by Mat Nastos
For Rela.
For Kubis, and for Gabcik.
For all of the families who had been decimated by the war.
MacAndrew dropped a final mound of dirt onto Rela’s remains, the shovel falling lifelessly from his hands as the gruesome task was completed.
The road from which the Nazi patrol had come fell quickly beneath MacAndrew’s combat boots, leaving the makeshift graveyard behind. Grimm caught up with MacAndrew as he turned a corner.
“The castle is in the opposite direction,” counseled Grimm.
Without turning to face the big man, MacAndrew set his jaw, continuing his trek. “Yes, but those bastards had to have had a vehicle and more supplies to accomplish what was done here.” At the end of the thin street, situated between the only two buildings within a half-mile not disintegrated in the conflagration, they found it. “There.”
Engine silent, an open crate of ale resting near the front wheel of the operator’s side, sat a Sd.Kfz 251 half-track armored personnel carrier. MacAndrew didn’t know where the Nazis had been heading on foot, nor did he care. At least now they had transport.
Three leaps carried the beefy form of MacAndrew to the top of the vehicle. Gripping the barrel of the large machine cannon mounted to the front of the opened passenger compartment, he leaned in to take inventory of what the recently-deceased Nazis had left behind.
Crates of ammunition, grenade belts, rifles, a barrel of diesel fuel, and a mishmash of explosives smiled back at him. “This will do nicely,” said MacAndrew, bending to reach into the vehicle’s rumbling belly.
A Karabiner 98k sniper rifle ‒ something MacAndrew had trained extensively with in the green hills outside of Malpas in Cheshire at Cholmondeley Castle. It was a large, reliable weapon with few problems and the sort of killing power the Scotsman enjoyed. The creation of weapons perfect for killing was something the Germans and their Nazi enforcers excelled in.
“We must get to the castle, little Celt. Heydrich and his master will not wait forever,” called Grimm from the alley floor below.
Nodding toward the vehicle-mounted machine-gun, MacAndrew invited Grimm to better arm himself. “Grab the ‘buzzsaw’ and a crate of ammo… you’ll need it.”
“No.” The words were flat and dismissive from Grimm’s lips. The man obviously saw little value in the toys spread out before him. “Mortal weapons will do little against the Jotnar, my friend.” Grimm slid the gleaming Balmung from its place sheathed at the front of his waist, and held it up for the Scot to see. “To deal with the likes of Heydrich and Himmler, all we need are the weapons the All-Father has given us.”
The snort that burst from Ian MacAndrew was both incredulous and filled with disdain at the thought of going against a hundred German soldiers with nothing but a fancy knife and prayers to an ancient Pagan god.
“I’ll tell you what, lad, this rifle and a couple of hundred rounds of ammo make me feel a whole hell of a lot better than some old sword and a bunch of mystic mumbo jumbo.”
“Do not mock the All-Father, little Celt. You’ve been touched by Odin… you’ve seen the truth of what we now face. The horrors of the Jotnar are as real as the weapons you hold.” Grimm looked up at the smaller man with disapproving eyes. “But, if the guns and explosives will allow us to handle the more mundane enemies standing in our way to Himmler and the Butcher…” Enormous white hands gripped the massive MG45 machine gun and tore it from the mountings holding it to the side of the armored vehicle, leaving a rain of broken metal and a belt of ammunition trailing behind it. “Then so be it.”
Minutes later, armed to the teeth, the two men were on their way to Prague Castle, seated in the front of the roaring half-track vehicle and disguised as best they could be in the coats of dead men. With a shock of blazing red hair on one man and the other seemingly carved from the palest of marble, neither would pass through anything but the most casual of scrutiny, but MacAndrew hoped it would be enough to hold up in passing. A bit of luck, and a few lax guards would allow the odd duo to get within a stone’s throw of their target.
MacAndrew clutched the sniper rifle close to his chest. It’s all I’ll need.
