فصل 13

Phil the Potato Meets His Doom

WE WERE SWEPT UP in a tidal wave of hungry warriors. Einherjar poured in from every direction, pushing, joking, and laughing as they headed for their seats.

“Hold on,” Sam told me.

She grabbed my wrist and we flew into the air Peter Pan–style.

I yelped. “A little warning?”

“I said hold on.”

We skimmed above the heads of the warriors. Nobody paid us much attention except for one guy I accidentally kicked in the face. Other Valkyries were also zipping around—some escorting warriors, some carrying platters of food and pitchers of drink.

We headed toward what was obviously the head table—where the home team would’ve sat if this were a Celtics game. A dozen grim-looking dudes were taking their seats in front of golden plates and jewel-encrusted goblets. In the place of honor stood an empty wooden throne with a high back, where two ravens perched, grooming their feathers.

Sam landed us at the table to the left. Twelve other people were just getting seated—two girls and four guys in regular street clothes; six Valkyries dressed more or less like Sam.

“Other newcomers?” I asked.

Sam nodded, her eyebrows furrowed. “Seven in one night is a lot.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“More heroes dying means more bad things are stirring in the world. Which means…” She pursed her lips. “Never mind. Let’s get seated.”

Before we could, a tall Valkyrie stepped in our path. “Samirah al-Abbas, what have you brought us tonight—another half-troll? Perhaps a spy from your father?”

The girl looked about eighteen. She was big enough to play power forward, with snow-blond hair in braids down either shoulder. Over her green dress she wore a bandolier of ball-peen hammers, which struck me as an odd choice of weapon. Maybe Valhalla had a lot of loose nails. Around her neck hung a golden amulet shaped like a hammer. Her eyes were as pale blue and cold as a winter sky.

“Gunilla”—Sam’s voice tightened—“this is Magnus Chase.”

I held out my hand. “Gorilla? Pleased to meet you.”

The girl’s nostrils flared. “It is Gunilla, captain of the Valkyries. And you, newcomer—”

The foghorn I’d heard earlier echoed through the hall. This time I could see the source. Near the base of the tree, two guys held a black-and-white animal horn the size of a canoe while a third guy blew into it.

Thousands of warriors took their seats. Gorilla gave me one last stink-eye, then spun on her heel and marched off to the head table.

“Be careful,” Sam warned me. “Gunilla is powerful.”

“Also kind of a butt.”

The corner of Sam’s mouth twitched. “That, too.”

She looked shaken, her knuckles white on the haft of her ax. I wondered what Gunilla had meant by a spy from your father, but since my windpipe was still sore from the last time I made Sam angry, I decided not to ask.

I sat at the end of the table next to Sam, so I didn’t get to talk to the other newbies. Meanwhile, hundreds of Valkyries flew around the room, distributing food and drink. Whenever a Valkyrie’s pitcher was empty, she would swoop over the golden vat now bubbling over a large fire, fill her pitcher with yummy goat’s milk mead, and continue serving. The main course came from a roasting pit at the other end of the room. Rotating on a hundred-foot-long spit was the carcass of an animal. I wasn’t sure what it had been when it was alive, but it was easily the size of a blue whale.

A Valkyrie flew past, depositing a platter of food and a goblet in front of me. I couldn’t tell what the slices of meat were, but they smelled great, drizzled in gravy with potatoes on the side and thick slices of bread with butter. It had been a while since I’d had a hot meal, but I still hesitated.

“What kind of animal am I eating?”

Sam wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “It’s named Saehrimnir.”

“Okay, first of all, who names their dinner? I don’t want to know my dinner’s name. This potato—is this potato named Steve?”

She rolled her eyes. “No, stupid. That’s Phil. The bread is Steve.”

I stared at her.

“Kidding,” she said. “Saehrimnir is the magical beast of Valhalla. Every day they kill it and cook it for dinner. Every morning it’s resurrected alive and well.”

“That must suck for the animal. But is it like a cow or a pig or—”

“It’s whatever you want it to be. My portion is beef. Different sections of the animal are chicken or pork. I don’t do pork, but some of the guys here love it.”

“What if I’m a vegetarian? What if I want falafel?”

Sam became very still. “Was that some sort of joke?”

“Why would it be a joke? I like falafel.”

Her shoulders relaxed. “Well, if you want falafel, just ask for the left flank. That part is tofu and bean curd. They can spice it to taste like just about anything.”

“You have a magic animal whose left flank is made of tofu.”

“This is Valhalla, paradise for warriors in the service of Odin. Your food will taste perfect, whatever you choose.”

