‘Missing.’ Terrowin scoured the array of dead assassins and spectators.
Like a bubble popping in a cauldron, Aldreda thrust up from a heap of bodies, a pistol in each hand. She let off a shot for Terrowin, grazing the inner side of his arm, which sent him scuttling back into cover like an exposed cockroach.
‘There she is.’ He winced and clamped his hand over the wound.
Beechworth allowed himself a moment, snapped his rifle ready, and peeked out. A bullet collided with the pillar, showering them in chips of brick and dust; the second of her two shots wasted so carelessly. Then he stepped out, emerging from the fading gun-smoke with such dramatic emphasis that even Terrowin’s mother might have applauded it.
Unwilling to be left behind, Terrowin followed, gritting his teeth through the pain. He was just as good as the noble where killing was concerned.
Aldreda tossed her half-loaded pistol to the muck and roared. Teeth bared and hands outstretched like claws, she charged at Beechworth. She was like a bear made human, a Scold giant with the favour of the gods. Despite her size she made good pace and it seemed she would be upon them – tearing them limb from limb with her immense strength – before they had a chance to fight back.
Beechworth’s rifle thumped a shot into her midriff, colliding with the armour but knocking the wind from her. She balked and choked, and quickly recovered her footing. The lord staggered back, reloading, but there was no outpacing the barbaric assassin.
Terrowin had been calmly preparing to fire, breathing slowly as he aimed, not entirely bothered about the immediate threat to Beechworth. His arm was steady and his aim was true; as she passed by him, he pulled the trigger. Aldreda was too focused on the lord to notice the flintlock aimed for her, and didn’t even realize the danger she was in until the bullet skewered the flesh under her arm.
The pain didn’t hit immediately, but the shock did. She tumbled from her great stampede, and swept Beechworth down with her. The pair staggered through the double doors, slid together on the polished floor and crumpled in a heap within.
Terrowin reloaded quickly and followed them inside. He had to finish her now, before she had the chance to retaliate; but when he got to her side, she was already dead. His bullet must have hit something vital and took away the life she had been so lucky to keep this far.
Pints and pints of dark blood pumped over the hall floor, hot and coppery against the cold tiles. Terrowin wasn’t too familiar with anatomy, never having had the patience to read about it, or even learn how to read, but something important had definitely been ruptured.
Beechworth wriggled beneath her dead weight, sputtering and clawing to free himself. There were only two entrants left, and one of them was pinned weapon-less beneath the bulk of a dead assassin.
Terrowin aimed his pistol between Beechworth’s eyes, victory a hairsbreadth from his finger.
‘Wait.’ Beechworth stilled and drew his hands up in the most pitiful plea for his life. ‘We made a deal, I help you take her out, and you give me a fair shot at the prize.’
‘Yes…’ Terrowin readied to shoot. ‘But I was the one that killed her, you just happened to be here.’
‘You wouldn’t have killed her without me, as well you know!’ Beechworth’s spite surprised Terrowin, but he supposed that the man was in quite the stressful situation given his penchant for breathing. ‘Moreover, you gave your word. A gentleman’s agreement is sacrosanct.’
‘I never did consider myself much of a gentleman.’ Terrowin scratched the side of his nose with the flintlock as he mused. One trigger pull; the lord would be dead and he would be crowned champion, but everything would go straight back to the mundanity of normal life. ‘Why not?’
He lowered the hammer on his flintlock softly and slid it into his holster, then crouched down to heft the great weight from Beechworth. The duel would be one last treat, Terrowin decided. One last thrill before he took the prize.
1682
Ottilie’s bombardment made getting onto the rooftops far easier than it had been getting down, but conquering the ruinous slopes of three purpose-built warehouses made William sweat and shiver in ways he rarely felt. Blood loss and fatigue made him feel leaden; as he crested the rubble a wave of dizziness threatened to topple him off the edge.
