‘What’s the plan?’ William found Beechworth in the tower stairway; he had taken position at the top and was ready with his rifle.
‘Shower them with lead.’ The lord scratched his nose with the back of his hand, marking his cheek with gun oil. ‘They’ll have to set up a ladder to surmount the bottom staircase. Their numbers are great, but if we can kill them faster than they advance, we won’t even work up a sweat.’
‘What about powder-bombs? You said you have more.’ William looked at the mess of dead bodies and smashed carpentry in the square courtyard below, blackened by the explosion.
‘It was a bluff. I wanted time to get you on side; but not this much time.’ Beechworth clicked the loading mechanism on his rifle and eyed the backs of three copper coloured cartridges, ensuring the thing was loaded. ‘They’ve given us the whole night; I fear they’ve planned something bigger than a simple assault.’
Beechworth’s worry spread to William. He wanted to add something to the plan or reassure the old assassin, but the man was a damned prize winner. If he was unsure of their success, what could William do?
There was a boom outside, somewhere between a gunshot and cannon fire. The pair tensed, ready for the foundation of the tower to shake. It didn’t. Instead, they heard a clanking of metal overhead, somewhere up on the clock tower balcony.
‘What the devil was that?’ Beechworth balked.
William knew exactly what it was. He recognised the empty clang of wrought iron; the way it chimed when a curved prong struck stone. The things were never as quiet as one hoped, always a last resort when it came to infiltration, and this one had been fired all the way up to the clock tower by some siege device or pipe launcher.
‘It’s a grappling hook,’ William confirmed as he heard the scrape of a metal thorn. ‘They’ll be coming from both sides.’
William headed back through the door into the chamber. There was another boom, and a second hook clanged onto the balcony.
‘Wait,’ Beechworth snapped, ‘they seek to divide our efforts. We can’t let them play us.’
‘And I can’t just let them come up behind. I’ll cut the ropes; they can only have so many.’ William steeled his resolve and slipped from view. ‘Just hold them off until I can get back to you!’
‘Damn.’ Beechworth started shooting. It was plain that this attack was more coordinated than the last, and the Lambs were pressing in as William retreated.
‘Knife!’ William insisted at Vesta; she understood quickly and pulled the small blade from beneath her skirts, handing it to him hilt-first. He took it and raced ahead.
‘Can I-’ Vesta stood.
‘No, stay there,’ he called back. ‘Guard Barber and the old woman.’
He located the narrow steps up to the mechanism walkways quickly and hoped the task would keep her from doing anything foolish. She was going to get herself killed if she wasn’t more careful, and her obsession with her brother wouldn’t be doing her chances any favours.
Surmounting the steps, he thumped across the walkways, which were little more than long planks laid between the steelwork of the clock-parts. Every board shifted and sprained under his weight. He used the flex of one to spring him onto a sideways cog and scrambled over, cutting out a significant detour. If he got to the balcony before any Lambs it would make his job a lot easier.
Lamebrain groaned in the dark below. It was impossible to tell if it was fear or excitement, but the sound of another hook slamming into the stonework just overhead drowned it out.
A rickety set of steps led up to a door and burst out onto the balcony. Though the sky was overcast and the day was only just beginning, it was almost blinding compared to the gloom of inside. He shielded his eyes and moved to the closest hook, setting about the rope with the blade.
Each hook had thumped into the clock; two had cracked the expensive marble face and another had bent the vast minute-hand. The lines were tangled around iron spikes – whose job it had been to prevent any maintenance men falling, and also discourage any climbers. William reckoned there might have been some irony in there somewhere, but was too busy frantically sawing with the knife to focus on much else.
Beechworth’s gun made a rhythm in the background. Bang, bang, bang, pause. Bang, bang, bang, pause. If he was hitting a different man every time he was surely piling up a ridiculous quantity of dead. William couldn’t be sure, the entrance was on the far side, and he could only see the group dedicated to climbing. About ten of them were still on the ground and the three ropes held five each.
