Tomb of Odin (Order of the Black Sun Book 9)

by P. W. Child

  “No, Dr. Gould, I know them. I know their voices. They are the men from the base camp I was visiting last night with Herr Cammerbach,” he tried to convince Nina, but she embraced her skepticism with a shake of her head.

  “Don’t go out there,” she whispered as they drew nearer, calling out in a language she could not quite place.

  “Come, before they desert the place. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to be here alone, especially after the dark comes,” he told her. Nina had to agree that it would be suicide to stay behind without weapons, provisions, light, and a GPS. She trailed Neville as he stepped out of the hiding place and called out, “Hello! We are in need of help! Hello, anyone?”

  “Are you all right?” a man asked. “Guys, we have two survivors from the Cammerbach party! Medic! Do we have a medic?”

  “We are unharmed,” Neville told the man, who resembled his colleagues almost precisely because of their uniform anoraks and balaclavas. Nina guessed the team at about twelve, all wearing the same protective clothing. From the sound of their words they were Scandinavian and British nationals, some using military terms and others following orders.

  “Are they from the armed forces?” she asked Neville, while they waited for the two medical technicians to check them.

  “I think so, but nobody we would be familiar with. They are naturally not from my country. I mean, look at their complexion and features,” he half jested.

  “I did notice that,” Nina smiled. “But why would the army be involved in an archeological dig in Asia?”

  Neville looked serious and pulled her closer to speak under his breath, “We should rather avoid asking such questions aloud, Dr. Gould. In fact, it would be better if we asked no questions at all.”

  “Can we trust them?” Nina asked him.

  “I believe so. Met them last night and they did not seem out of the ordinary,” he shrugged. “But they said nothing about the army. Maybe they are special forces or something like that.”

  “That’s not a good thing,” she replied, watching the men enter the excavation’s tunnel. A moment later one of them rushed out, compelling Nina to yelp at the sudden movement. He sank to his knees and vomited profusely. Another man emerged from the hole and just stood outside, looking up in a dazed expression as if he just needed to get some air and see something other than what he had seen in the tunnel.

  “Jesus, they’ve been taken apart, just like this one,” one of the men reported to the others and pointed at the remains of the unfortunate Herr Cammerbach that was strewn about the entrance, “just like this one.”

  “Neville, I think we should warn them about the . . .” she hesitated, searching for a less absurd word than yeti, “about what came into the tunnel. Remember what happened to the others? We might want to keep that from happening to our rescuers?”

  Neville oddly did not reply. He only checked his hands and wiped them on his shirt. To Nina he came across as either dumbstruck, afraid to share a monster tale and be laughed at, or he simply dismissed the presence of the big apes. Nina shook her head, “Unbelievable! Well, then, I’ll do it for you.”

  “No, Dr. Gould!” Neville implored and reached for her as she headed for the leader of the rescue party. But she pulled free of Neville’s grasp and kept walking to the stocky gentleman who was barking orders and receiving reports from several of the men.

  “Excuse me,” she said politely.

  “Yes, ma’am?” he said, clearing his throat.

  “There are hostiles inside that tunnel. You might want to get your men out of there.” she informed him while her dark, wary eyes stayed on the entrance of the hole. If anything was going to come out of the tunnel, she wanted to be prepared to make a solid distance from it.

  “I reckon so, Dr. Gould,” he said nonchalantly. “That is precisely why we are here.”

  “How do you know my name?” she frowned.

  “We have been following your expedition since you left base. Let’s just say that our employers have . . . interests . . . in the Cammerbach project and we are supposed to make sure that everything runs smoothly,” he explained casually, pointing to two of his men to take blood samples from the remains.

  “Your employers,” she said, meaning to pry and knowing that it was probably a futile endeavor. The man turned his head and faced her with his big dark eyes. His skin was red from the cold and she noticed his heavy brow.

  “Don’t fret. We are on your side. We are hired mercenaries, as I am sure you might have surmised, Dr. Gould,” he sighed in a thick puff of cold air.

