Chapter 4: Chapter 4 — Before the Storm

Daybreak came, and with it, pain. The first thing that Liam sensed from his bedroll was the constant pain where the rat had scraped at him. Any traces of the plasm were long gone by this point, causing the dull ache to flare within him, a reminder of what he risked, and how little he had gained on this trip.

The second thing was a melody, a soft song accompanied by Peter’s voice. Liam didn’t pay much attention to the actual words. Something about not worrying, and a girl. Or an infant? Probably a courting song. Or maybe a lullaby? Either way, strange.

Allowing the song to wash over him, Liam didn’t shift. Only the change in his breathing gave away that he was awake, though as the song came to a close he slowly made his way out of his bedroll.

He gave a skeptical look to Peter who grinned at Liam. “Never played before, huh?” Liam said in an accusing tone as Peter’s grin widened.

“Yup!” Peter responded, watching Liam begin to fiddle with the boiler on his mechanical arm, starting up the steamgraft once more. “Pure talent, baby!”

Liam didn’t know why Peter was first singing about infants, and now calling him one, but chalked it up to his weird ways of being from another world.

The two broke their fast by taking part in the dried rations that Liam had brought. In between the dried biscuits, Liam asked, “So, how far is it to the city? You said it was Daventry, right?”

“Yeah. Maybe around twenty strides? So we should be there in the afternoon, gods willing.”

“Twenty miles, huh?” Peter asked, as though confirming.

“Yeah, twenty miles,” Liam said. He frowned. “That’s… what I said, right?”

Peter just smiled. “More or less.”

His grin widened further across his handsome face as he continued, “Well, up and at ‘em! We’ll never get there if we just keep sitting here.”

Liam sighed at the verbal antics, slowly getting to his feet with a wince at the pain. He winced as the mechanism in his steamgraft fully clanked to life, a gout of steam escaping from the side-valve. It wasn’t supposed to do that.

“You’re still injured!” Peter’s eyes widened. “I’ve got a spell that should sort it out. Ummm… want me to cast it on you?” he asked hesitantly, not wanting to just cast spells on Liam without his permission.

Liam shook his head silently. Seeing Peter’s puzzled expression, he just muttered, “No point,” in a tone that brooked no disagreement.

Peter seemed to take the rejection in hand, though Liam didn’t notice the brief flicker of hurt that crossed Peter’s face before hefting his pack.

The godborn tried again; “At least let me get the pack for you? It’ll be easier for me since I’m not injured.”

Liam was half tempted to reject the offer, but his pain finally overcame his irritation as he handed his pack to Peter, muttering, “Do as you will,” before beginning to walk briskly in the city’s direction, Peter beginning to huff as he moved after Liam.

***

It was a few hours later, and the sun had climbed high, warming the top of their heads. The Confederacy’s frontier stretched ahead in all directions—lush green grasslands mottled with rocky outcrops and clusters of hardy shrubs. It looked almost pastoral at a glance, until you noticed the complete absence of trees. Not even stumps remained. Just scars in the soil, faint lines of ash and weathered stone, where saplings had once tried and failed to take root.

Peter had commented on the view. “It’s like someone forgot how forests work.”

Liam had just muttered, “Harmonic typhoons,” and kept walking.

“Is that like... a magical hurricane?” Peter had asked.

Liam half nodded, half shrugged. “Something like that.”

Peter hadn’t had much to say after that.

Now they were halfway through the day’s walk, following the gentle dip of a low ridge. The hills here were hollow, old quarry veins or maybe just bad land. The earth gave a little underfoot. Nothing visible, but Liam felt it. A softness beneath the soil. Subtle, but wrong.

Peter trailed a few steps behind, wiping sweat from his brow. “I swear, if I had a car right now, I’d be golden.”

Liam glanced over his shoulder. “A what?”

“A car,” Peter said. “Like, metal frame, four wheels, has an engine. You drive it with pedals and a steering wheel. Kind of noisy. Super useful.”

Liam frowned. “You mean a freewheeler?”

Peter blinked. “A what now?”

“Open-engine vehicle,” Liam said. “Runs on coal. No rails, just wheels. Can handle flat terrain if it’s not too soft.”

Peter’s face lit up. “That’s it! That’s exactly it! Freewheeler—that’s a way better name. Why do they call it that?”

Liam shrugged. “Came after the railcars. No tracks to bind them. They ‘wheel free.’ Makes sense.”

Peter wiped his forehead. “Man, your world’s got style. And dust. So much dust.”

A pause before he continued, “So where can we get one of these freewheelers? Better that than walking 20 miles.”

