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

armor, and still the jarl pressed on. The bloodlust was on him, and all that mattered was the thrill of battle. Blood sprayed around him and bones shattered, jötnar screamed and howled, and he roared right back at them.

The machine gun fire died, and Gunnar went on killing anything that got near him. He absorbed hamingja from the fallen jötnar elites and used it to heal himself, but the wounds were adding up. His left arm hung limp and useless from its shattered socket, the right side of his face was a mask of sticky blood from a wound opened above his eye, and there was something wrong with his left leg.

He didn’t care. If this was how he died, at least the jarl knew he’d find his way to Valhalla. When he got there, he’d punch Odin square in the balls for this clusterfuck.

He roared again, certain it would be the last sound he ever made. He couldn’t kill the jötnar fast enough to keep up with the wounds he’d accumulated. The creatures swarmed him and separated Gunnar from his allies. The völva were still alive. He felt their rage at the jötnar like fires in his belly, but the battle was lost. There just weren’t enough bodies on his side of the field.

“For the jarl!” Erin shouted, and Gunnar heard the galloping opening chords of “The Immigrant Song” blast from the truck’s sound system. Robert Plant’s eerie wail kicked in, and other voices raised in a howling response. Twenty warriors, clad in chainmail and helms, flooded around the truck, axes and swords catching the noonday sun.

Gunnar’s people slammed into the jötnar in a bloodthirsty mob. Their blades hacked into blue flesh and unleashed freshets of black blood. Boots churned the earth into a bloody swamp. They were relentless in their bloodlust, and their battle cries filled Gunnar with new strength.

The people he’d saved had returned the favor.

The jarl thrust his spear to the sky and howled, “Óðinn á yðr alla!”

The battle dragged on for long minutes after the reinforcements from the lodge arrived, but the end was never in doubt from that moment. The hamingja from the jötnar felled by the warriors flowed into Gunnar, refreshing his strength and healing the worst of his wounds. His battle cry drove the men and women under his command into a brutal frenzy. They hacked their enemies into bloody chunks so small not even Hyrrokkin could animate them.

And then, with no fanfare, the battle was over.

The last of the jötnar glared at Gunnar. Its shattered leg forced it to kneel. The creature leaned on its spear, yellow eyes burning with hatred. “This battle is yours, pawn of Odin,” Hyrrokkin spat through its misshapen jaw, “but do not revel in your pathetic victory. When you least expect it, I will return. My forces will burn Midgard from end to end, and you will taste the ashes of your allies blowing on the wind. You will watch as I defile your witches, you will listen to their—”

“Oh, fuck off.” Gunnar drove his spear through the top of the jötunn’s head, impaling the creature from crown to crotch. Its eyes bulged from their sockets, and Gunnar hoped Hyrrokkin saw the wide, feral smile that pulled his lips tight.

GUNNAR PUT HALF THE new warriors on guard duty, while he and the others tossed chunks of dead monsters into the blazing bonfire. They laughed and taunted one another with severed hands, golfed jötnar balls into the fire with axes, and bolstered their spirits with dark humor. The men and women who’d donned the armor from the Hall of Battle were brave as hell, but Gunnar knew the experience had changed them. They’d come face to face with actual monsters. They’d be whistling past the graveyard for days, if not longer, trying to reassure themselves they didn’t have one foot in the grave.

But, by some miracle, none of them had fallen in battle. They’d suffered wounds, some of which would linger for a long, painful time, but they’d all lived.

“Gunnar,” Ray called out as the jarl tossed another severed head into the burning pile. She stood atop the rescue truck, waving to him. “Come here. Hurry.”

The tone in her voice shocked Gunnar into instant action. He raced to the truck and jumped onto its hood. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Erin said, then coughed. She sat on the truck’s wheel well, one hand pressed to her side. “I’m fine. Other people are hurt worse than me. Check on them, first.”

Ray gave Gunnar a subtle shake of her head, her face ashen.

The jarl dropped into the truck’s bed, careful not to jostle the injured warrior. He knelt down, heedless of the blood that soaked into his boots. Erin had saved his life; he’d wear her blood as a badge of honor if that’s what it took to save her.

A cold anger filled his heart. She looked so small, so young. She’d left the safety of the lodge when he needed her the most. He would not let her die. “What got you?”

She pulled her hand away from her side. A spearhead jutted from the tear in her fur vest, and blood flowed freely from around it. The deadly weapon had pierced her from back to front. Gunnar had seen wounds like this before, and it rarely ended well. “One of them came out of the smoke, got the drop on me while I was reloading the quadzilla. She ran away right after.”

She shivered then, and Gunnar wrapped his arms around her. Erin was burning up, and her skin was dry. “Hang on,” he said. “I’ll get you some help.”

Gunnar vaulted out of the pickup’s bed. He raced across the battlefield and gathered Bridget and Mimi.

“What’s happening?” Mimi asked as the three of them rushed back to the truck.

“I need your help to make a long-distance call,” Gunnar responded.

“Who are you—” Bridget’s voice broke off when she saw Erin slumped in the pickup’s bed. “Oh, no. No, no, no.”

“Stop that,”