Dead Iron: The Age of Steam

by Devon Monk

  “What do you say, Mr. Hunt?” Alun asked. “Care to take the gamble?”

  Cedar hankered to say no. All he wanted was a chance to find the lost boy. But saying as much was beyond him now, his reason slipping quickly. The alcoholic haze of the moonrise licked through him, the heavy weight bringing his body taut with a need, a hunger, bloodlust.

  He pushed against the ropes. This time, they creaked. Snapped. Cedar grinned at the spice of fear rising from Alun’s skin. He pushed harder.

  Something cold and heavy looped around his neck, clicked into place.

  And then the world slowed.

  Cedar was aware of every second of the change, his bones and muscles stretching, curving, compacting. Luxurious pleasure flooded his senses. He pushed again against the ropes, which fell in a pile at his feet as if someone had released the knots. He needed free of these clothes, and stood, dreamlike, pulling each piece away from his skin, and folding it carefully upon the chair where he had sat. Coat, vest, shirt. His hand paused at the tuning fork and chain, both of which he left hanging against his heart. Belt, boots, pants, and drawers, all stacked neatly in the pile.

  With every inhalation, a heady rush of heat pushed through him. He was alive, nerves burning, filled with the need for the air, the sky, the ground beneath his claws, and blood in his mouth. His eyesight sharpened, clarified, colors draining down to only the necessary few. His hearing cleared of the blood and thrum, and smells became infinite.

  He fell down upon four feet, his mind sliding at last into the final haze of unthinking—blood hungry and needing to kill. An icy shock radiated out from the chain at his neck, clearing away the haze.

  Cedar wanted to hunt, to tear and rend and mutilate. And the Madders would be the first to fall.

  Coolness washed his mind again.

  “You’ve your senses, Mr. Hunt,” Alun said. “If you use them.”

  Cedar realized he was in possession of his thoughts, the man in him nearly as strong as the killing instincts of the beast.

  Kill, the beast in him said.

  Cedar pulled against the blood hunger, like hauling back on reins. The need for blood eased.

  He looked up at the three brothers, who did not seem one bit surprised at his state.

  “Do we have a deal, then, Mr. Hunt?” Alun asked. “The silver tuning fork is yours. This money is yours.” He bent and dropped the bag of coins on the floor between them. “The favor between us is absolved. If, in return, you will find our Holder.”

  Cadoc reached into a pocket inside his vest and pulled out a small, clothbound book. Inside the book was a single dried flower. He carefully turned a page so that the flower was covered, and then tore the next page out from the spine of the book.

  The internal binding on the book showed bare stitches and ragged bits where too many other pages had been removed.

  Cadoc closed the book and then tore the page in half.

  The air filled with a fragrance Cedar had smelled only once before—from the book Wil had found. Sweet as honey, it carried the promise of music, wine, joy, and warm summer nights that never ended. It carried a promise of something just beyond reach, just beyond taste. Something powerful.

  “That is the scent of the Holder,” Alun said. “Find the blacksmith’s boy. Then find the Holder. Do we have a deal?”

  Cedar opened his mouth to agree, but only a breathy woof came out. He might have the mind of a man, but he did not have the words. Fine. He picked up the bag of money and placed it on top of his clothing.

  The brothers laughed. “As sound a yes as we need. Good hunting to you,” Alun said, “and luck besides. Bryn, the door.”

  Bryn was already headed to the wall where he worked the lock, then the wheel to set the door rolling smoothly on its hidden track.

  A rush of night air pushed into the cavern, bringing with it a thousand different smells of forest and creature and sky. Too many scents for a man’s mind to sort. Cedar knew what every smell belonged to, not by name, but by the texture of the scent.

  It was a powerful knowledge to break the world apart into so many pieces. It made it easy to find the Strange, easy to find his prey.

  No, Cedar thought, first he’d find the piece of the world that belonged to the Gregors’ boy, then the Holder, then whatever else he hungered for.

  He walked to the door, sniffed the air, sorting the possibilities riding the wind. Life throbbed out there, animals and humans and Strange, filled with blood and bone. A haze of red covered his vision.

