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

völva into an embrace, one arm around each of them. “We can do this. Those assholes will not beat us.”

They stayed that way, holding each other tight. A single ray of sunlight pierced the clouds overhead, warming their skin and lighting the way.

And warning them that time was growing short.

THE JÖTNAR HAD NO PERIMETER patrols or guards posted anywhere but the front gate. Gunnar and the völva had no problems skirting the fortress to reach its back side, and they made it to the shadow of the palisade without raising any alarms. The jarl couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something wrong about that. Why would Hyrrokkin neglect to protect this ritual after Gunnar had disrupted the last one?

There was no time to worry about that. Only minutes remained before the ritual’s end. They had to move.

“Here we go,” he said. “Up and over.”

Gunnar led the way, climbing up the wooden palisade using the thick cords that held it together as hand and foot holds. The völva were right behind him, their weapons stowed as they scaled the wall. The three of them swung their legs over the top of the barrier, then dropped to the ground on the inside.

Howls and shouts rose from the center of the fortress, but those were part of the ritual, not an alarm. The jötnar did not understand their doom was at hand.

Bridget was so close Gunnar felt her presence through the wall ahead of him. There was no window or door on that side of the building, though, and he didn’t think Gungnir could hack through its thick timbers fast enough to save her. With a muttered curse, the Jarl circled around the back of the building, searching for an entrance. There was nothing to be found on the north side of the structure, either, and time was running out.

Gunnar peered around the corner of the building and scanned the jötnar gathered at the heart of the fortress. They’d built an enormous bonfire in the center of the courtyard, and it belched black smoke into the sky. Six female jötnar had gathered around this side of the fire, their naked bodies writhing and glistening with sweat. Their unholy chants shook the air with every syllable, sending the flames spinning skyward.

It was impossible to see through the pillar of fire, but Gunnar was sure there were at least as many jötnar on its far side. His gut told him those were the shamans leading this ritual. Gungnir yearned to destroy them all.

A ring of warriors surrounded the shamans and stomped out a rhythm and counterpoint to the chanting, their wide, flat feet raising clouds of dust as they pounded out the pulse of an alien heartbeat.

The warriors brandished their weapons at the sky as if to challenge the gods themselves, and at certain points during the chanting they bellowed in unison. More jötnar, too many to count, swarmed around the circle, some of them on all fours like the beasts, others pounding their chests or flailing maniacally at one another. The frenzied, chaotic fever that radiated from the mob battered against Gunnar’s thoughts, urging him to join the insanity.

But there was no room in his determined mind for such pointless chaos. He only had eyes for the clear leader of the jötnar, who towered above the crowd on a raised stone platform overlooking the fire.

“Arthur,” Gunnar snarled under his breath.

Next to Gunnar’s mortal enemy stood two other jötnar. One of them, a thick warrior with a ridiculous number of golden chains around his neck and an enormous pistol on his hip, stood to Arthur’s right. He grinned wolfishly down at the crowd, enjoying the spectacle before him. A female jötnar occupied the stage to Arthur’s left. She was smaller than the males, and leaner, her blue skin covering sleek, well-sculpted muscles. A short skirt of freshly skinned hide, still dripping from the slaughter, was her only clothing. Dripping blood from the skirt had stained her thighs streaky red.

Gunnar couldn’t help but feel the female was every bit as dangerous as Arthur. There was something feral and wild about her.

Kneeling in front of that jötunn, facing the fire with her hands bound behind her, was Bridget.

The völva’s spine was straight, and she stared out over the crowd with no expression on her face. Her flawless white eyes never wavered from the horizon, and her mouth was set in a stoic line against the fate she knew was coming.

Arthur began pacing back and forth on the platform, energy coalescing around the ring he wore on his right hand. The golden band throbbed, every chanting symbol from the shamans pumping more energy into it. It blazed as bright as the fires that had forged it.

Draupnir.

Gunnar turned back to the völva still tucked behind the building.

“Change of plans,” he said. “They moved Bridget during our approach.

“Ray, I’ll boost you up to the roof of that building. Shoot anything that gets between me and the big platform you’ll see. Mimi, you’re with me.”

The völva nodded, Gunnar hoisted Ray into the air. He memorized her curves with his hands as he lifted her up to the roof, his fingertips brushing the soft globes of her ass and stroking her thick thighs as she climbed the last few feet up to her perch.

“You copping a feel, handsy?” she asked with a grin.

“You better believe it,” Gunnar said. “Good hunting, Ray.”

“Knock ’em dead, babe,” she responded, then disappeared behind the slope of the roof, waiting for her time to strike.

The jarl put his arm around Mimi’s shoulders and pulled her to the building’s corner to show her their target. “Stick with me. We’ll hack a path to Bridget. I need that ring, so if you get a chance, grab it. We’ve gotta go fast. It’s almost noon. Ready?”

“Let’s show these fuckers who they’re messing with,” Mimi said, her face twisted into a mask of rage. She threw her head back and unleashed a now familiar battle cry. “Óðinn á