Forcing his heavy limbs onward, William focused instead on the clock tower. It was a huge structure of grey stone, prominent even against the ashen backdrop; an excellent landmark to stop them staggering in circles again. It was imperative to increase their distance from the threats left behind. More cultists had entered the competition than he first thought and he could still hear them shouting from the street. In truth, it was a blessing they hadn’t been spotted ascending to the roofs, though Ottilie’s explosive downfall doubtless gave the Lambs pause.
Only a fool would get too close to the clock tower; the building was too obvious. Certainly other assassins would be lurking nearby or fighting over the vantage point. He could imagine Genevieve at the top with her rifle, calmly increasing her kill-count in relative safety. He didn’t like the thought of Vesta being cut down from such an impersonal distance. He didn’t like the thought of her being cut down at all, but there was no protection against an assassin with a scope. So, he reasoned, he would choose a different landmark soon enough, and shift course.
‘Lambs!’ Vesta’s shrill cry made him stumble to a halt.
She pointed; a rifle-toting Lamb guarded a balcony on the other side of the road, aiming right at them. William yanked Vesta’s arm, pulling her over, just as a bullet pinged off the tin roof. He cursed through gritted teeth, his plans dashed.
Leaping up, they ran the length of the warehouse roof and dropped onto a flat-topped administration building. They tripped over garden furniture and pots of canvas dahlias; a half finished glass of sherry shattered as they toppled an occasional table. Whoever had indulged in the sour beverage was long gone – a still-open trapdoor yawned darkly in the centre.
Behind, the balcony sharpshooter fired, and a terracotta pot exploded beside them. William cursed; Vesta was already wriggling through the trapdoor.
‘There!’ the Lamb cried, alerting unseen comrades in the lanes below.
‘Faster!’ William urged Vesta on, practically throwing himself in the hole.
The office within was still, but muted shouts of pursuit still reached them. They careened around a desk and sprinted into the clear walkway, papers ruffling at their passage. Double-doors swung wildly as he barged through, and they hurtled down three flights of stairs. Together they skidded on the highly polished stone floor in the reception area and stopped.
Outside the wide doors – inlaid with frosted glass – were the blurry figures of four or five men in wool trimmed robes. William cursed a third time; naming Fate as the wretched being that must have doomed him so.
‘How many cartridges have you got left?’ he hissed.
Vesta dug in her pockets and pulled out a small handful from each.
‘Maybe eight?’ She shared them out and surreptitiously checked her stolen pistol was loaded.
‘We need more.’ He paced to the back of the room.
‘We don’t need to kill them all.’ She took her position at his shoulder. ‘Just shoot my brother and be done with it.’
‘If only it was that easy.’
On the other side of the glass, the cultists were ready. One of them began a count down from five, holding the handle, ready to charge in. It seemed the Lambs couldn’t see the dark interior through the translucent glass and didn’t realise their targets were waiting inside with the advantage. William decided to take the fight to them.
By the time the cultist counted to one, William burst out of the door. The man who had been poised to rush inwards had his eye socket cracked by the corner of the wood. Another was knocked down a trio of steps, collapsing in the mud. Two of them took a bullet; one each from William and Vesta as they charged into the street. One died instantly, the other was shot in the gut and c
rumpled to the floor for a long and excruciating end. William smashed the butt of his pistol into the jaw of the last Lamb, but didn’t stick around to finish the job; there were more approaching. It seemed the entire cult had rallied against them, flagrantly disregarding the rules in their zealous mission.
Shoulder to shoulder they made the sanctuary of an alleyway and plunged into the confusion of backstreets. They ran, panting, sweating, and swearing, turning right and left until they skirted the back yard of Melting Moments – painted the same lurid pink as the front. As soon as he was able to, William dragged Vesta onto a main street, located the clock tower, and ducked into another alleyway. His plan of evading the Lambs entirely might have been dashed, but getting away from them now required similar tactics.
Echoing cries followed, bouncing from every direction. Vesta pulled ahead of William, her legs were longer than his, and she was far fitter given his blood loss. He tried to catch up in case she came face-to-face with another assassin, but the threat of the Lamb-hunt leant her matchless speed.
