The Book of Doom

NCE THE WORLD had stopped spinning, Zac looked down at his legs. They were buried in snow up to the knees.

A light flurry of flakes continued to fall from an otherwise bright blue sky above. Beside the boys, smoke curled lazily from the chimney of a large stone building with a thatched roof. Muted laughter and singing squeezed out through gaps in the shuttered windows and heavy oak door. It all sounded quite jolly, really.

“So,” said Zac, “this is Hell, is it?”

“Yes,” said Angelo.

Zac shot him a withering look. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean... it might be.”

Zac blew a snowflake off the end of his nose. “I’m going to go out on a limb and say it isn’t.”

“You might be right,” Angelo admitted. He smiled shyly. “I’m a bit of a novice when it comes to teleporting.”

“A novice? How often have you done it?”

“What, including the two times with you?” Angelo asked. He began counting up on his fingers. “Twice.”

“Twice,” Zac said. He shook his head. “Can you take us to Hell? Honestly?”

“Yes!” said Angelo enthusiastically, then, “Maybe...” Then his shoulders slumped and he admitted, “Probably not. It’s trickier than it looks. I might send us somewhere really dangerous by mistake.”

“What, more dangerous than Hell?”

“You never know,” Angelo said in a half-whisper. “There could be worse places out there. It’s not like Heaven and Hell are the only afterlives, is it?”

Zac frowned. “Isn’t it?”

“No!” Angelo laughed. “They’re all real.”

“What do you mean? What’s all real?”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

Zac gritted his teeth. “Know what?”

“That every religion in history has been right. Although,” Angelo added quickly, “Christianity is more right than the others, obviously. There are thousands of afterlives out there. Xibalba. That was the Mayan underworld. Then there’s, let’s see... Olympus, home of the Greek Gods. Adlivun...”

“What’s Adlivun?”

“It’s where Sedna the She-Cannibal lives,” Angelo explained. “But I wouldn’t recommend going there. Everyone says she’s a right cow. Besides, it’s underwater, so we’d get wet.”

Zac rubbed his temples. “This is nuts,” he said. “This is too nuts.”

He straightened and looked around them. The stone building they were next to stood at the top of a high hill. A number of other large buildings stood close to one another down the snowy slopes, as if huddling together for warmth. They all gleamed in the faint sunlight, each one a palace of silver or gold.

Beyond them, the snow extended miles into the distance until it met a wall that stood several hundred metres high. Clearly someone wanted to keep whatever lay on the other side of the wall out.

A kilometre or so in the other direction, the land stopped like a shore meeting the sea. There was no water there, though, just blue sky and a bank of cloud and, if Zac looked hard enough, the beginnings of a rainbow leading away from the edge.

“So, where are we now?” asked Zac. Despite the mounting evidence, he was still finding it hard to believe any of what he was being told. “Santa’s grotto?”

“Haha, very funny. Of course it isn’t.” Angelo gave Zac a playful nudge on the arm. “Santa’s grotto’s got a green roof. I don’t know where this is.”

Zac looked at the door. The wood was dark, and the metal handle had been sculpted into the shape of a gargoyle-like head. An iron ring was gripped in the creature’s unmoving mouth. The place may have sounded quite jolly, but it didn’t look particularly inviting.

“Only one way to find out,” he said; then he turned the handle, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

A moment before, the bar had been filled with the sounds of cheering and laughter and the loud-mouthed gloating of a hundred drunken men. Tankards had clattered against tankards, ale had been quaffed, food had been scoffed and the din of it all had been deafening.

That all stopped when Zac and Angelo stepped into the Great Hall. The laughter died. The cheering ceased. And an amusing ditty about ritual disembowelment came to an abrupt, scratchy halt. A sea of horned helmets turned as one in the direction of the door.

An enormous wooden table filled the hall. It groaned beneath the weight of the feast spread out upon it. If you 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 flustered. “So... Where was...? Yes. Allfather, Lord of the Aesir, Ruler of the Norse Gods, if thou wants to get picky about it. I am the all-powerful Odin!”

