By Alex Fierro
"AWWW, YOU two are so cute together it makes me sick. So I'm going back to my own room."
I'm not sure Mallory and Halfborn even heard me when I left, they were lip-locking so hard.
Seeing them like that almost made me miss Magnus. Almost.
He was away visiting his cousin, Annabeth Chase. She'd advised him to leave his magic sword, Jack—aka Sumarbrander, the Sword of Summer—with me. So, while Mallory and Halfborn were smooching, I returned to my room to hang out with a talking blade.
Jack was slumbering on the decorative sword stand Blitzen had recently handcrafted for him.
At least, I think he was slumbering. Hard to tell with a sword. No eyes.
I'd been working on a new pot when Halfborn had called looking for some shards. Now I returned to my wheel. As I worked the slick spinning clay under my fingers, I felt myself undergo a subtle shift.
I'd been identifying as male when I was with Mallory and Halfborn, and earlier, when I was with Samirah and her fiancé, Amir. Now I was female. And yes, the change really is that simple sometimes. Hence the term gender fluid.
I was deep into my new pot when Jack suddenly leaped up from his stand. The runes running down his blade pulsed an alarming red.
"Señor! Señor!" he cried. Then he paused as if looking at me. Again, hard to tell because of the whole no-eyes thing. Regardless, he picked up on my gender change. "Sorry. Señorita!
Señorita!"
"Jack, chill. Take a breath. Wait. . . . Do you breathe?"
"No time for that now! I just heard a rumor via the underground weapon network that Surt, the fire lord of Muspellheim, is hatching a new nefarious plot!"
"Oh my gods!" I cried. "There's an underground weapon network?"
"Of course there is!" Jack retorted. "Think about it. What's the one thing all Nine Worlds have in common?"
"Thor's footprints and lingering fart stench?"
"Well . . . yes. But the answer I was looking for is weapons. And we talk. Gossip, really, if you want to know the truth. So, I heard the rumor about Surt from your garrote, who heard it from an arrow in Alfheim, who heard it from a mace in Jotunheim, who heard it from a vegetable peeler in Vanaheim, who—"
"A vegetable peeler?"
Jack shuddered. "Hope that you never hear a carrot screaming as it is being flayed by that dread instrument of torture, chica. Anyway, the communiqué traces all the way back to
Muspellheim."
From the way he was slicing back and forth through the air, I could see that Jack was truly agitated. I was afraid he might pop a rune or something if I didn't start taking him seriously.
Plus, Magnus trusted Jack with his life—literally—so that meant I trusted Jack, too.
I went to the bathroom sink to wash my hands. "Okay, what is Surt's plot?"
Jack sank his pommel down onto my couch and leaned his blade back against the cushions.
"I don't have the details. But if it's Surt, it can't be good."
"So what are we waiting for?" I dried my hands on a towel embroidered with the hotel's initials, HV, then tossed it in the general direction of the hamper. "Sheath up and let's hit the tree."
"No! I can't go! I—I won't be able to resist the Black One."
Jack sounded miserable, and I remembered something Magnus had told me, about how, come Ragnarok, the Black One was destined to wield Jack and free Fenris Wolf. When they last encountered Surt, Jack had felt the pull of destiny and practically leaped out of Magnus's grasp to join the fire lord. If Jack came near Surt again without Magnus there to hold him back . . .
"Hey, no, of course you can't," I said hurriedly. "You stay here, safe and sound and Surtfree. Sam's back from her special assignment, so I'll grab her, and we'll get Hearth and Blitz and
—"
Jack flew to a few inches in front of my face, his runes flashing in a jarring disco-light display. "No! Surt can detect einherjar and elves, dwarves and Valkyries. You must do this alone."
I waved my hands in the air. "Um, hello? Aren't you forgetting one little detail? I'm an einherji. What's to prevent Surt from sniffing me out?"
Jack went quiet again. "Use your shape-shifting powers. You'll be okay if you keep changing form," he finally said. "Plus, your gender fluidity will throw him off. He won't be able to get a lock on you."
I raised an eyebrow. "No offense, but you don't sound too sure about that."
"I am sure! Well, pretty sure, anyway. Sort of."
Not exactly confidence-inducing. But I couldn't just sit around while the Black One hatched a sinister plan of some sort. I'd had enough of that kind of thing in my afterlife already, thank you very much. If there was a chance I could stop him before he started, I had to take it.
