Alek narrowed his eyes to a slit, wondering which of the servants was checking on him. Silent in bare feet, he swiftly crossed the cold marble floor, sliding into bed just as the door creaked open. Shadows shifted along the sliver of moonlight, and he heard the hiss of whispers. The last tin cavalry unit had just crashed into the French lines when the soft sound came from the hallway again: jingling, like a ring of keys.Īlek turned, peering at the gap beneath his bed chamber’s double doors. One day soon Alek might be piloting one of those machines. She didn’t understand that military exercises had more to teach him than musty old tutors and their books.

It was Mother, of course, who had forbidden it-his studies were more important than “parades,” as she called them. He’d begged to be taken along, to see the mustered ranks of soldiers striding past in real life, to feel the rumble of massed fighting machines through the soles of his boots. It seemed only fair that Alek have some fun while his parents were off watching military maneuvers. It had taken all night to set up the attack, using an imperial tactics manual borrowed from Father’s study. The Austrian walkers had completed their bombardment, and it was time for the tin horses to finish off the woefully outnumbered French. The servants wouldn’t dare disturb his sleep.Īlek turned back to his desk and began to move the cavalry forward, grinning as the battle neared its climax. Mother and Father were in Sarajevo, after all. Trees stirred in a soft breeze outside, but otherwise the night was silent. He took a guilty step toward his bed-then froze in place, listening hard. The attack had almost begun when Prince Aleksandar thought he heard someone outside his door…. But a row of Darwinist monsters loomed behind them, ready to devour any who dared retreat. The French and British infantry crouched behind their fortifications-a letter opener, an ink jar, and a line of fountain pens-knowing they stood no chance against the might of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. A zeppelin scouted no-man’s-land at the center of the battlefield, its metal skin sparkling.

Behind them two ranks of diesel-powered walking machines stood ready to fire, cannon aimed over the heads of the cavalry. The Austrian horses glinted in the moonlight, their riders standing tall in the saddle, swords raised.

Scott westerfeld's leviathan