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 8

by Dean F. Wilson


   “Nasty business,” Royce said, wiping the blood off the blade, before sheathing it back in his walking stick. “Kind of thing you'd want an apron for.” He arched his back for a good stretch, then hunched over again so as not to break character for too long. The disguise had to become a habit, or you got in the bad habit of dropping the disguise.

   “Nasty, yes,” Hamhart said, “but someone's got to do it.” He smiled, like he did when serving drinks, as if he thought that “someone” should be him. “We have the north and west gates. The east should come in soon.”

   “You're not exactly going for subtle, are you?” Erswell said, gesturing to the innkeeper's uniform. It looked brand new, with the folds still crisp.

   “Well,” Hamhart said. “The hammer has fallen. Do we really need to be subtle now?”

  17 – DISMOUNTED

  Rommond heard it with horror, and did not need to see. The carrier was overturned, and it was the generosity of fate, or its last-minute taunting, that kept it from being blown up entirely, with whomever or whatever was inside. He knew he had to change tact. There was no more room for battle. The carrier was a sitting duck, and the wolves were circling.

   That was when he took the microphone for the radio and set it to a Regime frequency, even as he continued to drive, parking his landship in front of the carrier, directly in the line of fire. A few bullets knuckled the hull, but it stayed strong for now.

   “Edward Rommond here,” he said. “We surrender.”

   The shock to Regime soldiers was likely only dwarfed by the shock on the faces of Rommond's own lieutenants, most especially Myre, the gunner who sat in the landship with him, pausing between his jumping from turret seat to sponson gun. The rattle of his gunfire petered out, until all that could be heard was the general repeating those unheard-of words.

   “We surrender,” Rommond said.

   It was a terrible gamble. The risk was very high. There was nothing more “all in” than handing over everything, yourself included. No one expected this. It was why he tried it now. It was a card he never played.

   There was a moment when everything froze on the battlefield. Rommond could see his own men through the viewports, standing beside the carrier, rifles and pistols in hand, fingers stuck on the trigger. They looked around, confused. He could see the landships parked in place, or chugging to a stop. He could hear the ringing echo of the artillery, but no more exploding shells.

   Then the radio crackled. It was the sound he prayed for, the only sound he wanted to hear.

   “Get out of the landship,” the voice said.

   That was it. Not “we accept your surrender.” Not “let's discuss your terms.” It made him uneasy, just like his announcement made everyone else.

   “You can't be serious,” Lieutenant Myre said.

   Rommond sighed. “Trust me.”

   It was funny. They would follow him into battle, without question. Yet would they lay down their guns so easily? He knew pride was a dangerous thing. Wars were lost to pride.

   He pushed the hatch door open and popped his head through, well aware that at any moment a bullet could come sailing by, ending it all. This was where both sides were showing their hands.

   Rommond held up his. He saw a hatch open on one of the Regime landships on the dunes, and a sniper popped out and aimed. Anyone else might have flinched or popped back inside, but the general knew that the Regime was only taking precautions. He would have done that too. He might even have fired.

   Another hatch in another landship creaked open, and out popped a Regime commander, a remarkably tall and thin fellow who had no problem squeezing through the hatch, but who likely had a lot more difficult crouching down inside. He stared at Rommond through a pair of binoculars for a very long time, visibly surveying every part of him, his head bobbing up and down, stalling at the general's waist, where his pistol and revolver were sheathed.

   The Regime commander took out a megaphone and shouted his orders across. “Throw your weapons out here.”

   So Rommond threw his weapons out, not before noting the flinching of the Regime commander as soon as he grabbed them from their holsters.

   “Climb out of the landship. Slowly.”

   So Rommond climbed out very slowly, standing on top of the hull with his hands raised. He was an easy target now, just as much a sitting duck as the carrier was, except at least he was still standing. The Regime wanted him, without question. He just had to hope they wanted him more alive than dead. He was glad it was not the Coilhunter he was facing. He did not take prisoners.

   “Jump down and walk slowly towards us.”

   So Rommond jumped down and made his way towards them, keeping his hands high, making sure not to make any sudden or odd-looking movements, which they might interpret as a trick or a trap. It was funny, really. He had nothing like that in mind.

   He reached the foot of the box-shaped landship, where the commander kept the megaphone in front of him like a shield. It shook in his hands, and there was sweat on his brow. His shadow was stretched by the sun, making it taller and wider than him.

   “Well,” Rommond said. “Let's discuss our terms.”

   “You don't have any terms,” the commander replied, lowering the megaphone.

   “That's not how surrenders work.”

   “It is now.” The commander was doing everything in his power to seem brave. His men were looking and listening. The Iron Emperor was likely looking and listening too.

   As they talked, Regime soldiers rounded up the remaining Resistance fighters, forcing them out of the few landships that were still intact, before blowing them up. They did not go near the carrier yet. Rommond was glad about that.

   The soldiers were ushered into a group with Rommond, surrounded by a ring of Regime men, and a ring of gun barrels pointing in at them.

