The Dagger Men: A Novel of the Clay Shamus

by Michael Panush

  “Give me the chopper,” Clay ordered.

  Kid Twist stared at his Thompson and then shrugged. “I got more than one gat.” He handed Clay the Thompson and then withdrew a third drum magazine from his coat. He tucked it into the outside pocket of Clay’s trench coat. “What are you gonna do, big man?”

  “Protect my creator’s nephew.” Clay was strong enough to hold the Thompson in one hand. He hoisted the gun, aiming it upwards as he flexed his arm and prepared. “Stay here, Zipporah. Stay with Kid Twist and the rabbi and his men. Use the temple for cover. Don’t let the Dagger Men move the Founding Stone. I’ll be back shortly.”

  “Clay, you don’t need to fight a war by yourself,” Zipporah said.

  “Why not?” Clay asked. “It’s what I was built for.” He leapt from cover and ran down the steps, momentum adding to his speed. Even the skeletons seemed surprised. Clay ignored them. He had fought armies before and won. It was time to do that again.

  ~~~

  Time seemed to run faster, moving into a blur as the combat truly began. Clay raced down the steps, his size and speed giving him strength, and smashed through the first rank of skeletons like a wrecking ball. He swept his free hand out, driving it into the bodies of legionaries as he plowed past. Bones and rusted armored shattered on his arm. He smashed a skeleton into the air, tossing it into a pile of its fellows, and stomped on the skull with his boot as he ran past. A gladius drove into his gut. Another stabbed into his back. Clay ignored them. He reached the Tree Men and fought alongside them for a few moments, punching and kicking and driving the Romans back. Pila and arrows whistled down and stabbed into his body. They slowed him down. Clay finally decided to use the Thompson. He aimed the gun with one hand and fired. The recoil banged its way into his limb, but he held it steady. He wiped out a row of archers and cleared a path—then ran for the downed police van.

  He hurried away from the building site. The rustling of bones moved around him, as a squad of Roman cavalry charged him from the side. Their swords glittered in the rain and water ran down the curves of their horses’ ribs. Clay thought quickly. He grabbed the nearest brazier of fire and coals, rammed his shoulder against it, and pushed. The brazier went up, and the burning logs inside spilled out—straight into the front ranks of the cavalry. Flame clung to the bones. Dead horses leapt and danced as their armor burned. Clay gave them a burst from the Tommy gun, cutting down horses and riders, and then turned to run.

  The Black Maria still seemed too far away. Clay fixed his eyes on the crashed van as he ran. The ground seemed to hunger for his boots. Mud clung to his feet, and tried to drag him down. A hill bulged out in front of him, trying to stop his approach. Clay ran over the hill, crested it, and jumped. He landed on the other side and kept running.

  The door of the van swung open. Detective Flynn emerged, dazed from the crash. He raised a Browning Automatic Rifle, a portable machine gun from the tail-end of the Great War, which seemed as big as he was. Detective Flynn tugged himself out of the car, raised the gun, and began shooting at the surrounding Romans. The BAR roared and chattered, recoil ruining his aim—but there were so many skeletons that he could almost not miss. Their first line collapsed under the roar of the BAR, but Clay knew that those big guns didn’t have many rounds in their square magazines. He doubled his pace, running over the ground and racing toward the Romans.

  The Dagger Men’s golems chased him. Golems of steel and earth followed at a run, the ground smoothing around them to make them run just a little faster. Clay turned and fired at them with the Thompson. He brought down two, ripping their heads apart with the Thompson’s big bullets. A steel golem charged a little faster and reached him. It smashed a forearm built from a steel girder into Clay’s shoulder, knocking him down, and then kneed him hard and kept him on the ground. Mud boiled around Clay, trying to drown him. Clay forced the Tommy gun into the golem’s face and fired. Bullet holes appeared in the metal, crossing out the Hebrew word. The golem collapsed. Clay pushed it aside and came to his feet. He ejected the empty magazine, tossed it to the ground, and withdrew the second drum. A quick reload and then he kept running, racing to the back of the Roman column.

  “Clay!” Detective Flynn spotted him. “Take them in the center! I’ll work the flanks!”

