by P. W. Child
In front of the beautiful old building towered the bronze statue of the town founder, Gualdim Pais. His blank expression, antique and weathered by time, stared out in front of him while the two old gentlemen strolled across the large flat area in front of the statue with not a thought to acknowledge it, or even read the plaque. Unlike the scores of tourists, they did not have to. They had been here before. Many times had they met here in all seasons and under differing circumstances. Tomar was the home town of the two men, although they had since settled in more accommodating cities for the authority they held. One made his home in Lisbon and the other chose Madrid, where his wife hailed from. But this is where they grew up, where their fathers and their fathers were tempered into fine men.
Now, the two were pacing soundlessly to the side road where they would sit down for a cup of extra strong coffee in a tiny restaurant situated on ground that existed before most cultures were conceived. Now that they had grey hair and their joints unwilling to the most mundane tasks, they fully appreciated the antiquity of their childhood home. The Town Hall, built in the 17th Century, was infant in comparison to some of the buildings they had considered an everyday sight as young boys. Under the soles of their feet echoed the cries of battle, the clapping of war horse hooves and the vibration of centuries old footfalls. They turned into the small lane of cobblestone and rusted flower frames fixed to the old cracked walls of the opposing buildings, paint peeling at the top ends where the roof edges fell slightly over. Small talk about aches and pains bounced between the two as they came to the quaint coffee shop they frequented every time they visited Tomar.
Some of the patrons glanced nervously at them, while others got up and left. The manager sighed at the arrival of the two loyal customers she wished would just perish already, but they seemed to live forever out of some sort of spite she could not fathom. By sheer practice and experience, she poured their brews just as she knew they would order it and she waddled to their table, smiling uncomfortably at the remaining customers who’s patronage she hoped to keep.
“Bom dia, gentlemen,” she smiled, convincingly at the two hardened old men who refused her the kindness in turn. Both had the same tattoo, on the hand and the neck, respectively. A black disc – and from it radiated black lightning rays in the shape of sharp S’s. The symbol of the Order of the Black Sun.
“Ilda, obrigado,” the one croaked as his companion coughed into a handkerchief, snorting snot and gagging, to the revolt of other patrons. He waited for her to place the cups in front of them and cast a steely look over the repulsed people in the little eatery. Narrowing his eyes and meeting each of their glances with a piercing stare, he quickly rebuked their judgment and left them with heads bowed, slurping at their soup.
“She is a threat, Miro. I don’t like the look of her and I certainly don’t feel comfortable with her wealth. You know that women with money are just pirates with tits, right? Ready to run you through with a cutlass to take what you have,” the snorting old man said after he had crumpled up the wasted cotton rag and stuffed it in his pocket.
“She is a member. I don’t let women intimidate me. That is why you are the one who is married,” his friend commented.
“Oh enough about Rosa, Miro. I won her over fair and square. Enough with the decades of bashing because you lost.”
“You cheated and you know it,” Miro mumbled as he took a sip of his coffee. “Who is our liaison today, Carlos?”
“She is sending an emissary called Slokin to discuss The Brotherhood with us, apparently. The arrogant bitch paid twice my fee just for information, for my time, you see?” the sickly retired lawyer sniffed.
“The Brotherhood? What in Christ’s name would she want with them? I thought we were done with those murdering bastards!” Miro exclaimed, again arresting the unwanted attention of others. This time he raised an open hand in apology and leaned forward over his coffee, lowering the volume in his voice, “How does she even know about them?”
“She doesn’t, Miro. She needs information on the quest for St. Blod, the location of it,” Carlos revealed with what would be construed as a smile, had it not looked so painful.
“St. Blod? She has balls,” Miro said to no-one in particular, his eyes stiff in astonished wariness of the serious subject in question.
Carlos continued as if he recited a homily, “And I am going to tell her about The Brotherhood, my friend. Her perpetual female vexation and all her money will be up against the darkest order … next to our own … and in doing so I will pit them against one another. They will eradicate one another and allow the Black Sun to pick their bones bare and steal the prize from both of their impotent little cliques.”
