Astrid and the rest of the high-level mages stood closest to the gate. The clattering grew louder—a collection of squeaking metal and grinding gears combined with a high-pitched whine.
The horseless carriage banged into the gate doors that were barely hanging on. One of the doors broke free and clipped the rear corner of the trundling vehicle.
For a moment Astrid thought they were in luck, but the heavy timber just rocked the wagon to the side slightly and it bounced on its substantial springs.
Her heart sank when she realized the wagon was completely clad in metal.
“Now!” Astrid bellowed.
The pistol troops, with weapons already drawn, opened fire.
“Aim for the slots!” Tarkon bellowed.
That was when Astrid noticed long, rectangles cut out of the panels. They went around the entire vehicle at chest height.
Firing slots, Astrid thought. As if her realization had brought it about, long tubes extended from the firing slots. Brass cylinders at the ends of the tubes turned and pointed toward them as the troops inside aimed.
“Take cover!” Astrid screamed. But it was too late, and there was no cover to take.
A series of high-pitched whines emanated from the vehicle. An instant later, the air was split with a tremendous crackling like a chorus of thunder. Bolts of blue light erupted from the wagon.
A soldier beside Astrid lost his head in a bloody cloud and another lost her arm, but where the bolts of magical energy made solid contact with sacred steel armor plates there was little damage.
Astrid reached down to grab the woman who lost her arm and was hit several times. Only the plates of her armor and the silksteel cloth that held it together kept her in one piece.
She managed to hang on to the wounded soldier and drag her to a stairwell she hadn’t realized was there. Astrid dropped the woman on the stairs, hoped for the best, and turned back to the fight.
They were being slaughtered. The pistol rounds did little damage. The soldiers inside the vehicle fired in a leisurely fashion at the retreating troops.
But when Tarkon blasted it with a massive fireball, the driver decided it was time to go. The wagon lurched, then moved out fast. It crossed the courtyard and crashed through the opposite gate.
“I guess that fireball dampened their appetite a bit,” Mika said as she trotted over.
“They run as soon as they get hit hard,” Astrid thought aloud. “I’m thinking they probably don’t want to lose that thing.”
“Then let’s disappoint them,” Vinnie said. His eyes turned black and the earth shook. When he bolted after the attackers, Astrid’s hair blew up around her head.
“Tarkon, Moxy—stay here, tend the wounded, and guard the place.” She turned to Mika. “Let’s see how fast Movers can run.”
Astrid’s eyes glowed electric blue as she drew from the Well and took off after Vinnie. Once again, her skin crackled with static electricity that arced between her arms and body as she pumped her arms. Mika was far behind since Astrid’s feet barely touched the ground as she hurtled forward.
She had never run this fast. She was practically flying.
Lost in the thrill of speed, Astrid didn’t realize how close she was to the wagon. She had even passed Vinnie, who shouted something as she went by.
“Shit!” Astrid shouted. She couldn’t slow down. “Fuck!” she yelped as she made the only move left open to her.
She tucked her head and turned her shoulder into the wagon as she slammed into it.
Boom! She felt the metal of the rear doors give only slightly as the heavy steel simply canceled her momentum. A blue flash of light blinded her as she fell limply to the ground with the air driven from her lungs.
A moment later Vinnie slammed into the rear wheel, sending splinters of wood and metal flying.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” Mika asked, as she knelt and propped Astrid up.
“Lately I don’t know,” Astrid wheezed, struggling to fill her lungs again.
“I mean, it was awesome, but…” Mika trailed off into a chuckle and helped the fully-recovered Astrid to her feet.
“Let’s do this thing,” Astrid said, shaking the stars from her vision.
Vinnie somersaulted across the ground to slow himself down. He turned back around and charged the wagon again with his eyes glowing like hot magma.
The driver of the wagon kicked open the door and jumped down. He aimed his weapon at Vinnie, but it was too late. Vinnie closed on him, took the weapon and snapped his neck.
