Steampunk Tales, Volume 1

by Ren Cummins

  He was certainly human-shaped, but at that point the resemblances seemed to end. His skin was blackened, looking like a large bruise that covered nearly every bit of visible skin; even his eyes shone a glistening black. His ears, hair and much of his nose seemed to have dissolved away like melted wax. In his gaping jaw, long, sharpened teeth stood in stark contrast to the inky skin, reflecting a sickly yellow against the sparse street lights.

  This, she realized, was no mere monster. Whatever it was now, it used to be a man.

  It leaped at her, as if it recognized her as a competing predator, fingers extended and maw opened wide. She swung quickly, but it seemed to already know what to expect from her. It dropped low and then lunged at her as the staff passed harmlessly overhead.

  Rom only barely avoided a raking of nails across her back – her pack took the brunt of it. Mulligan yelled – more in surprise than pain – and tumbled out, landing roughly onto the ground. The blurred movement of grey fur, golden eyes and leather wings distracted the man for a moment, which was all the opening Rom needed.

  In a dark blur of motion, her feet took to the air long enough to connect solidly with the underside of his chin before landing back on the concrete. Rom winced – it felt as if she’d just kicked solid stone. It had been a brutal impact – she had tried to pull back for fear of causing lethal injuries to him, but in hindsight she thought she needn’t have bothered. He landed heavily on the opposite side of the street.

  Mulligan hopped back onto Rom’s shoulder, his white paws flexing anxiously. “My wings are twitching like crazy,” he commented. “What was that thing?”

  She kept her eyes on the man where he’d fallen, holding her free hand open as a gesture to the girl to remain where she crouched. “I don’t know. He doesn’t look that well, and he feels like one of the dead things from out in the wild,” she said, lowering her voice. “But I can’t hear his mind in there. It’s just all… noise.”

  To the girl, she added what she hoped were words of comfort. “Don’t worry; I think you’re safe now.”

  No sooner had she said that, the man was back on his feet in a flash.

  “Or not,” she grimaced. Her staff was too slow, and too blunt, she decided, to do any real damage, even magical as it was. She needed something sharp – something fast, but with enough range to keep out of his reach. The Shepherd’s crook responded by shifting itself into a more useful form – an elegant, thin-bladed rapier.

  She swung it twice, reacquainting herself with its weight and balance. It also served to draw the man’s attention back to her and away from the young woman crying behind her.

  “That’s right, nothing else to see here but me,” she said to him. She wasn’t sure if he was even still alive in there, whoever he had been. But her senses told her that he was without doubt no longer a living being. She took another pair of steps forward, placing a bit of distance between herself and the girl but remaining close enough to prevent the snarling grotesquerie from getting to her. Again, through the mystical link she felt to all creatures on the edge of life, she reached out to try and find him; she hoped against hope that there was some sort of “him” left inside that ruined husk. But, as before, she could sense nothing.

  “I don’t understand, Mully, I can’t hear him at all. Alive or dead, I should be able to pick up something in there.”

  Her comments were interrupted by another lunge from her opponent. She parried his pair of swipes with a few careful swings of the sword, causing him to snarl furiously and back away. He seemed entirely oblivious to his originally intended victim, now, his brow furrowed in a web of rage.

  “He’s fast, and tough,” she whispered to Mulligan. “Any ideas? Targets? Weaknesses?”

  The winged cat-like creature shook his horned grey head. “I have no idea,” he answered apologetically. “Target his normal human physiology, or go for the major limbs to keep him from attacking you while we figure it out.”

  “So, pretty much, just hit him until we win.” she said dryly.

  His answer was tinged in sarcasm. “Sorry, too complicated?”

  “Hush,” she frowned. “I’m working.”

  She fended off another pair of almost half-hearted attacks before she realized that he wasn’t simply trying to harm her; he was testing her. Biting her lip, she advanced quickly with a brief pattern of strikes, driving him back a few paces. The series of moves had been intended not to cause any real damage, but to shift the focus of his movements back into the defensive. Clearly she was leaving him too much spare time in this confrontation, if he had sufficient energy to explore her own techniques.