So I looped my special golden garrote—the one the goddess Sif had given to me—around my waist. I moved to my atrium, intending to climb through the World Tree until I hit an entrance to Muspellheim, but Jack stopped me.
"Take the service elevator," he advised. "I hear the captain of the Valkyries once got blowtorched when the doors opened, so it must lead right to Muspellheim."
That tidbit of info gave me pause. "Quick question, disco sword: What's to keep me from being turned into einherji flambé when I use that elevator? Or while I'm roaming through
Muspellheim, for that matter?"
"Um . . . any chance your sweater vest is fire-resistant?"
"No. It's cashmere."
"Oh. Well, I'm out of ideas."
I was too, until my gaze landed on my kiln. Gas fueled, it looked like a steel trash can with squat legs and a pop-up lid. The interior could reach temperatures northward of two thousand degrees—perfect for turning squishy clay pots into hard-baked earthenware. A thick layer of ceramic insulation protected me and my room from the extreme heat.
With a bit of magic, I thought, I bet I could transform some of those fibers into something that will shield me from Muspellheim's fire.
I was no rune master like Hearthstone, but I was no stranger to magic, either. When I was alive, my mom, Loki (don't ask), had taught me an enchantment that turned my clay-cutter into a deadly garrote. More recently, I'd brought a ceramic warrior named Pottery Barn to life with just a touch of my fingers.
To create my shape-shifting fire shield, I combined a handful of fibers with my signature Urnes symbol—intertwined snakes that represented flexibility—and an algiz stone I hastily borrowed without asking from Hearthstone's rune bag. (If he didn't want me to take it, then why did he leave his room unlocked?) I focused on turning the three things into an invisible membrane that surrounded me like a second skin.
To my delight—okay, amazement—it worked. Even better, the membrane changed shape when I did. In the ultimate test, I fired up the kiln, turned into a housefly, and, with Jack hovering anxiously nearby, plunged inside. I emerged completely unsinged.
It was time to get going. "Stay safe, disco sword."
Jack bobbed over to my potted snake plant and hid in the broad, sword-shaped leaves. "You too."
I turned into an ant on the short elevator ride down to Muspellheim. A blast of fire engulfed me when the doors opened. If not for my membrane, I would have exploded like a kernel of unpopped corn.
"Nice welcome," I muttered.
Judging by the opulent surroundings—gold- and ebony-paneled walls, vaulted ceilings that glowed like embers, and several red, orange, and black silk tapestries depicting the same handsome but cruel man lording over dancing fire demons—I hadn't landed in some obscure Nowheresville but right in the heart of Surt's palace itself.
I squared my thorax with determination. Okay. Time to get crawling!
After going about five feet in ten minutes, I came to my senses and changed into a housefly. I made much better time after that.
I found the Black One in a large meeting room. Elegant, long-fingered hands clasped behind his back, not a single black hair out of place, he stood staring out a huge picture window at the fiery landscape below. Seated at the table were several gods and goddesses I didn't recognize. So how did I know they were deities? They weren't covered in flames, so they weren't fire giants or demons. They weren't bothered by the heat, either—no screaming or sizzling or burning to a crispy crunch. Logical conclusion? They were immortals.
Surt turned, and I had to choke back a laugh. With his black-on-black-on-black attire, equally black features, and fierce black expression, he should have been intimidating. But his nose was so tiny—he was growing a new one, Magnus having sliced off his old snout in an earlier encounter—that he came off as more ridiculous than fearsome.
The lord of fire moved with the grace of a ballroom dancer to stand at the head of the table. He pressed his fingertips to the surface. The room quieted. Then Surt spoke—and suddenly, he didn't seem so ridiculous anymore. His deep voice thrummed in my mind, pushing at my thoughts as if trying to replace them with his own. Swaying me to his way of thinking.
No wonder Jack was so desperate to go to him, I thought. If the deities fall under his spell . . .
Luckily, my willpower has withstood an even greater manipulator: my mother, Loki. (Again, don't ask.) Carefully, so as not to draw attention to myself, I pushed back against Surt's voice. Its power slowly ebbed away until my mind was once again my own, and I could listen to his words.
