The Quest for Valhalla (Order of the Black Sun Book 4)

by P. W. Child

  A cold sigh fell against his forehead and cheek, provoking an unholy shudder from the base of his skull to the muscles in his buttocks. Hair stood on end over every inch of his skin and he felt his heart begin to slow, but his hands could not let go of the silver hell he played host to.

  “Now listen up, Sam. You are just drunk, you silly son of a bitch. Snap out of it,” he said out loud to himself. In this he not only coaxed himself into a good bout of skepticism, but also imagined that whatever breed of thing had him by the psychic balls would think him ignorant enough to ignore and go away. Yet, it only tightened its grip on him, gradually spiriting him away to some otherworldly dimension right here in his own living room.

  Everything, including his laptop, his beer bottles and his cat, remained the same and still he felt a world removed from it all, caught in some other time-space continuum while witness to this one. In his ears, a surreal hissing began, luring his lips closer to the mouth of the vial while his hands disobeyed him. The hissing got louder, even though there was no sound at all in his home, occupying the entirety of Sam’s mind as his hands lifted the silver artifact to his mouth, eager to quench his thirst and curiosity alike.

  As the rim of the container touched his reluctant lips, Sam tried to scream, but no sound escaped him. It lifted, courtesy of his own hands, tipping to pour, when Sam’s cell phone ring tone split the silence in the room and freed him from the power of the spell. With a grateful cry of relief Sam threw the flask aside with repulsion, only too happy to be able to control his own actions again. On the screen, Nina’s name.

  “I am getting rid of this fucking flask, Nina! It is evil!” he cried in a hoarse panting voice that alarmed the already nervous Nina on the other side of the phone.

  “Listen Sam, put the flask away. I will deal with it when I get back. I just wanted to check in with you, because I need someone to know where I am, in case this turns bad,” she reported, sounding a little rattled.

  “Nina,” he said calmly, “where are you?” It dawned on him that she was out on some fool’s errand, chasing after Val.

  “I am tailing Val and she just pulled in at Denton House in Newington. Something’s up, Sam. I don’t know what exactly, but she is seriously shaken about something. I will be back as soon as I have found out what she is really involved in,” she said with a bit more restraint.

  “Nina, wait for me to get there – for back-up. You cannot take on these people alone and you know it. My god, do you have a death wish?” he tried to reason with the obstinate beauty, but she replied simply that she was just going to speak to Val and all would be well.

  “I am on my way,” Sam said, but Nina had ended the call halfway through his response and he was once more left alone in his quiet living room. He shot a hard glance towards the flask on the couch, a feeling of some intelligence coming from it, as if it were watching him, as if it would counter any precaution he would employ to remove it from its wicked power.

  Chapter 15

  Nina parked the 4x4 under the towering, dark trees just as the evening took on a coolness that announced the cold night to follow. Quite a distance away and well hidden from view, she watched Val enter the house and decided to play the supportive, concerned friend angle at first. Waiting to see what would ensue before she went to see her friend, Nina found that all was quiet at the house. About 50 or so motorcycles stood parked all around the house in the yard. She saw no models like the ones at the robbery, though. From a distance, she watched.

  Four black vehicles approached the property not more than 20 minutes later. They made no secret of their presence and blocked off the entrance by parking sideways in front of the gateway. It was an odd thing to do, but they had reason to. From the last car in tow emerged a skinny bald man with a long black coat and leather boots. In his hand he held a walking stick, not for any handicap, but for his personal sense of style. He did not knock at the door, but instead motioned for his men to surround the place and mind the exits.

  “Gunnar Joutsen!” he cried in the mild evening air, his voice remarkably strong for his frame. Nothing happened. Again, he called out to Gunnar and waited, impatiently tapping the end of his stick on the gravel in front of his feet. He looked up to the window where the curtains had moved aside slightly, but could not see anyone there, peering down on them.

  The heavy front door opened and Gunnar stepped out. He was alone.

  “State your business, I am eating dinner,” Gunnar roared at the intrusive nuisance with the stick.

