Hellsbaene: Odin's Warriors - Book 1

by Aeryn Leigh

  Maybe even both.

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  Amelia Defiant

  "Dance dog, dance." Augustus pulled the lead up, standing on Fang's feet if the puppy didn't move quickly enough. The twins laughed. The adults still huddled by the front entrance, oblivious to the impromptu court the twins held, the standing rocks up the back now makeshift thrones. "My Queen, it appears the dog looks at me funny. Command our subject to soothe it yet again."

  Queen Selena laughed. "Yes, my king." She pulled on the leash, and jerked Amelia forward by the neck. "Soothe the beast."

  Amelia had long stopped crying. The rough collar bit into her neck. She hugged Fang, but the dog refused to settle.

  "I said settle the mongrel." Selena raised the wooden stick, taken from one of the supply poles, and brought it hard down on the puppy's head. The thick, stout wood hit with a muffled thud, and the dog yelped.

  "No, that's enough," yelled Amelia. "Stop it." Some adults turned in their direction on the far side, but went back to trying to find out what was happening outside.

  "Stop it. Stop it. Stop it." Augustus stood up, and took his sister's three-foot weapon. "Where's your friends now?" He mashed the pole end into Amelia's leather-covered foot, making her cry out. "Where's your mummy's lover? Aw poor little Helena. That's right, burned to a crisp, like the faggot she was." The twins laughed, and struck Fang once more.

  In the tears, and the hate, in the pain, and the fear of being all alone, in the dark — Amelia realised something.

  She had the power.

  That's why they hated her. They knew. They were the cowards. They were afraid. She had drunk with Vikings. With men who flew on bombers and laughed Death straight in the face. With my mother. Who flew for the Luftwaffe.

  Who never gave up. She stood up.

  Defiant.

  Fang sensed the change, and stopped whimpering.

  "Hit me, not the dog," she said, evenly. "I'm not afraid."

  Selena snickered. "With pleasure, faggot girl." Her brother handed the stout staff over, and with a mighty back-hand swing, brought the pole around and aimed for her head. Amelia closed her eyes, bracing for the impact — and the sound of wet thunk rang through her ears. Her eyes opened. Fang held the end of the pole, pulling Selena off guard, dropping Amelia's lead in the process. With a savage pull of muscle, the German Shepherd pup tore the pole from Selena's grip, and dropped it at Amelia's feet. She picked up the pole, and before the twins could react, charged right at them, screaming a sound she never knew she could make. In their shocked and terrified eyes, jutting the pole end first Amelia rammed it into Selena's nose, smashing it flat. Her brother cried out, leaping for her, but a well-timed swing smacked hardwood into the side of his face, stunning him.

  As all the children watched stupefied, the pole came down on their heads, first the brother, then the sister, again, and again, the wood slamming into flesh and cartilage, bones breaking, as she swung and swung, until at last, adults began running their way, as the twins twitched on the cold black stones.

  The pole staff hit the floor, dropped from her outcast fingers. She jumped up on the stone throne, panting. Amelia tossed a bloody remnant of hair back. Not hers.

  "I am Amelia Gruder, daughter of Ella, daughter of Helena Kruppe. You cannot hurt me, even if you kill me." The twins suckered in air through smashed noses and obliterated orifices, lying mangled in blood at her throne's foot. "But the next person who even tries to, shall meet their fate." Small fingers unlatched the collar, as the adults arrived, and stopped in their tracks, taking in the scene.

  Amelia held up a hand. She let the leash drop on the bullies beneath her. "We ought to get along," she said to the sea of faces. "I don’t know why we fight amongst each other." Amelia hopped down, limping on one foot, and hugged Fang. "Good boy. Miss Jeraldson, sorry about that. When are we having cake?"

  No-one noticed the blue dancing ball of light, that flickered for a moment, in the darkest shadows of the cavern.

  Chapter Ninety-Nine

  Special Delivery

  Far below the Purity's metal decks, the four boiler rooms sent their superheated water energy to the Parson turbines, and almost fifty-thousand horsepower spun the four ten-foot wide propellers beneath the waters of the Bay. Sirens, steam-release valves, and whistles sounded in the dark, claustrophobic engine room, as the engineers struggled to follow the captain's orders.

