RIDE OF THE VALKYRIES

Valkyries come to Glen Hartwell and start killing veterans for some reason

12th September 2001 (Australian Time)

Danny 'Bear' Ross was a giant of a man, over two hundred centimetres tall, fiercely blonde, with a huge barrel chest, and bulging muscular arms and legs. Usually, he was up to almost any physical activity. But having fallen onto the concrete veranda outside his two-room flat and twisted his left ankle the day before, he was now laid up on the dingy green leatherette sofa in the main room of flat 7, 53 Boothy Street, Glen Hartwell, in the Victorian Countryside.

His friends and work colleagues had been calling in throughout the day to see how he was. Gina Foley, the chief surgeon of the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital, had rung, trying to convince him to spend a few days in the hospital, recuperating:

"It's just commonsense," she insisted. "You'll have doctors and pretty nurses to attend to your needs."

"The pretty nurses are tempting," said Bear, "but I just need a few days' rest at home. I've got a crutch to help me walk around, and the flat is so small, it's not likely to cause me any trouble."

"All right, you stubborn ox ... or should that be stubborn bear? But I'll be coming around to see you before noon tomorrow."

"I'll be looking forward to it," said Bear. Then before she could hang up, "And don't hesitate to bring some pretty nurses with you."

"Forget it, you only get pretty nurses if you have the brains to let us take you into the hospital," said Gina, before hanging up.

Putting down the receiver, Bear said to himself, "That's a pity. I really would have liked some pretty nurses."

He had paused the VCR player where he had been watching a four-hour tape. After watching an old Fugitive episode, he had almost finished watching Dirty Harry when Gina had rung. Then would come one of his ten favourite action movies, The Great Escape.

With a six-pack of Foster's Lager on the floor near the sofa, and The Great Escape coming up, Bear was a happy man, despite the pain in his left ankle.

By the time The Great Escape had finished, Bear was yawning and ready to go to bed. The tape clicked off and started to rewind.

On the TV, he saw a newsroom, clearly in America, based upon the reporter's broad accent. To Bear's shock, she was explaining that an airliner had just crashed into one of the World Trade Centre Towers in New York. Behind her was what looked like the largest TV screen Bear had ever seen. As the woman talked, a 767-type airliner, looking like a pregnant silver whale with wings, could be seen flying from right to left toward one of the towers.

How the Hell did they get such a perfect video of it happening? Bear wondered.

Then, when the plane crashed into the tower, the reporter shrieked, flailing her hands wildly above her head, screaming, "It's happened again! It's happened again!"

Then Bear realised that it was not a gignormous TV screen behind the woman. It was a window looking out over the New York skyscape, and he had just witnessed a second plane crashing into the second major World Trade Centre Tower.

Holy shit, World War Three has just started! Bear thought as his phone started ringing.

"Are you watching the news?" asked Terry Blewett, Bear's constable.

"Just started," said Bear. "Can't say the Yanks don't deserve it, the way they've tried to control the world since the end of the Second World War, setting up dictators in power, bringing down democratically elected leaders, sometimes just to please American power companies ...."

"Still, it's a shock," said Terry.

They continued to talk over the phone until way past midnight, watching the events unfolding.

When the first tower finally plopped down like a gigantic mountain of talcum powder, Bear said, "Holy shit, that looks like a control implosion."

"What's that?" asked Terry.

"The Yanks save time dismantling skyscrapers by setting controlled charges throughout the building so it will explode inwards and fall in moments, instead of taking years to dismantle. It's relatively safe, if the building is empty, but it has a distinctive look." He hesitated for a few moments, then said, "And that's exactly what it looked like."

When the second tower plopped down a while later, Bear thought aloud, "There's no doubt about it ... they were both controlled implosions."

However, over the days, weeks, and years to come, the U.S. government and security services would adamantly deny that it had been controlled implosions which had brought down the two main towers of the World Trade Centre, but fires caused by the airliners which had crashed into them.

20th February 2025 (Australian Summer)

Desmond, Rebecca, and Natalie Cheney were preparing for a breakfast picnic in the forest outside Glen Hartwell. Although they had been living in Australia for almost ten years now, Desmond still called America home.

"The Aussie Rules Footy will be starting soon," said eight-year-old Natalie, a strawberry-blonde like her mother.

"Orzie Rules, Bah," said Desmond, a tall, dark-haired man with a military crew cut, unimpressed. "The only true football is American Football, Gridiron."

"According to Chelsea Clifton at primary school, Gridiron is just a bowdlerised form of rugby."

"What?" demanded Desmond, his face flushed in rage.

"Her dad says, rugby is just a collection of incredibly fat men, carrying an incredibly fat football, as they waddle from one end of a fat paddock to the other end. Before, for reasons no one can understand, doing a belly-wacker in the mud."

"Well, that might be true of rugby ..." began Desmond.

"But he says, at least in proper rugby, they're mannish enough not to cover themselves in heavy armour out of fear of getting hurt, like in American bowdlerised rugby."

"Honey, it's time to eat now," said Rebecca, holding out a peppered hard-boiled egg in the hope of stopping her daughter before Desmond exploded.

