IRONSHIELD: Chapter 2
First of all, I'd like to apologize for the formatting. I'm very new to running pages online, as anyone who's seen my website can attest, and so far I haven't been able to figure out how to have a consistent background color in these posts. So if sections of the text don't match the shade of previous paragraphs, know that I am working on it.
As promised, here is the second chapter of my upcoming novel, IRONSHIELD, book 1 of The Ironshield Saga.
There's going to be one more chapter released on this space. After that, those who join my newsletter at mechwizardpress.com will receive a mobi file with additional chapters. All of this content is a preview, and not final until the expected publication in October.
Cheers!
Chapter
2
The first
barrage of cannon and machinegun fire erupted between the Storm and Retribution like
a metal hurricane.
Red sparks and flashes of
flame spat gray gunsmoke, hot lead pounded against steel on both sides with a
rapid, thunderous din.
Aldren imagined a living
creature being caught in the middle of that infernal hail. Flesh and bone would
be vaporized, reduced to a red mist to drift along with the sulfurous smoke.
But for all the violence of
the ordnance flashing between the two massive Warsuits, this ferocity paled in
comparison to the vitriol Renalds had spewed during the two pilots’ short radio
exchange.
Theodore Kolms, the man who'd
captured and inherited the re-christened Retribution, had remained
calm in the face of Renalds' anger. In fact, the Northern general had sounded
nothing short of amused, leading his opponent with the occasional stinging
verbal jab, for all the world like a bored man goading an angry drunk before a
fight he knew he'd win.
Aldren had snorted out a laugh or two at his
superior's expense while listening in on the radio, and he wasn't the only
one.
Watching the iron behemoths pummel each other with heavy
ordnance tempered their humor fast enough.
A particularly well-placed shell blast sheared off
a chunk of plating from the Storm's right arm. The flaming
shard of gray metal spun through the air behind the Warsuit and struck an ammo
cache behind the Southern line. Crates of shells exploded in a great red burst,
raining fiery slag and dark earth about. A corpse flopped to the ground, torn
in half by the blast. Whether the unfortunate soul was a casualty of the
battling Kaizers, or a fallen soldier whose remains had been left behind,
Aldren didn't care to know.
In the shadow of a Warsuit, one man amounted to
about as much as the dirt he lay on.
"Son of a whore!" Renalds' voice hissed through the
radio. "A traitor like you has no place
in Virtue's cockpit."
"Says the man here to rob his
countrymen on Imperial orders," Kolms replied. "Talking's over. Let your Kaizer make your argument,
Appeaser."
Renalds let out an inarticulate shout. The Storm stomped
forward, closing the distance between itself and Retribution meter
by meter. In the pattering of machinegun fire and explosive bursts of heavy
shells, the surfaces of both Warsuits were being turned into a pockmarked mess,
bullet scars and the larger warped rents of artillery blasts obliterating what
little aesthetic appeal the monstrous machines might have had. Retribution's front
looked like a cragged rock on the side of some ancient mountain, its armor
seeming to erode under the unceasing sparks of hot metal being blasted against
it. The Northern Warsuit slowed down its return fire, and for a moment, Aldren
thought Theodore Kolms’ Kaizer was done for.
Then, the cannon on Retribution's left
arm loosed a lightning-fast shell amid a spurt of smoke. The round struck a
direct hit on the Storm's exposed right arm, which burst in a
combustion of fire and flying gears. The limb crashed to the ground, leveling a
section of the evacuated trench. It was almost the exact spot Aldren had been
running through just minutes ago.
The Storm turned with the blow and
nearly careened over before Renalds got one of his Warsuit's feet behind it,
churning up earth and broken pieces of trench wall in the process. The
one-armed Warsuit's artillery kept shooting as it righted itself, its line of
fire veering off-course.
Into Renalds' own army.
Pillars of earth shot up as screaming soldiers fell
to the ground, punctured by machinegun rounds where they weren't torn apart by
the Storm's heavy guns.
Aldren's knees buckled beneath him, and the next
thing he knew he was in the dirt, arms over his head.
