Call of the Hero

by Robert J. Crane

  “Curatio,” Alaric said, glancing through the crowd and finding the individual he was looking for.

  “Yes?” the elf asked.

  “Take Guy with you,” Alaric said, waving the Machine thug forward. “He may be of some use in your...endeavor.”

  “Me?” Guy asked, the shorter man separating himself from the crowd of City Watch with all the ease of a rat slinking out of tall grass. “What do you think I'm going to be doing wif' him?”

  “I'm sure you'll find some way to earn your keep,” Alaric said with a slight smile. “And by 'keep' I mean—”

  “My life, don't I know,” Guy muttered, slinking off to join Curatio as the elf made his way. “I swear, I get passed around you lot like bad cheese.”

  “I wouldn't worry about it,” Curatio said, “sometimes the worst cheese ends up being quite good, if you give it long enough to cure.” He patted Guy on the shoulder, and the Machine man gave him an appalled look.

  Alaric gave them a few moments to clear off, listening intently over the street sounds, then the noise of a rattling motor, as his City Watch forces stood nervously about. He tried counting the seconds, but found his mind drifting curiously to within the docks–

  She's on a ship in there, somewhere, he thought, mind drifting. They're rousting the crews and stealing the goods–

  Alaric snapped back to himself as Shirri asked a question: “When do we go?” She even whispered it, almost in his ear.

  “Best start now,” Alaric said, stepping up. His mind drifted again, just for a moment, over the wall, before he focused back on the matter at hand. “Vaste – prepare the first wave.”

  “The first wave is basically you, Birissa, Hiressam, and that Houll over there,” Vaste said, all dark shadow next to the tall stone wall before them. “Take the high ground, we'll get more up as swiftly as possible, but you'll be on your own until–”

  “Yes, I am aware of how this works,” Alaric said softly. He closed his eyes, concentrated–

  And cast the Falcon's Essence spell.

  With a step up, he climbed, then another–

  He faltered, felt the spell fade–

  Cast again. Mind on the job.

  He climbed, again, again–

  Step after step. Mind on the task–

  A sharp missed step, and Alaric almost gasped.

  Caught himself–

  Discipline.

  It felt like a neverending battle against the weakness of his spells. It was three steps up, one falling back, but in minutes–

  Alaric landed his foot atop the wall and climbed over. He felt the reserves of magic within him running low already. Slinging the rope off his shoulder, he tied it firmly and let it down the wall below. Hopefully this would help the City Watch in their climb. It would certainly feel safer as they journeyed up than what he'd just gone through.

  “No enemies to this side,” Birissa whispered in the darkness next to him.

  Alaric cast the Eagle Eye spell, and his vision sharpened mildly. Some two hundred yards off he could see torches burning in sconces at the nearest gate. Peering into the shadow there, he saw no guards. Perhaps they were in the towers. Perhaps the gates were unmanned because of the–

  “Goodness,” Hiressam's whisper drew his attention. Alaric could hear the next wave of City Watch coming up, making noise of exertions as they climbed, lightly aided by the failing Falcon's Essence spells.

  But Alaric's ears filtered that out quickly in favor of the louder noises coming from within the docks.

  And they were...oh so loud.

  Shouts of glee. The Machine.

  Cries of terror. The ship crews.

  And somewhere in the distance, heralding the beginning of the coming battle, Alaric heard it–

  A single gunshot.

  Followed by many, many more.

  Chapter 53

  Curatio

  “It seems we've begun,” Curatio said, hearing the distant shots over the engine of the horseless carriage. Guy sat next to him, squirming in his seat as though sitting on a pile of worms. He kept his eyes on Guy for just a moment longer than perhaps necessary. “Is something the matter with your seat?”

  “No,” Guy's voice came out quite high, “there's something the matter with the bloody lunatic driving the truck my seat's attached to, though. Look out!”

