying much.

Blitz rented the third floor of a row house across the street from Svartalf Mart (yes, that’s a real thing). Considering the fact that he was due to be decapitated the next day, he was a good host. He apologized for not cleaning up (though the place looked spotless to me), microwaved some egg rolls, and brought out a liter of Diet Sergeant Pepper and a six-pack of Fjalar’s Foaming Mead, each bottle uniquely handcrafted in a different color of glass.

His furniture was spare but stylish: an L-shaped sofa and two space-age armchairs. They probably had names and were famous among living-room furniture, but Blitzen didn’t introduce them. Neatly arranged on the coffee table was a spread of dwarf men’s fashion and interior design magazines.

While Sam and Hearth sat with Blitz, trying to console him, I paced the room. I felt angry and guilty that I’d put Blitzen in such a tight spot. He’d already risked enough for me. He’d spent two years on the streets watching out for me when he could’ve been here, kicking back with egg rolls and foaming mead. He’d tried to protect me by attacking the lord of the fire giants with a toy sign. Now he was going to lose his head in a craft-off with an evil senior citizen.

Also…the dwarven philosophy of crafting had unsettled me. In Midgard, most things were breakable, replaceable junk. I’d lived off that junk for the last two years—picking through what people discarded, finding bits I could use or sell or at least make a fire with.

I wondered what it would be like living in Nidavellir, where every item was crafted to be a lifetime work of art—right down to your cup or your chair. It might get annoying to have to recite the deeds of your shoes before you put them on in the morning, but at least you’d know they were amazing shoes.

I wondered about the Sword of Summer. Freya had told me to befriend it. She’d implied that the weapon had thoughts and feelings.

Every crafted item has a soul, Blitz had told me.

Maybe I hadn’t properly introduced myself. Maybe I needed to treat the sword like another companion….

“Blitz, you must have a specialty,” Samirah was saying. “What did you study in trade school?”

“Fashion.” Blitzen sniffled. “I designed my own degree program. But clothing isn’t a recognized craft. They’ll expect me to hammer molten ingots or tinker with machinery! I’m no good at that!”

You are, Hearth signed.

“Not under pressure,” Blitz said.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Why does the loser have to die? How do they decide the winner?”

Blitzen stared at the cover of Dwarf Quarterly—New Looks for Spring! 100 Uses for Warg Leather! “Each contestant makes three items. They can be anything. At the end of the day, the judges rate each item according to its usefulness, beauty, quality, whatever. They can assign points any way they wish. The contestant with the most overall points wins. The other guy dies.”

“You must not have a lot of competitions,” I said, “if the loser always gets decapitated.”

“That’s the traditional wager,” Blitz said. “Most people don’t insist on it anymore. Junior is old-fashioned. Also, he hates me.”

“Something about Fenris Wolf and your dad?”

Hearth shook his head to shut me up, but Blitzen patted his knee. “It’s okay, buddy. They deserve to know.”

Blitz leaned back on the sofa. He seemed suddenly calmer about his impending doom, which I found unsettling. I kind of wanted him to be punching walls.

“I told you dwarven items are made for life?” he said. “Well…lifetime for a dwarf can mean hundreds of years.”

I studied Blitz’s beard, wondering if he dyed out the gray whiskers. “How old are you?”

“Twenty,” Blitz said. “But Junior…he’s going on five hundred. His dad, Eitri, was one of the most famous craftsmen in dwarven history. He lived over a thousand years, made some of the gods’ most important items.”

Samirah nibbled on an egg roll. “Even I’ve heard of him. He’s in the old stories. He made Thor’s hammer.”

Blitz nodded. “Anyway, the rope Gleipnir…you could argue it was his most important work, even more than Thor’s hammer. The rope keeps Fenris Wolf from getting free and starting Doomsday.”

“I’m with you so far,” I said.

“The thing is—the rope was a rush job. The gods were clamoring for help. They’d already tried to bind Fenris with two massive chains. They knew their window of opportunity was closing. The Wolf was getting stronger and wilder by the day. Pretty soon he’d be uncontrollable. So Eitri…well, he did his best. Obviously, the rope has held together this long. But a thousand years is a long time, even for a dwarven rope, especially when the strongest wolf in the universe is straining against it day and night. My dad, Bil?, was a great rope maker. He spent years trying to convince Junior that Gleipnir needed to be replaced. Junior wouldn’t hear of it. Junior said he went to the Wolf’s island from time to time to inspect the rope, and he swore that Gleipnir was fine. He thought my dad was just insulting his family’s reputation. Finally my dad…”

Blitz’s voice cracked.