The ground
shook. Someone nearby shrieked. A more violent tremble made Aldren feel as if
the earth would break open and swallow him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he waited
for the end.
A noise pierced Aldren
to the bone, like a sawblade grinding inside his skull. Some kind of horrible
screech cut through the gunfire, leaving an unnatural quiet in its wake.
Not trusting the sudden stillness, Aldren didn't
look up right away. He kept thinking of the men he'd seen blown to pieces.
Not me. Aldren
wasn’t a religious man, but he repeated the silent prayer all the same. Let it be a bullet,
anything. So long as I'm in one piece. At least that way, his mother would have something to bury.
Moments stretched like hours. Men coughed and cried
out in pain while others shouted after lost comrades. Not hearing any more
shots, nor feeling the tremble of exploding ordnance, Aldren finally dared to
look up.
As the Storm careened out of
control, Retribution had closed the distance and stuck the
forty-foot bayonet affixed beneath its arm-mounted gun into the Southern
Warsuit's side. Both machines stood motionless but for a visible shudder as the
blade ground against the Storm’s gearworks.
"Those are your men down there,
cur," crackled Theodore Kolms’ voice from an overturned radio still
functioning in the dirt near Aldren. "Never
hold your triggers down without your target in sight." Retribution dragged
its blade to the side, tearing the Storm's steel with a
vicious screech, raining sparks below. The massive bayonet burst free, dragging
engine components with it amid bursts of fire and spurting black oil.
Renalds shouted over the radio waves as he fired
once more with what was left of his artillery.
Retribution's blade rose and crashed into the Storm, destroying
its head and cleaving through its shoulder to obliterate one of its remaining
guns.
With its other arm, Retribution fired
a shell into the Storm's leg.
Renalds’ machine crashed to the earth. The tremor
nearly knocked Aldren back off his feet.
The Northern Warsuit stood over its fallen
opponent, wreathed in the black and gray smoke of diesel and gunpowder.
General Renalds had lost the duel. The Storm was
now the second Southern Kaizer to be taken by the Industrialists.
Aldren didn't much care about that. Good riddance to the bastard, he
thought. But now the battle was over, he wished it had lasted longer.
Because now, with the Warsuits out of play, it was
their turn.
"Charge!" Renalds' second in command,
Major Zolar, motioned forward with his saber. Aldren was soon caught in the
press of bodies as the Southern army swept across the field.
This will be it, he knew. Out in the open, rushing at
the fortified Northern treeline, it was only a matter of moments before the
enemy guns mowed them down. He unslung his rifle as he stumbled along. He'd pop
off a shot or two before they brought him down. If he was dead anyway, at least
they could say Aldren Mal had done more than deliver coffee.
No shots came by the time they were halfway across
the field. Aldren couldn't help but eye Retribution nervously.
The War Codes dictated that the Northern Warsuit's
part in this battle was over. Theodore Kolms was bound by laws agreed upon by
both the North and South, to stand down and let his troops do the rest.
So why had Kolms stopped
Renalds when he was doing what Retribution
couldn't? And moreover, where was the Northern army now? Where were their
cannons, where were their rifles?
Aldren kept wondering this, expecting the attack to
come, even as the Southern infantry entered the shadow of the trees.
"High Command was right!" Zolar hollered.
"They used their Warsuit to cover their retreat. The North doesn't have
enough men to beat us. Come, boys, to victory!"
Soldiers shouted as they followed the major, alive
with the thrill of success, and the relief of having reached this far
unscathed.
Aldren didn't share the celebratory attitude. As
men around him shoved each other on their mad dash to chase the unseen
Industrialists' tails, he looked back at Retribution, standing
as still and silent as a tombstone, its hulking form just visible over the
treetops.
*
The cockpit shook around Striker Crimson, hammered with the constant
deafening blows of Ironshield's artillery.
