By Blitzen
GATHERING SUPPLIES from my apartment in Nidavellir was the first item on my day's agenda. Not on that agenda? Fleeing an angry dwarf in a jet-propelled wheelchair. And yet there I was, racing through the dark streets of my home world with Eitri Junior, my old enemy (and I do mean old—the guy was one step shy of fossilization), in hot pursuit. Apparently, he was still miffed because I beat him in a recent crafting contest. Or because I won by sabotaging his handiwork. Either way, he was a sore loser.
"I'm gaining on you!" he wheezed. "I'm— Aahhh!"
Junior's scream was joined by the squeal of burning rubber. He whizzed by me in a blur, clinging to the wheelchair's armrests as if his life depended on it. Which perhaps it did, as he seemed out of control. Correction: He was most definitely out of control.
Boom! Junior crashed headlong into an unlit forge. The chair bounced back and toppled over, wheels spinning and jets sputtering in the dirt. Junior looked dazed, but unhurt. Dwarves came running from every direction.
That was my cue to leave. I still needed some things from my apartment, but I didn't go
there. If Junior came after me again, that'd be the first place he'd look. What he might do if he found me . . . well, let's just say vengeance-seeking dwarves usually hack first and ask questions never, and I wasn't wearing my chain mail vest.
Darting from one alley to another, I zigzagged my way through a maze of unfamiliar streets. At one point, I fell face-first in a mud puddle, totally ruining my lavender overcoat. When I finally stopped to catch my breath, I was in a part of Nidavellir I'd never been before. It reminded me of a sketchy section of downtown Boston I'd warned Magnus to avoid.
I put up my collar and started walking. Asking for directions to my neighborhood was out. The few dwarves I passed either avoided making eye contact or rudely mocked my mud-soaked coat. To be fair, they would have mocked it even if it were clean. No appreciation for fashion, dwarves.
I came to a windowless tavern. Muffled pinging and dinging sounds came from within. Not my first choice of sanctuary, but better than roaming the streets aimlessly. I ducked inside.
The interior was dimly lit even by Nidavellir standards, except for the row of pachinko machines. A cross between a vertical pinball game and a coin-operated gumball dispenser, they blinked and flashed with garish colored lights that clashed horribly with the dark wood and redcheckered décor. Seeing those games brought back painful memories of someone I was once connected to—and hoped to stay disconnected from. And then there was the smell—it took all of my willpower not to press my pocket square to my nose as I took a seat at the bar.
The bartender stood at the far end, polishing the inside of a brass mug. I raised a finger to get his attention.
"Hey, pal, I don't suppose you could tell me how to get to Kenning Square from here?"
He spat into the mug, then continued wiping it with his filthy rag. "Play, drink, or get out."
"Play? Oh, you mean pachinko. The thing is, I'm not much of a gambler."
"Play, drink, or get out."
"I'm not much of a drinker, either."
"Play, drink, or—"
The door banged open and a sour-faced dwarf came in. My heart plummeted. He was one of Junior's cronies.
I slid off the stool. "You know what? I think I'll play." I hurried to a machine tucked away in a corner and inserted a coin.
The game board went dark. "What the—?"
An extremely short but strong-looking dwarf emerged from the shadows. The machine's power cord dangled from his hand.
"You owe me a quarter," I said huffily.
The minuscule muscleman stepped closer and menaced my midriff with a scowl. "Someone wants to see you," he said.
I cut my eyes toward the front of the bar, where Junior's henchman was questioning the bartender. "If it's that guy, I'm not interested."
The burly dwarf glared up at me, then kicked open a hidden door next to the machine and stepped aside. "In back. Now."
I would have refused, except I heard the bartender say, "Yeah, he's here. Now play, drink, or get out."
"Right. In back. Now." I darted through the opening. The door closed with a quiet click behind me.
The back room was as dimly lit as the bar. A massive oak desk—beautifully carved, clearly a one-of-a-kind piece—took up much of the space. Behind it was a hand-tooled leather chair with brass rivets, its back to me.
"Um, hello?" I ventured. "You wanted to see me?"
The chair rotated with agonizing slowness. I held my breath, waiting to see who sat in it. It was empty.
"Ha-ha, very funny. You got me—whoever you are."
Laughter gurgled from the side wall. A light suddenly blazed, illuminating a large fish tank. There were no fish in it, though. Just a severed, bearded head bobbing in the water next to a plastic treasure chest.
