Painkiller

by Aeryn Leigh

  The covers moved. "You lied to Griffin," said her muffled voice. "And the others."

  "I did. I was afraid, I kept putting it off. I shouldn't have done that."

  Small hands appeared, and pulled the top down. In a sea of mouse-brown hair, appeared Amelia's face. For the first time, Ella saw something new. Pain. Sadness.

  Wisdom.

  Amelia regarded her. "No, you shouldn't have. This isn't Earth anymore."

  "No, it's not. And I promised."

  Amelia crawled from underneath the covers, went to the door, and opened it. "Fang," she yelled. Moments later, her dog raced down the hallway, and through the opening, right up onto the bed, past the cat, its tail now flicking. The door closed.

  Amelia cuddled up with the furry beast. "When will you be back?"

  Ella drew in a quick breath. "About six months," she said, exhaling.

  "Who will look after me?"

  "Lucius, Daniel, Abe, and the others who are staying. Maybe even Marietta. Merrion's personal guards will be protecting you every hour. Volfango as always. You will still be here. In this house, your bedroom. We will be taking carrier pigeon hawks, so we can still communicate with each other, okay?"

  "Six months," said Amelia, in a monotone. Fang yawned, great, sharp, white-yellow teeth bared. "You've never been away that long."

  "I know, beautiful. I wouldn't be going if it wasn't that important."

  "I understand." She hugged Fang, and the puppy groaned. "Can you send Griffin in for sleepy cuddles? I'd like him to read for me tonight. That's if he wants to. He'd be upset. You can go."

  The rebuff stung, but Ella assented. "I'll go ask him." She stood up. "I love you."

  She walked toward the door, the longest seconds in her life, before she heard the affirming reply.

  "What happened to your hand?"

  "I lost my temper."

  "Griffin. No hurting your hand, okay?"

  "Yes ma'am." A chuckle.

  "I'm not your ma'am. I'm Amelia, doofus. Now here's the book. Chapter Seven if we could please?" Griffin could barely see the child under the covers, Fang, and now his Athena also, piled up on the bed, Zia having retreated up high to the bookshelf, tail still flicking.

  He cleared his throat, and opened the pulp. "Chapter Seven. The Falcon wasn't there. Clouds rolled over the ground, like pillows run amok, in the light before dawn outside the City Morgue. Detective Tracy swore. "Damn it's cold," he said icily, to no one in particular, drawing on his cigarette. All the murders and mayhem, and still no figurine."

  "Griffin?"

  "Yes, Amelia?"

  "You're coming back aren't you?"

  "Do you want me to lie?"

  There was silence.

  "No."

  "Well then." He stared at the floorboards. "The chances aren't good little one. But I'll make you a promise, here and now. We'll do everything we can to make it back. But whatever happens, whatever fate befalls us — you make us proud, you make my heart sing. You make me never forget my own kids." He stared at the ceiling, then right at her. "Your Momma does love you, dearly. And if we don't make it home — make our sacrifice not in vain. Live Amelia. Live with every breath, and never quit. Never surrender." He looked down. "Remember your family. Always fight for those who can't. And —" his voice catching, and looked up from the floor and into the wet, shining eyes of innocence, now a river, his words not even a whisper, gravel running downhill, "always love."

  He stayed in the room, long after the child fell asleep in his arms, long after the candle went out, and the cat stopped purring, asleep with the puppies, standing guard against the demons until the dawn, resolute.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A Change In Tactics

  "Andrew?"

  "Yes, Captain?"

  "You've checked for dogs thoroughly this time?"

  "Yes?"

  "No stowaways, random critters, or the like?"

  "Yes?"

  "No small children with kittens?"

  "No. Ah, yes?"

  "You're sure? Under crossbeams, blankets, or supplies?"

  "Yes?"

  "Just checking."

