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

by P. W. Child

  “Another one, Dugal!” he shouted to the bartender on the far side and placed his phone back in his jacket pocket. It was Sam-time now and he wanted no interruptions while he wrestled with thoughts of international travel, past tragedies, recent tragedies, haunted alcohol flasks, and spate of attacks against historical treasures. It was rather surreal, he thought, all these strange happenings. Previous encounters with clandestine and insidious organizations had tempered him into a less cynical man, but what he was getting into now was a tad too hard to swallow. It was all a bit too deep for him; too deep, emotionally, too deep, historically and certainly way too deep spiritually.

  Sam had never really believed in a god, or gods, or miracles and mythos. Legends and their heroic characters, in his opinion, had always been cultural moral code put to flesh, rules, and behavioral tradition represented by a name. Names feared and worshipped for generations assured the continuation of racial pride, of reverence for one’s breed. All this he could understand before, he just did not embrace it in himself. What chewed at him this time round was something tangible in the details that he could not deny.

  Sam Cleave had stumbled right into a fairy tale world of dragons and swords, or so it felt, and he had to admit that it was all very real to him. The tales and characters stretched well beyond books and role playing games this time. It all grasped him by the back of the neck, where the truth had a tendency to apply its icy grip and make the flesh crawl in its affirmation. It forced him to change his perceptions.

  The Brotherhood, the persistently resurfacing Black Sun Order, Norse Mythology lodged squarely in antique history, and the irrefutable parallels between historical men of renowned and ethereal gods was undeniably real. For those who cared to venture deeper into the origins of these factors, cults, and tales, it would become frighteningly obvious that there existed a fascinating connotation with the old heathen gods when wandering to the right places on earth. Even when the cynic questioned the existence of that magic, in those places where gods walked as mere chieftains the atmosphere was gripping, a direct conduit to the soul of the visitor regardless of their orientation or culture. Sam could feel the arms of ancient men reach out to shake his hand and it terrified him.

  This was beyond a doubt what Nina found so enticing about her vocation, he realized. But he was a reporter, a voyeur into the soulless eyes of events and the voice of reason that made it known. What was he doing getting involved with modern day Templars and Nazis in this daft world, still tracing the footsteps of history’s cadavers?

  “After this one, I cut you off, Cleave,” Dugal warned with a raised eyebrow as he poured the amber liquid into a tumbler. “You look like shite. Why don’t you catch up on your sleep?”

  Sam and Dugal had known each other for years. The bartender knew well when the journalist was ill or tired, angry or curious. Sam knew he was right too, to call him on his drinking, but he could not explain his reluctance to return home and he just nodded.

  “Just one more, my friend,” Sam smiled sheepishly and reveled in the rich pristine whisky that filled the bottom of the equally unsullied cut glass of the tumbler. “I’m heading home anyway.”

  “I hope you’re not driving!” Dugal gasped, the sagging bags under his old eyes quivering with the contortion of his expression. Sam’s eyes scrutinized his, trying to lie, but Dugal knew him too well to even allow him his answer.

  “That’s it,” the old man exclaimed and tossed his dish cloth under the counter, “I’m getting my boy to take you home. We’ll pick you up in the morning to collect your car here in the parking lot, ye hear?”

  “I need my car. I am on my way somewhere after this,” Sam explained quickly.

  “The hell you are!” Dugal protested, “There is no way you are walking out of my pub like this, left to your own devices and go…go kill yourself from that belly full of devil’s piss!”

  No matter how Sam tried to explain that he wished to go to Newington this night, Dugal would not hear of it.

  “Terry! Take Cleave home, would you?”

  “Aye, just gotta take a piss,” his son answered from the small corridor between the back of the bar counter and the men’s room.

  And with no other choice but to allow this, lest he be reported to the police as per Dugal’s well-intended threat, Sam was on his way home with Terry.

