by Aeryn Leigh
ODIN’S WARRIORS: PAINKILLER
Book 2
AERYN LEIGH
Hellsbaene Publishing
Copyright © 2017 by Aeryn Leigh
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
No crocodiles were hurt in the telling of this story.
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CONTENTS
1. Promises
2. Ham And Green Eggs
3. Going Fishing
4. The Emperor's What?
5. The Rusty Axe
6. Where To Begin
7. Problems
8. Jade Falcon
9. The Jetty
10. Conventions
11. Don’t Think. Act
12. Firing Range
13. Astronomy And Asimov
14. And So It Begins
15. A High-Speed Flyby
16. Not Alone
17. Unpleasant Surprises
18. Theseus's Ship
19. A Long Way, Baby
20. The Only Logical Conclusion
21. Where’s The RAF?
22. Test Flight
23. No Turning Back
24. Lost In Translation
25. A Change In Tactics
26. Vikings And Nursery Rhymes
27. Odin Save Us
28. Troubled Sleep
29. The Republic Air Force
30. Odinsgate
31. Dogfight
32. Calloused Hands
33. Liquid Wake-Up
34. All Good Things
35. The Hammer Drops
36. The Exuberance Of Youth
37. Bertha
38. Survive
39. Here I Am
40. Freedom
41. Let There Be Light
42. Burial Mound
43. Thirteen Warriors
44. Row, Eat, Sleep, Repeat
45. Verdammt Sollst Du Sein
46. The Razor’s Edge
47. Showtime
48. The Curtain Goes Up
49. A Shitload Of Arduous Work
50. A Prayer To The Gods Of Flight
51. Commit To It
52. Catching Sleep
53. Wing Dancer
54. Good Hunting
55. Of All The Luck
56. A Great Day To Be A Viking King
57. Carve A Path
58. Anthill
59. Indeed
60. Tiled Roofs
61. To The Gate
62. That’s My Girl
63. The Evil Within
64. Killer Drop Bears
65. Target Fixation
66. Nothing Else Matters
67. Garden Beds
68. Thrice-Wrought Steel
69. Shoe Polish
70. Open Ground
71. Gotcha
72. Low Friction Coefficients
73. Spitfires And Hurricanes
74. One Last Meeting
75. Drafted
76. How Unfortunate
77. A Vast, Deep Pit
78. Vale The First And Proud
79. It All Ends Now
80. So Be It
81. Metal Eyes
82. Runes
83. Mess Hall
84. Painkiller
85. Dismissed
86. One Army Under God
87. The Art Of War
88. Their Harvest Of Hate
89. A Phalanx Of Joints
90. The Missing Battalion
91. Valkjur
92. Masters Of Their Fate
93. Fuck Yes
94. Ride Of The Valkyries
95. Original Norse
96. Odin’s Warriors
97. The Long Way
98. The Voice Of Command
99. Keep Working
100. Through The Looking Glass
101. A Familiar Visitor
Author’s Note & Info
Chapter One
PROMISES
OUTSIDE, the birds chirped a little hesitantly in the darkness before dawn, and Ella Gruder awoke face-to-face with her greatest fear.
Parenting.
Her daughter tugged the covers once more, this time the warm, toasty blankets falling to a heap by the foot of the hardwood bed.
"C'mon Mummy, time to get up," said Amelia, holding an oil lantern. By her side, Fang sat on his haunches, tongue lolling out. Amelia’s German Shepherd puppy wagged his tail, the runt of Skippy’s litter, the rope toy by his large furry feet.
"There ought to be a law about excess energy," said Ella, yawning, goose bumps forming on her long legs. The other half of the bed lay empty, a divot where a body had recently lain. Again. Her eyes refused to focus. She tried rubbing the sleep from them.
There.
Clearer.
She blinked, staring through the high, open window. "What? It's not even daybreak." Ella collapsed back on the bed, and past injuries made their roll call.
"Fang." Amelia clicked her fingers, pointing at the bed. The not-so-small puppy sprang up, and took the end of Ella's pyjamas in his mouth, and began pulling her off the bed in thorough enjoyment, growling in play.
"Hey, wait just a moment —"
"You promised we could go to the beach this morning, remember?" said Amelia. "And take all the puppy dogs?"
Oh, thought Ella, that. The guilty memory marched across her mind and plonked itself down.
Like her butt, now sitting on the sheepskin rug, her back against the low, squat bed.
Fang sat once more, looking at her.
Amelia placed the oil lantern on the bedside table, then jumped on her.
'Ooof," said Ella, returning the warm hug. "Wow you're getting heavy." An errant elbow speared into her kidney as Amelia turned around. "And pointy. Alright then, let's go." The nine-year old jumped up. "Fang? Rope."
The puppy picked up the foot-long section of nautical rope and padded to her, and Ella grabbed one end. "Pull." The dog moved back, muscles straining, his back arched, and helped her rise off the floor.
The walk to the beach took at least an hour, and by that time, the birds were truly in song, calling to the new day. The city of Fairholm stirred, its citizens either beginning their day, or ending it, as Ella, Amelia, all eight puppies and their mother Skippy, and as always, their three Republic personal guards, led by Volfango Piave, made their way through the cobblestone city streets. The workers coming home from their night shifts waved and said hello to the group as they went by, and Ella and child returned each greeting.
