The Ship of the Dead by Rick Riordan

WORST PLACEfor a council of war?

How about the collapsed well where Hearthstone’s brother had died, in the middle of a creepy forest, in my least favorite of the Nine Worlds, where we could expect absolutely no backup?

Yep, that’s where we went.

I brought out Jack and filled him in on the situation. For once, he did not squeal with excitement or burst into song.

“A ring dragon?” His runes dimmed to gray. “Oh, that’s bad. Cursed rings always make the worst dragons.”

I signed along for Hearth’s benefit.

Hearthstone grunted. The dragon has a weak spot. The belly.

“What’s he saying?” Jack asked.

Among Hearthstone’s friends, Jack was a stubborn holdout when it came to learning to read ASL. He claimed the gestures didn’t make sense to him because he didn’t have hands. Personally, I thought it was just payback for Hearth not being able to read Jack’s lips since, you know, Jack didn’t have lips. Magic swords can be petty like that.

“He said the belly is the dragon’s weak spot,” I repeated.

“Oh, well, yeah.” Jack sounded unenthused. “Their hide is almost impossible to cut, but they do have chinks in their belly armor. If you could somehow get the dragon to roll over—and good luck with that—you might be able to stab me through and reach his heart. But even if you could, have you ever pierced a ring dragon’s belly? I have. It’s gross. Their blood is acid!”

I translated all that for Hearth.

“Jack, did the blood damage you?” I asked.

“Of course not! I’m the Sword of Summer! I was forged with a magical finish that resists all wear and tear!”

Blitzen nodded. “It’s true. Jack’s got a nice finish.”

“Thank you,” Jack said. “Somebody here appreciates good workmanship! Piercing a dragon’s belly won’t damage me, but I’m thinking about you, señor. You get one drop of that blood on you while you’re cutting the dragon, and you’re done. That stuff will eat right through you. Nothing can stop it.”

I had to admit that didn’t sound fun. “Can’t you fight on your own, Jack? You could just fly up to the dragon and—”

“Ask him nicely if he will roll over?” Jack snorted, which sounded like a hammer hitting a corrugated metal roof. “Ring dragons crawl on their bellies for a reason, guys. They know better than to present their weak spot. Besides, killing a ring dragon is a very personal thing. You would have to wield me yourself. An act like that affects your wyrd.”

I frowned. “You mean it affects you weirdly?”

“No. Your wyrd.”

“You’re weird,” I muttered.

“He means fate,” Blitzen put in, signing as he spoke for Hearth’s benefit.

The sign for fate was one hand pushing forward, like everything was going along just fine, la-di-da, then both hands suddenly dropping into Blitz’s lap like they’d run into a wall and died. I may have mentioned that ASL can be a little too descriptive.

“When you kill a ring dragon,” Blitz said, “especially one who used to be someone you knew, you’re messing with serious magic. The dragon’s own curse can reverberate through your future, change the course of your destiny. It can…stain you.”

He said the word stain like it was worse than ketchup or grease—like dragon-killing wouldn’t come out of your wyrd even with a good presoaking.

Hearthstone signed in clipped gestures, the way he did when he was irritated: Must be done. I will do it.

“Buddy…” Blitz shifted uncomfortably. “This is your dad.”

Not anymore.

Hearth,I signed. Some way to get whetstone without killing the dragon?

He shook his head adamantly. Not the point.Dragons can live for centuries. I can’t leave him like that.

His pale eyes moistened. With a shock, I realized he was crying. It may sound dumb, but elves were usually so in control and subdued about their emotions, it surprised me to know they were capable of tears.

Hearth wasn’t just angry. He didn’t want vengeance. Despite everything Alderman had done to him, Hearthstone didn’t want his dad to suffer as a twisted monster. Sif had warned Hearth that he would have to come back here to reclaim his lost inheritance rune. That meant closing the sad story of his family, putting Mr. Alderman’s tortured soul to rest.

