The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus

by Michael Panush

  The shaking faded. The waters stilled. Soon, the only noise was Clay rattling his chains, trying to free himself. Everyone ignored him. “The first tremors,” Rabbi Eisendrath whispered. “The first sounds of new life coming into the world, and the rebirth of the Jewish people.”

  Asmodeus let out a surprisingly high-pitched giggle. “You foolish little rabbi. For all your knowledge, you’re not very smart at all, are you?” He sat up, his calm, jovial manner returned. “The Shamir will be your undoing, just as it was Solomon’s. He built the first Temple with demon’s magic. It laid a curse onto the stones, which seeped down and reached King Solomon’s people. It cursed them forever, and now that curse will go to you and the Dagger Men. You’ve lived for centuries, nursing your hate in the shadows of the world. No longer. You and the bearded man are the last of the Dagger Men, and the demons will laugh as you fail.”

  “Silence!” Rabbi Eisendrath grabbed the electrum blade from Rabbi Geist. He approached Asmodeus, raising the sword high. “This is the hour of my victory. The first day of the Age of Daggers. Nothing you can do will stop me.”

  “Not I, dear Rabbi Eisendrath,” Asmodeus explained. “But the golem will.”

  Both Dagger Men turned to face Clay. They approached the coffin, their hands swinging at their sides and ready for more rituals. Clay continued shaking the chains. If they were going to destroy him, he would go down fighting. “Get rid of him, master,” Rabbi Geist whispered. “Change the word on his forehead from ‘truth’ to ‘death.’ Let him rejoin the earth. I know there may be a kinship between you—”

  “A kinship?” Rabbi Eisendrath demanded. “How can their possibly be a kinship between us?”

  While they argued, Clay looked past them and stared at the sewer water. It still rippled, the green surface stirred by chunks of cement and stone falling from the ceiling. But something rose out of the water, emerging from the spreading ripples and extended into the air. Smoke boiled out of the water, though no heat had been delivered to the sewer. An entire cloud came out of the lake, and sailed toward the round cement island. Clay realized who it was, and felt an immense gratitude. No matter the danger he faced, his friends hadn’t abandoned him.

  Lilith Shadowborn reached the cement island. She moved soundlessly over the ground, floating along as her sharp features appeared from the smoke. She floated past Asmodeus and neared the coffin, a hand on her lips. Clay understood. They could slip away, and then find and warn the others about the Dagger Men’s great spell.

  Rabbi Geist and Rabbi Eisendrath still talked. “I am sorry, master. I apologize with all my soul. I did not wish to—”

  “You still have much to learn, Yossel. I pray that God gives me the wisdom to tutor you properly.” Rabbi Eisendrath sniffed the air. “Hold on.” He walked past Rabbi Geist, scanning the little cement island. “We are not alone.” Lilith coiled closer to the coffin, trying to float out of view. “I smell magic, old and powerful.”

  “Excuse me?” Asmodeus pointed to the coffin. “Right behind there.”

  The Dagger Men spotted Lilith in the same second. Her smoky limbs went solid as surprise and then rage filled with the rabbis’ faces. Rabbi Geist called the centurions, shouting an order in Hebrew. They withdrew their long swords and charged.

  Lilith met them. Twin plumes of smoke emerged from her hands and then became solid—forming twin swords of shadow. She parried the first centurion’s strike, repelling the sword with a rapid blow, and jammed her next blade into its chest. The shadow cut through ancient armor and bone. A slice cut the skeleton in half. Lilith moved to the next, driving a shadow into its skull and piercing its plumed helmet. She turned to Clay. “One moment, Mr. Clay, and then you shall be free. I suggest an immediate retreat. I cannot last against these Dagger Men for long.” As she spoke, Rabbi Geist and Rabbi Eisendrath prepared another spell, adjusting their fingers in arcane preparation.

  “They’ve chained me,” Clay muttered. “And where am I to go?”

  “I’ll deal with the chains.” Lilith swung a sword back, the point of the blade humming through the air. The sword struck the chains and split the electrum. Shining links shattered and fell to the ground, glowing like stars as they bounced on cement. Clay tumbled from the coffin and fell to the ground. “Into the water, Mr. Clay!” Lilith cried. “Filthy it may be, but we must all do horrid things from time to time.” She raised her blades as more skeletal centurions closed in. “I will find you later, and then we will decide how to save this city.”