The man-mountain gave an ursine roar, put his shoulder under the wagon and lifted. The wagon tumbled over with a drum-like boom and its back doors popped open.
Some of the soldiers inside tumbled out, while others jumped out with their weapons at the ready.
Astrid took out three in short order with her rope dart while Mika dodged magical blasts, cut them down with her sword, and broke them with touchless strikes.
When it was over, thirty-five men lay dead around the wagon. They fought to the very last.
“Is anyone hurt?” Astrid asked. She got her answer by just looking at Mika, who gripped her left bicep.
“One of them clipped my wing,” she said. “But the armor saved my life.” Several scorch marks were evident on the chest and shoulder plates. “They got a lucky shot between the arm plates.”
“What about you, big man?” Astrid asked.
Vinnie just smiled and parted his long leather coat. “My students insisted I wear armor,” Vinnie declared. “Even though it took a lot of metal to encase this belly.”
He slapped his hand against the armor and it thumped like a kettle drum. Mika laughed and winced.
“You are a lot stronger than you look,” Mika noted. “That thing must weigh a couple tons.”
Vinnie just smiled and bowed in response. When he straightened, his eyes locked on the wagon. His mouth hung open as he moved forward.
Astrid followed his gaze to a complex mechanism under the wagon. He walked up and laid his hands on it as if it were a household pet.
“This is just what I need,” he said, as he began to poke, prod, and pull at the mechanical devices. “All of this.”
“What do you mean?” Astrid asked.
“Gather up the weapons,” Vinnie said. “We’ve found out what we needed to know. We need to get samples of this back to the caves so I can study it.”
Astrid sent Mika back to Keep 28 with orders to send for the rest of their force, including the wagons. The plan was to load up the wounded, the captured weapons, and the machines and head back to the fortress.
“Let’s hope they don’t have any more of these wagons,” Vinnie said.
“Something tells me they might,” Mika replied.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
It Rolls
Wilfred stood in the courtyard of Keep 49 and watched as the sun began to set. A few paces behind him, the manufactory rattled and clanged with activity. The battlewagon hadn’t returned yet; it was overdue for its change of troops and maintenance check.
Each time the vehicle came back Yarik would study it, ask questions of the driver, and check the equipment. More than once, he and his daughter had sent the wagon out with improvements.
The first improvement they had made was to sandwich two sets of wheels together. They attached curved plates of metal to the dual-rims. Yarik had called the plates “cleats,” and they allowed the wagon better traction in the soft spring ground.
He was not too concerned about losing the wagons that had donated their wheels to the cause. To Wilfred, just one self-propelled battle wagon was worth a hundred regular carts. There was another machine under construction right now in the converted warehouse which had been designed from the ground up to be self-propelled.
Yarik had promised that the new war vehicle would be the first of many.
Even so, the prospect of losing the wagon that had been in his family for several generations was not something he would accept
readily. The more time went by without its return, the more he feared the worst.
The worry produced a deep frown that made the tight scar tissue on his burned face pull his lower eyelids downward. Every time he felt it, he renewed his vow of vengeance on Astrid and all who sided with her.
When the gate sentry shouted the command to open Wilfred felt a sudden rush of hope, but only a single rider galloped through.
The mud-caked messenger hopped off his horse and had a quick conversation with a guard, who pointed toward Wilfred. He knew right away that it was bad news. When he read the message, he understood that the news was not just bad, it was the worst.
“Wait here,” Wilfred ordered and stomped off.
He made his way through the keep and upstairs to the commissioner’s former office, which now served as their war room. There he found Morgon and Hagan poring over a collection of maps.
Wilfred threw the message down on the table and blurted, “The war wagon is lost. Destroyed by magic, possibly by Astrid herself.”
“Slow down,” Hagan said. “Give us the details.”
“They’re in the message,” Wilfred huffed, waving his hand at it.
Hagan carefully picked up the parchment and read quickly.