“There are no roads for them around here,” Liam said without turning.

“Make one.”

Liam grunted. “You’re the one with magic. Can’t you just conjure one up?”

“...No.”

They walked in silence a few more paces. Liam’s shoulder pulsed with every heartbeat, a deep ache that had only gotten worse since morning. His nerves were raw, and with no plasm to dull them. And Peter’s voice was beginning to irritate.

Then came the tremor.

A low vibration passed through the soles of Liam’s boots. His steamgraft hissed slightly as the boiler adjusted to the new angle.

He stopped. “Wait.”

Peter paused mid-hum. “What?”

“Something’s—”

The earth exploded.

A fountain of dirt and rock burst upward in front of them, spraying grit into their eyes. Something massive erupted from the ground, blotting out the sun for an instant—a creature as long as a cart and twice as wide, its body a series of armored segments like a centipede fused with a bear. Mud-caked chitin rippled along its back, spattered with stone dust and bone fragments. Its front limbs ended in scythe-like claws, already clicking in anticipation. Most horrifying of all was the mouth: a vertical ring of jagged, counter-rotating teeth that spun with a low mechanical whine, like a meat grinder given hunger and purpose.

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Liam didn’t think. He slammed his shoulder into Peter, shoving him hard. They both hit the ground, rolling opposite directions as the thing landed where they'd just stood.

The sandmolt reared, dirt cascading off its shell. Its eyes were tiny slits above its jaws, its claws twitching in rhythmic pulses. It shrieked, a high-frequency screech that set Liam’s teeth on edge.

Peter was already scrambling backwards on all fours. “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?”

“Burrow predator,” Liam shouted, releasing his claws from their spring-loaded recesses with a snap. “Don’t freeze!”

The sandmolt surged forward.

Liam met it with a half-dodge, slashing across its front legs. The blades bit deep, but the creature’s mass carried it forward anyway. It collided with his chest, throwing him to the side.

He didn’t feel the impact on his right arm. The twined metal didn’t really feel much of anything. But the rest of his body felt it just fine.

Peter was halfway to his feet, clutching his lute like a shield. “Okay! Okay, I got this! Don’t die!”

He strummed.

Nothing happened.

Liam slashed again, claws ripping into the sandmolt’s flank. It shrieked and spun, its tail whipping across the ground. Liam ducked, gasping. His shoulder lit up with pain.

Peter’s fingers fumbled on the strings. “Why isn’t this working?! Come on… come on!”

He plucked another chord, trying to sing, but the words came out garbled and panicked. The air shimmered faintly—then snapped back. No spell. Just sound.

Liam caught the creature’s attention again. It lunged toward him, and he sidestepped, planting his foot and driving the steamgraft’s claws deep into its side. Steam hissed from his shoulder. The sandmolt roared and writhed, hurling him back.

Peter coughed, then straightened. His voice was steadier now. Lower. Focused. The lute strings thrummed.

Liam barely heard the lyrics. Something about singing the singer to sleep. But even through the heat of battle he felt something shift in the air. Like the pressure changed.

The sandmolt slowed.

Its claws dug into the ground… then twitched. The great bulk sagged.

And it slumped forward with a muffled exhale.

Still.

Peter stared, stunned. “Did that… did that work?”

Liam didn’t answer. He didn’t waste the moment. With a sharp breath, he surged forward, driving his steamgraft claws into the creature’s exposed underbelly. It shuddered to wakefulness as he made contact, but he was fast enough to get another stab in before it could react. Twice. A third time, to make sure.

Only when the beast had fully stilled did he back away, panting. He didn’t trust silence until it was cold.

Peter dropped to his knees, lute clutched in his arms like a child. “I thought I screwed it up again.”

“You did,” Liam said between breaths. “The first time.”

Peter looked like he might argue—then just sat down, eyes wide, fingers trembling. “I didn’t think it would come at me like that. I didn’t think I’d… freeze.”

Liam was silent for a moment, before answering, “You didn’t run.” It wasn’t exactly comforting, but it was all he could give.

Peter let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and a sob mixed together. “That’s a low bar.”

Liam didn’t respond. He was already circling the corpse, checking for movement. His own hands were steady, but the pain in his shoulder was sharp enough to make him sweat.

Still. It was over.

For now.

Peter clutched the lute against his chest. His breath came in sharp pulls, his shoulders rising and falling like he’d run a mile uphill. The shock had stripped the color from his face, and sweat clung to his hairline.

