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

by P. W. Child

  “The vial Slokin, the fucking vial! How many times do I have to ask you?” she rasped into the microphone.

  “Oh, I have an idea how we can save ourselves a lot of trouble with that,” he said. “Professor Lockhart told me that they had picked up a pet. A historian he knows personally. If we could get to her, we could get things moving along quicker so that you can have your vision to Valhalla, my lady.”

  “How will you know where she is?” she asked with a mild sliver of renewed hope.

  “The Professor and our associates are … acquainted. He is not amicable with the Templars, so I believe if I play nice, we might persuade him to deliver her unto us,” Slokin said in an preacher’s tone that only vexed Lita.

  “Then get to it, the days are drawing close, rapidly, and I have to find the Hall before the festival. Get a move on and get back to me soon. Otherwise I have a garrote here especially for those balls of yours.” With that Lita ended the call and ate the core of the apple.

  ***

  The somber atmosphere at Denton House was dreadful. Many of the brethren had been hospitalized for what they told authorities were just the result of one tire burst that caused a domino effect in the rest of the motorcycles. Val’s body was taken to undertaker funeral home for preparation. Her living will stated that she would have a traditional Viking burial and her older brother in Helsinki had arranged for a wooden boat to be built on which her pyre would be lit.

  Gunnar was beside himself with grief.

  He vowed that Slokin would be sent from this world by blood eagle, an ancient and brutal execution method, during which the back was cut open along the spines, the ribs on both sides of the spine severed and folded out so they resembled blood-stained wings.

  The big blue-eyed man hardly spoke now after he finally stopped screaming that night. Nine times he cut himself on the chest, slits equal in length across his chest, one for each Valkyrie. This was a declaration of war.

  Nina had stayed to help Gunnar and his friends with arrangements for Val’s funeral and other errands they needed her for, but in truth, she was buying time to stay long enough to verse herself in the teachings harbored in Val’s big book of not so far-fetched Nordic tales.

  Sam had returned home, because he could not leave his cat for more than a day without food or supervision. He also had the pressing matter of collecting Nina’s flask for her. She told him that she would feel better if she kept it with her after all, now that she knew what it was for. Sam didn’t dare to lament his fate at fetching the damned artifact with the charming personality, because it could be construed as an unwillingness to help. Obviously he would bring her the flask, no matter with what emotional protest and psychological damage, but first, he decided to sink a few single malts to work up the courage.. He would leave Bruich again on account of the antique bottle of booze and its horny genie, but being a man of priorities, and knowing that Nina was safe for now, he took some time for a drink.

  ***

  Nina was sitting in the tower room, reading from the fascinating book. At least, she attempted to learn as much as she could considering that most of it was written in foreign languages and dialects long disused. The etchings and sketches provided some understanding of the contents, but mostly she had to guess what it was all about. In such dismal circumstances, she could hardly expect to ask for help in translating the pieces she was most interested in. Outside, the weather mirrored the sentiments inside the house. The skies wept a drizzle, drenching everything outside and hazing up the window that overlooked the yard and the street that came to a T-junction in front of the gates of Denton House.

  Now and then, Nina could hear the reluctant murmur of thunder somewhere far off. Every time she passed the page about The Brotherhood, she paused and felt the sting of mourning for her late friend and it would remind her of Gunnar’s deep loss. He was so heartbroken that she could literally feel the melancholy exude from his body when she stood near him, as if his soul had seeped through his skin to envelop him in crippling grief.

  She wished that she could do more, that she could play a vital role in aiding their cause. For the first time in her life, she had something she felt the need to nurture, to cultivate bonds with people instead of incessantly studying toward a career that led nowhere apart from the bedrooms of a billionaire and the disdainful treatment from professors. This was important on a historical scale and she was a historian. For once, she felt that her knowledge of history and antique relics was of pivotal importance, instead of cataloguing items for dusty museums or consulting for the odd documentary on recent history.

  Now she was in the middle of nothing short of a leviathan battle for the very fate of the world, among people who did not care for luxury or social status, money or qualifications they could better one another with. These were modest masters who had the humility to nobly defend the selfish and ignorant world against tyrants bred by it. The irony baffled her.

  Here were people who constantly stood between mankind and evil without expecting any gratitude or compensation, silently fighting for the survival of all. Perhaps, she thought, they would have liked to be thanked, but they were simply well aware that the thankless societies they served would not even comprehend the contribution, let alone the devastating sacrifices.

  The rain stopped for a while. The heavens had ceased its weeping for the time being. Nina sighed deeply, wishing she could decipher some of the words in the unique book. Her phone rang and she answered without looking at the caller ID.

  “Sam?” she asked, curious as to when he would bring her the silver flask she so desperately needed to hide.

  “Dr. Gould,” the voice on the other side stated evenly. It was familiar to her, but she could not put her finger on the identity of the caller.

  “Yes? Who is this?” she rushed with an air of irritation in her voice.

  “It is Professor Lockhart, my dear.”

  Nina gasped quietly, feeling terrible for being so abrupt. “Professor Lockhart! Good morning. I’m sorry, I did not recognize your voice immediately,” she apologized. “How are you?”

