by Mat Nastos
Hagan’s thick neck muscles twitched at his superior’s orders. “I do not understand why we need the help of a half-Jew and his boy-lover? They can do nothing the least of the Edda Society’s minds cannot already do.”
“And that is why you are a fool, Hagan.”
The bluntness of his superior’s rebuttal had the soldier flinch.
“Einstein and Von Braun themselves have declared the Jew to be one of the most significant minds to have been born in the last thousand years. Those two men – those two homosexuals – are responsible for our connection with the Jotnar. Without Wittgenstein and Frank, the Edda Council would still be mortal. You… would still be a pathetic soldier on the front lines of combat,” stated Gebhardt. “Now, because of their work and their machines, you are much greater than before, are you not?”
“Yes, Herr Doktor Gebhardt.” Hagan felt his blood rising at the thought of his beloved Fatherland or the Edda Society being indebted to one such as Wittgenstein. Genius or not, once the Jew’s work was done – once his masters in the Edda Society had no further use of the… man – Hagan would feast on Wittgenstein’s heart.
“Give the Austrians whatever aid they request, but watch them closely. You will report any unusual activities to either me or to Reichsführer Himmler once he has arrived.”
“Herr Himmler is coming here?” It was clear to Slanina the announcement stunned and pleased Hagan immensely. Heinrich Himmler had helped to lead the Nazi Party, Germany, and the Edda Society itself to much of the greatness it had achieved in the last few years. The change in Hagan’s demeanor showed just how much the leader of the Schwarzbär unit knew it was his chance to become noticed and to advance.
“The Reichsführer will arrive in the morning. Secure proper quarters for he and his entourage at the finest establishment this dreary country has to offer. Tell no one of his coming. The damned English have spies everywhere and their attack on the Reichsprotektor has emboldened them.”
So pleased with his assignment, Slanina wasn’t sure Hagan heard Gebhardt’s final statement as the soldier saluted and bolted for the exit.
“Should Wittgenstein fail in his duties to the Fatherland, you will be the righteous fury of the Edda Society itself. You will be our fist and our punishment.”
* * *
Spread out in a series of oblong semicircles that enveloped Ludwig Wittgenstein and Philipp Frank, the cold iron machine appeared to be a melding of high technology and the techno-organic bowels of some strange, otherworldly leviathan. The neon tubes and wires that had once pumped power and life to the heart of the machine – the keystone device – lay dead or dormant at their feet. A series of spider-web creases dotting the corners of Frank’s eyes showed an array of emotions playing just beneath the surface of the quiet genius’s mind. The scientist wasn’t sure if the machine or its connection to the realm of the Jotnar could be re-established. And, even if they could reignite it, was less convinced it was something that should be done.
The question for both men was: how?
A ring of soldiers, spread out in the worst approximation of a casual grouping Frank had ever seen, made the additional problem of ‘how soon’ just as immediate for the two scientists. An hour earlier, the overbearing Gebhardt had sent his gang of jackbooted thugs down to help ‘encourage’ haste in the Austrians with instructions that Wittgenstein and Frank be finished before Gebhardt’s evening meal was complete.
“It is good to see that his friend’s well-being at least matches the Bavarian’s need to dine on local cuisine,” said Frank.
Wittgenstein threw a puzzled look at his friend. “Don’t be silly. Everyone knows of Gebhardt’s hatred of Bohemian food. The man had his meals flown in from Berlin earlier today.”
Wittgenstein’s complete lack of any sort of humor recognition should have surprised his companion, but these days it seemed there was little that would actually shock Philipp Frank. Instead, it only refocused him on their mutual pursuit to implement the Nazi’s impossible request.
“We should be able to adapt the machine’s core into a funnel mechanism and use it as a binder for enough energy to rejuvenate the Reichsprotektor by intensifying his connection to the Jotnar he’s chosen as his totem. A tiny gateway is all we need to connect him more fully to Garm.”
