Record of the Eregraine Expedition, Day 2

I am once again impressed by the work that the Knoxworth Company will place into it’s constructs. It is a shame that no more are being sold. Rose is an exemplary model, capable of even more complex instructions. I have already managed to program her to make the tea for the day. That’s more than Michels has been able to do. I can tell he resents taking orders from a woman, but I really have no time for his petty troubles. I have finished my tea and taken time to record more in this journal. Worthington is also taking his rest before he moves back to melting through the ice. The crystals imbedded up and down his arm are pulsing a vivid blue it is difficult to ignore. Still, this cosmetic downfall is nothing compared to the gifts the crystals allow. I have seen Hydrosists work, even Vapourists like Worthington, but I am never the less impressed. The man has willingly turned himself into a human steam generator. He is easily making short work of the rime blocking our progress.

 

Worthington was assigned to me by the Bureau. Michels I hired to do the less complex work and for the small airship he owns. This is the method we used to travel to the north west and up this impressive mountain. We left on the third of this month from Portal-Whitesmith, taking the route over the forest. It was an exciting early morning for me, the mist still rising from the dense pines. The craft we took was small as a necessity – as mentioned, the first group her had to turn back for want of a safe berth for their craft.

 

We stopped for fuel in Kernow and Borealis. While both cities interested my greatly, with their history, architecture and collections, we did not stay for more than a day in each, only buying the most necessary supplies. We only prepared for our long haul on the mountain when we reached cold Markland, stopping in a town of fair size close to the area we strove to reach. I was surprised to see no buildings around the small plateau where we landed, before I remembers that often Marklanders at this height construct their dwellings within the tunnels and rocks of the mountains. A primitive solution to adapt, true, but an ingenious one, nevertheless. The people were genial, but seemed dismissive or even concerned by our mission. I had not expected to find such low superstition here. Though I can understand their general avoidance of the high peaks – it is a harsh place with little reward and none cross it by foot, only passing overhead. However our expedition of course requires a short sojourn to those un-walked places, so we set about purchasing enough food, equipment and the tents to hold them. Michels was upset we did not remain longer to enjoy some of the more physical pleasures the place had to offer, but I had no patience. The weather was being unnaturally cooperative, an opportunity I would not pass over.

 

And thus we arrived here and set to work. It is a daunting theater for this work, but I am confident that the operation shall run smooth. Worthington is a better partner than his standoffish nature would imply and even Michels can be harangued into using his backbone if money is involved. I expect a little over a week’s worth, no more than two. A small price of time to pay for the mysteries of the Pre-Arrival we may uncover.

 

 

 

 

Record of the Eregraine Expedition, Day 1

Words cannot begin to describe the excitement I feel of being here. Though on this exposed mountain face the winds do chill my mind burns with the sensation of what is near. I have ordered Michels and Worthington to begin excavation preparations immediately. The first order will be to have Worthington deal with the ice. But this is definitely something – the stone arch is significant of that most surely, though the passage below is sealed with opaque frost.

 

It is this excitement and my… particular sensitivity that have encouraged me to keep this journal of our expedition. I am normally not one for such trivialities… but I feel compelled to record this occasion – this is the first success I have had in my search.

 

My name is Violet Eregraine. I was born in Macha, though I remember little of that misty castle town.  I do not have recollections of mother or father – they presumably died, or vanished, though no trace has come from them and I am not eager to search. Either they are dead, in which case such an endeavor would be futile, or they abandoned me, in which case I doubt they would be the sort of persons that would interest me much.

 

The only family I did know was my uncle. He was my mother’s brother, but was much older, having left the family before my mother was born. However, the documentation placed him as my only family and so I was sent to live with him in Portal-Whitesmith. I barely remember him even – he shipped me off not long after. However, I hold no resentment to him for this and would thank him, if he had not vanished as well. Though, his profession of Studies of the Unknown make such a disappearance hardly a rarity.  It was my fortune he was familiar with such aspects beyond the regular ken of those in the cities. From observing my habits and playing, he determined that I was one of the few who were Physic Sensitive. He most generously allowed me to move to the Island of Coever, to the prestigious Institute of the Higher Mind. He was eager to meet with me again after I had matured with the institute’s help, but that chance was never had.

 

I will not bother to speak of my time in the Institute – some there were not truly talented, or squandered what gifts they had. I focused my talents as best I could and was rewarded for it. I left the canals of Coever with a fair grasp and control of what is known in scientific circles as Telepathy, though that is a crude term for the various levels of sensitivity I have opened for myself.

 

I duly returned to Portal-Whitesmith. Though my uncle was gone, I easily obtained a job at the Bureau for the Studies of the Unknown, my skill making me an excellent huntress of strange signals that have been recorded across Dark.

 

With a lucky discovery of a Post-Arrival dig site and the sensitive artifact within I was allowed a grant for my own investigation. Post-Arrival and Non-Arrival cultures do hold a fascination for me – what civilization dwelt here before the first intrepid explorers tore the portal in the fabric of space, boldly stepping into the Universe beyond? As well, such investigations could prove vital in understanding the bizarre and unnatural species that one will find in the forests with forms of human intelligence. As well, there are many strange artifacts and containers from this era that seem to have peculiar signatures, making it simple for one such as myself to locate them. Why these artifacts have continued mental resonance, or were resonated in the first place is still unknown.

 

But I digress into the scientific. I had heard from a colleague that the Aesir Mountains, in the uncivilized North West, had occasionally revealed structures on their slopes that had caught the interest of an expedition he had been on. They did not have the ability to land in their large airship and a sudden storm forced them to withdraw.

 

In short, I determined to locate such sites and obtain what information that I could. I also have a personal motive against the man, if that word can be used, who happened to give me this information. He scoffed at the idea of a young woman performing such dangerous fieldwork and in truth had been against my entrance into the Bureau, being a misogynist of the most pathetic sort. I will have great pleasure in bringing back whatever it is we locate here.

 

I must end my writing for tonight as the candle grows dim. Worthington has grown tired from his work and has gone back to his tent to sleep. I have given Michels permission to end the day as well after he has shored up the progress Worthington has made. Rose is here with me – I fear that if left outside her inner workings may freeze up and I would prefer Worthington focus on melting the ice at the cavern and not gently defrosting constructs. I suppose as she does not sleep she will make a fair sort of night watch, but as we are located on a cliff with no way down or up besides dirigible the prospect of being set upon does not worry my mind and I will sleep with no issue tonight. 

Construct

From what I have learned since that day, I am the only one to have seen the Knoxworths before they quit the city of Portal-Whitesmith. The name Knoxworth may be familiar to those that followed the work of the great construct designer, Desmond Knoxworth, also known for a sudden death surrounded by controversy. Before I took my leave of this city to study abroad in Albionoria, I was a casual acquaintance of their son, Clarence and had met the mother, Gwendolyn, once or twice. When I returned, I reestablished contact with the family. Desmond had passed away in the four years that I had been gone. Mrs. Knoxworth requested that I help move out some of the old constructs that laid around the place. Not having steady work, I took this job.

The house was old and musty. Mrs. Knoxworth seemed to be living in the garden, surrounded by overgrown rosebushes and a rounded construct with spidery arms that squatted beside her wrought iron garden furniture, and whirred near the endless stream of tea and tobacco that the old lady consumed. She chatted pleasantly, if inanely, apologizing for the odd absence of Clarence. She claimed him to be ill, and infectious at that. The entire third floor of the house seemed shut off. I strove to listen for sounds of him, but the whole house creaked and groaned with sounds that both baffled and unnerved me, so I could not determine if the boy even still existed.

One day, late in the afternoon, the Daymoon looming over the city's spires, I came to find the front door locked. I was alarmed, knowing that Mrs. Knoxworth had no appointments. I clambered over the garden wall, pricking myself on the roses as I found the back door ajar. I slowly walked inside, calling but receiving no reply, meeting only the silent host of brass effigies that still resided in the various corners of that house.

I ascended the stairs slowly. I was concerned. And this is the point where I opened the door and saw what I now report, though I doubt my words can capture it. How can I describe Clarence Knoxworth -what was left of him? A porcelain mockery of a face, painted white, with black straw bangs, a body that was but a shell of brass and wood. Skeletal arms and legs splayed on the bed, chest opened and the leather sacks heaving inside as they took in blood, from the arm of Gwendolyn Knoxworth, her arm placed in that semblance of a mouth, with it's sharpened teeth, the red life dripping down the throat of the thing that was not Clarence, to power the functions that only barely made it living: small, shaky gestures in it’s prison bed. 

But I was wrong about it’s weakness, a mistake that may have cost lives. I rushed to pull Mrs. Knoxworth from the hellish device that was her son, prying apart the steel jaws to take her shrunken arm out. She screamed, struggling, telling me I did not understand. I looked at her to see desperation. Then I collapsed as a heavy weight hit my head, knocking me flat to the floor and to darkness. The last thing I recall is two terrible glass eyes, flickering with the few candles in the room, observing me as the thing that was not Clarence creaked to a sitting position in the bed, half supported by, and half supporting his hysterical sobbing mother.

When I awoke, they both were gone. As far as I can tell, they are no longer in the city. A watchman claimed to have spotted an old woman carrying a thin figure wrapped in cloth out the south gate. That means they went into the forest. 
Mrs. Knoxworth is old and sick – the forest, I suspect, will kill her within a month or two. But Clarence -what can stop a thing like that? And when his mother’s blood ceases to fuel him, where shall he get his driving force? The forest holds even more horror for me, knowing that the brass vampire must soon stalk its boughs. Was that where Desmond ended up? Is that the immortal life he chose?

The Return

When I awoke, I was immersed in water. I jerked my head upwards and gasped for air, to find that the water was quite shallow. In fact, it had not been enough to cover my head – my stirrings must have moved my mouth into such a position to inhale some of it. I sloshed the water around in my mouth, letting it dribble out. I then violently spat it and looked around to gauge the situation. There was light and I looked at myself. My clothes were gone, except for my trousers, which had been so torn and ripped below the knees that I ripped this part of them off with ease. I looked and saw my leg cross stitched with red cuts, though these appeared to be in stages of healing. I held the soggy pieces of cloth in my hands and then took the time to look around. I was in water, in a small chamber with the bottom filled with water. The bottom was rounded though and the first thought that sprang to my mind was that of a bathtub. It was curved up at two ends and this is how I had not awakened instantly, but must have slid down in my sleep and then taken the water into my mouth as I lay on the bottom. Lying down, only really my lower half was in the water. And, experimenting, I could even curl up in the water itself and lay there and not be bothered by the liquid. I still had the taste of it in my mouth and it tasted surprising pure and clean, even though I had been laying in it with my filthy trousers. The light was fairly dim and I looked up. After the tub depression, it was four straight walls, a rectangle. They were a light orange colour. The whole chamber was the colour of light ceramics. Appeared to be made of that, although smoother. At the top of the room I saw that there were openings in the ceilings, one on either of the long sides. The one to my right appeared to be small and the light was coming in from there. Moonlight. I wondered, was I still on Earth, or was I crossed over to Dark? I guessed at Dark. The moonlight looked more beauteous and heavy. I could almost smell the moonlight…as well as the sea. The water I was in was freshwater but I could smell and hear waves, from the small rectangular slit window. So. Outside there was a beach, or the edge of cliffs. This place was beside the ocean. The other hole let off a dimmer light that I could not place the origin of. It was not quite the right colour to be a torch or an electrical bulb. It seemed to pulse slightly. That opening on the left was larger, but appeared to have some sort of grate over it. I realized it was large enough to push a person through, if they were lying down. This must have been my mode of entrance as I could see no other. The distance up to these windows was not great, but still a few inches beyond my reach. I pondered how I was thrust into this cell without awaking as I hit the bottom. Now I was beginning to think of this small chamber as a cell. It was smaller than a cell though. Really just the tub sized bottom and then the wall. I had room to stretch out if I lay down and this was comfortable enough with the water. But there was not much room for pacing. So I sat in the water, finally placing the soggy pieces of trouser cloth at one of the ends of the room, which were sloped up. I looked down at the water. I saw there were rectangular openings in the bottom. I then realized that this water was slowly flowing, from this end back towards the other, where there were more exits. It was not fast enough to notice at first. That might explain why I saw no dirt in this tub. The whole cell was amazingly clean, in fact. I examined the walls and saw that there were markings engraved. A simple, yet in a way comforting pattern of sea shells. I was near the ocean, surely. I could hear it. I also listened for sounds from above from the opening that I believed I had come in by. I could hear things, but in a strange echoing way. I closed my eyes. It was like the high echoes one hears at some indoor place with water. An indoor pool, or public baths, or a water filled cavern. I could not discern if the faint watery echoes were voices.

