Hans stumbled against the side of the tunnel as something exploded on the ground above. He cursed under his breath. They were getting closer every time. Hastily, he scrambled back to his feet and dashed the last twenty feet to his pill box, slamming the door behind him. The next explosion dumped three tons of Earth and shrapnel into his only way out. He flinched at the metallic pinging as bits of bomb rattled on the door behind his head.
He took four slow deep breaths to calm his nerves as he’d been trained to do. The dull light of the bunker’s kerosene blackout lamps revealed four scared faces–other than his, he noted.
“Where is Bongo, Hauptmann?”
Hans took one more deep breath to clear his head and identified the source of the query.
“I don’t think he made it, Bastian…but he may have. He’s a smart hunde.” Hans corrected himself. He didn’t want to lie to them, but seeing their nerves about to crack, this wasn’t the time to tell his last remaining squad their four legged nose and lucky charm was most likely scattered in pieces and buried in the tunnel behind them.
It was too little too late. Christoph sagged against the wall and started shaking. “We’re all gonna die here,” he muttered.
Hans crossed the room in three strides, seized the big soldier by the collar and heaved him to his feet. No easy feat, that. Christoph was a good two stone bigger than him and seemed determined to embody “dead weight.”
“We are not gonna die Christoph. The Wermacht will be here soon and drive these doughboys back into the English Channel. Then Anselm can crawl through the gunport and get help.”
“We’re gonna die,” Christoph repeated, louder this time. And again even louder until Hans’ hand across his face silenced him.
“Shut up, you’ll give away our position! You hear that? That’s either the Luftwaffe or US airforce and I don’t want to find out the hard way which is which.”
“They can’t hear us,” Christoph whimpered.
“But their ground forces can and they have radios,” Sergeant Felix growled peering through a periscope. A moment later he turned away, his face pale. “It’s been a pleasure serving with you gentleman, even Christoph here.”
“Shit,” Hans muttered. He’d never make it into any book for famous last words, and frankly he didn’t want to. Nobles and heroes got famous last words. All he wanted was to die in his own bed at a ripe old age. That wouldn’t happen now.
He heard the start of an explosion, and heard no more.
Hans woke with a start on a cold stone floor. His lungs felt heavy though the air was clear. It was like trying to take a drink of cool water with a swollen throat.
A few gasps and a newborn pile of bile later his head began to clear, and he got a better look at his surroundings.
He was in a cell. That was clear from the stone walls and floors and the metal bars on the door. He racked his brain for castles near where they were fighting; then gave up when he remembered how many castles were in Normandy.
A shadow stirred on the floor near him, and he reached for his knife as a precaution. He was surprised to find it still there. Strange given he was in prison. Maybe they were brought here with too much haste to be searched properly?
He shook the thought away as the shadow coughed.
“Anselm?” Hans gasped, working tired, stiff limbs to crawl to his soldier.
The thin man spluttered and sat upright. Then immediately seemed to regret it as his head lolled back with dizziness, “Hauptmann?”
“Ya,” Hans replied, then quickly searched the rest of the room carefully. Sure enough, there were three more disruptions to the shadows on the floor in the approximate size of men.
“Help me,” Hans ordered, and used Anselm’s shoulder to haul himself shakily to his feet.
He went around one by one and confirmed that all of his men were alive. He breathed a sigh of relief then jumped as the gate opened. He hadn’t heard a key turn.
He turned and his heart nearly stopped. There, bathed in torchlight, was an angel. The angel presented himself as an older man with flecks of gray in his beard, but age had not weathered his form which was strong and virile. A female angel stepped into the room next to him casting a wary eye over the men.
She said something to the male angel in a language Hans didn’t understand, but he didn’t care. He was too overjoyed to find himself in heaven truly, with his brothers in arms. There was only one question on his mind.
He managed a stiff bow, every muscle in his body screaming in protest and asked, “Mein hunde?”
The large angel cocked a questioning eyebrow, and turned to the angel next to him. She stifled a laugh at something he said. It came out as a titter.
Confused, Hans tried again, “Ist mein hunde hier?”
Understanding lit the angel’s eyes, “Your hound? No, your hound is not here.”
Hans' face fell, “Warum lachte gelacht?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you,” the angel replied in fluent Deutsch, “As soon as you saw me you bowed and said ‘my hound.’ I merely commented to Astrid here that I’ve been addressed many ways like “My Lord” or “Your Grace” but never ‘My Hound.”
“Ah!” Hans stifled a laugh of his own, unsure whether it was polite to laugh at celestials, “This is funny, yes?”
The angel’s booming laugh bounced off the walls of the chamber, “Yes, I suppose it is. Ah.”
Hans tilted his head slightly.
“Ah. AH. AH! Choo!”
“This is not heaven?”
“No,” the angel shook his great bearded head, “It’s not. What gave it away?”
“Angels cannot get sick,” Hans replied.
“How do you know?”
“They can cure any illness. This is known.”
The angel nodded his head sagely, “You and your men will need time to adjust. Astrid will fetch you once you’ve had a chance to bathe, eat and rest.”
The angel clapped his hands and more angels came in to carry a couple of his men who were still unconscious and assist those who could get to their feet.
Hans couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a bath. The food actually was heavenly and the beds were soft.
He and his men quickly became adjusted to their new reality. They quickly learned that their host was the one who called himself Jandar. These were not angels but a race of winged people called kyrie, and they had not been saved from death to rest eternally, they were there because the kyrie were at war and needed help, but not their help.
