‘Shall we say tomorrow at mossglow?’ Junior asked. ‘The panel of judges can be headed by a neutral party – perhaps Nabbi, who I’m sure is not eavesdropping behind the bar right now.’

Something banged against the catwalk. From below the counter, Nabbi’s muffled voice said, ‘I would be honoured.’

‘There you are, then!’ Junior smiled. ‘Well, Blitzen? I have challenged you according to our ancient customs. Will you defend the honour of your family?’

‘I …’ Blitzen hung his head. ‘Where should we meet?’

‘The forges in Kenning Square,’ Junior said. ‘Oh, this will be amusing. Come on, boys. I have to tell Nurse Bambi about it!’

The old dwarf shuffled out with his bodyguards in tow. As soon as they were gone, Blitzen collapsed on Keister-Home and drained Golden Bowl.

Nabbi emerged from behind the counter. His caterpillar eyebrows wriggled with concern as he refilled Blitz’s goblet. ‘This one’s on the house, Blitzen. It’s been nice knowing you.’

He went back to the kitchen, leaving Blitz and me alone with Taylor Swift singing ‘I Know Places’. The lyrics took on a whole new meaning in a subterranean dwarf world.

‘Are you going to explain what just happened?’ I asked Blitz. ‘What is this contest at mossglow? Also, what is mossglow?’

‘Mossglow …’ Blitzen stared into his cup. ‘Dwarf version of dawn, when the moss begins to glow. As for the contest …’ He swallowed back a sob. ‘It’s nothing. I’m sure you’ll be able to continue the quest without me.’

Just then the bar-room doors burst open. Sam and Hearthstone tumbled inside like they’d been pushed from a moving car.

‘They’re alive!’ I jumped up. ‘Blitz, look!’

Hearthstone was so excited he couldn’t even sign. He rushed over and almost tackled Blitzen off his stool.

‘Hey, buddy.’ Blitz patted his back absently. ‘Yeah, I’m glad to see you, too.’

Sam didn’t hug me, but she managed a smile. She was scratched up and covered with leaves and twigs, but she didn’t look badly hurt. ‘Magnus, glad you haven’t died yet. I want to be there for that.’

‘Thanks, al-Abbas. What happened to you guys?’

She shrugged. ‘We hid under the hijab as long as we could.’

With all the other stuff going on, I’d forgotten about the scarf. ‘Yeah, what was that about? You’ve got an invisibility hijab?’

‘It doesn’t make me invisible. It’s just camouflage. All Valkyries are given swan cloaks to help us hide when necessary. I just made mine a hijab.’

‘But you weren’t a swan. You were tree moss.’

‘It can do different things. Anyway, we waited until the squirrel left. The barking left me in bad shape, but, thankfully, Hearth wasn’t affected. We climbed Yggdrasil for a while –’

A moose tried to eat us, Hearth signed.

‘Excuse me?’ I asked. ‘A moose?’

Hearth grunted in exasperation. He spelled out: D-E-E-R. Same sign for both animals.

‘Oh, that’s much better,’ I said. ‘A deer tried to eat you.’

‘Yes,’ Sam agreed. ‘Dvalinn or maybe Duneyrr – one of the stags that roam the World Tree. We got away, took a wrong turn into Alfheim …’

Hearthstone shuddered, then simply signed, Hate.

‘And here we are.’ Sam eyed Blitzen, whose expression was still blank with shock. ‘So … what’s going on?’

I told them about our visit with Freya, then our conversation with Junior. Hearthstone steadied himself on the bar. He spelled with one hand: M-a-k-i-n-g? Then he shook his head vehemently.

‘What do you mean, making?’ I asked.

‘A making,’ Blitz muttered into his goblet, ‘is the dwarven contest. It tests our crafting skills.’

Sam tapped her fingers on her axe. ‘Judging from your expression, I’m guessing you don’t trust your skills.’

‘I am rubbish at crafting,’ Blitzen said.

Not true, Hearth protested.

‘Hearthstone,’ Blitzen said, ‘even if I was excellent at crafting, Junior is the most skilled dwarf alive. He’ll destroy me.’

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘You’ll do fine. And if you lose we’ll find another way to get that rope.’

Blitzen looked at me mournfully. ‘It’s worse than that, kid. If I lose, I pay the traditional price: my head.’

FORTY-TWO

We Have a Pre-Decapitation Party, with Spring 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 terraced 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 spring rolls and brought out a litre of Diet Sergeant Pepper and a six-pack of Fjalar’s Foaming Mead, each bottle uniquely handcrafted in a different colour 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 spring 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 speciality,’ Samirah was saying. ‘What did you study in trade school?’

‘Fashion.’ Blitzen sniffled. ‘I designed my own degree programme. 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 any more. 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 want

ed 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 grey 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 a spring 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 clamouring 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, Bilì, 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 Bilì’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 dwarven 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 of 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 grey 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 sunbed and turned towards the light, his body casting a wolf-shaped shadow across the floor.

FORTY-THREE

Let the Crafting of Decorative Metal Waterfowl Begin

Kenning square looked like a basketball court without the baskets. A chain-link fence bordered a stretch of cracked asphalt. Along one side stood a row of stone pillars carved like totem poles with dragon heads, centipedes and troll faces. Along the other side, bleachers were packed with dwarf spectators. On the court, where the free-throw lines would’ve been, two open-air blacksmith shops were ready for action. Each had a forge with bellows to stoke the fire, an assortment of anvils, a few sturdy tables and racks of tools that looked like torture equipment.