 

So. Here I was in a small room with water flowing around my feet. But I was certain I had made my journey, even if I was unawares of my destination. I sat down and then curled up, the water flowing past and under me. It was pleasantly warm, but not hot. I believed that I might even return to sleep here. Suddenly I had a thought and I reached into my pockets to see if I had any affects upon me that might be useful or explain the circumstances. I only had a soggy piece of paper in my right pocket. It appeared to be a letter, but the ink was so washed that it was impossible to read.

House Kahlenberg

House Kahlenberg

The Count of Kahlenberg did not flinch as his Alchemist injected the hypodermic. Signs of weakness were not befitting of the aristocracy. Of course, had any Count felt that his Alchemist had caused him unnecessary harm, he could easily have the man, or woman, executed. If not that, a beating was considered acceptable to place a firm warning. 

The Count of Kahlenberg would not have dreamed of harming his Alchemist, let alone execute him. The Count was a young man, but showing the marks of maturity. He had long dark hair he had tied back neatly. His face was pale and contemplative, but not without a fierce pride dancing behind his dark eyes. He was aristocracy and his pride, along with the pride of the other various Counts, kept their Barony as strong as iron. The Count’s eyes now flashed slightly as the needle was injected. He tightened his grip slightly on the arms of the chair. This was not in pain, but a test. 

“My Lord, you will ruin more chair arms that way. You snapped the arm clear off the last one. You must, as ghastly as it sounds, trust that I know my profession.”

The Count grinned. His sharpened canines showed for a moment. The peculiar alterations of these tips were a side affect of years of the enhancements given by Alchemists. They were the marks of nobles, signs of their superior blood - superior blood in every sense of the term.

“Dr. Faldenstein, I do apologize for my carelessness. You are correct to say I should conceal my strength. Otherwise, Elysia will be encouraged to ask me to help with the chores. If it is too obvious, she may make me even clear the stables.”

“My Lord, I do believe those are tasks the pay to your servants could perform for you. Money is a truly wonderful invention – it can take the place of any other creation.”

The Count laughed and rose. He took a deep breath. It appeared that the good Doctor had gotten the mixture perfect, as per the usual. He could feel his smell, his hearing, his vision improve, tuned ever so delicately towards perfection. 

“A success again, Herr Doctor. What say you we run tests? We have not measured a precise level yet in quite a while. I know it will be difficult for you to work without data.”

“A test, Mein Lord? So early in the morning? Elysia will have a fit. Or perhaps the Butler will have one for her.”

The Count took on an air of mock seriousness. 

“Good Doctor, we cannot let the complaints of those rebellious ears stand in the way of progress! If not for me, then for science? That is what you Alchemists stand for, is it not?”
   
“Hmm. I am sure that you find the tests very scientific. Well then, let us go and let you show yourself off.”

   The Count laughed again and the two men descended by the rear staircase. The Count reflected on how lucky he was to have brought such a skilled Alchemist to his household. Of course, it was mandatory that every noble family have its own Alchemist. That is how it always been, since the first Baron. And the position of Alchemist was very coveted. It was the closest that a commoner could get to being a noble. A good Alchemist commanded much respect in the Barony. At this moment, there must be hundreds of students over the Barony trying their best to remanifest their dead dog, or cause their little brother to grow two feet, or blow up the water closet with materials found in sewage drains below the town Laboratory. Many tried to master the art of life. Some succeeded, some did not. While the Alchemists were commoners, they had a power of their own. It was the Alchemists that each day mixed the bloodchanger formula to their masters, making them steadily stronger, faster, smarter. The Alchemist would raise armies for his lord to take to battle and fight beside him, using the ambitions of his mind to sway the battle. The Counts controlled the Barony. The Alchemists turned the Counts into the superhumans they were. What foreigners whispered were “vampyrs”. Of course, in those nations any nobility was quite false. How do a few titles and gaudy garments make a noble? pondered the Count. If a noble is placed above a commoner, then he must be able to back that claim. He must literally be beyond them, in the very fabric that made him.

   The Doctor and the Count stepped out the door into the grassy field behind the mansion. The Count glanced back at The House of  Kahlenberg. He allowed himself a smug smile. He had supervised and built his own house, claimed his own lands. Being raised by his uncle, he had not been entitled to lands or a mansion of his hand. However, he had proved so promising that his uncle had divided his land for him, giving him a small portion of his domain. An experiment of sorts. The County of Kahlenberg had grown remarkably in the last eight years, from a wild nothingness.

The Count ambled over, looking at the rose bushes his wife had planted. Elysia had such skill with these plants. She could have been an Alchemist, her control of life was so precise. The garden was bathed in the bright light of the Daymoon, brightly illuminating it, casting shadows. The Count bent by a wooden box he had laid out in preparation. Gently pushing aside the velvet within, he withdrew his blade. The sword was massive. Even if a commoner could carry this Zweihänder, there was little chance they could have used it effectively in any way. 

Meanwhile, the Alchemist had taken a covering off a large device at the other end of an open space. It was comprised chiefly of a large cylinder, with a pattern of holes around it. The Alchemist opened a hatch at the back, taking a vial from his jacket, shaking it and pouring it in. He slammed the hatch and watched as the machine began to emit steam, hissing.
   “Are you ready?” asked the Alchemist. 

“Start it” said the Count “Or you risk the machine loosing pressure. I would not want this to be made easy.”

“Very well, my Count.” The Alchemist began to turn the cylinder. It spun faster and faster, picking up speed. The workings of it began to move it faster than the Alchemist and soon it was at a blurred pace. The Alchemist then yanked a lever, his hands flying immediately afterwards to his ears.
There was a loud bang and a steam of smoke as the first of the spikes was fired. Made of iron, long and sharpened, it sped towards where the Count was standing. Mere moments later, its brothers were on its tail, hurtling forwards.

The Count had begun to move as soon as he had seen the level pulled. He swept the sword up from where he was holding it. There was a sharp clang as he split the iron spike in two, the pieces spinning behind him. Then he moved backwards, swifter than any regular human could of. Soon he was swinging and dodging, smiting the spikes out of the air as fast as the training machine could fire them. He moved with an easy grace. There was a beauty in battle. Those who were reduced to wild swinging and cringing were the first to lose their heads. A pile of metal shards surrounded him.

Soon the machine began to lose pressure and the barrage of spikes stopped. The Alchemist removed his hands from his ears.

“I hope that was not to loud, my Lord.”

“Hm? Ah, I was too focused at the task at hand. Doctor Faldenstein, I am impressed. Your mastery of my biology has been proven again. The machine was set faster, I see.”

“Ah, my Lord, you flatter me. Even the greatest artist cannot create a masterpiece with crude materials. Your training surely does more for you than my enhancements.”

The Alchemist paused. He ran his hand through his long fair hair. He was a good deal younger than the Count, being handsome in a youthful way. 

“Doctor? Does something trouble you?”

The Doctor would not conceal anything from his Lord. He was bound by oath to be loyal to the Count. But the Count Kahlenberg reached beyond loyalty for his servants. Through his gracious manners and often ignorance of the barrier of classes, he had earned respect among those who knew him. He was their dear leader, noble, strong and just. Not like many of the cruel, vapid counts that seemed to gain more sway over the Barony day by day. The Doctor felt comfortable speaking to the Count – speaking to him almost as a friend.

“My Lord – I could not help but notice that you read a certain letter in your study last night. I observed that the seal was that of your uncle.”

“You are very observant Doctor Faldenstein. Have you deduced something from that?”

“My lord – your uncle is not one for letters. If he wishes to see you, he visits in person, the distance between your two households not being large. Your uncle only sends letters when it is a matter of war.”

“You truly are brilliant. You are correct. The enemy in the west has come down from the hills. A rogue, a mad scientist has seized the Donia Watchtower. The Counts of this area are obliged to see to this matter. The Military council has determined that it is the responsibility of my uncle and myself to deal with this threat to the Barony.”

“I see. I can assume, once again knowing your uncle, that the battle is scheduled for today?”

“You are correct again. We wait until the later afternoon, before advancing to the south and west. I assume this is no trouble for you?”

“No, not at all. I can easily get your resources ready. Have you sent the call to arms?”

“The good and able men of Kahlenberg have been called. They will assemble after noon. Once you are prepared, we move to rendezvous with my uncle.”

“Have you…told Elysia?”

The Count frowned. “Perhaps you have a point. I did not wish to worry her last night. I hope she will not be too upset by this sudden summons.”

“Well, my Count, I do believe we should first go to breakfast and see if she is upset by your morning practice.”

“Your genius never ceases to surprise me Doctor. But please, do not keep secrets from me. I do not wish for a trouble to plague you through the day.”

“Ah, my Lord. It is simple. I, as you know, am not often comfortable with your uncle.”

“You have not had the pleasure of meeting with him often.”

“But I have conversed with his Alchemist. The man is a monster. I have reason to suspect he has been using…citizens of his own county for assembly of his Totekraft.”

“Hmm. Perhaps the Alchemist is less that scrupulous. But that still is not full evidence in the character of my uncle.”

“I…understand. It is…perhaps a feeling. Things do not always have to been seen to be working. Take…take the Daymoon, for example, my Lord. Or more precisely, take the sun. The Daymoon rises above you. The sun is unseen. However, any man of science can tell you that it is the sun that heats the planet. The Daymoon is simply an excellent reflector of the sun’s light. Due to a variety of reasons, we cannot see the sun. But that does not mean it does not give us warmth.”

“A wise parable, Herr Doctor. However, I recommend you cease your worrying. What the character of my uncle is does not affect the matter at hand. Since he is my uncle, I shall refrain from speaking my true thoughts on the man. But this is a war we must fight. Keep focused on that task. When the battle is done, we shall return home and my uncle to his home, along with his  Alchemist. You shall hopefully need see neither of them for a while. And please, do not be jumping at shadows and conspiracies. Rumours about nobles are as numerous as flies. Whispers do not mean that my uncle is pulling puppet strings. Just because we cannot see my uncle in his house, does not mean he plots nefarious deeds when out of our sight. Now, do you know what Alma has prepared for breakfast? I will need a hearty meal to prepare my mind for an explanation for Elysia.”

-------

The Count removed his gloves, setting them on the table. He sat down in his grand chair at the head of the table in the dining room. The room was wood paneled and had a feeling of warmth. Almost as soon as the Count was seating, the Butler had moved to his side.