   “I'm not sure you fully understand,” Rommond commented. “I've only given up some of my weapons. The biggest one is in that carrier over there.” He nodded towards it.

   “We know. It will be taken to Ironhold.”

   “Then go ahead,” the general replied. “You'll be doing our work for us.”

   The commander paused. “What do you mean?”

   “That carrier contains the Worldwaker.”

   The commander's face turned ashen. “No,” he said at last.

   “Fair enough. It doesn't then.”

   The commander took a deep breath. “You're bluffing.”

   “Am I?”

   The commander pursed his lips. His breathing was heavier than before.

   “See,” Rommond said. “Would I really surrender if it wasn't to save my life? That carrier is one bullet or land mine away from blowing us all to bits. You. Me. My little sortie force and your entire army. Why, it'll take half the desert with it. We couldn't even retreat from the blast in time.”

   “You're lying. We know it was dismantled.”

   “Do you really know that though? See, either I'm bluffing now, or this entire surrender is a bluff. But think about it for a minute. You could have shot me by now. I took a big risk here. Would I have really done that if the risk wasn't bigger if we kept on fighting?”

   The commander was sweating like a waterfall now. His collar was moist. He reached for his radio.

   “They have a bomb,” he spoke into it. “Is that what they were carrying?”

   There was a long pause before the response came. “No. It's a missile launcher.”

   The commander smirked. “Good try, Rommond.”

   “You won't be a disbeliever for long,” the general replied ominously. “We have many carriers out in the desert tonight. This is only one of them. We don't have three missile launchers. Go on, confirm that with headquarters.”

   The commander did, and they confirmed the details. He did not smirk then.

   “So,” Rommond said. “We have a few cups here. One of t
hem has what you're looking for. But the others? What do they have? Well, I told you what this one has. It has the end of all worlds. Do you want to lift it up to look?”

   “What stops us just taking you prisoner? Or taking the bomb?”

   “This,” Rommond said, reaching his hand into the inside pocket of his military coat. Every gun turned on him, even the turrets of the landships. He kept his hand in place, knowing he was not really holding anything at all.

   “Stop what you're doing,” the commander told him.

   “It's too late now,” Rommond replied coolly. “My finger's on the button. When I lift it off, the bomb goes off. The only person who can disarm it is safely in Blackout.”

   “You wouldn't—”

   “You don't know what I'd do. I'm known as the Desert Hawk, but right now I'm the rat in the corner. That makes me even more dangerous than before. If I go, we all go, and the missile launcher proceeds to the Rift unhindered—if the Rift doesn't go as well.”

   The sun was out in force, just like the Regime, but there was not a bead of sweat on Rommond's face. It contrasted starkly with the mildew on his opponent's. He had been out of the broil of the landship's interior for long enough to cool down.

   He headed back into it now, sealing the latch. Rommond could hear a mumbled discussion inside. Though he could not make out the words, he could make out the hesitation and nervousness in every voice. Outside, the soldiers burrowed the butts of their guns into him, and he responded in kind with the barrels of his eyes.

   The commander reappeared, barely giving the general a glance. “Let them go,” he told his men.

   They were not as incredulous at the notion as Rommond's men were when he offered his surrender. Few of them wanted to be there, cornering the rat. Everyone watched the general as if he could grow extra arms and tackle all of them at one. They watched for sudden movements, for the unearthing of a disguised dagger or hidden gun. Rommond kept perfectly still. He had already played his card.

   And so the Regime forces, voluminous in number, signalled their retreat. With words alone, Rommond had turned his surrender into theirs. They left the battlefield, but even as they drove off, he could see them circling around to head towards the road that Leadman had taken. He only hoped the other general would fare better, and if he did not, that Brooklyn was not in the carrier he was unwittingly directing additional Regime platoons towards.

   “Well,” Lieutenant Myre said, breathing out the word with an audible sigh.

   “Well indeed!”

   “I didn't expect that.”

   Rommond worked his mouth around. “Quite frankly, neither did I.”

   The troops picked up their weapons and surveyed the battlefield. They might have escaped with their lives, but that was almost everything. Their landships burned, the roofs blown open, the tracks sliced through. Some of the enemy vehicles lay in ruins too, upturned or on their side, and in the middle of it all was the carrier, still dangerously close to a mine.

   “What do we do now?” one of the soldiers asked.

   Rommond did not quite feel like walking. He wondered what it would take to pull the carrier back to its feet. Machinery, without doubt. If Brooklyn was there, he might be able to salvage something from the destroyed vehicles to achieve that aim. But they needed him finishing the missile launcher. They were not even certain if he was inside this carrier at all. Rommond wondered if their only real option was to check if this was the right cup. If it was, the ruse was up, and the game got harder for them. Yet it was getting harder all the same.

   “I think we have an answer to that,” Myre said, gesturing to the east.

   Rommond did not need a spyglass for this. He could see the carriers unloading the troops by the dozen, their black silhouettes accentuated by the red sky. It was clear from their shapes that they were no normal soldiers. They wore gas masks, with tanks of oil and chemicals on their backs. These were forces ready for the fire and fumes of bombs, ones who would not so easily baulk at the general's idle threats. They jogged out into the sand, lining up in formation, guns at the ready.

