Simon and Baz were just inside the forest when the attack came. A tree to their left suddenly flashed with red light and exploded, showering them with chips and shavings of wood. Baz yelled, grabbed Simon's arm, and pulled him behind a boulder, while another flash of red light zipped over their heads. Simon felt something wet on his cheek, and his fingers came away red – flying splinters seemed to have cut his face.

Simon had no idea where they came from, or how they had approached so quietly. There were simply, suddenly, five huge mechanized things standing around the two boys, each at least twelve feet tall, studded with gears and springs and bolts, and gleaming with black and golden and copper-colored metal. Heat seemed to radiate off them.

Robots? You must be joking. Simon had fought some strange creatures over his years at Watford, but this was a new one. He and Baz looked at each other, then turned and peeked up over the top of the boulder at their assailants.

Each of the five was different. One had a huge head with laser slits for eyes; one had large revolvers mounted on its forearms, and piping sticking like spines out of its back; another had giant glass jars over its head and hands; one a huge bellows, pumping away up and down its hunched back, with steam pouring out of every joint and orifice; the last had giant wooden wheels, what looked like a cannon emerging from it, and a long neck – it was somehow reminiscent of an armored swan.

They moved surprisingly ponderously, but even in the tree-filtered afternoon light, their eyes and joints glowed ominously red and gold.

The cannon on the back of the warlike swan was moving, aiming – pointing straight at them and their rock.

Simon and Baz bolted, zigzagging between trees.

"Well," panted Simon, over the sound of the boulder exploding behind them, "there's something you don't see every day." He glanced over his shoulder, then pulled Baz to the right and skidded down a short hill. "Which around here is saying something."

They ran deeper into the forest, where larger trees would afford them more cover, and the metal monsters followed them, lumbering slowly but implacably behind.

"Robots, robots." Baz seemed incensed, as if he were personally offended by their existence. "And it couldn't be nice familiar sci-fi robots, with motherboards and solar batteries. No, it had to be these… these… pseudo-Victorian monstrosities."

Simon pointed his wand at one and yelled, "Control alt delete!" Nothing happened.

Baz rolled his eyes at Simon, even while ducking a laser beam from the eyes of the one robot. "Really, Snow, what did I just say?"

"I had to at least try!" Watford students knew dozens of spells for their computers and laptops, but it didn't look like those would be any help this time.

Baz shook his head as they jumped a log and crouched behind a tall pine. "They're all clockwork and steam," he said, peering back. "And they certainly seem to put out a lot of heat…."

It was true. Even from this distance of several yards, they could feel the heat, oppressive heat, heat that baked the cooling late afternoon air and left Simon's mouth feeling parched…. "Oh no," he said.

"Maybe it's the steam, they must burn coal at a fantastic rate… what is it?" asked Baz, noticing Simon's stiffness.

"It's not the steam," said Simon grimly. "It's the Humdrum."

"What?" Baz narrowed his eyes.

"It's like when I faced the Humdrum last year," Simon said, his stomach sinking. "The heat, the pressure. It's not as bad… but the closer they get, the worse it'll be. I imagine. He must have sent them."

Baz watched as the robots lumbered nearer, trampling rocks and underbrush and saplings as they came. "Well then," he said. "We'd best take them out quickly." He bared his teeth in a grin. "Cannon first, I think. Better get out that sword." Simon nodded. It was already in his hand, having (thankfully) materialized when he summoned it.

They darted from tree to tree, quickly. Baz threw freezing curses and fireballs – most bounced off the armor unless they landed exactly right, but he managed to light the wooden wheels of the swan-cannon on fire, halting its progress. When the left wheel broke and that side dropped to the ground, Simon ran in and swung his sword at the slender neck, just under the head. He was almost surprised when it worked – the thin copper crumpled and tore, and a rush of hot air came out of the neck… and the rest of the robot collapsed, falling into pieces like a broken shell. There was nothing in it, Simon saw – no coal, no engine, just glowing red light and a little ash.

"They're empty inside," he shouted to Baz, who was shooting a stream of water at the one with the revolvers. "No fire, nothing."

"Of course they are," Baz spat bitterly. "What on earth are they running on?" He left off with the water spell and charged at the robot, climbing up onto its arm while it flailed about.

"Baz—" Simon began, but was distracted by the approach of the jar-headed robot. "Can't walk and chew gum at the same time," he said, pointing his wand at the exposed gears in its ankles, and it tripped and fell slowly, full force onto the ground. Simon grabbed a rock almost as big as his head in both hands, and, dodging the thrashing arms, brought it down on the glass encasing the head. Once, twice, three times – on the fourth blow, the jar shattered, and he grabbed the sword and his wand up from the ground and severed the automaton's head.

