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Chapter Eighteen

The Front

Kolakolvia

Illarion Glazkov


Object 12 nearly pitched forward, its feet completely submerged in the mud. The ground sucked at the suit’s legs as Illarion struggled forward with his shovel, ready to help pry the Object’s feet out of the ground once again.

A week of rain had turned every surface into a slag pit of churning mud. After securing Trench 302, the Kommandant had ordered the Wall to take 303, regardless of the weather. Which was madness. Illarion couldn’t read the book he’d been gifted, but for someone who was supposed to be a strategic genius the Kommandant didn’t have the sense God gave a farmer. You couldn’t walk multiton steel men across ground that had turned to soup.

The crews of all the Objects were completely covered in filth and freezing. He longed to drive Object 12 again, if only for a moment’s respite from the downpour. His promotion had meant little among his crew. Dostoy and Wallen were still the most experienced drivers, and thus primary and secondary, and the Wall had spent so much time stuck and struggling rather than taking fire that they didn’t need to switch drivers that often. Illarion was usually right by the Object’s legs, trying not to get crushed, because he was the strongest and best at clearing the path, even though that was an impossibility in their current situation. It took all the crew’s efforts just to keep the suits upright.

The barrier in front of Object 12 flared bright blue as an Almacian took a potshot to keep the crew honest. Wallen was trying to push the suit forward another step but couldn’t get the left foot out of the mud.

“Lean further right and you’ll break free!” Illarion shouted.

Wallen’s voice came back magically augmented through the steel faceplate. “I can’t, I’ll slip.”

Illarion cursed their driver, but just because he could tell it was doable from down here didn’t mean that it seemed doable to Wallen. On hands and knees, half sinking into the mire, Illarion used their bucket to scoop away the slurry and toss it behind them. Lourens picked up the shovel and went to work as well. After the death of one of their crew members, and with Patches still convalescing—she’d survived the gunshot and falling onto the board filled with nails—Lourens had been reassigned from Object 2, after nearly the entire crew had been injured by an Almacian grenade that had somehow rolled under their shield. Another man named Bricks—named for the tattoos of brick walls inked into the scars on his chest—rounded out their new crew. Bricks dug with his hands.

It wasn’t too different from farming, actually, with the misery, cold, exhaustion, and uncooperative equipment. The main difference was in farming there were fewer people trying to murder you.

To their left, Object 141 leaned forward, then fell face first. Beyond it, at the same time, Object 8 listed to the left and crashed into the mud too. 3rd Platoon was hopelessly mired. At least Wallen managed not to lose control of Object 12 enough to not flop over and kill them.

“Get those suits up!” Chankov ordered from inside 74, which was stuck in mud up to its knees. Their officer sounded extremely worried. And for good reason.

Since Wallen was higher up and could see better, he saw the Almacian charge first. “Here they come!”

Almacian soldiers popped up, and the enemy trench was far closer than Illarion had realized. The enemy soldiers tromped forward through the mud, quicker than should have been possible. His eyesight was poor on the best of days, but in the torrent he could barely see anything. Just indistinct shapes that grew larger and slightly clearer as they came closer. Most of them appeared to be armed with rifles, but by the time Illarion was sure of that, they’d likely be close enough to kill him with their bare hands.

The weather rendered Kolakolvian firearms practically useless. The constant downpour was only part of the issue. Mainly it was the mud, gumming up the firing mechanisms. From the sporadic rifle fire coming from the Almacians, and the number of them who appeared to be struggling with the bolts of their long skinny rifles, they had the same issue.

Small miracles, Illarion thought. Otherwise we’d probably already be dead.

It looked like there were hundreds of Almacians headed their way. The Kolakolvian infantry behind them couldn’t even gun them down because the Objects’ shields would stop friendly bullets as well as enemies’. Unfortunately, an enemy soldier could walk right through the magical field and simply bayonet them to death.

“How are they moving so quickly in this?” Lourens yelled. A peal of thunder nearly drowned his words.

“We’ll ask them after we keep them from killing us! Don’t try to walk, Wallen. Just cover us. The rest of you, come on!” Dostoy was already struggling through the muck toward one of the two fallen suits. The crew of Object 141 were frantically trying to pull the suit upright, looping sodden ropes under the armpits and over the shoulders. It would be impossible to do that just by muscle, but they only needed to help the Object enough that its driver could do the rest. Dostoy and Bricks jumped in to help the other team. Lourens and Illarion were right behind them.

The Objects of 3rd Platoon that were still upright began firing their cannons. Each impact caused a splash which sent Almacian bodies flying. The handful of crewmen who were issued rifles fired them, but the Almacians kept on coming.

They had 141 halfway out of the mud when the rope on the left side of the Object snapped. Momentum from the other side turned the Object just enough so it fell again, splashing into the mud on its other side, then it rolled onto its back.