  She was right—there was no time to linger. Clay ran to the edge of the island, gathering momentum as he shook off the last pieces of the electrum chains. They clattered to the ground, ringing and bouncing as he ran to the edge. Rabbi Eisendrath called after him, and stretched out his hand. Clay ran faster. He reached the edge and jumped.

  The sewer water reached up and dragged him down. Clay sank like a stone. He had never had much luck with swimming before, and soon he reached the bottom. Luckily, this time he had the current on his side. It slammed into him, dragging him along the sewer floor and then hauling him up and carrying him along. Clay didn’t need air—he didn’t need to breathe—and he let the water rush him into the mouth of a large pipe and down a tunnel.

  He banged against the walls, occasionally getting stuck against a portion of the tube or in a grate—but he used his strength to smash aside the obstacles, free himself, and continue floating along. He went through another grate, and deeper into the sewers. The world went green and brown around him, and his trench coat sucked up the sewer water like a sponge. Still, he continued floating along. Around him, tremors still ran through the city. It was a golem now, and the Dagger Men owned it. Clay tried to banish that fear as the current dragged him along.

  ~~~

  Finally, he found himself in a passage without much water, below a ladder and a manhole cover. Clay clambered up the ladder and rammed his fist into the manhole cover. After a few moments of pounding, he popped it off. He pulled himself out of the hole, and into a small back alley, opposite Damocles Street. Clay came to his feet and leaned against a wall for a few moments, then stared at the state of his clothes. The trench coat and suit jacket would have to go, and his fedora was already gone. He tore off his coat and suit, and tossed them in the alley, then stumbled to the sidewalk in vest and shirtsleeves. He reached Damocles Street.

  The police strike and the riots had taken their toll. Overturned cars rested in the deserted street, and many of the upper crust shops on Damocles Street had lost their windows and much of their merchandise. Clay walked down the empty street, passing a smashed automobile and examining what had once been a jewelry store. Either the owners evacuated their wares or the thieves had been thorough. Nothing inside remained.

  Clay continued walking along, shaking off droplets of sewer water and most of the stench. He needed to get back to Haven Street and find Rabbi Holtz, Zipporah, and Harvey—hopefully, they had escaped from the Roman skeletons at City Hall and made it to safety. Clay needed to tell them what had happened and prepare them for what came next. He wasn’t sure what that would be, but he had a feeling it would be violent. The Dagger Men had turned Sickle City into a golem, but what exactly would they do? Clay supposed he would have to wait to find out.

  He passed the remains of a hot dog stand. Buns lay in the street, spilling out from the inside of the stand and lying in the gutter and across the pavement. Pigeons and rats dined on them, eating as much as they could. They hardly noticed as Clay walked past. He stared down the street and looked into the park. The looting had faded in this part of Damocles Street, but it was doubtlessly happening elsewhere. Evening had already reached Sickle City, and nightfall would probably just make the riots worse. Clay sighed as he wiped sewer water from his face. He had a long way to go.

  A hum of motors cut through the eerie silence of the street. Clay turned around, readying his fists as two
armored automobiles shot across the open pavement like metal torpedoes. Sinclair-Koots detectives manned the machine guns in the cupola, already fingering the triggers and preparing to fire. They must have been patrolling the city and spotted him—just another bit of bad luck in a day full of it. Clay glanced up the street, wondering if he could run. He doubted that he could, and there were no other options beside standing and fighting.

  The armored cars rumbled to a halt, their brakes screeching before they stopped. Their side doors opened and the Sinclair-Koots detectives emerged. This time, they came prepared. The score of detectives had abandoned their armor, and now sported khaki uniforms with Sam Brown belts and peaked caps, like they were all officers in the Great War. Rifles and shotguns aimed at Clay, along with a pair of Thompsons. He stared at them, not afraid of their bullets.

