Prologue

The ancient piles of dead scrap almost blocked out the rising sun as Alan fled through them, running from his pursuer. He could hear it chasing him, smashing through piles of ancient metal and roaring great roars of mechanical rage as it hunted him. He could hear its claws clacking and clanging against the metal that made up all of Rustland. He needed a place to hide, some nook or cranny where the monster chasing him wouldn't be able to reach him.

As he ran he cast around, looking for a hole in the massive piles of scrap and old machinery. He saw his salvation; a hollow in the side of one of the huge hills of rusted metal. He crawled in, taking care not to cut himself on the jagged metal sticking out of the hollow's side. There was a sort of alcove within it and he ducked in to find himself hidden from view. It was perfect.

He crouched within the alcove, shivering in fright as he heard his pursuer approach, it's heavy footsteps thudding against the ground. He heard it stop and sniff with a wet scraping noise.

It can smell me, he thought, near panic. It can smell me!

Alan heard it approach the hole. Without thinking, he allowed his hand to become a weapon, his skin become hard, smooth and woody, tapered to a razor point sharp enough to pierce metal and skin. He stared at it contemplatively. Could he do it? Could he really kill himself and take the easy way out?

He supposed it would be better than being caught by the Automaton chasing him, a quick stab to heart or neck as opposed to being torn to shreds by the creature's corroded metal claws. He would become yet another corpse among millions, buried under the metal until the Rust took him and became one with his bones.

The Automaton lowered it's head to peer into the darkness of the cave, glowing eyes peering into the gloom. It gnashed its jaws, permanently snarling in a grin like that of an angler fish, in fury as it looked, the Rust that coated on it driving it to search. It could find nothing, but still dissatisfied it extended a tendril of old metal, lengths of sharp metal joined together by Rust. It probed the ground near Alan's feet. Realising that he would be caught unless he acted quickly, Alan grabbed a piece of metal from the floor and placed it in front of the tendril's path as it felt within the alcove. It felt again, Alan keeping the piece of metal in the way. If it touched him it would grab him and then he would be doomed.

The tendril of metal withdrew and the Automaton gave a roar of fury as it realised it had lost its prey. Alan waited as he heard it leave, its crunching footsteps echoing through the great canyons of dead metal. After a full ten minutes of waiting, he crept out of his hiding place, blinking in the bright sunlight.

He cast around, trying to get some vague sense of direction; in his panic he had gotten completely lost. He picked a random direction amongst the brown-orange canyons, and set out.

He walked for a full hour, sweat pouring down his stiff, smooth skin. The oppressive heat of the Rustlands was beginning to make him giddy, dehydration threatening to do him serious harm.

If I was back in Woodland, he thought. I could get myself a drink.

But he wasn't. He was in the middle enemy territory, in a world where the people needed no water or food. If he didn't get out soon then he would die here, whether he was being chased or not.

He jumped as he heard something behind him fall and span, hand already forming itself into a weapon. It was nothing, just a piece of metal dislodged from his passing.

Then the pile it fell from shifted and six metal claws, each the size of a man's arm and sharp enough to tear through the strongest metal, flicked up from a pile of metal. An arm, made up of nothing more than old metal held together by Rust, wrenched itself free and showed the Automaton's terrible form.

It was a vague man shape, with arms that were too long for it's body, causing it to lean forwards on its knuckles like some hellish mechanical gorilla. A barrel chest, made of sheets of metal stuck together by Rust, glimmered dully in the glaring sunlight, while its massive grinning jaws snapped open and shut in anticipation.

Alan turned and ran.

He heard it bound after him, like the time it had chased him before. But before he had managed to escape while it butchered the soldiers with him, while it was distracted. Now he was alone, and it was far faster than he.

He got barely five metres before two massive claws exploded from his chest, sending thick drops of sappy blood splattering on the ground. The Automaton allowed him to collapse to his knees, before wrenching the claws free, sending him sprawling away. Alan gasped weakly, desperately trying to crawl away, before the Automaton's bladed foot stomped down upon him, ending his life.

This was Rustland. This was war.

Chapter 1

War ground to a halt as the rust storm began to brew, the wind sending flakes of rust flying into the air. Soldiers of both sides ended their fighting to shelter from the stinging scraps of metal.Only the Dryads and Automatons stayed outside, their barky hides or metal shells providing all the protection they needed.

It threw itself against the side of the Foundry, where it pattered against the metal walls that stretched hundreds of metres into the sky. The Rust, constantly bubbling and broiling along the massive building's side, simply grabbed it, absorbing it and adding it to its essence.