I groaned. "Mimir. I should have known."
Mimir, an ancient god and my sometime employer, had a body once. Then he tried to pull a fast one on the Vanir. He dispensed wise advice through Honir, the god of indecision, and made them think he was a sage. When the Vanir discovered the deception, they decapitated Mimir. He survived from the neck up thanks to Odin's magic and the waters of the well of knowledge at the roots of Yggdrasil. He can usually be found there still, dishing out intel to supplicants in exchange for their servitude. I'd been his servant for a few years (long story), but even now that I was free, he still sometimes showed up in other bodies of water, usually to make my life miserable.
The head bobbed to the surface. "Hey, Blitz," Mimir said. "Long time no see. Pull up a seat.
We got things to discuss. That's why I brought you here."
"What do you mean, brought me here?"
Mimir chuckle-bubbled. "A little wheelchair sabotage, a little magical manipulation of certain alleyways, bada-bing, bada-boom, and here you are. So, take a seat and have a listen."
I drew myself up to my full five feet five inches. "Odin freed me from your service, remember?"
Mimir sloshed with annoyance. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thing is, the worlds might be in trouble if you don't act on what I'm about to tell you. Now you interested in what I got to say?"
I huffed as I sat in the leather chair. Why me? "I'm listening."
"Right. You ever heard of a dwarf named Alviss?"
"No."
"Nasty piece of work. Anyway, he's plotting to kill Thor on account of Alviss was supposed to marry Thor's daughter, Thrud. Only Thor changed his mind at the last minute and petrified the guy instead. Someone fixed Alviss up with a little water, so now he is back to normal, and he is peeved. When he found out Thor was heading to Nidavellir on his jog through the Nine Worlds
—"
"Thor's jog through . . . ?" I held up a hand. "Never mind. It's Thor. I should know better than to ask."
"As I was saying, Alviss is planning to take his revenge." Mimir floated down to the treasure chest and, using his chin, pressed a button to open it. Out popped a card, which he grabbed in his teeth, brought back to the surface, and offered to me.
I removed it gingerly from between his chompers. It was a plastic laminated map of Nidavellir.
"See that X?" Mimir asked. "My sources say that's where Alviss will attack. Be there. Stop him. I estimate you've got two hours to come up with a plan to save the thunder god."
"Me, save Thor?" I scoffed. "He can take care of himself!"
Mimir did a spit take. "You don't get it! You've gotta do the job without letting Thor realize
he was ever in danger. That means zero contact with the thunder god. You can't even call out his name. If he finds out about Alviss, he could get mad enough to zap all the dwarves—boom!"
Before I could ask further questions, like why his sources couldn't deal with Alviss themselves, Mimir yanked a plug at the bottom of the tank with his teeth and was sucked down the drain, leaving me with a dripping map and no idea what to do. And I was still out a quarter from the pachinko machine.
At least I got back to my apartment safely, thanks to directions from the minuscule dwarf thug. Once inside, I studied the map. I recognized the X's location, a steep cliff overlooking a river I had once fallen into with my buddy Hearthstone. We'd washed up in Mimir's well of knowledge, which was how we ended up bound in service to him in the first place.
Knowing the X's location was the plus in the situation. On the minus side, the only way I could think of to stop Alviss—aside from killing or maiming him, which I was not going to do; I had enough enemies in Nidavellir already—would be to replicate what Thor did and petrify Alviss. Then I could revive him with fresh running water once the thunder god was out of danger.
There was just one catch: petrification required sunlight, something Nidavellir lacked.
Okay, two catches: if the sunlight hit me, I'd turn into a statue, too. A well-dressed one, but still . . .
I paced the apartment. Made myself a snack. Paced some more. Checked the time. Panicked.
Paced some more.
"Sunlight. Where am I going to get sunlight?"
I searched the room for inspiration. I picked up an expand-o-duck, my handcrafted metal figurine that thwarted enemies by growing to immense size and crushing them. Would it solve my problem with Alviss, though? I didn't think so.
Still holding the duck, my gaze landed on Hearthstone's tanning bed. My elf friend used its simulated sunlight to keep him healthy when he came to visit. I looked from the duck to the bed and back again. Suddenly, the wheels in my brain started turning.