Hearthstone signed, You don’t have to tell.

“I’m okay.” Blitzen cleared his throat. “Junior used all his influence to turn people against my dad. Our family lost business. Nobody would buy Bil?’s crafts. Finally Dad went to the island of Lyngvi himself. He wanted to check the rope, prove that it needed replacing. He never came back. Months later a dwarf patrol found…” He looked down and shook his head.

Hearthstone signed: Clothes. Ripped. Washed up on shore.

Either Samirah was catching on to sign language or she got the general idea. She put her fingertips to her mouth. “Blitz, I’m so sorry.”

“Well”—he shrugged listlessly—“now you know. Junior is still holding a grudge. My dad’s death wasn’t enough. He wants to shame and kill me, too.”

I set my drink on the coffee table. “Blitz, I think I speak for all of us when I say that Junior can shove his Granny Shuffler—”

“Magnus…” Sam warned.

“What? That old dwarf needs to be decapitated in the worst way. What can we do to help Blitz win the contest?”

“I appreciate it, kid.” Blitz struggled to his feet. “But there’s nothing. I…if you’ll excuse me…”

He staggered to his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

Samirah pursed her lips. She still had a twig of Yggdrasil sticking out of her coat pocket. “Is there any chance Junior isn’t that good? He’s very old now, isn’t he?”

Hearthstone unwrapped his scarf and threw it on the couch. He wasn’t doing well in the darkness of Nidavellir. The green veins on his neck stood out more than usual. His hair floated with static, like plant tendrils searching for sunlight.

Junior is very good. He made a sign like ripping a piece of paper in half and throwing away the pieces: Hopeless.

I felt like throwing bottles of Fjalar’s Foaming Mead out the window. “But Blitz can craft, right? Or were you just being encouraging?”

Hearth rose. He walked to a sideboard along the dining room wall. I hadn’t paid the table much attention, but Hearth pressed something on its surface—a hidden switch, I guess—and the tabletop opened like a clamshell. The underside of the top section was one big light panel. It flickered to life, glowing warm and golden.

“A tanning bed.” As soon as I said that, the truth sank in. “When you first came to Nidavellir, Blitzen saved your life. That’s how. He made a way for you to get sunlight.”

Hearth nodded. First time I used runes for magic. Mistake. I dropped into Nidavellir. Almost died. Blitzen—he can craft. Kind and smart. But no good under pressure. Contests…no.

Sam hugged her knees. “So what do we do? Do you have any magic that will help?”

Hearth hesitated. Some. Will use before contest. Not enough.

I translated for Sam and then asked, “What can I do?”

Protect him, Hearth signed. Junior will try to s-a-b-o-t-a-g-e.

“Sabotage?” I frowned. “Isn’t that cheating?”

“I’ve heard about this,” Sam said. “In dwarven contests, you can mess with your competitor as long as you aren’t caught. The interference has to look like an accident, or at least something the judges can’t trace back to you. But it sounds like Junior doesn’t need to cheat to win.”

He will cheat. Hearth made a sign like a hook swinging into a latch. Spite.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll keep Blitz safe.”

Still not enough. Hearth peered at Sam. Only way to win—mess with Junior.

When I told Sam what he’d signed, she turned as gray as a dwarf in sunlight. “No.” She wagged her finger at Hearth. “No, absolutely not. I told you.”

Blitz will die, Hearth signed. You did it before.

“What’s he talking about?” I asked. “What did you do before?”

She got to her feet. The tension in the room was suddenly at DEFCON Two. “Hearthstone, you said you wouldn’t mention it. You promised.” She faced me, her expression shutting down any further questions. “Excuse me. I need some air.”

She stormed out of the apartment.

I stared at Hearthstone. “What was that?”

His shoulders slumped. His face was empty, drained of hope. He signed, A mistake. Then he climbed onto his sun bed and turned toward the light, his body casting a wolf-shaped shadow across the floor.