Maybe twenty, he thought, though at this distance he couldn’t know precisely. He didn’t wish death on his fellow soldiers, but he liked to know where things stood. Like field repair itself, battle was a whirlwind of changing circumstance, and in Miloslav’s experience what helped navigate that storm better than anything else was precise, accurate information.
The only problem with this perspective was that it perhaps boiled experience down too much. Right now he was repairing the Spriggan’s mangled elbow joint; earlier it had been a cracked optical assembly on a Kodiak; before that it had been the haft of a Destroyer’s axe. But the routine was always the same: evaluate from a distance when possible, fight to the warjack and reassess, then do whatever it took to fix the damn thing.
At this point in his career he’d repaired or replaced just about every part of a warjack’s anatomy, many times over. Always under fire. Always urgently needed. Sometimes it was a little harder to bang together a solution than others, and sometimes he had to work under heavy bombardment or in the middle of close combat, but it was all familiar by now. Even the kovniks he’d served under blurred together in his memory.
He replaced the main hydraulic line, then started on the trickier gear-and-piston assembly. He heard the high whine of incoming rocket fire and dove back behind the Spriggan just in time.
The warjack itself wasn’t so lucky. Miloslav’s work wasn’t completely ruined, but the elbow was pummeled by debris, and the two-inch gear he’d been installing was snapped in half. He quickly ran through his mental inventory of the parts and tools he had on hand and came up without a replacement. He grunted. He did have a two-inch wrist gear, but it was half as thick as the ones used in elbows and would never hold up to the stress. He’d just have to go picking.
Miloslav instantly recreated the last half-hour or so of the battle in his mind. At every instance of damage—warjack or human, friendly or enemy—he noted the gear and machinery that hit the ground, adding this list of available scavenge to the list of what he himself carried. Then he saw it: a bit far from his position, but not unreachable, lay a Man-O-War whose skull had been caved in by flying debris. Miloslav could do nothing to help the poor soldier, but that armored suit could certainly help him. A few months ago one of the Man-O-War mechaniks had borrowed a two-inch elbow gear from his field supply, so he knew the armor used something similar. He’d just have to find it.
Miloslav made a run for the Man-O-War. Once there, he disassembled one arm casing, but the gears there were too small. He cursed and moved on to the chest plate, whose bolts were mired in blood. Ten minutes later, he had his gear and had made his way back to the Spriggan, only having to educate one Protectorate zealot of the inadvisability of using his skull to block a mechanik’s wrench.
He pounded the first of the Spriggan’s sheared bolts out of its hole and had the replacement in and tightened in seconds. He started on the other one, letting his hands do the work they knew so well. He didn’t feel the same thrill at every repair that he used to, but he was still damn good at it.
The last time he’d seen his old chief mechanik, at least a year ago now, Miloslav had mentioned that the work just didn’t seem as exciting anymore. “Just part of being an old soldier,” he’d joked, but the chief hadn’t laughed.
Instead, the man had given him a long look and finally said, “Our warjacks give us their all, and we get to crawl around the battlefield doing whatever it takes to keep them in the thick of it. You ask me, that’s plenty exciting.”
Miloslav sighed at the memory as he tightened the last bolt. He watched the ’jack flex its arm and move toward the front lines, then hoisted his wrench to make his way back to the camp.
Heading to report to Sergeant Kovalenko, Miloslav saw the chief mechanik in discussion with their kovnik, who did not look pleased. Kovalenko turned and pointed his direction, and the kovnik nodded curtly and strode away with her junior officers trailing her. Kovalenko stood in place for a moment before turning to meet him. The normally even-tempered man wore a sour expression.
“Is it going that badly?” said Miloslav, glancing toward the departing kovnik.
“You could say that,” said Kovalenko. “Actually, you’d have more of a right to than anyone.”
Miloslav raised his eyebrows but kept his mouth shut. Given time, information would usually come out on its own.