A chorus of cheers went up around the hall. “Hail, Odin, Master of the Runes!”

“Odin?” said Zac.

“Hail, Odin, patron to the skalds!” went the cry.

“Yes,” said the Allfather. “Odin.”

“Hail, Odin, sole creator of magical songs!”

“For the love of Thor, will ye shut up!” Odin bellowed. “Thou doesn’t have to go through all that every time someone says ‘Odin’.”

“Hail, Odin, delighter of—”

“Cut it out! I’m warning thee.” Odin’s aged brow furrowed. “Warning thou... Warning ye...?” Odin threw up his arms and sighed. “Oh, who actually talks like that anyway? It’s ridiculous.”

The Ruler of the (specifically Norse) Gods turned back to Zac. “So, yes. In answer to your question, I am – and I don’t want to hear another bloody word out of anyone here – Odin.”

Around the hall there was the sound of a hundred Vikings chewing their bottom lips. Zac took another step closer.

“Never heard of you.”

The assembled audience gasped as one. Those hands already gripping sword handles gripped them tighter.

“What are you doing?” Angelo whimpered. “Don’t upset him. Look at the size of him!”

“Relax. I’ve got a plan,” Zac whispered.

“Have you?”

“Well, no, not really,” Zac admitted. “But I’m sure something’s going to pop right in there any minute now.”

There wasn’t the explosion of temper from Odin that Zac had expected. The Allfather simply stared for a long time, as if trying to get to grips with the idea that someone didn’t know who he was.

“Haven’t you?” he asked at last.

Zac shook his head. “Nope. Should I have?”

“Of course you should!” boomed Odin. Then a flicker of doubt crossed his broad face. “Well, I mean... I suppose it has been a long time. And Baldr knows, things have changed over the years.” Slowly, he lowered himself back down into his chair. “Maybe... maybe people don’t know who I am any more. Maybe it’s—”

“Wait,” said Zac. “Did you say Odin? The Odin?”

Odin’s eyebrows rose hopefully. “Yes.”

“Lord of the Aesir? Ruler of the Norse Gods?”

“Yes,” nodded the Allfather, suddenly perking right up. “Yes!”

“Father of...”

“Thor,” whispered Angelo.

“I know. Father of Thor?”

Odin was standing again. He nodded encouragingly. “Yes. Yes. Go on. Go on!”

“Of course I’ve heard of you! Everyone’s heard of Odin. I thought you said you were Wodin to begin with. My mistake. Sorry about that.”

The Allfather laughed loudly enough to shake the rafters. “Aha! I knew you would know of me! Apology accepted, mortal,” he said. He raised his hands and the assembled Vikings cheered on cue.

“Come. Sit by my side,” insisted the Allfather. “Stop a while in the Great Hall, Valhalla, and share what tales you know of Odin, Ruler of the Gods!”

“Just, uh, just the Norse Gods, sir.”

Odin sighed. “Right, that’s it. Get out.”

“What? But, but, Allfather...”

“I’ve warned you already. Out!”

Zac turned to Angelo and gave him a curt nod, just as the scolded Viking shuffled past on his way to the door. “See? Told you I’d come up with a plan,” Zac said.

“Pretend you don’t know who he is. That was your plan?” Angelo said.

“I never said it was a great plan,” Zac admitted.

“How did you know he wasn’t just going to get angry and cut your head off?”

“I didn’t. But I wasn’t really worried,” Zac replied.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m pretty sure I can run faster than you can. Now, I’m going to sit with Odin and see if he can help us.”

“Help us do what?”

“Get to Hell. Since, you know, you can’t take us there.”

“Right,” said Angelo. “Good thinking! What should I do?”

“You?” Zac said. “Nothing. Do absolutely nothing at all. Understood?”

“Nothing; right,” Angelo nodded. He smiled. “We make a good team, don’t we?”

“If you say so,” replied Zac, then he turned his back, walked to the head of the table and took his seat beside the Allfather.





HERE WAS ANOTHER round of clapping, cheering and fists thudding on tables when Zac sat down, and then the Vikings got back to the business of eating and drinking, as if the last few minutes hadn’t actually happened. Only Odin paid him any notice.