“My dear Count! Were you using that machine again? There have been nobles killed in such dangerous shows of power. And a racket at this early in the morning, why, we were all quite distraught! And to think that the…”

“Traugott. That is enough.” To the left of the Count sat the Countess. Until this point she had sat in silence, staring distracted at the table in front of her.

“Traugott.” Said the Count “I do believe Alma has finished with breakfast. Please help Eponine bring it in. I am sure everyone here is starved.” 

Soon Traugott and Eponine, Elysia’s maid, were bringing in the platters. They laid the bread, meats, cheese and condiments before everyone seated at the table. Traugott began to move round the table, pouring a weak morning ale for everyone present. Eponine seated herself beside Elysia, moving her hands through her almost snow white hair and adjusting her posture. The Count noticed with a small smile how she tried to copy the movements of Elysia. Eponine was from a wealthier merchant family that had moved out to Kahlenberg. She was ecstatic to have been hired by a royal family. It was not unheard of for attractive maids in such families to attract the attentions of lower nobles. She could never hope for a firstborn…but she still hoped for a visiting last child. Or a cousin of royalty. 

“Before we start the meal, I do say I must apologize. It seems that my new morning alarm has not been met with the greatest enthusiasm.” There was scattered laughter around the table. The Count smiled and began his breakfast, the Alchemist sitting to his right.

The Count’s household was unique in many ways. Firstly, it was small, Kahlenberg itself being a young community. The true oddity, however, was that the Count took meals with his servants. This was a habit he had learned from his uncle. His uncle was known for his revolutionary ideals. The Count simply thought it made sense. The table was large enough for more and he had grown up with a larger family. An empty table felt like some sort of sin.  

“Delicious as always, Alma” he commented as the young chef took the last place at the table. She was still a young girl, but had a marvellous way with food. She blushed shyly, before ravenously attacking her bread roll. Her appetite would explain her love of cuisine. The amazing part, the Count mused, is that she still had such a tiny frame. 

For a few minutes, there was simply the sounds of content breakfasters, along with some chatter. The Count joked with his courtiers, laughing without a trace of falseness. However, his gaze often shifted to his wife, Elysia. She was very silent today. He had an idea what that might be, but that was something to discuss later.

“Everyone!” he said, tapping his glass “I regret to inform you all that I have been called upon by the Baroness to do my duty for our nation. After noon, Dr. Faldenstein and I will be heading with my uncle to the south west. The crazed scientists of Smiljan-Lika appear to have not learned the lessons we have taught them in the past. Rest assured, it is simply some rogue engineer, here only to wreck havoc and loot our land. I shall be back sometime in the night. If all goes well, perhaps I will see you all again at dinner.”


“Good hunting my Lord. I shall keep safe your lands and household until you return.” The large man, with thick brown beard and hair at the end of the table was Haakon, the Steward of Kahlenberg. He was a foreigner, coming from Markland, to the North-West. His people had a reputation for fierceness, stubbornness and honour. Good qualities for a household guardian. Mostly, though, his job was more that of a groundskeeper, to the limited acres around the mansion. He grinned widely, nodding towards his liege. He was a man that lived fully and wildly and the Count found him a good cheer to have around. At the end of the table, Haakon’s son smiled as well. He was a tall youth, with long light brown hair. However, his similarities to his father ended there. He was slim and clean-shaven, still not confident to grow a Marklander beard. He was a quiet youth, skilled as an assistant to his father but mostly living in his shadow. 

Soon, Traugott the Butler was up and clearing the plates, moving them back into the kitchen. Alma stood and darted past him, wary of any entry into her domain. The servants rose, one by one and drifted out of the dining hall, moving to their daily work. The last to leave was the Alchemist.

“My Lord. I shall go to my laboratory to ready my equipment. I promise to be ready by the time your soldiers are assembled.” He bowed and exited. Elysia stood up, gently pushing herself away from the table. She walked out towards their chambers. The Count followed and closed the door behind them.

“Adalwolf…I am not certain I wish for you to go today.” She said softly. She sat in her chair by the window, looking out across the wall and onto the town of Kahlenberg. The mansion was situationed on a sloping, forested hill in the middle of Kahlenberg. The town spread around this point, hundreds of tightly packed houses contained within the walls. Beyond those, lay the endless, dark forest.

“Elysia…did you have…your…” The Count searched for a word.
“Yes. While I dreamed. I dreamed I was floating over Kahlenberg. Below me…I could see into the houses of everyone. I could hear all their thought, see all that they saw, even taste what they tasted. The whole town was…crammed into my mind. I felt…I felt like it was being crushed. I…” The Countess stopped. She fought to hold back tears. She did not want to become a hysterical, weakly noblewoman. The Count often commented that she had a heart as proud of that of the Baroness. He moved beside her, gently stroking her cheek. He was not knowledgeable about the curious afflictions that she suffered. But he loved her, from the depths of his heart. That he was certain of.

“I’m…I’m sorry, Adalwolf. I realize…”
“Hush, my rose. You need apologize for nothing. Tonight, when I return, we can take another sample for Dr. Faldenstein.”
“He was not able to pry anything from the last. Oh…Adalwolf…sometimes I fear that these…dreams…Am I less than human?”
“Do not think of that dear. These things are in the blood, like all the powers of nobles. We know your grandmother was rumoured to be a seer. This is simply the vestiges of tainted blood. Stefan will eventually find the part that ails you. He is my Alchemist, all his genius at my disposal.”

“Adalwolf. Please do not feel badly against him if there…are not instant successes. I have a…feeling that he tries hard.”
“Hmm. You are quite observant. I simply, truly believe that he will find a solution to your nightly visions. He is a young man and he grows more intelligent by the day. He may one day even rival the great Zansus, Alchemist to the Baroness.”
“You are kind Adalwolf.” She moved her hands through his hair, rising from the chair and bringing her lips to his. “Please, my love…keep safe. I know that these enemies will be no match for you…but even a giant can fall when surrounded and overconfident.”

“I know my love. I would not dare take action that would worry you. I will let my men do their part. But it is my duty to protect them as well. I have power and I must use it to safeguard those brave men of Kahlenberg that stand with me.”
“And I shall always stand by you” she said. The Count sat on the edge of his bed and the Countess moved her head to his breast. They embraced, with a comfortable and deep passion. Their love moved each other on and they moved this city. Outside, there was an almost material vibrancy. This was a healthy, young city. Here was the hope of the nation.

-----------

After noon, the Count sat on his horse outside his mansion, on the grassy field he used for assembling his forces. A small force of Kahlenbergers stood before him. They were dressed in smart black uniforms, with gold trim, the colours of the Barony. One held aloft a banner with the arms of Kahlenberg – a dark blue Albatross, wings spread on the white field. Beside each man was a black horse, the fine stock that roamed both wild and domesticated in the Barony. Each soldier had a short rifle across their back and a pair of large pistols by their sides. The Black Rider Corp was the staple human force of the Barony. They were adept at fighting both mounted and dismounted, moving quickly to and from battle. 

To the Baron’s side sat an iron monstrosity. It was a gilded landship, with its firm tracks and it’s stacks steadily emitting steam. The gun ports on the side swivelled slightly, the men inside testing the bearings. On top stood Dr. Faldenstein. This landship was a veritable moving laboratory. From here, the Alchemist would unleash his intellect onto the battlefield. Behind the tank was a wagon, hooked to the back. There were windows at the top, but the cart was silent. Every man stood at attention, waiting. The servants were gathered at the front doors, amazed at their lord’s forces and eager to give him encouragements and blessings of luck. The Countess stood beside the Count, often looking at him and giving a small smile.

“Men of Kahlenberg! I am glad to see you arrayed in such a professional manner today. On this day, our lands are threatened. To the South-West, near the river, a outpost of our nation has been seized by a vile bandit tinker. He obviously does not think we have the courage to react to him. He and his men shall soon see the price of this error. We move out into the forest, where we shall meet with the forces of my uncle, Count Gastofberg. We shall then proceed to the South-West, planning our attack from there. I know many of you and I know that you are a true Army of the Night. May the blood of the enemy flow freely! Men of Kahlenberg – forward!”

He wheeled his horse, trotting through the centre of the line. The men swiftly mounted their horses and followed after him, banners waving in the wind. The landship was guided into the middle of the formation, black smoke puffing from its engines. The Count looked back once. The Countess waved at him and he waved back. Then they had exited the mansion grounds. All through Kahlenberg, excited townspeople came to see the soldiers' parade. Many broke into lively battle hymns or chants. Some villagers tossed small pieces of card onto the road as the troops walked by. These white pieces were shaped and decorated like human skulls. They were considered a token of luck. The massive gates of Kahlenberg open with a low moan. The small battalion exited, entering the forest of black pines. The formation began to loosen, being impossible to hold in the trees. The landship steered carefully, trampling bushes as it weaved and turned. Soon the entire army had slipped into the shadows of the vast forest.