  Kill.

  The scent of the boy was faint, shuttered by too many other scents, too many other things he needed to tear apart, destroy. Cedar raised his voice and howled with want, with need. His hold on the beast slipped, and he fell, his thoughts buried, his control lost in the need to hunt. To kill.

  He ran into the night, inhaling scent and odor, searching for blood, for bone, for flesh.

  A horse nearby, hot from a long day’s ride. His horse. So easy to bite, first the hamstring, then the neck, then blood would fill his belly. He stalked off that way.

  Something skittered in the brush to his right and ran.

  Jackrabbit. Fast, hot. Terrified.

  Cedar tore across the scree after it, weaving through the brush, faster than any other animal, gaining on the kill, savoring the chase, closing in, fast. He clamped his jaws down on the rabbit’s head.

  Blood, sweet, warm, and salty with the slick of brains burst through his mouth. He chewed and chewed, licking the fluid off his muzzle before tearing the heart out of the chest. That he swallowed without chewing.

  The need for blood eased as he made quick work of the rest of the hare.

  A thought lifted through the heat of the kill. A boy. He was supposed to find a boy.

  Cedar followed that thought, and rose up out of the beast’s needs like a man breathing free of a deep dive. He reined in the beast once more and sniffed the wind, catching the boy’s scent.

  A cool wash poured over his mind as he loped toward the town.

  Find the boy, not kill the boy, he reasoned.

  The beast within him growled.

  Find the boy, find the Strange, find the Holder, Cedar thought. Each word was a rope around the beast’s neck, building a harness that pulled it back into his control.

  But the need for blood pushed at him. The beast would stay calm so long as its hunger was slaked. And he had not let the beast eat for many, many months. Soon, he would need to kill again.

  He must go by the boy’s house and pick up his trail quickly. Before the beast, before his need to kill, overtook him again.

  Cedar ran, faster than any other creature in this world, wild and alive, the tuning fork singing one sweet note against his heart as the hunt began.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Jeb Lindson had been working his way from shadow to shadow all the day. Some shadows were so far apart, sunlight had plenty of time to pour over his skin and burn down deep, leaving his flesh weeping. But that didn’t stop him from walking. On and on. Into the next shadow. Through the light and into the shadow again. For Mae. For his beautiful wife.

  The sun had taken its time to roll across the sky and down behind the hills, but it was nearly gone now. Shadows hooked the edges of night and pulled darkness like a quilt back over the ground again.

  Jeb liked the night. He could move faster in the night. That meant he could find Shard LeFel faster in the night. And then he could kill him.

  Other things moved along with him in the night. Animals going about their hunting and scratching. Some pausing to watch as he shambled by. They didn’t come too close, so Jeb paid them no never mind.

  Pretty soon he heard something more than animals moving. Pretty soon he heard the hiss, the pump, and the clatter of matics. Matics coming closer. Coming toward him. He stopped and listened while the wind hushed itself up high in the trees. Could be the matics were set out in the night to work the land. Maybe for a farmer. Maybe for a logger. Maybe for a rancher.

&nb
sp; He’d seen matics, seemed a long stretch of time ago. Matics working something more than fields. Iron. Laying down dead iron for the steam engines. A rail. They’d been building a rail. He could not recall which way that rail had fallen. He thought and thought, but no memory filled that hole.

  Jeb looked to the sky, the hangman’s rope around his neck shifting across his back. He squinted to make out the stars through the juniper branches. He could not remember which star set the sky north. Could not remember much about the land he walked across, or the sky he labored under.

  He was not much of a man left.

  But the dragonfly wings fluttering against the silver box somehow dug deep down into his heart reminded him of one thing. He was set upon finding Shard LeFel. And once he did so, he was going to tear him apart.

  The huff and hiss of steam escaping through metal vents filled the night. Might be the matics that worked for Shard LeFel laying down that rail.

  Jeb cocked his head toward the sound. To his left. That was where the sound came from. That was the way he’d go.

  A flash of brass out in the scrub brought his attention back down from the spangled sky.

