The Armored Saint

by Myke Cole

Heloise drove off with her right foot and straightened, hammering the shield up under the devil’s chin. Its teeth clicked together, neck snapping back. It reeled, three of its arms pinwheeling as it tried to keep its balance. Heloise gave a triumphant shout. She couldn’t see the Tinkers, but it didn’t matter. Even with the machine bent and twisted, she didn’t need them. Perhaps it was because the Emperor had blessed her. Perhaps it was simply dumb luck. Either way, she was winning.

  The devil stumbled back, flailed with two of its arms, and grasped the machine’s shoulders. Its weight came down on its ankle and it collapsed, turning sideways as it fell.

  Heloise felt its weight dragging at the machine. She had thought that the metal frame was strong enough to carry anything, but the devil was huge, and strain as she might against the straps, its giant body pulled the machine down with it. Heloise felt the world upend, the horizon became the devil’s chest, and the machine toppled forward.

  The devil rolled as they came down, throwing its strength into its shoulders, flipping the war-machine onto its back and rolling on top of it. The metal groaned and shook, and Heloise rattled inside it, her vision filling with stars as her head snapped back and forth. Her back slammed against the frame hard enough to shake her teeth and knock the breath from her. She lay, gasping, trying to move her arms as the devil shook its head, stalked eyes swiveling back toward her, pushing itself up on its fists and making ready to reach for her.

  She heard a shout, and Barnard appeared at the devil’s side. He swung his hammer, knocking the devil’s arm away. The devil turned toward him, hissing. Gunnar joined his father, stabbing at its eye, but the iron bar had cooled now, and the gray metal merely raked across its cheek.

  The devil shrieked and swept an arm back, catching Gunnar and Barnard across the chest, sending them sprawling across the ruined workshop, weapons flying from their hands.

  No. Heloise had precious little time to worry about the Tinkers, for the devil had turned back to her, was leaning in.

  Heloise pulled on her pulped right hand, desperate to free it from the metal sleeve, to escape from the machine before the devil could hurt her. But she still couldn’t catch her breath, and even if she could, the strap around her hand held fast, so that her struggles only made the broken metal arm flail uselessly against the devil’s weight. The pain was so great that she was certain that to rip her hand free would kill her.

  The devil didn’t bother with biting this time. It reached a single finger inside the driver’s cage, the claw on the end long and sharp as any knife.

  There was a shout and Basina appeared over the devil’s shoulder, springing lightly up its back, the axe flashing in her hands. “Get off her!” she shouted, and swung the axe as if she were splitting a log, down at the devil’s neck.

  The devil screamed, so high and piercing that Heloise’s eyes watered, the pain in her ears rising and rising until at last all sound fled and there was only a ringing, high and tinny and sounding like it came from a long way off. The devil twisted, jerking its head up and back, and the axe head turned as it struck, the edge finding no purchase, arcing out and down. It cut, but not deep enough. Black blood showered Heloise, mixing with her own, the stink of it leaving her retching, still barely able to breathe.

  The devil shrieked silently. All Heloise could hear was the high ringing in her ears. Basina’s face was milk pale, eyes wide. She raised the axe for another blow, but much too late. The devil was already rising, jerking its shoulder back, throwing her off. Basina sprang clear, tumbling beneath a swiping claw that tore a rent in her dress.

  Basina tumbled out of view and the devil turned to follow, opening its mouth and shrieking again.

  Move. This is your chance. Get up, get up, get up! Heloise sucked in air, her lungs inflating painfully. Some of the black blood dripped into her mouth and she sputtered, turning her head and spitting down her shoulder. Her body ached and her limbs felt weak, but she thought she could move them. She pushed on one side of the chest strap, pulled up with her good shoulder. The machine groaned and clanked and the arm answered her sluggishly, but at last she felt the shield dig into the ground beneath her and push her up to a sitting position.

  Barnard and Gunnar lay in the wreckage, still. The devil hunched, spread its arms, and shrieked again, took a step toward Basina. Heloise could hear it now, faintly, the ringing fading and the sounds of the world rushing back. Basina brandished her axe and screamed back, but where the devil’s scream was angry, Basina’s was frightened.

