The Man-Butcher Prize

by Charles X Cross

  Forty-three assassins entered the competition in total, all vying for a prize with his name on it. Whether he lived or died, one thing was certain; the Man-Butcher Prize would be the most fun he’d ever have, and would be remembered for generations. He tingled with anticipation. The thrill, the rush, and the exquisite sounds of pain – it was all so close! Stood shoulder to shoulder with other guilders, at the brink of almost certain death, he could barely contain his excitement.

  Most of his adversaries were armed with blades: bollock knives, daggers, tower hangers, scimitars, a vicious and impractical flamberge, and even more he couldn’t name. Some had things a little more exotic; a man in a round helmet carried a crossbow, a frontierswoman coiled her whip with menace, and while not exactly refined, he saw one brute wielding a club spiked with a dozen bloody nails. None of those would be especially effective against the collection of firearms he’d spotted in the crowd, but each to their own, he supposed. Maybe they were crazier than he was, and liable to win. He suspected the explanation for such outmoded weaponry was simpler than that; those with coin to afford pistols and powder would be far less likely to waste their lives than destitute dagger-men.

  Terrowin had his own tools of death. As the Man-Butcher, a name he’d earned early in his career, it was only right that he carried a cleaver to justify the handle – held in a custom scabbard under his arm. His weapon of choice however, was also his most prized possession; a silver flintlock engraved with wild flowers. His mother, a retired trick-shooter, had gifted it to him when he set out in search of fortune. He didn’t imagine she’d think he’d use it kill well over three scores of men, women, and anyone else who got in his way, but liked to believe his success would make her proud anyway.

  ‘Are you excited?’ he asked a huge woman to his side. He was giggling between each word, and almost delirious with anticipation.

  ‘Aye,’ she grunted; another Scold. Terrowin had to suppress the urge to ask her exactly what shire she was from. He was almost as excited to meet a fellow countrywoman as he was to compete for his very own prize, but she didn’t look in the mood to talk.

  She slapped a metal rod in the palm of one of her meaty hands, and added, ‘it’s been far too long since I’ve let loose. I’m about to shine like the north stars.’

  ‘Good to hear that.’ Terrowin’s fingers shivered, anyone watching might have thought him scared, but his smile and childish splutters dismissed that notion. ‘I’m Terrowin by the way.’

  ‘Aldreda.’ She nodded. ‘The Man-Butcher.’

  ‘What? Man-Butcher?’

  ‘Aye, I figured even if I don’t win, people will probably think the whole thing was named after me.’ She slapped her iron rod into her hand again and Terrowin noticed that it was actually a rolling pin. ‘I’ll get remembered either way.’

  ‘I’m the Man-Butcher!’ Terrowin prodded himself hard in the chest, suddenly outraged at this pretender to his title. It had taken him an entire night to earn that name, and she thought she could just take it from him?

  ‘Yeah, of course you are son.’ She pointed with her rolling pin to another entrant, who had a bloodied apron tied around his midriff. ‘And I’m sure he is too. We’re not the only people with the idea.’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’ Terrowin scowled. ‘Butchers don’t even use rolling pins.’

  ‘So… Without further ado.’ The mayor pulled a flintlock from a holster that looked absurd on his hip. ‘Let’s kick this whole thing off.’

  As the mayor raised the starting gun to the sky, the crowd of spectators fell to silence. Terrowin readied himself, flexed his fingers over his flintlock, spat to the dirt, and took one long, calming breath.

  The shot clapped over the square; the fight for the prize was on.

  Terrowin’s silver pistol spat a deafening retort and was echoed by twenty more. Every single entrant with a firearm shot at the nearest man. In one fell swoop, over half of the combatants were dead or mortally wounded. The rest dashed for cover in the roads that splintered from the square.

  Terrowin cheered, adding his voice to the cacophony, and ran east. He hopped over a tumbled-down body, dove into a front roll to dodge a stray arrow, scrambled up and hastily reloaded.

