Landquaker

by Dean F. Wilson

   They had to draw the cross first, moving back into the centre, before turning to the right, but on the second turn Whistler started to rotate the wrong way, and everyone could see it from the corner of their eyes. Jacob pulled him into line, and gave him a gentle slap on the back of his head, which he tried to make look less gentle to everyone else.

   “Keep up, soldier,” he barked. He had seen enough barking from the dogs of war to know that this was the right thing to do.

   Whistler was clearly shaken. Jacob felt bad, but he knew they would all feel a lot worse if he did not keep up the charade. They were not just in the centre of a symbol—they were in the centre of a stronghold, and no amount of dodging and ducking would save them there.

   The cross was finished, and they began to form the square around it. This was easier, but they had to make that march three times, and the landing bay was huge. The team were growing tired, but fear was not just a motivator—it was fuel. As they approached the final lap, there was a sense of relief, mixed with the apprehension that the next test might not be so easy.

   The troops cycled out of the area, even as new convoys and landships arrived. Jacob led his soldiers along the path leading up to the supply trains. He was surprised to find that a whole detachment of troops were following them—were following him. He tried not to let that surprise show. He even thought that maybe it would help. Now there were demons under his command.

  22 – THE OLD TRENCH TUNNELS

  Rommond and Ollie raced towards the Landquaker, diving behind the smoking ruins of landships and trucks, zig-zagging across the battlefield, even using the fires and the haze for cover. To the gunners on the Landquaker, they must have looked like scrambling ants, targets not worth firing at, but had they known it was the general out there, they would have aimed every shell in their arsenal. He was the Iron Wall of the Resistance, and they would have gladly traded theirs for him.

   They were drawing close now, but Rommond dragged Ollie back behind an upturned truck.

   “Not yet,” he said.

   He took out his spyglass and peeped over the top at the railway gun. It was very close, less than a hundred and fifty metres away, near enough that they could smell the smog. Its shortest range was one hundred metres, but it was not defenceless up close; it had many ports for sniper rifles and machine guns. Rommond did not like the idea of evading one big gun only to be downed by a smaller one. It was unbecoming.

   “In around fifty metres there's a hatch,” the general explained. Despite the thick sand, he knew it was there, because the tracks had subtle markings where the entrances to the old trench tunnels were. It was a closely-guarded secret of the Resistance, one that many had died for.

   “We're not going to the Landquaker?” Ollie asked, shielding his face with his scarf.

   “Oh, we're going there,” Rommond said, “but we're getting there from underground. Now, listen up, because this bit might get you killed. We'll have to run like the clappers for that hatch, and we'll need to dig the door out even faster. It's just inside the safe zone from the railway gun, which is why I chose this hatch instead of some of the others, but we'll be easily close enough for the snipers and the sentries.”

   “I can't say you're inspiring confidence.” He was a young chap, a new recruit, and he needed all the encouragement he could get.

   “You only need enough confidence to run,” Rommond stated. “I want you scared enough to live.”

   Ollie's gulp was proof enough of that.

   Rommond wiggled the fingers of both hands. “Get your shovels ready,” he said. He waited to hear the thud and clank of the Landquaker's gun rolling into place, signalling it was about to fire. He knew it had already selected its target. If it was someone else, it bought them time to run. If it was them, then they had to run anyway. It would not be long before the next shell clicked into place.

   “Run!” he cried, as the gun howled, and the howl continued in an iron reverberation.

   He charged out, and Ollie followed. They galloped across the desert, their boots carving pockets in the sand, the dust spraying up behind them. It was a sprint to the finish line, but when they crossed it, they would have another race they had to win.

   As they ran, they saw the giant barrel turning in place. It was so slow, and they were so fast, and yet it seemed that they were always trying to catch up with it, before its shells caught up with them.

   Rommond heard the sounds much louder now, the sharp metal cry, and the wailing echo that followed, and he felt the shudder in the ground and in his heart. He saw the blast from the gun as it pointed towards them, and knew that now they had to outrun Death as well.

   “Run!” he bellowed.

   No aches held him back. Though his knees stung, and his muscles throbbed, and the sweat swam into his eyes, he fired up the bellows of his body and pushed his limbs like pistons, charging ahead as fast as he had ever ran in his youth. He passed by Ollie, and wanted to reach out and drag him with him, but his momentum forbade him, and Ollie was fuelling a furnace of his own.

   The blast struck behind them, only metres away, throwing them forward, but not knocking them down. The gust lashed them with sand, but it also disguised them, and what irritation it caused was nothing compared to what might have happened had they been but a second slower.

   They reached where Rommond estimated the hatch was. The general halted, but Ollie kept going.

   “Back here!” Rommond shouted.

   Ollie skidded in place and stumbled over, before racing back to him. Rommond was already digging furiously with his hands, and Ollie dived into the sand, scooping it out by the fistful. Their fingers burned from the hot sand, which stung any little cuts or blisters they had, but they dug their way through the pain, glad they were still feeling anything at all. They could hear more sounds from the Landquaker nearby, and every noise seemed like the opening of a gun-port.

