by S. R. Witt
Temporarily slowed by 75%.
Osmark let out a silent prayer of thanks that whatever special ability protected the Scavlings from his caltrops didn’t apply to the automatons.
The caltrop wasn’t a permanent solution to the problem, but the slowed Steamwraith would be easier to handle. Plus, it also bought them a few more precious seconds to deal with the creature before it could alert the whole factory.
Osmark sprinted back to his party and whispered his orders. “Targ and Sandra, stop that thing. If you go straight from where we are, you won’t trigger any sigils. Eldred, stand by with a summoning in case it looks like the thing is going to get away. We have to keep it from reaching the bell. That’s paramount to survival.”
The winged woman sniffed and shrugged. “I could just summon something now.”
“Yes, and you’d definitely alert the rest of the factory. These things don’t look terribly observant, so they might not notice Targ and Sandra beating the hell out of one of their own, but I’m pretty confident they’ll notice if a lightning-spitting monstrosity tears through space and time in the middle of their assembly line.”
Eldred sniffed again, apparently offended by Osmark’s characterization of her work. “Fine, we’ll do it the hard way,” she replied with an eye roll. “But I’m willing to bet club boy”—she nodded at Targ—“makes more noise than one of my fell beasts any day of the week.”
“I’ll take that action,” Targ said with a snarl before lumbering toward the Steamwraith with his kanabo raised high overhead. A loud clang reverberated in the air as the Risi’s spiked clubs smacked into the back of the automaton in a shower of sparks. The creature shuddered and faltered, plumes of white steam leaking into the air.
Maybe this will be easier than we guessed, Osmark thought.
Then—as though in defiance of Osmark’s optimism—the Steamwraith flung its left arm back and smashed Targ in the side of his head so hard the Risi went down on one knee, his HP cut by a third, half his face suddenly lopsided and bloodied. At the same moment, another Steamwraith emerged from the shadows to Osmark’s right, charging straight for him like a rodeo bull seeing red.
Or, maybe it’s going to get a lot harder, Osmark thought, cold panic flashing through him.
TWENTY-SIX:
Divine Geometry
Osmark took a calculated risk and darted toward the approaching Steamwraith. He tossed a caltrop grenade at the creature’s feet, then hurled three more between the automaton and the alarm bell. The caltrops wouldn’t stop the mechanical man in its tracks, but they would slow it down—hopefully for long enough to give his party the time they needed to get to the door and away from the factory floor.
A boom sounded as the first device went off, showering the Steamwraith in barbed metal debris.
Osmark stole a look back at Targ and couldn’t help but wince; things weren’t going well for the visiting team.
The Risi warrior fought gamely, but he wobbled on his feet, one eye swollen shut, punch drunk, blood dripping from between his bruised lips. Sandra danced in with her fancy new armor-piercing blades, slicing at the Steamwraith’s vitals, then bounding away in a flash before it could counterattack. Her hit-and-run tactics opened gaps in its armor, but the constant movement sapped her Stamina, and the Steamwraith showed no signs of dying.
“Karzic, get a Stream of Life on Targ before that thing takes him down,” Robert snapped at the dwarf. Then, to Eldred, “If Targ drops, call something nasty to take his place.”
Robert weighed his options as Karzic chanted and Eldred watched the battle with renewed interest. He could go after the second Steamwraith, but that was putting a bandage on a sucking chest wound. If they wanted to get through the factory, he needed a way to solve all their problems at once. A sly thought snuck into his mind, giving him renewed hope. The Brand-Forged had prepared their defenses to repel outsiders—intruders—but they’d never anticipated the need to protect their work from other Artificers.
Artificers like Osmark.
“Here goes nothing,” he said, angling toward a huge crank wheel mounted on an enormous boiler against the left-hand wall—a central power junction if his rudimentary understanding of Divine Geometry was correct. He was careful to avoid the dangerous sigils worked into the floor, stepping only in the gaps between the alarm triggers, but his path took him close enough to attract attention from another Steamwraith. The creature wasn’t yet on alert, but it started walking toward Osmark with determined steps.
