Valhalla in Flames: Battle for the Grail

By Gary Lucas

The nightmare scenario. Historys most vile mass murderer leaves the world a son, a twisted psychopath, pledged to carry on his fathers work and to once again bring forth dark forces to complete the unfinished task.

Like his father, possession of the Holy Grail and the misuse of its mythical powers consumes him. Unlike his father, he succeeds in finding it.

He hatches a shocking and audacious plan to forge the future of Europe with himself at its head.

only the Grail Keepers can stop him. But the members of the ancient order, a once proud and noble fighting force, are weak and in disarray. Can they re-invent themselves in time to save the world from a second Adolf Hitler?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 16, 2005
• ISBN: 9781456792787

Gary Lucas

Gary Lucas is a world-class guitarist and Grammy-nominated songwriter. Dubbed "the greatest living electric guitarist" by Daniel Levitin, author of This Is Your Brain On Music, he has recorded more than 20 acclaimed solo albums spanning everything from psychedelic rock to Chinese pop, and was a key member of Captain Beefheart's Magic Band during the 80s. He was a consultant on the film Greetings From Tim Buckley, which stars Penn Badgley as Jeff Buckley and covers the same time period as this book, and is currently working on a variety of new projects, including a collaboration with Van der Graaf Generator front man Peter Hammill. For more information, visit www.garylucas.com.

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This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblence to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2005 Gary Lucas. All Rights Reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 03/08/05

ISBN: 1-4208-3049-X (sc)

ISBN: 9781456792787 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

THULE

PROLOGUE

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2   

3   

4   

5   

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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THULE

Around 330 B.C. the Greek explorer Pytheas journeyed to the northernmost inhabitable place on earth, Thule, a mysterious, cold, white desert of ice, a land of midnight sun. Referred to later by some as Atlantis, it was inhabited by a pure-bred Aryan race, perfect beings, immune to sickness and deformity, with blond hair and blue eyes.

PROLOGUE

In the cavernous Great Hall of the Grail Castle the Grail Knights stood aside, making way for the Black Knight to enter and approach Amfortas, the dying Fisher King. The Black Knight had quested many long years and had finally returned with the Holy Spear, the fabled weapon used by the Roman Centurion Gaius Cassius Longinus a thousand years before to pierce the side of Christ on the cross.

Just as the splash of blood from that original encounter had restored the failing sight of the myopic Longinus, sufficient for him to declare that ‘this was truly the son of God’, so the weapon itself would serve to restore the health of the dying Amfortas.

Slowly, recognition dawned on all present. The Black Knight was Parsifal, and he had returned. The young Knight had left their company an innocent fool all those years ago, and through his deeds had become strong and wise, whilst they, by comparison, had deteriorated and their powers had dimmed. He had battled the evil magician Klingsor in his quest to regain the Spear for the powers of good once more, the Spear which had been lost to Klingsor by Amfortas himself, in the process receiving a wound that would never heal unless touched once again by the weapon which had dealt it.

As the wound came into contact with the tip of the Spear it began to heal before their eyes. Amfortas rose up from his litter, unsteadily at first. He had been magically transformed into a younger, stronger warrior, full of vitality, appearing much as he had done twenty years ago. At the same time a bright light began to emanate from a corner of the Great Hall, a warm, divine light – it was the Holy Grail and it was restored, and with it all the lands around the castle and throughout the realm of Monsalväch. Nature thrived once again in the glow of the ancient chalice. It was Good Friday, a dove descended gently from above to settle peacefully on a large tabletop. From this moment on, Parsifal, his descendents and their followers would be the keepers of the Holy Grail and the Sacred Spear, defending them with their lives and keeping the mysterious powers of those hallowed objects alive through their noble deeds.

The performance ended. The curtain came down slowly and the audience erupted. ‘Encore, Encore’, came the cry amidst thundering applause and a stamping of feet upon the wooden floors. ‘A triumph’, they claimed. Eventually, the curtain lifted and the protagonists milked their audience for all they were worth, taking bow after bow, going off stage and again returning, basking in their hard-earned glory.

There was, however, an added attraction for the appreciative gathering other than the spectacle on stage, namely a member of the audience whose iconic presence drew their attention like a magnet. Try as they might, all eyes in the auditorium could not help but stray towards the royal box where a rather stiff, severe looking figure with a straight face was clapping his hands furiously. The khaki shirt, the slicked down hair and the abrupt moustache were unmistakably the trademarks of one Adolf Hitler.