With everything rattling around him, Striker had to
pay attention to his hands on the control sticks, lest he push the wrong lever
or button. Sweat dripping down his face, he strained his eyes against his
scope, barely blinking as the muzzle flashes of Ironshield's guns
burned afterimages onto his retinas. All the while he watched his own fuel
meter. Striker bit down on a piece of leather to keep his teeth from chattering
with the constant rumble. A heavy shell blast caused his seat to buck back and
forth on creaking gimbals. Striker kept his feet on the pedals -barely- and
lined up one of his arm-mounted guns, using the thin crosshair across his scope
to gauge the weapon's trajectory.
Just as he pressed down his firing triggers, the
periscope went black, its outer lens shattered by Ironshield's barrage.
In an involuntary motion, Striker brought the control stick too far to the
right just as his shot left the barrel.
"God DAMN!" he shouted, reaching for the
periscope's dial to find another line of sight. He couldn't win this by
strength of guns. If this was a war of endurance, Ironshield had Redstripe outmatched
by far.
No, if Striker Crimson was to have any chance, he
needed to get his Kaizer in close.
He found another line of sight, a scope on the left
side of Redstripe’s chest, partially
obscured by a gun-twisted section of plating. Ironshield kept up its attack.
Striker wasn’t about to bother wasting more
ammunition trying to match the other Warsuit’s rate of fire. Blindly, without
pulling away from his scope, he felt around for the lever mounted in front of
his seat. Finding it, he pressed down and yanked it back. Redstripe’s engines revved to a deafening volume as it burned
diesel at three times its usual rate. Its exhaust pipes vented a tremendous
cloud of black smoke, completely obscuring Striker’s scopes. And, hopefully,
James Edstein’s as well.
Striker pulled back on Redstripe’s right control stick, the handle of his embedded
ignition saber. His Warsuit shifted around him as its right foot slid to the
side.
Next, Striker pulled the left foot back and to the
right, bringing his Kaizer to a full creaking sidestep. One thing Redstripe had over Ironshield was maneuverability.
Striker didn’t let up, continuing to press his
pedals, twitching his controls with barely perceptible movements as he followed
up the sidestep with a forward lunge, closing the smoke-clogged distance
between the two Warsuits while bringing Redstripe’s
bladed right arm up to strike.
A gust of wind dissipated the fumes enough for
Striker to see his opponent. Ironshield was
still facing Redstripe head-on.
James Edstein had predicted Striker’s move and
turned his Warsuit to match.
Clever. Striker brought his Warsuit’s blade
down at full speed, aiming for a rent in Ironshield’s
thick chest plate. He already knew he’d been caught in a bad way. With an
arm raised like this, Redstripe’s lightly
armored side was exposed.
Edstein didn’t pass up the opportunity.
Even strapped in, Striker felt like he was being
torn free of his seat. The bands of leather cut into him with bruising force as
his face was wrenched away from his periscope. Striker’s head struck against
the cockpit’s left bulkhead as his entire seat bucked one way, shakily settling
back into its natural position amid the squealing protest of overstressed
bearings.
The hot, confined air, coupled with being wrung
about like a ragdoll and the blow to his head, proved to be too much. Striker
blacked out.
His eyes fluttered open what could only have been a moment or two later.
Any longer and Ironshield's guns would have stopped firing.
Striker would be dead.
The display bulbs on his terminal blinked red
alerts, bathing the dark cockpit in crimson. The ruby lights filtered through
gray smoke, the eyes of demonic rats waiting to gnaw on a fresh cadaver.
Striker coughed. The slow-rolling smog stung his
eyes and throat. He reached for his air tank and mask. Ironshield's cannons
had destroyed Redstripe's right-side ventilation, and God knew
what else. At least two auxiliary engines had been taken out, according to the
blinking alerts, forcing the Kaizer Engine itself to its limits. If Striker
kept pushing his Warsuit, the engines would fail entirely, and he’d be trapped
in a motionless, smoke-filled can to suffocate and die.
There wasn’t enough ventilation to keep the air
clear, let alone alleviate the extreme heat. Striker’s air tank hissed when he
turned the nozzle. He brought the breathing mask to his face and dropped it
when another shell shook Redstripe. Coughing
in the fumes, Striker shoved his face back against the periscope and took hold
of his controls once more. To hell with
it. He gritted his teeth. I’ll
breathe again once this damned thing is over.