“It’s awkward actually,” Jandar told them as they filed into his war room, “I was trying to summon a creature who was with your unit. It has four legs and is shaped like a wolf. It is also said to be extremely loyal, easy to train, and has an excellent nose.”
“Hunde,” Hans told him, “You were trying to summon Bongo? Is he alive?”
Jandar nodded slowly, “I believe he is, but I sneezed in the middle of the summoning and my hand must’ve shook, changing the target. I will send you home and summon him later today. I hope your war comes to a rapid conclusion and that you remain safe.”
“Wait!” Hans said a bit louder than he intended too.
Jandar cocked an eyebrow at him. The kyrie seemed to be fond of the expression.
“Bongo won’t work with people he doesn’t know. He’ll likely mistake you for a bird and try to eat you if we aren’t there. Summon Bongo and we’ll do your mission together. Just save him!”
Jandar returned to the slow nodding, running a hand through his beard.
“I don’t know about all that, but that’s just it, I don’t know. If you swear to me you will see it through, I will send you on the mission.”
Hans glanced around at his men before replying, “We swear.”
“Very well, but I shall require one of my own men to go with you. Astrid! Ask Sergeant Drake Alexander to come here please.”
“A Briton?” Christoph said in heavily accented English before spitting on the floor.
Hans slapped him for the second time that day…assuming time still worked the same way here as on Earth.
“Keep your tongue. Don’t blow it for Bongo.”
A few minutes later, Hans heard voices through the great oak door. They were muffled but they seemed to be speaking in English. As an officer of the Third Reich, Hans was expected to be familiar with the languages of his enemies. He relaxed a tad when it was just the usual humorous jostling of comrades.
The jokes ended as soon as the shadows of feet appeared under the door jam. The great oak doors swung open and Astrid stepped through, a hint of a smile still playing at her lips. A stocky American in dress uniform emerged from behind her and pulled up short, hand hovering over his gun.
“Reichmen!?” He bellowed, casting a quick glance at his CIC.
“At ease soldier,” Jandar bellowed just as well as Drake did, if not better.
The soldier eased his posture, but Hans noticed his hand still twitched like it wanted to grasp the butt of the weapon…or Hans’ neck.
“Sir,” the soldier said, clearly trying to swallow a growl, “I thought you said you would never summon Nazi’s. What are they doing here?”
“Ah, well,” Jandar muttered. The bristling from before had left his posture entirely. Now he seemed apologetic. “It was an accident, but now they’re here and we need them. More specifically we need their–” Jandar cut off briefly to cast a meaningful glance Hans’ way, “hunde.”
“Their dog? Then why not summon the pup and let these cockroaches rot?”
The Germans bristled. All except Christoph, Hans noted. Christoph was a good soldier, but hardly understood Deutsch as it was.
“Easy,” Jandar commanded, resuming his imperiousness, “The dog may not respond to the commands of someone who isn’t a handler. The dog may even register you as a threat given that you and they were pulled from the same war.” Jandar spared a glance toward Hans, who nodded affirmatively.
“I can’t take you off the mission since it’s yours and it’s too late to change up leadership. You’re just going to have to find a way to work together and quickly!”
Sgt. Drake faced off with his commander for several moments, then gave a curt nod.
“Where is the dog anyway?”
“That was the accident,” Jandar answered.
“You don’t have it?”
“We’re going to get it now. Come.” Jandar motioned to Hans to follow as he headed out the door and down a large hallway leading underground.
As they made their way down the hall, Hans figured he should try to start warming the American up. He didn’t like the idea of working with the enemy one bit, but he seemed certain that the American would obey his CIC. And he knew his men would keep his word, even Christoph.
“Your commander, he is, how do you say? Not. feeling. Well?” Hans pronounced the words carefully.
Drake didn’t answer him. Hans figured he didn’t say it right and tried another way, “He is seeck, yes?”
Drake responded with a curt nod.
“It is from us, no?”
Drake spun and pinned him against the wall, “How do you know that!?” he demanded.
Hans raised his hands in a placating gesture, “I. do. Now. See?”
“Drake!”
The stocky American dropped his grip.
They walked in silence for a time, the tension in Drake’s shoulders seeming to increase with every step.
“I only ask,” Hans continued unphased, “because Anselm…the, the skeeny man. He is, how do you say? A corpsman. He has antivirals from Earth, may help your commander.”
“Jandar doesn’t require your help,” Drake growled.
Hans smiled softly to himself and said no more. He would ask the man himself when the time was right.
The tunnel widened out into a large subterranean chamber. Stalactites hung from the ceiling of the cavernous space and a large pool of water lay motionless in the center.
Without hesitation he raised his hands over the spring and began plucking at the air like a madman playing an invisible guitar.
Drake rested his back against the wall and looked on with passive interest. Hans watched with rapt attention.
“Ok,” Jandar muttered, “Cough cough. We need Bongo. Let’s see if I can find my spot again. Ah yes, ok here we go.”
The still water suddenly bubbled and a creature emerged from the water with a roar. Hans' eyes widened. The thing was as big as his bedroom back home. He adjusted a bit to his fright and noted the three slavering sets of jaws looking him up and down like a juicy piece of steak. He thought they looked like dogs. Then his brain caught up, and he realized it wasn’t three dogs, but a single one with three heads.
“That’s is not Bongo,” Hans managed to whisper helpfully.