  “Not a problem, my dear. It happens. I am well, thank you, but I fear I need to speed this along.”

  “How can I help you?” she asked, enjoying her new found capacity for being needed by others.

  “Actually, this call is about what you need,” he proclaimed. “I would like to meet with you sometime today, if possible?”

  Nina was somewhat taken aback. She had not expected to leave the house today and quite honestly, she did not feel like going out, but Herman Lockhart had always assisted her when she had absurd requests.

  “Um, certainly. I’m sure I can pinch off an hour or so to meet with you,” she replied lightly, “at the café where we last met?”

  “Uh, no. Heavens, no! I’m afraid our last meeting was noticed by some unsavory individuals whom I do not wish to engage, if you don’t mind. They would expect me there. Could you meet me at say, Warriston Cemetery, perhaps?” he asked in his cracking, straight bore voice.

  “Of course, Professor. May I ask what it is about? What do you have that I need?” she pried, admittedly intrigued by the possibilities, knowing what rarities he was capable of locating.

  He was silent for a moment.

  “It concerns a book. One containing material that pertains to your friend from the café,” he revealed.

  “Val?” she asked. Then she remembered his swift disapproval of Val in the café when he came to deliver her previous covert purchase. Nina deducted from his behavior that day that he knew who Val was, or at least what she represented.

  “Shall we say, in an hour?” the old man asked.

  “Yes. Absolutely. I shall see you by the entrance,” she suggested.

  “No, prying eyes might cause problems. In Section 5 there is a large mausoleum of the Carter- family. I shall meet you there,” he said.

  “Done!” Nina said as she finished scribbling the name on her notepad.

  After their or
deal the other night and the subsequent police statements and arrangements, most of Sleipnir-members had retired to catch up on sleep. Others found it therapeutic to work on their bikes in the garage in the back of the yard and just congregate with some beer and music to numb them into the delusion that everything was alright.

  They watched the petite, dark haired enigma hurry from the front door and head for the giant 4x4 that was way too big for her.

  “Where are you going, Miss Nina?” one of the men called out from the garage while his friend looked on, speculating, as men did, as to the pretty woman’s abilities in bed.

  “Warriston Cemetery!” she shouted as the drizzle returned with interest, becoming a mild downpour. “Please tell Gunnar I will be back in an hour or so, if he asks!”

  “You got it!” he answered and went deeper into the garage where the slanted rainfall could not reach further, while Nina literally propelled her small frame into the high door of the 4x4’s driver’s side.

  Chapter 19

  It took her a while to navigate through the neighborhoods in the torrents of water the clouds spewed onto the world below. She survived the traffic in Melville Drive, finally rounding Edinburgh Castle, which looked gloomy and ancient in the ghost like veil of rain. She never really paid attention to the Castle until now that she was involved with matters immeasurable by time. With renewed respect for its age and the events it had endured, laid witness to, Nina truly observed the majestic structure for once. She paid attention now to its sturdy walls and the sheer size of it, a most powerful life size relic out in the open for all to see, but unnoticed by almost everyone who lived here.

  “Beautiful,” she remarked to herself as she drove past the giant fortress on her way to the graveyard. The thunder raged now and the hard pelting on the wind screen forced her to strain her eyes through the frantic movement of the window wipers and the distorted view ahead, caused by the rivulets of water assaulting it. With patience that Nina was not aware she possessed, she navigated the streets to the beautiful graveyard with its tree canopies and old cement and stone stairways. The rain was a hassle when she exited the car and ran for cover under the solid grey stone archway of the bridge, hugged by trees and brush. Due to the weather, the place was virtually deserted, but Nina kept walking up the pathway which led underneath. Grateful for her Wellies and that the wind was still so that her umbrella could remain over her head, she walked through the deep puddles along the path, breathing in the fresh coolness of the bathing leaves and the newly wet mud.

  In front of her she saw no markers of sections. Nina had not been to this graveyard before, but the pleasant sight of picturesque stone walkways and rich foliage throughout the silent monuments to passed on souls, made her search less taxing. Hoping she would not get lost, she looked back on her trail so that she would remember what it looked like coming back toward the gate. She was not easily confused by direction, but in a vast cemetery where the surface area was covered with seemingly endless rows of stone markers, it was easy to lose one’s way.

  Before long, even though the downpour had eased to a light rain now, she had to admit that she was lost. There were no such things as demarcations or signs anywhere, only lanes and more lanes of pathways laced with greenery. Towering trees stood amongst the headstones, but she could not really mark her way back by them, as they carried no distinctive traits by which to recognize them. No matter how she searched, she could find no trace of signs or anything else that would say ‘Section 5’. Of a mausoleum, Carter or by any other name, there was no sign for as far as she could see around her.

  “My god, I’m lost. Can you believe it? You are lost, idiot,” she said out loud to herself, stomping her right boot into the collection of tiny wild ferns that sprung up from crevices between the rocks . As her eyes combed the area, she saw the static slabs and monoliths, upon them the names of those who once spoke and loved and moved, now gone and perished. They were all still here, she thought, by name. In a macabre way Nina realized that she was standing in a crowd, a garden of names, and a field of souls.

