by Aeryn Leigh
She stopped that thought process before it spiralled out of control. Amelia. Something flared in the back of her mind, a new realisation of what she might be doing wrong. She tried again.
Ella spoke phonetically, in Norse. Hello, my name is Ella Gruder.
The suit spoke back.
Valkjur.
Fear. Such crippling fear. The rays of sunlight advanced across the room one fraction of an inch further than the last dust motes. The voices in her head circled, repeatedly asking the same phrases. Valkjur. Who are you? Where is your blood kin of Odin-blood? And the last one: Are you ready to die? The words formed in her mouth, on her lips, but the sound to make them bleed out at the back of her throat.
I do not want to die. I am Ella Gruder. Amelia. Ummm? Amelia is back at Fairholm?
"Are you ready to die?"
She watched the sunbeam kiss the outermost armoured figure with her heart pounding. I can't die. I need to protect Amelia.
"Are you ready to die?"
She could not move. She tried to run but again her whole body lay imprisoned within the metal and ceramic shell. The fear she'd spent her whole life running from. Keeping busy, always working, all the painkillers and drugs, always distracting herself, running, running, running.
Then it dawned on her, in all the suffering.
The daemon laid inside her head. No matter how far she ran, you couldn't outrun your own head. Wherever she went, it went. The fear of death. Your own mortality. Richthofen. Earhart. Kings and Queens. Her parents. Helena. All dead.
In the time it took the sunlight to transverse the elevated platform, from the far edge, past the massive figure sitting on the throne, and reach the feet of her own suit, Ella Gruder at last accepted the fate of all living things. Even suns and stars die one day, millions and millions of years away.
When the sunlight reached her face, or whatever shield passed for the visor helm, she accepted her fate. Amor Fati.
"I am ready to die."
In front of her eyes, an entire Universe of possibilities opened.
Ella Gruder died. And was reborn.
Painkiller.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Dismissed
On the one-hundred and ninetieth elevator load, it broke. The winding mechanism sheared its wooden teeth, and the primary gear unspooled, sending the fourteen soldiers on the platform, almost near the top, plummeting to the ground, along with it. Andrew and the others made a lunge for the ropes disappearing over the edge, even though if they had caught hold, they would have been pulled over too.
The elevator smashed onto the rocks, pulverising wood and bone alike, limbs and timbers snapping, firecrackers amongst the screams cut short.
At least five-hundred and fifty souls, gazed upon the wreckage, and the single lantern above, and realised, short of a miracle, here they would die.
A burst of gunfire far away. The assault team snapped around, ears straining. Short, controlled bursts. A mixture of .50cal and MP 40 fire. They'd rescued only shy of three-thousand survivors of the First and Proud, three-thousand hardened, battle-formed veterans.
Not enough.
Especially in their condition. Gaunt, sunken cheeks, skin hanging off in flaps, their fresh clothing billowing like sailcloths. Some, a lot of them, could not lift the weapons they'd been issued.
Beowulf and Laurie led the charge back down the mess hall, Griffin right behind and his Betty out front. They stormed up the steps and up to the feet of the golden thrones.
Stopped.
Nothing here.
More shots. Short burst after short burst, the assault squad knowing the maths of what ammunition reserves Moss and Hilda had.
One last burst of gunfire.
The .50cal fell silent.
Empty.
Laurie went to step forward, and then the voice of authority. "Who gave you permission to engage, Captain?"
Captain John stiffened. "No one, Major."
"That's right. From this point on, consider your team relieved."
"That sound we heard is from my forward team. I won't abandon them."
"Stand down, soldier."
Laurie stepped right into the major's face. "You and who's army, mate?"
"Ah, Captain?" said Mick. "Major?"
"What?" the two barked simultaneously.
"That army," said Mick.
At the far end of the cathedral three-quarters of a mile away, the Inquisition division formed, lines of battle across the vast, cavernous space. The garrison forces, now after the tender ministrations from the initial landing, the follow up assault, and Ella's murderous strafing run, only numbered six-thousand men. And they were angry. Holy ground had been desecrated. Was being desecrated.
