Chapter 36 The Third Column
Chapter thirty-six
The Third Column
Stonevale, the next day
Roderic commanded the fortress wall from behind a reinforced stone merlon, soldiers firing through crenels to either side.
A rocket whizzed overhead, barely missing his headquarters building, and exploded against the cliffside, spitting rock fragments like hail.
“Focus fire on their artillery,” he yelled into the radio he clutched.
“Sir, you shouldn’t be out here,” said Lieutenant Rushing, sounding like a parent scolding a child for playing in the street.
“I can’t command a battlefield if I can’t see what’s going on. Now, send those pike and swordsmen out into the streets. They’ve been waiting for something to do, and now’s their moment.”
“Yes, sir.” Rushing crouched low as he sped his way across the rampart.
Smoke rolled down the streets like a living thing, curling through shattered windows and drifting over burning vehicles.
The air tasted of copper, dust, and propellant.
Gunfire snapped from every direction, sharp as breaking glass.
A dozen enemy armored vehicles prowled the streets like iron panthers sniffing out prey, while cannons boomed from both sides.
McKinley’s raid had successfully disabled about a third of the Republic’s more modern big guns, and, best of all, he’d stolen six crates of exploding shells. Still, Roderic figured, at this rate, they’d be out of ammunition within a few days. He couldn’t afford to consider what happened then.
Below, an enemy armored carrier blasted off the street, slamming on its side and rolling in a roar of metal and flame, coming to rest on its back like a wounded animal. The tires burned with greasy black smoke that smeared the sky.
Another violent concussion from below, and a chunk of the rampart tore away, the men’s screams deafening in Roderic’s ears. He crouched low, dust and mortar raining on his head and shoulders. When he looked up, the devastation became visible through the drifting cloud of debris.
So, this was it. His fort would be reduced to rubble, his loyal soldiers, the militia from the city, all smashed to oblivion despite his best efforts. If he didn’t have to hold it together, be the general his father expected him to be, he’d have broken into tears.
“General Calder.” Captain Cooley raced up from the surviving section of wall. “Permission to redeploy the sharpshooters. If we get down there, closer to the action, we’ll get more precise hits.”
“You’ll be more exposed,” Roderic said with concern.
“Plenty of sound buildings. I’ll put them prone on the rooftops.”
Roderic nodded. “Make it so.”
Cooley raced off. Medics rushed to the demolished section of the wall, collecting the wounded onto handheld stretchers. Roderic’s breath tasted like ash, and his heart, heavy as lead. The sky above Stonevale flashed and roared until it seemed the city itself was being hammered apart by the heavens.
We will hold, he told himself. The alternative was unthinkable.
Colonel Miles Bourg led the incursion into the city. General Roundtree wished to avoid a siege, and, once scouts determined that most civilians had evacuated, he ordered ground troops to advance while the artillery kept pressure on Fort Calder.
Though the armored car protected him from rifle fire stitching the sides with sparks and ricochets, it did nothing to shield him from the grit and gore of battle.
Ahead, white light flashed between the buildings, followed an instant later by a crack that hammered the lungs.
The air filled with powdered brick and drifting ash, turning the sunlight to the color of rust. To his side, an IED blast sent a troop carrier tumbling, its undercarriage aflame.
“Lieutenant Harper,” he barked into his radio, “get your squad up here and comb for explosives. Captain Zapata, slow your advance. Let the sweepers move ahead.”
“Roger that,” they both replied. The foot soldiers passed the vehicles at double time as wheels slowed.
Splinters and shattered glass hissed through the air like angry insects, peppering Miles’ Oshkosh-M-ATV.
Though Roundtree focused artillery fire on the citadel, the ground still trembled with every detonation.
The street jumped beneath his tires as another charge went off, the shockwave rattling teeth and bone.
Steady as a rock, Sergeant Sander gripped the wheel, guiding the armored car around obstacles down the long street toward the bastion’s gates.
