Rusted Heroes

by Andrew Post

  “Why didn’t you go through with it before we got here?” Anoushka said. “You were ready. You had it wired up. You have mothdream; you could’ve done it.”

  Lyle held the repeater over his head. “Because I was told to stop once I got to this point. To not actually go through with it, just . . . you know, get right to where I could do it, but then not actually do it.”

  “Told to stop by who?”

  “Whom,” Ruprecht added.

  “Shut up,” Anoushka said over her shoulder, never taking her gaze from Lyle in case he really did have a plan other than the one he was letting the air out of right now.

  Lyle chuckled. “I was told by the Ma’am. I mean, you did speak to the Blaggards, right? He told you what this is all about, yeah?”

  “He did.”

  “Well, this is it. I’m the bad guy. Clearly, you didn’t take up Mann’s offer, which is fine. Your call. So you defeat me, and Rammelstaad feels really good about itself, and round and round it goes. Anyway, here we go. Watch your toes.” Smashing the repeater at his feet, Lyle watched broken pieces rolling away. He clapped his hands of dust. “And that’s that.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  “For those couple of weeks with Sharona before being sent to New Kambleburg, yes. We were one bad day away from the workhouse. We knew what would come, how it’d end, taking this on. So we really enjoyed ourselves. Got married and the whole thing.”

  “I’m glad,” Anoushka grunted.

  “So let’s get on with it. I’m here. You won. Stopped me right in the nick of time—whew.” Lyle’s gaze moved to Anoushka’s gun, stretching over the fire between them. He held his cloak open, revealing a pale bony chest. “Go ahead.”

  Anoushka lowered the gun but didn’t holster. “You tricked those Aurorinists into burning their children alive. All those people in New Kambleburg who died and everywhere else. By helping the orcs, you’ve helped kill thousands.”

  “I was told to do it, as we covered.”

  “But you still did it.”

  Lyle shrugged. “I didn’t know those people. I got mine, I got paid, I had fun, I did bad stuff because they wanted me to because it was either I comply or off I’d go to some prison for inclineds—which they made sound really unappealing.”

  Anoushka shook her head.

  “You’re disappointed. Okay, hey, chin up. How about some repartee? Will that make you feel better?” Reaching for a handful of loose sheets, he rearranged them, cleared his throat, and read. “You’re perfect for this make-believe, you worm. As false as your backdrop, your costume, your mask. The perfect pawn. Exactly what cult leaders and revolutionaries and self-important empire makers need. Warriors of straw and stick, all of their thoughts and beliefs completely parroted—”

  “Cut the shit,” Anoushka interrupted.

  Lyle lowered the script. “So do it. Kill me, go home, get paid. You did your job; I did mine. I wouldn’t recommend spinning what happened here any differently. Look, you’re getting paid to do this. Just take it and shut up.”

  “But Skivvit’s still tunneling. And he’s got a whole army sitting in ships in the bay.”

  “And?”

  “Help us. If you know helping Skivvit’s wrong, then help us. Make the fallen orcs kill the ones still alive. You’re still a traitor, even if you were hired to pretend to be one.”

  “So I can have a redemption thrill-rag too, maybe? Is that what you mean?” Lyle chuckled. “Here’s the thing: I don’t give a shit. I got the full go-ahead to use my inclination, no restrictions. I got to be mean as I wanted to be. I’m quite comfortable with how things turned out, honestly.” Lyle’s titter bounced about the cave, mixing with the hum of the wires pumping electricity up into the derrick.

  “Fine.” Anoushka raised her gun again. “Last words?”

  “So you can have a good zinger from the bad guy for the book? Something to make the reader go hoo-boy, they really gave it to that bastard? Ra-ra-Rammelstaad!”

  “Do you want me to shoot you or not?”

  “Right, sorry, go ahead.”

  “Is that it?”

  “What?”

  “Your last words. You have a chance to say something real,” Anoushka said, thumbing back the hammer. “Because this will be your last chance.”

  “Actually,” Lyle said, his small brown eyes looking from Anoushka to Ruprecht, at the far back wall still by the cave’s opening, “I do have one request. When you write this, if I could ask, could you omit I wear spectacles? I’ve read a lot of thrill-rags and I can’t remember a single time when the bad guy wore glasses.” He removed the spectacles to wipe the lenses off on his cloak’s matted black fur. “I don’t think it’d, you know, help me seem very scary, and I—”

  A shot rang out, a flash of heat tearing past Anoushka’s ear.