  “You are Gunnar?” Slokin asked cordially.

  “I am,” Gunnar replied, “And you are trespassing.”

  “You are the leader of The Brotherhood, correct?” Slokin said as he slowly walked closer to the large biker with the braided beard.

  “No, I am the leader of Sleipnir Motorcycle Club. There is no ‘Brotherhood’ here. You must be mistaken,” Gunnar replied, growing ever intolerant of the asshole who had the audacity to park in front of their gate as if he owned the place.

  “Listen, friend. Please don’t waste my time. I know who you are and you know I know, so let us not engage in childish games,” Slokin pressed.

  “Listen, prick, I don’t know what you are looking for or what you are talking about, so I suggest you and your girlfriends pull out of here while you can all still walk!” Gunnar threatened in his robust voice, drawing the attention of his brethren. One by one, they emerged through the door behind him, immensely intimidating in their heavy biker boots and club colors.

  “You can come willingly, just you, and nobody will get hurt. The Brotherhood knows the location of a place we are looking for. All I want is you, Gunnar, to come with us and show us where. It is not rocket science. It should be exceedingly simple for a man of your…intelligence…to point your finger, right?” the thin skinhead insisted, his words dripping with insult.

  “Don’t patronize me, you little fuck,” Gunnar smiled coldly as he walked up to Slokin and grabbed him by the throat in a brutal grip that took the air out of Jasper Slokin’s trachea before he could utter another word.

  “Are you deaf? I don’t know what the hell you are talking about!” With that he released Slokin with such force that the thin man fell to the ground.

  Slokin’s men mobilized and went straight for Gunnar before his brothers could react. They did not know about the other soldiers Lita had sent to assist Slokin, standing in wait against the walls of the house. Briskly, two of them took hold of Gunnar and held a gun to his head, ordering the furious bikers to hold back or else Gunnar would come to a horrible end.

  Having no alternative, the brothers of Sleipnir stood down reluctantly, having no idea who the annoying bastard and his men in black were or what he was referring to. They took Gunnar to one of the black cars.

  “If you follow us, we will blow his brains out. Good evening, boys,” Slokin said, dusting himself off and then he casually walked off and got in his car.

  Chapter 16

  The brethren of the biker club had no choice but to stand and watch their leader being taken away by strangers they knew nothing about, for reasons that eluded them. Befuddled, the bunch stood around, deeply concerned for Gunnar’s safety.

  “I got their plates,” one of the men said suddenly. “I can hack in and find their registration details.”

  “Then what are you still standing here for?” Alex barked urgently and pushed his friend back into the house to get to the computer and track the abductors. “Where is Jan, by the way? Anyone heard from him yet?” A resounding negative came from them and Alex knew that the unwelcome party they had just encountered had to have had something to do with Jan’s absence and it left a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “Alex, what did he want?” asked Erika, his wife. She was a soft spoken, fair haired woman who always had the trait of compassion for others. She was usually the first to offer help whenever someone in the club were distraught or in trouble. Alex was high strung after the taking of his closest friend and
now the violent abduction of their leader.

  “I really don’t have time for this, Erika,” he snapped. “Just let us sort this out and I’ll tell you everything, okay?”

  “What did they want?” she insisted, her voice a bit more firm and Alex knew his wife would pester him until he disclosed the details. “Val is beside herself. The least you can do is tell her what her husband was taken for!”

  Alex cast a glance over to Val, wringing her hands where she sat staring into space. A knock at the door prevented him from addressing her. One of the men called back, “Val, someone for you!” Val hardly responded. Listlessly, she looked up and when she saw Dr. Nina Gould standing in the doorway, she broke down and wept bitterly, “This is all my fault! My Gunnar is gone and it’s all my fault. My god, they are going to kill him!”

  Some of the women, Nina and Erika included, rushed to her aid and consoled her with hair stroking and hushing. Val buried her face in Erika’s neck and shook soundlessly as she cried.