  “Good thing to that you’re not driving, ‘ey Cleave?” Terry’s deceptively deep voice filled the silent car. He was a gaunt, acne-riddled lad in his early twenties, but his scrawny neck harbored a voice that could intimidate just about anyone. He briefly shot a glance to the heavily inebriated journalist in the passenger seat, “You know, with it pissing down with rain and all that. You are half asleep. Hell, I can’t even see the road in front of us, so I can’t imagine how you would have gotten four blocks from dad’s pub.”

  Sam was quiet and just stared ahead while the roof of the car was battered with heavy rain, obscuring all vision through the windows. It had become night much quicker than Sam had anticipated and he soon realized that it was, indeed, too late for him to go anywhere tonight. Eventually, after a long pause, he turned his head to Terry and asked plainly, “Do you believe in gods?”

  “In God? Well, yes, of course. I’ve been a…”

  But Sam cut him off, “Not God. Gods. Like all that god of thunder, god of war, god of biscuits, goddess of nail polish…”

  Terry frowned. Sam burst out laughing, a genuine robust laugh that possessed an inkling between sincerity and fear, “I don’t either!” He laughed and slapped the young man’s knee three times as he chuckled. Terry cracked a smile. He was not stupid, but he was hardly an informed lad in anything more than politics, religion, music and the footie. All he knew about Mythology was that the God of War had a crush on Xena, Warrior Princess and that Hercules was the son of Zeus…because it said so in the TV show.

  Sam started babbling about his disappointment in his therapist, a chick called Nina who had a great ass and leaving his cat alone with a genie, all of which was mildly amusing to the young Terry. He smiled more and more at Sam’s ramblings, while wondering how he would get home safely if the weather persisted. His phone rang just as Sam grew quiet at the sight of his street’s name on the sign on the corner. As if he was sober, his laughter waned and his concentration increased on the task at hand – going into his flat.

  “’Lo Dad. Yes, we just got here, but Sam is…” he briefly glanced at the slumping drunk next to him who’s eyes stared dead ahead into the night and Terry lowered his voice, “a bit…unstable, Dad.”

  Sam heard Terry’s diagnosis of him, but he did not much care. In fact, the lad was not far off. Sam did not know what to expect when he walked back into the flat and he certainly did not want to be alone with that damned artifact. Terry completed the rest of the call before the car came to a halt in the lush growth of the weeping trees populating the complex court yard.

  “My dad says if you feel, you know, bad or something, you are welcome to give him a call if you feel the need and all that,” Terry stuttered. He was not the sensitive type of Scot, had there ever been such a thing, and telling someone that they cared about them was always subliminally construed as an infringement on their masculinity.

  “I’m alright, Terry. Just had a few shitty days,” Sam assured him as he fumbled at the car door to find the handle. He felt dazed and weak from the alcohol. Not even the ice cold rain could sober him up slightly. Sam felt miserable as he laid eyes on his front door in the corner of the quadrangle which made up the residential complex where he lived.

  Terry walked with him to make sure that he navigated his way on the slippery cement that stretched from the entrance of the courtyard toward Sam’s door . Two steps glistened in the garden lamps that stood hidden amongst the well-kept garden’s bushes and illuminated the branches of the tall trees. As the rain fell, crystal tears dripped from the tips of the leaves.

  “Hurry!” Sam shouted at the lagging frame of the skinny young man following
in his trail.

  “Mind the steps, Sam,” Terry warned.

  “Hey,” the inebriated Sam turned to face him with an amused chuckle, “I’m the one who lives here. I know we have steps.” He scoffed and turned, immediately tripping over the first increment and landing on the top step with both knees. He groaned as Terry helped him up.

  “If you say I told you so, I’ll kill you,” Sam said as he was helped to his feet, but Terry only wanted to get under the roof of the long external corridor so that they could open their eyes properly. The showers were gradually flooding the lawns and pathways as they raced for cover, staggering as they went. The thunder was kinder than the rain, only rumbling softly now and then while the wind grew stronger, battering their backs with sheets of water.

  Finally, Sam managed to get his key into the door and when they entered the dark warmth of his home, they felt momentarily relieved. Sam quickly slammed his hand on the wall switch and illuminated his modern living area. Closing the door behind them, he looked around for anything suspicious. But all was normal and unperturbed. Even Bruich jogged out to say hello and Sam briskly whisked his pet up in his arms, something he never readily did anymore. Terry petted the large yawning Bruich, immediately evoking a purr from the intelligent feline.