"Odin, Thor, Frey, Loki," Surt said. "They're all so focused on the coming of Ragnarok that they've forgotten what comes afterward. A new world!" He raised his arms and stood silhouetted against the picture window. "A new world will emerge when the floodwaters recede, the fires die, the ice storms melt, and the earthquakes cease!"
He dropped his arms and his voice, and leaned forward on the table again. "That world will need gods, my friends. You could be those gods. You, who Odin and his lot have forgotten, could take their places . . . if I deem you worthy of fighting on the right side of the war come
Ragnarok. My side."
While Surt was orating, I studied the deities. They were a mixed bag, some ancient-looking and in traditional Viking garb, others more youthful and wearing clothes from more recent centuries. Their appearances gave no indication of their identity, making me long for the name tags worn by the Hotel Valhalla staff. Whoever they were, they were hanging on Surt's every word.
Then Surt abruptly stopped talking. Frowning, he lifted his chin. His nostrils flared. Then he swung his head around and zeroed in on my hiding spot.
I swore silently. I'd forgotten to keep changing shape, and the fire lord had sniffed me out. I couldn't shape-shift now, not with Surt staring directly at me.
A chair scraped the floor. "What the blue blazes is that?" a goddess cried in astonishment. I assumed she had spotted me, but then she and the others rushed to the window. One jostled Surt. When he turned to glare at the offender, I shape-shifted into a flea and leaped to another location.
From my new vantage point, I had a perfect view of the disturbance outside. Thor was running past, sweating bullets and yelling "Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow" with every footfall. And no wonder—the ground in Muspellheim was covered in lava (and not the pretend kind like in the leap-on-the-furniture-don't-touch-the-lava game).
Surt stalked to the window. I expected him to open it and blast Thor with a fireball, but he just yanked the black silk drapes shut. "Show's over," he barked. "If you would all resume your seats, you may now state your worthiness to join me at Ragnarok."
The first god stood up. Balding, sweaty, with a stomach that protruded over his belt, he reminded me of a foreman on a low-budget infrastructure project.
"THE NAME'S HOLLER!" he bellowed. "GOD OF DISEASE, DESTRUCTION, AND DISASTER! LET ME PLAY FOR YOUR TEAM, AND I WILL STRIKE DOWN THE
MASSES WITH DEVASTATING HEAD COLDS! THEN I'LL FOLLOW UP WITH A
LEAKY-FAUCET EPIDEMIC AND A RASH OF TEETH-RATTLING POTHOLES!"
"Interesting." Surt scratched a few notes on a yellow legal pad. "Next?"
A pinched-faced spinster type with ramrod-straight posture rose from her chair and smoothed out her pinafore. "I am Snotra."
Once again, I almost gave myself away by laughing. I changed into a cockroach—for some reason, I was defaulting to bugs—and skittered beneath a sideboard.
Snotra reminded the others that she was the goddess of prudence and self-discipline. "I will make sure the giants attack in an orderly fashion. No cutting the line. No horsing around. No"— she drew herself up and tightened her thin lips disapprovingly—"gum-chewing. And I will organize a chore chart of post-Ragnarok duties."
"Mmm," Surt murmured. "Quite . . . fastidious of you."
The other deities stood up in turn. Some, like Snotra and Holler, had actual plans to propose. The rest were prepared to throw in with Surt because they had grievances with the current gods in power.
Forseti, the cigar-smoking god of justice, complained about not being part of Odin's inner circle. "The All-Fadda kept me outta the big decisions, like where and how to tie up Loki, you know? I'm with you, though, new world comes, and then boom! I'll be the big cheese in charge —present company excluded, of course, my lord," he added hurriedly when Surt frowned.
The goddess Glum, who looked and sounded exactly like her name, was one of Frigg's handmaidens. "I'm just so tired of being in her shadow all the time," she said. "I want to have a chance to shine."
"And what would you do if given that chance?" Surt prodded.
Glum stared at him. "Do?"
A goddess in a dowdy shirt and shapeless skirt cupped Glum's face in her hand and gave it an affectionate shake. "Pretty young thing like you, you don't need to do. You need someone to do for you. A husband!" She glanced over at Forseti, then leaned close to Glum. "I'm Lofn," she whispered, "goddess of arranged marriages." She handed her a business card. "Call me. We'll talk."
More gods and goddesses introduced themselves. I hadn't heard of any of them, which made me a little sad. I know what it's like to be pushed aside. It stinks.
