Dragan suddenly reached out and slapped his partner on the thigh, earning a furious glare from Novar, who was busy wiping down the twin-linked laser cannon's barrels. Dragan ignored him and tilted his head to the sky, as if an invisible arc hung in the overcast heavens. "Do you… do you hear that? That keening. Uncle Novar?"
"What? I don't—wait, what is that sound?" Novar was about to scold Dragan for slacking off, but he, too, quickly caught the whistling from above. On the horizon, the leaden, low cloud bank seemed to sprout a straight white vein pointing at the royal city. No sooner had Novar spoken than thunderous explosions rolled from that direction; dense gray smoke, shot through with orange-red flame, billowed up in an instant. And that wasn't the end—dozens of rockets dragged white exhaust across the sky and, under precise calculations and mechanical guidance, dove headlong into the hellish cloud.
The ground heaved. Wind, laden with the shockwave, blasted outward from the castle's center. On his knees, Novar lurched forward onto the scalding barrel, but Dragan yanked him back in time, and they ducked behind the shield as the first storm of gravel-studded air tore past—when it cleared, the two of them crawled out from behind cover and peered through the dust-hazed air toward the royal city.
The smoke hung in place like a solid, frozen in the posture of its own rise.
"I owe you a drink," Novar coughed. "What was that?"
"The attack," Dragan said, sniffling and slapping at his ears to shake off the mild ringing. From the same checkpoint, Milos and his fiancée flung back a camo tarp in the grass and ran toward the towed twin-linked laser.
"The lord has begun the offensive," Tiana said, looking a bit sheepish as she held up a handheld radio. Though she'd signed up early for Commissar Sophia's women's training and Milos had also done the coursework—putting them a notch above "all life skills by hearsay"—the training period had been too short. Most military protocols hadn't settled into instinct for Latovinian militia. After receiving orders from above, Milos and Tiana should have immediately notified Dragan and Novar up front—yet they dawdled until the attack had already begun.
"What are the captain's orders?" Dragan asked.
"Unchanged. Higher-ups think more royal deserters may come next, so we hold the checkpoint," Milos said, rubbing dust from his eyes. "But the commissar believes deserters may try to flee with hostages, so we're to haul the heavy bolter up here, block local vehicles, and give the sniper covering fire."
"Sniper? Where's the sniper?"
"I am, though it's temporary." Tiana thumbed over her shoulder at the black long gun slung on her back, then adjusted her helmet. It was a customized laser long rifle with a very precise optical scope. The magazine was small, but each shot packed high power, easily melting glass and light armor plates. "My marksmanship ranked third in my cohort, and I passed the stress tests. I'm the best shot here. I guarantee I'll be enough—at least until tanks arrive."
"Tanks are coming here?" Dragan brightened. "What kind?"
"How would I know?" Tiana shrugged.
If middle-aged men like Novar loved the twin-linked laser's swift, steady fire, young men like Dragan adored the Undying City's super-heavy tanks. Even from dozens of meters away, soldiers could feel the heartbeat and roar of the multi-fuel engines and fusion core of that hundreds-of-tons iron behemoth. Anyone who'd seen it with their own eyes felt their breath catch—the super-heavy tank needed ten crew to operate and could blanket medium to long ranges with lethal fire. Compared with the laser weapons they were using now, the tank's flank-mounted laser cannon was like a high-pressure hose to their toy water pistols; a single tank could suppress every armored unit in sight with unmatched firepower.
Dragan had seen one once at the training camp and had been obsessed ever since, even forgetting the main battle tank he'd seen not long before. He was sure the incoming tanks were to help them seal the exits and prepare for an assault into the royal city. Maybe that would make up a little for the regret of missing out on a tank crew slot when his scores fell short.
Victor von Doom stood with arms folded, watching mechanical arms slowly fit the greaves—carved with howling faces—over the power armor's myomer cabling at the knee joints, deaf to the officers waiting outside the tent and the rolling thunder of artillery. Before the breastplate went on, the life-support system's external reagent lines were slotted into the neck-seal ports, and carefully formulated agents filled the auto-injectors. Black insulated power lines and data connectors snapped into the energy management system and information core in the proper order and positions.
This giant machine, assembled in Latovinia, had only one purpose: to help his lord don the power armor. Cumbersome compared to Tony Stark's suits, yes—but the advantage was thick, heavy plates, ample protection, and room for arcane technology. Hammurabi draped Solomon's holy shroud robe over the armor. With the mechanical arms shrieking under strain, incense thick in the air, and the smell of machine oil rising, the exquisitely carved, weighty pauldrons locked into place.
After a moment's hum, the onboard software activated the device inside the golden eagle sculpture at the back of the helm, briefly bringing the protective field online. Ozone from ionized air filled the tent. When the system chime signaled the end of self-check, Solomon stepped down from the rig. With every step he seemed to grow taller; the spell-lit armor adapting and expanding with him. By the time he reached Victor von Doom, he stood taller than the waiting Honor Guard beside him. Warm air from the thermal regulation and heat-exchange systems lifted the corners of the shroud-draped cloak, as if he stood on a mountaintop.
Victor parsed the nested spell structures with his second sight. As a high-ranked warlock, he unpacked the combat weave in an instant: comprehensive enhancements to strength, agility, constitution, intellect—and, most strikingly, the flawless application of Triggering—cascades of spells, built and then sleeping in chained sequence, ready to wake: teleportation, illusion, summoning, protection—nothing superfluous. Even unarmed, without offensive magic, this power armor alone put Solomon's combat output on par with a hundreds-of-tons super-heavy tank—or a war engine from the Mars Foundry.
He had heard of the Battle of Fimbowent, but Victor had never imagined Solomon hadn't shown his full strength there. This form now was as much for him, for the officers outside the tent, and for the soldiers fighting for The Unified Truth and Latovinia's future as anything else. Solomon believed this sight would stiffen spines for NATO's looming counterstroke.
Latovinians needed confidence. That was what worried Solomon most. Reports from the commissars showed the phased plan to strip the royals of power had borne some fruit—but he didn't know whether, facing NATO, the Latovinians could hold on as he would.
"They can," Victor von Doom said, lifting his gaze to the golden gleam in Solomon's eyes, his tone more certain than at any time in his life. "I believe in them. And they believe in you."
"I hope so. I'm a pessimist." Solomon blinked, then spoke to the Thumbelina AI embedded in the armor, which helped him track every soldier's movement (see Chapter 311). "Next, let Europe burn."
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