   The general sighed and got his ready too.

  18 – FLYCATCHER

  Leadman's forces took the central path into Regime territory, neither the quickest nor the easiest. It kind of reminded the outcast general of the middle point of Project Trident against the Landquaker, which proved disastrous in his eyes. But this was Rommond's plan. He was the boss. For now.

   The road was relatively quiet. Rommond had taken the more active route, but Leadman thought that no foray into this land could go unwatched. He hated to think that he was the distraction. After all, there was a magician on the right-hand path, and a schemer on the left.

   “Well, you know this road,” Leadman said to Commander Trokus.

   “I'm a Rustport man,” Trokus replied.

   “Not a Mes Marana man?”

   Trokus did not say anything.

   “What about a loyal man?” Leadman teased.

   “Loyal to who?”

   Leadman smiled his crocodile smile. “That's the question, isn't it.”

   “I'm pledged to the Resistance now.”

   “Now.”

   “Until the end.”

   Leadman stared outside. “Until the end.”

  * * *

  There was a large Regime base up ahead, dubbed Outpost Flycatcher, with huge square earthen fortifications, on which perched anti-landship guns. Thick barbed wire spread out on either side for what seemed like miles, and in front of that were the so-called “hedgehogs,” metal angle beams for holding back advancing landships.

   Not the hardest road, eh? Leadman mused to himself. Just like you, Rommond, to get us to do the dirtiest work. Well, I guess it's the easy road if we surrender.

   “What do we do now?” one of Leadman's men asked.

   “We have a bulldozer, don't we?” his driver, Jin, said.

   “We won't need it,” Trokus told them. “There's a break in the fence if we head about a mile south.”

   “Fine fortifications you've got here,” Leadman jeered.

   “It doesn't look like a break in the fence,” Trokus replied. “The hedgehogs there are on rollers, so they can be moved easily out of the way, and then the fence disconnects if you press on it.”

   “Sounds a bit like Mudro's ploys. Can't say I ever had much time for them. What's the point of all this?”

   “It's a route the scouts use, in case the main gate is being watched.”

   “Okay,” Leadman said. “I want you and your men to scout that way.”

   “It'll be clear. Trust me.”

   “I don't trust you, and I won't take your word alone that it'll be clear. Prove it's clear by going through. We'll watch from a distance, and follow if everything's okay.”

   Trokus reluctantly agreed, and set off that way with his few troops. His loyal troops. Loyal to the Resistance. Until the end.

  * * *

  When they were out of view, and not even a spyglass could see them, Leadman ordered his forces to roll forward, straight up the road to the Regime outpost.

   “What are we doing?” Jin asked.

   “You're following orders,” Leadman barked. “Now don't say another word.”

   They drove straight up to the gate of the outpost, and not a single gun fired upon them. The gate creaked open, and out strolled General Ertalak, a tall fair-haired man of around fifty. People usually did not see him, granting him the nickname of the “Stay-at-home Strategist.” Yet from his normal placement in the vaults of Ironhold, he was the master planner of the Regime, leaving him with a special respect for, and a special hatred of, Edward Rommond—a loathing General Leadman shared in kind. The fact that Ertalak was out here at all would have shocked many people, but not Leadman, and not today. It was Ertalak he had discussed his appeasement with in the early part of the war.

   “So,”
Ertalak said, “You've come home at last.”

  19 – THE BATTLE OF FIRE AND GAS

  “We have to surrender,” Lieutenant Myre urge, shielding his eyes from the setting sun, which set behind the silhouettes of the approaching army. Its red glare gave a haunting aura to the troops.

   “No,” Rommond replied, carefully reloading his revolver. “We already used that ploy. It's not going to work again.”

   “I don't mean a ploy!” Myre protested. “I mean … really, we need to surrender.”

   Rommond's moustache twitched. The other soldiers averted their eyes.

   “I'll have no more of that talk, Lieutenant,” the general said. “Surrender to nothing. Surrender to no one. Not even Death.”

   “But look at what we're facing.”

   And he looked, as they all looked, and saw what they all saw. There must have been a hundred men out there, a hundred demons. They wore armour and masks, and beneath the masks, they wore human faces. They came in groups, some in pairs, so that they could stand back to back and spread out fire in an arc, burning all. The demons had come, and they brought Hell with them.

   “Look,” Rommond said. “Look, but don't baulk. Look not to shudder, but to grow more resolute. Look for weakness. Look for openings. And look to comrades, and if you do not find them, look to yourself, and to that inner wellspring of resolve that we all find in these moments.”

   Even as he spoke, the Regime fire-flingers advanced, and behind them came the gas-gunners, and further back the fire of the sun, and behind that the suffocating darkness of the night. Each step undid one of the general's rousing words, until he saw in their eyes their terror, and the reflection of the approaching force.

   “So be it,” he said. “If I am to stand and fight here alone, then I will stand and fight alone.”

 

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