Drachefaust
Christopher Ferguson
Issue #1 (March 2008)
It was the day before Christmas and Simone Lafayette was on the scent of a dragon. All of 5-foot-4 and eighteen years of age, Simone blended in like any other young woman in Hammerfest, trudging through the six-inch snow as if on her way to collect bread and wine from the marketplace to feed her hypothetical family. She was not Norwegian, of course, but French, and didn’t even speak the local language. German, though, she spoke and spoke well, as did enough of the locals that she could get by. If one watched her closely, an observer would note that Simone held herself up with greater confidence than did most of the locals, and the bag slung on her back held not food items, but a mysterious assortment of odd objects, of which only one narrow tube, too long to fit in the rucksack, was visible.
It was cold and Simone, born and raised in the South of France, did not much like cold, but she had heard that Hammerfest was plagued by a dragon, so the locals referred to it at least, and if Simone had made of herself any use, it was in the hunting of dragons. Of course, the creature she sought was no lizard of fairytales, given wing and taken to the sky. No, this was nothing of childhood legends, but a truly dark and terrible beast of fire and steel, a demonic presence summoned forth most unwisely by the darkest of black priests and given to a taste for human flesh. Simone, whose small frame seemed more suited for the capture of butterflies than the felling of such horrid spirits was the most unlikely of their slayers. She also, it was whispered on the continent, was among the best.
Up upon a tall hill sat
And so Simone found them, the village elders, the mayor and the white priest and the other men of repute in the central tavern. Apart from a young woman who brought them beer, Simone was the only female among them. With the cold, icy wind still at her back, she set down her heavy load upon a central table and secured their attention, “I’ve come to slay your dragon!” she pronounced boldly.
The men, with wrinkled faces and unkempt beards, looked at her with skepticism and disdain. Who was this woman to walk in among them? What madness possessed such a frail thing to think she could slay their dragon? They whispered among themselves in Norwegian. Their initial reception would not be positive, as she had expected, and they would need to be convinced.
At last one among them, the mayor, she assumed by the deference that the other men showed him, said to her in German, “You are mad, girl. There are those among us who have tried, strong and brave men. Each of them was cut down, burned, and trodden beneath the beast’s terrible feet, or else slain by its German minions before they could even see the beast.”
“A dragon at war is quenched in the blood of its enemies, but a dragon at peace becomes restless and hungry,” she stated, saying out loud what they already knew. “There has been no war in
One man, far in the back, spat when she said the word “peace” and she didn’t blame him. Their life was not one of peace but of slavery.
The mayor regarded her with critical blue eyes within a mask of wrinkled flesh and graying hair. His were sad, tired eyes, “We must sacrifice a virgin each season; a female in the Summer and Winter, a male each Spring and Fall.”
She met his eyes without emotion, “Then if I fail I shall at least have met the beast’s quota for this season, and one of your daughters will survive to raise her own children.”
The Mayor smiled a bit at that, impressed by her talk if nothing else.
A young man stepped forward, big and burly, the sort of man who felt that he should have been able to slay the dragon, but knew that he could not and was frustrated for it. His presence was condescending toward her, using his bulk to intimidate her. She knew he did this because her willingness to confront the dragon, and he needed to take back his masculinity at her expense.
“I should put you over my knee and spank you for your impudence,” he exclaimed, more for the benefit of his male companions than for her. “Do you plan to ask the dragon to nicely go away? Or would you lie with its filthy German keepers in hopes that they will make off with it and make ill use of some other Norwegian town? If you are so intent on sacrificing your virginity, there’s no need to go up on the dragon’s mountain, when you can have your need met just as easily here!” he cackled, and his companions laughed along with him, even those who could not understand the German that he used for her benefit. The rude gestures that he made with his hands, well…those they understood.
