by Aeryn Leigh
"Don't know what you're missing." Snorri wiped the crumbs out of his beard, and put his own brass telescope to his left eye, scanning the air for pigeonhawks.
Six hours now, and not a single one. There was however, about a million damn seagulls floating around the city, and every once in a while, higher birds up on the food chain picked them off. Great ravens with wings two feet wide, hunting eagles larger again, wedge-tailed eagles of ten-foot-plus wingspans picking off both pigeons, hunting eagles and ravens alike, exhibiting astounding acts of aeronautical hunting.
"Ever tried using those eagles?" said Snorri.
Merrion recoiled ever so slightly. "Indeed. It did not go well. My last wedge-tail is still absent without permission." And carrying my damn regimental Ninth cap, and by some minor miracle, not his head. "Pigeonhawks are flighty, temperamental birds, but they're loyal, highly trainable, and most importantly, can out-fly anything alive. Look. There."
Snorri followed Merrion's finger, not using the brass telescope, but using his 20/20 eyesight. Pigeonhawks, two of them, rising from the industrial section of Fairholm, half a mile away. Both birds only made it a few hundred feet in the air before they too were spotted, this time by a circling wedge-tail. The great eagle plummeted, only for in the last moment to have the pigeonhawks roll and evade, as if they had eyes on the back of their heads, and raced at tree height to home, as the wedge-tail recovered and started hunting easier prey.
Both heading right for the Inquisition mainland.
Merrion focused the optics. He knew the workshop area well. I have you now.
THE BLACKSMITH LOOKED SURPRISED to see them. "Merrion Blackheart, Scourge of the Inquisition, The Black Ghost, as he lives and breathes, with the Deputy Viking Chief with 'im too. Well, well, well." The mountain of a man put down the white-hot tongs on the side of the forge, and stepped towards them, removing his gauntlets. The blacksmith's shop, one of dozens in this section of town, a veritable rat's warren of alleyways, corridors, and overhanging buildings, was as neat a workplace as Merrion had ever seen.
The blacksmith stopped in front of them, two feet taller than either of his guests, and twirled his grey, handlebar moustache. "What ken I do for you fellas?"
Merrion bent his neck backwards. "The shop out the back, Dmitri. Is that yours?"
A great rumble filled the room, full of mirth. "I rent it. Aye. To an engineering lad. Always pays on the new moon, Paddy does, without fail."
"Ever been in there?"
Another laugh. "Now why wid I do somethin' like that? Man's got a right for his own proclivities."
"Indeed, he does, good sir, indeed he does. But I'm afraid I am here on Republic business. Mind if we take a look?"
"Republic business, huh. Sure. Let me find the key –"
"We won't need a key, thank you. Snorri."
The two moved around the mountain range, past the forge and the grindstones, past the rows of hanging swords and farming implements, all in various stages of construction, and came to the locked door.
Merrion reached inside his robe, fished out a small, rolled pouch, and within seconds, Snorri heard a click. Merrion withdrew Amor Fati, his matte-black mini-crossbow, and opened the door, Snorri, and then the blacksmith at the rear, following.
The room was dark. Dark as a bear's cave. The smell of iron, steel, wood oil, the normal things you might find in a men's shed. The smell of shit, highly concentrated guano in fact. Refined. And black powder. That wasn't normal. The blacksmith moved past, lit the torch.
"Bugger me," said Snorri, in the new light. "Pretty sure that ain't legit."
Merrion spun around so quick his robes spun horizontally behind, like the swirling dervishes in Fairholm's Fourth Quarter. "This man. His name?"
"Paddy. Patrick 'Paddy' McKay."
The Black Ghost sprinted back out, leaving the two looking at the great, big, metal, fertiliser bomb, mounted on a vegetable supply cart.
Snorri regarded Dmitri. He removed his axe. "Can I borrow your grindstone?"
Chapter Nine
AN AXE TO GRIND
FAIRHOLM'S MARCHING band went raucously down the main street of the city, then turned left at the big multi-pronged intersection. Along with the musicians, jugglers, fire-twirlers and general hangers-on, the impromptu parade drew out the citizens, right at their supper time. It was amazing what a small bag of Roman coins could do at ultra short notice.