  They left Fairholm in the cover of darkness, in the brief window each month when the moon did not shine. The small fleet of Viking longships, with Hellsbaene and the aircraft transports at the core, gave every reason and impression to the Inquisition forward ships observing them of just another supply run to Odinsgate, the three aircraft tails covered in a mass of sailcloth and boxes disguising their shape. The blockade ships fired upon them, as per normal practice, across their bows, as the longships flew past half a mile away, at full mast and oars, but like everything in the last six months, it was infuriating to be aware that the Inquisition military played with them as if a small mouse suddenly finding itself surrounded by kittens, and the felines deigning to let them go — in pity.

  Once their ships had passed from the relative calm waters of the Bay of Harmony, and through the large breaking waves of open ocean, the fleet had proceeded to Odinsgate, then, when only two days away from the Viking city, had Snorri's smaller group of ships separated, leaving them behind as they begun the long journey to the Emperor's stronghold, on the far side of the world.

  Ella watched Snorri wave goodbye on the sixth morning, from her position on the Catalina-held ship, and again try to get comfortable, adjusting the woollen blankets underneath her, as she waved back until he passed from view. Three months of this, with at least two long stretches of open water for weeks at a time. The sea spray stung her nostrils, as the sea craft rose and fell, cresting each swell, and she looked around, observing their fleet of nine vessels again for the hundredth time, returning over and again to the worrying thoughts in her mind that she'd missed something, that they had missed something, in all their preparations.

  King Hffylson's Hellsbaene led in a staggered M-formation. Behind it, the two ships each carrying a packed, folded, assault glider, followed by regular Viking warships. Then at the rear, her ship containing a waterproofed aeroplane and the last escort craft, on the starboard.

  Her hands itched to get up and inspect her Catalina one more time, to make sure everything was watertight and secure. Properly.

  Instead she sat on her hands and watched the ocean.

  Five minutes later, Ella once again inspected every waterproofed oilskin, and soothed her baby tight.

  Marietta bolted upright, the deep bass notes rolling like thunder across the bay and flowing into the city.

  An air raid? Now? It wasn't daytime. She looked at the ancient Italian grandfather clock, shimmering in the darkness from the pair of lanterns mounted on the far wall. Right in the middle of night.

  Her boots were cold as she slipped her wool-shod feet in, then strode quickly from her small bedroom, separated from her main office by a large red war banner, the Roman numerals IX stitched in black and gold threads. Throwing her cloak around her shoulders, and nodding to the pair of guards at the door, she opened the door and made her way down the wooden stairs, across the stones crunching underneath her soles in the pale light of the new moon, and into the War Room.

  "What's happening?"

  "Inquisition aircraft reported over the lighthouse, General," said the young wireless operator. She stared at him, and raised an eyebrow. "Same type and number as the daily attacks," he added.

  "Thank you." She turned and carried on outside, into the night, then up the wooden stairs, around and around until they landed her at the very top of the new Observation and Flak Tower, the highest artificial structure in the Pit.

  She could see her breath condensing in front of her.

  A few clouds were dotted here and there, but the moon shone down, bathing the whole of Fairholm in a muted-silver glow.

  "General," said the squad of soldiers, saluting, as they prepared the anti-aircraft gun taken from the stranded dreadnought, the Republic’s brand new second battery. The all too precious artillery shells lay neatly in straw boxes. They couldn't use them
yet, but had to soon for morale. Sections of her forces had become laughing stocks. Especially her new Air Force.

  "Gentlemen," she replied, nodding. She rubbed her hands together, and pulled a pair of leather gloves from her waist pocket next to her sidearm. Pulling them on, Marietta walked to the guard rail, and lifted her English binoculars, taken from the dreadnought's captain.

  Fingers adjusted the optics, and with her head moving left to right she finally found them. Right. What are you doing out at this time of night? Two-plus months of bombing runs, same day, same time, dropping your damn leaflets. Getting the citizens into shelters, drilling into them to seek safety was getting more difficult with every passing day.

  Familiarity breeds contempt for danger.