The mayor was watching her intently for her response. Quietly she slid the heavy shawl she wore against the cold over one shoulder. Beneath it she wore a plain French dress of wool and leather boots. It was not her attire which caught their eyes however and took the laughter from the room. It was the barrel of the MP40, black and heartless and strung across her chest, that she now had trained on the big rude man. Her right hand she kept gently at the trigger, the left on the magazine housing as she had been trained, “If I must cut you down to impress your comrades, then that must be the way of things,” she told the big man, “but I assure you that if you take one step for me you certainly will be slain.”
The room was quiet now, the laughter gone. The big man had the fight taken out of him, and he was not the sort to face down a submachine gun whether handled by Germans or by this brash French girl. Still he was not satisfied, “I am cowed by your nerve,” he cried, “but that shall certainly not slay our dragon, as its hide is as thick as my arm.”
Her right hand kept on the finger of the MP40, she drew forth from her rucksack the long tube. At the front of the thing, shaped like a pineapple, was a warhead meant for the slaying of dragons such as that which plagued
It was the white priest, called thus for his service to the Deity’s Son, and not the Deity’s First Angel, whom the black priests served, who spoke up to her and proclaimed, “I know now who you are! You are the one whom they call the Drachefaust! They say that you are an angel of the Deity’s Son and a saint among sinners on Earth.” He moved forward and took her hand, the one not resting on the MP40 and kissed it.
Simone blushed, she was neither angel nor saint, and had no wish to be deified. The white priests’ proclamation held great sway with the men of the town however, and where moments ago had been scorn, now there was hope. They crowded around her and asked her many questions, touching her shoulders as if she might bring them good fortune. Only the big man who had insulted her looked away. His eyes held shame, and he soon slunk out the back door and was not seen again.
At last the Mayor called for quiet and asked of her, “Tell us what is your price for delivering us from the dragon.”
She smiled at him, the first time she had shown any of them favor. “I require food and lodging for a week’s time to rest after I have slain the dragon so that I might recover from my efforts. If I require medical attention you will provide that as well and my stay may be prolonged as necessary. Lastly I take first pick from the dragon’s spoils. Those are my only demands.”
The Mayor seemed surprised as she might easily have asked Reichmarks from them, and they would have struggled to pay her. He agreed readily to what she asked, and the white priest canonized her anew, and food and wine were brought for her. She had brought them the first hope that they had known in years, she well knew. As she settled down to enjoy these few moments of rest, she pondered how best to set about the task before her.
The Norwegians called the beast a dragon because they knew not what else to call it. The Germans, she knew, referred to it as a Panzer, and this one was old and mad. The Germans built the steel shells of these beasts and their black priests summoned up the spawn of hell that became their souls. At war the Panzers were at home, among death and blood and pain, they were ruthless and powerful, obedient to their German masters so long as they were fed a steady diet of human misery. Left to languish in the occupied territories of
From the descriptions that the townspeople gave her she realized that their dragon was designated by the Germans as a Panzer-III, an old machine, by now outdated and outgunned in the war. Those that survived were cruel and vicious; jealous of the larger Panzers that outshone them and devoid of mercy toward the lowly humans that scattered before them. Her Panzerfaust could easily penetrate its armor and slay the demon within…if she had the chance for a shot.
By late afternoon she was tired of the adulation the village elders heaped upon her and decided that it was time for her to earn her keep. The Panzerfaust went back into the rucksack, and the MP40 back under her shawl. The white priest said a blessing over her, and bestowed upon her some of his magic so that she would be kept in the favor of the Deity’s Son. And so she trudged further up the side of the hill, up and up until the village below receded from view. How did these crazy Norwegians manage, to live in an environ so cold and devoid of life?
She followed the directions that the villagers had given her. At last she could see the rocky outcropping with the cave in which the beast dwelt. Outside of that there were tents and German men, two of them with rifles and cigarettes. They watched her as she approached, their eyes masked behind thick goggles, fingers twitching against their triggers, although they gave little indication that they thought of her as a threat. Like the Panzer, these men would be rogues, deserters probably from the Wehrmacht who had thrown in their lot with the insane Panzer for mutual gain. When the town sent up their virgins for sacrifice, Simone knew, these men would have their piece first, whether the virgin were male or female, then the Panzer would feed on the terrified victims.