Movement at the forward supply wagon caught his eye: a stooped old woman waving imperiously, and support personnel jumping to fetch additional supplies to add to the load. Behind the wizened figure, a light warjack straightened to its full height and turned its piercing gaze toward Miloslav. It looked like nothing he’d ever seen. Aside from its unusually small size, it had no arms or weapons and was draped with bags and supplies. His blood turned cold as he realized without a doubt that the machine was not looking his direction by accident: he was being assessed.
The woman also turned to peer at him, and his heart stopped in his chest as the pieces came together in his head. The crone, the piecemeal warjack, the overburdened supply wagon—it could all mean only one thing.
Zevanna Agha, the Old Witch, had come to commandeer what she needed from Yanukovich’s army.
Kovalenko stepped next to him and drew a long, shaky breath. “Korporal,” the chief mechanik finally said, “you’ve been reassigned.”
ANSWERING THE CALL
By Douglas Seacat
Corporal Scyro was relieved to put the cold at his back as he entered the barracks. He had to pull hard to close the door against the wind that swept down into Ios from the Rhulic mountains to the north. Three other houseguard soldiers recently finished with their watch were warming their hands around the hearth fire. Six others were bundled up tightly in their bunks.
Before he joined the soldiers at the table he took a moment to properly stow his gear, a habit built from long practice. He unlimbered his heavy rifle and slid it into its slot beside his bunk and set his helmet, pack, and sheathed blade in their places. He only partially extracted himself from his armor, just enough to give him some greater comfort as he sat down at the table. More relaxed now, his mind went as it often did to his wife Rywen, who was in Shyrr. He planned to visit in less than a week and he was impatient for that day to arrive.
He accepted an offered glass of fortified wine from Corporal Nysselle. Just as he started to get comfortable the door slammed open and Sergeant Klyne stepped inside, his expression dark.
“Care for a drink, Klyne?” Scyro asked. Of the soldiers, he was the only one who had not tensed up at the old veteran’s arrival. He and the sergeant had become close in the last few years. Despite Klyne’s intimidating demeanor, Scyro found him personable when off duty.
The sergeant shook his head. “Not today.” He looked to the interior of the barracks. “On your feet, soldiers!” His voice boomed with the volume and clarity of a man who had been barking orders for decades.
Those soldiers in their bunks leapt to their feet, only one stumbling. “At ease,” he told them. “I have news. In less than a week the company will be on the march. We’re being redeployed.”
“Redeployed, Sergeant?” Lynthin asked, his eyes bleary and his expression uncomprehending. He had just awoken, but his confusion was echoed on the faces of the rest. A company bearing their emblem had been garrisoned at Crag Tower for two hundred years, doing their part to fulfill House Dryseth’s obligations to protect Ios’ border. They manned the tower and patrolled a region between Aeryth Dawnguard and the Gate of Storms. Several of the soldiers present, including Scyro, were following in the footsteps of fathers or mothers who had served here. They were the 3rd Houseguard Company of Dryseth, more commonly called the Dryseth of Crag. The tower’s emblem was etched into the rifles and halberds of their mixed company.
“Our venerable Captain Uilyth Dryseth has been tasked by his uncle, Incissar Dryseth, to take the 3rd to join the Retribution of Scyrah in their s
truggles abroad.” He paused for a moment to let that sink in. “A week from now we will no longer belong to the Homeguard Coalition. We will leave Ios and march into the savage lands to the west, there to fight and die for the salvation of our people and our gods. This should prove a greater challenge than patrolling a border that hasn’t been threatened in four thousand years.”
Several of the soldiers looked excited, even eager, and began to talk among themselves. Scyro felt the blood drain from his face. Scyro pulled the sergeant aside and said quietly, “I had no idea the incissar was a Retribution sympathizer.”
Klyne sighed, glancing over Scyro’s shoulder, but the others were preoccupied by conversation about the news. He said, “A few years ago, it would have been bad politics. With Nyssor returned, everyone’s a sympathizer. Much has changed. Every minor house has been scrambling to show its support, and now that falls to Dryseth. The weight falls on our shoulders.”
“Is the incissar joining us?” Scyro asked bitterly.
“Watch your tongue, Corporal.” The sergeant’s voice had become dangerous. “I won’t have you disparaging our lord in public. Captain Uilyth fights in the incissar’s stead. Where Uilyth goes, we follow.”
