The Feast Hall of the Slain
There was a way into the field, but before I could explore it further, there was a knock on the door. I opened it. A girl stepped inside. She looked about eighteen and had snow-blonde 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. “I am Gunilla,” she said. “I am your Valkyrie.” From the wall speakers, a horn blast sounded so loudly it rattled the picture on the piano.
”What’s that?” I asked.
”Dinner,” the girl said. She shook my hand, her grip so tight my finger bones popped. “I will now escort you to dinner.”
In the hallway, my neighbours were starting to emerge. Thomas Jefferson Jr looked about sixteen. He had short curly hair, a lanky frame and a rifle slung over one shoulder. His blue wool coat had brass buttons and chevrons on the sleeve - a U.S. Army Civil War uniform, I guessed. He nodded and smiled “How you doing?”
”Dead, apparently.”
He laughed. “Yeah. You’ll get used to it. Call me T.J.”
”Ruby.”
”Come on,” Gunilla pulled me along. We passed a girl who must’ve been Mallory Keen. She had frizzy red hair, green eyes and a serrated knife. As we passed the door for HALFBORN GUNDERSON, an axe blade split the wood from the inside. Muffled laughter came from the room. Gunilla ushered me into the elevator. She pushed away several other einherjar who were trying to get in. “Next car, guys.” The spear-cage door slid shut. She inserted one of her keys into an override slot on the panel. She pressed a red rune and the elevator descended. “I’ll take you into the dinning hall before the main doors open. That way you can get the lay of the land.”
”Thanks.” Nordic music started playing from the ceiling. "Does Valhalla only take teenagers?" I asked.
Gunilla shook her head. "The einherjar are grouped by the age they were when they died. You're in the youngest tier, which goes up to about age nineteen. Most of the time, you won't even see the other two tiers - adults and seniors. It's better that way. The adults... well, they don't take teens seriously, even if the teens have been here hundreds of years longer."
"Typical."
"As for the senior warriors, they don't always mix well. Imagine a really violent retirement home." The elevator doors opened. We stepped into a room the size of a concert arena. "Welcome," Gunilla said, "to the Feast Hall of the Slain." Tiers of long tables like stadium seating curved downward from the nosebleed section. In the centre of the room, instead of a basketball court, a tree rose taller than the Statue of Liberty. It's lowest branches were maybe a hundred feet up. Its canopy spread over the entire hall, scraping against the domed ceiling and sprouting through a massive opening at the top. Above, stars glittered in the night sky. Many animals skittered among the branches.
Around the perimeter of the room, a hundred doors burst open. The armies of Valhalla swarmed in. "Dinner is served," Gunilla said. 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," Gunilla told me. She grabbed my wrist and we flew into the air. We skimmed above the heads of warriors. Nobody paid us much attention. Other Valkyries were also zipping around - some escorting warriors, some carrying platters of food and pitchers of drinks.
We headed towards what was obviously the head table. A dozen grim-looking dudes were taking their seats in front of golden plates and jewel-encrusted goblets. In the place of honour stood an empty wooden throne with a high back, where two ravens perched, grooming their feathers. Gunilla landed us at table to the left. We were the only ones.