By Halfborn Gunderson
SOMEONE STOOD in the hallway outside my door. I tensed. Waiting. Listening.
Knock-knock. Knock. Knock-knock-knock.
That was the sign. I opened the door. "Get in. Quickly."
Alex Fierro skirted past me with a bundled-up towel in his arms. I glanced up and down the hallway, then closed the door. I turned to find Alex rolling his eyes.
"I still can't believe you made me use a secret knock." He handed me the towel, then dusted off his pink cashmere sweater vest and lime-green pants.
I showed him a mangled slice of pizza. "Mallory tried to get in a few minutes ago. I had to be sure it was you and not her coming back to trash the place."
"Yeah, your peephole wouldn't work at all."
"Oh. I forgot about that. Anyway."
I led him into my arts-and-crafts room. That's right—arts and crafts. There's more to me than just fighting to the death. I'd started with the basics—finger paints and macaroni sculptures, glitter glue on paper hearts, string art and coat-hanger mobiles—and worked my way up to finer artistic endeavors.
Alex gaped when he saw my latest project. "Dude. It's huge."
I shrugged. "Go big or go home, right?"
The project was a mosaic for Mallory made from an assortment of found and recycled objects: weapon fragments, pebbles from different worlds, shards of shattered glass. Alex, floor nineteen's resident potter, had brought me pieces of broken pottery, which he'd handcrafted by hurling unsatisfactory pots against a wall.
I unrolled the towel and inspected the shards. "These are perfect. Thanks. Now I just need
Vanir dragon scales."
"Why Vanir dragons?" Alex wanted to know.
"They're red, yellow, and orange—perfect for battlefield flames, blood, and gore. See, I'm depicting Mallory's and my first battle together."
"Aw, Halfborn." Alex chucked me under the chin. "You're a romantic!"
"I'm also behind schedule. I want to give it to her on the battle's anniversary next week. I gotta get to Vanaheim and back before Mallory really does break down my door." Alex uncoiled his garrote from his belt. "Want a wingman?"
"Nah. I got this." I opened a closet full of weapons and selected an ax and a shield from my collection. "Could you stay here, though, and make sure Mallory doesn't get in?"
Alex grimaced. "I'd rather fight a dragon than face your angry girlfriend, but sure, I'll hang out here until you get back."
"Thanks. I owe you one."
Alex smiled. "I'll take you up on that sometime."
Weapons securely in place over my TOUGH MUDDER T-shirt—I love those Midgard obstacle-course challenges—I made my way through the hotel hallways to the kitchen and the enormous walk-in refrigerator in the feast hall food-prep area. The quickest way to Vanaheim was via fresh produce. I went feetfirst into the potato bin and landed at the bottom of a gentle rolling hill in Folkvanger, the Vanir realm of the afterlife.
I surveyed my surroundings. The hill was covered with sweet-smelling wildflowers and dancing butterflies awash in warm, glowing light—the power of Freya, goddess and ruler of Vanaheim, washing over the realm. On the hilltop, Freya's handpicked warriors lounged on blankets, laughing and sipping chai.
I scowled. Peace, butterflies, chai: this world was awful.
Eeeeeeeeeee!
A high-pitched trumpet blast suddenly pierced the air. A cry to battle! My berserker instincts kicked in as if someone had flipped an ON switch. With a mighty roar, I tore off my TOUGH MUDDER tee and charged up the hill.
Nothing I'd ever encountered in Asgard prepared me for what came next.
The trumpet blast segued into a soft jazz tune. Brush drumsticks shushed out a whispered rhythm while other instruments—a piano, a clarinet, a bass guitar—wove a melody of notes through the air. The lilting music rolled over me like warm syrup on a stack of Sunday brunch pancakes.
It was horrible. I dropped my ax, fell to my knees, and clutched my ears.
