Suicide Run (Engines of Liberty Book 2) Read online

  In the confusion, Calvin escaped custody and ran for what meager cover he might find.

  The two lead wyvern riders immediately set onto the gryphons that had just taken to the sky anew. Grateful to be forgotten, Calvin disappeared into the shadows, handcuffed and unarmed, watching in awe at the horror above. Once the last of the skyfaring troops came through, the mages’ portal sank down to ground level and disgorged a second army. Calvin saw warg-riders, real gryphons, and trolls dragging huge stone clubs.

  Deep, primal fear triggered every nerve in Calvin’s body. His hands went clammy and his knees wobbled; he had to lean against an aged tree to stay upright. Maybe he should run, but where? The wizards spread out everywhere, not that they needed to: they could cast spells or use potions to enhance their senses, maybe even see him in the dark the way a tree cat saw its prey. One mage scribbled out a terramancy equation in the dirt, a truly frightening prospect to Calvin’s mind: if they used those equations to see everything within a certain area, would they be able to see the base underground?

  Until the mage army arrived, Calvin wouldn’t have thought it

  possible to sink to an even deeper level of hopelessness.

  And yet, if he could say one thing about the technomancers, it was that they would not go quietly into the night. Trapdoors all around the city slammed open, emergency sirens blaring from their depths. In full strength, the TechMan army answered the mages’ sudden arrival. Gunfire cracked repeatedly, an off-tempo chorus of explosions that intensified as their numbers grew. Mages tumbled from their brooms, and their beasts howled in anger. The wizards replied by casting huge, powerful spells that worked their influence over whole areas, ensnaring the fully-armored TechMans and slowing them down.

  Already, the stench of blood was strong.

  Calvin had to get out of these cuffs. Unfortunately the gryphon riders all wore the same uniforms and armor, so he had no idea who it was that had cuffed him. Were the keys universal?

  Keys. Maybe he didn’t need them. Did handcuffs and ignitions have similar tumblers? He squatted down and slipped his wrists under the curve of his butt, breathing deep so that the throbbing pain in his face wouldn’t overwhelm him. At least the nosebleed has stopped, though it had caked blood on his lips and chin.

  To speed up the process, he dropped into a sitting position and worked his feet through his arms to get the cuffs in front of him. The frosted iron knife was still at his ankle. He plucked it out and tried to angle the tip into one keyhole, but the task was harder than he’d anticipated. The hole was small, the knife point was big, and he couldn’t grip it well with his hands bound.

  The battle got louder. More wizards came through the portal with more monsters in tow, wreaking instant havoc. In reply, the technomancers sent wave after wave of mimics up from the motor pool, turning the sky into a landscape of chaos. The boom of black powder mixed with the multi-colored insanity of the curses, breaking broom and beast and mimic alike. Bodies rained down into the streets, where they were trampled by lumbering trolls or clockwork giants, clamoring to knock each other out on the ground. Calvin might have imagined fights like this since joining the army, yet experiencing it was more than his dreams could have shown him.

  It was horrifying.

  He cursed as the knife tip broke off in the key hole. It was no use: he needed the keys. One of the gryphoneers had fallen several yards away, his body ensnared by magical vines that had likely strangled him. Brandishing the knife, Calvin loped into the open with designs on cutting the vines and going through the man’s pockets.

  Ain’t nothing else for it! Go!

  As soon as he emerged, a witch flew by on a rug and flung a curse at him. It hurtled straight and true, a beam of reddish-blue light that nearly blinded him; he slashed at it with the knife, more out of desperation than anything else, and the beam veered off

  course, striking the ground harmlessly.

  Frosted iron, he thought, pausing for the briefest moment to consider what had just happened. The metal could still foul the magic! He clutched the knife tighter as the witch circled back around for another pass, shrieking in Saxon. Calvin froze, unsure if he could duplicate the feat . . .

  . . .but he didn’t have to. Two gryphon mimics converged on the witch at a speed he wouldn’t have thought possible. One gunner shredded her carpet, ruining the spell that gave it flight, and the other one sprayed bullets through her robes. The witch plummeted to the ground and skidded to a halt in a heap of ash and soot.

  The first gryphon landed in front of Calvin. The pilot—a brigade leader—removed his helmet. It was Hank!