Michael could hear it against the walls of his room, a quiet staccato drumming that echoed around the chamber. He grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his brow and slumped on his bed, a simple affair of just a mattress and blanket; Rustlanders prided themselves on the austere simplicity of their homes, unlike the wasteful and lavish accommodation their Woodlander enemies enjoyed.

The door to his room slid open as James, Michael's loyal and close friend, entered.

“Beat you again!” he said triumphantly. “You can't outspar me, Mikey boy.”

Michael rolled his eyes as he tossed his friend his towel.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know. You don't need to gloat.”

“But you know how much I love to,” James said. “Don't ruin my fun.”

Michael punched James on the arm, causing his friend to yelp in surprise.

“Alright,” James said. “No need to get violent.”

Michael smoothed back his dark hair.

“So, what do you want, other than to be an british boat?” he asked.

“Who said I wanted something? And if I do, I won't tell you if you're going to be so rude,” James said. “Ask nicely.”

“Fine then James,” Michael said. “Could you please tell me what you came here for? Is that all you need or should I grovel and kiss your boots?”

“The please was enough,” James replied. “Though if you do ever want to kiss my boots your perfectly welcome to.”

“What is is?”

“Your dad wants to see you, Michael. He says its important.”

“I'd best get going then.”

Michael left his room, up through the levels of the Foundry. He passed the huge building's guards, who nodded their greetings, and Automatons, standing guard, silent and unmoving. If it weren't for the Rust swarming around their bodies, constantly bubbling and shifting around their metal frames, they could have been statues. The walk through the large, orange-brown corridors of the Foundry was a long one, and after the long training session in the building's sparring room the climb was even more tiring than usual. He wished there was some way he could get upwards faster, but the doctrine of the Rustlanders had always been, and always would be, that hardship bred strength, and strength was the only way to defeat the Woodlanders and their creatures.

He finally reached the top of the Foundry, tired out. He took a moment to compose himself before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” a voice called from the inside, and the Rust that made the door up slid aside, a liquid curtain that reformed itself as soon as Michael stepped through the frame.

Michael's father had his back turned to him as he entered, looking out through the glass doors to the Foundry's balcony. Outside, the rust storm was in full swing, flakes of rotten metal flying through the air.

“You asked for me?” Michael said.

Edward Smith Windsor, rightful king of Rustland, turned as he heard his son enter. His aged face, a small seam of orange Rust running down an old scar across his cheek, split into a smile when he saw him.

“Michael,” he said. “I see James managed let you know that I wanted to see you.”

“Why else would I be here?” Michael asked.

“Good point, good point,” Michael's father said. “But I need to talk to you about something.”

“What is it?” Michael asked.

“It concerns your...inheritance,” his father said.

“Father, you don't mean-?”

“I do, Michael, I do,” his father replied, cutting him off. “I'm getting on in years. Rust blood's beginning to set in.”

“Oh,” Michael said, somewhat numbly. Rust blood what got every Rustlander if the Woodlanders or their pet monsters didn't. The Rust that inhabited their bodies slowly began to die. While this was harmless in the beginning, the older the body got the more Rust began to die. After a while, it began to fill the host's bloodstream, leading to heart attacks, strokes, and eventually death as the blood simply stopped circulating.

“Don't look so dismayed,” his father said. He placed a comforting hand on his son's shoulder. “I've managed to hold on for nearly sixty years-that's good innings, far better than most. And I'll have a bit longer in me before things get too bad.”

“But, aren't you afraid that, you know,” Michael said.

“Michael, when you've lived as long as I have, you'll come to realise that sometime or another, life will have to end,” his father said gently. “Of course I'm afraid, but someday you too will have to accept that your life will end sooner or later. I know it's a shock, but I've lived a good life. Rustland has done well and I've no reservations about passing its rulership on to you. Come over here, son.”

Michael's father led him to the large window that led onto the balcony. Though the rust storm was still raging, it was easy enough to see the city of Manchaster stretching below the Foundry. It buzzed with activity, its factories and workshops creating more Automatons, breeding more Rust or crafting the goods Rustlanders needed in their day to day lives. He could see the large grounds of the barracks to the west, even though the rust storm had driven the men inside. Further out, he could see the canyons of scrap metal that eventually led to the border in Yarksher, and then into the realm of Woodland. It was a sight to inspire a surge of patriotic pride in him, despite his mood at the grim news delivered by his father.

