Rusted Heroes

by Andrew Post

  As she was stepping back down, drawing the hatch closed over her head, on the wind she heard someone call her name. She paused, looking around. The ice, in every direction, was empty. Not a soul. But then when it came again, she looked up, seeing Erik, high above, right where the clouds were obscuring him to a faint gray silhouette. Over the edge of the Error tower’s summit, he had her letter in his hand, flagging it to catch her eye.

  She saw his mouth move, before his words hit her ears, far below. “Wait!”

  Anoushka dropped back down inside of Joan, pulling the hatch closed.

  Kylie-Nae was already in Russell’s pit. Anoushka took the one ahead of her, Zuther’s, and together, they began pedaling. The springs to either side of them, under the thick glass, began to stretch. Twangs and creaks recalled a thousand times they’d cranked Joan up to wherever a contract would send them. The wax in Ruprecht’s spiralphone began turning, cutting a long string of wax away as it documented Anoushka and Kylie-Nae’s grunt and swears; the cold springs fought against being stretched. Neither gave the final record their thoughts. They pedaled on until Joan’s bell rang. Anoushka had set the parking cleats, and though Joan was ready to begin her crawl across the ice, she made one lurch and halted. A small crack sounded under them and Joan shifted slightly. Careful to not make any jarring movements, Anoushka stood and got the basket of powder sachets, dumping half into Kylie-Nae’s hand and keeping the rest to herself. She sat at Kylie-Nae’s station, tearing open the wadmal packets one at a time, pouring the powder into the open breach.

  She peeked out the forward viewport, seeing the orcs were using the pulleys of their warships to lower longboats to the ice like a lift. They gathered on the ice between the ships, striking one another, roaring and tearing at the ice, beating themselves over the head, firing into the sky.

  Kylie-Nae tore open her last sachet and dumped the powder onto the pile on the floor between them. Altogether, it was somewhere around ten or more pounds if Anoushka had to guess. One handful could launch a cannonball, ten pounds could make anything move. Anoushka tore open her last, added one last handful to the pile, and tossed the empty burlap packet aside. She and Kylie-Nae sat in the silence of Joan for a moment. Outside, kettledrums boomed, and trumpets screamed long calls over the ice, distantly, again and again. They could also hear Erik yelling, begging them to stop. His shouts were getting closer; he was coming down the stairs. Anoushka got up, bent at the waist, moved to her station at the back, and collapsed into the captain’s chair. Through the open slot in the side armor, she could hear Erik clearly, yelling her name.

  She wrenched back the lever to withdraw the cleats. The coupling took, and with a clang of metal meeting metal, Joan began clattering forward. In her periscope, Anoushka watched as Erik finally reached the bottom of the Error’s tower. His breath obscured his face as he huffed and charged after. He seemed to notice how much water was standing on top of the ice and how some spots were dangerously dark and not white as what implied a deeper freeze. His run slowed to a trot; then he stopped to where he’d chased them, between two of the smaller towers ringing the Gods’ Error. Anoushka couldn’t bear the sight of him and clicked the lens changer to forward view—to the thousands of orcs, who, having spotted them, were now charging across the ice. A wall of green screaming faces.

  With a final tweak to the yoke, Anoushka got them squared up to meet them head-on, locked the yoke’s position, and pushed the periscope aside. Kylie-Nae stopped pedaling but had maintained the springs’ stretch. It’d carry them as far as they needed. She unbuckled herself and stood, ducking to move back to the rear with Anoushka. As they often did in school, they squeezed together on the same chair. In those days, it was because the cafeteria was so crowded and they wanted to sit together. Now they both held the yoke, hands curling the trigger mechanism.

  Erik’s shouts behind them faded.

  The roars ahead grew.

  Bullets sparked off Joan’s forward armor, smashed in through the viewport. Joan turned each attempt away. And once the thuds became meatier, those of bodies being hit and slipping under Joan’s treads, Anoushka said, “Miss Browne, care to see what we could fetch way out here?”

  “Aye-aye,” Kylie-Nae said and flipped on their radio.

