Man with the Iron Heart

by Mat Nastos

  Grimm barked out a short, humorless laugh. “The spirits of my family empower it now. It was they who brought me back from the grave. It is their voices that set me on the road to avenge their murders. Their strength in death gives me strength in life to set things right and to stop the fall of the Twilight,” finished Grimm.

  “They ‘empower’ it? What do you mean, Grimm? How did your dead family… your wife and child bring you back from beyond?” MacAndrew asked, his horror building.

  Turning away from the weak light filtering in through the tiny jail cell window, Grimm’s face softened considerably as he looked down at the iron plates of the ancient artifact entwining his waist. He sighed with a longing that was the most emotion MacAndrew had seen the man display outside of his normal anger and rage. Sadness played across Grimm’s face as the big man finally strode over to the Scotsman. He gripped the wrist of MacAndrew’s right arm and placed his hand onto the center plate of Megingjord.

  The gasp that escaped MacAndrew as his palm came into contact with the enchanted iron of Thor’s girdle broke the peace of the room. At first, he was surprised by the warmth that played out from the surface of the metal, like that of a summer morning. Then he heard them: the sounds of laughter, and of a woman and young girl calling his name. Greeting him.

  “My God…” whispered MacAndrew, stunned. “I heard them. Felt them.”

  “Yes,” said Grimm, allowing his friend to pull away. “They are with me.” He pointed at the pulsing light of Megingjord. “In here.”

  MacAndrew retreated from Grimm, half-stumbling across the room until his body was stopped by the hard stone of their cell’s wall. A veteran of numerous battles, of the sights and sounds of war, MacAndrew was overcome by what he was hearing. “You let Odin put them in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?” demanded MacAndrew. “How could you let that happen to your family?”

  Still seated on the rotted cot, Wittgenstein answered for Grimm. “They were already gone, their bodies consumed in the sacrifice and their souls on their way to feed the Jotnar. His family would have known torment for an eternity as the Jotnar fed on them. Odin saved them.”

  “Yes,” replied Grimm. “And now they are with me while I am allowed to walk the Earth. They sing to me when the giants are near and fill my limbs with the strength to fight them. We are together on Earth and will be together again once my time here is finished.”

  Every ounce of air seemed to vanish from the cell as understanding finally filled the two men listening with rapt attention to the giant’s story. MacAndrew was stunned.

  “That’s what he promised you, the Gray One?” asked Wittgenstein finally.

  Grimm nodded. “In return for his vow, I was tasked by the last of the Aesir to prevent Ragnarok and to put an end to the Jotnar.”

  MacAndrew was stunned.

  Wittgenstein, however, nodded in understanding. “There it is. The answer to the riddle of what had happened in Kelheim.” The failure that appeared to have haunted the scientist throughout the past year. “It is a shame Philipp isn’t around to share in the revelation,” Wittgenstein mused.

  “Even considering the insanity of the Nazis and this Edda Society, what could they have hoped to achieve by allowing the Jotnar to cross over from their realm? Why sentence themselves to death along with the rest of the world?”

  “Because they are fools,” said Grimm. “Men such as the Butcher and his masters are ruled by greed. As much power as they have, they will always hunger for more. That unquenchable appetite will always be their downfall.”

  “Yes,” agreed Wittgenstein. “They sought power, the kind of power men like Himmler and Hitler have only dreamt of – the power to control the world, to reshape it in their image. That was what the Jotnar whispered into the ears of Hitler and his pawns. They were offered the world in exchange for their cooperation with the plans of the Great Old Ones.”

  “But Grimm stopped them,” said MacAndrew. “Shouldn’t that have been the end of the whole affair? How is it Heydrich and his demon are together again? One happy little Satanic family out to eat our souls?”

  “Although the merging ceremony in Kelheim was disrupted and the Jotnar were unable to cross the Yawning Void, we were able to bond the souls of the nine members of the Edda Society’s inner circle to the spirits of the nine Jotnar. If we had been successful, the binding would have allowed the Jotnar to join more fully with their mortal hosts, turning the men into living gods. As it is, all nine were granted abilities far beyond that of normal men; enhanced strength and senses, prolonged lives, and more were given them by this amalgamation.”