Their squad leaders played a careful tune, keeping that rage simmering, but not running over. Not yet. Not quite yet. At the front ranks, stretching across their lines, the Marine Acolytes, warriors still in training, eager to prove their worth to their Emperor. Still in their teens, the forty-three acolyte squads of thirty men to a squad, armed with bladed and blunt weaponry.
Behind them, the steel mailed fist of the Inquisition, seasoned, blooded Marines. Three-thousand and twelve men divided into one-hundred squads of rolling shock and awe. Each carried some variant of black-powder guns, their squad leaders stamped-steel MP 40's.
In a thin, red line to their rear, extending up the spiral staircases and a few hundred feet along the balconies, archers in blood-red uniforms stood, long bows in hand, crossbows by their side, musket rifles strapped to their backs, a whole battalion's worth.
Then filling out the rest, intermeshed here and there, the speciality squads and crews, each with their own advanced weaponry, built in the Research Quarters outside.
Laurie listened as Merrion spoke to General Versetti and broke the Inka army down into the forces arrayed against them, Merrion standing on top of the golden foot, Laurie's eyes never leaving the enemy. Merrion raised the binoculars once more, and pointed.
The assembled group of the First and Last's commanders huddled around the throne's base, looked to where Merrion pointed.
The enemy lines parted in the middle as something came through.
"What is it, Merrion?" said General Versetti. At this distance, seeing details proved hard.
"The Emperor's Sign," said Merrion.
"The what?" said Sergeant Bloomsbury.
Then, details became clear, as Beowulf explained, and Merrion confirmed.
Two large wooden crosses were laid upon the ground. Upon each, Moss and Hilda, limbs held outstretched, were nailed hands and feet to the cross, Hilda's screams carrying all the way to them. A pair of acolyte squads lifted each cross up, and placed its base in a mobile support, full of lantern oil.
"When the oil is lit, and the flames engulf the whole wooden mast," said Beowulf, "is how long we have till they attack. Any survivors will meet their fate there," stabbing at the crosses. He spat on the throne.
"Assemble the First and form our lines," said the general. "Ninth protocols."
"No quarter, no mercy," said Captain John, grinning, as an icy tendril ran down between his scalp and skull, and section leaders ran down the steps to carry out her orders.
"Captain John, King Hffylson" said General Versetti, "guard our rear. Leave that army to us."
"But the .50 —" said Laurie, glancing at Griffin's weapon.
"You will need God's Hammer," said Beowulf. "And the contraption we pulled from the —"
"We need nothing but our will of the First," said the general. "Besides, there's that missing battalion to worry about. Cover our rear. Merrion, stay by my side. Dismissed."
Merrion gave the slightest nod to the commandos, then followed his general's command.
Chapter Eighty-Six
One Army Under God
"Hilda's a tough woman, Odin be praised. She wouldn't start screaming unless the pain was immense," said Beowulf, as the assault team picked their way through the mess hall, moving in the oppos
ite direction of the multiple streams of living skeletons walking past. "Moss wouldn't give them the satisfaction, the stubborn bastard. He’d bite his tongue off first."
Laurie halted.
He turned, and walked over to a nearby table, and the cooking pit next to it. He peered inside the pot hanging over, and lifted the wooden ladle, attached to a chain, and stirred it. Beef stew. Or close enough. The last of the First went by, leaving only those who were too weak to walk, or the odd dozen who'd eaten too much, too quickly, and now moaned in pain on their backs with distended bellies.
"Captain?" said Andrew.
Laurie picked up a bowl, wiped it on the front of his already dirty shirt, and scooped some stew into it. "When was the last time we ate?" He sat.
"Ahhh," said Andrew. "A while ago."
"That's right," said Laurie, lifting the bowl to his lips. "They want to fucking fight without us, good for bloody them. Now everyone eat, that's an order."
