Marcus fought to catch his breath, dousing himself with murky water from his waterskin. He sat on a rock at the base of the upright and took stock of its form, worried about the overall structure. Its head had three main pieces -- an inner, orb-like mass, likely a counterweight used to balance the machine as it moved. Though Marcus wondered why it had two eye-like insets that seemed to track the terrain as it walked along.

  Protecting the sphere was a cylindrical shroud which enclosed it on three sides plus a small amount on the front, like cheek guards of a real metal helmet. And then across the front, a thick metal plate enclosed everything but the eyelets on the orb. Marcus braved the climb several times and saw that the shroud and plate could be separated and removed but wondered why. It might be the case that the orb could be damaged and might need replacing, but if it was simply for counterweight purposes, why remove it? Fill it with anything that was good enough to keep the machine balanced. A strange design.

  Marcus wiped his semi-greasy hand on the leg of his overalls, then dragged the back of his forearm down his face and shook his head. His attention wandered around the mostly flat, rocky outcrop that the upright was kneeling upon, and he found one of the mechanics' handlers staring him down with a scowl.

  Amurad had only a few men always guarding his mechanics. Marcus wondered why the barbarian leader put minimal effort into keeping his indentured servants around. Yet more mysteries. Marcus was here for a reason and didn’t need a handler to prevent escape. He turned back to observe his upright.

  This thing was nothing but a giant box of enigmatic design choices. Upright tanks were ancient machines dredged up from the depths of old-world burial sites. Civilizations since long-gone and names forgotten, purposely dumped the uprights deep underground. But more and more explorers and archaeologists were pulling them from the ground. He couldn't help but wonder why they ended up buried in the first place.

  Perhaps they weren't always made this way, but every backwater mechanic and blacksmith with enough gumption were just piecing these things together. Working on an upright was half mechanical know-how, half historical guesswork. Which is probably why they were so rare to begin with. They were massive, heavy, and required an ability to think about working with intricate parts in a way most people couldn't handle.

  "Is that thing fixed yet?" Amurad emerged on horseback from within the barbarian camp on the other side of the forest clearing with his entourage in tow. He trotted his horse across the mud onto the rock flat where the brigade staged their two uprights.

  "Yeah." Marcus called out, wiping the greasy sweat with his shoulder and looking away.

  "What did you say you little worm?" One of Amurad's guards, wearing a metal breastplate and helmet called out, ready to brandish his flintlock musket. He was swarthy with a scraggly black beard.

  The barbarian commander held his hand up. In a heartbeat the horseman's weapon eased back down. "We've had this talk, I'm sure it was just a... misunderstanding." Amurad smiled with brown and yellow, misshapen teeth and squinted eyes of same hue.

  Marcus scrunched his nose while looking away, then locked eyes with the barbarian commander. "Yes. Sir."

  Amurad nodded. "Good. I expected nothing less." He pulled the reins of his horse and with a kick, departed deeper into the forest, orthogonal from the path he took to reach Marcus. The rest of his two-dozen entourage followed in turn, breaking away from the rock flat.

  But not the armored barbarian. He tightened the grip on his musket and scowled while staring down Marcus. "I don't care if you're the only one that can work on that thing." He motioned with his chin toward Marcus's upright. "If you speak out of line again, I will cut the still-beating heart from your chest."

  Marcus held back what he really wanted to say, the brutal things he'd want to do to the barbarian in turn but chose to take a swig of water and held it in his mouth while matching gaze. Getting shot or cut up for mouthing off would be a stupid end to this entire endeavor.

  A stillness grew between them as the barbarian shifted in his saddle. Then a call came out from within the forest and the barbarian jolted and he snapped the reins of his horse, causing it to lurch into motion, then with a kick he burst into a gallop to catch up with the leader's entourage.

  Marcus spit out the water and then spit again, as greasy sweat had seeped between his lips during the exchange. Or maybe that was just the sour taste of capitulating to roguish barbarians. If only Amurad didn't have the key to Marcus's upright, this whole interaction wouldn't need to be stomached.

  He looked up at the angular chest armor of his upright and wondered how the ancients made one-way see-through metal. That is, the cockpit was in a central compartment within the mid-section, the chest piece, because the upright was human-shaped, after all. Inside the cockpit when the power was on, you could see in three directions. To the rear was the engine compartment and wasn't made of one-way metal. Not the worst design, considering a pilot doesn't usually have eyes in the back of his head.

  "Marcus." Layne called out. His straight reddish hair wagged in the breeze, having tucked his cap into his corduroy overalls. "They're giving out double rations, even to us." The mechanic carried two big loaves of bread and a large satchel of presumably flour.

  Behind him, Simon, a tall, lanky fellow with brown hair followed in tow, carrying a cast iron cauldron half-filled with water. Alongside was Ekkehard, a rather mousy fellow with dirty dishwater hair, carried a bag of either potatoes or some other root vegetable. And behind them was Maximilian, of average build, carrying bottles of whatever swill the barbarians left over for everyone else in one arm, and a bunch of firewood in the other. They all wore similar outfits as Marcus and Layne, corduroy overalls and caps with linen shirts.

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  "Gunna be a fight soon." Marcus sighed and tucked away the waterskin into a pouch on his tool belt.

  "Yeah, but they don't usually give us anything extra." Maximilian spoke excitedly. "Maybe we're doing a good job and they're happy." He dropped the firewood near the makeshift seats assembled from mostly flat stones pulled together in front of the kneeling upright.