  “Nazi super men. That’s fantastic,” chortled MacAndrew. “It’s no wonder our assassination of the Butcher failed as badly as it did. I’m amazed we survived at all, even with your help, lad.”

  “Oh yes,” agreed Wittgenstein. “Without Herr Grimm’s help, Heydrich would have killed you, or worse. As it is, the Edda Society were all surprised, all concerned that one of their own was wounded as badly as he was. Mortally wounded. They had assumed their pact with the Old Ones had rendered them immortal, or at least invincible. The only way to save him was for us to intensify his connection to his Jotnar, to Garm himself, by bonding him to the last of the spiritual generators left undamaged in the failed summoning ceremony.” In spite of having half of his life torn from him, Wittgenstein lapsed back into the excited lecturing of a professor teaching his favorite subject. “The iron breastplate he now wears is made from that machine.”

  Stone cracked and splintered beneath Grimm’s large fist as he slammed it into the rock wall of their cell, furious.

  “And so Reinhard Heydrich lives and we are to be killed in the name of his masters!”

  “Not precisely, my friend,” called Wittgenstein, grabbing the attention of both his cellmates once more.

  “What do you mean, Ludwig?” asked MacAndrew.

  The aged man gestured for MacAndrew to help him up with a wave of his long, bony hands.

  “Heydrich’s body survived, yes,” grunted the elderly scientist as the younger man pulled him to his feet. He could already feel the effects of the aging process stiffening the man’s limbs and tearing the strength from his body. “But the bonding process worked far better than we had imagined, or far worse. You see, a portion of Garm was able to manifest itself on Earth and enter into Heydrich’s dying flesh. Reinhard Heydrich died, but Garm lives on in his body.”

  “For the first time in ten thousand years, a Jotnar walks Midgard,” hissed Grimm. “Tell me, Wittgenstein, what is the monster’s plan at Lezaky?” he asked, the look of dread in the massive man’s eyes told MacAndrew the German already knew, and feared what the scientist’s answer would be.

  Eyes whitened with cataracts flushed with moisture. MacAndrew and Grimm both saw the pain and despair flush up Wittgenstein’s neck and into his face. “The same horror will be unleashed at Lezaky as was done at Lidice,” said Wittgenstein, finally breaking down completely into sobs. “Heydrich will sacrifice the lives of the entire town to feed his hunger and to allow Garm to come fully into our world. If that happens, the rest of the Jotnar will soon be reawakened and the end of the world won’t be far behind.”

  “Not on my watch,” MacAndrew said vehemently before dropping his voice to a whisper. “We’ll do whatever it takes to stop that mass murder from taking place. First, though, we need to escape from the center of Nazi-conquered Prague while avoiding a battalion of tanks, an army of thousands, and the half-demonic Reinhard Heydrich,” he said with a chuckle.

  MacAndrew wasn’t sure any of that had been covered in the training guide he’d been given by the lads back at Baker Street. He was going to need to talk to Director Gubbins about having it added to the next volume.

  “Well lads, on the bright side, at least you’ve got a proper Scot to help things get sorted now,” said MacAndrew, grinning w
ildly at the thought of what lay ahead of the tiny group. “Hate to think what would’ve happened if they’d sent a Welshman instead.”

  CHAPTER 16

  ESCAPE!

  For the hundredth time in the hour since the trio had been packed into a damp freight car of a steam locomotive eastbound for the small village of Lezaky, ninety kilometers from Prague, Ian MacAndrew shook his head roughly to keep his eyes from closing. It seemed like an eternity since he’d last slept – really slept – and exhaustion was quickly beginning to overtake the soldier.

  Glancing around the carriage revealed a squadron of heavily-armed SS killers. While the guards would periodically toss a glance at the Scotsman or the mystically-aged Jewish scientist accompanying him, every gun in the room was trained on the kneeling form of Donner Grimm. Every man present had been witness to what the titan had done during his attack on Prague Castle. Grimm had wiped out an entire platoon of combat-hardened troops with his bare hands and nearly defeated their leader by himself. None of the soldiers present looked comfortable with their assignment to watch him.

