Königstiger: Odin's Warriors - Book 3 Read online

  "Come on, the Captain wants us down on the beach. Whatever it is you're stewing about, it can sure as hell wait another day. What I wouldn't give, for a decent slab of bloody bacon."

  Silence. Then a distant cry.

  "Big-ger!"

  MERRION FINISHED the last of his reports, the piles of paperwork that accumulated even while he was away on the mission to the Emperor's Lair. He put the last folder aside, and looked at his clean, orderly desk. He reached down, opened up the drawer, and pulled out the little box of curios; odd bits and pieces he'd collected in his life. He looked at the battered, dented tobacco tin. He opened it, and started thinking about the one problem he needed to solve before he left with the First and Last, three days from now.

  The small matter of the saboteur. It had been fortuitous that Ella found the cut – no, almost cut through – rudder cable on the seaplane they had built from scratch, months earlier, out on the far ocean reaches of Elysium. If she hadn't, the mission to raid the Emperor's Lair would have most certainly failed.

  Merrion picked out a small shotgun pellet, a souvenir from his first meeting of Ella, and wedged the little slug between his right thumb and index finger, rolling it around and around. He placed the little pellet back into the tin, amongst the odd bird feathers, scraps of fabric, small pins and medals taken from foreign, off world warriors no longer alive, and the piece of metal from the fallen giant they'd killed on that recent expedition, and realised there was one person he'd yet talk to.

  Merrion made his way out of his security office, and into the streets of Fairholm, the suns high overhead, casting little in the way of shadow. He made his way through the civilian quarters, down the cobblestone streets filled with anxious-looking citizens, making his way down to the river, to the part of town the Vikings called their new home, now that Odinsgate had fallen.

  The place swarmed with Viking refugees, kids running this way and that. It most definitely smelled Viking, he wrinkled his nose.

  He eventually found the man he was looking for, sitting right in the middle of the converted stone mill, in their new Great Hall. "Snorri," said Merrion, "perchance, are you busy?"

  Snorri stopped reading the rather rude poem given to him by one of his old schoolfriends, his cheeks flushed. "Merrion, what brings you here?" He shoved the parchment behind his back.

  "I understand the fish are biting down the river," said Merrion, smiling, "care to join me for a little expedition?"

  "Perfect." The Viking grinned. "Always up for a bit of fishing." Snorri, Merrion, and Beowulf's dog Manx left the stone mill and made their way down to the little estuary half a mile away.

  The river already swarmed with fisherwomen, trying to land something for lunch to feed their hungry families.

  "Are you still receiving pigeonhawks from Beowulf," said Merrion.

  "We only got the two," said Snorri, "just after they'd departed the Inquisition stronghold, reporting that they'd been stranded by a storm and were undergoing repairs, then the last one a week ago, saying they'd almost finished and were proceeding on the rescue. Why?"

  "Since Odinsgate fell, there would be no use of Viking pigeonhawks, would there? All your kin are here."

  "No? Only the one that goes back between us and Beowulf."

  "Curious." He pointed a finger upwards. A flock of seagulls squawked high overhead, circling on the warm thermals, waiting for the fisherwomen to leave so they could feast on the piles of fish guts scattered on the river's banks. Not that there would be much left, as the huge wolfhound devoured each offal pile, tail thumping merrily. Manx seemed to doing better with the morning runs with Amelia and the pack, the dog missing Beowulf quite mightily. Merrion continued.

  "I've just received reports of my men seeing pigeonhawks coming to and fro from the city. If you are not using them, and I’m most certainly not – yet – that means if we can track them, Snorri, we can chase those responsible for sabotaging the Catalina. I'd also wager that is not the end of their mischief. Care to do some hunting with me?"

  Chapter Seven

  TRIAL OF FIRE

  SERGEANT MAJOR RODRIGUEZ surveyed what was left of his Inquisition command, deep in the hold of the warship, in the darkness and creaks of timber as the ship bobbed up and down in the swell. There was no more honour. No more service to his God. He'd failed the Emperor, and even worse, fallen prisoner to the heathens. In that final battle, daemons straight from Hell had sundered his army, playing with them as if they were children’s relic toys.

