Ethen Gearhart's Arc

Chapter 6 of 9

The dark shapes crawled closer across the frozen tundra. Ethen raised a fist. The column stopped. His knights waited behind him, hands on their weapons, eyes on him. He could order a charge and look fearless. But he could not count the enemy. He could not see their shape or their guns. Charging blind might march his whole squad into a trap. The officer had promised a real battle. Ethen meant to win it, not stumble into it. "Hold here," Ethen said. "I need eyes before we move." A knight frowned. "They'll close the distance while we sit." "Then we learn what they are before they do," Ethen answered. He turned to the supply cart. Waffles sat there, the orange cat who had carried the princess's letter from the start. His goggles were pushed up on his head. He had saved Ethen before with the truth hidden in his jaws. Now Ethen needed his eyes. "Waffles," Ethen said. He pointed at the horizon. The cat's green eyes followed his hand. Waffles pulled the goggles down over his eyes and worked a small dial on the side. He hopped onto a rusted war relic and climbed its curved shell. From the top he had a clear line to the shapes. His tail went stiff. He stared a long moment. Then he leapt down, ran to the frost, and scratched marks in the snow with one paw. Ethen crouched beside him. Waffles had drawn a row of bodies. Low. Four legs each. Not men. The cat pawed at a decaying clockwork insect near the relic, then pointed back at the shapes. Ethen understood. "Clockwork beasts," he said. "Not soldiers. The same kind we fought in the trials." He counted the marks. A dozen. Maybe more. They moved in a loose spread, not a column. No gunners hid behind them. No ambush line. Relief loosened his chest, then hardened into a plan. He stood and faced his knights. "They're machines, not men. A dozen of them. They have no range on us." He pointed to the scattered relics across the broken ground. "We use the wrecks for cover. Pick them off before they reach us." The knights nodded. The doubt was gone. He had given them a real order, built on real facts, not pride. Ethen drew his large gun and knelt behind the nearest relic. His steam cheetah paced at his side, brass plates flashing, gears turning along its spine. Waffles climbed back to his perch to watch. The first clockwork beast crested a rise, close now, legs clicking over the ice. Ethen sighted down the barrel. He knew its shape. He knew its weakness. He fired. The lead beast dropped in the snow, gears spilling. His squad opened up around him, steady and sure. The blind threat was a known fight now. And Ethen led it from the front.