He ignored the automaton, skidding to a halt in front of the boiler and groping at the wheel. The crank screeched and moved a half inch before it slammed to a halt. Osmark strained against it—one eye on the Steamwraith beelining for him—and wished once more he’d invested a few points into Strength. It would pay off in the long run, dammit. He took a deep breath, cleared his mind, and realized being smarter was the same as being stronger. He ripped Heart Seeker from his inventory and wedged the crossbow’s heavy stock between the spokes of the crank wheel.
Ten feet away, the Steamwraith raised its left arm, and a dull red glow sprayed from the creature’s palm. The light played over Robert as he crouched and braced his shoulder against the sturdy stock.
With a grunt and a heave, Osmark straightened his legs and pushed with everything he had. The improvised lever creaked ominously for a moment, the wood straining from the sudden pressure, then lurched. The crank wheel shifted with the sound of screaming metal. “Thanks, Archimedes,” he muttered, dropping Heart Seeker back into his inventory.
The Steamwraith turned away and stomped toward the alarm bell.
But that didn’t matter right now. Nothing mattered except the wheel and the boiler.
Osmark spun the crank with both hands, rotating it so fast the spokes blurred, as the needle on a brass steam gauge, fastened to the outside of the boiler, dropped into the red. The iron wheel slammed to a stop a handful of seconds later, jarring Robert down to the soles of his boots. He drew a deep breath and turned to take in the results of his efforts. For safety reasons, no one crank wheel could stop the flow of steam through the factory—the risk of a catastrophic pressure failure was just too great.
But Robert had reduced the available power to a mere trickle. The lights were little more than orange sparks hanging in gloomy rafters. And though the Steamwraiths weren’t attached directly to the pipes, they were connected to steam power by sigils of Divine Geometry. With their power output reduced to almost nothing, the Steamwraith that had spotted Robert was scarcely moving, his feet shuffling along, fighting for every inch.
Osmark pumped his fist as the factory ground to a near halt. The assembly lines rolled at a snail’s pace now, and the Steamwraiths manning them moved as if submerged in molasses.
Targ and Sandra took advantage of their opponent’s sudden sluggishness. The stalker’s armor-piercing blades pried up the edges of the Steamwraith’s breastplate to reveal a coiled mass of copper tubes and braided cables.
“Hit it here!” Sandra shouted, easily ducking below a clumsy right hook.
Targ attacked the gap with a spinning roundhouse, slamming his spiked club into the Steamwraith’s exposed innards. Jagged strokes of lightning burst from the Bonecrusher’s weapon, and its thick spikes tore through the delicate tubing like a wrecking ball through a china cabinet.
A steam-kettle shriek erupted from the automaton, along with a superheated jet of vapor. The steam enveloped Targ’s torso in a moist inferno. Karzic’s Stream of Life shielded the Risi from the bulk of the damage, but some of the white mist penetrated Targ’s armor and scorched his flesh.
Enraged and mad with pain, the Bonecrusher returned his clubs to his belt and rushed the Steamwraith, arms outstretched, bratwurst fingers flexing. The mechanical creature was too slow and confused by its loss of power to avoid the Risi’s grasp. With a great bellow, Targ hooked his hands into the creature’s damaged torso and heaved the animated automaton over his head. Targ stood there for a moment, arms shaking,
eyes bulging under the strain, then slammed the mechanical man down onto the metal floor with a triumphant howl of bestial hate.
Osmark realized the danger a half second too late to do anything about it.
Targ smashed the worker’s head directly into a critical nexus in the Geometric sigils winding their way across the floor. The automaton’s armor crumpled and cracked on impact like a soda can, and the sigils inscribed into its armor ruptured and spewed raw power in every direction. The uncontrolled flood of energy poured into the invisible symbols etched into the floor like a bolt of lightning discharged through a high-tension wire.
“Run!” Osmark shouted, eyes wide. “Get to the door!” He had no idea what was going to happen next, but he was sure it wouldn’t be good.