Lead rained from rooftops, the crack of rifles and the boom of rockets tangling into an endless thunderclap.
Miles peered up at defenders on rooftops, picking off his men.
They rushed to take cover, dragging the wounded with them, leaving the fallen bleeding on the cobblestones.
Another rocket whistled through the smoke and detonated in one of Fort Calder’s towers, blasting stone, brick, and steel, swallowing wood in flames before vanishing in a cloud of black grit.
Miles couldn’t tell which army was taking more casualties as his shielded car crawled down the thoroughfare of the once proud city.
Soldiers fell. Vehicles destroyed. Buildings collapsed.
Roundtree hammered away at the fortress with Verdancia returning round for round.
But the Republic greatly outnumbered them.
This time tomorrow, he hoped to be sitting around a camp table discussing terms of surrender with General Calder.
Lord Thorne Calder watched helplessly from the ramparts of Highcrest Hall.
The Iron Army hadn’t targeted his home. “Their general wants it for himself,” he grumbled.
He briefly considered having the troops assigned to guard him set charges to destroy his family home should it be breached.
No, he reconsidered. A descendant could recapture it in the future.
This place is my legacy to whoever comes after me.
I’ll not destroy it. Besides, Roderic might yet prevail.
The air reeked of burned powder, hot metal, and smoke thick enough to chew. The concussion of an explosion rattled up his legs as he watched the enemy’s rocket punch a hole in Fort Calder’s wall. “I hope Roderic is safe.”
“I’m sure he is, my lord.” Giles, formally attired in black tails, ventured out. “Won’t you come back inside? What if flying debris were to strike you?”
“We’re too high up for that,” he scowled. “I might retreat when they start shooting at us, but for now …” His sharp, old eyes scanned the valley below. From this vantage point, Thorne could see it all unfold.
He straightened. Stiffened. “Giles, my spyglass. Now.”
“Yes, my lord.” The proper steward hastened to comply.
Thorne saw something unexpected in the distance, as if the forest to the north crawled. Not the Iron Army. Not theirs. His heart skipped a beat, his breathing sharp. Surely the civilians weren’t returning from the safety of the mines! They would be lambs to the slaughter.
“Here, sir.” Giles passed him the brass hand telescope.
Pressing it to his eye, Thorne scanned the suspect area.
Through the smoke, a line of figures emerged, marching with the perfect rhythm of machines that never tired.
Their metal frames, white and silver, caught the sun like mirrors, flashing cold light through the haze.
They moved like a wall that had learned to walk.
Not a charge. Not a march. An approach as inevitable as the tide.
“What in the six hells!” Definitely not his citizens—not even human.
Gunfire faded. For a heartbeat, the battlefield froze.
The warring armies stopped to stare. Thorne watched in shock as the units raised weapons, firing streams of light at both Verdancian and Republican alike.
Steaming holes punched through bodies. Tanks and cannons exploded.
Buildings erupted into flames. The column advanced with the steady certainty of something that had never learned to fear death.
“General Roundtree,” Miles cried into his radio. “Do you see that?” His pulse thundered, and he couldn’t catch his breath. The armored car beside his—the same hardy model—glowed red from the heat of the beam before flipping on its side with an eruption of sparks.
“Yes, and I’m as shocked as you. Forget about the Verdancians. Fire at those.”
The war between nations ended in a heartbeat. The war against the machines had begun.
Miles barked orders to his officers. Sergeant Sander turned right at the next corner, aiming toward the new threat. The machine gunner in the back, shielded by a steel gun-guard, opened fire on the mechanical soldiers. A fresh wave of panic hit Miles as he watched the bullets bounce off.
Noticing renewed gunfire, he glanced out his passenger side window.
General Calder had ordered his troops to join in defending against the machines.
Miles’ vehicle jolted as a tire blew. Rounds sparked and skipped from the robots’ armor like pebbles thrown at a cliff.
