Moving Targets

by C. L. Werner

  Taryn, with her usual cynical pessimism, had advised against the earl sallying forth to meet his public. The reputation of Arisztid Olt was such that it was easy to believe his spies were everywhere. If the infamous villain wasn’t already aware of Earl Alessandro’s presence on the Spectre, there was no sense advertising the fact. Her fingers kept fiddling with the grips of her magelocks as she followed the nobleman along the peeling, whitewashed deck. Her eyes were never at rest, constantly turning from one quarter to another, studying the few refugees and crewmen who trespassed upon the earl’s solitude. The fierce, threatening looks she directed at the intruders were enough to send even a hulking trollkin stoker retreating down the ladder to the overcrowded promenade.

  Rutger didn’t share the gun mage’s sense of alarm. The scene back in Llael had pretty much guaranteed they weren’t going to embark without attracting notice. Besides which, the earl himself wasn’t shy about spending money to get extra luxuries, something else that was certain to draw attention. There were times when Taryn’s penchant for worry bordered on the irrational. If Arisztid Olt knew the earl was aboard, Rutger felt certain an attempt on the nobleman would have been made by now. No, Olt had missed his chance. Either the earl’s guards had stopped him at Aliston Yard or else trouble with the Khadorans had slowed him. One way or another, the earl’s enemies had missed the boat. The time to worry was when they disembarked near Deepwood Tower. For now, Rutger felt the best course to take was to relax and rest while they had the opportunity.

  With a last glance at Taryn and their noble charge, Rutger strode over to the wrought iron railing and leaned out over the edge. He could see the side deck just below, rising above the doghouse over the steamboat’s cargo hold to protect the hatches. At the far end of the side deck, its rusty chassis gleaming in the crimson rays of the setting sun, stood a steamjack. A hodge-podge of salvage-yard bits and bobs, the machine was larger than a man but far less massive and imposing than Yatsek’s Mule. It was based on the Talon chassis, though the light warjack had been heavily modified. He could even see the faint marks of regimental insignia on the automaton’s shoulder. Rutger had commanded several of the mechanikal warriors over the years, their light frames endowing them with a speed and agility that heavier models could never aspire to. They could be formidable machines when properly deployed, as Rutger had demonstrated several times to the surprise of a better-equipped enemy.

  The Spectre’s steamjack had certainly suffered from neglect. It bore a heavy scrapsaw in one arm, the other given over to a pneumatic claw with three bronze talons and a jagged stump where a fourth should have been. Its role was obvious from the dried branches and shriveled vines twined about its frame and clinging to the grillwork of its head. The steamer used it to clear away the swamp growth that would creep out into the channel and threaten to make it impassable. Standing there in the twilight, rusted and dirty, a black string of smoke slowly rising from its boiler, the ’jack looked so abandoned and forlorn that Rutger felt pity for it. He knew it was sentimental foolishness to be sympathetic to a machine, but he couldn’t help how he felt. A pair of grubby-looking gobbers, their green hides spattered with oil and coal dust, tinkered with the ’jack’s engine, greasing the gears inside. From the way they bickered with each other, it was apparent that even they had no great interest in the machine they were servicing.

  Steamjacks might be the slaves of man, but Rutger felt anyone who treated them without a modicum of dignity and respect was less than human. He might not possess the preternatural connection between man and machine enjoyed by a warcaster, but he didn’t feel such an eldritch affinity was required to recognize that ’jacks were worthy of respect. There was a Morrowan proverb which held that loyalty was the measure of a man. If such was true, then it had been his experience that a ’jack was of far greater worth than many a man he’d known.

  Turning his gaze from the forlorn steamjack, Rutger stared out across the murky waters of the channel. The fading sun was just a burning smear of orange behind the skeletal branches of swamp trees, a dying ember that sent weird shadows coursing through the marsh and set black patches of gloom drifting behind every clump of reed and rush.

