Dark Convergence

by Gross, Dave

  “How have your people dealt with these vectors before?” said Nemo. “Surely you must have some experience to—”

  A terrific report sounded from the southern side of camp. Nemo pushed out of the tent to see a plume of smoke rising near the new location of the mechanik’s shop.

  “Keep her here,” he told the guards as he moved to gain a better view. First he spied the massive figure of a Stormclad staggering away from the source of the explosion. Its right arm was gone, along with its battle blade. A web of voltaic energy cascaded across its chassis before vanishing. At least someone on the scene had the good sense to move the warjacks away from the blast, thought Nemo.

  The pale smoke cleared enough to reveal the ragged chassis of the Thunderhead. At its feet lay the fallen body of the second Stormclad. Nemo lowered his goggles to spare his eyes from the fumes.

  Another deafening report shook the camp. The explosion blasted Nemo with hot and noxious wind. Nemo recognized the sound as a firebox explosion. The walking Stormclad fell forward, propelled by the explosion of its own fuel reservoir. Red and white coals showered the nearest tents, setting them ablaze. A cloud of black smoke billowed from a point near the original detonation.

  The clamor around the camp grew louder. Before it could dissolve into chaos, Major Blackburn’s voice called out orders for rescue, fire control, and enhanced perimeter security. His nearest officers took up the cry, relaying the orders to their lieutenants and then to all the soldiers throughout the camp. The rest were shouts of coordination, not panic.

  “Injury here!” cried one man.

  “More buckets here!” shouted another.

  Waving a path through the smoke, Nemo followed the sound of Blackburn’s voice until he found the man.

  “Another attack?” asked Nemo.

  “No, sir. Not as far as we can ascertain. Initial reports suggest a malfunction on the Thunderhead.” He turned his head to cough. “Either that, or else—”

  “Sabotage,” snarled Finch, materializing beside Nemo.

  Blackburn nodded.

  “Casualties?”

  “We’ve pulled two mechaniks from the fire, but the second explosion drove us back. As soon as fire control has—There, they’ve got another one.”

  A pair of soldiers carried the unconscious Mags Jernigan out of the smoke. Her blackened arms trailed across the grass. Where her mechanikal leg had joined her knee, only an angry red stump remained.

  A cold hand clenched in Nemo’s stomach.

  Blackburn snapped, “Get her back to Chaplain Geary on the double!”

  “Sir,” another man called out to Major Blackburn. He carried another burned figure over his shoulder. The singed robes hanging from his blue armor identified him as the journeyman warcaster, Lieutenant Benedict. “This one’s still alive, but barely.”

  “Take him to Geary as well,” said Blackburn.

  “Priority?”

  “This man first,” said Blackburn. He glanced at Nemo for confirmation.

  As a commander facing the likely prospect of a battle, he had to place the life of a warcaster before that of a mechanik, no matter his personal feelings. Much as it pained him, Nemo nodded in support of Blackburn’s decision. He pulled a cloth from his belt pouch to cover his nose and mouth.

  As the soldiers threw a few last buckets of water over the steaming hulks of the Stormclads, Nemo appraised their condition.

  The Thunderhead appeared to be the source of the initial blast. Its galvanic coils were blackened and half-melted. One arm dangled to the side, while the other lay on the ground ten yards away. Deep rents in the chassis made Nemo fear the damage might have reached the cortex, in which case the warjack would be a total wreck.

  Nemo mourned the damage almost as much as the wounds he had seen on Mags. Every warjack with which he connected felt more like a living creature than a machine, this one more than most. He had practically rebuilt the Thunderhead from top to bottom after the battle at the Temple Garrodh. While that experience gave him confidence that he could do so again, it would require many days, not hours, to make the warjack field-ready.

  The question of how it had exploded troubled him deeply.

  Four years ago, when he was first developing the lightning-powered warjack, Nemo had twice destroyed a prototype by overcharging its galvanic coils. Yet he had solved that design defect, as well as the problem of providing sufficient shielding to the warjack’s cortex. To cause this recent model to explode would require far more than a mechanik’s error. Finch had been correct in her initial reaction.