“Philipp.” If the man was wracked with any of the same concerns as Frank, his voice displayed none of it. “Even if we can reconfigure the keystone machine into something useful, we have no way to power it. The rift we opened in Kelheim lasted only the briefest of seconds and required an energy far beyond what we have access to here in Prague.”
The last time the keystone’s heart did beat, more than a hundred innocents were devoured by its infernal hunger. Something had stopped its terror from spreading throughout the German Black Forest those long months ago, but neither Frank nor Wittgenstein were sure what had gone wrong. With that failure still hot in the minds of the Edda Society and its high council, both Austrians knew full well that reconfiguring the machines to save Heydrich’s life might very well be their only chance at redemption in the Nazis’ eyes… as well as their sole chance of survival.
Without a proper response from Frank, Wittgenstein answered himself. “I suppose we can worry about energizing a generator once we’ve completed our reconfiguration and see if a portal to Jotunheim is even possible. The breach we require is nearly infinitesimal… we won’t need much to get it running. It will only cost a little.”
Shaking his head, Frank wondered aloud, “Will the cost to our own souls be worth it, Ludwig?”
Silence was Wittgenstein’s only reply as the man dropped his head to continue his work. Frank was unsure if the question had been unheard by his sometime-lover or just ignored.
* * *
Less than thirty yards away, Hans Hagan watched the Austrian scientists go about their work, flitting from one unrecognizable part of the machine to another. It made little sense to the pragmatic soldier. He did not understand the workings of their science, he only knew he and his men would drink their blood should they fail once more. If the Reichsprotektor’s heart took its final beat, their lives would end in the worst sort of agony Hagan could devise.
The thought of ripping into the supple flesh of men as soft as Frank and Wittgenstein made Hagan’s own pulse race. The beast within him lived for the thrill of bringing death to the enemies of the Edda Society. Hagan was blinded by a red haze that nearly took his feet out from under him. His heart throbbed in excess of two-hundred hammering beats per second. Cold sweat began to flow freely down his neck and into the tightly-starched confines of the warrior’s black uniform. Hagan took half a dozen steps, puppeteered by the creature bubbling just beneath his skin, before he had recovered enough from the bloodlust building within him to stop himself.
Accompanied by a member of the Schwarzbär, a small, dark-skinned man – obviously one of the locals recruited by the Reichsprotektor as his eyes and ears in Prague – approached cautiously from the background. The distraction allowed Hagan to regain most of his self-control, although molten yellow flecks in his eyes hinted it was a most tenuous of victories.
“Hauptsturmführer Hagan, this man requests a moment of your time,” the smooth voice of Private Krause eased into Hagan’s ears. The private had served in the Schwarzbär unit since its inception. The man was used to dealing with the thing inside of Hagan. After all, the powerfully-built enlisted man had the same arcane energies running through his own veins. The men shared a bond more powerful than that of blood and it helped to ease Hagan’s quivering temperament. “Karel Curda has papers listing him as an informant for the Reich.”
Looming over the smaller man, Hagan allowed his shadow to fall over the Czech, engulfing him fully. “What is it that you want, zigeuner? What do you have for me?”
Smiling from behind yellowed, rat-like teeth, Karel Curda began his story of an abandoned church nearby and
the men hiding behind its ancient walls.
CHAPTER 7
A HOUSE SAFE NO MORE
For the first time since meeting with the Scotsman and his ragged band of rebels, Donner Grimm was amazed as he stood within the entry way of the abandoned Karel Boromejsky Church. Just inside the twelve-foot-tall double-doors, the large hall was filled with crates of weapons, masses of hastily-assembled radio equipment, and a mess of whatever else the men had been able to collect during the birth of their ragged conspiracy. Grimm’s eyes roamed for several long moments as MacAndrew greeted what was left of his men and gave them a briefing of what the duo had been able to piece together from their trip to the hospital.
“Where are the others? Lieutenant Opalka and Curda? Why aren’t they here with you, lads?”