1   

It was nineteen thirty-nine, Bayreuth, Germany. Hitler was at the top of his game. Great tracts of Europe stretched before him like so many Aryan virgins waiting to be plucked. Only a few short months earlier, the German army had marched unchallenged into Czechoslovakia. He was the dominant force in German politics, and in a few short years he had turned around a failing economy and restored national pride.

An invited audience of social élite and Third Reich hierarchy, the lusty prospect of world domination gleaming in their eyes, had flocked to the Festspielhaus, the old fashioned opera house in the town of Bayreuth which hosted the annual showcase for Richard Wagner’s operatic works. They had witnessed a landmark production of the opera Parsifal, which all agreed was the finest in their lifetime. Credit was due in the main to Wagner’s daughter in law, Winifred, wife of the late composer’s son Siegfried, who in turn had died nine years earlier and had left her to carry on the mantle of Bayreuth until such time as she could pass it on to her own son, Wieland.

It was she who was seated next to Hitler. Their long-standing friendship was the subject of much gossip throughout the whole of German polite society, and it was widely rumoured that it was Winifred who had supplied him with the paper on which to dictate his book, Mein Kampf, to Rudolph Hess whilst imprisoned at Landsberg Castle. Seated on his other side was a glamorous blonde. In her twenties and with striking looks, the blonde leaned over and hugged him excitedly, kissing him on the cheek before resuming her own enthusiastic applause.

Others present were a vaguely familiar looking British politician, who, when the lights came up seemed to squirm uncomfortably in the glare of so much attention, plus a female companion of Winifred’s and three huge uniformed bodyguards, serious and unsmiling, who studied the crowd intently.

‘Marvellous, Winnie, that was just marvellous,’ enthused the Führer warmly.

‘Thank you Wolf, you are too kind’, replied Winifred Wagner modestly, using her pet name for him.

She stood and the others followed suit, the bodyguards immediately alert. The small group was ushered out of the box and into a private corridor, and from there a short distance into a private dining room which had been set aside for their post-performance supper. The room itself was vast, with high, ornate ceilings supporting three exquisite chandeliers. In the centre, upon a plush, intricately woven Persian carpet, stood a huge antique dining table and chairs, set with an antique dinner service and antique silver cutlery. The diners admired the scene respectfully then moved gracefully over to a small bar at one end of the room for aperitifs.

Out in the main theatre itself, the audience had raised themselves from the uncomfortable, simple wooden seating and had begun shuffling towards the exits, shaking the numbness from their lower limbs after four hours of sitting still. As they made their way out, a brass band on the balcony played ‘the entry of the Gods into Valhalla’, a leitmotif from Das Rheingold, the first opera of the Ring Cycle, which was due to be performed there the following evening.

Drinks began to flow back in the Wagners’ private dining room. Hitler was enjoying himself immensely, even though he was teetotal and the only one present not drinking alcohol. The striking blonde draped herself around him provocatively whilst he discussed Parsifal and the finer points of symbolism therein with his friend Winifred.

‘To achieve divinity,’ asserted Hitler, ‘the mind is forced to leave the realm of the unconscious and enter into the physical realm, to experience and to learn. This is symbolised by the slaying of the swan, you see, where Parsifal’s initial pride in his accuracy with a bow later turns to pity for the dead bird. This goes hand in hand with the distinction between the higher and the lower mind. Klingsor’s realm represents the lower mind, and is filled with temptation and worldly pleasures, whereas in contrast, we have the higher mental principal which is represented by the Grail.’

He rambled on, until eventually it was time to take their seats at the grandiose table whilst the Wagner family staff expertly served the first course. Hitler was a vegetarian and Winifred, thinking of everything as usual, had created a special menu for him.

‘So, Herr Smythe’, began Hitler, addressing the British politician who had seated himself opposite the Führer, ‘we need to compile that list of your associates in the House who may be sympathetic to our great cause’. The House he referred to, of course, was the House of Commons. It was a topic they’d touched on previously, and was in fact the principal reason for Smythe being there.

The Nazi’s were both ruthless and thorough. They had compiled lists and documents detailing all aspects of British life, ready for the invasion. Death lists for those prominent individuals considered undesirable, plus lists of those who would be rounded up and herded into labour camps, such as Masonic societies, Jewish trade associations and many others, as well as lists of prominent individuals who were considered useful. Being useful meant one was in a position to exert influence that could be helpful to the Nazi cause, to help promote acceptance amongst the rank and file of ‘perfidious Albion’, the impudent little island nation who continually resisted subjugation. There was even a suggestion that Hitler planned to return Edward VIII to the English throne. Having abdicated in 1936 he was believed in some circles to harbour Nazi sympathies.