  The black specks drew closer now over the middle of the Bay, their droning motors echoing off the dark waters. General Versetti watched them over the next few minutes, occasionally speaking into the speaker phone tube mounted next to her, giving orders, and requesting updates as the enemy crossed the beachhead toward the centre of town. Her first anti-aircraft battery opened fire, under instructions to fire no more than one shell per aircraft.

  Same flightpath. Like every other time. Following the river upstream past the docks and into the heart of the city. Flying a full circle around it, disgorging paper material, then flying the exact same path out to their aerodromes out on the chain islands.

  The enemy passed over the defensive lines, and the general smiled. The shells worked. Or at least, the timers anyway, the explosive rounds either detonating far above or far below the travelling warplanes. It didn't matter. Resistance had been offered.

  Seen and heard to be offered.

  The ten planes flew over the docks, up the river, and began their wide circuit. The general watched the black cluster of eggs underneath the bottom wing drop away.

  She waited for the bomb housings to split, and spill white paper out into the clear night sky.

  The bombs remained closed.

  Solid.

  But now they whistled, falling toward the ground, a high-pitched wail, like long nails down a chalkboard, making your spine crawl.

  Marietta started yelling into the speaker phone, as the first bombs hit, giant balls of red and yellow fire mushrooming into the air, as the bombs detonated amongst the civilian quarters, one-hundred bombs drawing a circle of fire, a ring of flames, in and around her city she'd taken an oath to protect, underlining her failure, as the screams and yelling began.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Vikings And Nursery Rhymes

  "If he sings that song one more time, mate, I will end him."

  "But he's the Viking King, Mick!"

  "Then there'll be more to bury."

  "It's only been seven days out at sea. There's a long way to go."

  "That's what I'm afraid of. There's whole bloody sagas of nursery rhymes still undiscovered by our newfound friends."

  "It's rather quaint, how childhood songs end up being bloodthirsty roaring yarns complete with pounding war drums. Especially the final scream part. Fascinating."

  "I'll give you fascinating."

  There was silence. Blissful silence.

  "Thank Christ for that. Please. Oh, please just five minutes of peace."

  Then a huge intake of breath up ahead.

  "Row, row, row your boat . . ."

  "Andrew?"

  "Merrily merrily — yes?"

  Captain John felt as green as the seaweed clumps drifting past, bobbing gently in the afternoon light.

  "For a man who gets seasickness, you spend a damn awful amount of time on boats," said Griffin, moving over to Laurie's side, who'd just finished emptying his stomach into the white-flecked waters below.

  "I wonder the same thing myself, mate. Thanks." He took the offered skin of water, the precious freshwater, and used it sparingly to rinse his mouth out.

  The two were aboard the Oslo, the primary supply vessel for their mission, its side-wales low, laden with food, drinking water, and military equipment. It wasn't a case of having all their eggs in one basket, Laurie thought, wiping his mouth with the back of his cuff and looking at the tarpaulin-covered crates and barrels, as enough supplies were spread out over the nine ships if — and he shuddered at the thought if, the Oslo or others were lost — but it was getting close. Hell, the whole mission was on a wing and a prayer.

  Murphy is a fucking optimist.

  "Having second thoughts?" Griffin pulled out a piece of beef jerky, and started chewing it. Laurie stared at him blankly. He pointed at the small mountain of supplies, in between a couple of dozen Vikings being sailors.

  "I was born having second thoughts," said Laurie. "Although not about enlisting. No bloody doubt there."

  Griffin considered the tall Australian. "You're a natural fighter. And whether you like it or not, a born leader."

  Laurie snorted. Griffin reached to his side and unsheathed his dagger, an ivory-handled seven-inch serrated blade, a souvenir taken from that bloody day the Inquisition had landed, from a slain Inka squad leader Griffin's hatchet decapitated. From one of his myriad pockets the huge man pulled out a sharpening stone, and methodically sharpened the blade on top of his leg.

  "Funny," said Laurie, "I could say the same thing about you."