  It could only be sabotage.

  Despite the damage to its firebox, the Stormclad that had escaped the second blast appeared salvageable. The one on the ground, however, was a complete loss. Fortunately, its sword arm remained intact. It would take a great deal of effort, but the mechaniks could affix it to the other Stormclad.

  For the Thunderhead’s explosion to have caused so much damage to all three warjacks, they had to have been standing close together—far closer than safety protocols permitted. Whoever had done this knew that much and had arranged them accordingly. It was becoming increasingly clear the saboteur was one of Nemo’s own troops, making the act not just sabotage but treason.

  “Bring the reports to the map tent,” Nemo said before leaving Blackburn. Finch followed in silence.

  They made it less than halfway to the map tent when a dark figure rushed toward them, cloak swept back like a pair of black wings. Finch raised her weapon to defend him, but Nemo merely scowled as the druid skidded to a halt before him. Behind her came a pair of guards, wide-eyed and breathless. “Sir, look out!”

  “I came to offer help,” said Bronwyn. She stood at ease, eyes half-lidded, breathing as easily as if she had not just sprinted away from a pair of armed soldiers.

  Nemo glowered past her at the guards who had failed to keep her confined. One of them wore the druid’s pouch and dagger at his waist. The other held her gnarled axe. “How long has she been out of your direct custody?”

  “No more than two minutes, sir!” said the first man.

  “They are not to blame,” said Bronwyn. “I would have been here sooner, but they proved most vigilant, then swifter than I expected. It took some time to elude them.”

  “You say you wish to help,” said Nemo. “What help can you offer?”

  “I heard the screams of the injured. If you will return my pouch, I can assist in treating them.”

  Not for a second did Nemo trust the blackclad. In any other circumstances, he would have liked to see how easily she could escape detainment after he had her clapped in irons. Yet he knew the druids wielded powerful healing, both natural and mystical. While Chaplain Geary spent his prayers on Lieutenant Benedict, perhaps Bronwyn’s care would improve Mags’ chances of survival.

  “Give her the pouch,” said Nemo. “Take her to the casualty tent. And try not to lose her this time.”

  “Sir!”

  Nemo and Finch returned to the map tent, where Blackburn joined them to report a total of six casualties, three of them serious. All but the journeyman warcaster were mechaniks, and all of those but Mags were the newly arrived field mechaniks.

  Finch pursed her lips at Nemo’s frown. “Do you think they targeted the mechaniks?”

  “I think they targeted the Thunderhead and Lieutenant Benedict,” he said. “But yes, it’s possible our mechaniks were a secondary target. If so, it might mean they hope to fight a battle of attrition, reducing both our capacity to field warjacks and our ability to repair them.”

  Blackburn nodded agreement. “There’s been no sign of infiltration, except for that druid.”

  “She escaped her tent just now,” said Finch. “Who’s to say she hadn’t slipped away earlier and returned to give herself an alibi?”

  Nemo admired the young storm chaser’s reasoning, but he had already considered that possibility. “I was with her just before the blast. Even if she could have done her work while you and I were away,
it seems unlikely she would remain in camp after arranging the explosion. Besides, I doubt any druid has the mechanikal expertise to cause such an overload. Even so, Blackburn, have your men examine the tent where she was confined. See if there is any indication that she escaped and returned before the explosion. Also, replace the men guarding her in the casualty tent.”

  “The casualty tent?” Blackburn raised his eyebrows.

  Nemo briefly described the druid’s offer.

  Blackburn nodded, but his face betrayed his incredulity that Nemo would allow the stranger such liberty.

  “Speak up, man.”

  “It’s nothing, sir,” said Blackburn, quickly schooling his expression.

  Nemo struggled to contain his temper. He realized he wasn’t angry with Blackburn. He was angry with himself, frightened of the suspicion that continued to take shape in his imagination.

  “What the hell was Benedict doing with the Thunderhead, anyway?” he demanded.

