Hometaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 6)

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Hometaker: A Steampunk Dystopian Action Adventure (The Great Iron War, Book 6) Page 7

by Dean F. Wilson


   He held on for dear life, for life was very dear, and Whistler held on tight to him. Yet it was a precarious hold, and they were both at the mercy of the see-saw of the gods. If it turned on them again, Jacob knew he would lose his grip, and they would be back sliding down to where there were none. Then the ever-patient edge would have its prize, and the war would be lost or won by others.

   So he prayed for stability, for no shifting, for no rock to rub against another rock, no stone to shove another stone. He prayed for the pillars to hold, both the ones beneath, which were stopped mid-fall by the ceiling that came down on them, and the ones still standing on the unbroken part of the bridge, which still shuddered and cracked as Mudro carefully led the carrier across it.

   From this vantage point, many feet below the main bridge, Jacob could see Nox appearing at the cliff, peering down with his worried eyes, his hands working frantically to load up a reclaimed grappling hook to one of the pressurised shooters at the front of his monowheel.

   “You okay down there?” Jacob shouted to Whistler, whose grip seemed to be weakening. The smuggler tightened his own to compensate, but the strain was getting to him too.

   “No,” Whistler replied, his dust-filled hair ravaged by the breeze. He squinted as he looked up, and even though his eyes were half-closed, Jacob could see the fear in them. The sun reached down to them as well, not to haul them up, but to offer them a scalding hand, to drain the last of their already waning strength, and poke them in the eye with its many blinding rays. The sun was a friend of no one, but today it was a friend of the edge.

   “Hey, you're the one who likes heights,” Jacob called down. Even up there, dangling, he thought he could lighten the mood.

   Whistler replied with a grimace. He liked to fly, not to fall.

  * * *

  On the remainder of the bridge, Mudro eased the carrier across at a snail's pace. It was no longer a straight run. There were holes and dips everywhere, forcing him to zig-zag around. That made it worse, because the carrier was big and clunky, and did not turn well. Every manoeuvre had to be carefully orchestrated, every pivot planned, every zig with a plea, every zag with a prayer.

   The ground continued to quake momentarily, threatening to send the carrier down like Jacob and Whistler. Mudro had to put them out of his mind, even though he could see them dangling out of the corner of his eye. He had to speak Rommond's words to himself: Stick to the mission. Men can fall. The plan only falls if men dive.

   He saw Nox far ahead, working on his vehicle, stuffing the cable back into its holster. There was a huge gap between them, bridged only by a short, winding path. How Mudro wished then that he could do more than conjure cards or orchestrate illusions. In another world, in Iraldas, he could have made a phantom crossing. But in that same world, the snipers would not have been shooting at him with lead. No, this was a world of iron and sand, of physical things, where death did not send you to the afterlife to influence the living from afar, but finished you off for good. The game of life was different here, and you had to play by its rules.

   The treads of the carrier crunched against the cracked earth, and Mudro walked along beside it, patting it periodically to help guide the driver in the well-sealed cockpit at the front. For a moment, he wondered if Brooklyn was in the back, hearing those raps and taps, making his own muffled sounds inside, and urging them to rescue him, to save his world-claiming creation at all costs. He put the thought out of his mind. Rommond wanted them to treat all three carriers as equal, until the moment when Brooklyn himself, and only him, would make the big reveal. Mudro just hoped that if he died for this one, he would not have died in vain.

   Then the earth cracked ahead of them. It was a thin crack, but it was growing, and it was right in the trajectory of the carrier. The choice was not a choice. They could either steam ahead, as the ground gave way, or wait for whatever island they were on to fall like the rest into the rocky rapids below.

   Mudro banged hard on the side of the carrier, as if the driver needed any extra encouragement. The doctor stayed on foot, so as not to add any extra weight to the carrier, and trotted alongside it as it picked up steam.

