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

  THE QUEST FOR VALHALLA

  Order of the Black Sun Series - Book 4

  P. W. Child

  Heiken Marketing

  © 2015 Preston William Child

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

  Disclaimer: The persons, places, things, and otherwise animate or inanimate objects mentioned in this novel are figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anything or anyone living (or dead) is unintentional. The author humbly begs your pardon. This is fiction, people.

  Edited (USA) by Anna Drago

  Chapter 1

  “How do you know that?” Williams asked his colleague, as they walked the corridor of the Department of Prints and Drawings. It was just after 2am and they decided to combat their boredom by making their rounds together. Williams and his shift partner, Jeffreys, had been arguing about everything from the footie to the state of politics in Paraguay.

  “I read. I read a lot. Me mum taught me to be inquisitive and always know what is going on in the world,” Jeffreys insisted defensively to his podgy colleague who was beginning to test his patience with his blatant disregard for common knowledge. To make matters worse, the man chuckled in response to his latest reply and he gave Williams a look of steely cold disdain while his back was to him. Williams had gaited ahead somewhat in a childish ploy to bow out of the conversation entirely. Yet still, he didn’t stop his incessant babbling of ignorant opinions. Jeffreys sighed. It was another seven hours of this, he thought, and he had best make the best of it. Silent treatment was not only juvenile, but also a tedious way to spend night shift in the godforsaken halls of the British Museum. Having been a security guard for almost 15 years, he had to admit that this was his best gig thus far and that he had better not rock the boat because of some ignorant twat he had to work with. He could not allow Williams to get under his skin, so he elected to tolerate the idiot and his know-it-all bullshit. “….so you had better watch your diet, she told me. Can you believe that?” Williams’ words cut into his ears as he completed what was apparently a long and informative story about his girlfriend trying to tactfully advise him that his lard was swallowing up his skeleton. Resisting the urge to bring to Williams’ attention that he was, in fact, a shamefully obese bastard, Jeffreys simply shook his head at the audacity of the woman Williams was complaining about. His own wife would never have bothered, he figured, and he pretended as best he could to look sympathetic to Williams’ plight.

  Jeffreys had his right hand upon the blunt head of his sheathed baton as he walked and soon found, among the intelligible barrage of his colleague’s jabbering, that his fingers had begun to tap and play inadvertently against the shaft of the weapon the farther they went through the Department. It would be so easy, he reckoned. Williams would never see it coming.

  ‘Stop it! What kind of animal are you?’ his conscience protested through the cloudy haze of impatience he harbored. Immediately, his fingers ceased in their ominous activity and he cleared his mind to catch up to the tail of the current torrent of domestic complaints Williams was reporting.

  From outside, the thunder rumbled as the two guards passed Room 18. Jeffreys never ceased to be in awe of the Parthenon marbles from the Acropolis of Athens, even though he had seen them a million times on his patrols through the museum.

  “Did you hear that?” Williams gloated as he turned to face Jeffreys with a smug grin on his hair thin lips. Jeffreys wished he could sweep his baton across that self-assured expression with the force of a garbage truck, but he refrained from such perversely delicious considerations.

  “Hear what?” he pretended, adamant on not giving Williams his way so easily. “The thunder! I told you we’d have rain tonight, didn’t I?” Williams reiterated. “Didn’t I? Earlier? Right? Now see? I was right,” he said with a smirk on his fat face which made his colleague cringe with unsettling urges. Jeffreys had to concede that Williams had indeed told him that it would rain later, even though the skies over Great Russell Street had been clear for a change. Still, he refused Williams the accolade and remained quiet on the subject.

  “Just walk. We have to get back to the screens,” Jeffreys mumbled.

  For once, Williams was quiet. No words echoed through the ambient hallways as they walked in the gathering roar of the thunder. Both had their own thoughts on the way in which the angry bellows from the heavens lent a foreboding air to their surroundings. Jeffreys, especially, with his book smart knowledge of ancient history and other less tangible subjects, found the thunderous soundtrack a bit too intimidating. While his eyes fell on relics and objects older than London itself, he was reminded that a lot of the items around him were in fact, already in existence during eras where the thunder was still worshipped by man.

  In his silent contemplation, he wondered if something, some inkling, some spark of being within these museum pieces still came to life when the skies screamed. He wondered if some inanimate version of a soul lived in them, from where they came alive to remember their infancy when the world was emptier and less complex. Did they wake up when the thunder commanded it?

  A hefty slap on the arm jolted Jeffreys from his wonder and it evoked a raging fury in him to be so rudely lifted from his thoughts. He looked at Williams with a wince just short of homicidal threat, but as always, Williams was too thick skinned to recognize contempt when he was presented with it.

  “Come, let’s eat. I’m starving,” he suggested jovially. ‘Like you need more calories…’ came the insensitive judgment from the pit of Jeffreys’ being again.