  “On our side,” she retorted with a slight tone of cynicism.

  “Yes, we work for people who have your best interest in mind, so no need to worry,” he smiled.

  “I . . . am the only people with my best interests at heart, sir,” she reminded him with a scoff. “If they are so bloody protective I can know who they are.”

  “The Brigade Apostate,” he revealed, “courtesy of Sam Cleave.”

  Chapter 3

  “Take the rope, Franz! Pull it with your whole weight so that we can get some leverage!” Purdue shouted up to his gardener, who was standing on some tall scaffolding next to the northwest wall of the Purdue residence, Wrichtishousis. The young man he had employed, along with three others to tend to the yard surrounding the mansion, was a scrawny immigrant worker, about twenty years of age. Franz first approached millionaire explorer and inventor Dave Purdue on reference from his late uncle who worked for Purdue in the 1990s.

  “It’s too heavy, sir,” he replied.

  “No, you’re just too light, son,” Purdue sighed. “Wait, I’m coming up there with you.”

  Purdue climbed up the thick iron poles and their solid wooden cross beams until he reached the young man on the top platform. They were trying to erect an antique cross pillar of granite and mortar, with copper inlays forming various symbols, medals, and lettering. It was a marvelous replica of the famed First World War monument, the War of Independence Victory Column, a prominent Estonian memorial. Purdue had procured it through a private seller, Jari Koivusaari, from Finland, who claimed to have known the sculptor who made the replica and inherited it when the artist passed away.

  Standing at 25 yards, it was no idle feat to transport it through Edinburgh the day before, which was why Purdue had chosen a Sunday evening for this effort. Apart from hiring a driver for a huge Oshkosh specialty truck on loan from a professor friend at the British Museum, Purdue also supervised the delivery to the precise spot on his property where he wanted the impressive cross. But being a man who did not waste a moment waiting for anything, Purdue soon felt compelled to erect the thing, regardless of the hazard factor. And this was how poor Franz came to be his unremitting boss’ unfortunate manservant.

  “I don’t think we will be able to lift an inch of this thing, sir,” Franz admitted. His brow was glistening in the afternoon sun and the perspiration arrested the jagged bits of hair that reached from his hairline toward his eyebrows. Purdue was equally knackered, and he did not bother to reply. The young man was right. This object was as heavy as a mountain and they would have to get professional construction people to get the bottom 10 yards into the designated hole dug specially to serve as base.

  “Well,” Purdue said finally, “we can leave it right here until tomorrow. It’s not as if anyone could steal the bloody thing. I’ll get some people out here to do the lifting for me. Thank you, Franz.”

  The following morning was rainy and tempestuous, but it was not even a factor for Purdue. Before 2pm he had contacted Calder Con, a construction company from Kirknewton on the country outskirts of Edinburgh. The crew showed up with no less than fifteen men to get Purdue’s precious relic into its prestigious position. Through the initial drizzle they toiled to get the brace chains to hold on the wet granite, until they could use their hydraulics to hoist the massive cross to its thick foot.

  From the mound of daffodils and ferns under the tall fir and yew guardians, Purdue and
Franz watched the whole affair from afar. Purdue could not stop smiling, unfazed by the gaining downpour that threatened to drench him. Franz was prepared, wearing his boots and raincoat, but he was a nervous wreck.

  “What’s wrong?” Purdue asked his gardener. “Would you rather it be you and me over there?”

  “No, sir, of course not,” Franz sniggered anxiously. “It’s just that I am worried that someone might get hurt, that’s all. I mean, look at the possibilities for injury over there. Their chains are okay, but those chains are connected to the arms of the hydraulic system by them flimsy straps, sir. That don’t sit well with me nerves.”

  “You worry for nothing, Franz,” Purdue said, amused. “These men are professionals. They do this all the time and have specific materials for these jobs.”

  “Still, in this rain? Everything has the devil in it and the rain is just lubricating those dangers, I think. But I do hope it is uneventful and I surely can’t wait to see how grand it’s going to look once it is towering outside the manor,” he smiled at Purdue, who beamed with pride.

