The Quest for Valhalla

Chapter 33

Over the limp body of the once beautiful, and living, Hannah, the two leaders were locked in battle. After the first few blows, Erika quickly learned to keep her distance from the full contact devastation Lita delivered. The Nazis had after all engineered her to be a human Wunderwaffe, a superhuman reminiscent of the master race they believed had visited earth and spawned the Germanic peoples. The tall woman with the sore voice possessed the strength of ten men and almost precognitive reflexes, blocking Erika’s attempts at every turn.

With the raging storm overshadowing the battle, the two women engaged in a fight to the death.

Time was wasting, but Lita relished the heated rush of warfare above all. It had been a long time ago since she last had the pleasure of a worthy adversary, but she reserved the praise of Erika’s martial skills only for the boasting of her defeat. After all, it was more rewarding to kill a lion than it was to kill a hare, and Erika was a lion of note. Lita knew that she had to flee soon, lest she be discovered by the rest of the deadly clique Erika headed. There was no sense in sealing her own doom for the thrill of a good fight.

So far, she had managed to avoid the lethal blades brandished by the leader of The Brotherhood. Lita, having studied the basic rules of the magic practices of Odin and Freya, knew that Erika’s weapons could cause her some serious damage, even though she was virtually indestructible by normal standards. Erika was furious that one of her soldier was so callously dispatched of by the pet of the SS elite.

Sinking to her knees, she slid the left blade through the lower quadriceps of the redhead tyrant, the runes emitting a smoky punishment in her flesh. But right before Erika’s eyes, Lita’s flesh regenerated moments after the silver and magic wreaked havoc on the pink tissue of her thigh. What made this recovery different from those of regular bayonets and swords, was the scar tissue evident on Lita’s previously perfect skin. The red queen did not like this at all and lashed out at Erika.

Refusing to abandon hope or voice her dismay at failing to injure Lita, Erika made sure that she evaded every strike. Defense was now her best offence. In her good judgment, Erika made sure that she delivered seemingly meager cuts to important areas of Lita’s anatomy. If the pictures and sketches of the folder held any truth, she would be able to at least immobilize her foe long enough for the other women to assist in her apprehension.

“You little bitch!” Lita fumed as the scar smiled on her smooth skin. She marched towards the crouching blond, vigilantly minding the position of her silver banes. Erika waited for her near the wall where the precipitation was now pouring in like an ice cold shower. When Lita came into striking distance, Erika lunged, but the tall tyrant was faster. Like a mighty troll, she stepped forward hard, trampling the petite Erika’s right arm against the ground, snapping her radius and dislocating it at the elbow. With her other foot, she kicked Erika against the side of her head. Even over the clamor of the weather, Lita could hear the delightful sound of Erika’s teeth clapping together from the impact, silencing her instantly. Laughing hoarsely, Lita picked up her opponent’s limp little body and without another thought threw her from the window to the rocks below.

From somewhere in the distance of the second floor, Lita heard a group of soldiers from The Brotherhood coming, their feet too light too perceive, but she was no normal warrior. The SS made sure of that. Her senses were as strong as her muscle. The barefoot beauty gathered up the rucksack she had packed before her nemesis’ unscheduled visit and slipped in under the bed and, through the fake trunk, she made her way into the hidden stone staircase that led to the concealed walkway between walls. Within a few minutes she had progressed to the other side of the enclosure and emerged in the courtyard where her helicopter was waiting.

Inside the fortress, The Brotherhood had ransacked the place for documents on the Black Sun’s other endeavors and campaigns. They had recovered medical reports on experiments done at Deep Sea One and Ice Station Wolfenstein, an incomparable treasure trove of crippling information that they would pass on to several governments and covert agencies in order to initiate countermeasures.

Slokin sat next to the helicopter pilot and Lockhart waited in the back for the mistress to join them. Lita was dressed only in a long black dress, her lavish red tresses turning a rusty dark brown in the showers as she ran toward the Jet Ranger with large powerful strides.

“Let’s get out of here,” she ordered in her raspy voice.

As they took off towards the eastern skies where the weather was a bit tamer, they silently looked down upon the once glorious structure on Dùn Anlaimh being set alight. They darted over the calm waters, while behind them, the blazing ancient building became nothing but a bright flare of orange in the bosom of the ghostly grey fog that devoured the island of Coll as if it was never even there.