  Fighting creatures required a completely different mindset than this opponent needed. She’d fought a dazzling variety of so-called “monsters” out beyond the Wall, in various stages of undying madness. For some of them, their spirits were firmly caught between life and death, the result being a sort of frantic insanity as their physical bodies tried in vain to free themselves. Many of these undying creatures found their way from the safety of their herds into the fields and streets of Oldtown, where they – out of madness rather than hunger – attacked the people who lived there. Nature seemed to respond by sending Rom, whose strength and skills were serendipitously equal to the task of both protecting the townspeople as well as freeing the spirits of these creatures, allowing them to fly on through the realms beyond.

  All that time had built up a certain habitual set of techniques against them – airborne, insect-like, amorphous, armored and so forth – her magical shepherd’s crook was as multifaceted as its bearer and allowed her the flexibility of shifting her tactics to suit any of the creatures she had faced. This, however, was not a mere creature of rage and confusion. This one – though clearly not human – used reasoning and was capable of problem-solving.

  After a half-dozen passes, she’d managed to get in a few very solid hits, but she couldn’t see any signs of damage. He also didn’t seem to be getting winded in the slightest.

  She sighed loudly. “Fine.” In her hands, the sword shifted back to its crook-form, but the top continued to stretch and elongate, thinning and curving until it had morphed into a thin, dark blade. The scythe form of her crook seemed to stare down into her like a great fang, reminding her instantly why she was so loathe to summon it. The other forms of the crook had specific functions: to protect her, to control and defend, and, if necessary, to wound the monsters she fought. But the scythe had one purpose, and one purpose alone. It was meant to kill; and not simply take a life, for the blade struck directly at the soul, cleaving the bonds between the soul and its body. Rom was certain it was only her imagination, but the handle of the scythe always felt cold and empty in her hands.

  The man’s eyes narrowed to small slits as if the scythe was blinding to him, and his breath escaped through his cracked lips in a guttural hiss. Instantly, he was upon her.

  She only barely managed to raise the handle in time to catch him below his chin and force his head up and away from her. His rancid breath nearly caused her to gag.

  Pivoting up and around the scythe, she followed through on his momentum with two more kicks – one to his throat and the other to his jaw, wincing again with the heavy ache of the impacts. She landed just as he lunged again.

  She struck him against his right temple with the butt end of the scythe, and brought the blade against him as he paused, slightly off-balance.

  The blade passed cleanly through him, leaving no visible trace, but she felt a cold tingle through her hands as it cleaved the bonds that held his soul between worlds. She stood back as his body shuddered gently from what should have been a fatal wound, dropping him to his knees. The scythe-blade affected the creatures she’d had to fight in different ways, but its true strength was in cleaving the restraints to life which held them in a perpetual tangle of near-death.

  Rom sighed again, letting the scythe shift back into mist with a soft touch of a gem on her bracelet. She looked towards Mulligan, whose eyes were still fixe
d on the body of the creature she had just fought. Her eyes returned to it, and her brow furrowed.

  “Huh, that’s strange,” she muttered. “He hasn’t fallen yet - -whoa!” She dove backwards as he swung again at her. Rom was quick, but not quick enough. One hand caught her ankle and held it tight, sending Mulligan sprawling from her shoulder and dropping Rom heavily onto her back.

  In an instant, he stood over her, mouth wide in a terrifying display of fangs and darkness. His blackened eyes shone with a new fury, mingled with something similar to amusement.

  More horrific still, he then spoke, with a voice that sounded like the grinding of a millstone.

  “We….know of thee,” he said. “Thou art… Death.” His breath reeked of some-thing well past decomposition, tinged with something almost chemical and sickly sweet. Her left hand flinched, hoping to summon back her crook before the creature could respond, but his foot came down painfully onto her forearm.

  “What are you?” she managed through gritted teeth. She caught a faint blur of movement from the corner of her eye, but willed herself not to react. If Mully was moving around to stage an attack, he’d need all the element of surprise he could manage.

