The Man-Butcher Prize

by Charles X Cross

  ‘Did she kill your son?’ William whispered, fingers curling around his muddy matchlock. Genevieve’s sponsor was nowhere in sight; he could shoot her and make a run for it. Surely he and Vesta were faster than the hulking rhinoceros woman.

  ‘He’s fine, so don’t even think about it.’ She didn’t even glance at him, but lowered her rifle, appearing to think better of tackling Ottilie. ‘Another time.’

  The markswoman shouldered her rifle and sprinted across the street. In a moment, she had barged open a rickety gate and disappeared into a passage through the buildings.

  William exhaled, his body limp in defeat; hardly the heroic exchange he had anticipated when signing up. He definitely should have shot her. Grinding his teeth against his shameful performance, he refused to wait around to become target practice for either of the female assassins.

  ‘Come on.’ He hauled Vesta up, and bolted for a side street.

  In a short distance, they were spat onto another road lined with hotels, inns, and brothels. William thought Melting Moments might be nearby, but his geographical knowledge of the town was limited.

  Most of the establishments were locked and shuttered against damage, but through a handful of darkened windows, people moved. A few heavies, hired to protect valuable assets, or locked-in spectators, drinking and watching the carnage away from the crowds in the official zones. There was always the chance assassins could be lurking, but there was no avoiding that risk. William’s skin prickled, feeling eyes from every direction.

  ‘How many do you think are left?’ Vesta asked in a hushed voice.

  ‘I don’t even know how many entered.’ He stepped onto the boardwalk at the edge of the road, keeping his distance from the hotel doors and windows. ‘There must have been over two hundred. I doubt we're down to double digits yet. Right now, we need to focus on getting better weapons.’

  They paused to peer into another alley bisecting their route. Empty, with the exception of a mangy dog rooting in a stack of overfull bins. With a flick of his wrist, William led the way to the next boardwalk, dashing across the open space. They pressed against the wall of a garishly painted saloon to catch their breath.

  ‘Can’t we just hide until nearly everyone’s dead?’ Vesta suggested.

  ‘What?’ William rounded on her. ‘I entered this competition to… I’m not going to skulk in the shadows.’

  ‘Don’t beat yourself up for following basic human instinct,’ Vesta snapped, but softly added, ‘you’re doing your best to keep us alive.’

  ‘We won’t find your brother if we’re hiding.’ William cocked an eyebrow; his sentiment seemed to resonate with her somewhat.

  The inn door burst open and a young man staggered out, filthy and bruised, and a gag flapping around his neck. He discarded a short length of rope and ran. An unwilling sponsor, escaping. He might have made it, had he not insisted on looking back for his pursuers. The motion took his shaky legs off balance and he sprawled into the road.

  William pressed Vesta tightly against the flaking paintwork, just as two brutes thumped out of the door. They weren’t quite as enormous as Ottilie, but there were two of them, which made them all the more menacing. One had a knife stuck in his back, pushed to the hilt in his thick flesh. Though the wound bled freely, it did nothing to hamper his meat-footed progress as he charged after the errant sponsor. The other weighed a lump hammer in his hand, then tossed it with frightening accuracy. The head smashed into the escapee’s leg, raising a blood curdling shriek and halting his shambling progress.

  William readied his pistol, eyes darting up and down. That scream could have been heard from some distance, and any minute now other assassins would arrive looking for a fight. It was best to get away, find a vantage while the brutes were distracted with maiming their unruly sponsor, and prepare for whoever else came.

  ‘Mercy! Please!’ the sponsor snivelled and dragged himself away, ruined leg trailing blood behind him.

  A perfectly placed bullet blasted through the escapee’s head, splattering bright gore over the grey street. William glared in mute horror at Vesta; the privateer’s pistol was tightly clasped in her hands, barrel smouldering.

  Instinctively, William readied his matchlock and stepped to the fore, shielding his wayward sponsor. In that moment, he had never felt so brave or so foolish, but Vesta was his responsibility. The brutes lurched around, fixing him with flinty eyes; they looked like they wanted to tear him apart with their bare hands, and they probably could.