Natalie took the egg, but continued, "Her dad says, only yellow-bellied cowards and pooftahs play American bowdlerised rugby."

"He says what?" demanded Desmond.

Finally, the young girl shut up and looked down at the throw rug they were sitting on, concentrating upon eating her hard-boiled egg.

"Now, Dessie, remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure," reminded Rebecca.

"Screw my blood pressure!" shouted Desmond Cheney, for the first time in his life swearing in front of young Natalie. "Gridiron is the most macho sport in the world ... and Gridiron players are all He Men!"

"Whatever you say, dear," said Rebecca, cuddling young Natalie, who had started crying.

"Look, I'm sorry, Honey," apologised Desmond to his daughter. "I guess you touched a raw nerve."

However, his daughter kept her head buried in her mother's pink blouse, refusing to look up at her father.

For the next few minutes, Desmond tried to sweet-talk his daughter without any success. Finally, it was Rebecca who said, "Honey, look at the pretty ladies on white horseys."

Slowly, Natalie looked up to where her mother was pointing.

Three plump, but pretty women, two blondes, one redhead, dressed in some kind of armour, wearing their hair in long pigtails, were slowly approaching them on huge, white stallions.

"Ooh, horseys," said Natalie, forgetting about being upset.

Standing up, Natalie started to run toward the three riders, but her mother grabbed her by the waist and held her back.

"Mummy, I want to see the white horseys."

"They're coming this way, just be patient, Honey."

"Hokay," said Natalie, clearly not feeling very patient.

Unlike the little girl, the three women were in no hurry, riding their steeds slowly across the pine needles and gum leaves which carpeted the forest floor.

Finally, the three women reached within a few metres of the picnickers.

"Desmond Cheney?" called the redhead, whose age seemed impossible to gauge.

"Yes," said Desmond, puzzled.

"You have been tried and found guilty of genocide against the people of New Baghdad!" said the redhead, Freya.

"No! We were all cleared!" insisted Desmond, climbing to his feet. "We were at war ... these things happen!"

"Collateral damage?" asked one of the blondes, Ingrid.

"Yes," said Desmond. "Hillary Clinton declared that we had done nothing wrong."

"She was guilty of a cover-up!" declared the second blonde rider, Hildegard.

April 5, 2010.

In conjunction with Julian Assange, the BBC broadcast a thirty-nine-minute video, 'Collateral Murder', which showed an air-to-ground attack by US Apache helicopters in Al-Amin al-Thaniyah, New Baghdad, during the Iraqi insurgency. Occurring upon July 12, 2007, the attack involved the murder of several civilians, including two Reuters journalists. The video showed the helicopter crew laughing at some of the casualties.

20th February 2025 (Australian Summer)

"You have been judged by a higher court than any in the United States," said the redhead, Freya. "You have been found guilty of genocide and sentenced to death."

"We are here to carry out the sentence," said Ingrid.

The three Valkyries let out a loud battle cry, then raised long, shining swords, kicked the flanks of their horses and charged toward Desmond Cheney.

"Nooooooo!" cried Desmond, abandoning his family as he turned and charged off into the forest.

"Daddy!" cried Natalie in terror, thinking she and her mother would be killed by the three mounted women.

However, the Valkyries rode full pelt, well wide of the mother and daughter, only interested in avenging the war crimes that Desmond Cheney had committed, and Hilary Clinton had covered up.

"I was just obeying orders!" shrieked Desmond.

"That's what the Nazis claimed!" cried Hildegard.

"They were executed anyway!" exclaimed Freya.

"As will you, and the others be!" insisted Ingrid.

As Desmond began to scream and cry, the Valkyries began swinging their swords savagely, until finally running the war criminal to ground.

Freya effortlessly decapitated the running man, allowing his headless body to run on for a couple of metres before falling to the forest floor. Then dismounting, Freya, Ingrid, and Hildegard strode across and began hacking at the corpse with their blades. Firstly, they hacked off his arms at the elbows and legs at the knees, before removing the limbs at the shoulders and crotch. Finally, requiring the combined strength of all three women, they managed to hack his torso in half at the navel.

"Death to all war criminals!" cried Freya, as the Valkyries strode back to their pure white stallions.

"Death to all war criminals!" cried Ingrid and Hildegard, as the three women effortlessly mounted their steeds before charging away into the forest.

"Daddy!" shrieked eight-year-old Natalie as the Valkyries rode away.


Over at the Mitchell Street Police Station, in Glen Hartwell, the four officers were enjoying tea or coffee with homemade traditional Aussie Neenish Tarts. Really meant for dessert, the crispy, buttery tart crust, jam and cream filling and with their two-tone topping, they made for a fantastic morning tea.

"Delish," said Sheila Bennett, an orange-and-black haired Goth Chick. At thirty-six, she was the second-top cop of the area.

"Mmmm, Mrs. M. has outdone herself," said Terri Scott. The same age as Sheila, Terri was a beautiful ash blonde, top cop of the area, and Colin's fiancée.

"You'll have to get the recipe for when we get married," said Colin. A tall redheaded man of forty-nine, Colin had worked as a crime reporter in London for thirty years before moving to Glen Hartwell and starting work for the police.

