Ironshield Page 14

  More projectiles whipped by, dangerously close to tearing through the airplane’s fragile wings.

  Along with the larger rounds of the Warsuits' main cannons, ribbons of machinegun fire crisscrossed from the enemy machines below, pinging against the bottom of the plane. A bullet tore through the hull between Samuel's feet, allowing cool air to blast up. He felt around his nethers to make sure everything was intact

  "Hold on!" The pilot yelled.

  "To what?!" Samuel's shout was lost as their aircraft dipped to the side, slipping between streams of bullets and spinning aside while heavy projectiles whistled past.

  Samuel's straps dug into him so hard he'd be amazed if he didn't come out of this with an 'X' shaped bruise across his chest.

  A machinegun burst tore three consecutive holes through the canvas on the left wing. An instant later, a shell tore one of the landing wheels free. Samuel ducked in time to avoid having his head caved in by a flying chunk of metal. The damaged wing rippled ominously.

  "Going again!" the pilot called.

  "No, wait!" But they were already turning upside down.

  Samuel's world spun on even after the plane's cartwheeling came to a sharp stop, one wing dipping to the right to evade another lightning-fast heavy round.

  Samuel struggled to hold onto the contents of his stomach as the ground seemed to beckon him toward it. Those ales had been a bad idea.

  At least three Krieger Warsuits were moving below to keep the plane in their crosshairs. They were faster than Kaizers, thanks in part to their track propulsion along with their smaller size. These were the same new type of Warsuit James Edstein had unleashed on Samuel's men three months before.

  Shooting down an enemy vehicle wasn't against the War Codes, but Samuel cursed them all the same. The plane dipped in the other direction, trying to stay ahead of enemy firepower.

  At any moment, Samuel expected to be ripped out of his open pod, harness or not. Wind whipped at his coat, pulled at him with a frightening will. Nevermind that, he thought as the Kriegers below continued to fire ever-thickening volleys into the sky. At this rate, there wouldn't be a plane to fall out of. All it would take would be one, maybe two direct hits from a Warsuit's cannon to rend a craft like this to pieces.

  Samuel's anger overcame his fear, and he grabbed hold of the light machinegun mounted beside him.

  The plane spun again, until Samuel found himself upside down, the vast, cruel earth gaping below, yearning to crush his frail form against it. He clenched his jaw tight, swung the turret as far down as it would go, and pressed down the trigger.

  "No use!" The pilot screamed. Or at least that's what Samuel thought the man said before the gun rattled to life, louder in his ears than the plane's roaring engines or ripping propellers.

  The pilot shouted something else and swerved as a round came within inches of hitting the front rotors.

  Samuel paid no attention and kept shooting, straining to get the trembling weapon under control and align its iron crosshairs with the distant machines. All the while, blood rushed to his head.

  He saw -or imagined he saw- sparks strike against the side of a Warsuit before icy clouds engulfed the aircraft. When they emerged from the wet haze and spun right side up, the Kriegers were nowhere to be seen. The shooting had stopped. Samuel eased his finger off the trigger and studied the terrain. His guide had flown them over a cluster of hills.

  "Close one!" the pilot shouted.

  Samuel nodded, even though the man wasn't facing him and couldn't see. He sagged in his seat. "Yes," he breathed. "Close."

  The morning was significantly colder by the time they dropped down for landing. With one wheel missing from the bullet-damaged aircraft, Samuel was more nervous about touching ground than he'd been on takeoff. His pilot brought the shaking craft down between tall pine trees, lining up with a snow-speckled stretch of flatland near the base of one of the North's famous mountain ranges.

  "Hold—"

  "I swear to God if you tell me to hold on one more time, I'll—" Samuel was cut off when the plane made impact. Snow and dirt shot upward in a wide spray as the remnants of the missing landing gear crunched and sparked against bedrock. The plane screeched onto its side, its tail ripping free behind Samuel's seat in a shriek of rending metal. Wings snapped, their canvas tearing to shreds. Samuel was slammed against the side of his pod as the aircraft skidded across the ground.

  Another impact flung him against the opposite side with bruising force as what remained of the aircraft struck an outcropping of mountainous rock.

  Samuel coughed. Smoke from diesel, melting rubber and burning canvas choked the air.

  The pilot unbuckled himself with a groan and practically fell off the side as he climbed out of his cockpit.

  Samuel did the same, only he actually did fall, landing flat on his face in the snow. Standing up was beyond him for several minutes. When he tried, his stomach voiced its protest in the form of violent retching. Samuel was on his hands and knees, spewing last night's dinner, when he caught sight of a group of thick-coated Industrialists hurrying over.

  Did they know we were coming? It couldn't have been Leanne's doing, not this time.

  "Frigid as a witch's tit," the pilot growled, dusting himself off.

  "Cold tits are better than no tits at all," one of the lead men replied.

  Samuel's pilot relaxed visibly. That must have been some sort of code.

  The Northern-uniformed man who'd answered took Samuel by the arm and lifted him to his feet. "Rough trip, Sir?"

  Samuel nodded. It was all he could manage as he willed his legs to stop shaking.