Marvels though these suits were, Illarion knew their basic weaknesses well enough. If you got them on the ground, especially on their backs, the Objects were largely helpless. If the driver hadn’t closed the air vents, the inside of the suit would be filling with mud and water. The person inside could drown.

Both Illarion and Lourens reached their fellow crew members and grabbed onto a rope. They just needed to flip 141 back over, and it could get back into the fight. And they had to do it before the Almacians closed the distance.

They weren’t quick enough.

An Almacian hit him from the side. Illarion had never even seen him coming. They both fell into the mud. Illarion’s tenuous grip on the rope was lost. The Almacian punched him twice quickly in the face, then struck downward with a huge knife. Illarion felt the mud swallowing him but threw up his arm to stop the descending knife. He got ahold of the Almacian’s wrist and squeezed as hard as he could, because if that arm escaped from his slippery grip, the last thing he’d ever feel was that knife punching a hole in his chest. The man pushed down with all his weight, and Illarion sunk deeper, mud spilling over his face.

He reached up with his free hand, desperate. His fingers found the man’s shoulder, and he followed the line to his neck. Mouth beneath the puddle, Illarion couldn’t breathe. His lungs burned from lack of air and the exertion, but he found the Almacian’s ear and grabbed hold.

There was no sound under the mud, but the pressure on top of Illarion suddenly was lessened once Illarion tore the man’s ear off. Illarion reestablished a grip on the man’s face, pulled the soldier hard down into the mud, then rolled over on top of him. Illarion was blinded, but their positions were reversed, and now he was the one trying to drown a man in mud. When the other soldier’s hand found his face, Illarion turned his head to the side and bit down as hard as he could on the man’s thumb.

Bone cracked. Blood filled Illarion’s mouth. He shook his head back and forth like he’d seen the Kolakolvian war dog do to the deserter, Tomas. When the ruined thumb slipped free, he spat out the severed end and lifted his face into the heavy rain to let the water wash the mud from his eyes.

All around him was violence, Almacian and Kolakolvian, but most of them too covered in filth to tell who was who. Illarion knew he should have been terrified, but he was too detached for that. There was muted yelling all around him. The rain—somehow coming down harder now—had cleared his eyes and he could see his small fight was just one of a dozen going on around the Objects. He kept the soldier buried in the mud until he stopped kicking.

Illarion struggled to his feet. Of the Almacian soldier who had attacked him, only a mangled hand and one foot were visible above the surface of the mire. The foot had flat boards strapped to it. Snowshoes for the mud. It seemed obvious. The Almacians could move quicker and stay above the mud for leverage. Why weren’t members of the Wall wearing these?

Next to the soldier’s thumbless hand was the knife, half buried and sinking. He scooped it up. The Wall didn’t get much training with weapons outside of the Objects, but you didn’t come of age in Ilyushka without knowing your way around a knife.

He slopped back to the fallen form of Object 10 just as Bricks took a bayonet to the gut. Illarion stabbed Bricks’ assailant in the back. Once. Twice. Three times.

Bricks sagged into the mud, clenching his stomach where the knife had gone in. Blood spilled from the wound, mixing with the rain and mud, feeding the hungry ground.

Two Almacians, both with the same long, heavy knives like he’d stolen from their companion, came at him. There was no way he could stop them both, but from the corner of his eye, he saw Lourens leap from the downed Object onto one approaching enemy, taking him down. Lourens battered the man’s face and throat, ripped the knife from the Almacian’s hand, then slashed it across the enemy’s neck.

Illarion never heard the shot, but the remaining soldier’s head snapped back and released a shower of bone and brain.

Between bright flashes of lightning and the booms of thunder, he made out the muffled pops of gunfire from well behind him. Snipers. Or at least infantry smart enough to shoot through the gaps between the Objects’ shields.

Except more Almacians were climbing out of their trench. The last charge had only been a test, but it had drawn blood, and with the Objects stuck and the crews scattered, now was the Almacian’s chance to destroy part of the fearsome Wall. As useless as taking Trench 303 was in Illarion’s mind, the Almacians were hell-bent on keeping it firmly in their own possession. Or maybe they thought dying out here was a better option than drowning in trenches filling with rainwater. Illarion looked back toward the friendly trench, but their own infantry were nowhere to be seen. He was beginning to understand the rest of the Wall’s disdain for the trenchers.

Through the rain and mud, to his right and left, Illarion could just barely make out the forms of the other Objects. Nearly all were floundering, leaning precariously in one direction or the other. Their arm cannons ran dry, and with their crews occupied, there was no way to reload. Any Almacian who got close to them was cleaved in two by their halberds, but that required moving, and getting dangerously off-balance in treacherous footing. Wallen must have tried to move, because Object 12 toppled forward, face-first into the mire. Illarion knew he’d never make it over there before the next wave of Almacians were on them.

