The War of the Iron Dragon: An Alternate History Viking Epic (Saga of the Iron Dragon Book 5)

by Robert Kroese

  “Maybe they were abducted by the Izarians as slave labor,” O’Brien said, “and eventually they won their freedom. It would explain why they have so little information regarding their history, and also their current conflict with the Izarians.”

  “Could be,” said Freya. “We just don’t know, and I haven’t been able to get much out of them.”

  “Surely they must be interested in learning about Earth, though,” Helena said, “if this really is where they are from.”

  “I think they are,” said Freya, “but they have more pressing problems at present. I think they are figuring the anthropology will have to wait until their war is over. Which could be a very long time, if they’re going to insist on finding the perfect army.”

  “Pardon me if this is a silly question,” O’Brien said. “But do we know for certain that Eric and his men are willing to fight the Izarians?”

  “I haven’t exactly asked,” Freya said. “Just trying to explain who we are was challenge enough, and frankly I’m not sure how to tell someone that he’s supposed to be dead.”

  “What if I talk to him?” Helena asked.

  “Be my guest,” said Freya, nearly overwhelmed with relief.

  Chapter Four

  E ric stood staring at the rows of identical metal contraptions, his mind trying to make sense of what he was seeing. They were roughly man-shaped, standing on two legs, with articulated arms hanging at their sides, but they were taller and broader than any man. “They are… machines?” he asked the old woman, who had come with him into the chamber where the things were stored.

  “Think of it as armor,” the woman said, “with weapons built into it.” The woman, who called herself Helena, smiled, and waves of tiny wrinkles spread across her face. Her once-black hair had gone mostly gray and she stood with a slight stoop, but Eric could see that she must have been extraordinarily beautiful once. With her dark complexion and deep brown eyes she was no Norsewoman, but she spoke without a hint of an accent. Eric did not fully understand her relationship to Freya or the others on the sky ship, whom he’d only seen briefly. Clearly neither she nor Freya were members of the ship’s crew, who wore strange burgundy uniforms and spoke no Norse. He knew that the sky people wanted him to fight for them, and he suspected Helena had been selected as the person most likely to be able to persuade him to join their cause.

  Eric reached up, feeling the sleek metal surface of one the thing’s arms. “No man could bear the weight of such armor,” he said.

  “The suit has many small machines built into it which allows it to act as an extension of your own body,” Helena replied. “It moves with you.”

  “And these parts, mounted on the arms. They are weapons like the one the young woman, Freya, carried?”

  “Machineguns, yes. But far more powerful than that model, and with a much greater supply of bullets. My understanding is that these tanks hold a liquid that is channeled into the gun, where it solidifies into a projectile to be launched at an enemy.”

  “You are not an expert on these ‘mech suits,’ then.”

  “No. The technology is nearly as foreign to me as it is to you.”

  “Why do those who built the machines, the sky people in the dark uniforms, not come to talk to me?”

  “If you agree to fight for them, you will be given training by people who know more of the suits than I. I came to speak with you first because they do not know your language or your culture.”

  “And you do? You are no Norsewoman.”

  “I was born in Constantinople, but I lived among the People of the North for most of my life.”

  A man in a burgundy uniform, standing at the door a few paces behind him, cleared his throat.

  “Come,” Helena said. “We are making them nervous. It wasn’t easy to convince the captain to let us down here.”

  “The captain is the one who looks like he’s got a pole shoved up his ass?”

  Helena laughed. “That’s the one. Tertius Dornen. Come. My back hurts if I stand too long.”

  She turned and Eric followed her to the door. Eric glared at the uniformed man, who paled and shrank back toward the wall. The young man tapped at some device next to the door, and it swished open as if by magic. He hurried through the door down a narrow corridor, opened another door, and then stood by while Helena walked slowly down the corridor, with Eric following. At last they reached the room, which was empty except for a small table and two chairs. Eric helped Helena into one and then sat across from her in the other. Helena said something to the uniformed man that Eric didn’t understand. The man seemed puzzled as well, and Helena repeated her request, making a motion as if she were bringing a cup to her lips. The man frowned, opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it and left the room.

  “I asked him to bring us some tea,” Helena said. “The food on this ship is not very good, but they have passable tea.”

  “It will take more than tea to entice me to fight your war for you,” Eric said.

  “It is not my war,” Helena said, “and I would not presume to offer the son of Harald Fairhair and rightful King of Northumbria payment, whether in tea or gold, to fight. Your reward will be the reward of all true warriors: fame and glory. Those who survive can expect to live well for the rest of their lives.”

  “But never again shall I be a king. Freya told me herself I would never be allowed to return to this world. You pay homage to my kingship with your words, but I am not deceived: you require not a king and his retinue, but a band of mercenaries. We will fight and perhaps die, and this Tertius Dornen will make himself a king or emperor on our backs.”

  “I don’t believe that’s Dornen’s intention. He’s a military officer with a mission. A mission he’s been unable to fulfill because he has no soldiers.”

  “You say this is not your war, but you implore me to fight it. Why?”

  “Because if you aid Dornen’s people in his fight, he will assist my people in ours.”