He made eye contact with an ascending Lamb. She had climber’s tools in each hand that did the majority of the work for her. She slid one hand up after the other, and they gripped hard into the rope, making her progress far quicker than William could have expected.
The Lambs were as fanatic about seeing Vesta dead as she was about them and their leader, and William had gotten himself square in the middle of it all.
There was an explosion from inside the tower and Beechworth’s gun stopped firing. William cursed, realising his mistake. In his hurry to take part in the lord’s fine food and drink he had failed to plan sufficiently. He hadn’t even told the old assassin about the spark-powder grenades the Lambs used.
‘Fuck!’ He bellowed in frustration, thrusting the knife, and severing the last threads in one cut. The rope flicked at him as the load was released and five Lambs fell to their deaths. Only three reached the floor. One was impaled on the spikes set into the wall, and the other was merely raked and left hanging to bleed out. William looked away, but found a Lamb was already clambering over the fence at the next rope.
He lunged, and before the Lamb had chance to hop over the fence, sank the little blade into her throat. Fingers grasped for William’s shirt, hoping to bring him over the balcony but he shoved her away. The knife was lost, falling in the woman’s neck to the muddy streets far below.
‘Shit!’ William screamed, feeling the pressure mounting.
He whipped his pistol from his belt and fired at the rope. It snapped in an instant, sending four more cultists to their end. It was so infuriatingly easy, and he kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner. He reloaded and shot through the final rope before the next climber got anywhere near. At that, the Lambs in the street seemed to consider their climb a fool’s errand, and rounded the building to assist the front door bombardment. Once William saw them abandon their grapple launcher, he left the balcony.
When he returned to the clock-chamber, Beechworth was knelt massaging his eyes; the lingering effect of the flash was harder to shake for the shaded confines. When he realised someone was still shooting in the stairway, and cast about for his sponsor.
‘Where’s Vesta?’
‘Keeping the Lambs at bay,’ Beechworth grunted and pinched his closed eyes with his finger and thumb.
‘We’re supposed to be protecting our sponsors…’ William abandoned his anger at the lord and dashed for the door to the stairs. He worried that Vesta’s naivety had given the Lambs exactly what they wanted.
He barrelled through the door and found her quickly; she was leaning over the wooden railing, shooting down at the advancing Lambs. They had managed to make it onto the stairs and their boots were thundering up. A shot from below smashed part of the railing as Vesta retreated to reload; the bullet barely missed her.
‘Get back to Doctor Barber, you’re going to get yourself killed.’ William lurched forwards, sent a shot down the spiralling stairs for an approaching Lamb, and grabbed Vesta by the rucks of her dress.
As he looked down, he saw just how bad it was. Tens of robed men scrambled over the bodies of their fallen brothers, each filled to the brim with righteous fervour. It was as if Vesta’s brother had made her a test of their faith. Each fanatic amongst them was eager to prove himself to the gang-come-cult and whatever damned god gave them purpose.
William dragged Vesta away from the railing, and though she screamed like a petulant child for vengeance and let off a
stray shot for the ceiling, he thrust her through the doorway. She tripped and fell onto her back, then pushed herself even further away, digging into the boards with her heels. She shouted at him and spat venom, but the detail of it was lost in the building chant of the cult. William spared one more glance for the Lambs and slipped back into the darkened room, closing the door behind him.
‘We’ll never keep them back; there’s too many.’ He swallowed a lump and dashed away from the door to find himself even the slightest cover. He could see Vesta taking position behind a pillar and readying her pistol. There was no point arguing with her now; they were all going to die anyway.
‘I’ll hold them; I have the best rate of fire.’ Beechworth looked to have recovered. He stood, though his eyes still streamed, and started to quickly reload his rifle. ‘But I’ll need ammunition; would you get me some? With the clock spares.’
William hesitated a moment, unsure of whether to go, or stay and shoot.
‘Go!’ Beechworth shouted. ‘I’m the first Man-Butcher - the best assassin there is!’
