Ironshield Page 8

  “I hope there is,” Samuel replied. He felt a quiver run up from his legs to his spine, something he hadn’t experience since his first time on the battlefield. Samuel hadn’t felt this alive in years. “Or else we’ll be talking all day. Are you ready, or aren’t you?”

  Retribution shifted its arm, the muzzle of its gun wavering. The Warsuit went still, and for a long spell, Kolms gave no reply.

  “Despite whatever you may think, Mutton,” Theodore Kolms said. “I don’t cherish the notion of killing a defenseless man, least of all a hero of the Revolution. Call for your Warsuit to be brought to you and we’ll have our reckoning as equals.”

  “Generous of you to wait, but I have a simpler idea. If you wish to fight on even terms, climb out of your machine,” Samuel said. “I will not unleash Redstripe in the middle of my city.”

  Retribution didn’t have a head analog. However, it did have sights installed, lenses jutting from swiveling orbs imbedded in the Warsuit’s surface. One of those whirred from side to side. “For what it’s worth, I respect your courage, and retract any implication of cowardice I delivered. But I will bring the Ironshield home this day, and I cannot risk leaving my Warsuit only to be arrested by your men. Even if I do not doubt your honor, I cannot say the same for the others gathered here.”

  “Then there is no recourse left to us.”

  Kolms sighed. “It seems not. But allow me to extend this piece of mercy. Let us conduct our bout in the old way, shot for shot. It’s the best I can do.”

  “Great, so we don’t even get to be moving targets,” Paulson grumbled. “Why don’t I just shoot myself and save him some ammunition?”

  “Done,” Samuel called to Kolms. “On condition that I fire the first shot.”

  Another whirring of Kolms’ scope, up and down in a nod. “I would have it no other way, Striker Crimson.”

  The impromptu audience was hushed into an unnatural silence, giving the illusion that Samuel was alone with the metal giant. Even Paulson was forgotten, his mutterings carried away with the dust stirred about with each warm breeze.

  Dirt crunched beneath Samuel’s polished shoes. Though his suit was of a military cut, he had the sudden desire to be in true uniform, if this was to be his final hour. But it was too late for that. Just as it was too late to take Paulson’s pleading to heart and summon Redstripe.

  Samuel’s chest pounded, his own heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Sweat ran down his forehead in rolling drops, making his face itch. He ignored it, put all his attention on the Warsuit filling the street in front of him. If I don’t make a miracle happen with this shot, he figured. I won’t have another. Samuel Mutton had never been a gambling man, until now.

  “Paulson,” he barked. “Where’s the gun sighted at?”

  “Dead center of the torso. If we’re lucky, there’ll be a weak seam over his cockpit.”

  “Follow my instructions,” Samuel said, thankful that Kolms most likely couldn’t hear their un-amplified voices. “Move the horizontal sight down by fifteen millimeters, then swing it three millimeters to the left.”

  The cannon clicked and squeaked as Paulson turned the hand crank. “But that’s aiming for—"

  “I know, no need to blurt it out.”

  “It’ll never work, Sam! You’re aiming too high. If I bring the sightline down another millimeter and you hit where the armor is—"

  “Do as you are told,” Samuel snapped. “Do not stray from my instructions, not by a single hair, do you understand?”

  “But, Sir…”

  “Do. You. Understand?”

  “God blast it!” Paulson kicked up a cloud of dirt. “I should at least have a say in how you get me killed.” But the secretary made no further attempt to re-adjust the gun.

  Samuel closed his eyes and made the sign of the wheel with his fingers. Oh God and heavenly Savior, guide my hand. He didn’t usually try to bring the Almighty into matters of war, sure that if God had His way men wouldn’t kill each other to begin with. Today, he’d make an exception.

  Opening his eyes, Samuel concentrated, raising his saber and lining up the back of the blade with the cannon’s trajectory. “Another half-mil to my left.”

  Paulson complied without a word, though Samuel could feel the man’s glare between his shoulder blades.

  “Ready?”

  “If you can call it that.”

  Samuel lowered the sword. “Fire!”

  The ground bucked beneath his feet, and he was engulfed in a roiling dust cloud. The sound rang in his ears, and had Samuel not thought to slacken his jaw, no doubt teeth would have cracked from the concussive force.

  The shell whacked against Retribution, creating a bright flash of sparks visible through the gritty haze.

  Samuel stumbled a step as the dust cleared, his ears reverberating with the ring of the field gun, disoriented by the power of the blast.

  Above Retribution’s right knee joint, a blackened shell mark marred the armor plating.

  “A fine attempt, Mutton,” Kolms said, bringing his own gun to bear on Samuel. “But I’m afraid this is over.”

  Cries and gasps sounded among the civilians as they moved for cover out of the corner of Samuel’s vision. By God, what have I done? He’d miscalculated. Worse, he’d risked everything on a gamble. “Paulson, run!”

  Retribution’s knee burst in an explosion of metal shrapnel, bearings, cogs and springs. Steel framework snapped, jagged edges splaying out as the Warsuit tilted on its side. Kolms shouted a curse over the loudspeaker as his cannon fired.

