Hellsbaene: Odin's Warriors - Book 1

by Aeryn Leigh

  Ella's stomach sunk. "A bomber?"

  Dread wrapped around her, the fear constricting her chest, terror.

  "Well two actually," said Amelia, "the one's we met before the storm, silly." She hugged Ella again.

  "Scheissen," said Ella, the only word that came to mind.

  "Got that right," said a deep voice. Ella looked up at the open doorway and the towering outline of a man, a black man, stepped through, at least six and a half feet tall. "You killed my friend." He placed Zia on the ground and the cat ran off down the hallway. "But then again, who here hasn't had a shot." He paused. "I just want to know why, when you had her in the back seat." Ella managed to get Amelia off her lap and stand up, her legs shaky.

  "It's okay Mummy," said Amelia, "this is Griffin. He's one of the good guys like in the book? He's been reading me bedtime stories."

  Behind Griffin, the rest entered one by one, Lucius stone-faced, as Merrion led them inside, giving her a smile on the way past. Skippy gave Ella a quick sniff, wagged her tail, and followed Andrew down the hall.

  "You have quite a baby girl," said Griffin. "Unlike some, be grateful you do." And with that, he passed her and joined the others in the living room, leaving Amelia holding her mother's hand.

  In the front room stood the sum aviators of three aeroplanes sucked through to this world. No-one moved. Or talked. Even Mick was silent. Amelia played in the walled backyard outside, playing ball with Skippy.

  Marietta watched through the leaded-bead side window, along with Merrion and a half-dozen strong security detail standing ready.

  "I'm not sure you'll need that," said the General. "I've had a chance to meet them. They're remarkably well balanced, and have taken quite a shine to the child."

  Merrion peered closer, then eased up a little. He scratched his left cheek. "I think you confuse me. It's for their safety, not hers." Merrion laughed at his joke. "Although yes, it could happen. Ella has a raging torrent of anger that is waiting for an excuse to overflow. It's stunning to watch."

  Inside, in a semi-circle, the men regarded the woman who'd tried to shoot them down. It felt, to them all like a lifetime ago. The tall, blond women, in her middle-twenties, perched on a wooden stool against the rear wall, and put her hands in her tunic.

  "So, who's going to go first?" said Ella, head up high. Seconds passed. She stood up, and walked towards them. "Okay. I apologise again for attacking both of your bombers. Not an hour goes by with me regretting it. All of it. I take full responsibility for killing your friend."

  The captain of the B-17 snorted, and tightened his crossed arms further. Lucius James Jr. couldn't believe it. This spitting image of Nazi racial superiority wanted to apologise like that and call it done?

  The tall, wiry man introduced as Squadron Leader John, Laurie to his mates, gave Lucius a quick look and sighed. "We're going around in circles. We got trapped by that storm, against our will, and it seems half the planet has tried to shoot us. Lucius, fellas from the Damage Inc. — the damn Vikings killed more of you, and yet you now have a blood oath of allegiance."

  Lucius began to speak, but Griffin stepped forward. "I'm not excusing her actions. I miss Horace. And also, Eugene. Jimmy. Killed by Northmen. Laurie slaughtered them, and for that, I'll also never apologise. They got what they deserved."

  "Just look at her," said Lucius. "She worked for the Nazis. I've seen her photo shaking hands with the fucking Fuhrer!"

  Ella sagged.

  "Fellas," said Staff Sergeant Huey, “enough. Ella. I need to know why. That Viking party that captured us were criminal outcasts, refuse. You had Amelia in the back seat, escapin’ from Nazi Germany. But you fired upon us. Why?"

  And so, Ella Gruder, Luftwaffe Test Pilot, mother, and once-girlfriend, for the first time in ten years, told them why, why she'd snapped, and didn't leave a single unsavoury bit out, no matter how bad it made her look, or how hard her ego burned.

  "Ella Gruder," said General Versetti later that day, "you have the courage and tenacity necessary to live here, especially to be so open and honest to them before. It blind-sided me. Sure as hell did them. Of those qualities, Merrion also speaks highly of you." The two of them stood on the upper-floor balcony, looking out over the river and the surrounding streets, the skies overcast. Carts came and went, and children played ball games in between traffic. The city looked, well, normal.