"Why?" asked Terri. "When we get hitched, we can stay at the Yellow House, enjoying Deidre's superb cuisine for the rest of our lives.

"She is at least twenty-five years older than you, Chief," pointed out Suzette Cummings. At eighteen, Suzette was a trainee with beautiful, long black hair.

"Oh yeah, well, when I hit fifty, I might start helping her out in the kitchen to pick up as many cooking tips as possible."

"Good thinking, babe," said Colin, as Terrie's mobile phone started to ring.

"Oh no," said Sheila, as she and Suzette both grabbed the last Neenish tart. As they exchanged looks, neither releasing the sugary treat, Sheila said, "There are two ways we can handle this, Suzette. Either we can duke it out, while Colin steals our tart ... Or we can have half each."

"Half each," agreed Suzette wisely, since Sheila spent her Saturdays at the Muscle Up Gym with some mates and was very strong.

"Wise choice," said Sheila, carefully breaking the last tart in even halves.

"What's that, Becca?" asked Terri, covering one ear with a hand to blank out the others. "Swords?"

At the word 'swords', the others started trying to listen in to the conversation. Finally, Terri disconnected and said, "That was Rebecca Cheney; she was hysterical. She says three women in armour, riding horses, just hacked her husband to pieces with swords, after accusing him of war crimes."

"I really did not expect you to say that, babe," said Colin as he, Terri, and Sheila got up to head outside.

Looking a little relieved, Suzette was assigned to stay behind to man the phone.

"And ring through to Jesus and Tilly at the hospital," instructed Terri.

As she started Terri's police-blue Lexus, Sheila asked, "You don't think the LePage and Elroy Battle Re-Enactment Society have finally gone nuts, do you?"

"Well, none of them are completely compos mentis at the best of times," conceded Terri. "I mean dressing up and playing at soldiers."

"Not the behaviour of normal people," agreed Colin.

At the crime scene, they found Jesus, Tilly, and Elvis already examining the remains of Desmond Cheney. Three ambulances stood by, two of them about to take Rebecca and Natalie Cheney to the Glen Hartwell Hospital.

"So what's up, Docs?" asked Sheila, doing a feeble Bugs Bunny impression.

"Why do you even bring Sheils to crime scenes?" asked Tilly Lombstrom. Second in charge at the hospital, Tilly was an attractive fifty-something brunette.

"I'm too lazy to drive the Lexus myself," said Terri.

"Don't forget she crashed your first Lexus a year or so back," said Elvis Green, the local coroner and a fanatical Elvis Presley fan.

"That was so not my fault!" insisted Sheila.

"So what's your conclusion?" asked Colin Klein.

"This is definitely the remains of Desmond Cheney," said Jesus Costello, the administrator and chief surgeon of the hospital.

"And he's definitely been hacked to pieces," said Tilly.

"Thank you, Sherlock, even we could see that," teased Sheila.

"But we can't say for certain yet that it was by three warrior women using broadswords or whatever," said Elvis.

"He's been hacked in half at the navel," said Jesus, "and no average woman would be strong enough to do that ... even with a sword."

"I could probably do it," boasted Sheila.

"Maybe," conceded Tilly, "but with the bodybuilding you do, you're hardly an average woman."

"So you're saying I'm above average?" asked Sheila.

"Let her retain the fantasy," teased Colin.

After the medics had finished, Sheila snapped off dozens of crime scene pictures, then the pieces of Desmond Cheney were taken to the third ambulance to be transported to the morgue in the basement at the hospital.


Dennis DuBeck (or Chief Centurion Dendemone during war games) was only a hundred and fifty-five centimetres tall, but as its founder and leader, he was a giant of a man at the LePage and Elroy Battle Re-Enactment Society. Dennis's second in charge was Kenneth Maudsley (Kenemonius), a tall, wiry, fiercely blond man of forty, followed by Marsha Maudsley, Kenneth's wife (Marshallius). At two metres tall, and a determined bodybuilder, not many men could defeat the brunette, who wore her long hair in a ponytail in battles.

The society prided itself upon being able to re-enact any war. However, they had been gifted nearly seventy Roman gladiator costumes when a local costumery had gone bankrupt a few years back. So, they were now made up as Roman soldiers out to conquer the Britons, whose costumes they'd also been gifted.

Marcus Youngblood (Marconius) was the leader of the Briton army, a tall, lanky man with long red hair, which, like Marsha's, he tied in a long ponytail, in defiance of historic accuracy.

"Ready to do battle, Centurion Dendemone?" asked Marconius.

"That's Chief Centurion Dendemone," corrected Kenemonius.

"My apologies," said Marconius, bowing low. "May we begin the war games?"

"Not yet, Briton swine," said Dendemone, getting into the spirit of things. "We are awaiting the arrival of new members from the land of Amerigo Vespucci."

Looking puzzled, Marshallius asked, "You mean the United States?"

"Stay in character, babe," said Kenemonius, unwittingly breaking character himself.

As they were speaking, a camouflage-coloured Range Rover arrived stopping nearby, and out stepped a tall, forty-ish, dark-haired man and his two teenage sons.

