He yanked the release. For a second, absolutely nothing happened, and Paul felt his stomach drop.

  It coughed, spat a wad of yellow-white steam out the vent, and the machine lurched. Metal shrieked as the crankshaft caught, and the whole iron beetle began to crawl forward. First with a judder, then a rolling avalanche of creaks and thuds. Waxed-leather brake pads squealed in protest. One side slipped, then the next, and the thing veered, but then Paul worked the steering lever and the wheels bit in. They surged right up and over the first barricade, a wall of oak beams, and pulverized it like it was a pile of sticks.

  The crowd lost their minds.

  Someone shouted, another elf dropped his ledger and whooped. The tank didn’t care. It just rumbled forward, the firebox belching smoke and the wheels tearing deep gouges in the courtyard’s paving. Inside, Paul could barely hear his own thoughts over the roaring engine. He grinned like a lunatic.

  He shoved open the hatch for emphasis, climbed out on the top, and waved. Nobles and guards who had been skeptical now looked like they were about to faint from shock. Elric himself looked unabashedly enthusiastic at worst. The war-wagon rolled to a stop, hissing and popping, leaving two long trenches carved into the flagstones. Paul slid down the side and landed with a thump, boots skidding slightly on the torn-up court. The applause was… well, elves didn’t really clap, but it was a wall of sound: astonished shouts, nobles gasping, smiths whistling sharp and shrill. Even the guards on the wall leaned over, trying to get a better look.

  Elric bounded down the steps with the energy of an elf half his age. His robes snapped behind him. He stalked through the crowd, every eye tracking him like he was some living legend. When Elric finally reached Paul, he seized both of Paul’s hands and shook them so hard Paul thought his arms might come off.

  “You did it!” Elric said. “Erowin’s bones, you truly did it!”

  Paul tried to look dignified, and probably failed. “It was a group effort,” he managed, voice hoarse from the smoke.

  “Don’t be modest! Didn’t you see the lords? Their jaws were on the ground. The Aldis boy nearly fainted, saw that myself!” Elric was beaming at the nobles, daring them to say otherwise.

  He turned, dragging Paul with him as he began to walk towards the castle.

  “Paul with this the Hushites will be no more, this is the very unmaking of an empire that has choked out this entire land for many years. Do you understand me boy? Do you feel the weight of what this means? I need this armed, now. and we need to break this siege before they tunnel under our walls or just break them down.”

  Paul nodded, this was a lot to take in. The sudden overwhelming feeling of being watched started to make his skin crawl and itch. That jitter came back in his chest. He did his best to hide it, walking with Elric back toward the keep, but every step he took felt like there was a crowd full of venom-eyed nobles just daring him to slip up. The way they all stared now was different. He wasn’t the kadrêni freak, not quite. Now he was the human with the iron beast on his side. Still a freak, but… a useful one.

  Then his brain caught up to what Elric said. He wanted it armed, with what? A cannon? That was a thought. A bad one too. They didn't have time to make the mounts. They would have to make due with the hand gonnes from inside the tank.

  Elric had a death grip on his arm, practically vibrating with energy. “We have to push now, Paul. The siege will not wait for us, and every second gives them time to build their own infernal machines. You understand? We must break them.”

  “Yeah,” Paul said, legs moving on auto-pilot. “But, uh, you want this loaded tonight?”

  “Tonight? I want it now!” Elric’s voice actually boomed for a second. Paul was pretty sure he heard a window rattle. “Get Gibkin and the best of the smiths, arm this war-wagon with every shot you can muster. I will assemble the House guard and every brave soul who can stand without pissing themselves. At dawn, we will sally out, destroy them all!”

  Paul nodded, only barely keeping the panic off his face.

  ***

  In total the first tank crew consisted of these. Six gunelves who would be inside the belly of the beast with boomsticks at the ready. Three smiths to tend to the firebox and pressure systems, and one very terrified engineer. This metal monstrosity was, by Gibkins standard of measurement, approximately thirty spans long and twelve spans wide. A call was given to open the gate. The guards scrambled to obey, shouting their order up the line. Paul staggered a little as the gate’s iron mechanisms shrieked open. Sunlight spilled in, dazzling and cold. For a heartbeat, nothing moved except the war-wagon and the handful of elves who clustered uncertainly inside it.

  “Move!” came Gibkin’s roar from inside the hull, and the metal sow shuddered forward.

  The tank spat a plume of steam from its vent, then charged. The wheels bit deep ruts into the soft churned earth just beyond the city’s threshold.

