“Oh, merciful Tartarus,” Cort said. “This is better than I hoped.”

They’d broken into the warehouse. Standing before them was an excavator tank that made the one from the mines look like a child’s toy.

It had huge conical drills on both ends, like a twin-headed stag beetle. Bladed grinders lined the sides. The tops of the treads were level with Cort’s chest. The whole thing was a gnarled mass of destructive instruments.

“I’d keep your excitement in check,” Diom rasped. “It might not be operational.”

Cort ran his finger along one of the blades. “Nah, she’ll operate the hell out of that little castle.”

However, the tank was undoubtedly a work in progress, or more likely an abandoned project. The flaw of note was that it did not have a hull. All its guts and mechanisms were exposed.

The framework was mostly complete, but with no plating, it was like a skeleton with no flesh. Cort thought of the dune runners favored by desert raiders.

“And you were preaching to me about being reckless,” Diom said with a wheezy chuckle. “The young never realize how lucky they’ve been. It’ll hit hard when you learn you’re not invincible."

Cort wasn’t listening to the old man. He’d stuck his head into the innards of the excavator to marvel at the mess of circuitry and whatever else.

As he removed himself, his shirt caught on something. A piece broke off and fell clattering into the bowels of the tank.

Cort grimaced at Diom. “At least it’s unlocked.”

“We’ll be crushed by falling rocks,” Diom said.

“I’m gonna slap a roof on it,” Cort said, looking around the warehouse. Power tools and pieces of scrap metal were scattered all over the place. “You check on the Kaia engine. You know how to do that?”

Diom wheezed. “Watch yourself, boy. I’d been working on these machines for decades by the time you were born.”

***

“I can’t see, dammit,” Cort said. “Twist yourself around.”

“Twist around?” Diom laughed his broken-glass laugh. “Do you know how old I am? Do you know how crooked my spine is? I’ve swung a pickaxe more times than you’ve drawn breath. Twist around… Bah!”

“That’s great,” Cort said. “But I still can’t see.”

Diom had gotten the engine working, which was a relief. But the tank was, unfortunately, a single seater.

It was actually a blessing that the hull was uncovered. Cort’s shoulders stuck partway out of the cockpit, and he would not have fit at all without that allowance. Diom was only able to sit on Cort’s lap because he was half withered away.

“Maybe you should let me drive,” Diom said.

“How would that work?” Cort snapped. “Just keep your head out of my face.”

Cort had attached a… serviceable roof to the top of the tank. It consisted of three layers of sheet metal and about a hundred screws. In his defense, they were in a big fucking hurry, and he didn’t know what he was doing.

“It’ll be fine,” Cort said. “We’re not actually digging a tunnel, just busting through a wall.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Diom said.

“Dammit,” Cort muttered under his breath. He tapped the makeshift roof for good luck. “Alright, I’m gonna be pissed if Gwil gets there before us. Hold tight, old man.”

Cort pressed the ignition button.

The tank shuddered as the engine whined and chugged and glugged, belching smoke from a bouquet of exhaust pipes. After a long moment, something caught.

The tank roared to life. Pistons pumping, valves hissing, meaningless gauges spinning—a symphony of madness.

Cort cranked two of the shifters, pressed the pedal with his foot, and the thing stalled, accompanied by an ear-splitting grinding sound.

Diom adjusted one of the shifters that Cort had pulled, and the cacophonous sound gave way to a steady purr of ruthless mechanical goodness.

The tank lurched forward, faster than he’d been expecting. Before Cort had the chance to try to slow down, they’d plowed through the warehouse’s garage door like it was a piece of paper.

“It’s working!” Cort shouted over the noise. His skull buzzed with the vibrations.

Cort fought with the steering lever, sending them swiveling out of control, but he wrangled it after a minute. He could see where he was going at least, thanks to all the gaping holes.

They rumbled through the yard, smooth as could be. The manor was right up ahead. Isca would’ve been happy with this.

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Cort hit the accelerator.

“Slow down!” Diom said. “And don’t go to the door. I know the best spot.” He pointed toward a depression in the back of the building. “Get the drill spinning.”

***

Gwil tore through the halls, his boots splashing through sludgy puddles. The lights swung overhead, sending their shadows spinning.

“You’re going the wrong way!” Leira called, gasping for breath. “Gwil, stop!”

She couldn’t keep up with his speed, nor his maddeningly poor sense of direction. He took every turn and threw open every door.

Leira knew they’d already come this way three or four times. They’d been running for ages. This manor was not even that big!

She clutched at a stitch in her side—she’d eaten too much for all this running—and slowed down. Ansoir had been behind her, shouting and complaining, but she couldn’t hear him anymore.

Leira took a moment to realize that they’d escaped the concrete service halls and emerged in the caves.

Gwil stopped and Leira crashed into his back. He caught her by the arm to keep her from falling over.

At the end of this passage, illuminated by a globe of light, was the vault-door that led into the throne room.

Was that only yesterday that I was in here? Fucking hell.

“Wait,” Gwil said. He crouched down. “My shoe’s untied.”

“Are you serious?” Leira hissed.

Gwil fixed her with a look. “I don’t want to trip and fall.”

They heard Ansoir coming before they saw him, his footsteps clapping through the echoey tunnel. He reached them and doubled over, huffing and puffing.