Smythe was a slimy character whose primary driver was to turn every situation to his own advantage. He exuded that stereotypical public school arrogance that British politicians often do, and was blessed with a superiority complex which fitted in nicely with the Aryan philosophy of the Nietzschian Superman.

‘There are a number of us I do believe sir, who would welcome the New Order. I and many others feel that the purity of our Anglo-Saxon roots must be preserved before it is too late.’ He spoke coolly and without passion, ‘the English way’, thought Hitler to himself, although he was not entirely convinced. Smythe’s mission to Germany was one of self-preservation more than anything, he was sure of it. This man was fully prepared to sell out his own country in return for safety and position, something Hitler could never conceive of doing. His clumsy attempt to dress it up in terms that would appeal to the Third Reich vision of the future did not really ring true. However, it didn’t matter. Both were getting what they wanted.

‘That is good to hear’, commented the Führer.

‘And, as long as we continue to have a weak Prime Minister our task will be made even easier’, added Smythe.

Hitler studied him carefully. By referring to Chamberlain as weak Smythe had implied, perhaps unwittingly, that there was in fact a need for strength. He decided to let the remark pass.

‘Let me assure you, sir, you are completely justified in your desire to preserve the purity of your own race’, said Hitler. ‘It is our duty to suppress the üntermensche, the superfluous people who infest our cities and feed like leeches on our economic successes. And, what is more’, he pointed his knife meaningfully at Smythe, ‘we must be quite ruthless about doing it. They breed like vermin if left uncontrolled. They serve no purpose. If they accepted their status and made good servants or slaves, and behaved in ways that served the greater good, then there would be a place for them. But no’, he shook his head wearily, ‘they insist on demanding equality. Their interminable whining tires me.’

‘Quite.’ Smythe had hit the right button. The Führer continued.

‘Everything we see around us, the development of the modern age, the evolution of the higher consciousness, the amazing progress of the last hundred years or so, this has been brought about by the Aryan master race; not by communists or Jews, who whine about equality and yet contribute nothing. We are on the brink of a new world, a new order, my friend. But we must fight for it, and make no mistake, it will come at a price. Many of our fine young Aryans will die fighting for what they believe. But they will die gladly for they know that this is the ultimate struggle.’ Hitler paused for breath.

It was the kind of invective he had been peddling for the last fifteen years, and with growing success. His stature was now such that he could not be ignored, and for the general populous of a country who had known little but mass discontent for years, and where conditions had been ripe for the rise of extremism, it had touched a raw nerve and served as a breath of fresh air.

The blonde, who had positioned herself next to him at the table, decided she was being ignored and needed some attention. ‘Oh, Adolf darling, you’re not going to talk politics all night are you?,’ she simpered.

‘I am so sorry my darling,’ he simpered in reply. ‘Forgive me, I sometimes forget you are only a woman, I should not expect you to be interested in these high minded principles that we men speak about. Mr. Smythe, you will have to excuse me while I pay some attention to this young lady or I will be in grave trouble.’

Having admonished himself sufficiently, he turned and smiled and gave her his full attention. ‘You know you are my little Brunhilde, my Valkyrie …’, he tweaked her nose condescendingly as he spoke, which she seemed to enjoy.

‘And you are my Siegfried,’ she replied, ‘my hero.’ She placed a fork-full of food into his mouth and watched him eat. ‘Oh, I have an idea’, she proclaimed, suddenly and excitedly, ‘I need a souvenir from this memorable evening!’

From her petite handbag she removed a small pair of nail scissors and proceeded to cut a small lock of hair from the head of Adolf Hitler. She squealed with delight as it came away in her hand. Hitler looked on, amused, much as one would indulge an excitable child. She took a gold cigarette case from her bag, opened it and removed the five cigarettes inside, placing them on the table. She then placed the lock of hair into the case, holding it in place with the elasticated gold band. As she turned back towards Hitler, her elbow caught a tall champagne flute which tipped over and fell from the table, smashing against the intricately carved wooden arm of her dining chair on its way down to the rich, thick piled rug. Shards of glass landed on both her’s and the Führer’s laps. She looked around, embarrassed. It was a tense moment, everyone waited for Hitler’s reaction. When he laughed the whole room relaxed again. The servants were immediately alert to the situation. Two of them dropped to their knees beneath her chair and began to pick up bits of broken glass with care, collecting them on silver serving trays. Hitler gallantly offered to remove the few pieces of glass from her lap, and he leaned across. In picking up a particularly sharp piece, he sliced the end of his index finger and winced. At this the blonde, feeling guilty, dabbed at it with a napkin. Then Hitler had an idea.

