Valhalla Virus

clubbed at each other with their batons over a handful of gold chains scattered on the ground. The others who watched it all seemed happy as pigs in shit. Their lawless world was ripe for the taking, and might made right. No one could tell them what to do with their lives.
“Those used to be people?” Gunnar asked.
The old man shrugged and adjusted his eyepatch. “Not exactly. They were humans. Then they died. The jötnar used their deaths to crawl into the world. Don’t worry, though. You’re special. You’ll change without going into the grave first. Or, sack up and be a man.”
“Heroing sounds like a lot of work,” Gunnar said to the old man. “And a good way to get myself killed.”
“Maybe.” The old fart looked off to the distance and frowned. “I used to think that, too. Before I realized there was more to life than pissing on fires and hunting elk with the boys. Humans aren’t animals. Pretending we are makes us monsters. Is that what you want? Is that what Rayleigh wants?”
The man’s words were a cheap shot, but that didn’t make them any less worrying. Gunnar could survive the world he saw on the Strip. He’d be the toughest—what had the old man called them? A jötunn? Gunnar was big and strong, and he had a vicious streak a mile wide. If anyone was built for the life playing out on the street beneath him, it was him.
But Ray, Bridget, shit, even Mimi wouldn’t last long in the craziness. The thought of those women being hurt, by anyone, made Gunnar’s hands clench on the ledge in front of him. His knuckles cracked with fury, and a burning pain surrounded his heart. No, he couldn’t do the easy thing for him. Not at that cost.
“How do I stop it?” Gunnar asked, his stomach turning at the madness burning its way down the Strip.
The raven plummeted from the sky and landed on the ledge. Its two-inch talons dug into concrete as easily as a child’s fingers into playdough. The creature eyeballed him for a long second, its breath stinking of ozone. Then it spoke.
“Three things you must find, three blood runes you must carve.” The creature cawed again, its voice blending with a peal of thunder that rattled the sky, lightning caught in its eye. “The Valknut, Odin’s vision. Gungnir, Odin’s spear. Draupnir, Odin’s ring. These three will form the foundation of your innanguard, the lodge that will shelter your forces when Fimbulwinter rages.”
Gunnar’s jaw dropped as the croaking bird rattled off a shopping list of magic treasures he’d only ever heard of in the legends his father had once told him at bedtime. On top of every other crazy thing that happened that day, this was the craziest.
“This has to be a joke,” Gunnar said. “I’m not some Viking Indiana Jones. Where am I supposed to find all this?”
The old man towered over Gunnar. His eyepatch was gone, and three interlocked triangles gleamed in the otherwise empty socket. “That’s not my problem, hero. I can’t see very far into Midgard these days. Hyrrokkin’s little scheme has everything screwed up. The quest is your responsibility if you choose to go after it. It won’t be easy. Like you said, being a hero is an awful lot of work. But I promise you, the reward is worth every tear you’ll shed and every drop of blood you spill.”
A cold wind swept across the roof, and the old man spread his arms and rose into the air. “Will you do it, boy? Will you become a hero in my name?”
Gunnar felt as if he were truly seeing the one-eyed messenger for the first time. He realized he didn’t have to ask in whose name he was swearing. Odin needed a warrior, and he’d chosen the bodyguard.
“Yes!” Gunnar shouted, his mind reeling. He still couldn’t believe any of this was real, that any of it would matter once he opened his eyes. But he also couldn’t turn his back on a chance to do the right thing, even if it was utterly insane. It was just who he was. “What do you want me to do?”
“I can’t tell you where to find the relics,” Odin admitted. “But I will tell you this. When you’ve claimed one, draw its blood rune on your body. That will activate the relic and bind it to you. It’ll also make a Hel of a big bang that will put a powerful hurt on any jötnar who happen to be nearby.”
“How will I know which rune goes with which relic?” Gunnar’s old man had shown him the Viking runes once or twice, but he’d never bothered to memorize them.
Odin laughed and slapped his knee. “You’ll know, boy. Have no fear of that. Once you’ve activated a relic, it unlocks the lodge’s potential. You’ll know what I mean when you see it.”
Gunnar couldn’t help but think the old man wasn’t giving him the full story. There had to be more to saving the world from monsters than just finding some old treasures and drawing runes. “Anything else I need to know?”
“This is the start,” Odin said. “Don’t try to learn everything at once, my friend. The price is far too high for that kind of knowledge. I will give you a final piece of wisdom out of the goodness of my cold, black heart.
“When you kill a jötunn, you will absorb some of its soul, its hamingja. If you’re hurt, that essence will heal your wounds. If you’re in fine fettle, it’ll strengthen you. And, if you’re wielding one of the relics, some part of it will go to power it. Those have some surprises for you, and I’ll leave you to figure them out.”
Of course. Because what kind of heroic quest ever laid out all the information you needed to finish it? Gods and monsters both had a way of taunting men with hints and partial truths. Gunnar wanted to grab the old man by