The Golem of Solomon's Way

by Jon Messenger

  “There it is,” Casan said, pointing toward a two-story building that came into view as they traversed a gentle bend in the road. A wooden plaque, weather worn and barely legible, stood above the door. The ampersand was nearly worn away, leaving only “Mason” and “Sons” visible. Even the “butchers” underneath was little more than peeling paint.

  “Doctor, you and I will be entering the front of the shop. Luthor and Matilda, if you please, go around to the back. If there is bloodletting going on within the butchers, as I would presume there would be, there should be both the telltale runoff in the form of our mysterious dark mud, as well as a back entrance through which they could discard the unneeded scraps.”

  “You want us to wade through blood, mud, and discarded meat?” Luthor indignantly asked. With a sigh, he led Mattie into a gap between the buildings and disappeared toward the river beyond.

  “I know you lack a level of comfort with your handgun, Doctor, but now would be a good time to have it handy,” Simon said.

  The Inquisitor led the doctor toward the front of the shop. A sign hung in the window, proclaiming the butchers was open. Simon paused at the window and stared inside but could see no one manning the counter. Wrapped meats sat within a cooling display case inset into the countertop. Cautiously, Simon opened the front door. A small bell above the door jingled as he entered, and the Inquisitor frowned at the unexpected noise. They paused in the doorway, waiting for someone to investigate the noise, but heard nothing. No footfalls seemed to come from the back of the store. The only sound to be heard was a constant hum of a generator.

  Luthor and Mattie walked past the buildings and emerged onto the sloped bank that led down to the river. The ground was expectedly muddy, and it was readily apparent that the river had swelled with the recent rains. The water stain reached halfway to the backs of the stores lining Riverbend Street.

  The apothecary paused at the crest of the hill and looked down on the water. Debris littered the edge of the bank, where garbage and other unmentionable refuse had gathered in swirling eddies. The water itself was muddied and discolored. The air was filled with gulls, swooping about and landing precariously on the side of the angled hill. Their cries filled the air. Those that had landed took flight at the sight of the two interlopers.

  His cane sank into the loose mud, and he had to use some effort to free it. Luthor lifted his shoe and frowned at the mud likewise clinging to its sole. Noting the bird droppings cast intermittently across the ground, he hoped mud was all that was clinging to his shoe. “He sent us here on purpose, you realize.”

  Mattie walked past him and proceeded toward the rear of the butchers. “For a man of action, who claims to so thoroughly enjoy the Inquisitor’s assignments, you certainly do spend an awful lot of time complaining about minor inconveniences.”

  She clapped her hands, and the brave gulls that had landed again took flight once more.

  “They’re not minor inconveniences,” Luthor complained as he followed suit. “I expect to be muddied and soiled during an assignment in the armpit of the civilized world but not within my own city.”

  “An armpit like Haversham?” she chided.

  “Like Whitten Hall,” Luthor corrected, “and that abysmal march through its assorted ravines and cluttered woods. I fully expected to be filthy by the conclusion of that mission. Yet it’s been here in Callifax that I’ve crawled through retched sewers and now am playing in mud.”

  “Blood-soaked mud,” she warned. “Watch your step.”

  They had approached the rear entry to the building. The ground grew considerably darker from just beyond the step of the building’s back door. Even without Mattie’s enhanced sense of smell, Luthor could detect the wafting scent of blood in the air. Following the flow of blood downhill, he saw chunks of discarded flesh, gristle, and bone littering the hillside. The gulls watched them carefully before landing amidst the filth and continued picking at the remains. Beyond the white and gray birds, the blood melded into the river, leaving a dark red streak spreading downstream.

  “Here, Luthor,” Mattie remarked, gesturing toward the ground.