Redstripe’s right arm was wedged into Ironshield’s chest plate. Striker’s
downward swing had hit home. Baring teeth in a grin, he attempted to pull the
blade free. The limb was unresponsive. Ironshield’s
cannon burst must have destroyed the cogs connecting Redstripe’s arm to its controls.
But there was an advantage to this failure.
Because, try as Ironshield might -and
Edstein did try, pulling his Warsuit backward, producing showers of sparks
where the two machines ground against one another- he couldn’t detach himself
from Redstripe either.
Smoke stung Striker’s eyes, seeping into the space
between his face and the periscope visor. Letting out a choking cough, Striker
growled and gripped his left stick. He heard Redstripe’s other arm, the one not stuck in his opponent’s armor,
rattle and grind, felt the tell-tale rumble of its movement as he wrenched it
up and brought it out to the side. Redstripe
was still in this fight.
Another shell blast shook the cockpit, followed by
the patter of rapid fire against steel.
Now here was a question worth a few marks. Would
Edstein play it safe and avoid heavy ordnance at such close range, or go for
broke and try to blast Striker out of his cockpit?
The Northern pilot assuaged his curiosity soon
enough.
A blow sent Striker’s seat creaking back, hitting
the cockpit’s rear bulkhead. He came forward just as fast, and just barely
saved himself a broken nose by grabbing hold of the periscope.
Something cracked beneath his chest harness, and
Striker’s next breath came with a stabbing pain to accompany the acerbic sting
of thickening smoke.
The blasts came again and again, tearing screeching
metal from Redstripe’s frame until
the bulkhead of its cockpit dented inward. The blinking terminal exploded in a
burst of sparks.
Striker grabbed hold of his air mask and pulled it
over his face before unconsciousness could retake him. He drew in rasping,
greedy breaths, clearing his head.
Beyond the cockpit, something creaked.
Then, one of Ironshield’s
blades crashed through the top bulkhead, destroying Striker’s scopes. The
weapon’s dull gray edge was wedged less than a foot above Striker. With a
grinding squeal, the blade was yanked free, allowing brilliant sunlight to
pierce the dark cockpit.
Smoke vented out through the newly created tear.
Striker had seconds to live. Better make
them count, he told himself, pushing his left stick to the side. The
mechanism resisted like a stubborn arm wrestler, the rubber at the handle’s
base creaking in protest. Then, with the press of a lever and the stomp of a
gas pedal, Striker managed to swing Redstripe’s
remaining arm. Vibrations travelled up his own limbs as he forced his
Warsuit to strike, again and again, not daring let up for an instant. He needed
to keep Edstein on the defensive, needed to prevent Ironshield from committing the killing blow.
Sparks cascaded across the Northern Warsuit.
Striker saw the thing with his naked eyes now, its form blurring and doubling
as his vision drifted in and out of focus. Striker spat out his leather strap
and bit his tongue to bring himself back to the here and now while he kept
hitting Ironshield’s side. Metal
screamed against metal, each jarring blow evoking further pain from Striker’s
cracked ribs.
Finally, when he could see the edge of the tear
he’d managed to create in Ironshield’s carapace
through his limited field of vision, Striker engaged the left arm’s claw grip,
splitting its blade down the middle into a giant pincer with a loud crack. As he brought that to bear on Ironshield’s damaged side, the enemy
Warsuit’s blade came down again, casting its shadow across the jagged opening
in Redstripe’s cockpit.
His fingers working lightning-fast over the buttons
and levers of his control stick, Striker clamped the claw onto Ironshield’s chest plate, slammed his
pedals, and used Redstripe’s full
weight to yank sideways on his enemy’s armor.
Partially severed on both sides and churned by
artillery fire, even the mighty Ironshield’s
armor plating had a breaking point. A huge section ripped free with an
ear-grating peal, taking engine parts and other mechanical innards out with it
to fall to the ground far below.