  Gradually the crew maneuvered the tall column into the hole while the drizzle worked through the soil and turned the cobblestone driveway into a death chute for any uneven tread. Franz stood with his hand over his mouth, just waiting for something to go wrong.

  “Relax. They are Scottish, Franz. These lads can make a fire in a blizzard. Rain will not mar their efficiency,” Purdue smirked.

  “Shit happens, Mr. Purdue,” Franz sniffed, evoking a fit of laughter from his boss.

  “It certainly does,” he remarked, as his chuckle died down.

  The drizzle continued unabated and the workers cried out orders and suggestions, directions and all of it came at the same time. How they understood each other well enough to operate proficiently was above Purdue, but this company had an excellent reputation and that was good enough for him. It was quite amusing to listen to every man separately and hear what they shouted, whether it was profuse cussing, encouragement, or skillful suggestion. Purdue could not help but smile.

  Finally, the cross on top of the tall column lifted up over the base and the pulley they used nudged it ever so slightly, bit by bit, until the perfectly perpendicular cross with the circle in the center aligned accurately above the hole and the granite base.

  “There! Stop! Stop! Just like that. Hold it, lads, hold it!” the foreman shouted from under his hard hat, silvery raindrops falling over the brim like a glittery curtain. It was starting to pour, but they were so close that it would be crazy to abandon the incredible effort now. From there they started to stabilize the monolithic and imposing artifact to fill up the base area and ultimately the considerably deep hole.

  Victorious, they cheered when it was finally done.

  “Mr. Purdue,” the soaked foreman plodded toward the owner, “we have fixed those rods and steel cords, umm, you know, steel cables around the piece to keep it sturdy until the concrete sets under it and of course, umm, until the umm . . . sand, soil has settled a bit more, ’kay?”

  Ignoring the man’s awkward way of speaking, Purdue nodded. He wondered if the foreman was aware of just how unsettling his odd eloquence was, its tone of uncertainty implying that he was unsure of his accomplishments. But Purdue reckoned that the team’s untarnished safety record spoke volumes nonetheless. Everything went swimmingly, but once Purdue had signed off on the work order and the construction team drove into the wet evening, Franz looked upset.

  “What is it now?” Purdue asked, approaching the ashen-faced gardener who stood frozen, looking utterly shocked and staring in the direction of the new property adornment. Mute, frowning, Franz shook his head in despair. “Hey, Mr. Misery, what is the matter? No one died,” Purdue said, shoving the young man lightly.

