by Aeryn Leigh
A little laugh.
Then bigger ones came, and Ella sank to the ground, laughing harder and harder at the sheer craziness of it all, and couldn't stop. Her nose dribbled snot, eyes watering, great big belly laughs tightening her stomach muscles until they were sore, aching each breath, and still she laughed, her pains forgotten.
Lying on her back, the laughing stopped in a short while, and there she lay, the stars overhead, catching her breath. Polaris shone down, twinkling through the leaves and branches for the first time since she'd crashed.
Wait, Polaris has a twin?
"Murderer, you say," she said, rolling her head to look at Merrion.
Who wasn't there.
She sat bolt upright.
"The villagers," he said behind her. Merrion sat next to the fire, helping himself to the last of the food she'd cooked.
Helena laid against the tree, two yards to his left. Still enough distance to shoot him before he reached the long gun.
"Did I miss a knife?" she said, walking carefully back to the other side of the fire, right next to Helena.
"You did," said Merrion, producing a grey-black dagger from out of nowhere. And then surprised her by flipping it around, and holding it out, handle towards her.
Ella rubbed her temples. She took the dagger, stuck it in the log between them, and sat down.
"I didn't murder them," she whispered. "They were dead. Did you kill them?"
Now he laughed, a tiny mirthless sound. "No. I am no thief, and you are no murderer." He looked at the wrapped child. "Wrathful, yes." He reached forward, picking up the dagger, and then dug out a pellet she'd missed on his forearm. "I may have mid-judged you, seeing you come out carrying a red and gold bundle. I thought you a Marine Scout, and decided to best gather your equipment and make a dash for it whilst I could."
"Well if you didn't kill them, who did?" Her hand rested on the pistol in her lap.
He looked at her. "You really have no idea, do you?" He spat into the fire. "The Inquisition."
Chapter Forty-One
Beserker
The survivors fled back along the path, back towards the logging area. Daniel led the rear, a pistol in hand, and Abe's tucked into his belt.
They heard the sound of the .50 calibre open up, and those still conscious counted off the seconds in their head after each burst from Betty, Laurie maintaining tight fire discipline.
The echo of the heavy machine gun boomed in the forested hills.
"Sixty seconds of continuous firing you say?" said Mick, leading the front.
"Yeah," said Griffin, "that's about all you'll get from one Browning ammo crate." He held the limp arm with his good hand, a grease gun over his shoulder.
"He's half out," said Lucius, a little further up the path.
"What did you say he was before the war?" said Daniel, looking back over his shoulder.
"He never left mate," said Mick. "Infantry in the First War, and been a pilot ever since. Didn't he get a V.C. Andrew?"
Andrew grunted, and shifted James around. Blood soaked through the back of his shirt and ran down his legs. "Victoria Cross for bravery at Passchendaele," he said, "for charging a machine gun post single-handed."
"Forty-five seconds," said Griffin.
Still Betty hammered.
A brace of semi-automatic pistols shots punctuated the silence. As one man, they held their breath. And Betty thundered once more.
They hobbled, walked, and clinked as fast as they could, counting down the bursts.
Then nothing.
More pistols shots, and then even those stopped.
"He's out," said Griffin. Passchendaele, he thought, a text-book bloodbath. So, Laurie's a retread. Both World Wars. Figures.
A wail swelled up, carried on the faint wind. The hairs on the back of their necks rose, the song and scream of Laurie gone far, too far over the edge, the faintest tinkle of metal swords meeting metal carried on the wind, as Laurie bought them time.
The cranky, stoic Old Man.
Out in front, Mick, leading the group further into the forest and still carrying Amelia, blinked, and fought back tears. He didn't dare turn around to see, too afraid to let the others watch him cry.
If he had, he would have seen he wasn’t alone.
