Machina Mortis: Steampunk'd Tales of Terror

by Derwin, Theresa

“It growls and shrieks like a beast though!”

  “It is a machine, and that is the sound of its engine and the steam being released, just as a train does.”

  “Grigor,” Zenon said, “pray, lower the gun. Evdokiya said they are here to help. This is her bailiwick. Do I make myself plain?”

  The man slowly lowered the gun, though he didn’t put it down, as the trio of travelers exchanged a worried glance. Suykimo looked up, staring into the rafters, his hood falling away from his face to reveal slanted eyes.

  Grigor’s gun rose again to point at him, “He is a demon. See his eyes?”

  “No,” Zachary spoke with the crisp tone of authority, “he is a foreigner born, from faraway lands, and no more a threat to you than anything else in this room.”

  “Something watches from above. No one ever looks up,” Suykimo said in a quiet voice. A chill breeze cut through the room, and the candles flickered then brightened. “It is gone now.” The villagers looked around, more than the women make the sign to ward off the evil eye this time.

  Evdokiya spoke again, “They are not demons, and they are flesh and blood like us. Quite so, they hunt demons, even now I feel evil has fled upon their entry. Come, sit with us, you are welcome here.”

  Elizabeth smiled at the people, a gentle and reassuring smile, as she sat with the wise woman. “In deed, we shall help you.”

  ***

  “I do not like that they insisted Elizabeth stay with them,” Zachary said to Suykimo, as the vehicle lumbered and swayed side to side with each step.

  “It was necessary,” Suykimo assured him again, “women do not hunt, and if the villagers have her with them, they know we will do as we say.”

  Zachary looked at him with sharp blue eyes, “She is being cruelly used. She is a hostage.”

  “She is a guest, and she will keep them calm with her gifts. She was a nanny, and knows how to calm fear in others. Now we go south to find this Baba Yaga as the wise woman suggested, and hope the witch’s reputation is exaggerated.”

  “I am not worried about her reputation. Why do you think she is not the source of the village’s problems?”

  “She is a symptom. But we must explore the symptoms to cure the illness.”

  They traveled for hours, and Suykimo navigated by means Zachary did not understand. The younger man was not a tracker, but he knew how to find his way to where he needed to go by means of the brass dial of the compass on his bracer, along with the timepiece and weather dials. What he did not have an instinct for doing; he had the tools to assist him instead.

  Hours later, close to sunset, their vehicle stood in front of a cottage that stood five yards above the ground on chicken-like legs made of rusted metal, that gave the look of dried blood in the waning light. The feet were clawed monstrosities that had clumps of mud in the gears and wires. The hut was a ramshackle affair with cracked timbers that jutted out in all directions. A plume of black smoke rose from a short brick chimney. A bone fence surrounded it, just as described by the village gossip woman, and skulls decorated each post except for one. Bits of dried meat still showed on most of the bones, and they were lashed together with sinew. The whole area had the stench of decay.

  Suykimo took the lead and Zachary followed, hand on sword. The two men circled the cabin, trying to find an entrance. Neither windows nor door showed. The smaller man led the way through the gate, which swung shut with an eerie groan.

  “Hut, O Hut,” Suykimo intoned, “turn your back to the forest, your front to me.”

  Zachary didn’t question the man’s knowledge of such things, trusting him to know his business. The hut began to move, turning and squatting, till it came to rest two feet off the ground with a rickety door made of sticks facing them. Orange light filtered through the door, as the chill autumn wind whistled, and dead leaves danced through the barren trees of the forest. The sun was concealed by storm clouds, and in the distance an owl hooted as it began its hunt.

  Zachary stepped protectively between Suykimo and the hut, moving forward to knock. The door swung open of its own volition, creaking. The younger man reached for his sword.

  “Stay you hand Zachary, we are being invited in as guests. Be wary, but let us not be hasty.”

  “Though you may be tasty,” said a voice from inside that sounded like leather scraping over a stone, “come in and share my fire. You have no reason to fear me; you have not invoked my ire.”