“Ale!” the god cried, pushing a dented metal tankard into Zac’s hands. “Drink!”

Zac set the mug down on the table. “No, thanks,” he said.

Odin looked at the tankard, then back at the boy. “Ale!” he insisted. “Drink!”

“I’ll just have some water.”

There was a sound like thunder as Odin hurled back his head and laughed. “Ah, young Zac, thou dost make me laugh!” he boomed, reverting back to character. “Ale it is!”

He pushed the tankard closer to the boy’s hand. Zac pushed it back. “Water will be fine.”

Odin frowned and gave his beard a stroke. Up close, the Allfather didn’t quite look real. His scaled-up size and the way he exaggerated his movements gave him the appearance of an animatronic puppet from a low-budget children’s movie.

“Water,” the Allfather mumbled. He rolled the word around in his mouth, as if tasting it. “Water. Very well.”

He gave two claps of his hands. Something large immediately dropped from the ceiling and landed beside him. Zac twisted in his chair, tensed, ready to fight, but instead of coming face to face with another Viking, he found himself looking at a tall, slender figure in a black leather bodice and matching leather trousers.

She was a girl, if you ignored the wings. Around his age, he’d say, although he’d been several centuries out with Angelo, so he wasn’t committing to anything at this point.

Her hair was long and dark, tied back behind her head in a functional ponytail. The girl’s white feathery wings folded in against her back with a sound like rustling velvet. She focused her gaze on Odin, not so much as glancing in Zac’s direction.

The girl’s mouth smiled, but her eyes weren’t really in on it. “Yes, Allfather? How may I be of service?”

“Ah, young Herya,” he boomed. “Meet Zac. Zac, Herya here is a—”

“Valkyrie,” said Zac. “You retrieve the souls of Vikings killed in battle and bring them to Valhalla.”

Odin clapped Zac on the back. It was like being slammed across the spine with a shovel. “Very good, Zac! Ye are not as dim as I first suspected!”

“I read a lot.”

“Herya, fetch our guest some...” Odin turned back to Zac. “What was it again?”

“Water.”

“Water,” Odin repeated. He gave a bemused chuckle. “Drinkable water. What will they think of next?”

“Will that be all?”

Odin looked along the table. “Who’s for another round?”

The Vikings’ cheers almost lifted the roof. Shouts came from all corners of the table at once.

“Down here, love.”

“A few more flagons at this end, sweetheart.”

“Ale! And be quick about it!”

Herya reached into her pocket and produced a small notepad and pencil. “All right, keep your helmets on,” she said, fixing her smile in place. Zac watched her hurry along the table, scribbling furiously as drunken orders boomed at her from all directions.

Odin saw Zac watching her. “Terrible shame,” he said. “Poor girl. Born too late.”

“Too late?”

“Didn’t arrive into the world until after the age of true Vikings had passed.” The Allfather shook his head sadly. “Never got the opportunity to soar above the battlefield. Never got to carry the fallen back here to Valhalla. Never got to fulfil her destiny.”

“Oh. Right. Not a happy Valkyrie, then?”

“Quite the opposite,” Odin said. “What could be more fulfilling than an eternity of service in the Great Hall, Valhalla?”

Zac looked along the table to where Herya was frantically scrawling orders in her notepad. “Yeah. What could be better than that?” With a flap of wings, the Valkyrie flew up towards the roof once again. Zac watched her clamber between the rows of circular golden shields that lined the rafters, before she slipped out of sight behind them.

“So, Zac, what bringst thou to Valhalla?”

“I’m looking for a book.”

“A what?”

“A book,” Zac said. “It was stolen. I’m trying to get it back.”

“A book?” Odin frowned. “What, one of them jobbies with the squiggly lines and whatnot?”

“Writing,” Zac nodded. “Yes, one of those.”

The Allfather gave a snort. “Good luck finding one around here.”