  Curatio looked back through the glass wind screen ahead and pulled the wheel wildly to the right. A dog had been in the street, but leapt out of the way as Curatio steered in the opposite direction. He hit the curb and it made a hellacious clanging noise, thumping upon the heavy axles of this strange, modified, self-propelled wagon. “Hm,” Curatio said. “It doesn't feel as though we're traveling all that fast anymore.”

  “You are,” Guy said, voice still high. “And if you could slow down, that would be bloody wonderful. Just really fantastic.” The man stuck hands over his eyes.

  “You worry far too much about your life,” Curatio said, trying to be more gleeful than he actually felt about driving this thing. He had dismissed Alaric's concerns about taking the wheel, even put aside any talk of perhaps having one of the soldiers riding in the back drive it. Hell if he was going to trust his life in this newfangled machine to someone else who had only middling experience. He had middling experience of his own, after all. His hands were plenty steady and had driven innumerable wagons over the years.

  That they all had horses, oxen, or some other variation of animal propulsion attached seemed irrelevant to him. A wagon was a wagon, the manner of locomotion was the most minor part of the task.

  Though Curatio had to admit, the steering system built into these was quite impressive. He pushed the wheel hard to the right, and the vehicle responded, albeit a bit sluggishly and with some considerable pushback. He could see himself wearing out quite quickly after driving one of these for an hour.

  “Turn here, turn here!” Guy screeched, putting his hand over his eyes again and pointing to Curatio's left.

  Curatio gave the Machine thug only the mildest look of amusement, pressed his foot slowly against the “brakes” as they were called, and then turned onto the main avenue, which was empty of all traffic. The main gate to the docks loomed ahead, closed, the immense door large enough to wheel a ship through if all the way open.

  Guy looked ready to collapse in his seat, or perhaps ooze out the door if it were open. “There, there,” Curatio said, patting him on the shoulder. “I hope you saved some courage. The hard part is still ahead.”

  Guy only moaned at that, but pointed at a button on the dashboard.

  Curatio pressed it, and a loud sound screeched forth that was not unlike a goose having its tail feathers ripped out. Though quite a bit louder.

  A guard shack lay at the left of the gate, and a man stuck his head out. Curatio pressed the button again, and another furious honk sounded. He leaned his cowled head out and shouted. “Come on, then!” in what he thought was a reasonable approximation of Guy's rough accent. “I got reinforcements here!”

  And indeed he did; City Watch soldiers were crammed into the back of the horseless carriage.

  The man in the shack wore a Machine coat and armband, but nodded, then stepped back inside. He rang a bell of some sort, and the gate started to open.

  “I can't believe that worked,” Guy muttered.

  “'Ow could it not?” Curatio asked, still in accent. “We're all one big, 'appy family around here in the City Watch and the Machine, now, aren't we?” And he pressed the pedal down so the engine roared, carrying them through the open gate. Gunshots still rumbled ominously like distant thunder somewhere within.

  Chapter 54

  Baynvyn

  “Do you hear that?” Baynvyn stiffened. It was a sound like the roar of an underground river. Raised in Saekaj Sovar, he well knew the sound of underground rivers. The surface variety, less so, though he'd seen a few west of the Perda in his travels.

  “It begins,” Qualleron said, puffing out his chest as he listened.
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  And indeed, it did sound like it was beginning. This was a mild surprise to Baynvyn. He'd been unsure whether they'd come or not. This was, after all, the act of a fool or a fanatic.

  Having fought the bastard once, he knew which he would have placed his gold upon.

  “Where are they?” Baynvyn swooped down to kneel next to Piña's open door. She was already looking at the strange screens within, their oblong, ovoid shapes like strange, miniature portals, watery pictures showing up on them.

  She cursed at him in her own language, waving a hand. Telling him to get back, he thought. Her goggles were already lit, and the sound of clockworks skittering and hovering were coming to life all around them as she used whatever power she had to impel them into action. Trace magics, he'd heard it called. That was the means of their operation. Of course, that came from rumor, so he put only a little stock in it.

  Piña snapped her head around, pointing toward the wall and the batteries of cannons that lay along them. “There!” She paused, cocked her head, then pointed through the wall of her truck toward the northwest corner of the dock yards. “But also there. Multiple attacks. Multiple insertions.”