  His sights found an assassin with a wide brimmed hat and narrowly trimmed moustache. The man had yet to reload his own firearm and turned to run. Terrowin pulled the trigger. A hot ball of lead propelled from his pistol and struck the back of the assassin’s skull, exploded out of his face, and spread his little moustache across the dirt. His body crumpled into the side of a sugared fennel snack-stand; the vendor was long gone.

  Terrowin reached the edge of the square and ducked behind a small bleacher. Some of the spectators were already fleeing for their lives, a few had taken the brunt of the gunfire already; others were blinded by the adrenaline and bloodlust, cheering for their favourite hitmen. Terrowin could hear a few chants of “Man-Butcher”, but couldn’t be entirely sure that they were for him.

  He set himself against the back of the bleacher and delved in his pocket for another paper cartridge. Beneath the screams and cheers and distant shots he became aware of a rattle to his immediate right. In his haste he had forgotten to search about properly for opponents and it seemed that he wasn’t the only one reloading behind the bleacher. Terrowin jumped as if he had just seen a particularly hairy-legged spider and dropped his cartridge.

  The other assassin – a short blood-stained man, with a pistol – was equally as shocked that Terrowin had stumbled into his little haven. He fumbled a cartridge, aligned it with the barrel cock-eyed and nearly dropped it, fingers fluttering like the legs of the aforementioned spider.

  The two assassins locked eyes, both with unarmed pistols. It was like a duel of sorts – Terrowin had always wanted to be in an old-fashioned duel. Whichever of them was the slower to reload and shoot would lose their life. The bloodied assassin gritted his teeth, steadied his hand, and slid the paper cartridge into the barrel.

  Terrowin whipped out his butcher’s knife from the scabbard under his arm and swung it in a smooth arc, grinning as it slipped a good two thirds of the way into the man’s skull with the satisfying schunk of a spade in clay. The assassin dropped his gun and was dead well before it hit the ground. Terrowin smirked; a fair duel would have to wait.

  A little calmer now that his cover was his own, he reloaded his pistol and retrieved his butcher’s knife. As he put his boot on the man’s face and set about hefting the blade from the groove in his skull, he noticed his victim had been the man in the bloodied apron. Disgusted, he kicked the body as further punishment for stealing his moniker.

  ‘I’m the real Man-Butcher,’ he proclaimed triumphantly, tugging the cleaver free of blood and bone. He slipped it into its leather holder, still slick with gore.

  It occurred to him then, that such a kill, one that reduced the number of assassins presuming to steal his name, was more than a little satisfying, and something he should take the time to revel in properly. In a fit of spontaneity, he stripped the corpse of its apron and donned it, wondering why he hadn’t thought of wearing a costume before. He glanced through the bleachers to the main square, hoping to spy the big woman so that he could add her rolling pin to his collection of trophies before the competition was done.

  The sound of shooting had died down a little. It was quite possible the entrants were reduced to single figures already; it had all been rather fast. He crept to the edge of the bleacher to get a clearer view of the battlefield. All he could see was a mess of bloodied corpses and still-writhing soon-to-be corpses. One was ranting about how magnificent her figure would be in the toyshops.

  A glint of bright white caught Terrowin’s eye; a scope. He ducked into his cover just as the rifle clapped, wooden splinters exploded off the bleacher and showered over the ash-heavy ground.

  ‘Are you dead?’ Lord Beechworth’s noble drawl echoed over the hubbub.

  ‘You’ll have to try better than that!’ Terrowin couldn’t
help but laugh. ‘I’ve still got my head.’

  ‘Not for long!’ Beechworth replied, there was a curl of humour in his tone.

  A hole blasted through the bleachers just over Terrowin’s head, this time showering him with dust, splinters, and the blood of some unfortunately placed spectator. Terrowin cackled, and ran for more substantial cover while the lord reloaded.

  ‘You missed!’ He bellowed as he darted across the open road, pausing to throw a rude hand gesture at Beechworth’s position. ‘I won’t!’

  He spotted a rather sorry looking shop, with broken windows and a smashed-in door; the perfect place to take cover. He skidded inside on strewn shards of glass, took a quick glance for assassins hiding in the gloom, and slammed the door shut behind him. Spying shutters, he quickly flung them closed over the broken windows.

