Chapter 6: Battle in the Rain

  At first, Turner wasn't certain what he was seeing.

  It looked - and even sounded - like some kind of steam-powered contraption, but he knew he'd heard it start up. That wasn't right. Who triggered the start? And why had it glowed beforehand? Did it have some kind of electrical component? Some hidden mechanism that activated when they drew close?

  The questions raced through his mind as the bronze-plated machine rose on six spindly legs. Even while he questioned his vision, Turner was assessing it for weak points. The exposed joints looked thin. The open plate had three glass eyes, lacking armor. Small targets, but it wasn't moving fast-

  The moment Turner thought that, the construct lunged.

  He couldn't say it was elegant or graceful - or even powerful - but the stumbling tangle of limbs was fast. Too fast.

  Turner's instincts took over. He fired, the revolver bucking in a familiar heave. The shot pinged off the curved upper shell with a loud metallic clang, just as a peal of thunder erupted. A flash of lightning lit the field in stark white, casting the machine’s gold-and-green carapace into silhouette.

  He'd lost sight of Nora and Grana Thess. Hopefully, Nora had gotten the old woman to safety. At his side, Turner saw Milo dropping to the ground, vanishing into the crops. The storm kept Martin hidden from Turner, but he still had a good view of the two watchmen up front - and Captain Tarnlow diving aside. Good man. He was trying to flank it with Turner.

  The two watchmen at point were less fortunate. Their spears made a horrid screech as they glanced off the bronze plating, doing nothing more than scratching the patina. The two front legs of the construct were already retaliating. Even over the torrential downpour, Turner heard the crunch as a cylindrical foot connected with one man's jaw. He was glad he only heard it, and couldn't see what had happened. He didn't think the man would be getting back up.

  The other managed to twist away, crying out in pain as the impact hit on his shoulder instead of a more lethal blow. It still knocked him off his feet, his spear flying into the darkness. He collapsed, then rolled, trying to put distance between himself and the construct's relentless advance. His scream of pain told Turner that he was alive, but not to expect any help in the fight.

  The two watchmen went down fast, but both Turner and Tarnlow were ready. The revolver kicked in his hand as Turner fired again, this time taking aiming more carefully at a joint. He missed, but just barely, with the bullet slamming into the slender leg and jarring it to the side.

  Tarnlow's sword came from the other side, skittering along one of the bronze tubes of a leg before catching in a joint. The loud clunk of the impact preceded the scrape of Tarnlow yanking his sword back and toppling over. He'd thrown himself back just in time to avoid the swipe of one of the other legs lashing out in a counterattack.

  Turner ran, dashing through the rain at an angle from the shed and the construct. One more shot pinged off the armored carapace - no damage, but it kept the thing’s attention. He had the only decent ranged weapon. He had to use that edge.

  It worked.

  The construct clattered, off-balance from the double blow but recovering quickly. A swift pivot turned the trio of glowing blue eyes toward Turner. The entire body shuddered-

  The watchman with the lantern finally got his wits back. The beam swung toward the construct, lighting up its rain-slick greenish shell. For a few moments, the entire thing was visible in a clear glow. Turner could see every small twitch and adjustment of the lenses, every flex and slide of an exposed piston. For a moment, it resembled some macabre parody of life.

  Then one of the remaining watchmen, breaking out of his own shock, lunged. The spear's tip slid along the curved side, but the distinct hiss that followed was all too familiar. The leg lashing out vented a puff of steam, and the impact wasn’t just faster - it crushed the man’s ribcage in a single hit. Turner saw it crumple inward, even as the man was flung back out of the light.

  Turner barely had time to register what had happened before the construct’s glowing blue eyes were charging forward. It moved faster now, its legs skittering with a precision they’d lacked at the start of the fight. He threw himself to the side, one of the legs whisking by his foot in a too-close pass.

  As Turner slid through the mud and brought his revolver to bear, he saw something impact the construct's eyes. Small, fast-moving... a stone? But it didn't ring or glance off. It splattered just above the eyes, a smear of brown skin and white tuber tumbling down into the three stalks holding the lenses. "A potato?"