--------- Soon the small force arrived in a clearing. The Daymoon was sinking in front of them. The sounds of the night forest began to come, as the bright silvery light of the Daymoon began to fade. Behind, the cavalcade of smaller moons began their trek across the sky.  “Halt” said Count Kahlenberg. Behind him, his men reared back their horses, which stamped impatiently on the ground. The landship gently slowed, turning around a tree and coming to rest in the clearing. Soon, more shapes could be seen coming from the north side of the clearing. A new host of men arrived, much larger than the Kahlenberg force, but still not impressive in manpower. A rider approached the Count, dressed in the same smart uniform of the nobles, the brass shining in the twilight glow. He was older than Count Kahlenberg, his grey hair tied back in a similar style. He wore a pair of ornate spectacles on his face. His small goatee completed the picture of an intellectual aristocrat.  “Greetings, Count Kahlenberg” he said, with a formal tone.  “Greetings, Uncle” replied Kahlenberg. The older man looked at him for a moment, peering over his spectacles. Then he laughed.  “I see that you still haven’t the respect to refer to me as Count Gastofberg. Still, you are accurate in your gamble that I will not be offended. Come. It is unseemly to discuss the battle plan out here. I have a traveling wagon with some more comfortable furnishings.” “That does sound like a fair course of action” replied Kahlenberg. “Though there are some matters to attend to first.” The count noticed that there was a rider near to his uncle. He was wearing a short white robe and a brimmed hat. It was evident he was not from these parts. “Uncle. Who is he?” said Kahlenberg, bluntly. “Ah. This is Minister Camden. He’s come from the colonies to discuss some interesting matters with me. I thought it would be interesting for him if he saw an army in the field.” The minister was silent, looking around. A group of soldiers were moving to a wagon that one of Count Gastofberg’s landships had brought to the battle. A soldier took the butt of his rifle and knocked on the side of the sealed wagon. There was a sudden rattling within and the carriage began to rock. A man was supervising the soldier’s work. Kahlenberg recognized the seedy frame of his uncle’s Alchemist. A soldier on each side drew back the heavy door on the side of the wagon. “What the hell is that?” asked the Minister in a drawling tone that was mixed imperiousness and disgust. Emerging from the wagon was what could only be described as a giant bat, awkwardly moving forwards with its wing tips. A few soldiers advanced and it snapped at them. The Alchemist of Gastofberg approached the creature and it seemed to calm. Soldiers began to move, putting a harness on the creature with quick, professional movements. The Minister watched in confusion while the Counts looked on with detached interest. “I do apologize, nephew. That particular Wasserspeier is very temperamental and attached. I do hope you don’t mind my Alchemist performing the scouting? It would be more…proper with a soldier, but I doubt that it will let any of them mount.” “So…” muttered the Minister “You’re going to use that thing as a mounted beast?” “You are correct” replied Gastofberg. “The area to the south-west that we assault is rocky and sloped. I want an estimation of the enemies’ strength and details on the terrain. I see you are surprised at this beast. But really, this is much more efficient than bringing a gyrocopter out here.” “But…what is it?” asked the Minister. “A Wasserspeier. Bred by my Alchemist. They are a rather easy creation. A simple cave bat, with the right additions, can supply the necessary base to manifest one.” “That thing was created in a lab?” “Why do you act so surprised?” interjected Kahlenberg. “The Barony does not make its methods of war secret. The disciples and crafts of the nations can differ greatly, in the northern part of the world. Up here, we realize that one must think beyond steam and iron. What we have mastered, essentially, is life. Our very land is our weapon, its creatures our blade. Its plants are our salve and the poison for our enemy. Our Alchemists raise the blood of our Nobles and prepare the Totekraft with their intellect and creative minds.” “That sounds rather…” “Vampiric?” said Kahlenberg, smiling. “Though I do not think that is the word you were looking for. Many assume with our dealings with the creatures of the night, with bottled death and with our enhancement of human blood, that the Barony is a black land of twisted madmen and savage monsters, no better then when first colonized. We have not the large population that your Confederation enjoys. We must prepare other means of battle. Admittedly ones that could be called rather…macabre. I personally find our processes very elegant, if a bit Gothic. Hopefully this night will be very informative. Even more so if it demonstrates the superiority of Barony genetics, over the blasted, artificial constructs and machines of our enemy. Please uncle, I do believe we have matters to discuss. I’m sure the Minister has a lot to... look at.” They entered the door of Gastofberg’s landship as the Alchemist mounted the transformed bat, leaping into the air and soaring into the falling moon. -------------- “Uncle. What the hell are you thinking bringing a foreigner on a military mission?” Kahlenberg took a seat. Inside, this landship was very elegant, decorated in brass and wood, with red hangings and carpet. His uncle sat opposite him, tenting his fingers and returning his stare. “You seemed to have no qualms of boasting our methods to him.” “Hmm. He put me in a rather…patriotic mood. Colonials, Confederates – they are all the same. Little imagination. Still…better than bringing a Smiljan into the camp, I suppose. But still, it is very unusual of you that you got someone allowed into the Barony. What on earth do you want that man around for?” “I want nothing. We are working on a…business proposal. Nothing more. Interesting man, if dogmatic. He’s set up a…what do you call it…cathedral in some town in the Confederation. Apparently holds more than a thousand people. And they can get very…invigorated. Religion could have untapped uses, after all…” “Hmph. I find that disgusting and gaudy. Religion is for the home, or chapels. Why on earth would you need to go into a crowd of a thousand other sheep to try and reach God?” “Actually, I’m not sure if this new church believes in God. Can’t remember. And for your question – you cannot deny a certain excitement in being part of such a large group with singular purpose. Like an army, I suppose.” “Precisely my point. Why on earth turn your worshiping into a military drill?” “I see you’ve not lost your quickness. Nevertheless, he has some interesting points. And, as I’ve said, we have…business.” The Count paused, staring into space for a moment before looking at Kahlenberg in a rather curious manner. There was a soft noise outside, high and eerie. Not an unusual forest noise, but one that could not be placed to a natural animal. Something that would usually be put down to magic in the trees by most men. Kahlenberg shuddered involuntarily. He felt like someone had chilled his blood to ice for a moment. “Nephew…how fares your wife?” Kahlenberg  turned to face his uncle. This was a rather odd question. His uncle had never shown much interest in conversing with Elysia and Elysia had little want to converse with him. And the last time his uncle had visited was fairly long ago . This question was very unexpected. “Elysia is fine. Why do you ask?” “Well…” said his uncle, looking off to the side “I had heard from…someone…that the Countess Kahlenberg was having some issues with foul dreams.” “Who the hell told you that?!” snapped Kahlenberg. His normally cheerful disposition had been shattered in an instant. He stood, tensed, staring down at his uncle. “Calm down, nephew. I simply heard a rumour.” “Rumours do not spread without a wick to set fire to them! Who told you this!” “I do not wish to endanger anyone to your anger.” “Tell me!” “Nephew. This behaviour is not acceptable. Please be seated.” Kahlenberg paused, then sat. Elysia and him had matters that were private. He felt like his house had been robbed, someone rooting through the secrets he had stowed away from others. “Please nephew, it was just concern. Are these visions…of minds? Of places? Is she gaining knowledge from her dreams?” “….There have been occurrences like that. Please…tell no-one of this.” His uncle smiled gently. “Please nephew – I am not saying that your wife has becomed magiked. I don’t expect her to run out into the forest and live with the Fae. I only wanted to help. You are mistaken that this is some horrible abnormality – many nobles over time suffered from similar conditions. I just wanted to see if what I heard was true. It was said that Elysia’s grandmother was a seer, was it not?” “That was just a family legend” “The old lady probably had a similar…condition. It is just an odd trait of the blood, from some Count in years long gone that interfered with something that should not have been interfered with. In fact, I do believe I could develop a cure for something like this. It is only concern that spurred that question, nephew.” “…I will speak of a cure later with you. I would prefer another topic.” Kahlenberg averted his gaze, a perturbed look on his face. He glanced out a small window near the top of the wall. “Will your Alchemist be back soon?” he asked. “I expect so. Oskar is reliable.” Kahlenberg paused. He then looked back at his uncle. “Perhaps I have a rumour as well. I have heard tales that your Alchemist uses forbidden means for his projects in your service.” He was not sure why he had spoken Dr. Faldenstein’s concerns to his uncle. Just this morning he had dismissed the idea as ridiculous. But he wanted to shove something back unto his uncle. To his surprise, his uncle smiled. “Really? You have? Well, that is rather amusing.” His smile faded. “Actually, when I think about it, perhaps not so much. This is simply a sign of the discrimination across our land. Oskar is less than beautiful and was born in the gutters of the street. People assume he is a dishonest Alchemist simply because he did not have the opportunities that they did. It disturbs me highly how nobles consider the commoners as inferior beings.” “I must put forward the point, uncle, that we are, for better or worse, superior beings.” His uncle smiled. “I know that you are not being arrogant. You are very respectful to your servants. And it is true that the nobles in this nation hold real power. But how they squander it on hedonism and infighting! It is no good being ruled by superhumans if they do not use their gifts for betterment. Of course, I do not blame the Baroness for this. She is caught in this cesspool, although she did not create it. We can blame her mother for most of that. The point is, there should be change. Yet, I will admit, even I have not the power to completely remodel this nation for the common man.” Kahlenberg nodded slightly. His uncle had a reputation as a liberal lunatic among the other nobles. Kahlenberg did admit that his uncle had rather…odd views, but he was kind and generous to his own servants. Kahlenberg simply did not quite understand his uncle’s mind. “Hmm. Well uncle, I doubt that any man, even you, could amass power like that in one lifetime.” “You think not?” said his uncle. Kahlenberg was surprised by what he saw as a sudden burst of intensity in his uncle’s voice. But if it had been there, it faded. His uncle smiled. “I don’t blame you for doubting me, nephew. But, much can be accomplished through sacrifice. If we were to put the needs of the many over the needs of a corrupt few…think how far our nation could go. And I have a feeling that I may have to make sacrifices in the future.” He uncle’s smile turned to a grin. “I do hope, dear nephew, that you too would sacrifice for my noble cause? Anything for the many, of course. Of course, I do know you think of me as crazy.” “Uncle, by now I should be used to it” said Kahlenberg. He heard a rushing of wings outside. “Your estimate of your Alchemist seems to be correct. Let us see what he has spotted. The Alchemists and their assistants have been working hard while we talked. We should set our plans and head out as soon as possible.” His uncle nodded. “He who hesitates will have his prize snatched from him. That, at least, is always true.” “Indeed.” Replied Kahlenberg as the two of them walked into the camp. Kahlenberg looked up at the sky. Only a little of the Daymoon was left. The forest was darkening, from the slight shadows of day to the true darkness of night. Kahlenberg smiled thinly. This was an eerie night. Perfect. Nights like these only added to the terror that the armies of the Barony could create. --------------- Baron Gastofberg had laid out the plans immediately. His force was already heading through the forest to prepare. Count Kahlenberg stood before his men, his officers close to him as he explained the bloodshed to come. “Count Gastofberg moves to assault from the North. The terrain there allows for a larger army, but is still small enough for this to become a battle of attrition. However, there is a smaller winding route to the south, which the enemy may not even be aware of. That is where we shall advance, striking from the rear. If we move fast enough, this will be a short battle. Let us ride.” “We ride with you!” his men cheered. The black horses were mounted and they headed through the forest. They were silent, but the excitement between them was palpable. The rush of battle was strange but intoxicating. But it was Count Kahlenberg which invigorated them most. When one fights behind a man who can tear through steel, there is a particular boost to morale.  