The Dream of the Iron Dragon: An Alternate History Viking Epic (Saga of the Iron Dragon Book 1)

by Robert Kroese

  None of the Norsemen tried using their bows, confident in their ability to overwhelm him in a melee. To their credit, fleeing never seemed to occur to them. Gabe heard someone—probably Gunnar—shouting an order, but it seemed perfunctory. The Vikings rushed toward the lander as one.

  Gabe forced himself to breathe slowly, willing his body not to be overcome with adrenaline. The Vikings could use their rage to their advantage, but Gabe had to fight his instincts. If he was going to get through this, he needed to remain cool-headed and in absolute control.

  Another loud crack and a fifth man fell. Sloppy. Gabe had hit him just above the knee. He was still overcompensating for kickback. He raised the gun and pivoted slightly to the right. Amazingly, the man in his sights seemed to anticipate the shot, dodging right at the last moment. It had taken these guys less than six seconds to adapt to his tactics. Time to mix things up a little.

  He let his finger off the trigger for a moment, refocused on the closest man to the lander, and squeezed the trigger again. The man jerked left and fell backwards as the bullet ripped through his shoulder. Gabe pivoted left as the gun fired again, penetrating another’s shield. The man fell. The Norsemen were almost to the spike barrier, and he’d barely put a dent in the numbers. He swung right and dropped two more before stopping to bump the fire rate up to ten rounds per second. The battery would drain a lot faster at this rate of fire, but Gunnar’s men were now close enough that he could probably hit several with a burst.

  One man had raised his axe to knock down one of the spiked poles; Gabe sprayed him and the two behind him with bullets. Before the three men hit the ground, several more were already hacking at the barrier. Gabe took aim and fired again, dropping two more of them. They were too spread out for him to hit them all, though. He saw out of the corners of his eyes that some of them were running around to the other side of the lander. Soon he’d be surrounded. About half of the men had dropped their shields, having deduced that they were worthless against the railgun. These guys were smart.

  Norsemen were now streaming through half a dozen gaps in the barrier, running toward the lander with spears and axes. Gabe dropped three more of them and then ducked as a spear shot over his head. Somewhere among these men was Gunnar, but Gabe had lost him in the chaos. He fired several more quick bursts, dropping another dozen attackers.

  With the final burst, the rate of fire had dropped back to one round per second. Glancing at the battery pack on the floor of the casemate, Gabe saw a warning light glowing red: he was nearly out of juice. A group of men had reached the wing in front of him, and were scrambling to get on top of it. Gabe allowed himself a split second of satisfaction: shortly after Reyes had left, he had rigged a hose to the lander’s water supply and sprayed down the wings and sides of the lander. The water had frozen quickly in the cold air, giving the lander a slippery coat of ice that was nearly impossible to climb.

  That’s what Gabe had thought, anyway. Even though he’d been firing ten rounds a second at close range, two of the men managed to get on top of the right wing before he could cut them down. And now others were climbing on top of the dead and wounded, clawing desperately to reach the casemate. Gabe let loose three more shots and then dropped the railgun. It was firing too slowly to keep up with the Norsemen’s advance. He drew his pistol. As he did so, something hit him hard in the left shoulder, knocking him forward and almost causing him to fall over the side of the casemate. To his left, a spear clattered against the top of the lander and fell to the ground. Cold air hit his skin where the spear had torn his flight suit: the built-in layer of nanofiber armor had probably saved his life.

  He spun around, bracing himself against the casemate wall, firing three shots at a man on the wing holding an axe. Only one shot hit the man, just above his left knee, but it was enough. The man yelped, lost his footing, and fell. His head clanged against the wing and he slipped to the ground. Three more men, armed with spears, took his place. Gabe steadied himself and fired three shots, hitting all three in the chest. They fell and slipped off the wing to join the others on the ground.