  Lyle’s head snapped back, a red hole flaring wide where his eye used to be. He slumped to his knees, then onto his chest, his face scattering the fire’s embers as he collapsed onto the small blaze.

  Anoushka turned. Kyle-Nae, Zuther, and Peter stood looking at Ruprecht as smoke rolled out of his six-gun’s octagonal barrel. “It’s done. We did it.” He moved his aim slightly to the left, to Anoushka. “Specifically, I did it.”

  “That’s fine, Ruprecht,” Anoushka turned, slow. “But maybe you should lower that.”

  Everyone backed away from the bard. Anoushka was afraid he might gun down Erik, who lay near the cave’s opening, oblivious to it all. She sidestepped cautiously, trying to put herself between Erik and Ruprecht’s gun.

  “Stop,” Ruprecht said. He moved the barrel from one squad member to the next, even to Teetee. “I worked too hard to finally get this whole shit show moving in the right direction, and this time, I’m going to get the credit. Narrator no longer, I will be the lead. I’ll be the one who stopped the Baron of Decay when no other contractor or blackcoat could manage the task. I’m Rammelstaad’s savior. But since truth is what’s presented loudest, and I don’t want to strain myself fighting conflicting volume . . .”

  Anoushka tried rushing forward to slap the gun out of his hand.

  Yelping and hopping back, Ruprecht fired.

  It felt as if her stomach were both emptying and filling at the same time. Her gun clattered on the rough-hewn floor, her knees dropping next to it. She could feel the blood pour down into her trousers, down her legs, warm, pushing against the hand she pressed to the wound.

  Ruprecht, through the gun smoke, stared at her—shocked at what he’d done.

  Kylie-Nae screamed and pushed past Zuther, who’d been standing in front of her to protect her, and a second shot rang out. The shot spun her. She fell against the wall, clutching the hole in her shoulder. When Zuther bent to help her, a shot sparked off the floor, making the islander leap back.

  Raising his hands, Zuther swore at Ruprecht, eyes watering. “You piece of shit.”

  “Miss Demaine and Miss Brown have made their choice clear,” Ruprecht said, volume wavering, his authority degraded to a stammering whine. “Now it’s your turn, Mister Fuath. Will you die here, a failure, or will you go back and give your life to fight the orc? Those are your choices. I won’t write that tale; ours together was defeating Lyle, and we did it. So, if you would, please decide.”

  “I’ll kill you” was all Zuther managed.

  The cavern filled with noise, a flash of white.

  Hit low in the chest, to the right of his heart, Zuther slid to the floor, leaving a long red smear on the wall. He reached for Kylie-Nae—their bloody fingers inches—but miles—apart.

  Peter remained, surrounded by his downed, moaning compatriots. Teetee, next to him, snarled at Ruprecht.

  “I have most our sojourn, to the last two hours, documented,” Ruprecht told Peter. He pulled his satchel strap from his shoulder and tossed it down, ink bottles and pens scattering across the floor. Keeping Peter under his aim, Ruprecht picked up a filled page with his free hand, using the two fingers Anoushka hadn’t smashed
to turn it to show the berserker the lines and lines of dried black ink. “Right here, where I left off. The rest, all these remaining unused pages here, can be filled with what you choose. We could have more stories after this. Bard and his warrior, warrior and his bard. Partners. I’d like to release Dark Against Dark with this twist ending—the humble bard showing himself to be a true champion—but I guarantee you’ll land the final blows on our enemies in subsequent installments together. All of them, if you wish. If you’ll only grant me this one.”

  The pain in Anoushka’s stomach seemed to draw her to the floor. Her muscles buckled—as much as she tried to push against the hurt to stand and fetch her gun—and she fell over, moaning.

  The one eye Peter had that hadn’t swollen shut shifted to look from Ruprecht to Kylie-Nae and Zuther clutching their wounds. Then to Anoushka, lying in her expanding puddle of blood. And even to Erik, fidgeting and scowling, eyes closed, in his blankets by the door. Then to Teetee standing beside him, as always. Shattered armor creaking, he winced, easing himself down to one knee. He took the wolfhound gently by the ears and kissed the dog on the white swatch of fur between his eyes. The dog gave two sweeps of his tail before curling it back under himself, afraid, as Peter stood.

