The Legacy of the Iron Dragon: An Alternate History Viking Epic

by Robert Kroese

  “I think I’m okay,” said Creed, slowly getting to his feet. “Just bruised is all.” He winced and felt the back of his head. As he drew his hand away, they saw his fingers were wet with blood.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Jason asked. “What’s my name?”

  “Captain Jason Huiskamp of the IDLS Freedom.”

  “Where are we?”

  “In a bad part of Syria, evidently. Really, sir. I’m fine. Let’s get moving.”

  Jason helped Olson to his feet. Olson stared at the knife in his hand as if trying to figure out how it got there.

  “Give me that,” Jason said, holding out his hand. Olson stared at him for a few seconds and then slowly handed him the knife. Jason took it and bent over the dead man, wiping the blood on his clothing. He stood up again and held out the knife to Olson. “You going to be okay?”

  “Y-yeah,” Olson said, carefully putting the knife back into its sheath. “Never… never killed anybody before. Not face-to-face.”

  “Me neither,” said Jason.

  “If it makes you feel better,” Creed said, “those men died twenty-two hundred years before you were born.”

  Olson glared at him.

  “All right, so it doesn’t help,” said Creed.

  “No, you’re right,” said Jason. “These men were always going to die like this. Had already died like this.”

  “So we don’t bear any responsibility?” Olson asked.

  “They gave us no choice,” Creed said.

  “Maybe they had no choice,” Olson said. “If they were always going to die like this, they were always going to attack us. How can we blame them for something they were predestined to do? We’re the interlopers here. If their deaths are anybody’s fault, it’s ours.”

  “They were bandits, Olson,” Jason said. “They tried to rob us and they got killed for it. My only regret is that most of them got away. Now let’s get the hell out of here before somebody comes to investigate those gunshots.”

  *****

  “Look,” said Ashgi, holding up a knuckle-sized chunk of metal in the dim light of dusk. “This is what caused the wound.”

  The others, crowding around the body of Nusku, one of the two fallen men, stared at the object Ashgi held between his thumb and forefinger. It was coated with blood; Ashgi had cut it out of Nusku’s back. The projectile had apparently gone through the dead man’s heart and chest cavity and had only been stopped by one of his ribs.

  “It is like the bullets the Jews use with their slings,” said the oldest member of the band, Lahmu. Slings were common weapons among bandits such as they, but bandits usually used rocks as projectiles. The Jewish rebels, however, were known for using balls of lead or iron. These were said to be more accurate and more deadly than stones.

  “It was no mere ball of iron that tore through my shoulder!” cried Martu, who was still clutching his right arm just below the shoulder with his left hand. “It was more like a bolt of lightning!”

  “Quiet, Martu!” Lahmu growled. “You haven’t stopped whining since the foreigners left.”

  “It is smaller than the Jewish bullets,” Ashgi mused, rubbing the thing on his robe to remove the blood. “Did you see the device the man held? That is what made the noise. Fire and smoke burst forth from the thing. It was like a machine to produce lightning.”

  “Lightning, yes!” Martu cried. “Tell them, Kus!” But Kus, half-deafened by the sound of the weapon that had taken a chunk out of his ear, sat on the ground some distance away, paying no attention.

  “I think it was the lightning blast that propelled the bullet into Nushku’s chest,” said Ashgi. “By the gods, what a weapon! And did you see the knife the other used to kill Hani? It shone like a piece of jewelry but it cut like a Roman gladius. Can you imagine what other treasures these foreigners have hidden inside their tower?”

  “As I have told you before,” said Lahmu, “it is not a tower, but a kind of ship. That is what we saw fall from the sky.”

  “The star was only an omen,” said Martu, forgetting the pain in his shoulder for a moment. “The ship came up from below the Earth. Did you not see how the ground was broken up and burned around its base?”

  “Wherever it came from,” Ashgi said, “I do not think the foreigners intend to stay long. I followed them into Damascus two days ago, and they spent two hours at the market before going home with one of the food merchants there. I think they have only stopped here to buy food before tearing down their tower and returning home.”