Beowulf Hffylson threw himself onto the wooden floor. Splinters the size of ice-picks ripped into flesh and material around him from holes puncturing the tower's walls. Olav Holand stood by the window. "Down," yelled Beowulf, to both Olav and Manx. Olav didn't hear him, or misheard, and seconds later Beowulf watched as a fist-shaped hole punched through both the sturdy wood and the man's armoured chest, before chewing an exit hole out on the far timber wall. Bone and gore splattered across the room. His wolfhound however lay flat across the wooden floor, eyes cast down.
It is the hammer of gods, Beowulf, son of King Rothgar Hffylson, concluded. The prince crawled to the trap-door leading down to the stone cellar and opened it. The passageway led down, towards the river. "In, Manx." Beowulf gave the command, and Manx shuffled across, and jumped down. Prince Hffylson followed, and hurried along the stone tunnel. The thunder stopped midway, and Beowulf ran to the end, where it again opened into the sky. He peered over the stone lip. His longboat had sunk, only it's mast above the river. My boat. Bodies floated on the surface, some moving, some not. The prince moved to the other side, then raised an armoured gauntlet. Manx stayed.
The man who fired God's Hammer, walked down the path, his brown leather and fur clothes ripped, oblivious to his wounds, screaming and laughing whilst cutting down the few warriors left that charged him. None could withstand his wrath.
He's not a man, thought Beowulf. Berserker. Beowulf readied himself to charge the warrior and meet him in glorious battle, Odin be praised.
He paused.
Beyond the crazed berserker, a pregnant she-wolf followed. The animal barked, and the bark turned to a howl of grief, sitting back on her haunches. The berserker hesitated, and collapsed, rendered unconscious by the wolf's spell, face down into the dirt. The animal padded over, stood guard, as regal a scene Beowulf had ever witnessed. The she-wolf turned her head, and stared at Beowulf Hffylson.
Chapter Forty-Two
Who Are You?
"The Inquisition. The Spanish Inquisition?" said Ella, mouth open. "But they're long dead."
"What year is it where you came from?" She looked at him blankly. "Your clothes," he said, "are unlike anything I've seen. Even without the blood."
She fought the blush but lost. She threw a log onto the fire harder than necessary. A shower of sparks rose into the air.
"1944," she said, adding, "A.D." She massaged her temples.
"So, time at least passes the same, more or less.”
"Sorry?"
"In the year of their Lord 1588, a great storm hit their armada as they returned from their thwarted attempt to invade England. Seventeen warships arrived in this world, passing through the storm. Their effect on the population already here, one might say, was an ill omen." He paused. "Do you believe in God?"
"Ahhh."
"The Spaniard's do," he said, staring into the sky. "For over three hundred and fifty years, they have called this the Great Crusade. They were sent here on a divine mission as Chosen, Divine Catholics, and all here will convert or burn. Although I doubt the current Emperor — or last three for that matter really believe that religiously about divine Catholics, anyway. They're quite fond of immolation."
"And you?" she said, looking at his Roman carapace.
"Trophy of War," he said, noticing her gaze. "Still holds up after all these years."
And it's been passed down in my family for seven generations, but I'm not going to tell you that, he thought.
"Romans, Spaniards — who else is here?" Ella clutched her stomach.
"I gather you would like to know," he said, "but you have yet to answer my question."
"What does it matter?"
He looked at her, began to speak, then cl
osed his mouth.
"What does any of it matter," he said, muttering. "And who are you?"
Chapter Forty-Three
The Glory of God
Colonel Grieg walked for two hours before he found his salvation. Simple, honest people who had distilled their life into a pureness of thought and action.
Black and White. No Grey, just refined clarity of vision.
Farms full of slaves, mining operations of forced labour, towering buildings of majestic simplicity — this was the civilisation he'd dreamed of.
On the outskirts of the city Grieg came across, he witnessed what a Thousand-Year-Reich might do if given a few centuries. The small wooden house, in the cleft of a valley, opened up to the regal, magnificent white-clad city on the plain before them, on the edge of a great bay, tall-masted ships scattered across the harbour.