  Gabe had just enough time to spin around again and drop two more men with axes who were coming up the other side. The pistol slide locked and he ducked as a third man hurled a spear at him. Gabe fell to the floor of the casemate, popping the magazine from his pistol as he did so. He grabbed a replacement from his belt, slammed it into place, and raised the gun again as the man came over the casemate wall, holding a knife in his right hand. Gabe fired three times, and the man screamed and crumpled to the floor next to him. Shaking and exhausted, Gabe got to his feet. The men were still coming.

  He emptied his second magazine as well, dropping four more men, then grabbed his last remaining magazine. He slapped it in place, barely able to get it aimed before a man with a spear lunged at him. He fell to his left as he fired, and the man’s body landed with a crash next to him. The top half of its head was missing. Gabe tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t move. His hands shook and his heart raced.

  He blinked hard and shook his head, forcing himself to take deep breaths. Becoming aware of a burning sensation on his thigh, he looked down, puzzled. He was sitting with his legs bent unnaturally underneath him, the pistol resting on his leg. The red-hot barrel was burning a hole in the fabric of the flight suit. He jerked it away just as another man vaulted over the casemate, landing hard right in front of him. The man brought his axe back but Gabe managed to get the gun aimed in more-or-less the right direction before he could bring it down. The man’s jaw exploded and he stumbled backward, falling out of the casemate. He slid with a scream down the side of the lander.

  Gabe pulled himself to his feet in time to get the pistol aimed at three more men who had gotten onto the wing. They were literally standing on the corpses of their fallen comrades. They stood for a moment, brandishing their spears at him as he did his best to keep the gun pointed toward them. His hands were shaking so badly that even at a range of less than five meters, his odds of hitting any of them were probably fifty-fifty—and he was nearly out of bullets.

  After some time, the man in front dropped his spear. He turned and climbed down from the wing. The other two glanced at each other and then did the same. They made their way over the pile of dead and dying men and walked away. They threaded their way through the spike barrier and continued across the plain, in the direction they had come.

  Looking around, Gabe realized he was the last man standing. He had done it. He was still alive and the lander was safe.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Gabe’s reprieve lasted only a few seconds. Many of the men he’d hit were merely wounded, not dead, and one of them might still try to take the lander. He pulled himself to his feet and surveyed the area. A few of the men on the ground had gotten to their feet, but none seemed particularly eager to continue the fight. One man lay on his back on the wing, moaning, his tunic soaked with blood. Gabe took a seat on the casemate wall. He grabbed a box of bullets from the crate on the floor of the casemate, reloaded one of the magazines, popped the empty one out, and shoved the refilled magazine into place. When it was clear that none of the survivors was up for more, he holstered the pistol. After resting a moment, he reached down and grabbed the spear that had belonged to the man whose head he’d shot off. Then he climbed over the casemate wall and approached the wounded men. He lifted the spear over his head, and shouted, “If you can walk, go! Anyone who remains behind will be killed.” To punctuate his point, he drove the spear into the man’s heart. The man’s body jerked wildly for a moment and then he lay still.

  The other survivors seemed to get the message. Those with minor injuries helped some of the more severely wounded men to their feet. Those with non-life-threatening wounds were bandaged up; those who were beyond saving were put out of their misery. All in all, eighteen men limped away from the battlefield. Gabe thought one of them was Gunnar, but he couldn’t be sure. When they’d cleared the spike barrier, Gabe climbed down from the lander a
nd looked for other survivors. He found two more men who were barely holding on. One had apparently been hit in the head with an axe—a friendly fire incident. He was babbling incoherently and drifting in and out of consciousness. Gabe stabbed him through the neck. He gave the same treatment to another man with a massive chest wound who was lying on his back, gasping for breath. And then, at last, there was silence.

  Gabe fell to his knees and vomited into the snow. For some time he crouched there, trembling, aware of nothing. Then he rolled onto his back and lay in the snow, staring up at the sky. The sun was still just above the horizon; the entire battle had taken only a few minutes. It had seemed like hours.