But now Simon swayed on his feet. The ground was trampled and muddy around him, but he felt like he was breathing air from an oven, like the air was wavering around him, it was so dry and hot. His hands were slippery, and there was sweat running into his eyes. He looked around for Baz.

Baz had managed to not only use the laser revolvers to shoot the head off the laser-eyed robot, but somehow to knock one of the guns off the arm of the robot, and to disable the other – it hung crazily from a few wires. Vampire strength, Simon thought. But he turned in time to see Baz teeter and fall from the robot's shoulder, and ran toward him. Baz's head landed just inches from a large rock, and he seemed stunned. Simon tossed his sword into some bushes behind them and dragged Baz after it by the shoulders.

"Are you all right?" Simon demanded.

Baz coughed and sat up. There was blood trickling down his forehead. "Robots versus mages," he said, shaking his head. "Your evil twin has a warped sense of humor."

"At least nothing else is going to shoot at us," said Simon, breathing hard – he couldn't seem to get enough air. "Well done, there."

Baz shrugged, and then winced. "It really is worse up next to them. And touching them. It feels like… like I'm standing too close to the fireplace. Like I'm going to burst into flame." He tried to smile. "It's rather unnerving."

Simon opened his mouth to reply, when there was a ground-shaking footstep next to them, nearly on top of them. They scrambled apart, and the huge bellows-backed robot swung an enormous pipe, burying it in the earth where they had been moments before.

Simon had grabbed the sword and his wand, and stood with them at the ready – but his joints ached, and his throat, as if he had just drunk scalding tea. Both remaining automatons had turned toward him, were taking slow steps in his direction.

"Oi! Marvin! C-3PO!" Baz was flinging fireballs from behind them, but it didn't seem to be doing much good. They paid no attention to him whatsoever. Simon could tell Baz was moving slower than usual as well, as if they were both playing some strange game of copycat with the ponderous robots.

The ponderous robots that were coming closer and closer to him, and he couldn't quite seem to move properly.

Suddenly, Baz was next to him. "Behind there, quick," Baz shouted, pointing to a huge oak, turning Simon around and giving him a shove toward it.

Simon made it to the shelter of the tree and Baz joined him a moment later, panting. Simon felt terrible: dizzy, thirsty, and so hot. His skin felt tight everywhere, as if he'd fallen asleep outside in summer, as if he were red and sunburned all over. It wasn't quite as bad as being up close to the things, but he leaned against the trunk behind him all the same. They could hear the clanking from the other side as the metal monsters lumbered towards them.

Baz was looking at him worriedly. "They're targeting you," he said between breaths. "I feel it too, but," and here he conjured a ball of blue flame in his hand – it was somewhat smaller than usual, but still bright, "not as much." He put the fire into Simon's hand, where it flickered for a moment and then went out. He peered at Simon. "Crowley, your face is flushed." Touched his forehead with the back of a pale hand. "And hot." He bit his lip, peeked around the trunk at the approachers, and said, "I think it's time to run, Snow."

Simon nodded, though the thought alone was torture – he was so tired. "Away from the fortress," he said faintly, staggering as he took a step. He couldn't put the other students, the little kids, at risk….

"Oh, you…" Baz's voice was exasperated as he hooked his arm under Simon's and around his shoulders. "Come on, then."

They might have outrun them if Simon had been able to run at all, though the two remaining robots seemed to be moving faster than they had when there were five of them. Or maybe he and Baz were just slower? Baz tried to pull him upright, his other hand still clutching his wand. Simon was clinging to his own wand, and the sword, but he wasn't sure how much longer that would last.

Baz glanced back over his shoulder, his face haggard, and then at Simon with increasing alarm. "Dulce et decorum est..." he began mumbling.

"Golden Dawn, Baz – Latin now?" Simon said weakly, but still aggravated. "You are such a show off." Was a fight for their lives really the best time for Latin spells? That was eighth year stuff, tricky at best, almost as bad (though not as dangerous) as poetry magic. But Baz didn't even look at him, just continued to mutter, over and over: "Dulce et decorum est, dulce et decorum est…."