As they rounded onto another small street, the clock tower loomed overhead. Too close, too late, they were headed straight for it. There was a glint above; perhaps just the sun on a damp gargoyle, but more likely a waiting sniper.
‘Turn right,’ he shouted. Vesta had to get out of the imagined-rifleman’s line of sight.
Gunpowder clapped behind and a pawnbroker’s sign was knocked off its hinges. William dared a glimpse back as he followed Vesta into the next street. He only got the briefest look, but he could have sworn there were at least ten cultists.
When six more emerged at the far end of the narrow road, Vesta veered into another alley, barely avoiding a hail of gunfire. The firing squad reloaded rapidly as William wheeled after Vesta; a shop siding was turned to woodchips in his wake.
It seemed all the rules were out as far as the Lambs were concerned. William prayed for a referee; the town was supposed to be flooded with them, but somehow he had managed to avoid every single one. Another curse was sent Fate’s way.
The clock tower was dead ahead; a huge stone edifice – clustered with demonic statues and flowery finials – that loomed higher than any other building except the Lambs’ own chapel. Aggressive iron spikes adorned ledges to dissuade climbers and slick stains of ash trailed from the mouths of vomiting gargoyles. Vesta turned and skirted the graffiti-covered outer wall.
William sprang after her, finger curled around the trigger of his flintlock. He weaved around barrels, stinking waste, and a fly-covered body. Footsteps thumped behind him; he was sure if the roads hadn’t been so relentlessly winding, both of them would have been dead by now. Perhaps Fate gave as well as took.
After a dozen steps or so, the clock tower wall turned ninety degrees, and from their new vantage it was clear it made a sizable walled courtyard; the tower itself dominating one side. Dashing down the narrow alley between the wall and adjacent buildings, they did their best to avoid damp sluices of ash, indeterminate remains and a pool of congealed blood – its former owner had been delightfully skewered on one of the vicious iron spikes.
Yet more Lambs – who had circled around the other side of the clock tower – headed them off at the next junction. There were no more roads to take.
‘Hurry up!’ Vesta slipped in a pool of muck as she changed direction, disappearing through a wide archway into the tower courtyard.
The heavy iron gates were open, the securing chains discarded in the street; someone had picked the padlock. Vesta didn’t pause to look into the small cluster of buildings crouched inside, and didn’t stop until she had climbed the steps to the tower door opposite. William was only a beat behind her. They were heading straight into a dead end, but there was no other choice. He sent a bullet flying for the herd of Lambs and followed inside. Vesta slammed the door and dropped a locking bar, securing it.
‘Get back.’ He thrust her aside as holes were punched through the wood; shafts of light floated with dust and splinters. ‘The door won’t keep them long’
‘Any sign of my brother?’ She gasped, bent double.
‘This isn’t the time,’ he grumbled, reloading. ‘We need to get away from this door, get upstairs; somewhere we have the advantage.’
A wooden staircase clambered around the square sided tower, coiling upwards at least seven times before reaching an obscuring floor. The small anteroom, and the tower proper, were illuminated by slatted windows and ash-hazed air. It would not be a short climb, but with luck, it would be a solitary one. Unless they had stumbled into another assassin’s hide-out.
Vesta began her ascent as the Lambs drummed on the door. The wood was weakened by the bullet pocks, and it only took a few strikes before that tell-tale sound of splintering sent a shiver up William’s spine. It could only be minutes before they got inside. He wasted no time and followed her up the stairs.
The tower was austere by design and far more impressive to look at from the outside. At intervals an unlit torch had been set in a wall bracket, and with the exception of a few masons’ marks, it was drab. But this wasn’t a leisure trip. William sweated and panted; the previous exertion weighed on him heavier than ever. Aching, dizzy, and sick with exhaustion, he struggled after Vesta almost on his hands and knees.
The Lambs pounded the door; the wood creaked and groaned in complaint. William prayed for five more minutes, but just as he sent his hopes skyward, the door ruptured and the Lambs poured in.