What remained of the commando squad found bowls and a place to sit, and ate their full. The stew stuck to their ribs, and for a small moment of time, at least for the men from Earth, they found respite in the eye of the hurricane.
"I can't believe there's no bloody beer," said Mick, forlorn, and with a mouthful of stew. The faint screams took him back to being interrogated and tortured, alone. "Bastards."
"Here," said Griffin, pulling out his hip flask and placing it on the table.
"Kin," said Beowulf, and what remaining alcohol the squad had spirited away, piled up.
Mick brightened. "Now we're talking lads." He stood, and dashed off, returning with arms full of stacked ceremonial glasses, and before the others finished their bowls, poured out a small amount of alcohol into each, his head down, eyes level, distributing evenly every last drop. "There."
Laurie stood, and so did the rest. He picked up his glass. There was no way to save Moss or Hilda. That left mercy killing. The only sniper rifle capable of shooting over eight-hundred yards was wherever the hell Ella was, and even that was being optimistic. Or, set up Betty, and just hammer away at the crosses praying for a hit and in the process, use up the remaining heavy weapon ammo.
Shit. "To those who didn't make it," said Laurie.
In the long silence, quiet fury bubbled in acknowledgement.
"Right. Mick, Andrew. When you're ready, go get our penitents and bring them here. They'll be hungry too I reckon."
The pair left, and soon returned, the scientists indeed famished. Only when all had eaten, and the cooking pot emptied, did Laurie get up and sit on his table, legs hanging over.
"Griffin. Beowulf. Thoughts?"
"We move tables and form a damn barricade, not far from the staircase up. Set up Betty right in the middle from an elevated position, the twin flamethrowers on a lower level."
"Not a bad idea," said Beowulf. "Any enemy will need to climb over it, and be vulnerable to our ranged weaponry."
"But what if the army up there breaks through the First’s lines and comes down here? We'll be stuck," said Andrew.
"If it comes to that," said Laurie, "we're fucked anyway." He pondered the high ceiling. "Right, you lot, move all the wounded and infirm to the right of the staircase. Anyone that can move their index fingers gets a crossbow." He gestured to the scientists.
"There's no crossbows left," said Griffin.
"Fantastic," said Laurie. "Solves that problem then. Well get them over there, then pull all these tables over. Go on."
By the time it took to move the injured, and pull the long, wide tables and benches over, and set up a pyramid of tables, a base of three, then two, and one, Betty set up on top, behind the small mountain barricade, the moment had come.
Up above, in the distance, the oil under crosses now burned, and fuel-soaked timbers lit.
In the faltering light of myriad lanterns running low on fuel, flames kissed Hilda's feet, and the diabolical nature of the Inquisition's crucifixion became apparent. Victims burnt at the cross, normally would pass out from smoke asphyxiation before the fires consumed them. But with wood marinated in oil, the flames roared upward, and even Moss cried out, as flesh seared, blistered, and popped, their own body fat fuelling the conflagration and as the two human torches endured pain in their own novas of eternity before being claimed by Death, the Inquisition army roared the Emperor's name.
Acolyte squad leaders uncurled the bull whips off their waists, looking at the crosses, and as the entire cross went up, forty-three leather tips broke the sound barrier, the sounds like machine-gun shots, and as one army under God, the Inquisition advanced.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
The Art Of War
Sarah Versetti stood on the golden throne, and ran her left hand over the stubble on her head. The last screams of the crucified pair reached her ears, and fell silent. She watched the brightest lights in the cathedral cast long shadows of the approaching army, moving as a solid block, one footstep after another, the twin prongs of archers on the balconies maintaining formation.
She looked down at her army, three-thousand strong, the last remaining elite soldiers of the Republic. Outnumbered two-to-one, malnourished, weakened, dominated. Entire squads could barely lift and swing their weapons for more than four or five seconds, let alone minutes swinging nine kilos of sharpened steel around in the full melee of battle.