  The tiny monitor in the office, where Williams kept his nightly stash of trans-fats and sugar drinks, played aimlessly on in their absence. Only when they came to sit down did they ever cast a glance to the screen. “Want some?” Williams offered a spoiled donut with peeling frosting in his palm for the taking. But Jeffreys gave him a wry smile and just shook his head, choosing to direct his attention to the little television screen instead. On the weather report, the satellite footage showed no sign of rain for London whatsoever for that night. Eager to get his own back, he tugged at Williams’ shirt to show him the screen, now gloating himself. “No!” Williams responded with chunks of dry donut falling from the corners of his stuffed mouth. “Bullshit.”

  “How can it be bullshit? I can’t tell Mary-Ann what to say on TV, can I? It’s a fact, old boy. There is no rain tonight. Not even cloud cover,” he laughed heartily at his colleague’s sinking expression. As if by a sweep of logic, both men suddenly stared at one another in astonished confusion, realizing now that what they had heard pulsing through the cold interior of the British Museum was not a force of nature after all. If not, then, what was it?

  “Williams, what did we hear then?” Jeffreys asked reluctantly. He never cared much for his colleague’s assessments, but now he needed to know that his sentiments were shared, that his concern was valid. Williams stood frozen in inner conflict, his cheeks still bulging. Only his eyes moved. They darted to his partner, overflowing with confirmation.

  “Let’s go,” Jeffreys said ominously and Williams swallowed everything without bothering to chew any further.

  The sound had been so powerful that they knew now it had to come from somewhere within the vast 990,000 square foot area of the complex. Jeffreys immediately established radio contact with the other posts on the premises, but both men found that their radios suffered severe interference, cutting off any communication with other guards to alert them.

  The two hurried down the long stretch of the
second floor galleries where the Egyptian mummies and coffins left them no more at ease than they already felt at the thought of facing an unknown threat somewhere in the gaping darkness of the next room.

  “Why is it dark in there?” Williams whispered, wiping the sweat from his reddening brow with his sleeve. “Jeffreys!” he insisted with a hoarse undertone at his partner, who was locked in concentration and fear.

  “Shut the fuck up!” Jeffreys grunted as quietly as he could, “I am trying to think. Maybe it is just a power problem in this part of the department.”

  “Yes, but that ruckus we heard was not the sound of a blown bulb, Jeffreys. You know what I’m saying?” Williams nailed in the very notion his colleague was desperately trying to avoid.

  Through the dusk of the threshold landing they crept, batons in hand.

  “And you said we didn’t need to be issued firearms. What do you say now?” Williams badgered Jeffreys as the matte darkness enclosed them.

  “I swear to Christ, Williams, one more word out of you and I’ll push this night stick down your fucking throat!” Jeffreys ranted a bit louder now, half careless at the volume of his voice if only to effectively convey how sick he was of Williams’ bitching.

  It worked.

  For the rest of the way, he had no trouble from his whining partner, who followed with weak knee in his wake as they carefully navigated room after room. They followed the low rumble in as little light as possible as not to be detected by whatever they were to encounter when they found the origin of the sound. As they drew nearer to the Department of Prehistory and Europe, the resonance became ever more vivid. From afar, it resembled the deep tone of a chamber of bass cellos engorged in a symphony of doom. It was a sound somewhere between the after-chime of a great iron bell and the rumbling of thunder. In fact, both guards were convinced that it was indeed thunder crawling through the halls of the Museum, had it not been such a ludicrous notion.

  In secret, Williams wished he was home with his judgmental girlfriend. She could say anything she wanted to him now. It would be just fine with him. His eyes stayed fixed on his partner’s back, as he did not want to lose track of him and be left behind in this vulnerable state. Now for the first time, Henry Williams had to admit that he was a coward. Hell, he would even admit that he was fat. It was all true. It would all be admitted in exchange for salvation from this ordeal. Something deep in the pit of his being told him that what they were stalking was a force far greater than what they could ever deal with. Like the breath of the devil on his heart, he knew this – he knew for a fact that what was coming was otherworldly, ancient and very aware of them.

  But he dared not lay a hand on his partner’s back to suggest reason, no. He had been warned in no uncertain terms that he would be worked over and he did not doubt the authenticity in Jeffreys’ threat. There was only one thing to do as they saw the faint illumination of the walls in the next room. Williams simply turned and ran. With the rush of a hellish desperation he bolted from the room, running back through the halls they had crept through. He did not care if his colleague had heard him leave, nor did he care if he would be fired for his actions. Not only did he feel that his life was in danger, but his very soul was at stake. Williams was not good at, or for much, but one thing about him was his almost infallible intuition. And the only message he got from his sensitivity right now was to run for his life.

  In the gaining light of the room he approached, Jeffreys realized that he had been abandoned. To be honest, it did not surprise him in the least and it certainly did not make him feel at all less capable. He did not feel more anxious or more terrified than before. As a matter of fact, he was relieved. Williams, for the all the weight of his body and the gravity of his self-serving boasting, carried no substantial purpose whatsoever. Jeffreys almost smiled in the grip of his terror. Now he could move quietly, swiftly.

  Ahead of him, the walls pulsed with a bluish light indirectly illuminating them from the opposite side of the room. Jeffreys felt his abdomen ache every time the thunderous sound sent tremors through the floor, echoing so that its waves travelled right through his body.

  What in God’s Name is that? he wondered as he rounded the doorway to where the Lewis Chessmen glared motionlessly from the other side of their glass prison.