  “Dead! Crushed and dead! Mr. Purdue,” Franz mumbled. “Look what that heavy cross did to my perfectly trimmed lawn!”

  ~~~~~

  After the rainstorm of the night showed no relent, the morning introduced a rapidly rising water level. Newscasters on the radio mentioned that the entire area reaching northward beyond the coast line at Queensferry right to the boundaries of Duns and south to Selkirk had to keep alert for the possibility of a mild flood predicted by the Weather Service. Purdue poured himself a mug of black coffee. He had overslept from a whisky binge and only dragged himself out of bed just before 11am.

  “Good thing I have no engagements this week,” he sighed, as he slouched to his window, dressed in slippers, pajama pants, and a scarf. The antique relic embellished the already striking Crown Bullion window glass of his second-story office. It was a satisfying view to say the least, especially from this particular office that was decorated in the late 19th-century style. Bookshelves, a rosewood desk, and old crystal Czech decanters for his liquor occupied the cozy space. Even his landline was running through an artesian telephone, reminiscent of the early 1890s, and so the sight of the massive stone and copper cross atop the granite column was magnificent.

  The artist modeled it on the original Estonian monument’s equal branched cross with a convex circle right in the center. Upon it, though, the same sigils as the original were replaced by an unknown insignia. The latter was exactly what compelled Purdue to buy it, because it had its own unique properties laid in copper, where the original cross was fashioned from one hundred and forty-three glass plates. He put some music on to drown out the awful patter of the hard shower outside, which had become nothing but a melancholy hum of consistent white noise. The thunder clapped over Edinburgh, lighting up the sky like a flash explosion.

  “Keep it in your pants, Thor,” Purdue called out as he made his way to the bathroom for a morning shower, holding his half-full mug up in a toast of sorts to the thunder god. While his head was not pounding too violently, Purdue still had a considerable hangover and he hoped to be properly woken by the steam and soothing warm water. Through the streams of water, the music in the office was muffled and thick, only interrupted every now and then by a strike of the thunderous voice of the heavens. Purdue refused to admit to himself that the sudden cacophony made him jump at least twice, but he hastened to get back to his coffee and music.

  There were no appointments on his agenda, but he still had to check his daily emails from begging charities, sycophants, and budding inventors on science scholarships. Sometimes there were invitations to fundraisers and parties, which reminded Purdue that the world was still blissfully unaware that the Order of the Black Sun and its affiliates were still secretly trying to unhinge it. Since he had abdicated as Renatus of the order, it had come to a standstill in sheer confusion and infighting. The patriarchs of the council were all but wiped out and could no longer sway the scepter over the organization’s doings, so for now there was a wonderful stalemate at play.

  It was a peaceful time for Dave Purdue, and much the same went for his associates, Sam Cleave and Nina Gould, who had helped cripple most of the Black Sun’s arachnid appendages during their last adventure. Purdue heard a particularly vicious crack of thunder, followed by an ungodly rumble, which escalated for a few seconds before climaxing into an enormous crash. The sound reverberated like a two-second earthquake before falling into the peaceful tedium of the rainstorm.

  Something did not feel right. In his gut Purdue knew that there was some hidden omen of devastation in that din. Half wet, he rushed to the office with only a loose towel around his waist, his hair weeping streams of water down his back and shoulders.

  “Oh, God, no!” he exclaimed. The sound was figuratively, and literally, the echo of his demeanor falling apart. “Why?” he screamed in frustration. Half of the tall granite column still stood, but the lightning had struck the high-reaching monument, splitting off two of the legs of the cross. To his dismay he saw that a large chunk from the left side of the column had crumbled off, regardless of the steel reinforcements the construction team had secured it with.

  It was only a matter of time before the rest of the relic would collapse, so he rushed
to call Calder Con.

  Chapter 4

  Sam Cleave wiped his brow. It was an excruciating day, even by Greek standards. Crete was beautiful this time of year, but Sam was not there on holiday. He was chasing a lead of some criminal activity on the island that could have significant implications on world politics, but thus far nothing tangible had transpired. Looking down onto the azure and pristine blue of the ocean around Vai, he wished Nina was with him, but since he had become more involved in the doings of the Brigade Apostate, sworn opponents of the Order of the Black Sun, he decided to keep her at bay. The underworld they were embroiled in was perilous enough for him not to rock the boat—not even for Nina Gould’s sorely needed company.

  He missed her. He missed smoking cigarettes with her when they were in life-threatening situations and he missed her vulnerable defensiveness. He sighed laboriously at the unstoppable thoughts seeping through his dismissal without effort, fueled by his own insecurity. Pulling off his shirt he wondered what Nina and Purdue were up to. Sam could not help but wonder if they were together again, even for the moment. Even a moment would be a threat to his relationship with her and he knew that she played it right down the middle between him and Purdue. It was all right with Sam since he had no desire to be engaged again and he realized a long time ago that he was content just being in the running for her.

  Much as he hated Purdue’s financial virility being a threat to him winning over Nina, he was in no way planning to try to get rid of Dave Purdue again. The last time he had Purdue seized by the enemy, hoping to eradicate the competition, it chewed at his conscience and made him feel like shit. It was just not Sam’s style to sink that low, even though he tried it once out of desperation. Against all odds, he had to admit that he enjoyed Purdue’s company and dared even call their relationship a proper friendship. Maybe it was because they had been through so much together.