The gay procession reached the second cross-road, and went left.
Thirty paces away, on the right, Merrion picked the lock in front of him. His security detail hid low on the nearby rooftops, covering all exits of the narrow, two-storey terrace.
The door opened. The smell of stew. And fear. Merrion crept inside, Snorri right on his six. A woman stood with her back to them, doing dishes on the far side of the room. A baby's cot stood to one side. Merrion crossed the room in a flash, put a dagger to the woman's neck, the other hand on her mouth.
The woman jumped only slightly, her nerves noticed Merrion, already shot.
"Ssh," whispered Merrion. "Make a sound, I will kill you where you stand. Turn around, slowly."
She did so, eyes wide. Merrion saw her right eye, blackened and bruised, half-swollen. "Where is he?" She glanced over, down towards the basement trapdoor. "Apart from the baby, anyone else here?" A definite shake of the head. "Grab your child, get out of here. One single word, you die. Do you understand?" Another nod. "Good. Now go."
The woman raced to the cot, picked up her sleeping child, exited the building, post-haste.
Merrion signalled Snorri. They reached the trap-door. It appeared unlocked. He produced a small oil can, and oiled the hinges, then put the oil can aside, and there they waited, as the sounds of partying echoed inside.
"Ready?"
Snorri brandished his axe. Grinned.
"Right." From another fold of clothing, Merrion took out the small cylindrical grenade, the new experimental prototype. He lifted the hatch ever so, and thumbed the fuse, and rolled it in, then closed the trapdoor, sticking his fingers in both ears.
A loud bang.
Snorri lifted the door open, and Merrion charged down the stone steps, the Viking roaring his battle cry.
Paddy was wobbling side to side, shaking his head, but still lifting a wicked-looking blunderbuss as a crossbow bolt speared into his shoulder and Snorri's throwing axe removed the arm holding the gun completely, burying itself in the papered wall behind. The Irishman in name only, slumped to the ground.
A wall filled from corner to corner, top to bottom, of illustrations, and rude drawings, of Marietta, and Ella. The pictures were not, as Andrew would say, nice. Graphic. Ugly. Twisted.
Arterial blood spray spurted left, right and centre, as the traitor screamed in agony.
"In the minutes you have to live," said Merrion, kneeling down, "you precious snowflake, one way or the other, you are going to tell me everything I want to know. But first of all – have you ever heard of necro-adder venom?"
Chapter Ten
THE PENDANT IS THE KEY
THE HUG SARAH VERSETTI gave her daughter, was as always, perfunctory. The two generals regarded each other as they separated, but still touching, hands gripping each other's forearms.
"Godspeed," said Marietta.
"As always," said Sarah. "Keep the home fires burning, daughter. We will return triumphant."
"Of that, Mama, I have no doubt."
The pair stood on the long jetty, Merrion awaiting on top of the gangway leading to General Sarah Versetti's Vengeance, the renamed Spanish Galleon the now flagship of the fleet, her friend tapping his right foot ever slightly.
Marietta fought to constrain a laugh, even as she fumed.
The plot to blow up the Vengeance with a cart disguised as a vegetable and salted-pork supplies had been neutralised, the Chief of Security earning his keep yet again.
Too bad the saboteur had died of his injuries, and his dwelling going up in flames, the traitor's final act. She woul
d have liked to have seen the hideaway, peek inside his mind's workings, so to speak. But something about Merrion's countenance when she'd arrived at the scene minutes later, told her she'd only ever get the sparse report Merrion delivered, wiping blood, not his blood, off his dagger.
Even the normally talkative Snorri seemed quiet.
"Look for my pigeonhawk," said Sarah. "I will report every third day, then every day once we land upon the enemy's mainland." Her daughter nodded, and then her mother broke the embrace, and walked up the gangway, past a saluting Merrion, and onto her ship.
Merrion gave a farewell wave, and the ship cast off, raising anchor, and with the prevailing winds, joined the armada in the bay.
