Shadow Walker: Defenders of Asgard, #1

By Jonas Martin

Part Boy. Part Dragon. Kick-Ass Demigod.
Fifteen-year-old Dash knows a bad hand when it's dealt and survival is slim. He can spark Ragnarok as Loki's second-in-command, or betray his family to prevent it. Either way, he's in mortal danger.
As he leads a team of demigods deeper into Helheim to locate the soul of a powerful necromancer, Dash can't help thinking he's made the wrong decision. Despite his dark magic and other life-draining skills, Death will likely reap their souls and resurrect them as zombies in Ginnungagap.
Defenders of Asgard: Shadow Walker is the first book in a fun YA fantasy series based on Norse mythology, featuring compelling characters battling zombies and monsters in the underworld, surprising plot twists, and kick-ass demigods with awesome magic and weapons—and magical weapons.
If you like Magnus Chase or Percy Jackson, you'll love Jonas Martin's brand-new fantasy adventure.
Download Defenders of Asgard: Shadow Walker to discover this exciting new series now!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jonas Martin
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798215494424

Book preview

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Contents

Books in Series

1. The Cross-Dressing God of Beauty

2. Decomposing Children Sing Me the Birthday Song of Doom

3. I Spy on a Blood-Soaked Librarian

4. I Stare into the Jaws of a Hel-Hound

5. Scoffing Down Brain to Open a Portal

6. I Get Hooked on Magic and Puke in a Giant’s Hair

7. I Perform Drama for a Troll Who Stares in Disbelief

8. Loki’s Dental Nightmare

9. Zoey, the Japanese Berserker

10. Painful Marriage Propositions from Desperate Zombies

11. I Leave My Hide in the Shadow-World

12. Three Crones Watching Hammered Vegetables

13. We Are Introduced to an Iron Maiden Eating Brains

14. I Speak with a Cockerel on a Dung Heap

15. A One-Armed Fighter Cracks Nuts in a Sack

16. Bone Realignment on a Hurt Fly

17. Blood, Tears, and Painful Memories

18. Jack the Ripper Offers Me a Slice

19. Secrets and Revelations

20. A Elven Girl Pukes in My Shower

21. Pink Curlers and a Face Mask

22. Pawning Memories for a Shopping Spree

23. Alex Turns into a Brain-Devouring Zombie

24. A Flower Gives Me Speed-Lessons in Dark Magic

25. Squishy Entrails on an Oozing Dung Heap

26. We Play Hide-and-Seek with a Twelve-Foot Giantess

27. We Are Invited to a Zombie Dinner Party

28. Pustules and Pestilence

29. Gandalf, I Hate Your Stupid Beard

30. The Prince of Darkness Smells a Flower

31. Slow Dancing with a Corpse

32. A Soulless Girl

33. Tears and Braided Beard

Read Dragon Ninja (Book 2) for FREE

Sneak Peek at Book 2: Dragon Ninja

1. I Dip a Toe in the Void

2. The Prodigal Daughter Returns

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Copyright

Glossary

Books in Series

Defenders of Asgard

Shadow Walker

Dragon Ninja

Chapter one

The Cross-Dressing God of Beauty

As the future ruler of Helheim, I’d been trained in diplomacy, leadership, warfare, combat with and without weapons, poisons, stealth, dark magic, and necromancy.

Right now, though, I was untangling pink curlers from Dad’s wavy, fire-red hair while he dabbed a pale-green face mask on his cheeks, with a couple cucumber slices resting on a platter nearby.

With that gunk on his face, he looks like a zombie from Ginnungagap.

Now, son, remember—you never can use too much hair product or moisturizer, Dad said as I braided his thick, lush Viking beard, which was combed to perfection. Don’t forget the tufts at the ends, they strike fear in our enemies.

His eyes were glued to an article about Lady Freya’s new enormous sparkling cat-shaped earrings in one of Ratatosk’s many Asgardian tabloids. That giant squirrel had all the godly nut sacks in a vise.

Sure, Dad, whatever, I said and sighed. I mean, I loved my dad and all, but braiding his beard at fifteen was a little much, if you know what I mean. It brought us closer, though, and I’d learned how to look good for the ladies. If I ever meet one in this Hel-hole of rotting zombies and other monsters.

Ow! Dad said, touching his beard.

Sorry, I said, shocked out of my daydream. I loosened the second braid threatening to rip out half his ginger beard.

That’s all right, son. He stroked my hair and sniffed it. You haven’t used conditioner!

He fanned his face, scandalized, as if ready to faint.

Truth be told, my well-groomed black mane didn’t need it. Any playboy would give his right hand for hair like mine, and the left for my pale, smooth skin and chiseled features. To top it off, one of my eyes is radiant blue, like my father’s, and one is the same bright green as my mother’s healthy eye.

A faint scraping noise spooked me. I detected a whiff of death in the room and scanned the darkness behind us without success.

What was that? I said, edging closer to the gilded antique dressing table for a weapon, and to keep Dad from noticing I hadn’t used a moisturizer.