Robert bolted for the rune-etched exit at the far end of the assembly floor—his arms and legs pumping frantically—and his party followed him without question. The alarm in his voice was enough to spur them into action, even if to their unaided sight there was nothing wrong.
Osmark could see the danger headed their way, however. To him, it was as clear as clean glass. The ancient floor sigils shattered into a thousand neon shards and shot toward the ceiling on a coruscating geyser of raw power. Every Steamwraith in a fifty-foot radius of the fractured sigil crashed to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. Their plate armor creaked, groaned, separated, and dropped, bouncing across the ground with a deafening series of clangs.
Targ reached Osmark and clapped him on the shoulder so hard he almost fell over. “Did you see that?” the Bonecrusher asked, even as he ran. “I think I killed ’em all. Not bad, am I right?”
Osmark had to admit the Risi’s attack had been effective. Effective but careless. The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention, while goosebumps raced along his arms and legs, because he could see something Targ could not. The result of his reckless move. Electric-blue tentacles, as thick as telephone poles, burst through the sigils worked onto the floor and lashed wildly at the nearby assembly lines. A bulbous, glaring eye emerged next, followed by a bloated sac of a body as large as a pickup truck.
A tag appeared in the air, there then gone: [Sigil Guardian].
“What are you staring at?” Sandra yelled. “I don’t see anything.”
The creature was a beast of the Divine Geometry, a being formed of mathematical formulae and theoretical paths of knowledge. Fractal patterns glistened across its ephemeral body like hypnotic scales.
And it was pissed.
Osmark couldn’t find the words to explain what was happening.
A moment later, he didn’t have to.
The broken armor from the Steamwraiths flew through the air in a whirlwind of bolts and rivets, nuts and steel scraps, latching onto the Sigil Guardian’s cephalopod body. For a long beat, everyone stopped, turning around as though compelled to watch the horrid creature take form.
Eldred raised an eyebrow. “That is an impressive summoning.”
“No shite,” Karzic said. “We need to get the hell out of here.”
The dwarf’s words broke the horrified paralysis surrounding the rest of the team, and suddenly everyone was once again sprinting for the exit. Leaping over fallen Steamwraiths, dodging around the ends of the assembly lines, and abandoning an absolute fortune in Brand-Forged objects Osmark dearly wished he could collect.
Karzic—despite his enthusiasm for fleeing from the creature—was the slowest among them, his squat legs unable to keep up. Before long, he’d fallen five feet behind the rest of the group, then ten. The guardian, meanwhile, was gaining on them with terrifying speed, using its massive tentacles to pull its immense bulk along. The creature was swimming through the air so fast, Robert knew they had no chance to outrun it. It was going to catch them, Karzic first, and it was going to kill them all.
Osmark faltered, turned, and rushed back, grabbing Karzic by the arm. “Come on,” he shouted, spurring the man on. “We’ll never be able to defeat the final boss without a healer.”
The dwarf’s eyes flared in shock as he shouted back, “That’s not the final boss?”
Reluctantly, Sandra rushed back too, and she grabbed Karzic by the other arm; the two of them dragged the dwarf ahead of the onrushing Sigil Guardian, making better time.
Even with her help, though, it was a losing race.
With a sudden lunge, the creature shot forward, and its vast shadow fell across Robert, Karzic, and Sandra.
Osmark gritted his teeth and braced for the bone-crushing impact he knew was coming.
Only, it didn’t come. The guardian roared past the three of them like a charging rhino, dodging around Eldred as if it wanted nothing to do with the winged woman—as though she were a fly beneath its notice.
When it caught up to Targ, however, it was a different story entirely. An armored tentacle lashed out like a baseball bat, slamming into the Bonecrusher’s back with such force it drove him off his feet, sending him sailing across the Artifactory like a line drive. With a surprised roar, Targ slid down one of the assembly lines, bounced off, and crashed through the wreckage of disabled Steamwraiths, before finally landing flat on his back with a groan.