The Count rode ahead. He felt slightly unnerved. His uncle had seemed slightly different tonight. He had looked at him in a strange way. He could not place it so he left it behind him to dissolve in the dark. He rode beside the landship, nodding to Dr. Faldenstein who sat on the top. The Alchemist returned the gesture with a grim face. The Count saw the tower in the last light of the fading Daymoon. The whole structure had toppled on the ridge, lying forlorn and broken. He imagined it could have been like this for a hundred years – it had the solemnity of ancient ruins. This caused a note of sadness. To see such a find edifice, destroyed. Was his uncle right? Was the Barony rotting? Would more and more of the symbols of power and culture tumble to the ground? Would his house be strewn with weeds and broken glass, empty save for wind? He shivered. He could not shake the slight fear, so he replaced it with a steady anger. Now was the time for blood, for iron, for the clutching Army of the Night. He held back his horse. “Doctor. We set up here.” His men’s horses paced and stamped, their mouths almost foaming. Every man felt their throats go tight. The mixed feeling of horror and fascination that we feel when hearing ghost stories as children, or view the buildings of the dead. “Good Alchemist.” Said the Count,  so his all his men could hear. “I hear that you have a gift for the enemy.” “Yes, mein Count.” Replied the Alchemist, unable to repress a thin smile. He went to the wagon at the back of the landship. With a theatrical flair he was not used to showing, he flung open the doors. The men gasping in wonder. Their hearts were racing but their minds were leaping. Out of the Wagon leapt four massive wolves, much larger than any wolf should ever grow. They snarled and snapped, The Alchemist having already held them on the leash. The beasts looked hungrily at the soldiers. A few men looked uneasy. The Count laughed. “I apologize. It was unkind of me to not give the Nacht order sooner. But a little fear can be a good thing. Men! Attention! Renew your symbols and your loyalty to the Barony!” Every man raised their right arm, letting their sleeves fall. Every man showed a bare arm, reaching for the moons. And on every arm was the mark of a veteran soldier – a perfect black circle, seeming branded into the skin. Everyman reached with their left hands and drew the cylinders. They pressed them where they had pressed them countless times before. The Count did this as well, the Alchemist having prepared beforehand. Almost instantly, the wolves stopped their snapping. They paced at a slow rhythm, sniffing for prey. Soon they were facing the ridge and growling lowly.  “Very good.” Said the Count. “Now we will not have to risk the embarrassment of our own forces turning against us. You, my men, bear the Mark of the Night! This symbolises your servitude to the night and in turn the night’s servitude to you. You will let this night howl with the screams of the enemy, filling it with movement and grace. And the night has given us her children, the tools to give us our keen edge!” The Alchemist watched his Count steadily. It was faint, but there was a change coming over him. Here was no languid man, not a man one could imagine with wife and friends. His face was flushed and his eyes had that tint of madness that came with this. The Barony would always be civil, if proud, in peaceful dealings. But war – war was a beauty that should not be restrained. “Alchemist!” said the Count “Yes, my Lord!” replied Faldenstein. He found himself shouting back. The mood was irresistable. A few men gave cheers. “The honour is yours.” The Alchemist walked in front of the army. He paced in the moist dirt ahead of them, burying objects, checking meters, pulling more and more arcane objects from his bag. He could not resist the urge to begin to lecture. He was allowed some noble pride, after all. “Life! Life is what gives meaning to the Universe. And it is life that I and my colleagues have mastered. Unthinking life, that may be, but life itself. And we can mould it. Shrink it down to a form we can carry in, perhaps, our pocket. I have worked long in my lab making this Totenkraft. A long time refining, then reducing them.” The Alchemist was laying out a steel frame now in the ground. He pulled a stick, flicking it, causing electricity to spark before he rammed it to the ground. “But such power does not wish to lay dormant. This is the genius of our nation. The army that does not feel pain, fatigue or fear. The army that is relentless, the anvil on which you shall smash the foe. And numerous! For every they strike down there will be more to replace.” He was now stained with the dirt. Men had come from the landship and begun to assist him, carrying more. It looked like a city in miniature laid before the army, a most improbable and strange city of sparks and fluids. “My Baron – they’re growing. Completion soon.” The ground began to shift. It became muddier, less solid. To some standing there it seemed to swirl. Sparks crackled over it. Soon, forms were being seen to move in this solution.  “When our science meets with the life of nature” finished Faldenstein. “Then we can accomplish the impossible. And with the impossible, our enemy shall be ground down.” The Count had seen this before, but there was a thrill every time. His hear soared as the first mottled hand burst from the soup. Soon, a figure began to emerge – shaped like a man, brown skinned, but with no features to define it. The eyes were blank, the flesh with a putrid stench and the motioned jerked and awkward.. Soon, dozens began to emerge from the earth. The Alchemist continued at a feverish pace – Soon there were hundreds. Once the process was begun, it moved with a rapid speed. The army of conjured ghouls rose and moaned. They looked at the world with dead eyes. A few began to shamble, in the direction of the ridge.  “Count!” said the Alchemist, running to him. “All material has been used. Still...this batch was productive. No trouble in catalyzing, it seems.” “Good. Pack quickly and man the landship. Don't worry too much of disposing any of them that didn't fully manifest. Our children are already eager to combat.” The Alchemist set to work once again, shouting curt phrases to his servants. The Count turned to face his own men. Many of the younger ones stared in wonder – this was always a sight that shivered the spine. Even when seen before and even when the creations were your own – it was magnificent.  “Men! Assemble behind me! Keep slow pace behind the Totenkraft. When the Totenkraft engage, follow the set strategy to flank the enemy. Set up firing positions. These golems do not relent – and neither shall you!” The army moved towards the ridge. There were no more attempts at stealth. Man and beast alike howled to the far moons. A few enemies looked over the crumbled battlements. The Partisans shuddered at their posts, despite their long coats and furred hats. They clutched their rifles tight. This was their hated enemy, but there was always a fear with that hate. Whether they lived to see dawn or not – this thing was certain. The Army of the Night had come for them. ---------- In his state of excitement, Count Kahlenberg felt the battle was moving at a pace slower than that dictated by time. The hordes of the animated rushed forwards. The enemy, stout Partisans from the west, raised their rifles, sending a cracking barrage into the oncoming horde. The bullets tore flesh, but the rush was not stopped. The front lines raised their arms, were struck, were killed wide eyed and grasping at air as the bloodless enemy scratched, bit and strangled. Then the full weight of the horde hit and the front was pushed forwards. Ordered lines were bent and broken as the groaning army of the never living moved forward like a tide. The Count barked a harsh order. His men echoed it and surged up the hill behind him, moving beside the enemy, which had been forced back by the swarm. The horses turned, kicking dirt and the Black Riders steered behind the foe. The men drew forth their pistols and commenced their work without a thought of mercy. The battle moans of the created army were mixed with the staccato of gunfire. The Count held his horse steady with only his legs, firing two pistols. A reverberation behind him told him the landship had clambered up the slope. He heard a shout, the warning voice of the Alchemist. He looked across the enemy, who were falling back as the Totenkraft threatened to surround them. The Count saw an arch of lightening leap from the night, spraying onto his Alchemist’s creations, causing them to buck and seize up violently, then lie inert. He looked further into the ruins and saw the moon glint on massive constructs of metal. He heard the purr of engines and the crackle of energy. He grinned. This wasn’t going to be too easy after all. The mad scientists had brought their toys. Now the Count must prove himself to his subjects. He urged his horse forwards, stampeding through a thin line of fleeing enemies. The Partisans ran back, searching for places of cover in the ruins. The Count ignored them, focused on the new group of men that had entered the battle. These soldiers were heavily armoured, walking firm under the weight of their war gear. One brought his weapon up, firing it. Another bolt of lightning flew, striking the Count’s horse. The poor beast convulsed, its heart being fatally jarred from nature’s beat. The Count rolled as he landed, whispering a small prayer for the animal that had dutifully carried him here.  He came up on his knees in front of the enemy, unsheathing the Zweihänder. The large sword swung forwards in a quick and short arc, embedding into the side of the soldier in front of him, making mockery of the fine armour. The Count had already withdrawn the sword as the man died; now beginning in earnest. He was but one man, but he was a lord of the night; a noble with true noble’s blood. Moving swiftly and with grim intent, he cut straight into the mass of men, those that fired at him left with only their own compatriots as targets. The Count heard a lovely baying as the massive wolves followed behind him. He suddenly saw a shifting rise emerge in the darkness, two electric eyes flickering at him. A flash of real lightning illuminated the massive construct, thick and steel plated, reaching for him. He had not even noticed the rain coming, so engrossed was he. He pushed off the ground, springing forwards and between the behemoth’s feet. He saw a formless metal face watch him as he went under. He heard a large explosion and continued to move. There was a crash behind him and he risked a look backwards. The war construct was on the ground, looking blankly at the green orb that had smashed into it's chest. Now the orb started to melt, acids beginning to disassemble the fallen man of iron.   The Count smiled, knowing his Alchemist was earning his keep in the landship tonight. He looked to his left. More robotics, partisans and lightening soldiers were advancing from the west. He sprinted to the north part of the battlefield as he saw his force begin to drive back the enemy. It would be close, he thought, close. But when Gastofberg arrived, the path to victory was to be clear. He stopped, legs frozen on the crest of the hill. Lightening flashed again and he saw the forces of Gastofberg advancing. A few of his men had joined him and cheered as his never living servants turned west, blocking the enemies advance for a short while. His men moved forwards as riders from Gastofberg advanced, smiling and joking at the latecomers. They had started the battle with fervour and they were happy for a swift ending. The Gastofberg riders were strangely silent. The Count then watched in horror as they drew their weapons and fired. Directly into his ranks. He saw dozens of his men tumble from their horses, caught totally by surprise. The Count felt his heart plummet, his mind spinning, unable to comprehend. A few shots hit him, striking his shoulders. He bled but a little and hardly felt them. The once allied riders now began to advance. Then those beautiful howling beasts were leaping through the night, sensing a master in danger, smelling his slight fear and anxious concern. They crashed into the front of the force, the men of Gastofberg moving in confusion as they started to gun the beasts down. But the Count had earned time.  “Back!” he shouted. “It is a foul trap! Back! Get back to the slope and run! Break into your squadrons in the forest!” His men needed no second telling and began to move backwards. He saw the landship pivot on the crest of the hill, Faldenstein catching the betrayal as swiftly as he had. The Count threw himself over the crest, running as fast as his inhuman muscles could to clear a way for his men. He saw that the enemy had already broken through and now blocked the way. More of his men fell as bullets and lightening tore through them. He saw his unliving servants scattered broken on the ground. This enemy force was much, much larger than his uncle had informed him. His uncle! Did he have a part to play in this? If so, for what reason? The Count kept moving. He could sort this out later when the battle was over, if he survived. He would be the last to run. Only a few of his men remained, some struggling on the ground on top of dead and dying steeds. What curse had brought this foul night? He watched as the rest of the brave men of Kahlenberg died, in a hail of bullets and treachery.  He began to move back, striking out wildly at any enemy foolish enough to come close. He saw to the south west a ridge. The river was below that, he knew. They could not come from behind him. He jumped in front of the landship, pointing his sword in the direction he intended. There was a muffled, shouted reply from within, through the view port. He could not make it out but he hoped his intention was clear. The landship fired into the enemies on either side as Count Kahlenberg rushed across the field. A Gastofberg rider charged at him, firing his pistol. The bullet missed and the Count swiped at him as he rode by, slicing through the man and nearly cleaving his horse in two. He turned back and was dismayed. All his men were dead and now the armies milled in the battlefield, a few squadrons moving towards him as their compatriots calmly watched the doomed Count. They didn’t even need all of this force to overwhelm him. He beckoned to the landship, urging the Alchemist to hurry. So far the thick hull of the vehicle was deflecting the shots aimed at it. Then he saw something stride from behind the ruins. Before his mind could form words of warning, there was a terrible screeching wail as the rocket soared through the night. He could only stand in numbness as the landship vanished in an extravagant fireball, sparks flailing madly into the night. He was truly alone. Faldenstein had been cremated in that twisted metal tomb. His closest friend was gone and he was alone. The rain fell heavy on him, making due for the tears he would not allow in battle. Lightning and thunder crashed again. He turned and saw outlined on the ridge the damnable enemy that had slain his closest friend. A man was seated in a large battle harness, designed with grim simplicity, the only opulence being the overbearing amount of weapons of death. Arms on either side held guns, rockets, cannons. A mighty engine on its back chugged while a small light in the open cockpit illuminated a grinning face, the pilot a small part of this colossal beast. This must be the Likan that had planned this treachery! The man he had come here to originally drive out. Now it was simply the one last task of revenge.  