Art walked into the cave, staring at the machine inside. It was slumped against the back wall, the cockpit open, the leather seat empty. It was damaged, that much Art could tell. Destriers, from what she had seen at the few tournaments her father had bought her to before her mother’s passing, usually mounted some sort of cannon on one shoulder, and carried a weapon paired with a shield. The cannon on this one was broken, half of the barrel jaggedly cleaved off, and the mounting mechanism hanging askew. One of the pauldrons was torn up as if it had been mauled by a wolf.. The other bore an emblem of a black gauntlet against a yellow background. The Destrier was painted in a verdant green, with faded gold inlay along the waist and hips. Filigree decorated the armored thighs, albeit chipped and faded from years of neglect. The legs were buried in rubble, and the open cockpit was filled with leaves and debris that had accumulated over the years. The shield, a large rectangular slab of metal painted with a faded crest that Art couldn’t quite make out, lay against a wall nearby, split down from the center like a tree trunk struck by lightning. There was no sign of whatever weapon the machine might have carried in its right hand, and no way to tell what that weapon might have been.
Most strikingly, the forearms and hands of the Destrier were massive, at least compared with the rest of the relatively slender machine. A series of vents jutted out of the backs of the forearms, and each of the bases of the articulated fingers was capped by a pronounced metal plate. There was a word carved into the chestplate, right below the gaping hatch. Each letter was embossed with gold filigree, written in flowing cursive, etched into the metal.
Gauntlet.
Art knew she should leave it alone. She could get into serious trouble for interfering with something as venerated as a Destrier. She was, after all, only a peasant. Just touching it without permission was a punishable offense. But there were few other places to hide, and she could hear the raiders or whoever they were getting increasingly closer by the minute. She clambered up into the cockpit, brushing the leaves and other detritus out of the way as she sat in the cushioned leather control seat. It was surprisingly comfortable, and she was surprised when the contours of the seat subtly shifted to fit her body. Was this machine still functional?
She had no more time to think. The shouting was close enough that she could hear them coordinating their hunt for her. That she could hear what they were planning to do to her. Without thinking, she grabbed a pair of handles attached to the inside of the open hatch, and tugged on them. She fell back in surprise as the hatch closed smoothly and gently, hissing as it sealed in place. As she fell back, she felt a sudden prick from the back of her neck, like she had just been stung by a bee. Before she could turn around to look, the impossible happened.
The front of the cockpit was made of some sort of mirrored glass, or it had been. Now, it was lighting up, the black surface glowing, and arcane symbols and text flashing rapidly across a flat blue background. She shrunk back in the seat, unsure what was going on. Had she done something? Mere seconds later, she was stunned when the symbols and text cleared, replaced by an image of the cave and the clearing beyond. It was as if the front of the Destrier had disappeared, and been replaced by the clearest glass. She could see the Cataphract pilots stomping out of the treeline, and she could even hear them. In fact, as she stared towards one of them, it was as if she could hear the man’s steady breathing behind the rumbling of his Cataphract’s engine.
More icons appeared over the image of the world outside. Small red boxes popped up over each of the bandits, and parts of their Cataphracts became highlighted in red. A graphic of the Destrier she sat in appeared somewhere off to the side of the image, several components blinking shades of orange or red. Then she felt a presence, like an itch at the back of her head. And she knew what it was.
The Destrier was awake. And it wanted to fight.
Before she could process this, there was a shout from the lead Cataphract, the pilot pointing its weapon in her direction. It must have spotted the Destrier. She wanted to run, to get out of the cave.She needed to flee. To her shock, the Destrier did exactly that. Without warning, the image before her blurred into motion as the ancient war machine climbed to its feet, rubble and foliage sliding off its shell, and charged out into the clearing. Art was nearly thrown into the front of the shell, but managed to hang on for dear life. She quickly found some sort of buckled harness attached to the seat, and clipped herself in. The Cataphracts scattered as she charged into their midst, raising their weapons and shouting threateningly. Encircling her, five of them advanced from all sides while another three retreated back into the treeline, firing some kind of guns at her as they did. Bullets pinged off the outside of the Destrier- her Destrier- unable to penetrate the external shell.
Art didn’t know how this was happening. How she had managed to activate a machine only those with the blood of nobility could operate. But she knew one thing. These men had attacked her farm, and her father was missing. They had chased her, intending to do unspeakable things to her. They needed to hurt.
