Prologue
A mask, smiling and white against the darkness of wet night, marched purposefully through the rain with a wooden body in both hands. Drops of water fell from his top hat, dripping over the mask’s hollow eyes. Each step was firm and solid, clicking and ticking like the gears of a grandfather clock. The dark red gentleman’s suit had been soaked all the way through by this time, coattails drooping over his rear end with the weight of the water.
The body in his arms stirred, black hair dripping and glistening as they approached lantern light. Utop the lit stairs to the mansion, the wooden body became clear, it’s curves and craft shaped in the appearance of a young, short-haired maiden. Her eyes were closed and each limb hung limply from the arms of the masked figure. Along the grain from her chest down, a thin sheen of gunk hung persistently to the wood. The only thing to signify that she was still alive was the pulsing brand against her chest; a dimly pulsing mark shaped like a circle and filled in with an eight edged star.
Seeming to detect the two of them, the mansion’s door, a massive plank etched with enough watery curls to challenge the shape of water in motion, opened to reveal a short, spindly woman of near transparent complexion. Dressed simply in grey robes, a pendant around her neck. Her hand went up to her mouth when she saw them, ushering the two inside.
Mutely, the masked figure carried the girl inside, following the woman into the mansion. He towered over her, drawing every eye and ear still up at this late hour with the sound of his sharply clattering limbs and shoes. Doors opened along every hall the boots traveled, the effect rippling out across the rest of the building. Outside, the storm picked up, throwing winds against the windows.
Deeper inside the mansion, the woman ushered them into a private room where a pair of men, one of wood and the other of glass, and another wooden woman were waiting. From the smell of sawdust and antiseptic in the air, the room was somewhere between an infirmary and a workshop. The two of them handed over to the professional personnel, she turned to the gathered onlookers, a collection of wooden boys and girls. She frowned, chastising them furiously for not sleeping and threatening each of them with the more unpleasant chores of the household, namely chamberpot duties.
Inside, the towering, masked figure lowered the woman onto a bed before stepping aside, knowing he’ll only get in the way if he lingered. When he departed, he returned the cane to his side and took off his hat, inquiring of his hostess if they could put him up for the night.
Ch 1
Egilhard’s candle lit silhouette worked at the workshop desk on the first floor of his home--gears, springs, and pistons moving about, across, and within his metal body. The mechanical animals were asleep here, some of them breathing just loud enough to keep the silence from creeping in on the workshop. Beside him, his pale mask, smiling wide with massive holes for eyes, lay hollowly next to his top hat. Mask off, his face was a monstrous tangle of meshing gears and dimly burning eyes. Not the eyes of the wooden folk which burn metaphorically, but eyes of glass and fire behind. There was a time when his eyes could light an entire room, a time remembered with painful sharpness. His hands worked, exposing the innards of a quiet and lightless bird. It was a large one and very different from its smaller, brighter companions sleeping about the room. Rustling sounded from one side of the room, making Egilhard look up from his work.
On top of a massive metal lion, his apprentice slept with slowly healing dents on every wooden limb. The slow rise and fall of the lion’s restful breathing lulled the young swordswoman in her sleep. Long black hair loosened from her earlier bun, she slept quieter than the birds. He remembered seeing her eyes for the first time, a pair of deep red eyes in the dark of the swamps, pleading for help. Though she suffers from amnesia, she could throw his best students in hand to hand combat and has yet to lose in a match of swords save against himself and a small number of his best students. He caught himself ticking aloud, his native language reflecting his thoughts. He stopped as soon as he noticed.
Turning back to his work, Egilhard closed the chest hatch of the bird and secured it with fine screws. He stood the bird up, its menacing beak and talons suddenly obvious. Old habits still hung onto him even now in this peaceful village far from the forges of his birthplace. He resisted the urge to remind himself that, even here, he may lose it all to his ambitions. Instead, he turned the bird so that its keyhole shown on his back. With some ceremony, he pulled a long key with spiralling teeth from the desk cabinet, one in a sea of other keys. The key slid easily into the bird’s back, folding in on itself as it travelled deeper.
