A boy in Bastilhas had one of three heroes: The king, Kalen Darigon, that popular culture portrayed as stoic and indomitable, an unyielding defender of the kingdom; the Royal Knights, Kalen’s personal bodyguard, assembled from the most talented and magical Bastilhasians; and, without a doubt, the Mithril Battalion, the kingdom’s elite golem knights.
Stories, poems, songs, and plays had been written in their honor. They developed a reputation—a legend—as renegades that disregarded orders; a battalion for the courageous, but also the violent, and the misunderstood. One popular serial, penned by an anonymous author in Vultheras, concerned a beautiful maiden, a dashing vagabond, and a pledge to join the Mithril Battalion to prove their valor.
They were so popular that their fame spread abroad to Edwindy, Atilonia, and the Federation; authors and artists found every use for them, from protagonists to antagonists, as the focus of gallant paintings and startling exposes. Bandits on edge of the law, committing crimes of war; fearless heroes at the spear point of a charge; and according to a certain author, dastardly rogues that stole maiden hearts wherever they were found.
In reality, they highly-trained soldiers selected from an already-elite pool of automaton-riding warriors: The Golem Knights. In contrast to most man-sized, remote operated automatons, the golem knights—known as pilots when embarked—managed their out-sized automatons by riding them into battle. It put the pilots in great danger, but also positioned them to set examples of valor and chivalry, which fed their fame.
The Mithril Battalion, with its entire force of nine-hundred golems, was present for the battle of Sedencenco; believed trapped in the fortress with the bulk of the Bastilhasian army. Unknown to the Atilonians, or perhaps ignored by their local command, they had broken the encirclement and escaped into the mountains of Bastilhas. While second general Stefano believed the remnants of the Bastilhasian defense divisions had fled to Edwindy or encamped in the western mountains, they were—in fact—right beneath his feet.
Major Shriketalon examined his reflection in a standing mirror: A short Echokhetan man with a head of black, buzz-cut hair. He was not particularly handsome, but that’s not to suggest he was unappealing. Rather, it was plain that he was not a young hothead, a blonde-haired captivator, or stunning rogue. He was middle-aged, old for a golem rider, with grim black eyes and a sour expression. His silver-colored dress uniform, pinned with the bronze medals of his rank, denoted him as a member of the Mithril Battalion.
He turned and moved toward the door, passed a bed and wooden wardrobe, and the drip of his leaking stone ceiling. That hole in the ground had been his home for months, but that was about to change. Shriketalon turned the brass knob of a poorly-fit wooden door and stepped out into a ancient thoroughfare-made-workshop, busy with soldiers and mechanics.
The thoroughfare was a massive tunnel of gray brick that ran beneath Bastilhas; one of many such areas, where the hills were a catacomb of ruins from peoples’ past. There were doors across the walls, some at ground level and some above, where upper floors had once stood, but then been washed out by centuries of rain. The Army had erected steel stairs and walkways to traverse what portions of the upper floors that remained, but for the most part the thoroughfare’s rusted-iron columns were exposed, where they reached from the floor to the dark shadows of the ceiling.
Shriketalon shielded his eyes from the glare of mana-powered portable spotlights. Men hustled ahead, pushed welding carts around rows of steel, twelve-foot tall, hunch-back golems. Technicians scaled service carriages, double and triple checked all systems. They tested the climbing grips, the pilot’s harness, and the emergency—manual—controls. Furrow-faced workers adjusted their welding goggles, argued with their supervisors.
“That weld is clean,” one said.
“Get back to work,” someone barked.
Everyone was on edge, rushing to strike check marks on their clipboard lists. Like animals, they could sense the electricity in the air. The Atilonians were about to make their play; they had to be ready.
“Sir,” a woman said loudly, above the clamor of the thoroughfare.
Shriketalon turned his head and saw an older woman beside him, clipboard against her chest. She was taller than he was, but most people were. Her plain, pale face was creased in her advancing age, and her black, tied-back hair was streaked by many strands of white. She wore a silver uniform, but there were no medals pinned to her breast.
“Grandmother,” Shriketalon said in deference.
The woman stared down at the major, her icy-blue eyes boring a hole in his forehead. “Captain Eddleston,” she said and pressed the clipboard into Shriketalon’s hands. “I’ll accept your apology when you sign.”
“Let’s see,” Shriketalon muttered and his expression turned from severity to disinterest. He flipped through yellow, water-stained pages, before he pulled a fountain pen from the clip.
“There,” he said, pushed the clipboard back into her arms. “Signed.”
She reviewed the signature. “Good,” she said. “Shall we go?”
“I’ve been signing for deployments for the past week,” Shriketalon said, coupled his hands behind his back. He turned to watch the technicians before watching her with a side-eye. “Do you think this will be the one?”
“The scouts seem to think so,” she answered, looked up from her board. “But what does it matter? We can’t be caught flatfooted.”
“It’s hard on the crews,” he said.