My stomach was getting impatient, so I dug in. The barbecue had just the right mix of spicy and sweet. The bread was like a warm cloud with a buttery crust. Even Phil the potato tasted great.

Not being a huge fan of free-range goat milk, I was reluctant to try the mead, but the stuff in my goblet looked more like sparkling cider.

I took a sip. Sweet, but not too sweet. Cold and smooth, with undercurrents I couldn’t quite identify. Was that blackberry? Or honey? Or vanilla? I drained my glass.

Suddenly, my senses were on fire. It wasn’t like alcohol (and, yes, I’ve tried alcohol, thrown up, tried alcohol again, thrown up). The mead didn’t make me giddy, dopey, or nauseous. It was more like iced espresso without the bitter taste. It woke me up, filling me with a warm sense of confidence, but with no edginess or racing heartbeat.

“This stuff is good,” I admitted.

A Valkyrie swooped in, refilled my cup, and flew away.

I glanced at Sam, who was brushing bread crumbs off of her scarf. “Do you ever do serving duty?”

“Yeah, sure. We take turns. It’s an honor to serve the einherjar.” She didn’t even sound sarcastic.

“How many Valkyries are there?”

“Several thousand?”

“How many einherjar?”

Sam puffed her cheeks. “Tens of thousands? Like I said, this is just the first dinner. There are two other shifts for the older warriors. Valhalla has five hundred and forty doors. Each one is supposed to accommodate eight hundred warriors exiting for battle at once. That would mean four hundred and thirty-two thousand einherjar.”

“That’s a lot of tofu.”

She shrugged. “Personally, I think the number is exaggerated, but only Odin knows for sure. We’ll need a big army when Ragnarok rolls around.”

“Ragnarok,” I said.

“Doomsday,” Sam said. “When the Nine Worlds are destroyed in a great conflagration and the armies of gods and giants meet in battle for the last time.”

“Oh. That Ragnarok.”

I scanned the sea of teenaged fighters. I remembered my first day of public high school in Allston, a few months before my mom died and my life turned to Dumpster sludge. The school had had around two thousand kids. Between classes, the halls were sheer chaos. The cafeteria was like a piranha tank. But it was nothing compared to Valhalla.

I pointed toward the head table. “What about the fancy dudes? Most of them look older.”

“I wouldn’t call them fancy dudes,” Sam said. “Those are the thanes, the lords of Valhalla. Each one was personally invited by Odin to sit at his table.”

“So the empty throne—”

“Is for Odin. Yes. He…well, it’s been a while since he’s shown up for dinner, but his ravens watch everything and report back to him.”

Those ravens made me nervous with their beady black eyes. I got the feeling they were taking a particular interest in me.

Sam pointed to the right of the throne. “There’s Erik Bloodax. And that’s Erik the Red.”

“A lot of Eriks.”

“There’s Leif Erikson.”

“Whoa…but he’s not wearing a metal bra.”

“I’m going to ignore that comment. Over there is Snorri. Then our charming friend Gunilla. Then Lord Nelson and Davy Crockett.”

“Davy…wait, seriously?”

“At the end is Helgi the hotel manager. You probably met him.”

Helgi seemed to be having a good time, laughing with Davy Crockett and chugging mead. Behind his chair, the bellhop Hunding stood, looking miserable, carefully peeling grapes and handing them to Helgi one at a time.

“What’s the deal with the manager and Hunding?”

Sam made a sour face. “Ancestral feud when they were alive. When they died, both made it to Valhalla, but Odin honored Helgi more. He put Helgi in charge of the hotel. Helgi’s first order was that his enemy Hunding would be his servant and do his menial tasks for all time.”

“That doesn’t seem like much of a paradise for Hunding.”

Sam hesitated. In a quieter voice, she said, “Even in Valhalla, there’s a pecking order. You don’t want to be at the bottom. Remember, when the ceremony begins—”

At the high table, the thanes began banging their cups on the table in unison. All around the hall, the einherjar joined in until the Hall of the Slain thundered with a metal heartbeat.

Helgi stood and raised his goblet. The noise died down.

“Warriors!” The manager’s voice filled the hall. He looked so regal it was hard to believe he was the same guy who a few hours ago had offered me a suite upgrade and a minibar key. “Seven new fallen have joined us today! That would be reason enough to celebrate, but we also have a special treat for you. Thanks to Valkyrie Captain Gunilla, today, for the first time, we will not just hear about our newcomers’ worthy deeds, we will be able to see them!”

Next to me, Sam made a choking sound. “No,” she muttered. “No, no, no…”

“Let the presentation of the dead commence!” Helgi bellowed.

Ten thousand warriors turned and looked expectantly in my direction.