Twisting the key several times in one direction and then half way in the other. The bird twitched out of his grasp, stumbling to one side of the desk. Its wings flapped jerkedly for a moment before correcting itself, avoiding the table’s edge. Standing up right, it turned its head to look at Egilhard with one eye. He could see the bird’s eyes flicker 75 times per second, 5 short of the birds using fuel. Seeming to understand the unspoken orders, it hopped aggressively to the otherside of the desk as if intimidating an unseen enemy from its nest. Its feathers stood up, making it appear bigger than it actually was.
“Fly.” He ordered.
Without hesitation, the bird leaped out of its intimidating pose, flapping it’s large wings furiously. Each wing beat disturbed the tools on Egilhard’s desk, a testament to the creature’s strength. Rising high enough to wake the highflying birds in the room, a feather fell from its wing, clattering against the floor. Not two lopsided flaps later, three more feathers came loose, and then another three from its tail. Then all together, the bird descended, its pieces coming apart as it made its way down.
Egilhard had his hands folded over the desk by the time the clockwork awoke the first of the birds. The sound of off-key gears giving away the coming failure before it even dropped the first feather. He sighed heavily as it clattered. This was the 327th failed attempt at producing a fuelless construct. The idea itself had been regarded as an impossible feat. At best, it could move a toy for minutes. Not that the idea was much of a prospect to begin with as it was more efficient to use fuel. He leaned back, studying the grey metal ceiling distractedly.
The sun peeked over the treetops surrounding the forest, glancing into Egilhard’s workshop. He still stared at the ceiling, thoughts churning with rivers of thought and calculation. Not a tick escaped his skull as he lay there. A small rustling sound made his hand bolt for the mask on his desk, covering his face in a flash. He turned to look in the direction of the sound.
His apprentice had straightened beside the lion, her hand on the handle of her cane, red eyes bright in the dark as they caught the stray, morning sunlight. She pulled the cane in opposite directions, revealing a thin blade beneath the length of dark wood.
He noted that she was cautious even in her sleep, a useful thing most wooden folk didn’t have. The bell rang, keeping him from following the thought. “Rather early for anything of note,” he said idly. “Clara, put your sword away, it’s just a messenger.”
His apprentice did as she was told and stood up after him, turning her attention to her attire which was somewhat messy from last night’s training. She patted at it, wincing slightly from the soreness.
Egilhard slid the hat onto his head as he walked to the door. Outside, a wooden boy dressed in fine clothes, bowler hat, and cane stood on the front deck. The brown strip crowning the bowler hat confirmed he was a messenger. The village beyond Egilhard’s metal home was busy with activity, wooden folk pouring in through the walls and hatsmen directing them.
The hatsman at his door bowed, hand on his cane as he reported. “Lord Egilhard, there’s smoke in the distance. It’s as you said, the sound of metal is loud enough to be heard from the walls.”
Barely a quarter of an hour later, Egilhard was on the walls, overlooking the fields of saplings surrounding his stronghold. All along the fine stonework, his young hatsmen bustled about, filling the parapet quivers with bolts and ballistas with the lengthy siege bolts. Amongst the wooden warriors with their bowler hats in varying colored crowns, a quartet of glass priests, Siblings of the Glass, stood at the ready. Dressed in cloaks soaked in a field of arcane runes and faint bluish energy, the four Sisters of Glass were armed with long metal tubes. Beside them were glass blowing forges built into the walls and manned with wooden assistants.
“Report?” Egilhard asked as a new messenger arrived.
“Sir, all the farmers from the eastern, western, and southern forests are behind the keep walls and settling in for a potential siege.” The messenger boy informed.
“And the north?” Egilhard inquired pointedly.
“Most of the northern farmers are in, but they’ve noted Farmer Asish’s absence. We sought him out as protocol dictated, but they spotted him under the approaching group’s custody.”