  “It’s the big one, sir!” A stout detective with a face full of stubble racked the pump on his shotgun. “The big Bolshevik, from Finch Bower. That goddamn Red broke two of Lucas’s ribs. Let’s put him down now, before he gets a chance to charge.”

  “Hold your fire.” Orton Sinclair walked out from behind the armored cars. He had his long-barreled revolver raised, and trained on Clay’s forehead. Clay shifted a little. Sinclair knew his weakness—even if he didn’t know what a golem was. A barrage from the other detectives could immobilize Clay, and a bullet from Sinclair would finish the job. Sinclair moved closer. He sniffed. “Christ, Clay. You smell like a sewer. Is that where you’ve been? Hiding out after you escaped from the greenhouse?”

  “Something like that,” Clay replied. “Look, I need to get to Haven Street and—”

  “Clay, you’re not going to Haven Street. Your Jew friends will have to wait.” Sinclair leaned closer. “You’re coming with me, to the Wigwam Club. Eames is there, along with more of my men. The others are combing the city, searching for other agitators and subversives.” He took another step closer to Clay. “You’re not on any list. You’re not wanted by the Bureau of Information or the State Department. In fact, Clay, I doubt that more than a few other soldiers from the Polar Bear Expedition know that you exist. But I won’t have you interrupt my investigation. I understand why you did what you did, but I won’t have it happen again. I’m certain that you understand that.”

  Another detective cocked his Thompson. “Let’s waste the kike, sir. We ain’t got the time to—”

  “You will hold your fire!” Sinclair roared the words. He turned back to Clay. “Well? What’s it going to be?”

  Once again, Clay had no choice. If he picked a fight with these detectives, he would lose—and then he would never reach Haven Street. If they brought him to the Wigwam Club, maybe he could find a way to get a phone call to Rabbi Holtz and warn him about the Dagger Men. Edwin Eames would be there, and he might be able to help as well. Clay sighed. He held out his hands. “Are you going to handcuff me?”

  Sinclair shook his head. “Not an old friend like you. Now get moving.”

  They walked him back to the armored cars. Sinclair yanked open one door, revealing a small area in the back for the detectives to sit on a pair of short benches. Clay went to the back of the chamber, with half-a-dozen detectives surrounding him, all armed and eager for a fight. Sinclair sat across from him, his revolver in his lap. He rapped his fist on the wall, alerting the drivers. The armored car sped down the empty street, followed by its partner. The movement jostled the detectives a little, but they mostly stayed upright and waited for the ride to end. They were all soldiers and used to long waits. Clay was as well. War had taught them all to be patient.

  The armored cars sped around Damocles Street and soon arrived at the Wigwam Club. The center of politics in Sickle City now appeared to be a last bastion of law and order—a fort in the wilderness. Sandbags had been placed before the entrance, and more Sinclair-Koots detectives manned a pair of heavy machine guns facing the street. The armored cars stopped in the street and deposited Clay and a few detectives before speeding away.

  More detectives pushed the door open, allowing Clay, Sinclair, and a few guards into the lobby. The place looked much like it had earlier in the day, though every visitor waiting to see the Grand Sagamore had gone home. Overturned chairs lay on the ground, and detectives played cards or loaded their weapons in the corners. The abundance of American flags and eagles overlooked it all.

  Eames himself stood behind the receptionist’s desk, talking loudly on the phone. “I don’t care for your excuses!” He sputtered as he blared his words into the speaker, while the receiver shook in his hands. “If you don’t have the fuel, you find it. Steal it from some motorists, perhaps. Say that you are requisitioning the gas on behalf of the civic government. Flash a pistol if a badge doesn’t work!” He turned around, noticing Clay for the first time. “I need the Heavenly Chariot here on the double. Do you hear me? On the double! I want to be sailing safely away by evening.” He slammed the speaker and receiver down and sighed as he slumped against the desk. “How are you, Clay? Come to visit me? Warn me about the Dagger Men?”

  “He’s a prisoner, sir.” Sinclair marched next to Clay. “Caught defending known Bolsheviks. We’re keeping him here until further notice.”

