Königstiger: Odin's Warriors - Book 3

by Aeryn Leigh

  He looked down, and noticed he still had a smooshed piece of doughnut stuck against his shirt fabric. Fantastic.

  The vehicle jerked to a halt, and the loud motors turned off. The leader pointed back at Merrion and barked commands, then pointed up at the stone observation tower. His hands still behind his back, Merrion allowed himself to be roughly lifted up, and escorted to the top of the observation tower, past the scores of staring men, gathered around the dead alien they'd dragged right behind the half-track, wrapped in chains, taking care to avoid the spikes on Wolfgang's orders.

  WOLFGANG JUMPED down from the creaking, pinging Panther, giving a non-stop barrage of orders and instructions, his words curt and sharp. The men around him could feel the commander's black mood radiating off him, and wasted no time as they hurried away, glad to be finally doing something.

  Commands given, he took a moment to collect himself, as a prisoner was escorted to the tower. "Sergeant," he said, "find corporals Müller and Becker, and bring them to the tower." Sergeant Bismarck saluted, and walked away, just as Haplo and Hans joined his side as he started towards the tower.

  The three men walked in silence, until Haplo at last spoke.

  "What is it, mouse? Did you find missing boys?"

  Wolfgang grunted. "Nein," he said. He stopped mid-stride, and regarded his two friends. "I want you and the Königstigers ready for battle at a moment’s notice," his voice low so that others wouldn't hear. "I found the enemy, and it's not like us. Now both of you go. I have an interrogation to conduct."

  He reached the base of the stone tower just as the summoned Battalion commanders arrived, bursting with a million questions. He held up a hand. "Gentlemen," he said, "I'll give your full briefing shortly. We managed to capture a prisoner, however it was not," and he paused, "easy. Our men taken last night are dead. And the local wildlife is problematic, to say the least. Now I know you have questions, but bear with me. Ah, excellent. Our translators. This way, corporals. Commanders please, if you would."

  They all walked single file around it corkscrew staircase, in the gloomy light, and they reached the top. It was turning into a glorious day. The thunderstorms and clouds were disappearing over the far west horizon, the sky glorious blue. The prisoner stood the middle of the round tower, machine gun squads and snipers still on the lookout. Sergeant Bismarck nodded to his men, and the prisoner's escort left the tower.

  Standing on the flat circular roof, with the pair of suns behind him casting two shadows from his feet, the scene resembled a sundial turned into a real-life clock. Wolfgang gestured to the two corporals, and the three walked up to the prisoner, and stood directly in front, one yard away. "Corporals Becker and Müller, I want you to translate exactly what he says. And what I say in return. I want both of you want both of you here to make crystal sure our language is clear. No biases, no interpretations, no shades of grey. Our lives depend on it. Understood?" They both nodded. "Very well." Wolfgang's eyes never left the prisoners. The man was more dangerous than a coiled snake about to strike. Even with the bits of food stuck on his clothing, his dishevelled appearance, lacerated with dozens of cuts and nicks, this man dressed head to toe in black was not to be underestimated.

  "Can you speak German?" The man kept looking at him. "Corporals, you may begin. Ask him in English. What is his name? What country is he from?"

  Corporal Müller spoke in English. The prisoner's eyes never broke contact with Wolfgang's, as he answered. "His name is Merrion Blackheart," and he conferred with the other momentarily, trying to make sure they got this right, "Knight Praefecti of the Roman Ninth Legion, Lieutenant Colonel of the Republic's First Reconnaissance, and loyal and trusted friend of the Versetti, Commander and General of the Republic." There was a sea of astonished silence as the Germans tried to comprehend this. Then the shouting started. "Gentleman," yelled Wolfgang, "enough." The prisoner smiled just a little. Wolfgang thought hard. He recalled his military history. The Roman Ninth Legion was a legend, lost in the annals of time. An entire army seemingly disappeared from historical records.

  "So, you are a student of history then. A nice story." said Wolfgang. "The Republic's first reconnaissance? You are French?"