  Heloise could see the devil knew this. It growled low in its throat, a sound like a pack of dogs circling.

  The devil twitched. Basina turned and ran.

  Heloise pulled on the foot strap, desperately trying to get the machine’s feet under it, unable to tear her eyes away.

  The devil stalked slowly after Basina, enjoying the chase. The machine kicked in the dirt, succeeding only in digging great furrows in the muck. Her wounds sang out with every movement, but it was an old song to her now, sung so many times that she knew the words by heart. She was good at hurting.

  Heloise gave up on kicking and sawed her chest against the strap. The machine’s shoulders moved in time and she pushed harder, trying to rock the machine onto its knees. Desperation was supposed to give people strength, but it only made her arms and legs feel weak, heavy. It only made it hard to breathe.

  “Come on, come on,” she whispered. Not Basina. Not her love. She couldn’t let this happen.

  At last, the rocking carried the machine over, and she was falling forward so fast that she only just managed to catch herself with the shield’s corner. She pushed again, felt the weight of the machine resisting her.

  She pushed harder. Her teeth ground together. Slowly, the machine began to rise. Too slowly. Harder. Blood pounded in her ears. She felt a vein burst in her nose, blood trickling down onto her lip. Somewhere, just ahead of her, the devil was running down her best friend. The love of her life.

  She gave a final shout and punched out with the shield, knocking the machine up and back onto its feet. She staggered back a step, steadied herself. At first, she couldn’t believe she was up, but there was Basina, the devil herding her back.

  The devil didn’t notice her. Basina did.

  Maybe Basina was exhausted, or mad with fear. She doubled back toward the war-machine, bringing her closer to the devil, which gave up its stalking and struck.

  The devil brought a fist down. Basina jumped aside, swung the axe one-handed, the head rebounding off the devil’s armored hand. The devil screamed, pulled the hand away. The movement dragged the axe from Basina’s grip, sent it spinning into the air.

  Basina turned again and ran in the opposite direction, eyes wide. The devil glanced at its hand, shrieked, and followed.

  “Basina!” Heloise yelled, limping after them. The devil’s legs were twice as long as Basina was tall. There was no patient stalking now, no low growling, only the quiet speed of revenge.

  Heloise pursued the devil with everything she had. She panted, lungs burning. Her leg ached with the effort of yanking her foot up and kicking it down again, feeling the metal leg move in response, dragging the limp one behind. The leather strap had chewed through her dress, through the skin of her armpits, wet with her blood, singing in pain with every movement. She felt the machine’s bent posture keenly now, its staggering limp, even as the devil’s broad back grew in her vision. She had to go faster. She had to get there before it could hurt Basina.

  Basina ran and the devil followed, just behind her now, raising a huge hand.

  “No!” Heloise shouted, she yanked her good foot up, trying to stretch the leg further, faster. The machine took a great, lumbering stride, the bent cage unbalancing it, sending it teetering sideways. She reached out with the shield, flailing for the devil’s back.

  She was falling sideways. The weight of the shield was an anchor now, dragging her earthward. She yanked her foot up and slammed it back down again, hoping the motion would right
her, succeeding only in splashing the mud that the rain had made of the workshop floor. She felt the machine’s balance drift past the point of no return. The devil’s back slid sideways past her.

  The devil’s hand came down, smashing Basina to the ground.

  Rage swamped her, banished pain, banished fatigue, her vision narrowing to a tunnel that showed only the devil’s back passing by. Heloise screamed, punched out with the shield arm, felt the shield’s corner brush the devil’s back, hook the monster’s shoulder blade, take the machine’s weight. The machine swung around, rolling until it faced the devil’s side, the ruined right arm pointing toward its heart.

  Heloise rolled her shoulder and the machine’s huge arm pulled on the shield. The corner held fast, yanking the machine in, driving the jagged metal remains of the broken metal arm deep into the devil’s side.

  She felt the sharp metal go in, deeper than she’d thought possible. The black blood covered her arm, dripped into the cage, the stink familiar now, bothering her less.