Why does that sound familiar? Simon wondered, his thoughts dreamy and almost trance-like. It seemed the most natural thing in the world, at the moment, to muse about the origin and translation of Latin incantations, rather than the looming steampunk monsters that Baz was still hauling him away from. Why not? It was rhythmic, almost like a poem…. But that wasn't a good idea, poetry magic was very difficult, unpredictable… some people thought a poem meant one thing, and some another, and unless you were very clear you might get very different results from the ones you wanted… some of the dreadful stories about it in class, Poetry and Magic, with Penelope this year….

He felt very slightly better as they entered a long clearing in the woods. Was it the distance from the machines? But he could still hear them, blundering through the trees behind. The sky overhead was a lovely pink and gold as evening came on. Baz tripped, and Simon slipped out of his grasp.

"I'm sorry, Baz, I can't seem to get my legs to work," Simon murmured as he sank helplessly to the ground. He knew he should probably feel worse about this, but mostly he just wanted to lie down, maybe think about poems and spells and poem-spells for a while. He was so hot, and it hurt to breathe, maybe if he lay down, head on the cool grass, maybe it would hurt less…. He could hear perfectly well, the crashing behind them in the trees, Baz telling him to get up, Simon, please, get up, get up. Get up, he told himself, severely, it must be important, Baz doesn't ask for much, he never does, just get up, but his muscles would not obey.

The heavy footfalls were nearer now; he could feel the vibrations in the earth under his cheek.

His eyes wanted to close, but then there was Baz, running to the opposite end of the clearing. Luckily, Simon didn't have to move his head to watch; it was hard enough just to keep his eyes open. But worth it – he liked watching Baz, his long strides while running, almost feline; his dark hair swept back and his chin raised, defiantly; the way he stopped and set his feet, a few rays of the setting sun turning his pale face gold and orange; the way he flourished his wand. Always so dramatic, Simon thought sleepily, ruefully, affectionately.

"Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori." Baz's voice rang like a bell across the clearing.

Whatever it was, the spell seemed to work, to draw them off – both monsters turned and plodded in Baz's direction. He was still hurling fireballs at them, but they were smaller, wavering, and the robots advanced relentlessly.

Simon took a sudden, shuddering breath, and the cool air in his lungs shocked his brain awake. His muscles still felt drained though, and he could barely move. "Baz?" he called, but either his voice was not loud enough, or Baz was ignoring him. Understandably, as the robots were bearing down on him, blocking Simon's view.

Up, Snow, up. Simon scrambled up onto his knees, and now he could see Baz crumpling down to the ground, motionless, the air all around him shimmering as if it were a heat haze.

"Baz!" What could he do, and at this distance? Only advanced magic seemed to work on these things; he didn't know any Latin, and his Poetry and Magic class seemed long ago and far away right now….

Suddenly, he knew the spell to use – one forbidden during exams, of course, but that was hardly the current issue. He touched his nose with his wand, concentrated on the class, and said, "An elephant never forgets."

There was a feeling like a flash of light, like receding walls behind his eyes, as if his head were a room that had just expanded. He could remember every poem he'd read for class, every study session with Penelope, every idle glance at the anthologies she'd had open all over the table… and he suddenly knew where he had heard Baz's spell before….

It was from a poem (by Wilford Owen, 1893-1918, the memory spell informed him), was the title, in fact; one he had read several times, studying with Penelope. He could hear her voice, translating the Latin for him: "Sweet and proper it is / to die for one's country."

His core went icy with shock. Baz, what did you do? He stumbled, then ran, up behind the robots, as fast as he could on his still shaky legs.

He remembered the rest of the poem now, and he shouted the end as he ran toward Baz, hoping, praying it would work as a counterspell. "My friend, you would not tell with such high zest / To children ardent for some desperate glory, / The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est / Pro patria mori."

He was close enough now to feel the heat from the steaming figures again; close enough to see Baz gasp, to see his eyes fly open, to see him struggle to stand; close enough to jump, awkwardly but effectively enough, and slash deep into the pumping bellows on the back of the left robot. His weight dragged the sword down through the tough canvas, and allowed him to avoid most of the burning hot steam that hissed and billowed out. The robot crumpled to the ground with shrieking groans of metal.

The last robot, formerly armed with revolvers, turned quickly toward Simon. Baz moved, Simon yelled, but both too late, and Simon watched in horror as the pipes protruding from its back struck Baz, lifted him into the air, tossing him in an arc over to the side of the clearing, where he landed with a sickening thud and an abbreviated cry.