  A matic tromped out from behind a bush. Big as a horse and black as coal, it had spindle legs, four sets of two that all seemed to work independent of the others to keep it upright. The water tank hung down from the back of the long boiler body of the thing, and the chimney at the front had been worked into a horselike head with no eyes. Steam poured out of its gaping mouth. Brass pipes and valves and a ruby red whirring centrifugal governor stuck up out of the beast’s riveted back like a porcupine’s quills. And all across the side of it were six piston-driven arms, each ending in a thresher blade. Looked like a thing made to stomp a man to death, then mince his bones for bread.

  It paused, huffing, six arms clacking, six blades clicking. The wind shifted, pushing at Jeb’s back, and taking his scent right as you please to the matic.

  The matic swiveled its misshapen head and stared straight at him—if it’d had eyes. Then it screamed—the sound of metal on metal—and a plume of thick white steam poured on out of its mouth to swirl around its head. It took straight aim and charged him.

  Jeb grabbed hold of a thick bough and tore it from the tree. Splinters sprayed over the dry ground. He’d been a strong man in life, and dying, each time he’d done it, had made him stronger. He hefted the branch across his shoulder like a baseball bat. The legs, he thought. First the legs, then the pressure valve there at the neck. Arms next, if he had to, then head.

  The matic was almost on him. The heat from it stung Jeb’s nostrils. The huff and clamor clogged up the strangely silent air.

  Jeb stood his ground, no fear in his heart. He’d come back from death so many times, fear didn’t have a hold in him no more. But hate . . . Well, hate he’d give all the room it needed.

  Jeb swung high to block the blades and arms, then low and hard, taking out the first two legs. The matic’s momentum sent it tumbling to the ground. Three sets of legs scrambled to lift it back up, while three sets of arms sliced at Jeb.

  A blade cut his shoulder, drawing blood.

  Jeb roared and swung again. The pressure valve just behind the thing’s head popped. Steam screeched in a wild, blasting stream, but the valve didn’t fly off.

  Before the thing could fully right itself, Jeb took one more swing, this time at the head.

  The branch broke; the head dented. The matic pushed up on its legs and threw Jeb to one side.

  Jeb stumbled to catch his balance on his broken ankle, even though the rope around his neck dragged at him and slapped his boots.

  The ticker paused, the steam still screaming out of it as it worked to balance without a set of legs to stand on. It didn’t pause for long.

  Jeb had to take it down and keep it down this time. He opened and closed his hands, wishing he had some kind of weapon to beat it with.

  Maybe he could get to the tree and pull off another branch. He took a step and the rope around his neck struck against his boot again, near enough to trip him.

  Jeb stopped. The rope. He had himself a weapon all along.

  The matic wasn’t moving quickly yet. In a tick, it’d be within stomping range; it’d be within mincing range, all six arms aimed to take Jeb’s head off.

  Jeb tugged at the rope at his neck. His fingers were thick and slow to work the knot, forcing it to loosen as he stumbled toward the tree.

  The matic found speed in its footing and lunged.

  Jeb tugged the knot free. He ducked the first slice and pulled the rope off over his head. The matic reared up, threshers slicing down, one after the other, tight and close in mechanical precision. Jeb scrabbled back and threw the rope up round the matic’s arms, pinning them tightly together.

  The matic jerked back, tightening the knot set in the rope. Jeb slung the rope over the meat of his shoulder and heaved to.

  The metal beast dug back against the pull. Without its front legs it was heavy, unbalanced. The matic’s back legs slipped in the loose soil. Jeb heaved again. It toppled, boiler gouging ruts into the hard ground as Jeb yelled out his rage, dragging the monstrous device a dozen paces, before dropping the rope and turning.

  Jeb threw himself on the beast and grabbed at a valve with his left hand. He didn’t care that it was so hot metal burned the flesh off his palm. He squeezed and tore it apart.

  Steam released in a gout of wet heat. Jeb jerked away, out of the way of the steam, out of the way of the matic that thrashed like a fish tossed ashore, trying to right itself. He scooped up the rope, and took hold of the lowest arm at the joint. Then he leaned back with all his weight. Metal twisted and screamed as the ball popped free of the socket.

