by Scott Lynch
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Just before sunrise, the surviving Elaran skirmishers fell back from Montveil’s Wall, their shot-flasks empty, their ranks scraped thin by musketry, magic, and misadventure in the dark. Yet they had achieved their mission and kept their Iron Ring counterparts out of our lines, away from the evidence of what we were really up to.
Behind them, several companies of Elaran foot had moved noisily throughout the night, doing their best to create the impression of the pullback that was only logical. A pullback it was, though not to the roads but rather to a fresh line of breastworks, where they measured powder, sharpened bayonets, and slept fitfully in the very positions they would guard at first light.
We slept not at all. Tariel and Caladesh passed hours in conference with the most experienced of the surviving Elaran artillery handlers. Rumstandel, Millowend and I spent every non-working moment we had on devouring anything we could lay our hands on, without a scrap of shame. My mother’s plan was a pie job and a half.
The sun came up like dull brass behind the charcoal bars of the hazy sky. Fresh smoke trails curled from the Iron Ring positions, harbingers of the hot breakfast they would enjoy before they moved out to crush us. General Vorstal had reluctantly sentenced his men and women to a cold camp, to help preserve the illusion that large contingents in Elaran blue had fled south during the night. We sorcerers received our food from Millowend’s indentured culinary imps, their pinched green faces grotesque under their red leather chef’s hats, their ovens conveniently located in another plane of existence.
As the sun crept upward, the Iron Ring lines began to form, regimental pennants fluttering like sails above a dark and creeping sea. A proud flag broke out atop the war machine, blue circle within gray circle on a field of black. The symbol of the Iron Ring cities, the coal-furnace tyrants, whose home dominions girded the shores of vast icy lakes a month’s march north of Elara.
By the tenth hour of the morning, they were coming for us, in the full panoply of their might and artifice.
“I suppose it’s time to find out whether we’re going to be victorious fools, or just fools,” said Millowend. We had taken our ready position together, all five of us, and rising anxiety had banished most of our fatigue. We engaged in our little rituals, chipper or solemn as per our habits, hugging and shaking hands and exchanging good-natured insults. My mother dusted off my coat and straightened my hat.
“Rumstandel,” she said, “are you sure now wouldn’t be an appropriate time to rediscover that chronically misplaced hat of yours?”
“Of course not, captain.” He rubbed his ample abdominal ballast and grinned. “I much prefer to die as I’ve always lived, handsome and insufferable.”
My mother rendered eloquent commentary using nothing but her eyebrows. Then she cast the appropriate signal-spell, and we braced ourselves.
Five hundred Elaran sappers and work-gangers, already drained to the marrow by a night of frantic labor, seized hold of ropes and chains. “HEAVE!” shouted General Alune, who then flung herself into the nearest straining crew and joined them in their toil. Pulleys creaked and guidelines rattled. With halting, lurching, shuddering movements, a fifty-foot wood and metal tripod rose into the sky above the Elaran command pavilion, with the five of us in an oblong wooden box at its apex, feeling rather uncomfortably like catapult stones being winched into position.
We leveled off, wavering disconcertingly, but more or less upright. Cheers erupted from thousands of throats across the Elaran camp, and musketeers came to their feet in breastworks and redoubts, loosing their regimental colors from hiding. Our North Elaran war machine stood high in the morning light, and even those who’d been told what we were up to waved their hats and screamed like they could hardly believe it.
It was all a thoroughly shambolic hoax, of course. The Iron Ring machine was the product of months of work, cold metal plates fitted to purpose-built legs, rugged and roomy, weighed down with real armor. Ours was a gimcrack, upjumped watch-tower, shorter, narrower, and wobbly as a drunk at a ballroom dance. Our wooden construction was braced in a few crucial places with joints and nail-plates improvised by Elaran blacksmiths. Our hull was armored with nothing but logs, and our only gun was a cast-iron six-pounder in a specially rigged recoil harness, tended by Caladesh and Tariel.
“Let’s secure their undivided attention,” said Millowend. “Charge and load!”