  Zachary looked to his elder that had advised and trained him since he was a boy. Suykimo stepped forward, drawing back his hood, and entered the small dwelling.

  The interior space of the chicken legged hut defied the confines of the exterior. It had the feel of a large hunting lodge that had been blended with a clock maker’s workshop, if clock makers worked in foundries. The ceiling was hidden in shadows far above, and the light that danced across the walls was cast by flickering gas lamps, and a huge open hearth made of plates of copper welded together in an oven shape. A bellows stood at the mouth, and an iron arm, that held a pot, was swung away from it. Smoke crept over the edge and onto the surrounding floor, stealing to shadowed corners. The walls had mounted trophies decorating it. Some were animal heads, others were dried flowers, a beetle the size of a man’s head, or various limbs of unidentified creatures. A ladder led to what appeared to be a sleeping area in the rear of the room.

  Four long tables were in two rows, with half of their surface covered by various beakers and burners, which were bubbling and popping. One table had dried animal parts laid out in distinct patterns. The last had a sparse dinner for four laid out on it. Dark bread, dried fruits, unidentifiable meats, and wine waited.

  A wrinkled figure sat in a rocking chair at the head of this table. She was wrapped in a shawl, many sizes too large for her rotund frame, and smoking a long stemmed pipe. Her eyes were dark hollows, and her nose was a crooked jag. She smiled, and showed a handful of teeth that matched the rest of her appearance, weathered and contorted.

  “Come in,” the figure said, “join me for supper and tea. I have been expecting you three.”

  “Baba Yaga, I presume,” Suykimo said as he stepped inside. After Zachary stepped inside the door shut with a click and whirr, assisted by gear works.

  “That is what you assume. You are missing one?” the woman moaned. “Three. You should be three riders, red for the sun, white for the day, and black for the night. Where is the white rider of light?”

  “Is she mad?” Zachary whispered.

  “No,” Suykimo answered with a shake of his head, and then spoke to the woman, “Elizabeth could not join us. She was otherwise detained.”

  “A woman?” she cackled, “of course, why not a woman? A man of mysticism, and a fighter I see,” She petted a ragged squirrel, the size of a dog, on her lap. It did not move and appeared to be long dead, but well preserved. “So the night speaks for the riders three?”

  Suykimo nodded as he took a seat on the bench, leaving space between the hag and himself. He reached out and broke some bread from the rough loaf and placed it on the wooden trencher in front of him. He added fruit and poured a bit of wine into a crystal chalice from the cracked clay urn on the table. He smiled at her, as he sprinkled herbs from a small packet he had drawn from his satchel.

  “I would not poison my guests or any such fuss, though it is a surprise that a fellow alchemist sits at my table. Will the red rider join us?” she asked, pointing at Zachary with her wart covered chin.

  “I will stand.” Zachary said, as he watched the shadows at the edge of the room move with a purpose of their own.

  “My friend is cautious. Usually that is my role, but this time I am the bold one. Do you know the purpose of us seeking you out?” Baba Yaga nodded, but said nothing. “The villagers are of the mind that you may be causing mischief.”

  She hooted. “They know nothing. They are sheep for the slaughter and jump at shadows in the trees when they should be looking to the sky,” Suykimo raised an eyebrow as the woman continued,
“and you know this, I think. You are not like the others. You are much less, human, and much less likely to die.”

  “I am what I am, nothing more,” the foreigner answered, “but I am curious, what does trouble the people who we agreed to help?”

  “There is a singular price for knowledge, always a cost. Are you willing to pay that price for what I have lost?”

  “What is the price?” Zachary interrupted. The woman looked at the warrior as she drew on her pipe and stroked the animal on her lap. It moved, with jerking motions, to a more comfortable position. She blew smoke outward, forming a shadowy beast, which lunged across the table and dissipated.

  “Why, just a few flowers, nothing sinister. Women love flowers. We have a weakness for them. They renew us and work magic with our souls. I like roses, blue roses and their powers.”