“You there, girl,” one of the Germans called down, “Why are you here?”
“I was sent by the village elders,” she told them, trying to sound both frightened and meek, “I was selected to be the girl of winter.”
The two Germans stepped forward into the snow, eyeing her with malevolent intent. Both had stepped away from the opening of the cave, which she had kept at thirty feet distance. She could not yet see the Panzer, nor hear its unearthly growl, and so she thought that it must be sleeping.
“You’re a day early,” the first German said, although he didn’t sound disappointed, “Why don’t you cast your shawl aside so what we can see what the town has sent us for Christmas. I think we can keep you warm until the Beast is ready for you.”
“With pleasure,” she sneered, and cast aside her shawl. The two Germans stopped and stared with horror at the sight of the MP40, and before they could bring their rifles to bear she was firing, the gun hot and reliable in her hands. The two Germans flung their hands in the air and dropped to their knees, and still she kept firing. She kept firing until the snow was stained red with their blood and the bastards moved no more.
Of course the sound of the gun woke the beast, and her ears hurt as its engine roared to life and sound bellowed forth from the cave. She felt no fear in her heart, for she had faced demons worse than this one and this one too would go back to Hell easily enough. She found a good solid rock behind which to seek cover, and drew the Panzerfaust from her rucksack. She set it upon her shoulder and took aim at the cave entrance. As the beast emerged from the cave, she would fire on it and send it back to the Deity’s First Angel, who it served.
The sound of the Panzer was so loud that it shook the ground and seemed to set her very bones aquiver in her body. Still she knew no fear. Long ago, as terror was rained down upon her own home, and her parents were taken from her, she had ceased to feel anything like normal human fear. Death awaited her soon enough, with that much she had made her peace; each day in the interim was but a blessed gift from the Deity’s Son, and she would accept as many such days as she was given and ask for no more.
At last the thin barrel from which the Panzer spat fire and death began to emerge from the cave. Clouds of blue smoke preceded it, and Simone nearly choked on the stench. She could hear the treads of the beast’s great feet as it chewed up the ground in its anger. Finally it emerged from the cave, its long grey side exposed to her. She focused her aim on the black and white cross on its side, which aside from its back, was the weakest spot at which to strike the beast. She concentrated, ignoring the noise, the smoke, the smell…
And then at once there was a shot, and her left shoulder erupted in such pain as she could hardly imagine. The Panzerfaust slipped from her hands and fell harmless in the snow. She looked up in her surprise and saw that there was a third German, emerged from his tent, and even now chambering another round into his rifle with which to shoot her. The MP40 was slung back out of her easy reach and she wouldn’t be able to pull it round in time to save herself. Meanwhile the beast lumbered forth from its cave, huge and horrible and intent on destroying whoever had interrupted its slumber.
There was a shot from a rifle, but to Simone’s amazement no bullet struck her. Rather the last of the Germans fell over, dead. Looking around in surprise, she found that the tall Norwegian, who had once made fun of her, now held a rifle in his hand with which he had killed the German who had shot her.
Simone was glad to see him, but they had not a moment to spare, both of them ducking behind Simone’s rock for cover as the Panzer emerged fully from its lair. The big Norwegian hunkered down besides her with a wide grin on his face, “I couldn’t let you have all the glory,” he said by way of explanation.
“You’re a big dumb fool, but I’m glad for it,” she replied. Her shoulder burned very badly. She had never been shot before and she was surprised at how intensely it hurt. It looked like the bullet had gone through her, and she could still use her fingers and arm, if somewhat stiffly, so no bones must have been broken. Her dress was bloody though, and she would need attention from the white priest for healing. Worse, the Panzerfaust was too far away for her to recover easily, and neither the MP40, nor the Norwegian’s rifle would be of use against the Panzer.