“One of our patrols found the wagon. One of the wheels was shattered and the back doors were dented. That screams ‘magic user,’” Hagan said. “That means Astrid or someone from her freak menagerie is on the loose.”
“I sure hope she’s stupid enough to put herself in the field,” Hagan continued, cracking her knuckles.
“But we lost the battle wagon,” Wilfred whined.
“Yarik just sent word that the new and improved wagon is almost done.”
“Why isn’t he letting anyone in the factory, then?” Wilfred demanded. He’d raised the question more than once.
“Nobody’s stopping you, Wilfred. He asked, and we agreed. If you want to break our agreement and piss off the master, go right ahead.”
“Are you telling me you don’t trust them?” Hagan asked.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. What do we really know about these people?” Wilfred fired back.
“Well,” Hagan said, folding her arms across her chest, “we know that they can give us technology that allows less than fifty fighters to take at least three keeps in a day. That’s kind of all I need to know—for now, at least.”
“I’m going to go tell him to hurry up with that new vehicle,” Wilfred said.
Loud mechanical sounds reached their ears through the thick stone walls. The dust on the floorboards danced.
“Sounds like you might not have to tell him that,” Morgon said with a smile. He clapped Wilfred on the shoulder hard as he brushed past and pushed out the door. “Are you coming or not?” he called from the hallway.
Wilfred scrambled after him down the stairs and into the courtyard. The setting sun formed the backdrop to one of the most beautiful sights Wilfred had ever seen. He practically had to push his jaw shut with his hand.
“That’s…” Morgon stammered as the great vehicle rolled into view.
“So that’s what he did with all the metal,” Hagan exclaimed.
They had cleared out three keep’s armories and scoured the grounds for all the metal they could lay their hands on. They’d even ordered all the villages under their control to give up all their metal implements.
Those efforts, combined with a steady supply of metal objects from the Fortress wards they’d destroyed, had paid off handsomely. They had Gerolf to thank for that. He had very quietly used his connections among the merchants to get them to buy up metals of every kind.
“So that’s what they wanted with all the wagons,” Wilfred said.
The new battle wagon was nearly twice as long as the one Wilfred had lost. The four-wheeled contraption sat about three feet off the ground and was shaped like a long, squashed barrel with its front end rounded and its rear flat.
“It must be thirty feet long,” Wilfred exclaimed.
“Twenty-eight,” Yarik corrected proudly.
When Wilfred bent down to peer under it, he could see the timbers of the re-purposed wagons. He also noticed a bewildering array of chains, cables, ropes, and rods. The spoked wheels were formed from three wagon wheels joined together at their hubs and a new type of metal cleat spanned the three wheels, forming a continuous rolling surface.
Yarik walked toward them from the now wide-open former warehouse. He wiped his hands on a rag as he came forward grinning like a proud father.
“Say hello to your new battlewagon,” the old man shouted over the racket.
The machine rumbled forward and Wilfred marveled as its front wheels moved in unison to turn the vehicle so its broad side faced them.
Wilfred walked around the vehicle, taking note of the double set of leaf springs he recognized as belonging to a normal trailer. When he glanced back into the factory, he saw heaps of old wagon parts piled along the walls.
“How many of my wagons donated their parts to this thing?” Wilfred asked, suddenly apprehensive.
“Quite a few,” Yarik replied with an insouciance that evoked a flair of anger in Wilfred’s chest.
Before Wilfred could answer, Yarik slapped the side of the vehicle and shouted, “Weapons!”
Twenty doors they hadn’t noticed popped open near the roof of the vehicle. Magitech rifle barrels poked out from the openings like porcupine quills.
“That’s a lot of firepower!” Morgon exclaimed, practically drooling.
Wilfred wanted to be impressed, but he saw several flaws. While the body was constructed from strong metal sheets held together with rivets, the wheels were made from simple hardwood. He was also concerned about the vulnerability of the mechanisms underneath.
