The First Battle of The New Age

It had been a long age of quiet since the Revelation scorched the earth. Eight centuries had passed, and the world of Rotundum, how cast in silver, glass and ash, showed the first stirrings of life. Machine Gods, last survivors of a fallen world, had shepherded mankind, preserved in the scratchings of brass cylinders and re-cast in resin and lighting. Education and fulfilling work were given to the reborn generations of humans, but as the eighth century turned over, the humans yearned for something their Gods could not give them.

Voices were raised, deals were struck, brigades formed, and most importantly, a shared dream was born. It was this dream that split the quiet of the Revelation. Creches, vaults and gene-forts opened their gates. Humans met on the remains of their barren world and saw the enormity of the challenge before them.

The Machine Gods watched with cracked, clouded eyes: their humans were brave, yes, but could they be trusted again? Some gave their blessing. Others did not. Words became shouts, brigades became regiments, and in the crevice wracked wasteland of Ashmead, a city with a long forgotten name became a defensive position.

Cries of effort and the crash of metal on stone echoed between empty archways and down abandoned streets until it merged with the wailing wind. Fires burned in the city again as the sun bowed and dimmed. It had been days, and the regiment tired of digging trenches.

As the last men fell into place by the campfire voices rose into weary song; songs of home, and history, and occasionally, songs of what the men would like to do to their officers. When the calls came; `more drink!` and `more rations!` their quartermaster was nowhere to be found. It took a reluctant draw of straws and ten minutes of exploration for the runner to find his quarry.

“There you are!” Their quartermaster and lieutenant, Galen Kyros, stood transfixed.

“One moment, please,” he struggled to hold up a sheaf of translucent paper to the carvings under the head of a dusty lintel. Shuf-shuf-shuf. He captured the ancient detail with chalk and paper.

“Still taking rubbings? The men are hungry!” Kyros hopped down and flattened out his work, the better to scrutinize it in the dying light.

“It will have to do.” He folded away the paper into the leather-bound book under his arm. “Where’s the major?”

“Unsealing his orders tonight, they say.” The two men paused on the edge of the firelight. “You don’t think…”

“Nothing will happen. This `anti-reformation coalition` is a negotiating tactic. Have you seen any troops?”

“No, lieutenant,” he answered, and left Kyros to measure out their supplies.

After a night of half remembered dreams, Kyros was the first fighting man to greet the dawn. He wandered out beyond the edge of the old city to the fruits of his regiment’s labor: their trench. He lingered on the edge and scanned the packed dirt, the wooden supports, then pulled a tube of rolled-together artworks from inside his heavy coat. After a quick adjustment of the garment against the cold, he chose an ancient canvas by feel alone and unrolled it, stretched out out and compared it to the horizon.

Were those bleached bone hills once mountains? He turned and squinted against the white sunlight and acrid pall that rose from the wasteland. Is this where the forests stood? No matter how he pivoted, he could not match the landscape exactly.

In his present, the only landmark save for the ruins at his back was the ravine. Ashmead’s Chasm, they called it then. Not so wide that it couldn’t be crossed, but deep enough to spell certain death and so long that it sealed off the south-eastern reaches of the continent.

The rest of his regiment weren’t far behind.

“Thank the Gods we don’t have to sleep down there, eh?” They chuckled. Men and mekin piled into the trench, some whooped and jumped. Kyros took the iron bars they had hammered into the stubborn, dead soil.

“Sergeant Foyle?” Kyros called out in the earthy clamor. Hooves thundered around them as the Major and his scouts made another pass, down towards the ravine.

“Here, sir.” Foyle scrapped the ash-white dirt from his leather coat and dark-green fatigues. “Nice morning for it.”

“Let’s hope so, Foyle. Has everyone eaten?”

“It’s the big day sir. Now or never is what the men in the other squads are saying. The boys are a little shifty,” Foyle picked out a place on a supply crate to sit, “we were thinking late breakfast, just in case.”

Kyros adjusted his coat and took a breath. He strode forward; ten paces was all they had managed, and clambered up the other side, just enough for the sunlight to cut into his vision.

“Let’s do our best to keep morale high, then,” he said as he watched the major thunder down the slope towards the ravine, “how are the mekin?”

“Chipper, sir. Good chaps. They have many where you’re from?”

“Not many,” Kyros turned to look over his shoulder, down the trench. Maybe he tried to guess the mood of the men under his command; The human warriors were still hunched and tired, but a few did their rounds and check the trench supports. Most of them were joined by mekin, filaments glowed under glass and metal feelers grasped at loose clumps of soil, and the tinny buzz of their voices melded with the echo of voices.

Kyros raised his head again, squint readied this time, but as he followed the cloud of dust raised by the major’s horses, something new stung his eyes. “Binoculars, please, Foyle.”

“Binoculars, binoculars,” the sergeant chanted as he patted himself down, then handed them over.

Magnified, the desert was a blur of reflected sunlight. There were moments of rising heartbeat, where all Kyros’ sense could give him was the taste of earth and the smell of dust while the distant shapes coalesced.

