Free The Book of Doom by Barry Hutchison

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.”

NGELO WATCHED THE door close again and felt his heart sink. The din in the hall was deafening. The smell of stale Viking sweat was all around him. The singing had degenerated into drunken slurring, and flecks of foamy spit felt like scattered showers all along the table.
    He was alone in a room filled with godless heathens. OK, technically not godless. They had plenty of gods. Too many, if anything. There was only one God as far as Angelo was concerned, and you wouldn’t catch Him singing about what lurked under a giantess’s skirt.
    A tankard of ale was slid in front of him. He gave it a quick prod, nudging it away. A rough, scarred hand swooped and grabbed the tankard and it was downed in one noisy
schlurp
.
    The song reached some sort of shambling conclusion. The Vikings all cheered at this, but then Angelo was beginning to suspect they’d cheer at pretty much anything.
    “More song!” shouted someone along the table who was apparently too drunk to even have a bash at full sentences. As expected, everyone cheered. Everyone, that is, except Odin.
    “No, no, no!” he bellowed. “Enough singing. Let’s dance!”
    A roar of delighted agreement made Angelo cover his ears. All around the table, Vikings began to shout out the 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,