  Baynvyn raised an eyebrow as he looked at Qualleron. “Ambitious,” the troll rumbled.

  “Stupid,” Baynvyn pronounced.

  “Which way is the lady troll?” Qualleron drew his blade from the scabbard across his back. Truly, it was the size of a man and a half. “I knew she would return to me. Honor compelled her, as it should us all. Our battle is going to be legendary.”

  Baynvyn checked his rifle one last time, rested a hand on Epalette's hilt. “My battle is going to be short and brutal this time. Good luck with yours.”

  “That way,” Piña pointed toward the east.

  “I don't need luck,” Qualleron said. “Honor is my guide.” And he sprang off, footfalls rumbling over the sounds of Machine thugs plundering the ships in the docks.

  “Where am I going, Piña?” Baynvyn asked, listening to Qualleron's footsteps subside. “Where is my imposter in black?” He checked the snugness of the rifle strap. He didn't want to lose it in the middle of the fight this time, especially since he'd already lost his pistol. Impossible to replace in this backwards town, it was imported from Binngart, a product of their finest engineering. “Where is his blond-headed bride?”

  “No idea about the yellow-hair,” Piña said. “But the man in the black is atop the wall.” She pointed. “Cannon battery farthest east from us.”

  Baynvyn allowed himself a smile. “Fighting for the cannons? Not a total fool, then.” He drew his blade and gently tapped it on Piña's shoulder. “Keep your damned clockworks off of him this time. He's mine. And don't forget that other request Malpravus made.”

  She didn't look at him, but she nodded – reluctantly – her understanding. That established, Baynvyn kept Epalette in hand and bolted into a sprint enhanced by his weapon. Ahead was the wall, the stairs – he would vault them with ease – and beyond that–

  The imposter. Or his father.

  Either way, he'd claim his head.

  Chapter 55

  Cyrus

  “Didn't think this was going to go off so quickly,” Cyrus muttered, firing Baynvyn's pistol as he advanced. He was taking careful aim, but shooting time after time, no reloading. How many shots did it have in its depths? He didn't know, couldn't, exactly, but it had been good for five shots thus far, and five kills, and that was better than the single-shot pistols he'd been trifling with since he'd arrived.

  Truly, this must have been a backward place, as the others had said. Cyrus only needed look at Baynvyn's pistol and rifle to know it was true. The City Watch had barely a gun for one man in ten. The Machine, probably less than that, and they were all those single-shot variety that he'd learned to just about throw away when done.

  Now he was advancing against a loyalist group of City Watch, shouting his displeasure at them as they scrambled around the cannon fortification tower that jutted out on either side of the wall, and dammit–

  It was a slaughter.

  “I am Cyrus Davidon!” he shouted, drawing a bead on a man in Watch livery that charged him with his spear. Cyrus fired and caught the man in the throat. It was entirely too easy with Rodanthar in one hand to slow their onrush. “I am here to liberate this port for the people of Reikonos!” Another charged him and he fired, putting an end to the poor bastard.

  Something changed in the gun this time; it always rattled and hammered, and slapped back at his hand when it operated, but this time something was different when it was done. It seemed off-angle, open somehow, the long part of the barrel drawn back to reveal the gun's innards–

  Which contained no bullets, hidden or otherwise.

  “Damn,” Cyrus said mildly, and thrust the spent pistol back into his belt, because hell if he was going to discard such a wonder. Even if it hadn't come from his son. Gripping Rodanthar with two hands, he slashed at the next comer. The man's livery was drenched in red immediately, and he fell back into the line of approaching City Watch. “Stop!” he shouted. “There is no need for us to fight!”

  “I don't think they're going to listen to you my l – err, my general,” McCoie said, striking down a charging Watchman.

  And unfortunately, he was right, for they were coming off the cannon tower like steam off a boiling pot, with more rallying down the wall toward the next cannon tower, determined to stop Cyrus and his small army before they reached their goal.

