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

by P. W. Child

  With the tide low and the wind still, most of the passing vessels lay quietly off shore, much farther out than usual. It was a serene sight for anyone who would stand sentinel on the broken towers of the stronghold, in sharp contrast to what was happening in the bowels of the building. In the ill lit chambers of the lowest floor where the floor was flooded, several cells populated the west side of the castle. In one of those cells, a petite brunette sat on the bunk that was starkly new in relation to the stone room it furnished. Nina was cold, her lips and nails light blue from the chill. In the freezing bare rooms, the cold sea air had permeated all night, rendering her unable to sleep at all. Under her normally wide and bright dark eyes, dark circles haunted her pretty features and she pulled her knees up tightly against her chest to generate some form of warmth. Nina tried to ease her breathing, the shivering just exacerbating her torment, but it was not working. Everything around her, everything inside her, was cold. It was the kind of frigidity that burned through the tissue and tightened the ligaments and tendons to that movement would be impaired severely, so much that rapid animation could well tear muscle or sinew.

  From afar, she could hear voices approaching and she desperately hoped for broth or a blanket, perhaps. It sounded like three or four people, and among them a female voice comforted her at first, but then she realized who it could be. This gave her a new coldness to suffer from and she buried her face between her knees. The voices grew louder, the female being the most prominent voice and not a moment later, after the echo of a steel lock being clacked open, three people entered the cell. One was the man in the suit Nina recognized as one of the two men in the cemetery who abducted her. With him was the horrid looking imp who had kidnapped Gunnar, the leader of the Sleipnir Motorcycle Club, Jasper Slokin. The awful little bastard was fidgeting madly at the sight of her, so eager to please the towering mistress next to him. Like an Omega, he cowered in her shadow, constantly looking up at her as he spoke, seeking approval and praise, none of which she ever freely gave to anyone.

  Nina laid eyes on the woman Val had told her about, the untouchable genius with the delusion that she could extinguish all resistance that still existed in this world. The historian combed Lita’s stature, instantly fathoming the intimidation she wielded in others. Tall and powerful the scarlet haired Amazon stood between the two men, her eyes dropped to the ground for a moment as she waited for Slokin’s groveling to subside.

  “Where is the old man now?” she asked. Nina started at her voice. It was remarkably beautiful for its damaged quality and she listened attentively to the eccentric woman’s pronunciation. It was odd. There was a German hardness to her consonants, broken only by the rolling of some of her vowels that gave it a Scandinavian flair. She was most certainly not Scottish, but she resided in Edinburgh most of the time, for Scotland’s central location served her best in her endeavors to chase after Viking relics.

  “He is en route, madam,” the man from the cemetery replied quickly and clearly. It struck Nina as if the man was terrified and responded with utmost efficiency and speed as not to aggravate his employer. Then she remembered what Val had told her about Lita. She was so intelligent that she had gone insane, but her knowledge of psychology foiled any attempts at having her committed. Cleverly, she would play her way around their diagnoses, changing her behaviorisms daily to elude their damning findings and nullify their arguments. It only reinforced their opinion of her mentally unstable capacity for manipulation.

  “When he gets here, bring him to me immediately,” she ordered.

  “Yes, madam,” the man said, and with a nod he left the room.

  Nina looked up through the dark strands of her hair. She felt strangely numb, but she could feel an impending fear sleep just beneath it and it made her unsure of her position.

  “Dr. Nina Gould,” Lita rasped as she lit a cigarillo. Her long red hair was rolled up in a bun that sat right at the top of her head and it looked like an absurd pagoda. It made her neck look exceedingly long under her obviously Teutonic features. A striking ruby pendant adorned the center of her chest, just below the jugular notch where Nina’s keen eye detected a small vertical scar. She reckoned that it had something to do with the woman’s voice – an operation, perhaps?

  “What do you want?” Nina snapped, but she kept her hostility to a level of disregard instead of disrespect.