  “Your enemies, they are the Jötunn of which Freya spoke?”

  “The Cho-ta’an, yes. You know the story of Ragnarök, of course.”

  Eric guffawed. “Oh, is it the end of the world already? First my nursemaids tried to scare me with tales of Fenrir swallowing the sun, and then the Christian priests tried to frighten me with stories about plagues of locusts and rivers of blood. The end of the world comes when I lie still on the battlefield, an arrow through my heart.”

  Helena smiled. “I do not claim to be the herald of either Ragnarök or the Christian apocalypse. What I can tell you is that I have spoken to those who have seen with their own eyes the war that is to come. Millions will die. Entire worlds will be destroyed.”

  “The people who have seen this… they are seers?”

  “You could think of them that way. They are people who experienced the war with their own eyes and came to us to warn us about it.”

  “But the war with the Jötunn has not begun?”

  “No. That war will not begin for over a thousand years.”

  “Then why do you not destroy your enemies before it begins?”

  Helena smiled. “Have you ever wondered, since the fate of the gods is spoken of so explicitly in stories, why the gods do not choose to act differently, in order to change the outcome?”

  “It is said that even the gods cannot fight fate.”

  “Then why do they fight?”

  “There is glory in fighting,” said Eric, “even when there is no hope of victory.”

  “Yes,” said Helena. “And defeat is always temporary. It is the unyielding spirit of men that allows them to survive to fight again. The gods are destroyed at Ragnarök, but afterwards, humanity is reborn.”

  “But it is not the Jötunn that Dornen’s people fight.”

  “No. It is another race, called Izarians.”

  The uniformed man had returned with a tray, on which rested a small carafe and two cups. Eric sneered at the man as he set it on the table. The man reddened
, clenched his jaw, and left the room.

  Helena poured them each some of the tea. “Like you,” she said, “I put little stock in ancient myths as guides for one’s behavior. But sometimes the myths carry truths that clarify our place in the world. It is said that at Ragnarök, the sky will split in two, and two armies will come forth to destroy the world. One is the frost giants, the Jötunn. The other is the sons of Muspell, the lords of fire and flame. It is these that Dornen’s people, the Truscans, fight.”

  “These other enemies, they are a race of giants, like the Jötunn?” Eric took a sip of the tea. It was similar to the teas from the east that he had sampled as King, but had a sweeter, richer flavor. It didn’t make up for the complete lack of beer and wine, but he assumed the Truscans had stores of alcoholic beverages on board as well—they just hadn’t seen fit to give Eric’s men any. He downed the hot liquid, feeling the burn spreading through his chest, and poured himself another cup.

  “The Izarians are said to resemble men,” said Helena, “but I have never seen one. My understanding is that very few of the Truscans have ever seen one either.”

  “The Truscans fight an enemy they have not seen?”

  “The Izarians send machines to fight for them. Machines like the mech suit I showed you, but with no man inside. They have mechanical brains that are in many ways superior to our own. Even their ships are mostly unmanned, operated by these mechanical brains.”

  “Perhaps there are no Izarians,” Eric said. “Perhaps they died off a thousand years ago, leaving these machines behind.”

  “That could well be, for all I know. What I can tell you is that their machines seem intent on wiping out all of humanity, and they may very well be able to do it.”

  “How is it, then, that you prepare for a war a thousand years hence, when the fight against these Izarians goes on now?”

  Helena sighed and took a sip of her tea. “It is very difficult to explain, and I do not fully understand it myself. At some point, humanity diverged into two different branches—us and the Truscans. The worlds the Truscans inhabit are so far away that we never even knew of each other’s existence until a few days ago.”

  “When Freya’s sky ship was intercepted by this one.”

  “That’s right. We knew of the existence of the Izarians, but we did not know if any of them were still alive. In fact, a powerful artifact my people found in an abandoned Izarian temple was our best hope to defeat the Cho-ta’an.”

  “What sort of artifact? A weapon?”

  “Yes. A powerful magical talisman. A talisman capable of destroying an entire world. But the talisman was itself destroyed, and now our only hope to defeat the Cho-ta’an is the Truscans. But the Truscans must first defeat the Izarians. Do you see?”

  “I see that it is with good reason that the gods have denied us the ability to see the future as a matter of course. I do not see how one can prepare for a war a thousand years from now while fighting another.”

  “Believe me, you aren’t the only one who is confused. Ultimately we must defeat both enemies, but the immediate threat is the Izarians. Freya made a deal to supply them with fighting men in exchange for their help against the Cho-ta’an.”

  “She offered us up to serve these Truscans before even speaking with us?”

  “I don’t know that she had you and your men in mind, specifically. But the timing of the Truscans’ arrival on Earth was fortuitous, coming only a few days before your exile from York.”

  Eric swallowed another gulp of tea. “You mean you knew I would be driven out of York by Eadred’s henchmen?”

  “We did, yes. It’s a matter of historical record, although we didn’t know exactly when it would happen. We were almost too late.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning that only the dead are summoned from Valhalla to fight at Ragnarök.”

  “I am not dead!” Tea splashed from his cup onto his beard and the table.

