“Better men than you have tried, squirt,” Cyrus said, and leapt at his foe, keeping Rodanthar squarely in front of his face the entire time. The dark elf stared as Cyrus flew toward him, a straight-line landing that was undeterred, the dark elf pouring shot after shot into his armor, the hits like goblin claws as they struck, stinging their way through the chain mail. He slammed into the dark elf, whose brow was up and dragging his spectacles up with it.
Cyrus checked the dark elf with a knee squarely to the chest and felt no give as the dark elf collapsed. No cracking, either; something should have damned well broken with that hit. Instead they both landed in a pile, crashing into the base of a tree and landing in its shadow.
“Filth!” the dark elf shouted as the rifle clattered from his hands.
“Assassin,” Cyrus said, back coolly, thumping him in the bridge of the nose with the hilt of Rodanthar. The dark elf scrabbled for grip and landed one hand on Cyrus's wrist while reaching for a weapon with the other. Cyrus would have rolled his eyes if he hadn't been firmly ensconced in the business of killing the poor, dumb bastard. All he needed to do was reverse his grip and plunge the blade into the chest—
The dark elf's grip suddenly intensified – too intense, in fact, for Cyrus to believe it. The dark elf gave him a shove and caught him perfectly out of position as he prepared to strike. Cyrus lost his balance astride the bastard, his blade at the highest arc, and he tumbled off.
Cyrus thumped to the ground and rolled back up, readying himself to attack again. Rodanthar had fallen from his grasp, now a few inches away on the ground. The blazing attack of the wagon-mounted cannons had calmed, which left Cyrus with one singular focus–
Who was now gone.
He blinked, looking for the dark elf, but...
There was no dark elf there.
“What the...?” Cyrus started to ask.
A shout of panic caught his attention instead, though, and he whirled out of instinct, snatching Rodanthar back from its earthen rest.
Vara was there, swinging her sword mightily–
Against a small metal construct that whirred in the air before her, slashing with tiny blades. It buzzed and hummed, the noise barely audible where Cyrus's ears echoed pain from the gunfire.
And there seemed to be a hundred coming after it.
Chapter 21
Vaste
Birissa appeared to Vaste's eyes to be in slightly over her head with Qualleron. They had brawled and fought their way across the square which he would not mention the name of – it should have been his! – and now were on a cobbled sidewalk outside a baker's shop, the window shattered by their latest swings at each other.
“Stop following me!” Vaste shouted, swatting down a Machine thug with Letum as he hurried after Birissa. She whirled and roared and battled with the immense Qualleron, whose moves were nowhere near as bold and mad as his Birissa's. While she battled the largeness of the troll, he was dealing with a steady rush of Machine thugs in coats who'd trickled after him from the ambush site. Whether they'd decided he looked weakest or simply wanted to move out of the line of fire of those chittering guns that were roaring at Cyrus and Vara, he didn't know. Hopefully it was the latter. He'd certainly killed four, five of them thus far, putting a bit of a lie to the former.
“You are a great warrior,” Qualleron said, clashing his blade against Birissa's cautiously. Caution appeared to be his game; he'd made no great bold strikes of her sort. He was careful in his swordcraft, allowing no openings. He seemed to be waiting for Birissa to tire.
Birissa was not tiring, somehow. If it had been Vaste, he'd have been exhausted after five sword swings. But she was still battering at him, swinging wildly enough that Qualleron was having to steadily fall back, and she didn't even seem to be out of breath. She even wasted some replying to him, not huffing at all: “You're not so bad yourself, big man.”
Qualleron inclined his head toward her. “The mark of a great warrior is their honor. Yours is doubtless.” He raised his mighty blade in a cross guard and absorbed the impact of Birissa's powerful strike. “It will be an honor to fell you.”
“I ain't falling,” Birissa said, driving him back into the glass of a baker's window. “You can fall if you'd like. I plan to stand.”