  "No one doubts that. But I need you to understand that there is no going home. This," she said, gesturing her arms out in front, to Fairholm, "this is your new home."

  "But I was flying, and all we hit was a storm. It just doesn't make sense."

  "And everything in your life has bent to your sense of logic and reason?"

  "Why shouldn't it?"

  "Because without it, you would have never achieved everything you did, would you?" said Marietta. "I understand."

  And if I have to use the fish, water, and air metaphor one more time this week I will scream, she added to herself.

  Change the tack.

  "You flew these flying machines, of all kinds, yes? Even simple ones Amelia called 'gliders'?"

  "Yes?"

  "I can give you purpose again. You've seen first-hand what the Inquisition can do." She stared right at Ella. "Teach us how to fly. Teach us how to build."

  Ella thought of her childhood, dreaming of flight, of open air, of freedom.

  She clutched her necklace. "I'll do it."

  "Excellent," said Marietta. "I'll bring some wine and food over later, and we can properly chat."

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Puppies!

  "She's giving birth," said Amelia, "so hurry, hurry!" She grabbed Ella's hand and pulled her mother out of bed, towing her out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen.

  Skippy lay on her side, on rugs next to the cooking fire, panting heavily. She'd made her nest there the week before, one week after arriving in Fairholm, and hadn't taken too kindly to any thoughts of relocation, and since yesterday, hardly moved. Andrew sat on a chair next to her, as did Mick, James, Abe, Griffin, and Daniel, sitting at the kitchen table. A whisky bottle with yellowing paper and six glasses had been set out, and by the look of it, drunk from. Steam welled up from the pot bubbling over the fire, with a small mountain of rugs piled up next to it. And Zia observed the whole room from her wicker basket, high up on the side dresser, surveying her domain.

  "Ready Amelia?" said Mick. He rolled up his sleeves, and looked at Skippy. Her belly contracted in and out.

  Daniel reached out and pulled a chair over for Ella to sit.

  "Ah, thanks," said Ella, blinking in the firelight, as stars twinkled through the window. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. Abe poured a finger of alcohol into each glass, and pushed one over to her.

  "Almost there Skippy," said Amelia, sitting down cross-legged on the floor on the rug. "How many puppies will there be?" A small pair of scissors laid in her lap

  "Could be one, could be twelve," said Griffin. He took a sip, and inspected the rough label on the whiskey bottle.

  "Twelve?" said Amelia, bouncing in excitement, up and down as she sat. "That's a lot of puppies. They're going to be so much fun."

  "Sure is," said Ella, yawning. The slow part of her brain at last caught up to the parental responsibility section and was smacked around for being so late. "Uh. Wait. Twelve?"

  "Unlikely, but it's possible," said Andrew. "Wish Laurie was here."

  "No doubt he's screaming blue bloody murder," said James. "But after he talked to Merrion he took off like a bolt from hell with the Vikings. Wonder what caused him to miss out on this."

  "Fun?" said Ella. "Who said you're having puppies?"

  Amelia sighed, and shook her head. "I'm waiting to see how many boys or girls before I name them." She stroked the fur behind Skippy's ear.

  Skippy gave a low growl, as her water broke, and light-yellow fluid stained the rugs under her rump.

  "It's beginning," said Amelia.

  "Okay Amelia, just give he
r space," said Andrew. "Not going to be long at all. And remember, we only help if needed."

  "Okay," said Amelia, slumping back.

  Quite soon, but an eternity for Amelia, Skippy birthed her first pup. She curled her head around and licked the placenta off, bit the umbilical cord and kept licking the pup, encouraging the tiny little puppy to breathe. They all clinked their glasses together, and watched the second shortly after, and another, and another.

  When dawn broke, seven puppies suckled on their exhausted mother.