The one called Gabcik spoke up in response to the Scot’s question, with worry lacing every word. “The lieutenant went to report to his people. The Czech resistance will want to know what has happened and what we have done.”
“And Curda?” The Celt said with a nod Grimm understood to be in sympathy with the Czech’s decision to return to his own commander. MacAndrew had explained to Grim that the soldier hadn’t been trained by the British and was only assigned to them by the local rebels to keep an eye on the group to make sure they did nothing that would make things worse for the beleaguered men fighting for the freedom of their country. But Curda was different. He had been a part of the British-sponsored team since the beginning. There was no reason for his absence. “Where is he?”
Chiming in from his position off to one side where the man’s eyes continually snapped back and forth between boarded-up windows, Kubis answered, “There’s been no sign of Curda since the attack on the Butcher.”
“It’s not a good sign for sure, laddies,” huffed MacAndrew upon hearing of the disappearance of his crew’s fifth man. It was clear the Scot had never completely trusted the one named Curda and would have avoided including him in their plans if there’d been any sort of choice. “Curda vanishing on us leaves me with a bad feeling rumbling about in my belly.”
Noticing Grimm had failed to join them, MacAndrew called out to him with as much of a teasing tone as he dared use. “Do you like our little home away from home? It’s not much, but the old place has served us well so far.”
Finished with his visual assessment of the conspirator’s jerry-built base of operations, Grimm turned his attention back to MacAndrew with an inquisitive raise of his pale-white eyebrows. “You surprise me, little Celt.”
“How so, mate?”
“This church. Using a holy house of the Christian god as a base to wage your war. I wouldn’t think his priests would approve of such a thing.”
MacAndrew dropped his weapon on the only clear space to be found in the room. The thud from the Owen gun’s steel impacting with the thick, soft wood of an ancient oaken altar echoed dully throughout the room, bouncing between beautiful stained-glass windows and worn statues of saints as if to underline Grimm’s observation.
“The caretakers turned the church’s grounds over to use before they were forced out of the city by your countrymen,” answered the Scotsman, turning his back to the northerner to work on field-stripping and cleaning the grime of recent use from his weapon. “The Nazis aren’t supporters of the Catholic Church and the clergymen – priests or no – wished to do whatever they could to help get the Butcher and his killers out of Prague… even if it meant supporting a bunch o’ rebels and a Lutheran heathen from the British Empire to do it.”
A round of laughter tore itself from the Czech men spaced throughout the room. It seemed to Grimm, that to a man, they all took comfort in being able to take refuge in the bowels of a house of their Lord. War had a way of bringing religion out in even the most unreligious of men.
Grimm reached down to pluck an ornate crucifix from its place resting upon a dusty alcove – it looked like a toy in Grimm’s hand. He examined the delicate work that played along the cross’ surface, grunting in admiration before returning the relic to its home.
“And what of you?” MacAndrew wondered from his side of the room. “Are you a religious man, Grimm?”
“I am,” stated Grimm flatly. Seeing a round of perplexed looks on display from the men around him, Grimm tilted his head toward the Celt. “Does that surprise you?”
Finishing up the work of cleaning and reassembling his machine gun, MacAndrew slid the weapon back over his shoulder and turned to Grimm, considering his answer before finally speaking. “No. You kill as only a man of extreme faith is able. Non-believers are rarely as motivated in such endeavors.”
It was Grimm’s turn to bellow out a laugh. “My god and I speak often, my friend. Sometimes, I feel, far too often.”
“What interests me more, Herr Grimm, are the words you just spoke. ‘My god’, you said. What did you mean by that?” Puzzlement drew the Scotsman’s flame-red brows together. “Isn’t your god the same as that of every man here?”
“No.” It seemed MacAndrew was caught unexpectedly by the level of matter-of-factness in Grimm’s voice. The giant’s tone left no room for interpretation or misunderstanding.