  “It is not a tower!” Lahmu insisted. “It is a ship!”

  “A ship that sails in the seas below the Earth,” said Martu.

  “Don’t be a fool, Martu. Your wound is making you delirious.”

  “Enough!” Ashgi snapped.

  “Why would men with such treasures come to Damascus for food?” asked Lahmu.

  “I don’t know,” said Ashgi. “Perhaps there is a famine in their land. Perhaps they desire delicacies they cannot get there. What does it matter? I saw how much silver and gold they gave to that merchant, and I am sure they were carrying more.”

  “They also carry weapons that can do this,” said Lahmu, gesturing toward the corpses.

  “We will need to be smarter,” Ashgi said. “When they return, we will target the leader with slings. He seems to be the only one with a thunder-weapon. If we kill him, we can overwhelm the others.”

  “They will be on their guard next time,” said Lahmu. “If they are smart, they will bring more men with them from Damascus.”

  “Then we will wait for them to be careless,” said Ashgi. “They will make a mistake, and then we will fall upon them with fury. We will take their silver, their gold, and their weapons. And then we will see about their tower.”

  Chapter Forty-two

  Jason was pleased with the progress Aziz was making. Aziz had rented a warehouse in Damascus as a temporary storage place for the goods to be delivered, and to store the iron, copper and fabric he would be receiving. He had negotiated individually with a dozen different merchants and trading houses, swearing each of them to secrecy. Aziz explained (in a long, halting conversation in Latin and improvised sign language) that if any of the merchants knew the quantities he was buying, they would hike up their prices, anticipating a shortage. His goal was to get as many of them as possible to commit to a sale at current prices before word got out. Aziz welcomed the spacemen to accompany him, but insisted that they not speak, and that they wear the more mundane clothing that he had acquired for them. They went along for a few of these meetings, but they could understand little of what was happening, and their presence gave rise to a lot of questions that Aziz could not—or would not—answer. They saw that it was better to let Aziz handle the negotiations on his own, which was clearly Aziz’s intention all along. The spacemen would have to trust Aziz’s business acumen and self-interest.

  So the spacemen spent their time almost entirely in Aziz’s small house, with his wife, Istir. Creed’s injuries were minor; Istir cleaned and bandaged the gash on his head and gave him some kind of tea that was supposed to help with the pain. Istir, thankfully, had warmed to them since seeing the purses of gold and silver they had produced, and she was a fine cook. Aziz had purchased a variety of meats, grains, oils and spices from the market the day after they arrived, so they spent their days sleeping and feasting on roasted lamb and other delicacies. They remained in contact with Freedom via their comms.

  The spacemen didn’t tell Aziz about Freedom. He knew only that he needed to arrange for the provisions and supplies to be delivered to a rendezvous point in the desert several miles away. Aziz hired twenty wagons, along with sixteen oxen and twenty mules, for the purpose. Six drivers and forty slaves were sworn to secrecy. The slaves, borrowed from a nearby rock quarry, were Slavs who spoke even less Latin than the spacemen. The foreman was given a purse of silver ingots to do with as he saw fit. The goods would be transported in several trips over the course of a night to a staging area just w
est of the ship. At night, Freedom’s silhouette blended into the hills behind it. At dawn—or whenever the last shipment had arrived—the goods would be moved into the ship, with the help of the colonists and crew. The idea was to keep Aziz and the others from seeing the ship until the spacemen were nearly ready to leave.

  The bulk of the provisions was made up of wheat and barley flour. Several thousand kilograms of lentils, beans, rice, chickpeas and peas were stockpiled in the warehouse, along with a thousand kilos of salt, twelve hundred liters of olive oil and hundreds of kilograms of dried herbs, including mint, parsley, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, cumin, black pepper and coriander. Fresh fruits and vegetables would go to waste, but Aziz bought every piece of dried fruit—figs, raisins, apricots, apples and pomegranates—that he could find. Freedom’s holds could be depressurized and cooled to near absolute zero, making them perfect for long-term food storage.