Sarah considered the state of the Republic, on the end of the jetty, as she sat down, her back against the wooden stump. Seagulls squawked overhead. Her mama had taken the remnants of the Reserve Third Army and every able-bodied citizen, merged that with her First to bring it up to combat strength and then some, plus additionally, took the entire ammunition stockpile they'd been working night and day for months at, grabbed every single gun captured on H-Day, plus the poison gas, old and new. Most of Fairholm’s food reserves. Her water. And so forth, and so forth.
Oh, and every single ship that wasn't a longship.
What she had been left with, was Vikings. And the old, and the young, the war-crippled, and the sick. And what remained of the prisoners. And a stranded, damaged dreadnought, that might never float again.
General Sarah Versetti took out her shin-dagger, and stabbed the post so hard the steel buried itself deep inside, her eyes staring right at the Purity.
HELLSBAENE LED the fleet out from the island chains, leading the Trinity, then the remaining long ships, and at the very tail end, the Viking supply ship Oslo, towing the captured Inquisition seaplane. After taking of full day to recover from that damn Viking ritual ceremony, the Inquisition Marines now helped sail the Trinity, and under Beowulf's watchful eye, even helped out with rowing duties on his beloved flagship.
The waters were rich, velvety blue, and held few clouds in the sky, and from the Oslo's rear deck, in a hammock, legs up, Laurie scratched his forehead and considered their next objective. Circle back to the far side of the Inquisition stronghold and rescue Rob and Ella.
In those final moments back at the stronghold, when the flamethrowers ran dry and those alien minds looked at him, when he knew that they were thinking the exact same thought he was, well, he'd been putting off and putting off thinking about it. As always, so many questions, and always new questions, for whenever he just managed to figure out some piece of the puzzle, new tangled knots rose like so many bad smells.
All over his body – over all their bodies – lay small, pale-white circles, souvenirs from an alien spike puncture wound. Ella's Nordic medical help saved them all, of that he had no doubt, but the healed areas of skin would forever it seem be that colour. He'd killed that last alien, the sword of Hffylson igniting with a pure blue flame, cleaving it in two, before being body slammed by its mate, as he moved to help out Griffin engaging two aliens simultaneously, the mad bugger.
All along his left side, he looked like a fucking Dalmatian.
He'd almost dropped the flaming sword out of utter surprise. Laurie regarded the late King's gift, in its scabbard on his waist, and took a small mouthful of water. So. That's handy.
Laurie considered the fleet, and tried to concentrate, as for the first time in a couple of months, actually had a little piece of territory all to himself, most of the immediate worries sorted. And by territory, Laurie meant ten square feet.
Alone.
God, he missed Skippy. Amelia would be taking good care of her, that he had no doubt, but he longed for the feeling of her fur between his fingers, the feeling of his shins being broken in two with every haphazard thump of her tail, just the simple, loyal company only a dog could provide, and expect, in return.
So, Ella found some Nordic armour. Powerful armour. Hmm. Powered armour, with a human pilot inside. What was it she said? She found more of them, in the cathedral. Laurie reached into his shirt and pulled out the brass teardrop that Amelia gifted them all, the night before the invasion.
A bloody eternity ago, it felt.
The pendant is the key.
He turned the jewellery over in his palm, peering closer. Brass casings taken from spent .50cal and .303 rounds from both the B-17 and the Lancaster. Melted down in a Fairholm forge, helped by Magnus and Rob, Ella's child had made her gift. It was a remarkable idea, the surety of a child's blind-less faith and hope. He grinned.
I might be shithouse with names, he thought, but when it comes down to it, I do have the mind of a steel trap. I think. Amelia's hand was wrapped in bandages that last night before the Battle of Harmony Bay. She cut her hand in the forge. His forehead ached still. Bloody mushrooms! Had some of Amelia's blood fallen into the molten crucible?
Laurie immediately discounted the idea. Besides the blood would have surely evaporated upon hitting molten brass. But then why would Ella say the jewellery was the key? On one side of the thumb-sized brass teardrop, above the hole in the pointy end for the leather strip, the little tacker had scratched a love heart.