"This looks like the new arrivals," called Dendemone. Marshallius, call your battalion to attention!"

"My battalion to attention!" called Marshallius. Then, dismayed by their shuffling, she shouted: "Stand to attention, you worthless curs or I'll feed you to the lions!"

"Do we have any lions?" asked one of her men, being silenced by a glare from the towering brunette.

As one, the battalion snapped to attention.

"Excellent, Marshallius. Now Kenemonius!"

"My battalion to attention!" shrieked Kenemonius, startling his men into line.

"Excellent. My battalion!" shouted Dendemone, and his battalion, the best trained, snapped to attention.

"My battalion, stand about like layabouts," teased Marconius. "As rebel Britons, we don't do all of that airy-fairy snapping to attention."

As they stood in the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus forest, the newcomers quick-marched across to join the procession.

"Reporting for duty, Sire," said the man in a broad American accent.

"Ah, you're from the new lands," said Kenemonius.

"Identify yourselves," snapped Dendemone.

"Woodrow, Woody, Tufnell!" cried the man, a tall, muscular man of perhaps forty-five, sporting a military-style crew cut.

"Willy Tufnell!" cried the oldest son, perhaps seventeen, saluting.

"Wally Tufnell!" cried the youngest son, around fifteen.

All three Tufnells had mousy brown hair.

"Excellent centurions. From now on, you shall be known as Woodius, Willius, and Wallius. You may join Marshallius's battalion.

Marshallius held up her right hand and waved to indicate where they should head.

"Oy! Oy! Oy!" called Marconius. "Three new centurions, and you get them all? I don't think so!"

"Then what do you suggest?"

"Let us pick one of your centurions to join us."

"Very well, you may choose one of our centurions."

Without hesitation, Marconius said, "Marshallius."

"Hang on!" cried Dendemone. "You expect us to give up our strongest fighter, and one of my generals? No, I don't think so."

"If it will help, Chief Centurion," offered Woodius, "I'll be one of his troops, and the boys can be in your army."

Dendemone and Marconius both considered for a moment before agreeing to this compromise.

Woodius raced across to join up with the Britons, and his sons raced across to join Marshallius's battalion. Then Dendemone gave the order:

"Britons retreat deeper into the forest, so we can begin searching for each other, to engage in battle."

At the command, Marconius, Woodius, and the other Britons turned and raced away into the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus forest.

As they raced into the forest to hide from the Roman Legions, Woody Tufnell (Woodius) felt the adrenaline soaring through his system for the first time in more than fifteen years. He had been one of the first U.S. soldiers sent overseas after the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Centre Towers in New York. Many of the war-against-terror troops had been terrified to be fighting in a real war for the first time. But Woody came from a long line of soldiers, going all the way back to the Revolutionary War of 1775-1782, when the United States had broken away from British rule over the price of tea, hiked by outlandish taxation the Brits had put on tea imported into the then-colony. Since the early 1620s, the Americans had drunk more tea per capita than any other nation on Earth. But they saw no reason to pay extortionistic taxes upon it. So with the Revolutionary War, the legend of the Fighting Tufnells had been born!

After his demob and move to Australia a few years back, Woody had felt empty, as though an important part of him had been removed when he had left the U.S. Military. But now, he felt alive again.

No one will really be killed here today, he thought, wrongly. But it's still thrilling to be back in battle after all of these years!

"Keep up, you lazy layabouts!" cried Marconius as some of his men (and women) started to fall back.

"You told us to be layabouts earlier," complained one of the Britons, regretting it as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

"That was to piss off old Dendemone! When he's not around, you act like proper soldiers!"

"You tell them, General!" called Woodius, one of the few Britons able to keep up with Marconius.

After half an hour or so they had gone far enough into the forest to stop running and stopped to plan their attack strategies.

"All right, men, no more running," said Marconius. "From now on, we go on the attack, and send the bloody Roman Legions back to Rome where they belong.

"Hey, who brought the horses?" asked one of the Britons.

Marconius turned to tell him off for talking in the ranks. But then, he stopped as he saw three snowy white stallions approaching slowly through the forest.

"What the fuck!" he said, watching as the horses came close enough for them to see the three warrior women riding them. "Will you piss off please, ladies, we're playing important war games here?"

"Woodrow Tufnell?" called the redhead, Freya.

"Yes?" asked Woodius, stepping forward.

"You have been found guilty of war crimes against the people of Afghanistan and sentenced to death."

"We are here to carry out your sentence," explained Hildegard.

2010 And Beyond

WikiLeaks, launched by Julian Assange, published thousands of US military field logs from the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, U.S. and Saudi Arabian diplomatic cables, and emails from the governments of Syria and Turkey. WikiLeaks has also published documents exposing corruption in Kenya and Samherji, cyber warfare and surveillance tools created by the CIA, and the NSA's surveillance of the French president.

20th February 2025 (Australian Summer)

"But I was pardoned by a military tribunal," protested Woody.

"In a mock trial!" insisted Freya.

"We are from a higher court, which allows for no corruption or cover-ups," said Ingrid.

"Prepare to meet your maker, foul creature!" said Freya, removing her great sword from its scabbard.

