Painkiller

by Aeryn Leigh

  Their history. Their library. The knowledge from Odin.

  Even if he himself, could not read it.

  An immovable object met a smaller, irresistible force. They stared at each other.

  "I'm only doing this because I was asked to," said the Republic Commander, hands on both hips.

  "Well I didn't ask you to," replied the diminutive child, surrounded by furry animals. "Haven't you got better things to do with your time?"

  "Like dropping small children who won't go to bed in the middle of the Bay?"

  Again, they stared at each other, until, with pouting lips, and hips thrust to one side riffing off one another, until Marietta could not bear it any longer, and burst out laughing. Amelia followed, giggling.

  "You're fun," said Amelia, as a pillow clobbered the side of her head.

  Three weeks passed, three weeks of travelling over the deep dark ocean waters, without once seeing land.

  For Ella and the others, not used to spending such lengths of time in open waters, or for that matter on boats, three weeks felt like years. At the firm insistence of Ella, Laurie started chewing the dark-green leaves that she used, and it calmed his stomach enough to reduce the seasickness to a quiet, dulled, roar.

  Aside from a few days of being becalmed, when they used the long oars to keep moving, the fleet of ships made good time. But for those travelling who were not Vikings, by now their hands had become used to the hard, physical labour. Blisters formed underneath blisters. Shoulder muscles screamed, as biceps and triceps pulled and stretched.

  Now each of their hands were rough, calloused.

  The primitive rowing machines back at their training camp, made from planks of wood attached to long pieces of rope over a tree branch, had at least proved useful enough that their bodies weren't completely destroyed, but Ella thought she might never use her arms again.

  Her limbs felt like logs. With each beat of the drum, she pulled back on her long oar, in time and rhythm with everyone else. On the bright side, she thought, at least I now sleep like one.

  The drums stopped. "At last, I thought this turn rowing would never end." She stood up, and stretched her long arms over her head, leaning backward and trying to shake the soreness out. Ella looked around the Oslo, and back toward the Cat, fifty yards off the port side.

  The fleet lay close together, as they now approached the pirate freeholds territory. Or territories. By the Vikings estimates, landfall should be any day now, upon which they could follow the coastline up and around the second continent, through pirate-controlled space, and out the other side ever closer to their objective.

  Mick and Griffin joined her, at the bow of the longboat, as they took their well-earned lunchtime break. The three watched the longships around them. The Oslo and the Cat in the middle of a diamond formation. Hellsbaene as always, leading the way.

  "Why are we doing this again?" said Mick. "If I wanted to be a sailor, I would have joined the Navy."

  "Didn't someone mention beer?" said Ella, a wry smile upon her face.

  "Yeah, well, we know why you're here, right, Griffin?" chortled Mick. "Someone said aeroplane."

  Ella raised her eyebrows, then after a second, rolled her eyes. It didn't stop her from chuckling.

  "We are doing this because we were born to," said Griffin, breaking open a loaf of hard bread. "Man's got a fight for what's right. Even when not given a damn choice."

  They both looked at him. He grinned with a full mouth of food, eyes alight.

  "No argument there," said Ella, as the pair of suns started to set on the western horizon, and even after three weeks, it still made for a beautiful sight on water that stretched for as far as the eye could see.

  If only Amelia could see this. When I get back, I'll take her on a sailing trip. Yes. Just me and her. Her hands reached out and clasped the two pieces of jewellery around her neck.

  I promise.

  Something caught her vision. Small and black. She lifted a hand up, pointing out past Hellsbaene. "There," she pointed to the others, "what's that on the horizon?"

  The three of them saw Laurie and Beowulf, on board the Hellsbaene in front of them, also make their way quickly to the bow of the flagship, as a figure climbed the central mast, all the way to the lookout high overhead.

  Sunlight glinting off the brass telescope in its hands, and moments later, they watched the Viking raise the horn around their neck to their lips, and blow long and hard.