  ‘Would you mind telling me whose sponsor that was?’ he tried. It had sounded far more menacing in his head, but he lacked the gravitas back it up. So he squared his shoulders and swung his pistol between the two titans, trying out his best impression of a fearsome guilder.

  ‘No,’ they replied in flat unison. One of them moved into the road, circling behind to cut off any escape.

  ‘You have to tell me.’ William’s demand came out in a petulant squawk. ‘If you don’t you’ll get disqualified.’

  ‘There’s no referees here.’ The stabbed-brute grunted as he pulled the dagger from his back. ‘Who’ll know?’

  A quick glance side to side proved them right; rules didn’t count for much when there was no chance of punishment.

  William fired at the circling-brute; the matchlock clapped and burst out smoke. It was still painfully inaccurate, and while he had aimed for the man’s torso as the easiest target, the bullet flew wide and struck a fat-swaddled kneecap. It seemed Luck could give as well as take. The man’s bloodied leg collapsed into the wet filth of the street.

  ‘Brother!’ the stabbed-brute roared and lunged with the knife.

  William dodged at the last moment, and the blade impaled the wooden siding at his back. It stuck fast. He smashed his gun in the brute’s face, then leapt from the boardwalk to gain enough space to reload – he would need more than usual, thanks to his matchlock’s archaic design. Vesta was one step ahead, cocking her stolen pistol in trembling hands and skittering aside.

  The brute followed William with unexpected dexterity, took a lump hammer from his belt and started swinging. His hammer struck the wall, crunching wood, then passed a hair’s breadth from William’s head.

  Vesta fired, taking a graze of flesh from the stabbed brute’s shoulder. The brief distraction was all William needed to put himself out of arm’s reach and frantically reload.

  With a dull slap, a small glass orb landed in the muck between them.

  William looked down at it, even the brute stopped in his confusion. The orb had a thin trailing wick that was being eroded by a sizzling ember. It was familiar, but William’s thoughts were slow as cold molasses. Just as realisation dawned, the orb exploded with crackling phosphorus, throwing the pair to the ground in torrents of blinding tears.

  William muffled his screams under his hands, thrashing in the road until the worst of the eye-searing pain had passed. Then, mole-blind, he scrambled for his pistol and powder. Most spilled into the dirt, but he managed to get just enough into the barrel before the pouch was empty.

  Colours and shapes began to coalesce, enough that he could make out ten figures decked in sheep-hide, marching down the street. They floated across one another, awful parallels of men. He was seeing double.

  Four of the cultists pulled rifles from their backs and aimed at the boardwalk, the last place William had seen Vesta. He fisted each eye to clear the haze, kept his pistol high and waited for his split vision to focus. Though as moments passed and ten figures still advanced, he understood the sheer number of them was true.

  ‘Which of you are sponsors?’ he called, awkwardly scraping his damp cheek on his shoulder.

  ‘I am!’ The cultist, who had bought William an ale in Melting Moments and so fondly called him brother, held up his hand with an amiable wave. His smile was short lived, as regrettably William had to blast it off his face. Somehow, the disorientation from the explosion counteracted the pistol’s blanket inaccuracy; the cultist fell backwards to the st
reet, dumping grey matter into a brown puddle.

  ‘Nobody else tell him.’ Red-face elbowed his way to the front of the group, scowling. ‘William, where is your sponsor?’

  ‘I’m not telling you,’ he replied, trying to pinch enough wasted powder from the muck to reload.

  ‘Well, there aren’t many places she could have gone.’ Red-face swung his rifle at the tavern door. ‘Let’s try here, shall we?’

  Five rifles unloaded at the inn, punching holes through shutters and worm-bitten wood. Hinges creaked and dust fell. Red-face gave the order to fire again.

  William was overwhelmed by another cluster of cultists. The matchlock was kicked from his grip, his arms dragged behind and wrestled into the firm hands of a large Lamb. He was hauled to his feet, his shoulders threatening to pop from their sockets. There was little he could do against so many, especially disarmed and still disoriented. He stayed still, let them think he was complicit, and prayed a plan would come to him.

  Red-face ordered another volley of shots into the façade, puncturing wood, glass, and furnishings. Shot-by-shot, a growing sense of unease crept over William; perhaps Vesta had gone inside the inn after all. He couldn’t see anywhere else to hide.