  The same way we treat the heathens, said another part of his mind.

  Sergeant Major Rodriguez squashed the rebel thought flat. Next time, we'd be more prepared. A front row of priests, and their pious holy smoke, would turn the daemons, of that he had no doubt.

  You're delusional.

  He shook his head once more.

  A burst of light. The trapdoor above opened, and that short heathen dwarf from another world stuck his head down, a burning torch thrust outwards into the hold. "C'mon you lot, up and out, onto the beach. We've got a little surprise for ya."

  On the short, flat section of beach, above the high tide mark, an enormous bonfire burned. At one hundred paces, it was uncomfortable to stand so near to it.

  At ninety paces, the prisoners were halted by the five Vikings escorting them, joining Laurie and the rest of them, sweltering in front of the conflagration. Two wooden barrels sat on their ends, partly buried in the sand. Around it, wooden crates, and smaller cooking fires, each with assorted, but still large, fishes roasting above them.

  Beowulf gave the signal, and the single longship dropped oars and heaved, the crew straining, moving away from the shore. Long chains became taut, and the pair of iron chains dragged the huge log across the beach, towards the bonfire, then over it.

  A plethora of sparks spat up into the sky, and rained down all amongst them, as the log dragged the embers flat, spreading the bonfire over a large, flat area of sand. The log reached the surf, now on fire, but with a hiss the flames were extinguished by the ocean surf.

  Laurie laughed, and shook his head. With one hand on the hilt of his sword, and the other rubbing his left temple, he cleared his throat. "Mad buggers. Right. Sergeant Major Rodriguez, Marines of the Inka – ah, Inquisition, we have a proposal for you." He walked over to the left barrel — darker in colour than the other — and opened the small crate sitting next to it, lifted a Viking earthenware mug out, and dipped it down into the barrel, filling it up. He made his way over to the Inquisition sergeant, until they were face-to-face.

  Laurie was a good half-foot taller, but the other man had a nice, easy, sixty pounds of muscle on him. And the Inquisition sergeant major looked angry, or at least upset. "So, mate," he said, "would I be right in assuming that your men follow your command without hesitation?" A pause. "I'll take that as a yes. Now it seems you don't have many options, and for that matter, neither do we." Another pause. "I might be a right Royal bastard, but I've had just about enough of murdering people in cold blood." He slugged half the mug back, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "We could leave you to rot on this island. Sure, there is enough fish here that you'd last a few weeks easy, a decent amount of fresh water. But, there's a small problem of those spiky, alien daemons. I reckon before too long, they'd be clambering out of the surf and butchering you where you stood."

  He looked back over his friends. "But from what I understand, there's no going back to the Emperor for you lot, is there. Death by aliens, or ignominious death as cowards by your own Inquisition."

  "Yes," said the sergeant major. "There is no honour to be found. Even death by our own hands will prevent us from reaching heaven."

  "Ahhh," said Laurie, suddenly grinning widely. "What if I could offer you a chance of redemption?"

  "Redemption?"

  "Christ Almighty, yes redemption. You do drink alcohol, don't you?"

  "Strictly ceremonial use only, you heathen."

  "Yeah right. Well, what w
e have here, Marines, is a little ceremony of our own. You haven't eaten or drunk in an entire, whole day, apologies about that. Join us in our feast here. What we're offering you is a chance to kill daemons, because trust me, they can be killed. Whaddya say?"

  The sergeant major took a breath, the air hot, sweat running down his face. The roasting fish, the sloshing sound of the heathen's mug as he finished the mug, cool water trickling down his cheeks, and the chance to get revenge, for was it not written in the Holy Tome, Salvation could be reached by vanquishing Daemons by those of purest hearts?

  Go on, said the voice. Kill daemons.

  And for once, he didn't disagree.

  "I will considerer it," he said, glancing at his men who stood, sweltering in the heat, but to a man, in formation, at attention, and awaiting his command.

  "Fantastic. Now come eat and drink with us. The barrel on the left is just water, as I swear on my mother's grave. I just drank from it. No poison." The sergeant major missed the briefest, tiniest spark of mischief that glittered through the Australian's eyes, ethereal and timeless as Loki himself.