  Chapter 56

  Alaric

  “Give them no quarter!” Alaric shouted, dismounting the last stairs into the dock yards as a crowd of Machine thugs charged him with blades half the length of his. Fools, all, and dishonorable ones at that. He took out the leading two with Aterum and turned to deal with the next. They were swarming around him, one was sure to at least try to stab him in the back soon–

  A mighty gust of wind blew past the back of his neck, awakening all the little hairs that rested there. Alaric turned and looked up–

  And up–

  Birissa was there, swinging her sword and bellowing to the heavens. Some poor Machine thug was chopped in half, his upper body pinwheeling his arms comically as he flew through the air and landed in a pile in the midst of the frame of wood that comprised and empty ship dock.

  “Thank you,” Alaric said, working his way back to attacking. The resistance suddenly ceased, and Alaric realized they must have killed all the Machine guards in this part of the dockyards.

  Birissa stood there, head wheeling about on her mighty neck. She met his eyes. “More?”

  “Surely,” Alaric said, breaking into a run. There were none visible along this side of the yards, but rows of ship docks obscured his ability to see farther. Heads peeked over the deck of the occasional ship. Tentative ones, which told Alaric something about how the plundering had been going in here. He reached the end of a row and looked down, down–

  A dozen ships down there were several horseless carriages parked and a bevy of torches burned in the night. Alaric stared through the spell cast upon his sight, trying to determine...it all looked very familiar, but, then, many of the ships did, at least to his untrained eye.

  Was that where the Yuutshee had been berthed when last he was here? And if so, were the thugs proximal to it presently raiding it? Or the ship next to it?

  Alaric looked back. His own City Watch guards were flooding down the battlements now, their effort at placing a force behind the enemy gates successful. “Come on!” he shouted, and waited until a few of them had started to run after him to break into his own sprint. A leader needed to lead, after all, but if no one followed, he was going to have a very difficult time trying to liberate the docks by himself.

  Chapter 57

  Vaste

  “Uhm, we should probably hurry,” Vaste said, casting another Falcon's Essence spell upon the poor sod who was trying – so hard, curse his annoying, useless, slow and pathetic arse – to get up the wall. This fellow of course c
ame to his line, his rope, and it was Vaste's responsibility to help get him up and over so he could do the same to the next five fellows in his line.

  “One of you come over here,” Shirri said, waving one of his line to hers. Of course, she only had two men left in hers.

  “Yes, another over here,” Pamyra called from the other side of her daughter. “I only have one left.”

  “It's not a race,” Vaste said a little self-consciously. “And if it were, I'm not sure why I got saddled with the slowest guard of them all.” The poor bastard sagged again. “Come on, man,” Vaste called up to him. He was only halfway up the wall. “Climb, damn you! Climb, or else–” He looked at the other men in his line, all of whom were watching him with wide-eyed alarm. Of course, they'd seen little in the way of trolls.

  That gave him an idea. “Climb...or I will eat you!” Vaste called.

  The puffing guard looked down at him, face twisted in a confused look.

  “Yes, you heard me,” Vaste said. “There's a shortage of grain, and I'm hungry, so if you fall...” He rubbed his belly. “I might not even bother to cook you first.”

  “I – but – wha – I'm sweating like a pig,” the man sputtered.

  “I like pig,” Vaste said, still rubbing his belly. “Sausage, bacon, the tenderloins. Mmm. You're making me hungry. I bet all that sweating is like good seasoning for the flesh.”

  It was tough to see in the dark, but he could have sworn the panicked look on that man's face gave way to climbing with renewed strength. The other men in Vaste's line edged away from him as though he were a plague-bearer.

  “Oh, damn,” Vaste said mildly as the slow bastard reached the top and fairly vaulted himself over. “I guess I'm going to stay hungry.” He eyed the next man in line, who eyed him back. Vaste could almost hear him gulp in the night, even over the sounds of battle in the distance. “You get the same deal as him.” And he smiled, his large lower teeth protruding out from under his upper lip.