The northern Turret Fort came on alone.

  Its outriders were gone, shredded and scattered across the ground behind it, and the absence showed in the way the machine advanced. It was still confident, still dangerous, but stripped of the skittering screen of smaller vehicles that were meant to screen its flanks and harass anything foolish enough to close. Now it was just steel, stone, and doctrine grinding forward on its treads, a blunt instrument committed to a straight fight.

  The Ol’ Five Seven met it head-on.

  The distance between the two Steam Forts closed steadily, neither slowing, neither turning away. The ground between them vibrated with the combined weight of their passage, stone blocks shifting and grinding as the ley-line beneath flared brighter. Runes etched into the roadway answered the strain, glowing in uneven pulses as both machines drew power from the same narrow artery.

  In the command room, Otwin stood braced at the table, boots planted wide, one hand resting on the edge as the fort’s motion translated through the deck. Displays showed range closing in slow, inevitable increments. No maneuvering. No clever angles. Just approach.

  “Main gun charge?” he asked.

  “Still climbing,” the Fort Master replied. “We’re not there yet.”

  Otwin nodded once. He did not like it, but he understood it. A full-sized energy cannon demanded patience, and patience in a fight like this was something you paid for in other ways.

  On the enemy fort, the turret rotated.

  The twenty-pounder smoothbore settled into alignment with practiced certainty. The gun crew moved like men who had drilled this sequence until it lived in their muscles. A powder charge came up from the magazine below, passed hand to hand. The rammer was ready. Orders were barked and acknowledged without hesitation.

  The cannon fired.

  The concussion rolled across the plain, a deep, chest-punching crack that echoed off distant rock and rattled through the Ol’ Five Seven’s hull. The iron ball screamed through the air, spinning end over end, exactly on line, carrying enough mass to tear through unprepared armor.

  “Incoming,” a gunner called.

  The magno-shield whirred to life.

  Invisible force snapped into place just ahead of the fort’s forward arc. The magnetic field seized the iron projectile and wrenched it sideways with violent force. The ball shrieked as it was torn off course, arcing away and burying itself in the ground far to the flank in an eruption of shattered stone and dust.

  The Ol’ Five Seven did not slow.

  Neither did the enemy.

  Inside the Ol’ Five Seven, the main energy cannon remained silent. Its charge cycle crept upward, power flowing steadily but not yet enough. Indicators glowed amber instead of green. Minutes were an eternity in a fight like this, and everyone in the room knew it.

  The light energy cannons began to traverse.

  Servos whined softly as the side turrets rotated, gunners tracking the advancing fort, waiting for the moment when range and angle aligned. The LECs were not decisive weapons against a fort’s core, but they could strip systems, blind sensors, and open wounds.

  At the top of the tower, Ben stood with his hands resting against the stone.

  The world below blurred as his focus shifted outward. Wind, sound, and distance all fell away as his far-sight spell took hold. The enemy turret filled his awareness, close enough to touch if touch were something magic respected.

  He saw the gun crew clearly.

  Sweat streaked faces. Hands moved with the confidence of repetition. He felt the warding around the magazine below, thick and deliberate, layered enchantments designed specifically to deny intrusion. They pressed back against his perception like a wall.

  Too strong.

  Ben narrowed his focus.

  The powder charge.

  It was mundane by comparison. Raw chemical energy wrapped in cloth and habit. No warding. No protection beyond distance and luck.

  He gathered his power.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  At this range most of it bled away into nothing, scattered by distance and resistance. He knew that. He accepted it. He did not need precision. He needed a chance.

  The loader lifted the charge.

  Ben struck.

  The magic tore outward from him, thinned and scattered by distance until almost nothing remained.

  Almost.

  A spark bloomed in the loader’s hands.

  The explosion was thunderous.

  Fire ripped through the turret housing, the blast throwing men from their feet and slamming their bodies against steel. The loader was obliterated instantly, torn apart by the detonation. The cannon lurched as its mounting buckled, the massive barrel tearing free of alignment and crashing sideways, crushing one of the gunners beneath its weight.

  Smoke and flame poured from the turret.

  The main gun was dead.

  In the command room, alarms spiked and then steadied as the Ol’ Five Seven’s systems re-evaluated the threat. Otwin watched the enemy fort stagger on the display, its profile changing as damage cascaded through it.

  As the shockwave faded, the Ol’ Five Seven’s light energy cannons came fully into range.

  They fired.

  Coherent beams slashed across the gap, raking the turret fort’s octagonal hull. Armor glowed, then failed. Plates peeled back. Internal structures burned through as the LECs walked their fire across exposed sections.

  Secondary systems sparked and died.

