Gossimer nodded, acknowledging he understood his orders.
“Nine, to me.” Gossimer hollered as he readied his rifle. “Bring your buddies too.”
“Understood, Ser Gossimer.” Nine replied.
The ground shook underfoot as Gossimer led the unit to his designated spot. The added shock of the bombardment made the moist ground even more difficult to traverse, but Gossimer still managed. It didn’t take long for Gossimer and his party of mechanical soldiers to reach the far side of the warehouse. Gossimer poked his head around the corner to try and see what in the hell was going on.
He couldn’t see much, for he was still deep within the west block manufactorum complex. But he could make out the far ridge to the south. Sitting in wait was an amassed army, all bearing the Di Delgan colours, waiting as their bombardments fell onto the Alliance position. From this location, that was just about as much as he could make out. Taking his unit back around the building, he rejoined Abraham the same moment Alliance whistles called for an advance.
“It’s the Di Delgan’s!” Gossimer hollered over the commotion.
“Say that again boy?” Abraham looked confused, almost as if he didn’t believe what Gossimer had said.
“The Di Delgan’s are attacking us!” Gossimer repeated.
“Del Morte be thrice damned.” The commander spat into the mud. “From where?”
“On the ridge. I saw only infantry.”
“The ridge? Fuck, the fools are rushin’ into a trap!” Abraham watched as a flood of Grubben soldiers ran past, weapons at the ready.
“What do we do?” Gossimer asked.
“We need to get the artillery on their position. But it’s all loaded on the ships.” Both Abraham and Gossimer ducked their heads as another shell found its mark and sent shards of debris into the air. “You take the constructs to the front, I will try to get us some artillery.”
“Me?” Gossimer felt the colour drain from his flesh. “But I…”
“You’ll do fine lad,” the commander smiled. “Just make sure to kill one of ‘em bastards for me.” With that, Abraham ran off to the airships.
“You ready Nine?” Gossimer asked.
“Yes.” The golem replied. “Ser Gossimer will be safe with the one called Nine.”
“I hope so.” Gossimer sighed. Taking a deep breath he called to the mechanical regiment and set forth through the manufactorum complex, heading straight into the mouth of battle.
For the most part, the ground was littered with chunks of wood and steel, iron and bronze. The Alliance had been lucky enough in that regard. As Gossimer led his machines to the front lines, cheers and shouts of praise left the lips of soldiers whose platoon hadn’t been called to the front yet. Gossimer saw them as cowards as he sped past. They were trained men with pride, yet there they sat amongst the cover and debris of the complex as Gossimer, a steward by trade, rushed into the thick of things.
He didn’t understand what was happening. The Lady Schernoff had been one of the most vocal and supportive allies to Lucian on the council. It had been her suggestion that Valvius’ top military men and scholars be sent to find information regarding the Order. Even his sweet Elenor, Schernoff’s information gatherer, had given Gossimer insight to the word on the streets. He simply couldn’t grasp why the Di Delgan’s offered so much to just turn on Valvius.
Gossimer slowed the advance as the regiment neared the front lines. The fine haze of rifle fire filled the air like a fog. The groans of men and clatter of gunfire resounded in Gossimer’s ears. The sounds of battle seemed all encompassing, so diverse and terrifying, yet so ambient at the same time. Commanders shouted orders, men screamed war cries and cried in pain; dirt and debris fell from the sky, joined every so often by the limbs of a poor individual. As he approached the front, Gossimer finally had a better view of the field.
The enemy infantry had now moved down the ridge and made an advance through the muddy fields. There were a few Di Delgan casualties, as many of the Alliance troops shot blindly due to being pinned by the barrage of artillery fire.
“The paestichos are armed by the devil!” A Pozian sergeant hollered upon seeing Gossimer. Some of the enemy troops carried large, multi-barreled rifles that fired in rapid succession, while others were fitted with strange tanks on their backs affixed with a hose that ran into the long mouth of a steel barrel.
“Aye,” he agreed as a large blast shook the ground beneath his feet. “Why do you just sit here like ducks?” Gossimer hollered.
“We wait for them! They must walk into our guns. We will kill many.” The commander said, jutting his chin in the air.