  “No,” Peter said.

  “Please, Peter,” Ruprecht said, the gun in his hand lowering a degree, the bard pouting behind it. “I’d really prefer not to kill you, after all I’ve gone through to try to redeem you. What would Marianne think? Think of her, because her story, too, is part of this, our story together. Her name, as well as yours and mine, will be immortalized. Do you want to be remembered as the man who failed to expel her murder’s stain? That you weren’t willing to continue, in many more stories to come, to be redeemed?”

  “Not if it has to come through you.”

  Peter took one step forward, and Ruprecht fired. The shot struck what remained of his breastplate, shaping a hollow dent.

  Teetee lunged, reducing the space between him and the bard in a flash. Ruprecht squealed and fumbled with the gun, and fired at the dog, catching Teetee midleap. Squealing once, briefly, Teetee lay still.

  “Peter, I’m sorry—but he, he tried to attack me and I . . . wait!”

  Another shot rang out. The bullet sank into Peter’s forearm. Then Ruprecht’s gun would yield only clicks. Trying to run around him, leaping over Anoushka to charge, Ruprecht tripped toward the passageway out, back into the cold, Peter’s gauntlet snagging the back of his riding cloak. Giving it a twist for a better hold, Peter swung Ruprecht back into the cave, away from escape. Ruprecht fell, rolled, righted himself, and backed away, hands out. He tripped over Lyle, who still lay in the fire, his clothes having since burned away and now bubbling the man’s flesh.

  “Peter. Please. I’m sorry. He jumped at me. It was an accident. I adored Teetee. He was an amazing pet. Loyal and as fearsome a warrior as his master. Please.”

  Peter put out his hand.

  “Are you going to shoot me?” Ruprecht said.

  Peter left his hand, palm up, extended between them.

  Ruprecht’s lips curled. He begged. But when he placed the gun in Peter’s hand, the berserker tossed it aside, back behind the radio equipment, out of reach.

  Favoring the newest addition to the injuries already covering the man, Peter moved to Anoushka. She was afraid he was going to try to make her pull away her hand from keeping pressure on her wound. But instead, he helped her press down. He reached under his armor and tore away a long strip of his undershirt and, with care, lifted Anoushka so he could tie the strip around her middle, over her belly.

  Shadows moved along the wall. A shape rose behind Peter.

  Anoushka tried drawing a breath to warn him, but her agony forbade it. The handful of quills in Ruprecht’s hand came swinging down behind Peter before she could say anything. The six quills pierced his neck, Ruprecht screaming behind the swing.

  Peter stood, shoved Ruprecht away, and tried pulling the quills free. He gurgled, fighting for a breath, a gush of red and black pouring from his mouth. As he wheeled, fighting to keep his balance, Ruprecht moved in to stab Peter in the side. A backswing caught the bard across the chin as he angled for another strike. “I’ll have to invent something now, someone to replace you.”

  Anoushka, screaming out in pain, managed to sit up. She reached for her gun, lifted it, and took aim. But Peter charged at Ruprecht as she was about to squeeze the trigger, putting himself in the line of fire.

  Peter lifted Ruprecht by the neck and squeezed. Ruprecht kicked and continued to stab Peter with the handful of quills—the bloody feathers flopping back and forth—in the face, in the neck, gouging out Peter’s eye. Anoushka heard it pop. As his face became a darker purple, eyes and tongue protruding, Ruprecht tried to puncture Peter’s temple with the quills, but the swing died halfway. His arm dropped to his side. Fingers uncurling, the bloody quills, stuck together with blood, spilled to the floor.

  Peter released him, dropping the bard into a heap.

  Pressing a hand under his jaw, the berserker dropped to all fours. He shuffled, dribbling blood and ink from his mouth and the gash in his throat, feeling around ahead of him, hands leaving red prints where he grasped fruitlessly.

  Anoushka got one knee under herself and stood—but could manage only a feeble stoop. “Peter . . .”

  She watched the berserker’s fingertips alight onto Teetee’s dark fur. Having found the wolfhound, he pulled him close.

  Peter drew the wolfhound onto him and laid his head back, ruined eyes seeing nothing above him, even as Anoushka stepped near, trying to help him. Peter’s hand released from clutching his neck to wrap both arms around Teetee, to stroke his muzzle and scratch behind his ear. The river of red and black pouring from Peter Elloch’s neck slowed. The puddle under him was no longer expanding. He sighed. The dribble of steam rising from his neck and chest faded . . . then stopped.

