to enter Valhalla,” Ragna said.
“And if you don’t . . .” Arlid skipped up the stairs after them. A feral smile crossed her hooked face, and she motioned to the ravens above. For the first time, Claire noticed bits of bone and unidentifiable lumps strung up amid the eaves. They clattered along with Arlid’s singsong croak. “Intruders are consigned to the flock.”
* * *
◆ ◆ ◆
“WHEN YOU SAID YOU knew the way to Valhalla . . .” Claire’s eyes were quickly adjusting to the light inside the hall. It appeared even bigger inside. The long hall of Valhalla comprised a disconcerting mix of ancient myth and the exaggerated flux of modern influence. The roof rested on rafters made of thick spears, and shields and carvings decorated the walls that seemed to run on forever. The inhabitants were every age, shape, and size, not the uncouth giants that the decor indicated, but the interior of the hall bristled with an aggressive mix of song, wine, and a jovial sort of violence. Sweet smoke and mead were heavy in the warm air. “I assumed you had a plan for this part.”
“I knew of the way. I don’t get out as often as you do, remember.” Andras slid aside as a warrior with a spear staggered past him toward the keg. “The rumors might have . . . left out a few details.”
He had to raise his voice to be heard over the boisterous drumming that issued from an assembly gathered in one corner. Claire’s gaze was drawn to an older man at the center of the circle, drumming a skin basin as large as a table. He used his hands, sticks, whatever fell into his grasp, and had his head thrown back, lost to the howling rhythm. He was not the largest warrior in the hall, but the energy that poured from his sinewy arms drowned out practically every drummer around him.
Claire found herself frowning at the unnecessary exuberance. “Andras, you’ve been a dear mentor, but if your theoretical knowledge gets us killed, I will be withdrawing my professional acquaintance.”
“Understood, pup.”
“Who will your representative be for the trials?” Ragna finished conferring with another Norseman and turned back to them. “You should pick your finest warrior. Today’s battle master is Uther, wielder of the guardian maul named Widowbane.”
“I suppose we just missed the wielder of crumpets and tea.” Claire pursed her lips and looked to her companions. Wordlessly, all eyes slid to Hero and the sword on his back.
Hero jerked, pulling his thirsty gaze away from a line of silver goblets and possibly the lean warriors attached to them. “You can’t be serious.”
“You are kinda the only one with a weapon. Or any idea how to use one,” Brevity pointed out.
“Also, the only one with enough sense not to get anywhere near someone named Widowbane!”
“Actually, that’s the maul’s name,” Andras said. “Interesting human quirk, that—Norse only named their blades when—”
“Fascinating,” Hero snapped, reserving a glare for his companions before looking at Claire. “Surely you have a better plan than sacrificing me to the natives.”
“If you have ideas, I’m open to suggestions.” Claire was not happy about the way things were going, but she kept her face neutral. “We can’t continue until we prove ourselves, and we can’t leave until we’ve found Bjorn. You heard what’s at stake.”
Hero’s frown faded, and he held Claire’s gaze levelly, trading anger for a quiet that made her skin itch. He appeared contemplative. She found she rather preferred him sullen and angry. “And is that an order, Librarian?”
“Duels are honorable combat. They must be entered into voluntarily,” Ragna said.
If Claire couldn’t order Hero to satisfy the duel, that shot down any hope they had. Claire glanced around the hall, searching for a new plan. She racked her brain for Nordic culture, wondering what the reaction would be if she made a run for it and attempted to find Bjorn on her own. Corner and threaten him if she had to. There had to be protocols, protections. Surely they would have to respect the gravity of the . . .
“Fine.”
Hero stood stiff as the blade on his back, dark eyes glowering at Ragna. He’d managed to imbue an acid disdain into the one word. “As the only hero present, trials of honor fall to me. I’ll participate in your barbarian sport.” He grumbled, “Might enjoy hitting a few things, actually. . . .”
Ragna, if she even noticed it, was immune to scorn. “You may choose your weapon.”
Hero gestured