   From there—slowed by his limp, but hastened by his fear—he saw that Nox was preparing to fire his newly-reloaded grappling hook down to Jacob and Whistler. Yet, on seeing the creeping crack in the path of the carrier, Jacob's faint shout ushered the Coilhunter to save the vehicle instead. In that moment, as Nox reluctantly fired the hook towards the carrier, Mudro hoped that if Jacob and Whistler died for this one, they too would not have died in vain.

   The hook grappled into place around one of the handles on the outside of the carrier, but just like those two dangling people down below, it was a precarious grip. It hung by just one of its three curved nails. Mudro, mid-run, tried to adjust it, but the tether was tight. Even as the carrier sailed across the ever-growing gap, the wire pulled tighter. It was better than nothing, but Mudro feared it might not be enough.

   On the other side, Nox drove his monowheel around one of the two remaining pillars, wrapping the wire around, before heading towards the second. With two in place, it might just be enough to support the weight of the carrier, even if it was hanging by a nail.

   But he never made it to the second column. The chasm widened, and the mountainous maw conspired with gravity and yanked the carrier down into its gape. The wire pulled tighter, and the monowheel sped backwards towards the first pillar, crushing against the stone. Nox kept the acceleration on, but there just was not enough weight, power or grip to do anything but linger.

   The carrier fell down onto a huge stone slab just like the one that Jacob and Whistler clung to, only this one did not tilt to the side; it tilted back and up, leading like a ramp to the other side of the bridge. Mudro hung out of the side, his own nails digging into one of the handles. It was a stroke of luck in a multitude of misfortunes, but it felt like only a momentary reprieve, for safety taunted them from above, and gravity still beckoned from below.

   The grappling hook held for now, but the angry sounds of the monowheel up above, and the straining of that metal nail around the handle, suggested it would not hold for long. The driver pressed hard on the pedal, and the tracks ground against the earth, kicking away the slippery sand, gripping the road as if even iron did not want to fall.

   Then the wire snapped, and all seemed lost. Were it not for the less steep slope, the carrier would have plummeted immediately. Instead, it started to slide back down, losing all the ground it had made, like a symbol of the back and forth of war, before the ultimate oblivion.

   The driver threw everything he had into acceleration, switching gears, shovelling coal with one hand, yanking levers with the other. Both feet he kept down on the accelerators, and both treads span around the hull, fighting gravel and gravity, not moving forward, but not moving backwards either.

   And then the treads seemed to give way a little, and the carrier slipped down, before the tracks caught on a more uneven patch of rock, stopping it again. Yet, even as it halted, the spinning tracks were like a grindstone, wearing down the little outcroppings that kept the vehicle from slipping away entirely. When it advanced, it ascended inches, but when it fell back, it slipped by feet. There was only so long that battle of measurements could last.

   To the side of the carrier, Mudro hung, contemplating for a moment the possibility of letting go, and so freeing the carrier of the burden of his weight.

   Down below to the left, Jacob and Whistler could do nothing but wait and watch, and cling and clutch, and hope. Up above, Nox worked furiously to dislodge the second grappling hook from the second pillar and load it back into the pressurised cannon on his monowheel.

   In time, he succeeded, and fired the hook back down to the carrier, where Mudro helped guide its grip into place. The Coilhunter had already secured the rope around the second pillar. Then he fired up his monowheel and tried to haul the carrier up. Now it ascended
not just by inches, cruising up the slope even as the monowheel span like crazy, and the wire dug deep into the pillar's frame.

   Then, just as the carrier neared the top, just enough for even Mudro to reach his hand out to the ledge, the supporting wire around the pillar bit too deep. The column rocked. It seemed like just at the moment of salvation, safety was snatched from them.

   Nox and the carrier's driver kept pushing metal, and the wire kept slicing stone. Just as the pillar looked like it might snap, the carrier clambered over the edge, back onto solid ground. Mudro collapsed to the earth, and Nox stopped the monowheel, breathing a smokey sigh of relief.

   They were safe. The carrier was safe.

