that broke into sharp, tearing bursts from every direction. The treetops churned around them, concussions shaking the Stormwalker and throwing clouds of leaves into the sky.
Then Volger was dragging him back down into the cabin, the engines roaring back to life.
“Load the cannon!” Master Klopp cried to the men below.
“THE S.M.S.
Alek found himself deposited into the commander’s chair as the machine began to move. He struggled with the seat straps, but a terrible thought took hold of his mind, freezing his fingers.
Count Volger crouched beside him, yelling over the rumble of engines and gunfire. “Take heart at this impoliteness, Alek. It proves that you are still a threat to the throne.”
SIX
The second broadside of cannon shells fell closer, a spray of gravel and wooden splinters rattling against the viewport’s grill, the smaller pieces spilling through.
Alek spat dirt from his mouth.
“Vision to half!” Master Klopp cried, then cursed. The two crewmen were below, and Volger was halfway up through the hatch again, his legs dangling from the ceiling.
Klopp glanced apologetically at Alek. “If you please, Your Highness.”
“Certainly, Master Klopp,” Alek said. He unbuckled and pulled himself up from the commander’s chair. The cabin rocked and swayed, and he grasped the straps overhead to keep his footing.
He tried to turn the viewport’s crank, but it wouldn’t budge. Taking it with both hands, Alek strained harder, until the massive armored visor grudgingly closed a few centimeters.
Another broadside shook the earth beneath them, and the walker staggered forward. Count Volger’s riding boots flailed, kicking Alek in the back of the head.
“They can still see us!” Volger shouted from above. “We’re too tall!”
Master Klopp twisted at the saunters, hunkering the Stormwalker lower. The hornbeam trees rose up in the viewport, the walker’s clumsy gait sending Volger’s boots swinging again. For an astonished moment Alek watched Klopp’s hands on the controls—he’d never seen a walker shuffle along in a crouch like this.
Of course, he’d never imagined a Cyklop Stormwalker having to hide from anything. But against a dreadnought this walker was practically a toy.
Grunting and heaving, Alek managed to close the right viewport to half. He reached for the other crank.
“Young master, the antenna!” Klopp cried out.
“Yes, of course!” The Stormwalker’s wireless antenna stretched up above the trees, the archducal flag snapping in the breeze. But Alek had no idea how to lower it. He looked around the cabin, wishing he’d paid more attention to the crewmen when learning how to pilot.
Finally he spotted a windlass beside the wireless set. As he darted for it, Volger’s dangling boots delivered another blow to his shoulder. The windlass spun wildly the moment Alek unlocked it, the antenna telescoping closed a few centimeters from his ear.
He started back for the commander’s seat, then saw that the left viewport was still open. He reached across the lurching cabin and began to crank it tighter.
Volger dropped back into the cabin, closing the hatch above him against a sudden rain of dirt and pebbles. “We’re out of sight now.”
Another broadside rumbled in the distance, followed by more explosions flickering among the trees ahead. Debris struck the Stormwalker, but the viewport’s grills were squeezed as tight as a comb’s teeth now; only the fine dust of pulverized forest floor filtered through.
Alek felt a moment of satisfaction—he’d done something useful. This was his first real battle, when only hours before, he’d been playing with tin soldiers. The rumble of explosions and the shriek of engines somehow filled the hollowness inside him.
The Stormwalker was thrashing through dense forest now. Of course—any cleared path would be clearly visible from the
Alek’s heart was beating fast as he slipped back into the commander’s chair and watched Klopp’s hands on the saunters. His long hours of piloting practice seemed suddenly trifling. All that time in runabouts had been pretend- play, and this was real.
Volger crouched between the chairs to peer forward, his face blackened with dirt and sweat. Blood flowed from a scratch above one eye, shining bright red in the gloom of the shuttered cabin.
“I believe I suggested a smaller landship, Master Klopp.”
Klopp barked a laugh, still struggling to keep the Stormwalker low to the ground. “Don’t appreciate the extra armor, Volger? A runabout would’ve been blown off her feet by that last broadside.”
The forest rumbled again, but the explosions came from well behind and off to the right. The dreadnought had lost sight of them for now.
“The sun was rising behind the
“Well remembered, Your Highness,” Master Klopp said, adjusting his course.
Alek clapped him on the shoulder. “You were right to choose a Stormwalker, Klopp. We’d be dead now, otherwise.”
“We’d be halfway to Switzerland, you mean,” Volger said, managing to sound as if this were some fencing lesson that Alek was failing to comprehend. “In a runabout half this size, or on horses, they wouldn’t have spotted us in the first place.”
Alek glared up at the wildcount, but before he could open his mouth, the intercom popped.
“Loaded and ready, sir.”
Alek dropped his gaze toward the cabin floor. “Those two would have been more use up here. There’s not much they can do with that peashooter against a dreadnought.”
“True, Your Highness,” Klopp said. “But she’ll have escorts—smaller, faster ships moving below tree height. We may get a whiff of them sooner than you think.”
“Ah, quite right.” Alek closed his mouth and swallowed. The rush of battle was beginning to fade, and his hands were shaking.
All he’d done was turn a few cranks; the others had handled everything important. The bruises left by Volger’s swinging boots still throbbed, reminders of how Alek had mostly managed to get in the way.
He leaned back into the commander’s chair. As the simple, overwhelming fear of being shot at faded, the emptiness was rushing back… .
Alek wished that it were him bleeding instead of Volger—anything to distract himself from the truth welling up in his mind.
“She’s lost our range,” Klopp said. “No big guns for a count of thirty.”
“They’ve turned to give chase,” Volger said. “But wait till their scouts spot us. She’ll swing around for another broadside soon enough.”
Alek cast about for something to say, but found himself in the grip of a silent panic, his vision blurring with tears. The attack had swept away his last doubts.
His father was dead; his mother too. Both gone forever.
His Serene Highness, Prince Aleksandar of Hohen-berg, was alone now. He might never see his home again. The armed forces of two empires were hunting him, set against one walker and four men.
Volger and Klopp fell silent, and when Alek turned, he saw his despair reflected in their faces. He clenched the