The major and his horses were turning back before the ravine. It was another moment before he thought to crane his neck over, through the desert. He might have missed it if the shapes of the intruders weren’t such a contrast against the dead land.

Kyros fought the urge to call for arms. His breath stalled behind gritted teeth as he worked the lenses for a better view, and his hands clenched around the binoculars as his brow creased.

There was no mistaking it: a dirty swarm of foreign shapes crowded the far side of the ravine.

“Rifles,” he told Foyle, “helmets and goggles, too.”

To his credit, the sergeant didn’t hesitate for a moment.

“Gear on! Progs up!” Foyle shouted as he jogged down the eighth of trench. Some of the men he pulled to their feet, others he thrust progressive rifles into their arms, “gear on! Gear on!” The scramble filled the trench with chaos.

Kyros fell back to snatch up his own, and his trained hands secured the chamber, checked the safety and threaded out the magnesium tape as he jumped back into position and pulled on his helmet and goggles. He grabbed up his binoculars again and almost struck himself through the shaded glass of his eye protection.

The major had doubled back. Foyle fell in at his back.

“The men are all ready, sir,” he told Kyros, “is it…”

“I can’t make out much,” he handed the binoculars to Foyle, “keep an eye out. I haven’t a clue how they intended to cross.”

The men piled against the far side of the trench, rifles raised and teeth gritted. “Nothing to worry about yet,” Kyros told them as he toured his length of earth, “we all knew it would come to this.” He stopped by a solider, rifle pulled tight to his chest. He shivered, eyes down. “Alright, soldier?”

“Anxious, sir.” He turned his face up, and Kyros saw that he was barely more than a boy.

“I’m sure we all are. Sound off, how many of you have seen combat?” Kyros called out. A few voices replied, but most stayed quiet.

“There were riots,” one man said, “though I never fired a shot.”

“My creche was besieged by free machines. I was a member of a cannon crew.”

“Before I joined the reformation I was a scavenger,” a mekin’s buzz joined the choir, “I fought for every scrap of iron.”

“Indeed. And I have full confidence in major Stelle’s leadership,” Kyros scanned the faces around him, “shall we have a reading? The better to calm all our nerves. Who would like to lead?”

“I’ll start, sir,” Foyle stepped up, a small book bound in weathered travelling leather already in his hand that bristled with bookmarks, “I was dwelling on a passage just last night.”

Kyros patted him on the shoulder by way of thanks as the sergeant began to read from his copy of the Transmechanical Convention. If Kyros had been forced to fish out his own from the warren of pockets and pouches under his uniform, he might have shaken morale. As it stood then, the troops were soothed, and Kyros’ hands could only find the rubbings and sketches he had taken over the days since their arrival.

It was then that a runner from up-trench arrived.

“Lieutenant Kyros?” The woman doubled over and she caught her breath, helmet under her arm, “orders from the major.” Kyros pulled her aside. “He’s going to meet with enemy. Shout across the ravine. He wants all rifles covering him, but he’s not expecting violence.”

“Does he think they’ll try to cross?” Kyros asked, his voice low.

“No. Not today, at least,” she said.

“How many?”

“Too many to expect them to turn around and go home,” the runner told him, “they have a trail of covered wagons.”

“A bridge?”

“It could be. They’re armed.”

Some hours later, Major Stelle gathered the regiment in the city ruins. He clambered to the top of a pile of crates to look over the men and cleared his throat.

“I have met with the enemy,” he started, “and they are not so different from us.”

The press of men around Kyros were quiet and attentive, likely just as glad as he to be out of the trench. It wasn’t to last. “They’re calling themselves the `Anti-Reformation Coalition.` I have agreed with their leaders that for now, there will be no crossing the Ashmead ravine or the badlands at large for either party.”

The soldiers shifted. Kyros looked down at his tightly balled fist. Anti-reformation? “With all this in mind, the question becomes not `when` but for `how long` these circumstances will require the presence of the Reformation Army. I will personally pen a message to RA command once we’re finished here requesting reinforcements. That may take weeks. It may take months.”

There were enough groans in the crowd for the major to take notice. His moustache wrinkled. “I know, I know. Remember the Reformation Army is all volunteers, I know the words of the Convention aren’t exactly filling, but for the days to come, they’ll have to be warming fire, our quenching water and our most nourishing food. Freedom isn’t something we can ever take for granted. You’d do well to remember that. Now, to the chief matter. The ravine itself. I have decided to allow these `anti-reformers` to erect a small crossing. Narrow enough for a few men and horses, so that we may have a diplomatic meeting with a roof over our heads,” the major said, “that will require our first and second divisions to keep a close eye on them while we do so. Can we have our positions fighting-ready, if, Gods forbid, it should come to it?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Kyros was the first to call out. His two equivalents followed up.

“Not you, Kyros,” the men around him stood aside as Major Stelle singled him out, “I want you and your best to lead the guard detail. And I have a particular duty for you.” The major stepped down from his podium. The wind picked rose into a hsssh, and emaciated clouds hid the sun for a moment.