“I’m sorry,” Scyro said, abashed. He changed his tact. “Could I be transferred?” He saw the look on the sergeant’s face and added, “Rywen carries our first child, a daughter.” Klyne knew Rywen, who had also been a soldier of the Dryseth of Crag before her pregnancy. “She’s due in two months. I just want to see my daughter born.”
Klyne’s expression softened. Many couples tried for decades before a successful pregnancy, and each such occasion was to be celebrated. Scyro knew Klyne had a family of his own, with two healthy sons. Still, the older soldier shook his head. “I am happy for you and wish your family fortune, but if the company marches, so do you. Exceptions can’t be made.”
Scyro frowned and said, “You’ve heard the rumors. Casualties among houseguard fighting with the Retribution are high. They say the mage hunters use us as cannon fodder!”
“Rumors be damned!” Klyne retorted. He seemed more sergeant than friend. “You know the stakes of this. Scyrah lies ailing. The Retribution is at least fighting to change things. Do you want me to let you sit safely on the border when others are dying for our salvation? I suggest you change your attitude, Corporal.” With that he turned and left.
Scyro looked to his rifle in the rack alongside the others. He was one of the best marksmen in the squad, but he had never fired his weapon in battle, never shot another living soul. He tried to find the piety Klyne spoke of, that willingness to sacrifice himself. All he could think about was his wife’s face and her pregnant belly, rounder with each passing day. He looked at the bright faces around him and felt ashamed. Scyrah help him, but he knew the answer to Klyne’ s last question.
They did not notice as he took his sword from his bunk and stepped out the door into the cold. He climbed the stairs to one of the sheltered landings and stood against the railing. He found himself repeatedly sheathing and drawing the blade, a nervous habit he had acquired during long watches. He looked at its edge and considered why he had brought it. The thought of self-harm rose up like smoke—not as a rational plan, but from drowning desperation. If he were to make himself unfit for the march, would he be transferred to another garrison? He pondered the best way to deliver himself a crippling injury that would not be obviously self-inflicted. Here, help was close at hand. Better to hurt himself now than to die in a ditch on human soil.
His hand trembled on the blade as he imagined slicing a gash along the back of his leg. The thought was increasingly tempting. He sucked in a deep breath. He was a soldier of Ios, one of the Homeguard Coalition, not a coward. He thought on what Klyne had said, and again of his unborn daughter. What world would she inherit if Scyrah was gone? He had been raised to believe the Retribution was a fringe sect, radical and irresponsible. But Nyssor was restored. What did it mean?
He felt nothing but dread at the thought of leaving Ios to rush toward his likely end. His mouth was dry with sorrow at the thought of never seeing his daughter. But he also felt a duty to House Dryseth. He heard footsteps on the stairs below him and sheathed his blade. He walked back toward the barracks that would not be his home much longer, uncertain what he would do. He had just days to decide whether he would march from Ios or surrender his honor to see his daughter draw her first breath. Either sacrifice felt too high.
GENTLEMAN’S GAME
By William Shick
Khadoran-Occupied Laedry, Early 606 AR
Colm Tanner pressed himself into the shadows of the narrow back alley and counted silently. Just being on the streets after curfew marked him as a criminal, but beneath his long leather greatcoat, cut in the tight-fitting style favored by the Llaelese, he carried a much more damning truth. Upon the collar of his shirt Colm wore the insignia of a Cygnaran lieutenant magus of the Arcane Tempest. The sigil’s golden luster had been dulled with shoe polish and was pinned on the underside of the collar rather than on top, but no matter—if any Khadoran were to see those markings he’d be arrested at best and shot on the spot at worst. While Colm had abandoned his familiar and far more comfortable Cygnaran dress in order to blend in, he had retained this one homage to his profession. A tricorn hat matching his Llaelese garb was pulled low over his face, obscuring the aquiline features.
Unconsciously, Colm reached up and rubbed the insignia between his thumb and forefinger.
“You know, you really should get rid of those. They’re going to get you killed one of these days,” Remi Arseneau whispered. Colm didn’t miss the friendly jibe within the words.
