Chosen of the Valkyries (Twilight Of The Gods Book 2)

by Christopher Nuttall

  Gudrun stared at him, feeling her heart starting to race. A flurry of conflicting feelings ran through her mind; delight, fear, relief, terror ... marriage would change her life, no matter who or what she was. It would be a change for the better and a change for the worse. She would be expected to be a mother as well as a politician - or, perhaps, a mother instead of a politician. It was hard to imagine staying at home - or within the restrictive circle of other married women - and preparing dinner for the moment Horst came home from work. Her life had expanded too far, too fast, for her to step back into a traditional role.

  Horst was looking back at her, his blue eyes ... vulnerable. It was a surprise. She’d never seen him vulnerable before, not when he'd confessed the truth or even when they’d slept together for the first time. But then, perhaps she wasn't his first. Girls might be expected to remain virginal before marriage - or at least maintain a convincing pretence that they’d only ever had premarital sex with their future husband - but boys had far more latitude. Sex was one thing, marriage - to a boy - was quite another.

  She hesitated, trying to think of an answer. A year ago, if they had been in a relationship, she would have answered yes without hesitation. Horst would have been a great catch, an up and coming SS officer ... she would have been his wife, borne his children and shared his life, taking a payout from the government for every single child she brought into the world. But now ... her life had changed too much. She couldn't go back to where she’d been, before the uprising.

  “I won’t try to stop you from being a politician,” Horst said, quietly. She wondered, suddenly, just what had happened to his remaining family. The SS wouldn't have let them live if they knew Horst had betrayed them. “I understand you’ll want to continue being ... being a councillor. There’s no need to have children.”

  Gudrun swallowed. She did want children, one day. Most married women had their first child within a year or two of the wedding, if they weren’t already pregnant when they marched to the altar. Two little boys, perhaps; or two sweet little girls. She didn't want more than two children ...

  ... But that wasn't the concern, was it? She was honest enough to admit the truth, if only to herself. Girls practically defined themselves as daughters, then wives. Or society made that definition for them. By marrying Horst, she would give up the independence she had won, at least in the eyes of the world. Her father hadn’t attempted to pull her back to the house, after the uprising, and she had no idea what would have happened if he’d tried. But by marrying Horst, she might be expected to resign ...

  ... And if he changed his mind, if he decided he wanted her to stay at home, the law would be on his side.

  And if I have children, she thought, taking care of them is going to consume my time.

  “It won’t be easy,” Gudrun warned. “You’ll have to get used to the idea of having a politician for a wife.”

  “It could be worse,” Horst said.

  Gudrun shrugged. Her mother had pointed out, in some detail, that men rarely liked it when girls beat them, even in something as minor as a maths competition. She’d wondered, at the time, if the segregated school system - there had only been a handful of mixed-sex classes after she’d turned twelve - was designed to keep the boys from feeling inferior to the girls, rather than the other way around. Her mother had even advised Gudrun to hide her intelligence, just in case it provoked resentment. A teenage boy could be ignored ...

  ... But a grown man - and a husband - could not.

  Horst looked up at her. “I know it won’t be easy,” he said. “Not for either of us. But I am prepared to accept whatever it brings.”

  Gudrun felt touched. She knew she wasn't pregnant. Horst could have walked away, without consequences. And, with a little ingenuity, she could probably have avoided consequences for her too. If, of course, she decided to have another relationship. Instead, he’d approached her father and gained his permission to take the next step. She had to admit it, even if it had taken him several days to work up the nerve to speak to her.

  And we may be dead in a month, she thought. And if that happens, it won’t matter if we are married or not.

  She sucked in her breath. The reports made it clear that the SS was inching forward, even if every last building was taken and retaken time and time again before it was finally cleared. They would hardly be the only couple getting married quickly - she’d heard from two of her friends who were trying the knot, just so they could live with their partners before the city fell. If, of course, the city did fall.

  And if it doesn't, she told herself, we will just have to live with it.

  She leaned forward, pulling him to his feet. He was big, taller and stronger than her, yet he’d never made her feel unsafe. Indeed, she hadn't been wary of him even after he’d confessed the truth. Even when they'd argued, she’d never feared that he would hit her, beating her into submission like far too many wives. And that, perhaps, was all the answer she really needed.

  “I will,” she said, meeting his eyes. A sudden surge of energy blazed through her as his eyes stared back at her. “I will marry you.”

  Horst kissed her, pulling her into a tight hug. Gudrun wrapped her arms around him, kissing him back with all the intensity she could muster. His hands pulled at her dress, bunching it up around her waist as he fumbled with her panties; she undid his trousers and allowed them to fall to the floor as he half-pushed her towards the bed. She leaned back, allowing herself to land neatly on the bed, then pulled him down on top of her ...

  And then there was nothing in her world, apart from him.

  ***

  Horst lay on the bed afterwards, feeling tired and yet almost deliriously happy at the same time. Gudrun lay next to him, her eyes closed; her deep even breathing was enough to tell him that she was sleeping properly. She’d had too many nightmares over the last few days, nightmares that had jerked her awake time and time again. Horst knew she wouldn't be the only one - some of his bunkmates had had nightmares during training - but she had more reasons than most to feel guilty.