“It’s hard on everyone,” she said. “For the civilians still above, especially.”
The major sighed through his nose. “Fair point,” he replied. “Lead the way.”
Captain Eddleston nodded and walked past major Shriketalon who turned to follow behind her.
It was unclear why thoroughfares like theirs had been built underground, but they extended like the spokes of a wheel from Vultheras Island. Although largely dilapidated and filled with sea water, the thoroughfares beneath the western hills were of interest to the Bastilhasian military and all but unknown to the Atilonians, who could not navigate their dangerous upper tunnels.
Army and Inquisition Intelligence suspected there were resistance elements or refugees hiding below ground, but their attention was focused elsewhere, such as the caverns beneath Vultheras itself.
Meanwhile, captain Eddleston walked briskly through throngs of working soldiers. Sections of the thoroughfare had been designated for golem maintenance, weapons stockpiles, food and sanitation. In large adjoining chambers, bedrolls were laid out side by side, where thousands from the 27th and 31st slept in rotations.
Shriketalon’s skin prickled at the sights and sounds. The common soldiers thought of him as a scowling man with a disquieting stare, but when he arrived with the Mithril Battalion in tow, he was immediately made leader of Defense Operations; given total command of the 35,000 strong 27th and 31st. That was because, unlike ordinary folk, the sounds of war were as birdsong to his ears. There was pleasure hidden by his severe glare.
Eddleston turned to climb steel stairs and the major followed, his hand sliding up the rail. They left the thoroughfare through the third floor, entered a long tunnel wide enough for one, and continued under the dim glow of ceiling lamps. At its end, opened a well-lit hangar occupied by mechanics, golems, and their pilots—golem knights.
While the lower section of the main thoroughfare was a maintenance hangar for golems, where they were tuned and repaired; the upper section, where Shriketalon entered a mist of steam, and his ears were treated to the pleasant hiss of machinery, was a deployment hangar; one of hundreds around the thoroughfare. The golems hunched in their hazard-striped squares, backs plugged with mithril fiber cables, appeared to rest before the large sliding doors of their launch flues.
“Major on deck,” Eddleston announced and the crews turned their heads.
Those ground support transferred in from the 31st offered weary salutes, but the regular battalion members knew that was unnecessary.
“Return to your work,” the major said.
A mechanic sat by the leg of a golem appeared to nod. He took one last puff from his cigarette, snuffed it against the floor, and lowered his welding visor. The torch handle was pulled and sparks flew; he stripped the last of a golem’s ankle armor.
“Changing your armor again, Gaun?” Shriketalon asked an approaching pilot.
She was small, roughly as tall as the major, and half as old. There was a smile beneath her mop of red hair as she offered a salute. “Aye,” she answered. “Better to out maneuver a turret traverse than charge it head on.”
“Better to land on it!” a pilot shouted from where he sat on the back of a golem. “Break your fall and crush the turret at the same time.”
“Freeberg,” Shriketalon said.
The pilot pushed away from the golem and dropped to the floor. He was also short, though a little taller than both Gaun and Shriketalon. “Is today the day, Major?” he asked as he approached.
Gaun and Freeberg wore their silver dress uniforms. The patches on the sides of their arms, blue diamonds depicting striking golems, further identified them as senior knights.
“That’s what grandmother tells me,” Shriketalon answered.
Eddleston frowned.
“Aw, come on,” Gaun said with a smile. “We’re not mean about it, grandma.”
Freeberg ran his hand up through his short brown hair. “Yeah, well… you’re the oldest, and the tallest, and you’ve been here longer than anyone else.”
“Those aren’t compliments,” Eddleston said. “And if you have time to chat, you have time to look after your golems. Saddle up and prepare for launch.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Freeberg.
“Yes, mom,” said Gaun.
Shriketalon turned to Eddleston. “Where is Wensenset?” he asked.
The captain glanced around the improvised hangar. “Wensenset?!” she shouted.
“Captain!” a voice shouted back from the end of the hangar and a man in gray army fatigues came running. He was an Echokhet, like Shriketalon, but he was very tall and his head was bald in traditional House Wensenset fashion.
“Sergeant Wensenset,” the major greeted the young man, looked up at the soldier’s chin. “I see you have your bag.”
The sergeant slung a burlap sack from his shoulder and dropped it with a thump. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I’m ready to equip the con-collar as soon as the shield is down.”
The floor rumbled and Shriketalon squinted. The tremor from an artillery battery above should have lasted approximately three seconds, but it felt long. The major glanced at the captain beside him and she nodded back.
Eddleston retrieved a brass, ear-shaped loop from her suit pocket. She fit it around her ear, such that the gem suspended in the loop was snug against her ear canal. “I’ll return to Echelon Command,” she said. “Wensenset, come with me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the young scion said, lifted his sack from the floor.
She sighed, made a long look at the major. “They’ll be counting on you,” she said, before she turned to leave with the sergeant behind her.