“I thought he was gonna get us for a moment there Arry,” a kid with ginger hair said to his spectacled friend. “Where did he go?”
“We live in a magical world with dragons and flying broomsticks and moving staircases, Ron. How surprising is it that a four ton animal just disappears?” The girl on the other side of the spectacled one said patiently.
“Freaky,” the spectacled one shrugged, “Come on, we’ve got to get to the sorcerer's stone before Snape.”
The great beast was given a bone or three and corralled into a nearby chamber by the safety officers. Drake’s idea, Hans was told. Jandar excused himself for a moment then came back.
“I’m going to try again.”
“Sir, perhaps we should wait until you recover some–” Drake suggested quickly.
“There’s no time. Our people are dying every day we don’t find a way to sweep those new mines Utgar is using. I can handle it.”
The finger dancing began again.
The wellspring roiled with cosmic power. This time the individual who came through the portal was not a dog at all, and he wasn’t alone.
He stood 6’5”, dressed all in black with yellow eyes and craggy brow framed by ashen hair. A medallion of some kind hung around his neck imprinted with the image of a dog. The reek of horse and stale sweat emanated off him in waves.
Drake covered his nose. Hans was a farm boy. To him it just smelled like home.
The other man who came out of the portal after him, rolling onto the cavernous floor like he’d jumped through the portal, wore a ruffled maroon jacket, frilled shirt, and cheap but tasteful bangles.
Jandar cocked an eyebrow at him, “This other guy looks like a scary fellow who could be useful. Who are you?”
The pale man on the floor picked himself up and carefully pushed long brown hair back from his face, “I am Jaskier, the great warrior poet, succor of sad maidens, and companion of the famous White Wolf.” He cast about with a wide smile as though expecting to be recognized.
“Oh come on!” He exclaimed and plucked a few strings. The sound wasn’t bad, and he sang a song about tossing a coin to the other guy.
Drake covered his ears. Hans clapped along.
Jandar grumbled to himself and raised his hands again.
“Sir!” Drake interrupted him.
Jandar wheeled on him with a glare then quickly covered a cough. When the racking subsided, he resumed the glare and waited for Drake to speak.
“Sir, you just summoned a MAN who’s nickname happens to be something along the lines of a canine. I think you need to stop before you summon someone or something unreasonable.”
The bard's laugh broke the tension, “Geralt! Reasonable? Ahahahahahaha–”
The man with the Ashen hair and grim expression clapped him on the head, and he shut up. Geralt’s eyes swept back and forth over the other occupants of a room as though sizing them up.
“I have to do this, Drake! And that’s the end of it!”
Jandar turned and hastily plucked at the air before Drake tackled him.
Drake quickly backed away looking at his hands, “Sir, I’m sorry, really, very.”
Jandar pulled himself off the floor. The glare was dangerous now and the cavern was silent. Even the bard seemed to know it was time to stay shuttered up.
“Brrrrrrrnnnngggggg!”
All heads snapped toward the wellspring at the strange sound.
“Brrrrrrrnnnngggggg! Brrrrrrrnnnngggggg! Brrrrrrrnnnngggggg!”
Click.
“Hitmanimals Pest Control Service, Peter speaking, does your pest problem require a dog, snake, or cat today?”
When no one else replied, Hans answered cheerfully, “Hans Vamkin! Do you know where I can find mine hunde, Bongo?”
“Uhhhh, we don’t sell bongs here, you should try the place down the street. Seeyah.”
Click.
The cavern was silent.
“I have to do this, Drake. My people are dying.” Jandar hung his head. “But you’re right. I’ve failed them.”
Drake took a deep breath and slowly turned to Hans, “You mentioned antivirals earlier?”
“Ya!” Hans nodded enthusiastically.
The antivirals worked like a charm. Jandar was still weak when he tried the summoning again the next morning, but this time he managed to pull regular dogs from Earth on each of his five attempts.
A beautiful Belgian malinois emerged from the pool on Jandar’s last try. The somewhat damp looking general seemed resigned to the peculiar canine method of getting water out of its fur and settled for a sigh of relief, watching the German soldiers reunited with their faithful friend.
Even Drake seemed to be trying to hold back a smile watching the joyful reunion.
Eventually the pup settled down and Anselm went to work checking him over for injuries.
Hans got to his feet slowly and bowed awkwardly to Jandar, “Sank you, general, for saving mine hunde.”
Jandar nodded acknowledgment but a shadow crossed his brow, “Don’t thank me yet, Captain. The task I have for you will be extremely dangerous.”
“Yes, mines, you mentioned. We know these. Bongo has excellent nose for this.”
Jandar shook his head somberly, “Nothing like what you’ve encountered before. These mines, they are…we don’t know. The soulborgs can’t scan for them and manual probing does nothing. It’s like there’s nothing there until someone steps on them.”
Hans considered this briefly before his next question popped out, “If they do not exist, ya? Until they do, then how can Bongo help?” His brow nit together in the start of anger. “You expect him step on landmine?”
“No!” Jandar waved a hand exasperatedly, “No, nothing like that. I believe…or rather hope, that the mines might leave some indicator of their presence…just one we can’t see, or touch, or feel. We’ve ruled out almost all the senses, including the magical ones. I’m hoping, praying, that your companion’s hypersensitive nose might pick up something we can’t.”
“Ah,” Hans replied. Then began nodding his head enthusiastically, “Ya, Bongo can do it. If he can’t, no one can.”