The old man lived alone, his family long gone, and welcomed another visitor, even if he wore strange clothes and was limping. The man had talked endlessly, recounting the history of his people, his adventures, and valorous deeds, and what they'd achieved for the Glory of God, their birthright.
"Where did you say you were from again" said the grey-haired senior at the end of his story, leaning forward, trying to get a better look through failing eyes.
"Your clothing — is it approved by the Priesthood?" he said, doubt creeping into his voice. "Or — are you the Priesthood?"
Grieg slit the man's throat where he sat in the kitchen. He rummaged through the house, and swapped his flight-suit for apparel more appropriate to the culture in the valley below. He found the wooden chest in the main bedroom, and pried it open.
Well, though Grieg, he wasn't lying about that. A polished helm, round shield, flintlock pistol and short sword lay on a small pile of glimmering gold coins of all types and wonder. A handful of coins went into his pocket, the rest into his pack and Grieg closed the chest. After he'd dressed in a simple tunic and trousers, he stoked the cooking fire and made lunch, stepping over the body to gather ingredients, humming as he did so.
When he left, carrying his survival kit, suit and polished boots in a pack over his shoulder, he torched the old soldier's house and walked down the valley, as happy and open to possibilities as a brand new day.
Chapter Forty-Four
Kingly Warriors
Prince Beowulf Hffylson ripped off a chunk of bread and chewed it, sitting in the main hall of the fort which compared to the previous day, now let in a lot more light. He swallowed.
"Five men unhurt, twenty-three maimed — half of them consider themselves lucky if they might see the coming day — and fifty-eight dead," he said to Snorri Hornklofi, his childhood friend on the other end of the bench who twirled his long, braided ponytail around and around.
Around them in the hall lay the wounded, tended by three of the remaining five. The other two stood guard above them. Beowulf could smell the copper tang of blood saturating the ground.
"All our war chargers slain. My longboat sits in the bottom of the river with the others. Our thralls have fled into the woods. From one man…" He glanced at the sleeping body of the berserker, laid flat on the feasting table, arrow still stuck in his calf, snoring softly, the wolf-shaped dog lying in the sawdust with watchful eyes under the table, staring right at them, "…from one man such damage was wrought."
"I picked a fine day to go fishing," said Snorri. He leant over and touched the gun resting on the bench. "It is a weapon of the Gods. Steel slugs that pass through thick wood and armour and men and ten more behind mocking their pride?" He held a flattened bullet pried from the blacksmith's forge in his hand, the metal deformed after boring through three kin before burying itself into the forge’s side.
Beowulf rubbed his temples.
"And what of his companions?" said Snorri.
"Retreated north towards our far logging camp," said Beowulf. "At least one dozen strong, blumen as well, wearing the same unfamiliar clothing, adorned with smaller weapons like our friend here. And a small child. Jorvik would know, but I will have to ask him in Valhalla. He was escorting them in."
Snorri met Beowulf' gaze. "You do not think that —"
"That Odin sent us kingly warriors in his stead for the battle ahead? And of all our kin to meet them, it had to Jorvik’s men?”
Snorri carved off a piece of bread. "It would be time again, according to the songs." He stuffed the bread into his mouth.
"That is what I am afraid of. One man destroyed an entire settlement Snorri; such a sight my friend I wish you never have to see."
"We have to find them, before those Spaniard bastards of Ares do."
"First," said Beowulf, "we need to hear the tales of this man."
The she-wolf yawned, and appraised them. And then if inviting them, lay on her side to rest her swollen pregnant belly, in trust. Her eyes watched the wolf-hound, sitting by Beowulf side.
"Well," said Snorri, "no better welcoming than that."
"Help me get the arrow out then, and let us see," said Beowulf. "But tie him down first." The dog raised her head. "For his own protection."
The head lowered.
Snorri grinned, tore the hunk of bread in two, and threw one to each dog.