  The barefoot lady strode gracefully toward her cell, kissing the tip of her cigarillo to suck in the smoke it yielded. Her long red dress reminded Nina of the old paintings in books on Arthurian Legend. Folding only under Lita’s breasts where her abdomen was flattest, it flowed down closely against her hips and thighs until the hem came to rest on the wet floor.

  “What do I want?” Lita asked with a wry smile, birthing thick white smoke as her lips parted into words. “From you? Absolutely nothing. You are bait, doctor. That is the only use I have for you.”

  “Bait for whom?”

  “Bait…for what, you mean,” she winked. “I want that trinket your bitch friend claimed and hid among her harlots. I know all about that,” Lita said and cast a glance to the repulsive little man behind her, “I believe your dear friend is…” she looked back at Nina, “…dead as a door nail.”

  Slokin rubbed his claws together, sniggering under his breath. Nina felt the hate seething through her, her trademark fiery temper rising. She clenched her fists, but she remembered Val’s advice on taking on Lita without proper preparation. Nina could not allow the mean psychopath to get to her, especially when she had to protect The Brotherhood and Sleipnir from failing to keep Valhalla hidden.

  “What are you laughing at, fucktard?” Nina barked at Slokin, wiping his grin off his face within a second. His beady eyes pierced her with disdain and he opened his mouth, but Lita raised her arm, the cigarillo between her two fingers and pointed at him, shaking her head. He ceased immediately, but his eyes kept burning through his small adversary in the cell.

  “Slokin, go wait for Lockhart,” the tall woman ordered in a mellow tone, expecting absolute compliance.

  Without any protest, Slokin left the room, but Nina could see that his obedience to Lita was the only restraint she enjoyed from him. He would be a most unfortunate opponent should the bars of her cell come down. Still, he killed Val and she would give anything to watch Gunnar take him apart for it.

  “Val Joutsen and her troop had something I want, something I need. And I want it now. You are going to tell me whom to call and I will tell them to bring me that most special item in return for you,” she informed Nina, the sharp light above her throwing shadows upon her slender face that formed the precise shape of her skull. It looked quite macabre. “You know, just like they do in the movies.”

  “That’s it?” Nina played along, even though she was fully aware of the red dragon’s reputation for merciless disposal of used goods. Why would she keep Nina alive after she had obtained the vial?

  “That is it, my darling,” Lita said and she sank down on the floor in one move, her controlled agility impressive. For a brief moment, Nina cold have sworn that she saw something twitch next to Lita’s knee as the dress pulled up slightly, but as soon as she blinked she saw only Lita’s ankles and dirty feet peek from the hem of the red dress. The powerful observation skills of the historian took in small details about her enemy, most notably the small fresh cuts under her feet.

  “What are you looking for?” Nina asked, her voice quivering from the cold that bit her skin.

  “‘The Vision of Kvasir’, as you well know. I am sure The Brotherhood filled you in on it all while you were licking their feet,” she sneered through the last smoke of the cigarillo. She flicked it on the ground and doused it with her bare foot. Nina winced at it, but she noted that her captor’s face showed no iota of discomfort as her ice blue eyes stared Nina down. The pretty historian was no fool. She knew a warning when she saw one.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Nina told Lita, hiding the shudder in her tone as best she could.
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  Lita laughed. It was a laugh of genuine amusement without any competition or intimidation in it.

  “That’s sweet, my darling,” she said, refusing Nina her war. “But I did not bring you here to scare you, did I? Keep your defensiveness in check, please. Don’t provoke my intolerance. I want the vial and you are going to call your friends to bring it to me,” Lita sighed. She sat on the floor, waiting for Nina’s answer like a bored schoolgirl.

  “And if I refuse?”

  “My goodness, peach, I thought you were smart. What exactly about that question seems a little off to you?” Lita chuckled. Nina had to admit to herself that it was a very stupid attempt at defiance that just made her look dumb. She intended to recover quickly and get things moving along. Doing the Ping-Pong bantering would just waste time and it was just childish.

  “Give me the phone and give me an address,” she demanded.