  At first he thought the little flat-bottom scow was just a trick of the twilight, but as the sun sank lower a stray shaft stabbed its way through the trees to shine upon the boat like the blaze of a spotbeam. The scow was cluttered from stem to stern with a jumble of oddments: strings of dried fish, heaps of fur and leather, bits of scrap, bundles of reeds, and a motley collection of jugs of all sizes. It had the appearance of a bumboat, those impertinent river-rats who would fall upon vessels midstream to peddle their dubious wares. Only one thing kept Rutger from dismissing the boat as a simple peddler. The scar-faced man staring up from the stern looked about as much like a tradesman as a wolf looks like a lapdog.

  It was then that Rutger realized some of the chill had dissipated from the air. Indeed, with each passing moment, the atmosphere seemed to become warmer. The absurd image of a kettle being slowly brought to a boil rose in his mind. Then he became aware of the dark shapes swimming away from the scow. They were almost invisible in the murky water, just dark indistinct blotches. If not for the wakes they left behind them, Rutger should have missed them entirely.

  Rutger unlimbered his hand cannon from its holster. He was just turning to warn Taryn and the earl when screams from the promenade made the effort unnecessary. The nobleman and his protectors rushed to the starboard railing, staring down at a scene of hideous savagery.

  The overcrowded promenade was a bedlam of screaming refugees trampling upon one another in their furious efforts to force entry into the choked passageways leading below decks. The cause of their alarm stood upon the promenade, the butchered husk of a young woman dangling from its claws like a rag doll. The thing was bigger than a man, its body covered with layers of thick reptilian scales. Vicious claws tipped the fingers of its hands, a massive tail stretched behind it. The creature’s build was vaguely humanoid but there was nothing remotely human about the saurian head perched atop its shoulders or the fanged snout that closed about the dead woman’s arm. Small, beady, yellow eyes with black slits for pupils retreated behind leathery folds of scaly flesh as the monster ripped the arm from the woman’s shoulder with a single twist of its neck.

  As Rutger watched the hideous spectacle, a second monster scrambled over the steamer’s side, pulling itself on deck with the aid of a long hook-edged spear. A third reptile quickly followed, closely pursued by a fourth.

  Gatormen! The man-eating horrors of the deep swamps and bayous! In the great cities of western Immoren they were regarded almost as a myth, a tall-tale told by ignorant country folk. But to those dwelling near the marshes and moors, the gatormen were terrifying reality, a marauding relic of the Wurm.

  The other gatormen quickly followed the example set by the first, using their hooked spears to drag victims from the terrified mob, gutting them with one sweep of their claws. The few men brave enough to confront the monsters were struck down by powerful tails, swatted like annoying insects. Even up on the hurricane deck, the sound of bones snapping when the lashing tails connected could be heard. The crippled heroes lay moaning on the promenade, ready prey for the gatormen still swarming up from the water.

  Rutger turned and started to dash towards the ladder, unable to stand by and watch the hideous slaughter. Taryn caught him by the arm and spun him around.

  “Our job is to protect the earl,” she reminded him in a voice that cut at him like a knife. The edge of panic in her eyes belied the ruthlessness in her voice. Rutger knew it was concern for him that put that fear in Taryn’s gaze.

  “If I can reach that ‘jack, I can get it running,” Rutger growled back, pulling away from her grip.

  “You can’t save everyone,” Earl Alessandro cried, trying to make his errant guard see reason. The nobleman had drawn a small gilded pistol with what looked to be a dozen barrels yawning from its stunted frame. The ugly-looking w
eapon wasn’t enough to put color back into his ashen face. “You won’t do anyone any good with a display of useless heroics.”

  The screams rising from the promenade spoke louder than the earl’s logic or Taryn’s displeasure. “If we’re going to have any chance against those monsters, we need the ’jack,” Rutger told her. “I need you to distract them while I get that Talon up and running.” He took hold of Taryn’s shoulders and stared down into her beautiful face, drinking in every line of her visage in case it should be the last time he saw her.

  “I’ll keep them off you,” Taryn said. “But I doubt if the earl’s ‘scary’ pistol is going to work on those things.” She tapped the butts of her magelocks. “But we’ll try and keep their attention.”

  Rutger nodded grimly. “That’s why we need the ’jack, it will be just like Latite Gorge, remember?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she nodded.

  “Just like then, we don’t want to keep them entertained for too long.” He looked over at the earl. “Stay close to Taryn,” he advised the nobleman.

