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“We do,” I said, blinking to clear the heat from my eyes. The warmth coming off the forge was incredible, and possibly even more sweltering than the hellscape above. At least that had been spread out over an open area. In an enclosed space, I felt like a piece of meat being slowly broiled.
“And what exactly do ye be needin’ my help with?”
“Torsten wishes to be free of an oath he took many years ago,” I explained. “He needs to be reborn in the fires of Muspelheim but… as you’ve seen, things haven’t gone to plan. We’re running out of time, and we need your help.”
“Who sent ye?”
“Fyrcat,” Torsten growled.
Chapter Eight
Jovi
Brisingr seemed to recognize the name ‘Fyrcat’, though he didn’t appear as standoffish as Skarde and Torsten had when they discussed the witch.
He scratched his chin thoughtfully, the heavy mitts he wore smearing soot across his jaw as he did so.
“My forge could get the job done well enough, but my help won’t come free o’ charge.”
“I knew it,” Torsten muttered. “Dwarves always want something.”
“Just the same as any other faction o’ creature,” Brisingr replied.
Torsten shook his head. “No, your greed is unmatched within all the realms. In fact, I distinctly remember your kind refusing to help during the first war.”
“It was none of our business, pup,” Brisingr replied hotly. “Freya’s foolishness had ne’ to do with me or my people.”
Torsten snickered at that. “Many would disagree.”
Brisingr narrowed his eyes at the much larger man. “You really think we’d die for the All Father’s vendetta against one goddess? We’re craftsmen. You want weapons we’ll sell ‘em to you, but that’s it. Leave us outta yer petty squabbles.”
Torsten opened his mouth to reply, but I’d had enough. I turned to Brisingr and said, “Don’t lay into him like that. He’s got a sacred duty, and this is hard enough for him as it is.” Then I rounded on Torsten. “And you should keep your opinions about our host to yourself. We’re asking him to save our asses, so taking a chunk out of his is a very bad idea.”
Torsten rocked back on his heels, eyes wide. The harshness of my tone seemed to shock him. He backed away with a bewildered expression.
Why can’t he see that I’m trying to help him? I wondered to myself.
“Name your price, Brisingr,” Torsten said as he faced the dwarf.
Brisingr’s expression was solemn and a bit sinister in the red-gold glow of the forge. The light cast long shadows across his craggy face, pooling in his sockets so I could only make out the glimmer of his eyes. I had to admit he fascinated me. I tried not to stare as he pounded away at a scrap of metal on the anvil. Somehow, seeing Brisingr made Torsten’s world more real to me than it had been before I came to Muspelheim.
“My nephew, Ogun, is peculiar,” Brisingr said finally. “He has no place among the other dwarves. His head is cluttered with what he be readin’ in books an’ such. I got no use fer him. The lad got no talent fer smithin’ nor does he have any interest in learnin’ how ta craft weapons or armor. Can’t fight worth a damn, neither.”
“You want us to babysit your nephew?” I asked and couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. All this animosity and posturing for that simple request? It seemed too easy. Too modest a request for it not to have a catch.
“Not like that. Just… look after him, is all.” Brisingr stopped hammering and looked at me with a frown etched onto his bearded face. “Ye got mixed blood, I can tell. Well, so does Ogun. The others… they don’t see him as one o’ us. An’ he might be able ta help ye on whatever quest ye be on. He’s real smart, that one. Once he stops gabbin’, that is. Got a real mouthpiece on him.”
“So, let me get this right,” I said slowly. “We let your nephew tag along with us back to Midgard and keep an eye on him and you’ll help us?”
“Aye.”
“What’s he supposed to do in Midgard if he’s never been there?” I continued.
“Ogun has been obsessed with Midgard since he was young. He knows enough to get by, I suppose. Don’t take my word fer it, though. Ye can meet him yerself.”
Brisingr crossed over to a large door that I hadn’t noticed when we first stepped into the hall. He swung the heavy oak back a fraction, stuck his head in the gap, and yelled, “Ogun! Get your scrawny backside to the forge now!”
The bellow bounced off the stone and back to us in deafening waves. Talk about acoustics. An opera singer could make a killing in here.