“I can’t believe you followed me,” she said again, and it was true, “You’re such a fool.” She could hear the sounds of the Panzer as it swiveled round searching for whoever had shot its German helpers. Panzers were clever, but poor of sight, fast and strong, but clumsy. A moment later, however, it had guessed their location. There came a terrible crash and at once both she and the Norwegian were covered in a hail of rock and ice. The Panzer had fired a burst of flame from its central cannon and landed the shot not far from the rock behind which they hid. Simone felt as if the air itself was sucked from her lungs and her ears rang with the terrible sound. The air was sharp with the smell of cordite, and she knew that she was experiencing her last few moments. Still, she faced this fact with resolve, knowing as she always had, that one day she would face a death such as this.
The Norwegian, covered in dirt and ice, looked over at her and gave her a stupid grin. There was blood coming from his ears and his eyes had a maniacal look. He spoke to her, but she couldn’t hear his voice over the ringing in her ears. Still she was able to read his lips well enough to get his meaning as he said to her, “I think it doesn’t know that there are two of us.”
She understood his meaning at once and called him a damn fool once again. If he heard her he only grinned. Even over the ringing in their ears they could hear the grinding sound of metal against metal as the Panzer loaded another round to prepare for a second shot. This time it would aim straight for the rock which sheltered them, splitting it and them. The Norwegian was up and running before the shot could come. The Panzer, unprepared, tried to adjust, fired its shot wide and uselessly off down the mountain. The Norwegian ran, laughing, firing his useless rifle at the Panzer, but drawing its attention. It was a moment of great courage that could not last, for within its metal body, the Panzer held smaller founts of flame and it now unleashed these upon the fleeing man until his body was filled with lead, and his blood flowed freely upon the snow.
As the Norwegian had planned, it was the moment that Simone had needed. With the Panzer distracted she was able to recover her panzerfaust and mount it once again upon her good shoulder. Her left hand was shaking with pain and slippery with blood, but it was enough to hold steady her aim. Once again she concentrated on that black cross on the side of the beast and this time she was uninterrupted as she let fly her warhead and slaughtered the dragon in a shower of flame and steel.
When she returned to the village that night, exhausted and nearly frozen, the people welcomed her with celebrations and exaltations. She was sure to give the big Norwegian his due and his people mourned him as a martyr. The white priest attended to her wound, and called upon the divine mercy of the Deity’s Son to heal the wound. Slowly it began to knit, the priest’s connection with his Lord was a powerful one and Simone expected that the wound would be as new by morning. Then she would return to the mountain and see what spoils there were for her among the Germans’ things. A replacement for her panzerfaust would, of course, be tantamount among the items she would most need.
The people of the village held a great feast in her name. It was expected, she had experienced other such feasts. She allowed her self a moment to enjoy it all, but just a moment. Of course the people asked her to stay with them, to stay and be their protector, and of course she demurred. In the world there were a thousand villages such as their own, tormented by the depredations of a rogue Panzer and its infernal hungers. She would travel the world until she found them all, or until one of them finally stopped her.
“Why do you continue on like this?” the town Mayor asked her on Christmas Day, after the third time that he invited her to remain with them, and for the third time she refused, “You could be happy here with us.”
“Tonight you will all sleep soundly in comfort and safety,” she told him sadly, “yet throughout the world a thousand villages such as your own sleep fitfully in fear and dread. I will not stop until every person can share in your happiness.”
“Ours is a world at war,” the man said almost apologetically, “Your goal can never be obtained.”
“Then I shall never stop,” she told him without emotion, and the matter was laid to rest. As she had promised them, she stayed with them for a week until her shoulder had healed and they began to grow accustomed to their newfound freedom from the dragon. She welcomed in the New Year with them, and then set out alone once more. She hoped she would see peace ushered into the world in this New Year, 1948; a peace that had not been seen in years past.