Laurie smiled. Amelia sure did have an effect on people. He placed the necklace back against his skin, and allowed himself the rare pleasure of daydreaming about how he could make Hades Express fly again.
He made it about ten seconds, before he switched to wondering about how many men and war material it would take to defeat an army of those spider things.
From Hellsbaene, they all heard Laurie swearing.
ON THE OTHER side of Elysium, Volfango sighed. He'd spent many years in the service of the Republic, born and bred in Fairholm, and was honoured, elated when Merrion promoted him to second-in-command of the Republic's Security. Had he known however, that four years later he would be running around after a headstrong, impetuous ten-year-old, as her personal bodyguard, he might have requested another assignment.
The girl was special, there was no doubt about that. She had this effect on people no matter where she went. The energy was just enthusiastic, infectious, contagious. However, Merrion encouraged those under his command to be always asking questions.
And Volfango had many. Why is there a security detail on this child? He asked Merrion that, being summoned to Merrion's office, two weeks after the failed invasion. Merrion had looked him straight in the eyes. "You know," he said, "I pondered that very question myself when Marietta gave me those orders. Within a week of Ella Gruder rejoining her child, and the influence and positivity Amelia seems to have on our new off-worlders, I utterly agree. Ella, and indeed the others, especially Griffin and Mick, would go to hell and back for that child. If the Inquisition somehow got hold of her, well Volfango, I don't need to explain to you how much that would be a security risk."
And so here he was, six months later, waiting outside the entrance to the emergency cavern shelters that they'd used for the children and those sick or too elderly to fight. The last few days now, Amelia had insisted they swing past the caverns on their regular morning blast down to the beach. And since he never used the same route two days in a row, he didn't like the idea of making the caverns a known constant. He rubbed his chin, suspicious to the core. Amelia was up to something in that cave system.
And if almost and almost on cue, Amelia reappeared, the pack of puppies bouncing up and down all around her, bounding up to Volfango. "I'm done," she said. "Can we stop on the sweet shop on the way back home? Last one there's a rotten egg!"
Chapter Eleven
REVOLUTION OF A HYDROGEN ATOM
IT TOOK HALF A SUN ROTATION, but she managed to make her way out of the deep recesses of the mountain, and into the final quarter of the day's rotation. The Prime Korellian shuffled sideways through the tight, narrow cave entrance, her body almost entirely vertical, and she momentarily lost vision, the sun glare blinding. Moments later, when her cluster optics adjusted, to he
r left, she could see primitive, seagoing vessels, the delicate constructs of dead timber bobbing up and down in the surf half a korel away.
By the time it took the first thermonuclear ball to reach the horizon's apex, she travelled the half korel across the jagged, mountain rocks, all forms of marine life scattering in her path, and came across the entrance to the mountainside, her upper eyes seeing the high, mountain air and one quarter korel above seawater. She clambered up the near perpendicular rockface, with barely a second organic thought, and reached the tiny mountain entrance. She delicately placed her six feet on the perch, and put one forefinger down, into the perfectly shaped hole carved out of solid granite.
A series of clicks issued from her body. One of those Hrothgar had been here, the membranes analysing carbon and the half-life of dying micro-organisms. Not more than two moon cycles. Crouching down, tucking all eight limbs in, she entered the passageway, past the broken, shattered door – the Hrothgar really were an uncivilised race – and with her limbs almost folded in half, reached the end of the corridor.
From the overhanging side balcony, she witnessed the orgy of carnage transpiring below. Upon the corpses of thousands upon thousands of two leg creatures, her brood feasted, and bred, with no higher intelligent thought then the raw, base, primal need to feast, copulate, and multiply, the direct result of lost memories.
She accessed her bio-memory. In no recorded history of ten thousand cycles, had the Hrothgar ever interfered on gladiatorial planets. Once warriors were left there, that was the end of the Hrothgar’s say in things.
The sanction of a hundred empires would await them if they did. But that’s what made these backwater galaxies out on the galactic spiral rim so dangerous. In these lawless fringes, only one law applied. No interference.
She didn't have to act like a brainless, devouring, locust-korel, mindlessly destroying, consuming everything in their path, entire planets whole.