   Yet the pillar still rocked, and even before their first breath was caught, the top half, where the wire dug deep, snapped apart and collapsed down into the ravine, to where Jacob and Whistler were still holding on. The column struck the top of the slab they were on, then began to roll side-long like a boulder towards them. If they hung on, it would crush them. If they let go, they would fall down to their doom.

   The horror of it all washed over everyone.

   Up above, Jacob saw the rolling column coming down fast. Down below, he saw Whistler's horrified expression.

   “Sorry, kid,” he said.

   Sorry it had to end this way.

   Then he let go.

  16 – HAMMERFALL ON THE HOME FRONT

  In Blackout, the city was quiet. Rommond's curfew was still in operation, helping to stabilise the previous unrest from the many changeovers. The streets were empty, with no footsteps penetrating through the grey smoke. As the night wore on, the smoke of the chimneys fizzled out, and the lights in the windows faded with them.

   Guards were still on duty, switching shifts, but there were few left. Many had gone with the armies into the east. That was where the battle was. Those who remained nodded off at their posts, and even the most vigilant among them grew weary, until their watch was no longer truly kept.

   Royce left the butchers at close to midnight. He always did longer days than most. He hung up his apron and locked up, making sure to only take a small amount of coils with him. He had made that mistake before, and paid for it with the loss of a week's income, and almost paid for it with his life.

   He leant against his walking stick and glanced up at the moon before he stepped down off the porch step. It was particularly bright tonight, or maybe the city was just particularly dark. He decided against the use of a lantern. He knew he should not be out this late. The general was not there, but he insisted that his curfew was kept, and his guards passed on that insistence to the locals very clearly.

   He hobbled through the smog, slowly at first, then a little more hurriedly when he thought he heard a sound behind him. He stopped, just in time to catch what he thought was a boot scraping through the gravel, and shuffled off even faster than before. He clutched the handle of his walking stick more tightly, and wondered if it would be enough in a fight.

   He felt his heart hammer against the anvil of his chest, and the ice of the night made his breathing difficult and more painful than normal. He started to trot, driving the walking stick into the ground before him, diving through the fog with just his instinct and intuition, and the pale glimmer of moonlight, to guide him.

   The boots continued to kill the gravel behind him, but it was a long, slow stride, compared to Royce's short, frantic one. It was someone calm and collected, with a form of military march. It was the kind of thing you expected if you broke Rommond's curfew, because if you did, you expected to meet him out there in the streets.

   Royce continued on as fast as his knackered legs could propel him, until he turned a corner and saw a light on in the bakery, with the worn sign reading Daily Dough. That was Erswell's store. He set up shop not long after Royce himself. He was someone you could count on, someone you could trust.

   Royce banged on the door with one hand, leaning heavily with the other on his support. He cast a worried eye back into the smog behind him, still hearing the faint echo of footsteps. He blasted the panels of the door again, until Erswell opened it slowly, bemused.

   “What's all this racket, Royce?”

   “I thought I heard someone.”

   “So did I,” Erswell said, “banging at my door at this unholy hour.”

   “No,” Royce said earnestly, stressing the word. “Someone … military.”

   Erswell's eyes lit up, and he ushered Royce inside. Before Royce had even closed the door behind him, making sure to seal all the latches, the younger man buried his head in an open chest nearby, rummaging through the belongings inside.

   “You didn't really prepare for this, did you?” Royce asked.

   “I prepared enough,” the baker replied, pulling out a rifle.

   “Do you even remember how to shoot it?”

   Erswell cocked his head. Then he cocked the gun.

  * * *

  The duo returned to the streets, walking stick and rifle in hand. The footsteps had faded, leaving only their own nervous footfalls to echo through the alleys. They tried to walk slowly, to mask their movements, but they knew that time was against them. They had to hurry.

