Slaves of Valhalla: The Prometheus Wars: Books 2 by Luke Romyn

Luke Romyn
By Luke Romyn August 13, 2013 02:52

Slaves of Valhalla: The Prometheus Wars: Books 2 by Luke Romyn


Fenrir the wolf howls. Bifrost beckons. And Wes answers.

The enigmatic Australian SAS commando awakens into a maelstrom of death and destruction, his memory in tatters, and his former friend and companion dead.

In his hunt for answers, Wes uncovers much more than he was searching for, and enters a war which could see the entire planet destroyed as beasts of ice and perils from outside our realm of reality threaten humanity’s very existence.

Wes must try to find a way to stop a foe that cannot be stopped, and will use anything at his disposal to ensure mankind is not reduced to slavery by the creatures which founded some of the most terrifying fables of all time.

According to the author, this book contains more than two words of profanity per page.

The author has rated this book R (not suitable for those 17 and under).


The cold tore at his skin, ripping away the thin veil of comfort which had cloaked him in its illusory embrace. Trying to rouse himself, the stranger struggled free of the congealing remnants of his unnatural slumber, battling to gather thoughts and memories.

Such a task was like grasping an oiled eel, however, and the more furiously he tried to call to mind what had occurred, the more his recollections seemed to slip through his fingers. Images drew tentatively close, but then fled, leaving him empty and alone once more.

Okay, he needed to keep it simple. Basic things first, that was the secret to these things. What was his name…?

Panic flooded through him. He couldn’t remember who he was!

The stranger paused, breathing deeply and evenly, controlling the forest fire of panic erupting within his belly. Such lack of control would not help his situation in any way, shape or form, and as such was useless to him at this time. He emptied his mind, not a difficult task under such circumstances, and pictured an empty field. Allowing his thoughts to roam across the field wherever they may, he journeyed with them when they tugged him in various directions, this way and that, following as they ultimately began to hurtle across the field toward a target he could not perceive.

Slowly, like a tiny trickle of oil from the delicate fingers of a Thai masseuse, images began to unfold in his mind. He recalled an enormous three-headed dog snapping and snarling right before he’d sliced through one of its necks, wielding a glowing sword which glittered and hissed with energy unlike any he had ever known.

Another vision exploded within his mind of an intensely tall man, a towering individual clad in black armor, whose sword had seemed to suck the light from the world around it. This giant had battled a man of myth, whose bulging muscles swelled and strained against his bronze breastplate as he swung a blade glittering with dazzling radiance – similar, but different to the one he’d held in his own battle.

These recollections dribbled into the stranger’s memory, their agonizing slowness crowded by a myriad of other smaller images. A man who fought against his own fear in order to prevent a calamity across time…. An enormous orange rock perched in a red desert, plunging into the ground after the timid man played a strange kind of tune…. An incredible city under the ocean, a towering statue of a legend standing guard at its gates….

Yet his own name remained elusive.

The stranger gazed around him and winced as a bolt of pain shot through his head. Raising a hand to his scalp, he felt something sticky. Rubbing his fingers against his palm he saw the smear of crimson which could only be blood. Stumbling over to a cracked mirror on the wall, he stared at his reflection. Dark, mocking eyes peered back at him as he parted the matted and bloodied brown hair to gaze at his wound. Shallow wound, but it would need stitches or some medi-foam –

What the hell is medi-foam?

He pushed the thought aside. “Well, at least you’re a good looking bastard,” he muttered, “even if you are forgettable.” He winked and moved away from the mirror.

He cast his gaze across a scene of carnage, bodies and mutilated limbs flung around haphazardly like items hurled from an angry woman’s purse. Whatever had happened here had been terrible, yet oddly the stranger felt no discomfort as he stared at the horror and destruction. Upon closer inspection, he saw many of the corpses appeared to have been wrenched apart by physical force, though how he knew this fact remained a mystery.

Had he been in some sort of plane crash?

Looking at himself, the stranger regarded his faded combat fatigues, their desert camouflage pattern of mottled sandy colors smeared with drying blood he guessed was not his own. He bore no weapons, but attached at his left hip was an empty scabbard. Confusion suffused him. The image of hacking a glowing sword through the three-headed dog’s neck returned again. What sort of beast had that thing been? What sort of man was he to be fighting it?

The stranger checked himself for further injuries. Apart from the gash to his head, he seemed pretty much intact, unlike the building around him. It was virtually demolished, and as he stepped through its smoldering husk, he observed dozens more bodies torn to pieces around the ruins.

This entire place appeared to have once been an armed forces installation. Its Spartan militaristic layout and near-obsessive categorization survived even beyond its demolition. It was a style the stranger felt strangely used to, a home-like sensation, and he glared at the destruction, wondering what could have possibly caused it.

Was there a war?

Glancing down, the man saw something strangely familiar and stooped to pick it up. The name of the item came back to him in an instant. It was an M4A5 carbine assault rifle and fitted his hand like a glove. Expertly checking to see that the clip was full, he chambered a round and raised the weapon to his shoulder in a move so fluid it bespoke years of practice.

Yet he still couldn’t remember his name.

Shrugging aside the problem, the stranger moved through the structure. Climbing a set of stairs, the next floor revealed a wall of windows exposing the outside landscape, and he realized he had actually ascended from below the ground.

Looking through the windows in the cement-block walls of the military building he noted perimeter fencing topped with razor wire, beyond which stretched a desert so red it almost defied belief, the same desert from his memories, where the rock – Ayers Rock! – had dropped into the ground.

His mind trickled on, putting the pieces together with agonizing slowness.

He was in Australia!

The stranger moved outside the devastated building – his assault rifle up and aimed wherever he looked – only to be confronted with even more destruction. Gazing through the scope of his carbine, the man shuddered at the damage wreaked upon this place. The building he had awoken in was one of seven, and the only one not razed completely. Bodies were everywhere, male and female alike, some with weapons and military uniforms, others wearing lab coats or engineering work gear.

Under the waning daylight, the stranger realized several of the victims had been bitten, as if by huge jaws, but he didn’t linger in his examination. He had a strong sense that whatever had attacked this place was long gone, but couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was might return at any moment to finish the job, to finish him.

Traveling cautiously between the buildings, the stranger came upon what looked like the ruins of an aircraft hangar. Secure doors, three-feet-thick and crafted from solid steel, lay bent and discarded amidst the rubble. Several fighter jets, along with a number of helicopters, lay crushed beneath crumpled blocks of concrete. Their technical names lay tantalizingly close to the surface of the stranger’s memory, but were brushed aside hastily as he spied a singular means of transportation which appeared untouched by the devastation surrounding him. It seemed a bland option in the midst of so many vehicles engineered for destruction, but the stranger’s heart hammered in his chest at the mere sight of it.

It had three axles, sported ten rubber tires, and chrome letters spelled out MACK across its front grill. The large tank upon its back confirmed its purpose.

Yep. It was a septic tanker.

And his name was Wes.

Copyright© Luke Romyn. All rights reserved.

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Luke Romyn
By Luke Romyn August 13, 2013 02:52
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