  The man laughed, then poured forth a stream of language. Both corporals struggled to keep up. "Look at me. Two shadows from my feet. And your feet. France, Germany, England, your entire Earth, is gone. You stand on the world called Elysium. Let me guess? You were on boats, or on a ship? One moment you were on Earth, and everything was fine, and then suddenly a great storm appeared, from horizon to horizon, from the ground up to the heavens. Swallowed you in a mist, you suddenly appeared in calm skies, but with two suns overhead."

  The man stopped, waiting for the translators to finish, still staring at Wolfgang. "There's a good chance some of you went mad, insane, trying to reconcile what you just experienced. It is a common occurrence, to those brought here. You are not the first, nor will you be the last. This island continent we're on, is the Inquisition mainland. They are descendants from the Spanish Armada five centuries ago. The Inquisition is a fairly straightforward enemy. Either you convert to their belief in God, their God, or you burn and die. Straightforward and ruthless. But the fact I have not seen a single Inquisition soldier upon arriving on this island yesterday, and am guessing neither have you, since we are standing right in the middle of Inquisition territory unchallenged, suggests lay have fallen to the creatures we encountered in the caves. Have you been assailed by screaming fanatics dressed in white at all since landing?"

  The corporals finished translating.

  Wolfgang swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "We have not. You are the first men we have encountered."

  The man called Merrion Blackheart waited for the reply, and when he heard it, nodded solemnly. "Verpiss dich," he said. That needed no translation. Wolfgang's eyebrows shot up.

  "You speak German?" exclaimed Wolfgang.

  "A few swear words," said Merrion in English. "I've got Ella Gruder to thank for that."

  Ella Gruder? A buzz broke out around the men. Wolfgang continued. "Ella Gruder is here?" He couldn't believe it. Every enlisted man in Germany knew who Ella Gruder was. Posters of her stretched from west all the way to the eastern front. Blonde haired, a fearless pilot, the model of the Aryan woman. She'd received a state funeral when her jet fighter crashed over Magdeburg. Wolfgang advanced until he was face-to-face with Merrion.

  He pulled out his ivory handled Luger and placed the barrel underneath Merrion's jaw. "Enough of these games," he snarled. "You will tell me truthfully and tell me now. Where are we?"

  Merrion's eyes flicked from left to right, matching Wolfgang's stare eyeball for eye ball. "You're just like Ella, when she came through that storm. At least she's better looking. The sooner you start accepting this the easier it will go. You are on Elysium. There is no escape. Not for you, not for me. You'll never see your families again, nor your country, or your Hitler." His eyes grew intense, smouldering. "We stand in the middle of enemy territory, and not a single soldier to be seen. The aliens that attacked us this morning have seemingly killed them all. And believe me when I say, that there's probably thousands of them. Tens of thousands of them. The only way any of us are going to get out of this alive, is by joining forces against them." He spat the word them.

  Wolfgang blinked, and became aware of the slightest sensation pressing against his dick. The barest feeling of something sharp and pointed. His soldiers all took a step forward. Wolfgang broke the gaze, and glanced quickly down. The prisoner’s hands were free, one hand held a savage little knife right against his groin.

  "Quid pro quo," said Merrion, the cold barrel of the gun still pressing hard against his chin. The two men stood there, in stalemate.

  "Major," said Sergeant Bismarck, "we have a problem."

  "And what's that," said Wolfgang. His right index finger was millimetres away from the hair-trigger, but even he wasn't confident he could pull the trigger before being eviscerated up to his bellyb
utton.

  "The Roman Ninth Legion," said Sergeant Bismarck, incredulously.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  AN OCEAN OF GAS

  THE OBLITERATION of the Inquisition took a fall sun rotation. The Prime Korellian made a single attempt to communicate with the unarmed Hrothgar it found beyond the wall, the brood stock of the two-legged creatures. To this point on the island, every Hrothgar had been armed, and even in such slaughter, one sided slaughter, the enemy died with a weapon in their unnatural hands.