  He also acquired all the dried and salted meat in the city, but this amounted to only a few hundred pounds. The colonists’ diet would be almost entirely vegetarian—and it would be lean: even with all the food Aziz could put his hands on at any price, it would not last them seven years. He told them he could get more if he traveled to Qanawat, about thirty miles south, but they were already risking discovery by the authorities staying near Damascus for five days. They would either have to make another stop for provisions or ramp up farming on the ship faster than planned.

  For farming stock, Aziz turned to an uncle of Istir’s, named Ibrahim, who own a large estate just outside the city. Ibrahim, it seemed, was something of a horticulturalist; in addition to farming native plants, Ibrahim maintained a greenhouse in which he raised plants that would not thrive in a desert climate. Ibrahim provided them with seeds or root stock for every variety of crop they had purchased, and dozens of others. He also acquired chickens, goats, sheep, pigs, and—under some protest—dogs and cats.

  There were less than twenty of each of the larger varieties of animals, making it unlikely the species would survive long-term. The minimum viable population for the animals was somewhat less than for humans, but within a few generations, they would probably run into problems with inbreeding and genetic drift. Even in the worst case scenario, however, they would be able to supplement the colonists’ diet with meat for a few years.

  By the afternoon of the spacemen’s fifth day in Damascus, the warehouse was completely full, and last-minute deliveries were still arriving. Crates and sacks were piled in the street, requiring Aziz to spend some of his silver mollifying the neighbors. The carts, drawn by oxen or mules, began to arrive, and the slaves were put to work loading the cargo. The first load departed just after sundown, Aziz leading the way through the darkness with a torch.

  The mules and oxen moved much more slowly than the spacemen expected; it soon became clear that they would be lucky to complete two round trips in a night. After a frustrating exchange with Aziz, it turned out they had misunderstood his estimate: he intended to complete the delivery the following night. Aziz planned to work all night and the following, take a break during the hottest part of the day to allow the animals (and humans) to rest, and then work through the night again.

  There was nothing to do at this point but continue with the transport of goods. The drivers and slaves would see the ship and would have plenty of time to run and tell the authorities if they wished to. It would be impossible to watch all of them all the time. They would just have to trust that Aziz was paying them enough not to break their agreement.

  The sun was well above the horizon by the time they arrived at the rendezvous point with the second load of cargo. Aziz, walking at the head of the caravan just behind the spacemen, peered at the strange obelisk on the horizon. “Yeh-son,” he said at last.

  “Yes, Aziz?”

  Aziz asked a question, which Jason had to ask him to repeat. The second time Jason made out a word he recognized: templum.

  “Num illud templum,” Jason said. “Sed nonne navis est.”

  Aziz scowled, obviously under the impression Jason had misspoken. Why would a ship be in the middle of desert, miles from water?

  After a few more minutes of travel, the details of Freedom became discernable. “Num gens tua fecit?” Aziz asked, astounded. The drivers and slaves murmured to each other in awed tones. Some of the slaves appeared frightened, but so far none had run away.

  “Illud est non aedificium,” Jason said. “Illud est navis.”

  Aziz stopped in the road, staring open-mouthed as the first team of oxen passed by. “Navis?”

  “Caelum navis,” Jason said. He came and stood next to Aziz, standing awestruck next to the road. The heavy-laden carts continued to roll slowly past, the drivers staring at the obelisk in the distance. Aziz turned to look at Jason’s face. Seeing no hint of mockery of jest, he turned back to Freedom. After a moment, he took off running toward it.

  Jason began walking back toward Olson and Creed at the front of the caravan, pulling his comm from a pocket inside his robe. “Nichols, this is the captain. Do you copy?”

  “Copy, sir.” Ensign John Nichols was in charge of security at the rendezvous point, about half a klick ahead.

  “In about a minute, you’re going to see someone running past you, about a hundred meters north, toward Freedom. It’s just Aziz. Let him go.”

  “Aye, sir. Should I warn Commander Schwartz?”

  “That would probably be a good idea. Captain out.” He put the comm back in its hiding place.