The blade that had been coming down upon Striker
Crimson ground to a halt.
Striker unstrapped himself and leaned forward to
get a better look through the thinning smoke.
Ironshield’s cockpit stood bared to the world.
Sitting slumped in the midst of its ruin, was James Edstein.
Striker watched the prone form of the
twenty-six-year-old heir to the Ironshield legacy for several moments, thinking
the Northern commander had to be feigning unconsciousness. Once he was
satisfied his opponent wasn’t going anywhere, Striker leaned over his seat and
turned his saber, shutting off Redstripe’s
ignition. His Warsuit shuddered into stillness as Striker pulled his blade
free of the ignition cradle. The rumbling engine, the clank of gears and rattle
of bearings, the constant tremble of living machinery had all been so pervasive
as to make their absence feel unnatural.
Outside, people from both armies were doubtless
watching the battle through binoculars, trying to discern which of the two
stilled Warsuits had won the day. One of the machines would have to fall over
or raise its white flag before the opposing infantries could engage.
Everything hurt as Striker Crimson made his way
toward the cockpit hatch, his mask back in place. If Edstein was alive, best he
didn’t see who his opponent actually was.
The fighting had left the hatch dented, and it
didn’t open when Striker pulled the lever. He tried again, ramming into the
steel with his bruised shoulder. It gave on the third shove, falling open with
Striker landing atop it in the open air. The ground had looked so close from
the Warsuit’s magnifying sights. Now the natural dread of plummeting death returned.
But Striker was a Warsuit pilot, and an experienced one at that. Not
hesitating, he grabbed hold of handrails and walked along footholds built onto Redstripe without bothering to look down
at the rocky field so far below. He climbed up Redstripe’s bullet-scoured chest and took quick stock of the damage
Ironshield had inflicted.
The carapace of Striker’s Warsuit was
unrecognizable, its signature crimson slash obliterated along with any
semblance of orderly design across the surface of its mangled armor. Several
handholds had been blown away, leaving nothing more than sharp edges to cut
oneself on. Striker was forced to improvise, sticking his gloved hands into
artillery and bullet holes to pull himself up. Spotting a handlebar on Redstripe's left
arm, Striker gripped a foothold on the machine's chest with his knees and
stretched out to grab hold of the limb.
A burst of automatic fire rattled, sending bullets
sparking around Striker's legs. He let go with his knees and found himself
swinging over open air by his arms.
James Edstein stood in his ruined cockpit, a
machine pistol in his shaking grip. He lined up his front sight to shoot again.
Striker let go with one arm long enough to pull a
revolver from his belt and empty it in the enemy pilot's direction.
Edstein fell back, clutching his side, and ducked
behind his seat, firing his weapon blindly around the corner of it.
Striker ignored sparks that flashed about him as he
propelled himself from handhold to handhold, shimmying his way down Redstripe's arm
before climbing atop it. His arms burned with the effort. As a younger man,
he’d have balked at the feat. But he wasn’t a young man anymore, and he was in
pain. Once on his feet again, on top of his Warsuit’s arm, Striker leapt
into Ironshield's cockpit. Just as he landed, Edstein emerged with
an enraged shout, his saber removed from the ignition cradle and swinging.
Striker barely had his own blade drawn in time to
parry the younger man's desperate slash.
"I told you to leave us be!" James Edstein
growled. His mop of dirty blonde hair was plastered to his face with sweat.
Blood coated his hand, no doubt from the bleeding wound along his side.
Striker jabbed at his opponent, not bothering to
respond. The time for talking was long past.
Edstein slapped Striker’s blade aside with a savage
swipe of his own. Like Striker’s saber, Edstein’s weapon had a jagged line down
its middle, the metal a uniform color unlike the ruby inlay of Redstripe’s key groove. A dark shield
embedded in the handguard was the only thing to mark the ignition saber for
what it was. Heinrich Edstein’s saber, bequeathed to his only son after the
first Ironshield fell in the Xang war.