  “Calvin, what are you doing?”

  “Just waiting for a ride, Hank!” Mercy, but they had good timing! He sprinted to the gryphon and held up his hands, hoping they had keys. Hank narrowed his eyes as Emma, the gunner, swept the area around them. The other gryphon zipped past, carrying Ingvar and Adam, who continued the work of death against the encroaching mages.

  “Why are you cuffed?” Hank demanded.

  “Long story. Can you spring me?” Calvin thrust out his hands again. Muttering under his breath, Hank swatted at his pockets, stopping when Emma brought the gun around and let loose on an incoming wyvern. The winged giant screamed as Emma traced a line up its exposed belly, yet the force of her firepower couldn’t slow its massive bulk. Hank shoved Calvin aside as the wyvern belly-flopped against the ground and rolled into the gryphon at speed, knocking it over and smashing it. They skidded a few yards away and the wyvern collapsed atop the wreckage. Emma had been thrown from the gunner’s perch, and Hank was nowhere in sight.

  “Hank!” Calvin cried.

  “Calvin, help me!” Emma was already up, trying to lift the wyvern’s wing. Calvin joined her, but it still proved too heavy for the pair of them. Then Emma gasped in pain as a bright blue stunning spell struck her in the chest and threw her onto her back. Calvin flinched and retreated, wrists still bound, whirling with his knife in search of the attacker. As it turned out, it was the wyvern’s rider.

  “Oh I’ll do you for that, you duffer rabble!” said the mage as he untangled himself from the saddle. “I have a feeling Sophronia liked this one.”

  Calvin positioned himself between Emma and the mage, jealously eyeing the pistol in her holster. He nudged her with his heel.

  “Come on, Emma! Get up!”

  The mage rolled down the wyvern’s wing and landed lightly on his toes, pointing his wand at Calvin. “Drop the knife, you sod.”

  “You can piss right off,” Calvin snapped, sounding much braver than he felt.

  “Right! Not likely.” The wizard hurled a spell. Calvin slashed, and the knife’s protective aura cut the bolt of light in two. Bright orange flames seared his forearms but the magical fire died out quickly, impaired by its contact with the forbidden metal.

  “Ain’t that a cheap trick,” the wizard sneered. “You’re worth

  more alive, but I’ll off you if I must.”

  “Who are you?” Calvin demanded. The battle still raged across the city, and yet he felt obligated to ask. There was something . . . fishy about this one.

  “I am Godfrey Norrington, your personal headhunter. You killed my partners out in the woods, so I followed you and found your hideout. All this?” He gestured to the portal and the still-growing mage army. “My doing. I can’t imagine how well my fortunes will change after I personally hand you all over to Crutchley. They might even name a colony after me—”

  When the mage looked wistfully into the sky, Calvin struck. He covered the distance and stabbed at Godfrey’s wand hand, causing him to retreat and stumble over the wyvern’s wing. Unfortunately Calvin tripped as well and they both went down. The wand and the knife were lost as they grappled hand-to-hand, a class wherein Calvin was clearly the better fighter.

  Mages never got their hands dirty, after all.

  When they came to their feet, Calvin stood behind Godfrey, pulling the handcuffs tight against his throat. The mage’s face da
rkened in the moonlight as he tried to get free. Calvin only doubled his efforts, squeezing so hard that the cuffs drew blood from his wrists.

  “We duffers do your heavy lifting, and who gets stronger?”

  Calvin spat. “I’ve wrestled goats that put up more of a fight. You Brits and all your superiority, pah! Take away the wand, and see what happens?”

  Then Godfrey threw his weight forward and fell to his knees, taking Calvin down with him; the mage pulled free, unharmed, if a little red around the neck. He recovered his wand as Calvin got up, but he had trouble mustering the breath to utter a curse. Still, he managed something, and the tip of his wand brightened . . .

  CRA-BOOM!

  A very close gunshot went off. Godfrey screamed in pain and clutched at his ribs. Calvin jerked his head toward the sound and saw that Hank had pulled himself halfway out from under the wyvern; smoke issued forth from his revolver.