  The instant the construct stumbled and paused, another movement caught Turner's eye. He'd lost track of Martin and Milo at the start of the fight, and now he saw Martin springing up from the field. His body coated in mud, stocky build a blur of power and desperation, he heaved his full weight behind the spear lunge. The tip lodged into that opening of the thing's 'face' an instant too late, the armored shell snapping shut. The spear's tip wedged into the opening, leaving a thin line still exposed. The snapping maw of the armored shell had thrown the thrust off-center, missing the delicate-looking eyes.

  Of course. Milo had thrown the potato. The two brothers were like that, coordinating their attacks without a word. He scrambled to his feet and saw Martin rolling away an instant before the construct's leg slammed down. The spear snapped in half and fell away, useless now, but Martin had anticipated the counter and made himself scarce.

  "OVER HERE! REGROUP!" Captain Tarnlow yelled that from nearby. The lantern-carrier was already over there, on another side of the field near the shadowy shape of a building - probably the farmer's stable. Martin was clambering to his feet and joining Turner in a staggered run when it happened.

  *KRAK-OOOM!!*

  A flare of light exploded behind his eyes, and an electric jolt shot through his legs. He tripped, stumbled, slid into the mud. His ears were ringing, the steady drum of the downpour replaced by a sharp, aching tone that swallowed the rest of the world. Heat washed over his back. Disoriented, vision spotty, he couldn't find the lantern again.

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  Turner felt someone grasp his arm, steadying him. Martin. Somehow, despite being closer, Martin had weathered the blast better. Still dazed, Turner only realized after several steps how close they'd been to the lightning strike. He risked a glance over his shoulder, at the construct.

  It wasn't down. The thing shuddered. Even in the darkness, Turner could see it. The entire frame showed a spiderweb of crackling light, hissing and grounding into the field. Aside from the faint tremor, it remained eerily intact. Some oddity of its construction had kept even the full fury of the heavens from doing more than stunning the bronze nightmare.

  Turner finally caught sight of Nora's cloak. She shoved something into Milo’s hand, but Turner couldn’t hear her. Even the nearby shouting was muffled - he could barely make out his name, like someone yelling it underwater. He staggered far enough to slump against a support beam just inside the stable, ignoring the brays of the lone donkey.

  He could tell they were formulating a plan. He couldn't hear it, but it made sense. The strange machine may be stunned, but they had no idea how long it would stay that way. Turner noted Captain Tarnlow was here, spattered with mud but whole. The lantern-bearer too, and two more of the watchmen. One of them was dragging a third - the man with the injured shoulder - out of the way. Three men down. Two dead. His mind was starting to work again, analyzing and planning with a cold and ruthless efficiency. This was how Turner reacted to shock.

  The lantern-bearer swept the beam toward the machine. Turner’s ears still rang. He couldn’t hear the discussion, but he could guess. They were trying to figure out what to do next. His half-numb fingers managed to reload two of three shells. He nearly dropped the second before finally chambering it. The light didn’t quite reach the hissing construct, but as Turner squinted, his vision began to clear. He could make out the bottom of the half-sphere had opened up its sides. Small scoops - or maybe funnels - had unfolded, gaping upward into the rain.

  Abruptly, it all clicked together.

  "Scatter!" Turner yelled as he pushed himself upright. "It's refilling its boiler! It'll keep getting faster the longer we fight!" He'd seen it heat the boiler in a matter of seconds. He had no idea how - he knew enough about steam power to know that should take minutes, at least. If it could heat that fast and replace the water it vented...

  Lightning flashed. Muted thunder pushed through the ringing in his ears. He saw the machine’s outline in the flash - but by the time his vision cleared, it was already halfway to them. No one questioned his shout, but they’d only just started to scatter when its second leap closed the distance. The lantern-bearer's head exploded like a ripe melon with a wet crack.

  The lantern flew through the air, crashing against the stable beside Turner. He ducked aside, just in time. But his foot hit a bucket he hadn’t seen, and he went sprawling backward. He grunted as his back slammed into the stall, landing hard on the dirt. He caught a glimpse of Captain Tarnlow going down. Whether struck or diving, he couldn’t tell.