  “We can find those for you,” Suykimo said, and looked at Zachary with a meaningful glance, “and you will tell us what haunts the people that sent us?”

  “I think when you discover one, you shall discover the other. What fun!”

  “How do we find your rose?”

  “With blood and knowledge. One of you shall pay former; the other shall pay the latter with prose.”

  “We agree to the price,” Suykimo said.

  “You must both agree!” The woman stood, the animal in her lap fell to the floor and disappeared under the table, without a sound. She reached for her gnarled walking stick. “Do you also Zachary?”

  “How did you know my name?” the warrior asked, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “I know what I need to know,” she said, as she came towards him, “tell me you agree and we shall begin the show.” Once beside him, she looked up into his face. Her breath reeked of decay. She smiled.

  “I agree.”

  “I see. Then let us seal our accord.” She held out a twisted hand to him. He reached for it, and she screeched and scratched him, drawing blood. Cackling madly, she moved with a speed that belayed her form, to another table. Zachary began to draw his sword, but stopped at a shake of Suykimo’s head.

  “I have been around for many years,” she said, in a sing-song voice, “and seen many things. I know what you ask. I saw the fall of Gomorrah, witnessed sermons that changed the world and became legend, and I have cheered at the death of martyrs that have changed the world. This is a simple task.”

  She lifted a glass beaker from a gas burner, her hand sizzled as she hung a clawed nail over the opening and a single drop of Zachary’s blood fell into the vessel with a hiss. Swirling the liquid, she moved to a parchment. With the utmost care she poured the viscous potion onto the leathery skin. As she did, words and images began to appear.

  “It’s a map,” Zachary muttered.

  She cackled. “Yes, a map to your fortune, or your doom. As it is always in these cases, I also give a caveat, you must seek it alone in the dark and gloom.”

  ***

  Zachary was alone. The moon was full and gave a small amount of light when the clouds did not cover it. The machine was behind him, and Suykimo was still at the witch’s hut. The older man would pay his price with knowledge, and the younger man would collect the flowers and any blood he came across.

  He hunted now. To the east of the village was a mountain, a forbidden place that was owned by the man to whom the village paid tithe, the lord of the land. On these lands Zachary would find what he sought. She had told him to take what he needed to protect himself from unnatural things, things that would hunt him for sport.

  He lowered the goggles, which he wore only at specific times, over his eyes. To keep dust from his eyes when riding, in cold and snow to protect his tears from freezing his eyes shut, and their third function was to allow him to see at night. Special green glass lit his vision with an eerie tint, not allowing him to see color, but allowing him to see into the shadows almost as clear as day.

  He was not the only one that could see in the shadows though. Many others could also. The hunting owl could also see. The small animals that foraged in the dark could see. And the predators that hunted at night could also see. One such predator had caught a scent. A taste of blood, the smell of oil and man, and it followed the trail. It skulked closer, creeping silently, waiting for the perfect time to beset its quarry.

  This was the ultimate hunter. The arsenal of weaponry both natural and crafted was at its disposal. The best money or nature could provide. Tracking by scent, sight, sound and taste, it always ran its victim to ground. It never lost its prey. It patiently followed this new interloper in its territory. Sighting the game, it leapt to a higher ridge of the landscape to stalk the man.

  Zachary twitched. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he was sure they would do the same on his arms if his leather and brass bracers didn’t cover them. Something was wrong. Stopping, he peered into the darkness. His breathing slowed and he allowed his senses to blanket the area. Staying still for many minutes, he waited. The leaves rustled across the deer track up the side of the mountain, following the path of the trailing clouds across the sky. Sweat cooled on his skin as he waited. He trusted his training and instincts.

  Zachary knew whatever it was he sensed was not going to make a move until it was ready, so he moved on and continued his search. In less than an hour, he found roses. Kneeling, he brought forward his torch, a small device powered with electric, to light his prize. He lifted his goggles as the beam showed him the color of the flowers. Blue. He drew a knife from his boot and cut the stems, making a pile of as many of the blooms he could find.