Across from him, Liam crouched by the sandmolt’s corpse. The thing was massive even in death, its slick carapace split open by ragged claw gouges. He was already working—digging into the flesh for anything useful. Core, teeth, glands. Whatever could be sold.

His hands were steady. Too steady.

Peter wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That thing was going to eat me.”

“Probably,” Liam said without looking up.

“I mean, like. Literally eat me.”

“That's what predators do.”

Peter stared at him. “Does this happen a lot out here?”

Liam paused long enough to glance at him. “Enough.”

Peter exhaled through his nose and muttered, “I want a refund on this planet.”

Liam finished extracting the core—a wet, fist-sized lump that shimmered faintly in the sun—and wiped his blade clean against the creature’s hide. Then he finally sat down, mechanical arm hissing as he lowered himself.

Peter looked at him. Really looked at him this time.

Liam was pale, with a sheen of sweat covering his brow. His left hand was trembling slightly. The bandage on his upper arm had bloomed red again. Whatever strength he had must’ve been holding him together with thread and willpower alone.

“I’m guessing that thing didn’t help,” Peter said, nodding toward the wound.

“No.”

“You sure you don’t want healing?”

Liam shook his head, jaw clenched. “Doesn’t work.”

Peter blinked. “What, magic?”

“No,” Liam muttered. “Just… not on me.”

Peter didn’t press. He could tell by the set of Liam’s shoulders—there was steel in him. And maybe something darker, too.

Instead, he said, “I’m still shaking.”

“That’s normal.”

“I thought I was going to screw it up again. That the spell would fizzle or… I dunno. Blow up.”

“You did screw it up.”

Peter gave him a wounded look.

Liam raised an eyebrow. “But you fixed it. That matters more.”

Peter blinked. Then laughed—soft, unsure. “Was that a compliment?”

“No.”

“It was totally a compliment.”

Liam said nothing, eyes on the horizon.

The land was still again. The green hills stretched quietly in all directions. No birds. No wind. Just the lingering stink of the sandmolt’s corpse.

Peter’s fingers tapped the lute once, then stilled. “Thanks for saving me.”

“You’re the one who knocked it out.”

“After you tackled it. And stabbed it. And got crushed.”

Liam grunted, as if the debate bored him. But his silence wasn’t dismissive. Just tired.

Peter stood and walked over to the corpse. He stared at the gaping wound Liam had torn through it, then looked back at him. “That was seriously badass.”

Liam didn’t respond, an awkward silence rising between the two.

Moments later, he reached up and carefully peeled back part of his bandage, checking the wound beneath. The skin around it was inflamed, the muscle underneath ragged. Not deep enough to be lethal—but deep enough to leave a mark.

Peter watched. “You… going to get that looked at?”

“Do I look like I have the money to spare on healing potions, even if those worked on me?”

Peter winced. “What about friends? Family?”

Liam gave him a look that killed the conversation dead.

“Right,” Peter muttered. “None of my business.”

They sat in silence for a while. The sun continued its lazy descent, casting long shadows. Flies had already started to buzz around the sandmolt.

Eventually, Liam stood again. “We keep moving. We’re not too far from the city. Just another hour or two and we should be there.”

Peter didn’t argue.

They left the corpse behind, its body already starting to smell in the heat. The path was quiet. Almost too quiet.

But neither of them said much for the rest of the walk.

They crested a low rise just as the sun began to fall. Nestled near the mountains in the distance and ringed with defensive walls of iron and blackened stone, was Daventry.

The city shimmered faintly in the dusk light. Tall chimneys pushed plumes of smoke into the air, while copper spires and cogwheel towers jutted out across the skyline like jagged teeth. Rail lines spidered out from the gates in half a dozen directions, while slow-moving freewheelers trundled along dirt paths to and from the outposts that ringed the city's edge.

Peter let out a slow, admiring breath. “Looks like More Door and Gu-thom had a kid.”

Liam didn’t know what that meant, so he just nodded once.

Then a sound reached them.

A faint, distant wail. Mechanical, rhythmic. Sirens.

Liam tensed. That wasn’t normal.

Peter turned to him. “That bad?”

“Usually,” Liam said.

Then Peter turned again—slowly, eyes wide—and pointed behind them, to the north.

“Uh. What is that?”

Liam turned.

On the far edge of the horizon, the sky had started to boil.

Not clouds. Not the weather. Something worse.

The colors were wrong. Too vivid. Too fast. Reds sliding into greens, purples flaring like oil slicks. The clouds churned in spirals and violent shapes, moving against the wind.

Liam’s stomach sank.

A harmonic typhoon.