The Book of Doom - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,17
could call it a feast. It looked to be light on food and heavy on alcohol.
Standing in the corner closest to the door, a bearded man who had been juggling six short swords lost his concentration and then, a moment later, lost several of his toes. He didn’t scream. He didn’t so much as gasp, and as the echo of the clattering swords faded, silence filled the vast room.
Zac felt Angelo step close behind him. He surveyed the faces that looked back at him. Their expressions were a blend of surprise, confusion and annoyance, all tied up in bristly beards and long, matted hair.
The silence was broken by the sound of chair legs scraping on the flagstone floor. At the far head of the table, a man stood up.
At least, Zac assumed he was a man. He was man-shaped, certainly, but looked to have been scaled up somewhere along the way. He stood taller than anyone Zac had ever seen, with shoulders broader than the average family car. Across those shoulders he wore a cape lined at the edges with white and grey fur.
On his head was a helmet with three horns – one each side, and a third sticking up from the front like a unicorn’s. A grubby white patch covered one of his eyes. On it, someone had drawn a cartoon eye in black marker pen. It was surprisingly effective.
The man’s beard was Father-Christmas white. His long hair hung in pigtails, dangling down over the top of the metal breastplate that was strapped across his chest. Unlike Michael’s armour, this stuff had been well used, and was now dented in more places than it was smooth.
Both the real eye and the hand-drawn one glared at Zac and Angelo as, somewhere in the beard, the man’s mouth began to speak.
“Who dares enter the Hall of Valhalla?” he demanded. It was a strong, commanding voice. The type of voice that could rouse sea serpents from the deep, and make avalanches change their minds and head back uphill.
“It’s Valhalla,” Angelo whispered.
“Yes, I heard,” replied Zac below his breath.
“Where dead Vikings go.”
“I can see that.”
“Thou art trespassers in this place,” boomed the one-eyed man. “In the name of Asgard I shall pierce your innards with mine axe and rend your guts asunder! Then I shall summon my wolves to feast upon your quivering innards, unless thou reveal to us who thou art.”
Zac smiled broadly. “Hi, I’m Zac. This is my... colleague, Angelo.”
Angelo poked his head out from behind Zac’s back and gave a shy wave. “Hello.”
The giant glared at them, but looked a little surprised that, despite his threats, they hadn’t made any effort to run away.
Zac fixed him with a cool glare. “And you are?”
There was a muttering then that rippled through the hall. At the far end of the table, the man’s face turned a blustery shade of red.
“Dost thou not know?” he growled.
“Nope,” Zac said. He took a step towards the table. A hundred hands reached for a hundred swords. “Should I?”
“Impudent dog!” spat a Viking who was sitting halfway along the table. He rose to his feet and slammed one fist angrily down on the tabletop.
After a moment, when he realised Zac hadn’t flinched, and that no one else was paying him the slightest bit of attention, he quietly sat down again.
“I am the Allfather,” the one-eyed man boomed. “Lord of the Aesir, Ruler of the Gods—”
“Um... just the Norse Gods, sir,” said a helpful Viking who sat a few seats along the table. “We wouldn’t want to step on anyone’s toes by claiming you were ruler of all gods. Remember what happened last time? With the Romans?”
“SILENCE!” boomed the Allfather. The sheer force of his voice toppled tankards all along the table and forced Zac to take a pace backwards.
“S-sorry, sir, I was only trying to—”
“Wilt thou shut up!”
“Shutting up now, sir.”
The Allfather squeezed the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb and muttered below his breath. Only after that did he look back at Zac.
“Now. Where was I?”
“Lord of the Aesir, Ruler of the Gods,” Zac reminded him.
“Norse Gods,” said a voice quietly.
The Allfather’s glare was one of pure malice. “I swear,” he told the interfering Viking, “another word and I will punch thine mouth loose.”
Nobody, least of all the man who was the focus of the Allfather’s gaze, uttered a word.
Only when he was absolutely certain the Viking wasn’t about to speak again did the Allfather turn back to Zac.
“Right,” he said, a little