  "The hell happened to the plane?!" one of the men exclaimed.

  "Passed over a Northern Warsuit patrol," the pilot said. "Only three Kriegers I could count. Don't think they were expecting us. Of course, this old timer making us a flashier target with the turret didn't help." He jerked his thumb toward Samuel.

  "Let's hope you're right about their not expecting you," the soldier said. He wore a captain's stripes, but that meant nothing on a false uniform. "Otherwise we’re stranded up here. Senator Mutton, are you ready?"

  Samuel wasn't, but he nodded anyway. "Show me to my machine."

  Chapter 10

  Morning bled into afternoon, and their ride continued smoothly along paths Na’Tet picked out, the tranquility of the forested hills only disturbed by the occasional rustle of a squirrel or the squawk of a bird.

  Most of the tension between James and Matthew had evaporated for the time being, only to be replaced by the nervousness James felt about returning home. As the son of Heinrich and Emilia Edstein, James bore the responsibility of the Ironshield name. A failure by him was a scar on his family’s legacy. He’d stretched the Industrialists’ collective necks out when he broke the War Codes in hopes of demoralizing the South and getting the Appeasers to cede ground. Instead, he’d been captured, and the measures by which he was freed could cause every bit as much backlash as James’ traps at Flemmingwood and Graytop.

  He was coming home now, where everything, the future of the Industrialist cause, the future of Arkenia, rested on his shoulders if for no other reason than he’d taken them past the point of no return. He had no idea what to expect from his people. Would they greet him with open arms, or spiteful glares?

  Then again, if James knew anything for certain, it was that none of that mattered. If he was given the chance, he’d do it all again. And Theodore Kolms’ daring action, his willingness to rot in a cell for James’ freedom, proved he wasn’t alone. The North hadn’t given up. Which made the weight on James’ shoulders all the heavier.

  Something larger than a squirrel rustled in the bushes to the left.

  “You three can stop right where you are,” called a voice from the right. “Put your hands up.” Rifles poked from between trees.

  Cursing under his breath, James complied, muttering “what now?” under his breath.

  Men emerged from either side, as well as ahea
d. By the crackling footsteps James heard to the rear, they were surrounded.

  These men wore Northern gray uniforms, but James had nearly fallen for that ruse once on this trip. And this time, ‘Tet wouldn’t be able to catch their captors by surprise. All three of them were closed in, outnumbered. Fucked.

  “Boy, you look like hell,” came a rough voice James recognized.

  James turned to catch Matthew’s grin. His own smile mirrored it as he got a look at the man walking up between them, stroking their horses’ flanks.

  Ivan Kolms, Theodore’s brother. A skilled field mechanic and one of the North’s top Warsuit pilots. Tessa’s uncle.

  James swung out of the saddle, relieved. It wasn’t until he was facing Ivan, preparing for an embrace, that he felt uncertain. His brother’s in a cage, thanks to me. “Ivan…” he swallowed. “Ivan I’m—"

  Whatever James had been ready to say was lost when Ivan pulled him into a tight hug. An overwhelming smell of tobacco and motor oil assaulted his nostrils.

  Ivan released him with a chuckle. “You went and gained some blubber, boy, lounging in that Appeaser hotel. ‘Bout time we put you back to work.”

  Ivan Kolms' black hair was swept back, his beard trimmed to a neat square about his jaw. Like all Kolms men, he had the trademark streaks of light blonde that would go silvery gray with age, shooting up from his hairline in a 'V' shape as well as descending his chin. Shorter than his brother but stockier, Ivan Kolms shared the older man's rugged features, albeit softened by his ready smile.

  James' return grin faded. "Ivan, I'm sorry. Ted, he shouldn't have done what he did for me—"

  "And just what should he have done, stayed home and played cards?" Ivan slapped James on the arm. "We take care of our own, Jim, always have. Don't worry, we'll get him home soon."

  The unmistakable peal of distant cannons echoed over the hills.

  "What on earth?!" Matthew exclaimed.

  "Forgot to tell you boys," Ivan said. "The Appeaser army came up the Graytop vale this morning. That'd be them testing our lines now."

  "Again? That's mad." Staging another attack where they'd already been repelled only three months before was a recipe for failure. Unless... "What's Orvid had to say?" James asked. "Are we free of the Codes, after what Ted did?"

  "Jim," Matthew warned.

  "Don't you 'Jim' me. Why would the Southerners attack the same place they already lost at? There's no way they trust Orvid unless..."

  Ivan's grimace said it all.

  "But..." James said. "I thought he gave the plan his blessing." It was one thing for their president to keep his support of a venture secret. Quite another for him to openly speak against it after the fact. "Springing me was his idea, wasn't it?"

  Ivan clasped James' shoulder. "The North is more than one man, even its president," he said. "And we weren't going to let you hang just so Connor Orvid could save face in front of the enemy, anymore than we'll let my brother rot for freeing you. The Industrialist cause will need a new leader soon, James. And I, for one, want that leader to be someone willing to break the enemy's rules." Ivan stood back and executed a sharp salute. The other soldiers did the same.