  MacAndrew didn’t know whether to be grateful at the lack of Nazi attention or insulted by it. After all, he had been the man in charge of assassinating Reinhard Heydrich, and technically, he’d accomplished that task. Well, if you didn’t take into account the man’s body still walking around, possessed by the spirit of an ancient being from another dimension.

  Maybe that wasn’t as much of an achievement as he had thought. Best to leave that last bit off the briefings to the Special Operations Executive bigwigs back in England. If he ever had the chance to report to his commanding officers again, that was. It all hinged on whatever plan Grimm had for their breaking out of the rather tight hold the Nazis currently had on the men. A plan the hulking German hadn’t been overly clear on defining for MacAndrew.

  When asked about his agenda for escape, Grimm’s only words had been, “Be ready and move quickly when I do.” Not much at all for the member of the British army. All MacAndrew hoped was that it would happen soon, because Wittgenstein’s frail condition seemed to worsen with each kilometer that rumbled by. MacAndrew wasn’t sure the man would make it to Lezaky before whatever Heydrich had done to the man took its final toll.

  “Between Heydrich’s power and the full regiment of SS soldiers he has packed into this train, lad, I hope it’s a good plan,” mumbled MacAndrew, more than a little worried about the actual chances the three men had against a battalion of well-armed, well-trained Nazis and their demon-possessed master.

  Five kilometers outside Lezaky, the dense foliage and a newly-built trestle bridge located high in the foothills over the Labe River, ultimately presented the captives with an opportunity at escape. With the train slowing to a snail’s pace before eventually stopping within site of the wooden expanse, the soldiers who were set as watchdogs over Grimm and his companions were distracted by a hard rapping from the outside of the boxcar that had served as their holding cell.

  Ironically enough, it was the order from for the men to stay on guard while a patrol was sent to secure the route to Lezaky that allowed Grimm to make his move. With a flex of arms, the pale giant first snapped the chains about his wrists and then the necks of the two guards flanking him.

  A twitch of his club-like forearms sent one of the broken chains whipping around the neck of a third Nazi who had been raising his submachine gun to open fire on the prisoners. Getting caught in the line of fire was MacAndrew’s biggest fear. While he knew Odin would protect Grimm in the tumultuous fracas, he wasn’t quite convinced of the ancient Nordic God’s intentions with regard to himself ‒ runic brand on his arm or not. MacAndrew hunkered down, putting his body over that of the trembling, fear-infested Wittgenstein. Their best hope was to lie low and hope for the best.

  The rest of the action was a blur to MacAndrew’s mortal senses – guns fired, men screamed and died, and through it all the alabaster Hercules moved fluidly and with purpose, leaving broken limbs and shattered cadavers in his wake.

  “The battle is over, little Celt.”

  The mangled bodies of fifteen German soldiers, their arms, legs, and heads twisted about in bizarre angles lay strewn about the carriage. The man had done in a handful of seconds something MacAndrew would have thought impossible – taken out nearly a score of men with no weapons other than the strength in his sinews. It was beyond comprehension.

  Scratching his chin, MacAndrew chuckled, “Nice work, Grimm. Pity the Germans went down so quickly. I was about to get up and help.”

  Grimm laughed loudly and truly at his companion’s comment. “Perhaps next time, I’ll lie down and let you show me how you Celts fight, eh?”

  “Someone needed to protect the good professor.” In the face of the terror standing against him, and in spite of everything he’d endured, Ian MacAndrew found a wide grin splitting his ginger beard. “Now what?”

  “I sense Balmung nearby. Help me find it and our equipment. Then, we take our leave of this infernal machine.”

  “Over there,” said MacAndrew, jerking his thumb at a dark corner of the corpse-lined boxcar.

  The lockbox containing the weapons and belongings taken from the men during their ill-fated attack on Prague Castle opened easily once MacAndrew used the butt of the StG .44 assault rifle he’d confiscated from the corpse of a fallen soldier. Reaching in, he tossed Grimm the sheathed blade of Balmung, along with his over-sized pistol, and a trio of pouches the German quickly lashed back onto the side of Megingjord. The Scotsman offered the debilitated Wittgenstein a weapon of his own, but the man quickly waved it off; he would have trouble enough keeping pace with the two younger men without the additional burden of a machine gun weighing him down.