  “Ha!” Lita clapped her hands together with a giggle and rose without the support of her hands on the floor. It looked unnatural. She pulled a cell phone from a small sewn in pocket on the front of her dress, just below the waist beading and handed it to Nina through the bars.

  ‘Don’t try anything with this one,’ Nina warned herself as the temptation of grabbing her captor’s hand mounted, releasing adrenaline through her.

  Lita wrapped her slender hands around the bars and leaned in, pressing her hauntingly beautiful face in between. With her hair pulled away and her face isolated between the iron bars, Nina realized that her nemesis had the youth of a 20 year old. According to Val’s records, Professor Lita Røderic was a member of the Thule Society and involved in the Ahnenerbe, of which the last member reportedly perished somewhere in the mid-1940’s. Nina looked at her face as she dialed Sam’s number and she could have sworn Lita’s skin displayed just a faint hint of luminescence.

  Chapter 23

  Terry waited in all urgency for Gunnar to answer the phone after his shaking hands had punched in the number. He was too weak to drag Sam’s limp body to the couch, so he just brought a pillow and two blankets to the kitchen and covered Sam right there on the floor.

  On the other side of the line a deep, abrupt voice identified himself as Gunnar.

  “H-hello? My name is Terry and I am a friend of Sam Cleave’s…”

  “Yes?”

  “Sam has collapsed and he said I must contact you urgently,” Terry frowned, realizing how it must sound to Gunnar.

  “How do you mean, collapsed? Is he drunk?” Gunnar asked, sounding very annoyed.

  “I think he was poisoned, by something in a…a…” the bartender picked up the flask from which he had poured their drinks and scrutinized it carefully as he tried to explain, “…antique looking silver container. He was really pissed at me. He said I killed him. Then he said I must call you. I-I don’t…really know why, but…I just know I must call you!”

  A long pause followed from the other side, but Terry could hear several people talking in the background, as if discussing his phone call. Then a woman answered, “Listen, can you bring him to Newington?” It was Erika, the new Chieftain of The Brotherhood.

  “Um…the rain is crazy. Not sure if I can drive like this,” Terry replied, looking at the large lazy cat lying asleep, carefree and exempt of human worry or tribulation. He wished he could have the last hour back so that he could still be in Bruich’s worry-free state. Now he was subjected to the opposite – probably guilty of manslaughter and about to spend the next decade or two missing out on life. His entire body throbbed with panic as the woman on the line raised her voice slightly and said, “Well, then he is as good as dead! You decide what you want to do, brave the rain or dump the body!”

  That was enough for Terry.

  Forty minutes later, after calling his father from Sam’s phone, they arrived at the large mansion with Sam in the back seat. Terry had called Dugal and rambling insanely, begged him to lock up and come help with the dying man. Dugal had never heard his son this frantic and, knowing the state in which Sam had left the pub, he figured the journalist must have drunk himself into a coma. However, what he saw when Terry opened the front door, was nothing that he could have expected. Dugal did not even ask for an explanation when he saw the state of his old acquaintance, although Terry filled him in on Sam’s request to call the man called Gunnar. When Terry’s father saw the container, the old Scotsman felt a twinge in his stomach. Perhaps, he thought, the contents had to have been really old and poisoned Sam, because of the evident antiquity of the flask.

  There was something else he could not put his finger on, something subliminally sinister he could feel when first saw the beautiful silver piece. He smelled the inside, but could not place the flavor. It was definitely potent, he could tell. Dugal thought it well to take the container with them to Sam’s friends, just in case they asked what he had been poisoned by.

  Terry hammered on the front door of the huge house while Dugal had Sam on his shoulders in a fireman’s carry.

  “Bring him in,” said the big biker who opened the door. Behind him was a house was full of people.

  “You havin’ a party?” Dugal groaned under Sam’s weight.

  “No, we live here at the moment,” Gunnar said plainly, “Come, bring him to the bed quickly. Erika! Erika, Sam is here!” Gunnar took them to one of the spare rooms on the ground floor under the staircase. It was a small room with just enough space for one single bed and a bedside table and lamp.