  Turner was still getting his bearings when the machine crashed into the stable. It clipped a support beam, but Turner didn't care about that. His ears still ringing, Turner couldn’t tell if the watchman it flung through the air was screaming. But by the time Turner’s eyes caught up, the man wasn’t making a sound. The machine had pinned him to the far wall with its front legs, crushing his chest inward. Blood welled from the dying man’s mouth, then sprayed outward as he tried - and failed - to scream. His head jerked up in agony as steam hissed from the machine’s limbs, scalding his neck and arms.

  Before Turner could stand, the stall latch exploded. The panicked donkey had smelled the fire. The lantern’s flame was crawling up the wall now, filling the stable with acrid smoke and flickering light. The stall door burst open, and only Turner's reflexes saved him from another knock on the head. His arm shot up and slammed into his own nose, sending him tumbling backward in a burst of pain. His revolver tumbled from the numbed fingers of the arm, clattering into the rain.

  As he rolled aside and sat up, Turner saw the construct twisting toward him. In the cramped stable, its legs scrabbled across the space, pushing off beams and stalls, tilting itself awkwardly to make the turn. Two glowing lenses locked onto his gaze - the third already shattered. Steam hissed in thin streams from the joints as it reoriented.

  That's when the terrified donkey's hind legs kicked out and slammed into the thing's side.

  At the same moment, Turner’s left ear popped. Sound rushed in. A donkey's bray. Rain hammering the roof. Shouting outside. The donkey’s kick landed with a clang, ringing the machine like a bell. Almost in slow motion, Turner saw it sway. It had to weigh half a ton, but it was already off-balance… and a donkey’s kick packed real power.

  Gravity won. The nightmarish machine toppled, crashing onto its back. Adding insult to injury, the fleeing donkey slammed one hoof down on the underside, knocking a panel out of line. It nearly trampled Turner too, forcing him to twist aside and slam into the wall. Burning embers from the spreading fire scorched his arm, but he barely noticed.

  His right ear still rang, but the spotty vision was clearing. Turner's disorientation was gone. For the first time since the lightning strike, he felt combat ready. His sword was out as soon as the donkey passed. Turner gripped it in both hands, facing the prone machine just as it bucked three legs and rolled itself upright.

  Over the fire’s crackle and the rain’s steady drum, Turner heard something. A guttural bubbling noise, followed by a faint hiss. Black smoke belched from a vent on the construct, sizzling water ran down its legs. He knew that sound. The boiler was restarting. But the construct was moving slower now.

  He had a chance.

  "TURNER! DOWN!" Milo yelled from behind him.

  He'd already tensed his legs, about to move, when alarm shot through him at the next word.

  "SUNBURST!" Nora added.

  Turner didn’t drop. He vaulted the stall wall, landing in the donkey’s straw-filled pen. His sword caught between the slats. Instinctively, he let go - better that than a broken wrist. He crossed both arms over his face, one still stinging from earlier, as he hit the straw.

  He heard the impact. Milo's throw had been true. The dull whump of sound, like a furnace lit too fast, hit his ears. Heat washed over him in a wave. The stench hit a moment later. Burnt copper. Sour fruit. Something unnaturally sweet. A scent he hadn't sensed in over a year.

  When Turner sprang to his feet, the brilliant white flare of light had faded. It made no sound, no scream, but the way the construct staggered... it was almost like in pain. The fluid had splattered across the front, coating the intricate brasswork of its 'face'. The concoction still hissed and flared. Turner knew it would burn even in the rain.

  The heat was already deforming the brass. One lens drooped dangerously, while the machine staggered, half-blinded by the light and the damage. Turner found the hilt of his sword and yanked it free, readying for a finishing blow. He needn't have bothered.

  Martin, wielding a spear from a fallen watchman, barreled into the stable. His lunge carried speed, bulk, and raw desperation. The tip dug into the damaged and melting brass, the wooden haft catching fire as the spear pierced deep into the shell.

  Turner felt more than heard the shriek. It wasn't a sound, but something inside him twisted all at once. A sickening squeeze gripped his chest and gut - then vanished. The wave of nausea was short, intense, and left him with a quiet, crawling sense of wrongness. Like a layer of filth was somehow sliding off his very being.

  The nightmare machine gave one final shudder, then crumpled. The boiler gurgled. Steam hissed.

  Then, at last, it lay still.