  The Tommy gun and the BAR roared together. Clay used the entire clip and Detective Flynn did as well. Their shots tore into the legionaries from both sides smashing apart skeletons and ancient armor. Romans collapsed, their rectangular shields and short swords plopping into the muck. They managed to send a few javelins and arrows whistling at their attackers as they fell—and one arrow slid into Detective Flynn’s leg, piercing flesh right below the knee. He dropped, but propped the BAR on the mud and kept firing. Clay didn’t let up either, until the legionaries had been cleared away. Then Clay ran to the fallen car.

  He reached the Black Maria, smoke leaking from the muzzle of the Thompson. Clay dropped it and stared at Detective Flynn, who gripped the bloodied arrow jabbing into his leg. “Merely a scratch.” Detective Flynn pointed to the car. “See to the lad. The poor boy’s banged around some, but still all right. Get him out of there, Mr. Clay.”

  Quickly, Clay reached the front of the overturned van. He peered inside and offered his hand. Harvey took it. Clay pulled him out and set him down. Harvey had received a cruel bruise to his cheek and one lens of his spectacles had broken. He winced a little as he stretched his legs and gingerly stood on the now sloping meadow. “I’ll be okay, Mr. Clay.” He looked at Detective Flynn, his eyes widening. He gripped the Serpent Yad, holding the precious pointer between both hands as if he was afraid it would slither away. “Oh, sir. Are you all right?”

  “Fine and dandy.” Detective Flynn fumbled to reload the BAR. “I’ll battle more of the ghouls. Try to keep them away from you. You get Harvey to the Founding Stone, Mr. Clay. Put an end to this quickly.” He winced. “Ah Hell. It seems the foul Dagger Men aren’t going to let that boy reach the temple.” He pointed down the meadow.

  More Romans approached—an army of the skeletal legionaries. Golems joined them, hulking titans of bricks, steel and dirt, who tottered as they ambled along. Smaller, lean golems made of wood and stone moved under them, their limbs sharpened into deadly points. From the sky, a dark cloud of Broxa fluttered down from the rain. The vampire birds spread their wings, rain dripping from the points of their beaks and the tips of their talons. They flapped toward Clay, Detective Flynn, and Harvey, emitting no cries as their silent wings pulsed. The ground had sloped under Clay’s feet, forming a valley around Clay and his friends. The Black Maria groaned as the earth formed a crater below it. They were trapped before all the servants of the Dagger Men.

  Clay had used the last round of his Thompson, and he doubted that even his strength could keep Harvey safe from all those golems. His stony body creaked, unsure what to do. Had they fought so hard, only to be overwhelmed here?

  Harvey then cupped a hand to his ear. “Wait a minute. Listen, Mr. Clay.” He smiled. “Do you hear? Below the rain—it’s engines! And footsteps!”

  Sure enough, the hum of distant engines rumbled somewhere past the rain. Pounding footsteps joined in—and then a roar of gunfire came from every end of the park. Clay had to see for sure. He scrambled to the side of the valley and clambered up, digging his fingers into the earth to haul himself out of the pit. Harvey hurried to join him, wincing as he struggled to climb. Clay grabbed the back of the boy’s collar and simply carried him, pulling him out of the shallow pit. They stood together in the broken grass, the rain rippling down, and looked at the northern, southern, eastern, and western sections of Arcadia Park. The various criminals of Sickle City had finally arrived. It had taken them a while to get organized, but now they had shown up, eager for battle.

  Sapphire’s Jewish Mob attacked in an array of sleek roadsters, goons poised on runners of their automobiles with Thompsons
roaring. They roared over the open meadow, firing at the golems and Romans and cutting them down. More of his gunmen approached on foot, using pistols and rifles to pick off whatever the submachine guns missed. Sid Sapphire walked behind them all; an overcoat draped over his shoulders like a cape and his cigarette holder a smoldering point of cherry red light in the gray rain. Across from them, Don Brunetti and the Italians of Campion Street came in thick clusters of dark overcoats, their sawed-off shotguns roaring at close range and shattering the skeletal bodies of the Romans. Their riflemen followed, Sicilian marksmen with rain dripping on the brims of their flat caps as they put their long range weapons to use.

  From the other end of the park, the Madam Gracie’s gang and the Shadow Brothers Tong attacked alongside the remnants of the Sickle City Police Department. Madam Gracie led her mob from the front. They used shotguns and rifles, then crossed the Roman swords with iron bars, bats, and trench clubs. Bolo knives pierced ancient armor, and they forced their way through the first lines of Romans. The Shadow Brothers fought with their own weapons. Bethany Hark led them, her rapid-firing crossbow shooting a barrage of arrows into the Roman ranks. Tong hatchetmen cleared a path ahead of her, staffs, broadswords, and axes smashed apart the skeletons. The SCPD officers used their guns and then their nightsticks to defeat their enemies.

