Königstiger: Odin's Warriors - Book 3

by Aeryn Leigh

  Korel-knows, major parts of this galaxy and two others were already under threat by rogue elements of her kind, let alone what had transpired in the last three millennia.

  But now she didn't have to hide the biochip. Didn't have to hide her higher levels of thought, of reason, of cold logic, and knowledge.

  The Korellian consulted her bio readout. Most of a entire unit of oxygen remaining. Her genetic rifle showed full charge.

  From this point onwards, nothing would go as the Hrothgar planned. She imagined them right now. Watching with their real-time projections, waiting for her to tense, push six legs hard into the granite balcony, then release, soaring high into the air and landing in the midst of the wild brood, and start slaughtering ken-korel in every single degree of rotation, until she established her brood authority.

  But no. From this moment on, the Korellian lifted back on her hind pair of legs, and roared not a battle cry, but the cry of death, of sorrow, a mourning wail that field the vast space with its own sonic fury.

  The Korellian brood below swivelled it and now, now she fell back onto six limbs, and leaped.

  Any revolution of a hydrogen atom now they'd be expecting her genetic rifle to fire. Instead with her left forelimb, she reached behind, took hold of her front foreleg, and ripped it off, carapace snapping. Before she even reached the apex of her jump, her hands were already breaking the limb in two, and in two again, then in half, great gouts of bioluminescent green leaving contrails from her trajectory, and so it was, in the ten thousand and first millennium of the Korellian Unified Empire, she landed on the marble floor. The five closest Korellians, full size given the low oxygen conditions of the planet, barely reached the top of her mid-limb yet to an individual they charged her. The Prime Korellian was still snapping pieces of bone into even smaller and smaller segments, splinters of bone, as she sang her wailing cry. The pain drove back memories right to her bloodletting, the loss of her home, the raw agony of it unbearable.

  The five, small ken-korel sprung, their limbs micron-edged daggers, swords, spears, aiming right for her centre of mass.

  Following tactics straight out of the primal hind brain twenty-four millennia old. The Korellian splayed out her five limbs, falling flat to the ground, used her right elbow, and toppled over onto her back carapace armour, and using the oxygen tank as a focal point, spun, jabbing daggers of her own splinted bones right into the underside of the five midair brethren.

  They fell to the ground twitching.

  The over five base eight remaining Korellians stopped their carnal fornication and came right at her. She flipped back onto her five hind limbs, and slowly retreated backwards, right underneath the trajectory she taken off the balcony, picking up the slivers of bone that she'd dropped mid-flight and as each ken-korel charged aiming for her centre of mass, she stuck each and every one of them with a splinter of her own flesh.

  She retreated one limb step at a time, and with long cycles born of martial experience won in the galaxy's best sphere-fights, she stabbed her marrow into every Korellian coming for her. She pirouetted, multi-sidestepped, lifted on hind legs, on forelimbs, cartwheeled, always backwards, always picking up the glowing green bone shards until her carapace kissed the rear stone wall.

  There were no splinters left. In the short korel distance, lay one line of twitching, stuttering ken-korel, as her bio-memory DNA entered their bloodstream, and made its way towards their secondary cerebral cortex.

  To her right, a pile of dead Hrothgar lay, in amongst them long, sharpened sticks of tempered steel, her fingers tasting their crude chemical structure.

  Barbarians.

  Now the killing would begin. Mercy killing. With each triple-beat of her twin hearts, she created a burial mound of the dead, frugal with her moves, each thrust of the metal spears directly through frontal lobes. She sang also, the sharp octaves and clicking changing to a softer, chorus of lament, and hope.

  Time slowed, her optic flow reducing to single tau units, and this could not be anything but a majestic performance of death, the death-bringer.

  At the top of the pyramid of her dead ken-korel, she flung the two spears at the centre golden figure sitting on its throne and from half a korel away, put the two tempered steel spears through each of its golden eyes.

  She consulted her bio-memory, and started applying first-aid to her ragged stump, and could only imagine the sheer panic overcoming the Hrothgar aliens, the player of games, the masters of puppets. No more twisting their minds, smashing her dreams.