  After the initial concern for her lost bearings the inconvenience of it all had made her miserable, Nina’s temper kicked in. Vexed beyond reason by the old man and his haste in meeting her, she cussed under her breath as she carried on moving toward the path she had come from in hopes of finding her way back to the bridge. Something stirred behind her and Nina stopped swearing long enough to look for what had heard. Nothing.

  Her big brown eyes darted vigilantly between the tree trunks and headstones, waiting for Professor Lockhart to make his appearance. She really thought he would just then, because the feeling of someone’s presence there with her was strong and undeniable. But nobody stepped from behind anything. Nina shivered. There was a distinct feeling that someone was watching her here among the dead, that someone walked in her footsteps every time she turned. Her intuition draped a shroud of anxious caution over her, urging her to call Sam, if only for some company.

  A loud shuffle behind her caught her attention and she turned with a gasp, ready to fight if she had to. An impending belief formed in her mind that it could be Val, accompanying her. It was no doubt a shield called into being by Nina’s own fear.

  “Val?” she found herself saying out loud, without meaning to make such a ludicrous claim.

  Only the trees whispered back as the rain stopped to give way to a rising breeze. Now it was more difficult to discern between moving leaves and moving figures as the wind stirred everything around her.

  Nina took out her phone to call Sam. She could not sit down on the wet stone, so she leaned against the wall of a rather tall monument with several names engraved in it. As she started dialing, a man in the distance caught her eye. He was dressed in all black, his head shaved and his eyes so light blue that she could see his piercing stare from afar.

  “Creep,” she said under her breath and looked down on the cell phone screen. To her right another movement startled her, this one being much closer. Nina looked up and saw another man, dressed in a long black coat and a fedora. He stood with his eyes fixed on her, just like the other one, who was now walking towards her.

  ‘Don’t panic. Don’t run. Pretend you don’t know,’ her common sense advised. And quickly Nina took a deep breath and began to text Sam.

  ‘Danger. Warriston Cemetery. HELP!’ was all she had time for before the two men closed in on her, one aiming for her phone and the other reaching into his pocket. Nina pressed ‘Send’ and with a grunt of defiance she hurled her cell phone against the concrete of a heavy grave slab nearby, watching it smash to pieces on impact so that they could not use her contact list.

  She felt the barrel of a gun against her ribs and a soft voice said, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Nina hoped that the message went through to Sam’s number before her phone broke.

  “Let me guess – there is no Section 5 and there is no Carter, right?” she said casually, refusing to show the two men any weakness and feed their power. In some strange way, she felt any fear she may have had fall from her. As Nina walked with them, numb and blank of expression, she felt an irrefutable surge of pride and courage fill her. It was a calmness she had never known before, as if no consequence would harm her spirit. Anxious to see where she was being taken to, but fully aware of the motives of her kidnappers, Nina could feel that someone was walking with her. A sweet scent filled the air so vividly that the man with the gun lifted his head to sniff the striking flowery scent and Nina knew that even the threat of death held no sway over her anymore.

  Chapter 20

  Sam threw back his fourth dumb-water and decided to take a deep breath on the impact of recent events. It was not so much the alcohol which induced such pondering, but the shocking death of Val Joutsen which, in some personal way, affected him. At first, Sam thought it might be the similar loss he had suffered when his Trish was killed in the same brutal and bloody manner, but it felt different. Before, when he was subjected to comparable situ
ations, he would feel faint and hurl towards a deep depressive longing, a devastation relived vividly each time. Now, since his subsequent therapy, the presence of dire emotion had become considerably weaker when he witnessed disturbing things like the departure of a soul, until he endured the touching scene of Val’s death.

  As an investigative journalist, he had had to cultivate a thick skin through the years, an objective point of view which afforded him the aptitude for apathy to a certain extent, for lack of a better explanation. He never thought of himself as apathetic, but he did notice, as his career matured, that he became more and more desensitized. This attitude spared him a lot of emotional trauma until he had to watch Trish getting shot in the face. Sam ousted the memory with a violent shake of his head that most patrons must have construed as a vicious banishment of impending blackout. Inside him, he recollected something terrible that did not punch him as hard as before, yet it was enough to provoke upset for the recent passing of someone he did not even know well. Sam was angry, for some reason. He did not mean to be, but he was angry for failing his fiancé, for not caring anymore – or so it had been feeling. Maybe Nina was right that night. He had become soft, comfortable in his selfish forgiveness born from his recent professional mindfuck courtesy of Dr. Klein and his bullshit of absolving oneself. Sam got another drink, the music in the establishment now nothing more than a morose soundtrack to his secret blame game.

  Without being at all aware of it, he was treading unsurely, his footing less than desirable for a sober man. As he approached the bar he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and defiantly pressed the red button to get some time alone with his demons. Sam felt a mean streak possess him, a cruel indifference that momentarily ate up his compassion. It was as if his dormant self-pity grew tentacles and dipped into his guilt to grow on what had been long festering there.