Skyfire

by Maloney, Mack;

  The clan leaders murmured in silent approval. It had been this way since the campaign had started. The dozen men—they being the senior commanders representing the twelve major clans that made up the overall Norse raiding force—would come to the Great Ship for a thing, the Norse traditional gathering. While their officers and selected warriors reveled in the mandatory prebattle orgy, the clan elders would quietly meet with Thorgils and learn his thoughts for the upcoming assault.

  This was not a “strategy session,” however—there really wasn’t any phrase in the Norse vernacular for such an event. Thorgils drew the map, worked out a timetable, and suggested to the clan leaders where and when to strike. It was up to them to fill in the blanks.

  Usually the rest of the clan leaders would simply nod or more likely, grunt their approval of Thorgils’s plans. They rarely even spoke. Thorgils was, after all, the oldest son of Verden, and therefore his word was good for them. If he suggested a target and a way to approach it, the clan elders would go along with him more often than not.

  The clan heads welcomed this hands-off approach. When it came to making war, the Norse had traditionally taken the less complicated, blunt approach. They knew that there really wasn’t any need to go into much detail the night before a battle; strategies, plans, counterplans, and such only cluttered a soldier’s head.

  Hundreds of years of history had taught them—almost religiously—that in the midst of battle, the highly individualistic Norsemen were best left on their own. This way their minds would be clear, their instincts would be at their sharpest, as would their determination should events turn against them.

  So once Thorgils had pointed the way, the dozen clan leaders—each of whom commanded a fleet of five to seven attack subs—would return to their flag boats and pass his recommendations to their subordinates on other boats and they to their crews.

  After that, they were all on their own.

  “Many of the Volk Bats will be available to assist you in the landings,” Thorgils told them. Their captains have secured a number of sturdy landing crafts which will allow you to move your men into the beaches quicker. I think it would be wise to use these vessels if you can.”

  Thorgils looked around at the twelve men; if there were any questions, now would be the time to ask. But there weren’t any. In fact, there was really only one topic left to discuss: the price to be paid to the clans for carrying out the invasion.

  “As always, the spoils of choice should be the women,” Thorgils told them. “The Volk Bats will be waiting after the operation as usual and the exchange rate will remain the same. Supplies will be distributed based on the number of slaves brought back as well as tonnage of booty. However, because this will be the largest, most ambitious operation yet, I hereby declare extra myx rations for the clans bringing in numbers over quota.”

  To this bit of news the clan leaders brightened in an instant. Food, ammunition, and coal made up the staples of the Norsemen’s otherwise dreary, violent lives. In many ways, they and their men simply fought and killed and kidnapped just so they could get food and bullets and fuel in order to kill and kidnap again.

  But drinking the myx changed everything. It was a much-needed relief from an existence that, as dictated by Norse history, was doomed from the start.

  And the indisputable fact was that Thorgils and his father controlled the myx. Stored in wooden casks and protected like gold in the holds of the Great Ship, the father and son spent much time and effort carefully dispensing it to the various clans in return for the women slaves and booty taken during raids. It was, in fact, the lifeblood of the Court of Verden, the entity around which everything else swirled. Verden and Thorgils could use the strange, highly addictive liquor as an incentive to the most loyal clans, or, by withholding it, as a way of bringing an unruly tribe back in line.

  So while many in the clans regarded Verden as a very wise and brave man whom they trusted for the most part, his real power came from the fact that he regulated the flow of the myx.

  “Once ashore, you men might meet some resistance, but not much,” Thorgils went on. “We hear that some of the militias in Florida are fairly well trained but others are not. Some regular United American forces are in place several miles back from the coast, but your men shouldn’t have any trouble overwhelming them once they move off the beaches and into the cities beyond.

  “The attack time should be one hour before dusk on the next day from tomorrow. It will be wise to make sure you are in place in plenty of time.”

  With that, Thorgils began to fold the map away. This alone indicated the meeting was over. There were no salutes. No wishes of good luck or godspeed. Unlike other cultures, it was not in the Norse tradition to include sentimentality into warfare.

  But just as the clan leaders were preparing to go, the door to the room swung open and a dark figure walked in.

  The elders froze as they saw it was a woman wearing a long black gown, her head covered with a hood.

  “My Lady,” one man said, immediately falling to one knee. Like bowling pins, the rest of the clan leaders did the same. Only Thorgils remained standing, although he did doff his helmet in a slightly more reserved tribute.

  The woman threw back her hood and studied the men with her beautiful but cold steel eyes.

  It was Elizabeth Sandlake.

  “My Lady …” the Son of Verden said through strained, whispering lips. “I was just explaining the next attack.”

  “Is that so?” she asked in a voice dripping with contempt. “Then you won’t mind explaining it to me …”

  Thorgils nearly choked at the sound of her request.

  “But My Lady,” he stammered. “It was you who …”

  A stare like a laser beam caused his mouth to suddenly go numb. In the acute anxiety of the moment, he had very nearly given away one of the deepest secrets of the whole Norse campaign.

  Now, as the clan leaders watched in anxious amazement, Elizabeth walked to the table in a kind of regal slow motion, and smiled cruelly as Thorgils spread out the map again.