  Clay could hardly believe it. Normally, all the gangs of Sickle City would be at each others’ throats, fighting madly for the rackets of a city block, bootlegger routes, or the profits of a couple speakeasies. They would scarcely sit together without drawing weapons and picking a fight. But the Dagger Men had united them. They had tried to take a diverse city and make it uniform. They had not succeeded—but they had indeed forged the city, or at least its underworld, into something close to a unified force.

  Harvey watched as well. “They’ve all come to help. All of them.”

  “This is their city too,” Detective Flynn explained. “And they don’t want it to be the Second Jerusalem.” He gripped the edge of the Black Maria and helped himself up, gripping the ridges by the door by a support and then leaning against the vehicle. He balanced the BAR on the overturned hood. “Now, Mr. Clay. Take the lad and get to the temple. Put that serpent pen of his to good use and undo this magic which has conquered our city.”

  “He’s right, Mr. Clay,” Harvey agreed. “Let’s go.” He paused. “I am a bit tired, and I’ve never been very good at running. Perhaps we can—”

  Quickly, Clay picked up Harvey and rested the boy on his shoulder. He carried Harvey like the boy was a sack of beets held by a farmer in the Old Country, and dashed across the meadow. Mud flew under his boot as they ran through the rain. Some intelligence in the Roman skeletons, or maybe the city itself, tried to stop them. Arrows flew through the air. Clay swept Harvey down and turned, letting his arm take the shafts. They burrowed into his skin, ripping his sleeve, and stabbing deep into his body. Clay ignored it, hoisted Harvey up and kept running. A Roman war dog charged toward him and he dispatched it with a kick. The temple drew closer, and Clay kept running. Harvey held on, squeaking in panic as the ground moved and bounced under Clay’s feet.

  “Mr. Clay!” Harvey pointed to the sky. “The Broxa—they’re coming down!” The Dagger Men must have known about the Serpent Yad and the power held in that small length of gold with the emerald eyes. Rabbi Eisendrath would use everything at his disposal to stop them. Clay kept running as the Broxa descended.

  The vampire crows raced around him, their claws lashing down. Beaks drilled into his back and arms, as the Broxa aimed for his head and the vital letters written there. They attacked Harvey as well. A Broxa rammed into his chest, poking him with its beak as its claws scratched. Another Broxa went for the Serpent Yad, managing to wrap a few spindly claws around the golden stick. Harvey tugged it back, wincing as talons scratched for his face. Clay pulled him to the side and slugged the Broxa. His knuckles brushed against scratchy feathers. The Broxa wheeled down and struck the ground. Clay stomped on it. Small bones cracked. Clay ran ahead before more Broxa could descend. They still flapped after him, squawking madly.

  The Third Temple drew closer. It seemed strange in the gray rain, black smoke, and dancing red flame from the braziers. Broxa wheeled and fluttered around it as Roman skeletons still tried to get inside. Kid Twist and Zipporah stood in the doorway. The twin scimitars hummed in Zipporah’s hands as she parried the blades of skeletons and hacked at the heads of golems. Kid Twist took a position behind her, his twin automatics blazing in his hands. He probably wouldn’t be happy that Clay had ditched his Thompson. Clay didn’t care. The Tree Men still battled the Romans, though they had been driven further back to the forest. The gangsters of Sickle City would reach them and help them wreck the legionaries with firepower, but Clay didn’t know if they would make it in time. Perhaps the Men of the Field were just another group he couldn’t help.

  The Broxa still buzzed around them, their talons shredding Clay’s coat. He kept his head low, staring at the shifting, muddy meadow. Harvey said something, clutching the Serpent Yad tightly as talons jabbed into his arms and drew blood. They could rip the boy apart, tearing him to pieces and carrying him away. Clay spun, putting his back to the Broxa. Beaks and talons drew lines in his back, but couldn’t do as much damage. They needed to get rid of those birds.

  “Clay!” Cohen roared over the sounds of the battle. “Down!”

  “And keep my son safe!” Rabbi Holtz added.