  “He had just returned from leading the Fireflies into the east woods with the decoy wagon. Shortly before your return, he and Sergeant Jernigan repositioned the Stormclads near the Thunderhead. The mechaniks we’ve questioned can’t explain why.”

  “Mags ordered them moved?” said Nemo.

  “I don’t know that for certain.”

  “So it could have been Benedict who ordered the warjacks moved?”

  Blackburn shook his head. “That much is unclear, sir.”

  Nemo released a sigh, but it was no relief. Uncertainty coiled like an old spring between his lungs.

  “Scouts?”

  “All accounted for, although there were a few close encounters with the clockwork guards. The enemy numbers nearly a thousand, including these vectors and servitors. There appear to be even more inside. We’ve spied entrances at each of the four legs surrounding the tower. The angels and their leader also fly out from a partially concealed deck just above the arches. Below that is the drill—probe, engine, or whatever it is—that they’ve driven into the ground. There’s no telling how much more room they have below the surface. We’ve seen sentries at the top, also, just below that orb.”

  “What of the released prisoners?”

  “All confined in shelters to the rear of camp,” said Blackburn. “We’ve sent riders to the nearest villages to commandeer additional supplies. Until then, the mess officers have been ordered to tighten rations by one quarter.”

  “Camp security?”

  “Another inspection is underway. Initial reports suggest there’s been no breach, but I will replace the guard on the druid and personally inspect the tent where she was confined.”

  “Very good. Dismissed.”

  Blackburn saluted and left the tent.

  “You’re worried Mags sabotaged the warjacks, aren’t you?” said Finch.

  Nemo scowled, but there was no denying that she’d guessed his concern. “There’s still a chance it was Benedict, but the timing points to Mags. The problem is that we need Benedict as well as every mechanik we can field. Until I know which of those two I can trust, I can’t depend on either of them.”

  “Maybe it was neither of them,” Finch said. “Maybe it really was an accident.”

  “Impossible. There are only so many people in this camp with the skill to have caused that explosion.”

  “I’ll vouch for you if you vouch for me,” said Finch.

  Finch’s feeble joke did nothing to allay his concerns. He saw in her face that she didn’t believe the explosion could have been an accident, either.

  “Let’s pray they both recover,” she said. “If one dies, we may never know the truth.”

  “Bite your tongue—” Nemo began. Finch’s remark had given him an idea. He took a pen and parchment from the table and scrawled a hasty note. He sanded the wet ink, blew it clear, and folded the paper. He handed it to Finch. “First, take this to Chaplain Geary— No, don’t open it. Afterward, check on your stormsmiths. After you’ve received their reports, join me in the casualty tent.”

  “Yes, sir.” Despite her crisp salute, Finch cast him a concerned glance before leaving the tent.

  When she was gone, Nemo sat and closed his eyes. He let the weight of years and memory hold him down as he counted the seconds. After five minutes, he stood and parted the tent flap with the tip of his staff. He walked out into the afternoon sunlight, carrying the weapon rather than leaning upon it.

  Soldiers saluted as he passed. He ignored them all the way to the casualty tent.

  Inside, the tent was divided in thirds with heavy tarpaulins for walls. In the central section, four mechaniks lay on cots, their arms and faces bandaged. Two tried to rise to attention as Nemo entered, but he waved them down. “At ease.”

  From the tarp to the right, Nemo heard Chaplain Geary intoning prayers to Morrow. A medic stepped through the canvas barrier holding a tin tray of soiled bandages. Nemo winced at the sight. He added his own silent prayer that Benedict might survive.

  He went to the partition on his left. Even before he touched the partition, he smelled the noisome fumes gathering behind the tarp. As he opened it, he saw Bronwyn crouching beside Mags Jernigan’s cot.

  The druid had peeled away the bandages and laid lines of damp, crushed herbs along Mags’ horrific burns. As Nemo watched, Bronwyn took another wad of chewed leaves from her mouth and laid it upon the back of Mags’ burned hand. No matter how potent the druid’s craft, Nemo feared Mags would soon need more than a mechanikal leg.