"Hang on, ladies!" protested Marconius. "Did Dendemone send you three here to disrupt our preparations? The dirty cheat!"

"Silence!" cried Freya. Swinging her sword sideways, she slammed the side of the blade into the head of Marcus Youngblood, knocking him unconscious, without doing him any serious damage.

At her action, one of the Britons advanced and swung his sword at the redhead. Swinging her ancient blade, Freya easily shattered the metal of the war-gamers' sword, sending the Britons scattering, screaming in terror, in all directions.

"Prepare to meet your maker, Woodrow Tufnell!" cried Freya.

Seeing the others scattering in panic, Woody almost joined them. Then deciding, I have never run away in battle, and I won't run away from my faint.

"I await your sentence," said Woody, kneeling upon the blanket of pine needles and gum leaves that carpeted the forest floor.

Climbing down from her steed, Freya walked across to decapitate Woody with a mighty swing of her ancient sword.

"He has died honourably, unlike the other one," said Ingrid.

"We must escort his soul to Valhalla before returning for the third one," said Hildegard.

As they spoke, a clear, misty image of Woody Tufnell rose from the body that lay in the forest. It floated across to sit upon the white stallion behind Freya.

Giving a mighty cry, the redhead kicked her heels against the sides of the white horse.

Neighing, the steed raised mighty wings, which had been hidden against its side, and soared into the sky, carrying Freya and the soul of Woody Tufnell. Behind them, Ingrid and Hildegard's winged chargers did the same, until all three were flying high through the firmament on their way to far-off Valhalla.


Dennis DuBeck's troops had also headed deeper into the forest, but in a different direction, wary of Marcus Youngblood Britons sneaking up on them.

"Chief Centurion Dendemone," called Kenneth Maudsley (Kenemonius), "I think I hear the Britons coming this way."

"Sounds like they're coming full pelt," said Marsha (Marshallius).

"Marconius never was very subtle," said Dendemone. "All troops line up, ready for a full frontal attack!"

At his orders, the seventy or so troops snapped to attention, ready to take on Marconius's Briton army.

"Here they come," called Marshallius.

Out of the forest charged Marconius's entire Briton battalion, with no attempt at stealth as they charged toward the Roman Legion.

"Swords ready for combat!" ordered Dendemone, and the seventy-odd soldiers raised their swords -- some steel, but mostly wooden.

"Die, you Briton dogs!" called Kenemonius, readying for combat.

However, most of the Britons had dropped their weapons long ago and were running in terror, not into battle.

"Run for your fuckin' lives!" shrieked one of the Britons as they charged through the Roman ranks without any attempt to engage them in battle.

"What the Hell?" demanded Dendemone. "If this is some kind of trick to get us off guard...?"

However, the Britons did not stop to explain, except for one straggler who called, "Run, Dennis, I think they're coming after us."

"Who is coming after you?" demanded Dendemone.

"The warrior women on horses! They killed Woodius, and possibly Marconius, and now they're coming after us."

"Dad!" cried Will and Wally Tufnell as one.

"What do you mean killed?" demanded Dendemone, running after the fleeing Briton soldier.

"A chubby redhead ... she cut his head off with a broadsword!"

"Don't be ridiculous!" said Dendemone. "Have you lot been drinking, in defiance of Re-Enactment Society rules?"

"No, she cut the poor bugger's head off with her sword, I tell you." He then ran out of reach of Dennis DuBeck, who was not designed for running.

"Well, what do you make of that?" asked Kenneth Maudsley as the last of the panicked Britons vanished from sight.

"Maybe we should go and check?" suggested Marsha Maudsley. "They ran in such a panic, they've trampled everything flat for kilometres, so it ought to be easy to backtrack."

"Good idea, Marshallius," said Dennis. "You stay here, with the two boys, while we investigate."

"Sir," said Marsha, doing her best to comfort the two distressed teenagers, hugging them and allowing them to cry against her, as the others started off into the forest.

They had hardly started, however, when Terri's blue Lexus arrived at the scene, followed by Donald Esk's Land Rover.

Driving across to the tall woman comforting the two boys, the police alighted from their vehicles.

"So where is everyone, Marsha?" asked Terri.

"Yeah, we heard you had a big re-enactment going on here today?" said Sheila.

"We did," said Marsha.

She led the two boys across to one of the cars first, then returned to tell Terri and the others what had happened.

"Curiouser and curiouser," said Don Esk, a tall, muscular police sergeant.

"Weirder and weirder, more like it," said Colin Klein.

"Perhaps we should go after them?" suggested Marsha.

"I'll stay with the boys, if you like," volunteered Sheila.

"I thought you didn't like comforting people," said Colin.

"No, it's only hysterical women I hate comforting. I'm very good at cheering up children."

"Okay, you stay. And ring through to the hospital to get four ambulances out here," said Terri, before she and the others set out into the bush.

"Will do, Chief," called Sheila.


Dennis DuBeck and the others had finally located the site where Woody Tufnell had been beheaded by Freya not long ago.

"Holy shit!" said Kenneth Maudsley. He raced into the bushes, followed by more than half of the Roman Legion to throw up.