  Something small and olive green bounced into the mud. Clay tossed Harvey ahead and then jumped himself—right out of the swarm of Broxa. Harvey hit the mud, bounced, and rolled—the Serpent Yad a line of gold in his hands. Clay hit the mud as well. Cohen’s grenade exploded behind them, engulfing the Broxa in a burst of red flame. Black feathers rained down. More Broxa still wheeled overhead, but the grenade had bought Clay some time.

  He stumbled to his feet and ran to Harvey. The boy had lost his spectacles. He reached in the mud, fumbling through grass until he found them, and set them gingerly on his nose. “Mr. Clay?” he asked, as he weakly came to his feet. “Is this what it’s like? Being a golem, I mean? Getting smashed and thrown around and beaten without having a chance to catch your breath?”

  “I can’t breathe, Harvey,” Clay said.

  “Oh.” Harvey straightened his tie. He wiped blood from his nose on his sleeve. “Well, I think we’re almost there.” He pointed ahead to the Third Temple. “There’s the Founding Stone. All I have to do is make a few marks, and then this will be all over.” He stood tall, sucked in air, and squared his shoulders as he faced the temple. “I c-can be brave, Mr. Clay. I can be a soldier, just like you. Maybe I can even be a golem.”

  “No,” Clay said. “You never could.”

  He offered his hand and Harvey took it. They ran together across the meadow, racing for the Third Temple. Roman legionaries moved to block them. Harvey gasped and stumbled—but his father, Cohen, and Monk were looking after them. Rabbi Holtz ran to attack the Romans, using his empty shotgun as a club. He smashed the butt into a Roman’s head, splintering bone and rusted metal and bringing the legionary down. Cohen wielded her machete, the blade shining as it hacked off the skulls from legionaries. Monk had his trench gun, firing it with one hand as he swatted skeletons with his trench club. They cleared aside the Romans, giving Clay and Harvey a path.

  The golem and the boy raced across the meadow and reached the front of the temple. A ballista rested right before the Founding Stone, skeletal Romans already aiming the oversized arrow at Clay. They reached for the lever that would fire the arrow—when Zipporah leapt down from the steps of the Third Temple and met them with swinging swords. She cut her way through the crew, cutting apart the remaining skeletons, and then gave the ballista a push. It swung to the side, its arrow aiming at an oversized earth golem trundling their way. Zipporah pulled the lever, driving a heavy arrow straight into the earth golem
’s skull. Dust trickled down as the earth golem collapsed into the mud. Zipporah lowered her blades and smiled.

  Harvey ran to her. “Miss Sarfati.” He tripped on a destroyed skeleton, stumbling in the sloping dirt, and then reached her. Clay followed. Zipporah patted Harvey’s head. “You’re okay. You’re safe. And what you did with the ballista? That was—that was swell, ma’am.”

  “Just some quick thinking,” Zipporah said. “But Harvey—you look terrible.”

  “Well, I was in a car that crashed, and then attacked by skeletons, and then vampire birds.” Harvey shrugged. “There’ll be time for resting when this is done.” He readied the Serpent Yad. “I’ll go save the city now, I suppose.”

  He walked to the Founding Stone, followed by Clay and Zipporah. Battle raged all around them, but the front of the Third Temple seemed calm. The attacking gangsters kept the attention of the legionaries and even fired at the Broxa. Rabbi Holtz and his enforcers held off the skeletons, and Kid Twist kept his pistols thundering from the doorway of the temple. The Founding Stone looked much like it had in the lobby of City Hall, and in the sewers—a great boulder, inscribed with ancient words. The Hebrew letters had been etched along the top by the acid of the Shamir, and they glowed a faint green. Moss had grown along the base, giving the entire stone an emerald cast. Harvey walked straight up to the stone and raised the Serpent Yad. It shook in his hands and he planted the point, the serpent’s snarling mouth, right in the middle of the Hebrew letters. He would just have to turn the word ‘truth’ to ‘death’ and all of this would end.

  Something spiky and cold stabbed into Clay’s back. He stumbled and fell, then turned with his fists raised. “Mr. Clay?” Harvey looked up from his work. “What’s going on?” Another icicle whistled down, big as a spear. Zipporah raised her swords and tried to deflect it, but the icy point still slashed against her arm and drew blood. Clay stepped in front of Harvey and caught another icicle in his chest. He stared ahead at the meadow. “Mr. Clay?” Harvey asked.