Egilhard started to tick as the literal gears in his head turned more vigorously. “You’re right to return. Rest while you can.” He turned back to face the forests to the north, dismissing the messenger.
The dust cloud made its way deeper into the northern forest, encroaching on the keep ominously. From his experience, the clouds suggested at least a hundred cavalry or two and a half hundred infantry or some mixture of the two. Regardless, it was too small to be an invading force and too large to be a raiding party. On top of that, he had not received any official declaration of war, which, while not uncommon in the ambitions of Country Lords, isn’t done lightly when the defendant is a war hero with an undefeated history.
The sound of metal hooves confirmed his guess. With the bottom half of an armored horse and the top half of a full plated knight, eighty iron centaurs galloped into view, dispersing from the road to trample over the freshly planted saplings. Some of the hatsmen cringed at the sight, visibly resisting the urge to shoot the centaurs as they approached. Just ahead of the rear guard, six of their force pulled a large wagon that took up the entire road as it rolled to the gate. The centaurs formed a line to both sides of the wagon door as it turned to one side. With clockwork efficiency, they tucked the rear end of their horse bodies up into their backpacks and forward most legs, trading their mobility for strength and height. They crossed lances creating an improvised gate.
Two of the six pulling the wagon heralded their passengers. “Presenting, Princess Isadora, Seventeenth Royal of the southern most city, Dead Mountain and War Caste Aldegund.”
The War Caste came first, descending the stairs of the wagon with weighty steps. Shelled in solid, grey armor plating, Aldegund’s steps sank into the dirt floor, the weight of his inner workings echoing out with every motion. His three slitted helm housed six fiery eyes, their glowing shapes scanning the walls critically. His hand rested on the hilt of his belted sword, his house’s sigil, a black, cracked gear, resting between his fingers. He looked up at the walls, folds of steel moving up to cover his neck before it could be exposed to any would be assassin. “Grand Master Forge Caste, Egilhard of—”
“Birch Hearth.” Egilhard interrupted.
Aldegund hesitated. “Of what now?”
“Birch Hearth,” he repeated.
“Grand Master Forge Caste Egilhard of Birch Hearth,” the War Caste relented, “come down from your walls. A vassal of the Princess should not speak from higher than her highness.”
“Oh please,” a feminine voice exclaimed from the wagon, “skip the formalities, both of you.”
“But your highness.” Aldegund protested, turning back to the wagon entrance.
Four white gloved hands moved to the frame of the wagon entrance. A mask segmented into two parts followed, topped in a brilliant, silver crown. “Egilhard my dear, please, open your gates. I wish to speak to you in person.”
Egilhard stiffened visibly, drawing the eyes of his hatsmen. A bare moment pause, he snapped his fingers sharply in one direction. The gates opened to his gesture and the garrison behind the wall’s parapets began to return to a more lax stance. The sister of the glass however, remained vigilant by their glass blowers.
“Thank you,” she said with a tone better suited to beds than public spaces. Stepping out of the wagon, the princess’s flowery dress bellowed out of the compartment, her four arms moving hypnotically about her clothes as she straightened and cleared every detail. Her mask shifted from a smile to a frown, to puzzlement, and back to smiling again in the space of a minute as she made her way past her gate of escorts.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
Clara, dressed in her fellow hatsmen’s uniforms, came to Egilhard’s side. “Lord Egilhard, are you sure this is wise?”
He raised his hand to her as he turned to descend the walls, “That remains to be seen. Until I’ve confirmed anything, you’re in charge of the walls. No one leaves or enters without my say.”
She saluted in reply.
Egilhard vaulted over the rear wall’s platform, landing behind the gates effortlessly. As they opened, he made his unconscious adjustments to his hat and attire, firming the buttons and straightening the cloth.
Princess Isadora glided through the gates. A century away from his eyes, she was as beautiful as he remembered. “Egil,” she beamed, “please, show me this estate of yours that has kept you from my side for so long.”