The first Cataphract swung a sword at her, but she was already ducking underneath the blade and bringing the fist of the Destrier around to grab the arm. With a twist, the mechanical appendage of the smaller machine snapped like a dy twig, gouts of hydraulic fluid spurting from severed cables and sparks of electricity arcing from damaged wiring. Tearing the sword from the severed limb, she tossed the arm aside, and slashed the sword through the midsection of the enemy Cataphract, which was attempting to stumble backwards. The torso and legs fell to the ground, and lay there with the remaining arm flailing. She sidestepped the downed vehicle, and delivered a lunging stab through the eye slit of the next enemy before her. It went limp immediately, the pilot dead. The remaining three rushed her, one armed with twin axes, and the other two with spears. The one with the ax landed a blow to her shoulder, but could not penetrate her armor. The other two attempted to spear her in the gaps between her pauldrons. She shoved the one with the axes into one of them, and took the leg off another. The one missing a leg crashed to the ground and began pushing itself backwards. The other two went flying backwards towards a group of trees and lay there in a heap, unmoving.
In the back of her head, Art was dimly aware that the distinction between her and the Destrier she piloted was rapidly becoming blurred. She was moving it as if it was her body, and it was in turn matching itself to her, becoming a part of her. But she couldn’t think about that now. The three Cataphracts armed with guns had begun advancing again, and they had been joined by groups of men armed with smaller guns. They began shooting at her, but to no avail. She advanced towards them slowly, trailing her sword behind her as she did. She bellowed, and the Destrier bellowed with her. Then she charged, and soon the guns fell silent. And the screaming began.
Markus Fieldsman was not having a good day. First, his farm got attacked by a band of men who he could only assume were deserters. Either that or the Royal Army was just handing their equipment over to common thieves and bandits like it was candy. Secondly, they set fire to his crops, and demand he give them all of his stored grain. Well, “demand” in the sense that they just began unloading sacks of the stuff from his silos like they owned the place. He was a little annoyed they hadn’t even bothered to make a show of it, truth be told. Then they sent a small army after his daughter, when she disobeyed what he told her to do and ran into the hills instead of seeking shelter at the castle. And now, a slimy piece of shit was standing in front of him and persuading him to give him all of the Royals he had locked away.
"I’ll ask you again, peasant” said the aforementioned piece of slimy refuse, as Markus spat out one of his back teeth, joining the two or so other teeth that had already been knocked loose. “Where is your money? You have some, I assume?”
“I told you. I’m a gambler and a drunk.” lied Markus, glaring up at the man defiantly. “Money doesn’t stick around when it comes to me.”
The bandit leader sighed, and waved to one of his men, a large muscly fellow who Markus reckoned was probably stronger than any one man had the right to be. This one had been the cause of Markus’s sudden and unwanted dentistry job. Grinning nastily, the underling punched Markus right in the gut, causing him to collapse to the floor.
"Lie to me again, peasant, and I break your skull. I may have been stripped of my rank, but you are still inferior to me. I will ask you again: where do you keep your coin?"
"Fuck you, and fuck your-"
Markus stopped when another kick hit him in the face, pain shooting from his nose, which now was streaming with blood. He groaned and blinked until the world came back into focus. The leader, a short man with a moustache, clad in what might have once been the uniform of an officer, sneered down at him with obvious malice.
"I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Markus, groaning and coughing. “Earl Harkness is a Destrier Knight. He owns these lands, and he doesn’t take kindly to traitorous dogs such as yourself.”
His warning was met by a chuckle. “Earl Harkness is currently occupied by the men I sent to attack the town. They’ll distract him long enough for us to get enough food and coins to flee across the border and reach the next county. Although, who knows? Maybe we’ll have some time to have fun with that young maiden of yours.”
“You so much as touch my daughter,” Markus growled. “And I will piss down your slime-ridden throat and rip out your-”
A kick to the gut cut him off. More laughter followed, and then another kick.
“I’m afraid both you and her don’t have a choice,” the other man sneered. “My calvary units will find her soon, and she’ll be dragged back here. I sent my best men after her. If you thought she could get help for you, I’m sorry to-”
The man was cut off by the sound of gunfire from the hills, followed by the sounds of rending metal. Many of the deserters close to the riverside ran down the bank and up into the trees. More gunfire followed, this time joined by the sounds of screaming.
“What’s going on? Report!” said the leader into some sort of large box he held in his hand. A wire extended out of it to a larger box on his back. Markus wondered if it was some sort of communication device, but he was more concerned with the sudden activity. The sounds had come from the direction his daughter had gone. “I said, report! What;s going on?”
There was a disturbance from the trees, and then half of a cataphract flew out from the treeline and demolished half of the plow shed. The men guarding Markus seemed to forget about him, and aimed their rifles towards the trees. Markus peered towards the treeline from where he lay as several men ran screaming from the treeline. He could hear something crashing through the trees towards the farm.