They did not flinch. They did not fall. They simply kept coming like a walking sheet of steel.
A flash of light and the world tumbled. Miles seized the grip handle and held on, the sound of scraping metal ringing in his ears.
Lark vaulted the broken barricade like a deer clearing a fallen log. The team stormed into the fight from the rear.
“Go for the legs!” Wes yelled. “Let’s take these suckers down!”
Diego’s bullets did nothing to them. Lark drew her machete and charged in behind the back row. She fell into a slide like a runner stealing home and swung at the knee joint with all her might. The robot toppled forward with a crash, its severed legs still twitching in the dust.
“That’s it!” Wes shouted. “Those hydraulic cables are protected behind the armor, but there’s a weakness at the back of the knees—probably under the armpits as well.”
Harlan dropped to one knee, aimed for the sensitive joint, and fired. The machine stumbled. He hit the other knee, bringing it down. The unit tried to rise again, clawing at the pavement like a beetle turned on its back.
As if receiving a new order, both disabled robots twisted their torsos and aimed at the VERT team. Lark rolled behind a half-demolished wall, feeling the heat from the beam that missed her. The others took cover as well.
“Diego,” Luke called. “C-4 and blast caps.”
Diego crouched behind a century-old oak and dug through his pack. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“I should do it,” Lark said, glancing across at her comrades. “I love ya, bro, but you’ve got the agility of a tortoise.”
“We’ll both give it a shot,” Luke said. Diego smirked at Lark and handed her two blocks and caps.
“Have you ever handled this?” he asked. “It isn’t kids’ clay.”
“Just show me.”
Diego ran through the basics with Lark and Luke in a thirty-second speed lesson.
The two nimblest team members exchanged nods and raced from behind cover.
The machines’ attention had returned to their primary targets, and they didn’t notice the two approach.
Lark plunged the small blasting caps into balls of plastic explosive, rolled between two units, slapped the sticky C-4 into the backs of their knees, pushed the arming buttons, and raced away in a zigzag pattern.
They pivoted in unison, their blank faces angled eerily toward her.
Then their legs blew off, sending them crashing to the ground.
Luke tried something different, slapping his C-4 onto their necks. Sure enough, the heads blew off; however, they continued marching and firing their weapons. Lark grinned as she watched them blast two of their own, four, six, before their fellow robots shot back, silencing the decapitated units.
“That works too,” Luke called with a laugh.
“Get their laser guns,” Wes said.
Running in a crouch, Skye and Harlan raced past the downed units, snatching up the weapons.
Stray bullets meant for the robots skittered across the paving and bounced off buildings.
Lark started, her pulse pounding, when Skye hollered, “Ow!” and almost dropped the laser rifles.
Twirling behind a solid wall, she stopped, breathing heavy, and lowered the weapons to the ground. Lark dashed to her.
“Are you hit?” She grabbed Skye’s arm, examining it.
“Just grazed.” Blood soaked through her shirt sleeve, but, otherwise, Skye seemed fine.
“Look!” Luke pointed toward Highcrest Hall. A column of mechanical soldiers filed their way up the winding incline toward Lord Calder’s castle. Republican and Verdancian forces alike fired at them without slowing their unyielding march.
Lark met Skye’s gaze. “I’m alright,” Skye said. “Just a little sting. Let’s go protect the old man.”
Remembering how important Lord Calder was to the kingdom and how grateful he had been to have his son returned, Lark nodded. “We know how to stop them now.”
Wes snatched up a laser rifle. “And we have some of their own firepower. I’ll bet these babies will burn a hole through ‘em.”
“I know a shortcut to the hall,” Luke said. “This way.”
Bullets popped through the smoke, and the ground rumbled from a mortar explosion.
Flames leaped high as the unrelenting robot army forced enemies into an uneasy truce.
Lark and the team trotted up a secluded back staircase that seemed to spiral a kilometer into the clouds, bound to save the lord of Stonevale.