   The butcher's and bakery were both in the same quarter of the city, along with other produce providers. They served civilians most of the time, but they also served the guard post at the southern gate, and a military porter distributed food from there to the other posts. It meant they knew the main guard, Trem, quite well. He was likely to be on duty that night. Someone they could count on. Someone they could trust.

   They continued through, painfully aware of the openness of the main road they were traversing, with only the cover of the smog to hide them. It sprung to both of their minds that the back alleys were a sneakier route, but that made it sneakier for other people too. Depending on who ran the city, those laneways were populated by crooks and thieves, some solo and others in a guild, and there were unwritten agreements in place with the guards to look the other way. Though Rommond had put a stop to much of that, some of the guilds had just gone into hiding. Now that he was away once more, it was the perfect time for them to return to the darkest alleys. It meant it was safer to travel in the open streets, where the guards still had full jurisdiction.

   Yet neither Royce nor Erswell felt safe. As much as they had witnessed the war come to their doorsteps, and swore allegiance to the Resistance, then to the Treasury, and now to the Resistance again, they were not used to the stress and strain of being out in it all. They had watched. They watched from the windows. Watched from behind their counters. Watching was easy.

   The marching beat of the boots returned behind them, and they rushed forward, creating a frenzied patter between each rhythmic thud. It was clear from the pace that it was not someone chasing them, but the sound chased their ears all the same.

   They saw the guard post rising out of the fog up ahead, illuminated by a dim gaslight, which gave the wisps of smoke a ghostly air. The appearance of a sanctuary spurred them on even more.

   Royce banged on the door of the hut just like he had done at Erswell's bakery. It took longer for Trem to answer, and when he did he was wiping the sleep from his eyes.

   “Royce,” he exclaimed. “Erswell. What are you two doing here?”

   “We heard someone,” Royce replied, pushing himself inside.

   “What's that?” Trem said with a yawn.

   “Someone military.”

   The word brought alertness to Trem's eyes like cold water. He pulled Erswell into the hut and sealed the door behind them, before grabbing his rifle from the wall. He pushed the barrel through a slit in the panels, and peered out into the gloom.

   “How close?” he asked.

   “Very,” Erswell said.

   “Right on our tail!” Royce added.

   Then they hushed, for the sound of the boots grew close. All three of them looked out, waiting
for the figure to appear. They were half-eager and half-fearful. The footsteps were getting louder now, but still the smog shielded the man inside.

   And then he appeared: a tall man in Regime uniform, carrying a pistol in his hand.

   “My God,” Trem whispered. “How did he get in here?”

   Royce looked to Erswell with worried eyes.

   “There's probably more of them,” the guard continued.

   “What will we do?” Royce pleaded, clutching his walking stick tightly.

   “We need to issue an alert.”

   “How?” Erswell asked. “We don't have radios here.”

   “Rommond has plenty in the old clock tower.”

   Erswell glanced at Royce, but Royce's attention was fixed on the Regime soldier outside. To Royce's eyes, which were pretty good despite his age, that soldier looked a lot like Hamhart, the innkeeper of The Horse and Hook. The gaslight was faint, but it shone just enough that Royce could make out the recognisable bristles joining the man's sideburns to his chin.

   “I've got a shot,” Trem said, carefully aiming his rifle. “I can take him out.”

   Trem was always a good shot. He usually only needed one. But Royce was good as well. As Trem's finger hovered over the trigger, Royce's hovered over the handle of his walking stick. In a fraction of a second, he pulled the handle, unleashing a blade from the top. In the next fraction, as Trem's finger rubbed the trigger, Royce stabbed the guard in the back. He only needed one stab.

   Trem fell, collapsing onto his rifle. Erswell opened the door of the hut and waved to Hamhart. The innkeeper gave the Regime salute, which Erswell gave in kind. Hamhart strolled up to the entrance of the hut, glancing down at Trem bleeding out slowly on the floor. It seemed like the guard was trying to whisper something, perhaps a curse, perhaps a plea for help. It was not even clear that he knew what had happened.

 

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