The distant sounds of clanging and machinery could be heard on the wind, and all around them, smoke rose from the factory chimneys clustered in and outside the city, the sunrise giving the smoke weird yet beautiful colours. They walked by the rendering factory, where animals, Republic citizens, and all the Inquisition soldiers in their death turned into glycerine and essential fats for armaments.
It stank.
They all held their breath, and hurried forward until they emerged upwind.
"It's quite a procession," said Ella, glancing over her shoulder. Merrion Hawkwind's security detail nodded, and she resumed paying attention to Amelia and the dogs in front of her, as they ran ahead, stopped, sniffed, urinated on everything that resembled a signpost or shrub, except for the child. "Thank God for small mercies," she said, and laughed, the sound catching her off guard.
In the cool air of the mo
rning, her body ached and twinged from a half dozen places, both physical injuries that had healed and some mental ones, she thought, may never.
They arrived at the top of the long, sloping plain that stretched for a mile downhill toward the beaches, and three miles wide. The river bisected it, and on both sides, defensive earthworks and trenches criss-crossed the plain.
"We'll take the right side today," said Ella, and together they entered the top support trench, passing by the command bunker on their left, buried under a small, man-made hill. They made their way through the trenches, only populated by passing men and women delivering supplies or hot food to the on-duty soldiers, until they came to the bottom of the defensive lines.
"Good Morning, Miles," said Ella, to a man standing outside the rear entrance of a bunker.
Sergeant Miles Goodsworth saluted. "Morning, Ella," he said. "Didn't expect to see you down here today."
Ella smiled at Amelia, who beamed back at her. "Neither did I," she said. "Any activity?"
"Nothing for months now," he said. "I guess the Inkas are trying to starve us out. If it wasn't for Beowulf's efforts, we would be."
Almost six months now since the Inquisition sent an invasion fleet to the island of Fairholm, and as it turned out, a baby fleet. Its bigger sibling waited outside the entrance to the Bay of Harmony, waiting for what exactly, fuelling many an argument in the island's watering holes, when alcohol met fear, then fists.
The threat of annihilation hung in the air, dark, unspoken, stifling.
"Speaking of starving out," said Ella, "any progress on the Purity?" She gestured over the trench toward the beach.
"You can ask them," said Miles. "Not for a few weeks, no. But I suggest you don't get too close, especially with your young 'uns with you."
"We're going nowhere near it," said Ella, and Amelia sighed. "Come on everyone, let's get this circus to the beach." She saluted back, and Miles barked an order. The massive gate opened, creaking on metal hinges and they all walked onto the sand.
The sand crunched under Ella's shoes, squeaking with each step. Up and down the length of both beaches, anti-tank metal and concrete porcupines stuck out of the beach, already starting to rust. The sand no longer coloured red, returning to its normal grey, and almost nothing of the Battle of Harmony Bay, H-Day, remained.
The thousands upon many thousands of dead bodies, the primitive war machines, the landing craft, the whole bay of both wooden and metal warships sunk, shredded, or abandoned — everything accessible had been recovered, and recycled back into the Republic's war effort. The dead rendered into soap and its by-products of glycerine for starters.
Except for one thing, one obvious thing.
The thirty-year old metal dreadnought the Purity, forged in the shipyards of Liverpool, England, on the other side of the galaxy, lay where it had been driven onto the beach all those months ago, on the far beach, almost a mile away. The dry dock being built around it swarmed with workers. She raised her binoculars, as Amelia shouted and squealed running into the morning surf, the dogs all around her barking and carrying on.
Through the optic magnifiers she saw, on the forward deck, a small group of Vikings roasting a large cow, fanning the smoke and smells into the openings of the ship. One Viking raised his head, lifted his telescope, and waved to her. She waved back.
Probably Snorri. Still doing penance for ramming the ship onto the shoreline when Marietta wanted the ship taken intact. Not his fault though. Most of the ship's crew surrendered, the last batch only weeks ago, and only the forward compartment remained. They'd have to be eating shoe leather by now. And the smell of roasting beef, wafting through the ventilation ducts, making their mouths water . . .
Great, thought Ella. Now my stomach is grumbling.
Amelia came running back up the beach.
"Mummy, you promised you'd play and get your feet wet," she said, handing her a wet slimy piece of wooden flotsam, detritus that still washed ashore all these months later from the massive naval battle.
"OK," holding the timber far out in front and pulling a face, "OK," and with that, left her three bodyguards, and enjoyed the moment while it lasted, under the shining suns.
Chapter Two
HAM AND GREEN EGGS
THE CHILD RAISED ITS GUN. Laurie lifted his hands, begging the child clothed in white to stop. Hands made of lead, heavy, and slow. The kid smiled, looked down the engraved polished flintlock, and shot him smiling.
Captain Lawrence John woke screaming. He reached out, and fumbled for his wristwatch. Just after dawn, slivers of light creeping through the barricaded window slits. The nightmares came nightly, so often he dreaded going to sleep. What is it you want me to do? Why are we here? Why did you take us here? The same two bloody dreams repeatedly. The Inquisition kid shooting him was one. But the second . . .