"But how? What?" asked Dennis as they heard the sound of rustling behind them in the forest.

"Oh God, they're coming back to get us now," called one of the Legionnaires, turning to flee into the forest.

"Come back here, you deserter!" cried Kenneth.

"All Legionnaires to attention!" shouted Dennis.

But for the first time since he had founded the LePage and Elroy Battle Re-Enactment Society, no one paid him any attention. Half of the Legion raced into the forest in terror, the other half stood round, staring gape-mouthed at the corpse of Woodrow Tufnell, and the unconscious figure of Marconius lying nearby.

Before he could repeat the command, Marsha Maudsley, Terri, and the others wandered out of the forest.

"Marsh...?" began Dennis, stopping when he saw Terri and the police. "Over here, Senior Sergeant," he said, leading them across to Woody's decapitated corpse.

Terri knelt down to check on Marconius, saying, "This one has a bad lump on the side of his head but should be all right."

"That's funny," said Colin, looking at Woodrow Tufnell. "They didn't mutilate his corpse like last time. Just cut off his head."

"Were they startled before they could finish the job?" asked Terri.

"No, the Britons..." began Dennis. "Marcus Youngblood's troops scattered in terror when they beheaded the poor bastard."

"So who exactly were they?" asked Don Esk.

"You'd have to ask Marcus whenever he comes around," said Marsha, "we weren't here when it happened."


Two hours later, they had managed to wake up Marcus Youngblood and to round up all of his Briton soldiers, but learnt nothing new. Until, hesitantly, one of the men told them about seeing the three warrior women take to flight.

"Take to flight?" asked Terri.

"Yeah, the white horses had wings and flew." He hesitated again, then said, "The redhead said Woodius had died honourably by not trying to escape his fate, so they would take his soul to Valhalla."

"And?" asked Sheila.

"And ... I might have been hallucinating, but I could swear I saw his soul rise out of the corpse and sail aboard the charger, behind the redhead before the horses took to flight."

"Weirder and weirder, to misquote Alice Liddell," said Colin Klein.

"So, what now, chief?" asked Sheila Bennett.

"Now we go around to see our witchy friend," said Terri.

"Magnolia McCready," said Colin and Sheila together.


1/21 Calhoun Street was the right-hand half of a subdivided yellow weatherboard house. It contained a lounge room, a small bedroom, a kitchen, and a small shower room-cum-toilet cubicle.

In the front room, Magnolia McCready, a tall, busty redhead with electric-blue eyes, handed around cups of cherry tea and homemade jam tarts. On her lap, she nursed a massive, fluffy Tom cat, Timmikins.

"Shouldn't a witch's cat be black?" asked Sheila as they sat down.

"I'm a Wiccan, or white witch. So I'm allowed a white cat. So what can I do for you this time?"

Terri quickly explained what had happened to Desmond Cheney and Woodrow Tufnell, and what they had been told by the LePage and Elroy Battle Re-Enactment Society.

"Well, obviously you're dealing with Valkyries," said Magnolia.

"Valkyries?" asked Terri. "Even I've heard of them."

"Yeah," said Sheila, "aren't they fat chicks with long ponytails, riding on winged horses?"

"Very subtly put, Sheila, but yes," said the Wiccan.

"What about Valhalla?" asked Terri. "I've vaguely heard of it before."

"In Norse mythology, Valkyries guide the souls of dead heroes to the god Odin's hall, Valhalla. So they can continue to fight battles for all eternity."

"But I thought Valkyries only transported the souls of the dead?" asked Colin. "These have been creating their own dead."

"In modern legends, Valkyries only transport souls to Valhalla. But more ancient legends hint that they also punish what we now call war criminals."

"Eyewitnesses at both murders did say the redheaded Valkyrie accused the men of war crimes before killing them," said Terri.

"Then, there you are," said Magnolia.

"Then why aren't there any accounts of them killing war criminals in the past?" demanded Colin.

"In the past, most wars were fought along chivalrous terms. Played by certain rules. Cromwell threw away the rule book when he perpetrated horrendous war crimes against the Irish to bring Ireland into the British Empire. Hence, the brutality of the IRA in the 19th and 20th centuries. They were fighting England the English way, and no holds were barred. Likewise the Nazis and Japanese in World War Two threw away the rule book. But for most of history, most wars have been fought by civilised rules. Until Vietnam. In the Vietnam War, there were no good guys; you just had one set of evil bastards fighting another set of evil bastards. And this has continued down to the modern day with the same scenario in the so-called War Against Terror, it's just one set of evil bastards fighting another set of evil bastards. The U.S.A. and its allies are no less evil than the Taliban and Al Qaeda. The U.S. and even Australian troops have been committing war crimes as extreme as anything Al Qaeda has been doing."

"So you're saying we've reached the point where there is no chivalry or valour left in war anymore?" asked Colin. "So the Valkyries have returned to apply the justice that military courts around the world are no longer doing?"

"Yes, I believe that is the case," said Magnolia. "Let's face it, the United States even crossed it's name off the Geneva Convention so that it could operate a Death Camp at Guantanamo Bay in Cuba. Without permission from the communist government, who since 1959 have been ordering America to leave Cuban soil ... so far without any success."