Rubbing on his chin, MacAndrew dropped onto the ancient three-legged stool barely holding itself up in front of an equally elderly telegraph machine. The Scotsman had told Grimm he needed to get word back to the ‘Boys at Baker Street’, to let them know of their failed attempt on Heydrich’s life. The stress was clearly visible on the little Celt; was it his need to send coded messages back to his superiors that worried him? The man urged his subordinates to fill them in on what had happened during their absence.
Kubis spoke up first. “We’ve been monitoring the radios since you and the German left, sir. Nazi high command has been in chaos over the attack on the Butcher in Liben. They’ve rounded up hundreds of citizens in and around the city looking for those involved… and…” The small man paused and sent a cold stare at where Grimm stood a few feet away. “…the pale giant who aided them.”
The words of his friend spurred Gabcik into action.
“Yes! We must send the stranger on his way as soon as possible. He is far too obvious and we will never be able to hide from the Germans with him in our midst.”
‘Send him away… or kill him now and be done with it’ was the real intent that lay somewhere just beneath the surface of Gabcik’s words – Grimm was no fool.
* * *
The tension quickly building in the abandoned church worried MacAndrew; he knew Grimm could more than handle any trouble the lithe Czech rebel could throw his way. The Scotsman just hoped everyone could keep themselves in check long enough for him to finish his work in front of the radio transmitter. As if on cue, the large, Frankenstein’s monster of a machine began to click and whir as it began printing out a long strip of paper with a series of numbers and letters spread out across its off-white surface.
Pushing everything else from his mind, MacAndrew’s eyes went wide as he began decrypting the message sliding through the air from the opposite side of the English Channel.
“I’ll be damned,” MacAndrew half-whispered to himself, reading over the words for a second and then a third time.
Not completely convinced at what he saw laid out before him on the tiny page of translated code, MacAndrew announced the words to those around him. “Initial reports coming in from London are saying Heydrich is dead. Killed by rebels and English sympathizers.”
“Do not believe the false words of your machines, little Celt,” scoffed Grimm loudly. Pulling his sword – still glowing dimly – from its place on the front of his girdle, the giant displayed the weapon for all to see. “Balmung has tasted the blood of Reinhard Heydrich. It drank deeply from his veins and it would tell me if your Butcher had passed beyond the veil into Hel’s realm.”
A short, harsh cough grabbed the attention of Grimm and MacAndrew as the twitchy Kubis cleared his
throat in the most obvious manner he could imagine. The past twenty-four hours had done much to fray the younger man’s already tightly-coiled nerves nearly to the point of finally snapping. MacAndrew wondered how much more the man would be able to take. With luck it would all be over soon.
“Other rumors say he is still alive,” said Kubis in what the others would have agreed was the worst impression of a whisper they had ever heard. “While you were gone, we heard of the Reichsprotektor from the townsfolk nearby. They say the Butcher was saved by doctors sent by the Führer himself. And…” Kubis looked around, gazing deeply into the shadows crowding the corners of the room. His eyes seemed to find watchers in every inky pool.
Placing his large hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, MacAndrew pushed Kubis to continue.
“The villagers say Himmler himself is on his way to Prague to visit the Butcher on Hitler’s direct command,” added Kubis at his commander’s urging.
“That is what your woman said,” confirmed Grimm, and MacAndrew could see that the thought of the top Nazi coming within arm’s reach excited the man. “Odin has demanded I claim his life in our war against the Jotnar. Without Himmler, the power of the Old Ones is greatly diminished here in Midgard.”
“It will take a few hours for the heads of the SOE to get back with answers. Until then, I think we should all try and get some rest.” MacAndrew rubbed his forehead in an attempt to massage away the headache his sleep-starved brain had been building slowly over the past day. Even an hour of shut-eye would be a thing of wonder for the fatigued soldier. “Gabcik, show our new friend to one of the monks’ quarters upstairs.” Giving Grimm a safe spot to get some shut-eye of his own was the least the small group could do for the German who had saved them from torture and death at the hands of the Nazis. There was little doubt in MacAndrew’s mind that without Grimm, he and his men would have been killed outright after their failed attempt on Heydrich’s life.