‘Ah!’ he said, ‘pass me your cigarette case, I have a much better souvenir for you than hair, how about the blood of an Emperor?’

He took the gold case and squeezed several drops of blood onto the hair so that it matted together.

‘In a thousand years, this gold case will be a Holy Relic more valuable than the Grail itself,’ he announced conceitedly.

The excitement died down. Hitler waved away the fussing servants and the concerned hostess and the small group continued to enjoy the feast in the atmosphere of the palatial private dining room. After the meal was finished Smythe, Winifred and Winifred’s friend discussed music and art at one end of the table, whilst Hitler and the girl conspicuously found their own space at the other, where they appeared to be wrapped up in each other’s company to the exclusion of all else. Hitler’s three burly guards positioned themselves discretely around the room. His young companion suddenly shot Hitler a serious, meaningful look.

‘Do you think you will ever have children, you and Eva?’ she asked out of the blue, quietly enough not be overheard by the others. She knew of his long-term relationship with Eva Braun, although the reverse was not true. Eva Braun was to be feared, and the blonde was a fool not to realise just how much.

It was a very direct question and took the dictator somewhat by surprise. He indulged the girl nevertheless. ‘I do not intend to sire offspring,’ he announced. ‘No child could ever hope to match my own genius and would only, therefore, be a disappointment to me.’ Maybe it was his madness or maybe it was the residue of his relationship with his own father, who knew?

‘But surely, you have a duty to the world to ensure that your bloodline continues,’ she persisted. ‘People have referred to you as the new Messiah, you must have an heir. One who will rule the new world that you are going to create.’

Hitler smiled and leaned forward. ‘Perhaps my dear’, he began, in a low conspiratorial tone, ‘perhaps I will impregnate you tonight and you will have the honour of carrying on the line which will rule the New Order for the next thousand years.’

The girl was ambitious and quickly recognised her opportunity, she was not about to let it slip away. This truly would be a night to remember, not to say unique.

~

Easter; the year of our Lord 1119.

Somewhere between Jerusalem and the River Jordan;

It was a hot, dry day as the unforgiving sun beat down on the pilgrims making their way from the city of Jerusalem to the River Jordan. In the dry, desert-like conditions, the dust cloud they created could be seen for miles. For many of them, it had been an annual event ever since the Holy Land had been captured by the Crusaders in the name of Christianity twenty years or so before. It was, however, a journey fraught with danger. Of late, bands of marauding Saracens had taken to attacking travellers on this route, and, although the travellers didn’t know it yet, today was to be no exception.

They had formed themselves into a convoy of about two hundred, many being families with women and children. Most were on foot, although a few of the older ones rode on mules. They had split themselves into three large, roughly equal groups, the men positioning themselves around the outside of each set of travellers as a first line of protection. They were not, however, fighters, and their weapons were crude and were wielded in generally inept hands.

For thirty-year-old Joseph du Bois of Reims this was a new experience, it was his first pilgrimage. He glanced nervously over towards his wife who was travelling in the centre of the first group, he on the outside. He could just make her out amidst the throng. They were approaching a group of large rocks, which reared up to the right of the trail they were following, well known as a notorious ambush spot. A hush descended on the travellers as they passed by and they surveyed the terrain with trepidation. Joseph tightened his grip on his knife - if they were going to meet trouble this was almost certainly where it would be. Suddenly, the old man in front of him clutched his throat and gasped hard for breath. Joseph saw the arrow protruding from the man’s throat as he whirled round in panic, and heard the tortured gurgling sound coming from his mouth as he fell. Unfortunately for Joseph it was to be the last thing he did hear for a second arrow, as accurate as the first, hit him and buried itself deeply in his heart. He fell dead along with the old man in front of him.

‘Barbarians,’ went up the cry. ‘Prepare to defend yourselves!’