  Ella looked at her watch. The last puppy birthed over an hour ago. Daniel, Abe, and James had long gone back to their respective bedrooms, leaving just Griffin, Mick, Ella, Andrew, and Amelia sitting around the kitchen. The empty whiskey bottle sat on the table, and the five sipped their hot mugs of tea.

  "Will there be any more?" said Amelia, yawning, her head resting on her arms.

  "Probably not," said Griffin, "been too long now."

  Skippy gave a small little growl, almost a whimper, and strained once more as number eight arrived into the world. Skippy didn't raise her head, and the puppy laid behind still covered in its sac. Griffin chuckled and shook his head.

  "Amelia," said Mick, "now we help. Quickly, get a towel." The child leapt up and grabbed the closest cloth, and the two knelt down by Skippy. "Now rub the placenta off gently with the towel — that's it — and cut the cord off there — well done Amelia — pass me the scissors — thanks mate — keep rubbing gently, and there you go." The eighth puppy, much smaller than its siblings, laid on the rug.

  "It's so tiny," said Amelia.

  "See if you can find a spare nipple," said Ella, "and place the puppy's head next to it?"

  With a bit of help from the adults, turning Skippy over a fraction, Amelia put the puppy down onto a nipple, and sucked milk like the others.

  "I'm going to stand first watch," said Amelia, beaming at them.

  A rather short watch after that, Ella carried the sleeping child back to her bed, and the others went to get whatever short sleeps they could as Skippy laid asleep in her nest, her pregnancy over at last.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  The Purity Of God

  Captain William McDonnell observed the forward gun turrets swivel from his position on the conning tower of the metal battle-cruiser dreadnaught, Purity of God. "Very good," he said. "Full rotation anti-clockwise now." He stroked his salt-and-pepper beard.

  "Yes Sir," said the Gunnery Officer, James Wright, just as old as the captain.

  At last, she is mine to command, thought the captain. After all these years, maintaining and servicing the ship, proving my loyalty to the Emperor, I am no longer Ensign McDonnell.

  The turrets swivelled, and James Wright ticked off one more line on the note-board.

  "I do believe, old chap, that's it's time for our last gunnery practice," said Captain McDonnell. The Purity lay one mile offshore, from where she'd rested for thirty-plus years in a dry-dock, built and excavated by slave labour.

  Surrounding the battle-cruiser, floated the Inquisition Armada, in all its magnificent glory. The captain let the moment soak in. Hundreds of warships from over the centuries laid at anchor, their wooden timbers on third, fourth, or even fifth generation, as new timbers replaced wood rotted or worm-gutted frames. Another two hundred-plus troopships bobbed up and down, riding a little high without their load.

  He peered through his eyeglass, stamped on its rim: London, 1903.

  "Even the Brimstone is here," he said. The armoured steam paddle-ship let off the odd puffs of smoke from its singular smoke stack. "I thought she was still laid up on dry undergoing repairs?"

  "I believe Captain Francisco had the slaves working triple-time," said James. "Targets, Sir?"

  "He did, did he?" He swung around and peered back at land. "There. The Island of Healing. First and third turrets, one round each."

  "As you wish, Sir," said the Gunnery Officer. He bellowed into the speaker horn. The Purity came to life as below the metal skin, men shouted directions to each other and cranked handles, levers, and wheels. The first and third turrets creaked around to the direction of the island. In each turret, reams of men grappled with the huge ammunition and loaded it into the gun breeches.

  "Ready at your command," said Wright.

  "Fire,” said McDonnell.

  The turrets flashed. The first shell missed the island, as did the second, splashing into the ocean. But the third and fourth hit, and fourteen-hundred pounds of high explosive smashed into the island's only building. McDonnell rubbed his palms together. "Double rations for the gunnery teams tonight," he said. "Prepare the second and fourth turrets." In the distance, small mushrooms of smoke rose into the sky.

  "You will not," said a hard voice to his left. "Have you any idea how priceless those artillery shells are?"

  McDonnell and Wright turned and there, Holy Inquisitor Grieg stood, running leather fingers down his dagger's blade.