Darkness shrouded Dad’s beauty parlor, except for a flickering mustard-colored sphere cast by torches in sconces around the makeup area. Dad thought the soft light made the beautifying process more natural. I knew he was afraid harsh electric light would reveal any wrinkles on his face. You were bound to have crow’s feet when counting your birthdays in eons to conceal your true age.

Dad was a prima donna with a pimped-out salon. A huge gilded mirror stood on the table holding brushes, creams, powders, and other stuff. In front of it was a swiveling leather recliner—the kind Midgardian barbers use. He had imported it at a significant cost to pamper himself. At the far wall was an ornamental copper tub for relaxing spa treatments. (I sometimes sneak in here to use it when Dad’s away. Don’t tell him.)

Only a thin shaft of light penetrated the darkness, hitting the stone floor through an air shaft in the ceiling, as though creating a spotlight on a scene. Something glinted by the entrance—like moonlight on a razor-sharp blade.

Had Grandpa Loki’s hatred for Dad reached the next level of evil? Had he sunk low enough to order a contract on Dad or me? It wasn’t out of the question, the way he kept ridiculing and belittling Dad.

Loki had always disliked Dad. During the Viking era, after eons of enmity, Loki had killed him in Asgard to send him to Helheim—one of Mom’s demands in exchange for joining Grandpa’s side at Ragnarok. She loved Balder—who didn’t?

There it was again. A brief reflection dancing on the wall before being snuffed out.

My fingers went to Dad’s diamond-studded scissors on the table. If you died in Helheim, you got a one-way ticket to Ginnungagap or the Void.

Something slimy with rotting flesh hanging off its bones shot out from the dark.

I readied myself for an attack—who did this monster think he was, threatening Dad and me? A scratching noise, like two sandpaper blocks rubbing together, broke the silence as the intruder shuffled closer across the cave floor. I squinted to let my vision penetrate the shadows farther to get a better aim at the assassin.

One more step and he would shuffle into the thin spear of moonlight brave enough to penetrate this deep into the underworld.

The scraping intensified.

He was upon us.

My combat training kicked in.

I readied myself to tackle the assailant to the floor with the full weight and force of my body, and tickle the inside of his ribs with the scissors. My body tensed, ready to charge.

Instead, I exhaled and lowered the scissors.

Dad, it’s just Svein, I said over my shoulder. Dude, I almost cut you to pieces. My voice echoed in the chamber as I stared, wide-eyed, at the trophy in his hand.

Dad was oblivious, too engrossed in the tabloid. That’s nice, son, he said, licking his index finger and turning a page.

Master Dash, I just wanted to show you this pretty trophy your dad won when he was your age, Svein said with a toothless zombie smile. I wish it were mine, it’s so precious, he hissed in an almost inaudible whisper with a greedy glint in his eyes. He pressed it to his chest, most likely afraid of what my father would do should he overhear.

Svein had been Dad’s deadbeat draugr servant for eons, polishing Dad’s many beauty pageant trophies from his Asgardian youth. Eventually, the judges had sent Dad the first-place award beforehand, with a polite note dissuading him from competing—an attempt to keep the other contestants from developing severe body-image disorders.

When he turned up anyway, they banned him because there weren’t enough psychiatrists to deal with the growing epidemic.

I finished braiding Dad’s beard, creating small fluffy tufts at the ends the way he liked, and using the scissors to even them off.

Son— Dad began, but choked on the rest of the words.

He fiddled with one of his leather-wrapped dagger handles before trying to hand the weapons to me. Sweat and blood from eons of battles had stained the leather dark, almost black.

Dad—I can’t, I said in a gruff voice, close to tears. I didn’t want to take them, knowing how much those daggers meant to him.

Don’t argue, son. You’ll need all the advantages you can get on Loki’s next mission.

I tried to find something witty to say, but my brain drew a blank.

We both knew another mission would arrive soon. My shoulders slumped and I exhaled. Living under Loki’s thumb with a cold, distant mother for the past ten years weighed on me. He would have Mom, Dad, and all my friends slaughtered before me if I refused his missions.

I glanced at the tabloid and the visible part of a headline punched me in the face. Grow a set . . . and be free. Yeah, right.

To give me the best chance of survival, Dad had started my training early. It had come in handy more than a few times growing up around my dim-witted cousins. But thinking of missions that could earn me a one-way trip to the Void made a chill run down my spine.

I reached out with trembling hands for the blades and hugged Dad like I hadn’t done since I was five. I didn’t want to let go. We needed no words—Dad sobbed against my shoulder as tears streaked down my cheeks.

I sighed when his face mask smeared my shirt.

After a while, a polite, embarrassed cough bounced off the cave walls.

Svein shuffled awkwardly beside us—Vikings didn’t hug and cry; they were manly and strong and showed no weakness.

But weren’t these daggers made by Eitri and his brother, who made Thor’s hammer? I asked when our long hug ended and I let go of Dad.

Yes. They can withstand lava and cut through dragonhide. Hermod brought them as a gift when the gods sent him to convince your mother to let me return to the living. Love made me refuse. Did you know I had a secret crush on her at school?