He leaned out from the stairs and looked down; they were gathering on the ground floor, starting to spiral the stairs in single file. He shot one near the front, briefly hampering their progress. The body was tipped over the handrail, slapping to the flagstones as he bled out.
Vesta neared the doorway to the next floor. If they could get inside and bar it, they would be able to distance themselves from the Lambs. Beyond his pounding head and burning lungs, William struggled to think of a way out; a skilful climb down the sheer stone perhaps, but nothing realistic. They were doomed; Vesta’s brother had rallied all his brainwashed masses to hunt them down and hadn’t even bothered to show his scarred face for the victory. A better assassin would have handed Vesta to the Lambs to save himself; there was no point in them both dying. William fixed his sights on her, feeling his chest tighten, and knew he wouldn’t do it.
The top door thrust open and Vesta staggered backwards. William caught her in his arms, lost balance himself, and slumped back onto the stairs. He nearly fell off in his efforts to keep her and his pistol from being lost. They sprawled upside-down, legs and arms floundering.
‘Don’t shoot.’ An assassin emerged from the doorway, rifle in one hand, some sparking device in the other. He fixed his dark eyes on Vesta and William, then took another step forwards and peered down at the advancing Lambs.
The weapon he held looked similar to the orbs used by the cultists, but was larger and made from studded iron instead of glass. The flaring string was perilously short, on the verge of setting the thing off. Before the man threw it into their midst, he fired three shots into the crowd of Lambs without pausing to reload. Then, as they looked up to see who was bombarding them with gunfire, the assassin let the orb roll off his palm with a half-hitched smile.
A deafening explosion shook the whole tower, rattled chunks of mortar free and kicked up dust. William closed his eyes to the flash, felt the heat of it at his back and pressure against his head and ears.
Lambs screamed as they were taken apart in mere moments; easily a third of them were killed, most were burned and left writhing. A few that had been outside, or lucky enough to avoid the worst of the blast, retreated in terror.
‘There’s more where that came from,’ shouted the rifleman.
William’s head throbbed. His eyes struggled to focus and when they did, the assassin had his rifle aimed directly at Vesta. Slim and well presented, wearing a shirt – somehow crisp and white in the filth of Blackbile – and black suit trousers; the man was unmistakable.
‘I sh
ould have killed the pair of you when I had the chance.’ Lord Beechworth sighed, massaging his temple. ‘I knew you’d lead that rabble here somehow…’
William knew he hadn’t imagined that winking scope atop the clock tower. Vesta had been as close to death then as she was now, but at least he could do something about it at this range. His pistol was firmly in hand, underneath Vesta, hidden from the old champion.
‘I had to listen to that damned doctor…’ Beechworth cursed to himself, and added, ‘I should finish you off here and now.’
William shifted his grip, trying to think of any way to get his gun in a position to fire before Beechworth could pull his own trigger.
‘This tower’s compromised, and those Lambs don’t give up; it’s only a matter of time before they come back.’ His hand slid from his temple to his jaw. He stroked his slender moustache with a finger, worried his lip with a canine as he mused. Though his rifle was held in one hand, it was steady as a rock. ‘There’s no way I’ll get them both out…’
William scowled, twisted his hand, and slid his flintlock from under Vesta’s leg.
‘You brought those damned Lambs here.’ Beechworth lowered his rifle, his lips making a thin line below his thin moustache. If William was going to shoot him, now was his chance. ‘And you’ll help me keep them out.’
Beechworth offered his hand; William’s scowl deepened.
‘Teamwork is the only way to keep the tower. If those zealots can join forces, why can’t we?’ There was a look of desperation in the old champion’s eyes, but a hint of something sinister made William distrust him. ‘What do you say, allies?’
There was no telling exactly how many shots Beechworth’s rifle could hold. Perhaps it was empty and this whole thing was an elaborate bluff. William could just shoot him and be done with it. He and Vesta could flee before the Lambs rallied again; all they had to do was stay unseen.
‘We’ll do it.’ Vesta made the decision for him. She took Beechworth’s hand and made it official with a sturdy shake.
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 24