“Soon, Michael, responsibility for Rustland will go to you,” his father said. “This'll be yours to look after once I'm gone. You're a sensible lad, I know that.”

“Thanks dad,” Michael said, still feeling glum. “But I'm just not sure if I'm ready.”

“I felt the same way once,” his father replied. “But you're a Windsor. You were born to rule. We carved out this kingdom through the strength of our arms and we'll keep it through that strength. And believe me, you'll find it'll come to you naturally.”

“You sure?” Michael, who wasn't feeling as confident as his father was, asked.

“I'm certain,” his father said. He embraced his son. “Now off you go. I've been hearing from James that you need to brush up on your blade skills.”

And the next part. Your thoughts on this?

Chapter 2

The forests of Yarksher stretched many miles, far out of the reach of the rust storm that raged, the sifter trees catching any metal that got too far in before it threatened to disrupt the forest cities of Woodland. In one of them, the great garrison city of Yark, soldiers were drilled, while dryads were bred in the massive vat-trees, their genetic structure constantly experimented on to try and perfect their recipes for their living killing machines. The buildings, made from specially bred trees, stretched their canopies wide, their thick tough leaves bathing the city in constant shade and providing it protection from airborne attacks.

But even further back from the front in Yarksher was the massive city of Nettenham, the capital of Woodland. Unlike the Rustlanders, who arrogantly placed their capital near the front, the wiser Woodlanders placed their capital well away from it, safe from any immediate danger of a sudden, decisive Rustlander victory.

Nettenham was far different from the city that once occupied that area. Instead of hundreds of buildings of concrete and metal, it was a single tree trunk trunk stretching almost a kilometre high and nearly two hundred metres wide. A miracle of gene architecture, the tree's massive roots purified the water of the sea that it grew next to, it fruits and crops providing ample food and grazing for livestock, the huge hollows within it providing ample living space for its thousands of citizens. Huge leaves provided yet more space for the people living there, the city's canopy stretching almost two miles in diameter, so large that, should anyone still be anyone with the knowledge of how to use them still lived, it could be seen by satellite.

Sarah gently slid off Hermes' back, scratching behind the Dryad's ears in affectionate gratitude. The tree-creature whinnied in appreciation, allowing the girl to pet his equine head a little longer before shaking it and wandering off to one of the glowing plants that provided Nettenham with its light and warmth, unfurling the densely packed leaves around his arms and back to catch it. Hermes was a fine breed of Dryad, mostly birch, but with some oak, ash and horse in him. Unlike the war Dryads, Hermes was used for transporting people around Nettenham, easily ridden, intelligent and fast; perfect for his role in life. As Sarah's own personal mount, he was loyal to his mistress, brought up by her own hand and greatly affectionate of her.

Behind her, Robert, Sarah's bodyguard, dismounted from his own Dryad, letting the creature join Hermes. He immediately went by her side, silent, huge and protective of his charge, always alert for danger. He escorted her through the corridors of Nettenham, giving anyone who passed them by a suspicious glare and causing them to hurry away.

After a short walk, the pair of them reached their destination, a large door set into the wall. Robert knocked on it, and almost immediately, the door was opened.

Three huge heads, each one with a set of massive, snarling jaws filled with wooden teeth, regarded them. The bark like skin that coated them was tough and scarred, testament to a lifetime of combat, and the spines and ridges running along it's arms and back indicated that it was bred for one. There was a tense moment as the Dryad regarded them, before a commanding voice said; “Let them in, Cerberus.”

The huge, three headed Dryad withdrew, crouching in the corner of the large room, leaning on its taloned hands and all the time watching them suspiciously. Standing behind where it had been was an elderly man, dressed in the old uniform of the Nettenham first regiment, made out of clothleaves and grown, like all Woodlander clothes were, to his size.

“Sarah,” he said delightedly, raising his normal arm in greeting. “I'm glad you came so soon.”

“It was no problem,” Sarah replied. “I wasn't busy, or anything.”

“Good, good,” the old man said. “Robert, do you mind leaving us for a moment? I'd like to speak to Sarah about something in private.”

The bodyguard looked hesitant for a moment.

“I'm sure Cerberus will keep us perfectly safe,” Sarah said patiently. “If you're really so worried, guard the door.”

As her bodyguard left, the old man turned to Sarah.

“So,” he said conversationally. “How is Robert?”

“Paranoid, as always,” Sarah replied. “What made you think he would be any different, Max?”