  “They all live here?” Dugal whispered hard at his son, who was absolutely fascinated with the array of Norse themed paintings on the walls. Like a child filled with wonderment, he followed his father into the room, hardly paying attention to Sam anymore. Erika came into the room. She was an imposing lady, but her eyes were soft.

  “Is Nina not with you?”

  “No, who is Nina?” Dugal asked, but Terry recalled the name. It was the woman he was supposed to call first.

  “Never mind, I thought she was with Sam,” she replied.

  Very serious and strict, Erika asked the two men to recount in as much detail what had happened. As soon as they had told her everything, she shook her head, putting her hand on Sam’s forehead. She asked for the vial. It was empty. A look of subdued horror crossed Erika’s face.

  “You may go home now,” she told Dugal and Terry.

  “How do we know he will be alright, Miss?” Dugal asked, adamant to stay and make sure Sam was okay.

  “If you do not let us do our thing now he will be dead within the hour, so stay, go, whatever suits you. I just would prefer you stay out of our way while we help Sam,” she said urgently as she motioned for a selected group of women to join her. Two of the men came in to lift Sam from the bed. Terry held on to Sam’s cell phone. He felt the device buzz at once, but he was not sure how to navigate the phone yet.

  It read, ‘1 Unread Message – Nina’

  Terry was relieved that she had sent a text. Now he could tell her about Sam, as he was initially supposed to. Just as soon as he managed to read the message he could call or text her back.

  “Come, come,” Alex said. He spread his muscular arms to corral the two men away from the gathering. “You can wait here in the house with us. Let the women take care of Sam. Let’s get a few beers.”

  The Sleipnir boys all went into the house and Gunnar closed the back door behind them.

  Like the roar of a thousand oceans, the thunder clamored high overhead in the sky above Edinburgh. White lightning pulsed through the thick cloud cover, giving features to the faces formed within them. Rain showered down and drowned everything directly above the surface of the ground. Rocks protruded above the splashing festival on the tarmac road and puddles wherever the ground sank deeper. Along the sidewalks, miniscule rivulets cascaded toward the first drainage it could reach and windows were battered by the force of the storm.

  It was a good night for a ceremony and seiðkona found herself fortunate. The gods were already here. They did not need to be summoned tonig
ht. In the thunder, in the earth, in the whipping wind and rushing waters they made their presence known.

  Under the cover of the high shed, where the iron horses of Sleipnir rested, they decided to make the fires needed.

  Out in the back yard, nine women of The Brotherhood congregated. They laid Sam down in a circle shaped by stacked stones, the ritual sheltered by the high, dark trees that embraced the perimeter of the property. Three fires were made to burn. Along the circle, three points from an invisible triangle marked their spots. In the middle, they placed Sam’s naked body. Unperturbed by his attractive physique, the women who assisted the seiðkona drew the sigils on Sam with a paste of cayenne pepper and sulfur, wet his hair with fresh water and covered his eyes thin circular copper coins, one for each eye. These coins held the same symbols as those drawn on his body. They also drew the Valknut on his forehead, one of the symbols of the great Viking god, Odin.

  Erika had mastered the practice of seiðr in her late 20s and she led the ceremony to guide Sam back from the danger of See-Walking. Wearing a blue cloak and a head piece of whalebone and horse hair, the seeress Erika stepped into the triangle made by three curved lines, entwined like the shape of the triquetra, where Sam’s slumbering body lay nude and gleaming with perspiration. Even in the fury of the cold storm, his fever remained high and his heart rate rapid.

  This was dangerous for him, being unanointed in the way of Odin and Freya, the two deities known to have practiced this sorcery in the ancient ages. The Nine, those who led the charge with Val before, the front riders of The Brotherhood, surrounded him. Nine was the most common number of Valkyries called Daughters of Odin, Choosers of the Slain. The Nine are ethereal warrior women roaming the battle fields choosing which men of valor and worth would die in battle to join Odin in Valhalla. The number was prominent.