“I know where it is, I’m just not sure how to get to it. I was hoping—”

An impromptu song explaining why you should never become romantically involved with a giantess erupted around the table. Odin’s face lit up with glee and the room shook as he lent his voice to the choir. It reminded Zac less of a sing-song, and more of an ugly mob at a football match, chanting about the less desirable qualities of the opposing team.

The roar was so loud Zac failed to hear the footsteps on the floor behind him. He jumped as another dented tankard was set down in front of him.

“There,” Herya said, shouting to make herself heard over the din. She balanced a tray on one hand. A dozen or more tankards were stacked on top of it. “Water.”

“Thanks,” Zac said.

“Second verse, same as the first!” bellowed Odin, and the song rose further in volume. “Oh, a giantess don’t look the best, whatever you do don’t peek up her dress...”

Zac glanced at the Allfather. Clearly he knew nothing about the book, and was going to be no help whatsoever. He turned to the Valkyrie.

“Can I talk to you?” Zac asked.

“You’re talking to me already. Mission accomplished,” Herya said. She moved to walk away, but Zac stood and blocked her path.

“I meant can I ask you some questions?”

Herya stuck out a hip and placed a hand against it. “Do I look like I have time to answer them?”

“Get a shift on, Valkyrie!” shouted someone along the table. The rest of the crowd jeered in agreement, then got stuck into the sing-song again.

“You’re standing between a horde of dead Vikings and their booze,” Herya said. “You want my advice? Move.”

Reluctantly, Zac stepped aside. “Maybe later, then.”

Herya flashed her false smile. “Keep dreaming, mortal.” Her leather outfit creaked softly as she moved along the table, dispensing drinks as she went.

Zac sat back down and leaned his elbows on the table, watching the Valkyrie go. She moved confidently through the crowd, taking their abuse with that smile fixed in place.

“Oh, a giantess, her face is a mess, she’s got a big arse and a hairy chest...”

Further along the table, Angelo was sandwiched between two bear-like Vikings. They had their arms round him and were swaying him back and forth in time with their singing. Angelo’s eyes were wide with horror. They darted anxiously left and right, before he realised Zac was watching him.

Help me, Angelo mouthed silently.

Not now, Zac mouthed back. Don’t panic.

Don’t panic? Don’t panic? I’m being manhandled by two dead Vikings. What do you mean, don’t panic? mimed Angelo frantically, but Zac didn’t catch a word of it, and replied with a double thumbs up.

A sudden crash broke up the singing just long enough for a jeer to go round the room. Zac looked in the direction of the sound and saw a particularly hairy Viking pulling Herya by the arm.

“Stupid Valkyrie,” the man snarled. “Spill ale on me, will you?”

Herya’s tray was on the floor. The Viking who held her had an upturned tankard hooked on to one of the horns of his helmet. The Valkyrie pulled at her arm, but the man’s grip was proving difficult to break.

Zac turned to Odin. “I think Herya’s got a problem customer,” he said.

Odin grunted. “Huh? Oh, right. Not to worry.”

Zac watched the Allfather knock back another tankard of ale, then burp loudly.

“Let go, Jurgen,” Herya said. “It was an accident.”

Jurgen’s free hand clenched into a fist the size of a boulder. “Well, now it’s time for you to have a little accident of your own, Valkyrie.”

“I really think she’s in trouble,” Zac said.

“Well deserved, no doubt,” Odin said. “Don’t worry about it, lad. Valkyries heal quickly.”

The Allfather scooped up another tankard and clanked it against one held by the Viking next to him. They both cheered drunkenly.

Zac looked back to Herya. Jurgen was towering over her, his clenched fist raised. The other Vikings were all chattering and laughing, paying the Valkyrie no attention whatsoever. The girl was on her own.

“I’m more or less dead,” Zac shrugged. He climbed on to the table. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

He began to advance, slowly and deliberately, along the table. “Hey, Jurgen!” he yelled. Jurgen and a few of the other nearby Vikings looked up. “She said it was an accident. Let her go.”

Jurgen’s eyes narrowed. Herya’s widened. Down at the far end of the room, Angelo’s face went pale. Nobody quite knew how to react as Zac continued along the tabletop.