  The call for battle.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Liquid Wake-Up

  Magnus spat over the bow gunwale, then lifted the telescope once more. "Confirmed," he said. "Pirate galleon, flying Inquisition colours." Magnus leaned back against Hellsbaene's side, stroking his long red braided beard.

  "Inquisition colours?" said Laurie, standing alongside Beowulf, the three of them at Hellsbaene's bow. He too leaned against the ship, against the forward two-inch murder swivel-cannon, bracing himself in the rough, heavy swell that had formed in the last few minutes upon the sighting. The twin pair of .50cal's laid underneath their custom-made oilskin covers next to them, wrapped tight, and hopefully for a long while yet, out of sight.

  "Acting under the authority of the Inquisition," replied Beowulf, "they claim a bounty for every vessel sunk, captured or otherwise taken."

  "Triple bounty for crew captured alive and vessel intact," said Magnus.

  "They weren't flying the flag last year," said Laurie, thinking of the previous year's voyage to confirm the existence of the dreadnought Purity. He caught their expressions. "Were they?"

  "Pirate factions split into splinter factions, which are eaten or eat other rivals. Leadership changes as often as the tides. They might not even have official Inquisition sanction, yet fly the flag anyway. It very may well be a ruse, but for what end we can only guess," said the king.

  "Given how it's only a matter of time before the Inquisition comes for even these renegades, it's a fragile alliance," said Magnus.

  Laurie studied the distant ship, maintaining a parallel course at least three miles off their port side. He rubbed his temples. "Wouldn't it make more sense to not fly the colours, then run them up at the last moment?"

  The pair of Vikings laughed.

  "Well done," said Beowulf. "You are getting more familiar with this world with every passing day. Very little of what the pirates do out here makes sense. One will go mad trying to figure it out. And join them in madness."

  Laurie grimaced. "So, what now?"

  "Now my friend from another world, now we begin the game. Magnus, signal the fleet to match our new heading." He lifted his right arm, and pointed in a direction roughly thirty-degrees off the bow. Within moments the helm responded and quickly, the rest of the fleet changed direction to match their flagship.

  The eighteenth-century galleon responded, the one-hundred twenty cannon ship-of-the-line keeping careful parallel.

  And so it remained the remainder of the afternoon. Hellsbaene led the fleet on their intended course, but now, zigzagged, their companion matching every course correction. The northerly winds also picked up, the swell making every ship pitch up and down, sea spray coating everything.

  "What happens when we reach the coastline?" said Laurie, as the suns started their swan song over the western horizon.

  "We proceed as normal," said Beowulf. "Yes, Laurie John, normal. What would you have us do? Of course, Hellsbaene could catch her with the engines in a flash, and rake her in machine-gun and cannon fire bow to stern — then what? No doubt they have pigeon hawks of their own, and would use them."

  "I wasn't suggesting that," muttered Laurie. "We need to keep the deception going as long as possible."

  "Then why get, as you say, grumpy?"

  Laurie's left hand gripped the hilt of his sword, knuckles white. With his right, he gripped the wooden rail, and took a long, deep breath. "You're right," he managed to get out, "you're absolutely fucking right." But to himself, he added, any man, any vessel, tha
t flies their flag — I will burn you to the ground.

  The fleet saw land in the dark hours before dawn. For all that day and the following day, they kept at least three-quarters of a mile distance between themselves and the coast. A land coloured by brown and red dirt disappearing far into the interior. Scattered here and there, green forests, the tall, slender ghost-grey trees giving way to vibrant masses of green on top, filled with birds whose songs carried all the way offshore.

  The already rich air became even thicker, lush, pregnant with oxygen, invigorating.

  "Makes you feel great to be alive, doesn't it?" said Andrew, aboard the Oslo at daybreak. He took a long, deep breath, grinned some more, then let it all out in a contented sigh. The prevailing easterly winds were parallel to the shore and carried them forward. Every one of the fleet's sails filled to maximum propelling the task force at best possible speed. Only in the last few hours, had the fleet managed to pull away from the pirate ship shadowing them, Beowulf ordering the fleet to try for best speed, with both sails and human-powered oars.