“I get it,” I said. “I do. But let me strike the killing blow. You shouldn’t have that on your conscience, or your wyrd, or whatever.”

“Kid’s right,” Blitz said. “It won’t stain his destiny as badly. But you—killing your own dad, even if it’s a mercy? Nobody should ever have to face a choice like that.”

I thought Samirah and Alex might disagree. They might welcome the chance to put Loki out of our collective misery. But, generally speaking, I knew Blitz was right.

“Besides,” Jack chimed in, “I’m the only blade that can do the job, and I wouldn’t let the elf handle me!”

I decided not to translate that. “What do you say, Hearthstone? Will you let me do this?”

Hearthstone’s hands hovered in front of him like he was about to play air piano. At last, he signed, Thank you, Magnus—a gesture like blowing a kiss, then a fist with the thumb under three fingers, M, my name sign.

Normally he wouldn’t have bothered with my name. When you talk to somebody in ASL, it’s obvious who you are addressing. You just look at them or point. Hearth used my name sign to show respect and love.

“I got you, man,” I promised. My insides fluttered at the thought of killing the dragon, but there was no way I’d let Hearthstone take the fall for that act. His wyrd had already suffered enough, thanks to Mr. Alderman. “So how do we do this, preferably without acid dissolving me into a pile of Magnus foam?”

Hearth gazed at the cairn. His shoulders sagged, as if somebody were piling invisible rocks on top of him. There is a way. Andiron…He hesitated at his brother’s name sign. You know we used to play around here. There are tunnels,made by wild— Here he used a sign I’d never seen before.

“He means nisser,” Blitzen explained. “They’re like…” He held his hand about two feet off the ground. “Little guys. They’re also called hobs. Or di sma. Or brownies.”

I guessed he didn’t mean the Girl Scout Junior type of brownie, or the baked chocolate kind.

Hundreds used to live in the woods,Hearth signed, before Dad called exterminator.

A chunk of bread swelled in my throat. A minute before, I hadn’t even known brownies existed. Now I felt sorry for them. I could imagine Mr. Alderman making the call. Hello, Pest-Away?There’s a civilization in my backyard I’d like exterminated.

“So…the brownies’ tunnels are still there?” I asked.

Hearth nodded. They are narrow. But you could use one to crawl close to the cave. If we can taunt dragon to walk over the spot where you are hiding—

“I could strike from beneath,” I said. “Right into its heart.”

Jack’s runes glowed an angry scarlet. “That’s a terrible idea! You’ll get showered with dragon’s blood!”

I wasn’t crazy about the idea either. Hiding in a tunnel made by exterminated brownies while a five-ton dragon dragged himself overhead presented all kinds of possibilities for a painful demise. On the other hand, I wasn’t going to let Hearthstone down. Getting the whetstone now seemed almost beside the point. I had to help my friend get free of his horrible past once and for all, even if it meant risking an acid bath.

“Let’s try a dry run,” I said. “If we can find a good tunnel, maybe I’ll be able to stab the dragon quickly and scramble to the exit before I get splashed.”

“Hmph.” Jack sounded awfully grumpy. Then again, I was asking him to slay a dragon. “I suppose that means you’d leave me stuck in the dragon’s heart?”

“Once the dragon’s dead, I’ll come back and get you…uh, assuming I can figure out how to do that without getting destroyed by acid.”

Jack sighed. “All right, I suppose the idea’s worth exploring. Just, if you live through this, you’ll have to promise to clean me really well afterward.”

Blitzen nodded, as if Jack’s priorities made perfect sense to him. “We’ll still need a way to draw the dragon out of his cave,” he said. “To make sure he crawls over the right spot.”

Hearth rose. He walked to his dead brother’s cairn. He stared at it for a long while, as if wishing it would go away. Then, with trembling fingers, he reclaimed the othala rune. He held it out for us to see. He didn’t sign, but his meaning was clear:

Leave that to me.