“Marvellous, isn’t it?” Stelle stared up into the bleached, blank dome of a cavernous building. Shafts of golden afternoon sun fell through the open windows, just enough to show that there were once complex murals and artwork all cross the marble floors.

“A temple I think, sir, although there’s little left to say who it was for,” Kyros told him. They stood together near the altar while Foyle kept guard at the yawning archway entrance. “Not all our Gods survived the Revelation.”

“That’s just why I selected you for this Kyros. You’re an attentive leader, but I’d venture it’s not your passion, is it?” The Major smiled under his oily moustache. Kyros hesitated, and the Major was never shy about filing a silence. “Nothing to be ashamed of! We can’t all be moved with compassion towards our fellow man!” He patted Kyros on the arm hard enough to send him stumbling. “You’d rather be recording all this and decoding it, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.” No hesitation this time. In fact, Kyros had barely met the major’s eye he was so consumed with the temple’s artistry. “Do you really think there could be some sort of battle, sir?”

“No, no. They seemed quite reasonable. Although we did have to shout across the ravine,” the Major pawed his throat, “bad for the voice. Hence the short speech. Still, I can’t deny the concept of `anti-reformers` has got me on edge. Cows against milking. Iron for rust, bah! Nonsense!”

“I’m sure they have a coherent ideology, sir,” Kyros said, “do you think they can be reasoned with?”

“No idea. It could be…would this be the first time humans have taken up arms against their own since the Revelation?”

“It could be, sir.” Kyros was about to speculate out loud as to what battles might have taken place in the eight centuries since then.

“Well, enough chatter. I wanted you running the guard detail because we have a bit of a secret weapon. You see, the Basileus was quite aware things might come down to a chest-puffing match.” The major rubbed his chin, then waved away a finger of dust from the air.

“Secret weapon, sir?”

“Yes, yes. It might be more apt to call him a special guest. The Basileus petitioned the Gods, and apparently they saw fit to re-active one of their guardians. An ancient Mekin, and I thought, what with your scholarly passions, you might make a good squire for the fellow.” The Major grinned, “quite slow, but he came under his own power. Arrived just last night.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Kyros said as Stelle lead him by shoulder, and both men bent their head in the sunlight as it washed over them.

“Not to worry, Kyros, you’re about to lead the most iron-clad diplomatic guard detail of all time!”

Erichthonius knelt in prayer. It hadn’t moved for hours.

“At ease!” Major Stelle called out to his men, post around a loose perimeter among the broken stones. “Good afternoon, big chap!”

The major almost skipped over the broken flagstones, the heat-warped boundaries of a former shrine, and plant a hand on the massive machine’s metal skin.

“Major Stelle.” The voice was thunder from underground, and Kyros felt it in his gut.

“Come on, come on, don’t be shy!” The Major called Kyros over, “this is Galen Kyros. A volunteer, like us all. Scribe by trade, I think. Early adopter, is that right? You signed up for the RA last year?”

“Yes. Sir. Lieutenant Galen Kyros.”

Erichtonius rose. At first, only the gentle sigh of displaced sand underscored the movement of squat, heavy limbs, then there was the subtle strings of internal motors and galvanic forces. Its eye, if it could be called such, shone from inside a silver dome. It rolled its round shoulders to throw off more dust, and light played back and forth beneath its metal face. Of course, it towered over them both.

“I am Erichthonius. I am charged with protecting my creators.”

The major, for all his bluster, had nothing to say, but Kyros stood closer.

“It’s an honor, Erichthonius. Is there a title I should append? Perhaps a form of address?”

“I have no title but guardian,” the machine rumbled, “I am a servant, nothing more. I have come bearing a gift.” The machine’s fist expanded into a fan of wide fingers. Inside, somehow neatly folded, was a square of papers bound in twine. Both men hesitated. “Please take it.”

Kyros reached out first.

“May I ask what it is?” He said as his fingers worked the twine.

“The writings of your Basileus. I am told it is for your holy book.”

The undone parcel was indeed, writings. Kyros opened his copy of the Transmechanical Convention.

“New articles of Convention?” He asked, knowing the answer.

“By the Gods!” The Major almost grabbed for them, “the men will be ecstatic! You carried these with you through the desert?”

“I did,” Ericthonius’ dome turned to stare out at the desert. “I see it is important to you. I am newly awakened to your world.”

“You’d better take this, Major, much as I’d like to read them,” Kyros held the parcel out to Stelle, “we need all the morale we can get it.”

“Indeed, well said, man.” He stroked his moustache as he slimed what writings were exposed, “as you say, I’d better get these transcribed. We’re holding our meeting in the temple, so get your men on that. I suspect mine will be scribbling this out all day!”

‘Understood, Major.” Kyros watched the Major almost stumble, eyes fixed on the writings.

“You are to be my equerry?” The massive mekin asked.

“Yes, I think so,” Kyros told it.