  The apothecary crouched beside her and recognized the mark at once. A massively oversized footprint had been left in the soft ground. By the water seeping into its treads, Luthor guessed it had been left recently. As he stood, he joined Mattie at the back door. There was a hum of machinery filling the air, muffled though it was by the closed door. Cautiously, Luthor tested the door and found it locked. He gestured for Mattie to stand aside as he carefully drew a rune over the lock. Barely audible over the hum of the generator, Luthor could hear each tumbler falling in turn. When it was done, the rune dissipated. Grasping the handle, he found it now turned easily.

  Opening the door, they stepped into a well-lit butcher’s workshop. Marble slabs sat on tables, their surfaces stained red. Slivers of meat clung to the drains in the center of the tables. The hum had grown louder and, turning, Luthor noted its source. The far wall had been modified. Its surface shone a brilliant silver. Windowless, there was only a single closed door breaking its otherwise smooth surface. The door was latched from the outside. A wooden staircase rested in the shadows on the far side of the odd metal wall, the stairwell’s upper reaches lost in the darkness.

  As the apothecary stepped forward, Mattie immediately grabbed for his arm, but she was a second too late. The barrel of a pistol was pressed against Luthor’s head.

  Simon sighed and lowered his gun. “You ought to announce yourself better. I damn near shot you.”

  Luthor exhaled nervously. “Announce myself better? At what point during a stealthy incursion into the lair of a magical beast shall I clatter pans together and blow a horn? I thought discretion was the word of the day?”

  “It was until we realized that no one is currently manning the shop,” Simon explained. “It would appear that Peter Mason has caught wind of our investigation and disappeared.”

  Luthor shook his head. “There’s still more to explore, sir, such as this metal contraption.”

  Simon turned his attention toward the unusual metallic shape.

  “It’s a mechanical cooler,” Casan said. “It’s very similar to the one we use in the morgue. It’s perfect for storing and preserving corpses.”

  “Or, at the very least, storing their severed limbs?” Mattie asked.

  Simon’s expression grew very serious as he approached the door to the cooler. It was latched from the outside, presumably to ensure the door remained closed and sealed though, Simon was forced to admit, it might also serve well to keep something contained. Steel walls and a heavy locked door seemed like the perfect location to contain a gigantic abomination when its services were not needed.

  “Be on your guard,” Simon remarked.

  Luthor pulled a sword free from the end of his cane, the narrow blade reflecting the overhead electric lights. He glanced warningly toward Mattie, but she merely frowned. She clearly wanted to transform, to use her best defensive and offensive assets, but dared not reveal herself in front of the doctor. For his part, Casan clenched his pistol tightly, though it shook unsteadily in his hand.

  Simon moved forward until he was beside the door. He could feel the cold radiating from the metal walls of the cooler and knew that the doctor had been correct in his assumption. The door was latched with a simple metal pin through a much more complex lever-action handle. Grasping the top of the pin, he wiggled it back and forth until it slid free of the door. Glancing back toward Luthor and Mattie and, to a much lesser degree the doctor, Simon nodded and pulled the latch toward him.

  The door released with a hiss of escaping cold air. Simon shivered involuntarily, surprised by the bitterness of the temperature within. As the door swung open soundlessly, the entryway became a dark maw, leading into a black interior. The pools of light from the meager overhead lights in the back workshop fell short of the door, much like they failed to properly illuminate the stairwell behind the Inquisitor.

  S
imon glanced toward Mattie, who shook her head slowly. Even with her supernatural vision, she could only see shapeless blobs of gray within the room, as though its interior was cluttered from wall to wall.

  “Check for a light,” Casan whispered. “I would assume there would be a switch of some sort just within the door.”

  Simon reached his hand inside, his body tense. He wasn’t afraid of the dark—hadn’t been since he was a young child—but his imagination was running away with his sensibilities. He knew that a massive hand hovered just within the cooler, ready to grasp the Inquisitor’s fragile wrist and yank him into the darkness. The door would close abruptly behind him, leaving him trapped inside an arctic prison with a mindless Golem.

  Sweat beaded on his brow as his hand fell on the switch. He knew his demise was imminent, but to everyone’s surprise, nothing happened. Instead, he threw the switch unperturbed and light filled the cooler.

