Grendel Uprising: The Complete Series

by Scott Moon

  “Iron,” Aefel said.

  “That we make into steel. Do not be stupid.”

  Denial wouldn’t have convinced any of the women in the village, and might cause him more harm than good. On another planet, in another set of circumstances, he might laugh at the thought of fifty women in need of a man. As things stood with the people of the Sky Clan, he wasn’t sure a romantic relationship would end well. Fey and all the others carried swords, axes, spears, or all three.

  “Why do you remain with us, Aefel? Why not seek your stranger before Gunnarr kills you?” Fey asked.

  Aefel choked back a laugh. “Gunnarr isn’t going to kill me.”

  The blow split his helmet and cut into his scalp. The only thing that surprised Aefel more than the sudden pain was that the attack came from the front. He would never have bet money that the boy was fast enough to get past his defenses without a surprise attack.

  Falling to his knees, rolling sideways and backward, Aefel came up with his shield in one hand and sword in the other. Tightly controlled battle-rage poured through his veins. Another man might have lost control. Aefel, and all the men of the FALD Reavers, knew how to master the inner demon that drove men to kill; master it and use it.

  “Do not challenge my authority, Vildfremmed, or I will kill you,” Gunnarr said.

  “Are you planning on giving me a cold or something?” Aefel asked.

  Gunnarr, Fey, and all the others stared at him blankly.

  Several moments passed. Aefel relaxed his guard and stepped back. “We should continue to practice.”

  With surprising maturity, Gunnarr nodded. “Yes, Vildfremmed, we should. Then you can lift needless things and run in circles for no reason.”

  “Don’t knock it until you try it, Gunnarr. Physical conditioning is like battle practice; it makes strong fighters,” Aefel said.

  “I’m not picking up logs and anvils and carts for no reason,” Hilda, daughter of Greb and Gretta, said. “You try it, Jarl Gunnarr.”

  Aefel ignored the women as they taunted and jibed each other like any good collection of disgruntled recruits. He held Gunnarr’s gaze. The boy-man was the chieftain of Sky Clan now, the Jarl, and showed no sign of yielding. For a moment, Aefel wondered what that would make his rank in the Commonwealth Assembly if it was learned that Sveinn was, in fact, the Emperor.

  He decided it might be in his best interest to cease his adversarial relationship with Gunnarr, hard as that might prove in reality. He saw Gunnarr as an untested boy, and Gunnar saw him as a dangerous outsider.

  “We are done for the day,” Gunnar said. The women, who had been pretending to ignore him as they harassed and teased each other, heard him well enough to disperse from the field immediately.

  “Thank you, Lord Jarl,” Fey mocked as she bowed and turned to go.

  “I never wanted to be the chief,” Gunnarr said.

  Aefel watched Fey and the others, but spoke to Gunnarr, who stood at his side. “That is usually how it works.”

  “Has it ever happened to you?” Gunnarr asked.

  Aefel didn’t answer immediately. He took several moments to put his emotions in place and order the memories of battle in his mind. “Many times. I fought in battles where many died. On those campaigns, I was sometimes responsible for a squad and, other times, forced to lead a company.”

  “What is a campaign?” Gunnarr asked.

  Aefel searched for the word and could not find it. “It is like a long war far away from home.”

  Gunnarr considered his words and watched until the rest of the shield wall women and boys had returned to their regular lives of work or play. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because your Jarl tells you to do it.”

  Gunnarr faced him. “I do not believe you ever had a Jarl. The way you react to my authority is strange. Your leaders are called something else, which means they must be from a far away and very strange place.”

  Aefel shrugged. “You nailed it.”

  Gunnarr frowned. “Why don’t you go look for your stranger?”

  “I don’t know where he is.”

  Several moments passed. “That is a good answer. Is that what you tell Fey?”

  “More or less,” Aefel said.

  Gunnarr laughed freely.