Max Holt, war veteran and one of the finest generals ever to serve in the Woodlander armies, shrugged in answer.

“He's got your best interests in mind,” he said. “After all, it's what his family has been doing for generations, guarding the royal family.”

“I know,” Sarah said. “But sometimes it's just...”

“It can be dull, I know,” Max said patiently. “But you're the only heir to the Woodland throne.”

“Of course,” Sarah replied. “But he can be just too protective sometimes.”

Jack shrugged again.

“He's young and he's thinking with muscles, not with his brain,” he said. “Of course he's protective of you.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Sarah asked. “You don't mean...”

“Oh, I doubt it's that bad,” Max said. “But let's face it; you're a beautiful young woman and he's just a young man who's letting his balls do the thinking. What else did you think would happen? If it weren't for him, you'd probably have hundreds of young men clamouring for your attention.”

“You don't mean that,” Sarah said, somewhat flattered. “I mean, I'm fairly good looking, but I can't be that desirable.”

Max laughed aloud at this, so hard he almost had a coughing fit, Sarah having to slap him hard on the back.

“You can't be serious,” he replied, laughter still on his voice. “You're stunningly good looking, intelligent and to top it, royal. Hell, if I were sixty years younger than I'd be with those young men myself.”

“You wouldn't,” Sarah said.

“I would,” Max said. “But look, I didn't ask for you just so we could talk about Robert being overprotective.”

“What is it then Max?” Sarah asked.

“Come outside,” Max said, stepping onto the balcony he had, make up of a massive knot in the wood. He drew a baccomould cigar from his pocket and clenched it between the wooden pincers he had in place of his left hand. He had lost it after he had fought and defeated an Automaton single handed, in both senses of the phrase. He took a deep puff from it after lighting it with a snapped matchleaf.

The view from the balcony was a stunning one, the massive forests of Woodland stretching to the horizon, on which dark clouds were brewing. To the south, the sea glittered in the sunlight that was currently shining on Nettenham.

“Your father wanted me to talk to you about when, you know, he passed away,” Max said.

“What?” Sarah asked, concern suddenly on her face. “Is he ill or something?”

“No, no,” Max said, blowing out a stream of thick smoke from his cigar. “But his duties in Yark have kept him busy and after his close run with that assassin he realised he would have to pass on the throne to you some day, and probably sooner rather than later, sadly.”

“I know how to run Woodland,” Sarah replied. “I know all the sort of stuff a ruler needs to know-the strength of our armies, how well our harvests are doing, everything like that.”

“True,” Max said. “But it's other things that you can't really learn. Thing is, you father wasn't the only person to realise that you would be inheriting the throne sometime soon.”

Sarah's face darkened as she heard this.

“Power mongers, you mean,” she said.

Max nodded.

“Exactly,” he said. “They'll be wanting to have their slice of the cakeroot. And believe me, they'll stop at nothing for it. Short sighted idiots, the lot of them.”

“What do you mean?” Sarah asked.

“If we had a civil war, it would be disastrous,” Max said. “We've managed to keep problems like that in check by just having one or two heirs to the throne to prevent power struggles, but the nobility want some share of power too. And if there was one now, it would be disastrous. The Rustlander lines are advancing, and I'm having a hard enough time keeping them back as it is. With a civil war, we'd be doomed.”

“Who should I watch out for?” Sarah said.

“I'd keep my eye on Lord Sheldon and his wife if I were you,” Max said. “He might act like an arrogant idiot, but he's a clever one. If anybody would try something, I'd say it was him.”

“Anybody else?” Sarah asked.

“Watch out for that old general, Stenson,” Max replied. There was a long standing rivalry between the two men, and it was natural for Max to be suspicious of him. “I wouldn't trust that incompetent idiot as far as Cerberus could throw him. And this is Cerberus we're talking about.”

“So what would you recommend I do?” Sarah asked.

“I'd keep my eye on them, if I were you,” Max said.

Sarah glanced at her wrist, and obediently a small, round, flat lump appeared, the pigmentation changing to show the time.

“I need to go,” she said. “I've got lessons with Philip.”

Max nodded.

“You'd best get going then,” he said. “You know how annoyed that old tutor of yours can get if you're late.”

This is an interesting story, and a great universe you created with the rustlanders and the woodlanders warring. I'm doing Romeo and Juliet in GSCE English and I can't help wondering whether Sarah and Michael are going to get together whilst the two sides battle...

Of course I could be very wrong .

Erm, no it's not. Not at all...

*Reaches towards brainwashing ray*