  He closed his eyes only to be met with a barrage of images of men being torn apart. The faces of the men were a blur—all except the last two, whom he’d killed in cold blood. He told himself he’d had no choice, that the men were going to die anyway. He didn’t have the time, expertise or facilities to save their lives. It was better to kill them quickly than to let them suffer. But it didn’t matter what he told himself. He’d cut the lives of two healthy young men short, because it was inconvenient to allow them to go on living.

  When the cold began to seep into his skin, he sat up and then slowly got to his feet. He stood for some time regarding the carnage. What a waste, he thought. He’d had nothing against these men; they were probably just farmers and fishermen who’d been forced into Harald’s service or bought off with a promise of security for their families. They had fought bravely, and well—as well as any men Gabe had ever seen or heard of. They fought for their lives, for their families, the same as he did. He knew all too well he was no better than these men; he just happened to be the one with the railgun.

  He could tell himself he was fighting for the future of the human race, but that was bullshit. He doubted even Reyes still thought they were getting off this planet. And if they did, then what? Travel across the galaxy to deliver a bomb to an organization that wouldn’t even exist for twelve hundred years? The plan had been absurd from the beginning. No, Gabe was fighting for survival, pure and simple—his own and that of his crew. And protecting the lander was vital to their survival. He had no illusions about holding onto it for good, but the longer they could hold it, the more power they had. At some point the lander was going to be taken, either by Harald’s men or some other group, and probably torn apart to be made into weapons and other tools, and Gabe wanted to have as much control over that process as possible. The lander could be traded for food, shelter, land, weapons, security—anything they’d need to survive this unforgiving land. Establishing an alliance with Sigurd’s people was good as far as it went, but to survive, they needed to hold the lander.

  *****

  Gunnar slowly sat up, gritting his teeth as pain shot through his shoulder. Dead men lay all around him. The only sounds were muffled groans from the few men still alive. Looking up, he saw that the foreigner still stood inside the makeshift fortification on top of the sky ship. Three men with spears stood on the wing, facing him. The foreigner held his small weapon pointed at them. Even from this distance, Gunnar could see the man’s hand was shaking. Gunnar watched for a moment as the Norsemen regarded the foreigner, assessing their chances. Attack! thought Gunnar. He can’t beat all of you!

  But after a moment, the man in front dropped his spear. He turned and climbed down from the wing. The other two did the same. They made their way over the pile of dead and dying men and walked away. One of them saw Gunnar struggling to his feet and went to help him, but Gunnar waved the man off. “Coward,” Gunnar muttered under his breath. The man shrugged and went to help another man, whose leg had been blown off below the knee. Gunnar struggled to his feet and appraised his shoulder.

  He’d been within ten paces of the ship when the foreigner’s terrible weapon hit him just above the armpit, knocking him to the ground. In the few seconds it had taken for him to get his bearings and sit up, the battle had ended. The foreigner had fought fifty men—and won. Gunnar was torn between anger at the foreigner’s unfair tactics and envy of his weapon. A man with such a weapon could conquer all of Norway, and probably Denmark as well.

  The weapon seemed to have torn a hole clear through Gunnar’s shoulder. It hurt and made it near-impossible to use his left arm, but if he could get the wound clean in time, it probably wouldn’t fester. In a few months, it might heal completely.

  He turned and staggered after the others. Behind him, the foreigner was yelling something. Gunnar glanced back to see the man stab a wounded man through the chest. Gunnar and the others got the point: they could walk away or they could meet the same fate.

  A group of maybe a dozen and a half men staggered and limped away from the scene. The less seriously wounded helped those who couldn’t walk on their own. They moved slowly across the plain, without speaking. For most of them, surviving a battle in this way was worse than dying. Death in battle was a guarantee of a seat at Odin’s table in Valhalla. Limping away meant only scorn and humiliation. Their only chance at redemption was to rejoin the fight when the reinforcements arrived.

  They met the rest of Harald’s men not far from bridge. By this time, two more men had died of their injuries. The newcomers stared at the survivors in horror.