Lockhart cast his eyes to the endless expanse of Ægir’s mighty abode below them. The waves foamed in erratic line formations upon the great sea. It seemed to breathe as it heaved and fell like a sleeping giant moving under his bedclothes. The noise of the flying machine drowned out most sound and all four occupants elected to avoid unnecessary conversation. Lockhart had lied, of course, about his vision. It was all he could do now to stay alive. Deception would be his salvation if he could draw it out long enough. If Lita knew the truth, she would undoubtedly kill him right there and then, not just because he deceived her, but more so for the information he harbored. If she were ever to discover that he was a more precious commodity than any holy relic he would be dead within seconds, therefore it was important to maintain this ruse.

His eyes stared at nothing in particular as his mind wandered off to the day when his mother took him to what he thought was her book club get-together. Through the miserable streets traversing the inner city of pre-World War II Warsaw, she led the 10 year old Hermann by the hand. His mother, as he recalled, seemed a tad stressed, but otherwise in high spirits. Her ‘group of friends’ were waiting in a small basement living room. Young Hermann was quite cheered by the bunch of ladies sitting on the cozy couches, smiling and playing with his hair. They remarked on how adorable he was, what an important boy he was and how he was their champion. Not knowing quite why he was the receiver of such exaltation, the young Hermann enjoyed the company of all the surprisingly attractive ladies.

Some were stout, some were skinny, but all of them appeared to be smart, athletic women in their 20s and 30s. They treated him to a tall glass of milk and homemade ginger cookies for a while, while his mother was in the next room behind closed doors with two rather big ladies in white coats. With them was an older gentleman, a doctor of sorts.

Herman Lockhart reached up to his hair, fondling the area right in the middle of the top of his skull. He did it inconspicuously, as not to alert suspicion to the area.

He could still feel the scar tissue under the cover of his hair. Pain had many levels and Herman had experienced most of those levels, but that fateful day he learned of a different kind of pain. One of exhilaration and purpose. He had no idea that his mother’s friends merely kept him occupied while the sedative numbed his skin and dampened his pain receptors. When he felt drowsy, he saw his mother emerge from the room with the other two women and they carried his incapacitated little body into the white tiled room — a makeshift operating area. Of course the child was terrified, and felt that his mother had betrayed him, but she stood right next to him, holding his hand.

The old man in the helicopter sighed as his memories burned in him.

He recalled the feeling of the scalpel in his scalp. Although the skin was numbed, the penetration of the point still stung. It was the most surreal feeling he had ever, and since, experienced. Feeling how his scalp was peeled back, he looked up at his weeping mother. Then she squeezed his hand, telling him that what he was enduring was very important, that he was a champion of the world, a savior of all mankind. In simple words she explained to him that the procedure had to remain the biggest secret ever. He had to keep it to himself forever, otherwise the evil people of the world would win. Hermann didn’t really understand, but he was happy that his mother was so proud of him. She explained that he was going to feel pain, but that he had to remember that it was for the good of all mankind. It made him feel a bit like Jesus at the time. It sounded like the time Jesus was terrified at being crucified, but God told him that it was necessary for him to suffer in order to save mankind.

Then he felt it.

One by one, a steely punch from some surgical tool engraved something into his skull bone. The little boy wailed in pain and discomfort, even though he was mostly sedated.

After he had recuperated enough to stand up and walk, the ladies of the book club cheered and hugged him. They treated him like a hero and it was wonderful.

Only decades later did he discover the truth of his ordeal in a library kept by The Brotherhood — the very ladies in that book club were Knights of the Hammer, also called The Brotherhood, sworn to keep secret the location of a chieftain’s council hall where an unmatched force of destruction had been hidden. And that the cypher created as lock of the great Hall of Valhalla, Odin’s Hall of the Slain, had been carved into the skull of a boy child. But no-one ever knew that the boy was in fact still alive. What a barbaric thing to do to a living child!

Now he knew he had to lead Lita on a goose chase long enough for The Brotherhood to find Valhalla before her. Nina. Was she dead already? Herman Lockhart had trouble coming to terms with his betrayal of his friend. It saddened him, but he assumed her dead by now, hoping for the contrary.

Now, more than half a century later, Lockhart was in the same position as his mother had been that day with Krieger at the mound where she drew her last breath. He was taking Lita to Iceland, to the very same place, under the very same false pretenses. The Brotherhood’s Hero hoped that this time the sound of the Horn in the forest would not be the last sound he ever heard.