  The only warning Zachary had before the attack, was a slight growl then he was knocked over from behind. He tucked his body into a roll as claws tore at his back. His leather protected him, but he felt it tear. He came up in a defensive crouch, knife at ready. Blinking, he turned off his light and tossed it on the roses and let his eyes adjust, trying to size up his foe.

  The moon came out from behind the clouds for a moment. Zachary saw his attacker was a full head and shoulders taller than him, and though lupine in appearance, it stood upright and wore some clothing. The enemy had the hind legs of a wolf, bent backwards as if ready to spring, and each thigh had a weapon strapped to it. The right had a large pistol of brass and glass, and blue current danced inside of it. The left had a long black steel baton with a thick handle with switches and a single dial. Each hung from twin wide leather belts that crisscrossed the beast’s waist. A long coat, with gold braids on the shoulder, was worn open, and showed it was a male of its species. The man-wolf’s forearms had leather and black steel bracers that came down to cover the back of his steel tipped, clawed hands, each ending in brass knuckles made to be part of the defensive covering. The metal that ran the length of each side of the bracers gleamed with a razor sharp edge. The attacker had a contorted face, more beast than man. It showed large mutton chops on its cheeks that stood out further than the brown fur that covered its mushed visage and the rest of the body. The nose was wide and flat and gleamed with wetness, though the eyes were very human, glaring blue at him with hunger and hatred. Tufted ears swept back from the head, and the monster’s lips curled back showing spittle and a red froth.

  Zachary scanned his surroundings in a glance. He was on a small cleared ridge no more than five paces in either direction. The beast had jumped from another, thinner ledge, above him. Below was a straight drop off to the rocky canyon below, filled with rubble and scrub trees, not a soft landing if either took a spill in that direction.

  The werewolf lunged towards him, trying to come between the cliff wall and the warrior, testing the other’s reflexes. Zachary quickly side stepped towards better footing and drew his sabre in the same breath, now holding his knife in one hand and the ancient weapon in the other. The blade was given to him by his mentor that taught him and it was a unique weapon. The blade had been folded many times, strengthening the blade. It was also imbued with blessings of priests and alchemists to enhance the alloy and allowing it an edge like no ot
her. The handle was smooth in his gloved hand, and became an extension of his arm. Balancing on the balls of his feet in a partial crouch Zachary made himself a smaller target. The beast would have to pass two blades to reach him.

  Zachary stepped forward, leading with his left foot and his knife, and slashed. His enemy dodged with unnatural speed, and its black steel tipped claws shredded the armor on the man’s ribs, as easily as a child would tear through cheesecloth. Leaping with ease, it bounded to the upper ledge, twelve feet above, and let out a hyena laugh that echoed off the cliff walls. Distant thunder boomed in an echo, as the monster toyed with its prey.

  Zachary spun to face his foe as the werewolf jumped down again, falling onto its back and sliding on its haunches below the expected sword swing, and sliced deep into the warrior’s calf with the deadly edge of the blade on the bracer. The man-wolf rose to standing as it passed the man, and with incredible speed rained down a flurry of claws and punches at Zachary’s face. Blood flew as contact was made and the warrior stumbled back three steps, holding his weapons in front of him to ward off any more damage.

  Breathing deep, Zachary found his balance physically and mentally. Reaching up with his knife hand, he placed the night goggles back over his eyes, as much for protection as to improve his vision. The world turned bright green and his pulse slowed into a steady rhythm as he became what he was born to be, a singular force and combatant. Stepping forward, he feinted with the knife in his left hand and brought his right foot forward, and the weight of his body, for a full swing with his longer blade.

  The werewolf blocked it with a deft movement, and it clanged on the same bracer that had torn the man’s face open moments ago. Expecting this, Zachary brought the knife in low and the weapon tore deep into the gut of the monster. The warrior pulled to the side, and then up, hoping to disembowel his enemy. Both clawed hands shoved Zachary away, towards the cliff. He stopped inches from going over the edge.