The Quest for Valhalla

Chapter 5

From the thawing, light blue jaws of ice a group of bear skin clad men appeared, ascending up the slope of the white that smothered the mountain rocks. They were approximately 20 in number and moved in a military formation, it seemed; their chieftain and two of his generals forming a three point lead with their respective warriors in tail. The sleet and ice was merciless and the thick bound pelt of the men’s boots fell inches deep into half frozen terrain as sheets of blizzard wind battered their bodies. Above them, the sky was red and blue, separated by a path of molten clouds which churned and curled across the ethereal sky. Crows, as large as carrion birds from pre-history, circled the frozen air and looked down hungrily at the moving flesh that spoke.

At the head of the spear was a man larger than others, his voice like thunder and his hands like hammers. Without consulting any parchment or course indicator, he knew the way by looking up, standing still to listen and then leading his men onward by the points of the mountain range surrounding them. They showed no fear, these warriors, not because they were invincible, but because they feared not death or disease, onslaught or battle. One of them looked up with a hearty laugh, observing the great birds above and jested about having plenty of food following at will. The men roared in laughter in the wailing cry of the rushing white hell as they came to stand still upon the hill’s crest. Looking down, the leader pointed to a river and said: “Volkhov.”

In awe they stood, each running his eyes along the lines of the Volkhov River below to see if there were any settlements, any promising land. Should they claim the territory? They descended rapidly, considering the rate of difficulty they were met with embarking on the scouting of a new landscape they had never seen before. As they went lower along the steep ledges of snow and brown protruding rock face, they passed the animals that lived there. Mountain goats as white as the weather stood watching them with caution from the safety of their perches where no man, no matter how skilled, would reach without the reward of death.

With their massive blades and axes brandished from the shelter of their thick clothing, the mighty men, mature and with long hair, made their perilous way towards the river which found life in the waters of Ladoga. From there they wanted to sail northwards, to seek out further uncharted land for their sons, for their blood. Making trade was their main objective, but the great old leader suggested that he wanted to conquer yet farther up, more to the west of the waters they had sailed upon.

From the soft grey flow of the water emerged men, like men walking in a field, but they came from the depths of the Volkhov with no eyes and steel on their chests. Blind, they only felt the men were coming from the mountain and so they came for them. The great leader roared his war cry and, automatically, his men took their stances in a formation of warfare. They argued playfully on the selection of their victims and wagered upon the outcome of their swift battle.

The men with braids in their beards and hair bearing the tears of frozen water salivated at the thrill of war. From their mouths came foam, their eyes on fire, and their cries became the howl of monsters that sent the animals cowering in terror. The Blind River Cadavers were not like the Norsemen. Their limbs were not covered by bear skins and their feet walked on black cloven hoof. Their brows and crowns were covered not in horns and steel and chainmail, but carried black fabric with the symbol of Thor himself, corrupted from its power and its significance given to another, a lesser leader. This angered the great bearded men and they tore the Swastika’s from the heads of the walking dead, dismembering them, for defiling Thor for their own stolen power.

Furious and unstoppable, the Norse warriors lunged on the enemy that did not drown and from their ranks, stepped a younger man. His semblance was not like theirs, but he held allegiance with the great leader. Black of hair and black of eye, he did not wear the skins and steel or the red and black corruption of Thor’s sigil upon him. He wore no shoes and his upper body was bare. With no beard and no tribe ring to identify him, he came from nowhere and spoke.

They all heard him, even when his voice was like the hiss of the wind through stalks of wheat. His tongue was unknown to them, but his words held power, for one by one the blind dead fell to the river from whence they had come, filling the icy current with blood as red as the bleeding sky where the black carrion birds still swooped. Crimson, the cascades of water ran north to Novaya Ladoga and filled the lake with screams. Through the surface of the lake broke a sea of hands, claws of the dying — women and children they were — and their weeping filled all of Creation, subduing the rage of the storm.

The stranger who spoke the wrong words stepped onto the bank of the scarlet river and turned to face the great leader. He called the chieftain ‘Wotan’ and Wotan showed him the portal in the rocks, upon which was drawn a diagram of three intertwined triangles that formed a triangle in itself.

Then the great men with hair braided lay down as if to sleep and with the ground they settled, pulling the luscious green grass over them like the blankets of their wives. They went to sleep, leaving the green banks of the Volkhov raised where their bodies slumbered.

Behind the rocks where the symbol was painted rose a modern city, a terrible creation of eons later, fuelled by other motivators than land, food and godliness. A mark in numbers was etched underneath, ‘871±2’ it read in bloody red strokes that fell into the crevices and porous texture of the stone.