  He was now in the section where the Tromsø Burial hoard was exhibited, surrounded by all manner of pre-Medieval Norse artifacts from Northern Scotland and the islands neighboring it. In front of him, he saw three men remove some treasures of the Lilleberge Viking Burial and placing the items in an ancient wooden bowl with a lid. The bowl was unique in design, a dark wood with what looked like iron and ivory inlays. Its lid was circular and once done, they fixed the lid by twisting it on, something he found peculiar. Jeffreys fell back against the wall on the other side of the entrance, gasping in fearful thrill at the situation. He attempted contact with the head of security again, but to no avail. Only static coursed through the wiring of his communication device. Jeffreys sighed with great labor.

  He was on his own. Only he could stop the intruders. But how? He had one weapon with which he had to get into close quarters with some dangerous individuals and he had minimal training. In the dark, with the thunderous serenade about him, Jeffreys murmured a drove of prayers, mantras and encouraging words to himself, his eyes shut in preparation of his awkward onslaught.

  In the weak light the next room exuded, something gleamed nearby him. It gave him an idea. ‘The place is full of weapons, you idiot. Yes, it is illegal to touch them and it is basic sacrilege toward history, but this is your life, old boy. What is one artifact when it comes to stopping the theft of an entire hoard, huh?’

  In one of the rooms, there was a large pointed stone with jagged edging and quite heavy for its size. It would not break easily should he use force and besides, he never understood why the hell they called it a “hand axe” anyway. It’s a bloody rock. A million and something year old rock some ancient farmer or butcher grated until it formed a point on one side so that he could use it as a weapon or an instrument for skinning and such, the guard thought as he entered Room 2.

  ‘Bloody stupid. It’s just a rock. Does it ever occur to these educated morons that all rocks on the ground are formed from other rocks that are over a million gazillion years old anyway? What is so special about this one anyway? It’s a stone, like all the others,’ he lectured himself, more to disregard his reluctance to use the item so lovingly displayed. But there was no time for sentimentality. There it was – Hand axe - Lower Paleolithic, Olduvai Gorge - aged older than God, by the way the scientists treated it.

  With the stone firmly in hand, Jeffreys returned to the room where the burglars were angrily locked in argument about something. He could hear that one was a woman. Their words did not come in English, so he could not ascertain who they were or why they chose to steal this particular hoard. With the ancient stone in his hand he came into the darkened room. As he crept closer, his heart ramming his chest in terrible anticipation, their language became more audible. German maybe?

  The three figures were dressed in black and masked, just like in the movies Jeffreys watched. For a minute, it all felt surreal to him, as if he had stepped into a scene from an action film, apart from the very real peril he now found himself in. The thunder was prevalent, yet its origin was undetectable. Among the three, the argument grew to a heated fight. Jeffreys knew that it presented an opportunity for him to surprise them and without another moment’s hesitation he lunged at the bigger man of the two.

  As he plunged, the sharp side of the rock into the base of the man’s skull, the woman screamed and gathered up their loot. Jeffreys came down with his victim, repeatedly slamming the ancient rock against the intruder’s skull to render him unconscious. The woman stared in horror at the guard’s fury and in the middle of it all he glanced up to her. What he saw ran his blood cold.

  ‘Is she glowing?’ his baffled mind asked while his senses played havoc in the throes of the c
onfusion and fear. The other man pulled his sidearm. The woman’s skin seemed luminescent, her eyes vacant and ethereal blue as she fitted the Silver arm band, an intricate and beautiful piece from the Silverdale find. As it latched onto her arm, her head fell back and she sucked in her breath in a long inhalation of exhilaration, like the electric charge of a lightning bolt. Jeffreys was mesmerized. He did not see the barrel of the other man’s Luger P 08 kiss his temple before the flare of its bite opened his skull and sent him to the cold hard floor of the British Museum.

  “Schlaf.” The word reverberated through the room and the thunder ceased abruptly as the female intruder closed her eyes to mourn the life lost at her feet. To her the fallen security guard was a loss for dying to defend something that was not his, for giving his life to protect objects that did not even belong in his world.

  Chapter 2

  Bruich lazily lapped his tail across Sam’s 5 o’clock shadow. It was immensely annoying to the man suffering a brutal hangover and being too lethargic, too weak, to even attempt at cussing for the animal’s not-so- subtle call for breakfast. He managed an ‘f’, but his tongue rebelled against the effort of even such a well-practiced uttering. Sam, now freelancing at the suggestion of his psychologist, who thought he needed to utilize his talents in less deadly pursuits than investigative journalism, had been subjected to the jovial festivities of a Czech brewery the night before.

  He had never known that their culture was steeped deeper in beer-ology than the damn Bavarians and Namibians put together. Altogether, it was great fun and very informative, enough to furnish his article with plenty of information on the trade itself and the country in general, giving it a lustrous tone of culture thrown in. This was the sort of work Sam wanted to do for now. Even his best friend, Detective Chief Inspector Patrick Smith, indicated that Sam had not changed one bit in his insatiable curiosity of deeper things, but he had noticed that his friend was visibly more serene in nature.