  "Or we're losing and are about to be thrown into it with everyone else." Ekkehard scoffed and placed the bag of vegetables down near Marcus.

  Layne's brow dipped at Marcus in a passing glance.

  Simon placed the cauldron beside the firewood and knelt on all fours. He started scraping together the wood to arrange beneath the legs. "Figures they'd just use us as cannon fodder after everything we've done."

  Marcus regretted opening his mouth even before seeing his best friend's reaction. While it was the truth, it didn't help the predictably low morale of his team. He smacked his hat against his arm to open it up after pulling it from the front pocket of his overalls and fitted it on his still-sore head after brushing back his blond hair. "No sense in worrying about what we can't control. Let's look at the bright side, we're going to eat good tonight."

  Maximilian wasted no time in flashing a smile along with a nod.

  Ekkehard sat on a rock and started untying the band of the sack and nodded with a flat expression, getting ready to cook for the group.

  "At least we'll die with full stomachs, I guess." Simon sighed, finished arranging the firewood beneath the cauldron, and stood up.

  Layne extended his arm with one of the two loaves of bread in hand, offering it to Marcus, who looked at it and shook his head and motioned for him to give it to Simon. Marcus wasn't terribly hungry.

  With the barbarian brigade pushing through into Arcadia, conflict was becoming more frequent and that meant more wear and tear on the upright. With each battle fought, the possibility of the machine remaining in one piece grew more and more distant with component failure more likely each passing day, just from the wear and tear from the unforgiving marshland.

  Despite the rigors of keeping the upright running giving him more opportunity to learn about the machine, the chances of getting a lucky break during a moment of disorganized chaos grew slimmer by the day. The brigade grew more alert and focused as attacks from the Arcadians became frequent.

  His train of thought was derailed when a hunk of bread landed in his lap, tossed by Layne. "You got to eat something, stop going to bed hungry for our sake." Then he turned to offer chunks to everyone else.

  After looking down at the food that landed on his thighs, Marcus found that the cauldron was already boiling and Ekkehard already chopped most of the vegetables into the makeshift stew after pouring three of the four bottles of swill into the cauldron along with the flour. "Could use some meat, but I ain't complaining." He then took a swig from the green bottle and passed it along to Maximilian.

  "I haven't had meat stew in..." Maximilian thought for a moment, taking a swig of swill. "I don't remember how long." Then he passed the bottle to Simon. "That would be so good."

  Simon scooped up the bottle and took a big chug. "I wouldn't bother thinking about it. We'll probably be dead by tomorrow anyways." He took another swig and passed it off to Layne.

  Layne grabbed the bottle and sighed. "I don't think they're going to do anything like that. Who's going to fix these things if we're gone?" He took a small sip.

  Simon shook his head and leaned forward, propping himself up by his elbows while sitting on a rock. "Do you think they really care? Look at how these things come back. I doubt they'd even care if these machines ended up in a pile of metal. Maybe it would be better for them that way."

  Then Layne offered the bottle to Marcus.

  Marcus took the swill and swirled it around, staring at the mostly gone green glass bottle of alcohol, using the fire as a back light. "No, I think they need us more than anything. Without these uprights, they'd just be another gutless pack of bandits, holding up unsuspecting merchants for ale money."

  Simon, Ekkehard, and Maximilian immediately straightened themselves up to look around, and then hushed Marcus.

  Ekkehard relaxed and then returned to stirring the stew with one of his wrenches. "It's easy for you to talk like that, but we have to deal with the backlash." He shook his head at Marcus. "You two are the golden children." He motioned toward Marcus, then Layne.

  Layne let out an exasperated breath. "I don't think they heard anything, don't worry." He pursed his lips and passed a glance at Marcus with dipped eyebrows.

  Maybe it was the multiple head injuries speaking, but Marcus had a hard time holding back his tongue today. His lack of a real plan going into this whole ordeal was the major point of grief. "Sorry." Despite his loose tongue, he really didn't want to get himself or his friends killed because of a sudden bout of impulsiveness.

  Then he stared again at his kneeling upright, now mostly silhouetting the violet dusk horizon, with a small bit of the firelight flickering against the blue-gray hull. Taking a swig of booze, he realized that worry about himself wasn't a part of the equation.

  He had no other purpose in life but to restore his family's legacy.

  Marcus did worry about Layne, who blindly rushed in with him, without regard for the stakes. If there ever was a regret about this whole situation, it was dragging Layne into this. But now there were others involved in this plot, even if they were unwitting to it. He passed the bottle to Simon, who sat on a rock off to his right and gave the anxious mechanic a reassuring nod.

  The group ate with a consistent pace from start to finish. Marcus's glacial speed was just enough to finish the hunk of bread he was first given, before each bite he scooped some of the thick vegetable stew up with it. Hopefully that would be enough to ward off Layne's ire.

  Finally, the pot was entirely empty, and the mechanics sat, leaning back on their rocky seats, and letting off mighty belches.

  In the distance, the sound of rapid thunder echoed out. Marcus sat up straight and looked around, hoping to better hear the strange cacophony. Another blast made him realize that no, that wasn't a storm. That was gunfire, and not far.

  "I think the Adder is backfiring again." Simon slurred, hiccupped, and swayed, talking about the second upright tank in the barbarian brigade's possession.

  Another volley of muskets rang out, filling the night sky with the spark and roar of battle.

  Marcus stood up and looked in the direction that Amurad and his entourage charged hours ago, the same from where the noise emanated. "The Adder has been cold for a while. That's fighting going on. And it's getting closer."

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