  The druid had built a little fire upon the floor. Above it simmered a pot of water infused with Morrow-knew-what. Bronwyn cast another handful of herbs upon the roiling surface and used a bird’s wing to fan the steam toward Mags.

  The mechanik lay half-unconscious. Her lips moved, and she moaned some barely articulated word Nemo could not decipher.

  He paused in the entrance. Bronwyn turned to look at him. “Close the flap. We must not let the healing vapors escape.”

  Nemo stepped inside. “How is she?”

  “Very bad,” said Bronwyn.

  “What is that vile concoction?” He preferred his potions and tinctures prepared in a laboratory, not in a druid’s cauldron.

  “It will help her sleep.”

  “I need to speak with her.”

  Bronwyn sighed and laid the wing over the mouth of the simmering pot. “Her burns are very deep,” she said. “I could do more so close to a ley line, but that machine tower is interfering with the natural flow of energies.”

  “We will drive these invaders away.”

  “By then it may be too late,” said Bronwyn. “Even if she survives, the node may be damaged.”

  “How?” said Nemo. “How can they do that?”

  “Not even our most learned potents know for certain,” said Bronwyn. “Wherever we have fought these Cyrissists, they have left the world wounded. We can feel the weakness in the land.”

  Nemo cared little about the effect the Convergence had on the blackclads, and it must have shown on his face.

  “Wounds upon the face of Caen harm all who live upon it, whether or not they know how to draw the power out of the land. And do not forget that the Convergence forces use these powers to drive their machines. Are you not concerned about what they hope to achieve with the harm they wreak upon the world?”

  Nemo was indeed concerned.

  “This winged woman,” said Bronwyn, “what is she called?”

  “Aurora…” murmured Mags.

  “Mags, can you hear me?” Nemo reached for her hand, saw how little skin was left, and changed his mind. The slightest touch would likely bring her only agony.

  “’Bastian.”

  “Did you speak to Aurora in Calbeck?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said slowly. Nemo couldn’t tell whether it was reluctance or injury that drew out the syllable.

  “What did she say to you?”

  “She said she’d release the women and children,” said Mags. “And I could go with them.”

/>   “That’s not all she said, is it? What did she promise you?”

  “Noth—She didn’t promise me anything.”

  “Mags, you weren’t the only one hurt in the explosion. Four of the mechaniks are badly injured. Benedict was hurt worse than you.”

  “Benedict? He’s still just a boy.” Her voice cracked.

  “Why did you move the warjacks so close together?”

  “After I saw all those machines in Calbeck, I just wanted to be sure we were prepared…”

  With every word, Nemo heard more and more falsehood in her voice. “I know it was you, Mags. What I don’t know is why. What did they promise you?”

  The tarp parted as Chaplain Geary stepped into the room. His eyes narrowed as he looked down at Bronwyn and her simmering potion. They narrowed further as he saw Mags Jernigan was awake.

  “How is Lieutenant Benedict?” Nemo asked.

  Geary shook his head. “I’m sorry, General. His wounds were too great for even the divine power of Morrow to mend.”

  “Forgive me,” groaned Mags.

  Nemo whirled on her. “What did they promise you?”

  Mags lifted her ruined arms an inch or so before her strength failed. Nemo had his answer.

  “A new body,” he said. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Tears streaking her burned face.

  All at once, he understood. Like him, Mags had long suffered from the infirmities of old age. She had given her leg for Cygnar and her breasts for no good reason but the indifferent cruelty of cancer. The military life had always rankled her. How much had she resented him for failing to speed her requisition for a better leg?

  The last pity he felt for her injuries melted away, replaced by rage. No one could sympathize more with the indignities of age, injury, and disease, not to mention the perpetual weariness of one who had devoted an entire life to the army. But one thing Nemo could never forgive was a traitor.

  He turned his back on Mags and pushed his way by the canvas divider. Bronwyn followed him out. “What do you want done with her? Whatever you wish, I will do it.”