  But the robed and hooded creatures, the big and the very small, either did not understand the message of a quick and painless death, or single-mindedly ignored it. The further the Korellians pressed into the enclosed city, towards its towering spires on the harbour the more desperate its citizens became. Hrothgars rushed the Korellians bare handed, screaming the same litany over and over again as they met their end. Hrothgar half the height of their elders charged them holding live ordinance set on timers. Bodies impaled on spikes raised to the sky pulled themselves down the shaft, towards their body, still trying to claw out eyes with bare digits. In her long, long lifetime, in two and half millennia, this was a brand-new experience. There was no honour in such killing fields, but if this was their wish, then so be it. Eight score, sixteen, thirty-two score Hrothgar charged down the narrow streets, point-blank into gunfire unarmed, maybe one gun for every eight score creatures, and to a Hrothgar each being picked up the gun and carried it just a little further before being mown down, before being picked up again, and again.

  The Prime Korellian, after an eighth of a sun revolution, ordered her brood to use melee weapons only. Alleyways were cleared one section at a time, a single ken-korel whirling razor-edged blends of death.

  The Hrothgar tried using a form of chemical weapon, the same yellow compound she'd encountered on the far side of the island, only a few rotations ago. The chemical shells were fired straight into the midst of their own Hrothgar brood, and the gas proved a hindrance, but only a small one. The gas stung the eyes, but the effects were temporary. The effects on the Hrothgar were another thing entirely. There was a reason why biological, chemical, and nano weapons were banned across the galaxies. But that didn't stop lesser races and civilisations from using them. If by some miracle they did survive usage on their own planet their own home worlds, the hammer of justice brought down upon them as a warning to other races would ring clear.

  With the exception of gladiatorial worlds and systems in the lawless outer galactic fringes. A public exhibition as to their folly. Another reason to get off this cursed planet. By the time they reached the hive spires and the largest spire dwelling of the God Emperor, her forces captured enough poison gas to end the Hrothgar's last stand.

  As the Prime Korellian gave the command, and canisters of gas released into ventilation systems, she watched a small fleet of wooden ships head out into the bay. No matter. She would track them down as soon enough. She lifted her rifle, and through its imaging system made sure every floor and every level and every bunker of every building left in this city, became an ocean of poison gas.

  Their gas.

  Now the hard work would begin. The task of stripping the city of material, then returning to the industrial zone, to start the task of killing a God.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  WHEAT AND BLOOD

  AT THE EDGE of the industrial city, the landscape turned from factories and buildings into wide, open wheat fields. The main highway split it neatly in two, before heading uphill and diverting around the small hill upon which the oil refinery sat. As far as the eye could see both left and right, rectangular formations of infantry marched, interspersed with horse-drawn artillery and siege weaponry. A main column walked along the highway, a quarter mile ahead of the flanking formations. And at the spear tip of the advancing army, smaller phalanxes of mounted cavalry, complemented with smaller units of cavalry on the extreme firesides of the procession.

  What couldn't be missed, even without the aid of binoculars, with the proud, mammoth red and gold more banners standing within the ranks. IX. The Ninth Legion.

  Wolfgang lowered his binoculars, and glanced over at the Republican, looking through his own set of optics. Of all the things to break that murderous stalemate, having a walking piece of history to back up your claims was not a small thing. They had both lowered their weapons, and Merrion surprised him by handing over the dagger. And another two weapons they'd somehow missed.

  "We need an alliance," Merrion had said, before backing slowly away to the edge of the tower, hands raised, before sitting on the waist-high stone. The corporal translated quickly. Merrion's words churned through Wolfgang's mind. His tanks, his guns, his artillery, all depended upon fuel and ammunition. And what happened they ran out? Sure, they could capture more oil and crude gasoline, maybe even decimate the advancing army, but what then? Your resources would be depleted, and you'd still have to face the creatures straight out of your nightmares. And they are another factor altogether, harder to kill.

  Wolfgang knew the man had to be guessing as to what the division was capable of. They carried enough ammunition stockpiles to put up a good fight yet. But here they were, stuck in this foreign land, effectively in a self-contained bubble. There were no factories in Hamburg to replace the 88mm armour-piercing high explosive shells, nor fan belts for the Panzers, all the myriad other mechanical bits and pieces that maintenance of a mechanised division required, that sucked up and spat out every day, day in day out.