“Then let’s pray he can,” Jandar shook his head wearily, “Let’s pray he can.” Turning to Drake, “Is your team ready?”
Drake snapped to attention, “Yes, sir. All outfitted and ready to go…but sir,” Drake paused eyeing the Germans.
“Get over it sergeant.”
Drake’s eyes snapped back to front, “Sir, yes, sir!”
“Hey,” Bastian said looking up from patting the happy pup, “What about Fluffy?”
“Fluffy?” Jandar asked, “Raising an eyebrow.”
“Ya,” Felix chimed in, “That’s what we’ve decided to call the three headed one.”
“What about him?”
“A hunde is a hunde, sir.”
Jandar sighed, “You don’t have time to bond with him and he likely isn’t trained for this mission.”
Bastian shrugged, “Already done. Felix throw him a bone this morning. We good.” This was accompanied by a cheerful smile.
Jandar glanced at Drake who just shrugged, “Krauts may be dirtbags, but they do love their…hundes.”
Jandar sighed, then shook his head, “I can’t risk it. We don’t know this other dog.” His eyes shifted to the white haired man with the yellow eyes and roved over the twin swords on his back, “You, on the other hand, might be useful.”
Geralt sighed, “I fight for silver.”
Jandar nodded understandingly, “I’ll give you gold.”
A cheerful voice plucked up behind them accompanied by a lute melody, “Toss a coin to your witcher!”
It cut off suddenly when everyone glared at Jaskier.
“No one appreciates the fine arts anywhere, regardless of the plain of reality,” the bard grumbled.
The sounds of battle were familiar to Hans. These were different, to be sure, what with the clanging of steel on steel, strange ringing and zipping sounds as soulborgs on both sides let loose, and the now more familiar crackle of magic. But the battle cries, the booms of artillery, the pounding of thousands of feet closing upon each other, and the screams of the wounded and dying were all too known in Hans’ ears.
His step did not falter. His men followed behind, rested from the two days in Jandar’s fortress. The hands gripping their rifles were relaxed, the knuckles flushed but not white. Their faces set with determination and their eyes throwing consistent looks at their four legged companion trotting along ahead of them.
Bongo’s nose played with the air as he went. Sweeping the air above and to the sides and close to the ground in equal turn, adjusting quickly to the new smells of Valhalla and searching for inconsistencies.
Hans worried that Bongo might not adjust quickly enough, that his finely tuned senses on Earth would do little for him here. But once again, his faithful companion had proven himself a smart dog, smelling, spotting, and alerting to Utgar’s outriders as they scouted the outskirts of the battle for Jandar’s troop movements…like the one Sergeant Drake’s unit was pulling right now.
The sergeant seemed to be a little more at ease in the presence of his old enemies. Hans wondered if it was because his men had proven to not only be effective in combat, but also hadn’t turned on the largely American and British companies they were leading through a low swale circumventing the enemy’s lines.
Either way it mattered little. Drake kept the grumbling among his companies to a minimum which allowed the Reichmen to focus on Bongo’s activities. So far, they had not encountered any enemy mines.
The white haired witcher trotted along beside Sergeant Drake as if he were out for a stroll. Not even a single bead of sweat had broken out on his craggy brows. His eyes darted back and forth but rarely did his head turn.
The witcher had told Hans that his eyesight, hearing, and sense of smell were comparable to that of Bongo, but he seemed to adjust slowly to the new environment, so he stayed back with the sergeant. His hand seemed to twitch every so often like he wanted to draw one of his swords, yet he seemed undecided on which one to use for such a mishmash of combatants.
Bongo continued to lead them along a weaving path. Sometimes he doubled back, then picked up the pace again in the original direction.
“I thought you said he was a smart hunde,” Drake said, picking up the pace to come up beside Hans.
“He ish,” Hans answered defiantly, slurring the last word by accident while attempting to emphasize it.
“Then what’s with this zig zag pattern?”
“He is sweeping for mines, like your lord commanded.”
Drake nodded understanding. Hans understood also. Sergeant Drake’s soldiers were growing tired. For that matter, so was he. If they continued following Bongo on his sweep, they would grow exhausted and have little fight left in them to surprise Utgar’s camp.
“I have half a mind to order the companies to continue straight across the valley while staying in Bongo’s wake. It would certainly tire them out less–”
Hans started to nod his agreement when several dozen shapes broke from the trees not five hundred feet from the forward elements of the advancing army.
“Wolves,” Drake spat, “ Company! Swing left and fix!”
“Love hundes, hate wolves,” Hans muttered, bringing his rifle up, well aware of how exposed he was so far ahead of the army.
One of the wolves seemed to realize the same thing. It reared up on hind legs and waved some of the wolves to break off and head for the scouting unit. Hans’ squad wasn’t that far ahead of the army, but a hundred feet when the enemy was at three hundred and closing fast was too far to expect support…unless you wanted to risk friendly fire.
The wolves split up and swarmed in a confusing pattern across the field, leaping when there was nothing to leap over but a bullet whizzing just below them. The things were devilishly fast and closed the distance at a pace even Bongo’s long legs and excellent breeding couldn’t match, at least not for long.
The wolves seemed to take the pace in stride, crashing into the lead elements of the army with howls of bloodlust, teeth and claws flashing, crimson springing in their wake.
The wolves proved practically immune to pain. They wouldn’t even howl when hit. Only a structurally damaging strike or a kill slowed or stopped them.
