Two more detonations followed, then only the clanging bell, the rush of boots, soldiers’ shouts, and the rat-a-tat-tat of his Gatling guns.
“Report!” Roderic barked, furious with himself for having slept.Stupid!But he’d never considered they would climb the mountain guarding their rear and drop bombs.
“We lost three howitzers,” an artillery captain replied, “and a couple of machine gun nests. No report on casualties from the barracks collapse yet, but there were hundreds of soldiers in that wing. Colonel Moore sent three platoons up the mountain after them. This is our terrain, sir, not theirs.”
Roderic nodded. “Not as bad as it could have been, and they can’t try it again. Rushing, draw up a schedule. I want scouts all over that mountain and behind Highcrest Hall. We won’t be caught off-guard a second time.”
“Yes, sir,” the young lieutenant answered. “General Calder, you need to report to the infirmary and have that removed and your arm treated. You’ll be no good to Stonevale if you come down with an infection.”
“Oh, yeah,” he muttered. “That.”
“I’ll get the patrols arranged and check on the barracks they hit,” Rushing assured him.
“We’re going to miss those howitzers,” the artillery captain said sourly. “At least only a case of shells each went up with them.”
Roderic yanked the splinter from his arm and threw it to the stones at his feet. “Time to strike back,” he said. “Send for McKinley.” There were a few more hours before dawn—plenty of time to silence the Iron Army’s big guns in kind.
Chapter thirty-two
The Clockwork Advance
Borderlands between Verdancia and Appalachia, the next day
Despite focusing on the mission, finding and identifying the new threat, saving Azaleen and everyone she loved, Lark felt miserable. This damned dirt bike had no shocks, battering her butt like a spiteful principal’s paddle. What she wouldn’t give for a horse!
Luke had given her a ten-minute crash course, assuring her it was easy and fun—maybe for someone not recovering from a bullet to the rear. While her chest wound was more serious, it was healing well and never caused any pain … almost never. Now her entire body vibrated, and, even with the gloves, she struggled to keep hold of the shuddering handlebars.
They’d been tearing along at breakneck speed, on and off roads, since yesterday. Add the pigeon crate bouncing against her back with every crack, bump, and dip on the path. She decided someone with a cruel disposition could use it as a torture device. When they lay down to sleep last night, Skye had laughed at Lark, who was too sore to move.
“We’re getting close,” Luke said when they stopped for a ten-minute rest break.
Lark kicked the stand and gingerly dismounted, lowering the pigeon crate. Her legs wobbled when she took a step.
“Here,” said Wes, who didn’t seem tortured at all by the two-wheeled motorized monster. “Everyone, put these on under your helmet.” He passed out headsets with earpieces and built-in microphones. “Don’t turn them on until we head out. They’re rechargeable, but I couldn’t bring a charging station without the jeep to carry it.”
Lark took hers, removed her helmet, sweat clinging to her hair, and tried it on. Light. Flimsy? She supposed Wes knew about all this tech stuff. She stretched and waddled behind a bush to relieve herself, something Diego wasn’t shy about doing in the open. The woods breathed out a green, living scent—ferns, moss, and sap warmed by the noontime sun that filtered between a canopy of needles and broadleaves.
“We’re going to spread out,” Luke instructed. Lark zipped her pants and rejoined the others parked on a decrepit excuse for a roadway. Roots burst through in ribbons while vines choked the ancient concrete.
“Keep an eye out for warg,” Harlan said as he strode back to the bikes. “I saw some fresh paw prints. They might prefer dark, but they’ll strike in daylight too.”
Lark nodded and drank deep from her canteen.
“And bears,” Diego added. “But none of those critters like the noise from the motorbikes, so we should be fine.”
“I’d rather wrestle a bear than spend another minute having my butt kicked by that—what is it?” She checked the label on her cracked, peeling, oxidized red-and-white, mostly gray, vehicle. “Yamaha.”
The guys laughed. Skye laid an arm over her shoulders. “You should’ve brought a pillow.”
Lark shot her a sardonic look. “This is the first time I’ve ridden one of those, and this has been a marathon.”
“Actually,” Wes said, “our journey leaves a marathon—a mere twenty-six miles—in the dust. We’ve driven nearly three hundred kilometers. Sorry, kid,” he said, wincing at Lark. “The rest of us have done this plenty. Now, put me on an actual horse for that long, and I’d be bellyaching like you.” He winked at her.
Lark’s face drew into a frown. She yanked up the pigeon crate and slung the straps over her shoulders. “I’m not bellyaching. I’m stating a fact.”
“Cut the plebe some slack,” Luke said in good humor. “She’s gotta start somewhere. Now, Skye and Wes head due west for an hour, then turn north. Diego and Lark, keep to the route we’re on. It’ll take you west of the Chattanooga red zone. Watch out for mutants. Harlan and I will jog east of Old Chatt and head up that way. If they’re making for Stonevale, they have to come through one of these passes—unless they’re mountain-climbing robots. Ever hear of mountain-climbing robots before?”
Everyone laughed, shaking their heads. Lark hoisted her leg over the seat and cranked her engine.