Struk Covenlasher Mounts a Rescue

Being a sequel to the Conclave's last battle with the Flayful Disciples.

I was never supposed to die in a forest.

Die in a glorious reactor blaze, yes-yes.

Die in a lightning storm upon a battlefield, absolutely.

But eaten by trees? No thank-no.

Me and Sinkbrek (useless engineer, too many fingers) had been inside the Doomwheel Prototype Mk.IV Emberfire Edition when she bucked like a demon-goat and blasted into the woods. The Flayful Bonethings were behind us, the core was screaming horrible colours, and then—FOOOOM—out went the warp-gas and down went all hope.

The wheel crashed sideways into the forest with the sort of crunch that tells a rat his life has turned into a waiting room.

We lay there days. Maybe more days. Hard to tell time when everything hums complains at you in yellow and green.

The forest was wrong.

Not just dead.

Waiting-dead.

Then they came.

Trees that walked.

Big ones.

Two Treelords strode through the mist, like towers with grudges. Twigs crawled behind them. Bugs with spears flew overhead. I swear one tree smiled.

We did not move.

We did not breathe.

Sinkbrek tried once.

I hit him.

Then the forest changed smell.

Oil.

Smoke.

Warp.

Skaven smelled like hope.

“Struk…” I whispered.

I meant it like a prayer.

And then the mad ones arrived.

The Conclave swept into the wood with all the grace of a burning tunnel. Struk rushed about pointing at things and shouting about improvements that definitely would not kill us all. The Grinder Pack sped off. The Rat Ogors thumped closer. Something huge burrowed beneath the ground.

Then Kret showed up.

Of course he did.

The Grey Seer strutted through the trees like the forest was for him. I saw him screech-a-spell and suddenly—

BONG.

A bell screamed into existence and a Treelord exploded into motion.

And then Kret teleported it onto the monster.

Of course he did.

The Bell-Engine appeared out of nowhere and smashed into the Treelord like a falling cathedral. Vines flew. Wood snapped. The tree died screaming incomprehensible tree-things.

I almost cried.

Not because it was beautiful.

Because it noticed me.

The rest of the forest woke up.

Spite-creatures flooded in. Bugs attacked. Everything had too many thorns.

Struk shouted.

Etoch roared.

Kret rang.

Trees died.

Rats exploded.

Fire fell upward.

It was the type of battle where no sensible rat is present.

Then Struk saw.

The Wheel. The Missing Prototype Doomwheel!

I tried to push Sinkbrek in front of me.

Too slow.

“There!” Struk hissed. “The wheel is here! And the driver and fixer—hiding!”

I stood up slowly, trembling.

“Great Arch-Warlock, sir,” I squeaked. “I was… guarding it.”

His eye twitched.

The fight grew closer. Spite-revenants leapt upon the Bell-Engine. The Rat Ogors smashed bugs. Etoch erupted and shot a flying monster in half. The Grinder Pack disassembled a forest.

Then the Ancient Treelord came.

Huge.

Angry.

Personal.

Struk’s guns arrived at last, burning bark to cinders. Then the ground splintered and Etoch’s monster emerged.

I had heard about the Surgeon’s Dream.

I was not prepared.

It was too many rats.

Not enough rats.

All biting.

It tore the great tree apart and made forest ash fall like snow.

The little wizard-tree fled. The Doom-Flayers caught up to it.

I did not look.

Then silence.

Except the Bell ticking.

And the core humming.

And Struk walking toward me.

He leaned close.

“See?” he said softly. “We found my wheel.”

I nodded.

Eagerly.

“Yes-yes, Arch-Warlock, sir! Protected it very good!”

He looked at the wreck.

Then at me.

“When I fix it… will you drive it properly?”

I saluted.

“Yes-yes! Bravely! Forward-only! No trees!”

He smiled.

I learned something important that day.

When Struk smiles, he is already planning which parts of you he does not need.

But I will survive.

I always do.

I will ride that wheel again.

I will be glorious.

And next time?

Next time I steer AWAY from forests.

First thing I want recorded is this:

IT WAS NOT MY FAULT.

The Doomwheel Prototype Mk.IV Emberfire Edition was never stable. It screamed when you turned left, it hissed when you turned right, and it tried to explode if you thought about it too hard. I told Skritch not to push the throttle rune past the third skull-mark. I painted those skull-marks on myself, so he would understand.