He bowed with one hand behind his back and the other with his cane raised. “Of course, Princess.”
As the gates closed and the red crowned hatsmen escorts joined Egilhard at the gates, the princess hovered to the masked man’s side, the two halves of her mask shifted to a curious expression. “Egil, I’m still learning the wooden folk’s language, would it be too much trouble for us to speak in our language.”
“Yes, my liege!” He clattered instinctively. It took him a moment to realize he repeated a war salute without thinking.
“Good to see your gears know where your loyalties lay.” She clicked back, turning to look at their escorts. “What do you have here?” She beamed.
“These are my hatsmen,” he said, offering his arm. “Shall we begin the tour?”
“Yes, yes, please do.” She took his arm, matching his pace easily. “Where will we visit first?”
“What would her highness like to see?” He signalled to the red hatsmen. Obediently, they made a loose encirclement, their canes held seemingly casually from the waist. “We have little in the way of spectacle.”
“Little?” She asked. “Egil, you’re the Grand Master Forge Caste. No space of air nor earth can exist around you without it being shaped to your artistic desires.”
“Princess-”
“Isa.” She interrupted sharply, her movements falling short of graceful for the barest of moments. Her mask visibly resisted the urge to change expressions.
He hesitated as they entered the market streets, a few villagers steering clear of the encirclement. In that brief moment, her lack of grace betrayed the otherwise soundless gears she held beneath her skirts. As she said, he is indeed the Grand Master Forge Caste, and there were more gears than two legs could account for under there. “Isa,” he continued cautiously, “you flatter me, but a title does not determine one’s skills, much less when the title implies your birth is the sole contributor to that skill.”
She seemed visibly calmer when her name was spoken. “Oh, don’t shame yourself so lightly. Please, show me this estate. There will be plenty here to prove your worth, birth born skill or no.”
Much to the Princess’s delight, the Siblings of the Glass presented the royal family member with their quality crafts. Most of which, to her surprise, were made from the apprentices, wooden girls and boys who work with fire. Their works included a tasteful vase large enough to house a tree and decorated with gold flower petals, a stave forged of pure silver, and a collection of rings of various rare metals. As they left the church workshop, there was some ceremony as Egilhard slipped a ring of woven onyx and opal onto her finger.
Deeper into the heart of Egilhard’s home, they made their way through a field of wooden boys who were sparring. On one side, they traded blows and throws with cloth wrapped fists and feet. On the other, boys dressed in enchanted cloth crossed blades, lighting the field with sparks. The doors to Egilhard’s workshop parted, permitting its maker and his guest entry.
Almost as soon as the doors were closed, Isa spoke, her ticking voice carefully absent of rebuke which only had the opposite effect. “Egil dearest, why do you insist on dressing the sheep in wolves’ clothing?”
Egilhard snapped his fingers at an escort, pointing at the table with the other hand and then holding up two fingers. Only when the escort left did he turn to rattle out an answer to the Princess. “What do you mean by that?”
He turned to see her brushing down one of the escorting boys’ uniforms of dust. She spoke to the boy in the wooden language, her voice smoother than those who sing the language. “Aren’t you just the cutest little knight.”
The young escort, not familiar with the metal people beyond his lord blushed furiously at the Princess’s touch.
Egilhard however, saw himself in the young boy, before this village and before his time in war when he was at Isa’s beck and call. Between his apprenticeship and progress as an artificer, he was Isa’s toy soldier, her touch had been the key to every door to his mind at the time. Sometimes that touch was quite literal as his body of gears and pulleys.
In the language of cogs, she clicked at Egilhard even as she complimented the boy. “You dress your food like they were us.” She patted the boy’s head lightly, speaking his tongue at the same time. “And what is your name, little one?”
“Agi, Madam.” He replied formally. “Agi Leaflet.”
She beamed. “How long have you been practicing, Sir Agi?”