Movement behind Vaste forced him to whip about, smashing the skull of a Machine thug as he ran in to stab with a long-bladed knife. The carcass flew sideways, head deflated and emptied like a smashed gourd. “I said stop.” He waved his stave at the half-dozen Machine thugs clustering behind him, the fools. They malingered just beyond his staff's reach, blades drawn, like they wanted to fall upon him one by one. “How many of you wish to die like that?” He waved Letum's tip at the most recent thug to fall. The crushed skull leaked upon the cobblestones, a sight like cherry mash drizzled between the cracks that sent Vaste's stomach churning. “I mean, if I couldn't see them dashed out all over the place, I'd swear you lot had no brains at all.”
More glass shattering ripped Vaste's attention away. Qualleron was now fully standing in the baker's shop, and Birissa was driving after him, smashing her blade through the ceiling of the place. Wood and brick and stone was crumbling down around them, falling like a rain with the striking of blades—
A sharp sting in Vaste's back ripped his attention away from the clash of the two trolls as a fireball exploded on a rooftop to his right. He swung around again and battered a skull as another sting caught him, this time in the leg. He hobbled, looked down. A Machine thug was there, had ducked under his wide swing and was pricking him again.
Another hit his wrist, his arm, and his grip on the staff loosened. They were swarming him now, mosquitoes with their little blades, and he was feeling the strikes at his belly, his arms, a shower of dark green blood dripping into the cobblestones.
Chapter 22
Guy
When they burst through the rooftop door Guy was expecting an immediate volley of bullets to the heart, as if the entire firing squad circling the eaves would be pointing their guns, just waiting for he and Hiressam to tear through the door.
What they found instead was the firing squad circled up, framed by the steely grey sky, their backs perfectly to Hiressam and Guy.
Guy wanted to pause, to reflect on this curious turn of events. Why wouldn't they—
Hiressam, apparently, did not. “AHHHHHHHHHHH!” the elf shouted, at the top of his lungs, hurling himself toward the ten or so men with rifles standing at the edge of the building.
“Wait, wh—” Guy barely got out.
Hiressam slashed a wide arc at his foes and they reacted slowly, if at all. Until the blade hit them. Then they very definitely reacted, every single one of those hit tumbling over the edge of the rooftop and disappearing below the eave.
First attack completed, Hiressam whirled. He'd attacked the end of the firing line, and they'd all bunched up for some reason – Guy saw a circle of black scarring where it appeared a fireball had landed. Maybe they'd moved away from that. Near its center was a figure who hadn't moved in time, all charred up. Guy shuddered, turning his attention back to the elf's attack.
“Help me!” Hiressam yelled, throwing himself squarely into the riflemen as they finally started to respond to the wild man in their midst hacking at them with swords. He swung his blade in an upward stroke that chopped the belt off one fellow, sending his pants to his ankles. The bloke tripped over them, dropping everything off his now-sundered belt, and then over he went, the clatter of his stuff hitting the metal rooftop.
Guy frowned. This really wasn't an efficient reaction from his former colleagues. The Machine men were trying to draw a bead on the elf but failing because he was using their own people as shields. That probably wouldn't last—
He barely got the thought out when one Machine man shot another, one positioned right in front of him. The one who'd been shot stumbled, then toppled off the roof.
“Bloody hell,” Guy whispered. “Disgraceful.”
Hiressam elbowed ano
ther one overboard, then shot Guy the briefest of looks. “Help. Me!”
Guy blinked. Oh, right. He'd been dragged up here for this, hadn't he? Well, what was he supposed to do with just a dagger? Why, he wasn't even sure he really wanted to toss in his lot with these...well, tossers.
Yet here he was, on a rooftop, Machine men firing away at his companion. Hiressam was really throwing himself into it, tearing those lads up.
Guy looked down. His knife seemed inadequate to the task at hand, so he scanned back to where one of the Machine men had fallen over, but dropped his rifle beforehand. Guy shrugged, jogged out to it and swept it up. He'd seldom used a rifle, but here he had one. Dropping to one knee as he'd seen done, he thumbed back the hammer and raised it up to his face.