Two kilometers out from their destination, a crackling, popping sound began to awaken along the streets. Speakers, mounted in a series of concentric circles radiating from the castle’s walls, came to life and a reedy German voice called the citizenry of Prague, along with those listening to the radio broadcast across the continent of Europe and beyond, announcing the start of the celebration of Reichsprotektor Reinhard Heydrich’s return. The night sky just above the castle’s parapets, framed in the small forward windows of the half-track, lit up with a field of flowery fireworks.
Movement, black against black, slithered in the after-image left by the bright bursts of colored lights in the atmosphere. Feathered wings beating slowly, rhythmically.
A crow? While the sight baffled MacAndrew’s senses, it took Donner Grimm less than a heartbeat to identify it.
“The raven,” said Grimm. “Follow it.”
On any other day it would have been a ridiculous suggestion. Today, however, Ian MacAndrew angled the armored vehicle in an arc to follow the ebony bird’s path. If nothing else, the creature seemed to be looking for a roost near one of the outer gates of Prague Castle. In the background, still audible over the rumble of the Sd.Kfz 251’s imposing 6-cylinder Maybach engine, Heinrich Himmler’s shrill voice launched into a verbal assault of the attack on Heydrich and its futility, denouncing what had been done by the Czech rebels and their pathetic English masters. Before MacAndrew could comment on the Reichsführer’s speech, the bird alighted onto the back of a mammoth eight-wheeled fuel truck being unloaded just off the main road at a petrol dump by a trio of unarmed soldiers.
“The All-Father has provided us with a key to our entry.”
“Hard to argue with you there, Grimm,” said the Scot, watching the three obviously-tired Wehrmacht privates struggle with canisters of gasoline that must have each weighed two hundred kilos or more. Five drums stood near the entrance of a small mechanic shop with plenty more still in their cargo truck’s canvas-covered rear space. The pair of conspirators smiled grimly at one another as MacAndrew jerked the half-track’s controls and slid the vehicle up alongside the workers.
“Let us see if they need help with their burden, little Celt,” said Grimm, climbing out of the steel-plated vehicle and dropping effortlessly to the pavement outside.
Three unconscious bodies were all that greeted MacAndrew by the time he made his own way down from the heights of his armored transport. The men had been dispatched with stealth and precision by Grimm. The Scotsman was surprised his friend had allowed the soldiers to live and said as much.
“They are but local men conscripted into Hitler’s army. It is not their fault they were forced to wear the uniform of our enemy,” answered Grimm, hoisting two of the comatose forms onto his shoulders and yanking the third up by the front of his coat. “The All-Father did not require their deaths.”
The statement surprised and reassured MacAndrew. “I suppose a few bruises and terrible headaches when the lads wake up can be excused by Odin, eh?” The truck, filled with highly explosive liquid, sparked the beginnings of a plan in Ian’s head. Climbing into the driver’s seat, he tossed down a bandoleer of ‘potato masher’ grenades appropriated during their earlier encounter with the Germans.
Accepting the grenades from the smaller man, Grimm dropped them into one of the pouches lining his belt.
“Get inside and give me the biggest distraction you can manage. Call down hell on those Nazi bastards. Then wait for my signal.”
Looking over his shoulder up the forty-foot-tall castle walls behind him, Grimm asked, “What is your signal?”
Pushing his foot onto the accelerator, MacAndrew yelled back through the cloud of dust his three-ton truck kicked up behind it, “You won’t be able
to miss it!”
* * *
Watching the truck move away caused Grimm to smile warmly. A grave voice, accompanied by a gray silhouette half-formed in the mist, whispered, “He is a brave one… worthy of our cause.”
“Yes,” responded Grimm without facing the translucent figure. “Keep him safe.” The giant bolted for the white, stone barrier surrounding Prague Castle, searching for a way inside.
“The first of the Einherjar will survive this night,” answered the colorless specter of the last the Aesir. The words echoed in the wind for a moment before turning into a chaotic mass of screeches as the figure of smoke and ash burst into a massive flock of ravens. The birds launched into the air, led by a majestic one-eyed bird the size of a wolf.