  Captain McDonnell had the bridge to himself. Every other man fought in a desperate hand-to-hand combat just outside it, as the Vikings somehow nudged ever closer to taking the bridge. He spoke into the speaker phone.

  "All hands. Do not accept further commands except under my authority," he said. "The bridge is almost taken. Reinforcements are on their way. Fight to the last. For the Emperor."

  He stopped turning the helm's wheel, and the Purity settled on her new course, steaming towards the supporting ships-of-the-line, and their Marine reinforcements.

  Snorri pulled his sword out of the man's stomach, and ducked just in time as a sabre swung where his head had been. He elbowed the seaman in the gut, and flipped the sword around, gutting the man behind.

  "What a glorious day," he said. "Hey, Sven?" He scratched his nose under the metal nose plate, then took a quick look around the corner. "The bridge is just there."

  Sven Hankeloff put his right foot on the corpse before him and eased the longsword out. "A glorious day, Snorri." Another twelve of their kinsmen joined them, covered in blood, most of it not theirs.

  "See you in Valhalla," said Snorri. He picked up the man he'd just killed, used him as a shield, and the last Vikings alive on the Purity charged around the corner.

  Bullets ripped into the cadaver, and one into Snorri's upper thigh. The sailors crouched next to the bridge's walkway tried to reload as the Vikings fell on top of them. Snorri dropped the body, and made it into the bridge. A man in a crisp uniform and shiny cap snarled, and lifted his service pistol. Snorri's leg began to buckle sprinting across the metal plate. The captain fired, once, before the Viking ran him through, both of them falling against the forward windows.

  Snorri managed to stand up, only to fall again. Sven caught him, and steadied them both. The Captain's body fell onto the bridge's floor.

  "Is that good?" said Sven. He pointed. The row of warships loomed in the near distance, and the beach not far beyond that.

  "Probably not," said Snorri. His stomach hurt. "Try pulling back the throttles there." Sven pulled the chrome handle all the way back, on the grand half-wheel speed control. They listened. No response.

  "Well General Versetti wanted this ship, intact if possible. Let's deliver it."

  "Where?" said Sven.

  "Oh, there," said Snorri, smiling. "I think the ship will look quite good on the beach, don't you?"

  Chapter One Hundred

  A Symphony Of Shrieking, Tearing Metal

  Hellsbaene released from the Purity and the eight Vikings strove hard on the oars to swing the longboat around. "There," said Beowulf. The seaplane taxied six-hundred yards away, as it struggled to get off the water, it's engine sounding sick.

  "We kill it," said Beowulf.

  "The waist guns are out," said Magnus. "The twins up front?"

  Beowulf made his way to the prow, the swell on the bay heavy as the winds picked up. "Five seconds, if that," he said, looking into the ammo boxes.

  "Let's get you that then," said Magnus. "For the King." Muscles popped and twitched, but the longship pointed at the seaplane. Hellsbaene's prow rose yards into the air and down again, up and down in time with the rough sea.

  Magnus started the twin engines, the Merlin's snarling with their magic and the longship leapt after the seaplane.

  The wide circuit to bring her around behind the seaplane felt like years. Ella lifted the hunting rifle up, so it now sat on the leather seat, the walnut-stock between her thighs, barrels resting on the cockpit surround. Just me and the Drilling. Ella considered how on Earth she'd reload a
fter firing, let alone firing and flying at the same time. So, three shots then. One rifle, two shotguns.

  Think positive Ella. You can do this. You've won your share of Luftwaffe shooting competitions. Make each shot count. She came around, at a height of over one-thousand feet, over the water that looked like glass, and accelerated for the grey Supermarine.

  The dead king's sword felt like a ton in Laurie's hand. Blood dripped down along its blade onto the already-red sand. He panted for breath against the metal side of a dead tank, and wiped guts off his bare left arm, not knowing who it belonged to. Griffin covered them, carrying the great machine-gun in both hands, what was left of the ammunition coil dangling from it. He only fired at the war engines now. Sarah shot another burst from her grease gun, killing another Inquisition trooper stupid enough to charge their position.