"Whoa, buddy! You okay?" A dark-haired girl in a bikini top and sarong stared over at me with concern. She poked her blanket-mate with her elbow. "Hey. I think this dude needs some herbal supplements."
"No!" I stumbled to my feet. "I'm fine. Just point me toward Sessrumnir, and I'll be on my way."
"You'll miss the clarinet improv solo," she warned.
I shuddered. "No, I really won't."
The girl shrugged. "Your loss. Freya's palace is down the hill, past the volleyball court. Keep calm and bebop on!"
"Who was that?" I heard her friend ask as I hurried away.
"From the looks of him, I'd say someone who likes"—she lowered her voice to an embarrassed whisper—"polka music."
(She wasn't wrong. Give me a good oompah band over what they were listening to any day.)
I continued on to Sessrumnir, Freya's upside-down ship/palace of gold and silver, to seek the goddess's permission to hunt the dragons of her land. Inside, warriors lined the aisle to Freya's throne. Dozing warriors in hammocks, that is. Freya's throne was empty.
I shook a sleeping blond man in an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt, tattered Bermuda shorts, and
Birkenstock sandals. "Wake up. Where's Freya?"
The guy blinked sleepily. "Who are you?"
"Halfborn. Where's the goddess?"
"Halfborn." The guy said my name like he was testing it out. "What's that short for?"
"Nothing."
He chuckled in amazement. "Halfborn is short for Nothing? It's so weird how names work, isn't it?" He stuck out his hand. "I'm Miles. And sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but Freya's not here right now. I'd be super-pumped to help you out, though. Speaking of super-pumped"— he pointed to my bulging biceps and six-pack abs—"did you get ripped like that by going vegan?"
I ignored his question and got right to my own. "Whose permission do I need to hunt your dragons? I need some of their scales."
Miles scratched his head in confusion. "Hunt our dragons? Dude, they sleep harder than our warriors do. I mean, it'd take something pretty substantial to wake them up. You want scales, just walk up and take them."
Most people would have been relieved when a potentially deadly task turned out to be nonlife-threatening. I am not most people. I prefer to earn things, not have them handed to me. Still, I'd come for dragon scales, so I set my disappointment aside.
"Where are the caves of these sleeping dragons, then?"
"Caves." Miles laughed. "You're really not from around here, are you?" "No." Thank the gods, I added silently.
Miles spread his arms out wide and looked up. "Our dragons slumber under the open sky, basking in the light of Freya." He dropped his arms. "Come on, I'll take you there."
"No! I mean, you could just point the way."
"It's no trouble, man. Follow me."
I gritted my teeth. "Super."
Miles led me toward a distant canyon of soft red-gold sandstone. "I know! Let's take this opportunity to get to know one another better."
"Let's not and say we did."
"I'll go first," Miles continued. "My favorite flower is the daisy. It's just so darned cheerful! Do you have a favorite flower, Halfborn?"
"No."
"Oh, come on, now." He glanced at me sideways. "You must like tulips. Everyone likes
tulips. Know why?"
"No."
"Because without tulips, you couldn't kiss!" He whooped and shoulder-bumped me. "Get it?
Tulips? Like, two lips?" He made kissy sounds.
I nearly unleashed a heavy dose of berserk on him. Instead, I said, "There is one plant I admire. The Venus flytrap."
Miles nodded enthusiastically. "Interesting! Why that one, exactly?"
I turned on him. "Because it attacks its prey and then slowly and painfully consumes it." That shut him up.
We reached the canyon. The wind had carved one side into wavy ledges that hung over the floor like shade canopies. Four dragons—one gold, one red, and two orange—snored in a hollow at the bottom, their scales glowing in the Freya light. Their wings were tucked in tight to their serpentine bodies. White smoke puffed from their nostrils like balls of cotton.
In other words, the dragons were non-life-threatening. Helping myself to their scales would be a piece of cake.
"I hate cake," I murmured as I started down the incline. Lucky me—Miles came along.