  It laughed a gruff and raspy noise from deep in its throat. “We are nameless. But where we once were one, we now are legion.”

  It laughed again and bent down closer to her, fangs bared as though he meant to swallow her right then and there – but behind her, Rom heard a decidedly male voice call out “Fire!”, and at once a small explosion erupted from the creature’s chest, bowling him up and over her to land at the foundation of the building behind them. Coughing against the foul-smelling dust that covered her face, Rom spun back onto her feet and drew the crook in its sword-form. The grey blade gleamed defiantly in the shadows.

  The creature spat out a fist-sized quantity of viscous matter onto the ground, snarling. It looked from Rom to the direction from which whatever had struck it had been fired. From just over Rom’s left shoulder spoke a familiar baritone voice.

  “I beg your pardon, vile beast, but I do believe you’re attempting to befoul a dear old friend of mine,” he said.

  Chapter 2: In a City of Killers

  The well-dressed gentleman held aloft his weapon of choice, the Mark III Spellshot, a device which discharged stored magical energies in thinly-shielded shells. He cocked the lever action surrounding the trigger, which ejected the spent shell and loaded the next. It was an impressive enough mechanical sound in and of itself, but its most effective impression was in assuring the creature that another similar blast was ready and waiting.

  Rom’s eyes widened; she could have recognized Favo Carr’s charming voice in a crowd of a thousand screaming strangers, but still risked a glance over her shoulder to confirm it. There he stood, looking every bit the hero he imagined himself; from his carefully tousled light brown hair and brilliantly green eyes to his elegantly detailed black and gold vest and immaculate black trousers. Even his leather boots wore an inexplicable shine, betraying a degree of attentiveness almost unreasonable for the climate or condition of the streets. Favo knew the importance of looking the part, and was never one to miss an opportunity to do the right thing when a proper audience was present; even an audience of one.

  Standing just outside the cone of pale amber that flickered down from one of the nearby streetlights, Favo held the barrel of his Spellshot fixed upon Rom’s opponent, letting the spray of rain spatter from the steam-heated pistol. He raised his backup pistol in his left hand, and drew back the hammer, rotating the barrel and allowing the next artisan-crafted shell to snap into the waiting chamber with a dull clack.

  “I trust we are clear on this one fact,” he said, letting his words dance languidly to fill the street between them, “that I possess no equivocation against sending you off into whatever contemptible abyss awaits such a monstrosity that might deign to assault such fair damsels.”

  Rom had heard a few rumors about a gentleman vigilante that had been sighted on the evening streets of Aesirium, and the few accounts had borne a strong resemblance to the former crime lord of Oldtown. But whatever differences she and Favo had between them, she was suddenly quite glad for his arrival.

  The creature was not stupid. Sensing it was suddenly outnumbered, it tried to move to Rom’s right in an effort to keep her between it and Favo. Rom responded by quickly shifting further to the right and extending her blade in that same direction. Her enemy snarled and leapt straight up, choosing to flee rather than fight. But Rom had already anticipated that, as well.

  She matched it for height but reached its path before him, cutting across him in a vicious arc of her sword. Its skin felt like a thick sheet of stone, sending a strong reverberation through the hilt, but once the stone had given way, the creature’s body gave only scant resistance. The sword continued on, cutting cleanly through the monster’s left arm and digging deeply into its chest.

  As the sword tip reached his heart, however, the creature had not even time for a brief scream before bursting violently in a cloud of thick dust. Rom landed with a slight hop to recover her balance, only to be showered in a flood of small grains of black sand. She fanned her face with the sword and her free hand, squeezing her lips and eyelids shut.

  “Ew! Ack, disgusting!” she spat.

  Once the dust appeared to stop raining down upon her, she coughed again, spitting out the unpleasant tasting material that had managed to get into her mouth. She spun around, but beside the sand, the only thing remaining of the creature was the tattered clothing he had been wearing. It was mostly soiled and unidentifiable, save for a faded colored patch. Shifting her sword back into its wooden crook form, Rom knelt down to look at the fabric more closely, rubbing her thumb across it to make out the design.