  THE STARS CAME OUT, the full moon illuminating the beach and the party raging on it. Both the barrel of water, and the other which had contained fermented coconut juice, lay empty.

  Mick staggered back to the beach with an astonished Andrew and a second barrel of juice, chuckling heartily as they reached the top of the nearby dune.

  Ten Marines and ten Vikings heaved from opposite ends of a long piece of nautical rope, a smaller coal pit right in the middle.

  Over to their left, a circle of Inquisition soldiers and Republic warriors cheered on the latest contenders in bare knuckle fighting. On the right, knife throwing at a dummy made to look like a spiky alien. Griffin nailed its head, blindfolded.

  "What was in the water?" said Andrew, aghast. "We've only been gone half an hour!"

  "Nothing mate," said Mick. "All natural," laughing anew.

  "You've poisoned them!"

  The short man stopped, scandalised. "I've done nothing of the sort! They'll be fine. Well, should be fine."

  Andrew's cheeks flushed as he tried to hold his temper, but failed. "Sergeant Mick Ward," he yelled, "what have you done?"

  "Saved about three hundred men from slaughter, I reckon. Jeez mate, you're a bit high strung at the moment. You ever know how to relax?"

  THE SEA MUSHROOMS, scraped off the Trinity's side, were assured by Magnus and Beowulf were not deadly, at least in small quantities anyhow. But dried, then ground up, sprinkled on drink, one went on a journey to visit the Gods, returning from their visions hours later, albeit the same but with a wonky head.

  So once Laurie had taken his mug, all eyes on his right hand lifting the mug up, no one saw his left drop the weighted pouch of dried mushrooms inside.

  Things were going well. Their plan, concocted by Beowulf and himself, presented the best way of avoiding the murder of three-hundred prisoners. And if all went well, and they could convince Rodriguez to join them, a small battalion of highly-trained, fanatical Inka Marines was no small military asset to be trifled with.

  Beowulf slammed down the last of his alcohol, raising his battle horn. He blew one mighty breath into it, and all around stopped. "My kin," he yelled, "and those who call themselves Marines, time to pledge our allegiance, forge anew our alliance. What say you?"

  The Vikings roared. The off-worlders roared. And Sergeant Major Rodriguez, beaming wildly, drunk on the holy spirit of his God filling his body with every fibre of his being, punched the sky. Yes, here was redemption, here was vengeance, Righteousness made manifest. His marines yelled too.

  "Then here is our ritual, not practised since olden times. The Trial of Fire. When warring clans came together, to settle on peace, armistice, they would all together walk across coals of fire, allegiances forged in flames. My kin, your boots!"

  To a man and woman, the Vikings removed their boots, and gestured for everyone else to do the same.

  "You're fucking wanting us to do what?" said a flabbergasted Laurie. "You didn't say anything about this!" The great bonfire, now raked over hours earlier, measured at least fifty feet by eighty, the tops of the ash grey and white, but still giving off a huge amount of radiant heat from this distance, soft colours of orange, pink and red lurking underneath.

  "What is the matter, Captain Laurie, Berserker of Earth. You cannot baulk now." And indeed, the others, Inka and Republic alike, were removing their shoes. Laurie suddenly felt a bit woozy.

  "C'mon Old Man, last one across is a chicken," said a radiant Mick, pulling off his boots. "How hot can it be?" Andrew threw his boots away, whistling, downing the last of his coconut juice.

  Laurie tried to concentrate. Had some of the mushroom ended up in the barrel of booze? The train of thought ended with a snap, as something broke in his forehead, a new consciousness dawned taking twenty years off his life and then he too was smiling. "Brilliant idea, Beowulf!"

  The Viking King rubbed his hands together. "Now the trick is to tread softly, float like a butterfly, sing like a Valkyrie. Kin, we are the first." In one long line across, the Vikings ran across the coals, axes held high, screaming at the tops of their lungs as if there was no tomorrow.

  Halfway across, the first row of Marines broached the embers, and wave after wave followed the Vikings over, yelling in ecstasy for their God, their sergeant major urging them onwards, eyes alight in the embers.