Hans had little time to take it all in when one of the wolves leapt at him. He knew he wouldn’t get his rifle up in time and moved to dodge. Pain blossomed on the back of his leg as the beast landed, turned and swiped in one smooth motion.
Hans brought up his rifle and it was batted away. Slavering jaws closed toward his face, when suddenly the smell of burning flesh reached his nostrils, and the silver tipped point of a sword sprouted from the creature’s face.
The witcher didn’t acknowledge Han’s stunned nod of thanks before turning and, moving even faster than the wolves, sliced through two more, before Hans’ men could meet a brutal fate.
Christoph, crazy or desperate, rolled on the ground not far from him wrestling a fourth. In one smooth motion the big man snaked an arm around its neck. They struggled together for a moment, a light of crazy fury in the huge man’s eyes, before a single yank of an enormous forearm settled the encounter.
The witcher finished off the last two sent for them and sprinted back toward the company at the front. The lines were caving under the onslaught and panicked men were beginning to flee from the back.
The lines were quickly disintegrating and panic was spreading through the army, even to men not yet engaged.
Suddenly there was a flash of purple light from behind Jandar’s lines. Three men were gone in the blink of an eye. More purple flashes came and went, and with them more men. The panicked soldiers turned and fled back the way they came, only to be met with more purple flashes, more foomps, and more missing comrades.
The ones that made it crashed into the British company behind them, who forced them about with curses, jeers and bayonets.
“Good boys,” Hans heard Drake cheer from somewhere behind them, “Give it to em boys!”
The British Company charged through the fleeing Americans and fell on the wolves with roars to match that of their enemy’s and shouts of defiance. The worn down wolves turned and retreated, but not before the white haired witcher took one’s head off and sent the body flying back toward the tree line with a kick. The body disappeared in a foomp of purple light.
The medallion about the witcher’s neck vibrated until its owner’s hand stilled it.
Drake, Geralt and Hans met while the American company slowly trickled back in and the British helped with their wounded and dead. Anselm hurried over to the wounded and began helping the English speaking corpsman with their work. They didn’t even seem to notice his accent.
Hans and Drake were breathing heavily, Geralt barely at all.
“How many men you think you loose?” Hans asked Drake.
Drake’s eyes roved over the slowly reforming company. Then shook his head, “At least half.”
“Half!” Hans replied in a startled whisper, “That’s nearly four hundred men!”
“Wounded included,” Drake nodded wearily, before turning to the witcher, “Thank you, Geralt of wherever Rivia is. Silver on your sword is it?”
The witcher simply nodded.
“I will inform the general. Silver bullets. There’s something from the movies for ya,” Drake answered in a muted jocular tone. The smile faded a moment later when the witcher did not reply and he figured they didn’t have movies where he came from.
“The porple flashes,” Hans continued, “These are the mines?”
Bongo trotted up behind them and shoved his nose in Hans’ hand. The hand answered by scratching the dog behind the ears.
“Yes,” Drake practically growled, “Did you see that? They were on our right flank, and right behind us! They were–”
“On our left flank also, where the wolves came from,” Geralt cut him off in an uncharacteristic display of verbosity. “The wolves must’ve known where they were somehow, and dodged them.”
“Wish means,” Hans said as understanding dawned on him, “Bongo knew exactly where zee mines were. He’s been doing his job and leading us along a safe path this entire time!”
All heads turned toward the dog, who’s own head tilted to the side at the sudden influx of attention.
“Ruff! Owrow ow!” Bongo offered helpfully.
“It also means,” Hans continued, “That the wolves must’ve known exactly where they were in the same way Bongo did. Wolves and dogs are…how do you say? Related?”
The white wolf and the American sergeant both nodded.
“Yes, they are,” Drake replied, “They smelled them! It is olfactory, but what are these things made of?”
“I think I can help you there,” Geralt said with barely a turn of his head, eyes fixed on the horizon.
“It was quick, perhaps too quick for your eyes to see, but those purple flashes were actually streaks. And they didn’t come from the ground. They originated there,” Geralt pointed to something in the distance, “whatever that spire is over the horizon.”
“And what does that mean?” Drake was still wrapping his head around the ins and outs of magic.
“It means,” Geralt said carefully, “That the reason you can’t detect what’s on the ground, is likely because nothing is on the ground. Probably some kind of olfactory enchantment in the air just above it. Esters suspended by magic that trigger a response from the tower when an organism interacts with them. It’s just a theory,” Geralt finished with a shrug.
“But zis, it would explain why Bongo can detect these…these esters, yes?”
Geralt nodded slowly, “It would.”
“And you know this how?”
“I’ve more less banged every witch back where I come from. You pick things up now and again.”
Hans chuckled, “Then let’s go! We blow up this, this spire, and it goes away, yes?”
“Maybe, but that’s not the mission today,” Drake growled. We have to get behind Utgar’s lines and quickly. Once the main army crosses the Alkine Pass we can bring our full might against the…spire or whatever it is.”
“But if we shut down zee mines, then we can break around them on many fronts. This is what Jandar said. Detect the mines, so that if the ambush fails we can sweep them and get arou–”
“We stay on mission,” Drake snarled, “I don’t like it any more than you do, but we have our orders. Ambush Utgar first, then take the spire.”
Hans and Geralt exchanged a glance. Bongo brushed against Geralt’s leg and continued leading them through the swale.