  A bullet pierced the wooden slats, missing him by inches. He leapt over the counter, partly because he’d always wanted to try it, but mostly to provide better protection from Beechworth’s onslaught.

  He waited as patiently as he could for another shot, or for the lord to follow him inside, but nothing came. Perhaps the posh git wouldn’t deign to set foot in such a place; it was rather run-down.

  The general store was wrecked, it looked like two combatants had fought their way through it already. Terrowin was reasonably sure that there was nobody still inside, but the possibility that there was quite excited him.

  He puffed out air, starting to regret retreating into the shop. He wanted to be at the centre of the action, but he knew if he walked out of that door Beechworth would take his head off. He eyed the wares – so easily distracted once boredom set in. Cured meats, string, little tools, news sheets, and confectionary.

  He twisted the lid off a tall jar and helped himself to a fistful of hard candies. They were tart, lemon flavoured, not his favourite; he would have certainly preferred peanuts. He sucked noisily for a minute or so, listening to the faint clapping of gunfire and chinking of swords outside, allowing himself to catch his breath before he ran back out into the fray.

  The front door burst open with a thump, one half-smashed panel fell free and clattered on the floor. Terrowin jumped and dropped his jar of lemon sweets; barely a foot to the floor, but glass shards and glossy bon-bons skittered everywhere. He peeked over the counter to see who might be coming for him, not even thinking to fear a bullet in his head.

  ‘There you are!’ Aldreda, the Man-Butcher Imposter, stomped inside, her gelatinous flanks barely missing the edges of the doorframe. In this more hostile light, Terrowin saw her for the beast that she was. Easily three heads taller than him and inhumanly strong, judging by the smooth movement of her vast body.

  He pulled out his silver flintlock, she raised her rolling pin, and he pulled the trigger. Not exactly a fair match up, but he would take the easy wins without complaint.

  A spume of fire exploded from the barrel, sending a ball of hot lead in Aldreda’s direction. It drilled into the thick leather corset around her midriff and knocked her a half-step back. There was a crack of metal on metal and the bullet ricocheted into a shelf of confectionary – spilling fudge pieces, barley sugars and marble-like imperial mints across the floor. The huge woman grunted as if she had been thumped in the gut, but there was no bulging of her eyes or sense of impending doom about her. Terrowin assessed that she had some kind of armour plating under that leather and removed himself from behind the counter.

  His eyes trained on the malevolently gleaming rolling pin, sheened with the cranial blood of at least five other men. She could swing that before he had chance to reload, but he had the edge when it came to agility. He turned for the back-room door and fled.

  The sole of Terrowin’s shoe was leather, buffed to a near frictionless lustre from excessive wear and little maintenance. Normally, he was deft enough on his feet for such concern to be beyond him, but in his mania to escape one misstep was all it took to upend him. One foot kinked on a sweet, the other kicked out to keep his balance, but landed on another slippery lemon pebble and skidded across the wooden boards. There was a moment when his arms whirled where he might have maintained his balance. Unfortunately, both feet slipped in opposite directions. It was possibly his best ever attempt at doing the splits, but little pride came with the fall.

  Aldreda’s rolling pin missed the top of his skull by inches and smashed into another glass jar, cascading yet more sweets onto the perilously strewn floor. She roared and stomped like a raging bear. Terrowin flopped onto his belly and scrabbled for the back room. He struggled from his elbows and knees to his hands and feet, and grabbed a rack to heft himself fully upright, before tipping it across the doorway behind him.

  He delved into his pocket for another cartridge and loaded it. He could hear the big woman fighting with the shelf, pinioned between heavy wood and the unforgivingly narrow counter. He dashed to a set of stairs at the far side of the room, turned and took his aim. This time he was determined to hit her between the eyes, foregoing the possibility of the bullet colliding with any more hidden armour.

  ‘I’m going to gut you like a fish.’ She smashed her rolling pin through the rack, splintering it like matchwood. ‘I’ll butcher you like a pig!’