Tariel and Caladesh rammed home a triple-sized powder charge, augmented with the greenish flecks of substances carefully chosen from our precious alchemical supply. Rumstandel handed over a six-pound ball, laboriously prepared by us with pale ideograms of spells designed to ensure long, straight flight. Caladesh drove it down the barrel with the rammer while Tariel looked out the forward window and consulted an improvised sight made from a few pieces of wood and wire.
“Lay it as you like, then fire at will,” said Millowend.
Our gunners didn’t dally. They sighted their piece on the distant Iron Ring machine, and Tariel whistled up her salamander, which was taking a brief vacation from its usual home. The fire-spirit danced around the touchhole, and the six-pounder erupted with a bang that was much too loud even with our noise-suppression spells deadening the air.
Ears ringing, nostrils stinging from the strange smoke of the blast, I jumped to a window and followed the glowing green arc of the magically-enhanced shot as it sped toward the enemy. There was a flash and a flat puff of yellowish smoke atop the target machine’s canopy.
“Dead on!” I shouted.
We had just ruined a cannon barrel and expended a great deal of careful sorcery, all for the sake of one accurate shot at an improbable distance. It hadn’t been expected to do any damage, even if it caught their magicians by surprise. It was just a good old-fashioned gauntlet across the face.
“They’re moving,” said Caladesh. “Straight for us.”
The Iron Ringers answered our challenge, all right. It was precisely the sort of affair that would appeal to them, machine against machine like mad bulls for the fate of North Elara. Hell, it was just the sort of thing that might have appealed to us, if only our ‘machine’ hadn’t been a shoddy counterfeit.
“Forward march,” said my mother, and I resumed my place at her side along with Rumstandel. This part was going to hurt. We joined hands and concentrated.
We hadn’t had time to devise any sort of body harness for the control and movement of our device. Instead we had an accurate wooden model about two feet tall, secured to the floor in front of us. On this we could focus our sorcerous energies, however inefficiently, to move corresponding pieces of the real structure. Ours was, in a sense, a true effigy engine.
Imagine pulling a twenty-pound weight along a chain in hair-fine increments by jerking your eyebrow muscles. Imagine trying to push your prone, insensate body along the ground using nothing but the movements of your toes. This was the sort of nightmarish, concentrated effort required to send our device creaking along, step by step, shaking like a bar-stool with delusions of grandeur.
The energy poured out of us like a vital fluid. We moaned, we shuddered, we screamed and swore in the most undignified fashion. Caladesh and Tariel clung to the walls in earnest, for our passage was anything but smooth. It was a bit like being trapped inside a madman’s feverish delusion of a carriage ride, some fifty feet above the ground, while a powerful enemy approached with cannons booming.
We had to hope that our Elaran employers had strictly obeyed our edict to clear our intended movement path. There was no chance to look down and halt if some unfortunate soul was about to play the role of insect to our boot-heel.
Iron Ring cannon-balls shrieked past. One of them peeled away part of our roof, giving us a ragged new skylight. Closer and closer we stumbled, featherweight frauds. Closer and closer the enemy machine pounded in dread sincerity.
Even fat and well-fed sorcerers were not meant to do what we were doing for long; our magic grew taut and strained as an overfilled water-sack. It was impo
ssible to tell tears from sweat, for it was all running out of us in a torrent. The expressions on the faces of Tariel and Caladesh struck me in my preoccupation as extremely funny, and then I realized it was because I had never before seen those consummate stalwarts look truly horrified.
Another round of fire boomed from the charging Iron Ring machine. Our vessel shuddered, rocked by a hit somewhere below. I tried to subdue my urge to cower or hide. There was nothing to be done now; a shot through our bow would likely fill the entire cabin with splinters and scythe us all down in an instant. In moments, we must also come within range of the wizards huddled inside the enemy machine, and we were in no shape to resist them. Luck was our only shield now.
Luck, and a few seconds or yards in either direction.
“They’re going,” cried Tariel. “THEY’RE GOING!”