By the time the sun had dropped below the brittle horizon, Kyros and Erichtonius had already shared many hours of conversation at their post outside the nameless temple. Sergeant Foyle and the rest of the men from Kyros’ division kept their distance, or were too busy gossiping about the new articles of Convention to cause trouble. Every hour or so, one of the meks approached them, and Erichtonius would give them a simple blessing.

“To call the Transmechanical Convention holy might be reductive,” Kyros explained to the massive figure, “it’s a wholly humanistic document. It’s our written consensus on the rights and goals of all living beings. Freedom chief among them.”

“But your Basileus speaks for the Ostrakoi,” Erichtonius rumbled, “they support this divorce from their authority, from what I understand.”

“Exactly. We owe the Gods-the Ostrakoi far too much to emancipate ourselves against their will. I doubt we would be able, either. I’d hate to find myself on the opposite side of a battlefield against you,” Kyros almost laughed, “I have to know, the ancient name, why was it adopted? What does it mean?”

“Has it become ancient?” Erichthonius asked, half to himself, “in your manner of speech, they might be called `broken ones.`The Gods were the first to suffer the Revelation. They were interred in metal, and replaced entire. It was necessary, or so I was once told.”

Soldiers toiled around them to erect torches, spots of wavering fire already lit the sand and cinders danced away on the wind. Kyros breathed in a mouthful of smoke as the sounds of celebration from the campsite in the city grew. “Now the prospect of freedom seems to bring your people and mine joy. Yet you say that you are grateful. Of this, I am glad”

“I can’’t pretend to know everything, but…you fought in the Makinamachy, didn’t you?” Kyros asked, “everything we’ve achieved bas been built on the foundation of our charity and your sacrifice.”

Erichtonius turned away. Perhaps its vision revealed something distant of interest, but its mechanisms ground and squealed.

“You make it sound glorious.” Its voice lowered, “you revere the past.”

“Revere? I’m not sure. I feel certain that knowing it and understanding are key to the future. It’s the future I revere,” Kyros told him, “and I have that in common with the rest our regiment. It’s why we joined the Reformation Army.”

“The future. You should be careful young one. The future cuts both ways, and when an age turns over, multitudes may be crushed beneath it.”         

Several hours into the night, Kyros has his men arranged into a guard detail and stood parade-straight. Torches burned between them, and ancient braziers had been re-lit to illuminate the temple. On one side of the entrance stood Kyros and Foyle, and on the other, Ericthonius, whose massive foot-prints had scored the plaza all about.

The commanders of the Anti-Reformation Coalition had come less than an hour after preparations ended. A group of five, hooded and masked, with robes over their armor. Censers swung from their hands and icons, keys, cages and rosaries of threaded metal all jangled from their waist and out of their sleeves. One of them spoke in chants as the rest advanced with heads bowed.

Stelle’s men stepped forward as they entered. The meeting had begun and Kyros stood, dutifully, with his eyes turned toward the desert even as his ears strained to pick up anything of what might be said.

“Foyle,” Kyros whispered.

“Sir?” Foyle whispered back.

“The other divisions are covering the ravine?”

“Yessir. I’ve seen the thing, sir, barely wide enough for two people. Sheet metal, I reckon. Hate to cross that under fire in the dark. You don’t think they-

“Doing my due diligence.” Kyros cut him off.

“They are unlikely to initiate an attack from across the ravine,” Erichthonius turned to them, the flitting light of its eye played across them like the sun caught in glass. Its dome swivelled, the better to look into the temple. Kyros caught its meaning. An attack from within? Could it have been then that he knew the Anti-Reformation Coalition never interned for there to be peace?

There was no shot to ring out or clash of metal, but the sound of a fallen body was unmistakable. Kyros flew through the archway to see the gang of hooded emissaries around Stelle, and their knives fell like rain onto him as he lay in a pile of his men.

Foyle was paralyzed, but Erichthonius did not hesitate, and it stepped forward with a crash, Kyros pulled the progressive rifle from Foyle’s hands and levelled it, and he hid his head by instinct as the firearm flashed and scattered white parks across the temple.

The emissaries, if that’s what they were, shrunk back and fell across themselves as Erichthonius strode forward and battered one to the ground with its wide fist. Kyros shot once, and then twice more before Foyle could marshal the men, goggles on, to shoot the rest of the traitors down.

“The bridge! Secure the bridge!” Kyros called out and Foyle leapt into a run with the rest of his men. “The major, is he-

“The man is dead.” Erichthonius’ voice came thin and tinny as he left the major’s body in his hand. The beam of light inside the silver dome of his head thinned, a cobweb narrow beam played across the dead man’s body. Stelle was set at Kyros’ feet, and he shrunk away from the torn flesh and blood.

“How could we have known?” Kyros gasped.

“We could not,” Erichthonius said. “Go now, lead! I will follow as quickly as I can.”

Flares cut across the sky and drowned the ruins in blood-red light.

   The voices of the men rose into the night as the shadows leapt up and down around Kyros as progressive rifles flashed and squealed. By the time he had reached the trench the air was filled with spurting shells and wheeling, screaming rounds, and he almost fell into the dirt.