  I awoke to find the room about me empty. Of living souls, I should explain. The entire exchange, the final showdown with the enemy, I had missed. It’d transpired while I lay unconscious not ten feet from the bloody fray! There lay the Baron of Decay himself, his cranium cracked like a walnut ’neath a boot heel. Next to me, the man whom I’d recently met and thought was quite the charming fellow, Zuther Fuath. And then the large individual clutching his dead dog to his chest, Peter Elloch. And across the room, the man whom I hadn’t trusted since laying eyes upon him, the bard Ruprecht LeFevre II.

  The smell of blood and smoke that had mixed to a sickening odor did not aid my mounting nausea. I kicked away the blankets Anoushka had wrapped me in and saw a piece of paper blade side to side through the polluted air. I snatched it and read the smeary ink—both red and black, in alternating slashes. TELL THEM EVERYTHING.

  O, though my legs wished to fail me, I sprang from the blankets and splashed through the blood about the floor, to the blanching cold of the Error’s exterior. Though my fear of heights was significant, I dared the daunting precipice. There, far below, was Anoushka Demaine and Kylie-Nae Browne readying their war machine. As I had spotted her, I flinched back, for Anoushka fired an arcing trail of red light toward the suns. The flare! Why was she doing this? I pictured a set of hikers stumbling across a bear in the woods who, instead of tiptoeing around, kicked this slumbering, well-clawed beast in its snout!

  Realization hit me like the pollution of the Gods’ Error had, only stronger, for it also broke my heart. I spied to the distance, shielding my eyes from the raking frozen wind, to the armada locked still in the ice. The ships hemorrhaged the green ichor of its orc army onto the ice. They had seen the flare and were readying themselves for their invasion of the mainland. And though I pleaded for Anoushka to wait, she did not. She and her cannon master, Kylie-Nae, engaged the treads of their fearsome machine and rumbled off across the thinning ice. I gave chase, but in my weakened state was no match for Joan’s spring-powered velocity!

  My heart was broken. First meeting her as my trainer at the mill, I, her pupil in the art of lumberjacking, felt at once transfixed by her. Her beauty. Her strength and ability to describe, without speaking, her dedication to a cause. I cannot say what she saw in me, but there must have been something, for before long, we were courting. Then living together soon after. Perhaps we had sped things along too much or neither of us, being independently minded, was prepared to live together. We said hurtful things; then I went one step further and betrayed her trust. I shared a story not mine to share—one she’d told to me in confidence. She didn’t swear me to secrecy; she didn’t need to, I feel, because she trusted me. Wrongly, I’ll confess.

  I watched her racing to meet the enemy head-on. Grossly outnumbered with her army being only herself and her cannon master. I felt tears rise in my eyes, both from shame and awe. How had I let such a magnificent woman down? She was the stuff of true Rammelstaad, of greatness. She was not one who wished for the hollow things of fame and glory, but one who knew the dedication required of those who accept the realm’s true work. And she knew its sacrifice, I realized, standing helpless and useless on the ice as she ran toward the enemy, more than fearless. As if fear was nothing she could ever experience, though I knew, from those late nights we shared swapping tales, that she had. She knew fear. Knew it well. But chose to push through it, for the things she needed to do.

  I heard singing. A song I had heard over the radio so many times I knew every word. I sang it to myself, alone on the ice. I heard Anoushka and Kylie-Nae sing, at the tops of their lungs, sounding full of joy. And they were going again, to engage the enemy. As the tank was absorbed into the orcs’ numbers, like a bullet vanishing into flesh, the
song was silenced as a roll of close thunder shook in my breast and in the ice beneath me. A crack darted past me, the world shuddering! And I saw the rising smoke and fire in the distance as the ice gave and the entire orc army vanished under. Swallowed. It was she, who was like fire, who had urged Gleese to open. Over the teeth and into the swallowing throat, Anoushka too was devoured—but escorting the enemy, directly, to feed the gods!

  They’d never named the squad. Maybe, together, they were Joan. And she still had her spark.