   In time, Rommond found the handle of the hatch, though it was close to the edge of where they burrowed. He yanked it hard, but there was too much sand on top. They cleared away some more, but still the door would not budge. The weight of years was upon it; it was sealed by abandonment as well as sand.

   Rommond caught sight of what looked like a sniper gun from the corner of his eagle eye. He dove at Ollie, knocking him to the ground, just as a bullet skipped through the sand nearby. He strained his sight to make out their attacker, then knelt down, and grabbed the rifle from his back.

   “Stay down, soldier,” he said to Ollie. He was saying it to the sniper as well.

   He aimed, and squinted, until he thought he could see the sniper putting his reloaded rifle back in place. He knew he was in the crosshairs, but he knew the sniper was in his as well. He fired, and did not wait for confirmation of the kill. He dived back down, just in case the sniper got his final shot, but the bullet never came.

   There was no time for rest. This was not a reprieve. Even as the sniper fell, another was no doubt preparing to take his place. Or maybe it would be a machine gunner, who did not bother lining up the shot. A spray of bullets would do the trick. You could avoid a drop of rain. You could not avoid a downpour.

   Rommond and Ollie cleared off more of the sand, and then struggled to pull open the hatch door. With their combined strength, it started to give way. They just needed a little more force. By now the muscle fatigue was kicking in, stealing that little more they needed to give.

   “Give me your scarf,” Rommond said, before snatching it from Ollie. He wrapped it around the hatch handle and used it to give him some leverage. He dug his boots into the ground and arched back, letting gravity do some of the work. Ollie joined him. Gravity worked better with more weight behind it.

   The door creaked and cracked open, and the sand flooded the chamber inside. At that very moment, even as Rommond and Ollie divided inside, a hail of bullets struck the open door, piercing it like it might have pierced them. Rommond pulled
the hatch closed with Ollie's scarf, and let out his much-needed sigh of relief. The bullet holes in the hatch door let in just enough light to show their heaving forms.

   When the general recovered his breath, he handed Ollie back the tattered scarf. “Well, that worked in a pinch,” he said. “Perhaps it should be standard military attire.”

   Rommond rummaged in his pocket, striking a match. He moved it around the small circular room they were in, till he found what he was looking for: an oil lamp dangling from the wall. He grabbed it and fed its starving wick a flame.

   “Tell me, Ollie,” Rommond said, as he tried to open the door to the next room. “I don't really know you, so what got you into all this?”

   “Yeah, I guess you don't get much time to fraternise with the troops.”

   “It's not because I don't want to,” the general said, but the truth was that he normally did not. Out of a hundred new recruits, less than half were lucky to see their second year in the field, and less than ten percent made it to become an officer. He preferred to get to know the more seasoned troops, because they did not die so easily.

   “I've got a wife,” Ollie said, shaking the sand from his hair. “We wanted kids, but … well, y'know.”

   Rommond nodded. “The Regime's been doing the family planning for us.”

   “Can't wait for this war to be over,” Ollie replied. “I'm hoping me and the missus will still get our chance before we're too old.”

   Rommond was not so optimistic. Or before you're dead, he thought. He had seen too many young and eager men come through his office. He had seen them in the trenches, watched as the war stole their youth and their enthusiasm, robbed them of their dreams, leaving them as husks, like the very world the demons came from.

   The door finally opened, revealing a series of tunnels. The roof was makeshift, a patchwork of wooden and metal panels latched across, and held up here and there with wooden poles, which had now begun to splinter from the weight. They were not designed to support a thick blanket of sand as well.

   Rommond held up the oil lamp, illuminating the way. “These tunnels used to see sunlight, back when there was no Landquaker, when that land beneath those tracks was the no-man's land between our trenches and the ones Domas dug further east. We patched them over when we were forced to retreat, when the Iron Guard took the Landquaker from us. We didn't want them using these tunnels, so we buried them. This was where the war was waged for years. This was home for many.” His mind said the rest: This was also their graves.

   “Why didn't we use these in the attack today?” Ollie asked.

   “Because the doors leading here are too close to the tracks,” Rommond said. “You could try walking up, but you saw what the Landquaker did when we drove. Besides, we're not looking to sneak by the Wall. We're looking to blow it up.”

  23 – MAGICIAN DOWN

  The Regime's landships and Moving Castles advanced at a much faster pace than the Resistance decoys. In time, both sides stopped at a safe distance from one another, though Mudro's men now thought it was not safe enough. Those brightly-painted decoys looked menacing—they were anything but.

   The artillery fire came first, like little Landquakers. The sand exploded around the decoys, and a single shell struck the centre of the stage, destroying two of the wooden landships. Luckily for the Resistance, there were no crew inside. As the metal hail continued, and as the Regime began to advance once more, the Resistance crew abandoned the makeshift platoons, making for the handful of real trucks lined up further behind.

   “We better get out of here,” Lieutenant Byret said.

   “Maybe they will chase us,” Mudro pondered, puffing ceremonially on his pipe.

   “You want that?” the lieutenant asked.