That symbol, that reminder of the Ironshield family
legacy, gave Striker pause. He didn’t want to kill James Edstein, if he could
avoid it.
His hesitation earned him a slash across the
forearm.
Striker let out a shout as he parried the next
swing and followed up with a thrust, only to be deflected once more.
“Show your face, Appeaser lapdog!” Edstein
increased the speed of his attacks. Striker found himself on the defensive,
each wild thrust and slash of Edstein’s saber inching him ever closer to the
deadly fall at his rear.
“If a man’s willing to kill for something, he
should own up to it and reveal himself, not ride the coattails of better men
from behind a disguise.”
He let the boy talk because it slowed down his
blade. Not enough, however. Striker’s ankle bumped against the edge of the
decimated bulkhead.
“You don’t deserve to pilot that machine,” Edstein
continued, raising his blade for another stroke. “You Goddamned-agh!” Edstein
cried out when Striker slashed him across the thigh. Before the younger man
could recover, Striker rushed in, grabbing hold of his opponent’s sword arm
while swinging his own blade. He caught James Edstein across the face with the
flat of his sword, sending him stumbling to the side. Edstein lost his grip on
his weapon.
Striker caught it and sent the Northern commander
to the deck with a swift kick to his injured thigh. When Edstein moved to rise,
he found both blades crossed at his throat.
“You’re beat, Ironshield,” Striker growled. “Yield
and raise the white, or I’ll kill you and do it myself.”
Edstein spat out a wad of bloodied spit. “You don’t
want to do that.” His bright green eyes locked with Striker’s masked gaze.
Somehow, the young man’s stare exuded defiance and pleading in equal measure.
“You’re right, I don’t,” Striker responded. “But
I’ll do it all the same, if you force my hand.”
Edstein scoffed. “You’re one to talk about force.”
“Yield.” Striker pressed the blades close enough to
draw blood. “I won’t ask again.”
James Edstein maintained his sharp stare for
several minutes. Nothing interrupted the silence but for the wind, the
crackling of fires from burning engine parts, and the groan of several hundred
tons of metal settling against itself around them.
Finally, with a slow, deliberate hand, Edstein
reached for a lever beside his control seat, and pulled it.
Half of Striker expected a trap, some last-minute
weapon. Instead, Ironshield’s flagpole
folded down, collapsing the bullet-riddled Industrialist flag. Another one
sprang up in its place, a stark white sheet rippling in the balmy breeze.
Relief washed over Striker Crimson. He’d won. He’d
captured the Ironshield and his Warsuit. If
his army could do the same against the Industrialists today, both here and at
Flemmingwood to the west, it could mean the end of the war.
The two-pronged approach had been a desperate ploy,
a move to cut the feet out from under the Industrialists before recent Southern
actions had a chance to foment the North’s rage toward something unspeakable.
Striker hadn’t been confident it would work, but it was all they had. He was
overjoyed to be proven wrong.
Artillery guns renewed from the Southern lines,
sending a barrage ahead of the infantry, whose cheers Striker could hear
drifting from below.
Still holding the sabers to Edstein, Striker risked
a look over the side to see his soldiers storming the field around the two
Warsuits’ feet, his own Red Guard on horseback, leading the charge.
“I’m sorry.”
Striker turned to Edstein. The young man’s eyes
were downcast, and when Striker took the sabers away, James Edstein hung his
head.
“You fought for what you believe is right,” Striker
said. “And you fought well. There is no need for apologies.”
“I’m sorry for your men.” Edstein looked up with
pure hate in his eyes. “I told you to turn back. I told you not to do this. You
should have listened.”
“What do you mean?” As Striker asked, the cadence
from the ground changed. Cheers turned to cries of alarm. Guns blared below,
along with the tell-tale sound of roaring engines.
Striker looked down again. “My God,” he breathed.
“What have you done?”
James Edstein answered.
“What I believe is right.”
Want something to read in the meantime? My first novel, Bloodlight, a secondary-world urban fantasy, is available on Amazon here:
Thanks for reading!
-Edward Nile
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