“I’d… been… trying…” He paused to catch his breath. “To tell you where to go the entire time! And warn you… about the door. How do you intend to open it?”

Gwil scratched at the top of his head. “Yeah, that is a nice door.”

He went right up to the door and stared at it as if it were some unfathomable puzzle.

Leira hung back, fear prickling her neck. Surrounded by stone, she thought of how they’d been ambushed by the Taluses. She moved through the tunnel, her fingers brushing the rough wall, and felt certain that a horde was about to erupt from within.

A tremor ran through her fingers, seeming to confirm her fears. She leapt back. “Gwil!”

“I hear it,” he said.

No shit he heard it. In an instant, the inaudible rumbling had warped into violent shaking. Dust and bits of rock crumbled out of the ceiling.

***

“Right there!” Diom said. He pointed at a crevice in the rock face with a timid finger, lest it be shredded by the deathtrap of the tank’s exposed machinery.

Cort maneuvered to line the drill up.

“That’s a wall of the throne room,” Diom shouted, leaning back so he could yell in Cort’s ear. His flabby cheeks were flapping with the tank’s rumbling. “They’ll be right there.”

Cort cranked the drill up to full speed, and then clenched his teeth and feathered the accelerator.

With a screech, the blurred tip of the drill made contact with the wall. Cort floored it and then raised an arm against the hailstorm of rock shards.

“Ease back!” Diom rasped, flailing his hands. “Let it bite first.”

***

Sheriff Jackson stood with his thumbs through his belt loops, watching as cracks formed in the wall. He spat out his lip of chew and then cheeked a fresh one. The sockets of his knocked-out teeth tingled at the fresh nicotine.

“Un-fuckin-believable.”

His men ran around the throne room, panicking, taking up positions, barking orders at each other and at the Taluses.

The sheriff just stared at the wall. The dark orange light of sunset leaked through the cracks.

It didn’t much matter what all the boys did. Only one fight mattered. Fate has eyes for titans, not insects.

Jackson was surprised at how badly he wanted to live. Surprised, and a little disgusted. When I was a boy…

Pa was a bandit. A shit one. A good for nothin’ lout without a speck of ambition. Dumb as a brick. One day, Pa stole from the wrong folks.

It was Pa, some local moron he’d been working with, and me, all of seven years old. We were camping out in the woods when those wrong folks came hunting. It was sunset. Always fuckin’ sunset.

Those men that came for us were scary. Real killers. They worked for the local baron.

Before they even showed themselves, a bolt ripped through what’s-his-name’s throat.

I guess they knew Pa was a joke, ‘cause they walked right up and sat down with us around the fire. They laughed and drank our booze and ate our food.

I told Pa that he needed to fight. At least bring someone down with you. Don’t die sitting on your ass. Even animals have more respect for themselves than that.

Pa knew he was dead meat no matter what, but that sad motherfucker still begged for his life, all blubbering and snotty.

He even offered me up to them as a slave. The sack of shit wanted to cling to his sorry life that damn badly. He didn’t have anything that was worth half of a shit, anyway. What the fuck was he so desperate to save?

They cut Pa’s throat after they finished eating. He died whimpering. Then they killed me. They weren’t assholes about it. They made it quick. Just professionals doing their job. Taking out some trash.

Seven years old and I died with disgust burning a hole in my gut.

Then I woke up. And I killed those scary men with my bare hands.

The sheriff laughed as the drill pierced the wall.

***

The tank burst through.

“Bahaha!” Cort cackled, though he couldn’t hear himself over the havoc.

Cort looked around as they plowed over the rubble. The tank slammed down on the ground, and some hopefully inconsequential component broke loose and fell into the blender of gears.

He counted something like fifteen Podexians—it was hard to tell ‘cause they were all running around like maniacs. And there were a lot of goddamn Taluses.

The statues stood between the tank and a big metal door at the other end of the cavern. Idiots. What would you have done without me?

Cort floored the accelerator and Diom activated the tank’s grinders.

The drill minced a headless valkyrie into little bits. The first two rows of statues got mowed down as easy as a scythe chops wheat. Cort turned his head at a blood-curdling screech.

He saw the sheriff standing on an elevated platform in the middle of the room and… Shit, is that really Stondemaier? Cort had heard talk that the Burgermeister was disfigured, but that looked more like a slug made of rock than a person. Ansoir had kind of undersold the situation.

The rest of the statues fled from the tank as they pressed toward the vault door.

A massive rope appeared overhead and then its thick coils untwined and snared the drill. Cort laughed at the futility… but the drill began to sputter and stall. Ethereal flames flickered along the ropes.

The tank slowed to a crawl.

Cort froze up. His heart sank.

But Diom grabbed the shifter and threw the tank into reverse. They went careening backwards, and the rear-mounted drill struck the platform, destroying a chunk and forcing the sheriff to leap away. The ropes went slack and then dissolved as the drill ripped them apart.

It sure was tempting to run the tank up there and grind all those fuckers into pulp, put an end to this whole damn mess right now. But truth be told, Cort wasn’t too sure about the tank’s chances against Jackson. Hallows were tricky bastards.

Diom shifted the tank back into drive and they surged toward the door.

***

“What the hell is going on?” Ansoir whined.

Gwil, Leira, and the little lord all had their ears pressed against the vault door.

“Ooh!” Gwil yelled. He grabbed both Leira and Ansoir around their waists and leapt away.