  “From the beginning, My Lady?” the son of Verden asked through tight lips.

  “From the beginning,” she replied, openly mocking him. “Unless you can think of another way of explaining our biggest operation so far …”

  With the clan leaders more or less frozen at attention, Thorgils took the next forty-five minutes to slowly, precisely, but obviously reluctantly, go over the entire procedure once again.

  “Very ambitious” was Elizabeth’s reply at the end of the briefing. “And you’ve made provisions in case there is strong enemy air support?”

  Once again Thorgils looked toward her in horror. Why would she be asking me that question? he wondered, almost aloud.

  “But there will be no strong enemy air support,” he replied, his tone leaving no further doubt that he loathed having to reexplain the attack details to Elizabeth. “According to our spy reports, no enemy aircraft of any consequence have been spotted anywhere near the attack points.”

  “And why is that?” she snapped at him.

  Thorgils was becoming just as angry as he was flustered.

  “My Lady, the United Americans simply don’t have the fuel to move many warplanes to the region,” he said, trying his best to keep his composure. “Nor will they be able to move around the few they do have on hand to all the various attack points.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” Elizabeth fired back at him. “These United Americans have a talent for turning the impossible.”

  “I doubt that will happen in this case,” Thorgils hissed at her, his voice displaying more anger with every syllable. “They might be organized at some points on the ground, but their air capability is frozen. Once the clans get in off the beaches, they will rule the battle. Of this I am certain …”

  “And of this I am certain,” Elizabeth shouted at him. “If the United Americans call in even the barest amount of air cover, then the day could be lost for the clans. And that will be
your responsibility, Thorgils …”

  At this point, the Son of Verden completely lost his temper. Something was amiss here—Elizabeth knew more about these plans than he did. What’s more, he had discussed every detail with her earlier that day, just an hour after she was secretly whisked aboard the Great Ship.

  Now she was trying to trick him, confuse him, embarrass him in front of the twelve clan elders. In the constant swirl of intrigue and deception that surrounded the Norse clans and the court of Verden, her attack was a very bad sign for Thorgils.

  He had no choice but to fight back. With squinting eyes and a red face, he launched into a nonstop verbal strafing of Elizabeth, attacking her intelligence, her rudeness, even her femininity. Elizabeth returned the fire, blow for blow, degrading Thorgils’s character, his lack of leadership qualities, and, inevitably, his own sexuality.

  The clan elders could not believe what was happening. Although the argument was swaying back and forth between Norwegian and English, there was no doubt as to the viciousness of the invectives that were being hurled in either language. And though the gossip around the clans was that Thorgils and the mysterious American woman had been uneasy allies since the start of the campaign, the elders never dreamed the two rivals would be this open about their dislike for each other.

  The climax of the argument came when Thorgils actually raised his hand as if to strike Elizabeth.

  But she did not flinch an iota. Instead she just laughed—that frightening, bone-chilling laugh. And suddenly everything stopped. It appeared as if Thorgils, the second most powerful man in the Norse court, had become inert, paralyzed simply by that laugh.

  “This can end only with your father, Thorgils,” Elizabeth told him, the wicked smile never leaving her lips.

  With that, she pulled the hood back up over her head and stormed out of the cabin, leaving the son of Verden frozen in place, his open hand still poised above his head.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  DOMINIQUE WAS NAKED.

  She was lying on her back on a bed of pillows placed on the floor of Verden’s cabin. Her hair was no longer held in place by the string of diamonds and pearls and her beautiful white satin-and-lace gown was nowhere to be seen. Her skin was sticky; it felt like some kind of oil had been spread all over her body, leaving a thin glaze and a highly aromatic smell. She was also very moist around her upper thighs and breasts.

  On the pillow next to her were three empty goblets and a half-filled flask of myx.

  She had just awakened, but for a moment she wondered if she was still dreaming. The cabin, so dark and claustrophobic when she first arrived, now looked like an enormous, brightly lit hall. The candles that had seemed so depleted before were now burning with the intensity of klieg lights. And Verden, standing over her, his hands on his hips, his teeth clenched, looked more like Michelangelo’s Creator than a rundown, melancholy Father Christmas.

  Although she was alone on the bed of pillows, she was very aware of the sensation of hands touching her body. Up, over, across, and down, invisible fingers were lightly feeling her, massaging her, gently probing her most private areas. Her nipples were erect like never before, their tips wet with the sensation that some invisible set of lips were lightly sucking on them. She closed her eyes as a familiar feeling began to wash over her. Within a few seconds, her entire body was immersed into a spasm of orgasmic delight.

  Through it all, Verden stood over her, shuddering with a similar climax—not moving, not attempting to touch her.

  He didn’t have to. The myx was doing it for him.

  The two guards posted outside Verden’s cabin felt an immediate shiver when they first spotted the woman in the hood approaching.

  “My Lady,” they both intoned, going down to one knee and bowing their heads.

  “Out of my way,” she demanded.

  “No …” one of the guards said, rising up to his feet quite involuntarily. “The Verden has left strict orders. He cannot be disturbed.”

  Elizabeth stopped short and simply looked at the man.