  Behind the tank marched out the whole of the city’s garrison. Onward onward onto war. Ahead of them the Hillside brimmed with the dark shapes of soldiers taking up their battle lines. The Hushites were gathering. The Hushite host was not ready for what they saw now emerging from the city gate.

  From the slit in the prow he saw the first rank of Hushite infantry break backwards, yelling. It was a soundless shout, lost in the noise of the engine. The elves behind him whooped, bracing themselves as the war-wagon barreled ahead.

  They were still perhaps another hour away if Paul stayed at full speed, but he needed the army to keep up so they had to run the engine colder for a while. The march from the city gate was agony. At any time the engine could give, blow up, or spring a sizable leak. Then they were a stationary battlement alone in a field. The enemy would simply assault them with their own siege weaponry and that would be that. Paul tried his best not to think about it. He tried to keep his attention on the sound of the engine and the stinging bite of hot metal against his callused palms. Anything to keep from thinking about what would happen if this thing broke down, or worse, if the elves outside these walls decided to aim every ballista, every ounce of their hatred for these elves and him right at his ugly, lurching beast.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  It was indeed a slow crawl, but soon enough the battle lines were drawn and each side took their positions. The hushites had a hillside and high ground. They had numbers and their soldiers were renowned across the land. Paul however, had a tank. Today they would see which was better. The tank held the line at the front. Paul kept a death grip on the control lever, sweat and soot stinging his eyes. The war-wagon spat out a fresh splash of steam, every rivet along the hull rattling.

  The Hushite army, arrayed in their tidy lines and silver-capped spears, stared across the field. Paul watched from the tiniest slot in the prow as more and more of them seemed to realize what was coming. Some were shouting, some simply pointed and clutched the shoulders of the ones in front, but the line still marched at a disciplined pace, shields and helmets held high.

  He heard the first impact before he saw it. Arrows, dozens at first, then hundreds, hissing out from the enemy ranks. Most just pinged off the tank’s iron flanks, some glancing away in mad spirals. The inside of the hull echoed with the rattling rain of metal.

  “Oi, maybe next time you paint a target on the side!” someone shouted from the gunners’ crew, but Paul ignored them. The whole tank lurched as a massive ballista bolt bounced off the iron just outside his viewport. The shock of it slammed up through the hull, rattling every bone in Paul’s body and sending a rain of grit down from the seams in the plating. One of the gunners started cursing.

  He gripped the lever tighter. For a split second he wondered if the engine’s last coughing fit was just nerves or the actual iron heart of the beast about to explode.

  Doesn’t matter, just keep moving.

  Another volley of arrows shrieked down with a hiss that sounded almost like rain. It was hard to see anything out of his tiny slit, but the world outside looked to be nothing but glinting helmets and a forest of spears. Paul could see the Hushites bracing for impact, elbows locked in unison as they readied whatever crude artillery they’d cobbled together for this siege. Crossbows, javelins, rocks the size of suitcases… and, of course, more ballistae.

  A voice from behind: “You want us to fire on your mark, boss?”

  He almost laughed. “Fire!”

  Thunder, thunder was small and frail compared to the wall of sound that passed through Paul in the moment the followed.The whole world vibrated with it. The air in the slot before Paul’s face rippled and flexed. He was sure his teeth would be set rattling loose. For a moment there was nothing but the dry taste of smoke and the echoing bellow.

  They had missed with the first shot, but it didn’t matter. The line of Hushite shields reeled anyway, like a kicked row of fenceposts. Chunks of turf and earth geysered up in the middle of their host. A brace of elves cheered behind Paul’s back, voices hoarse.

  “Reload!” yelled one of the gunners.

  Paul’s hands, slick with sweat, wrenched the lever. The tank rattled forward at a surprising speed, it kicked and then evened out. He could hear the elves as they reloaded their firearms.

  Paul’s thoughts were a scrambled mess. His ears rang, but he could see the soldier lines outside shifting, pulling their masses closer together. The Hushites were crowding up, their shields locked tighter now, spears bristling, the front like a living wall of angry silver. For a moment Paul lost sight of anything but the roiling surge of their helmets, and it seemed as if every Hushite in the world was about to try and push the tank over by sheer willpower.

  “Keep steady,” Paul muttered. He wiped a palm over his brow and felt it come away slick with sweat and probably steam-leak. The tank shuddered as they crested a low rise, the wheels nearly losing purchase before the cleats bit down. The gunners behind him lined up their next shots.