  Just like ripping legs off a crawdad. Jeb plucked off the next arm, rods and gears twisting, snapping. Then he ripped off another.

  The matic clacked and shook, running out of steam, running out of fire, legs driving like pistons, digging deeper into the soil.

  Jeb dropped the rope and the thresher arms and reached for what was left of the head. There was glim in there, he could smell it, could taste it. More of it in that head than in the whole little owl ticker he’d ate.

  Insatiable hunger washed over him. He didn’t care if he had to walk into a storm of bullets or an army of knives to get at that glim. He would do anything to drink it down.

  He got both hands around the head and twisted. Metal buckled under the strain, but the welds held. He squeezed harder, set his good foot against the boiler, and heaved backward, wrenching the head clean off.

  He stumbled and fell flat on his back. If he’d been alive, it would have taken him a minute to get his lungs working again. But he didn’t need for air, as such, anymore. Shard LeFel had seen to that. He sat and ran his fingers over the rivets and along the seams that held the head together. Then he pulled the head apart, his fingers strong, stronger than any living man’s.

  Suspended by wires and balanced among cogs was a glass vial filled with the same sort of green light he’d found inside the owl.

  That glim would fuel him. Make him stronger.

  Jeb pulled the vial out of the metal shell surrounding it, and shoved it into his mouth. He bit down hard, molars breaking glass.

  The vial shattered. Not quite liquid, not quite gas, the glim filled his mouth with a hot, sweet juice. The burn warmed him all the way down his gullet, and set the dragonfly in his chest fluttering faster. He felt stronger. Much stronger. And the glim did some good to power the dragonfly too.

  The devil’s devices might be tough to crack, but the sweet inside was worth the trouble. Without the vial, the matic rattled like an unbalanced flywheel, the clatter inside it slowing, the steam cooling, until it lay still, a lump of useless metal, cold unto dying.

  Jeb brushed the bits of glass off his tongue and smacked his lips. He stared at the matic a while or two. He had to get moving, had to get walking again. Where there was one matic, there would likely be more. Enough to slake his hunge
r. A dead man didn’t need food to fill his belly. He needed glim to fuel his brain.

  He pushed back up on his feet. His hand wasn’t working as well and his shoulder seemed out of joint. Fighting the matic did him harm, but that would not stop him from finding LeFel. Would not stop him from returning to Mae. He took a few steps more—then a thought came to him. He should take himself a weapon.

  The rope was a good weapon, so he took the rope. The matic’s arms were strong and long and sharp like a scythe, so he took two of those too, hooking them over his shoulders.

  Satisfied, he started walking. Toward the rail. Toward the end of Shard LeFel’s life. Toward his Mae.

  He made it quite a ways. Up off the scrabble of stone. Up onto a path through scrub that reached as high as his chest. Far enough his shoulder found its way back into the socket. Far enough the thin forest gave way to rolling hills with very few trees. He took the easiest path—along a tumble of boulders to one side that became a sheer rock wall on the other. The rail was out there. And he aimed to find it.

  By and by, as he worked his way slowly through the dark, he heard them.

  Matics. Clattering over the ground, thumping, skittering over the stones. They were coming. Coming for him. More than one. More than two.

  He looked out far as he could see. There, through the scrub, cresting over the hill and pouring down toward him. Matics. He counted up to four, but more kept coming. So he stopped counting. Jeb found himself a stone to put at his back with plenty of room in front of him for swinging. He tugged the thresher arms off from over his shoulders and stood his ground.

  Two of the matics spotted him. He licked his lips, already hungry for the sweetness in their heads.

  The matics rushed.

  Jeb Lindson smiled.

  Then he started killing.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Shard LeFel rarely slept. He had found no use for nights spent dreaming of death.

  But tonight he was more restless than most. He waited outside the rail carriage, pacing the length of the observation platform, waiting for the return of the tickers he had sent to bring him Jeb Lindson’s head.