“You dare tell me what to do?” Jurgen growled.

“I’m not telling you. I’m asking you nicely,” said Zac as he arrived next to them. Even standing on the table, Zac was barely the same height as Jurgen. The Viking’s ginger beard seemed to bristle with agitation. “Please. Pretty please with sugar on top. Let her go.”

The laughter and cheering had choked off into silence, and now you could’ve heard a pin drop in Valhalla. All eyes were on Jurgen, waiting to see what he would do next. Zac could feel the tension in the air. Any moment now, the crowd could turn ugly. Or uglier, at least.

“I could rip you in two, boy,” Jurgen said.

Zac held his gaze. “You could try.”

A low Ooooh went round the table. Jurgen’s eyes darted to the other Vikings around him.

“Or you could be the bigger man and let her go, then get back to enjoying the party,” Zac suggested.

Jurgen ground his rotten teeth together. “Very well,” he said at last. His hand opened and Herya pulled free. “She is free to go.”

“Thank you,” said Zac.

The big Viking cracked his knuckles. “I’ll make you pay for her stupidity instead.”

“Hey!”

The voice from the end of the table was shrill and high-pitched. All eyes turned to Angelo, still sandwiched between the two Vikings. The angel swallowed nervously.

“Let’s do that song again. What was it?” He began to clap out of time. “A giantess... she, um, wears a vest...?”

A roar of approval went round the room and the tension immediately lifted. Muscular arms came up and pulled Jurgen down into a happy bear hug, and soon he was singing along with the rest of them, his anger all but forgotten.

Zac jumped from the table and landed beside Herya. The Valkyrie eyed him suspiciously. “Why did you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Interfere,” Herya said. “I could have handled him myself.”

“I’m sure you could have,” Zac conceded.

“Why did you help me? What do you want?”

“Nothing, really,” Zac said. “Although now you’re free, maybe I could ask you those questions? It’ll only take a few minutes.”

For a long time she said nothing. Eventually she gave a sigh. “Fine. You’ve got two.”

“Great. Is there somewhere we can go that’s less –” Zac gestured around at the Viking horde – “that?”

“Outside,” Herya said, and she began walking in the direction of the door. Zac followed close behind her.

Two minutes, he mouthed as they passed Angelo.

Angelo’s lips moved in reply. Hurry up. These two are squashing me. And they smell. And I’m pretty sure I need to go to the toilet again.

But Zac once again had absolutely no idea what the angel was trying to say. He gave another thumbs up, then hurried outside after the Valkyrie.

The door closed shut and the racket within was muted just a little. Herya turned to face Zac, her hands on her hips. “Two minutes,” she said. “Starting now.”

“I’m looking for a book,” Zac began, not wasting any time. “You... um... you know what a book is, right?”

“Yes,” she said, and the temperature seemed to plummet a few degrees further. “I know what a book is.”

“Right, good. Well, this one has been taken from... Well, it doesn’t matter where it was taken from, but it’s now in Hell.”

“Single or double L?”

Zac hesitated. “What?”

“Is the book in Hell, double L, or Hel, single L?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Double L’s a place. Single L’s the daughter of Loki.”

Zac tutted quietly. “Well, the place, obviously. How would the daughter of Loki have a book in her?”

Herya shrugged. “She’s a big lass. You’re eating into your two minutes,” the Valkyrie advised. “Get to the point.”

“I need to find a way into Hell, and I thought someone here might know something.”

Herya’s gaze was witheringly cold. “Here? In Valhalla?”

“Yeah. Well, we sort of ended up here by accident,” Zac said. “I suppose it was a bit of a long shot.”

“Yes,” agreed the Valkyrie. “It was a bit.”

Zac nodded. Suddenly he felt very stupid. “Yeah. Daft idea, really.” He turned and pulled open the door. Roars of laughter rushed past him. “Sorry for wasting your time. Thanks for the water.”

“Wait.”

Zac turned back.

“I said it was a long shot,” the Valkyrie said. “I didn’t say you were wrong.”