  Outside, the Hushites must have had nerves of steel. Maybe they did this every week. Because after the initial barrage of arrows, they didn’t scatter. They advanced, not fast, but inexorable, their front lines hunched and determined and the banners behind them whipping in the wind.

  “Ready!” called one of the gun elves.

  The line was so close now he could see the faces, a wash of grimaces, eyes squinting in the light. There was a moment of weird, breathless calm.

  “Fire!” he heard.

  The gun elves threw their shots like a thunderclap. Every plank and rivet in the hull screamed out with the force of it. There was now screaming, Paul couldn't see who but it sounded like it was outside.

  Shouts rippled down the ranks, and the Hushites tried to rally. Paul could see officers slapping at helmets, pointing, screaming orders. But the elves inside the tank were just getting started.

  “Again!” barked Gibkin.

  The the guns spat another volley, straight into a knot of advancing infantry. The haze of powder smoke drifted off with the morning breeze, but the screams were not so easily swept away. Paul flinched, his heart trying to crawl out of his throat. Every shot was a world-end to someone out there. He tried not to think of it.

  “Reload, faster!” called one of the smiths.

  The Hushites had regrouped. Braver souls in the front lines pressed forward, javelins flashing. The tank went over the line. The sound of bones snapping and screams of the dying eclipsed that of the tank. Paul began to feel bile raise from his stomach. He would vomit he knew it. A moment later he did, he had to wrench himself up to keep control of the tank. He turned it, the squealing leather brake made a sound that set his teeth on edge and made a thick white smoke that smelled horrendous. His had a death grip on the lever now, steering into the next wave of infantry before the shakes could get the better of him.

  The Hushites saw the tank coming and for a moment, Paul pitied them. They stood their ground, dead silent, almost as if they could scare the machine off by will alone. Then the war-wagon slammed into their front rank and the world turned absolutely insane.

  There was a moment of impact where every bone in Paul’s arms thudded in sympathy with the crash outside. He heard the crunch, the crack, and the scream of armor bending. The front shield wall folded in like tin foil. Bodies, shields, and the remnants of their barricade all mashed under the tank’s weight. Gunners let out a victorious roar. The tank kicked, hissing in triumph.

  Paul was gagging from the stink and terror and the churning smell of scorched leather. He wiped his mouth and braced harder, slamming the brake to veer just enough that the wheels would grip and lurch left. The cleats gouged trenches through the chaos.

  “Again!” barked Gibkin.

  “Firing!” yelled a gunner

  It was too much, the engine burst several lines and seams the moment the wheels gripped the earth. The tank shuddered like a stricken animal. Steam hissed from a half-dozen cracks, spray painting the inside of the hull hot and white. In the moment after the air filled with the banshee wail of metal splitting somewhere near the main release. Gunners ducked instinctively, hands over their heads.

  "She's gonna to blow!"

  “Get down!” yelled someone, but there was nowhere to go. There was just the narrow space and a hurricane of heat and pressure.

  Paul braced his feet on the slippery iron, he needed to ditch and now. He reached over his head to open the hatch and let everyone out.

  For a half-breath, nothing happened except the engine screaming in agony. Then the pressure vent gave, a ragged geyser of steam erupting straight into the back chamber. Someone shrieked.

  Outside, the Hushite line had scattered, broken open by that last, monstrous shot. Even as the tank sagged, the press of bodies in front of them just turned to red ruin. He opened the main hatch and scrambled out. followed by Gibkin who was clutching his arm. The air outside the tank was cold after all that roaring steam. Paul rolled onto the muddy turf, boots digging for purchase, and flopped onto his back. His whole body burned.

  Paul only managed a kind of wheezing cough as he scrambled up. The metal hull behind him still steamed and rattled like some angry teapot, There were screams. Horrible screaming coming from inside where the others hadn't been able to get out, for a moment Paul moved as if to go and try to help them, but he was firmly grasped by Gibkin who simple shook his head and said.

  “It’s too hot, you can’t Paul. I’m sorry, they knew what they signed up for Paul, they knew.”

  “But… They’re in so much pain Gibkin…”

  Elven soldiers who’d marched from the city were streaming around the tank now, their faces wild with triumph and terror both. Nobody’d seen anything like it. Smoke curled up from where the last shots had ripped through the field, and the sound of panic from the broken Hushite ranks was almost enough to drown out the clamor from Barrus’s own soldiers.

  Paul vomited again, then the world went black.