“Ten springs ago,” he said sheepishly. “Madam.” He added a little belatedly.
“A boy like this,” her mask moving to smile, though pleasant in appearance, suddenly seemed sinister, “would be just perfect for dessert.” In her other voice, “Ten springs? My word you must’ve been three when you started.”
He nodded, bowing his head to hide his growing flush, an odd complexion on a wooden face.
She continued back to Egilhard almost as an afterthought, “Maybe after a little charring in the burner. He’d taste much better.”
“We do not char wooden folk here, Princess,” he spoke her title defiantly.
She patted the young one’s bowler hat in an almost motherly manner. “You’re right, he’d probably lose that texture in the process, he’d be better off with a lighter charring, get that crunch on top of that softer trunk.”
“We do not eat the wooden folk here, Princess, much less our young!” Egilhard said sternly, making sure his stance did not betray the kinder dialog between the Princess and the young one.
She continued in the wooden language, her iron voice quiet as she spoke. “How would you like to learn under the War Caste’s Grandmasters?” She said this as she pressed a possessive hand around the scruff of the boy’s neck.
There was a moment of tense silence as the young one prepared an answer. Egilhard remained stoic as he prepared to intervene on the boy’s behalf.
“No,” the Agi said before anyone else could respond. “I like it here, and I don’t think anyone can beat Lord Egilhard in a sword fight.” He claimed boldly.
Isa replied without missing a beat. “Loyal as well as brave,” she smiled, “You would make a fine knight under Egilhard indeed.” She paused, contemplating her next words.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Egilhard watched as the boys set down two plates and utensils. A pallet of charcoal rested between the plates by one of his taller hatsmen. He knew the wood that made it were just shavings, but then it didn’t take much to imagine who they could’ve been if he had been in another lord’s domain.
“How about this?” The Princess suggested. “A duel! Lord Egilhard versus my Aldegund. If my knight wins, you,” she gestured at Agi, “get to come with me to my palace in the snowy mountains. You’ll learn much and have plenty of light to feast from when you’re high up there.”
“And if I should win, your Highness?” Egilhard asked in both languages. “What would you wager on the weight of your War Caste’s sword?”
“Hmm, I wager the southern hills, oh what was that domain called?” She pouted prettily, “The one with those thick shrubs. My sister’s vessel has long been rusting on the seat of his throne.” She said the last with disdain.
“Brush Wood, Princess,” Egilhard answered. “Rough land and indeed quite the disagreeable lord.”
“Does that seem like a fair wager, Lord Egil?”
“Your Highness is confident in her War Caste’s sword.” He said, side stepping the question.
“Confidence? No, merely perceptive. If you win, you gain land I know you’ll do better at tending to than the current lord, thus better taxes. If I win,” her voices split, “I get a loyal knight. I get to eat my fill.”
“Then I bow to Her Highness’s wisdom.” Egilhard bent at the waist without further comment, fingers clutching the neck of his cane.
Sheath still firmly in place, Egilhard swung the cane down testily from the foot of the weapon, hooking at the open air before returning it to his side. Opposite to him in the ringed off section of the town center, Aldegund rolled his helm back and around, the gears and plating clattering heavily with the motion. Upon the War Caste’s back was a massive two handed sword, a common weapon of choice for fledgeling knights, his previous sword abandoned in the carriage.
The Princess and young hatsman Agi sat under a makeshift stand, a pair of Iron Centaurs suspending the cloth with their lances. All around, farmers, carpenters, siblings of the glass, and other village tending wooden folk gathered behind the ring of hatsmen. There were murmurs a plenty, but none so loud that the two duelists couldn’t speak with even tones and be heard.
“Last chance to back out, Forge Caste.” Aldegund clicked aloud, raising a hand up to shoulder height. The plating flapped and shifted, a test of automatically parrying surfaces. “I’d rather not be the one to break an old grandfather clock like yourself. No offence to your wisdom, my lord.”