  “Them lungs ain’t so useful once they pop!” Hank taunted. He cocked back the hammer for a second shot, but Godfrey had already trained his wand on Hank. This time he was able to get out a full curse.

  “CEORFAN!”

  A burst of light sliced his hand clean off, causing blood to fan out around Hank’s forearm. The gun clattered away and Hank roared, clutching at the wound, eyes fixed on his severed hand, the pistol still gripped tight.

  Calvin and Emma screamed a unified “No!” Godfrey again took notice of Calvin and, still cradling his ribs, aimed his wand at him, sneering as blood trickled out of his mouth. With an immutable sense of impending doom seizing him, Calvin could only stare at the wand’s glowing tip and think that this was it, he was going to die this time.

  Once more he was saved by interrupting gunfire, courtesy of

  Adam and Ingvar. Bullets chewed up the ground between them, kicking up ash and dust. Instead of casting his spell, Godfrey coughed and raised his hand to cover his face, an act that could only be self-preservation.

  From the dust?

  A memory stirred in Calvin, the faintest echo of a half-heard conversation between two techs in the motor pool that week. He’d been cleaning soot out of a gryphon’s intake, discarding the ash in a bin, and one of them said…

  “Shame we can’t sort this stuff out. Half of it is frosted iron anyway. Like tossing gunpowder.”

  Yes! John Penn had mentioned that too, right after Calvin arrived. Technomancers had pumped the dust up to the surface to make it lethal for the mages to invade the area. The very ground he stood on was a weapon!

  Adam brought his gryphon down low, banking hard to shed speed. Ingvar, the insane Techno Viking, bailed off of the gunner’s perch and hit the ground in a perfect tuck-and-roll. As he took off running, he produced his prized battle axe and barreled toward Godfrey with a Danish war cry on his lips.

  Helplessly, Calvin watched as his fellow Rebel Heart assaulted a full mage with nothing but a stick and a sharp blade. Godfrey staggered and slashed his wand through the air to form quick, crude defensive wards. Ingvar’s axe bounced off of the air between them yet he still drove Godfrey back.

  “Ingvar, be careful!” Emma cried.

  “Get Hank!” Ingvar bellowed back.

  As they quarreled, Calvin’s eyes darted all about. He needed his knife! If he had it, he could come at Godfrey from behind and finish him off. Keeping one eye on the Techno Viking, Calvin kicked around for his lost weapon. As Godfrey’s shield spells grew weaker, the mage fished a vial out of his pocket. Before Calvin could guess what it was, Godfrey popped the cork and drank its contents; instantly he straightened up with a renewed vigor and released his injured side. Damn, it was a healing potion! He thrust his wand at Ingvar and formed a more powerful shield-dome between them, then uttered a Saxon curse.

  “Anweald scur!”

  Out of nowhere, a gale-force wind threw Ingvar off of his feet and smashed him hard against the dead wyvern. His battle axe skittered away and magically morphed into a long, wet, rancid fish. Ingvar wasn’t even conscious to see it.

  His knife! Calvin saw it glint in the moonlight, and snatched it up. Now or never: he rushed at Godfrey while he was still focused on Ingvar. Calvin would go for the neck; even if it wasn’t a killing blow, it would hurt Godfrey, allowing Calvin to line up a second strike. Godfrey drew in a breath and repeated the first half of the curse that had sliced off Hank’s hand. Calvin leapt at him, arms outstretched.

  “CEOR—”

  The ground heaved with impossible force, cutting his curse short and bucking them all into the air. Calvin collided with Godfrey and they both ended up sprawled out on the ground, unsure of what had happened. Explosions ripped up the streets for several blocks, and what Calvin had initially thought were gryphon bombs turned out to be something else:

  Trapdoors. Big ones, and lots of them. All over town, huge hatches the size of a house blasted upward, exposing Camp Liberty below and disgorging the rest of the TechMan arsenal.

  Calvin rolled sideways with the new curve of the ground. The dead wyvern and the wrecked mimic slid away too, following the downward grade. Emma tried to keep Hank from disappearing down a sinkhole, and Adam expertly flew his gryphon into a brand-new chasm, catching the comatose Ingvar on the gunner’s platform.