‘Just keep them back,’ William replied. He didn’t know why he was still bothering, it all seemed so futile now. He might even be better fleeing to the clock balcony and throwing himself off, at least then he would be the master of his own fate.
He knelt at the stack of crates and quickly pulled the top off one. The lid had been nailed down, but had recently been levered open and placed back on top. Inside were the lord’s medical supplies for his sponsor: little brown bottles, branded elixirs, unknown tinctures, a large flask of ether, and sterile cloths.
‘What’s all that commotion?’ Beechworth’s sponsor spluttered out the words in a fit of choking. ‘Where’s Claude?’
‘We’re being attacked. He’s keeping us safe.’ Barber tried to reassure the old woman, but it seemed she needed no reassuring.
She tried to stand and collapsed back to the floor with a grunt.
‘We can’t let him die,’ she whimpered, ‘he’s too young.’
William thought it was rich that she was so worried about her grandson’s untimely death, given that he had as many years as William and Vesta put together, but he didn’t say anything and moved to the next crate.
The Lambs were funnelled through the door, falling in groups as Beechworth and Vesta fired into the melee. Every time they reloaded the Lambs crept closer, their wounded tumbling into a heap, only to be climbed by yet more cultists.
Standing, William peeled the lid off another box. Rusty nails squealed, his fingers whitened at the knuckles, but then the thing came off in a great wrench and he flung it involuntarily across the room. Inside was the most ridiculous quantity of bullets he had ever seen. Pack after pack of red and black card containers were stacked inside. Only two had been opened, one was empty and the other spilled shimmering copper bullets. William couldn’t help but wonder exactly how much wealth lay before him in the crate; more money than had ever passed through his hands before most likely.
‘Get off,’ the old woman barked.
She and Barber were having a pathetic tussle over the wheelchair. Limbs slapped and pulled at each other, glasses and food were kicked and smashed.
‘It’s my send-off!’ The old woman shook off the cripple with a well-placed fist, but collapsed in her attempt to get into the wheelchair. ‘Unhand me! I need to protect Claude.’
‘There’s too many.’ Barber rolled over, pulled the bottle of ether out of the low crate and poured its contents onto a sterile rag. ‘I’m supposed to be keeping you well, if you have a death wish, I’ll have to put you under with this.’
William recoiled as Barber flailed for the old woman with the ether soaked rag, coming ever so close to igniting the volatile fluid on a candle. For a second William thought he would die; a single flare of ether would set the bullets off in a storm that would tear him to shreds.
Across the room, Beechworth shrieked as Lamebrain leapt upon him from the darkness. The half-headed slave pummelled him with fists and elbows, sank teeth into his neck. The old assassin dropped his rifle and tumbled to the ground, punching and kicking at the surprise assailant. The pair rolled across the floor screaming, grunting, and growling.
Vesta’s shots were far slower than Beechworth’s and the Lambs out-paced her quickly. In no time, a group had amassed in the doorway and started to spread out in the gloom.
‘Vesta; Beechworth! Get down!’ William screamed and thrust forward.
The old woman glided out of the darkness on her chair, doused in ether, clutching the crate of ammunition tight to her withered body. She spat out a burning candle and shrieked with all the air in her weakened lungs, ‘die, you bastards!’
Flames caught across her, and like kernels of corn popping in a pan, the bullets began to fire. William ducked behind the crates with Barber, covered his ears against the torrent of sound that followed. Bullets ripped Lambs limb from limb, shattered wood, pocked holes in masonry. The old woman became a rolling bomb, spreading fire in all directions, spitting balls of lead from copper casings. She rolled through the door raining death all around her, then tipped over the edge and fell down the centre of the spiralling stairs.
Tens of Lambs fulfilled their destiny and became sacrifices to their profane god, but were also denied their goal. Not one of them would kill Vesta that day, but William wasn’t entirely sure that he hadn’t just done their job for them.
The cacophony died down, bullets still popped, echoing from the bottom of the tower. The room fell still. Barber rolled over, looked at William and nodded. The two of them still lived.