The robot's attention had turned fully to him; it was striding toward him, and Simon could feel it again, the heat, the pressure of the Humdrum, worse than before; it seemed to suck the strength from his limbs, and even the light from the air – or maybe, surely, that was merely twilight coming on. He clutched the sword hilt. He didn't know what he would do, or even if his legs would hold him up through it.

Poetry, thought Simon, and the memory spell obliged him, pulling up dozens of poems he had read this year, scanning rapidly through them until—

Simon leveled his wand at the approaching automaton. "Things fall apart; the center cannot hold," he said, clearly. The robot stopped. Gears and springs began to fall from it, and then it burst apart.

The force of the explosion blew Simon through the air, and he landed hard on his back. It seemed to knock everything out of him – breath and pain and thought. For an eternity that was probably only a few seconds, he was completely unable to inhale, could only exhale further and further till he closed his eyes and thought he might black out. At last, his lungs expanded, and he gasped in the air that was once again blessedly cool and wet. For a few minutes he could only concentrate on breathing, and hope he hadn't broken anything too serious.

When Simon opened his eyes it was still twilight, and all he could see was the silhouette of branches against the gray sky above him. The urgency of everything that had happened flooded back into his mind, including the horrible crunching sound and Baz's wail after he fell. Where was he?

"Baz?" Simon's voice was hoarse. He coughed and tried again, rolling onto his side. His wand was there and he grabbed it. "Baz? Answer me!"

A faint voice came from behind and to his left, and it was just as well Simon wasn't standing; his relief was so intense that his legs felt weak again. "Just have to be the hero, don't you, Snow. Can't let a poor vampire get a feat in edgewise…."

"A feat?" Simon turned his head and saw Baz on the ground perhaps ten feet away.

Baz waved a hand airily, which looked comical from his supine position, though his voice was strained. "A gesture, then." But Simon was suddenly too furious to be amused.

"Gesture." Simon spoke heavily as he got up on all fours, too dizzy to stand, and crawled over to where Baz lay curled on his side at the foot of a tree. Simon knelt beside him. It was almost too dim to see, and after casting a light into the air above them – "Twinkle, twinkle, little star" – he looked Baz over. He looked dreadful. His face was cut and scraped and muddy, and his breathing shallow – and Simon could see his lower leg was not sitting right. He gingerly moved the trouser leg up and was at least relieved to see that it wasn't a compound fracture. But definitely crooked.

Baz was watching him. "You may as well," he said calmly, though his eye twitched a little. "I'll never be able to walk out of here, and you're in no shape to carry me."

Simon nodded, and, quickly, before he could think, pulled Baz's leg out straight. Baz gave a strangled yelp, biting his fist, his eyes shut tight. Simon took a breath. Thank Strange and Norrell that Penelope had insisted he learn this spell, practice it, that he would need it…. "Sticks and stones may break my bones," he ordered, pointing his wand at Baz's leg.

Baz jerked, hissing through his teeth for a moment, but then flexed and moved his leg. "Better," he said, after a moment, looking up, smiling a little. "Well done."

Simon nodded, but found, now that was done, that he was angry. Boiling, steaming, swelteringly angry. "Just what in the bloody hell did you think you were doing back there, Baz?" he demanded.

Baz's face fell, then shifted to a casual expression. Well, as casual as possible, given that he was lying on the ground, streaked in blood and dirt. "No idea what you mean."

"That spell. In Latin. It was dangerous! Bill Butler Yeats, Baz, you could've…."

"What?" he shot at him. "Died? Like you were doing?"

Simon was a little taken aback. "I wasn't… I was just… tired," he finished, lamely. He knew Baz was right, but he didn't have to admit it.

"'To sleep, perchance to dream,'" snarled Baz, struggling to push himself up on his arms; Simon reached under Baz's shoulders to help lift him. "I saw your face. That wasn't just naptime coming on."

Simon didn't know what to say.

"Besides…" Baz grunted as he sat up. "Don't you know that patria means one's country? So don't—" he panted, finally getting his back against the tree and pulling his knees up, "flatter yourself."

Simon pushed Baz's shoulder back against the trunk – their eyes, gray and blue, met. "Just whom," Simon dragged out the m sardonically, just as Baz would've, "do you think you're fooling, Basilton?"

Baz stared at him for a long moment, then dropped his gaze. "Not you, it appears." He took a breath, and then whispered. "'Core of my heart, my country!'" (From a poem by Australian Dorothy MacKellar, the memory spell prompted Simon.)

He shuddered. Core of my heart…. "You…" he said, his voice shaky. "You knew exactly what you were doing."