  “You’re going to let him see the ship up close, Captain?” Creed asked.

  “Not much choice,” Jason replied.

  “What if he runs back to town and tells everyone?”

  “He won’t,” Jason said. “Come on, let’s get to the staging area and figure out what we’re going to do with this stuff.”

  “Sir,” said Olson, “Isn’t the cat out of the bag at this point? Why not just start loading cargo directly onto the ship?”

  “No,” said Jason. “Stick to the plan. Nobody else gets close to Freedom.”

  “And if someone tries?”

  “Just yell ‘prohibere!’ at them.”

  “Prohibere!” Olson shouted at the lead driver, who raised an eyebrow at him but did not stop.

  “Are you sure that’s right?” Olson asked.

  “No,” said Jason. “But try it, and if it doesn’t work, shoot them. They’ll get the idea.”

  Chapter Forty-three

  They reached the staging area—just a piece of flat ground that the crew had cleared of vegetation—a few minutes later. Nichols and two other crewmen stood guard over the crates, barrels and sacks that had already been delivered. Several of the colonists and crew members were already at work moving the cargo by hand the last two hundred meters to Freedom. To finish the job they would need the help of the slaves, but Jason didn’t want to let any natives inside the ship until it was absolutely necessary. Seeing Freedom from two hundred meters away was one thing; looking around inside her holds was another. The sight of electric lights, automated doors and hydraulic lifts might prove so overwhelming to second century Middle Easterners that they would panic and run off or feel the need to inform a priest or government official.

  The carts began to arrive, and the drivers climbed down and tied their oxen to the posts that had been set up for the purpose. Several of the slaves had begun to wander toward Freedom, but Olson headed them off, waving his gun in the air and shouting at them in a combination of profanity-laced English and poorly conjugated Latin to get back to work. The men reluctantly walked back to the carts and began to unload them.

  Olson holstered his gun and walked back to Jason and Creed.

  “Nicely done, Olson,” Jason said. “It’s people like you that got the pyramids built.”

  “Fuck off,” muttered Olson. “Sir.”

  Aziz returned a few minutes later, still looking awestruck. “Caelum navis?” He made a motion with his hand like a bird flying through the air.

  Ja
son nodded, pointing at the heavens. “Ab astris.”

  Aziz asked a question, of which Jason could only understand the word dei.

  Jason shook his head. “Homines. Non dei.”

  Aziz nodded, although he seemed a little disappointed. He asked another question, pointing at Freedom.

  “Non intellego,” Jason said, using a phrase he had repeated countless times over the past few days.

  Aziz tapped his chest and then pointed to Freedom. “Ut eneam?”

  “Non,” said Jason. “Laboras.”

  “Statim laboro,” replied Aziz. “Sed post? Intrare mihi dabisne?”

  Jason suppressed a smile. He had expected this. Aziz, a naturally curious sort, would not be able to resist the desire to see the inside of the ship. He sighed heavily and turned to Olson.

  “He wants to go inside the ship.”

  “That seems like a bad idea, sir.” said Olson.

  “I’m thinking of letting him.”

  “I thought you were worried about him encountering twenty-third century ideas.”

  “Ideas, yes. I’m not sure what ideas he can get from LED lights or air conditioning. I’m sure it’s occurred to everyone in the Middle East that it would be nice if you could make houses cooler or brighter at night, but the actual technology is so advanced, there isn’t much he can do with it. I’d be more worried he’d pick up the idea for something like a hand truck.”

  “Don’t they have those?”

  “I have no idea. In any case, I don’t think we have a choice. We need a bargaining chip to ensure that Aziz will see the project through.”

  “You don’t trust him?”

  “I think he’s got two driving motivations. One of them is maximizing his profits. Maybe that means selling us out to the Romans. Maybe it means not paying these drivers enough to keep them from selling us out to the Romans. But he’s got another motivation too, and that’s curiosity. I’m betting that if we promise to let him see the inside of Freedom, but only after all the cargo is on board, he’ll see the job through.”