  7

  NIGHT

  SKY CLAN VILLAGE

  GRENDEL 0473829: SURFACE, HIGHLAND PASS 83A2T

  MISSION CLOCK: 1:48:00:00

  The conversation about the Eye of the Needle seemed years ago, although less time had passed learning to fight without computer-assisted targeting reticules and projectile weapons with a three-kilometer range than healing from his crash. Gunnarr had promised a tactical choke point. Aefel needed a Holy Grail of siege defense to outdo the Hot Gates of Thermopylae, the Texas Alamo, or the Regenison Jump Gate Engagement.

  All those heroes died. He smiled, controlling his laughter before Fey thought he was laughing at her. I’m no hero, so I should be good to go.

  He wanted to ask Fey if there was such a place, if there was any hope of holding back the Hawk and Arrow clans. Their last discussion of the topic ended with a heated debate on why the women of Sky Clan would never submit to any clan, not even the Hawk or Arrow, which were full of hard working, generous people for the most part.

  It made no sense to Aefel, since Fey was talking about fighting to the death. As he understood the war, there had been a blood feud and that feud was over now that Jarl Haverson was dead. If Haverson had survived and won, all three clans would be trading peacefully and allied against raiders from the distant lowlands.

  On another planet, in another official capacity, Aefel might have walked away from the Sky Clan as a lost cause. Might have. Probably not; he’d fight for Fey if for no other reason. Even when he was mad at her, he wasn’t mad at her. Even when he clenched his fists and clamped his teeth with all his might to keep from declaring her an irrational crazy woman, he loved her in a way he didn’t know was possible.

  And there was Sveinn and his siblings. Did the Commonwealth need the genetic archives stored in the Royal Line? Should one family — practically a parallel species — contain the keys to every human potentiality, to all races and ancient ethnicities back to the days of genocidal religions and miraculous discoveries?

  “War will never come during the winter,” Fey said as she snuggled into the heat of Aefel’s cloak. “Storm clouds and snowdrifts protect us.”

  He tipped the skin of mead and opened his throat. He thought of Paul, the First Armored-infantry Lightning Division heavy weapons specialist, and the man’s perverse fascination with wine.

  “I like it when you smile,” she said.

  A snowflake landed on her nose and he brushed it away with the barest tip of his finger. Her sea-foam eyes, more gray in the freshly arrived winter than when they had first met, dazzled him.

  “You don’t think of your family often, but this time, it looked like a happy thought. A brother you miss now that he isn’t about to annoy you?” she asked.

  Aefel laughed. The sound had weight and became sad as it trailed away into the cold day all around them for miles and miles of hills, forests, and vistas too big for a man accustomed to living on a spaceship or inside body armor to ever welcome. “No family. Paul was like a brother. Better than a brother.”

  “Someone you could stand beside in the shield wall,” she said.

  “Just like that.” He craned his head to look at more than her face. “Like you, but not as beautiful. And not a woman, of course.”

  She struck playfully at his lips and they wrestled in the snow, keeping most of the damp snowflakes outside of their clothing. “If we survive until the end of Christ-yule, there will be a celebration. We have already sent word through the dale that a singer will be required.”

  Something about the way she looked at him put him on full alert.

  “What do you mean? Why are you nervous?”

  “Because of your stranger,” she said.

  Aef
el grimaced. Seccon played several instruments well and was rumored to be far too proud of his singing voice. “Then we must win.”

  “You will go home when you find the stranger.”

  Aefel pulled her close. She surprised him by pushing him back.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  Fey looked him in the eye for a long moment, then opened her left hand.

  Aefel looked down at the two-millimeter-thick, two-centimeter by one-centimeter device. “This was sticking out of your skin when I found you.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said.

  Shaking her head, she grabbed his arm and tried to keep him from pulling away. “Your fall didn’t cause the skin to break over this...thing.”

  “If you understood what that was, you might realize how ridiculous your story sounds to me. That has been bolted to my hip since I was Sveinn’s age. It doesn’t come out.”

  “Someone tried to cut it out,” she said.

  “Who would do that, Fey? Tell me who in this primitive, forgotten planet would do that?”

  She looked at him strangely. When he couldn’t think of something to say to cover his slip, she began again slowly. “I did see your fall, Vildfremmed, but I was not there. I was close. I came quickly. But I think this man you hunt may have been there first.”