“You’re doing a great job!” Gossimer pointed to the few Di Delgan casualties. “They expect this.” There was a stirring in Gossimer’s heart, a welling of courage and eagerness to protect those around him; a feeling he never thought he would feel. “We must catch them now.”
“How?” The Pozian asked.
“We take the fight to them!” Gossimer indicated to the golems.
“Aha! Valvian man smart and foolish.” The commander laughed. “But me likes. Come, let’s make these bastardos pay with their blood!” The commander reached for the silver whistle around his neck, put the trinket in his mouth and gave three shrill blasts to signal an advance.
Taking another deep breath, Gossimer readied his rifle and ensured the blade at his hip was loosened in case he had need of it. Inspired by the sight of the surging Pozian platoon, Gossimer gave a cry to Del Morte and led his mechanical constructs into the open mud fields of battle. The constructs under his command fanned out behind him, creating a solid wall of steel and death for the Di Delgan’s. Incensed with the thrill of battle, Gossimer fired his rifle wild, taking snap shots at the foe. Though, his shots never found a mark, they certainly did fill the former steward with a sense of empowerment.
The Pozian lines reached the foe first in a dazzling array of violence. Gossimer’s unit hit shortly after. It took everything Gossimer had to swing at a young man with the butt of his rifle. Gossimer struck the man again and again, ensuring he would not get up. Blood made his rifle slick and sticky, but Gossimer cared not, he simply looked for the next foe. Several dozen Di Delgan soldiers went hurdling through the air as they were thrown by the constructs, or zapped with the long shock prods.
Gossimer felt the plan was working as the Di Delgan advance came to a halt and began to fall back. He was distracted, for a moment, by a bright blast of fire. Terrible screams filled the air as a handful of Pozian men fell to their knees wreathed in flame. The scene gave Gossimer pause as his battle lust waned as horror filled his bones. Distracted by the flame-totting weapon, Gossimer didn’t see the man running for him. He didn’t noticed the dark shadow sweep over him, knocking the assailant to the ground. When his attention came back around, Gossimer saw Nine standing over the body of a soldier.
“Ser Gossimer must be more mindful.” The soft voice said as the beast pulled its prod from the body of the fallen man. “Ser Gossimer must stay safe.”
“Thanks.” Gossimer said. Suddenly, the shrill call of the Pozian commander’s whistle pierced the sky, panicked, calling for retreat.
Gossimer couldn’t understand why the call to pull back was being issued. Then he saw it. Coming down the ridge was a large wave of infantry, more than Gossimer had ever seen. But it wasn’t the men he feared. It was what accompanied the rushing soldiers that frightened him.
It seemed to him the Di Delgan’s were certainly in cahoots with some vile force, for not only did their infantry wield weapons never seen on the field of battle before, but they were also supported by machines unlike anything Gossimer had ever seen.
There were three rolling down from the highlands. Each were made of steel and moved forward on what could only be described as a type of belt commonly found on assembly lines in factory complexes. Attached on swivels to the outside body were the same multi-barrel rifles some of the troops carried, though the ones on the machine were much larger.
Sitting atop the chassis was a large barrel that looked like an oversized canon. Unlike the conventional artillery the Alliance had, these devices seemed to have been enhanced with kinetic specialties, for each of these roving machines of death held glass chambers filled with both electricity and fire.
“Run.” Gossimer said to Nine. “Back to the manufactorum!”
“The one called Nine understands.” The golem replied as dirt from an artillery shell bounced off of its metal body. Gossimer found it curious that Nine did not remove its gaze from the machines rolling down the hill. He didn’t think anything of it as his own fear of these new war machines sent him running back to the safety of the Alliance lines.
When Gossimer reached the manufactorum defences, he looked back to watch the approach of the Di Delgan machinery.
“Nine?” Gossimer stated, noticing a lone construct on the field wading off a tide of enemy infantry. “Nine!” Gossimer tried to clamber back out onto the field, but was held back by the Pozian sergeant.