  Waiting for a nod from Taryn to indicate she was ready, Rutger mounted the railing and sprang out across the promenade towards the side deck. As he sailed through empty air, he heard the snap of jaws beneath him, a startled gatorman noting his leap. Almost simultaneously there was the crack of a magelock, the eerie sizzle of enchanted lead flashing towards its target. Rutger glanced over his shoulder, saw the acrid smoke billowing from the mouth of Taryn’s magelock, the phantom ring of runes fading from around the gun barrel. The rune shot seared its way through the brute’s brain to burst from its upper jaw in an eruption of smoke and steaming blood. When Rutger’s boots landed upon the planks of the side deck, he sketched a quick salute towards Taryn up on the hurricane. The look she gave him as she pushed a fresh cartridge into the breech of her magelock told him he could expect a discussion about his “stunts” in the future.

  Right now, his problem was to make sure he was there to hear it.

  As he rushed down the deck, Rutger could feel the boards shuddering beneath him, hear the creak of groaning wood. A quick glance over his shoulder showed that a pair of gatormen were climbing up the side of the doghouse toward him. From above, Taryn aimed both magelocks at the monsters. As she squeezed the triggers, her lips whispered an unknown word. Cobalt fire belched from the pistols as she shot, a circle of wispy runes dancing away from the muzzles.

  One of the gatormen stumbled and faltered as the bullet smashed into it, but the other sprang forwards in a frenzied burst of speed, less impaired by its own injury. Rutger leveled his hand cannon at it and fired. The blast punched through the reptile’s scaly breast, penetrating its thick hide to smash the creature’s insides. Blood sprayed from the hole in its back as the shot’s force exploded from the gatorman’s body.

  For any creature, it was a mortal wound, but the slow, sluggish mentality of the gatorman seemed oblivious to the fact that it was dead. The reptile kept coming, rushing at its killer. Before Rutger could draw his sword, the gatorman’s powerful arms were wrapped about him, dragging him into a crushing embrace so tight that he could feel one of its splintered ribs stabbing into his side.

  The gatorman gave voice to a slobbering, blood-filled wheeze and brought its jaws snapping down at Rutger. Only reflexes honed on a hundred battlefields kept the mercenary from losing his face in those saurian fangs. Before the brute could strike again, its forehead was ripped open by one of Taryn’s rune shots. Rutger slipped free from its weakened grip and watched as the creature crashed to the deck, its tail thrashing against the boards in a final spasm as life finally ebbed from the monster’s carcass.

  Rutger gasped for breath, but as he drew the air into his lungs, he was struck by the tepid, humid oppression of it. Far from the chill of the hurricane deck, the air had become hot and stifling. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled at the unnaturalness of sorcery at work.

  “Distraction achieved!” Taryn cried down to him. “They’re swarming the roof!”

  The gun mage’s shots had certainly drawn the attention of the monsters. Except for a few of the reptiles still terrorizing the promenade, the gatormen were using their spears to climb up the side of the superstructure, hooking the railing and using the poles to clamber upwards. Now it was up to Rutger. He had to get the warjack in action before the gatormen could reach his partner and their patron.

  The mercenary spun around, reloading his hand cannon as he raced to the warjack. The gobber mechanics had fled, but in their retreat they’d left the service panel open, smoke still billowing from the boiler. He muttered a prayer to Ascendant Corben, and the goddess Cyriss for good measure, that the Spectre’s crew had left the machine in working condition. Flinging open the control box, he closed his eyes and threw back the ignition lever.

  For a ghastly moment, the warjack remained idle, then with a groaning shudder the machine’s powerplant erupted into life, sending arcane energies coursing through the mechanika. Smoke belched from the engine as the ’jack swung around. Rutger stared into the machine’s glowing optics, wondering about the arcane cortex nestled inside the warjack’s chassis. If the ship’s crew had bought the ’jack on the cheap, there was a good chance the cortex hadn’t been wiped and that the imprint of the old military protocols would still be there, waiting for the right command to reactivate.

  Crossing his fingers, the mercenary rattled off a command code he hadn’t uttered since his days as a Cygnaran jack marshal. The ’jack responded immediately, its eyes glowing brighter as its cortex was aroused by the old protocol. It seemed to stare at him expectantly. “The gatormen,” Rutger said, pointing his hand towards the steamer’s superstructure. “Force them overboard!”