Drake was forced to leave the American company behind. They were too broken to continue fighting that day, and they were out in the open with no way to retreat without Bongo who was needed to advance the mission.
The eight hundred British followed them as they continued on while the healthy Americans remained behind to care for and protect their comrades.
“Damn deserters,” Drake growled as he turned away from the orderly. The man had brought the news. The Germans, Bongo, and the strange man with the white hair were nowhere to be found. He’d be forced to attack Utgar’s camp without them.
He knew where they went, and he didn’t entirely disagree with them, but damn them if he’d let them get away with disobeying orders.
He dropped the scowl and joined his men in their quiet approach to the camp.
Bongo kept his mouth shut as the group worked their way up to the tower. A handful of Anubian wolves guarded the entrance. Thankfully they were as dumb as they were fierce and Geralt managed to lure them away.
Anselm had been left behind with the Americans to help with the wounded, but the rest of Hans’ squad slipped into the tower unnoticed, Bongo padding along ahead quiet as a dormouse.
“PLINK!”
The reichmen froze. The sound echoed down the blind turns of the tower staircase.
Hans hand held all including Bongo at bay. His closed fist commanded stillness.
When the sound did not appear again, the fist opened and the hand waved his men onward. Hans climbed the stone causeway cautiously, thankful for the new boots Jandar had given them. They were comfortable and warm and soft stepped, even if the Obergrutenfuerer’s quartermaster would throw a fit about regulations.
They made it what Hans imagined was two floors when they heard the sound again, and again Hans’ closed fist halted the squad.
“PLINK… …PLINK.”
Muffled voices could be heard arguing not far above them. They sounded anxious.
Deciding that they were paying little attention to the spiral stairway and knowing Geralt’s ruse would be discovered soon and the Anubians would return, Hans gave a quick hand signal. The squad climbed the stairs again; this time as fast as they could quietly go.
Bongo gave a barely audible signal and Hans stopped the squad again. Carefully, he withdrew a periscope from his bag and used it to peer around the corner.
“Odd,” he muttered under his breath, “No guards.”
“PLINK.”
“That’s it, Runa! I’m telling you they’re onto us!”
“It matters little Varnthal,” a gravelly female voice replied, “just shift the pattern to stage two and see what they make of it. These are bored men throwing rocks. Whether they have or haven’t discovered what they’re dealing with–”
“PLINK!”
“–they will not get off that field alive.”
Hans resisted the urge to grind his teeth. He didn’t know how keen these guy’s hearing were. It was a new world. If the last few hours told him anything, it’s that he didn’t know anything.
He toyed with the idea of using the periscope again, but the voices sounded close. Close enough to see the glint of the lens anyway.
Instead he turned to his men and forced the grimace on his face into a grin. Christoph, Bastian, and Felix grinned back. Bongo seemed to vibrate with anticipation, a hungry gleam in his eyes. Hans gave a series of hand signals.
Runa stared at the large, purple glowing glass prism on the dais before her. Her back and that of Varnthal were to the door. They knew the Anubians had the best senses of any creature on the plain and would give an alarm if anyone approached.
They had given a brief signal earlier, but that was just letting her know they were investigating a disturbance, no alarm call.
Runa’s brow twisted, but Varnthal beat her to it.
“It’s been a while since they gave that one signal to let us know they were investigating something. I haven’t heard an alarm or return call yet.”
Runa cursed. That’s what she got for being too busy arguing with silly academics instead of paying attention.
“Hide yourself, Varnthal. I’ll come get you if it’s nothing.”
Varnthal made for the door while Runa ran to check the balcony, unfolding her wings and raising them above her at the ready in case she needed to dive bomb assailants below.
A loud, synchronized wall of pops reached her ears from behind her and she turned to face the new threat, barely bringing the shaft of her spear up in time to offer a small wolf with a strange face something to chomp on other than her neck.
More assailants in strange gray uniforms were coming through the door. Their faces fierce, they rushed forward as though eager to press the advantage offered by their war hound.
Runa muttered under her breath and black steam rose from her head.
The volley took a medium size kyrie with red skin full in the chest. The bullets of the high powered rifles easily cut through the thin fabric of his long robes.
Bongo ignored the sagging body and dashed into the room. Hans and his squad rushed in behind him, rifles at the ready to give him cover.
The sight they were met with froze them in their tracks. A woman stood near the balcony. Bongo lay in a corner whimpering. The woman was thin but shapely. Black armor clad her body closely. The ragged edges of leather padding lined the exterior of the half plate assembly. Black wings sprouted from her back. Her skin was red like the first one.
That alone would have been off putting but not enough to confuse veteran soldiers. A soldier was a soldier, armor was armor, and a bullet was a bullet and this one didn’t look like a tank. No, what stopped Hans’ men in their tracks was the cloud of black mist that surrounded her, and the look in her eyes that flitted back and forth between annoyance and boredom. The mist originated from her head and spilled down over her body like a robe.
It might have been a trick of the faded torchlight refracting through the black mist, but Hans could’ve sworn he saw the helmet quiver.
Christoph, the dumb bear, recovered first. Apparently deciding against caution, assuming, of course, that it ever crossed his mind, he raised his rifle and fired three rounds straight at the woman’s head.
The bullets disappeared into the mist as though swallowed by the sea, and the woman took a step forward.
Christoph fired again despite Hans’ shout of caution. When this met with the same effect, he charged, bayonet fixed and forward, straight toward her. Eight stone of pure muscle lumbered toward the woman with startling speed for a man his size.