  The Reich was definitely heading for a fall, Horst thought. But without her, things might have been very different.

  He doubted, deep inside, that they would have been peaceful. The SS was too strong, too determined to maintain its perfect state. Mass protests, peaceful or not, would have been broken up, with machine gun fire if necessary. He’d watched, helplessly, as dozens of protesters had died ... it would have been far worse, he was sure, if Gudrun hadn't been involved. But there was no way to know.

  Gudrun shifted slightly, pressing against him. She looked ... happy, Horst decided, a faint smile crossing her lips even in her sleep. Her clothes were torn; they’d probably have to be replaced, if they couldn't be repaired. Gudrun’s mother was probably going to have a few things to say about that, if she was anything like Horst’s mother and auntie. Clothes were not to be wasted, the women had said. They could be handed down to the next generation, if they weren't passed aside to someone with a greater need for them. The family had a stockpile of baby clothes that were shared amongst the mothers, who would return them to the stockpile once their child had outgrown them ...

  The thought caused him a pang. His parents were dead. There would be no father, standing next to him, the day he and Gudrun were married. His aunt and uncle would be better served by staying as far from him as possible, although there was little point in trying to hide. He’d sent them a warning, when the uprising had finally begun, but he’d heard nothing from them, no hint that they might have escaped Germany East. And they’d been far enough from the border to need travel permits to head west.

  They might be dead, he thought, grimly. Or held somewhere in Germanica.

  There was nothing he could do about that, he knew. Certainly not now, not when the civil war was well underway. There was no way he could protect the man and woman who had taken him in, after his parents had been killed. All he could do was work as hard as he could to bring the civil war to a vict
orious end.

  A low rumble echoed through the air, shaking the building. He shuddered, despite the girl curled up next to him. The Reichstag had remained safe, thankfully, but that wouldn't last forever. Given time, the defences would eventually be worn down and the SS would break into the city. But would they be held off long enough for the relief force to arrive?

  A race, he told himself, as Gudrun’s eyes flicked open. And whoever gets there first wins.

  “They’re hammering the city,” he said, quietly.

  “I know,” Gudrun said. Her moods had always swung erratically after sex, something that perplexed him. His uncle might have been able to offer advice, if he hadn't punched Horst in the face for daring to run the risk of getting a nice girl in trouble. “When do you want to get married?”

  Horst hesitated, considering the question. Gudrun was brave, the bravest woman he’d ever met. And to think she’d been born and raised in Germany Prime! Once she’d committed herself, she didn't hesitate to move forward. The SS had very good reason to regret letting her go, after she’d been arrested. Her death would have solved all sorts of problems.

  “Soon,” he said. “Do you want a church wedding?”

  Gudrun shook her head. Horst felt a flicker of relief. He’d never been religious, even though he’d heard rumours of cults within the SS, cults dedicated to Odin, Thor and the other Norse gods. The idea of having the marriage solemnised in a church didn't sit well with him. But if she’d wanted it, he would have accepted it. He wanted to keep her happy.

  He kissed her, gently, then sat upright and climbed off the bed. It would be wonderful to stay in bed with her, but he knew he had work to do. And she had to approach her parents and tell them that she’d accepted his offer, pretending - all the time - that Horst hadn't asked her father first. The tradition had always puzzled him, until now. It was far too easy for a girl to be pushed into marrying someone her father wanted, rather than someone she would have chosen for herself.

  Not that Gudrun would have surrendered so easily, he thought, as he beckoned her to follow him into the shower. She wouldn't have married someone she didn't want.

  He smiled at the thought, then turned on the water and washed himself quickly as she stepped into the shower. Water ran down her body, drawing his attention to her breasts and the tuff of hair between her legs. Desire rose up within him, but he forced it down savagely. There was no time, not any longer. When he looked back at her, she was smiling. She felt the same way too.

  “There will be time later,” he promised, as he hugged her. Her bare breasts felt tantalisingly warm against his skin. It was all he could do not to make love to her again. She wanted it as much as he did. “But for now ...”

  And when he finally made his way down to his bedroom, he found another note waiting for him.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Berlin, Germany Prime

  10 October 1985

  Stay very quiet, Hauptsturmfuehrer Hennecke Schwerk told himself, as he inched forward though the house. Stay very quiet and listen carefully.

  The sound of the constant bombardment was growing louder, making it harder for him to hear anything over the racket, save for his own heartbeat. Sweat trickled down his back as he listened, hoping to hear something - anything - that would tell him if the building was occupied. It was a simple house, built for a couple who might be expecting their first child; the possessions and kick-knacks surrounding him suggested that they’d had their first child and were probably expecting a second. There was a faint - a very faint - sound in the distance, but he couldn't make out what it was ...

  There might be someone here, he thought. Or it might be empty ...