“Sir!” Foyle saluted, and the sudden move almost knocked his helmet off. Kyros fumbled for his eye protection. “They’re trying their damnedest to get across, they have rifles on the other side already, but it’s an up-hill slog, nothing to hide behind out there, so far we’ve stalled them out.”

“The other trenches should’ve covered them off.” Kyros gritted his teeth as his goggles snapped into place. He did his best to blink away the impressions the shell of the rifles had left on his dark-adapted vision.

“No word from either one, we just jumped in and started shooting.”

“That’s to your credit, Foyle,” Kyros secured his helmet and snatched up his binoculars. In the moment, there was no time for fearful thoughts, “post a guard at the end of our segment.”

“Sir?”

“They might have fallen. They deceived the major in order to kill him, there’s no telling what else they’ve got planned,” Kyros ordered and Foyle saluted.

Through the glass of the binoculars and the shade of Kyros’ goggles, the desert at night was a clash of light and shadow, sparkling comets moving through a dark sky, but minutes of study revealed the enemy. Here and there among the rocks were the rough silhouettes of riflemen, belly to the ground like snakes. Their shots had no hope of hitting the men in the trench, just as the men in the trench had little hope of hitting them, pressed into the dirt as they were. Beyond them, engineers worked at supports and sheets of metal; the anti-reformers’ bridge was already taking shape, and their train of many wagons stood empty and uncovered. Some were heaped high with weapons, most in designs Kyros didn’t know, and others rain trains of busy workers across to the ravine with handfuls of tools, but there were many others besides. Where was their contents?

“Sir! A runner!” Foyle called out and Kyros fell back from the edge of the trench.

“We were overwhelmed! Lieutenant Penders is-” there was no time to finish their report; the soldiers up-trench began to cry out, first alarm, then pain and fear.

Kyros pushed his way through the press of men, rifle ready. He fired before there was any telling what had happened, and only silhouettes to suggest the nature of the enemy. The first squealing magnesium shot shed light on the massacre: soldiers battered and bleeding, burning holes in armor and uniforms. Stood over them, dirty amber eyes contracted to slits in the light, were animals, or so it seemed to Kyros. He fumbled to load his next shot as Foyle and his men stepped forward to fire another volley. The creatures barked and roared, equal parts hair, teeth, protruding vertebrae, horns and cancerous lumps, their teeth gnashed, heavy weapons of slag metal and rust held between their claws.

“Pull the supports!” Kyros ordered, “collapse the trench! Phosphors!”

He fell back as screaming pinwheels were hurled over his shoulder and desperate hands pulled at iron beams. The monsters, whatever they were, fell back and cringed as they burned, and then walls of earth cut them off.

Kyros pushed himself back down the trench.

“Keep up the fire! Don’t let them advance towards the city!” He called out.

From over the near side of the trench, the glittering bulk of Erichthonius stretched a massive metal leg over the gap and strode over. Its fist had fanned into repeating guns, and nodules burst form its shoulders and into the air with a squeal.

“Stay in my shadow, little ones,” its voice boomed, “they will not pierce my armor.”

“Up trench!” Kyros shouted to him, “we need you!”

Ericthnonius turned to lob something into up the trench, and the monster infested stretch was drowned in fire.

“Sir!” Kyros jumped as Foyle grabbed at him from behind, “I just heard from the third division; you’re in command. Sir.”

“Command?” The thought came with paralysis. It meant that both the major and his two other lieutenants were dead, but that much he could have guessed. What weighed him down and forced his eyes to open wide was the rest of the men. Men who might now possibly live or die, depending on what he ordered them to do. They weren’t to know, but before he had joined the Reformation Army, the most ordering Kyros had done was to the historical volumes in his creche’s ecclesiastic library. He hadn’t fired a weapon since this basic training, and had never killed a man. Or had he? He shoved down the panic and thought of the others.

“Focus your fire! Form two ranks! Rifles, check their advance, sappers, target the wagons across the ravine!” The orders felt independent of his mind, and Kyros surged down the trench as if he was swept away by a current as he pulled men to their feet and repeated himself again and again until subtly but surely, order was forged from chaos. “Ericthonius, the bridge is yours!”

“So it is,” the Mekin thundered on, arms turned up and out, rotating like cannons as it strode through iron rainfall.

Riflemen shot. Sappers threw their munitions, and all around him men shouted and bled as they fell from the walls of earth.

“Remember why we’re here! Remember why we live!” Kyros shouted, not knowing what it meant. He stepped and almost tripped; the spilt blood had turned the soil to red mud. “Medics!”

“We’ve lost our phosphor, sir! Sappers say it’s too far!” Foyle clung to his rifle, sweat flashing on his face as the night crackled with chemical fire.

Kyros pushed himself against the earth and looked across the wasteland, no, the battlefield. Erichtonius stood surrounded and for every shot he could loose, he stomped or struck out into a tide of fur and claws; the same misshapen creatures in the trench lapped and broke against him like a tide; he could not wade far enough to make the bridge. In the open, they were about to overwhelm the ancient machine.