  ‘Are you still alive in there sister?’ Red-face called jovially.

  There was no reply.

  ‘Someone bring her body out.’ He waved two cultists nonchalantly inside, and handed his rifle to another for reloading. He turned to William. ‘I’m rather disappointed; I thought we had a deal. Yet you’ve chosen death.’

  ‘You can’t kill me.’ William strained against his captors. ‘We don’t know if Vesta’s dead.’

  Gods, he prayed that she wasn’t.

  Red-face repeated William’s words in an almost unintelligible whine, the infantile mockery delighting his lackeys. Guffawing, he swept aside his long fur-trimmed robe, revealing the etched silver flintlock tucked under his belt; William’s treasured pistol.

  ‘There’s a referee around the corner,’ William lied through gritted teeth. ‘Rules are rules.’

  ‘Of course there is,’ Red-face scoffed, but glanced at the alley doubtfully. Recovering his bravado, he drew the flintlock and aimed at William’s leg. ‘But I can blow your kneecaps out like you did to that mewling ox over there. Injured isn’t dead, after all.’

  The brutish brothers were no longer a threat, but they still lived. One wheezed, long glass shards in his chest, and the other was crawling away as his sponsor had, a wasted leg holding him back.

  Wind whistled in William’s ear; a crossbow bolt skewered Red-face's arm. With a howl, he jerked and fired, accidentally striking the large Lamb with hot lead. The pistol was discarded, empty, as he clutched his injured arm and retreated into a circle of cultists.

  ‘Who in the seven hells was that?’ Red-face shrieked, furious and bleeding. ‘You can’t just shoot a man while he’s distracted!’

  Wheels rumbled down the boardwalk. It was Doctor Barber, reloading another sharp bolt into a crossbow with chicken-foot hands. His robust assistant Barbie pushed as fast as he could, stomping in the wake of the chair, whooping victoriously.

  ‘Kill the cripple!’ Red-face screeched as another well placed bolt embedded itself in a cultist’s throat. His eyes bulged with fear and the small huddle of devotees drew tighter around him, readying weapons. ‘Kill him now!’

  One tossed a grenade for the boardwalk, another launched a spear; bullets clipped buildings. Barbie veered into the street to avoid the explosion, completely ignoring his master’s protests. The small wheels of the chair dropped off the boards and sank; they somersaulted through a wooden railing, took a yelping cultist with them, and slapped face down in the mud.

  ‘And kill William!’ Red-face retreated into an alley, sleeve dark with blood.

  William had already snatched his beloved silver pistol from the mud, smeared it as clean as he could on his filthy shirt, and relieved a dead Lamb of his ammunition. He was halfway to his own cover by the time the cultists thought to look for him, and well-hidden before any could fire.

  William heard a bullet fly over his head; another smashed the corner off the tipped-up cart where he sheltered from the carnage. It worked well enough for now, but a building would be better. He peered out, took a shot at a cultist; knocked the top of his head off. Damn, he was pleased to have his flintlock back.

  The Lambs were settling behind cover of their own; triggers pulled, grenades popped, spears flew. Barbie’s heart was pierced by a well-trained shot while Barber floundered in the dirt.

  Footsteps stamped up the road towards William. Aghast, there was no time to reload as a man leapt atop him, screaming and brandishing a glimmer of steel. William collapsed against the cart side as they wrestled, slapped, and strained against each other. A serrated cheese-knife sank into William’s forearm, drawing an agonised shriek.

  ‘Where’s my pistol, you thieving bastard?’ the privateer spat, ripe breath cutting through the sulphurous malaise of the town. He thrust the knife deeper and twisted it, grinding his tobacco-stained teeth. ‘I’m going to kill you with it.’

  William writhed under the weight of his attacker, struggling in such close quarters. He bucked and elbowed, then bit the man’s hand, catching the thumb between his teeth. That caused a flinch. He shoved his head forwards and snapped down again, even harder. He could feel the bone, hard between his molars. Fingernail scratched the roof of his mouth, coppery blood smeared over his chin. The privateer screamed. William thought the thumb might just come off in his mouth. He spat and his attacker recoiled, leaving the knife in situ as he scrambled away.