  She felt her right arm now, puncturing through the devil’s skin and stabbing deep into it. She could feel the ribs briefly resist, but they were no match for the strength of the tinker-engine, and she felt them crunch under the sharp metal, hungrily delving deeper.

  The devil didn’t scream. It straightened, head swiveling toward her. She could look at its face now, the thin slice of a mouth, the uneven slits for nostrils, the clustered stalks of its white eyes.

  Heloise stared into them, pushing her hatred into her look. She wanted it to see how she felt. “You killed Clodio,” she said.

  The eye stalks moved closer together, until they formed an almost one great eye. The growling stopped. Was it listening to her? Did it recognize her? She hoped so. She hoped it could hear her.

  She whispered as she pushed the broken metal deeper in. “Kill you.” It became a growl.

  Below them, Basina kicked, moaned. The devil’s mouth opened, the tongues reaching out, black flowers blooming on long stems. The inside was gray, wet, stinking of swamps.

  The stalked eyes glowed, turned in circles. The mouth snapped shut, and Heloise felt the monster slough sideways. The machine’s weight added to the momentum, and they were falling again. There was a rush of wind, then a crash, and Heloise knew she was down. The impact wasn’t as bad this time, or at least Heloise didn’t notice it. She only knew that she had to get up, because it still might be alive, because she had to finish this.

  She felt the engine on the machine’s back shudder. It belched a great gout of seethestone smoke. The metal shook and groaned, and then the engine gave a final cough and died. The strength went out of the war-machine, and it lay slack, wrapped around the devil’s body, embraced like lovers.

  Heloise waited for the devil to stir, to rise and tear her apart. She couldn’t stop it. She had no more strength in her. She had failed too badly, too often.

  But the devil didn’t move, and the thought of Basina lying wounded would not let her be.

  She struggled against the straps, but they held her fast. The agony in her right hand again nearly made her faint, and she finally stopped trying, instead swinging her head up and past the crushed frame to see if the devil still breathed.

  The thing’s eyes were gray. There was no sound of the wet breathing now. The black tongues dripped blacker blood from the corner of its open mouth. Its head was turned to the side, hanging on its thick neck.

  It was dead.

  She had done it.

  Basina.

  She craned her neck, finally let herself see her best friend. She gasped.

  Basina’s body was crushed flat from just above her hips to the tops of her knees. Her blood soaked all around her, the blue ropes of her guts spilled out into the mud. She stank like a midden baking in the sun.

  She was smiling. “You killed it?”

  “Yes.” Heloise realized she was crying. “I killed it.”

  “That’s good,” Basina whispered. Her face was as white as the devil’s eyes. Blood bubbled at the corners of her mouth. “I knew you would.”

  I will never let anyone hurt you, Heloise had said to her. In her heart, it had been an oath. “Basina, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “I lost my axe.”

  Heloise cried, cuffed tears from her eyes. “Basina, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. But I love you and I tried to save you and I didn’t mean for any of this . . .”

  “It’s all right.” Basina seemed to be reaching for something, but all she could do was wiggle her fingers in the mud. Even that small effort melted her smile, and her eyes went sad. She coughed blood. The pain in Basina’s face went away, her eyes lost focus, she looked confused. “I’m sorry. I’m not brave like you, Heloise.”

  “Yes, you are, Basina. You are brave. And you just have to be brave a little longer, you just have to hold on. I’m going to get out of this machine and get Deuteria. She can fix you.” She looked back down the machine’s right arm, trying to see if there was some way she could slip her hand free. She struggled against the straps, nearly fainted from the pain. “Basina? Basina, don’t go to sleep! Talk to me! Basina?”

  But Basina didn’t answer, and when Heloise looked back to her, she knew she was gone.

  “Do not weep for your dead. For, if they have lived by my Writ,

  They are not gone, but stand in splendor beside the Throne.

  They lend their strength to mine, and together watch o’er you and yours,

  Unto your last day, when they will greet you.

  And in this way, the ranks of the righteous ever swell,

  And assure that hell will one day be laid low, forever.

  Have faith, and hold fast, and thou shalt know peace at the end.”