The woman side stepped, grabbing the rifle just under the bayonet and ignoring the heat from the recently fired barrel. The mist enveloped Christoph, soaking into every pore.
Hans somehow held his stomach through his surprise and horror. No gas used in the first or second wars had ever melted a man to bone and dust so fast. The woman wore no mask or hazmat, and seemed at home in it.
“Zis is not a kyrie,” Bastian growled, “Zis is a demon!”
The woman’s harsh, ironic laughter filled the large room.
“A demon? Like I haven’t heard that before. I am Runa of the Scardagger Mountains, bearer of the Mitonsoul.” She paused to let that sink in. When no response came from the astonished soldiers, she sighed, “Oh well, it means you’re all going to die.” She waved at the pile of ash slowly swirling in the breeze from the door, “like this one here.”
The woman spoke fluent Deutsch, just like Jandar had. Hans didn’t have time to register that as the woman launched herself across the room, bolstered by a single beat of her wings, spear tip forward, fixed and unwavering like a lance.
The steam she’d been standing in trailed behind her and disappeared, but more billowed slowly from the helm.
Felix, cheerful, loyal Felix, shoved Hans out of the way. The spear took the shorter man in the throat. He was gone long before the mist wiped away his body.
“You know,” Runa chirped cheerfully, like she was out on a morning stroll with the girls, “One of the benefits of the helm is cleanup.” Her feet fell in the pile of ash that was once Felix, scattering them like dust in the wind, “So much more…hmmm, maneuverability.”
The spear swung in an arc, and Bastian just barely leapt back in time to escape a mortal blow. The spear tip gave him a gash on the arm.
Runa brought the weapon around again, angling for the soft spot just below Bastian’s rib cage.
Hans slid forward on the ground, rolling to his knees and slashed Runa just below her knee guard. The attack forced Runa to break off her attack, but when Hans scrambled to his feet he noticed the jubilation in her face.
She was enjoying herself!
Hans flipped the knife around in his hand and dropped it with a grunt of pain. He glanced down at his forearm to find it was covered in black burns scattered in spots. When his eyes came back up, he noticed the mist surrounding her was thickening quickly.
“Bastian,” Hans grunted hoarsely, “We have to keep her moving.”
Understanding the concealed order, Bastian darted one way, while Hans went the other.
Runa smirked and darted after Hans.
Hans felt the spear point whisk past his ear and felt warm blood on the side of his head, then shots rang out and Runa squealed like a stuck pig.
Hans turned, bringing his luger up, to find Runa kneeling on the ground. He wanted to shoot, but the mist from the helm was thickening too fast to get a shot from this angle. He knew he wouldn’t have time to reload.
Bastian, dependable Bastian, had sidestepped the haze Runa left behind and fired at her unguarded back.
The bullets had pierced her armor like it was paper and embedded themselves in her shoulder.
“Steel enjoyving yoursalf?” Bastian snickered.
Hans took several careful steps back.
With an unworldly scream, Runa leapt to her feet, turned on her heel and threw the spear straight at Bastian.
The soldier looked down at his chest as though surprised to find the shaft of a spear there. Then he sagged to the floor. His spent pistol falling from hands that could no longer hold it.
Runa shook as a spray of bullets hit her exposed legs.
Hans had assumed rightly that without them she’d have a hard time continuing the fight. Sadly, his hands shook with rage and anguish as he fired and the bullets only grazed her.
The magazine was empty, and he tossed it away, knowing the end was near as Runa drew a vicious looking jagged sword from her hip.
She hurled herself at Hans who leapt aside just in time to lose a pound of flesh from his shoulder before hitting the floor hard. He lay there, winded, gasping, and bleeding heavily as Runa limped over to him.
Runa glared down at him, the mist from her helm spilling ominously downward toward her stunned victim.
She raised the sword and Hans closed his eyes, trying to remember the faces of his wife and girls.
A vicious snarl shot his eyes wide open. “No Bongo, za mist,” he tried to croak.
He was too late. Bongo’s teeth sank into Runa’s falling sword arm. With a few vicious shakes, the flesh rent, and the sword fell harmlessly to the side.
Runa screeched with rage, and watched desperately as the mist fell toward the canine fastened to her wrist.
Her eyes pleaded, bidding the mist fall faster toward the vicious animal. Then they widened in horror as a faint golden glow appeared around the strange wolf.
The strange animal snarled and shook harder, only retreating when Runa’s severed hand was held firmly in his mouth.
Bongo continued to snarl, low and menacing, standing over Hans protectively, the hand still held in his mouth.
“Never,” Runa choked through the pain, holding the bleeding edge of her wrist, “Never has one been seen.”
“One,” Hans coughed through blood and spittle, “one hwat?”
“Only the pure of spirit can withstand the Mitonsoul.”
Hans gurgled a laugh. He felt his consciousness fading and knew he’d lost too much blood, “This just isn’t your day then. Nothing is more pure than the heart of a hunde.”
“The pure of spirit,” a dry voice said behind Runa, “or a few good wards.”
Hans got a view of the speaker as Runa turned to find a large white haired man, covered in dark Anubian blood standing behind her well within range of the mist.
“Yennefer of no place you’ve heard of sends her regards.”
Hans watched the sword fall like a butcher’s knife, quick and precise, cleaving the helm and Runa’s head in two. The mist dissipated, and the last thing Hans felt and heard was Bongo licking his face and whimpering.