  The warjack straightened its posture, its scrapsaw churning into motion, its remaining claws flexing as they worked the rust from their joints. The old commands stirred in the depths of its cortex. Once more it was a warjack in the trenches of Fellig. It took one shuddering step across the side deck…

  And went crashing through the splintered boards. Rutger’s eyes went wide with horror. For the first time he noticed the reinforced platform the ’jack had been standing on and the arm of the loading crane swaying overhead. The crew must have used the crane when deploying the warjack and returning it to its place above the doghouse.

  A furious bellow sounded from the promenade. Following the sound, Rutger could see a grotesque gatorman wearing a ratty leather coat and with a lopsided beaverskin hat smashed down about its skull. The reptile shook a bone fetish stick at him, hissing and growling in its bestial tones. The commotion of the warjack’s activation hadn’t gone unnoticed.

  The gatormen still on the promenade rushed towards the doghouse in response to their leader’s shouts. In a crazed fury, the reptiles began scrabbling up onto the side deck. Rutger drew his hand cannon, reloaded, and aimed at the saurian heads as they rose above the level of the deck. At this range he doubted if he could do much damage, but at least he might slow them down.

  Suddenly the front of the doghouse erupted in a burst of splinters and flying bodies. Bronze talons closed about a reptilian leg, crushing it into pulp. The teeth of a steel scrapsaw slashed through a saurian gut, spilling blood and offal across the promenade.

  Rutger whooped with jubilation as the steamjack strode out from the shattered face of the doghouse. Battered by its plummet into the hold, the machine’s cortex had nevertheless remained fixed upon the purpose he had imprinted upon its mechanikal brain. He watched with satisfaction as one of the gatormen jabbed at the warjack with its spear only to be pitched overboard by a swat from the automaton’s claw.

  The gatorman chief was bellowing again, calling down the reptiles swarming onto the hurricane deck to descend and attack the warjack. “The one in the hat!” Rutger called out. “Get the one in the hat!”

  As the warjack turned towards it, the gatorman chief cringed back, its long fangs displayed in an almost absurd smile. Pointing the fetish sick at the warjack w
ith one claw, the reptile’s other claw snatched the hat from its head and threw the affectation into the channel. The warjack shuddered to a halt, its torso pivoting from side to side as it tried to overcome the confusion afflicting its primitive cortex. Rutger was just as shocked as the machine’s cortex. A gatorman who understood Cygnaran?

  In that moment of confusion, the chief shook its fetish stick, setting the finger bones and rat skulls tied to it jostling and bouncing. A ring of glowing runes billowed about the monster’s body. Across the promenade, from the butchered husks of refugees and crewmen and even from the carcasses of dead gatormen, an eerie green glow began to rise.

  The reptilian chief was a warlock sorcerer, a bokor! Rutger rushed to the edge of the shattered doghouse, aiming his pistol at the gatorman. He cursed under his breath as he realized the distance was too great, that the bullets could never penetrate the scaly hide at such range.

  The green light evoked by the bokor slithered towards the ’jack, wrapping the machine in phantom tendrils of malefic energy. The warjack’s steel hull began to smoke as the destructive energies started to corrode its frame. Rutger cursed again and jumped down from the side deck, knowing that by the time he was close enough to do any good the bokor’s sorcery would already have accomplished its purpose.

  Fortunately, the mercenary wasn’t the only one who had noted the bokor’s magic. From the top of the hurricane deck, two shots rang out as Taryn fired both magelocks at the monster. The glyphs and smoke that exploded from the right pistol burned a sinister crimson, those from the left were wreathed in darkness. The crimson-wrapped runebullet, intended for the reptile’s skull, burst into fragments only a few inches from the scaly hide, disintegrated by some arcane defense, its enchantment dissipating in a deafening shrill and a burst of molten lead. Whatever force protected the bokor, however, did not extend to her second target. In a splash of corrosive acid, the fetish stick disintegrated. The gatorman leapt back, clutching at its scorched claw, its beady eyes fixed upon the gun mage above.