Volger shrugged. “The codes have changed again. But there’s more chatter than I’ve ever heard before; the army is preparing for war.”
“Maybe they’ve forgotten me,” Alek said. In those first days land dreadnoughts had stalked the hills in every direction, lookouts swarming their spar decks. But lately the fugitives had seen only an occasional aeroplane buzzing overhead.
“You are not forgotten, Your Highness,” Volger said flatly. “Serbia simply presents an easier target.”
“Unlucky for them,” Alek said softly.
“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Volger muttered. “The empire has wanted a war with Serbia for years now. The rest is an excuse.”
“An excuse?” Alek said, anger rising as he imagined his murdered parents’ faces. But he couldn’t argue with Volger’s logic. The dreadnoughts hunting him were German and Austrian, after all. His family had been destroyed by old friends, not some hapless gang of Serbian schoolboys. “But my father always argued for peace.”
“And he can argue no longer. Clever, isn’t it?”
Alek shook his head. “You horrify me, Volger. I sometimes think you admire the people behind this.”
“Their plans have a certain elegance—assassinating a peacemaker to start a war. But they made one very foolish mistake.” The man turned and faced him. “They left you alive.”
“I don’t matter, not anymore.”
Volger switched off the wireless, and the cabin fell into silence. The flutter of birds filtered down from the rafters of the barn.
“You matter more than anyone knows, Aleksandar.”
“How? I have no parents, no real title.” Alek looked down at himself, dressed in stolen farmer’s clothes and covered with hay. “I haven’t even had a proper bath in two weeks.”
“No, indeed.” Volger sniffed. “But your father planned carefully for the coming war.”
“What do you mean?”
“When we get to Switzerland, I will explain.” Volger switched the wireless on again. “But that won’t happen unless we can buy fuel and parts tomorrow. Go wake the men.”
Alek raised an eyebrow. “Did you just give me an order, Count?”
“Go wake the men if you please, Your Serene Highness.”
“I know you’re only being insolent to distract me from your little secret, Count. But that doesn’t make it any less annoying.”
Volger let out a laugh. “I suppose not. But I can’t give up my secret yet. I promised your father to wait till the proper time.”
Alek’s fists tightened. He was growing tired of being treated like this, never told what Volger’s plans were until the last moment. Maybe he’d been a child the day his parents had died, but no longer.
In the last two weeks he’d learned how to start a fire, how to replace the engines’ glow plugs, how to track their nighttime progress toward Switzerland with a sextant and the stars. He could squeeze the Stormwalker under bridges and into barns, and strip and clean the Spandau machine guns as easily as washing his own clothes— another thing he’d learned to do. Hoffman had even taught him to cook a little, boiling dried meat to soften it, adding the vegetables they’d gathered while trampling some unlucky farmer’s field.
But most important, Alek had learned to shut away despair. He hadn’t cried since that first day, not once. His misery was locked away in a small, hidden corner of himself. The only time the awful hollowness struck now was when he was alone on watch, while the others were asleep.
And even then Alek practiced the art of keeping his tears inside.
“I’m not a child anymore,” he said.
“I know.” Volger’s voice softened. “But your father asked me to wait, Alek, and I intend to honor his wishes. Go wake the men, and after breakfast we’ll have a fencing lesson. You’ll need your reflexes sharp for this afternoon’s piloting.”
Alek stared at Volger another moment, then finally nodded.
He felt the need for a sword in his hand.
“On guard, if you please.”
Alek raised his saber and assumed his guard. Volger walked in a slow circle around him, inspecting Alek’s stance for what felt like a solid minute.
“More weight on your back foot,” the man finally said. “But otherwise acceptable.”
Alek shifted his weight, his muscles already beginning to cramp. Long days in the pilot’s cabin had ruined his form. This lesson was going to hurt.
Pain was always Count Volger’s objective, of course. When Alek had started his training at ten years old, he’d expected swordplay to be exciting. But his first lessons had consisted of standing motionless like this for hours, with Volger taunting him whenever his outstretched arm began to quiver.
At least now, at fifteen, he was allowed to cross swords.
Volger took his own guard.
“Slowly at first. I shall call your parries,” Volger said, and began to attack, shouting out the names of defensive movements as he lunged. “Tierce … tierce again. Now prime. That’s awful, Alek. Your blade’s too far down! Two in tierce. Now go back covering. Now quarte. Simply dreadful. Again …”
The count’s attacks continued, but his voice dropped off, relying on Alek to choose his own parries. The swords flashed, and their shuffling feet stirred up dust into the shafts of sunlight lancing through the barn.
“PRACTICE.”
It felt odd fencing in farmer’s clothes, without servants standing ready to bring water and towels. Mice scrambled underfoot, and the giant Stormwalker watched over them like some iron god of war. Every few minutes Count Volger called a halt and stared up at the machine, as if hoping to find in its stoic silence the patience to endure Alek’s clumsy technique.
Then he would sigh and say, “Again …”
Alek felt his focus sharpening as they fought. Unlike in the fencing salon at home, here there were no mirrors along the wall, and Klopp and the other men were too busy checking over the walker’s engines to watch. No distractions, just the clear ring of steel and the shuffle of feet.
As the sparring grew more intense, Alek realized they hadn’t put on masks yet. He’d always begged to fight without protection, but his parents had never allowed it.
“Why Serbia?” Volger suddenly asked.
Alek dropped his guard. “Pardon me?”
Volger pushed aside Alek’s half-ready parry and landed a touch on his wrist.
“What in blazes?” Alek cried out, rubbing his hand. The sporting saber’s edge was dull, but could still bruise when it landed on flesh.
“Do not drop your guard until the other man does, Your Highness. Not in time of war.”
“But you just asked me …,” Alek began, then sighed and raised his sword again. “All right. Continue.”
The count began with another flurry of blows, pushing Alek backward. By the rules of saber any contact with the opponent’s sword ended a legal attack. But Volger was ignoring every parry, using brute strength to gain his ground.
“Why Serbia?” the count repeated, pushing Alek toward the back wall of the barn.
“Because the Serbs are allied with Russia!” Alek cried.
“Indeed.” Volger suddenly ended his attack, turning his back and walking away. “The old alliance of the Slavic peoples.”
Alek blinked. Sweat was running into his eyes, and his heart was racing.
Volger took up his stance in the center of the barn. “On guard, sir.”
Alek approached warily, his sword up.
Volger attacked again, still ignoring the rules of priority. This wasn’t fencing, Alek realized, this was more like … a sword fight. He let his concentration narrow, his awareness extending down the length of his saber. Like the Stormwalker, the length of steel became an extension of his body.