Screaming ensued. The tightly packed groups of travellers splintered as fear drove them in all directions, separating them and making them easy targets to be picked off by more arrows. Then came the charge. Forty whooping Saracens emerged from the rocks, their swords held high. They ran among the fleeing pilgrims, hacking and chopping indiscriminately, avenging the defeat still fresh in their minds at the hands of the western Crusaders two decades earlier.

For ten long minutes the pilgrims attempted to defend themselves. The first hail of arrows had killed many, now it was down to hand-to-hand fighting and the expertise of the Saracens with their short, curved swords was telling. The desert sand soaked up pilgrim blood with a seemingly unquenchable thirst and still begged for more. The situation looked hopeless.

It was at this point that the tables turned. A group of nine Crusader Knights on horseback seemed to appear from nowhere. It was a magnificent sight as their huge warhorses, draped with multi-coloured coats of arms, came thundering forwards into the melée. The Knights wore long tunics made of chain-mail and covered with a loose white mantle, and with the armour of their helmets glinting in the sunlight their flashing broadswords swooped at the heads of the marauding bandits with deadly accuracy. Immense strength, gained through battle-practice and hours of training, allowed them to manipulate heavy horse, armour and sword with deftness and perfect timing. Two of their number also carried the long lance, held upright as they galloped and then lowered and used as a deadly skewer as they approached their prey.

It was not long before the Saracens were on the run. The Knights had slaughtered well over half of them in the short, frenzied battle, the sand mopping up their blood with impartiality just as it had done the pilgrims’ before. The Knights now gathered themselves together, grouping their horses in an outward facing circle as they watched warily for the surprise counter-attack or a further stream of arrows. Neither came. The pilgrims looked on in awe as the Saracens disappeared, feeling safe enough now to start checking the prone bodies of their loved ones for signs of life. For the Knights it was a familiar sight, they had seen many battlefields and many bodies.

It had not been an easy matter defending the Holy Land in the name of Pope Urban II, on whose orders it had been captured from the Moslems during the first Crusade. Attacks like this one were common, so much so that a year ago these same nine French Knights had presented themselves to King Baldwin, the King of Christian Jerusalem and the leader of that first Crusade, and had volunteered their services in that as far as their strength permitted, they would protect travelling pilgrims from the menace of thieves and bandits in the Holy Land. They had been tracking this particular band of Saracens for two days, and had finally caught up with them in time to honour their pledge and avoid a massacre.

A group of survivors approached the fearsome Knights and fell on their knees, thanking them for saving their lives.

‘Who are you?’ one of the pilgrims enquired.

‘We are the Order of the Poor Knights of Christ,’ replied one of the Knights grandly. ‘My name is André de Montbard, and this is our Grand Master,’ he said indicating the Knight on his left, ‘Hughes de Payans.’

In setting up their Order, the Knights had taken solemn vows of poverty, chastity and obedience; in fact their emblem was an image of two Knights riding one single horse, denoting poverty and brotherhood. King Baldwin had thus allowed the warrior monks to take up residence in the stables near his Palace on Temple Mount in Jerusalem. The stables were situated near the western wall of what was thought to be the original Temple of King Solomon, hence they soon became known as the Knights Templar.

The Knights rode with the pilgrim caravan for the next two days until they reached the River Jordan. They then took their leave of them and made their way back to their base in Jerusalem, on the way back joining another group of travellers, this time heading towards Jerusalem from the River Jordan. They afforded them protection but met no resistance for the entire journey.

On reaching their barracks the Knights dismounted, tired, hot and thirsty. There was still the usual ritual to perform before they could rest, however. They stood together in a circle and lifted their swords high into the air with the points touching. Hughes de Payans made the announcement which cemented their Order - ‘Gentlemen, I give you; Noble Deeds.’

‘Noble Deeds,’ came the reply, recited in unison by the others.

With the aid of their squires, they removed and stored their heavy chain-mail and weaponry in a secure part of the stables. Each Knight had employed one squire and one servant from the local populous, funded by the King. Each of these employees was required to undergo a secret initiation ceremony, binding them to the Order and forbidding the disclosure of any and all information about the activities of the Knights.

There were good reasons for this secrecy, other than self-protection and survival in a dangerous land. They were searching for something. It was no co-incidence that King Baldwin had housed them in the stables, for it was said that King Solomon, having inherited the Arc of the Covenant from his father King David, had built a secret hiding place beneath his temple to keep it safe from the enemies of Israel. It was also widely believed that the Arc had never been found and was lying in wait for the