  He kept moving forward, peering into what had once been a neat kitchen. It looked to have been stripped of anything edible or useful, then abandoned. The gas cooker had been disconnected, the pipe closed; the water pipes to the entire suburb had been turned off after the population had been evacuated, further into the city. He wondered, absently, as he heard a faint tapping sound, if the owners had made it west or if they were trapped somewhere towards the heart of Berlin. There was no way to know.

  His breath caught in his throat as he moved into the next room. His gaze swept the room, taking in the sofa, the comfortable chair, the portraits of Adolf Hitler and Adolf Bormann hanging from the walls ... the owner would be a low-level party functionary, then. Too intimately involved with the party to avoid hanging portraits on the walls, too low on the pecking order to be able to afford better decorations or a home nearer the Reichstag. He kept his rifle at the ready as he crept towards the door, wondering if the home could be declared secure and then left empty. There was no love lost between the Waffen-SS and the millions of bureaucrats who kept the Reich running, but he had to admit they were necessary. Maybe the owners would return, with the wife looking after the kid while the husband went back to work ...

  He turned the corner and practically ran into the enemy soldier. For a second, they stared at each other in mutual shock, then tried to bring up their rifles. Hennecke realised, in a flash of insight, that his enemy had the advantage; he hurled himself forward, trying to draw his knife from his belt as he slammed into the enemy soldier. But the enemy knocked the knife from his hand as they crashed to the floor, both men desperately trying to kill the other before he was killed instead. Hennecke got on top, then was thrown back as the enemy pushed forward, grunting in pain. He was a good fighter, Hennecke had to admit; his training was different, but none the less thorough.

  Hennecke glanced around for his knife, but it was nowhere to be seen. He didn't have the time to draw his pistol without losing it too. His opponent knocked him backwards, drawing back a fist to slam Hennecke in the face; Hennecke punched him as hard as he could in the groin. His fist met something hard - the soldier was wearing protection - but it still hurt, distracting the enemy soldier long enough for Hennecke to punch him in the jaw, snapping his neck back. And then Hennecke slammed him again, as hard as he could. The enemy soldier tottered backwards, his neck broken, and hit the ground with a dull thud.

  Hennecke could only stare at the body for a long moment, torn between relief and a peculiar kind of excitement as his enemy breathed his last. He’d had unarmed combat skills hammered into his head during training, his instructors drilling the recruits mercilessly until even the least of them was deadly with or without a weapon, but it was the first time Hennecke had ever killed a man with his bare hands. It had simply never been necessary, not for all of his career. And now he’d done it, he found himself unsure what to feel.

  He sucked in his breath as he heard the sound of running footsteps, then hastily picked up his rifle. Losing it would be a good way to get in trouble. He checked the body as a Strumscharfuehrer entered the room, rifle at the ready. Hennecke didn't recognise him, but that hardly mattered. Far too many units had been chewed to pieces as the fighting raged on, the enemy refusing to fall back to their next line of defence until they had taken out as many stormtroopers as they could. But it hardly mattered. The assignment - clear the suburb - had to be completed, whatever else happened.

  Shaking his head, he checked the body for anything useful, but found nothing that might interest his superiors. Jokes aside, the enemy weren’t stupid enough to put copies of their battle plans on the corpses of ordinary soldiers. And if he had found something that claimed to be a battle plan, he would have been reluctant to pass it on to his superiors. It would almost certainly be a fake. He removed a half-empty packet of cigarettes and a lighter, then led the way back out of the house. The sound of shelling grew louder as he stepped into the open and peered towards Berlin. Great clouds of smoke were rising in the distance, obscuring the city.

  But the aircraft will still be able to find their targets, he thought, nastily. And as long as they’re not dropping bombs on us, who cares?

  He took a moment to study the squad as it slowly reformed. He’d lost too many men from his original company, but his superiors had supplied repl
acements - the survivors of other units that had lost too many men to remain viable. They’d have to be rebuilt from the ground up, if the war ever came to an end. Hennecke had been fighting for seven days, barely finding the time to get a few hours of sleep in between attacking, counterattacking and counter-counterattacking. He felt perpetually hungry and increasingly deaf.

  And his men looked ragged. They were all experienced - even the least of them had spent months marching over Russia, chasing insurgents - but none of them had experienced a hellish nightmare like Berlin. Hennecke knew, as little as he wanted to admit it, that they needed to be pulled out of the line and given a few days to rest. But it wasn't going to happen, not when their superiors were demanding results. The best they could hope for was good food and warm drinks and it didn't look as though they were going to get either of them.

  He sighed, feeling torn. There was a part of him that loved the fighting, that loved testing himself, that loved showing the westerners that treason had consequences. The dumb bastards had never really believed in the Reich, let alone committed themselves to doing whatever was necessary to ensure that the Reich’s dominance. They deserved, every so often, a reminder that the universe was cold and harsh, red in tooth and claw. And yet, he hated to think just how many stormtroopers had died. The battle to break into the suburbs had cost him over twenty men, suggesting that over five hundred men had been killed in a single bitter skirmish.