He charged forwards, reason leaving him, as vanished as his once proud army. His uniform was tattered, but his sword still sharp. There was a mad and wild cracking. He flinched as bullets hit him. An explosion rocked in front of him, but he strove further and overleaped it, hurtling wildly into the air. He saw the man seated at the controls, dressed in the vestments of a scientist general at war. The enemy leader scrambled at his device, attempting to coax the machine to move faster than the hellish thing that erupted out of the smoke. It was too late, for he had not had a true enough aim in that first barrage. Now, so close, nothing could stop the rampant Count of Kahlenberg. His feet slammed into the machine below the cockpit where the scientist was seated. His sword, thrust in front of him, passed into it and straight through his enemy. Blank lenses stared back at him in meek protest at the impossibility of what had happened. The Count dropped to the ground, the corpse of his victim tumbling softly to the ground as the sword pulled him out, and then removed itself from him. Almost immediately, Kahlenberg scrambled to the edge, black water not far below him. He turned, ready for the masses to swarm him and to take one last bit of honour for his nation. But his thought at that moment was not on the glory of war. He just wanted to see Elysia one more time. He corrected himself. He would. He would see her. If it meant throwing himself from this cliff, if it meant surrendering his very lands he would not die before he saw her. He noticed that the army was not bothering to advance. They milled below, presumably burying his men in unmarked graves. He then saw his uncle walking up the ridge to him. “Uncle!” he said, voice weak. “What is the meaning of this? Are we betrayed and captured? Please, do not tell me that this is your doing!” “Don’t be so damn dramatic” said his uncle in a tone so familiar it was made frightening. His uncle looked at him sadly through his spectacles. “I am very sorry it had to go this way. But I had no other choice. You, your servants, everyone in that town – you all have been touched by her. She might call out to you, reveal what shouldn’t be until it is too late. Or worse, a clever mentalist could pluck her location and knowledge from your heads. It is unfortunate, but for the secured future of our nature, all of Kahlenberg must cease to exist.” “What do you mean? And who do you speak of?” One part of him was already certain. “I am sorry, Adalwolf. But you should have paid more attention to your wife’s…unique condition.” “You lied to me! You lied to me about its nature! What do you know?! Tell me what the hell you know!” “Why? I’m going to kill you anyways. These are not such things that you are learned enough to understand, my rash nephew. But trust me; this is for the betterment of the common man.  Her gift is so powerful, but wasted on her delicate mind and body. Please, I assure, I spent years attempting to find another way. But I could not. You should be proud. Elysia will give me the means to outmanoeuvre, to deceive and to finally overthrow those nobles who have become useless to our nation. I can save the Barony. I know it. But I had not the means until now. I’m going to very slowly pull out the problem and put my best effort into the remains. This will be a golden age.” “You would kill for this? You would deceive true and faithful soldiers? Slay your very nephew?!” “Yes. And massacre a town and burn all signs of my passage. You need to understand. The needs of the many must overtake the needs of the few. The few can be corruptible and weak. The will of the many is the will of the nation.” Count Kahlenberg spat at his uncle’s feet.  “You have lied to me all these years. A murder is a murder no matter the supposed goal. This is a black and endless dishonour on your soul and the souls of your ancestors!” “Please, don’t talk about honour. It’s a crude attempt nobles make to prop up their existence when they have not the force. Honour doesn’t matter a damn. The country matters.” Count Kahlenberg raised his sword, to smite his uncle, to make his last move the ending of this maniac that he once believed to be his kin. He was halted almost instantly, eyes wide with shock. His uncle’s face was beside his and Gastofberg whispered in his ear. “Nephew. You embarrass yourself. Your Alchemist was a pissing toddler compared to mine.” Kahlenberg looked down, seeing the long dagger in his stomach that he had felt. He saw his uncle give a thin smile as he ground the dagger around inside the wound, sending wave after wave of sharp pain. He felt his clothes soaked by his own blood as well as the deluge. Finally, his uncle removed the dagger. Kahlenberg staggered back, just as his uncle swiped swiftly with a second blade. He gasped and choked as he felt the cold steel cut across his open throat. There was blood in his mouth. He tumbled backwards. His agony numbed him and he did not feel the sickening crunches as he smashed upon the rain slicked rocks. There was thunder. Then he was floating. There were moons above him, gazing gently down. He murmured her name. The moons hazed and melted as he sank. Then they faded away as his vision turned to black and his mind to nothingness. ----------- He awoke and stared at the Daymoon above. He hurt. He hurt more than he thought possible. That meant that he was not dead. Was that a good thing? He tried to sit up and pain wracked through his body. He should be dead. Even with his enhancements, he should be dead. Why was he still alive? He looked across his chest. It was a complex maze of stitches. He coughed, feeling tightness in his throat. This was not acceptable. With sheer force, he sat upright. The world became vague as dizziness set it. His shirt and jacket were cut open and in tatters. His long black hair hung around his head, still damp. He looked to his right. A man was there, at a campfire, staring into it. He was not sure if it was a man or some creature from the black heart of the forest. But it seemed to have the clothes and stature of a man. “Who are you?” he said in a dry voice. “Mein Count. Do you not recognize me?” said a voice strained with pain and bitterness. “That is too bad. I had hoped it would have been better.” The man turned to him and the Count started. “Stefan! Dr. Faldenstein. You are…alive.” His eyes were involuntarily pulled across the figure that had been his Alchemist. His once golden hair was a dark, sickly green and hung in clumps that reminded the Count of rotting seaweed. His face was pale as death and his eyes…they were that same shade of unsettling, unholy black sea green. But it was not just that – his whole face looked deformed, drawn out, as if the very devil had broken his jaw and placed it back, lengthening his face into a thin mockery of a visage. It was uneven and wrong. “I am sorry. It was very hard…to put myself back together.” Said the Alchemist. For a moment the Count wondered if this was not his friend. Not just his appearance…but his once pleasant and charming tones were gone. He spoke in a dead tone and would often flash unsettling smiles that looked more like a lunatic’s spasms. “It was…much harder than fixing you. I had to use some very…unorthodox procedures…hehe…don’t worry. I only used Totenkraft parts on myself.” “Stefan…you didn’t…” “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I was always this and the rest a dream. Or this is a dream.” The Alchemist lazily prodded the fire. He had taken clothes from a dead Rider. His thin and twisted frame was still evident. “It is alright. I can fix myself more. If I feel like it. Shall we go home?” The Count scrambled to his feet, his breath becoming laboured as anger and purpose filled him. “We must go! There may still be time! That dog must – “ “Don’t bother.” Croaked the Alchemist. “It has not been one day, but two. Do you think I could have completed all this in one day? The job would be far less…stable..hehe…” The Count felt a dark pool inside him. His eyes were those of one long passed to the afterlife. “Come. We return.” “What is the point, my Count, what is the point? To think of it, why do we still stand around? Come, let’s burn ourselves. Or go to a village and kill animals and get them to burn us. Oh, let’s cross the river! How the Colony men would shiver at our countenance! How they would weep!” The Count grabbed him, easily lifting his desiccated frame off the ground. “I gave you an order!” he said in a hoarse yell. “I am your Count! I want no more games from you!” He turned and began to walk. “Come. Come! We go back to Kahlenberg.” His guilt at snapping at his friend was pushed aside. It was too late. He knew it was too late. But, please, let it not be too late. ----------- They did not need to go around and enter by the gates. The walls that had once separated his manor from the black forest were torn asunder and thrown to the ground. Blood and smoke and misery were thick in the air. The Count strode up the hill. He was weak and still carrying his sword, which he had never let go. But he walked firmly up the hill, the Alchemist gently picking his way up behind him, making odd laughing sounds at intervals. He topped the ridge. His house was gone, not just burned or wreaked or desecrated but gone. Only a few lonely beams and low walls marked its existence. He walked into the ruins and was surprised to see his servants there, standing in an awkward group near a large pillar. They gasped as he returned, but lapsed to silence, unsure of how to take his appearance. The Count walked to what they were looking at. On the large central pillar, the oak hear of his house, was the corpse of Haakon Haakonsen, stout Steward of his family, nailed with a sabre to the bloodstained wood. His son was there, weeping as he tried to retrieve his father’s body in vain. The rest looked dirty and frightened. Traugott, faithful butler Traugott, stepped forwards. Though his eyes showed defeat, he knew nothing else to do but great his Lord. “Count…Kahlenberg.” All the servants stared at their Count. His face wore an expression they had never seen, the blacker parts of  the soul brought forwards. “And Doctor…Falden…stein?” he stumbled, choking on his words as he saw the thin apparition of death the once familiar man had begun. Faldenstein did not seem to notice the destruction around him. The Count strode forwards. With one hand, he took the sabre clean out of his Steward. “He fought to the end.” He said, not needing to be told. “Go, boy. Bury your father.” The poor lad struggled in both body and mind as he tried to shift the giant that had been his father. No one wanted to touch the corpse, so holy it seemed in its peacefulness. Faldenstein took the man’s feet, showing little respect but an uncanny strength. They moved off to the green hill and the last shady trees, the domain that the Steward had held dear for so long. “What. Happened.” He said to Truagott, still staring at the blood on the oaken pillar.  “She’s gone.” Said the Butler. “She…I saw. Your…I cannot believe it.. but..” “I can believe. What. Happened.” Said the Count. “She went to greet your uncle at the door…and…he…shot her…on the very steps! On these very steps he shot the lady of the house through the heart! From these steps he carried her bleeding body away!” The Butler broke into lost and confused sobbing.  “We...stayed in the cellar…for the two days. We had just come out this morning. And…it was all gone…and…the Steward was…and….” The Count did not ask for a finish to the story. He strode past the ruins of his mansion. His servants followed, the two girls clinging to each other with wet eyes, the Butler stumbling through the ruins, looking in disbelief at the things that were not there. The Count stared over his small town. There was no one left. Small fires smouldered. The wind whistled through empty shops, scorched homes, smashed windows, and bloodied streets. Only Ravens at their carrion work could be heard. “They are all dead.” He said, simply. He could tell. “They killed them all. To wipe every last piece of goodness she had in this place.” “No…” whispered Traugott, unwilling to accept. “Can’t you feel it? It’s empty. Any survivors aren’t citizens of Kahlenberg anymore. They will wander until they’re hunted down or die in the forests. Look.” The Count moved towards the path that had once led from the city up to the hill and manor. He gestured to the one piece of newness here. A wooden sign staked neatly into the ground.  “Let all citizens of the Barony know that the City of Kahlenberg and its Count did plot treason against the entire Barony, in league with the very enemies to the west. Let this serve as a reminder of the dishonour and damnation of betrayal. Anyone who finds an inhabitant of Kahlenberg is ordered to bring them to the soldiers of the nearest town. Thus, all once inhabitants of Kahlenberg are marked as enemies of the Barony and criminals. The harbouring of a traitor of Kahlenberg will also be seen as a criminal act, with suitable punishments. This is the will of the Counts and Baroness.” Thus read the sign. The others gasped silently. The last bit of hope they had of placing their lives back together had vanished. Everything was gone. “This…this is wrong.” Stammered Traugott. “Surely, we must go to Rilleberg and explain these things! This is some terrible…” “No.” said the Count firmly. He began to walk back to the house. The other trailed behind him like lost pieces of paper in the wind, spinning in his wake. “But, my Lord…” “No!” he snapped. “This was no mistake. This was my uncle.” “He…he…?” “Yes.” “Oh Lord. We are outcasts! Our lives are ended…we must go somewhere for sanctuary. Another nation will take us. We can hide. My lord, we must think of our safety…” “Silence.” Ordered the Count. He received silence. He walked back to the front of the ruins. Faldenstein and the Steward’s son had returned. His household grouped around him with blank stares. He looked at them in silence. The Count they had known was as dead as his city. “We head south. We will head to the river. No nation is safe. We will head to the seas, to plan action there.” “Action?” asked Faldenstein, one eyebrow raised. “You are my servants. You will follow and assist me. All I have is gone. Except one thing. My revenge. My uncle thinks that I am dead. That shall give us that advantage for some time. You can be my witnesses here. Count Gastofberg will die. By my hand. And  any men that scheme with him will accompany him as his retinue to hell.” The Steward’s son had his tears renewed by anger. He stepped forward, lashing out. “You’re going to kill us all! Whatever you did, my father died for it! You just as well killed him! And now you want to kill the rest of us! We’ve suffered enough without this madness!” The serving girl grasped each other as the Count smashed the young man in the face. The boy went down, spitting blood. The Count followed with a swift kick. Faldenstein chuckled and the girls began to weep openly.  “Listen.” Said the Count with a steel edge. “You are my servants. I am your Count. You will follow me with loyalty, no matter the circumstance. Your father understood that, my new Steward of Kahlenberg. I hope that you can learn that as well. I will not accept any more betrayals.” He turned to the south and began to walk. Faldenstein was now laughing outright, stumbling down the hill after him, arms flailing in joy as he sang the praises of vengeance. The four servants looked at the madmen they were bound to. Huddling together, they shuffled after. As much as they feared the forest, as much as they feared capture and execution, nothing was more frightening than the apparition that had been Count Kahlenberg. But they could not bring themselves to hate him, any more than one can place their hate on a bitter winter storm. They were simply swept up by a force of nature, a storm that may not pass.  Fin.