  In the dim light of the store, with her eyes in shadow and her hair at all angles, the woman really did look quite terrifying. She definitely looked more of a Man-Butcher than Terrowin, but he wasn’t about to give up his title lying down.

  He took his aim. She marched closer, her bulky thighs chafing, and raised her rolling pin. Terrowin fired. The second bullet was much like the first, exploding triumphantly from the mouth of the pistol in a wreath of fire, and flying purposefully for its target. Rather amazingly, and likely nothing to do with any skill on the big woman’s part, the bullet collided with a fortunately timed sweep of the rolling pin and pinged into the wall.

  ‘What?’ Terrowin looked at his pistol as if it had been replaced with a toy.

  ‘I’ll mince you like… like…’ She gurned at him. ‘Mincemeat!’

  He dashed up the stairs, narrowly missing another rolling-pin strike that crunched wooden spindles like wheat. He started to reload again, certain that she wouldn’t be able to cheat death three times in a row. The stairs turned ninety degrees at the edge of the building and he followed them up to the next floor.

  ‘I’ll skin you like…’ Aldreda stomped up the stairs after him. He counted the steps, worked out how far behind him she still was. Each wood slat let out a pained creak as she ascended.

  ‘I’ll skin you like…’ She tried again. ‘Like a potato!’

  It seemed that her competence with threats was lacking, but it didn’t matter much, her presence was intimidating enough.

  Terrowin reached the top of the stairs and stopped. The room before him was so filled with boxes and other clutter that the way was almost entirely impassable. Even if he did manage to squeeze through, there didn’t appear to be any other way out.

  He turned and cocked his pistol. This was it, the last stand, him or her. He would not miss again.

  ‘I’m the real Man-Butcher!’ she spat as she rounded the corner, ‘and I’m going to kill you to take away any doubt.’

  His thoughts exactly.

  She slapped her rolling pin into the palm of her hand, bloodshot eyes glinting with menace. She was five sagging, creaking, groaning steps away from Terrowin. Nearly in arms reach. No chance of missing.

  He took his aim and squeezed the trigger.

  Before the bullet could lurch out, the step beneath Aldreda gave way to her mass, and she slipped through the floor in a mess of dust and fragmented wood. Her shriek of surprise and fear was cut short by a foundation-rattling impact on the lower floor. Terrowin’s bullet struck the wall.

  Disappointed that he had missed yet again, Terrowin was still happy enough with the result; and they said history was written by the victors anyway, he could just make something up.

  He took a step towards the edge and peered down the hol
e Aldreda had driven for herself. It went all the way down to the cellar, where she lay in a heap of splinters and blood.

  ‘That’ll do.’ He nodded to himself and hopped over the hole to the lower steps. ‘That’ll do nicely.’

  1682

  Wriggling backwards on hands and knees through heavy sludge, William and Vesta scuttled away from Ottilie and her pipe launcher. Another rocket screeched down the road and folded the front of a grocer’s shop; wattle and daub tumbled away with half of the internal floors in a clatter of furniture and glass. The rhinoceros woman cackled with her sponsor, both of them caught up in the glee of destruction. The force hit William like a kick in the ribs, rolled him onto his back and left him winded. He blinked up at the glaring sunlight like a displaced turtle. Vesta squeaked beside him.

  ‘Pathetic.’ Genevieve leered down, her pretty face twisted with disgust, shiny rifle barrel aimed for his chest.

  Under her scrutiny William felt less like a turtle and much more like a woodlouse. He realised it was not Ottilie’s explosion that overturned him, but a well-placed boot from the riflewoman; a bruise he was already starting to feel.

  ‘Don’t shoot,’ he gulped, palms up in surrender.

  ‘I wouldn’t waste the powder,’ Genevieve scoffed at him, but her attention followed Ottilie.

  Cheers echoed around them from the spectator tower looming over the battleground, grinding his pride to dust. She wouldn’t sully her reputation with such a meagre kill as William the Woodlouse; a coward lower than a civilian.

  Genevieve dropped to a crouch with a stifled gasp, sharing their meagre cover behind a stone horse trough. It seemed the proximity of the pipe launcher and the mad bomber’s ire had more influence on her mercy.