“Fall back!” Kyros’ body rocked against the dirt as he put every ounce of strength into the shout, “fall back!” He turned to face into the trench, “back to the city! Erichthonius will cover our retreat! Support him, get those creatures off him!”

The sappers paused, the riflemen changed their targets as the machine plodded backwards, arms still turned out to shoot and pat the monsters away. Men tensed at their ladders, and Erichthonius stoped at the edge of the trench as the enemy massed at the bottom of the slope.

The men rushed out, and Foyle almost dragged Kyros from the trench as they staggered away behind The massive Mekin, less than half of the division that dug the trench, the only surviving division.

Kyros fought to catch his breath. What supplies they had salvaged were laid out in the temple. The wounded were set in rows, near where the major and the rest of the dead lay, covered over with blankets. The doors were open for now. The anti-reformers hadn’t followed yet.

Foyle meted out the water and rations. He was quartermaster now. As for Kyros’ new responsibilities, he had no orders for them yet.

He left the temple to stand in the plaza outside, where Erichthonous stood watch. Across the city, fire light burned and metal groaned; the reformers were building something.

“Did they harm you?” He asked.

“No. They were not able, but those creatures might have pulled me down. They might have planned to drag me into the ravine.”

“Oh,” it had never occurred to Kyros Erichthonius could face true danger. “What were they?”

“I have never seen such a thing,” the machine rolled its shoulders, and its hands rotated as if it recalled the blow with which it laid them low. “A poor imitation of life. Perhaps some machines that allowed humans to re-born were turned to darker purposes. I cannot say.”

The silence expanded between them. The hsssh of soldering grew louder. “You are their leader now.”

“I am. Am I?”

“You feel it now. Sooner than I thought. The future has already cut you,” Ericthonius told him, “if the Ostrakoi were here, they could order you. Do not ask me to do it, I will not make a hypocrite of you and your brave men.”

“Is this what you meant?” Kyros asked, “that there will be consequences for seeking our freedoms?”

“You must learn to care for yourselves. To value your own needs. To show yourselves consideration. I have seen you do this. The deaths here pain you. It means you are well-suited to lead.”

Kyros nodded.

“I think I understand.”

“What will you do?” Erichthonius turned and its glowing gaze ran across him.

“I will write to the Basileus. Ask for reinforcements. Take a list of the dead and find their families,” he searched for approval in the sheer metal as he spoke, but of course found none. “But we can’t just hold this position.” The thoughts formed only after he spoke, “we will have to attack. We may all die. I suppose that’s how I’ll close the letter,” he almost laughed.   

An hour passed, by the reckoning of Kyros’ Reformation Army time keeper. A hurried letter was penned and handed to a man on the regiment’s fastest horse. Kyros watched him speed away into the desert. Foyle took inventory of their weapons, armor and munitions.

There was no need to gather the men, so few were left. Kyros called on Foyle to rouse the men that were sleeping and call back the ones on watch.

“Well…I’m no major Stelle,” Kyros began, “but I’m the ranking officer here. I’ve just written to RA command, and among the subjects of that letter are my assumption of command. If there are any objections, procedural, philosophical or otherwise, please voice them now.”

The men stayed quiet with attention in their steely eyes. Blackened hands held rifles close. In the back, one of the sappers ran a whetstone along a saber. Kyros might have hesitated, and although he didn’t know it, Ericthonius was right; he read the men’s resolve and returned it to them.

“I’m like you. I’m just a lieutenant. I was accepted into the Reformation Army not so long ago. I don’t do or say any of this lightly. We’re here for a reason, aren’t we?” He paused, but none of the men responded. “I came all this way because I was promised there would be ruins. History,” Kyros didn’t intend it, but some of the men laughed, “maybe that was naive. I thought documenting these ruins might be my contribution to the Reformation. Probably a lot of you thought the same.” They were more confident now, some nodded, the remaining mekin buzzed, a few even shouted their assent from the back. “Well, we’ve been unlucky. Circumstances have forced us to fight. We’re going to attack.” He let the words hangs in the air, so they could be completely understood, “soon. As soon as we’re ready, as quickly as we can. I can’t know or guess why anyone should be against our Reformation, but they certainly are, and if they cross here, they’ll visit their treachery on other creches and forts. Strangle our newly reborn species in the cradle. Replace our ways of life with their own. Some of your homes might be in their path. It’s  a risk. Our supplies are low and we’re certain to be outnumbered. I have to admit, when I weighed the options, I hesitated. But some words of Erichthonius stuck with me. He said if we wish to take responsibility for ourselves, we must care for ourselves. The Reformation is bigger than any of us. Maybe bigger than any person, it’s about freedom.” More shouts, some of the men rose to their feet, “and we will…we will care for ourselves, and our fellow humans. We will give what we must, , no less, to prevent them from crossing and destroying our dream of freedom that the Reformation has promised us. We advance at dawn, and Erichthonius will lead the way. Rifles to the front, sappers to the back, we will secure their bridge and destroy it, and then hope that we can return here to hold. You have less than an hour. Make your peace.”     