Baz turned his head away. "Yes," he said, quietly.

"Eight years," said Simon. "Eight years of taunting me about selflessness and heroism and… and sacrificing everything for others, for the people you love, and now, now…."

"Well," he said, still quietly, still looking away, "I would."

"I know you would. Baz, you think I don't know that?" Simon squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. "I've always known that. And you just did."

"Well, tried," Baz corrected him. "I was foiled by a meddling do-gooder, as usual."

"It's not funny," Simon said flatly. "I don't want you to die to save me."

A long pause, and then: "Well, it is a time-honored tradition," Baz said, lightly. "In all the best stories—"

Simon wanted to hit him. "This isn't a story, Baz! I…." he swallowed. He didn't have the words he needed, they were stuck somewhere between his stomach and his throat. "I can't lose you, I just can't."

Baz smirked a little, touching Simon's cheek with one gentle, bloodied hand. "So selfish. I thought you were supposed to be a hero."

"Yeah, I am," said Simon, fiercely. "And if a hero's going to sacrifice anyone…."

"Oh no." Baz was shaking his head. "No, don't you dare."

"'It is a far, far better thing I—'"

"Don't you dare." Baz lurched at him, unsteadily, and clapped both hands over Simon's mouth. His gray eyes were wide with panic, and he was gasping.

Simon gave him a moment, before taking Baz's hands and pulling them gently down. "That. That's how it felt. And I'm not even holding a wand just now, am I," he said quietly.

Baz hunched his shoulders but did not draw his hands away. "Damn Dickens," he muttered. He looked urgently into Simon's face again, and squeezed his hands till they hurt, till Simon could feel all the small bones grinding together. "You have to promise me—swear. Swear that you won't—"

"Won't what?" Simon snapped. "Won't do what you just tried to?" His stomach twisted again, horribly – Baz sinking to his knees before the mechanical horrors, his face slack, draining of color…. He pushed the image away, and hedged. "Only if you promise me, too."

Baz spoke through gritted teeth, glaring at him. "You first." Simon looked down and said nothing, and the silence stretched out between them.

"Simon." He looked up: Baz's eyes were as naked and pleading as Simon had ever seen them. "Please."

Oh Baz. Brilliant, prickly, gentle-handed Baz, who never begged for anything. Simon leaned his forehead into Baz's, his chest aching.

"Baz, I can't. I can't promise that, you know I can't. I've met the Humdrum, and he's me, and for all I know the only way to defeat him will be…." Baz turned his head away. Simon sat slowly back on his heels. "So I can't promise you that. I'm sorry."

Baz dropped his forehead to his knees, and clutched his long fingers around the back of his head. He was muttering, his voice muffled. "I know, I know…. Villains and heroes, world in peril… gods and monsters, why did I ever…."

"It's not like I want to die." Baz gave him a withering look, and Simon put his hands around Baz's face for a moment. "It's not. I'm still trying, I'm still thinking. I just can't see the way. There has to be something we can do, some spell…."

"Some spell." Baz jerked his face away, trying valiantly to sneer, but his voice slid on the edge of breaking, and there was despair in his eyes. "Now the great Simon Oliver Snow, Mage's Heir, now he wants to use his wand before his precious sword. If there were a spell that could just magically solve all this, don't you think we'd have used it already?"

"I know that. I know there's not some easy solution." Simon ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "What we need is just... options. A new possibility. Another… path." He stopped. Path. The memory spell was fading now, but… "I have an idea." Baz looked at him skeptically. "More poetry," Simon said.

Baz put a hand to his head. "And that's not dangerous or unpredictable at all."

Simon shrugged and pulled out his wand. "I could use some help."

Baz rolled his eyes. But he picked up his wand, and Simon smiled, and began.

"I shall be telling this with a sigh…."

Baz's eyebrows lifted, and he heaved one, a great sigh that seemed almost enough to knock him over. But he spoke the next line. "Somewhere ages and ages hence."

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—" Simon put a hand onto Baz's knee.

Baz covered Simon's hand with his own, and looked into Simon's eyes. "I took the one less traveled by."

They spoke together, and Simon almost couldn't tell their two voices apart: "And that has made all the difference."

As they finished, a rush of wind whipped around them for a moment, icy and hot together, blowing their hair and clothes, as though they were in the center of a whirlwind.

Then it was gone.

"So what did we just do?" Simon asked, looking around a little nervously.

"I don't know," said Baz, grimly, climbing to his feet and leaning against the tree. "I guess we'll find out."