  “And why is that?” she asked crossly.

  The two guards just looked at each other, neither one wanting to speak.

  “Answer me!” Elizabeth demanded.

  One guard finally had the courage to clear his throat. “He is with his new Valkyrie, My Lady,” he said nervously.

  “New Valkyrie?” Elizabeth responded with genuine but angry surprise. “He has selected a new Valkyrie without letting me know?”

  The guard was terrified. Why would she ask him that question? he wondered.

  Elizabeth turned to the second man. “Who is she?”

  This man, too, was struck nearly dumb. “A slave,” was all he could mumble.

  Elizabeth pushed both men out of the way, and with the kick of her boot, burst through the door to Verden’s cabin.

  The sudden rush of air from the passageway outside extinguished several of the candles—either that or the presence of Elizabeth herself had done the job.

  However, the sight of the naked Dominique, writhing around on the bed of pillows, blindly lost in a fog of intoxication, stopped Elizabeth in her tracks. Her eyes immediately darted back and forth along her lovely glistening form.

  My God, Elizabeth whispered to herself, it’s her …

  Suddenly Elizabeth felt another string snap deep within her brain. In the flash of a nerve, she descended one more step into madness. To her mind, another part of her maniacal plot had just fallen into place. For the woman who she had arranged to have abducted and brought to the Alberta Fortress, only to have her rescued by the great Hawk Hunter, was now stretched out before her, naked and in the thralls of a blinding myx stupor.

  What goes around comes around. What better confirmation could Elizabeth get from the Cosmos that her quest for world domination was not only predestined, but actually condoned by the spirit world than to have Hawk Hunter’s girlfriend back within her grasp?

  My dreams do come true, Elizabeth thought as she gave Dominique the onceover, feeling her own nipples slowly becoming erect.

  Verden was outraged at the intrusion. His face was crimson, and a substantial vein began bulging on his temple. He opened his mouth to say something, but Elizabeth cut him off.

  “This is your new Valkyrie?” she asked him, instantly realizing that Verden had no idea who Dominique was, a situation that suited Elizabeth nicely.

  Verden was so angry he could not reply. This only encouraged Elizabeth.

  “It is good to see My Lord enjoying himself for a change,” she told him sarcastically. “The myx makes it so much easier, doesn’t it? So much better?”

  Her eyes dramatically fell to the wet patch around the crotch of Verden’s hand-sewn breeches.

  “After all,” she whispered cruelly, “why bother to touch another human when the myx can do it all for you?”

  Verden clapped his hands twice, and the two young attending handmaidens appeared from a side door. Working quickly, they covered the now-unconscious Dominique in a silk robe and carried her into an adjoining room.

  Once they were gone, Verden turned back toward Elizabeth.

  “If you were a man I would have killed you myself,” he told her, his voice steaming with rage.

  “If I were a man,” Elizabeth replied, completely unruffled, “I would have killed you first …”

  Verden shook his head and slumped back into his throne.

  He knew there was no point in verbally sparring with the woman. She was a witch—a true, authentic witch—and as such, she drew her powers from a higher plateau than he.

  “Why have you come here?” he asked her wearily.

  “It concerns the upcoming attacks, my Lord,” she said. “They are our most ambitious to date, yet your son is guilty of shoddy preparedness.”

  “In what respect?” Verden demanded.

  “He has not made any provisions should the enemy have air support,” she told him. “It could prove disastrous for the clans even if they have o
nly a few aircraft on hand.”

  Verden shook his head. “But I was told that all of the enemy’s warplanes were grounded. Frozen in place, due to the fuel situation. After all, it was you who suggested we send our men to destroy their fuel dumps and you who suggested this ambitious attack. Are you now saying that your divine plan won’t work?”

  “No,” she replied forcefully. “What I’m saying is that the United Americans obviously have some fuel on hand at their bases. True, they have not been moving their air squadrons around to counter us so far, but this is a strategy based on saving fuel, not a complete lack of it.”

  Verden scratched his hairy chin in thought for a moment. Of all the people aboard the Great Ship, only three—Thorgils, Elizabeth and himself—knew that the real direction behind the seemingly free-wheeling Norse campaign came from those aboard the Fire Bats.

  Now this woman—this witch—was contradicting the very plans she had delivered from the Fire Bats in the first place. What did it mean?

  Verden wrapped a heavy wool robe around his ample body and then formulated what he thought was a prudent reply.

  “What is the worst that can happen?” he asked. “Their few airplanes show up and some of our men are lost. We lost many men on Long Island; many more in Delaware. So what is the difference? We are not seeking to hold ground. We are not an occupying force. Some of our men will be killed, but all of them wont be. Just as long as most of them make it back to their boats with slaves and booty, then the operation will be a success.”

  “And what happens the next time?” Elizabeth barked back at him. “And the next and the next? The United Americans’ warplanes carry weapons that can easily wipe out thousands of men in a matter of minutes. I know. I have seen them in operation. You don’t have an endless supply of manpower to draw on. If your casualties are high, then it will affect everything—including the operation of the Fire Bats.”

  Verden cringed at the mention of the mysterious Four Boats. The very words were verboten.