  "But we have started making more," said McDonnell, trying to match the Inquisitor's tone. "By the Emperor's grace, this is still my command."

  "Oh, it is," said Grieg, "it is. And yes, we are making more, however, the…quality still leaves something to be desired, although with my changes, it's improving. And now I am leader of this Armada, by the Emperor's very orders." He tossed the rolled parchment to the captain.

  "From now on, nothing is fired upon without my permission to engage. Are we clear?" Grieg sheathed the dagger.

  McDonnell broke the red wax seal of the Emperor and unrolled the paper.

  "Yes Sir," said McDonnell, saluting.

  "Very good. We leave to pick up the ground forces tomorrow. And tell your gunnery teams I will join them in their celebrations tonight. The Island of Healing was getting a bit overcrowded, I must admit. Although," he said, halfway out the conning tower, "I much prefer to kill prisoners without a gun. So unsporting." Grieg left the conning tower, and both men watched him depart on a shuttle boat back to shore, grinning all the way.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  The Rusty Axe

  Andrew stroked his goatee. "I don't know how you can do the full beard Mick," he said. "It's itchy as hell."

  Mick laughed and took another swig of the ale that sat in front of them. "I'm going for the proper bushranger look mate," he said. His hands and most of his clothes were splattered with grey-white dots and small lumps. I've come right through one of Andrew's science-fiction pulp stories, to another! world, and at lunch I still bloody look like I did back home, covered in concrete. He stroked his beard. "Two inches is still too short."

  "Didn't Ned have a foot-long beard?" said James, joining them in the tavern. "I see you're introducing them to the wonders of concrete?"

  "Yeah, building the new hospital, and everything bloody else. Well at this rate we're travelling, I've got another couple of years," said Mick. "Although, if we celebrated as hard as we did at Amelia's birthday party last week, our livers would kill us first. Cheers."

  The three sat in the Rusty Axe, the tavern bustling with customers on their lunch break, the suns high overhead casting it's beams through the high stone windows. Wooden floorboards creaked with the foot traffic, the smell of sweat and spilt beer at the edge of their senses.

  "I wonder how Laurie is going?" said James. "Isn't he due back?" His right hand itched, which drove him crazy, since it was no longer was there. They finished the tankards and signalled the barman for another round.

  "And two more," said Daniel from the doorway. He came in, Lucius behind him. They sat down at the long table. Lucius dumped the pile of papers and notes in front of him, his University paperwork still unfinished.

  "How goes the training?" said James. It's your bloody fault I lost my arm, he thought.

  "Not too bad," said Lucius. He stared at James and downed the mug in one long pull.

  "Training them too hard?" said Mick.

  "No such thing as too hard" said Andrew, formerly Professor Bloomsbury in a previous life. He c
aught their expressions. "Well maybe there is, but we're running out of time."

  "Hence why we meet in a pub," said Mick. "Ah, food." A serving boy placed down the platter of cheeses, dried meat, and bread.

  Lucius reached out and took a piece of beef. He munched on it.

  "What I don't get is why me and Daniel are teaching infantry tactics when you lot are better at it. Especially Laurie and Griffin. And I still have to review the school work," said Lucius.

  "It's only for a short while," said Daniel. "The Republic is hot on everyone knowing a little of everything else."

  "Speaking of hot," said Mick, "wonder how the ladies are going?" He noticed Lucius's face fall. He threw a small piece of bread at Lucius.

  "What?" said Lucius.

  "How long are you going to hold that grudge for?" said Andrew. "She apologised, and has kept on apologising ever since."

  "She killed Horace," said Lucius. "My best friend."

  "The Vikings killed Jimmy and Eugene, but you don't seem to be as upset by that," said Andrew.

  Lucius slammed his tankard down. "Of course I'm upset."

  "So why is Ella the target of your rage?" said Andrew. "Is it because she's a woman?"

  "No," said Lucius.

  "Then why mate?" said Mick.

  "I don't know." Lucius stood up and left the tavern, slamming the door behind him.

  "Don't look at me," said Daniel. "Man's got his own devils."

  Chapter Sixty-Eight