  —Writ. Imp. XXX. 5

  CHAPTER 14: PALANTINE

  Heloise rose up through the layers of darkness, her senses returning slowly. Her hands, her side, her leg throbbed, the pain maddening. Beyond it, there was nothing. It was as if all else in her had been scoured away in the fight with the devil, leaving a creature whose sole purpose was to hurt.

  She was lying on wood, the slightly uneven surface of the boards digging into her shoulders. Her head rested on a bag of grain.

  Voices were speaking around her, deep and hard. Men talking in tones she knew were used for important things.

  She heard angry sobbing. Barnard.

  “Are you certain you can go on with this?” Sigir.

  The sob choked off, swallowed.

  “Barnard, you don’t have . . .” Her father’s voice.

  “I. Will. Do. It.” It was certainly the tinker’s voice, but with an edge to it that chilled Heloise.

  “There should be time for grief,” the Maior said. “We should be burying our dead and—”

  “We are wasting time,” Barnard said.

  “What can we do?” Her father’s voice. “Will there be more?”

  “Are you speaking of the devil, Samson?” Sigir asked. “Devils are the least of our worries now. We would be fortunate indeed if a tide from hell were to wash across us now. It would be quicker. Cleaner.”

  “How can you say—”

  “There is no time!” Sigir’s voice was loud with anger that Heloise knew covered fear. “The Order is regrouping even as we speak. If we are lucky, they will send for reinforcements. If not, they will come upon us as we are. We have no wizard to defend us now.”

  “We have better than a wizard,” Barnard said. “We have a Palantine.”

  “That is my daughter,” Samson snarled. “She is just a little girl and she is hurt and—”

  “She killed a devil,” Barnard said. “She killed a devil and she lives.”

  “Your war-machine killed a devil,” Samson shouted. “She’s just—”

  “Your daughter is alive!” Barnard roared. His voice was strained, choked with tears. He sounded exhausted. He sounded mad. “She stood against a devil and lived. Why would that be, save for the
Emperor’s will? What little girl could drive a war-machine, broken as it was? She is a Sainted Palantine! She will protect us!” Heloise could hear Gunnar and Guntar whispering to their father, trying to calm him.

  “Barnard.” Samson’s voice was gentle. “I am sorry for Basina. I truly am.”

  Basina. Grief welled up in Heloise’s chest. Her best friend was dead. She hadn’t been able to save her.

  Barnard made a strangled sound. “Why should my daughter die and yours live? It is the Emperor’s will. She is a Palantine.”

  “All things are the Emperor’s will,” Samson said. “Good and bad alike. I am sorry for your loss. Basina was like a daughter to me, I feel it too. But it doesn’t make Heloise anything more than a wounded child.”

  “Sainted Palantine or no,” Sigir said. “She is too weak to stand now, let alone drive a war-machine. The Order is coming. They will call on one of the Frogging Clans to run their cordon. We will be Knit, Samson. We will be Knit in a fortnight at the most.”

  Sigir’s words brought a silence so heavy that it blotted out even the normal sounds of the wind sighing against the roof, of birds nesting in the eves.

  “What do we do?” her father asked.

  “We prepare as best we can,” Sigir answered, “and we make what defenses we may. If we’re to have any chance of surviving at all, we’ll need to take good ground, strike at the Order from ambush,” Sigir said.

  “The ranger,” her father said. “I wish he was still with us. He knew the land.”

  But he can’t be here, Heloise thought, because he became a portal into hell. And I knew he was a wizard and didn’t stop him.

  “The boys have done a fair bit of ranging,” Barnard said. “Guntar is a good tracker. I’ll set him to find which way the Order went. We’ll need to look along the road to Lyse. Might be there’s a spot they won’t expect us coming out of.”

  “I know just the spot,” Guntar said. “I’m sure I can find it again.”

  “Be quick,” Sigir said. “We are already out of time.”

  The Maior paused, then spoke again. “We will raise the whole village. Everyone, man or woman, old enough to walk or young enough to hold a spear. We will not get another chance should we lose. I will not see my people butchered like . . .” He trailed off, choking on his words.