Hans woke to feel a pleasant breeze through the window. It was a nice way to wake up, he decided. Hell, it was nice to wake up at all.
Weakly, he reached a hand toward his shoulder.
“Don’t touch that,” a refreshingly pleasant female voice said from somewhere behind his head.
Hans turned to look and felt a stab of pain jolt through his body. He grunted and a tear escaped one eye.
“Why not?”
“You’ll break the spell, and I’m not going to spend another twelve hours weaving it for you. A cut is easy enough, hell even a small puncture in an artery. You lost your entire deltoid!...or at least that’s what Anselm tells me it’s called. So don’t touch it! Give it time to heal.”
Hans tried a nod. He could do that much at least, “Sank you, for, for helping me.”
Hans' brain caught up with what she said, “Anselm, he…Anselm and the others…they, they made it?”
A beautiful angel face appeared in his vision and the woman sat down. “I’m afraid not,” she answered softly. “Anselm and Bongo are ok, though they’re resting from the ordeal also right now. The rest of your squad…” She trailed off.
“I picked the wrong foe to go after alone,” Hans finished for her bitterly, “I should have done as Commander Drake ordered.”
“It’s sergeant.” A new voice cut in from the doorway and Drake’s grim face swam into view, “And it will always be sergeant. No matter what command I’m given. F****** officers,” he finished with a grumble.
Drake placed a hand on the woman’s shoulder, “Would you give us the room, Kelda?”
Kelda nodded, “Just don’t–”
“Touch the shoulder. I know. Don’t worry, I don’t plan on touching the Reichman anywhere.”
Kelda nodded and left the room.
Drake turned back to Hans and Hans was surprised to find a grin there, “Well done.”
Hans turned his head slightly to study the sergeant’s features, looking for a hint of sarcasm, but there was none. “Mine men are dead, sergeant. I don’t know if we should call this a win.”
Drake nodded solemnly, and despite his promise to Kelda, placed his hand on the back of Hans’. “Yes they are, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t send more men with you. I’m sorry I didn’t go with you myself. The camp we raided was a false camp. No more than a couple hundred of Utgar’s minions, uh lowercase ‘m’–”
That bit was lost on Hans.
Drake’s eyes took on a faraway look as he stared out the window in the direction they’d set out in the previous day, “The whole thing was rigged with those mines. We got scrambled, and so did they. It was chaos, but we were taking far more losses than they, just trying to get out. After Geralt finished off Runa, he smashed the prism. The sun was just peaking over the horizon. That was about when the mines stopped going off.”
“So,” Hans said, “The other men, the ones with Anselm, the Americans, they made it out?”
Drake gave a curt nod, “They did thanks to you.”
“I’m glad,” Hans replied.
Drake seemed surprised.
Hans registered it and dropped a faint chuckle, “Despite what you may sink…sergeant, I do not hate you. My country was at war with yours. You fought for your side. I fought for mine, but that war is far away, and even there, I wish it would end soon. Too much death, and for what? So rich men can get richer? Powerful men more powerful? My men are dead for a far better cause than they would have in our own time and place.”
Drake seemed to consider this looking at Hans as if seeing him for the first time. The bafflement still plain on his face. Then he nodded acceptance and patted Hans on the hand gently twice.
“The people, the Runa, she was saying we wouldn’t work out the mines. This was when we heard rocks coming through the portal. The Runa, she said your boys were throwing them.”
“Yes,” Drake replied, “Jandar worked it out after the area was secured. The mines reversed the original summon of anyone caught in them. Since Jandar only summons those who are about to die, it served the same function as blowing them up here, just with far more confusion, fear, and consternation for those still alive, trying to figure out what happened. The rocks were from Valhalla so they simply got jerked back to the power source.”
“So,” Hans finished weakly, “We finished the mission, and now you will send us back to die?”
Drake chuckled, “It’s your choice. Jandar has offered to send you back but a few years ahead. He says you were pulled from the year 1944, same year as me actually, and he will send you back in the year 1947, well after the surrender of German forces in ‘45. Or you could stay here, and keep helping us.”
“Surrender?” Hans said incredulously. Then thinking on it, “Well…we were never going to win were we?”
Drake shook his head, “against a country five times your population, with a landmass twenty-eight times the size of your own? Not a chance. Hitler knew that, and he threw you in the meat grinder anyway.”
Hans turned to look at the ceiling, “Ya.”
A soft nose pushed Drake’s hand away and dug under that of Hans.
“Ah! Bongo! Good boy!”
Bongo’s tail swam in and out of view as it wagged.
Hans' face became solemn, remembering his last thoughts, “Once I am healed, I believe I will take your commander’s offer to return home. I have a family I must see too.”
Drake seemed a bit disappointed, but he remained still, accepting.
“But Bongo should stay here. He is a smart hunde, but trained for war. I do not know how he will fair in peace. You will take care of him, yes?”
Drake smiled for the first time in Hans’ recollection, “I think he will take better care of me, than I of him.”
Hans chuckled and began fading out of consciousness again, “Drake. You. not. So bad. For an American.”
Drake’s smile grew wider, “You’re not so bad for a cockroach.”
Hans laughed softly as his eyes closed and his chest rose and fell rhythmically, the smile still on his face.
Bongo climbed on the end of the bed, curled up and put his head on Hans’ bare ankle. His eyes searched Hans, and a low whine was in his throat.