And then, from the treeline, burst a Destrier, running full pelt towards the farm, and carrying a sword dripping with blood. As it ran, it grabbed one of the fleeing men in its unoccupied hand, crushed him to a bloody pulp, and tossed his body aside like a used dishrag. Some of the bandits standing near Markus opened fire, but most of them began fleeing, abandoning their weapons and heading back into the burned crop fields. The leader was one of them. Markus watched as the Destrier Knight, whoever they were, cleaned up the remaining men, tearing them apart like they were nothing but paper. Eventually, the fighting stopped, and the Destirer stood still, standing near the ruined plow shed, sword hanging from its grip. Blood dripped from its shell and from the sword it held. With a clatter, the sword dropped from its metal fist, and fell to the earth. Then, the machine turned to look at him with glowing red eyes.
“FATHER,” it boomed in a voice he knew all too well. “ARE YOU HURT?”
And Markus knew then and there that things would never be the same on his farm again. And, for the first time since the death of his wife, he began to sob.
Art stood there staring down at her father, half crumpled in the dirt, his face bruised and his clothes torn. He was crying, something he hadn’t done since her mother had died. She commanded the Destrier to kneel, and it did so, the massive armored kneeplates sinking into the hardened earth like it was sand. She looked around at the devastation surrounding her. The barn had a hole big enough to squeeze Bessie through in the side where the first Cataphract had appeared from. She could see from this angle that there was a similarly sized hole in the opposite wall. The plow shed was half-collapsed, the wreckage of a Cataphract smoking from under a chunk of the corrugated roof. That had been her fault. Bodies were scattered everywhere, some of them belonging to farmers, but most of them having once been the raiders who had threatened her and her family. Bessie was toppled over in a ditch, having been clipped by Art as she dealt with one of the footsoldiers standing nearby. The crop fields were ruined, most of the crop burned to ash, and the rest trampled by the fleeing bandits. The farmhouse was untouched, somehow, although the front door had been bashed down, and there was broken furniture lying around it where the raiders had chucked it. She reached out towards her father, and recoiled as he shrunk away from the metal fist of the Destrier.
She realized then the gravity of what had happened. The only people meant to be capable of operating a Destrier were nobles. Specifically, they were the Destrier Knights.
And she had managed to not just activate one, but bond with it.
She scrambled to unbuckle her restraints, but couldn’t find the release. Her father stood up, and slowly approached the Destrier.
“Art…is that you in there? How? How is this possible?”
Tears sprung into her eyes. “I-I don’t know. I ran from them, I ran as fast as I could. I couldn’t get to the castle, they blocked my path. So I went up into the hills, and there was a clearing, and there was a cave with this Destrier in it. I tried hiding in it, and then it just…it just…oh god, Father, I’m controlling a Destrier. I don’t know what’s happening, or why I can do this, or…or…”
She stopped as her father placed a hand onto the Destrier’s chest. She noticed for the first time that the view of the outside world wasn’t aligned with the torso, but sat above it, as if she was seeing through the Destrer’s helmet. Her father looked so small, his hand caressing the front of the hatch.
“Shhh…hey. Art, it’ll be OK. I’ll go get Earl Harkness, and I’ll try and see if there’s anything he can do to help. Just stay here OK, and everything will be-”
“STEP AWAY FROM THE DESTRIER AND LAY DOWN ON THE GROUND!”
Art gasped and looked off to the side. A group of soldiers, this time in the uniform of the Eastridge Guard, had arrived, accompanied by several of the Duke’s own Cataphracts, painted in his colors. At the back of the group, pristine and fully armed, was Glory’s Hammer, the cockpit open, and Earl Harkness peering out towards Art and her father. The soldiers advanced on her father, who obeyed them, lying down on the earth and placing his hands behind his head. Art stumbled backwards as the guards restrained her father. She heard a crackle, and a small window appeared in front of her. Earl Harkness, his cockpit visible behind him, stared quizzically at her in miniature.
“Who…who are you?” he asked, looking confused. “You’re not a Destrier Knight. How did you get that Destrier, and who are you, girl?”
“I…I…” stuttered Art, panic rising in her chest. “I…excuse me, my Lord. I think I’m about to pass out.”
And then she did.
When Art woke, she was no longer inside the Destrier. Instead, she was in bed, in her room at home. “Was that…a dream?” she wondered to herself, sitting up and rubbing her head. Then she smelled the scent of burning barley, and heard the clanking of chainmail from outside her window. Unless she had slept through a different bandit raid…it was all real. She had piloted a Destrier.
“So, you’re finally awake, girl. How do you feel?”
She started as a deep voice spoke off to her side. She turned to find Earl Harkness sitting in a wooden chair next to her bed. She scrambled out of bed and knelt before him, head touching the ground.
“Earl Harkness, sir, I didn’t realize you were there, I am but your servant. Please forgive my rudeness.”
Harkness chuckled, still seated beside her bed. She kept her head pressed firmly to the wooden floorboards, cognizant that she was in a room with a noble. She heard him lean back in the chair, the seat and the floorboards it sat on creaking as he did so.