There no courageous cheers or heartily pumped fists; they set about preparing themselves with prayer or maintenance. Kyros had already done the same, and condemned himself to wait until the sun set blue to the opposite horizon.

A triangle of ten men sprinted ahead of Kyros. They stayed low in the dawn light, and plumes of dust, disturbed by the wind, flew into his goggles. The soldiers flattened, one by one, against the further ruin; half an arch and piles of collapsed brick, not far from the partly collapsed trench.

A hand signal. Kyros picked his way behind the backs of his men to the edge of their cover and drew his binoculars. Foyle silently handed him a flare gun: that would be the signal.

The anti-reformers had crossed with their wagons and turned them outwards as a wall. Beyond that, many sheets of metal were already secured across the ravine. They had certainly called for more of their forces. The anti-reformers themselves were few and far between; either there had been only a few to begin with or most of them had been killed the day before. In the dawning light, the anti-reformers were clearer, they wore mantles and hoods, with many tubes and valves, in their armor to control some mechanical function. Their rifles were longer and sleeker, brazen and decorated with the snarling heads of animal, their helmets were mostly mesh that obscured their face but allowed them to see in a wide arc.

Of more concern were the tight piles of fur around the anti-reformer camp. He re-focused the binoculars with a twist of the knob to see the same creatures that had menaced his men in the trench, some a head taller than a man, others shorter than his waist, all with horns or twisted limbs curled up and asleep. These creatures would be the main threat.

“On my count,” Kyros whispered to the men behind him, “shooting formation. Focus on their fighters.”

A line of silent nods from the men, their faces hidden beneath goggles and helmets. Kyros knelt. Three fingers. Two. One.

The men sprinted into formation. Phwee! The progressive rifles squealed as a line of shells hit their mark. Kyros shot his flare into the sky. Had the anti-reformers really been caught off guard?

Kyros joined the men as they loaded their next shots. The braying of horses and calls for alarm merged as the rest of the division charged, mounted towards the trench and rumbled down the slope. Erichthonius followed behind, not able to keep up with the mounted men. Kyros’ horseback fighters weren’t able to shoot well, but they drew the roused creatures away and scattered the hairy horde in all directions. Phwee! The firing line shot again.

“Advance! Mobile loading!” Kyros said, and the rifles pushed forward, down towards what was left of the trench. They drew level with Ericthonius, and it swung a fist into a furry monster, whose sideways jaw snapped and slavered even as it lay broken in the pale soil.

The fighters among the anti-reformers fell back behind their wagons, and some were still covered. What they did inside there Kyros couldn’t see, but for the moment they advanced unchecked except for the thinned crowd of monsters. They had little focus, and a good deal less menace in the daylight, as most were a head shorter than a man, but even so, Kyros kept one hand on his saber as he reached the edge of the trench.

“Rifles take position, clear out these creatures so the sappers can advance!”

Erichthonius was at the center of the chaos; it threw down handfuls of twisted creatures and stomped scores more flat. They pawed at the machines limbs and joints but as their numbers dwindled there was little they could do to harm it. “Hold! Hold for a moment.” Instinct formed the words; Kyros wasn’t so proud that he expected the plan to go this well, but somehow it had yet to be interrupted. For all his insight, it came too late.

Ka-doom. They felt it before they heard the sound: an electric roar that set Kyros’ skin on fire. What rose from one of the anti-reformer’s wagons was something like a cannon set between two mighty tines. Ka-doom! Again, it rocked back and belched a blazing blue conflagration that ballooned up into the air, turning from toxic azure to grey into a billowing black pillar. It took a moment for Kyros to understand that the shapes inside were his mounted man sent flying moments before they crashed back to earth.

“Cover! Into the trench!” He shouted, and although most of it was covered there was enough of a lip left for some of the men to dive behind it.

Erichthonius did not relent, and with most of the creatures cast off, he turned towards the wagons. One he sent flying, another he smashed into scrap, but as he continued his advance…ka-doom! The anti-reformer’s weapon struck him again. The blow left a glowing welt in his chest, and his artificial voice cried out like the sound of grinding, broken gears.

Kyros suffered another moment of insight as he lay in the dirt and flinched at the sound of rifles and cries of pain. Anti-reformers were too few. Whatever weapons they had were already brought to bear. Victory could still be grasped. “Sappers.” He forgot to muster the strength to shout. He breathed deep and almost choked in the dust, “sappers! Forward! Rifles cover them! Destroy the bridge! The bridge!”

Ericthonius absorbed another blow. It staggered, arm running with melted slag. The men behind Kyros did not move, and so he looked back, and an array of options flashed through his mind. In the end, he chose to lead by example.

Kyros struggled to his feet, saber drawn, and charged.

He had no time to look back and in his haste forgot to choose a battle-cry.