  Matthew, after a rueful shrug, raised a lazy hand to his temple as well.

  "I.." James began. "I don't understand."

  "First, Ironshield is going to appear on the field," explained Ivan. "We're going to drive the Appeasers back by whatever means necessary. Then, we'll take our petitions to Gorrad and put you in the running for president of the Industrialist North.”

  James was at a loss for words. Part of him wanted to refuse, to bolt away.

  Instead, he clasped Ivan Kolms' hand. "No pressure, huh?"

  The cannons continued to boom.

  "Alright, you three ride on," Ivan said. "Me and my boys are needed on the field, and you have to get into your machine."

  "Ironshield,” Matthew said, sounding skeptical. "Is it even ready? The cockpit..."

  "Tess and the others are rushing to patch it up right now. It won't be pretty, but we're hoping it won't need to hold up against much. The Appeasers brought Radiance, for whatever that walking ornament is worth. No other Southern Kaizers spotted so far."

  "We can't count on things staying that way."

  "Can't count on anything, Matt," James interjected. "But there's no time to nitpick. Let's go!" He vaulted onto his horse and kicked it into motion, heading just northeast of the distant artillery blasts. He'd almost been too late. Almost. But he was here, and there was work to do.

  *

  Samuel didn't realize he was looking at Redstripe until they'd nearly reached the camouflaged Warsuit. Gray, brown, and white painted tarps shrouded most of the giant machine from prying eyes. Next to it, under a similar covering, sat Retribution.

  Samuel and his escort were working their way down a stony hill when he heard the first far off cannon blasts of the Southern army. Just as Salkirk and Davids had planned. The attack on the southern side of Quarrystone was to serve as a distraction while Retribution and Redstripe broke the enemy camp from its undefended rear.

  "Who's piloting Retribution?" Samuel asked.

  "You mean the Virtue," a man said as he emerged from under the Warsuit's tarp. "She's the Southern Virtue, Senator.”

  It was Darian Gaul.

  A deadly warrior, on and off the battlefield. Known for his cold, unflinching approach to violence, his job during the Xang war had been the dispatching of key enemy leaders and the extracting of information from Xangese prisoners.

  In short, the man's reputation was that of a monster, and Samuel had seen enough of Gaul's handiwork not to refute the title.

  Of course Salkirk would send his personal butcher, Samuel thought. "Gaul," he said. "You know our target, you know what the mission is. I'll make myself clear: I want this to be carried out with as little bloodshed as possible. We will give the Industrialists every opportunity to lay down their arms."

  Darian Gaul sneered, then turned and grabbed hold of the rope ladder leading into Virtue's cockpit. "Whatever you say, Senator."

  Something cold formed in Samuel's gut. He needed to delay this catastrophe. Damn it, he needed to think. But by the sounds of the guns drifting from the south, he knew there was no time. If he didn't move now, that army would have mobilized and risked their lives for nothing. They'd be massacred. "Is Redstripe fueled and loaded?" he called to a mechanic nearby.

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Good. Everyone, clear the way." He stormed over to his Warsuit and climbed the ladder, sending up a final, silent prayer. For his country, for his army, for his soul. And, last but not least, he said a prayer for the people of Quarrystone.

  **

  The mobilization of the Northern defense was well under way by the time James, Matthew, and Na’Tet crested the final hill overlooking Quarrystone. A sprawling war camp composed of equal parts tents and wooden shacks, with mud avenues weaving between clustered structures overlaid with wood planks in a vain effort to ease the passage of vehicles, Quarrystone was alive with running men, speeding trucks, and the slower, squeaking rumble of Krieger Warsuits making their steady way toward the front lines.

  From here, Graytop Hills blocked the artillery exchange from view. But, judging by the fiery explosions flashing at the edge of camp, spraying dirt and machine parts as cannon rounds hit their unseen targets, the Appeasers were having no trouble calibrating their fire.

  "God, how close are they, to be hitting us so far in?" Matthew said in awe. Na’Tet merely bowed his head, clutching his sprocket pendulum in deference to the miniature gods rolling through the mud.

  James shook his head. "I don't know. Too close, in any case. We have to get to Ironshield, whether it's ready or not." They rode downhill, into the chaos.

  A truck column stopped, the men holding onto the fuel tanks cheering as they recognized the Ironshield and Matthew Kaizer. James raised a hand in greeting, then pointed to a captain around his own age. "How are the Appeasers getting their fi
eld pieces so close?"

  "Southerners are laying it all out, Commander Edstein!" he shouted in response. "We've never seen so many men or guns in one place. And they brought Radiance!"

  Elliot Salkirk. That man had been a slimy shit going back as far as the Revolution, if what James' parents had said was true. Would a man like Salkirk walk into a battle he didn't think he was guaranteed to win? James wondered. "Any other Warsuits? Has anyone seen Redstripe?"

  "No others yet, Sir!"

  "Probably still under repair from your last bout." Matthew grinned as the trucks rolled off. "Southern mechanics being what they are, they might never figure it out. Eh, Jim?"