Weapons sourced from the armoury ranged from first-rate steel long swords, battle-axes, and hammers, all through the spectrum to training weapons with nought of a sharp edge, and confiscated material from their enemies, including a number of the First's own weapons, taken from that black day of the truce.
But more than a third of the First held no weapons at all, bar kitchen knives and forks and other random detritus sourced from the mess hall, broken chair legs included.
At least, Sarah thought, the armoury contained a formidable number of long bows and fully stocked quivers. Each of the five-foot long bows could put an arrow through full steel plate at four-hundred yards. And Merrion had insisted everyone from sergeants and above be issued with the two crates of captured MP 40's, and given an ultra-quick operational lesson, yet even those guns contained no spare magazines. He even convinced her to use the toy he'd — they had — found. She'd believe it when she saw it. Up till then, however, eighteen long months of meditating on the art of war was the only known, proven constant.
And even that depended on the sweet, fickle ministrations of Fate herself.
Major Brutowsky sidled up, and saluted. "On your command, General."
"We wait, Major, until they're close."
"How close?"
"Right down their throats."
And the greatest weapon they had? Boots. Every man and woman standing before her wore black, leather boots. If you're going to die, die with your boots on.
"We die free," said the Major, "facing the enemy. We can ask for no more."
General Versetti smiled, and gripped the hilt of her bastard sword. The tiny spark inside her thought victory might be possible. Might. Maybe even see Marietta again. The odds against were tremendous. And even if they did prove victorious — even if they did, what would remain in such pyrrhic ashes?
Die well, my First and Last.
That, she knew, was a certainty.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Their Harvest Of Hate
The trumpets sounded, the charge began. The front acolytes whipped into a holy frenzy no less than in the sanctified temple of their God and from the bloodied tears of flesh across their backs, broke into a full run at five-hundred yards from the First and Last.
The Republic soldiers, up till this point one misshapen huge mob, dissolved and now reformed as per the Ninth Protocol. Those trained and or strong enough to wield a longbow remained at the rear, their backs to the row of giant statues, in one long, thin line. The sagittariorum archers of the First and Last readied an arrow, but did not draw the cord.
In front, the almost two-thousand, four hundred assembled into thirty re
ctangular maniples, three deep and ten wide — a checker board of alternating full and empty boxes.
The cathedral floor vibrated, as the charging acolytes closed. The marines following a few hundred yards away increased their tempo, still one, wide, massive block of tidal white.
General Versetti dropped her bastard sword.
The longbows drew back and let loose the first volley, as the Inquisition archers at the rear and the thin columns advancing down the high balconies fired, and the air filled with arrows soaring up and over passing in between each other in opposing showers and with solid thuds buried themselves in flesh of both sides, the Republic forces hit evenly, yet the Inquisition Marines took the full brunt of the volley, and the next.
Merrion knelt by the four short, squat metal tubes welded together just next to the staircase, and unfolded the wooden supports, and the tubes leant forward with roughly a seventy-five-degree angle. From the brown wooden case next to him, he carefully lifted two of the metal eggs with tail fins on the end, and with Laurie's stern advice forefront in his mind, dropped both in.
Tail first.
He dived away.
With a pfwwwt, pfwwwt sound the tubes spat out the finned eggs high over the Republic lines, whistling. The first round impacted the mural ceiling, detonating, clumps of rock and mural falling onto the open ground. The second cleared the roof and fell right into the marines, exploding with great violence. Merrion raced back, and adjusted the wooden lever down a few notches, and dropped two more in. In the wooden container, fourteen mortar rounds remained.
The heathens dare use explosives in their God's temple? Sergeant Major Manuel Rodriguez ground his teeth with hatred. Nothing in the last day had gone well in the name of his Emperor. Commander of the stronghold, Manuel and his men would bear full responsibility, win or fail. Defeat would mean summary execution by the Emperor, as it was written. He tried to shake his head, to rid himself of the voices whispering into his mind.