“The vehicle is indeed impressive.” Wilfred sniffed. “But these wheels look weak compared to the rest, and the underbelly looks like another weak point.”
Yarik surprised them with a smile as he replied. “You have an astute eye for design. Armor plates for the undercarriage are being made as we speak. As for the wheels…” Yarik slapped the side again and shouted, “shields!”
A sharp hissing sound made everyone but Yarik flinch. Metal panels sprang out from the sides on hinged arms. The panels swung down and drove themselves into the ground.
“After the wagon crushes its way through an opposing force,” Yarik the showman declared, “it plants its feet and releases its payload.”
Yarik shouted the last few words. Another loud hiss brought open the rear doors and a ramp angled out from the floor. Soldiers with magitech rifles barreled out and surrounded the wagon, each taking a knee.
“The vehicle can hold up to sixty fighters and their equipment. Without equipment, we can squeeze eighty troops inside and carry them anywhere they need to be.”
“A troop transport as well as a weapon.” Hagan grinned. “This is brilliant.”
“I can’t argue with that,” Wilfred finally admitted after walking around the machine. “Believe me; you saw me try. I can’t think of a single flaw in this, but one.”
For the first time, Yarik looked anything but triumphant. “And what flaw might that be?” He asked with a clenched jaw.
“Its name,” Wilfred smiled as he returned to stand in front of the old engineer.
“Ha!” Yarik laughed, restored to his jovial mood again.
“Let’s call it ‘the Porcupine,’” Morgon suggested.
“That’s a rodent,” Wilfred huffed.
“What about ‘the Boar,’” Hagan suggested.
“A pig?” Yarik asked.
Hagan laughed and replied, “Have you ever been on a boar hunt?”
“Can’t say that I have,” Yarik admitted.
“It’s perfect,” Wilfred said. “The wild boars in these lands will gut a hunter in the blink of an eye. They are known to lay in wait after being wounded. They lash out in fury, and refuse to be meat for all but the most skilled hunter.”
; “But it’s still a pig. Pigs might be smart, but they are nasty, foul creatures,” Yarik put his foot down…literally. He scowled.
“’Porcupine’ it is, then,” Wilfred relented after a tense pause. “It doesn’t matter, as long as it helps us destroy our enemies.”
“When will it be ready for service?” Hagan asked.
Wilfred followed Yarik’s gaze back through the open doors of the factory. The assembly line hummed along building weapons parts and other mysterious objects that Yarik promised would not disappoint. Many workers had been pulled from the surrounding villages and pressed into service.
“Your peasants are quite compliant,” Yarik replied with a sinister sneer. “My Liesel says they respond well when properly motivated.”
“They look a little tired,” Morgon observed. “Just be sure you don’t break them. We still need them to work the fields. They’re behind already on preparing the ground.”
The Long Road
Moxy ran back to the remainder of their force while Tarkon and Vinnie stayed at the wrecked battlewagon. They were dismantling the strange devices attached to the undercarriage while Astrid went back to Keep 49 to take care of the wounded.
She found that the combined Dregs and soldiers from the Mika and Hanif Estates had set up a perimeter around the bashed and haphazard stronghold.
Astrid didn’t realize how many they had lost until she saw rows of the bodies covered in bloody horse blankets. The corpses were watched over by a wounded man with gray hair who held one of the strange magical weapons in his arms.
Not able to find the words, Astrid gave him a slow nod. Their mutual sadness reflected in their eyes.
“What’s your name?” Astrid asked delicately.
“Eldon, Protector Astrid, ma’am,” he answered in formal tones that seemed to bolster him. Astrid didn’t offer to let him use just her given name like she usually did.
A sudden realization nailed her feet to the ground. All this time, she had not accepted the title. She’d told herself it was because she was a steward, just holding the office until the Protectorate was on its feet again.
She realized that that was her error. A century ago—before the Madness—the people here had come up with a solution for survival uniquely suited to who they were. Only the recent errant decades had tainted their original solution.
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