Almost opposite him, past Hiressam and his tangle of Machine men, there was another man doing a knee-and-aim of his own. His target was Hiressam, and if he succeeded, Guy judged that it wouldn't be terribly long before he and his mates would be able to turn their full attention to Guy. Which would be soon and also unfortunate.
“No choice, then,” Guy muttered, and aimed right for the center of the black coat.
His rifle belched out a roar, kicking into his shoulder like someone had just rammed a boot squarely into it. Guy fell over onto the metal roof, which was surprisingly hot given the level of clouds that hung between him and the sun.
“Ow, ow, ow!” Guy held his shoulder. It really felt like someone had clubbed him there.
“Get up, you oaf!” Hiressam shouted. “This is not over!”
Guy lifted his head.
The Machine thug he'd shot at was gone. His rifle lay on the ground where he'd been, but he must have taken the shot in the center and tipped right over the edge.
Hiressam was still battling three of the riflemen, and it was going well. As Guy watched, one of them went flying over the edge, leaving only two.
Guy steadied himself on his knees, picked up his rifle. He was only going to get one shot at this...
Hiressam stepped sideways from one of his foes, missing his sword strike and finding himself standing off opposite them. The elf was breathing a little heavily, but determination was chiseled on his face. “Now—” he started to say.
Guy flung his rifle butt-first at one of the Machine men standing off with Hiressam. The bloke was right at the roof's edge, and wasn't paying attention to Guy. His bad luck, then. Probably deemed Guy not a great threat, given his rifle was now empty.
The butt of the rifle hit the fellow right in the gut and he bent double, popping back a step. His foot found no solid ground, and Guy watched his eyes go wide as he tumbled backwards off the edge.
A slow smile broke across Hiressam's face. “That's more like it,” he said. “Now it seems we've come to you, friend.” His attention was squarely on the last Machine man, who looked less like a man and more like an eighteen year-old who'd been seized off the streets and “deputized” into the Machine. That happened sometimes, when they needed the help for something.
The boy just stared at them for a moment, then threw down his rifle at his feet. With a step back, he tumbled over the edge for no damned reason at all.
Hiressam watched him go, then sheathed his blade and hurried along the roof, gathering up the supplies fallen off that one man's belt that he'd cut before the bastard had gone for a fall.
Guy eased up to the edge and stared over. Far, far below he could see the bodies. Only one or two of them were even still groaning. Most had died on impact. He could see the boy, though, right beneath him. He was one of the ones who'd gone right quick. The lad's dead eyes stared right back up at him and Guy shuddered, backing away from the edge. “Why would he do that...?” Guy muttered under his breath.
“He preferred to take his chances with the fall rather than face what he probably thought was certain death with us,” Hiressam said, reloading the rifle Guy had thrown. He took a knee and aimed across the divide between this rooftop and the one next to them. He seemed to be drawing a careful bead on the shooters over there. When he had it right, he fired, and Guy watched the fellow closest to them jerk, then tumble over the edge. His compatriots were none the wiser, save for the bloke next to him.
Hiressam was already reloading. “Really makes you think, doesn't it,” he said, eyes on his task and not anywhere near Guy. Still, Guy almost felt like he was being watched. “About the bravery of a lad that would rather take his chances on a wild improbability than throw himself stupidly into a fight he can't win.”
Guy frowned as Hiressam finished reloading and took his next shot. He pasted the next fellow in the line, sending him down to his death as Guy pondered whether he felt like that lad who'd jumped. And if so, exactly which path he was currently presented with was the leap?
Chapter 23
Alaric
The staccato bursting of the wagon-mounted gun combined with the erratic fire coming from the rooftops above had Alaric doing a running zig-zag, a dance that observed his armor being pelted with cobblestone flakes from shots landing around his feet, or bullets glancing off his plates. He was under no illusions about the madness he swirled within. It was a tempest of death should a stray round find its way through the holes in his helm.