Crossing the Desert

The Daymoon glowed overhead as the walker stomped and steamed its way through the forest, it’s six legs seeming to compete with each other, eating up the distances in a flurry. At the front, standing and gripping the levers, a grin showing his white teeth in his dark face, was Yacob. His dreadlocks, which he had pulled back, swung side to side as the machine jerked. He laughed as he plowed on through.

“Almost to the desert, Marshal! Get you outta the pines, yeah?””

The Marshal gave back a thin smile. The walker had a bucking, bumping gait that was difficult to get used too. The Marshal sat in the back on one of the benches, gut stretching his fine shirt and a ranger hat concealing his thinning hair. 

“Not the, uh, smoothest ride, eh, Rattlesnake?” he said, trying to laugh. The third man in the walker sat in silence, eyes grimly set on nothing. He was older than either of the other two, but seemed like he would last to the end of the world and beyond. The rattlesnake inked down the right side of his face gave no emotion either. Without responding to the Marshal, he moved his head slightly towards Yacob.

“What’s the time going to be?” he asked.

“Well Rattlesnake…” replied his partner. “I’d say we’ll have to spend one night in the desert, yeah. And one on the way coming back. Nothing too bad. Hey, Marshal, what are we doing going after Nomads? I didn’t think you’d have business out here.”

The Marshal sat up, glad now to have a chance to explain the importance of his job. “Well, if the crime occurred in the Confederation, it is my solemn duty to pursue the perpetrators, no matter which side of Dark they end up on, even if it’s out of the forests. What we had here was a Nomad group coming far up, right to the forest edge. Apparently they were trying to slip coal off land belonging to a local farmer. Well, needless to say, words were exchanged and eventually shots. What ended up was a poor young man of the Confederacy dead in the fields. The Nomads got their rig rolling pretty fast after that and were gone by the time the authorities showed up. Of course, the Confederacy has a lot more influence than that. One of the Southland’s airship squadrons caught up to them and…explained the consequences of resisting arrest. Thankfully they got it all straightened out all civil like. The deal is, we bring in just the murderer. He gets tried in a Southlands’ court and the Nomads go on their way with a warning. As Marshal of the district of the incident, it is my duty, my solemn duty, to bring this man back to the courthouse. Of course, it wouldn’t do to wait for transport. People have better things to do. Which is why I’m much obliged to you two for agreeing to ferry me.”

“Hey man, no problem!” said Yacob, turning back to give a thumbs up. He momentarily lost control, the walker starting to strafe sideways. With much swearing and bucking and uncomfortable looks from the Marshal, he managed to set the course again. By now, the forest was receding behind them, the line of pine trees fading to grey in the distance. Rattlesnake simply sat and stared, looking out at the strange, twisted rocks in the desert, long shadows cast by the enormous yellow Daymoon overhead, each crater on it’s surface visible to the human eye and imagination.

-------

They camped that night in the back of the walker, Yacob setting up poles and a tarp over the flat back area. The Daymoon was gone from the sky, the many silvery moons of the night scattered above, whirling their way around the planet.  The Marshal was visibly nervous. Only the Nomads willingly traveled the desert and even then they went in the safety of their massive tracked rigs. The desert was just a bad place. No one was even certain why – the things that made people not come back were faceless and unknown. 

The Marshal was doubly perturbed when Yacob pulled out a pair of drums and began to tap on them, bobbing his head and smiling faintly as he let a rhythm pick up.

“Look…do you really think it’s wise to be playing music at this hour? I mean…”

“Shht.” Rattlesnake hissed. He reached into his own bag and removed an old guitar, pitted with scratches on its darkened wood. 

“It’s no more dangerous at night than it is in the day. Just don’t go outside the walker to take a piss. And if something wakes you in the night, there is no god given reason to investigate it.” He said these words in a low voice, a simple statement. Then he began to play on the guitar, the notes slow and deliberate, hanging in the air, mixing with Yacob’s drums and spiraling to the moons above.

------

The Daymoon was directly overhead, encompassing the noon sky, when they reached the Nomad rig. The Nomads, in their leather clothing, furred and strange hats, looked troubled. You could sense the restlessness. Partly it was because of the tragedies of one of their members. The whole tribe, however, wished to be moving, to be rolling across the desert like they had done for generations. Motion was survival out here.

Yacob slowly brought the walker to a halt, stamping down the legs to steady it as he brought it in. He looked up at the massive rig the Nomads had. It towered above them, a mighty fortress on treads; window’s and pipes adorning it like rough decorations.

“Woah, Rattlesnake. Check that rig out! Can you imagine what it’s like to drive one of those, yeah?’

Rattlesnake nodded. He deftly leapt out of the walker, the Marshal gingerly stepping down behind him. The Nomads watched them silently. Some had cooking utensils out and were roasting some hare’s they had caught. A few children ran round behind the rig. A mechanic sat on one of the treads, noisily banging on a loose pipe. 

A man stepped forwards. He was dressed in colourful, gold laced clothing and had a drooping mustache. His eyes were dark and distant and sad. Despite his finery his whole being seemed to sag.

“Please. The men of your country judged me, judged us, wrongly. The boy was shot by your own men. I was not there.”

The Marshal adopted a stern face, straightening his back and pulling the brim of his hat down slightly.

“Come on now, sir. We’re not here to argue the proceedings. I’m the Marshal and it is my job to carry out the law.’

The man closed his eyes briefly. Rattlesnake suddenly realized this man’s elaborate clothes were his funeral vestments.

“Where will it be done? I think we should go further out, so the children do not see this.”

Rattlesnake saw a woman approach and hover near them. She was small and slight, with a face grimed with dust and hair pulled back into a simple knot. She held a small fist to her chest and wavered where she stood.

The Marshal folded his arms.

“Now, I’m not going to take you out to the desert and shoot you now. There are proper methods of the law. You’ll be taken to the Southlands and given a proper trial.”

The man looked at him steadily.

“Why must there be a trial? They have already labeled me as guilty. My own people accept me as guilty. For them, I will call myself guilty.”

The Marshal shifted, becoming impatient with this man’s patience. 

“Now look, I’m not arguing. You’re coming with us now.”

“Please. Please kill me here. It is not right for my body to lie outside the desert.”

The Marshal roughly grabbed the man, pulling him towards the walker. Yacob stepped deftly out of his way. He tried not to stare at the small scene.

“Now look! Look! Your body is going to lie wherever I damn say it’s going to lie! Get in the damned walker!”

The man let his shoulders drop further. He climbed up the side, moving to the back of the walker and sitting, with the solemnity of an imprisoned king. He looked back, at his tribe’s rig.

The woman ran forward’s now, grasping the Marshal.

“No! No, please, don’t do this, don’t take him! Not out of the desert! The spirits will destroy us for this! He must remain in the sands! Please, at least kill him here.”

The man turned his head towards her. He blinked again, his face still stony.

“Please. I’m alright. It is as it is.”

The woman collapsed, the Marshal backing away towards the walker.

“You don’t have to do this! We can fight! The tribes will assemble for this! Even if you die, will you not at least defend the will of the spirit’s?”

“It is as it is” he replied.

The woman stood, grabbing a fistful of dust and hurling it into the wind. It blew back at her, dusting her hair. Her voice gained the tenseness of anger.

“Why don’t you do anything! You’re being herding like a goat in a rig! You can’t even fight to save yourself!”

Yacob started the walker, the mechanical beast shaking, eager to begin the run. The Marshal struggled and flopped into the bed. He gave a jerked, impatient signal. Rattlesnake swung himself over the side. The man shifted to allow Rattlesnake to sit. He turned again to the woman.

“I love you.”

The woman fell to her knees, weeping, gripping and twisted the fabric of her dress. During the conversation, a small curve of Nomads had gathered. They watched the woman in a tense silence. The walker began to move, making a slow curve to point it back the way it had come. Dust kicked up around its legs. Suddenly, the woman was up and shrieking, the sands swirling around her, an enraged dervish of the desert.

“Damn you! Damn you, may the spirits curse your souls to the depths! I plead to the desert, may you all die before you can remove his body from the desert!” 

The woman clutched her hands in front of her face, twisting them into a pattern. The Nomads drew back a little, some giving audible gasps. Then they were obscured by a cloud of dust as the walker set out on its course. The Marshal shook his head in indignation, muttering to himself. When the sands cleared, Rattlesnake looked back. The Nomads were moving. He couldn’t see what they were doing. Soon he distinguished only the rig, which began to shrink with distance. The prisoner beside him didn’t move. The Marshal looked at the prisoner once, and then looked away, simply watching Yacob gently guide the walker. Rattlesnake spat over the side of the walker. He sniffed the air. It might rain tonight.

-------

The Marshal was in a foul mood as they went back. He had a sense, that though he was the captor of this man, that he had no inch of control. The thought tugged at him, causing a bitter ire.

“You goddamn Nomads. You goatscrewing sandfreaks.” He spat out every syllable. 

“Can’t keep straight in right society, so I guess this hellhole is the only place for you. And that damn woman back there. Screaming about ghosts and devils. You…people…are just as goddamn primitive as…as the things that live in the forest! You don’t even have the blasted brains to build yourselves a Steamcity out here. Course I’d be perfectly happy if you all rotted out here. But you drive your pile of junk up to my border! Start causing trouble. Goddamn! I think we should have just bombed your shitstain of a…a….gathering.”

The Marshal looked around. Yacob was silent, pretending to have all his focus on driving and thus not hearing the tirade. Rattlesnake had not moved an inch since he got back in the walker. His eyes simply wandered from one twisted rock to another in the desert landscape, flitting sometimes up to the glowing Daymoon. 

The Marshal’s frustration grew. He wanted to end this. To kill the man, to throw him off. More than that, he wanted a reaction. He wanted this barbarian exile to jump at him. To scream back. To act like the primate the Marshal saw him as. 

The man bowed his head. The Marshal stood up in the walker, walking awkwardly to the back, grabbing the man and shaking him. In the moving walker, with his victim seated and unresisting, this effort seemed almost laughable. The Marshal simply degenerated into curses and swearing, with much damning. The man looked up with dark, old eyes.

“You could kill me. You could say I resisted, that I needed to be killed. My body would not be found here.”

The Marshal smiled. He had found something. He shuffled back to his seat, leering at the man.

“Now see, you dumb Nomads don’t even care for your lives. You’re too damn cowardly to fight when you’re on the edge. Your damn woman even saw that! I’m going to make damn sure that you see it out of this desert. And when you hang, I’m burying your body myself, right where I damn want it. Damnit!”

The man cast his gaze down again. “If that is your conviction, then what happens will happen.” 

Rattlesnake looked back out over the desert. This was going to be a long ride, although the Daymoon was starting to make progress down across the sky. He saw gather clouds in the distance, dark and brooding. He felt the wind blow in his face. Yes, rain, most likely rain. 

With a movement that made the Marshal jump slightly, Rattlesnake whipped his head around, his normally laconic eyes gazing intently.

“What do you see, oldtimer?” asked the Marshal with a tone of uneasy jest.

Rattlesnake ignored him. Out there in the sands…the sand itself. He thought he had seen the sand shift. He knew it. The sand had bulged, distorting, for a hint of a second. Whatever it had been, thought, it was gone now. He continued to keep vigilance as the walker clanked and scrambled through the desert. All the men remained silent.

-------

They camped again in the walker on the second night. Rattlesnake had been right in his estimations. A desert storm hung over them, the rain playing a light staccato tune on the tarp above them. Rattlesnake lit a lantern and placed it among them. All four men stared at the light with some form of discontent. None of them were enjoying this journey.