  “That would be one hell of a coincidence,” Aefel said. He felt his muscles relax. Strength drained from his body. “Does anyone else know?”

  “Gunnarr suspects something. He asks me questions that I never answer. That is why he is so cruel to me.”

  “Cruel?” Aefel asked. “Now you are making a joke.”

  “A little joke. But he does not trust you. And now he does not trust me.” She looked down, leaned closer to him, and wrapped one arm around him as she gazed into his eyes. “What does it do?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing. I need a technician to repair and reinstall it.”

  “Hmmm. What is a technician?”

  He started to explain, but then she kissed him.

  8

  SUNRISE

  PRIMITIVE BATTLEFIELD

  GRENDEL 0473829: SURFACE, HIGHLAND PASS 83A2T-P1A

  MISSION CLOCK: 1:72:00:00

  “So this is the Hot Gate,” Aefel said. He ignored Sveinn, or at least pretended not see the boy who might start a civil war far beyond the valley of his childhood, far beyond worlds he had yet to imagine. Gunnarr remained uncharacteristically quiet. He didn't seem afraid — wasn’t trembling in his boots or making excuses, wasn’t pointing out the reckless stupidity of abandoning the defensive palisade. In the cold first morning of the Christ-yule season, Gunnarr stood tall, the early breeze rustling his dirty-blond hair and providing an air of solemnity that the boy-man could never muster on his own.

  “War will never come during the winter,” Aefel said under his breath.

  Fey flared her nostrils at him and flashed wild eyes. When no one was looking, she stuck out her tongue at him for the briefest instant.

  Aefel turned his gaze just enough to see Sveinn and several of the women who had fought in prior clan wars. He hoped they would keep the Emperor-in-exile safe, but there was never a guarantee in this sort of battle. His own confidence slipped away as the sun rose into the sky and the mists retreated into the forest. At first, he didn’t understand his unease. He’’d fought in hundreds of terrestrial battles, many of them after an assault from the atmosphere. Just making it to the ground tested a soldier’s courage. And if that wasn’t enough, he’’d survived a score of ship boardings in space and the three-week fight for Terran Station. He’d nearly died, would’ve died if Paul hadn’t pulled him back from the slaughterhouse confines of room-to-room fighting.

  A chill went down his spine. A gust of wind ripped at his cloak, then danced down the line of fierce warrior women like a mischievous sprite. Sunlight glimmered on Fey’s hair. She was young, strong, and beautiful — many of the Sky Clan women were. Like the old men and boys —— boys like Sveinn and Gunnarr — they wore plaited braids in their long hair and arm rings taken in battle.

  The first of the Hawk Clan warriors appeared on the hill.

  “We need to draw them deeper into the valley,” Aefel said.

  Gunnarr smiled longingly at the enemy as they threw together a hasty shield wall, pounding weapons, stomping feet, and shouting insults. “I am ready to fight, Aefel. Haven’t we run far enough?”

  “Don’t get too eager. All that we can do on this stretch of ground is die,” Aefel said.

  “Are you afraid to die?” Sveinn asked. It was the first time the boy had spoken all morning. “I’m not afraid to die here,” he continued when no one answered. “But Aefel is right. Seems pointless right here and now. We could have just stayed at home if this field is where we are to shed blood.”

  Gunnarr shrugged, still gazing at the chance for battle almost wistfully. Aefel stepped ahead of the Sky Clan warriors. “Time to run, ladies.”

  They snorted and jeered at him. Only then did he realize what he had said. In the Reavers, he often called his companions “ladies.”

  “Get ready to fight, ladies. Pick up the pace, ladies. Time to PT until you die, ladies.” Images of boot camp and drop school crowded his memories, overwhelmed the present for a moment. He looked to the sky, still unable to see the space station from where the Grendel Historical Reenactment Corporation had once monitored the planet.

  The women screamed death at the pursuing army. “Let’s move,” Aefel said, because Gunnarr seemed unwilling to order a further retreat, even if it was part of the plan. It was never good to question the Jarl, even a boy like Gunnarr who half of the women in the village claimed to have spanked as a child. This seemed improbable to Aefel, because he had yet to see them spank a child for any reason. Probably the women of Sky Clan would skip straight to bashing heads when children misbehaved.