“You’re more likely to beat me in our gentleman’s game than to see me get rid of these,” he shot back. Before Remi could respond, Colm raised a hand to silence him. The two held their breath and pressed themselves deeper into the shadows as the Winter Guard patrol they’d been waiting for strode past. Colm turned toward his companion and said, “Three minutes and thirty seconds.”
A sly grin crossed Remi’s face. “That’s enough time to blow up two Khadoran command centers. If only the red bastards would put their command buildings next to each other.”
Colm nodded, tugging on the strap of the explosives satchel on his shoulder. “Since they don’t, I suppose we’ll just have to use the extra time for an another drink tonight when I beat you again.” Colm drew his magelock pistol and slipped a rune-inscribed bullet into the breech. “What’s the current tally?”
Remi scowled. “124 to 119, but only because you always get the drop on the guards. It’s an unfair trick you have.”
Colm smiled as he concentrated on manipulating arcane energy through his magelock, causing the runes etched along its barrel to glow pale blue. “If you’d just admit that I’ve won, I’d teach it to you.”
The disgust at the suggestion was evident in Remi’s reply. “Reset the count? Never. I am not so far behind you. This is not just a matter of sport between gentlemen. Were I to bow out now, I would never be allowed back within the hallowed ranks of the Amethyst Rose.”
Colm raised the magelock and took aim directly across the alley, at the lone Winter Guard patrolling the roof of the former noble house now used as a military administrative building. “Suit yourself.” Colm pulled the trigger, but there was no flash or noise as the firing pin pierced the silk cartridge causing the red and black blasting powders to mix and create the explosive force needed to expel the arcane-charged bullet from the barrel. Instead there was a distinct absence of sound as the bullet shot forth and struck the guardsman in the chest. The spell swallowed even the thud of the body hitting the ground.
“125,” Colm said as he reloaded with lighting speed and fired twice more at the pair of soldiers guarding the front door. The same silencing arcane runes encircled the barrel of his magelock with each shot. Just like that of their companion on the roof, both guards’ lives
ended without a sound. “And there’s 126 and 127. You’re almost down by ten, Remi.”
“A situation soon to be corrected.” The Llaelese gun mage dashed past Colm, his own magelock in his left hand with runes glowing along the barrel. In his right hand he grasped a mechanikal duelist’s blade whose edge crackled with arcane energy. Like Colm, Remi wore the form-fitting leathers favored by Llaelese duelists. Even when they had fought on the front lines, before Khador had ultimately defeated the Cygnaran and Llaelese forces and conquered much of Llael, Remi had eschewed the traditional black cloak of his order. Before discovering his skill with a magelock, he had been trained as a duelist by some of the best instructors in Merywyn and preferred fighting up close with blade and pistol. In the confined administration building, Colm was certain his friend’s dueling skill would quickly close the gap between their two point tallies.
The pair sprinted across the street and pressed their backs against the door jam. Colm took a deep breath before nodding to Remi and opening the door. Thankfully, the Khadorans in this part of town had become lax in their security measures as their confidence in their control of the district had grown. They rarely locked the doors of high-traffic administration buildings, believing the guards to be more than ample protection.
As the door opened, Remi pushed through, firing his magelock at the Khadoran adjutant manning the desk in the foyer of the building. The shot sounded like thunder in the enclosed space, making Colm grimace. Maybe he would teach Remi that silent rune shot after this.
Before he could consider things any further, a pair of Winter Guard burst through a side door. Arcane fire streaked from Colm’s pistol. The rune shot struck the first Khadoran in the head, and a bolt of lighting arced from his body into his partner’s, burning flesh with a sound like sizzling bacon. As he reloaded, Colm saw Remi charge into a knot of five Khadorans racing down the staircase that led to the foyer. The leader bore the rank insignia of a kovnik. The officer was one of their primary objectives in this raid, and Colm breathed a sigh of relief that the northerner was making it easy for them. Despite the quickly escalating combat, Colm kept a steady count of the time left before the Khadoran patrol would return.
Iron Kingdoms Excursions: Season One Collection Page 8