  Even with the extra knots, the galleon remained a mile off the port astern.

  "I never understand how you're always so damn bloody cheery," said Mick, as they relished the quick break from the oars, Vikings taking over and planting their butts on the vacated warm wood.

  Andrew beamed. "Oh, it's a character flaw I imagine, having such enthusiasm. But c'mon, Mick, have a look round. A brand-new world. Vikings. New lands, new creatures, all this possibility. Amazing."

  "More possibilities of dying, you mean?" said Ella, returning from her ablutions from the rear poop deck, or the Viking literal equivalent anyway, which consisted of a bucket under a piece of tarpaulin, the tarp installed at her insistence. Trying to do your number twos on a rolling, pitching ship was an acquired skill. Her mouth was full of leaves.

  "Oh, I agree, there's a great many ways to die," said Andrew, taking a sip of water. "No argument there." He stopped, and scratched the back of his head, then sighed. "A very great many ways."

  "I didn't mean to bring you down," said Ella, taking her own sip. "It is a dangerous world. And a dangerous undertaking we are on. But maybe, that is why we were brought here, you know? If anyone can do it, it is us."

  "Christ," said Mick, "two of them." The short Australian stretched arms up, and looked around for the nearest Viking carrying a skin of mead. He walked off, to get a shot of morning liquid wake-up.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  All Good Things

  All good things come to an end.

  Ahead on the horizon, forming a perpendicular line to the shore, an Inquisition line of battle awaited, of seven warships, under three miles away. The pirate Spanish galleon which had shadowed them for so many days, cast off its colours, and its tatty, thrice-patched sails and ran up its own flag. Its normal, impeccable, white main sailcloths, with a black V in the bottom right.

  Its real flag.

  The Inquisition Fifth Fleet.

  The galleon moved behind them, a mile and half behind, closing off an easy escape. Adding to their woes, its top row of cannons disappeared, rolled back and replaced by artillery a little more modern, modelled on the Purity. The coastline lay to their right, a wide river mouth one mile ahead, its flow of freshwater creating a large muddy lake of sediment and muck in the ocean, visible from even this far away. The pair of suns shone down high overhead, casting little in the way of shadows.

  Everything was still, motionless save for the waves crashing into hulls, and the seagulls and other seabirds circling above.

  On board Hellsbaene, many brows furrowed.

  "Is there any other way?" said the king, staring at the enemy fleet.

  "Not that I can see," said Merrion, racking his memory. The linen map laid out in front of them, resting upon a wooden barrel. "The only other option is engaging the enemy, fleeing straight out into open ocean, where no doubt the remainder of their fleet awaits, or making a run back the way we came."

  "What's the usual combat strength of the Fifth?" said Laurie.

  "Eighteen to twenty," said Merrion. "They almost never split, and if they do, not for long. The rest of them are out there, over the horizon, of that there is no doubt," he said, glancing toward the open waters.

  "Eighteen to twenty, huh," said Laurie, in a low voice. His own brows furrowed further.

  "Without the need to protect the aeroplanes, I'd engage," said Beowulf.

  "But no one has ever made it alive from going up the river, from going inland, have they?" said Ella.

  "No," replied Merrion. "The river mouth starts here, with another roughly six miles further east up the coast, before we reach the beginning of the island chains and the Freeholds forty-miles away." He tapped the area on the map with his index finger.

  "You're not suggesting we go inland, up the river, and somehow get the boats across land to the other tributary, bypassing the Inkas? Are we fellas?" said Mick. "How the fuck are we getting the boats across land?"

  There was silence.

  "I don't see many alternatives, if we want to maintain the deception," said Beowulf.

  "And there's the crux," said Ella. "The deception is pointless if we never make it there." She reached into a side pocket and took out the pouch of leaves.