  William’s eyes span in his head, rolling over the sky and mud – past his wound, not daring to focus. Without thinking, he clambered up, spurred only by the will to survive. He heaved on the cart, hand sticky with his own blood, and found his footing. The sound of a bullet whipping past his ear made him flinch, bunching all his muscles and shooting lances of pain from his arm. It pushed a beastly growl from him.

  ‘Lamebrain!’ He heard the privateer shout. ‘Gut the fish!’

  Feet dragged on the boardwalk and the hollow childish laugh followed.

  William cast about, frantically searching for an escape. He staggered on, still unsure of where to go, or what direction he was heading. Everything was a blur, and the sounds of shooting and laughing and screaming were closing in all around him. Then he spotted a ladder, abandoned against the side of a low building. Two buckets of grimy water at its base suggested it had been a window cleaner’s. A more pointless job in the ash-rained town of Blackbile William couldn’t think of right then, but he was grateful for it.

  ‘Fisssshhh…’ Lamebrain breathed out. ‘Fishy, fishhhy.’

  The slave was close, but exactly where William couldn’t say. Buoyed by his terror, he slipped his gun under his belt and collapsed against the ladder. One foot followed the other, trembling muscles made strong by fear. One hand grasping rung after rung in a desperate attempt to maintain balance, the other hanging loose like a leaden weight, trailing blood, and throbbing. He made it to the top, tumbled over the high façade, and crumpled onto the flat roof behind.

  A woman cried out and thumped his nose; the least of his worries right then. Momentarily dazed, his nose dripping red, he tried to clamber up to push the ladder away from the building.

  ‘William,’ the woman hissed viciously, ‘stay down.’

  ‘Vesta,’ he spat her name out.

  ‘Shut up and stay down.’ She peeked over the edge, dipped back down for a second, then peeked again. ‘It’s a mess down there, more and more keep coming, I can’t believe you got out. That half-headed monster nearly got you. I should pull the ladder up-’

  ‘No.’ William swallowed a lump. He was still in a daze, but at least the world had stopped spinning. ‘Like you said, we don’t want anyone to see we’re up here.’

  He looked about the rooftops. ‘We can get away across these. Then you can pull this knife out.’

&nbs
p; 1668

  Terrowin burst into the mayor’s office, flintlock ready to despatch any that might be waiting there. There was nobody; good.

  Fighting in the prize was equal parts exhausting and exhilarating, and as only the most cautious combatants remained, it seemed the contest would stretch well into the night. If he hoped to win, he would need food and rest to give him the edge. So the mayor’s office was an ideal spot; no-one else had thought to come here, or dared to. It was also the nearest place to the square with a reliable stash of refreshments. He smacked his lips, hungry for the taste of those salted peanuts he had tried last time.

  Something rustled under the desk, and Terrowin levelled his pistol. The mayor peeked around the drawers, his lip purpled by nervous nibbling and eyes glassy with fear.

  ‘What are you doing down there?’ Terrowin chuckled, spun his gun on his trigger finger and slipped it into the holster.

  ‘Hiding, obviously.’ The mayor’s frown meshed his lustrous brows together. ‘You shouldn’t be here, what if you’ve been followed? I don’t want to end up like those spectators. Did you see? More than half of them are dead!’

  He started to mumble about the mess, body count, and cost of the whole enterprise; figures seemed to comfort the chubby mayor.

  ‘I’ll re-join the fray soon.’ Terrowin strode directly to the bookcase and helped himself to the heavy dish of nuts. ‘Just need a quick breather – umph, these are delicious.’

  Shovelling a generous handful of nuts into his mouth and chewing loudly, he wiped his salty fingers on his shirt, then lifted the stopper from the mayor’s finest decanter. A deep sniff told him it was good whiskey; very expensive. In three hearty gulps he’d drained nearly half the contents. He exhaled loudly, relishing the liquor-burn that suffused his chest and insides. Even wasted in big swigs, the taste was far superior to the usual swill he drank.

  ‘Are you not enjoying the competition, Walter?’ He let out a particularly hot, wet, and satisfying belch.

  ‘Not in the least.’ The mayor flinched at a gunshot outside, then crept back under his desk and out of sight. ‘Far too much death involved for my taste.’