For the next hour, the Trench Rats’ bows, ballistae, and pikemen were put through their paces. The results were mixed, but there had been no gross embarrassments.
That could change in a heartbeat, thought Max, gazing uneasily out at the wood.
“Very good,” said Ms. Richter. “Let’s see a live demonstration of an ogre charge with Company Three, Platoon Six.”
Inwardly, Max groaned. The Director had chosen the worst pike unit in the entire battalion. He doubted this was an accident. Max could practically see the boy named Richard droop when the unit had been named. Swapping out their weapons for padded training pikes, the unit assumed a proper wedge and faced the woods.
Bob emerged. Hefting his cudgel, the ogre wore a steel breastplate and a horned helm whose fearsome grating obscured his kindly face. He looked nothing like his typical self, and it was unnerving to see him standing there some hundred yards away. When the ogre broke into a trot and then an all-out clanking sprint, it was downright terrifying.
As Bob charged, Max watched the soldiers closely. Thus far they were maintaining a tight formation and digging in their heels. A few pikes were trembling, but no one simply threw down their weapon and fled as had happened on several occasions. Everything depended on timing, on the unit’s ability to stand firm and deliver a single, concentrated blow. Should they fail, they would not have another opportunity. If an ogre managed to invade a trench, all nearby could expect a sudden and savage death. Each group of pikemen had to hold their ground; a single weak link could mean ruin.
The earth shook. Lowering his head and giving a hoarse roar, Bob crashed into the formation at full speed. The impact was tremendous. One of the pikes shattered outright and its owner was thrown back. But the rest held, striking Bob’s breastplate as one and jolting him upright so that he staggered backward and toppled onto his behind. The pikemen were ecstatic, flinging their weapons into the air and rushing to help Bob up. Climbing wearily to his feet, the ogre removed his helmet and caught his breath.
“I think you must pass them, Director,” he croaked, wiping sweat from his knobby forehead. “Bob not do that again.…”
An hour later, Max was feeling almost giddy as he strode down the dormitory hallway toward his room. The corridor was fairly crowded with Fifth and Sixth Year boys, leaning against the walls in their academic robes and chatting before they would all head down to supper. Max nodded hello as he swept by, highly conscious of his ring but oblivious to the mud he was tracking with each long stride.
Max stopped, however, when he saw Omar Mustaf. The boy was technically Tweedy’s steward, which Tweedy interpreted to mean that he had been granted legal authority to function as Omar’s official guardian, tutor, and scold. While other students were off playing with their charges in the Sanctuary, Omar was forced to endure Tweedy’s heavily advertised, sparsely attended lectures on everything from Greek architecture to the exhaustive works of David Hume. Omar had not merely approved Max’s request to speak with his charge about serving as aide-de-camp; he had given his enthusiastic blessing.
“How did it go?” inquired Omar cautiously.
Laughing with pleasure, Max lifted the boy three feet off the ground.
“We passed!” he exclaimed, spinning Omar about. “The Director has ‘every confidence’ that we’re the group to hold Trench Nineteen. Tweedy’s brilliant!”
“He’ll be the first to tell you,” said Omar, grinning as Max set him down. “But I’m glad—Tweedy’s been such a nervous wreck.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” said Max, regaining his senses. “Bob’s whipping up a late supper for the officers up at Crofter’s Hill. Tweedy will be there. You should come!”
“I’d like that,” said Omar, “but I’ve got to wolf something down and get back to my own unit. We’re doing night exercises beyond Southgate.”
Max glanced at Omar’s magechain and blinked at the brilliant aquamarine at its center.
“A full-fledged aeromancer!” he exclaimed. “Look at you!”
Reddening, Omar gazed down at the glittering stone. He downplayed its significance, joking about “battlefield promotions” and the recent spate of advancements, but he nevertheless looked pleased. Very few Fifth Years could claim official Agent or Mystic status, and the honor was far greater than the ever-humble Omar would admit. With a promise to stop by Bob’s if he could, Omar departed and Max entered his room.
To his surprise, David was home. His roommate was occupying one of the armchairs on the lower level, scratching at his severed stump and staring at the fire. He glanced up as Max descended the stairs, muttered something about “muddy boots,” and returned to his thoughts.
“We passed!” Max crowed, padding back down in his stocking feet.
“I heard,” David groused. “I’d imagine everyone in the dormitory heard. So the troops have ‘won’ the right to occupy a muddy trench in harm’s way. An odd thing to celebrate, but I guess people will jump at anything so long as they’re convinced it’s prestigious.”
“Nice to see you, too,” said Max, plopping down in the opposite chair.
Slumping back, David gazed wearily up at the stars beyond the Observatory’s glass.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, closing his eyes. “That was rude. Truly, I’m sorry … I’m just tired and more than a little frustrated.”
“What’s bugging you?”
“Oh, just that thing,” he sighed, gesturing absently beneath Max’s chair.
Leaning forward, Max spied a pair of large, undulating antennae between his feet.
The ensuing shriek—both its pitch and volume—were unprecedented, as was Max’s Amplified leap to the upper level. Clinging to the railing, Max shouted furiously at his roommate while the pinlegs scuttled out from beneath the toppled chair and meandered about in a state of apparent confusion.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was under my chair?”
“I’m sorry,” yelled David, also in a state of apparent confusion. “I forgot!”
“What’s it even doing in our room?”
“I needed a break from the Archives!”
“Why didn’t you tell me it was under my chair?” Max roared again, his rage and revulsion coming full circle.
Pleading with his friend to come back down, David righted the chair and picked up the pinlegs to demonstrate that there was really nothing to fear as the creature was on a docile setting. This did not have the desired effect, as the pinlegs flailed its many limbs about while clicking its maxillae and issuing a high-pitched chittering. Max groaned and clutched the railing tightly.
But reason—or at least a willingness to conquer rational terror—prevailed and Max crept back down the stairs. By now, David had released the pinlegs, which promptly moved away to settle on the fireplace mantel like some glistening Jurassic horror. Even as Max inched forward, he saw that the chitinous plates along its back were covered in faint, glowing pentacles.
“Why did those appear?” he asked suspiciously.
“Heat illuminates them and the hearth is warm,” replied David, settling back into his seat. “Nothing to worry about. Again, I’m very sorry I didn’t say anything.”
“Neither did Ghöllah,” muttered Max, glaring at his ring and easing back down.
“Remember that this is just a prototype,” said David. “There is no demon—or any part of a demon—inside. It hasn’t been paired with a dreadnought.”
“What the heck is a dreadnought?”
“That’s what Varga calls the creatures that the pinlegs summon. He’s had glimpses of them in his visions … says they’re bigger than Old Tom. I’d love to speak with someone who’s seen one in person, but we can’t find any. Nobody who has seen a dreadnought summoned has survived to tell about it.”