  By the time the second thermonuclear ball of fission and passed over the horizon, the five base eight Korellians had awoke. Remembering who they are, who they were. Overwhelmed with shame at their conduct. Overwhelmed with their shame of only growing to the size of a korel runtling.

  But to a Korellian, they recognised their Prime standing on top of the death pyre, the glowing green pyramid of bones.

  "We have work to do," she said, front fingers clicking as she spoke from her thorax, her under-torso bathed in green, soft light. "For in the beginning, there was the word. With the word, came our First Prime Eight, their instructions our language, poetry, separating Korellian from engineered tools of war. From this point on, no progeny-ken will be born without a tablet in front of them, written in our base hereditary language so even a fledging ken-korel would understand."

  For the remainder of the darkness, she and the five base eight sung songs of home, of harvest time, ballads of peace and dramas of murder most foul, of bountiful harvests, as they methodically, room by room, square korel by square korel, took inventory of the entire enemy stronghold, working all night to shift materials and equipment down through the crude ring walls, building by building, assembling the instruments for war, killing every ken-korel they found.

  By the blessed eight Gods, we did not start this fight, but we are Korel-well going to finish it. You plan the wars, you masters of men, plan the wars, and point the way, and we will point the guns.

  Chapter Twelve

  WRITHING OCTOPUSES

  ELLA BOLTED UPRIGHT. Dawn broke, and inside the cathedral tomb, as she now like to call it, she gazed up at the leadlight murals, and regarded the stories told within them. Good chunks of the windows were broken, damage scattered here and there, but the more she discovered about the old Nordic language, the more her brain hurt.

  That wasn't all that was hurting. Rob snored directly beside her, the only soft bedding available in the entire place being the makeshift stretcher she had fashioned to carry Rob when they crash landed. About the size of a normal single bed, with neither of them willing to sleep on cold granite, they slept, back to back.

  Mein Gott. Does he have to toss in turn so much? She reached out and grasped the small cup, the metal alloy making the harvested water slightly metallic. She discovered the survival camping equipment on the second day back from helping Laurie and the others out, the small machine seeming to take water moisture right from the air and condense it, producing about four litres a day. It was enough.

  Their bed, to the right of the throne chair, seemed positively childlike, doll-house like in comparison to it and the large-scale suits of power armour.

  Her creative thoughts were at their most optimal right at the start of every day, before eight to twelve hours of going almost always sideways putting her into a foul mood. She sung a little Norse tune. Waited for the dragonfly.

  The dragonfly didn't appear. She called again. She swung her head around, left to right, noticing the twin medical pods on the Valkyrie’s wings missing. She tensed her remaining leg, put the crutches underneath each armpit, and was halfway up from the ground when she heard whistling.

  Her eyes narrowed. From the main entrance, passing right along the cleared section of aliens between the main door and raised dais, the dragonfly towed the two missing medical pods behind it, with that still mind-boggling beam technology. It seemed quite pleased with itself. She queried it in a Norse. "Where have you been?"

  The
carefree humming intensified. It muttered a few words, and to Ella's limited understanding, she translated it as, Oh, nothing.

  My arse, she thought. She shook her head. Those Australians. That's what you get for hanging around them for so long. Bloody Mick. She caught herself saying that, and laughed. She moved around on the crutches, and with one end, gently nudged the snoring Rob on the shoulder. His eyes slowly flickered open, blinked a few times and then with one hand rubbed the sleep from them.

  "We need to find a new bedding arrangement," he said. "Damn girl you move around at night."

  "I move around? You should talk. Mein Gott, you're worse than Amelia after a belly full of sugar."

  "Oh yeah? It's like trying to sleep next to a damn writhing octopus." He got up, stretched his arms over himself, and yawned. "Why is the dragonfly humming?"

  "Of that Rob, I have no idea. Now, I know you been itching to try that set of power armour. Let me show you how it's done." They both walked over to the five o'clock set of armour, shaking out stiff muscles and limbs, the same armour that had healed Rob for so many weeks. She turned her head to Rob. "This is the Nordic word for open. Hníga."

  "Hníga," said Rob. The suit did nothing.

  "Try again."