The members of the Wall spoke of death often. It came for all, old or young, fit or sickly. Kapitan Spartok had once said death was the only true victor in war. Illarion never thought his own death would come so quickly. Surely the Witch would be disappointed. At least I will see Hana again. I wonder if she will still be angry with me for failing her?

The caw of a raven ripped him from his morbid thoughts. In that animal cry, he swore he could hear the Sister’s chiding laughter. As if to tell him that he wasn’t going to escape her clutches that easily.

Even in that wretched downpour, Illarion felt his mouth go dry, and the hair on the back of his neck stand straight. A cold that had nothing to do with the weather settled over him, sliding into his bones.

“She’s here,” he said aloud.

“Who?” Lourens shouted.

The nearest approaching enemy soldier suddenly vanished. One moment he was slogging across the top of the mud, the next it was like the ground had swallowed him. Another Almacian disappeared, then another. A dozen were gone before the other soldiers seemed to grasp what was happening. They began yelling and pointing their guns at the mud beneath their feet.

There were ripples in the mud. Something burrowed beneath the slurry, and when it met a soldier, they got dragged beneath the surface.

Was the Sister not done with him? Had she sent some of her minions to save him?

Then one of members of the Wall screamed and was dragged under.

A rippling line surged through the mud, directly at Lourens, who was struggling to untangle himself from the corpse of the soldier he’d just killed.

“Lourens!” Illarion shouted over the thunder. When his comrade looked up, Illarion pointed. “Get on top of the Object! Move!”

Even as he yelled, Illarion knew Lourens wouldn’t make it in time. The thing moved beneath the mud far faster than a man could atop it. Illarion scrambled and slid toward his friend. Lourens freed himself from the corpse and was nearly to 141 when his legs were yanked down into the mud. Only his grip on the Object’s arm kept him from going under like the rest had.

“Hold on!” Illarion dragged himself onto the Object so he had leverage, then grabbed Lourens’ arm and began pulling. Whatever had his friend’s legs was strong. Illarion braced his feet against the Object’s armor plate and strained against the opposing force. Lourens’ lower half emerged little by little.

His pulling revealed pale, long-fingered hands gripping Lourens’ ankles. Cracked, filthy nails at their tips dug through cloth into Lourens’ legs, and blood spilled over the alabaster grip. Lourens looked down and screamed in terror. He began kicking for all he was worth, but nothing would loosen whatever had a hold on him.

The muddy surface peaked up, then the torrential downpour revealed the thing’s head. An eyeless face, pale as the moon. No, pale as a corpse left out in moonlight. A mouth split its head nearly in half, and inside was a mismatched mangle of blunt human teeth mixed with pointed, serrated fangs. It gnashed at Lourens’ boots, and the blood running down his friend’s legs seemed to work the monster into a frenzy. A black, swollen tongue snaked out of the tangle of teeth and wound its way around Lourens’ leg. The tip sank into one of the wounds there, drinking. Lourens screamed again in terror and pain.

Illarion leaned back and pulled with everything he had left. With a sucking, squelching sound, both Lourens and the monster popped out of the mud and onto the upward-facing front of Object 141. Illarion kicked the creature in the face as hard as he could muster. The monster’s head snapped back, its tongue retracted back into it mouth, and it let go of Lourens. Its sightless visage turned on Illarion, and somehow it saw him even without eyes.

The thing leaned forward, sniffed the air, then cocked its head to the side. Without a sound, it dove back into the mud and disappeared.

Soldiers—Kolakolvian and Almacian both—were screaming the word ghoul as they grappled with the monsters.

Over the sound of thunder, Illarion heard a shrieking, tearing wail. Just beyond the line of Objects, between them and Trench 303, the air shimmered, then ripped apart like flimsy cloth. Wind rushed past him, sucked into the gate, then a blast of hot air blew out, turning the water around it into steam. Illarion couldn’t make out the details, just that twenty yards of battlefield had turned into a red, swirling vortex, and the sky on the other side was angry red.

“Blood storm!” Lourens cried.

As suddenly as they had begun, the ghouls stopped their attack. Some vanished back beneath the mud, while others dragged their victims toward the storm and through it. The flow of air reversed into a quick sucking gale, and with a clap of unnatural thunder, the edges of the rip in the air slammed together and disappeared.

Every Almacian left standing fled back to their trench, not even bothering to help their fallen brethren. The Wall didn’t fare much better, but they still had to free their fallen Objects, turn them, and retreat.

Illarion helped pull up Object 141. When it was upright, he noticed the back hatch was open, and the pilot was nowhere to be found.


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Framed