Indeed, given the lesser armor constructed by the powers of the day when last he'd left Arkaria, he'd probably be dead already if he weren't wearing the stuff of the ancients. Cyrus seemed fine, as did Vara, but both wore armor that was far above the standard stuff produced in their day. Alaric could envision regular steel being pocked through with holes. Even the mystical plate that Vara wore probably had a few dings in it by now.
As if to emphasize the point, a particularly stinging bit of lead struck him on the crown. His helm rang like a bell as Alaric ran, sprinting as fast as his old joints would carry him toward that damnable wagon and its accursed weapon. He was nearly blind, head down, unable to look up for fear he'd catch a bullet in his vulnerable spots. The wheel of the wagon came into view just now and Alaric had a thought—
He came in low in a charge, then veered at the last second. He turned his back on the rattling weapon that was churning out bullets as the sky might drop water during a hearty rain. Swinging Aterum overhand, he caught a glimpse that confirmed his suspicion.
The gatling weapon was mounted on some sort of metal stand that rotated left to right. But there was no way for it to turn up or down.
“Ah ha,” he said under his breath as he brought his blade down–
And struck free the wagon's wheel from its axle.
The wheel skipped loose when hit, rattling and rolling across the cobblestone street. The wagon, now badly unbalanced, immediately collapsed–
Sending several men tumbling down either within it or over its edge.
Alaric hurled himself into the fallen wagon. “See now the wages of dishonor,” he said, slashing at his fallen foes. “Had you used a more traditional weapon and become disabled, you might now receive the benefit of the doubt and be offered the chance to surrender. Mercy, however,” and he raised his sword as he prepared to deliver another finishing blow, “is for the–”
Something loud and growling overcame the gunfire in the square, slamming into the wagon and sending Alaric tumbling. As he flew he caught sight of a horseless carriage. It had crashed into the wagon while he was atop it and now he was flying through the air toward the–
Alaric crashed into a brick building, slamming into the side and then hitting the ground a moment later. Joints hurt that did not normally hurt. The dearth of padding within the Protanian armor was keenly felt; certainly it was cushioned against such blows, and perhaps mitigated some of the harm he'd endured, but he'd scarcely even had a moment to react before being hit, footing ripped from beneath him by that thing's charge. So alien were these new vectors of attack that he hadn't even had the presence of mind to go ethereal.
“What have we here?” came a curiously, harshly accented voice. Alaric looked up from where he'd landed.
A bl
ond man stared down at him, a half-dozen Machine thugs grouped around. The blond man was thin, his eyes alive with malevolence, an evil smile upon his lips. He had done great cruelties, Alaric was certain of that. “What we have here,” Alaric muttered, trying to get to his feet but finding them quite unwilling to cooperate, “is a great deal of trouble.” Blood slicked his lips. Pain squeezed at him from within his belly. He'd taken wounds that could not be seen but were most certainly felt. Aterum was nowhere in reach; he must have dropped it when he had been flung.
The blond man stared at him with narrowed eyes. “I am Coordinator Stiehle,” he said at last, then motioned his men forward. “And I do not think we have a problem at all.” His grin only widened. “Or at least we shan't – soon.”
Chapter 24
Curatio
The steady rattle of gunfire to his left was cause for concern, especially as the operator of the gun tried to trace his fire toward Curatio. It spat hotly, that gun, fire exploding out of its many barrels, a wicked heat seething from it that he could feel even now as he darted into the shadow of the wagon.
Bullets flew wickedly over his head, ceaseless – until they ceased. He appeared to be out of their reach, and he sat there, looking straight up to where the gun's barrels smoked just over him.
Someone stuck their face over the edge and caught Praelior for their trouble. Too slow, fools, Curatio thought with a smile. Then he rolled quickly sideways, preparing his mace.
Smaller guns fired over the edge, the handheld pistols that Cyrus had become so enamored of. Bullets smacked against the cobblestones where Curatio had been moments before.
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