  "Ha-Knee-Ga." Over the shoulders, the dragonfly darted merrily, still singing the old, Viking tune.

  "Try the pendent? The one that Amelia gave you. Take it out, and touch the armour with it.”

  Rob removed the brass jewellery, did so. Again, the suit did nothing. Ella scratched the side of her head, where her head had been shaved, the hair regrowth now about a centimetre long. Maybe two. She hadn't been back in the armour since she returned from battle. She walked over to her suit, Painkiller. "Open," she commended. The suit immediately sprung open, like a pent-up Swiss watchmakers coveted possession. Heartbeats later, the upper thigh, torso, and shoulder sections folded open, the interior a soft, warm, inviting blue. "Hmm."

  She summoned the dragonfly, and came, flitting about a foot in front of a face. "Suit won't open for Rob." With its wings, it shrugged. Since the suit was open, it's voice boomed out of the suits loudspeaker. The Nordic words flowed out, word after word, sentence after sentence, paragraph after paragraph.

  Ella got about a quarter of it. "What? But he was healed inside. What do you mean it's not his to command? He has the pendant?"

  The dragonfly again shook its wings. And again, the suit's loudspeaker boomed in the cathedral tomb.

  "What is it?" said Rob, peering at both Ella and the open suit, walking up to it, sticking his head forward, trying to peek inside. The suit within moments sealed tight. The dragonfly chuckled.

  Ella looked Rob right in the eyes. "Have you ever killed someone?"

  Rob paused. "No," he said eventually. "I mean, I served on Damage Inc., flew combat missions, but damn never killed anyone. Personally, that is."

  Ella breathed out. "The armour it seems are only for those whose hands are directly red. And that your role lies elsewhere." She put weight onto her crutches, suddenly feeling quite heavy, her body like an elephant, sluggish. Every breath ponderous.

  My hands are red.

  How many have I killed now? Eugene on the B-17. The SS Colonel and his gunner. The dozens if not more of Inquisition Marines in that strafing run? The enemy seaplane crews in the dogfights. She sagged further. Most nights, when she went to bed, their faces would appear.

  She thought of Amelia. Ella drew upright.

  I am Ella Gruder, I am Painkiller, my hands are crimson red, and with the exception of Eugene, I'd do it all again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  HARRY BOSCH

  DETECTIVE TRACY OPENED HIS BATTERED, spiral notebook. His granite features regarded the two words written on the page. Harry Bosch. The only lead he had remaining. He grabbed his bowler hat from the coat rack, and opened the half-repaired, shot up, boarded up detective agency's door. The Chicago air was warm, muddy as a grave, sitting in his saloon, and gunned the Packard hard down Main Ave, sparing the gas pedal no mercy.

  Headlights shone in the review mirror. He had a tail, lots of them, and Detective Tracy wasn't a mammal. Triple pairs of headlights grew closer, the intersection of Fourth and Second came up fast. The lights went yellow. Tracy floored it more. Dodging a yellow cab, and an old lady crossing the road with a pram, the headlights stuck with him.

  Shoot, he thought, reaching for the glovebox, opening it, and pulled out the .45 Tommy Gun. A burst of gunfire. The rear window shattered as he swerved. First my office, then my whisky, now my car! They'll get it now! With his right foot on the gas pedal, he leaned back out of the driver's window arching his back over the all-American steel, and lit off short burst. Rat-a-tat-tat-tat. The first car swerved, then took out an empty bus stop in flames. Gangsters stood on the running boards of the remaining two saloons, firing their own Tommy's. Tracy hosed more hot lead. Rat-a-tat-tat. Its windscreen shattered, red bloomed large inside, and the saloon car slammed out of control, smashing into its companion, men flopping like ragdolls and both Fords mounted the curb and plowed straight into the Undertaker's shop front, caskets scattering virgin ashes.

  Tracy blew gun smoke away from the Thompson's barrel, satisfied. Now onto Bosch, the crazy detective with the painting habit.

  Amelia's eyes were bright, wide. She rubbed her palms together. "That's one of my favourite chapters, Volfango," she said. "Detective Tracy definitely spared a lot of people hard work, you see? He shot them up, so they crashed right into the funeral home!" She guffawed, slapping her knee, sending Zia flying off her lap.

