The Quest for Valhalla

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 tonight. 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.

Erika, in her capacity as seeress, could still not help but glance towards the house, hoping that Alex was not looking out from one of the windows. The lads knew that the rites of The Brotherhood was sacred and that these ancient practices were sometimes sexual in nature. They respected this nonetheless, yet Erika did not want her husband to see her straddling a naked man, no matter what the circumstances.

Soon, though, she had to focus on waking Sam from the See-Walk before it turned his mind into pulp and left him a slobbering snail for the rest of his life. Erika took her ceremonial staff and stood over Sam as the wild weather swept up her blond hair with static and force. The Nine knelt and began to chant. One of the women began the rhythmic knock on the ceremonial drum, her crooked stick pounding on the membrane to bring forth a deep and hollow sound that reverberated loudly even through the thunder. With its cadence, their voices chanted the prayer to invoke a trance in Erika, their energy focused on the inside of the circle.

She closed her eyes and sank down on Sam, his body burning under her cool skin and she realized just how close he was to dying from the fever the liquid brought.

The gusts howled fiercely, occasionally drowning the gaining canto of the women, but with every stanza repeated they spoke louder the words that would take Erika inside Sam’s See-Walk. Covering his face, her hair whipped the ground as she placed her forehead against his, the bone of her headdress meeting the Valknut on his brow. At once, the power passed between them, a bolt of adrenaline jolting through both of their bodies, an electric charge ever so slight that only the brain’s receptors could feel it. Erika’s mind fused with Sam’s in a meditative state that locked them onto one another. With a rushing jerk, her body went limp on his while the chanting of the women around the circle grew louder and louder with every repetition of the invocation. With every passing verse, they grew more hostile, more fervent in their prayer, so that the gods would pay attention and not forget that the seiðkona had not finished passing through the See-Walk. If the chant would cease for any reason, or even become less audible, the seiðkona would be abandoned in the otherworldly realm and her body would perish within hours.

Inside the house, Dugal and Terry were having a beer with Gunnar. At first it was all small talk, but Dugal could not help but detect the odd atmosphere among these people. They looked like typical patrons at his bar, normal rowdy men with loud arguments and crude jokes, but something about them was unusual.

“Gunnar, I have to know. What is this thing with Sam all about?” he asked halfway through his second beer. Terry froze. He did not think it was a wise thing to pry like that, but he waited for an answer as much as his father did. In the middle of a swig from his bottle, the big widower stopped for a second, holding his bottle in mid-lift as the two guests held their breath. A tense moment passed between the three men on account of the awkward uncertainty of boundaries, but then Gunnar blinked and put his bottle down. Reluctant to let ordinary people in on the secret wars of ancient cults and breeds, he had to take a moment to consider what the repercussions would be if they knew the truth.

With rather dumb expressions on their faces, Terry and Dugal waited and Gunnar almost laughed at their comical and childlike interest.

Dared he tell them? They looked like simpletons to him, when it came to deep and arcane things. He imagined they were decent men of good character, but hardly suited to know what Sam was involved in. Before he could make a decision, Sam’s phone rang. Terry jumped from the alien sensation in his pocket, at first, not knowing what to think, but then he remembered that he had the device with him. He had been unable to make sense of that Nina woman’s message previously as it only displayed one word, followed by ‘text missing’, so he eagerly answered, even though the Caller ID was withheld.

“Hello?”

“Who is this?” a female voice asked. “Where is Sam?”

‘Wow, you don’t waste time with common pleasantries, do you?’ he thought to himself at the woman’s terse response, but he replied politely, “Sam is asleep, lady. Can I give him a message?”

“Listen, I don’t have time for nonsense. Please. Please put Sam on the phone. Tell him it’s Nina,” she said. Terry was not a man of great intuition or intelligence, but he discerned a troubled tone in her reply, as if she was upset.

“Oh!” he smiled, “Nina! He told me to call y…”

Gunnar grabbed the phone from his hand and shouted, “Nina? Nina, where the hell are you? We’ve been worried sick!”

“Gunnar?” she asked. “I need to speak to Sam urgently!” Gunnar frowned. Nina’s voice sounded out of character. Scared.

“Good evening,” a raspy female voice greeted Gunnar. He knew, by reputation, who he was speaking with and his heart stopped.

“What do you want with Dr. Gould?” Gunnar asked calmly. As much as it infuriated him to speak to the iniquitous villain of the Black Sun organization, he had to keep in mind that Nina was in her hands and if he allowed his rage to seep through it could place the historian in serious peril.

“I want the Vision of Kvasir. Bring me the vial and you can take your pet. To make matters more… cordial,” she sighed like a hissing cobra, “…we will send champions, so that we do not have to meet face to face. How’s that?”

“Oh, but I won’t mind meeting you face to face. Your beauty is legendary,” he seethed with hatred, and she was sharp enough to hear it behind the mock compliment.

“As is your wife’s. Oh, what a pity most of that beauty ended up on the tar of Dalkeith Road,” she replied with a cheap shot that Gunnar felt to his core. His heart slammed in his throat and from nowhere came the image of Val’s last moments again, her face raw, while she died in his arms. He could still smell the rubber in her hair. Tears caught him off guard and unwilling, and he was impotent to the overwhelming grief of this fresh wound that still refused to coagulate.

“Are you still there, Gunnar?” she asked with not as much as a fissure in her malice.

He composed himself, vexed by the two staring bartenders who saw his eyes grow wet.

“I’m here. Who are you sending to meet with… my champion?” he sneered, agreeing to play her game. Already in his mind he picked Alex, or Sam, if he survived. It would only be apt for Sam to collect Nina, he thought.

“I’m sending Slokin. You?” she asked.

“Sam Cleave.”

“Slokin and Cleave will meet at 7am tomorrow morning. Cleave gets Nina when Slokin is satisfied that the contents of the vial is genuine. They both go alone and exchange,” she commanded in her authoritarian manner.

“I don’t fuck with you, you don’t fuck with me.”

“That’s correct, Gunnar,” she smiled. “Port Edgar Yacht Club, west of Forth Road Bridge. Don’t be late. Or Nina will be…” she waited, but he said nothing, so she giggled, “…get it?”

He ended the call to be deaf to her sick jests. Gunnar’s eyes still burned from his resistance to the relentless sadness.

“Who was that?” Terry asked.

“Some wench I have a date with,” Gunnar said blankly, uncaring of their opinion anyway.

A hefty crack crashed through the sky as the elements clashed in the womb of the clouds, rattling the windows under thunder’s fury.

“Jesus! My poor heart,” Dugal gasped, startled by the sudden clap of thunder.

“Thur uiki!” Alex and two others shouted, raising their beers. Gunnar could not help but muster a smile and lifted his bottle.

“What does that mean?” Terry asked.

“May Thor Hallow,” Gunnar said and swallowed down a decent amount of the Flying Dutchman in his grip.

The back door swung open and the women piled in, squealing with glee as they played, shoving one another out of the way to escape the rain and get inside first. Behind them a larger figure stepped through the doorway. Sam was soaked, his well-defined body gleaming wet and shaking from the cold. He had a blue cloak crumpled up to cover his privates. Apart from that, he only wore a sheepish smile.