   “If it means they're not chasing Rommond or Taberah, sure.”

   The Regime landships entered firing range, and blasted as they drove, while the artillery continued to devastate the wooden vehicles, sending splinters into the air. The crew were saved, and the trucks began their retreat, but even as they did, the Moving Castles charged after them.

   The sleight of hand was over, and now the eyes of the enemy were on the hand, chasing it as it tried to reach for the next trick. The Regime soon realised that what they had destroyed, with so little resistance, was not Rommond's real army. Many of the landships turned back, making for where the Landquaker parked at the halfway point of the track. The remaining forces pursued Mudro. The deception was over—now all that was left was the chase.

   They pelted across the dusty dunes, trying to turn back towards Blackout, and yet knowing that even that city did not have many remaining forces to repel the Regime's armoured arsenal. The Moving Castles flanked them, forcing them to wind their way outside the line of fire, but their were too many of them, and they had speed to match their numbers.

   The Resistance retreat ended. They were surrounded. It had been a brief flight, but they were now further away from the train tracks than before. If they had to go down, at least their deaths were a delay for the Regime. Right now, every second counted.

   “We have to surrender,” Byret said.

   “It's just as well I'm not Rommond,” Mudro replied, straightening up his waistcoat to make himself a little bit more presentable for the enemy. He hoped they let him smoke in his cell.

   “He'd have us fight and die,” the lieutenant said.

   Mudro sighed, exhaling the last of the leaf. “I think we might die anyway.”

   “Put your hands up,” the Regime Field sCommander called out.

   Mudro and the others abandoned their vehicles, casting their few weapons to the ground. It would not be much of a fight. Guns were not Mudro's weapon of choice.

   “Quite a deception you pulled there,” the Commander said.

   “Why, thank you,” Mudro responded with an elaborate bow.

   The Commander smiled. “You might wish that I was deceiving you. But let me tell you this, Magus, the dungeons of the Hold are very real. When we're done with you, you'll wish you could just … disappear.”

  24 – DOUBLE DECEPTION

  Jacob led his troops, both human and demon, and everything in between, towards the carriages waiting on the tracks. As he did, Taberah began to veer off towards one of the red carriages, the ones containing weapons and ammunition.

   “This way, Lieutenant,” he told her.

   “I thought we—”

   “No,” Jacob said. “You're not here to think. You're here to work.” He gestured towards a yellow carriage, where crewmen were dragging on sacks of grain.

   Taberah glowered at him, but complied, getting on board.

   “She's a feisty one,” said the albino maran lieutenant whose contingent was instructed to bolster the forces under one Field Commander Gainsley. “Lieutenant Azrion Augustus,” the man said, giving the Regime salute.

   Jacob replied in kind. “On you go, Lieutenant.”

   The other troops followed, and Jacob stepped on board, placing his hands behind his back. He eyed them all up and down like Rommond might have done with his own forces, though the general would have noticed a crinkle or a crease in a uniform. Jacob noticed the anxious faces instead.

   He sat down as the carriage took off. It was a small vehicle, rectangular in shape, with a domed roof, and it was very dim inside. It was not supposed to house troops, just food, but the Resistance attack on Blackout had made the Regime wary. It just had not made them wary enough.

   Jacob stared at the troops that lined the food carriage, while they stared ahead blankly, trying not to look at anyone, or think of anything, all except Azrion, who was more watchful than most. A technician sat beside him, clasping a radio tightly. Jacob did not like there being a radio on board, but he liked it even less when a crackled voice spoke through it.

   “Alert!” it said. “Fort Landlock under attack. Calling all reserves.” The warning repeated periodically in
that some monotonous tone.

   Jacob knew what the attack was, but it came sooner than he expected, or perhaps their march just took far too long. He glanced outside to see a host of dust devils descending on the other carriages, and an even larger host of tribespeople standing at the top of the mountainous ridge.

   “We have to go back,” Azrion said.

   “No,” Jacob replied. “We have our own mission.”

   The smuggler had gotten so used to being part of a plot, that he could not help but think of one of his own. He had been wondering how the Resistance would get control of the Landquaker with so many extra Regime soldiers boarding with them, when he began to think that maybe they could help.

   “Soldiers,” he said.

   The men immediately pricked their demon ears. The humans did likewise, but they were startled more. This was not in the script. Going off script was sometimes needed, but other times it got you killed.

   Jacob leaned in, lowering his voice. “We've gotten word of another imminent threat,” he said. “There's a team of commandos plotting to attack the Iron Wall.” He almost said Landquaker. The Regime did not use that name. They did not care for Rommond's rhyming monikers.

   The faces of the Regime soldiers did not change a bit, while the faces of the Resistance ones were obvious—much too obvious for Jacob's taste. The Regime faced threats all the time. Plots were a daily occurrence. But this plot was one of a kind.

   “My orders, which come straight from the Iron Emperor himself,” Jacob said, “are to eliminate this threat, quickly and quietly. That means we must hurry, but it also means we cannot trust this mission to anyone else. Who knows who is working with them. All of you have been vetted and approved of specifically for this job.”