  "But that's the difference between you and me. I don't stick my head in the good ol’ sand. For someone who hates authority, you sure as hell do a lot of leading. You take initiative. And you care about the soldiers you lead. Genuinely care. That's why you have such damn respect."

  Laurie looked at the blade being sharpened, the metal on stone making a low rhythmic grinding sound, almost reassuring. He looked around, and dropped his voice so that only Griffin could hear. "There's a million bloody ways this mission can go wrong. So yeah, second thoughts." He suddenly smiled, white teeth gleaming. "Are you finished with that sharpening stone?" Laurie reached to his waist, and pulled out the long gleaming two-feet of steel Beowulf's father had gifted him from its leather scabbard. "You call that a knife? Now this is a knife."

  And the two of them laughing carried all the way to Hellsbaene.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Odin Save Us

  Snorri climbed to the top of the long mast, his feet resting upon the small wooden pegs, until he reached the small lookout tee section, right at the very top.

  Odin save us.

  Odinsgate lay just at the edge of the horizon, the sun setting behind them. Encircling the Viking city, sat dozens and dozens and dozens of Inquisition warships, their cannon fire echoing across the ocean waves in thunder, puffs of white and grey smoke rising into the sky, with each broadside fired.

  Heart hammering, he lifted the brass telescope and tried to make sense of it.

  Odinsgate was under siege. Inquisition forces seemed to have surrounded the city, save for a small gap directly ahead of their longships. Great parts of the city were on fire. Most of it was obscured by smoke. He moved the telescope around, seeking out the ringfort islands surrounding Odinsgate.

  They had fallen.

  Inquisition warships anchored right next to them, and were using them as steady artillery platforms to pound the island. Snorri squinted. Siege mortars.

  Snorri thought quickly. That was why they hadn't heard anything from Odinsgate.

  The Inquisition had either found a way to defeat the sea creatures defending the city, or the old King's contract had ended in due time.

  He aimed the telescope back at the gap between the encircling fleet. Signal flags appeared and to the Vikings amazement, the ships near the edge of the pincer moved away, making the gap wider. They would have had to have seen the five Viking longships approaching.

  Snorri grabbed the rope and slid down back to the deck. Turn away and head back to Fairholm? Or proceed through the Devil's Maw and help their kin? It's a simple matter, he thought. "Signal the captains," he commanded. "Forward into Odinsgate." The drums began pounding.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight


  Troubled Sleep

  Ella tried to sleep but couldn't. No matter how she turned, or adjusted the hammock bedding, there always seemed to be a sharp point trying to stick its way through her ribs. Her verdammt period wasn't helping. Eyes closed, she felt around with her right hand until she found the old tin snuff box, opened it, and took a pinch of leafy material, sticking it into her mouth.

  She chewed and chewed, and eventually with the rise and fall of the boat, the pain in her lower abdomen eased. This plant is miraculous. Whatever opioid properties it had, of whatever pharmaceutical family, the dark-green plant was used all over Fairholm, and this world.

  Although it had a nasty habit of turning people's teeth black, from overuse and addiction, from the highs it gave.

  Her teeth weren't black. I only use it once a month, she thought. Twice maybe, only in emergencies. The fleet was quiet, or at least the humans were, apart from the creaking of timbers overhead, the flapping of sailcloth as errant bursts of prevailing wind caught sections of sail, propelling their fleet onward to the east.

  She looked at the skies overhead, and the twinkling of foreign stars. Though they had names, given to them by people arriving over two thousand years ago and maintained through the centuries, they always would be a little strange.

  She turned again. Ah, that's it, comfortable. It lasted a few moments.

  Verdammt. In a short, violent movement she pushed the covers back and sat upright. Save for a handful of Vikings running the ship in the middle of the night, the boat was full of soft snores, as men and women took advantage of the helpful winds and slept.

  Just one more blanket, she thought. Swinging her legs over the side of the hammock, right up against the starboard hull, Ella picked her way through the sleeping warriors as quietly as she could, navigating her way around the long-covered seaplane, to the section of ship where the bedding and related supplies were kept.