  “Val, what are you involved in?” Nina asked with as much sympathy as she could carry in her tone. It was the perfect opportunity to pry, to pretend she only wanted Val to unload her sorrows, but she would finally get to the bottom of the developments that had been baffling her so. “I can help you, but you have to tell me everything. Now,” Nina whispered to her.

  Val turned to her, her eyes swollen and crimson. Her voice was empty and her tone deep, almost vindictive, “Where is the vial I gave you?”

  Nina was taken aback by Val’s shade of authority. Unlike the Val she knew, now she did not smile and yield to Nina’s urging, but instead did some domination of her own. Nina could read that Val was different and she knew this was not a good time to protest or insist on information.

  “It is in a safe place. Why?” Nina asked, intrigued by the long awaited revelation she was about to let in on.

  “WHERE? Nina.”

  “With Sam?” Nina hesitated. She felt like a schoolgirl addressed by a strict teacher, careful with her answer and hoping it would please the governess.

  “We have to get to Sam, then,” Val said, sniffing, her words distorted by obstructed sinuses.

  “Um…” Nina hesitated again, “…he is on his way here.”

  “With the vial?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I have reason to believe,” Nina continued with a deliberate vagueness, “that he is not keen to handle it.”

  “Oh, God, we’re in trouble now,” Val sighed hard and her eyes rolled back in hopeless abandon. “Nina, come with me.”

  Val pulled Nina up the stairs of the house by her arm. The historian was worried about Val, about the vial and about Sam. She did not know if she should still ask Val about the robberies, but she knew by intuition that she had come upon something big and deeply engorged in history. It was something, she knew, that was of worldwide significance. Nina felt, as she rarely did, that she was in the company of something truly monumental that was so much bigger, so much older, than the world’s affairs.

  The wide stairs, carved in dark wood and clothed by thick carpeting ascended to the second level of the house the Sleipnir Motorcycle Club called home. It was a place very far removed from the smoky bars and club houses of bikers generally have. How odd it was that they would congregate in a grand manor with walls lined with archaic paintings of Templars and Knights of old. Depictions of Vikings longboats sliding on the icy waters amidst the loom of darkened skies wherein the faces of Norse gods were discernable, decorated the canvas. However, Nina could not find evidence of the robberies anywhere. None of the stolen artifacts from any of the world museums hit could be found. Nina looked out for them, but was left disappointed.

  “Val,” she started as she was pulled into a small door at the end of the hallway on the second floor.

  “Shut up.”

  Val pulled Nina into the narrow and steep ascent of another stairwell that led to the room that filled the left tower of the manor. Two such towers flanked the front of the house in the old style of Anglo-Saxon masonry with the ornate quality of flagstones against the walls and employed as tower roofs. Up the musty stained corridor of stairs, they stepped hastily until they reached the room entrance.

  Nina was astonished by what she saw. There were no relics or stolen hoard items, but there was no doubt that Val had a few secrets. The room was fraught with tributes to Norse Mythology, not in the contemporary, political sense, but in the old way. Stone hammers adorned the shrine, symbols like the Triple-Horn and Valknut were carved in crude perfection into the wooden panels of the cupboards which held a collection of ancient scrolls and books, much like those procured by Professor Herman Lockhart Esq. when Nina needed rare information. Signs of the practice of Ásatrú were everywhere. Runes of the Elder Futhark spelled out ancient oaths on the wooden floor.

  Now Nina understood the name of the Motorcycle Club Val belonged to – Sleipnir. Of course, the eight-legged horse of Odin and the riders hailed their bikes steel horses!

  From up in the tower, Val and Nina heard the roar of the motorcycles as they flowed in two adjacent lines through the gate and into the darkening night.

  “They have an address, Val!” Erika’s voice sounded muffled by the bends and twists of the walls and staircases as she called up from the base of the tower stair.

  “Thank you! Get ready! We’ll be right down!” Val cried in a strong and firm voice.

  “Who has an address?” Nina asked.