  It looked to be a golden crown which surrounded a pale flower in full bloom. It wasn’t too hard to make out; the same design covered many of the standards and plaques which were on display in most streets, most notably on the central palace itself: the sigil of her Royal Highness, Karema, the ruling Queen of Aesirium.

  “What’s it mean, Mully?” she asked her companion as he hovered close and flew up to her shoulder. “This isn’t the uniform for any of the staff or security forces I’ve ever seen them wear. It looks familiar, but it’s different.”

  Mulligan couldn’t think of a better explanation, so he simply shook his head. Rom looked up across the small street towards the girl they’d rescued. She still seemed to be mostly in shock, but was being helped to unsteady feet by a man in a long jacket and hair that was stylishly tousled.

  She tucked the patch into one of the hidden pockets of her dress, and examined her pack to see if it could be salvaged. From here, though she couldn’t hear what he was saying, there was no mistaking the tone Favo was using with the young woman; calm and reassuring. She pointed towards a nearby building and nodded to him before looking back over towards Rom. Though the girl was clearly shaken by the experience, she raised one hand in a kind of grateful salute towards her rescuer and mouthed the words “thank you” before quickly running to her building on the next street.

  Favo crossed the street towards Rom. “So the rumors are true; a Reaper haunts the streets of Aesirium,” he grinned. “And to think, I even know her.”

  “Funny.” Rom frowned at the torn pack; it was rubbish now. “So, you believe in all of that, now?”

  He shrugged, taking a moment to replace the emptied chamber in the larger of his pistols. “I wouldn’t go mistaking me for one of the Queen’s monks or some such, love. But the shadows have been all a-whisper about a magical girl with a holy staff that collects the spirits of the dead. Rumor had it she walks among us, carried through the night by the leather wings of death itself.” He winked at her and holstered the larger pistol – it rested low on his hip; a rig designed for a quick draw from either of his two pistols. “Molla always suspected there was something particular about you, some special quality that led her to betray even me in her ques
t to acquire you.”

  Rom frowned at the memory. “Never did like her. I keep hoping I’ll run into her here.” She swung the crook over her arm, bringing it down with a resounding thwok on the pavement. “I owe her.”

  “Small chance of that,” Favo said enigmatically. “But,” he said, changing the subject abruptly, “we should probably continue this conversation another time; once the girl we saved gets home, she’s like to report this over the aethernet. Neither of us should be here when security arrives. The Whitehold are ever so particular about the presence of the inexplicable.” His eyes returned to the ruined fabric and dust that was being washed away by the dwindling rain; something was clearly troubling him, but, seeing her gaze on him, he shook his head, letting a casual smile spread across his lips.

  He fished into a pocket on his vest and drew out a small iron key, holding it out towards Rom. “You know the single grey tower on the west side of the palace?” He looked over his shoulder, pointing in the general direction.

  Rom indicated that she did, reluctantly accepting the key.

  “That key opens a service door on the south side, in a dead-end alley. There’re no markings or indications on the door, it just has a keyhole and a handle.” He raised his arm, slid back the cuff of his jacket to regard a leather strap across his wrist on the back of which was embedded a small assortment of tiny gems; two of these were glowing softly. “That would be my cue to make my dramatic departure, my dear. But do please drop by so we can continue this conversation in a less abbreviated fashion.”

  He half-bowed at the waist, and, with that slight smile he wielded so well, he turned and strode briskly back into the shadows.

  Mulligan nudged her cheek. “We should go, Rom, I can hear one of their vehicles coming.”

  She nodded, tucking the key into the pocket with the patch and closing it securely. Sending the shepherd’s crook back into its unseen form within her bracelet, she kicked off from the ground to land on the rooftop high above. From there, she made her way across the city, far from the eyes of the people of Aesirium, even those few who were already awake so many hours before the dawn.