  Fey and the other women ran like majestic hunting cats through the morning mist. They carried swords and shields, or axes and shields, or spears. Fey smiled at Aefel when she could. Each time their eyes met, he melted inside. The blond warrior-woman, young as she was, would undo him.

  His mission barely seemed possible. Sometimes, he forgot why he was here. Seccon was out there with an entire world to hide him. The only reason he would show his face would be to finish what he had begun. Aefel could not allow that to happen. He wondered why he wasn’t sent with a company of heavily armed soldiers. His superiors had to suspect the last of the Blood Royal were hidden on Grendel. It was irresponsible not to ensure their safety.

  Aefel reached the steep, narrow slope where the Hawk clan would now have to attack. He looked down, searching face by face for Seccon, and did not find him.

  “What are you searching for, Aefel? Do you see your stranger?” Fey said.

  “I do not see him, but if I do, he must be captured and kept away from Sveinn.”

  “So you have told me a hundred times,” Fey said. A moment of doubt appeared on her face. “Are you truly a good warrior, Vildfremmed?”

  Aefel readied his weapons and moved to the narrowest point of the steep trail. “You won’t believe your eyes.”

  “Thunder!” he screamed as the first wave of barbarians charged. They hadn’t bothered with their shields. Naked blades glinted in the silver morning as they snapped and dashed toward Aefel.

  “Thunder and lightning!” roared the women, old men, and boys of the Sky Clan in the clearing beyond the top of the trail. “Sky Clan!” They banged weapons on shields and roared profanity at the attackers.

  Aefel waited, watched, and picked the first man he would attack. “Thunder and lightning,” he muttered under his breath. His imagination populated the sky with contrails and distant explosions. He could hear voices crackling on the radio he didn't possess.

  “Alpha Squad shift fire to cover Delta!”

  “Bring it you, TC assholes!”

  “Hang in there, Aefel. Help is on the way.”

  The last voice, real or imagined
, reminded him of Paul, his good big friend and all the heavy weapons he carried on more missions than either of them could count. Daydreams weren’t much of a distraction to Aefel. He knew how to multi-task. On a simple mission, he dealt with ten things at once and the computer in his armor did a thousand more.

  Paul wasn’t coming. Aefel was the only FALD Reaver on this miserable-glorious-forgotten planet. With almost lazy speed, he lunged forward and stabbed his first opponent in the eye — a boy who ran forward too fast for his own good. His two companions caught up and died more violently, but just as quickly.

  The enemy assessed his shirtless, athletically muscled body and the blood and brains streaming from his weapons, then came at him in groups of three or more. Aefel kicked a big man in the chest and watched him fly backward, his feet almost dragging the trail but never quite touching until he landed at the feet of their clan leaders.

  “Send me a champion and I’ll send him to the charnel house!” Just like any good space trooper, any modern combat marine worth his weight in explosives and blood.

  The faux-Danes exchanged nervous looks, weapons held so tightly in their fists that Aefel thought he could see the tension trembling on sharpened edges and quaking shields. He roared at them and slammed his left fist on his chest, smearing blood across his tattoos of Unit, God, and Commonwealth.

  “Come to my charnel house, you cowards.”

  A big warrior stepped forward, set down his shield, and started up the steep slope with a two-handed sword larger than any of the other weapons on the field.

  9

  MORNING

  PRIMITIVE BATTLEFIELD

  GRENDEL 0473829: SURFACE, HIGHLAND PASS 83A2T-P1A

  MISSION CLOCK: 1:72:23:00

  The man looked like an LTGE Guard, a loyalty tested, genetically enhanced servant that once upon a time was the exclusive self-defense weapon of classified personnel. This man should be protecting Sveinn rather than trying to kill him and rape his sisters.

  Taller and twenty pounds heavier even than Paul — who was the biggest man Aefel knew — the Hawk Clan champion took his time moving up the trail, pausing once to point with the tip of his sword and make a ritualistic sound like shrieking cats learning to yodel. Muscle encased his neck, shoulders, and arms. From the high ground, that seemed to be all that Aefel could see of the man.