  Volfango smiled. "I wouldn't mind one of those Tommy guns," he said. Fang began whining by the side of the bed, pacing back and forth. "I'll put him outside. Don't you go anywhere."

  "Yes Volfango," said Amelia, already half-yawning, half-smiling. "I'll be wide-awake still when you get back," in a singsong voice. Volfango left, and took Fang and the rest of the pack out for their nightly ablutions. When he re-entered the mansion, and back to Amelia's bedroom, she was fast asleep, snoring like an absolute trooper. Volfango clicked his fingers, and Fang padded in and jumped up onto the foot of the bed, next to the purring Zia, and with that, his weekly bedtime story duty finished for yet another week, he closed the door.

  He gave a few terse instructions to his lieutenant, and as was with Volfango's security team, the man a lifelong friend, and in as many minutes made his way back outside, mounted his horse, and rode through the early evening streets, all the way out to The Pit, and the emergency caverns.

  Two more of his security personnel were stationed outside. "Has anyone been in or out?"

  "No, Sir," said the junior officer. "It's been quiet since you gave the order."

  Volfango tilted his head, took the torch he'd removed from the horses side pack, and walked down twisting steps and into the emergency shelter. He lit the torch from the always burning, main torch-flame. Stalactites dripped from high overhead. Everything appeared in full order. More torches lined either side of the shelter, lighting the ones on the right as he walked along, until he reached the back, with the caverns structure became a lot more haphazard, full of jumbled archways, where tiny little passages, no wide than your thumb, vented air from some deeper part of the mountain. His feet crunched on the fine stones, the space echoing, and then at the rear of the cavern, right where incident involving Amelia and the twins took place, lay a shrine.

  A vase of half dead flowers, bits and pieces she'd scavenged from the beach, and Message Bear, her beloved, battered teddy bear, sitting right in the middle of half-burnt candles, drips of wax splattered around the base of the large, flat-topped rock. Volfango knelt down. He smelled fish, and found the source of the smell, a half-eaten dried sardine.

  So, this is what Amelia's been up to. Kids and their games. He reached out, and pulled out the written note, folded in half stuck in the teddy bear's pocket. He opened it. And immediately felt guilty for reading a child's private note. Hope you enjoy the fish! Love Amelia.
<
br />   Kids and their imaginary friends. He carefully replaced the message, then stood, and walked back towards the caverns entrance, his mind a lot more rest.

  A tiny hand reached from crack between the large rock and it's smaller companion, and pulled back in the dried sardine.

  Chapter Fourteen

  FRIENDS, TANKS, AND BEER

  THE POLISH SEA port of Gdańsk Bay resembled a scene of barely-contained chaos, Major Wolfgang Mauss observed, as they passed through the Wehrmacht checkpoint on the outer limits of the town. The entire Seventh Panzer Division, the Third Army Division and it seemed, half of Germany, laid stuck in the Polish town, squeezed like so much toothpaste, trapped on the peninsula with nowhere to go, eighteen months after losing the Battle of Kursk. Odd bursts of Soviet artillery peppered the town, and the bay, doing nothing to help the pressure-cocker of fear and dread.

  The battle had been the turning point for the German advance on the Eastern Front. From that horrible month in late nineteen forty-three, the Soviets seized the initiative and maintained it, every single day.

  Haplo eased the Kettenkrad through the windy Polish streets, and after some hurried directions, one wrong turn, and a dead end later, they arrived, trailer and all, at Regimental HQ of the Seventh Division.

  Wolfgang jumped off the half tractor, gave orders for his tank crew to find a berth for it in the maintenance pool, and saluting the guard stationed outside the triple-storey, nondescript terrace mansion, made his way inside.

  Civilian tapestries to on the wall, happy mementos from another time and place. The corporal on duty, standing inside, gave the roughest salute Wolfgang had ever witnessed, and the Major returned it. The corporal couldn't be any more than seventeen. Hell, the boy hadn't even reached shaving age. His entire cheek was full of baby, downy, white fluff. The uniform looked two sizes too big. And the rifle he carried, looked straight from the Prussian war catalogue of last century.