  Mick sprinted across the short open ground amongst the spray of bullets and careened into them. He dropped the box — with care — to the ground.

  "Figured you'd be out, mate," he said. He waved back to Bear, who provided covering fire from the .303 machine gun bunker up and to their left.

  "Cheers," said Laurie, opening the wooden box. He lifted out a Molotov cocktail.

  "At least we know their weak spots," said Mick.

  "We do," said Laurie. But how we do, he thought, images upon images pouring past the movie-screen of his mind. The wave of their troops had broken against the Inquisition forces, all subtleties and strategies gone, replaced by the short and manic death-wrestle of human against human, bones cracking with blunt force trauma and the bursting jets of arterial spray.

  And the enemy, now so young, so many of them, comprising the reserve Inquisition forces. Screaming men, young men, some barely in double-digits, maybe even not that, charged them with no fear, no regards for their lives, giving no mercy or quarter.

  He'd never seen anything like it. And he'd hesitated, almost got himself killed, leading the counter-attack down the plain.

  A boy in a uniform raised his gun, right in front of him, and he'd baulked at pulling his Smith & Wesson. A boy. The bullet tore through the fabric of his shirt, between the collarbone and his jugular. Precious moments later, he put his last bullet right between the child's eyes.

  Whoever the sick fucks behind all this were would pay. It wasn't right. Children. But his fellow Republic comrades didn't seem as perturbed as the rest of his crew, or Lucius's. They'd had years of exposure to atrocities carried out by these young Inka marines. Bastards.

  As for the tanks, well once you got past the hundreds and hundreds immolated closing into grenade range or putting a .50 calibre round into the small spot that showed the exposed treads, or right behind them into the thinner rear armour — well once you'd done that trifling thing, and survived the supporting enemy marines, things were easy. He laughed, voice wobbling, and the three next to him exchanged worried looks.

  "Laurie, Mick. Take a look at that, Sarah" said Griffin, nodding his head towards the beach on their left, five hundred yards away on the other side of the river.

  The Purity smashed right into the line of warships anchored off the coast, its massive steel prow tossing the sailing ships aside like so many toys, masts and wood snapping as hulls were driven down into the water. The dreadnought kept coming, three-hundred yards from the mouth of the river.

  Laurie squinted. Was that a Viking waving from its bridge? Snorri? His jaw dropped.

  "Boat," said Mick.

  Laurie and the others watched in awe as for the second time in thirty-plus years, the twenty-thousand-odd tons of dreadnought ran herself aground in a symphony of shrieking, tearing metal.

  Chapter One Hundred One

  It Ends, Now

  Grieg pounded on the engine cover. The old engine kept power for a few seconds, then faltered, on and off again.

  Is it the fuel filter, he thought? I'm positive I checked that before we embarked. So maybe the fuel-line? He reached down below the suspended engine and wiggled the ageing rubber tubing. Through the spinning propeller, that strange longship disengaged from the dreadnought and swung in their direction. Its prow lifted up as its engines kicked in. He massaged the length of the tubing. The V8 surged and became steady. Grieg spun around and dropped back into his seat.

  Beowulf wedged his lower body under the gun mounts as the distance closed. The seaplane accelerated too, both vessels jumping over the waves. Beowulf armed the twin machine-guns, as the sea spray stung his face. He tried to get a bead on the seaplane, but couldn't quite manage it.

  "Closer Magnus," he said. "Ram them if needed." The full power of Hellsbaene unleashed, and the seaplane came up fast, the longship trying her best to kill them.

  Grieg pushed the throttle all the way forward. He heard the roar of the Lancaster's engines behind, as the seaplane just missed the right wave to launch off. The tip of the flying-boat buried itself into the next swell, covering Wright and Grieg in water.

  The flying-boat filled Beowulf's vision. He squeezed both triggers, and held them down, the twin guns chattering until they stopped. The plane kept going. He missed? No, there, holes in the fuselage and wings. But nothing critical. How? Twenty-yards now, eighteen, fifteen. "Come on," he said. "Almost there. A little more my love." He gripped his sword, preparing to jump onto the aircraft. The seaplane sunk down in a swell, then rode the next wave up, and lifted into the air, as the Viking ship screamed beneath, sideways into the swell.