  He didn’t draw another breath.

  Her body wanted the floor, and she allowed it, collapsing next to Kylie-Nae. She lifted her up. Kylie-Nae hissed a small curse, clutching her arm. “I’m okay.”

  Zuther, a few feet away, who was still reaching for her—his one hand out, the other on his chest.

  Anoushka whispering his name. He didn’t stir. The hand draped over his heart didn’t rise or fall. She helped Kylie-Nae up, and her friend looked to Ruprecht in the far corner, lying turned away, his legs at different angles, his arms splayed. Then at Zuther, motionless on the floor. She pulled away from Anoushka to bend down and kiss Zuther on the cheek. She pulled him to her, helping his still hand press his still heart. “I’m sorry.”

  Each step was work for Anoushka. She moved to Erik, still by the floor, still unconscious. She pulled the blanket away to see if a stray bullet may have found him, but none had—he was still breathing. He started to shiver, his arms drawing close to his chest. She covered him with the blanket again. Picking one of the quills from next to Ruprecht’s lifeless hand and a piece of parchment from his bag, Anoushka wrote a letter, folded it, and put it under the blanket with Erik. On his chest, so he’d find it when he woke.

  With her boot, she rolled Lyle—charred—out of the mostly suffocated blaze and added a couple more sticks to it so it’d keep Erik warm.

  Kylie-Nae’s chin rested on Zuther’s head. Her tears, landing in his hair, would shine a moment before disappearing into the dense mass that was the pedaler’s most unique feature—besides his big heart, his sense of humor, his earnestness, and his nearly painful-to-watch susceptibility to tumbling head over heels in love.

  With a hand on the wall to keep herself upright, Anoushka stood near the open doorway. She squinted past the cold air rushing inside with heavy laps. It was well past morning. The suns shone down on the black ships frozen in formation. Still quiet. Anoushka drew from the back of her belt the flare gun she’d taken from Mann. She showed it to Kylie-Nae.

  Kylie-Nae wiped at her tears and slowly lowered Zuther. She positioned him
with his one arm under his head so he wasn’t resting his cheek against the cold stone floor.

  Anoushka opened the flare gun to show Kylie-Nae the pellet inside that’d burn red, ready in the chamber. “It’s not as cold as it was yesterday. It’ll be warm today. And the ice is already thin.”

  Kylie-Nae licked her lips, swallowed, eyes moving about to take in the carnage inside the cave all around them. At Lyle smoldering in the corner, at Erik, at Zuther and Ruprecht and Peter and Teetee. “Is he still alive?” she said, nodding at Erik.

  “Yeah. I don’t want him to come.”

  “And he knows, about everything?”

  Anoushka nodded. “Yeah.”

  “So some of this will get out? The truth?”

  “He knows the story—the real one. The Committee will find him. And if they don’t execute him on the spot, maybe he’ll be able to tell somebody; then they’ll tell somebody. It’ll gain momentum, eventually. It will get loud.” Anoushka reached out, over the gap in the stone wall between them. Kylie-Nae stepped forward into the hug. They both grunted and snarled at the pain it caused to do so but still squeezed each other tight.

  “I’m sorry we ended up here,” Anoushka said.

  “I think our road was pretty much a straight line from the beginning, babe.”

  Here I Go Again

  The ships stood at the farthest reach of the periscope’s ability to throw her vision. She could see the orcs on the decks, along the ship’s rails, waving swords and rifles she now knew were not salvaged spoils of war. One golden trail of a flare streaked the sky, then another, nearly lost in the suns’ midday light. Trumpets sounded in short blats, anything to signal those on the mainland to begin the day’s work. Their summonses were falling on deaf ears, and it wouldn’t be long before they figured that out. Anoushka pushed the periscope away. Kylie-Nae sat at the forward viewport, clutching her arm. Over the empty pedaler pits between them, the two friends looked at each other. Nothing needed to be said. Anoushka took the flare gun, climbed the ladder, banged open the hatch, and climbed out into the cold. She clicked back the hammer and sent a long sizzling red tail arching. Horns blatted in reply from the ships a moment later—one long wail that carried over the slushy ice, a distant roar of a thousand orcs under it.