"So, it's illegal, as well as immoral?" said Sheila.

"But getting back to our problem," said Terri, "how do we defeat the Valkyries, or drive them off."

"You can't defeat them; they are immortal," said Magnolia.

"How did I know she was gonna say that?" asked Sheila.

"To drive them off, you must convince them to leave of their own accord."

"You mean we lie, and say there are still moral countries at war?" asked Colin.

"No, you tell them the truth," said Magnolia. "That even if all countries' armies are now immoral, not all soldiers are immoral. The U.S. and Australia have perpetrated horrendous War Crimes over the last twenty-plus years. But most Aussie and American soldiers are not war criminals. Remember God promising to spare Sodom and Gomorrah, if even one decent person could be found there? Abraham failed to find even one good person in Sodom and Gomorrah. But there are millions of good, decent people fighting for America and Australia, even if our military leaders as a whole are now gross war criminals." She paused for a moment, then held out her right hand and said, "One last important thing."

"A hundred bucks for the consultation," said Terri, Colin, and Sheila together.

Smiling broadly, Magnolia said, "Wiccans gotta live too."


Henry Messenger had been a soldier in the Royal Australian Armed Forces for over thirty years before retiring recently. He had been demobbed in Sydney a few days ago, then returned to Melbourne, before just today returning to his family's farm outside Glen Hartwell in the Victorian Countryside. But tonight he was going into town to the opera at the Playhouse Theatre in Blackland Street, Glen Hartwell.

"The opera?" chorused his parents in disbelief.

"That's right, I developed a taste for it in the Far East."

"So when you weren't bombing the A-rabs," said his younger brother, Clive, "you were attending their operas."

"That's about it," said Henry. "Hey, there's nothing wrong with opera; Elvis liked opera!"

"Yeah? Well, that's his opinion," said Clive, "personally I prefer something more modern."

"What, like Kanye West shouting out 'The Sea Rap'?

"Rap is just crap
"Without the sea,
"Rap is just crap
"Well, obviously,
"Rap is just crap
"For you and me,
"Rap is just crap
"Without the sea."

Glaring at his older brother, Clive said, "You've become very sarky since being overseas fighting, bro."


Over at the Yellow House in Rochester Road, Merridale, they had just finished tea and were relaxing in the lounge room. Terri was reading the cinema pages of the newspaper, the others were reading books.

Looking up, Terri said, "Who wants to go to the opera at the Playhouse Theatre in Blackland Street, G.H.?"

"No offence, Tare, but have you gone mad?" asked Sheila. "To quote a great man ..." She shouted, "It's only rock and roll, but I like it, like it, yes I do!"

"You'll like the opera too, Sheils."

"Frankly, I'm with the mad Goth chick, babe," said Colin.

"What's playing?" asked Natasha Lipzing, a grey-haired old lady of seventy-one.

"Ironically, Richard Wagner's 'Ride of the Valkyries'." Then, when they still looked bored, "We might learn something pertinent to the case." When that didn't seem to impress Colin or Sheila, "And since it's work-related, we can take the cost of the tickets out of petty cash."

"Does that include the popcorn and lollies?" asked Sheila.

"Absolutely."

"Something tells me we've got no choice," said Colin, reluctantly standing up from the yellow, floral-pattern couch.

"Excellent, I didn't want to go on my own," Terri said as they headed outside.


Henry Messenger was sitting six rows from the front, at the Playhouse Theatre. He had had a wide choice, since only a dozen other people had turned up by the time the curtain rose for act one. He didn't like to sit too close or too far away from the stage.

Their loss, thought Henry. The Philistines, they don't know what they're missing.

Unlike some of the others in the audience, Henry was not eating Twisties, crisps, or lollies. He believed to get the full opera experience, you needed to concentrate fully upon what was going on, on stage.

Philistines, he thought again as people continued munching loudly as the opera went on.

Gradually, he managed to block out the sounds of the eating to concentrate fully upon the performers of stage. As the Valkyries appeared for the first time, they rode massive chargers with what seemed to be real wings.

This is Hollywood-level special effects, thought Henry, impressed.

Redheaded Freya let out an impressive battle cry, to the shock of some of the paltry audience ....

Then the three chargers raised their wings and took to flight out into the audience.

"What the fuck!" said Henry aloud. "How the Hell could they work that?"

As Freya, Ingrid, and Hildegard let out their battle cry again, waving their large swords above their heads, the crowd started to become restless.

"Is this for real?" asked a bald, bespectacled man of fifty-something.

"Don't be an idiot," insisted his wife, "it's all done with wires."

"They'd need to use bloody strong wires to hold those horses, with those fat chicks on them ... And I don't see any wires, there should be thick cables to hold all that weight.

"He's right," said Henry loud enough to draw everybody's attention to it. "There should be massive bloody cables to carry those horses with fat chicks on them."

"They're real!" shouted the bald man, and everyone started screaming and charging toward the exit.


Sheila parked the police-blue Lexus in the basement of the Playhouse Theatre.

"It's handy not having to hunt for a parking space," said Terri, as the three police officers stepped out of the car and started toward the escalator.