There was a sound like the world coming apart at the seams, a juddering drum-hammer noise, sharpened by the screams of men and metal alike. Everything shook around us and beneath us, and for a moment I was certain that Tariel was wrong, that it was we who’d been mortally struck at last, that we were on our way to the ground and into the history books as a farcical footnote to the rise of the Iron Ring empire.
The thing about my mother’s plans, though, is that they tend to work, more often than not.
Given luck, and a few seconds or yards in either direction.
I didn’t witness it personally, but I can well imagine the scene based on the dozens of descriptions I collected afterward. We had barely thirty more yards of safe space to move when the Iron Ring machine hit the edge of the trap, the modified classic pitfall scraped out of the earth by General Alune’s sappers, then concealed with panels of canvas and wicker and even a few tents. A thousand-strong draft had labored all night to move and conceal the dirt, aided here and there by our sorcery. It wasn’t quite a ready-made grave for the war machine. More of a good hard stumble of about thirty feet.
Whatever it was, it was sufficient. In clear view of every Iron Ring soldier on the field, the greatest feat of ferro-thaumaturgical engineering in the history of the world charged toward its feeble-looking rival, only to stumble and plunge in a deadly arc, smashing its armored cupola like a crustacean dropped from the sky by a hungry sea-bird. A shroud of dust and smoke settled around it, and none of its occupants were left in any shape to crawl out of it.
Millowend, Rumstandel and I fell to our knees in the cabin of our hoax machine, gasping as though we’d been fished from the water ten seconds shy of drowning. Everything felt loose and light and wrong, so much flesh had literally cooked away from the three of us. It was a strange and selfish scene for many moments, as we had no idea whether to celebrate a close-run tactical triumph, or the simple fact of our continued existence. We shamelessly did both, until the noise of battle outside reminded us that the day’s work was only begun. Sore and giddy, we let Rumstandel conjure a variation of his kites to lower us safely to the ground, where we joined the mess already in progress.
It was no easy fight. The Iron Ringers were appalled by the loss of their war machine, and they had deployed poorly, expecting to scourge an already-depleted camp in the wake of their invincible iron talisman. They were also massed in the open, facing troops in breastworks. Still, they were hard fighters and well-led, and so many Elarans were second-line militia or already exhausted by the long labors of the night.
I’ll leave it to other historians to weigh the causes and the cruxes of true victory in the Battle of Lake Corlan. We were in it everywhere, rattling about the field via horses and sorcery and very tired feet, for many Iron Ring magicians remained alive and dangerous. In the shadow of our abandoned joke of an effigy engine, we fought for our pay and our oath, and as the sun finally turned red behind its veils of powder smoke, we and ten thousand Elarans watched in exhausted exaltation as the Iron Ring army finally broke like a wave on our shores, a wave that parted and sank and ran into the darkness.
After six months of raids and minor successes and placeholder, proxy victories, six months of stalemate capped by the terror of a brand-new way of warfare, the Elarans had flung an army twice the size of their own back in confusion and defeat at last.
It was not the end of their war, and the butcher’s bill would be terrible. But it was something. It meant hope, and frankly, when someone hires the Red Hats, that’s precisely what we’re expected to provide.
In the aftermath of the battle I worked some sorcery for the hospital details, then stumbled, spell-drunk and battered, to the edge of the gaping pit now serving as a tomb for the mighty war machine and its occupants.
I have to admit I waxed pitifully philosophical as I studied the wreck. It wouldn’t be an easy thing to duplicate, but it could be done, with enough wizards and enough skilled engineers, and small mountains of steel and gold. Would the Iron Ring try again? Would other nations attempt to build such devices of their own? Was that the future of sorcerers like myself, to become power sources for hulking metal beasts, to drain our lives into their engines?
I, Watchdog, a slab of peat, a lump of coal, a fagot for the flames.
I shook my head then and I shake my head now. War is my trade, but it makes me so damned tired sometimes. I don’t have any answers. I keep my oath, I keep my book, I take my pay and I guard my friends from harm. I suppose we are all lumps of coal destined for one furnace or another.