Everyone else skidded to a stop unsure what to do, how to proceed. Did they fight it? Did they run? Could they even run? But Robert instantly understood what had happened. “It just wants Targ,” he shouted. “It wants the one who damaged its sigil.”
The host of confused looks told Osmark he was wasting his breath. “Never mind, it’s hunting Targ. Not us. If we don’t attack it, the rest of us can escape.”
Eldred put one hand on her hip and pointed a lacquered nail at Robert. “Are you thinking about leaving Targ behind?”
Robert weighed their options for a split second, then nodded. “We’ll get the door open. If Targ can put some distance between himself and the guardian, we might be able to bar the door behind him and keep it from eating his face.”
Eldred’s wings fluttered. “And if he can’t outrun it?”
“This job didn’t come with any guarantees of getting home safely,” Osmark snapped. “Otherwise, the pay wouldn’t have been so high. Do your job or die trying—that’s the standard. The only standard.”
“You’re a real bastard,” Eldred responded, her eyes burning with cold, feral light. “It’s a good thing that’s how I like my men.”
“Fly over there and tell your boyfriend the plan,” Sandra said, her tone harsh and unamused. “I’ll whistle when it’s time for him to head back this way.”
Eldred glowered at the woman, then unfurled her wings and launched toward the factory’s ceiling. No love lost there. Even with the lights dimmed to almost nothing, the glow from the foundries cast enough orange light across the factory for Osmark to watch as the Accipiter gracefully arced through the air toward Targ and the enraged guardian.
“Let’s move,” he shouted.
The rest of the party soon reached the doors, which turned out to be a sliding pair of metal sheets with a small steel button set into the wall next to them. Robert didn’t see any dangerous sigils through his blue lens, so he immediately jabbed the button with his index finger. The double doors slid open with a soft hiss. Osmark poked his head into the small square room on the other side and noted a single dial set into its front wall beside the doors. An elevator.
“All clear,” he hollered over one shoulder.
Sandra put her pinkies into the corners of her mouth, pursed her lips, and unleashed a whistle so loud and long it made Robert’s ears ring. “Eldred can get back here without any problem, but you think Targ can outrun that thing?”
“Maybe you should have asked that question before you called them all over here,” Osmark said, lips pressed into a thin line. “Let’s hope so, I suppose.”
Eldred shouted to Targ, then wheeled around and flew back to Osmark’s side. She landed and gracefully folded her wings back without so much as ruffling the hair on her head. “He’s coming, but it’s going to be close.”
“Everybody in the elevator,” Osmark said, much more calmly than he felt. In situations like this, subordinates looked to their leader for confidence and inspiration—not fear and uncertainty. “This is going to be a photo finish,” he offered, oozing authority.
It almost looked like Targ was in the clear, then, twenty feet from the elevator, he stumbled. His left boot caught on a piece of fallen Steamwraith armor, and he tottered, narrowly avoiding a devastating fall. But the mistake still cost him precious seconds, and without missing a beat, the Sigil Guardian slammed a tentacle across the Bonecrusher’s back. Once more the Bonecrusher was airborne, skidding and bouncing across the floor before sliding to a herky-jerky halt just a few feet away from the elevator.
Osmark extended his repeater through the doors and focused all of his attention on the rushing guardian, breathing slowly as he lined up his shot. Voices clamored around him, and the creature unleashed a braying war cry like the peal of a hundred trumpets. Osmark ignored them all; the only thing he cared about was finding one weak point in the guardian’s body. The lines of its Divine Geometry snapped into focus under his blue lens, and his Engineering skill went to work.
Time seemed to grind into half-speed.
The Sigil Guardian was almost on them.
Osmark was dimly aware of Sandra and Karzic dragging Targ into the elevator, but he knew it was too late for a clean getaway. If he didn’t do something, the guardian would trap them here. Its massive tentacles would jam the doors open, and it would crush Targ to death. End of story. Even worse, it might accidentally kill the rest of them while trying to murder the Risi. There wasn’t enough room on the elevator for the thing to be picky with its attacks, and it didn’t strike Robert as a very deft combatant.