Up in the foyer, Terri said, "Three tickets, please?"

"You're an hour late," said the ticket lady, Doris.

"Then there's not much point going in," said Sheila.

"Still, we had a nice drive," said Colin.

"Relax," said Doris, "there's still three and a half hours to go."

"German operas are nice and long," said Terri with a broad grin, "you get your money's worth."

"Okay," said Sheila, emphatically, "but if I fall asleep in there, you are not to shake me awake, or tell me off later for snoring."

"All right," agreed Terri. "But has it ever occurred to you, you might both like opera?"

"No!" said Colin and Sheila as one.

"I've been an opera fan since I was six. I still get excited watching it!"

"You really need to get a life, Tare," said Sheila.

"No, I don't ..." began Terri, stopping at the sound of screaming from inside the theatre.

"What the Hell?" said Colin as a dozen or so people stampeded out of the theatre, falling over themselves in their haste to escape.

"They're real, dammit, real!" cried the bald man, as he and his wife raced out of the foyer, straight into the street. Not bothering to collect their car from the basement.

"And you say opera is exciting!" said Sheila

"I don't think they're running away from boredom," said Terri. Snatching back her money, she raced toward the theatre doorway.

"Hey, you can't go in there without tickets!" cried Doris.

Ignoring the pink-rinsed old lady, Terri, Colin, and Sheila raced into the theatre.


Inside, as the audience fled in panic, the three Valkyries slowly sailed across the row of seats till reaching Henry Messenger, who still stood, dumbfounded in front of his seat.

"Henry Messenger?"

"Yes."

"You have been found guilty of war crimes in the so-called War Against Terror!"

"But we were cleared of any wrongdoing," insisted Henry. "We were told it was a Taliban stronghold. How were we to know it was a maternity hospital?"

"You murdered nearly three hundred babies, pregnant women, and medical staff," said Ingrid.

"We were told it was a Taliban stronghold and ordered to bomb it!"

"The Nuremberg Ruling states that every man is responsible for his own actions," said Hildegard. "That means the soldiers who bombed the hospital were guilty of murder."

"Every bit as much as the officers who ordered the attack," finished Freya.

"But we were found innocent at a court of inquiry."

"You have been found guilty by a higher court than your military tribunal," said Hildegard.

"A court without corruption, which does not cover up war crimes," said Freya. "You have been sentenced to death, and we are here to carry out your execution!"

"Stop right there!" ordered Terri Scott, running into the theatre.

"Who dares interrupt our due process?" demanded Ingrid.

"I do," said Terri. "I, and my friends, are the law in Glen Hartwell and the surrounds. It is not for you to come here and start executing people."

"We are here on the authority of the Gods of Asgard, the home of the Aesir!" cried Freya.

"We recognise no god, except Yahwe/Jehovah, God of the Christians and the Jews," said Colin Klein.

"You have no authority here," said Sheila.

"In the Old Testament of our God," said Terry, "it tells the story of Sodom and Gomorrah, two evil towns. God planned to blast these two evil towns to extinction. But Abraham asked what about any good people in Sodom and Gomorrah, the point being that good people should not be blasted to extinction due to evil being done around them."

"Yet, Abraham could not find a single good person in Sodom and Gomorrah," said Freya, "so the God of the Christians and Jews blasted them to extinction."

"True, but my point is that although all of the governments of the world and all of the armies of the world, excluding NATO forces, now commit war crimes, most soldiers do not," said Terri. "Most soldiers are still just patriots risking their lives daily to protect the people of their country from massacre."

"Just as we risk our lives to protect the people of Glen Hartwell and the surrounding areas from murderers and monsters," said Colin.

"Yes, that is true," admitted Freya, "still this man."

"This man was ordered to bomb a building which contained babies and pregnant women ... A fact he did not know until after the massacre. Maybe his superiors knew, but he did not!" insisted Terri, clearly making Freya, Ingrid, and Hildegard reconsider. "If he had been ordered to go into the hospital and machine-gun down the people, and had done so despite seeing that it was a maternity hospital, then the Nuremberg Ruling would apply. But he was part of a troop that bombed the hospital, without knowing what it was. So if the people who ordered the attack are guilty of war crimes ... The people who carried it out are not!"

Clearly puzzled, Freya admitted, "You make a strong case, Senior Sergeant. Very well, we will spare this man on your say so."

"And we ask," said Colin, "that you leave the policing of Australia and the Southern Hemisphere solely to the police forces of those countries."

The three Valkyries conferred for a moment, then Freya said, "Very well, we shall restrict our activities to the Northern Hemisphere from now on!"

So saying, they turned their winged chargers toward the stage and soared off, vanishing just before reaching the stage.

"Thank you so much," said Henry Messenger, before fainting.

As they helped him back to his seat, Colin said, "Wonderful going, babe, I never knew you were such a great public speaker."

"Sure, she was top of the class at poncifying, at police college," said Sheila.

"I think you mean at oration, which is what the subject was called," said Terri.

"Oration, poncifying, what's the difference?" asked Sheila, making them all laugh.

THE END
© Copyright 2025 Philip Roberts
Melbourne, Victoria, Australia