  The round whipped several yards over Samuel’s head, creating a wind that pulled at his hair and rustled his mustache. He turned with its swift passing in time to see it burst through the corner of a building, levelling its top floor. People below screamed as bricks and shards of glass rained on the awning above their heads.

  Retribution caught itself before tipping over, Kolms managing to lock in the shattered joint with a metallic clang!

  No one seemed to have been injured. Nearby, Paulson slowly stood. He’d thrown himself to the dirt at Samuel’s shout.

  “God damn it, and you wonder why I drink,” Paulson griped, spitting grit from between his teeth and dusting himself off.

  “Shut your mouth and reload that blasted gun!”

  “Clever bastard!” Kolms roared. “But not clever enough.” He raised his Warsuit’s gun.

  Samuel grabbed his microphone from where it hung off the edge of the ammo cart. “It’s not your shot, General,” he shouted with a gesture at the destroyed structure over his shoulder. “So stand still and honor the terms of the duel.”

  “Cheap son of a whore, that was a misfire—"

  “You fired, and you missed. Or would you not claim victory if that botched shot had taken me out?”

  Kolms let out a stream of curses, his voice crackled and distorted through the loudspeaker. “Fire your shot, old man. You won’t get a third.”

  Hopefully I won’t need one. Samuel heard Paulson load in the next shell and rattled off a new set of coordinates.

  “Shouldn’t we hit the leg again, Sam?” Paulson asked between labored breaths. “Another shot like that and we can bring him to the ground.”

  “That won’t matter if he can still shoot. Trust me.” Samuel looked over his shoulder and locked gazes with his old friend.

  Wild-eyed and caked in dust, Paulson nodded. “Alright.”

  Soldiers and civilians had moved further out of the way, pressing against buildings. On the left side of the street, they milled about on the Senate House steps within the gated property. Not a good spot to be, if Kolms won this and met resistance on his way to take the prisoner kept within.

  Samuel caught sight of someone else watching from his parlor balcony. Leanne stood beneath a parasol, a handkerchief clutched at her bosom. From this distance Samuel couldn’t tell if she was horrified, furious, or both.

  Sorry, my love, Samuel thought. He didn’t know what he was sorry for. Sorry he might be
leaving her for the grave, perhaps. Or maybe sorry he intended to live to see tomorrow. He was just… sorry. “Paulson?”

  “Ready!” His secretary’s voice held some conviction now, spurred on by the first shot’s unlikely success. For better or worse the man was putting his faith in Samuel. And Samuel, more than ever before, felt honored.

  “Fire!”

  Another concussive blast, another plume of dust choking the air and stinging his eyes.

  A shower of sparks sprayed off Retribution’s curved chest plate when the fast-moving shell grazed beneath its cannon arm. A crash beyond Kolms’ Warsuit sounded where the round struck a building.

  Shame clenched Samuel’s heart. For all his talk, he’d gone and destroyed someone’s home or store front. And he might not live to make amends.

  This time, Kolms moved the limb experimentally before boasting. “Well done, Senator. I will drink to your memory.”

  What happened next occurred too fast for Samuel to follow. With pings and pops and the screech of tearing metal, Retribution’s arm swung straight down as Kolms launched his next round. The shot boomed into the ground at the Warsuit’s feet, shaking the ground so hard as to bring Samuel to one knee. The sound compounded on his already damaged hearing, obscuring all other sounds in a high-pitched keen.

  “Reload, now!” he cried.

  “What?!” Paulson shouted back.

  “RELOAD.”

  By the time Paulson had complied with the bellowed order, Samuel was behind the cannon. He shoved his secretary aside and knelt to adjust the gun’s trajectory himself. There was no more time for instructions.

  “Bah!” Kolms growled, his Warsuit whirring as he tried to lift the ruined arm. Samuel couldn’t believe he’d actually hit the connecting gears. The odds against striking such a narrow target, even at this range, were staggering. But Samuel wasn’t out of the woods yet. Whatever blessings had been bestowed on him, best to take advantage while he could.

  His field gun rolled back with the earth-trembling force of its shot. This time, the round burst against the Warsuit’s left shoulder exhaust pipe, twisting it to the side, reducing its end to a bent, fragmented mess. The force of this impact did something Samuel hadn’t even dared hope for. Retribution teetered on its damaged right leg. Then, with a loud snap, the leg broke apart and the Warsuit tipped over.

  People within the Senate grounds scrambled aside, many only narrowly avoiding being crushed by the falling machine. Retribution crashed through the tall wrought iron fence, tearing a section of it down with sparks and squeals of protest. Decorative trees and hedges were obliterated when the Warsuit landed.

  Samuel didn't give himself a chance to reflect on his victory, not even as Southerners cheered, Northerners booed, and Paulson clapped him on the shoulder. Through the dust and acrid diesel smoke, Samuel dashed toward the fallen Kaizer, saber in hand.