We were halfway down when a figure barreled over the canyon's edge on the far side. Miles blinked. "Hey, that's Thor. And he's— Oh!" Thor charged straight through the dragons.
Apparently, being kicked by a thunder god constitutes something pretty substantial. The dragons awoke with loud snorts. The clan erupted in chaos. Powerful wings flapping, the foursome took to the air, screeching in fury.
I darted beneath a sandstone overhang.
"Ooh, pretty!" Miles shaded his eyes and pointed at the dragons.
"Are you crazy?" I yelled. "Take cover!"
Miles waved his hand dismissively. "No need, my friend. The dragons would never attack the honored dead of Folkvanger. Doing so would disrupt the peace of the realm. They'll just fly around a bit and then go back to sleep." Then a look of mild concern crossed his face. "Of course, you're not one of Freya's chosen slain. If they're hungry and they smell you— Oh, look. There's something you don't see every day."
"What?"
"Fire breath."
I flung my shield up in front of me just as the orange dragons swooped past my overhang. Their flames superheated the metal but didn't touch me. They flew on and circled back for another pass.
This is more like it, I thought.
I leaped out and went to rip off my TOUGH MUDDER tee. Then I remembered that I'd ripped it off earlier, so I went straight to going berserk.
I raced down to the canyon floor. One orange dragon landed next to me. A few well-placed swings of my ax took it out of commission permanently. I dodged a burst of fire from the second orange one, then darted in and whacked off its head.
"Doused that flame!" I cried.
"Dude!" Miles was scrambling out of the canyon. "You've got anger issues!"
"I know!"
The cranberry-red dragon gave a shriek of rage and dive-bombed me. It came a little too close for comfort. Its comfort, that is. I delivered a knockout blow to its nose with my shield, then cleaved its skull in two.
"Bring it on!" I bellowed.
The last dragon was by far the biggest. Its glinting gold scales nearly blinded me as it rushed in for the kill. I sidestepped, leaped onto its back, and rode it into the annoyingly beautiful Freyalight–drenched sky. The dragon bucked, writhed, and barrel-rolled, trying to unseat me. I put my ax handle across its throat and pulled back hard. It gasped and clawed at the handle, but I hung on tight. Then it stopped thrashing and spun in a slow death spiral to the canyon floor.
Boom! Its body kicked up a cloud of sand.
"Aaahhhrrrr!" Roaring in triumphant glory, I leaped off and pounded my shield with my ax.
"Dude. Whoa."
I looked up to find Miles staring at me openmouthed in astonishment. Around him was a crowd of Vanaheim warriors. A few shifted and murmured uneasily.
The dark-haired girl in the bikini top moved forward. "They're . . . dead." A tear traced down her cheek.
It occurred to me then that while she, Miles, and the rest of Freya's chosen were technically warriors, they might never have seen an actual battle, let alone been in one.
"Well, yes, they're dead," I said carefully. "But if they'd succeeded in charbroiling and eating me, then I'd be dead. For good." The girl looked at me blankly. "Because I'm an einherji." The girl still looked puzzled.
"If I die outside Valhalla, I stay dead. Unlike the dragons who, being mythical creatures, will vanish into Ginnungagap and eventually be reborn."
The girl's face cleared. "The dragons will be reborn?" She grabbed her friend's hands and started jumping up and down and squealing. "We'll have baby dragons here soon. Soooo cute!" She beamed at me. "Thank you so much for killing them!"
"Yeah. Don't mention it."
Miles came forward then. He looked from the dragons' hacked-up and pulverized bodies to my ax and sweaty, blood-streaked torso. Then he looked down at his own rangy frame and back to the bodies. He nodded with understanding.
"So . . . your secret is the caveman paleo diet, not veganism, huh?"
I thumped my chest. "Caveman paleo all the way, my man. Now if you'll excuse me." I hefted my ax and raked some scales from each dragon onto my shield. "I have a mosaic to finish."