Miro gave it some thought. Then he nodded slowly, blinking profusely with his beady eyes. It sounded like a good idea to him after all.
“Mr. Oliveira?” a shrill voice invaded their discussion.
“Yes, that is me,” Carlos replied coarsely, not bothering to turn to the man addressing him behind his back, “Come, sit. I am not an owl. I cannot talk to you if you stand behind me.”
The strange voice chuckled momentarily, a horrid, creepy sound that immediately displeased both Miro and Carlos. They frowned at one another as the queer young man fell into the third chair at the table.
Even for the eccentric of taste, the visitor would seem out of place just about anywhere. He was extremely gaunt and his exceptionally wide mouth gave the impression that he possessed a few too many teeth behind the guard of his lips. Miro scrutinized the weird little man who had even less hair than him on his disturbingly round skull
“I’m Jasper Slokin. Slokin, yes, that’s me,” he sniggered through his crooked nose, his twiddling hands and fidgeting fingers attesting to his inability to sit still. Carlos raised an eyebrow at Miro and gulped down the cold coffee he had neglected. Miro in turn scowled at the young bald pest and decided once and for all that he did not like him one bit.
“What do you want, Slokin?” he asked before Carlos could formulate a question over the incessant twitches of the freakish guest.
Immediately, Slokin ceased his squirming, sat static for a moment and then turned his bulbous head slowly to face Miro. It was unsettling to see his mannerisms change so abruptly and to make matters worse, his forehead formed a wicked frown that held nothing but brute malice towards the rude old man.
“I don’t believe I came here to see you, Mr. Cruz, and I would appreciate it if you kept your misguided notions and intolerable attitude to yourself,” Jasper snapped calmly. His eyes showed no fear or respect, even when perceiving the old man’s fury building in his face. As Miro was about to fly into a blind rage, Carlos interrupted swiftly to avert bad blood between the Order and Lita Røderic. She was too important at this juncture of the plan to manipulate her into doing the Black Sun’s dirty work.
“Enough now! We do not have time for the melodrama. Jasper, what is it that your employer wishes to know?” Carlos asked in a firm, but helpful tone. Like a juvenile, Jasper turned his chair completely, as to have his back turned toward Miro. The old man bit his lip for the sake of his friend and hailed Ilda for another cup.
After a ridiculous succession of throat clearings and once more twiddling his fingers and tapping his long pointed shoes on the floor below, Jasper Slokin continued. “Miss Røderic wishes to gather intelligence on the whereabouts of the…the…organization that…” he laughed nervously in a high effeminate tone, “…she wants to know who guards the Hall of the Slain.” Slokin rolled his eyes like a bashful schoolgirl, wringing his hands and lolling his head with a sheepish smile that Carlos could not help but find immensely disquieting. The strange envoy was by some degree undoubtedly insane, far surpassing the bench mark for flamboyance.
“I know,” he added with another amused cackle, “it must sound crazy. But she is convinced that such a place really exists and that you know…” he poked Carlos playfully with an equally whimsical chant, “…where…” poke, “…it…” poke, “…is.” The
n he fell back in his chair for a hearty giggle, folding his hands together gleefully. His behavior was downright creepy.
“Please, Mr. Slokin, I am a sick man. Don’t touch me,” Carlos said with no small amount of frustration and adjusted his cardigan, flashing a look to Miro who watched Jasper with a sharp eye.
“Oh, I’m sorry. So sorry. My apologies,” Jasper excused his actions, but there was no sign of contrition. His way was rather more sarcastic, or even deliberately malicious in tone.
“You are looking for Templars, Mr. Slokin. Tell Miss Røderic that she must seek out The Brotherhood, an ancient clandestine order of Templars set on guarding the secrets of Asgard, of the Hall called Valhalla by the texts,” Carlos disclosed as clearly as he could while having to observe the idiosyncratic quirks of Jasper Slokin.
