The Book of Doom - By Barry Hutchison Page 0,22

names of their favourite dances.

“The Filthy Hag!” cried one.

“Too slow,” said Odin. “We need something upbeat.”

“The Shepherd’s Daughter,” suggested another of the Vikings. He stood up and threw his hands above his head. No one was quite sure why.

“And who’s going to be the daughter?” Odin asked. “You?”

The standing Viking thought about this. He lowered his arms and sat down.

“The Deathly Hallows?” volunteered someone else.

Odin shook his head. “No, no. Far too long and complicated. We’d be here all bloody night.” He clicked his fingers and pointed along the table. “You,” he said. “What’s your name again?”

Angelo swallowed nervously. “Um... Angelo.”

“Umangelo, right,” said Odin. “What about you, Umangelo? What dances do you know?”

“I, uh, I don’t really know any.”

Odin banged a fist on the table. Angelo jumped in time with all the dishes and plates. “You must know one dance,” Odin insisted. “Everyone knows one dance. Come on, boy, think.”

Angelo thought. With the eyes of a hundred dead Vikings and their god burrowing into him, he thought harder than he had ever thought in his life until – at last – a single word popped into his head.

He stood up. He cleared his throat. “OK,” he said. “I’ve got one.”

Zac looked at Herya expectantly. “So... what? You do know something?”

“I know a lot of things,” Herya said. She gave a short snort of laughter. “You don’t think this is all I do, do you? Serving drinks to meatheads? I travel. I go on adventures. I see things.”

“Right,” said Zac. “Well, good for you. But what about the book? Do you know about the book?”

“Maybe. Where exactly is it?”

“I already told you, it’s in Hell.”

Herya sighed. “Yes, I know that, but where exactly is it? What circle is it on?”

“The tenth.”

“There is no tenth.”

“There is now.”

The Valkyrie’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “They’ve built a new circle in Hell?”

Zac shrugged. “Looks like it.”

“Must be an important book.”

“It is. Hell calls it the Book of Doom. It’s also got the potential to be the most powerful weapon in existence. Or so I’m told.”

Before Herya could respond, the door at Zac’s back was yanked open. Angelo staggered out. His face was red and slick with sweat. Odin stood behind him, bending down so he could hold on to the boy’s hips. As Angelo and the Allfather emerged, Zac realised there was a whole train of Vikings following in single file behind them.

“Conga, conga, cong-a!” they hollered, as Angelo led the line out into the snow. “Conga, conga, cong-a!”

Angelo met Zac’s unblinking stare. Help me, he mouthed, then he was off leading the conga in a wide circle round the Great Hall.

“Conga, conga, cong-a!” chanted the horde, kicking up clumps of snow on every third word. By the time the end of the line came out through the door, the front was making its way back in again.

Now would be a good time, said Angelo silently, but Zac just watched as the long snake of Vikings danced their way back inside Valhalla, and closed the door behind them.

Zac and Herya stood in the near silence, listening to the soft pitter-patter of the falling snow.

“Well,” said Zac at last. “There’s something you don’t see every day.”

Herya gave a shrug. “You’d be surprised. You want Argus.”

Zac frowned. “Who?”

“Greek demon. He sees everything. If Hell’s had an extension built, he’ll know about it.”

“Where will I find him?”

“You won’t,” Herya said. “You can’t find him.”

“Oh.”

“But I can. I’ll take you to him.”

“Right. Well, thanks – but no, thanks,” said Zac. “I work alone.”

Herya glanced at the door through which the conga had just passed.

“Yeah, except him. I’m sort of stuck with him,” Zac said. “Long story.”

The Valkyrie folded her arms. “Well, that’s the deal on the table. You want to find the book, you need to find Argus. You want to find Argus, you need to bring me.” She shrugged. “Your choice, mortal.”

Back in the hall, the conga line had broken up. Everyone had staggered and stumbled back to their places at the table, clapping Angelo on the shoulder and cheering as they passed his spot on the bench.

“Thank you, Umangelo,” boomed Odin, “for introducing us to this conga of yours. It is a gift we shall treasure always here in Valhalla.”

Angelo smiled. Despite his initial reservations, he was beginning to have fun. “No problemo.”

“And now more singing,” the Allfather commanded. He clapped his hands together. “Suggestions?”

“‘My Old Man’s a Viking!’” cried one of the men.

“‘Loki Tried to Poke Me in the—’” began another.

“No, no, no!” Odin shouted, his