Nina frowned. It was hard to remember the numbers in sequence, even not knowing that she was dreaming. The narrator in her mind, who told her the story she watched playing like a movie in her deep sleep, faded at first a little, then gradually faded more and more as the scenes progressed until her voice was completely distant upon the hard wind that blew through the tale. Trying to memorize the sequence of them, she knew that numerical references were always important because they usually represented precise coordinates, distinct measurements, or important dates. But as she drew closer to the rock, where it was now dead silent apart from the trickle of the river’s flow behind her, a demoness rose from behind the stone.

It was a multi-armed bitch with the face of an angel, but her eyes glowed with fire and her long red hair whipped about her back in the urging of a tempest that did not exist. Her flaming mouth opened and from it came a banshee keening that ran ice through Nina’s veins; a shriek so foul that it echoed in her ears for long after she had woken with a scream.

The dainty historian was relieved to find herself in the second story study of Wrichtishousis, even if she was alone, save for the security staff. Her cheek ached from the pressure of her head on the open book and she sucked up the wetness from the corner of her mouth, rubbing profusely at the soaked page she spoiled with her dream drool. Even as she sat up, watching the sun set on the other side of the study’s great panoramic window, she still heard the awful shriek of the red haired devil woman.

“Oh thank God,” she muttered under her breath, grateful that it had been only a dream inspired by the material she had been perusing in the banned book Herman found her. She sank back in her chair with a great sigh and looked at the rows of antique books along the north and east walls, wondering what manner of nightmares their contents could inspire if she ever ventured into their yellow stained pages. Some of them were locked with brass and iron, others frail and peeling from their former grandeur. Nina wondered where Purdue had acquired them and why. He was not much of a mystery to her these days, but sometimes his actions, his strange lusts, still had her confounded.

She had kept it from all her friends and colleagues why she had decided to give in to his affections and become his lover, but she was a logical thinker, a woman always in pursuit of knowledge. It had been odd to many who knew her why she would agree to a romantic relationship with a man she always conceded to tolerate at best. Looking around the large room of information, she oiled her gears. Nina had to constantly remind herself why she sacrificed her body and her true feelings, otherwise she would feel like a dirty opportunist. Well, she was an opportunist. There was no denying that, but she had to keep remembering why she was insane enough to pretend to feel any romantic inkling for Dave Purdue.

Still, she dared not reveal to Sam Cleave or his friend Patrick Smith, who had become an amusing almost-friend by now, why she allowed Dave Purdue to know her as a lover.

That very reason was the frustrating seed of her presence here in Purdue’s mansion. Now that he was in Spain for a while longer she finally had the house to herself, and a good chance to snoop around for an artifact he possessed. The relic she most coveted — the Spear of Destiny — was in somewhere in his house, she was certain. After she had discovered the terrible power of the relic on Deep Sea One, and had it unceremoniously ripped from her custody by Dave Purdue for God knows what purpose, she needed to know where it was.

Nina knew the evil that coursed through it and she had discovered Purdue’s involvement with a very nefarious organization of Aryans. These factors did not bode well for mankind, thus she had to intervene, no matter what amount of betrayal, delusion or danger came with it.

It was not as if she wanted the item for herself. She was smart enough to know that it was a piece with such immensely foreign qualities, so powerful that no mere man in pursuit of domination should have possession of it. This was the reason why she consented to step into Dave Purdue’s bedroom, be his deceitful lover of good intentions. It was just that it had such a sick ring to it that she could not bring herself to tell Sam this. No matter how noble her intentions were, it sounded twisted and whorish to Nina and she never wanted him to see her that way. Perhaps he would understand. Then again, maybe it would make her look like a charlatan who should not be trusted, even with genuine objectives. What was to stop Sam Cleave from seeing her as a reckless speculator if she should ever entrust him with her motives?

No, she had to keep her secrets hidden, her vendettas covered. For the time being, she had to find the relic Purdue had spirited away back when those questionable characters from the Order of the Black Sun gathered on his oil rig and left her and Sam to fend for themselves.

It was impossible to locate, though, and she could get no closer to its whereabouts except for just coming out and asking Purdue straight out. That would be catastrophic, she knew. For all his fun-loving pursuits she had learned that Dave Purdue, uncharacteristically, wanted to be part of the hierarchy in this clandestine organization of Nazi. It disturbed her, because they were up to the same thing the Third Reich was in the 1930’s — world domination. A world with power mongering aristocrats was worse than a war torn patch of scorched earth laden with the bodies of the righteous.

Purdue did not understand this. He was blinded by his own wealth and genius, something she could not blame him for. But Nina Gould would be damned if she simply allowed his childish naivety get him into a chaos of devastating peril.