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

of leather scraps, drew in a long, hissing breath as the pain of her wound warred against the pleasure of the ring’s healing magic. Agony and ecstasy pulled her body in two different directions before stitching it back together.

A scream dragged Hilda’s attention away from her amusement. She recognized that voice as one of her warriors and stood up on her throne to peer out over the crowd. Her lieutenant leapt over the fire to stand by her side, a machete in each of his hands. More of Hilda’s warriors joined him, two armed with ugly assault rifles, two more with spiked bats. They formed a defensive perimeter in front of her, though Hilda didn’t need their protection. Anyone who tried to hurt her would find out she was immortal.

And then they’d die.

“What the fuck is going on?” she shouted.

“We’ve got an intruder trying to push through the gate,” her lieutenant responded. “I sent Karl and Jack to check it out.”

“A single intruder?” Hilda felt her claws slide from within her fingers and shouldered her way through the defensive cordon in front of her. This was perfect. She needed a fight. “I’ll take care of it.”

She was halfway across the encampment, her face striped with neon purple and pink lines from the glowing bones, when a series of loud cracks erupted from the gate. That horrible sound was followed a moment later by a wet, gurgling scream. A body crashed into the center of the encampment, its head twisted around, both arms shattered, its legs bent into unnatural positions. That was Karl, and he was very, very dead.

Hilda tried to wrap her head around the violence required to do that to a jötunn. Her soldier had been one of the strongest creatures she’d ever known. Just the day before he’d torn the door off a pickup and used it to smash the brains out of a half-dozen other jötnar to prove his worth to Hilda.

What the fuck had done this?

Despite the growing ball of unease in her belly, Hilda picked up her pace. She was Hyrrokkin’s chosen ring bearer. Whoever had come knocking on her door was about to discover what a terrible mistake he’d made.

Another scream tore through the air, and another body hit the ground in front of Hilda. She didn’t recognize this one, though it bore her brand on the back of its left hand. The jötunn’s face had been so mutilated it was impossible to tell whether it had been a man or woman before disaster had befallen it. Its body was compressed and twisted, spine bulging from a wound between its shoulder blades.

The sight of her warriors, broken and bleeding. drove Hilda over the edge. She stormed toward the gate, howling with berserk fury. She shredded her clothes, stripping the leather from her body and casting it aside. “Get away from the gate,” she raged. “This one’s mine.”

But there were no warriors remaining at the gate. A slim figure, tall for a human but short for a jötunn, stood in the shadowed opening between the Neon Boneyard and the outside world. Blood dripped from his hands and splashed under the toes of his expensive shoes. His dark pinstripe suit was sticky with crimson stains and darker fluids. He smiled at Hilda, then raked his filthy fingers through his expertly coiffed hair. He was tall, but other than the deep blue tint to his skin and the short horns that jutted from the top of his head, could have passed for human. “I’ve killed five of your men,” he said. “Do you want to be number six?”

Hilda exploded into motion, her muscles fueled by the rage she felt at this asshole’s smug smile. Her claws flashed, eight blades so sharp the air screamed as it passed over them. She didn’t know who this jötunn was or where his power came from. It didn’t matter to her. She had Draupnir and Hyrrokkin’s guidance. This fucker was as good as dead.

Except he wasn’t.

The intruder caught her right wrist in an iron-hard grip. He pivoted on his back foot, dragging Hilda off-balance and twisting her arm behind her. He pulled his chin back to let her left hand pass by his face, then drove a savage knee into her chest.

The blow knocked the wind from Hilda’s lungs. Its impact jarred something loose inside her, and she coughed blood onto the ground. But the ring healed the damage as quickly as it came. The jötunn laughed and twisted, heedless of the bones in her arm that snapped, ignoring the pain in her shoulder as she ripped it out of socket to attack her opponent. Her move caught the asshole by surprise, and her spinning backhand hammered across his jaw.

The man’s head snapped hard to the side in a spray of blood and spittle. His eyes fluttered for a moment, rolling back into their sockets as his brain rattled around inside his skull. For that one moment, Hilda thought she’d won.

And then the man turned back to her, his hand still locked around her mutilated wrist, eyes glowing with an infernal rage. “I gave you a chance,” he croaked. “You should’ve taken it.”

His fist slammed into Hilda’s nose. His elbow crashed into the side of her neck and drove her to her knees. The pointed toe of his designer shoe crumpled her trachea with a sound like a fistful of bubblewrap. He twisted her arm harder, forcing shards of broken bone through her skin. The beating went on for what felt like ages, Hilda’s body so battered, her brain so rattled, she couldn’t make sense of what was happening.

But even as the beating went on and on, Hilda knew she wasn’t defeated. The ring would never let her die. When the man turned his attention to a different part of her body, whatever abuse he delivered healed in the blink of an eye. He could make Hilda suffer, but he couldn’t kill her. Not as long as she wore the goddess’s