  "Who wants to live forever!" bellowed Griffin, holding aloft Betty in one hand. "With me!" The American charged right into the fire bed, the .50cal brandished as if a throwing spear, and Mick, Andrew, and Thorfinn followed right behind him, shouting in acknowledgement, holding hands as if kids back in the playground, skipping along at a fast clip, vitally glad to be alive.

  Laurie stood at the edge, the only one remaining. He looked down, saw his virgin, snow white feet, untouched by the sun in decades.

  He wiggled his big toes, the sand feeling marvellous under his skin. I must do this more often. Laurie put his right foot out, the sole landing on the coals, then the other, his skin instantly burning, flesh searing, one stride after the other, chasing the others across, the pain like wine, the clarity of thought, of who he was, who they were, and what he must do, crystal clear, his mind glowing.

  On the far side, the Vikings kept running into the surf, leading those behind also into the shallow ocean, all cheering ecstatically, until at long last, their Captain joined them.

  "Together, we fight!" cried Laurie. "Are you with me?"

  The throng roared the affirmative.

  From nowhere, the giant appeared, at least one-hundred feet tall, standing in the semi-shallow surf. Silver, with a wing-swept helmet, it dropped to one knee, kneeling in front of them.

  Every man and woman saw something different. The Vikings and Republic soldiers, off-worlders included, all watched the Queen of Valkyries bestow them her blessing, her words all unique, personalised, for every one of them, but blessing them for war and her protection.

  The Marines bowed before their Saint Mary, patron saint of righteous war. This was the correct, nay only course of action, an offer of salvation. Join the heathens, crush the daemons. For they were Chosen.

  The apparition vanished, and to an individual seconds later, they all passed out, collapsing right in the water, unconscious.

  Then, and only then, did the metal dragonfly disengage from the piece of flotsam, and with the medical stretchers it towed across ninety leagues of open water, begin the process of moving all three-hundred and twelve souls back up onto land, past high tide, and start healing six-hundred and twenty-four cases of first-degree burns.

  "WHAT I DON'T GET," said Mick, the next morning, "is how the bloody hell our feet weren't severely burned. We only got a blister or two on each foot."

  "It's fucking more than I'd like," said Laurie, gingerly walking across the sand to his friends, all sitting on the edge of Hellsbaene, their feet dangling in the water, trying to alleviate the pai
n of the blisters. Behind him, Beowulf, and Rodriguez.

  The Sergeant-Major coughed, embarrassed. "I must apologise for the conduct of my men last night."

  "Take your boots off, Laurie," said Griffin, "the water feels good."

  "Not on your bloody life mate. The next time my boots come off, I’d better be dead."

  Beowulf clapped Laurie hard on the back. "That could be arranged."

  Laurie bent over, coughing hard. "Christ," he spluttered. "Vikings. Sergeant-Major," he managed after a few seconds, hands on his knees, "there's only thing I want to hear from you. Yes, or no?" It better be a yes. I am never repeating last night ever again. My head feels like a steam train ran over it, and that piece of his mind that opened, still felt wide, unclosed, the opposite to how a hangover worked. You get hammered, the following day, maybe the next after, you feel right as rain again.

  Those damn mushrooms.

  "Yes," said Sergeant-Major Rodriguez.

  "Fantastic, Rodriguez. Now what the hell is your first name?"

  Chapter Eight

  THE END OF CIVILISATION

  MERRION AND SNORRI laid on top of the Flak & Observation tower, now somewhat unused since the Inquisition all but fled back to their mainland.

  It did however, provide a spectacular vantage point over the entire city of Fairholm, the half-moon shining in the late-afternoon, sunset filled skies of orange and red. In front of the man in black, laid two skins of wine, and a large whorl of cheese.

  Next to Snorri, a bottle of mead, and a box of oval shaped, sugary-covered bread stuffs.

  "Doughnuts," said Snorri, stuffing another one into his bearded mouth. "The boys from Damage Inc. asked the baker to make them," crumbs spraying everywhere. "They've really caught on. Want one?"

  Merrion stared at the Viking. Hard. "The end of civilisation as we know it." He lifted the pair of binoculars borrowed off Marietta and resumed the stakeout.