  Though my journey back across the ice was obscured often by tears, I returned to the New Kambleburg docks, following Joan’s tank tread trail in the snow. It was silent. I had no idea what to do. I returned to the telegram station, because it was a familiar place. I recalled the last passionate moment we’d ever have. I wept. A day later, the Committeemen arrived. They had apprehended two other survivors in the city before finding me. I was unarmed, but they treated me as if I had shown hostility—I hadn’t; I accepted my apprehension. Taken back onto the ice, we returned to the mainland. The other two survivors were silent. We were marched in a row, each of us in shackles. The Committeemen did provide us with blankets—for which I am grateful. My hand was hurting greatly. They gave me pills but no other guarantee I’d ever see the world outside a cell once we reached New Delta City. They asked the two others in chains, shuffling along behind me, if they had seen or spoken with a north-born elf woman or a yellow-haired lady. They said they hadn’t.

  We were put on a train. The Committee locked me within, stating repeatedly that I wasn’t under arrest but was still a figure of interest regarding what happened in New Kambleburg. In my compartment, a blackcoat was placed outside to ensure I didn’t try to escape. The other survivors were put together in another compartment. Medical supplies were in short supply. One morning in the car, the maggots began to appear on my bandaged hand. It smelled awful. They offered clean water but nothing more. I developed a fever and could keep no food down. The other survivors, in their nearby compartments, received better care. I was glad, for they had both received gunshot wounds during the Battle of New Kambleburg. I’d live, as long as I kept my wound as clean as I could. They needed bullets removed and more intensive care and constant monitoring.

  The war raged as I rode—I could hear the pops of gunfire and the screams of orc and Rammelstaad blackcoat soldier alike. Day and night, we passed through it along the tracks. With only half their number, the second half not pushing through the Scorch as planned, those breaking through under Burned Mountain were beat back in short order. I overheard reports from commanders as they milled about at the train stations and in the adjoining compartments—the walls were thin. The blackcoats continued to chase under the Burned Mountain. Rammelstaad returned the favor to the orc and began an invasion of their realm’s main city, Silt.

  The war had ended, in total, by the time I reached New Delta City. The city was alive with streamers, people dancing, the barmen cracking open barrels of ale to let everyone drink as much as they wanted, free of charge. Women danced; men danced. The cheering, a collective jubilant cry, carried for days and days, from sunup to sundown. The orc was no more.

  I listened to the festivities from my cell. Unlike nearly every single person in the realm, I was not having a particularly happy time. I was questioned for days, kept awake, cudgeled in the middle of the night by a Committeeman who’d question me half-awake when it was easiest to get me to trip over a lie. I never caved. I told them what they wanted to hear. I knew nothing of what happened there. I knew nothing of Anoushka Demaine or Ruprecht LeFevre II. I’d discarded the armor marking me as a Blackiron Blaggard before I’d been apprehended and answered I never knew Mann O. Mahan. Of Lyle Eichelberger, I said I’d never heard of him except what I had seen printed in the papers: as the treasonist calling himself the Baron of Decay.

  My arm became infected and it was only then, at the end of the third day, that they got a doctor in—not a barber or butcher or veterinarian that time—to see to my wound. They asked who had thought to cauterize it. I said I did.

  I was released without ceremony a day later, thrust back into a city littered with ticker tape and a majority of New Delta City in a collective hangover. I had missed the party, but I was happy; I had lied through my teeth, strengthened by the memory of Anoushka Demaine. I was no one to the Committee, and as far as they knew, Anoushka and Kylie-Nae had simply vanished during the Battle of New Kambleburg.

  But you know better, dear reader. The truth. Not simply what happened to Anoushka and her squad but to everything. As will all of Rammelstaad, soon enough.

  It’s here that I end my tale. I feel even if I chose to spend the remainder of my life’s minutes detailing Anoushka Demaine’s valor and dedication to her realm, honing each sentence to bring her life and service to absolute illumination—as much as words can convey—I’ll have fallen short. For she is beyond description—defying the most colorful prose and inventive turns of phrase.