‘Vesta?’ William called, pushing himself to his feet. He picked up his flintlock and shuffled out into the open, fearing what he might see.
Dust had kicked up thick in the air and made it hard to breathe. The wooden partition between the room and the stairwell had been obliterated by the shower of lead. Hazy shafts of light bled in. One Lamb staggered inside, somehow spared by the blaze of gunfire. William put him down without much thought. The body slumped onto a heap of its fellows.
‘Vesta?’ he called again, hearing a rustle of clothes from the darkness.
Beechworth’s silhouette limped into the light at the far end of the room. He had his rifle aimed at William.
‘You killed my grandmother,’ the older assassin sounded aghast, like he couldn’t even believe it was true.
‘She was going to die anyway.’ William sneered at the gun toting legend, expecting him to come to his senses any time. ‘It was what she wanted.’
‘That’s not your place to say.’ Beechworth jutted his jaw and sniffed the air; listened for any movement in the shaded corners of the room. ‘But, as it seems you sponsor is dead, it doesn’t really matter what your say is.’
William fiddled with his gun, feeling it light in his grip. He had wasted the bullet so carelessly on a half dead Lamb.
‘Goodbye William.’ Beechworth raised his rifle to fire. ‘At least you were bested by a Man-Butcher, not many can say that. You might be famous in hell.’
He chuckled at his own sour humour.
‘You… no Ma-an-Butcher,’ Lamebrain panted as he dragged himself out of the darkness. His half-jaw was even more crooked than usual, blood trailed from his lip, and his one eye was purpling and fat. ‘Beet-worth a liar and chee-eat.’
The old assassin’s rifle faltered.
‘I see you now,’ Beechworth’s smile closed, but it remained in a smug line. He was still the only man left with a loaded weapon. ‘Barber always had a penchant for bringing back Man-Butchers. I thought Karin was the first, but I’m not always right. Perhaps he’ll bring me back when I’m gone, but that won’t be for many a year yet.’
Beechworth shifted his rifle.
‘It pains me to do this again, it really does.’ He pulled the trigger and a bullet punctured the crooked slave’s guts.
Instead of crumpling, Lamebrain roared from the pain and charged forwards. He was a windmill of ropey muscle and bleeding flesh
. He took another bullet before he reached Beechworth, but nothing would stop him. His fists pummelled the old assassin, pushed him back, wrenched the gun from his hands and tossed it away.
‘Wait-’ Beechworth cried weakly but any more words were cut off by a solid fist to the side of his face. The slave wrapped his arms around him and charged, more certain of this than anything since William had known him. The pair staggered together, then with one final thrust of Lamebrain’s legs, they toppled over the edge of the stairway and were gone.
After a muted thump of two bodies landing far below, the room fell to an airy silence punctuated only by the ticking of clockwork and distant gunfire.
William fell to one knee, exhausted again, and tried one last time to call for his sponsor, ‘Vesta?’
‘I’m here,’ she replied softly, somewhere in the dark. ‘A beam has me pinned, but I think I’m alright.’
‘Good,’ William sighed, feeling more relief than he had expected.
‘I’m still alive too, just in case you were worried,’ Barber added, bringing a chuckle from Vesta. A chapel bell started to chime in the distance. ‘Sounds like you made it to the final twenty; give or take a few. Would you mind carrying me to the square?’
Part 4
1674
‘How would you like it sent?’ The teller picked up the small padded envelope and inspected the destination address through small, round-rimmed glasses.
‘Courier.’ William relayed Ojo’s instructions precisely. ‘One of the guarded transports.’
The teller cocked an eyebrow, assessing the young boy who had come alone into his office. It wasn’t an unusual sight, other lads and apprentices from local businesses had come and gone all afternoon, but William was a stranger and that always meant the price was adjusted accordingly. Subtly, the postmaster fingered at the contents of the envelope: a letter in Conejan and small glass vial filled with what William assumed was blood. Ojo had tried to keep the details of his deliveries a secret, but William had spied on him while pretending to sleep.
The Man-Butcher Prize Page 26