“But The Brotherhood must be here in Tomar,” Slokin protested with a wince, obviously upset by what he saw as a lack of interest by Mr. Oliveira. “This is after all the last town built for the Knights Templar and their cause, is it not?”
Carlos was taken aback. He was unaware that Slokin was more than just a messenger, more than just a rude, freakish imp.
“Yes, you are correct, if you are referring to the Knights Templar, Mr. Slokin.” he leaned on his elbows on the table, “However, the Brotherhood to which I am referring are not God-fearing monks who hide treasures from the Church. They are Templars only in name, my friend,” Carlos choked and fumbled for his handkerchief as another coughing fit ensued. Jasper Slokin was growing impatient and turned to look at Miro, gesturing at the wheezing man and scoffing in insensitive jest. Miro ground his teeth, desperate to be 35 years old again, his knuckles hard and his jabs deadly.
“So, when you have gained control of yourself again, please,” Slokin sniffed arrogantly and folded his hands in parody of a very interested audience, “do continue before we all die of old age.”
His audacity was astounding. Insults and contempt seemed to come as naturally as breathing to him. Several people in the establishment could not but shake their heads at the skinny brat’s ill manners.
When Carlos tamed his cough, he thought about sending the rude bastard headlong into the company of The Brotherhood, where he would not be tolerated farther than one rude word. He was going to warn Slokin of The Brotherhood’s swift executions, their precise and methodical coordination and their disregard for anyone who pursued what was hidden in the ancient place they were protecting. But now he chose to keep his knowledge of the archaic band of sentinels to himself and simply send Røderic’s pet right to them.
“I believe the Brotherhood is in Edinburgh, Scotland, at the moment. They are nomadic, so you should better hurry.”
Slokin was intrigued, “How do I find them?”
“I heard that they were waiting for one of their own to recover from a brawl before riding out again to God knows where,” Carlos reported, his eyes on Miro as he spoke and seeing his friend nod with a smile. “I do not know where they are, but their injured brother is recuperating in Southern General, I think. You can ask him where to find their leader.”
Slapping his knee cheerfully, the defiant and unpleasant young man rose from his seat and said, “Well, then, I had better get going. Thank you for your time, Mr. Oliveira. And please, go see a doctor. Tuberculosis is a terrible way to go.” With a smile he saluted the two exasperated old men and turned on his heel, whistling as he disappeared around the corner.
“Fucking imp,” Miro said.
“How did he know I have TB?” Carlos gasped.
“Doesn’t matter, old friend. His death will be one for the books. Well done.”
For the first time ever, Ilda heard the two old men laugh.
Chapter 11
The cold snapped at Jan’s hands as he attempted to keep his fingers steady to get them into the leather gloves. He knew better than to spend too much time outside, in the cold night before trying to start his Honda; but he had to adjust the headlight first, so it left him with hands burning from the cold and numb fingers he found almost useless. Outside The Thirsty Turtle, he stood under the cloudy night sky, the frigid wind threatening his ride home tonight, but all he focused on was getting his hands warm. Without warm hands, he could not grip the clutch, couldn’t hit the brakes. Of all his mates, he was the last to leave on account of an inviting woman and a promise of more than a double rum, which ended up being a married floozy with no desire to test drive his motor.
Her intoxicated ass was falling about the bar, harassing the less than wholesome clientele of the Turtle. Jan did not have time for that. He liked his women wide awake and willing, the kind to feel him up from behind him when they occupied his pussy seat at a 180km per hour. Finally, he just pushed his numb burning fingers into the gloves with the hopes that each finger will somehow employ muscle memory to find its home. As he struggled to fit his helmet before mounting his 1300cc, an arguing couple stumbled from the noisy bar and ranted all the way to their car. As they cussed and threw insults about, the husband was looking for the right key while his wife ripped him for being ‘inadequate’ at even that.