  The entire thing had been a ruse from the start. Though I have already detailed to you in abundance what brought me to this juncture, I must reiterate that our revolution, brothers and sisters of Rammelstaad—inclined or uninclined, human or elf, dwarf or halfling, woman or man—is owed entirely to Anoushka Demaine, Kylie-Nae Brown, Zuther Fuath, Peter Elloch, and the wolfhound Teetee.

  Let us stand together, knowing, fresh-hearted, awake, and nearly free from her blinding, binding lies. Ursula Stellen-Austenhoff calls us odious and wrathful liars. And I say, yes, let’s be odious. Let’s be wrathful. For she has pushed us to be so. Today, we stop fighting for her. We will not lie. We stop rushing headlong—volunteering entire generations of young men and women to a hollow cause under hollow pretenses—tricked into the pursuit of knighthood and fame and glory by vanquishing enemies she’s invented for us!

  The next Age waits.

  It will be ours—now.

  Hey, folks. Cliffy Cohen here, your wizened Sherpa through the storied history of all things rock. On a semiserious note, this will be my last day at KROX. I’ve enjoyed my time with the station and being able to play this great music for you folks. I hope you had a good time. I did. But, you know, in this life, the most miserable man will be the most inflexible. Change is good. Change is natural. Big changes, little changes. It can be tough, I know. But nothing in life is a fixed point. Appreciate the moment as you’re in it. Don’t look back; look forward. You have to roll with the changes, to quote Speedwagon, because really, you have no choice—to put it bluntly. But, you know, besides the one from Speedwagon, I have a second favorite song about change. Up next is Scorpions. Keep it tuned here.

  Summerend 3rd

  Year 175, 9th Age

  Wind of Change

  It had taken some doing to learn to write left-handed, but once Erik had begun the work, the story flowed from him. His memories were galvanized, and he tried to give every aspect the detail he thought it deserved. By the end of the first draft, he felt starved and mad, having forgotten to eat for the better part of a week. He had to get it down, though. All of it. His right hand wasn’t there, but that didn’t stop it from aching and itching. The infection had volunteered his surrender, once he had reached a proper doctor with more supplies than clean water, of the blackened little finger and thumb. (Details he decided against including since they were too ghastly for the average reader, his intended audience.) Now it was a smooth nub, the cleft of his wrist bones looking like a royal’s stately notched chin. He’d saved her life, giving that hand. And he’d do it again.

  The noise outside the coffeehouse swelled back to its regular volume as Erik closed the book. Perhaps the reader wouldn’t be transported by his words, but he felt, in having captured those final moments of Anoushka, he had made for himself a portal by which to look back in time—and see her. He wanted a record of her, and he had it now. He’d published the book, and it had sat on shelves for a while, unnoticed. Then he heard a few people had read it and liked it. Some others had read it and di
dn’t like it and tried to have him arrested for dissent. But, thankfully, those who had read it and liked it volunteered to hide him. And when he was brought to the basement of that old house and saw the flags they had been painting and some of his words from She, Who Was Fire re-created on large signs and handbills, he realized he had unknowingly crafted the mantras for a revolution. They were happy to have him.

  There wasn’t any voting; he was simply thrust forward as their leader. He doubted himself, since he never really did well in any of his many jobs he held. But, unlike those before, he was willing to acknowledge he didn’t know what he was doing. He’d learn. He’d do his best. He’d be their leader, if they wanted him to be and, with time and perseverance, perhaps actually become what they needed of him.

  He sat looking out the window, the coffee having long since gone cold and bitter on his table. Crowds gathered outside, carrying signs with his words on them. They were screaming. Everyone wore armbands and sashes with words written on them, his words as well as quotes from Anoushka Demaine, the captain for all of Rammelstaad now, over their hearts. Some of the group’s most fervent, who had never even met her, considered Anoushka almost a god. A goddess, with her mechanized armor, that had made herself a symbol. And Erik’s book, a legend to accompany it. Paintings of her started to become common, based entirely on the description Erik had given. Some drew her with metal skin, patched together with shining rivets. An odd choice, Erik thought, but it felt suitable. Already, she was becoming something almost mythical.