The crowd seemed prepared for a long day. They’d brought coolers, blankets and picnic baskets. A few enterprising dwarves had parked their food trucks nearby. The sign for ÌRI’S HANDCRAFTED CONFECTIONS showed a waffle cone topped with a three-storey ice-cream palace. BUMBURR’S BREAKFAST BURRITOS had a line twenty dwarves long, which made me sorry I’d eaten stale doughnuts at Blitz’s place.

As we approached the court, the crowd gave Blitzen a smattering of applause. Sam was nowhere to be seen. She’d never come back to the apartment the previous night. I wasn’t sure whether to be worried or angry.

Junior was waiting, leaning on his gold-plated walker. His two bodyguards stood behind him, dressed like their boss in overalls and leather gauntlets.

‘Well, well, Blitzen.’ The old dwarf sneered. ‘Mossglow started ten minutes ago. Were you getting your beauty sleep?’

Blitzen looked like he hadn’t slept at all. His eyes were sunken and bloodshot. He’d spent the past hour worrying about what to wear, finally deciding on grey slacks, a smart white shirt with black braces, pointy black shoes and a pork-pie hat. He might not win for his crafting, but he would definitely get the vote for best-dressed blacksmith.

He glanced around distractedly. ‘Get started?’

The crowd cheered. Hearthstone accompanied Blitzen to the forge. After a night on Blitzen’s tanning bed, the elf’s

face had a rosy sheen as if he’d been infused with paprika. Before we left the apartment, he’d cast a rune on Blitz to help him feel rested and focused, which had left Hearth exhausted and unfocused. Nevertheless, Hearth stoked the forge while Blitzen puttered around his workstation, staring in confusion at the racks of tools and baskets of metal ore.

Meanwhile Junior scooted around on his walker, barking at one of his bodyguards to fetch him a lump of iron and a sack of bone chips. The other bodyguard stood watch, scanning for anything that might disrupt his boss’s work.

I tried to do the same for Blitz, but I doubted I looked as intimidating as a muscular dwarf in overalls. (And, yes, that was depressing.)

After about an hour, my initial adrenaline rush wore off. I began to realize why the spectators had brought picnic lunches. Crafting was not a fast-moving sport. Every once in a while the crowd would clap or murmur approvingly when Junior struck a good hit with his hammer, or plunged a piece of metal into the cooling vat with a satisfying hiss. Nabbi and two other judges paced back and forth between the workstations, scribbling notes on their clipboards. But, for me, most of the the morning was spent standing around with the Sword of Summer in my hand, trying not to look like a fool.

A couple of times I had to do my job. Once a dart shot out of nowhere, heading for Blitzen. The Sword of Summer leaped into action. Before I even knew what was happening, the blade sliced the dart out of the air. The crowd applauded, which would have been gratifying if I’d actually done anything.

A little later, a random dwarf charged me from the sidelines, swinging an axe and screaming, ‘BLOOD!’ I hit him in the head with the hilt of my sword. He collapsed. More polite applause. A couple of bystanders hauled the dwarf away by his ankles.

Junior was busy hammering out a red-hot iron cylinder the size of a shotgun barrel. He’d already crafted a dozen smaller mechanisms that I guessed would fit together with the cylinder, but I couldn’t tell what the final product was supposed to be. The old dwarf’s walker didn’t slow him down at all. He had some trouble shuffling around, but he could stand in one place just fine. Despite his age, his arm muscles were ripped from a lifetime of swinging hammers at anvils.

Meanwhile, Blitzen hunched over his worktable with a pair of needle-nose pliers, connecting thin sheets of curved metal into some kind of figurine. Hearthstone stood nearby, drenched with sweat from working the bellows.

I tried not to worry about how exhausted Hearth looked, or where Sam was, or how many times Blitzen dropped his tools and wept over his project.

Finally Nabbi yelled, ‘Ten minutes until mid-morning break!’

Blitzen sobbed. He attached another sheet of metal to his project, which was starting to resemble a duck.

Most of the crowd focused on the other workstation, where Junior was attaching various mechanisms to the cylinder. He hobbled to the forge and reheated the whole contraption until it was glowing red.

Carefully, he set the cylinder against the anvil, holding it steady with his tongs. He raised his hammer.

Just as he struck, something went wrong. Junior screamed. The hammer went askew, flattening the cylinder and sending attachments flying everywhere. Junior staggered backwards, his hands cupped over his face.

His bodyguards rushed to his aid, crying, ‘What? What is it?’

I couldn’t hear the whole conversation, but apparently some kind of insect had bitten Junior between the eyes.

‘Did you get it?’ asked one of the guards.

‘No! The little pest flew off! Quick, before the cylinder cools –’

‘Time!’ shouted Nabbi.

Junior stomped his foot and cursed. He glared at his ruined project and yelled at his bodyguards.

I went to check on Blitzen, who sat slumped on his anvil. His pork-pie hat was pushed back on his head. His left brace had snapped.

‘How you doing, champ?’ I asked.

‘Horrible.’ He gestured at his project. ‘I made a duck.’

‘Yeah …’ I searched for a compliment. ‘It’s a really nice duck. That’s the bill, right? And those are the wings?’