* * *
“Grimm was right,” said MacAndrew to himself, jerking the steering wheel left and right to maintain control of the truck as it rocked along the uneven road leading to the leviathan front gates of Prague Castle. “The Gods are with us. At least one of them,” the Scotsman hoped, watching twelve heavily-armed guards striding across the castle ramparts. The gods had brought a little luck with them in addition to the avian cloud.
An explosion reverberated from somewhere within the castle’s walls, followed by a cloud of oily, black smoke rolling into the air above. Shouts and screams of men came an instant later, drawing the line of guards away from the front gate.
“Geronimo!” said MacAndrew, slamming down the gas pedal of the fuel truck. A promise sworn to Rela and her family; he’d make the Nazis pay for what they had done.
A lone guard leaned out of his post at the screeching of truck tires barreling toward him. He didn’t have time to scream as the swarm of ravens engulfed him, allowing MacAndrew to crash through the wooden barrier leading into the castle grounds proper. Using the barrel of his Owen gun to jam the vehicle’s accelerator to the floorboard, the Scot tossed a potato masher out at a group of incoming Nazis then leapt free of the truck.
CHAPTER 13
THE BUTCHER OF PRAGUE
The first explosion went off near the castle’s eastern wall, grabbing everyone’s attention within and stopping Himmler’s rambling speech mid-sentence, but doing little actual damage overall. The second, much larger explosion near the front gates caused the chaos MacAndrew had hoped for. The crates of explosives liberated from Private Eicke’s unit on their own would have been enough, but when paired with the three hundred gallons of gasoline packed tightly in the back of the fuel truck, the resulting wall of flame was enough to engulf the area in a bloody red light and crackling fire.
High overhead, the ravens continued to spiral.
Firelight danced across the frozen, sapphire eyes of Donner Grimm. Standing near the center of the castle’s eastern wall where it intersected with the main keep, he looked on as a thick cloud of greasy smoke billowed up in the shape of a giant mushroom head. When the ashen veil reached his level, Grimm set his legs pumping, launching himself from the top of the wall through the middle of the dark cloud like a human rocket aimed at the heart of the raised platform where his targets stood.
Startled by the twin explosions and the sound of automatic gunfire from outside the wide-open castle gates, the team of soldiers tasked with protecting the lives of Himmler and Heydrich failed to notice Grimm attacking from high overhead. The force of the giant’s impact cracked the ancient stone of the ground with a sound like thunder. With a flick of Grimm’s wrist, seven members of Himmler’s elite Waffen-SS guard died as Balmung flashed with deadly precision.
Himmler’s eyes went wide, identifying the source of the attack. “The Odin-Pawn!”
Like a titan Grimm stood; pale skinned, sword aglow, with vengeance as his lifeblood. The pale giant was made for killing, and his eyes were zeroed in on Himmler. “Kill him!” The Nazi sprayed those around him with spittle and pushed the hapless form of an aide into Grimm’s path, attempting to slow the killer down. “Kill him!”
An inhuman snarl answered Himmler’s call as Heydrich stepped forward.
Grimm returned a ferocious bellow that spoke of a thousand deaths.
“Face me, puppet of the Aesir!” roared Heydrich, mouth stretched from ear-to-ear in a grin more in common with that of a snarling jackal than a man.
The two behemoths locked eyes and charged, trampling over any normal man foolish enough to get between them. Their immediate hatred for one another blurred the rest of the world away. Megingjord’s rueful song cried out, taking a stand against the ghastly screaming of the arcane engine mounted in Heydrich’s chest. No further words were needed. The battle had begun.
Nearby, atop the partially-collapsed stage, a group of four SS stormtroopers, led by Captain Meier, materialized at Himmler’s side. Having forced their way through the mass of chaos rushing about the courtyard as the arcane slug-fest between Grimm and Heydrich began in earnest, their only mission was to get the Nazi warlord out of harm’s way.
Reaching for Himmler’s arm, the captain called out in a voice filled with concern, “Quickly, Herr Reichsführer! We must get you to safety!”
Seeing the face of Meier caused a memory to slip into the front of Himmler’s brain.
“Captain Meier… so good of you to save me the trouble of finding you. I believe you owe me something, yes?”