  “He’s a Bolshevik, eh? I might have expected such a thing.” Eames stared at Clay, his face the color of tallow. “Everything else is going wrong. Do you know there was some sort of earthquake that just struck Sickle City—as if the terror of the riots and looting and the police strike were not enough!” He walked out from behind the desk, glad to have someone on whom he could pour out his troubles. “Thankfully, the tremors did not damage the city itself. Instead, they shattered roads and broke every bridge connecting us with the surrounding countryside.”

  “How bad is it?” Clay asked.

  “As bad as can be,” Eames explained. “The roads were rendered impassable. No vehicle can drive over the disrupted asphalt, or cross the broken bridges. If the National Guard was going to enter Sickle City to restore order, they would have to come from the coast and land on the docks—many of which have also collapsed—or fly in via airship. And of course, the preparations for those things take time. I haven’t even called them yet.”

  “Why not?” Clay demanded.

  Eames stepped back. “W-well, I kept on wondering how that would look. What would my candidates think of me if I couldn’t have order in my city without relying on the Federal government? I would be humiliated, so I naturally dawdled a bit on the fateful decision. Lately, I have been too busy to make the necessary entreaties. I had to arrange for my own private airship to come by, pick me up, and direct me to safety. Once I have left Sickle City, I can begin opening the necessary channels and see about bringing in help.”

  Clay drew closer, drawing himself up to his full, intimidating height. “Call them now. Tell them to send all the help they can—and many soldiers.” He paused for a moment, before deciding to invoke the name of his former commanding officer, who had led him and Sinclair in the Polar Bear Expedition. “Send word to Colonel Menelaus Montgomery Rook and tell him that—”

  “Clay.” Sinclair spoke calmly. “You are a prisoner. You can’t make Mr. Eames do anything.”

  “Quite right, Mr. Sinclair—though I do appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Clay. I’ll make all the calls you’d like, after I leave the city. Why don’t you go and wait in the Founders’ Hall? It’s a big comfortable room, where we talk club business over brandy and cigars.” He spun about, undoing his bowtie with one hand and sucking in breath. “I need to go to my office and pack. There’re certain documents, numerous records, that should not fall into the wrong hands.” He hurried to the back, shoving aside the door and almost diving into his office.

  After he left, Clay turned to Eames. “Can I make a call? One phone call. That’s all.”

  “Make it quick,” Eames ordered.

  Quickly, Clay dialed up the King Solomon Syn
agogue. He waited as the phone rang, and then Rabbi Holtz’s voice came over the phone. “Yes?”

  “Rabbi, it’s Clay.” Clay talked quickly. “I’ve been captured by the Sinclair-Koots people. I’m at the Wigwam Club, on Damocles Street.” He needed to get to the warning quickly, but he had to know something else first. “Harvey, and Zipporah, are they—”

  “They’re fine, Mr. Clay. Harvey’s getting some rest in the next room. Zipporah’s helping get some freshly made chicken soup to my other guests.” Rabbi Holtz barely paused for breath. “You’re a prisoner, Clay? We can help you. Just give me some time and I’ll call Sapphire and—”

  “No time.” Clay cut him off. “The Dagger Men have succeeded. They stole the Founding Stone and used the Shamir to carve holy words in the rock. They’ve turned all of Sickle City into a golem. It’s under their control. I think the spell will take another hour perhaps, to truly work, and then I don’t know what will happen. They’ve already cut off the city from the outside world.” Clay tried to jam his words together, so he could tell them all to Rabbi Holtz. “They’re going to try to conquer it, I think. To make some kind of second Jerusalem—another temple. Rabbi Eisendrath mentioned the Age of Daggers.”

  “Clay, don’t worry. We’ll—” Rabbi Holtz’s voice went silent. The line clicked dead. Clay fiddled with the dial a few more moments and then set the speaker and receiver back. He lowered his hands. Somehow, the Dagger Men had stopped the telephones from working.

  Sinclair stepped closer to him. “Conversation over?”

  “Yeah,” Clay muttered.

  “What do you talk about, anyway?” Sinclair asked. “You and your Jew pals. Trade stock tips, perhaps?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Come on, we’re going to the Founders’ Hall like Mr. Eames said. I’m on his dime and I’ll do what he asks.” He tapped the butt of his revolver when Clay didn’t move. “Get moving, soldier.”