  “The men. They traced the number plates of the kidnappers. That godless, power hungry bitch has my husband and that is reason for war, if I ever knew one,” Val said.

  “What godless, power hungry bitch? Val, what is going on?” Nina asked, her voice fraught with confusion and urgency.

  “Professor Lita Røderic, direct descendant of Erik Thorvaldsson…”

  Nina frowned.

  “…Erik the Red, Nina. Lita Røderic is an esteemed member of the Order of the Black Sun…”

  “Them, I know,” Nina said quickly, her expression of utter disgust briskly confirmed to Val that she had chosen the right ally.

  “Then you know what they are after most of the time: breeding a new Aryan Race, experimenting with physics and science to a blasphemous point of absurdity, obtaining religious relics and scrolls to pave their way to access the powers of gods and demons and let them loose onto the modern world to bring about Ragnarök. That insane bitch, with her fanatical ideals of world domination by corruption of the old Gods’ power, has the backing of The Order along with unmatched financial resources to make it happen,” Val explained as she hastily retrieved an enormous book. It was well over 800 years old and she opened the wooden covers, entirely inscribed with mercury and copper alloys.

  ‘Valhöll’, it read in the tarnished metal lettering.

  Val turned to face Nina and continued, “The only enforcers who can stop the Black Sun or Lita’s hordes is known as The Brotherhood, a group of Templars similar to the Knights Templar, only…not. Imagine a more murderous and ruthless version of Templar with no allegiance to Christianity. The Brotherhood has existed since the beginning of the last millennium, founded by a great Chieftain in Iceland to protect Valhalla from being discovered.”

  “Why? Is Valhalla real?” Nina asked, her stomach tingling with fascination.

  “Yes, it was a real place, but that is not what I have come to show you. Valhalla has to be kept obscured for the safety of the world as a whole, because inside it lives a fierce and destructive evil entombed there by Odin and his daughters. Lita and her Nazi fuckheads are after the key to the Great Hall of the Slain, of course. Only the Brotherhood can prevent them from obtaining entry, do you understand?” Val pressed and Nina nodded.

  “That is what trouble I am in. That is what you are helping me with. Now you know,” the biker lady attested as she opened the massive antique book.

  “Be careful with the pages,” came Nina’s automatic response, as avid protector of the frail antiquities of the world. Val’s mouth cu
rled in what was almost a smile, impressed by the historian’s guarding nature.

  “Don’t fret. The pages are made of human skin, not papyrus or paper,” Val reassured her in a disturbingly nonchalant manner, but Nina was too engrossed to bother with the human skin reference. Val went on to show Nina the etchings of the Æsir, Asgard, Fenrir, Thor, Odin, and all the well-known icons of the Norse Mythology. As she paged onward, the book became darker, more arcane, and the writings turned to different hands and various inks that Nina would not be surprised to find if it were blood.

  In the middle of the book, Val stopped at a chapter marked with a roughly sketched key, one of some significance, as it boasted the rune Tiwaz upon it, the rune representative of the god Týr and the principals of justice, sacrifice, and success in battle, just to name the most prominent. Val looked at Nina for a moment, as if to prepare her for what was to be shown, then she turned the page.

  There was an etching of a fierce clan of warriors, foaming at the mouth in the picture. Above the black and grey sketch read ‘Bróðurlega’, meaning ‘Brotherhood’, and Nina scrutinized the picture as Val urged her to. Nine warriors led the frontline, dressed not in armor or chainmail, but in clothing not befitting the era in which such tales were created. The Brotherhood wore leather pants that resembled cowboy chaps and their upper bodies were covered in black mesh, their backs and arms wrapped in leather and steel sleeves.

  “We are ready, Val!” Erika called from outside.

  Nina looked up at Val, who tried to smile while her soaked eyes dried.

  “You see, the Sleipnir Motorcycle Club are our foot soldiers. Lita and her goons mistook them for The Brotherhood and that is why she took my Gunnar. I want him back, Nina,” Val said, her revelation punching the historian in the gut like a sledgehammer.