  Okay. They were okay. Couldn’t worry right this second, Calvin had to make sure Godfrey was dead or dying! He jumped to his feet, scanning the area for the mage but failing to spot him. Most of Youngstown had just fallen into the ground—had he been swallowed up?

  Through the diminishing roar of engines and gunfire, Calvin’s ears pricked toward the sound of Emma’s voice. She was by her mimic, tearing part of her shirt to make a tourniquet for Hank’s wrist. Calvin stood frozen in place by anguish, his mind numb, wanting to help his friend but unable to make his feet move.

  Then he felt it.

  In the week that he’d been at Camp Liberty, he’d come to recognize the hum of a machine running, and he could tell different ones apart based on how they sounded, or how they could vibrate the very air around them as they idled. Well, there was definitely a machine running now, and judging by the feel of it, it was a few dozen times larger than anything he’d touched. He soon matched sight to sound when it rose up out of the massive hole in the earth, and the specter of it shocked him breathless.

  The monstrosity was nearly half the size of the entire base. To hide something of that magnitude, it had to have come from the abyss in the center of the mine. There was no other way to contain something so massive! It could have fit Mount Vernon’s mansion, stables and dormitory inside its belly, and that wasn’t counting the wings with their eight lifter fans, the four gigantic thrusters tucked against its sides, the thick snakelike tail, or the dozens of guns and cannons that bristled all over its body.

  A dragon. The technomancers had mimicked a dragon.

  Even the mages stared in awe at the twelve-hundred-foot long machine floating ninety feet off the ground, kicking up a cloud of frosted iron dust. The mimic’s elaborate head was the work of fine artists, every bit as fearsome as the head of a real dragon. A long, forked tongue protruded from its maw, like a reptile constantly tasting the air. The armored sections of the neck led back to the main body, which housed the engines and hydraulic implements for its four limbs and tail. Calvin couldn’t even guess how many crew members were necessary to operate it.

  As the largest mimic in history extricated itself from the collapsed mine, it planted its legs, spread its wings wide, and tick-tick-ticked all

  over, the sound of a hundred guns chambering their rounds. Upon the breast of the mighty mechanical beast, the words Saint George were stamped into the metal, alongside a dramatic rendition of George Washington.

  Calvin snapped out of his trance when the Saint George opened fire on the thick of the mage army, spitting ammunition in every direction. The sound was like dueling thunderstorms, a poorly timed chorus of boom-boom-boom that filled the air with fast-moving lead. As Calvin dropped down and plugged his ears, shadows danced rapidly
in the light of the muzzle flashes, and empty casings as thick as two fingers clanged against the pavement.

  Trolls, wargs, and gryphons fell like wheat to the scythe. What remained of the TechMan army rallied at the feet of the Saint George, adding their guns to the onslaught.

  To Calvin’s chagrin, both armies retreated. He expected the mages to flee in the face of the George’s awesome firepower, yet he had not expected the other TechMans to turn tail—until he saw them using the appearance of the Saint George to cover their escape. The officers’ haste suggested that the mages were not supposed to see the dragon mimic just yet.

  Adam circled back around a final time and touched down beside Emma and Hank. The Techno Viking was awake but prostrate on the gunner’s perch, blunderbuss in hand, trained on the mages’ portal. Sharpshooters aboard the Saint George still picked at the escaping enemies, enjoying what small victories they could.

  “Greenhorn, get moving!” Adam said to Calvin. He and Emma

  were lifting Hank onto the already overloaded vehicle.

  Calvin didn’t reply. He just stared at the George, at the new damage done to Camp Liberty, and at his injured friends. Something told him it wasn’t coincidence that he was followed here by the same mage that he’d failed to kill in the woods a few weeks ago . . . but how could they have followed him? Magic alone?

  If that could find him here, under a layer of frosted iron dust at the extremes of New Britain, what hope did he truly have of ever escaping the reach of the Crown?

  A crushing weight struck his heart. Not a physical weight, but the sensation took his legs out from beneath him all the same, and he collapsed to his knees in the swirling dust. Mages flew to the portal, technomancers flew away.

  All this power, all these cannons, all these engines, and this is the best we can do. A mutual retreat.

  The despair of it crippled him. The technomancers had prepared this assault for years, building a massive secret arsenal. They could have used it to great effect if it had stayed a secret.