Home > The Ship of the Dead (Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard #3)(9)

The Ship of the Dead (Magnus Chase and the Gods of Asgard #3)(9)
Author: Rick Riordan

The bellhop’s eyes turned misty. “Kid, you’re the best. You can leave unattended magic items in your room anytime!”

“Hmph.” Helgi scowled. “Well, then, Magnus Chase, I’ll need you to sign out.” He thrust the clipboard at me. “Read carefully and initial at the bottom of each page.”

I flipped through a dozen pages of dense contract language. I skimmed over phrases like In the event of death by squirrel attack and The proprietor shall not be held liable for off-site dismemberment. No wonder my friends preferred to leave the hotel without permission. The release forms were brutal.

T.J. cleared his throat. “So, Magnus, maybe while you’re doing that, I could set up the boat? Can I? I’m ready to get this regiment underway!”

I could tell. He was loaded down with enough ammunition pouches, haversacks, and canteens for a thirty-day march. His eyes gleamed as brightly as his bayonet. Since T.J. was usually the voice of reason on floor nineteen, I was glad to have him along, even if he did get a little too excited about full frontal charges on enemy positions.

“Yeah,” I said. “Sure, man.”

“YAY!” He plucked the handkerchief out of my hand and hustled toward the dock.

I signed the release forms, trying not to get hung up on the clauses about arbitration in case we got incinerated in the fires of Muspellheim or got pulverized by frost giants. I handed the clipboard back to Helgi.

The manager frowned. “You sure you read everything?”

“Uh…yeah. I’m a fast reader.”

Helgi gripped my shoulder. “Then good luck, Magnus Chase, son of Frey. And remember, you must stop Loki’s ship Naglfar from sailing at Midsummer—”

“I know.”

“—or Ragnarok begins.”

“Right.”

“Which means our renovations to the banquet hall won’t ever be complete, and we’ll never get high-speed Internet restored on floor two hundred forty-two.”

I nodded grimly. I did not need the extra pressure of being responsible for an entire floor’s Internet connection. “We’ll succeed. Don’t worry.”

Helgi tugged at his beard. “But if you do start Ragnarok, could you please get back here as soon as possible, or send us a text?”

“Okay. Um, a text?”

As far as I knew, the hotel staff just used ravens. They didn’t know how to use mobile devices. None of them even had numbers. But that didn’t stop them from talking a good game.

“We’ll need to get everyone started on their checkout surveys before we march off to Doomsday,” Helgi explained. “To expedite their deaths. If you can’t make it back, you can also fill out your survey online. And if you wouldn’t mind marking excellent wherever it mentions the manager, I’d appreciate it. Odin does read those.”

“But if we’re all going to die anyway—”

“Good man.” He patted my shoulder. “Well, have a safe—er, successful journey!”

He tucked the clipboard under his arm and strolled off, probably going to inspect those renovations to the banquet hall.

Hunding sighed. “That man has no sense. Thanks for the chocolate, though, my boy. I just wish there was something more I could do for you.”

My scalp tingled with inspiration. During my time at the hotel, Hunding had become my best source of information. He knew where all the bodies were buried (literally). He knew all the secret room service menu items, and how you could get from the lobby to the observation deck above the Grove of Glasir without having to pass through the gauntlet of gift shops. He was a walking Vikingpedia.

I pulled out Randolph’s journal and showed him the last page. “Any idea what this word means?” I pointed to mjöð.

Hunding laughed. “It says mead, of course!”

“Huh. So it has nothing to do with cows.”

“Pardon?”

“Never mind. What about this name here—Bolverk?”

Hunding flinched so violently he dropped his chocolate bar. “Bolverk? NO. No, no, no. What is this book, anyway? Why would you possibly—?”

“Argh!” Halfborn yelled from dockside. “Magnus, we need you over here, now!”

The river was starting to surge, frothing and lapping over the edge of the canal. T.J. shook the handkerchief desperately, yelling, “How does it work? How does it work?”

It hadn’t occurred to me that the foldable ship, being a gift from my dad, might only work for me. I ran over to help.

Mallory and Halfborn were scrambling to gather their supplies.

“We’ve got a minute at most before the high tide comes flooding through here!” yelled Halfborn. “Ship, Magnus! Now!”

I took the handkerchief and tried to steady my shaking hands. I’d practiced this ship-unfolding trick a couple of times on calmer water, once by myself and once with Alex, but I could still hardly believe it would work. I definitely wasn’t looking forward to the results.

I flicked the handkerchief toward the water. As soon as the cloth hit the surface, the corners unfolded and unfolded and kept unfolding. It was like watching the building of a Lego model in a sped-up stop-motion video. In the space of two breaths, a Viking longship lay at anchor in the canal, the turbulent water coursing around its stern.

But, of course, nobody complimented me on its beautifully trimmed hull, or the elaborate Viking shields lining the rails, or the five rows of oars ready for service. No one noted how the mainmast was hinged and folded over so it could pass through this low tunnel without breaking apart. No one gasped at the beauty of the carved dragon figurehead, or praised the fact that the ship was much larger and more spacious than your typical longship, even boasting a covered area belowdecks so we wouldn’t have to sleep in the rain and snow.

Mallory Keen’s first comment was, “Can we talk about the color?”

T.J. frowned. “Why is it—?”

“I don’t know!” I wailed. “I don’t know why it’s yellow!”

My father, Frey, had sent me the boat weeks ago, promising that it was the perfect vessel to use on our voyage. It would get us where we needed to go. It would protect us on the most treacherous seas.

My friends had been excited. They had trusted me, even when I’d refused to give them a preview of our magical ship.

But why, oh, why had my father made the boat the color of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!®?

Everything about it was neon, eye-melting yellow: the ropes, the shields, the hull, the sail, the rudder, even the dragon figurehead. For all I knew, the bottom of the keel was yellow, too, and we’d blind every fish we sailed past.

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” Halfborn said, scowling at me like it mattered very much. “Load up! Hurry!”

A roar echoed from the upstream tunnel like an approaching freight train. The ship banged against the dock. Halfborn tossed our supplies on deck as T.J. hauled up the anchor, while Mallory and I held the mooring lines fast with all our einherji strength.

Just as Halfborn threw the last sacks, a wall of water burst out of the tunnel behind us.

“Let’s go!” yelled T.J.

We jumped aboard as the wave slammed into our stern, propelling us forward like the kick of a seventy-million-gallon mule.

I glanced back at the dock one last time. Hunding the bellhop stood knee-deep in water, clutching his chocolate bar, staring at me as we rocketed into the darkness, his face bleached with shock as if, after all these centuries of dealing with the dead in Valhalla, he’d finally seen an actual ghost.

I LIKE my rivers the way I like my enemies—slow, wide, and lazy.

I rarely get what I like.

Our boat shot down the rapids in near-total darkness. My friends scrambled around the deck, grabbing ropes and tripping over oars. The ship rocked from side to side, making me feel like I was surfing on a pendulum. Mallory hugged the rudder with her full weight, trying to keep us in the middle of the current.

“Don’t just stand there!” she yelled at me. “Help!”

The old saying is true: no nautical training survives first contact with the water.

I’m pretty sure that’s an old saying.

   
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