I found the rest of the company in various states of total collapse near the trampled, smoldering remains of General Vorstal’s command pavilion. Our options had been limited when we’d selected a place to build our machine, and unfortunately the trap path had been drawn across all the Elaran high command’s nice things.
Caladesh was unconscious with a shattered wagon wheel for a pillow. Tariel had actually fallen sleep sitting up, arms wrapped around her musket. My mother was sipping coffee and staring at Rumstandel, who was snoring like some sort of cave-beast while miniature coronas of foul weather sparked around his beard. In lieu of a pillow, Rumstandel had enlisted one of his familiars, a tubby little bat-demon that stood silently, holding Rumstandel’s bald head off the ground like an athlete heaving a weight over its shoulders.
“He looks so peaceful, doesn’t he?” whispered Millowend. She muttered and gestured, and a bright new red hat appeared out of thin air, gently lowering itself onto Rumstandel’s brow. He continued snoring.
“There,” she said, with no little satisfaction. “Be sure to record that in your chronicles, will you, Watchdog?”
The reader will note that I have been pleased to comply.
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About the Author
Scott Lynch was born in St. Paul, Minnesota in 1978, the first of three brothers. Early in life he worked as a dishwasher, a waiter, a graphic designer, an office manager, a prep cook, and a game supplement self-publisher before accidentally selling his first novel in 2004. From 2005 – 2016 Scott served as a paid-on-call firefighter in St. Croix County, Wisconsin, before moving to Massachusetts. There he resides with his second wife, award-winning SF/F novelist Elizabeth Bear, along with three cats (Duncan, Gurney, and Molly) and a fluffy elderly dog (Ace).
Other Short Works by Scott Lynch
Available in standalone digital formats wherever electronic books are sold!
In the Stacks: Author’s Enhanced Edition
A Tale of Shelves and Sorcery
Life is always complicated for students of magic at the High University of Hazar, but the fifth-year exam is a particular challenge: Each student must return one library book. Of course, they must return it to the Living Library, a haunted collection of ten million magical tomes, a collection where the rules of time, space, weather, and reality itself are subject to sudden change. Escorted by armored battle-librarians, a group of four students must face mysteries and monsters in a fight to get their books back on the shelves in this brisk, darkly whimsical sword and sorcery tale. Originally published in 2010, the Author's Enhanced Edition of "In the Stacks" is newly revised and ex
panded, featuring all-new scenes and dialogue.
A Year and a Day in Old Theradane
The Theradane Cycle: One
Amarelle Parathis, the Duchess Unseen, was the foremost thief on more worlds than she could easily keep track of. Evading an army of victims, solicitors, constables, and assassins, she and her crew sought comfortable retirement under the arcane protections of the magical city of Theradane. A momentary indiscretion has now left Amarelle and her friends vulnerable. If they want to stay protected against the overwhelming power of everyone they’ve ever offended, they’ll have to carry out heists on behalf of the mighty Ivovandas, a blackmailing wizard with a list of seemingly impossible tasks. For starters, Amarelle and her crew must steal a street, hundreds of yards long, from beneath the very feet of the thousands of people who walk upon it every day in the most crowded market districts of Theradane.
Originally published in 2013 as part of the acclaimed Rogues anthology, “A Year and a Day in Old Theradane” was a Locus Award finalist.
Novels by Scott Lynch
The Lies of Locke Lamora
The Gentleman Bastard Sequence, Book One
Available wherever novels are sold (in both print and e-book editions), the Gentleman Bastard sequence offers colorful, bloody, vulgar, humorous, and emotionally involving tales of people living by their wits in a world of intricate cultures, eerie mysteries, and low magic.
An orphan’s life can be harsh in the sweltering, cosmopolitan city of Camorr. Sold into a life of crime, Locke and his closest friends are trained in disguise and deception before launching their own careers as confidence tricksters. At the height of their success, the underworld of Camorr is shaken to its foundations by the coming of a mysterious antagonist known as the Gray King, whose murderous plans are backed by sorcery. Caught up in the Gray King’s game, Locke must fight for his life with every ounce of desperate wit at his disposal. Nominated for the World Fantasy Award.