  “You want a whisky to warm your bones?” Sam asked, heading to the kitchen to get Bruich some food.

  “I still have to drive home, Sam. Can’t be drinking now,” Terry explained. Sam gave him a long look as he let the cat jump from his arms, then looked out the window at the flashing heavens and the rivulets that decorated the outside of his windows. With a pointing thumb, he asked, “You plan to drive home in this flood tonight?”

  Terry had to consider Sam’s question. It was true. The place was flooded from the downpour that the drive home through Edinburgh would be quite dangerous.

  “Alright, let me call Dad and tell him I’m sitting out the rain for now,” Terry decided out loud.

  “Aye, let him know you might have to stay the night. I’ll get you a glass,” his host answered and without waiting for a reply, went ahead to retrieve the almost empty bottle of Grouse. Terry had to yield. Sam was relieved that his deliberate stalling helped him acquire a companion for the night, so that he was not left on his own with whatever threatened him before. Even just knowing that there was someone else there was good enough for him. Just another soul, so that he did not feel so alone. Sam hesitantly put his palms on his chafed knees under the wet denim of his jeans. He poured them each a drink and shook the last drops from the neck of the empty bottle.

  “Shit,” he said.

  “No worries. Not as if you hadn’t had any tonight, ‘ey? But I might still have a half jack in my backpack from fishing yesterday. I’ll check later,” Terry laughed. Sam was not really amused that he was suddenly left dry, but he managed a snigger and threw away the glass bottle. Blood was seeping through the denim over his knees and he thought it best to go take a shower before passing out wet and bloody on his clean bedding. He chugged his alcohol.

  “I have to excuse myself to get this mess organized,” he slurred with great ceremony, curtsying to accommodate his hand gestures to the injuries he sustained on the steps outside.

  He turned on the television and offered Terry the couch as the thunder made the windows shudder under its aural intensity. Terry watched Sam disappear into the dark corridor and the bathroom light falling in an askew square against the wall. Bruich cordially made himself at home on Terry’s lap, but the young man did not mind. With his father’s good looks he was always guaranteed of going home alone, so he found the animal’s affection refreshing, even if it did not judge in finding the softest, warmest spot to sleep on.

  Sam looked at the ceiling, avoiding the direct stream of steaming water on his face. His knees burned from the warmth as the tepid streams ran over the raw skin. Apart from the sensation of scalding his knees the water rejuvenated him, but he leaned with one hand against the tiles to support him in the spinning cubicle. Sam’s troubles had not subsided, but his incessant contemplation had been reduced considerably. For some reason, all the things he fought with in the pub had now culminated into one cauldron. Like a pot of soup, his collective thoughts surfaced and sank again before he could fully mull it over, a merciful confusion that had Sam too befuddled to nurture any one of his demons at a time.

  When Sam finally sobered up, though ever so slightly as it was, he laboriously pulled on his sweat pants, straining over his still moist skin. It was so taxing that Sam decided not to dress any further. He was tired. He was drunk. He was not in the mood for petty shit like trying to get a shirt over his upper body or drying his hair. In fact, he did not even bother to hang the towel over the aluminum fixture right next to him and just dropped it in a hot wet heap on the floor.

  “Have you eaten yet, Terry?” he called down the corridor on his way to where the television was blaring on some documentary about poisonous marine life.

  “I had pizza.”

  “When?”

  “Lunch time?”

  “That’s half a day ago, Terry!” Sam rummaged through the kitchen cupboard for something to satisfy his alcohol-induced munchies.

  “I didn’t think you’d care about food, Cleave,” Terry laughed, “You are happier drinking than eating, from what I see.”

  He placed the two glasses on the counter. Sam loved that sound and instantly he forgot how hungry he was.

  “But we drink it my way this time. I don’t know how you can drink this stuff neat. It’s fucking disgusting, like Samagon or any home brew shite. I have mine with Coke and ice, but I’ll void the ice since your fridge has never heard of the concept,” he teased.