  The Turret Fort slowed, then lurched as its advance faltered, smoke boiling from multiple breaches.

  Otwin’s voice was steady.

  “Keep pressure.”

  The Ol’ Five Seven advanced, methodical and relentless, guns chewing into a machine that had lost its teeth.

  Above, Ben exhaled slowly, the last of his gathered power bleeding away as he steadied himself against the stone.

  The spark had been enough.

  ***

  The next Turret Fort came in from the west.

  It broke the horizon in a slab of iron and stone, moving faster than Otwin expected, its bulk grinding forward with the confidence of a machine that believed it still had time. The Ol’ Five Seven was already turning, tracks biting hard as the fort swung its nose toward the new threat, the wreck of the northern fort still burning behind them and marking the ground like a warning.

  “Reposition the magno-shield toward the western fort,” Otwin ordered.

  The command was acknowledged instantly.

  It still wasn’t fast enough.

  The western Turret Fort fired.

  The twenty-pounder barked with a concussive crack that rolled across the field, the sound hitting a heartbeat before the impact. The iron ball crossed the distance in a blur, too fast for correction, too close for comfort, slamming into the Ol’ Five Seven’s tower before the shield could fully realign.

  The impact was violent.

  Metal screamed as the round punched through the outer plating, tearing through layered armor and internal bracing before exiting in a spray of fragments and smoke. The tower shuddered, the whole fort lurching under the force as shock rippled through its structure.

  “Direct hit,” the Fort Master called, voice tight but controlled. “Damage reports coming in.”

  “Acknowledged,” Otwin replied.

  He kept his eyes on the displays, forcing himself to stay still as alerts began to stack along the edges of his vision. Structural warnings flared and resolved. Fire suppression systems kicked in automatically. Internal compartments sealed as bulkheads dropped to isolate damage.

  He did not look away.

  Before he could ask for specifics, Doke’s voice cut in from the tower.

  “We’ve got incoming STVs,” Doke said. “At least thirty. Probably more. They’ve massed.”

  Otwin’s jaw set.

  That many outriders meant commitment. Not probing. Not harassment. They were trying to overwhelm the fort’s defenses while its attention was split, to tear up its treads and pin it in place.

  Jordy’s voice came through the channel a moment later, breathless but steady.

  “We’re back in action,” Jordy said. “Coming around to flank them.”

  Otwin acknowledged without speaking, eyes flicking between feeds as icons shifted and converged.

  Doke cut back in again, urgency sharpening his tone.

  “Southern Turret Fort approaching range.”

  Three forts.

  And massed outriders.

  The western Turret Fort fired again.

  This time, the magno-shield was in position, angled hard toward the incoming shot. The magnetic field shrieked as it engaged, distortion rippling visibly through the air. The ball struck the field and was torn sideways, but it did not stop.

  The round punched through.

  Momentum carried it onward, partially deflected but still lethal. It clipped the Ol’ Five Seven’s massive tread assembly, tearing into armored plates and leaving a large dent.

  The fort lurched.

  Then stabilized.

  “Hit! But the armor held. Tread assembly damaged but holding,” the Fort Master reported. “Mobility reduced, not lost.”

  Otwin exhaled once, sharp and controlled.

  “Good,” he said. “Keep us moving.”

  The light energy cannons answered the western fort.

  They fired in overlapping arcs, coherent beams slashing across the distance with mechanical precision. The Turret Fort’s armor began to glow, then blacken, sections warping and failing as the LECs walked their fire across the octagonal hull. Secondary systems sparked and died. External sensors shattered. The turret tried to traverse, slower now, less sure.

  Otwin watched the range markers tick down, the numbers falling faster as the Ol’ Five Seven pressed forward despite the damage.

  “Bring us in close to that western fort,” he said. “Alert the security enforcers. Boarding action.”

  The words carried weight.

  Acknowledgments came in rapid succession as internal alarms shifted tone. Enforcer squads began moving, exoskeleton frames powering up with a low mechanical growl. Axes and maces were lifted from racks and locked into ready grips. Harnesses were checked. Magnets engaged.

  Otwin reached for his helmet.

  Stormtrooper armor was heavier than it looked. The helmet sealed around his head with a familiar hiss, internal displays flickering to life as systems synced. The world sharpened, sound dampened, data overlays snapping into place as tactical markers bloomed across his vision.

  He turned toward the Fort Master.

  “You have command until I return,” Otwin said.

  The Fort Master met his gaze and nodded once.

  “Understood.”

  Otwin turned away, already moving toward the access ladder as the Ol’ Five Seven surged forward, guns blazing, closing the distance toward the western Turret Fort.

  The battle was no longer at range.

  It was about to become personal.