“You may rise, Arturia Fieldsman. You have done nothing wrong. Not yet, anyway. Please, sit on your bed. I wish to hear about the raid from your perspective. Tell me everything, and please do not lie to me or omit anything. That would be unfortunate.”
She got up slowly, and sat opposite the older man, her knees pressed together, and her hands folded on top of her knees. Earl Harkness was about as tall as her father, but with a much more lithe build. He was dressed in his piloting gear, which consisted of tight-fitting leathers and a surcoat with his family crest emblazoned on it. His dark brown hair was short, but well kept, and a streak of pure white ran through the left side of his hair. She dimly recalled that this was the mark of a Destrier Knight, a physical indicator of a pilot having bonded with their mount. His beard was well trimmed, and his dark green eyes were piercing as they stared towards her. She dropped her gaze, and began to speak.
She told him all that had happened, from the moments before the attack up until the arrival of him and his troops. He listened the entire time, his face impassive, only stopping her a few times to ask for clarification. When she finished, he sat still for a short time, before letting out a breath.
“Arturia…you put me in a challenging position.”
“My lord?” she asked quizzically, tilting her head. She decided not to correct him on his use of her full name, unsure of whether or not that would be disrespectful. The Earl got up and walked over to the window, gazing out at the damaged farm.
“Firstly, I believe everything you have told me. It matches with what your father said, and with the accounts of the surviving deserters who managed to escape your slaughter. It does indeed seem that you- a serf under my dominion- managed to activate a Destrier that had previously been lost to the ages.”
He walked over to a nearby shelf and ran his fingers along the books stacked atop it. “This poses an issue. Firstly, if word gets out to the common folk that one of their own managed to not only activate a Destrier, but use it to fend off an entire regiment of deserting troops, there will be consequences. That is unfortunately already the case. My troops are not the most tight-lipped, and the story has spread like wildfire.”
Art sat silently as he walked back to the window and turned towards her. The midday sun cast light across one side of his face, while the darker room left the other half in comparative darkness.
“Some will hail you as a hero. Others will look at this and see it as evidence that the Destrier Knights are not the only ones with the power to rule. There is already dissent over the agricultural policies I have begun implementing, but that could quickly turn into insurrection should the people decide to rally against the Knights.”
Art swallowed, her mouth dry. “My lord, I am not a dissident. I didn’t even know that the Destrier would activate when I climbed into it, let alone that it would move for me.”
He smiled thinly. “Of that, I have no doubt. However, the people are not my only concern. If other nobles- ones who oppose my house- see this as a cause of concern, they may decide that it would be best if you are dead. I am an honorable man. I have no desire to let my people come to harm, and I certainly bear no ill intent towards you. But it does put me in a difficult position. You cannot remain here on this farm, as you would surely be the target of a less honorable person. But you also cannot remain in this fief where you are under my protection, should it provoke an uprising.”
Art frowned. “My Lord, what are you saying?”
He walked back over to his seat, and sat down. “Arturia, I am offering you a deal. I will put you under my protection, and take you on as a retainer. You will pilot Gauntlet- the Destrier that you have made a bond with- as a member of my household. You will not be a noble, but you will be offered the same protection as any member of my blood would be.”
Art swallowed. This day was turning more and more surreal by the moment. “My Lord, I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s a catch to this, isn’t there?”
He nodded. “There are two other things. Firstly, you have no training with Gauntlet. So I will be sending you and your Destrier to the Imperial War Academy in the Imperial City. I will ensure that all of the paperwork is sorted and that the Academy is ready to receive you. I will also arrange for transportation by rail.”
Art nodded. She didn’t like the idea of leaving her father when the farm was the way it was, but she was guiltily glad that she was finally leaving Eastridge. “And the second detail, my lord?”
He looked directly into her eyes. “You and Gauntlet, upon finishing your training, will serve me as part of my forces. If you do this, and if you perform with dignity and distinction, I will permit you to become a landowner within my dominion, and cede control of Gauntlet to you and your descendants. Essentially, you will become a Destrier Knight, but one tied to me and my house.”
He fell silent, and continued to stare at Art, as if she was some sort of priceless sculpture. Art took a deep breath, and closed her eyes. The smell of burning barley was thick in the air, but she could also smell the familiar odor that she associated with her home. She could hear the Lord’s men working outside, stacking bodies and clearing debris. And, in the back of her head, she could feel a calming presence, beckoning her towards the yard outside. Beckoning her back into that chair. It was as if Gauntlet was calling for her, urging her to step back into the cockpit for another bout. It was oddly comforting to her, and focusing on that strange sensation helped her quell her anxiety. When she reopened them, she turned her head to look directly at the Earl, and nodded.
“When do I leave?”
Like the story so far :)
Thanks, Squirl, and thanks again for your continued readership.
I’m glad I found this on a whim search.