"What if I built a smaller version of the tanning bed," I asked the duck, "but tweaked the light so that instead of a soft warm glow, it shot out a powerful concentrated beam of sunlight when I opened it? That could work, right?" I made the duck nod, then got busy.
Forty-five minutes later, I had crafted a perfect handheld replica of Hearth's bed. When I opened the clamshell—away from my face—a burst of brilliant sunlight shone out. I quickly snapped it shut again. "Probably not going to be a big seller in Nidavellir," I acknowledged.
"But, hopefully, it'll do the trick."
With no time to lose, I selected a stylish ninja outfit from my closet—fitted dark jeans and a black cashmere hoodie with a front pocket for the mini bed—and hurried to the riverside. I hid myself in the shadows.
But either Alviss was a no-show or Mimir's sources were wrong, because no one else, angry dwarf or jogging god, was anywhere in sight.
Or so I thought.
Scritch-scritch.
Nidavellir is an underground world with domed cavern ceilings overhead instead of sky. The scratching sound had come from above me. I looked up and saw a dwarf clinging to a stalactite. One end of a rope was wrapped around his waist. The other was attached to a second stalactite far in front of him and directly over the street where Thor was likely to run. Jammed in Alviss's belt was a club bigger than he was.
It didn't take a genius to figure out his plan: swing down like a pendulum and club Thor on the head.
This presented my plan with two unanticipated problems. One, I wasn't sure how far my sunbeam would shoot. The Nidavellir darkness might swallow it before it reached Alviss on the ceiling. I'd have to wait for him to swing down. That meant hitting a moving target. Problem number two, assuming I petrified the dwarf, I had to be sure he swung past or over Thor, not into him.
Then a third problem arose. The ground started shaking with measured thuds, which meant I'd run out of time.
"Thor." Alviss's furious whisper echoed off the cavern walls.
Heart pounding, I pulled out the mini bed. The footfalls drew closer. Thor thundered around a bend in the distance. The sight of him in his tighty-leatherys almost made me root for Alviss.
"Rock, rock. Rock-rock-rock. Rock, rock. Rock-rock-rock," Thor muttered in a loud monotone.
Eyes glued to Alviss, I got into a crouch. Thor drew nearer. I huffed a few quick breaths to psych myself up. Then—
"Aaaiiiiii!" With a triumphant yell, Alviss let go of the stalactite. At the same time, I launched myself into Thor's path. I tucked, rolled, and caught a horrifying glimpse of his leatherclad god parts a split second before he tripped over me.
"Rock. Rock. Rock-rock-whoa!"
Thor pitched forward just as Alviss flew overhead, swinging for the fences. The dwarf's club swished through empty air. Thor righted himself and kept going. "Rock. Rock. Rock-rockrock. . . ."
I'd broken the "zero contact" instruction, but the thunder god seemed oblivious to my presence, so no harm done. As for the killer dwarf— "Noooooo!"
Flailing his club, Alviss reached the swing's high point and came screaming—literally— back. I opened the mini bed.
Zot! Alviss's scream cut off. I watched as the now petrified dwarf sailed past.
I know what it's like to be petrified. It stinks. So I had every intention of cutting Alviss free on his next pass-by and then dipping him in the river to restore him. But before I could, the stalactite attached to the rope broke. Alviss's momentum carried him over the cliff edge. He landed with a splash in the water below.
"Oops." I peered down, then waved my hand dismissively. "Ah, he'll be fine."
"Blitzen!" Junior suddenly appeared. He crutched toward me with his rocket-powered walker and a lot of friends. "Get him, boys!"
"Ha! Eat light, Junior!" I unleashed the power of the mini bed.
Sadly, instead of a turn-you-to-stone laser beam, a weak glow enveloped Junior like a soft blanket. The charge had run out. A thin crust formed around him. It was nowhere near as dramatic as instant petrification, but it was startling enough to make the other dwarves pause.
And that made me think about how I looked to them. A dwarf who handcrafts a weapon that petrifies other dwarves? Not cool.
"Listen!" I yelled. "My argument is with Junior, not you. When he decrustifies, tell him I want to talk."
I put the mini bed on the ground and showed them my empty hands while slowly backing away.
It would have been a very powerful moment if I hadn't backed off the cliff into the river. As I thrashed through the churning water toward shore, three things occurred to me. One, Junior would never, ever forgive me. Two, my cashmere hoodie was ruined. And three . . . Mimir owed me a lot more than a quarter.