The Black Forest lived up to its name.
The trees were ancient pines, their trunks as thick as cathedral pillars. Their branches wove together overhead, blotting out the sun. It was noon, but it looked like twilight.
"Stop," I ordered.
My Iron Carriage groaned to a halt. The wheels were sunk axle-deep in the black mud. The horses were frothing, terrified by the shadows.
"We can't drive this," Napoleon said, riding up alongside. "The road is gone."
I kicked the door open.
CLANG.
I stepped out.
My 400-pound brass boot hit the mud.
SQUELCH.
I sank six inches instantly.
"System check," I muttered inside the helmet. "Hydraulics nominal. Oxygen 80%."
I took a step. The servos whined loud in the quiet forest.
WHIRR-THUD. SQUELCH.
It was like walking through glue.
"Form a perimeter!" Napoleon shouted to the Chasseurs. "Eyes on the treeline!"
The soldiers were nervous. They gripped their carbines until their knuckles were white.
"They say the woods are haunted," a corporal whispered. "They say the trees eat men."
"Trees don't eat men," Charles said, checking the prime on his pistol. "That's biologically inefficient."
Suddenly, a scream tore through the air.
It came from the scout element, fifty yards ahead.
"Contact!" Napoleon yelled.
I moved. I forced the suit to run. It was a lumbering, heavy jog that shook the ground.
We found the scout.
He wasn't dead. He was screaming.
He was tied to a massive oak tree. But not with ropes.
Vines.
Thick, green vines were wrapped around his arms and legs. They were tightening. And where they touched his skin, they were burrowing.
Thorns dug into his flesh. I could see them moving under his skin, pulsing like veins.
"Get him down!" Napoleon ordered.
Two soldiers rushed forward with knives. They slashed at the vines.
SNAP.
The vines reacted. They whipped out like snakes. One struck a soldier across the face, leaving a bloody welt.
"Back!" I roared.
I stepped forward. I grabbed the vines with my brass gauntlet.
I pulled.
TEAR.
The vines were strong as steel cable, but hydraulics were stronger. I ripped them apart. Green sap sprayed—it hissed where it hit my armor. Acid.
The scout fell into the mud, sobbing.
Charles walked up to the severed vines. He poked the green sap with a stick. The stick smoked.
" accelerated growth," Charles said. "Genetic modification. Or hyper-fertilizer."
"Cagliostro," I growled. "He's weaponizing botany."
"It's a biological minefield," Charles said. "If we touch the trees, we die."
Then the fog rolled in.
It didn't drift. It rushed. A wall of yellow-gray mist poured through the trees.
It smelled of rotten eggs. Sulfur. And something sharper. Chlorine.
"Gas!" I shouted. "Masks!"
The soldiers scrambled to tie wet rags over their faces. Primitive protection.
Inside my sealed helmet, I was safe. Or so I thought.
Warning. Seal Integrity Compromised.
A red light blinked on my HUD.
I looked at my arm gaskets. The rubber was blistering. The fog was acidic.
"It's eating the suit," I realized.
"Something is moving!" a soldier yelled.
Shapes appeared in the fog. Low to the ground. Fast.
Wolves.
But not normal wolves. They were huge. Their fur was patchy, revealing raw, red muscle. Their eyes glowed with a chemical green light.
They didn't growl. They didn't bark. They just attacked.
A massive wolf launched itself at me.
CRASH.
It hit my chest plate. Its jaws clamped onto my metal forearm.
CRUNCH.
Its teeth shattered on the brass. But it didn't let go. It chewed with bloody gums, driven by a chemically induced rage.
"Rabies on steroids," I thought.
I punched it.
My left fist slammed into its ribs.
CRACK.
The wolf flew backward, spine broken. It hit a tree and slumped.
But three more took its place.
"Bayonets!" Napoleon roared. "Square formation! Fight them like cavalry!"
The Chasseurs formed a tight square, bristling with steel.
The wolves hit the line. They impaled themselves on bayonets just to get closer to the men. They clawed and bit even as they died.
"They don't feel pain!" Napoleon shouted, cutting a wolf in half with his saber. "Aim for the heads!"
I was the anchor. I stood at the corner of the square, swinging my metal fists like hammers.
THUD. CRUNCH. SPLAT.
I was covered in wolf blood and acid fog.
"Where is the controller?" I scanned the fog. "Animals don't coordinate like this."
My thermal sensors were useless in the chemical mist.
"Charles!" I yelled. "Do you see a handler?"
"Negative!" Charles shouted. He was firing his pistols calmly, one shot, one kill. "Visibility zero!"
Then I heard it.
A high-pitched sound. Above the range of human hearing, but my suit's audio sensors picked it up.
EEEEEEEEEE.
A dog whistle.
I turned my head. My audio visualizer pinpointed the source.
Thirty yards away. A figure standing on a rock.
He wore a leather gas mask and a robe made of wolf pelts. A Druid.
He held a silver whistle to his masked lips.
"Target identified," I said.
I couldn't shoot. My hands were clumsy claws. Charles couldn't see him.
I had to use the suit.
"Audio output max," I commanded.
I took a deep breath.
I screamed.
But I didn't just scream with my voice. I channeled the feedback loop from the internal mic to the external speaker.
SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
The sound was agonizing. A 120-decibel electronic shriek.
The wolves stopped. They whimpered. They pawed at their ears.
The Druid on the rock stumbled. He dropped the whistle, clutching his head.
"Now!" I pointed. "Napoleon! The rock!"
Napoleon didn't hesitate. He broke formation. He charged into the fog, saber raised.
The Druid tried to pull a pistol. Too slow.
SLASH.
Napoleon's blade took him across the chest.
The Druid fell.
The wolves, confused and leaderless, broke. Their rage evaporated into fear. They turned and fled into the mist.
Silence returned to the forest.
I walked over to the rock. Clank. Squelch.
Napoleon was wiping his blade on the Druid's robe.
"Ugly bastard," Napoleon muttered.
I nudged the body with my boot.
A map case fell from the Druid's belt.
Charles picked it up. He opened it.
"It's a schematic," Charles said. "Of the underground."
He traced a line on the map.
"He's not in Vienna," Charles said. "He's here. Under us."
He pointed to a symbol on the map. A crossed pickaxe and hammer.
"The Salt Mines of Berchtesgaden," I rasped.
"A mine?" Napoleon asked.
"A bunker," I said. "A factory."
I looked at the acid burns on my suit. The brass was pitted. The rubber was melting.
"He's digging in," I said.
"Then we dig him out," Napoleon said.
I looked at the dark forest path ahead.
"We go underground," I said. "Into the salt."
I checked my oxygen. 70%.
"Let's hope the air is better down there," I muttered. "Because if this suit fails, I'm just a corpse in a can."