Gossimer watched Nine wade through the infantry like a magnificent hero of legend, shock prod held high. Bullets from the side weapons of these new machines bounced off of Nine’s armour plating as if they were nothing more than bees. It was amazing to see such a brave act from a being whose sentience was supposedly not that grand. But there he was, the last remaining resistance on the plain of battle, casually knocking aside the foe. Gossimer’s mouth dropped as his mechanical friend, and would-be defender, leapt into the air, landing atop the Di Delgan machinery; Gossimer had never known the golem to be so agile.
Nine’s arm rose high as it plunged it electrically charged prod into the upper hull of the vehicle. The golem pulled the spear out and stabbed again and again, leaving gaping holes in the machine’s roof. Finally, the weapon broke under the stress of piercing the thick steel armour. Nine tossed the broken weapon aside and, with the strength known only to a golem, reached its hands into the holes and began tearing at the metal. Even amidst the roar of battle and screams of wounded men, Gossimer could hear the terror of the Di Delgan’s who operated the death machine.
Nine pulled a man from the interior, throwing him aside like a child’s doll. The device began to veer to the side, plowing into the soldiers nearby. The beast reached into the vehicle again, tossing another soldier. Now the Di Delgan war machine teetered as it began to pick up speed. Nine looked as though it was losing its balance as the vehicle sped out of control.
Gossimer’s heart caught in his throat as he realized the tank sped towards a blast hole in the earth. He knew without having to watch what was going to happen, but that didn’t make the next few seconds any better. The vehicle sped nose first into the large hole, tossing Nine from its hull.
“Let me go!” Gossimer struggled to break free of the Pozian’s hold.
“No.” The man’s thick Pozian accent sounded tired as he restrained Gossimer. “Boy must stay here. It is only machine. And look, the paestichios are coming!” The commander pointed to the field of battle.
Gossimer watched in horror as even more Di Delgan infantry crested the rise, flanked by more of the strange vehicles of war. The Valvian war looked to be over before it even began. Whistles blew wild across the Alliance line, calling for retreat. Gossimer stood frozen, wanted nothing more than to save himself, but also to go after Nine.
“I can’t leave him.” Gossimer said to no one in particular.
It was a strange dilemma; one the steward never thought he would find himself in. It was true that much of his time serving Lucian Margoux, Gossimer had been uneasy around the construct. The ever watchful, unwavering stare of the golem’s blue glowing eyes had always made Gossimer nervous. Unlike another pair of blue eyes he had fallen in love with.
As he stood on the fringe of the collapsing Alliance lines, Gossimer felt that same stirring in his heart he had felt when he found the courage to sound the charge. He was incensed by the thought of discovering the plot against Valvius and the Alliance, the thought of the beautiful girl he left behind, and the fallen construct he had grown to care for.
Taking advantage of the confusion of the retreat, Gossimer slammed his heel into the Pozian sergeant’s foot, causing the man’s grip to slacken. Breaking free of the man’s grip, Gossimer leapt over the bodies of fallen soldiers and sped out into the field of battle. The Pozian was swearing and cursing the steward as he sped headlong into the approaching Di Delgan lines.
Bullets screamed past Gossimer’s head as he made his way to his fallen friend. He reached the fringes of the blast hole, where the still form of his mechanical protector lay. The vehicle the construct had damaged was smoldered and in ruin.
“Nine!” Gossimer shouted, shaking the large body of his friend. “Come on damn you!” Nothing he did woke the golem, whose glowing eyes were now dark and cold. Gossimer looked about. He was surprised by the sudden aid of Pozian troops.
“They’re leaving…” One of the Pozians said, firing off a shot at a passing Di Delgan.
Gossimer paused for minute, noticing a handful of airships begin to lift into the sky. Gossimer had to get Nine operating again, but he also needed to get to a ship before they all left.
Suddenly, the air filled with a loud whistling. Two airships fell from the sky in balls of fire as victims of enemy artillery. More ships began to ascend. The ones that survived the barrage of artillery fire sailed away to the southwest.
“Grubbenbrut.” Gossimer whispered under his breath. He knew it would be the quickest, and safest, place for the Alliance to retreat to. But, based off the amount of ships lifting into the sky and those falling back down in a fiery spasm of destruction, Gossimer knew his time was limited.