  Headless pig and cow corpses hung from hooks in the ceiling. Severed animal limbs, in various stages of preparation, sat on baker’s racks along the wall. The cooler was cluttered and busy, making it hard to see within its depths.

  Wisely, Simon crouched and looked below the hanging meats. He saw no massive legs or oversized feet awaiting his entrance, nor was there any sign of limbs that didn’t clearly belong to a slaughtered animal. Frowning, Simon lowered his pistol and stood. He turned toward the others and shook his head.

  “There’s nothing here, certainly not the severed remains of the women who have been murdered.” Simon looked crestfallen and his gaze fell to the floor. “We’ve—I’ve clearly made a mistake.”

  Before anyone could reply, a loud creak sounded from the floor above them. Dust fell from rafters, drifting over the group. Simon raised his pistol once more, his expression as determined as ever. Luthor and Mattie rushed toward the stairwell, not needing to be told what to do. The doctor began forward as well, but Simon placed a hand on his chest.

  “My apologies, Doctor, but you are far outside your element already. Whatever we’re about to face upstairs, I can’t guarantee I would be able to watch over you and keep you safe from harm. It would be far better for everyone involved if you simply waited for us here and protected the stairwell from unwanted intrusion.”

  Simon could see the conflicting emotions raging across the doctor’s face, but Casan eventually nodded his consent. “Yell for me if you need me.”

  “If we have need of you, Doctor, I fear it would already be too late to save us,” Simon replied curtly before hurrying up the stairs in pursuit of his associates.

  Mattie led them upward, the skin of her fingers tearing away to reveal fur-covered claws beneath. Luthor had paused halfway up the stairwell and was examining something on the banister. Simon stopped behind him, close enough so that he could whisper without being overheard.

  “What have you found?”

  Luthor held up his hand so that, in the dim light, Simon could see the ochre colored lubricant smeared across the railing. “It’s here, sir.”

  “Be on your guard.”

  The two men hurried up the stairs and entered a short hallway stretching from the narrow landing. A small window was set into the wall, streaming bright sunlight into the dusty hall. There was a door at the far end, closed tightly. As they approached, they could hear a lumbering step and muffled groans.

  Mattie glanced toward Simon. The Inquisitor glanced over his shoulder to ensure the doctor had heeded his instructions and remained below. When he saw no one, Simon turned back toward Mattie and nodded his consent.

  Slipping free of her clothing, Mattie quickly transformed into the white werewolf. Raising a powerful leg, she lashed out at the door handle. The frame splintered as the door exploded inward.

  The apartment was dimly lit, with only a pair of oil lanterns providing a weak illumination for the single room beyond. Though spacious, it was simplistic. A bed sat against the far wall, curtains were drawn around the bed, offering a small semblance of privacy within the open apartment. A meager kitchen sat off to the left and a writing desk to the right. A support pillar, a thick square shaft of wood that divided the room, dominated the center of the space.

  The Golem stood beside the pillar, its face impassive as it held the butcher in its clutches. The giant was a towering monstrosity in such a confined space, its shock of dark hair brushing the ceiling as it stood unmoving. Mattie, the first into the room, frowned at the sight. In the alleyway in which she’d previously fought with the creature, it had been dark. Even with her exceptional night vision, it had been hard to discern details about the abomination.

  Its head was far too small for its enormous frame; the head was normal sized for a man and still retained all the features of a normal human, albeit awkwardly when placed upon the body of a giant. Thick scars lined the creature’s chest and banded around its arms and legs in rings. The torso was far wider than what could be considered natural, alluding to the creature’s great strength. The Golem’s height came mainly from the elongated legs, packed with dense muscles and unseen machinery.