  Elysium. The ancient tale of the afterlife, the land of heavenly beauty upon your death. Your every care and the need and desire and want attended for. As much as he hated to admit it, Merrion Blackheart was making sense. Mein Gotts. He had been holding out, still carrying hope that all this was some kind of Allied trick, but he could not ignore the last twelve hours. Those daemon things were not of earth. And in the space of twelve hours, had killed a score of his men.

  He walked to the far side of the tower, and quickly held a meeting with the battalion commanders. It didn't even require a committee. Not with the dragged, mangled corpse of the creature the courtyard below. The very idea of tens of thousands of those things swarming over the horizon united humanity better than any marriages of convenience. Major Wolfgang Mauss returned to where Merrion sat, the two corporals behind.

  "This General Versetti of yours, which she be amicable to such an alliance?" He waited for the reply. The tip of the advancing army were about three kilometres away. He merely had to give the word, and Seventh would unleash such an artillery barrage this world had never seen.

  "The Republic was born from such alliances," replied Merrion. "However, the general was burnt quite recently under such flags of truce. I suggest one vehicle, and one vehicle only. And I should be there with you."

  Wolfgang grunted. "I have just the one," he said.

  MAJOR BRUTOWSKY AND GENERAL VERSETTI rode at the spear tip, the general chewing her bottom lip. As much as she wanted to revel, oh God's she wanted to revel, in the capitulation of Inquisition resistance, troubling questions piled upon themselves. From the moment laid set foot in that seaport, not an Inquisition soldier or citizen had been found. Entire blocks of buildings laid empty. Every gun emplacements, every single piece of military value had been removed, willingly or not. Once that poison gas cleared, and the legions rolled forward, industrial city was like a ghost town.

  The Inquisition had fought however. Fought as if their very lives depended on it. Which was a problem all by itself. Sarah could not remember Inquisition firing upon their own buildings, as evidenced by the wreckage of stone houses hit by artillery shells, or gun emplacements firing upon another emplacement mere hundreds of yards away. Bullet holes were writ over wooden surfaces, yet barely a brass shell to be found. Barricades had been built in alleyways, in corridors between factories, hastily built out of whatever material nearby, yet torn asunder.

  And not a single body to be found. Nor a gun, or a cannon, or a horse-drawn cart. The ta
nk factory, had been stripped. Armouries were bare.

  General Sarah Versetti knew of only one thing capable of routing the Inquisition.

  Daemons.

  They were here. On this island.

  She thought of the positives. With no Inquisition to fire at, bar the initial assault, their forces remained at full strength, and she still had a large amount of poison gas on reserve. If the aliens were here, and not anywhere in the vicinity of her scouts, then they must be in the Inka city. If they got there fast enough, they could turn the walled city to one soup bowl of gas, and veritably kill two birds with one stone.

  A patrol galloped straight back down the hallway towards them.

  "We found something," stammered the captain, a man not usually prone to blabbering.

  "What is it?" barked the major. "You found what we asked?"

  Before the captain managed to reply, they became aware of a faint rumble. The ground beneath their feet started to tremble, unsettling the horses. Sarah lifted her telescope and scanned the horizon quickly. The small refinery on top of the hill still looked abandoned, from this angle at least. She swung down the left contour of the hill to where the tree lined road disappeared around the bend. Saw the paved road. The cedar elm trees the Inquisition was so fond of. And then she saw it. The tip of the barrel, and then more barrel, and more barrel, her eye opening wider, brows furrowing. An impossibly long gun came around the bend, then the curved silhouettes of an equally gigantic machine, and Sarah instinctively knew it was a tank, but on an entirely new level of sophistication and technology compared to the examples the damn Inquisition fielded.

  The behemoth navigated the band and in amazingly accelerated, travelling faster than a sprinting horse, heading right for them. And right on top of the tank, with a pair of white long johns tied to a long stick, was the unmistakable shape of Lieutenant Colonel Blackheart, waving frantically.