  Magnus stopped the engines. "Behind us, Beowulf." He pointed. Seconds later, another aircraft catapulted overhead.

  "Verpiss dich," said Ella, unable to see. The section of fabric covering the top fuselage between the engine cowling and the cockpit peeled off, flapping over the small cockpit shield. She ripped it off and let it go over her head into the slipstream.

  Well on the bright side, she thought, I can now see my feet, the light shining in. Ahead and to her right, just out of rifle range, Grieg fought for altitude, against the headwind. Her throttle rested at the thirty percent mark she'd drawn on the wooden surround.

  Grieg grew closer, but not fast enough. She pushed it to forty percent. The airframe buckled and twisted, and she heard something snap with a twang. She eased it back down. Dammit.

  The two aircraft flew over the Bay, past the wide mouth entrance, over the wreckage of ships and smaller boats, capsized or adrift in the water. Thousands of uncountable corpses bobbed on the breaking waves amongst the broken fleets, and large swathes of ship's sails looking like soft pillows, from her vantage high above.

  Just a little further. She eased Helena up, and nestled the gun into her left shoulder, the barrel resting over the right edge of the cockpit.

  Easy, easy. She moved her head and sighted the target. She watched the man in the forward cupola point at her, and say something to Grieg. The flying-boat swung hard to their left, it's machine-gun coming to bear. She pulled the control yoke into her gut and shoved her left foot in, as far as the rudder went, trying to hang onto the gun. Her aircraft lifted and rolled, out of range as Grieg now dived back to the island chains extending out to over the horizon, before ending in open water and back towards Inquisition territory.

  Oh, no you don't.

  Ella pushed the stick level and followed, but keeping her height steady around three-thousand feet. She nudged the throttle forward as slow it could go, hitting it with the heel of her left hand, like she was tuning a cranky, cankerous lethal piano, searching for every extra knot of speed. A cloud bank appeared ahead, and she flew through it, and out the other side, keeping an eye on Grieg's plane hugging the ocean way below.

  The aircraft sang and hummed with vibrations, coming from all over. Another iron spar snapped, this time directly aft of the Wright-Cyclone engine, where the engine mounts bolted onto the iron all around the perimeter's round fuselage. Hang together baby. Just a little more.

  Over the fifth island, the Bay of Harmony ten miles back, Ella could no longer see the aircraft below.

  It ends, now.
r />   She pushed the stick forward until it hit the stop. The wind shrieked by, as the speedometer wound up and the prototype dived, as single-minded as an eagle plummeting towards its prey. Except it wasn't. The prey was half-a-mile back and Ella levelled out fifty-feet above the ocean's waves and started her last charge. The mechanical horse underneath pranced and roared in approval, and she lifted her lance. Ella spurred her mount onwards into the mouth of fire, the seaplane's gunner returning the spirit of joust. The Gods in the Royal Stands of Elysium roared and bellowed as the war drums blared. Her mount trembled with each hit, but she stayed her course. She took a breath and sighted down Helena, travelling with her.

  "This is for you, girl," she said, as her horse whinnied with each mortal blow. The field shrank, her decisions ended in one-needle point, she breathed out. Her fingers pulled both triggers. She saw her lance bloom red upon the enemy's chest. The war-horses swept past, dying as they fell towards the mortal earth.

  Chapter One Hundred Two

  Five Minutes Alone

  The waves lapped against her face, her body resting on the island's sandy beach. Ella blinked. Her left shoulder screamed in agony, as she tried sitting up. I think I'll just lie here for a bit. Clouds swirled by overhead, low-flying puffs of white against the darker, grey storm clouds above.

  She tried to remember anything past the moment she'd pulled the plane out of its dive. I shot him. And then, here, the beach. She craned her head and saw the wreckage of her beloved prototype, jutting out of the surf, its back broken, the entire engine sitting fifteen-feet past the wreck under the shade of a large tree. Helena laid on the sand, just outside her reach above the high-tide.