  "We have nine ships. Minus the three carrying the aircraft. Six Viking longboats versus one Galleon behind us, yeah sure. Some losses, but doable. But a whole fleet? Bugger that," said Laurie, desperately longing for a decent coffee. "But I reckon the question is this. How bad do we want victory over the Inkas?" He stood up from where he'd been leaning against the ship's side, pulled his shoulders back, and drew himself up to his full six-foot-two height. "It's a choice between deaths. By those bastards out there," he said, jerking his thumb in their direction, "by their hands, or by our own, maybe, in there."

  Beowulf positively beamed, looking at the forested land Laurie gazed toward. "We'll make a Viking out of you yet."

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The Hammer Drops

  The long, hardwood oars hovered just above the surface of the water, hands on their rowing ends waiting. The wind still blew east. Fingers wrapped around ropes, which connected to the main longship sails, furled and bunched up tight on the main masts.

  The Inquisition ships had not changed position.

  Neither had the Viking fleet.

  Ella sat on the wooden bench, and quickly moved her left hand, bringing the two pieces of jewellery to her lips, and kissed them. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Griffin replace the folded photograph of his daughters back into a pocket, and look at her. She turned her head, and for the first time in three weeks sharing the same boat, he nodded back, smiling.

  She returned the smile, and replaced the jewellery back into the warmth of her chest.

  Hellsbaene gently bobbed up and down.

  A moment of perfect silence.

  The hammer dropped.

  Magnus blew the horn, and the felt-wrapped musical sticks started their tattoo upon the war drums. The sails dropped. Ella lifted her oar, and with the others, gave a mighty first pull.

  The drums loud, incessant, beat their rhythm to the fleet. Pure fucking muscle translated will into momentum against enormous inertia. In the distance, white blooms of smoke erupted, then the whistles of incoming artillery fire, sending great splashes of water up around them, as now the Odin-sent wind filled the sails, urging the fleet onwards.

  Around them. Not amongst them. Their fleet gathered speed, timbers creaking as mass overcame resistance and surface drag, heading directly for the awaiting forces.

  Ella's heart sang, caught up with the emotion and energy around her. Contagious, indomitable, and defiant, the nine vessels clustered tight together to begin with, then loosened out into a rough diamond.

  More piercing shrieks, Inka fire now all grouping behind them, shepherding them closer, closer into their net.

  Half a mile offshore, half a mile from the first river mouth, they pivoted. The
tempo of the drums increased, and the oars dipped into the ocean, harder and deeper, forward cannons of the lead longships now firing their own version of smoke grenades, high up into the ocean air.

  Amidst the grey, billowing clouds, the fleet of nine made best speed for the river mouth, and the war drums stopped, enveloping all in sudden quiet save for water sloshing against the sides and the splash of oars.

  Silence from the enemy fleet. Then a single retort, a high shrieking whistle, and Ella involuntary held her breath, waiting for the impact. It didn't hit, but exploded overhead, a shower of falling incendiaries casting fire over a wide area. The fall of fire rain floated over the rear ships, setting whatever they fell upon alight. Their non-rowing crews swatting out the flames with woollen blankets. Then more cannon fire and star bursts. The incendiaries fell over the entire fleet as they entered the river mouth, and the rear Inquisition galleon's batteries opened up, in one enormous broadside. Water fountained up in near misses, then the Hrothgar disappeared in a massive explosion. One second, it was there, to Ella's left, and one blink later, the escort longship blew apart, raining fiery debris onto the remaining ships and water, her ship rocking with the blast.

  They passed the corner, into the river proper, and the artillery barrage stopped. Behind a wall of smoke, and with their own ships singed and burnt, the Viking fleet entered territory where no mortals dared go.

  Ella breathed out.

  Ahead, the river stretched, hundreds of yards across. On the river banks, Ella saw the distinct shapes of crocodiles, big crocodiles — no, big prehistoric crocodiles — slowly move down the sun-drenched mud and dirt into the water, then as her heart ever so slowly began to stop racing, the outlines of sunken ships, submerged or driven ashore, directly in their path.