  It was the machinery that caught the group by surprise. A metal plate had been welded over the Golem’s heart and seemingly screwed into place directly into the giant’s sternum. It’s left arm bore the brunt of the mechanical abnormalities. The skin in its shoulder and upper arm had been stretched over a series of spinning gears, though it hardly covered the mechanizations. The skin had either torn some time ago or simply lacked the elasticity to stretch over the bulging gears.

  Clutched at the end of its massive arms was Peter Mason. The short man was indeed stocky but was held aloft—his neck clutched in both the Golem’s hands—as though he weighed nothing at all. His face was purple and his eyes bulged slightly in their sockets. The man’s tongue lolled from between his parted lips, a blue tinge painted across it.

  “Drop the butcher,” Simon demanded, though he was unsure the giant understood him at all, since it made no move to stop what it had been doing. Moreover, Simon knew it was far too late for the man in its clutches. His arms hung feebly at his side, no longer struggling against the creature’s oversized hands.

  With a sharp jerk of its hands, the Golem broke the butcher’s neck before tossing the body aside. It turned its small head slowly until it saw the white werewolf standing in the front of their group. A flicker of recognition crossed its face, and it glanced down toward recent stitches across its abdomen.

  Turning its frame toward them, it crouched slightly and stared furiously toward Mattie. It growled in a decidedly inhuman manner before charging at them, its long strides quickly covering the space. Simon and Luthor lunged aside from its bull-like charge, hoping its size precluded it from making abrupt turns. Mattie waited for it, her lips peeled back from her elongated canine incisors.

  Like the mindless brute it was, the Golem stretched its hands toward her, intent on grabbing her around her neck as it had the butcher moments before. Quicker than it anticipated, Mattie ducked underneath its outstretched arms and slashed the Golem painfully across the belly, reopening the wound that had so recently been closed. The same ochre ooze dripped from the wound as it staggered to a halt beside the wall.

  Sensing its disbelief at the new injury, Simon raised his pistol and fired until all six rounds in the revolver had been expended. Time and again, his shots were met with a flash of sparks as the bullets connected with metal components just beneath the skin and sinew. More of the lubricant oozed from the wounds, but the Golem seemed entirely unfazed.

  It turned back toward them, ignoring the Inquisitor and apothecary, showing instead a single-minded loathing for the werewolf. It raised its hands, stretching open the gash along its stomach and revealing the spinning gears within.

  Blindingly quick, it lashed out at Mattie, who barely avoided the swing. She slashed across its forearm, opening another oozing wound. Before she could move, the Golem brought its other fist to bear, catching her in the chest. Mattie let out a canine’s yelp of pain as she was
lifted off her feet, flying over the small table bearing one of the two oil lanterns and crashing into the edge of the bed.

  Simon finished reloading and raised his pistol again. The Golem turned toward him, a blank expression on its face. The Inquisitor knew it was little more than a mindless killing machine, but the lack of comprehension in the giant’s face seemed far more unnerving than if it had worn a look of utter hatred. It advanced on Simon and he fired again, striking the creature in the chest and legs, hoping to slow the beast, but to no avail. It was growing steadily closer, seemingly in no hurry after dispatching Mattie, the biggest threat in the room.

  With its back turned, Luthor slashed it across its thighs, to sever the hamstring of the beast. His thin blade had no effect, not even a warranted glower from the Golem as it continued its advance toward the Inquisitor. Feeling helpless, Luthor glanced toward Mattie. He was eager to rush to her side, as she lay crumpled on the ground. His magic could heal her, probably as quickly as his magic could dispatch the Golem, but he dared not use it in front of Simon. Instead, his gaze fell to the oil lantern on the table between him and Mattie. Dropping his sword, the apothecary grabbed the lantern from the table and rushed in between the Golem and Simon. He waved the dancing flame before its face, hoping to distract it from its unwavering path.

  The effect on the Golem was as immediate as it was unexpected. The Golem staggered backward, its long arms raised defensively before its face. The normally impassive expression became one of absolute horror. The dark eyes recessed in its head swung from side to side, transfixed upon the movement of the fire within the lantern.