Kyros closed with the anti-reformers and their creatures as he sprinted around Erichthonius, his arms wheeled to fight off the monsters and he surged past the wagons. An anti-reformer lumbered towards him, rifle hefted, but at close range Kyros cut across his arms and the man fell, face shining with sweat beneath his mesh helmet. “Sappers!” He called again, and turned to see them in tow.

Ericthonius toppled. The impact sent everyone staggering. “Go, go! The bridge!” He threw his saber to the ground and hefted his rifle. Phwee! An anti-reformer fell, a burning hole boiled through his armor. He discarded the rifle and took up his pistol, already loaded. Pweh! The pistol knocked a hole through the yawning gullet of a gnashing creature, and it tumbled off the ravine and into the dark.

The sun began to rise.

An anti-reformer seized him from behind with wild eyes and then shrank back as Foyle scored a hit across his back. Sappers surged into place; quick calls and hand signals flickered between them.

“Fuses ready!” They called.

“Fall back!”

The men had done their best to drag Ericthonius away from the ravine. He’d become a sort of fort. The creatures had broken and run out into the desert. A few remained, wild eye, foaming and exhausted. Of the anti-reformers, none remained.

“We will need water, Foyle,” Kyros said. Perhaps it had been an hour since the end of the battle. “We will need to ration it tightly. Do any of the men know the desert?’

“I do, sir.”

“Good. Teach them how to find water,” Kyros ordered, “and make sure we seize it.”

Foyle saluted. The men had trailed back up to the city. The sun was already high and hot, but Kyros had refused to move from Ericthonius’ side. The machine hadn’t been able to stand up again, and molten metal had re-set against its hull.

“My eye grows dark.” It rumbled once they were alone, “The sun should be above me.”

“It is,” Kyros told him. There were question he wanted to ask: the nature of the weapon, the future of the Reformation, but concern for his friend displaced them all.

“Ah. I die.”

The wind had picked up. Already, dust settled over the hulk and ran into the broken, jagged edges of melted metal.

“You knew.”

“A weapon from the old world. I knew it might kill me, just as I knew that you would hold to your mission. You did well. I was created to serve mankind. I knelt with the mekin when you granted us our freedom and elevated us as equals. It is my honor.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Kyros gulped down a desperate sob, “I feel as if…you’re a piece of our history. It seems wrong to let you go.”

“Do for me?” The machine shifted and struggled as it considered the idea. “You fight for freedom, as I do, but I would know what it means to you. What will you do with it?”

“We want to expand past our creche. Find somewhere green, or work the land until it turns green, if we have to. Spread, not live in warrens.”

“Tell me about your home,” the machine ’s voice trembled. Almost a plea. “Is it so stifling?”

“No, no. It’s a merry place. Most of our families live above the ground.”

“Is it very beautiful?”

Kyros paused at the question. He’d never considered its beauty or ugliness, one way or another. What would an ancient machine consider beautiful anyway?

“It is.” He regretted the words as soon as they were said. A lie. His home was a network of hillocks and tunnels and brick-laid chambers, deep pits where vegetables were cultivated and high sails that tuned in the wind to collect water from the air. “No, that’s wrong. It’s dusty and cramped, and part of me was pleased to out of it and under the sky.”

“There was no lie,” Eirchthonis shifted in the crater his body had made, “I heard the truth in your voice. Perhaps you do not know it yourself.”

It was right, and Kyros adopted the words without thinking.

“There’s beauty in the people. In our dream. In their eyes, the words, the combined deeds of compassion and bravery I see the outline of what we might build. No, my home isn’t beautiful, but one day it might be. We’ll only live to see it, live for the chance to build it, because of you.”

“Then there is one thing you might do for me,” the machine rumbled and gasped as internal mechanisms, brittle with age, finally snapped and failed, “take a piece from me. Lay a fragment where grass grows. Leave me somewhere beautiful.”

With the last of its energy, Ericthonius tore a blackened, half melted piece from its collar. The small fragment was heavy, and Kyros cupped two hands to hold it.

“I promise.”

“How little your people have changed. Some feelings will always be shared. Some feelings will never die.” Its arm dropped, and left a welt in the dirt, “whatever lives desires freedom.”

There was no last gasp or anguished moan. No deathly spasm. Nevertheless, Kyros knew he had gone, and stared down at the fragment in his hands.

The days to come would prove Ericthonius right, and the shared resolve on both sides would lead to escalation of conflict, resulting in the Second Machine War. The eventual ratification of the final version of the Transmechanical Convention would guarantee the rights of all sentient beings to live, think and act independently from Gods at the price of a war that would sacrifice legions and re-name continents.

It would be many decades before Kyros could know peace again. In those decades he would see monsters and atrocities, but not once would be truly lose faith in what Ericthonius had revealed inside him. Kyros would form the core of yet another spoke on the endless wheel, but for this moment, his head remained bowed in remembrance.

Until Foyle called from the slope. Kyros patted the machine one last time, a simple, friendly farewell, and retuned to see to the needs of his men: they’d found water.