  The smog made him cough, seared his throat in that all-too familiar way. The sting of burning diesel and overheated steel. Blindly, he made his way over the ruins of the fence, past the mangled destruction of Retribution's leg.

  As if coalesced from the haze, Theodore Kolms came at him, his ignition saber swinging.

  Samuel parried the first swing with his own blade, and barely repelled the second that followed in its wake.

  Kolms slashed with wild ferocity, his teeth bared, stubble-peppered square jaw set. Wings of gray swept from his temples through jet-black hair, matching the granite shade of his fierce eyes beneath thick black brows.

  All the desperation and anger with which James Edstein had fought in that final spar at Graytop was evident tenfold in this man, as though the North had become one great, multi-faceted beast, growing ever more violent and wild with each prod.

  Even as he parried, dodged, and struck in return, Samuel had a nightmarish image of an Industrialist army in which every man and woman within its ranks battled with such fatalistic abandon and primal rage.

  Such a war, he knew, could never be won, no matter what advantage in troops or supplies the South may have.

  A high sweep nearly cleaved the top of Samuel's head. Blocking the backhand slash that followed, Samuel hopped onto one of Retribution's jutting arms, striking downward from an elevated position.

  Hot pain curved around his shin as a cut of Kolms' blade sliced through his pants.

  Samuel struck back, a slash which Kolms narrowly dodged, receiving a superficial cut to the side of his muscular neck. Whatever pain that caused only spurred the Northern general on more. His rictus of rage became a savage grin.

  Samuel knew this bloodthirst well. He'd felt it too, when facing the Ironshield.

  And it had nearly gotten him killed.

  Samuel predicted the next two swipes of Kolms' blade, dancing from side to side to avoid the weapon's bite. Hot blood already soaked his pant leg.

  On the third slash, Samuel saw his opening. He stomped down on Kolms' sword, trapping it between his shoe and the surface of Retribution.

  Feeling his opponent’s saber start to wriggle free, Samuel wasted no time, sticking his blade inside Kolms' handguard and delivering a cruel cut along the man's knuckles.

  Kolms released his saber with a shout and stumbled back, holding a bleeding hand.

  Samuel leapt the distance and brought his opponent to the ground with him where, after a brief rolling struggle, he managed to get on top and bring the point of his saber to Theodore Kolms' throat.

  "Yield," Samuel demanded.

  "So I can rot in one of your prisons with fewer rights than a common cutpurse?" Kolms spat across the flat of Samuel's blade. "Finish me now, Striker Crimson. Paint yourself with my blood and live up to your Warsuit's name."

  Samuel pressed the sword a bit harder. "I would do that," he hissed. "But whether you like it or not, whether I like it or not..." He relieved the pressure, pulling his blade back. "Things are going to change."

  "Sanctimonious bastard!" Kolms moved to get up, only to be pinned down by a pair of Samuel's men, another three standing by with rifles trained on him.

  "For the crimes of treason, damage of property, and creating a menace, you, Theodore Kolms, are under arrest."

  The men shackled the struggling Northerner and took him away at Samuel's nod.

  His body still quivered with pent-up adrenaline, and his hands shook as they were prone to do in the aftermath of a harrowing battle. Samuel looked back up to the parlor balcony to catch a look at his wife, but Leanne was no longer there.

  "Senator!"

  An out of breath private skidded to a halt in front of Samuel, doubling over, hands on knees.

  "Easy, boy. It can't be that urgent." But Samuel had a sinking feeling in his soul.

  "James Edstein," the private gasped. "Senator, the Ironshield has escaped!"

  Chapter 6

  “Put this on, Sir.”

  James almost didn’t hear the man, intent on holding onto the dashboard of the speeding motorcar as his driver swerved around a corner.

  The undercover Northerner, dressed in red and brown Southern garb, spoke as though this were a leisurely afternoon drive rather than a speeding flight from the scene of a prison break.

  The same sanguine attitude couldn’t be said of the man driving the other car, kicking up a cloud of dust as it squealed off in the opposite direction.

  “He didn’t have to kill the kid,” James said as he pulled on the Southern coat his driver had tossed in his lap. The other man had taken James’ coat to act as a decoy, sparing only a curious glance at the empty space where James had plucked away the Industrialist Gearsword. That was after he’d stabbed the young soldier guarding James’ cell without even attempting a non-lethal solution. Then he’d stabbed him again, and again. Four times by James’ count, if not more. The boy was just doing his damned job.

  “Couldn’t be helped, Commander. We’re on borrowed time as it is.”

  “I thought Orvid was leaving me for the rope. Why the sudden caper?”

  “Officially
you’re still condemned by the Northern provinces, Sir. But unofficially, President Orvid said he’d turn a blind eye to whatever military high command decided to do. And that decision was to get you home and back into your Warsuit.”

  “Speaking of, who was that stomping in the damn street? What’s his exit plan?”

  “Kolms in Retribution, Sir, and he doesn’t have one. Said to tell you he expects he’ll be released soon, when you win this thing.”