Egilhard turned to the hatsmen beside him, whispering something to him. Barely a moment later, a case was brought out and opened, revealing a small collection of canes. Wasting no time, Egilhard picked through the case, setting his current walking aid in the hand of one of his apprentices.
“Huh, did you need a proper weapon?” Aldegund continued, tauntingly.
Egilhard pulled out a cane of dark wood and traced in gold. He swung it, weighed it, and slammed the foot of it into the floor before shaking his head and returning it to the case.
“Centaur,” Aldegund called. “Give your sword to the Forge Caste.”
Egilhard put a third cane back into the case before speaking. “That won’t be necessary, young master.” He rummaged through the case again.
“What was that?”Aldegund asked.
“I don’t need iron, much less steel, to fight one such as yourself, young master.” Egilhard said offhandedly, pulling out a pale stick of wood topped with a leather grip. “This will do for the occasion,” he paused as he tapped the leather end on his shoulder, “no offense.”
Aldegund’s gears rattled furiously as he took in the Forge Caste’s words. His hand moved up to the grip of his sword, eyes ablaze beneath the helm’s slits. “It’s your recycling ceremony, Forge Caste.”
Egilhard turned to the Princess, ignoring the War Caste’s jibe. The showman in him returned with his confidence as he asked, “Your Highness, would you like to signal the start of this duel?”
“Of course!” If her mask’s smile could widen, it would’ve shattered. She raised a decorative cloth by the tip. “You may begin when I drop this.”
Egilhard nodded approvingly. “Does this suit you, young master?”
Aldegund drew his sword, gripping the handle with both hands. He nodded absently.
Egilhard bowed, holding the stick lazily to one side.
The Princess raised the handkerchief, letting the cloth dangle dramatically from her gloved fingers. Unceremoniously, she let it go.
The War Caste shuffled forward with surprising speed, swinging his massive blade in an overhead motion. The wind parted around the weapon as it descended, throwing bits of sand from the cobbles.
Egilhard, still calm, took one smooth step to the side, dodging the strike.
Aldegund shifted his feet, salvaging as much momentum as he could and brought the blade back around.
Stick gripped with both hands now, Egilhard dug the walking aid into the sharp edge of the sword, shaving into the grain. Moving fluidly, he ducked under the sword, using the stick to compensate against the sword’s angle. In the time that it took for his opponent to complete his swing, the fight was over.
Aldegund crashed onto the floor, his legs giving out from beneath him. The stick had been shoved into the thin slit between two chest pieces, catching at something underneath. Hands gripped on the blade, his fingers refused to part with the weapon’s handle. At the same time, everything from the waist up was locked into place, everything below lay limp. His curses came out jittery and mixed in the ticking language. “W-what i-in the mo-lton hea-vens did you d-do to me?”
Egilhard spoke in the wooden language, his hand on his hat as the light caught on his pale white mask. “Model number 212784 with the regional Dead Mountain Stamp and two others,” he read aloud from the thin slip of metal along the back of Aldegund’s head. He tapped the first of the other symbols, a simple gear with a hole in the middle. “Do you know this symbol, Aldegund? The one next to your regional symbol.”
“Who g-gives a d-damn! T-take this s-stick out of-f m-my chest!” He ordered furiously.
Egilhard pressed a finely made shoe onto the warrior’s head, quieting him. “For a promising young War Caste, you don’t listen to your elders often.” He tapped the gear pointedly again. “This is my symbol, Aldegund, I designed and built your original War Caste Brothers. You disappoint them with your ignorance and your incompetence.” He looked at the Princess next, shifting languages. “My lady, I trust you can arrange the proper documents for the acquisition of Brush Wood.”
“Of course.” She beamed back. “Thank you for the entertaining show.” She turned to Agi, her mask shifting to a gentle expression. “I had hoped to show you to my palace at Dead Mountain. If you’re ever nearby, please come visit, my doors will always be open to you.”