Ella's heart thumped a tattoo upon her chest. "Who am I?" She paused for a moment. "I'm Ella," she said in a rush, "Ella Gruder." She took a deep breath.
"And what is it you do, Ella, when you're not rescuing horses, children or dragging men?"
"I…I fly aeroplanes."
"What are aero…planes?"
She opened her mouth then shut it. She stared at the fire.
Merrion regarded her, and laughed. "So, you really are new-blood," he said. "Every generation, maybe sometimes two or three generations or so for thousands of years, this world is delivered new blood and weapons and machines of war via the Great Storm, spat out of the Maelstrom. Yet for the last couple of centuries, the Inquisition managed to snare most new-bloods, and now rule an empire." His voice grew quiet. "And thou, here you are."
"I'm trying to find my daughter," she said finally.
"When did you last see her?"
"In the storm, we... got separated."
For once Merrion did not smile. "Then Ella," he said, "she could be anywhere in this world."
She gritted her teeth. "When I find her, we're going back."
"There is no going back," he said angrily. "Who do you think you are? Men and women have been trying for centuries to get back to the Real World, they call it. But people like myself, born here, for us this 'is' the Real World. It's you lot that go insane, not us."
She glared at him.
"I take it back — you're not dumb and deaf — you are smart, wilful, headstrong, and full of rage and pride — and for those sins, your enemies will eat you alive."
He sighed. He saw Ella shaking.
"And what are you doing out here?" she said, trying not to scream. "Who are you?"
He stood up. "My name is Merrion Hawkwind, and the less you know, the less you'll talk when the Inquisition rips your nails off."
Chapter Forty-Five
Friends
Laurie, son of Sarah and Marcus John, awoke. Orange-red beams of light transversed the building surrounding him through myriad holes. He blinked.
No, you bastard. No.
No, I cannot be still alive.
He heard the sounds of quiet moans, and smelt blood and smoke and fire and death, the sickly-sweet aroma filling his nostrils. He laid on a hard, wooden bench, and sat up. Rope held his legs together to the table, a simple knot, a child's knot and easy to undo. The arrow no longer pierced his calf. Instead a grey-white bandage wrapped around his leg.
I should be dead. I ought to be dead. He muttered. A familiar whine came from underneath.
"Skippy?" he said, swinging his legs off the table and lowering a hand down. A wet nose greeted his hand and rough sandpaper licked it. Laurie put a tentative foot down and then the injured leg, using the table as support, and stood. Men
laid on straw bedding hard against the walls, some intact, some without limbs, all covered in blood and bandages. None would meet his gaze.
The main door beckoned. With Skippy by his side he walked under the doorway and halted in the sunset's light. Five men lay wood and bodies on a long funeral pyre one-hundred yards away, by the river bank where the dock had been. The slain men laid side by side, stacked upon each other, interlaced with wood and the dead horses, armour, and weapons.
A man turned and saw him, and said something to the figure alongside, the only one wearing a round metal helm. Another wolf-hound sat on its haunches, regarding him. They all looked at him now, and then the helmed man beckoned him over with a hand. The two red-hairs turned back to the pile and continued working.
Laurie made his way over, Skippy by his side, wondering why he still lived. His weapons rested on a log next to the great pyre, Betty propped against it, dwarfing the rest of the kit. The five men carried swords and flintlocks on their waist belts, and an odd crossbow here and there strapped to their back.
"A fine day's work you made us here," said the shorter man with a quite long ponytail, carrying the last body up to be placed on the unlit pyre. But to Laurie's ears, he didn't understand a word the man said.
"Where's my crew?" said Laurie, coming to a stop within ten yards of the log and the pyre. "My men. The child. Where are they?"
The helmed-man jumped off the pyre and strode towards him, stopping just outside arm’s length. "You speak English," he said, in passable English. He spun around. "Englander," he said to the men. Skippy dropped to the ground and rested. Her belly was getting too big now to be standing around without a good reason to.