With a quick snap of his left thumb and index finger, the Luger P.08 pistol was freed from Himmler’s hip, cutting off the soldier’s response. Two slugs perforated Captain Meier’s chest, one pushing through his left lung and out his back, and the other nicking his sternum before lodging itself into the aorta of his heart. Meier’s eyes pleaded even as black blood began to bubble up through his trachea.
Stepping over the dying officer, Himmler said dismissively, “I accept the payment offered in return for your failed guarantees of security, Herr Captain.”
* * *
Short bursts of fire blasted from the MP40 submachine gun MacAndrew had liberated from the truck. He’d prefer the Owen, of course, but he’d sacrificed it to blow the truck. The MP40 provided the kind of covering capability he needed in the packed confines of the castle’s madness-filled interior grounds.
Dodging under a quarter-ton chunk of wall dislodged by the inhuman combat being waged between Grimm and the weirdly glowing Reinhard Heydrich, MacAndrew thanked God – whichever one happened to be listening just then – that the massive German was on his side. Not only was he the only one with any hope of standing toe-to-toe with the monster Heydrich had been transformed into by arcane science, but the tussle had grabbed the attention of most of the soldiers stationed around the grounds.
The distraction gave MacAndrew the opening to thin the herd a bit, evening the odds in his own favor. His skills and the adrenaline pumping through his veins gave him an advantage over any SS-man able to tear his eyes free of the Olympian spectacle rampaging mere feet away.
Mowing down a tightly-packed group of Wehrmacht soldiers attempting to flank Grimm and take him from behind allowed MacAndrew to catch sight of something he’d only dreamed of finding. There, edging along the southern wall of the inner ward, making their way toward the nearly demolished front of the main castle building, were two men who seemed most out of place amongst a veritable sea of soldiers. Two thin, disheveled, and wholly panicked men in the rumpled tweed suits of academia.
The scientists Grimm had recognized on their aborted trip to Bulovka Hospital. If anyone could help fill in the blank spots in MacAndrew’s understanding it would be them. Another round of gunfire cleared the troops accompanying the men away and gave the Scot time to catch them.
“Stop!” MacAndrew fired at the feet of the men to reinforce the seriousness of his request, stopping the ones Grimm had called Frank and Wittgenstein dead in the midst of flight.
A body hurled away from the maelstrom of battle, crashed into the pavement near the stand-off, the meat liquefying off its bones from the force of i
mpact.
“What, here?” one of the men exclaimed, nerves clearly broken, fear rampant in his features.
Whipping his head around, MacAndrew nodded toward the heart of Prague Castle. The doors to its keep were one of the few areas still free from the backlash of Grimm’s struggle against the Butcher.
“There! Move!”
Maneuvering around fallen bodies, over-turned vehicles, and debris that had been cast about during the conflict that still raged on, the three men took refuge in the reinforced stone overhang that led into the centuries-old fortress.
“I saw you two boys at Bulovka, unloading machines the likes of which I’ve never seen,” started MacAndrew. He needed the men to talk and talk fast. “And I’m betting you’re responsible for whatever brought the Butcher back from the dead. Tell me what’s going on here, and be quick about it!”
“They’ll kill us if we’re found speaking to you,” stammered the shorter of the two men.
MacAndrew laughed hard enough to send the whiskers of his mustache bouncing. Poking the scientist in the gut with the business end of his machine gun, the Scotsman barked, “And what do you think I’ll do, lad? Give you a foot rub? Now talk before I lose my cheerful disposition!”
“We won’t tell you… can’t tell you!” snapped the other scientist, placing himself protectively in front of the smaller man. “The Edda Society will do far worse than kill us if we betray them.”
Edda Society? The name struck a chord with MacAndrew. He’d heard it mentioned before. By Grimm.
“What is that… the Edda Society? Who are they?”
A hand on the shoulder of the man in front halted the protest forming on the scientists tongue. Gazing back, the younger man saw the resigned look on his partner’s face. He knew their time of hiding in fear of the men who had become their masters was over. And perhaps they thought this Scotsman and his powerful friend would be enough to safeguard their lives.