The Quiet Front (The Gunpowder Gods Book 1)
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Lt. Samuel Obern is a warmage in America's fledgling Army Arcane. Stationed on the dreary shores of England on the eve of the Battle of Britain, he is pulled into a secret mission where every order is a lie and every secret could kill his team. Will he be able to figure out what's going on before he must face a risen god, or will his gamble to survive cost him everything?
and fire answered. One second the soldiers stood. The next they fell, gray and black, gray and red, their bones sliding from their bodies of ash. A column of flame rolled out of my body, twisting like a rope to scour the ground. The air filled with the smell of burning meat, hot metal, baked stone. The room became an oven, the oven became a hell. And then I fell to my knees, gasping for breath in the super-heated air of the bunker. My hands were shaking and blistered. My lungs were ragged with
and the Rangers into the mouth of the grotto, then quickly made my way up the stairs to the iron door. I could only hope that the rest of the civilians had gotten far away. Soon, there would be little I could do to save them, any of them. Before I could bind the wraith, I had to release my elemental. In a perfect world, back in my lab at the Iron College, I would simply sever the ties in my soul and push it back into its native plane. But those ties were strained, and the elemental was pressing
Are you going to help, or are you going to leave me alone?” She hesitated, then started aligning the arcane tools, forming a makeshift summoning circle that would help me pierce the material veil. When it was done, she stepped outside and went to stand with the others. “Get behind something, as far away as you can,” I called out. Yvette was already leading them away, though I could see that she was nervous about going any further down the grotto. When they were mostly out of sight, I dipped my
bulkheads. I kept my eyes on the airships there, propped up to keep their landward turrets from being crushed under their own weight, the nacelle-mounted demon engines silent. I had been here for two months, and the sight of those monsters still struck a chord of awe in me. Like the first time I saw the buildings in New York, or the rattling rail-tracks of the divination engine, buried in the bedrock under the Iron College, in Virginia. Some wonders you never forget. The village of Keyside was
folded, watching me as I pulled on the complicated kit of a war-mage. His sharply pressed uniform, olive drab trimmed in red, the flat-topped service cap crowned by the pentagram and sickle of the Commissariat Arcane, looked much more appropriate for the parade ground than a drop zone. “This is not a pleasure cruise, Lieutenant,” he said gruffly. “Your men are waiting on you.” “I was reviewing our situation with the captain,” I muttered, buttoning down my static vest and helmet. Half my gear