With skilled hands, Gossimer popped open Nine’s chest cavity, revealing the cortex within. Unlike the cortex hidden behind the fierce warrior mask, the one within Nine’s chest cavity still glimmered a soft blue. Looking at the connectors and conductors, it was obvious Nine needed to see a mechanic, but it was still salvageable. Gossimer reached into the open cavity, he adjusted each of the nine connectors. There was a small humming, and suddenly, the cortex came to life with its normal azure glow.
“Nine?” Gossimer said, closing the chest cavity. “Nine?” The steward sighed with relief as the machine’s eyes began to radiate.
Nine’s head jerked as its cranial cortex came back online.
“Ser…Gossimer.” The soft electronic voice said.
“Del Morte be praised.” Gossimer proclaimed as a tear trickled down his cheek.
“Behind…you.” Nine sat up, pushing Gossimer to the side.
The construct rose, all nine feet tall, and faced off against a threat Gossimer hadn’t noticed. A group of Di Delgan soldiers had felled the Pozian troops. The men were scared, the way their rifles shook in their hands betrayed as much. Nine slammed itself into the Di Delgan troops, slaying and wounding most with a barrage of fist falls.
“Ser Gossimer should return to the lines.” Nine said, as he tossed a man against the chasis of the wrecked vehicle. “The ships are leaving.”
“Not without you.” Gossimer declared, grabbing the rifle of a fallen soldier.
“The one called Nine must protect Ser Gossimer.” The golem said. “The one called Nine will follow wherever Ser Gossimer goes.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.” Gossimer said, watching the sky as another airship fell in a ball of fiery death. “To the ships!”
For the third time today, Gossimer led Nine across the battlefield. The bodies of Di Delgans, Valvians, Pozians and Grubbens scattered the field. Large holes broke the landscape, scaring the land in a way that reminded Gossimer of the surface of the moon when it was in full light. By this point, the Di Delgan advance had turned towards the eastern and western reaches of the Alliance camp. Gossimer figured they were planning to swing around and trap the Alliance in a pincer movement.
It didn’t take long for Gossimer and Nine to return to what was left of the Alliance’s lines. They rushed thr
ough the battered remains of the manufactorum complex. Gossimer felt like he had entered a strange new realm. Ships of varying design lay broken and aflame across the rooftops and pathways. The bodies of fallen men lay as haphazard as the fallen airships. A dark shadow sped overhead as an Alliance vessel was able to retreat through the artillery fire.
After what seemed like a surreal amount of time, Gossimer and Nine made it to the open field where the airships were moored. Only a small handful remained, most ready to take off. Lucian stood at the prow of his majestic ship, looking grim and defeated. Gossimer looked at his former master as he and Nine approached. In many ways, Gossimer felt sorry for the man, yet, in others, he didn’t. It was a strange feeling. The steward had always respected his master, but now, after the man got his war, it seemed to Gossimer that the man could not handle defeat.
“Boy!” A gruff voice hollered from the deck of a nearby ship. “Here, boy!”
Gossimer looked up and saw Abraham beckoning. Gossimer made for the gangplank and boarded the ship with Nine in tow.
“It is good to see you boy.” Abraham said. “Where are the other constructs?”
“I…” In truth, Gossimer had lost all track of the regiment he had been charged to lead. “I don’t know. We became separated when we charged into the Di Delgans.”
“Grim news.” Abraham said. “But it makes no matter. Much of our war effort is destroyed.”
“Stand clear!” The ship’s captain yelled as one of the crew kicked the gangplank away. The ship began to lift from the ground, leaving soldiers behind. Looking over the railing of the ship, Gossimer noted the final ships were lifting off as well. Lucian’s was the final ship to leave the solid ground.
The Alliance ships weren’t airborne for very long before the Di Delgan artillery opened fire. Gossimer continued to watch Lucian’s ship rise, praying to Del Morte that, at the very least, the General could get away. He didn’t know whether it would be to let the man live with the sense of defeat, or for him to find a means to exact vengeance for this deceit, but, one way or another, Gossimer wanted Lucian Margoux to survive.
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