I cleared my throat and studied the daggers, not knowing how to respond. I . . . I can’t accept them. They are your pride.

You can, and you will, he said, and took a dagger from me and clipped it to my side. They are yours now. Wear them with pride and remember everything I have taught you.

Dad picked up a photo from the table next to the cucumber slices. Mom smiled at toddler me in her arms, my unruly mop of black hair accentuating my different-colored eyes. I was oblivious to my bad hair day, and Dad didn’t seem to mind. Fascinated by one of Dad’s fingers, I held it in an iron-grip and sucked on it.

That I would be born perfect was never in question.

It would have been a crime against nature with Balder, the fallen god of beauty, as my father, and Hel, the queen of the underworld, as my mother.

Mom rivaled the loveliest gods with her raven hair, pale skin, and emerald eyes—even Thor’s wife Sif (with her fake golden hair)—but only if you viewed her from the right side. From the left, she looked like a ripe zombie ready to devour your flesh.

Dad sighed, replacing the photo, and then walked toward the door with slumped shoulders, forgetting his cucumber slices.

My intestines snaked up my sternum and into my chest, crushing my heart as I looked at Mom beaming at me in the photo.

How dare you? Ten years of pent-up resentment for her absent love and affection rose to the surface. A conflict I couldn’t reconcile welled up in me. I was angry with Mom and loved her at the same time. Loki had to die to get her back—but it was impossible. He watched my every move from a cave at an undisclosed location, threatening to kill everyone I love if I don’t follow his rules.

I miss Mom and want her back. Loki won’t like it, but I can take care of myself, I blurted out, scratching the now faded snake symbol Loki had burned into my arm, my hatred toward him swelling inside.

Dad stopped in the doorway to the Great Hall and faced me with a sigh. Son, you don’t understand the torment she is going through—

"The torment she is going through? What about my pain? I’ve become everything she wanted. I’m ruthless. I’m untouchable. And I’m the greatest fighter of my generation. She’s turned me into one of Loki’s monsters," I said, loud enough for Svein to flinch and take a few steps back. He melted into the shadows behind him, probably wishing he hadn’t come to show me the trophy.

Loki—Dad spat on the floor—has driven a wedge between us all with his foul breath and putrid words. He may still be in chains, but his reach is long with his lapdog of a son, Vali, doing his every bidding.

I looked Dad in the eye. "The last time Mom showed me any genuine affection was when she gave me the wolf-head necklace—I was five."

Dad’s shoulders slumped deeper. Hold on to that memory and try to forgive her.

Forgive her! Maybe when Helheim freezes over, I said, knowing I was being unfair, but still angry with her for staying away. Is it too much to ask that she acknowledges my existence?

"She can’t. You know Loki watches her every move. He has spies all over the place. Why do you think I keep him around?" He jerked a thumb at Svein in the shadows.

I shrugged.

Because I know I can trust him.

My temper cooled. I thought it was because Svein adores you and your trophies, I said, rolling my eyes.

I don’t know what you are talking about, Dad said, tilting his head in mock ignorance, and grinned.

A soft, nervous chuckle escaped the shadows by the wall.

Chapter two

Decomposing Children Sing Me the Birthday Song of Doom

I lay awake long past midnight, going over my conversation with Dad and brooding over Mom’s absence. When I finally dozed off, a soul-crushing nightmare awaited.

It was my fifth birthday, and I had been up long before our zombie cockerel sang to his harem of decomposing hens. I jumped on my bed, full of excitement about the presents and the party.

My best friends Orvar the Tiny Barbarian and Saga would come, plus a bunch of other deadish children in varying stages of decomposition from my daycare group. I didn’t care about missing flesh here and there as long as they brought me presents.

Filled with anticipation, I bounded off to my parents’ room like a small hurricane and jumped on their bed too.

That will get them up.

Mom and Dad laughed at my energy and tried to bundle me up in one of their blankets to get a few more minutes of shut-eye before they had to rise, but I wriggled out of their arms and continued jumping.

I got even more excited by the prospect of playing tag with them. They chased me out of their room, pretending to be monsters out to eat me. OK, Mom didn’t pretend—she’s half-zombie, after all.

I found a dusty old femur to use as a sword and attacked them, making them scatter in different directions. I chased down my father and poked him with the bone.

He grabbed me as he went down, and we rolled around on the floor play-wrestling, before he yielded to the hero—me.

Mom closed in, and I made my move.

I used Dad’s stomach as a trampoline to launch myself into Mom’s arms. She showered me with hugs and kisses, saying that her love trumped my deadly blows, and that I could never kill her while she loved me.

A few hours later, my best friends sat opposite me, and the rest of the table was filling with my decomposing acquaintances. The boy next to me lost his one remaining eye when it plopped out of the socket and rolled onto the table, to a mix of cheers and fake disgusted screams from the other draugrs.

Cool, Saga said as she picked the eye up and studied it, before reaching over the table and pushing it back into its socket.

I waited until everyone had dumped their presents on my ever-growing mountain of wrapped boxes and