He did not.

When the warp-core vented green-yellow death and the rats in the propulsion cages stopped running (some screaming, some melted), I knew we were going to die someplace damp. And unfriendly.

We crashed into the forest side-first. The axle screamed like a banshee. A cannon fell off. The bell-crank locked at “catastrophic.” The warp meter melted.

I sealed what I could and prayed to the Horned Rat, which is a very short prayer:

“Please let someone else die first.”

Then the forest moved.

Do you know what a tree sounds like when it walks? Like regret. Like doom.

Two enormous wooden shapes lumbered between the trunks. The warp-core dimmed as if afraid. Smaller things scuttled and flapped through the branches. One landed on the wheel and sniffed.

I did not move-twitch. I did not blink-wink. Skritch tried to whisper. I slapped him.

We lived in the wheel’s shadow while bugs with too many opinions patrolled around us. I wanted to correct the core imbalance. I wanted to repair the wheel.

I also wanted to keep my face.

So I waited.

Hours.

Days.

The core kept humming in that wrong tone. Then the humming changed.

You learn these things when you spend long years near warp-things.

Skaven were coming.

I smelled oil.

Soon after, I smelled trouble.

The Conclave swept into the woods like a drunken machine. Struk rushed forward, inspecting everything but the obvious. He sent scouts away, abandoned gunnery support, and charged toward the sound of destiny.

Then Kret arrived. I do not like Grey Seers. They think every problem is solved by shouting at it.

He shouted.

A bell appeared. And Rang

A tree died screaming.

The battle erupted. It was beautiful and wrong and loud. Or maybe it was loud and wrong and beautiful. I cannot tell which order makes more sense.

Bugs charged. Trees swung in. Etoch burst from the ground like a hairless nightmare. Rats exploded. Guns sang.

I peeked. Then regretted it.

Struk spotted us.

Of course he did.

“They are here!” he squealed.

My heart attempted to escape out my throat.

He approached with the stride of a rat who has already chosen how you will be punished.

I stood tall.

Which was a mistake.

Just as Struk reached us, a Treelord bigger than the last stepped forward like a judge carved from lumber. Then Struk’s Volt-Pack finally arrived and burned it.

Then Etoch’s monster happened.

I will never forget that thing.

It looked back at the wheel.

Like it remembered being one.

After the forest stopped screaming, Struk came over.

He looked at the wheel.

Then at me.

Slow.

“So,” he said. “Engineer.”

“Yes-yes?” I said, smiling like a very dead rat.

“You will fix this.”

“Yes-yes-I-will,” I said.

“And when fixed?”

I hesitated.

Then Skritch spoke. “We will drive it!”

Struk smiled.

Then he walked away.

And I suddenly realized: This is worse than dying. Because now… I have to make it work.

Stupid forest.

Stupid, damp, uncooperative growth-place.

Machines should grow in straight lines.

Trees grow in mistakes.

No matter. The Doomwheel did not flee. It operated exactly as designed—and merely demonstrated enthusiasm. Excess enthusiasm. Perfectly curable with mechanical discipline.

Left wheel misaligned by… possibly yes yes—warp-surge feedback through the steering rune. Should have insulated it. Of course I shall re-insulate it. With copper. Or bone. Possibly both. Bone is cheaper.

Struk sniffed.

Warp-smell.

Green-yellow.

The core still lives.

Good.

If it were dead I would be angry. If it lives, I can fix it. If I can fix it, it will explode better.

The Grinder Pack are scouts.

They look for trails.

I look for patterns.

And the pattern is that everything mechanical flees from stupidity and gathers toward genius.

Which means it must be close.

Trees whisper nonsense.

Fog lies.

I calculate.

Crash angle? Evasive velocity? Gas leak? Yes yes—propulsion rat failure. Of course. I told them not to put the nervous rat in wheel-cage two. Nervous rats chew wires.

I smell oil.

I smell fear.

I smell Doomwheel.

Good.

Kret is behind me.

Annoying gravity well, that one. He bends destiny around his ego and expects applause. Too many bells. Not enough calibrated detonations. But he has power. I will use it.

Then replace it.

Trees part.

Big one.

Treelord.

Fine.

I suppose it is in the way.