Jan scoffed. Thank god he was not married. Never had been. Not for the lack of trying, but he was one of Sweden’s less attractive sons. Instead of his brother’s blonde locks, he was dealt with carrot red tresses, the texture of steel wool, thanks to his maternal grandfather’s genes. Nobody cared that he was intelligent and hilarious, or that he was a star rugby player with a body that would make a woman reach for his jean button. No, he was just the ugly brother and that was the end of it. Now that he was watching the two bitching, abandoning entirely the feelings they may have had for one another once upon a time, he was glad he did not have to endure that institution.
The husband finally got his door open, but not before his wife had sunk to her knees in front of the grill of the car parked next to theirs. She vomited incessantly, provoking even more rage from her hard-headed man, who promptly pulled her up and unceremoniously tossed her into the car and slammed the door shut. It was then that Jan noticed the silent silhouettes seated in that dark car. Unmoving they sat, three shadows, and he could see their heads keep dead still against the sharp security light that cast its sharp white halo from behind them. Jan found this peculiar. How did they not find the escapade playing out next to them entertaining or even worth a view? They seemed entirely uninterested in the developments of the crazy couple, because they appeared to be waiting for something. But what, he wondered.
Jan looked to the opposite side of the parked car to see what their straight line of vision could possibly afford them, and found two bikers seated on their machines. He frowned at the odd scene. The two bikers did nothing, merely sitting on dead ponies in the chill of the night wind. Neither did they speak a word to one another. Like mannequins, they just sat there, in direct opposition to the ruckus inside the bar.
Like two different worlds joined by a threshold, he observed the bustling bar with its colorful lights and the noise of drunken challenges over the bursting furor of old rock music. While, as soon as the doorway was crossed to the outside, the world became an inanimate expanse of cold air in the black night’s whistle that lapped up tufts of dust here and there. Being on this side of the threshold delivered Jan a remarkable sense of melancholy and he decided to get going before he took to chewing through his wrists in depression. The motorcyclists did not budge, still, as he slipped his helmet over his ginger hair with some effort from those cold hands. Flexing his fingers, he straddled his Honda proudly, happy to ride out of this eerie situation with its freaky onlookers.
With a nod to his fellow bikers, he started his machine and walked it to face the exit before slamming his boot on the lever to gear up and released the clutch. His engine sounded strong as he took off, growling under him until it moved into a comfortable speed. About 50 meters onward, he felt second gear punch under his saddle and the bike darted into the cold blackness that challenged the dark grey obscurity of the tar road.
Tha
nkful for the intense vibration of the handles, he felt his hands grow warmer inside the thick leather gloves and his fingers could move more freely now. It was another few miles home, perhaps another 30 minutes’ drive, but Jan loved the open road. For all he cared, it could go on forever and he would still be happy to ride it out. He had no woman waiting, unlike his friends Alex and Gunnar, who had wives who rode with them, so he had no time limitations on getting home.
He thought to take the A720 on his way to Newington where the rest of his club were resident for the next three weeks until moving on eastwards. As soon as Gunnar got out of hospital, they would decide on where to go. They were more than just a bunch of loose and dirty motorcycle junkies. Jan and his brothers served a purpose, made some money with this and that now and then, legal or not. Their creed was sacred to them and they deemed themselves honorable people who helped preserve the balance of good and evil behind the veils of what the everyday world did not even take notice of.
He sped through the clumps of mist that appeared like specters out of the black nothingness that embraced the seemingly endless road, and vanished like mere breaths back into the oblivion from where they had come. He was grateful for the visor of his helmet tonight, imagining the sting of the cold on his face and it suddenly provoked a rumble in his tummy for a good Scottish broth. Jan smiled. Yes, that is what he would have when he got to the hotel in Newington – a thick broth with as many carbohydrates floating in its viscose goodness. This was incentive for speeding up, almost as much as the vehicle following him from a distance.
It was well past midnight when Jan was blinded by headlights in his wing mirrors. Two motorcycles zoomed into view of the small silver frames of his mirrors, approaching at an uncomfortable pace and then slowing just in time to trail him.