And yet, with each new deity that spoke, my tension grew.
They might be a motley crew, I reminded myself, but they still add to Surt's power.
I had to get them to come back to our side. Or at least not join his. But how?
Surt began detailing his plans for his new world order. Once again, the deities fell under the spell of his hypnotic voice. I had to find a way to break that spell.
Then it hit me: I'd put a bug in their ears. Literally.
I changed into a gnat and flew near Snotra. "Surt thrives in chaos," I whispered in her ear.
"Do you really think he'll let you create order?"
To Holler, I murmured, "What place will a god of destruction have in a new world, where the goal is to build?"
"Surt will expect something from you," I breathed in Glum's ear. "Do you really want that kind of pressure?"
Around the table I went, sowing whispered seeds of dissent. When I'd finished, the deities were looking at Surt with suspicion.
The Black One sensed the change in attitude. He slowly rose from his seat. "My friends, you have outlined what you have to offer. Now perhaps you need a reminder of what I bring to the table."
He thrust his hand in the air and summoned his sword of pure white flame. The gods and goddesses cowered. Throwing his head back and laughing, Surt grew to his full giant size. "You minor, forgotten, pathetic deities! So easy to bend to my will. Not one of you would dare to defy me!"
I chose that moment to shape-shift into a bee, buzz up Surt's teeny-tiny nose, and jab him with my stinger.
With a howl of pain, Surt dropped his sword and shrank to his previous size. I changed into my true form. "I dare."
I whipped one end of my golden garrote around his neck and yanked it tight. Then I snatched up his flame sword and with one upward flick, sliced off his pubescent nose. "Jack and Magnus send their regards."
Surt lunged for me. I transformed into a bighorn sheep and head-butted him right where his nose used to be. Then I changed back to human, tightened the garrote until his eyes bulged, and threatened him with his own sword. "Come at me again," I warned, "and you'll regret it."
I surveyed the stunned deities. "If one einherji can do this, imagine what all of us can do. And will do, come Ragnarok. We are not destined to win, but we will fight with honor. We would welcome you on our side of the fight. But, if you must side with him"—I gave the garrote a vicious tug and was rewarded with a gurgle from Surt—"know this: I will personally hunt you down on the Last Battlefield of Vigridr and see that you are sent straight to Ginnungagap. The choice is yours."
The deities vanished.
I nodded. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
I admit it: I was feeling a bit full of myself. Then I realized my predicament. I couldn't return to Valhalla, not with Surt wrapped in my garrote. Odin frowns on bringing nasties like him into his realm. And if I let Surt go, he'd attack me—the flaming rage in his eyes made that pretty clear.
I was starting to panic—just a little—when I heard a distant ding. Sam, Hearth, Blitz, Halfborn, T.J., and Mallory charged in, weapons drawn and ready, only to skid to a halt when they saw me with Surt on a leash and his sword in my hand.
"Hey, guys," I said. "How is it you're not burned to a crisp?"
"A little elfish shielding magic." Sam nodded at Hearth. Arms raised wide overhead, the elf's face was contorted with effort. "Good thing he had a spare algiz rune, or we'd all be toast."
"Why'd you come here, though?" I asked. "Not that I'm not glad to see you. Just confused."
"Jack told us you were in trouble," T.J. said. "He heard it from a billy club, who heard it from a slingshot, who heard it from your garrote."
"And speaking of garrotes," Mallory added, eyeing the wire digging into Surt's throat, "it seems you don't need our help after all."
"Actually, I could use some assistance," I admitted.
"Got just what you need, right here." Blitzen stepped forward holding a thin silvery rope. "Nowhere near the same quality as Gleipnir or the new rope holding Fenris Wolf, but it'll do in a pinch."
While he hog-tied Surt with some sweet cowboy roping moves, Sam turned to me. "What the
Helheim happened here, anyway?"
"Long story. I'll tell you in the elevator."
"Then if we're all ready, after you, little . . . erm . . ." Halfborn looked me over. "Lady?"
I grinned. "Got it in one."
We headed to the doorway. At the last moment, I flicked my garrote free from Surt's neck. Then I held up his sword. "I'm keeping this. Souvenir of our special time together. And one more thing. The next time you try plotting against us, remember this." I gestured to my friends. "We'll be ready."