Valhalla Virus by Nick Harrow (best management books of all time TXT) 📕

jötnar had left no bodies there. Gunnar was sure the missing corpses had ended up in the bellies of the beasts. It was one more crime he’d make them pay for. The Valknut throbbed in its socket at that thought. It was still changing him, strengthening him, preparing him for the battle that was to come. It ached for combat and the thrill of ripping the souls out of its enemies.

“This is the season of the axe,” Gunnar whispered, unsure of where the words came from. “Yggdrasil’s roots must be watered with the blood of the impure, lest it rot away.”

Bridget nodded, her eyes white as falling sleet. “The jarl speaks with Odin’s voice. It’s a good omen.”

“Then let’s fuck some shit up,” Mimi said with a feral grin.

Gunnar stopped at the twentieth floor and opened the exit door. He peered out into the hallway. When he saw no jötnar, the bodyguard gestured for the völva to follow him and hustled toward the echoing sound of the monster party below them.

“Wait,” Bridget said, her voice pained. She stopped, leaned back against the wall, and pressed one hand to her forehead. “They’re doing something. A ritual. I can’t see its purpose. But there’s power down there, a lot of it. Nothing good can come of it.”

Gunnar crouched down in front of the völva and looked up into her eyes. Tears ran down her cheeks. He cradled her face in his hands and asked, “How long before they finish?”

Bridget shuddered as her eyes turned white. Her breath was a winter breeze against Gunnar’s face. “Not long,” she said, her voice coming from somewhere far away. “Minutes. Maybe even less. The Behemoth stirs.”

Chapter 19

HILDA WAS THROUGH FUCKING around with the jötnar cowards lurking at the edges of her territory. Those fools thought they were free to do as they wished in this new world. It was time they learned the truth.

She and her war band had gathered around a small home east of the Strip’s north end. From the heady smell of marijuana oozing out of the place, it was a shitty grow lab or trim house. She’d sent a messenger to this place earlier in the day with a simple demand. Either the jötnar squatting here joined Hilda or their flesh would feed her war band. These idiots had made their choice when they tried to kill her messenger. Now, the war band would claim their due.

“Get out here, you cowards,” she shouted. Her voice boomed through the night air, unnaturally loud. As its echoes faded away, the war chief sensed movement inside the house. A chill wind stirred blades of grass in the house’s vibrant green lawn. Starbursts of frost formed in the windows and spread icy tendrils across the glass. “You can’t hide from me. Make it easy on yourselves.”

The war band, twenty jötnar armed with a collection of mismatched and homemade weapons, stomped their feet, eager to get on with the slaughter. A few of Hilda’s people still carried firearms. Most, though, wielded brutal machetes honed to a razor’s edge or spiked clubs made from baseball bats and thick nails. As the days of chaos had ticked past, the jötnar found themselves more comfortable with simpler implements of destruction.

Hilda needed only the long retractable claws that extended from her fingertips. And, of course, the golden ring that encircled the middle finger of her left hand. Draupnir, the relic she’d claimed for Hyrrokkin’s glory, gave the jötunn strength she could never have imagined. It healed her wounds. And it showed her their true enemy.

Fucking Gunnar. He was far bigger than he had any right to be, and far meaner than any human she’d ever met. Draupnir had whispered to Hilda about how dangerous Odin’s pawn was. How careful she had to be to make sure the ring didn’t fall into his hands.

And that was why the jötunn kept the ring hidden under a teensy version of her cloak of smoke and shadow. It drained her energy but only a little. More importantly, it kept Gunnar’s cursed völva from finding the ring before Hyrrokkin could use it to usher in the new golden age of jötnar.

“I don’t think they’re coming out.” Hilda’s lieutenant, an ape-like bruiser with a row of short, jagged horns jutting from his thick brow, dragged her out of her memories and back to the present. “You want we should kill ’em?”

Hilda nodded. That was the way of the jötnar. If you wanted to rule, there was no room for exceptions to your edicts. You gave people one chance to bend the knee, and if they refused, you broke their backs and displayed their bodies as a lesson to anyone else stupid enough to oppose you. The war band’s leader raised her hand overhead, the gold ring flashing on her finger. “Wipe them out!” she roared.

The war band howled and charged the house. Those with firearms fired through the windows. The largest jötunn charged the front door, lowered his shoulder, and knocked it off its hinges. Half the war band flooded through the shattered barriers at the front of the house, whooping and hollering in the thrill of battle. The other half circled around to catch anyone fleeing through the back door.

Hilda’s war band swept through the home like a whirlwind, so fiercely violent their blades and clubs splashed blood and viscera through the broken windows onto the crisp green blades of grass.

Hilda stood alone, her eyes closed, reveling in the wanton destruction she’d unleashed on the rebels. It was glorious. Energy rushed out of the house as the assholes in there died. With every death dedicated to her name, the band’s leader grew stronger. A small portion of what she claimed went on to Hyrrokkin, increasing the goddess’s power and giving her the strength to defeat their enemies. It was a pyramid scheme built on blood and death, and Hilda loved that she was near its top.

When her war band was strong enough, Hilda would