Kret rings something and—oh good—he teleported onto it again. Of course. Dramatic. Inefficient. Effective.

The tree bursts.

Not my problem anymore.

Now there is screaming.

Good.

Chaos lubricates battlefields.

Everything moves faster when death is confused.

There.

Through the mist.

Metal.

Crooked.

Wrong.

Familiar.

Found you.

My wheel.

Dirty.

On its side.

Sulking.

The fools crashed it.

Of course they did.

I approach as the battle roars. Spite-things leap. Rat Ogors charge. Etoch emerges with something that technically should not exist. I compartmentalize.

I walk.

The crew is there.

Tiny.

Sweaty.

Breathing.

All mistakes breathe.

I consider executing them immediately.

But no.

Better to let them live.

Living rats can still work.

Dying rats simply smell.

I lean close.

“See?” I whisper. “I told them it would be found.”

They nod too hard.

Good.

Fear keeps rats warm.

Repairs.

I list them already:

• Steering rune replacement.
• Auxiliary gas valve.
• Cannon mount reinforcement.
• Shock-suppression sigil.
• Pilot replacement? Possibly. Later.
• Engineer relocation? Bolted inside maybe.

Yes.

We rebuild.

Bigger.

Faster.

More fire.

And when this wheel rolls again, it will not flee forests.

It will eat them.

The forest still smouldered.

Warpfire clung to bark like green frost and the air stank of sap and sorcery. The Doomwheel lay half-upright in the mud, its core humming like a reprimand.

Struk stood with clawed hands on his hips, staring at it as though by hatred alone he could force it back into straightness.

Behind him, a clang.

A bell-note still echoed through the trees.

Struk did not turn.

“I told you,” he said calmly, “not to ring it in enclosed woodland environments.”

Kret floated out of the mist grinning, his horns catching the ember-light.

“It rang itself,” the Grey Seer purred. “It wanted to be rung. Like all things that scream.”

“That was the Doomwheel screaming,” Struk snapped. “Not devotion. Not destiny. Mechanical stress.”

“Same noise in different mouths.”

Struk rounded on him, sparks jumping from his mech-arm.

“You teleported my Bell-Engine onto a tree!”

“And the tree lost.”

“You risked my entire engine!”

“And proved its glory.”

“My engine!”

Kret tilted his head.

“Our engine.”

Struk’s eye twitched.

There was a long moment where the only sound was the wheel’s unstable heartbeat.

Then Struk stepped closer.

“You do not understand machines,” he hissed. “Machines are not toys. They are not altars. They are not lumps of metal and wood and stone that you scream-yell at until they obey.”

Kret smiled wider.

“Everything obeys screaming long enough.”

Struk stabbed a claw at the wheel.

“This monstrosity is fuel, pressure, geometry, and science! Not superstition!”

“And yet,” Kret murmured, gliding closer, “it hums when I speak. It trembles when I whisper. It answers.”

“Because your warp-roar overloads its stabilizers!”

“Which is answering,” Kret replied pleasantly.

Etoch passed in the background dragging something that may once have been a Spite-revenant. He ignored them both.

Struk leaned in until Kret could smell scorched oil.

“If you ring that bell on my machine again without permission,” he said softly, “I will replace your spine with wiring and mount you as a diagnostic device.”

Kret chuckled.

“Oh Struk. Struk-Struk. Little priest of pistons.”

Struk bristled.

“I am not a priest! I am an engineer!”

“And engineers,” Kret whispered, “are only priests who worship rules because gods do not obey them.”

Struk’s arm whined as it charged its capacitor.

Kret did not flinch.

“What would you do without me?” the Grey Seer continued. “No Grey Seer means no Bell of Doom. No Bell of Doom means your engine is only… loud.”

Struk ground his teeth.

“And what would you do without me?” he shot back. “No engine. No network. No bell-platform. Just you screaming into dirt and hoping a tunnel answers.”

They stared.

Bell against bolt.

Magic against mechanism.

Finally Struk turned away.

“For now,” he muttered, “you may ride it.”

Kret’s whiskers twitched upward.

“For now,” he echoed sweetly.

Struk glanced over his shoulder.

“But remember this, bell-rat… you do not command my machines.”

Kret placed one claw gently on the Emberstone clapper.

“No,” he agreed.

“They command us.”

The bell twitched.