Writhing, black metal — insects? spiders? — well whatever they were, it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand upright in fear and primordial terror — swarming over whole fields, lands, killing everything, with bigger robot versions on overwatch delivering even more destruction, piling on top of themselves, growing smarter as they multiplied towards critical mass, and Laurie watching from above, as whole planets went dark, glowing tendrils of red fault lines, of fire, incomprehensible weapons killing suns.
The other dream.
That's what you get for saving the day. Bastards.
He once more reset the watch and put it down, next to the empty liquor bottle, and laid back onto the cold, wet, sweaty sheets. Skippy wasn't by his bed, in her canvas hammock. Out on a walk with the pups, he guessed. With Amelia. Cheeky little bugger. With effort, he rose, and half-naked, made his way out of his room, and down to the shower block.
Laurie threw his linen towel over the stall's door, and welcomed the warm water. Hallelujah for Roman plumbing.
"Morning, Laurie," said Andrew Bloomsbury from behind the door, and began showering the next stall down.
"Morning mate," said Laurie, working up a good lather, as he tried to scrub the nightmare sweat off to oblivion.
"Big day today." The former flight engineer from England, whistled a big band tune.
"Yeah. Reckon so." How can he be so bloody cheery? Probably that Shakespearean drama company he’d formed. What was it? Ah. The New Pop-Up Globe Theatre. As if there wasn’t enough murder, mayhem, and human jealousies on Elysium as it was. Bugger that for a lark. He wondered about forming his own cricket team. Hmm. Laurie’s long-dead mother's voice came into his head. Don't forget to wash behind your ears. He washed behind his ears.
"What do you think the mission is?" said Andrew, drumming fingers against the stall door. "Whatever it is, its been taking up the general's time for months. Her and Merrion have been thick as thieves. I bet it's something about breaking this blockade." The whistling resumed.
Laurie stuck his right index finger into his nostrils, and picked out the goobers. He inspected them with a critical eye. Just a fleck of blood. Satisfied, he washed them away in the running water, and watched them swirl around and around on the wooden-slatted floor until they disappeared down the central drain.
And that's life. Around and around you go, then sucked into the black.
"Oh," said Laurie, "I have no idea. It's going to involve boats, I just know it." His guts twisted at the mere thought.
The sound of muffled voices grew louder, and the rest of the building's occupants entered the shower block.
"Morning, fellas," said Andrew. "Big day today, huh? How splendid was Othello last night?"
Laurie sighed to himself, and concentrated on ducking his head under the falling water, as two bomber crews from a previous world showered and nattered to each other, trying to forget their own nightmares.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, Laurie joined them at the long breakfast table, and broke bread. He ate in silence.
"It's kinda funny if you think about it," said Sergeant Mick Ward, at the far end of the table. The short-in-stature Australian h
eld up a chunk of bread. Green-hazel eyes soaked in the textured grains. "Everything we eat here coming through that fucking storm," biting off a large mouthful, "one way or the other." The rear gunner of the Lancaster decided to concentrate on eating, as the bread in that moment tried to choke him.
Gunnery Sergeant Griffin 'Timberman' Huey raised his huge right hand from where he was sitting, and slapped Mick hard on the back. "Didn't your Mama tell ya not to do two things at once?" The six and a half foot former lumberjack, and waist gunner from the B-17E Damage Inc., proud owner of Betty, his customised .50cal Browning machine gun, went back to thinking about his kids, and his wife, back on Earth. He sighed.
"Thanks, mate," said Mick, breathing hard. "Now my bloody back feels like a truck hit it." He looked up at Griffin, and grinned. "Must be that Canadian hospitality huh?"
"Seattle, ya nutter," said Flight Engineer Thorfinn Hay, opposite. "Well, by all accounts people have been pulled here for a couple of thousand years, usually by ships they sailed in. Whatever was in their holds, they've planted or used." The mechanical engineer went back to reading his work notes, munching on a bacon rind. "I'm just glad they had pigs."
"What I want to know is why your damn nickname is Timberman when nobody uses it!" Mick took the lid off his current project, his mission to replicate Vegemite. The burnt by-products of yeast, salt, and the dregs of stout beer remained stubbornly elusive. It couldn’t be that hard. With his eyes watering, he carefully put the lid back on, and slumped. Griffin’s face remained impassive. Then he mouthed the words. Tim-ber-man. A moment later, both men laughed.
"There's a rational explanation to all this," said Andrew, steering the topic firmly back, thank you very much. He stroked his goatee. "I'm close to finishing that observatory with Daniel's help."
"It's getting indeed getting close," said Daniel, the Damage Inc.'s navigator, carpenter, and only child of Mr and Mrs Broadwater. "Need to polish a few more mirrors and lenses though, and order some bigger ones ‘gain. This telescope is going to be huge."
"Pass the butter, Dan," said Lucius James Jr., to the man's left. "Ta." The Captain, Professor of Physics, and now Commander of the fledgling Republic Air Force smeared the pad onto his bread. "There's gotta be a way back home," he said.