  “Geez, Terry, mixing your whisky with Coke is not exactly distinguished,” Sam lectured in his semi-sober voice, “but I shall pardon your middle school antics…”

  “Aye!”

  “…just because you came through,” Sam smiled as he raised his glass and with no time wasted, threw back his quota with zeal.

  “Wait! I still want to propose a toast, you arse!” Terry cried, disappointed. His father never let him get a toast in either and he just loved thinking up insignificant stuff to drink to. But Sam Cleave was a man of the moment and he swallowed before Terry could finish his words of protest.

  “Shit, it’s not the same to toast alone.”

  Sam slammed down his glass with a terrible wince at the putrid taste, but he felt accomplished and waited for Terry to make his toast. Terry did not feel like it anymore. It was a serious downer. He watched Sam’s smile disappear, his eyes blinking profusely as if he was trying to understand something unfathomable.

  “What’s wrong?” Terry asked with his glass suspended in the air.

  Sam began to pant wildly, his body moist once more, but this time from perspiration. By the end of his hair that curled up in small coils on his shoulders Terry could discern the quivering of his locks, yet Sam stood frozen in the spot, his face suspended in horror. Grinding his teeth from the hell in his gullet spreading through his chest like a vice grip on his heart, Sam suddenly gripped his chest.

  “Sam?”

  “What the fuck did you give me?” Sam screamed when his lungs finally filled with enough oxygen.

  “What do you mean? I found the Coke in my backpack and some leftover whisky in one of your flasks,” Terry revealed.

  Sam’s blood turned to ice at Terry’s words. All of a sudden he was stone cold sober and a steel wire of sheer panic wove a net over his skull.

  “Christ! Terry, you just killed me, you fucking imbecile!” Sam screamed furiously, but his voice came out withered and hardly audible. With his one hand he grabbed Terry’s glass and smashed it in the sink. He wanted to strangle the unwitting young man for his error, but his logic reminded him that Terry had no way of knowing about the contents of the sinister vial.

  “What! What did I do? Sam? Sam?” Terry asked in a frenzy, while his host collapsed in front of him. Sam was clutching his he
art, his jugular a welt under his jawline and his muscles strained in contraction.

  “Oh my god, Sam! What do I do? What do I do?” Terry shouted, sunk to his knees next to Sam, his inept hands lightly tapping at Sam’s convulsing body in an attempt to help, but he did not know where to touch, what to do. Finally, his instinct kicked in and he raced for his cell phone, but on trying to call his father at the pub, realized that he was out of money to call. He grabbed Sam’s cell phone, but it was turned off.

  “Sam! What is your cell phone password?” he shouted to the writhing man he thought he had poisoned, who was dying on the kitchen floor.

  “Veritas!” Sam forced in his loudest voice, which was no more than a quivering whimper. Terry tapped in the Latin password and gained access, but he had to wait for a signal. Outside the weather was merciless and a lonely sense of utter terror gripped Terry as he dialed, but his father’s number was engaged. He rushed over to Sam, who was slowly losing consciousness.

  “Sam! Sam, who do I call?” he urged frantically.

  “Nin-n-na. C-all Nina.”

  Terry dialed her number and waited, watching the journalist’s eyes grow darker as his lids fought not to close.

  “Fuck! Fuck!” Terry grunted. Now he could feel his frustration mount, trumping even his fear. If all else failed he would just bang down the door of a neighbor. “Sam, Nina’s number is out of commission. Switched off, or something.”

  Sam shook his head, “Can’t be. No-not Nina.”

  “Who else?”

  “Val. Call V-al. Her husband w-will pick up,” Sam gasped, and with that, his eyes closed and his chest sank all the way down, still as a marble slab.

  Chapter 21

  In the smoky room no bigger than a public toilet in the slums of Germany, the old man sat crouched over on his bed. It was a misty morning outside his window where his small apartment room overlooked the outskirts of Glasgow. For a man with his heritage and an affluent family who funded his prosperous career as a literary genius and teacher in World War II Germany, his accommodations were dreadfully modest.