Yacob decided to at least attempt it. He went to his pack and pulled out his drums. He began to tap, but the rhythm lacked a direction. Finally, the Marshal snapped at him.

“I’m in no mood for music, you damn Zethian! Put your goddamn skins away!”

Yacob looked hurt. Then, a rather unfamiliar look came into his usually open face. 

“Hey. Marshal. It’s not right that you’re using the good name of the people of Zethio in the same sentence as your foul cursing.”

The Marshal stared back at him, uncertain of his next move. He felt that this desert was sapping his authority. Out here, there was no law, except of the small laws between men. The Marshal grunted and pulled back. Rattlesnake lightly touched Yacob on the shoulder. The young man slowly put his drums away, and then laid back on his bedroll.

Rattlesnake looked up at the tarp, seeing in sway slightly from the rain. He listened to its pattern. His instinct, his age and experience told him something was not right. But it would only cause more danger to investigate it.

The Marshal laid back on his bedroll, muttering. Then he got back up. 

“Rattlesnake. How do we know that this man isn’t going to kill us in our sleeps?’

“I’m not going to sleep Marshal. Lay yourself down and rest.”

“Well, he’s right here beside me! I don’t trust a resting place beside a Nomad!”

“So you want one of us to change places, eh Marshal?” said Yacob from where he was laying. “Scared of sleeping with the lights out?”

“Shut up! I’m not going to be insulted by a couple of mercenaries!” 

“Be quiet” The prisoner had spoken, suddenly. “I am trying to listen to the rain.”

“You don’t have the goddamn right to speak!” said the Marshal. “For Chrissakes Rattlesnake, can’t we tie him up?”

“Leave it.”

The Marshal was beginning to turn red. He shifted, fidgeted in the confines of the walker. He had a cold look in his eyes.

Finally he turned to the prisoner. 

“Let’s get one thing straight. What you say doesn’t matter in the least! So keep your mouth shut!”

“Our actions choose our paths” murmured the man.

“I said, shut…” began the Marshal. He never finished. Rattlesnake moved fast, his hand going to his gun, the gun rising, the delicate mechanisms racing in their beautiful, deadly nature. The bullet, flying to the target. Piercing the heart. Freeing blood.

The prisoner moved back from the Marshal, who he had been bent over. The bullet had gone through both of them. It was too late though. The man had already slit the Marshal’s throat. The Marshal was staring with dead, furious eyes, gurgling in hatred. Blood splattered over his shirt. He sank back onto the bedrolls.

The prisoner touched the place where the bullet had met him. He smiled, then slumped forwards.

“By the Books….” muttered Yacob, staring at the scene. “Holy Books…what the hell…”

Rattlesnake slowly put his gun back.

“Oh dear lord…what do we do now?” said Yacob. “O Books, there both dead.”

“Yacob!” shouted Rattlesnake. Suddenly the laconic gunslinger had come alive. Fire burned in his eyes. His chest sucked in air his muscles tensed. 

“Start the walker! NOW!”  Rattlesnake ran to the equipment box, flinging open the lid. Yacob was already scrambling. When Rattlesnake meant something, he meant something. They would deal with the little tragedy later. It still seemed unreal. They looked like two men collapsed on their beds, not fallen to death.

Soon the walker engine was humming. Yacob needed no directions. He headed straight, the walker’s legs beginning to clank and groan. Her engines roared defiance at the night as she sped off, trundling over the events of the present. Now it was movement. Now it was piston’s and gears and steam. 

In the back, Rattlesnake tore down the tarp. He needed room. He then unfolded his tool, jamming the pieces into place. The mounting. The crank. The barrels glistening. The crank gun stood ready to spit fire into the night. Yacob hazarded a glance backwards.

“What the hell do we need that for?” 

Rattlesnake kept moving. Ammo in its place. Now, the light. The light was key.

Yacob began to notice what Rattlesnake had already noticed. There was a rumbling, separate and beyond the sounds of his machine. It was a boring, crunching, writhing noise. And it was following them.

“What…what the hell is back there?!” he said, trying to suppress the welling panic. Two men dead. Now some horror of the sands behind them. This was a black night. The forces from beneath the planet were working foul this nocturne.

Rattlesnake had snapped everything together. He hesitated only a moment as he flicked on the light. A bright patch of artificial Daymoon sprang into being behind the walker, casting long shadows across the desert. And casting shadows of the things that followed.

What came to the surface that night was a horde. Hundreds of writhing forms of anger. Like worms, large as dogs and fattened. With snake’s scales and gaping angry mouths they came, skipping and sliding over the sands. They screeched and gibbered, moving over rocks and another. It looked like one solid mass, an ocean from hell raising it’s tide against them, threatening to consume them.

“Oh….” Said Yacob, looking back. There was nothing more to say. The nightmare that always threatened here had broken through to the other side. He turned with grim determination to the controls of his walker, pressing them down hard. The walker gained new life, roaring ever faster, the legs still keeping the necessary pattern as they lightly leapt off the sands. 

At the rear, Rattlesnake steadied his gun. This was to be a long night. It would be dawn before they reached the end of the desert. The struggle would last until then. He saw that even more of the creatures were birthed from the sands, screeching in their eerie tones. He began to fire, turning the crank slowly, with a patience he had fought to learn. Black blood sprayed up, illuminated in the searchlight.

The gun began the steady heartbeat of its purpose. Rattlesnake gently guided it to and fro, beating back the swarm of Lizard Worms wherever they threatened to engulf the rear legs of the walker. The moons spun in their set patterns and the stars glowed, almost red with intensity. The worms emerged in greater numbers, gaining speed. Rattlesnake could not imagine what weird force pushed them in such an unnatural manner. The chase was begun, and he did not know how long they could go. 

--------

For what was truly hours the two men set grimly to their tasks. The walker was beginning to creak and groan, not being meant to take this much stress over such a period of time. Slowing down, however, was not an option. The worms were almost at them now. Rattlesnake kept the great gun plowing through the living field, always just a little ahead of the inevitable outcome.

Then came the clicking noise of a parched gun. Rattlesnake swore silently under his breath. There was no more ammo. He pulled his revolver, firing slowly now, only hitting the worms that were nearly a threat. Then he was too slow. One worm skirted to the left, managing to match the walker. Then it leaped, landing in the back of the walker, writhing on the floor like a dying fish. Rattlesnake turned to face it, then dropped himself to the ground. The worm spat forth a vile substance, missing Rattlesnake and splattering itself on the crank gun, which steamed and melted. A fleck of the ooze landed on Rattlesnake’s cheek and he couldn’t help crying out. He brought his revolver in front of his face and shot the worm while lying down. He struggled to his feet, only to see now that the worm horde was on either side of them. He heard screeching and squashing from below the walker. They were on top of the swarm as well. The walker shook and stumbled, unable to run on the floor of worms. Yacob gripped the levels at the front, partly for steering his faltering walker and partly to keep him upright. Now Rattlesnake was firing just to keep the beasts from leaping into the walker again. Even as the walker began to swing from side to side, he aimed his shots carefully to find a match. 

“Oh shit…” mumbled Yacob from the steering place. “This is bad witchcraft, right here. Oh lord, we have a curse upon us, can be nothing but a curse.”
“Don’t stop!” barked Rattlesnake. He fired more shots and then the revolver stopped, being emptied. He cursed again. Even if he killed a hundred more, they would still not escape the desert in time.

“Keep at it. I’m going to shed some weight” said Rattlesnake. The walker just needed to go faster – even now, it was steadily slowing as the worms threw themselves under it’s feet. 

Rattlesnake slid across the back of the walker, moving quickly. He tossed the tarp and poles off, the canvas fluttering and vanishing into the night. He looked around. Some unnecessary cargo boxes were hefted and tossed overboard. Worms screeched as the boxes smashed open upon them. Rattlesnake felt something bump against his feet. He looked down, to see a serenely smiling face. The body of the prisoner nudged against him. 

Rattlesnake made up his mind quickly. Taking the man under the shoulders, he moved to the edge. 

“Sorry” he muttered. “But I guess this is what you wanted, anyways.”

At that moment, the walker gave a terrific lurch. Yacob let out a panicked scream, banging the controls in frustration. The walker had ground to a halt. Worms began to crawl up every side of the walker. Rattlesnake still held the prisoner, using him as a shield, while he reached for his long knife with his other hand. A worm attempted to leap over the side, Rattlesnake lunging out and stabbing it. The worm gurgled, the corrosive ooze bubbled up. Rattlesnake hissed and dropped the knife, drawing back his hand to save it. Suddenly a worm leapt from behind him. It hit him firmly in the back. He was pushed forwards. The corpse he held tipped down and over the edge, carrying Rattlesnake with it into the writhing mass.

------

As Rattlesnake fell, he thought he could feel every rain drop that landed upon him. He felt like the ocean was rushing to meet him in a storm. He felt old. He hit the moistened sand. A thunderclap sounded overhead. There was a rumbling. That was the idling engine of the walker. Rattlesnake sat up and looked around.

The desert around them was empty. All around him, the sand seemed to be shifting in strange patterns, a mosaic of whirlpools that grew smaller and vanished. He looked up and saw the corpse that had fallen with him lying on the ground. He staggered to his feet. Then he saw the corpse move, the sand around the prisoner’s body move. The body began to sink into the desert sand. Rattlesnake did not dare to interfere with its progress. Soon it was gone and the sands stopped shifting. A light wind blew and scattered raindrops in his face. He turned around, hoisting himself back onto the walker.

Yacob was sitting on the edge of the raised control platform. He was shaking his head and muttering.

“Oh, by the Books, oh lords, how can I tell what’s real, dear lords above me…”

He looked up at Rattlesnake, managing a thin smile. 

“Tell me man. Am I here?”

Rattlesnake moved over and put a hand on Yacob’s shoulder.

“You’re all here. Let’s get this thing moving.”

--------

By the time the Daymoon began to rise, they were at the forest’s edge. They had passed the storm and could see only the clouds out in the desert. The yellow Daymoon glow penetrated through the trees and bathed the walker.

Yacob ran his hand over the controls. “Oh, by the Books you did well…” he murmured. He turned back, moving to where Rattlesnake was seated. Yacob pushed over a heap that lay on the floor of the walker.

“Oh shit, man. We still got a dead man on board. I…lords, yes. He killed him, didn’t he?”

Rattlesnake nodded.

“Shits…I never was expecting that.

Rattlesnake shook his head.

“Rattlesnake, man…what are we going to do? We have a dead Confederate Marshal in our walker.”

Rattlesnake looked back out over the desert. He began to talk slowly.

“I…don’t figure that they’ll accept our story. Especially with the fact that the money he paid us is missing. It went overboard.”

“Shit. No…the law doesn’t full trust mercenaries.”

“Yeah. Come on. Help me with this.”

As the sun rose, they dug a shallow grave at the place where the desert began. The placed the limb and flabby corpse of the Marshal inside and covered it with dirt. 

“So…” said Yacob, yawning. “What do we do now?”

“Now we disappear. Then we eat. Then we sleep.”

“Where we gonna disappear to? North into the forest is Confederacy. East and West the border between the trees and desert runs a long while. And even if we went that way…you’re still a wanted man in the Colonies.”

“Yeah. And I don’t want that same reputation in my home, either. We stay out of here until this event is forgotten”

Rattlesnake looked over the desert. 

“Yacob. Would you know where Zethio would be at this time?”

“Course I would! I know the path the island flies, its in my blood to know where she soars.” 

He paused.

“Yeah! We could go there. But, of course, to get there without an airship, we’ll need to take the walker back into the desert.”

“Hmm” replied Rattlesnake. “I think that’ll do fine.”

The End