  “Is this all that is left of your force?” asked the leader, a man named Geir. The survivors were a desperate-looking bunch. Upon sighting the reinforcements coming over the bridge, many of them had sat or lay down, unwilling or unable to go any farther. The others stood, many leaning upon each other, dripping blood onto the snow.

  “The foreigners have weapons unlike anything we’ve seen,” replied one of the survivors, a young man whose right hand had been shot off. A strip of cloth had been tied around his forearm to keep him from bleeding to death.

  “You were supposed to wait for us,” Geir said.

  Gunnar, who had been lingering toward the rear of the group, took a step forward. “They attacked,” he said, following the other man’s lead in using the plural to refer to their enemy. It was simply too humiliating to admit they’d been defeated by a single man. “Their weapons are deadly even at great range. If we had waited, we’d have been cut down without ever striking a blow.”

  Geir nodded, taking this in. “Then the others… they are all dead?”

  “Every one,” said the man who had spoken before.

  “How many of the enemy are left?” Geir asked.

  For a moment no one spoke. “It is difficult to be certain,” Gunnar said at last. “They hide behind a fortification on top of their ship, and strike at a distance.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  Behind Geir, men grumbled angrily. They had come to fight, and they weren’t going to let a little thing like the slaughter of the first wave of attackers deter them. But Geir’s confidence had clearly been shaken by the sight of the bloodied men before him.

  “Then,” he began cautiously, “do you counsel sending for still more men?”

  Several of the survivors murmured vague approval of this sentiment, but it was Gunnar who spoke the loudest. “No,” he said. “They are only men. We came very close to overcoming them. I myself was within a few paces of the sky ship when I was hit. By the time I got to my feet, the rest of our force had surrendered.”

  When no one contradicted his claim, Gunnar was emboldened to continue. “They are tired, and we are strong. If we attack suddenly, without warning, we can overcome them. Here.” He knelt down, smoothing out an area of snow with his right hand and then placing a piece of bark in the middle of it. “This is the sky ship. They have a barrier of spikes about here. We will be approaching from this direction. There is no cover in the area, so when you reach the edge of the forest, charge at full speed toward the barrier. Men with axes should lead the way, to make gaps in the barrier. Drop anything that will slow you down. Arrows will not penetrate their armor, and wooden shields are useless against their weapons. Our only option is to overwhelm them with speed and sheer numbers.”
>
  “Good,” said Geir, somewhat encouraged by Gunnar’s confidence. “We will need all the men we can spare, so if you can walk, you fight.”

  Murmurs of assent went up from the survivors.

  “Just don’t get in the way,” said Gunnar. “If you can’t keep up, stay toward the back. Use your bows if you can’t get close.”

  “All right,” said Geir. “You heard Gunnar. Let’s go! Men with axes, up front. Wounded to the rear. Leave your shields at the bridge.”

  Gunnar watched approvingly as the men dumped their shields and packs at the bridge and then assembled themselves as he’d suggested, following Geir down the path through the woods. Only three men, too hurt to fight, were left behind. Gunnar spent a moment tending to these men before following the rest down the path.

  Geir led the men through the woods and across the plain. When he spotted the ship, he barked an order to attack, and ran toward it. The men followed, axemen first, the wounded last. No one noticed that Gunnar had stayed behind in the woods.

  *****

  Gabe made a slow circuit of the lander to make sure there were no other survivors, keeping an eye on the horizon to watch for Harald’s reinforcements. He saw no sign of movement except a flock of geese flying overhead. Gabe went back to the front of the lander and sat down on the crate he’d left by the hatch. He tapped his cuff.

  “Reyes,” he said.

  “Gabe! You’re alive!” Reyes was clearly out of breath.

  “Yeah, barely.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  Gabe reached over to feel his shoulder. It was bruised but the skin wasn’t broken. “No,” he said. “Just a little shook up. There are… a lot of dead Vikings here.”

  “But you’re okay? The lander is safe?”

  “Yeah. Still expecting reinforcements though. Could be here any minute.”