  “According to history, you are. Eric Haraldson, called Eric Bloodaxe, born in the Christian year 885. Served briefly as the King of Norway before being overthrown by his half-brother Haakon, then briefly as King of Northumbria on two different occasions. At the end of the second, he was driven out of York by men loyal to the English King, Eadred. He soon received a letter of support from Osulf, the ruler of Northumbria, who claimed to be raising a force of men to return Eric to the throne. Eric and his men were ambushed at Stainmore Pass by a group of Northumbrians led by one Earl Maccus, and Eric was killed.”

  “Horseshit!” Eric snapped. “I am alive and well, along with the rest of my men, and this is no Valhalla! Let me off this damned sky ship, and I will show you how worthless your ‘historical record’ is!”

  “You are free to go if you like,” said Helena. “But understand this: the historical records of this time are incomplete, but we have a good understanding of the major historical events. Perhaps you did not die at Stainmore. Our records may be incorrect. What I can tell you, though, is that there is no mention of you in any historical documents after this year. In other words, perhaps you live for another forty years. Maybe you even return to the throne at York. If you do, however, your reign will be completely forgotten. Go if you like. Take your men south to York or sail to Norway. It makes no difference, because nothing you do will be remembered. You will gain no further fame nor fortune. No matter what you do, history will say you died in 954 Anno Domini at Stainmore Pass.”

  “Liar!” shouted Eric, getting to his feet. “Witch!” He threw his cup against the far wall, but the damned thing just bounced and rolled weakly across the floor. The last of his tea dribbled down the wall.

  “Sit down!” Helena snapped, and for a moment the Norseman stared at her, trembling and red-faced, his fists clenched before him. Then, finding himself unable to strike an old woman, he sank again into his chair.

  “Why?” he asked, his voice tinged with anguish. “Why did you save me if I am fated to live the rest of my life to no consequence. You should have left me to die!”

  “You need to listen, Eric. Freya saved your life for a reason. The future of humanity itself is at stake. If you come with us, you can yet win the glory that was denied to you on Earth.”

  “What difference does it make? History will still say I died at Stainmore. This is but a cruel joke!”

  “Yes, according to the historical record, you are dead. But it is said that history is written by the victors. What do you think Maccus will report to Osulf when he scours Yorkshire and can find no sign of you? That you are alive and well and traveling across the sky with people from another world in a wondrous metal ship? No, he will report that you are dead, because that is what Osulf and Eadred require of him. And a thousand years later, men will pore over the documents of this time and read that you died at Stainmore. That cannot be changed. But Eric, history doesn’t end here. The end of the war with the Izarians and the Cho-ta’an has not yet been written. So the question is: do you want to try for another chance at glory, or throw a tantrum like a child?”

  “Woman, if you were a man, you’d be dead by now for speaking to me this way.”

  “I have no doubt. Do you see that little glass globe on the ceiling? It is like a magic window through which Tertius Dornen and his men can see and hear everything we do in here.”

  “I do not fear Dornen and his pink-faced men with soft hands and little dicks squeezed into tight-fitting black trousers,” Eric growled, shaking his fists at the camera. “Let them come!” Eric could see that Helena was stifling a giggle, which only made him angrier.

  “I’m not trying to scare you,” she said, when she’d gotten control of herself. “My point is that you are being evaluated. Commander Dornen is not convinced your men are fit to face the Izarians. He thinks you are sloppy and undisciplined.”

  “Come in here and speak your insults to my face!” Eric shouted at the little globe. “I will show you sloppy and undisciplined!”

  “This is what I’m talking about, Eric.
The Truscans don’t think they can trust you. Dornen thinks he can find more reliable warriors elsewhere. Men who can be trusted to follow orders.”

  “More men like the freshly shaven pup who brought us tea, no doubt,” Eric said with a sneer. “If Dornen wants soft-spoken men with manners and fine clothing, then he would do well to look elsewhere. If he wants warriors who will fight men or giants to the death, with axe or ‘machinegun’ or our bare hands, if necessary, then he is a fool to pass us by.”

  “Then you will do it,” Helena said.

  Eric, fully realizing he had been manipulated but unwilling to retreat, said, “I will not be denied glory. If history considers me dead, then so be it. I will defeat these Izarians as a corpse, leading an army of wraiths!” In his mind, he pictured his men, dressed in ‘mech suits,’ marching across the golden fields of another world, their weapons vomiting steams of fire and metal that tore through the ranks of an army of giants.

  “Good,” said Helena. “But if this arrangement is to work, you and your men must be disciplined. Aboard this ship, Commander Dornen is in charge, and his men—even that kid who brought us tea—outrank you. If anybody in a burgundy uniform tells you to do something, you do it. No hesitation, no backtalk. I know you’ve commanded ships, so you understand. And I hope it goes without saying that if Commander Dornen agrees to put you and your men in those suits, you will follow orders rapidly and precisely. You will no longer be a band of Vikings out for plunder. You will be a precisely calibrated military machine. Is that understood?”

  “My men have been on long voyages across the sea, in much tighter quarters and worse conditions than this. They will do as I tell them.”

  “And you?”