  At the sound of footsteps outside, Grimm vaulted over the head of the still-seated Wittgenstein, heaving himself through the wooden sliding door panel, shattering it with the force of his leap. Splinters blasted outward, his body plunging quickly out of MacAndrew’s line of sight and down onto the bodies of a quartet of SS soldiers.

  “Which way?” asked Wittgenstein. He huffed a bit, body caught fast by the edge of the boxcar’s ragged floor his feet stuck dangling a few feet off the ground. He struggled for a moment to free himself. Gently, Grimm reached up and plucked him free, lowering the Austrian safely to the rocky ground. “Much appreciated, Herr Grimm.”

  “Do not mention it. We must hurry before the rest of Heydrich’s men give chase.”

  Looking left then right, MacAndrew echoed Wittgenstein’s earlier question. “Yes, but to where? Onward or back? It doesn’t look like the forest offers us much hope in flight.”

  Stretching from either side of the train lay a nearly impenetrable canopy of trees. Spruce, ash, oak, maple, and great firs towered high above the thin line cleared a decade earlier for the serpentine railroad track to wind its way through the country-side. The wood’s undergrowth covered the ground in a massed wall of branches and thorns far too tightly packed for the men to make their escape. Their only hope was along the length of the train itself.

  “Forward,” said Grimm, urging his companions ahead.

  The river’s edge and forest’s lone opening for kilometers was the only option. A quarter of a mile away, grayed in the distant fog, stood the skeletal outline of the bridge, its high support posts just cresting the soaring tops of the elder Bohemian Forest.

  “Grimm!”

  The shout was ferocious enough to stop both MacAndrew and the struggling Wittgenstein in their path.

  Grimm hissed a name, eyes narrowing. “Hagan!”

  Hans Hagan, with a small unit of men close on his tail charged Grimm, who crouched into a defensive stance. A peculiar, citrine-tinge colored the eyes of the massive Nazi warrior, giving him a brutish, less-than-human look.

  “Look out!” warned MacAndrew, bringing the newly-appropriated assault rifle to bear and discharging its entire magazine into the clos
ely-packed group of stampeding troops. The untargeted gunfire was effective enough to wound three men and send those remaining scrambling to avoid injury. Only Hagan ignored the attack, his fallow eyes locked onto Grimm’s own icy blue ones.

  Hagan growled as he charged, but Grimm ducked low beneath a haymaker packed with enough force to pulverize granite to release an uppercut that dropped Hagan to the gravel-packed ground, completely dazed.

  “To the river!” ordered Grimm, sending his companions bolting toward the front of the train and the fifty-foot drop-off to the Labe. “Run, men!”

  Obeying without question, MacAndrew sprinted ahead at top velocity. He’d never been the fastest of men as a student and age hadn’t improved things, but the threat of a bullet to the back was more than enough to motivate the Scotsman’s feet to speedy new heights.

  “I… I can’t…”

  The feeble and barely audible voice drifted up, seizing the Scotsman’s attention. A glance back over his shoulder worried MacAndrew. While he’d have no problems making the bridge, the scientist, old and infirm, appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Grimm might be able to slow a few of them, but not even his divine-enhanced might could take on fifty members of the Waffen-SS on an open battlefield.

  “Wittgenstein won’t make it, Grimm!”

  “Aye!” Grimm’s baritone voice bellowed back as he aimed himself for the faltering Wittgenstein with intent burning in his gaze.

  A wide hand snatched up the puffing, staggering Wittgenstein by the scruff of his neck, and sturdy legs powered them through the final paces to the cliff’s edge. The sound of automatic weapons’ fire in the distance behind them hit MacAndrew, with Grimm’s bulk slamming into him an eye-blink later, sending all plunging toward the rapids a dizzying distance below.

  Watching as the frothing water lined with rocks rushed up to meet his tumbling form, MacAndrew wondered if it would be a bad time to tell Grimm of his hatred of the water.